NationStates Jolt Archive

The Largo from Xerxes 'Ombra Mai Fu' (http://boyunglee.com/music/handel/largo/OmbramaifuJenniferLarmore.mp3)


“We were going to kill them,” it was a somber sight to view the ‘defeated Waldenburger officers’ returned via their private jet. Their involvement in the Great War had lasted not even a few hours and had not fired a single shot at the enemy, but then of course the question had to be raised who was really the enemy of the Waldenburger Empire?

“They would have called me the butcher of the Western Islands: another striking tone to add to my résumé.” Thousis who had taken the Anagonian surrender rather badly and had folded himself in one of the reclining, leather armchairs scattered about the cabin of the private jet reserved for the commanding officers. “The slant on my eminence would almost be tolerable for the potential gains, and I think there is already a special shelf reserved for me somewhere in Leistung.”

Gröning, in comparison to the Vice Admiral was feeling rather cheerful and had poured himself a flute of champagne from a sideboard, which he mulled over with considerable interest, “Don’t brood Thousis.” It was of course warm and when sipped and the general made a face as he set the glass down. “ That Caster chap seemed a gracious host and a if nothing else a resolute, if rather thick headed, head of the state. I felt rather ribald and indecent in that manner. Of course the thrill of the coup and capture, it would have been such a,” he gesticulated madly with his flute, “thrill.” He finished lamely. “We cannot be sure the action would have been successful at any rate; although I admit this is simply and extenuation of our already decided fate. Don’t worry Thousis, Anagonia will be struck another day don’t you worry.”

“It isn’t about Anagonia or revenge, or reprisal for their wicked ways,” General Smithy had primly perched himself on a stool, or at least so he thought, the arthritic footbath vibrated malevolently and spat gouts of foul smelling foot power onto the thick carpet.

“Yes…” Gröning muttered after an embarrassed silence, “but you must concede that… The Emperor is perhaps a little overzealous in his…”

“No. I will not concede that and you know this to be true. This lengths to which His Majesty is willing to descend to advance this agenda is only a testament to resolve and necessity of the change, which at this point cannot be hindered. Now is the moment… I intend to take my vacation before I finally kick the bucket.” The Emperor’s plans were indeed perhaps a little overzealous in their workings and this one perhaps the most far fetched yet. Operation Oberon, so recently flowered and snuffed closed was the case marking the fall of Anagonia, so prematurely destroyed by the external enemy. Waldenburger troops had been placed perfectly and the situation had grown almost to an unprecedented level of expectation when the Chief Governor of Anagonia surrendered. If he had but waited an hour he, his communications and indeed the entirety of the Western Islands would have been seized in a few bloody seconds be Waldenburger stormtroopers. Then the coup would have started.

With the enemy so precariously close ‘traitorous’ Anagonian officers and politicians would have been found scheming with the enemy for clemency and the arrest warrants would have flooded out from the Western Islands to arrest the best and brightest amongst the civilian and military hierarchy. Sadly it was not to be and though most involved had relished the moment of the sudden swing of fate and the final revenge for the fall of Thule events had created an impossible situation and certainly with the cessation of hostilities the plan had been dismissed in its entirety. Now of course Anagonia never need know her friend was anything but that, a friend.

Smithy was however correct and there was another few sections to the case file. And the ultimate goal was something very few could see never the less understand.

“The Emperor has left us in sole command. It is our choice.” Peter von Waldenburg, his sandy and tanned face hidden under a wet rag, which he found somewhat relieved his acute altitude sickness, spoke placidly.

“He will not be pleased that his portion has not succeeded the other…details are slightly less damaging and certainly not as provocative the effect will be entirely lost I feel.” Thousis obviously held reservations about the affair as he chose his words carefully and fiddled all the while with his medal and decorations. “I mean we shouldn’t rush into these things. It takes a cool head to carry…”

“Your cousin,” Smithy, naturally with his cataract-ridden eyes well-shut and wrinkled hands folded in his lap, “will burn for what he has done.” The general was a slight man, hunched in the back and with one arm considerably smaller from a surgical operation some years ago resulting from the disastrous ‘swivel chair debacle’ He had what had obviously once been a trim body but now was draped with easily definable layers of fate in separate regions about his body, as if they had been sewn on later.

“General!” Gröning reprimanded.

But Thousis held up a hand to stop the oncoming verbal assaults, “It is not a perfect world.” Thousis had withdrawn even further into a world of solemnity, “And I wanted to change it. And I wanted to do my part in it, perhaps preserve a tiny square of it for my sons, and now I am the Butcher of Hafenstadt. I am already damned Smithy, damned and sentenced. If the orders go out; my name will be on it.”

“And you Peter?” Smithy asked delicately.

Peter did not lift the rag of his eyes but waved his hand around vaguely, “I was in this for the revenge and murder. This is so…unethical. But if we must. I believe this makes it a majority.”

“Indeed.” Everyone looked towards General Gröning; he smiled weakly.

With a gloved hand Vice Admiral Thousis reached for a cordless phone and pushed a series of numbers; he maneuvered the receiver to his lips with a heavy-handed slowness. “Vice Admiral Thousis; 77124765 Joint CC Third Fleet Western Task Force. Operation Oberon is clear to proceed. Codeword 'Cadit.” The phone was set back down on the table and the wheels of action had already begin to spin.
--

“Damnit!” A thump had spilt half a cup of cold coffee across an already sticky table. “Everything in this whole country needs a hammer taken to it.” Leistung, a nation with whom Waldenburg held a bilateral enmity had been so good as to provide 30,000 men in the interests of defending the geopolitical balance that was held so tentatively in place by various power blocks, all of which did not include Gothic nations. Thousands had already been shipped to the training camps, Battenburg and Raßenholm near Ibblestern. It was a pleasant journey, or would have been if Waldenburger Consolidated Rail had not been managing the affair. They had at least made an attempt and the train compartments were at least clean.

Green pastures occasionally mixed with the oddly disguised munitions factory and passed by, and despite everything the Lesitungi had heard about the country, and most of the things they had heard were true as they soon found out, on their first parade march they had watched solemnly as a woman was beaten to death for adultery, and they had been forced to vie for space with the television crews.

Other portions of the country, away from the burning deserts, polluted cities, and barren frozen mountains, looked entirely pleasant and the peasants going about their millennia old tasks stopped only for a momentary gawk at the trains which, over the past week had been ferrying troops from the Imperial capital of Blünderburg to their respective camps.

All foreign soldiers were in the legion under the greatest security and secrecy, to avoid diplomatic mishaps, and the Leistungi had been issued the scratchy woolen uniforms of the Waldenburger Foreign Legion, through which the sub-arctic dwelling Leistungi must have sweated nearly through.

Most of the soldiers were given compartments away from civilians and only occasionally one would wake from a tentative sleep at the clumsy footing of the ticket collector or the trolley women. A few were still awake in the hot sun, and diverted themselves appropriately, cards were being dealt out, a few puzzles scanned over, and a very few Church approved novels were dolled out along with a hawkish look from the onboard library.

Some men just watched the passing scenery, and attempted to count the millions of telegraph poles lining the tracks.

“Carl?” A half asleep corporal asked from his slouched position on the hard train seat. “What do you think that is?” He pointed out the widow lazily.

His companion closed his book with a snap, obviously vexed from being pulled from the brilliant Church censored murder mystery (the mystery of course being if a murder would take place) “The smoke?” the Corporal nodded, “Who gives a shit? Factory? Baby furnace? Wouldn’t surprise me. Damn it man, I was reading.” Falling back into his seat Carl opened the book on his thumb and licked his lips as he got back into the story. More time passed.

“Carl!” The corporal was out of his seat, and had flung himself against the far wall of the compartment so fast that his companion didn’t even have time to react. He tried to form words but they obviously were beyond the man, and he just pointed out the window.

“This better be Raßenholm Frederick or I swear you’re goin…” he stopped as he caught onto what his friend had seen and stumbled back.

On every telegraph pole, spread eagled and nailed bodily to the cross beams was a grey suited body; already the rot had set in and the heads buzzed with activity as the flies laid their maggots in the mouths of the Leistungi volunteers. With every pole came another body at a different stage of mutilation and decay, with every trestle on the rail line and every clack of the massive iron wheels another corpse sped past. For mile after mile as the train sped on there were bodies, some of which were not quite dead yet and wailed at the train as it belched the heavy coal dust that now coated most of the ghastly faces.

Lining the rail line and clad in gas masks, most likely necessitated by the rotting flesh and piles of excrement neatly piled at regular intervals stood hundred of men of the Divine Legion rifles pointed up at the train compartment and bayonets drawn.

With a great crashing of breaks and scream of steel the train began to slow for the station, which if fact had been set with the great scaffolding used by the Inquisition in their show trials, and was festooned with bright bunting and colorful banners. The smoke, whose source was now seen, emanated from behind the station, and even inside the train the screams were audible.

“Out of the train!” Shrill whistles sounded and in the corridor outside the compartments heavy boots thundered up and down, and the heavy banging of rifle butts on compartment doors cast an ominous susurrus over the train.

“Shit Carl.”
--

A small basket was left by the Waldenburg Consular to Leistung, in a great hurry, containing a few things, some photographs, a few documents, a digital disk containing some 23,754 signed confessions, and most pervasively a jar full of preserved human fingers. All of this was packed in chalky white ashes and wrapped with the charred remains of the Bundesheer battle flag. A gold edge card bore a simple message traced out beautifully in almost calligraphic writing.


“We have not forgotten. And we never will. Let us see how loudly the wasp cries when it is stung?

Signed:
His Excellency the Baron Thousis; Vice Admiral, The Imperial Navy

OOC: For anyone reading this that doesn’t remember the LION-Hegemony-MU war from back in July and August, Waldenburg declared war on LION after murdering a bunch of their diplomats and then subsequently attacked the Leistungi city of Hafenstadt, killing a large number of civilians in a surprise attack. The men Waldenburg killed in his post were Leistungi soldiers sent secretly to his nation to defend the Mediterranican region from outside attack much more recently (a sort of “greater evil” which led my government to decide that outside invaders were a greater threat than internal enemies such as Waldenburg).

Just a bit of back-story so that no one is lost while reading.

6:42 PM, A-21 Connector
Steinheim Province, Leistung

“I completely disagree,” the woman said, throwing her hands up into the air and shaking her head in mock disgust. “Nicklas Einermann is a far superior actor. I mean, A Tale of the North? Was there anyone who didn’t cry at the end of that thing?”

“Well, me, for one,” her husband replied, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “I can’t get into that wishy-washy chick flick crap.” The snow was coming down at a steady rate on the A-21 Falkenberg-Steinheim connector, and the windshield was becoming obscured faster than the wipers could clean them.

“That’s such a ‘man answer.’ You can’t just admit that the man is a talented professional?” the woman asked, rolling her eyes. A voice was cracking through on the radio, though the volume was turned down too low to hear it. The woman nonchalantly twisted the volume dial, and the voice filled the car. “It’s the Chancellor, isn’t it?” she asked rhetorically.

“—worst fears have been realized. Arise, and be not afraid, noble citizens of Leistung. This crime against humanity shall not go unpunished. Though nothing we do will bring back the lives of our lost heroes, together we can prevent this atrocity from ever occurring again.”

“What’s he going on about, you think?” the man asked, his hands shaking as they gripped the wheel. His wife raised a hand to silence him.

“It is with a heavy heart that I send our boys to war, knowing full well that many more will be forced to lay down their lives in defense of liberty, and in protection of justice. The brutal and unprovoked murders of our noble legionnaires shall not go unpunished. The Waldenburg Empire thinks us weak. They think that our resolve has been crushed, and that we will not lift a finger against the totalitarian evil which is the Empire. Let us show them the true measure of our resolve.”

6:43 PM, Chancellery
Falkenberg, Leistung

All-in-all one of the Chancellor’s better speeches, though his sour mood seemed to offset the powerful words. “How quickly can we assemble the troops?” he asked bluntly to the uniformed man standing in the corner.

“The Fourth Fleet is already mobilized. All we need are orders to move out, and we can be in Waldenburg by noon tomorrow,” the Minister of Defense responded, his arms crossed and sides of his mouth formed into a perpetual frown.

“Do it,” Chancellor Ringkampf snapped. “I want to see soldiers on the streets of Blünderburg by Easter. You have permission to execute Operation Strafe, Mr. Tirpitz.”

The men filed out in silence, leaving the Chancellor to his thoughts. Wyatt von Waldenburg was no fool—evil, perhaps, but not stupid. Everything the Empire did it did for a reason, and he was eager, and perhaps a little frightened to see what that reason was.

http://img211.imageshack.us/img211/4756/officeofthechancellorfk9.gif
To: His Excellency the Baron Thousis; Vice Admiral, The Imperial Navy
From: Office of the Chancellor
Subj: Leistungi Legionnaires

I fear that you have trifled with the wrong wasp, Mr. Thousis. The business we began in Hafenstadt will be finished in Blünderburg.

With the utmost contempt,
http://img525.imageshack.us/img525/4432/ringkampfta8.png
Gregor Ringkampf
Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Leistung

Never, Never Bow We Down (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnfiY8XGJTg&feature=related)


Leather creaked as another frame was added to an already overburdened sofa. Gone were the comparatively spartan furnishings of the airline and stations abroad; now the general staff had convened in one of the drawing rooms at Batenburg castle, a baroque monster that squatted on a ridge over looking the concentration camps below. Up here the air was clear, barring the cigar smoke that spooled upwards from nearly a hundred flaming stalks.

“Field Marshall,” General Gröning, who had nominally been appointed speaker on behalf of Operation Oberon saluted to the central dais Field Marshall Napplfeplatz, commander of the legion, and set about a file of papers placed up on a large oaken table beset by a carpenter who just did not understand when to end with the gingerbread ornamentation, which for some reason was very popular in these parts of the mountains. “22,000 of the Leistungi have already been liquidated and the rest are being put to forced labor in the munitions factories, awaiting the experimental unit…” Gröning paused, “to arrive from Blünderburg. Figures are in case folder blue if you wish to look over that.” A few of the hundreds of assembled officers and civilians dipped into their case documents and leafed through the papers.

“For what?” A voice shot out from the crowd.

“Oh, um, munitions. Shells and rifle round primarily but also…”

“No,” one man stood amongst the audience and leaned heavily on a gilt heading walking stick. He wheezed as he spoke and his words seem to come in bursts as if the speaker had just been running and was gasping out his sentences. “I mean for what reason has Operation Oberon been carried out? So far all we have are these damn case files.” The speaker was impeccably dressed in the traditional morning dress, and on his lapel wearing the Order of Chivalry and around his neck the Knight’s Cross of the Order of the Heron.

“General Ernes,” Gröning was almost harsh in his tones; it seemed he was not entirely accustomed to be interrupted in his briefs, “that is a classified matter. This meeting it to mobilize the defense ob this country against an imminent invasion.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Gröning. We are invincible. Let them land at Thule like the Anagonians and see if they can cross the desert. They won’t make it ten miles.” Ernes held a wrinkled hand to his chest and wheezed a few times. It had been his misfortune to have one of his lungs shot to ribbons in the first Time of Troubles some six years earlier, the only senior officer to be wounded in the event and live. “Or they can assault here at the Metropolitan heart of the country. We can have thirty million men at any beachhead within a matter of hours it would be insanity on a massive scale, no army has ever landed amphibiously on our shores and survived for more than a week. Invasion? Let nature take its course and wipe the invaders away. Why was Oberon initiated? To bait the Leistungi to a trap? To have them die on our shores? “

“The matter,” Gröning pressed his fists against the table and spoke very clearly and with a trace of unusual malevolence, “is classified. The full details of Operation Oberon are for the eyes of the Emperor and his General Staff only. Sit down August.” He picked himself and adjusted his cuffs slightly, “now if you turn to page sixteen in your folders we have several armored divisions…
--

The meeting, as they always did, had dragged on for hours, with every tiny detail being poured over by hundreds of clerks and officers alike till the defensives had been prepared and briefed on the possibilities of everything from amphibious assault to meteor strikes. Finally, as the sun was setting behind the imposing Ibbelsguarder Mountains, the room had been dismissed, and on stiff legs the assembled braid and brilliance had dispersed about the castle to either their own suites or the great hall where a cold dinner was being set down. The Sabbath, the mostly ignored in the modern society, did have its advantages and menial laborers followed it to the letter when it suited.

One man had not however been drawn to the comforts of the indoors and leaned, with his uniform open on the parapet overlooking the town of Batenburg, and in one corner of the city the grim walls of the concentration camp. A cool wind whipped of the mountains and caused the standards of the Field Marshall to dance slightly to the breeze. From this vantage point Blünderburg could only be picked out from the dark cloud of somg that hung over the winding bend of the Strein River.

“General Wilhelm von Solf. I thought I would you here.” General Gröning too had undone his uniform slightly and breath a sharp inhale of mountain air. “Its been awhile.”

“Six years isn’t so long,” von Solf, patted the wall next to him implying he would like some company. “if someone were to bomb one in ten factories in the cities they might be able to see the sunset. And in the morning, who knows what we would see?”

“The Leistungi are going to invade you know? I fear successfully.”

“Where I was born there was a tiny stream that ran from cracks in the mountains, of snowmelt, and the entire village would come out and drink from it.” Both men stopped as they realized they were working at entirely different conversations.

“We can’t afford a counter attack, we haven’t the naval strength of Leistung, not before the War of the Grand Alliance, and certainly not now. If they land e have the military to repel them, but only that, to repel them.”

“And you need the Imperial Special Services?” von Solf asked quietly.

“We need a victory, now more than ever. It will moralize a failing Empire. I don’t need to tell you of the murders carried out by the rebels last week or of Cardinal Indu being butchered like that. The state must recover itself… and the Emperor believes we must do so with great aplomb and with as little bloodshed as possible. We need an intelligent arm of the military to preempt both ourselves and the enemy.”

Solf sighed and finally broke his eyes of the horizon, “what does the Emperor want of me?”

“Does Waldenburg have any agents inside Leistung itself?”

“A very few. They are meticulous alas, and we have not fielded any agents from Waldenburg itself for fear of ancestral cleansing or speculation. We have perhaps a dozen, and none at all well placed.”

“And they in turn have agents within our midst?”

“I would be entirely surprised if they did not. The Serene Legion are as easy so bribe as children. I would not be at all surprised if several of our gallant field marshals had foreign interests.”

“See that they get at least one more, agent, that is. He will act as our double.” Gröning tuned to leave before Solf spoke up.

“Really general, what is this about? It makes no sense; relations were on the mend and then we start the slaughter again. What are we after?”

“100 days of spring general, that is all we will need and you will see,” uncharacteristically Gröning was smiling rather roguishly and moving energetically. “Everyone will see it by the end and we’ll all be changed; everything will be so different and you general are our catalyst of change.” The General crooked his head slightly, “one more thing general. Make our agent a Jew.”
--

It was the greatest embarrassment that could be rendered upon a son of Judah and how it burned, even now. A number, a very small number unfortunately was tattooed onto the wrist of those convicted of Jewry, those that weren’t immediately deported, that represented their number in the ranks of fellow Jews. A Star of David was doused into the chest with hot tar that, after being cleared, left the symbol emblazoned on the chest in violent contrast to the skin. There were other things, other traumas, great humiliation and eventually painful death but Heinrich von Baumstich had only been forced through the more visible torments. And indeed he walked somewhat awkwardly from a more recent and personal operation, which he had been forced to undergo for the sake of the sanctity of the Church.

He had not wept as the knifes cut him, or the tar burned him, or indeed when the Inquisitors had defrocked him and placed him in the grey linens that all known Jews must wear, when however his spymasters took from him the delicately carved rosary from his neck he wept terrible tears and sobbed in wretched pain. In the eyes of the Church, of his beloved Waldenburger Church he was damned, no matter the piety of his mission he was quite damned to hell for his infractions. He would undertake, take the guise of the enemy, for the greater good and then face his given ends. This perhaps was the greatest irony.

There was no sense in rushing things and the Leistungi would certainly be wary of traps, as they most certainly had learned by now. There was no sense in rushing things at all. And indeed whenever the Leistungi felt the urge to move so would the Empire.


OOC Feel free to bring anyone you like with you on your invasion (Not quite anyway of course) but generally (As I have planned anyway) it will only require one person. Now I just get on LS' back to finish his part. So much for my youtube convictions, hah!

11:56 AM, BMS Resolve
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

The ships of the Fourth Fleet cut through the frigid waters of western Mediterranica, moving as though they were angry at the water. Onboard the BMS Resolve, an Amboß Class cruiser, Captain Fuhrmann and Commander Gibbs were finding themselves facing a similar foe in a much, much different scenario. Rather than steaming full speed ahead to relieve the city of Hafenstadt during the Waldenburger siege, the crew of the Resolve now steamed towards the belly of the beast—Waldenburg herself.

Flanked on all sides by a multitude of carriers, escort ships, and larger capital ships (indeed, the Chancellery thought this mission important enough to grant the Fourth Fleet a number of battleships as well), the Resolve spearheaded a column of ships assembled for the sole purpose of obliterating the Waldenburger Navy, luckily still extremely out-of-date by modern standards.

Captain Fuhrmann stood with his hands folded behind his back, gazing out the tinted glass windows of the bridge in silence. His younger brother had been one of the men sent to Waldenburg, and he had abruptly stopped writing that previous week. It was now obvious why.

“Captain,” Commander Gibbs said softly, putting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Are you…alright? How is your mother taking the news?” Fuhrmann turned, wiping a solitary tear from the side of his cheek.

“How would you take having your son crucified, Hans?” the captain responded, speaking in a low drone, his eyes bloodshot. Commander Gibbs nodded, leaving the captain to his thoughts. A voice interrupted him as he began to walk away.

“Commander?” the captain asked, his expression different from that of a few moments ago. Steely determination was all that was written into his face now. “There’s no ice to plow in Waldenburg, is there?”

Gibbs smiled coldly. “I’m sure we’ll find some, Captain.”

12:18 PM, Café Waldenburg
Blünderburg, Waldenburg

A warm breeze blew into the Blünderburg café; something that would have been refreshing had it not been accompanied by the stench of industry that seemed to permeate all levels of Waldenburger society. Johann Engel sat across from a miserable-looking man dressed in the garb of a Divine Legion officer, sipping a mug of what appeared to be a sort of gray molasses.

“So, Mister…” Johann started, glancing down briefly at the name he had written hastily on the palm of his hand in pen. “Von Baumstich.” He glanced over his shoulder to see two or three other Divine Legionnaires loitering about inside the café, seemingly deep in either meditation or prayer. Considering the atmosphere of the city, the latter seemed to be the most logical choice. Either way, they were out of earshot and out of mind for the Leistungi agent.

“Heinrich von Baumstich,” the man replied, his voice strained. Johann frowned slightly, realizing that in all likelihood the man was about as loyal to the Church as he himself was to the government. “Divine Legion.”

“Yes,” Johann replied. “I can see that. Well, Heinrich, I hope you realize the gravity of your actions. In aiding us, you are essentially dooming yourself to a very long, very drawn out death at the hands of your masters.” Heinrich’s face remained the same, despite the irony of the statement. “I also hope you realize the justness of your actions. Heinrich, I know you may be fearful of final salvation, but please, as a man of religion myself, let me assure you that your life after life will be a joyous one as a result of what you are doing here today.” It seemed to help considerably to mention religion to Waldenburgers when trying to turn them, though in Johann’s experience, a wad of counterfeit Reichmarks worked just as well. In this case, both would be used.

Heinrich took the wad of money that Johann had slipped under the table and nodded curtly. “No further persuasion is necessary,” he said, with typical Waldenburger nonchalance.

“Excellent. Now, first off, we’ll be asking these same questions to…others of your same persuasion. Attempt to lie to me, and the consequences will be direr than you can possibly imagine,” he said, knowing full well that Heinrich knew that it was a lie. Some of the things the Church did in these parts wouldn’t even have been considered in Leistung. “What would be the best axis of advance from the landing beaches to Blünderburg, and what military assets are in place to protect the capital?”

Beethoven's 7th Symphony 2nd Movement, Allegretto (http://www.thedreamlands.com/fbtunes/7th%20symphony%20allegretto.mp3)


At this time of day the factories, during their lunch break, the obsequious smog cleared for a short time and if one paid enough attention a few bird even tried to break the melancholy. Of course Heinrich von Baumstich paid little attention to this, his eyes were upon the supposed Leistungi agent sitting across from him.

As was his custom for the afternoon, he had ordered the shallow and heavy glass commonly associated with Critz, a drink originating in the high mountains to the south and concocted from what the locals adamantly referred to as ‘herbs.’ This was probably true as even growing on the underside of trees fell into this category, however this drink was no tea and was served cold and viscous so the burning ginger, amongst some nameless other ingredients, clung to the throat and burned for several minutes. Usually one glass had lumberjacks swinging through trees at 5,000 meters elevation and laughing.

“You misunderstand my intents sir,” Baumstich responded in a slightly more perky voice than when they first met. Personally Baumstich thought this was moving to fast, originally the plan had intended for the Leistungi to bungle in and find the spy hiding in a basement somewhere and then spill his guts. Of course a landing in the right place would have been much more difficult to sway and so his spymaster, General von Solf, had sped up the matter and arrange a somewhat conspicuous meeting.

Baumstich rolled down his sleeve and showed the man the number tattooed, “Religion has got no place in Waldenburg; they bend it to their wicked ways, and use it to hunt my people down. I am 47,412. There are only that many Jews left here, and I only survived as I offered my services to the Divine Legion. They like that sort of thing, the wicked converted the dead shall be raised and so on. They still branded my chest, and my mother is still hostage in the Basilica: dead now probably. I cannot have children or marry attend a public school or hospital, I learned to read off the backs of cigarette packages.” This was for all intents and purposes true; Baumstich, like many others drawn to the lower echelons of the Church, had grown up dirt poor, then is some fever, which happened to coincide with a spiritual holiday of some nature, had found God.

“I am cooled by the same summer and winters but believe you me I shall burn in a hell all apart. So I will help you, for the good of my mother, myself, and even though my brain tells me not one drop of mercy for the Catholic, this poor wretched country.” Somewhere outside the café the thunder of horse’s hooves could be heard and the trudge of infantry in close step followed. The army was indeed mobilizing.

With one deft hand Baumstich spilled a bit of his drink on the table and began to sketch a crude map of Waldenburg, “Now you will observe the Waldenburger continent. Here Waldenburg, here the Republic of Paloni, here the Imperial Realms of Paloni, and here Ibblesguard. These are old Imperial realms, fiercely Catholic, and unlike the Empire have no compulsion against the use of nuclear weapons.

This leaves three major climactic zones in Waldenburg itself. The Rimwald, the Strein River Delta, and the Ibblesguarder Mountain chain; all of them of course have their advantages. The Strein Delta, after a leisurely walk, will put you right in the center of Blünderburg through the industrial and population core of the country.” A finger gently stretched a wavy line from somewhere in the center of the country out to the ocean to the east of the continent. “This little stretch of land is the obvious landing spot and the government has compensated with considerable defenses. At least two army groups, several thousand pillboxes and artillery emplacements, the largest concentration of Imperial warships on the planet, over two thousand aircraft stationed along the river, and most of the ground can be strategically flooded by the opening of key reservoirs and dams.” Baumstich looked up and noted some growing concern, “I am, was, a surveyor you see.” He tapped the side of his jacket where the little emblem marked him with the calipers and eyeglass. “The Church is rather hesitant about giving me a gun.”

From his pocket he produced a small packet of pastel mints and began to lay them on the little map, “Blünderburg, Streinlikstern, the twin capitals. Granzimmerburg, Mintasburg, Scant, and Ibblestern “ Most of the cities were concentrated along the river and in its delta. “Your second option in the to land to the south along the coast and then march through the mountain passes. Now this option is slightly softer, defenses in the mountains are difficult to move and much smaller however of course it is a long trek and under more than likely withering fire. With proper mechanization you could be through the mountains in a week and right to the back door of Scant, which admittedly would have been considerably fortified by then.

Lastly there is the Anagonian option. They came in through the North to attack the Rimwald, a stretch of land that extends around our northern and eastern borders. It extends about forty miles inland and slowly turn to scrubland and then, after perhaps another twenty miles to the High Desert. Which, I am sure you know, is some 1,500 miles from the coast to the Strein River, at temperatures extending to around 50 degrees. Trains move everything through the desert, so the infrastructure is laughable at best. However the route is viewed as impossible, and beyond a fairly contemptible garrison in the Rimwald of standard Imperial Army units. There are fairly small cities along the coast and the government would be poorly placed to strike back. Anagonians landed here in the First Pictish Wars and did some considerable damage to the northern cities. Unfortunately, yet again these cities are rather small. The damage you would be doing is an arguable risk worthy of taking. It is a most difficult country to take that is perhaps why we have survived so long.”

With one hand on his pocket of money, he truly had been surprised to see so much and the little light of greed in his eye had probably had a most endearing effect to his new spymasters, he stood. Grabbing for his coat, even though the temperature had reached a balmy afternoon peak, the Legion was required to wear their full uniforms. “There is some speculation about a route through the desert. I read it in a book somewhere. Or was it the Bible? Well either way they say the prophet Ceno was able, with nothing more than a stick to cross the desert. The author was found colluding with the Anagonians in our last little scrap, and subsequently burned alive,” a ninety year old man who had been wheeled onto the scaffolding in his agronomic wheelchair, “Can’t say I remember his name. But the Anagonians will no doubt recall. And his book should not to such a difficult thing to find. If you need to contact me again I will be in St. James’ park, under the Cypresses. Good afternoon to you.”
--

1:13 PM
WIS Amborse and Squadron
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

The force was a trifle; it had been thrown up so that the Imperial Navy would not be laughed entirely out of existence and hopefully give the impression that Waldenburg was perhaps not quite so backwards as the world was thinking. Usually this sort of task was handed to the monstrous Third Fleet, however after the Bombarding of Westminster some months earlier the fleet had lost seven capital ships and was now at a disparity with other fleets in slugging power.

The task of defense had been turned over to the Sixth Fleet, or at least elements of it, centered on the indigenously devised Ambrose Class Carrier and Thousis Class Panzerschiff, which the navy held in absolute awe. Perhaps rightly so, perhaps not, however the Admiralty had forgotten that indigenously designed had included Leistungi engineers scouring the Thousis for days, and picking apart its design. Every flaw and strength would soon become apparent and though the ship had performed well at lobbing shells to strike the Grestonian civil centers it had yet to be tested in battle.

Orders had been given however for the motley fleet to come to a head with the Leistungi advanced force, who had little need of either stealth or tact against the Waldenburger fleets, at just after sundown so the Ambrose could work its magic. In the mean time the Ambrose was ordered to come within combat range and then pull out to sea. Hopefully the enemy would follow, gaining ground on the slow Thousis battleships, the WIS Auditor and Arbiter, then at close to nightfall the fleet would turn and settle a score started back in the bay of Hafenstadt.

12:55 PM, Café Waldenburg
Blünderburg, Waldenburg

What a pleasant fellow... Johan sipped his drink before realizing that he had no idea exactly what it was he was drinking. He swished the liquid around a bit in his cup and cringed, leaving the table soon after. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he made his way towards the safe-house, feeling the piece of paper where he had written the notes on in his pants pocket, as if it was going to walk away if he didn’t keep making sure that it was still there. Realizing that he would look strange feeling the inside of his pants as he walked down the street, he quickly took his hand out of his pocket, scratching the back of his neck nonchalantly.

While the Anagonian option seemed promising, especially considering Anagonia’s stance as an ally to the Federal Republic, it was the second option which really caught Johann’s attention. With a military based around mountain warfare, the Bundesheer would have the advantage of battle-hardened and knowledgeable solders, and despite the obvious disadvantage of fighting in a foreign land, he had no doubt that the General Staff would choose the second option. Of course, the possibility that the man had been planted as a spy would have to be considered, but as he was a Jew, Johann would have been very surprised to find him still loyal to the Church.

Johann hadn’t realized it, but he had spent a good part of the day in the stuffy Waldenburger café, and while he had set off that morning into a warm breeze, the sun above was beginning to bake him. The lack of snow in the dead of winter was discerning enough already, but compounded with the outright desert atmosphere, Johann was beginning to think that he had reached the seventh layer of Hell. Considering his surroundings, the thought may not have been far off.

He slipped into the door of the hotel and ascended the flights of stairs leading to his room, which, like everything else in this God-forsaken (ironically enough) country, was sparsely furnished and had pieces of what looked like lead paint chips lying about on the floor. Taking his cellular phone out of his pocket, he dialed the number for the Bundeskriegsministerium and after coding in, immediately was re-routed to the BKM’s secure line.

“Generaloberst? Falcon here. I think I have some information which will interest you boys very much.”

1:22 PM, Bundeskriegsministerium Building
Falkenberg, Leistung

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Generalfeldmarschall Oster began, silencing the group of generals which had congregated in the war room of the Bundeskriegsministerium building that frigid January afternoon. Though the advance fleets had already departed for the Waldenburger homeland, the army chose to lag behind, waiting until naval superiority had been achieved before shipping their precious human cargo overseas. “As we speak, the Fourth Fleet nears Waldenburg proper. Our allies in the Department of the Navy have done their part, and it is now time for us to do ours.”

A man stood, taking full advantage of the open forum policy of these strategy meetings. “Generalfeldmarschall, I am as furious at the Waldenburgers as no doubt every other man in this room is. I too wish to see revenge for our boys, and I too wish to see justice.” The officers in the room nodded, with muffled applause coming from the back, where the lowest-ranked senior officers were seated. “That being said, Hugh, I cannot honestly see us coming anywhere near our enemy’s capital, or even advancing off the landing beaches. Their numerical advantage is far too great, and I just can’t see a time of national mourning as a proper time to involve ourselves in another war.” The upper echelons of the General Staff shook their heads in disgust, though the senior officer’s words had rung true with many of the low-ranked generals in the room.

“General, I appreciate your concern,” Oster said, barely concealing a sarcastic tone. “General, answer me this—how many flags did you see flying coming in to work this morning?”

“I…I don’t remember. I didn’t bother to keep count.”

“I saw sixty-two flags this morning, General. I couldn’t even keep track of how many falcon bumper stickers,” Oster snapped, watching the General squirm uncomfortably. “I only live five minutes from this building. If you truly believe that now isn’t the proper time to involve ourselves in a war, I suggest you find another line of work before your stupidity costs us something. Any other questions?”

The room was silent. Oster actually heard a paper clip drop as one of the more over-zealous officers removed the binding from his mission briefing too early. “Right then. If you’ll all unseal the documents in front of yourselves, we can begin.”

The sounds of ripping and shuffling papers filled the room for a few moments while the men who commanded the lives of millions struggled to figure out how to remove the bindings from their reports. Oster rolled his eyes and began anyways.

“Now what we have here in southern Waldenburg is a little home away from home for our Mountain Infantry divisions…”

1:19 PM, BMS Frühlingszeit
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

The Fourth Fleet had maintained a steady course for the last few hours or so, coming into contact with neither commercial nor military vessels flying a hostile flag. The tension was beginning to make men unnerved, as even the normally composed Admiral Fuchs snapped at his subordinates to check the radar again.

Finally, a single blip appeared on the long-range search radar, causing the radar operator to literally jump out of his chair. After regaining his composure and nursing the bruise on his knee from the last time something like this had happened (the ship was several seconds away from launching a cruise missile at a tugboat before the ship’s captain radioed to see what the fuss with the alarms was about), the operator called over the Admiral Fuchs.

“Excellent work,” Fuchs remarked plainly, picking up the commo microphone and sounding the general quarters alarm. “Attention crew of the Frühlingszeit (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13917533&postcount=25)—enemy contact spotted bearing three-two-two, distance eight hundred kilometers. All crew, Gefechtsstationen, Gefechtsstationen. This is not a drill, this is not a drill, all hands to battlestations.” The clanging of the alarm was heard on the other ships in the fleet as radar information was relayed throughout the battlegroups.

A voice crackled over the comm from the captain of the BMS Wolfshund, one of the Fourth Fleet’s three aircraft carriers. “Frühlingszeit, Frühlingszeit, this is the Wolfshund, please respond.” Fuchs pressed down on the talk button with his thumb and used the other one to thumbs-up the engineering officer, indicating that the fleet should give chase.

“Wolfshund, this is the Frühlingszeit, reading you loud and clear, over,” Fuchs responded, killing the alarm so that he could be heard from the other ship.

“Frühlingszeit, we can scramble four BL-45N (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=523062) jets to eliminate the target, but we need confirmation that the fleet will be giving chase, over.”

“Aye , Wolfshund, the fleet will give chase, and you are cleared to launch BL-45N sortie. I’d like to see just what this Waldenburger captain thinks he’s doing in the middle of the ocean, over.”

“Affirmative, Frühlingszeit, scrambling fighters and following your lead. Wolfshund out.”

1:25 PM
WIS Amborse and Squadron
Western Ocean, Mediterranica


“The trap is baited.” An ensign waved the steam off a china cup and placed it before the Vice Admiral Opplant. The Imperial Navy was very strange in regards to this system and though the entire force was commanded by the Grand Admiral, the second highest-ranking man was Vice Admiral Opplant even though there were dozens of admirals with a technical position above his rank. It was a position poorly deserved by the man in tactical ability. A generally held opinion amongst the more senior naval officer that a victory was only complete once more of the enemy had been killed than of your own men, and Vice Admiral Opplant clung to this belief with a certain calculating coldness.

“Excellent,” his voice, even in the most pitched combat with the Mandalorians some years previous never rose above a confident murmur. “Reverse engines three quarters speed, bearing due southeast.” His orders were carried out silently and with little bother. The bridge of the WIS Ambrose had been personally designed for Opplant and his hand picked crew; in a modern world of warfare the mahogany and brass looked entirely out of place. “Order hands to battlestations.”

Even the claxons of the great ship were of refined noise and minimal volume; generally it was viewed more as an invitation to combat rather than a strict order. All rather pleasant the crew would often reflect but in the blasé face of their Admiral a tiger hid and there was often little mercy for those who did not perform their duty or were slack in this. Of course this crew was entirely fresh but within moments of radar confirmation of the enemy fleet the sailors were roused and dashed to their stations.

The WIS Ambrose too was off a new make and was one of the two new ships to roll off of the lines in Granzimmerburg according to the dictates of the 2011 Defense White Paper. This would be its first combat trial and the Admiralty had pinned great hopes upon it.

“Admiral,” a large radar screen had been inlaid in a hardwood case and held the constant devotion of one of a dozen ensigns scattered about the deck, “We are tracking four enemy targets approaching us at some great speed. Tactical suggests fighter-bombers, it’s big sir. ETF at approximately one minutes and six seconds. ”

“Good,” Opplant clicked his command console on and spoke into the tiny mouthpiece on the side of his command chair. “Batteries 1,2,3 on standby for *Lüftenshaker rounds at proximity subsonic. Batteries 4 and 5 prepare to fire to effect in 35 degree arc from first detonation.”

This too was another innovation of the war department and though this too had seen previous deployment the Lüftenshaker was one of the more deadly weapons in the Waldenburger arsenal in its simplicity, and in the sheer numbers it could be deployed. It was fired in two ways one simply set to explode at a given range in the same system used in the ancient V-2 rockets, and at that point would explode outward in haze of superheated metal shards and in some of later variants chaff which would play absolute hell with target systems but was generally fired when a second shot was not needed. Secondly the rocket was deployed with the much more surprising sonic proximity fuse. A wire, stretch to varying degrees of tightness will vibrate when hit with a wave of sufficient frequency and strength, such as that made my the reassertion of air after the passage of a super or hyper sonic piece of metal.

Thousands of testers had been killed in trials before the correct tautness of the wires was worked out, and trails upon enemy aircraft had been equally promising. Only a general area was required for accuracy, the Lüftenshaker could often be quite some distance away from its target while detonating, all it required was a certain vibrating frequency and strength for the wire within to pull away and begin the explosion. Ideally, with a perfect shot, the missile would pass (or of course strike the target) behind it, and by the force of the air reasserting itself behind the target be detonated and fire almost a kilogram of metal backwards at 5190 m\ps striking directly at the engine ports of either a plane or missile.

In that the design followed a CIWS system however much less accuracy was put into the tracking of targets. Of course there were issues with the system but when used there was often little time for the opponent to discover them before being shredded, and if not the Ambrose had plenty of normal Phalanxes for its defense. However with the number of the tiny rockets that would be fired per minute Opplant, in perhaps his usual swagger, doubted this.

“When you are tracking any incoming ordinance, fire, or when the enemy approach to a range of 50 kilometers do so as well. Wipe them out and perhaps they shall feel more inclined to slug this out? Eh?”

OOC
* Based of the Nazi X-84 Rurhstahl IIRC (The name of it)
You'll have to forgive me. Military writing is so rarely my thing. That's why I usually do it as a backwards theocracy. Yah know with the bayonet charges? Much easier.

1:26 PM, BMS Frühlingszeit
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Fuchs brought the pair of binoculars to his eyes, gazing at the BMS Wolfshund’s post-launch operations with a mix of admiration and pride. The sea was beginning to roughen, and the water which had been calm as glass a few moments ago began to ripple and churn, as if it too was preparing for the coming battle. The Admiral could not hide a sense of eagerness, and there was no question that the crew shared his feelings exactly.

The winds kicked up the mist of the sea, and had Fuchs not known that he was leading his men to possible death, the scene would have been almost poetic. If he knew anything about Waldenburgers, the same thought was going through the minds of his counterparts across the sea. He shook the thought from his head and straightened his cap, waiting with baited breath for the results of the advance sortie.

Falcon Flight

“Bauer, green-light on missile fire,” the captain of the Wolfshund said through the pilot’s headset. “Perform a fly-by and confirm target destruction following impact. Command, over and out.”

“Roger wilco, Command,” Bauer, Falcon Three’s pilot, replied, banking left and arming a single AGM-200B. (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11128548&postcount=458) He switched his channel over to Falcon Flight’s communications frequency and spoke again into the headset. “Falcon Three, fox three,” he said, pressing down on the red button on the joystick and pulling up. The anti-ship missile separated itself from the fighter and shot forward, a trail of smoke following close behind.

The flight remained on the same course, waiting for the inevitable explosion—Waldenburger ships were well known to be lacking missile defenses. “Ah, Falcon leader,” Falcon Three muttered. “No impact.” The flight leader, Colonel Adler, squinted, as if he could see the missile’s fate if he looked hard enough.

“Affirmative, Falcon Three, missile was eliminated prior to striking target,” Adler said, checking his radar scope. “Looks like our enemies have entered the twenty-first century, Three. Falcon Two, Falcon Four, fire off your payload and return to the Wolfshund. We can’t do much more from up here.”

“Roger that, One,” the two other pilots said in unison, firing each of their missiles at the ship blindly, realizing that in such small numbers, they would likely just be shot down—still, no one was going to risk sending up sorties of twenty planes when the entire Waldenburger Sixth Fleet could be looming just a few hundred kilometers away.

BMS Frühlingszeit

“Damn it to hell!” Fuchs slammed his fist on the control panel in a rage. “Who the bloody hell knew that these fools knew how to fight?” The other men on the bridge seemed unsure of how to answer, as their normally composed leader began to snap for the second time that day. Noting the expressions on his compatriots faces, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath before reaching once more for the radio microphone.

“Wolfshund, Wolfshund, this is the Frühlingszeit, do you read?”

“Copy that, Frühlingszeit, Wolfshund reading you loud and clear.” Fuchs stopped for a moment to wonder if any ship had ever not heard another loudly and clearly. The whole procedure took valuable time, and in all likelihood, if the other ship couldn’t hear, they would just have said so. Fuchs shook the second strange thought that day from his mind.

“Wolfshund, inform your escort ships—we give chase.”

OOC: Honestly, no one here really knows enough about military procedure to correctly emulate a real battle--for the purposes of a story, this is just fine.

EDIT: By the way, if you'd like to just skip ahead to the trap (or whatever you have planned), I'd be fine with that.

OOC Fair enough. Not much of a’ trap’ though.

IC

8:46 PM
WIS Amborse and Squadron
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Sea spray now battered the tiny command balcony overlooking the flight deck of Ambrose. A canopy had been erected to defend the bridge officers from just this but the gaudy cloth had been taken in some time ago and the few officers overseeing the last preparations of the attack.

A sharp wind, which ultimately would be a terrible hindrance to the final attack, had started to blow up from the sea some hours ago and now battered the Waldenburger coast which had come into sight, with the assistance of optical enhancers of some variety of another, and the tiny squadron sent to defend it. Of course darkness had fallen some time ago and the erratic gait of Vice Admiral Opplant’s squadron had lead back out to sea at various points but the ball lightening of the High Desert was visible even from here.

Great sandstorms wafted across the High Desert and in the evening, and indeed through most of the day, the dividends were paid and electrons rearranged themselves in spectacular displays of dry lightning, which crackled and danced across the sky. It only occurred on certain parts of the coast and the most interior portions of the place but those that were privileged enough, sailors, wanderers and prophets, were awed by the constant illumination of the sky on some nights.

Waldenburger sailors paid very little heed to this however; they were forming themselves up for an attack on the perusing Leistungi fleet, which as predicted had been gaining ground, and in all likelihood could have overrun the Waldenburgers at any point in time during the night. Or perhaps not, though the Vice Admiral was not prepared to admit anything he could not even recognize the class of ship he was facing and indeed could not accurately predict anything of the Leistungi mindset.

“Come about. Bearing to the Northeast, face the Lesitungi.” Opplant had joined senior marine officer of the foredeck and had been offered his oiled great coat which so snuggly sat around his ears and defended his uniform from most of the water that cascaded back. As usual a china cup and saucer were clenched in his hands and streaming vapor to the find. “Increase speed to 25 knots, frigates are to form a forward screen. The squadron will break to port after,” a map was held in front of him, “point 3447. Let us see if we cannot cross their tee.” Inside the command bridge his orders were being carried out. “What range are the Leistungi currently at?”

“150 kilometers and closing sir.” An ensign shouted back from inside.

“Fine. Then we are launching, all wings are into the air at three minute intervals, formation remain loose and at varying elevations.” This caused quite a stir amongst the pilots, who flicked their visors over their faces and settled back into their patent leather chairs

The Ambrose class was naturally named after St. Ambrose, the patron of knowledge and beekeepers. It was the latter that had earned the pseudonym for the ship.

The drones lined the flight deck and the tiny red running lights shone on every streamline hull; every streamlined, black, radar-absorbing hull. Like the ship itself the drones were of internal design, based of the Reaper and of stealthy design, capable of carrying 700 kilograms of ordinance on various hard points, and in general travel under the radar of missile defenses by comparatively slow speeds and unobtrusive design. The Ambrose could put 144 of them in the air at any one time along with a handful of sensor drones to relay targeting and damage reports to the ship and Vice Admiral.

With the light hum of turbofans warming up the first of the drones began to taxi off the deck and into the strong head wind. “Order the WIS Temerlane and Triumph to provide a distraction. Fire twelve Tomahawks in quick succession, and fire intermittently from here. Give the wings time,” about twenty minutes and at varying elevations, some skimming impossibly low to the ocean, and some raising to seven thousand feet.

“Captain. Seal the bridge.”

8:47 PM, BMS Frühlingszeit
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

The moment the twelve blips appeared on radar, Admiral Fuchs turned to the first mate, giving a slicing motion with his finger across his throat. The fleet had been waiting for the Waldenburgers to make the first move, waiting to see whether they would break and run, or meet up with a larger congregation of ships—the latter was hoped, as Bundesmarine Command’s overarching plan for the Waldenburg war was simply to obliterate the brunt of the Imperial Navy. As the ship the Fleet had been pursuing had met up with elements from the Imperial Navy nearer to Waldenburg, it seemed that the Admiral would indeed get the chance to exact the revenge he had hoped for.

In addition to the standard anti-submarine screen in place around the Fourth Fleet, the Fleet’s three aircraft carriers had had sufficient time to launch their own sorties, and BL-45N’s now filled the skies, darting nimbly between the clouds. Besides the air cover, however, the main offensive arm of the Fleet would be its heavy surface ships—the battlecruisers and cruisers, and the larger destroyer groups.

“Admiral, scope indicates that smaller elements of the enemy fleet are moving into a protective formation,” Able Seaman Connolly said, keeping his eyes trained on the blips moving on the ship’s radar scope. “Frigate screen, by the looks of it.”

Fuchs cracked his knuckles audibly, causing the Seaman to cringe. “Weapons, target the screen. Salvo fire, LMSH-2 (http://z4.invisionfree.com/NSDraftroom/index.php?showtopic=4508)s divided equally amongst the screening ships.” The weapons officer nodded, plotting a firing solution into the computer and flipping the plastic cover off of the firing trigger. The officer pushed the red button, turning his head to observe the smoke and noise of the missiles firing in quick succession, cold-launched out of their vertical launch tubes. The roar of the engines reverberated through the sealed rooms of the battlecruiser, and a cheer went up on the bridge as the missiles descended to sea-skimming altitude and shot forward at Mach 1.5 towards their targets, guided by GPS and active radar homing.

Following the lead of the Frühlingszeit, missiles shot out from the other ships in the fleet, engulfing the immediate area in smoke. When contrasted against the strikes of lightning crisscrossing against the night sky and the roaring waves of the Western Ocean, the scene was almost beautiful.

The beauty was lost to the men of the BMS Alsace (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13989861&postcount=171), however, as three of the Waldenburger TASM missiles penetrated the outer, inner, and terminal missile defense layers, impacting with a spectacular explosion which ripped through the ship and blew the stern backwards. The ship sunk almost immediately, its magazines having detonated.

Fuchs crossed himself but left the prayers to another time. There would certainly be a time for praying when the battle was complete; he had no doubt in his mind. He picked up the radio again and switched to the Fourth Fleet’s general purpose frequency.

“This is Admiral Fuchs speaking,” he started. “All ships, Waldenburger capital ships are armed mainly with heavy guns—target gun cruisers last, and concentrate on anything firing off missiles. Fuchs out.”

BMS Hartzinn

“Conn, sonar—enemy contact bearing one-one-seven, four screws at twenty-five knots,” the sonar operator said over the submarine’s (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=14114156&postcount=223) internal comm system. Captain Wolfram turned to the Chief of the Boat and placed a finger on his lips, indicating the submarine was now running silent.

“Sonar, conn, can you identify the target?” the captain replied, speaking softly into the ICS microphone as the men around him in the conning tower assumed battlestations. The entire room had gone completely quiet, as the men sat at their stations, making no movements of any kind.

“Aye, sir, contact is confirmed Waldenburger, probably Thousis or Ambrose Class,” the operator said in a whisper. Wolfram turned to the Chief of the Boat again, jerking his thumb upwards.

“COB, bring us to periscope depth and raise the scope,” he said, grabbing hold of the two handles on the digital camera mounted as the submarine’s periscope. The contact was indeed large, but in the darkness of the night, it was impossible to identify with any degree of accuracy. Either way, it was hostile, and as there was quite obviously a battle going on, it would need to be eliminated one way or another. “I have the Waldenburger ship in my sights. Flood torpedo tubes one through four and plot a firing solution, Weps.”

The weapons officer punched a few buttons on his control panel. “Tubes flooded and solution plotted, Captain. Ready to fire.”

“Fire tubes one through four.”

“Torpedoes away!” the weapons officer said in a hushed voice. “Countdown started.” The four torpedoes would undoubtedly be discovered at one point or another during their transit period, but with any luck the incredible speed of the supercavitating torpedoes would have sealed the vessels fate long before then.

8:49 PM
WIS Amborse and Squadron
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

A small amount of refined cheering erupted over the fleet when there was several confirmed hits to the enemy had been reported. It was of little concern and when considering the numbers ranged against the squadron and the imminent danger posed by incoming missiles.

A response was imminent and to some extent expected a spray of Lüftenshaker missiles was fired from most vessels with the capability as a preferred defense. Unfortunately most of the missiles either fired over the incoming firing arcs or launched to low and were swallowed by the white crested waves. Whatever the excuse the consequences were soon apparent and two of the four leading frigates were taken under the bow by first one then a second missile.

Both ships were almost lifted out of the water, their decks littering sailors into the sea and being ripped apart layer by layer as missile after missile struck the two ships; within in seconds only a flaming hull remained. Fuel oil and munitions erupted outwards and those unlucky enough to have been thrown from the ship, as compared to those who were instantly incinerated, were burned with the sticky oil.

Either of the flanking frigates also received a hit, one a comparatively glancing blow to the deck, and the second a hit to the rear ammunition bunker with which an entirely anticlimactic lack of response failed to blossom into a pillar of flame.

“Admiral,” dark sheets of metal had slid across most of the glass fronted bridge and cameras now linked the outside world to the sealed bridge, “WIS Raptor and Tolstoy are gone. Opal Sun and Blessed are both taking on water, however report weapons systems as still responsive. And,” the ensign paused for a moment and held a hand to the oversized headset at his ear. “WIS Temerlane is reporting a hit with a missile.” The sound of several joysticks swiveling at once filled the now silent cabin.

Outside in the darkness now punctuated by flames, weapons fire and screaming, the Temerlane could be seen diving through the waves at twenty knots, streaming flames, and despite a sizeable whole and some denting in her upper armor was entirely intact and unphased. “And Is undamaged.” There was another cheer. The slightly convex shaping of the ship allowed for most of the force to be dissipated up and to the relatively unimportant armored lip of the ship.

“You see gentlemen, bloodied, but not the worst for wear.” Opplant turned to his crew with a faint smile on his lips, “The Thousis is…” he paused. He turned to individual faces about the deck and did a few calculations. Opplant turned very slowly to stare at a viewscreen of the outside world just in time to see the second torpedo strike, and then the third which nearly capsized the battleship. All three had struck near the aft of the ship and already information was being relayed on the lost of two props and one of the reactors had spun down. The damage would generally have been contained and indeed there still was that possibility, however that meant containing the engine room and the reactor chambers. Which in a battle situation could not be done.

\In the mean time the direct effects of a ship, which had just lost half it engine power at that speed, were becoming painfully evident as the Temerlane began to drift heavily to the starboard, right into the path of the Ambrose.

“Hard Starboard. Temerlane will respond with its entire arsenal, fire everything now. Triumph will also break hard to starboard and reform around the flag.” Running lights and flames on the gigantic Thousis class battleship began to mix and her signaling horn sounded mournfully as it began to plow towards the flagship. “Shut their engines down damn it! And return fire with everything. How long till out drones have a firing solution?”

“ETA to a firing solution for the missiles is eight minutes, all other munitions have a time of ten minutes.”

8:59 PM, BMS Frühlingszeit
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Admiral Fuchs gazed out onto the scene unfolding in front of him with glee as reports streamed in of hits on multiple ships and torpedo strikes on a Thousis Class panzerschiff. The first mate of the Frühlingszeit jogged up to where he was pacing on the bridge with a message in hand.

“Admiral, the fleet requests further orders,” he said, struggling to be heard over the clamber of men running from station to station on the bridge. Fuchs nodded and picked up the radio microphone, switching to the general fleet frequency.

“Fourth Fleet, this is Admiral Fuchs speaking,” he started, turning to face the bridge of the flagship. “The pressure is on the Waldenburgers now—all escort planes, assume attack formation and move in on their capital elements. Wolf Packs four and seven, flank around and cut off their route of retreat.” He released his thumb from the commo button and walked over to the windows of the bridge, squinting his eyes to see a tiny flame in the distance which appeared to be moving at a steady pace.

The bridge was eerily quiet as they awaited news of the air wing’s attack, until like a siren from hell, the alarm indicating incoming missiles sounded, piercing the air like a knife. “Admiral!” the radar operator bellowed, panic evident in his voice. “Over one hundred targets detected inside our outer missile shield—they’ve just appeared!” Without hesitation Fuchs picked up the radio again.

“All ships, action stations, action stations. Fire short-range surface-to-air missiles and brace for impact.” He threw the radio to the ground and grabbed hold of a bolted-down chair as the ship rocked with the force of an explosion. “Bloody hell—damage report!”

The quartermaster rose from the floor in a daze, blood matting his hair. Voices were screaming frantically over his radio. “Reports of flooding in station four, Admiral,” he yelled, his voice cracking. “Two missile hits to the aft superstructure, fires reported in the engine room.”

“Are we seaworthy?” Fuchs demanded, checking his own head for gashes.

“It would seem so, Admiral. The brunt of the attack seemed to be turned away by our RIM-166Bs and short-range missiles, but multiple other vessels are reporting similar hits,” the quartermaster said, raising his hand up to silence the Admiral before he could ask which ones. “The Wolfshund is reporting fires in the main hangar…oh Lord, the Blau got it much worse than we did.” The BMS Blau was one of the four battlecruisers attached to the Fourth Fleet—the sister ship of the Frühlingszeit.

“Lieutenant, please give me an overview of the situation before I relieve you of your duties,” the Admiral said, rubbing the back of his head and keeping his eyes closed.

“Sorry, sir,” the quartermaster responded. “The Blau has reported a fore magazine explosion. Four destroyers are reporting superficial hits, with four more reporting major damage. The Oktober has been completely destroyed and is taking on water. The aircraft carriers do not seem to be as badly hit, but the Wolfshund has been hit at least twice and is, as I mentioned, reporting fires in the hangar.” He paused for a moment. “Two frigates are reporting damage to major systems with a third reporting a superficial missile hit.”

“Hell--Radar, I sincerely hope that you managed to detect where those missiles were fired from,” Fuchs said, turning to the radar operator who had already returned to his chair and was twisting a number of dials.

“Stealth fighters, Admiral. They lit up the moment they opened their weapon bays, but seem to have disappeared again.”

“Well they’re obviously still out there—communications, inform the returning fighters to be on alert for stealth fighters. Their band-hopping radar should have more luck than our systems.”

9:00 PM
WIS Amborse and Squadron
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

There was little time for jubilation after the successful attacks of the drone fleet; despite the efforts of the Temerlane’s engineers, the engines could not be shut down and the emergency thrusters could do little more than slow down the behemoth about its course. As whoops of joy were funneling up from the flight room one last wail of signaling horn from the approaching battleship sounded before the grey mass clipped the Ambrose in the aft side.

There was no comparison to the screech of metal or the ease at which the Thousis classed cut through the much lighter carrier. The bow, strengthened under with the intention of ramming passive opponents, cut through the rear of the ship like a scalpel through flesh and it was only a matter of time till the props of the Ambrose had been completely destroyed, and in some cases lodged in the hull of the ramming ship.

Correspondingly there was one of the oddest aerial maneuvers ever performed by an entire air wing. 144 drones, in simultaneous action across the entirety of the sky performed several aerial rolls, and as the pilots hung to their controls with icy grips munitions spew forth from of the drones as trigger were gripped with a devoted sentiment towards survival. Like Catherine’s Wheels across the sky, Ambrose’s drone pinwheeled and sparked in elegant loops spitting cannon and missile fire.

On the bridge of the Amborse as well officers were tossed about as paper dolls in a hurricane. Vice Admiral Opplant was picked up off his feet and slammed bodily into the glass windscreen which cracked about him. Power shut off at that moment and the bridge was plunged into utter chaos as several lose cables were snapped by the aftershock and in the sudden darkness the only flicker of light was a sub lieutenant unlucky enough to be struck in the face by one of the severed cables and was sparking unnaturally.

“Status report!” Opplant croaked from the floor where he nursed a swelling lump on the crown of his head.

“Engines are gone, power gone on the top three decks, flight wing…” a rocket of some variety thundered into the steel barrier across the pushed the steel in a few inches. “Is reporting weapons malfunctions and loss of control. The Temerlane is reporting minimal additional damage, however gun three has lost targeting. All weapons systems are down. Communications are working admirably however. We are taking on considerable water, however we have managed to seal the bulkheads and are preparing to flood the forward crew quarters to compensate.”

“Good,” a copious amount of blood had begun to seep through Opplant’s fingers as he gripped at the top of his head. “Good.” Color began to drain from the face. “ However this ship cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy, it carries the secrets of our navy and our newest weapons. Do we have a reactor still functioning?”

“No sir. Emergency power is active.”

Opplant nodded, which apparently caused him some great deal of pain, “Strike the colors, transfer the flag to the Triumph and order the crew to abandon ship. Triumph will bring its heavy guns to bear and put three shells through our waterline, any drones that are still in the air are either ordered to destroy themselves or ram the enemy.” It was difficult for the Admiral to speak, blood was seeping up through his lips and his vision blurred with every word. He could hear his orders being carried out however and after some time, Opplant felt the cacophony of the shells slamming into his flagship.

“Sergeant,” the Admiral held up a bloodstained glove to a retreating marine, “Could I borrow your pistol? For personal reasons.” The black 9mm was tossed to the Admiral before the marine dashed out of the bridge, stopping only to genuflect to the bright red cross painted over the doorway.
--

“Not one step backwards cowards! Give me your hand!” Sailors flung from the deck of the Ambrose were being picked out of the water by the officers of the Triumph who lined the deck and cast down ropes and the two lifts to raise up the water logged survivors. Some however were hesitant to climb back onto what was essentially a moving target and were quite content to bob in the warm, if choppy, water or cling to the shards of debris.

“Damn it! Fire!” A machine gun had been brought up and the loyalties of the survivors were reinforced by several hundred rounds into the water and several floating bodies. “Give me your hand, to the weapons rooms! Go!”

Loudspeakers shrilled as more men were pulled from the water, “the squadron will fall back; Triumph and Temerlane will cover the retreat. Rejoice!” a nasally voice that qualified as the ships chaplain joined in, “we have been chosen for the fight. Forward my children, not one foreign foot on the Holy Land. Not one whisper of their lies!” Over the horizon jet fighters could be heard approaching and in response Lüftenshaker missiles were shot off in the hundreds from their mounts about the squadron.

“Come my brothers! Once more!” The chaplain bellowed, “One more for the heathen, and another for the Sacred Trinity! Come brothers!

OOC Feel free to finish the Temerlane and any other ships you feel appropriate off as you see fit.

9:05 PM, BMS Frühlingszeit
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

The remaining vessels of the Fourth Fleet lumbered forward, leaving the smoking wrecks of the ships not lucky, or skilled enough to evade the onslaught of missiles which the fleet had just been subjected to. By any other standards, casualties were at an acceptable level, but as the foe had previously been thought to possess no anti-air or anti-submarine capabilities of any kind, the General Staff would undoubtedly be less than pleased with the results.

The roar of the steam turbines could be heard even from the picket ships of the fleet as the vessels cut through the waves, steaming directly for the Waldenburg vessels which had now begun to turn tail and run.

Fuchs gazed once more onto the scene in front of him, the windows of the bridge beginning to fog over from the prolonged rainstorm. Rain still fell on the Western Ocean, coming down now in sheets which seemed to come from all sides, lightning crisscrossing the sky as if the fury of the ocean was trying to match that of the Leistungi advance. The Admiral turned again to his weapons officer.

“Seaman, verify our range to the target, if you please,” he requested, fixing his cap back on his hair.

“Range to nearest target is approximately ninty kilometers, Admiral,” Connolly replied, twisting a dial on the radar screen. “Range to farthest target, one hundred six kilometers.” Fuchs paused for a moment to consider his options. Likely the Fourth Fleet would be rotated out and replaced with another to allow the men time to rest and the ships to be repaired and rearmed, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks with the ammunition supply. Besides, he had had quite enough of the damned Waldenburger anti-air rockets.

“Engage with the 127mm naval rifle, Seaman,” Fuchs said, picking up the radio to inform the rest of the fleet to do the same with their naval guns. “ERGM rounds, if you please.” The sailor nodded, plotting a firing solution for the main gun.

Like a concerto from hell itself the entire fleet opened up, synchronizing their fire. Great thunderclaps were met by the pounding of the five inch guns, lightning by the muzzle flashes, and all down the line the story was the same. The sounds of missiles were replaced with the simpler, more subtle sounds of gunfire, though the sixteen inch guns of the battleships were not yet in range, and it would undoubtedly be a different story once they added their gunfire to the fleet’s.

9:05 PM, BMS Resolve
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Fuhrmann allowed a tiny smile to form on his face as the order came down the line to open fire with guns, remembering a time in his career when that was the only firing order one would be given. A certain amount of romanticism was lost from the art of naval warfare when the missile was adopted as the standard armament of the Bundesmarine, and any opportunity to use their main guns was taken eagerly by fleets on the high seas.

“Weapons, fire main gun and cover the air wing’s assault. Sustain fire until otherwise directed,” Fuhrmann ordered, speaking into the microphone on the Resolve’s internal communication system and watching as the gun rotated to face the enemy, angling itself towards the sky.

A single thunderous boom preceded the ejection of a shell casing onto the deck, the metal hitting the bow with a clang. Then another, and another, until the gun’s noise began to fade into the background, unnoticed by the bridge crew. Out of the corner of his eye, Fuhrmann noticed a series of flashes from the Frühlingszeit and recognized the age-old flashing searchlight.

“Commander Gibbs, the Frühlingszeit is relaying a message to us in Morse code,” the Captain said plainly, walking to the port bridge window to see the message relayed again. He squinted his eyes to see the flashing of the light, realizing almost immediately why the message wasn’t being relayed via the radio, which could theoretically have been listened in to.


BMS FRÜHLINGSZEIT
FOURTH FLEET COMMAND

NO QUARTER TO BE GIVEN

[FULL STOP]

“You'd best get Mozart, Commander,” Fuhrmann remarked coldly, pointing at the ancient record player in the corner of the bridge. “I think Requiem would be appropriate.”

9:12 PM
WIS Temerlane
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Amen of Mozart's Requiem (http://www.music.columbia.edu/collegium/recordings/Mozart%20Requiem/09%20Amen.mp3)

Temerlane, however still unable to deactivate most of its wayward turbines, had been able to counterbalance the effect with emergency thrusters and other turbines. The rudder was either heavily damaged or entirely gone and the engineering officers had been working miracles in two feet of water to gain control of the ship.

It was perhaps one of the most erratic paths taken by a serving warship however as constantly the course would be over estimated and then corrected. With an erratic course, and being struck repeatedly by long-range fire, which had little effect on the steel sheathed monster, Temerlane pushed its way towards the Leistungi.

From within the sealed bridge the sound of thunder and the occasional pounding as a shell hit the upper levels of the vessel resounded within the chamber. Half of the senior officers were wet as they had been pulled from the sea and been issued a fluffy green towel from the Captain’s private quarters.

“Their bombardment is becoming relentless,” hits had become more constant and the time between them was becoming quite regular. “How much more can we take?” Officers clustered around a viewing camera, which plainly showed one of the lesser gun mountings of fire and crewmembers scrambling with the firehouses.

“Sir,” a sub commander volunteered towards the captain. “Vice Admiral Opplant is dead. You have the authority to authorize surrender. We have little engine capability and we will not even make it into range before we are a burning wreck. Please sir I beg you, strike the colors, the Leistungi are weak, and they will offer us quarter; we will die otherwise.”

Standing in a corner, as easy man to forget, the Prelate Schreiner unfolded his hands from a Psalm book and perked up his twinkly little eyes, “That is treason Sub Commander; there are orders from the Emperor that this ship must not fall into enemy hands.”

“Yes, yes Schreiner,” the sub commander snapped back in a brusque manner, “So we get hanged if we do surrender and we drown if we don’t. The odds are not strikingly in our favor, and in this moment I think we must consider our ultimate future.”

“You will not surrender captain,” Schreiner stepped from his chair and took a few light steps forward, “the Emperor and Cenobiarch are watching this ship, alone amongst the infinity of the wicked sea which brings us nothing but enmity and bloodshed. We are the wall behind which stands the motherland. Nothing must break through us.”

“Shut your mouth,” the sub commander’s hand flew to his saber and gripped the handle menacingly, “you are here to hold the hands of the dying and superstitious and promise them eternity you little bastard. You have no military experience Schreiner; from what do you draw your baseless conjecture?”

“2,000 years of darkness, and history stand behind me, and believe when I tell you that not one step shall be taken backwards. And if you intend to use that damn sword then do it, or sit down!”

“Very well,” the sub commander pulled the sword with a flourish and lowered at the prelate’s neck, which was well within lunging distance.

“Please gentlemen,” from his central chair the captain raised a quieting hand, “strike the colors and send our message of surrender on an unencrypted channel. Prepare the crew to troops the colors and hand over their weapons. I shall surrender my sword to their Admiral.”

A flash of fire punctuated the sentence and two marble sized blossoms of blood flowered on the chest of the sub commander; his sword fell to the ground with a clatter and the body followed shortly. Prelate Schreiner had needed to aim very little at that range and had fired point blank into the chest of his opponent. “Captain I am relieving you of command under Canonical Order Thirty Seven and placing this ship under the direct command of the Cenobiarch and his local jurisdiction.”


With an ever widening circling growing around the gun wielding clergyman the captain again brushed away the man and pressed the communications panel within his chair, “This is Captain Tildan strike the colors and prepare to surrender the ship; general authorization confirmed.”

“This is Prelate Schreiner. Any man who attempts to surrender his arms to the enemy will be considered an enemy of the Holy Church and subject to ultimate displeasures of the Cenobiarch,” the man had moved too quickly for any of the more loyal officers to stop him and had opened a channel of communication.

“You go too far. Corporal Remi place the Prelate under arrest and escort him to the brig.”

A smartly dressed marine stepped forward, saluted crisply, “No sir.”

“Very well. Sergeant Ruddel place Corporal Remi and the Prelate under arrest.”

Another man, much larger and with one eye covered with a piece of black cloth saluted, “yes sir.” He lumbered towards the Prelate who searched the eyes of other officers, and found quite a bit of sympathy, but apparently none so inclined to assist him. With a snarl and darting eyes Schreiner leveled his pistols at the Tildan and fired off half a dozen rounds into the chair.

In response a saber was whipped out and brought down heavily on the clerics face. This was followed in short order by Corporal Remi firing a round through the shoulder of the second lieutenant. All of this happened in the course of a few seconds, and the reflexes of the navy took over as half of the men dove for the floor while the rest reached for weapons.

Fire was exchanged heavily as control panels were shot to pieces and most of crew was killed.

One ensign, directly after beating off an attacker with a coffee mug happened to catch a flashing red light on two of the many communications panels, “Oh, Damn.” The Leistungi, the crew, would hear everything if they had an ear to the bridge.
--

“Get the flag!” Sailors scrambled up the conning tower to where the battle flag of the Empire whipped violently in the vicious wind. “Get it down!”

“Don’t touch it!” A voice roared from somewhere out bellow, and to reinforce his point shot one of the climbers through the back. “Fight on cowards!” All across the exposed portions of the vessel small arms fire was erupting and the crew was quickly polarizing over a healthy respect for their lives, as hundreds upon hundreds attempted to either five into the ocean or in some way assist the surrender, and those with a healthy regard for the soul who took up rifles and started cutting down their shipmates. Without the constant care of the engineers the ship had once again begun to spin in a ever widening circle.

Sounds of clanking metal gears lifted most of the surviving bridge crew. A six-inch naval gun was now pointed, if any one had been paying attention to the viewing monitors, directly at the reinforced steel door to the conning tower. There was a roll of thunder.

9:13 PM, BMS Leuchtturm
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Captain Bayer chuckled as the transcript of the Frühlingszeit’s radio interception of the Waldenburger message was handed to him by his second-in-command. The first mate, having obviously read the message as well, curled the ends of his lips into a smile, saluting as he handed it over.

“Estimated range to target?” Bayer called out, still keeping his eyes trained on the piece of paper. Admiral Fuchs had added his comments to the bottom of the page before sending it out, and Bayer was in the process of glancing over them.

“Thirty-six kilometers and closing, Captain,” the radar officer responded, turning in his chair facing the much older captain. The captain remained silent for a moment.

“Gentlemen, our enemies seem to be having some sort of internal quarrel,” Bayer started. He was interrupted by a mutter somewhere on the bridge that sounded something like, ‘what else is new.’ Ignoring the comment, he continued. “As the good people we are, we’re going to help them find their God—hopefully he’ll be able to clear up who exactly is in the right.” The gunnery officer cracked his knuckles. “Lieutenant Breckenridge, turn the vessel broadside to the enemy. Fire main guns on my orders.”

“Turning the vessel broadside to the enemy, Captain. Guns rotating to face the enemy,” the first mate replied. A distant bang of gunfire could be heard, different from that of the five-inchers which were still going steadily.

“Lieutenant, did the enemy just fire on us?” Bayer asked, bewildered. It was his understanding that the enemy bridge was being engulfed by a hail of both Leistungi and Waldenburger gunfire, so there should have been no actions taken by the crew of the enemy ship.

“Negative, Captain. Gunfire seems to have been pointed at their own ship, sir,” the first mate said, raising an eyebrow. Bayer shrugged. Stranger things had happened on Waldenburger ships, anyways.

Bayer flipped the plastic cover off the salvo alarm and turned the dial, covering his ears as the shrill whistle of the alarm filled the night air. “Fire main guns!” he bellowed, as the gunnery officer pressed the fire button and the sixteen inch main guns belched smoke and fire, rocking the entire ship.

BMS Hartzinn

The Hartzinn and her fellow attack submarines attached to the Fourth Fleet (sixteen in total) had formed a vanguard of sorts for the fleet, slipping undetected behind the retreating Waldenburger fleet and waiting for the chance to strike. With the threat from the rearguard ships lessening with each passing minute, that chance had now presented itself nicely.

A dark shape slipped its way through the waves, flanked by several others steaming their way back to the Waldenburger homeland at top speed.

“Contact sighted—bearing,” Captain Wolfram whispered, centering the periscope crosshairs over the hostile ship (by the looks of it, a destroyer). “Mark.” The Approach Officer glanced at the number on the periscope shaft.

“Target bearing zero-four-niner, angle on the bow—zero-niner-zero degrees on the starboard,” the Officer replied in a hushed tone. The next logical question was the speed of the target, and as he knew it was coming, he answered before the question left the Captain’s mouth. “Speed is twenty-three and seven knots.”

“Thank you, Seaman. Sonar, approximate range to target?”

“Nine thousand, two hundred meters approximately, Captain,” the sonar operator responded, his voice coming over the internal communication system to the conning tower.

“Plot a firing solution and flood tubes one and two,” Wolfram said, keeping the ship in the periscope’s crosshairs.

“Firing solution plotted, tubes one and two flooded and ready to fire, Captain.”

“Fire one and two.”

OOC: Though I only showed one submarine, assume that the same thing is happening all down the line (of course, once the first ship arbitrarily explodes, the others will realize what's going on and respond accordingly, I expect that). Plus, you don't actually have to have the first ship sink, since torpedo attacks guided by sight are liable to miss in the middle of a storm at sea.

9:15 PM
WIS Temerlane
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Haydn's 'The Seasons' Frühlingszeit (http://www.wga.hu/music1/18_cent/haydn_spring_1-2.html)

Midshipman Howard Engle admitted perhaps the six-inch shell into the bridge housing had perhaps been overdoing it a little but as metal shards plinked down over the ship silence, apart from the storm and the enemy fire, reigned.

Gunfire had apparently ceased on the bridge and the only sound coming over the crackle of the intercom was a certain amount of moaning and some mumbled curses.

Heads poked from behind improvised cover as both sides, those opposed and in favor of surrender, were checking on the status of their ship and looking for the trigger-happy gunner to give him a ding along side the head. Gunfire had ceased though, and however many bodies lay scattered about the deck the fighting seemed to be over. There was another creak of gears and the crew collectively turned to the secondary bow battery.

“No,” the primary battery began to turn as well to face off against the other deck gun, “no, no,” Engle maneuvered the weapon as fast as he could with his joystick and prayed to outrun the other six-incher. This was of course not to be and the deck mounting for the battery was obliterated with a quick succession of three shells.

In the greatest tradition of the circular firing squad the internal squabble began to heat up again as all men began to fight for what remained of any semblance of cover and brutally beat back any of their fellow sailors that drew attention or space. Very few, besides the trained observation officers of which there were an ever-decreasing amount, noticed the flash of long guns amongst the Leistungi fleet. It mattered very little as the guns could hardly be brought to bear as the engines were again propelling the ship where they wished. Of course this was the double edged sword, though the Temerlane had no hope of bringing the heavy guns to bear any gunnery officer would have found it quiet difficult to plot the course of the battleship, and strikes from the enemy were lessening with every erratic second.
--

In retrospect everything on the WIS Gallant Venture was peaceful; her enlisted men hung from the rear deck rail and watched the fire every marginalizing as the Temerlane faded into the horizon. Great pillars of flame marked a hit and the deck crew was relaying information of a brilliant and tiger like defense with the battleship having already holed a cruiser and was now working on its first battleship. With every explosion, a generalized cheer went up, both in solidarity with their brothers and in gladness it was not them out on the firing line.

“What do you think they’ll call this?” A seamen leaned over the rear gun rail and flicked peanut shells into the sea, and with a practiced hand sucked the brine off every replacement,

There were dozens of men crowded around the tiny outcropping hanging off every piece of exposed metal. A second man was methodically peeling a orange, and looked up with a thoughtful look, “I have no idea where we are.”

“The Lieutenant said about one-fifty miles from Thule, if that means anything.”

“Thule? Or the smoking crater?” another man joined in as he was lighting the flame under an rather Spartan looking fondue pot. “They won’t call it anything’ we didn’t win, well maybe we have but, not actually or we wouldn’t be running. See? Now about those strawberries?”

“It’s just,” the first man waved his hand, “well it seems that this will be important later. At least I’d like to think you, and you think people would remember it. I don’t even know what day it is.”

“Uhh… March 16th. That means it’s almost spring; the crops are going in a few days and…” The man fell silent as his orange peel fell into the ocean beside a speeding white wave that passed within inches of the hull. “…Torpedoes in the water! Torpedoes!” From amongst the squadron the sound and sudden blinding white light of a hit threw the crew into action. When the blaze faded from the crew’s eyes they could see the WIS Verdun, a mine laying corvette on fire and listing heavily to one side.

“Action stations!” Most of the crew had already been beat to quarters but some had been dismissed from the infirmary amongst other less vital locations. Reactions times were admittedly brilliant at this point, the nerves of the sailors had been tuned by nearly eight hours of constant threat and it was only a matter of seconds until the ships had deployed smoke screens and begun dumping fuel oil and firing flares into the spreading pools to create a visual block to the apparent although unseen submarines.

Finally, after some hours of laying dormant, the Triumph sent up her drones as spotters and sent them low on over the water looking for the telltale grey hulks. In a more preventative measure a few Badgers were wrestled into working order and each sent out a preliminary round of sensory rounds and cameras. Built as a naval mortar for ASW the Badger had been modified slightly, at least within the confines of the modern Sixth Fleet, to magnetized rounds and in the case of the larger battery aboard the Gallant Venture a single remote guided miniature torpedo which was flung into the water in the attempt to find the enemy and in some measure find some solace for the Empire.

OOC: I think LS may invade as well—he hasn’t told me per se, but he’s been dropping hints, and it would make sense ICly. Basically I’m going to kill a bit of time with special forces actions to see how it pans out (of course, I had planned this anyways, but now I’ll just have to delay the main invasion a little longer). Apologies if I got any of your geography wrong, by the way.

10:24 PM, BMS Hartzinn
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

The men of the Hartzinn were a little hungry, a little tired, and a little frustrated. Their torpedoes had missed wildly, and rather than risk reprisals from the retreating Waldenburger fleet trying to fire again, the captain had ordered a dive to seven hundred feet, avoiding the bulk of the anti-submarine munitions fired at them. One submarine was damaged, or at the very least jarred by the mortar fire, but neither the Admiral nor the men of the Hartzinn knew that at the moment.

The submarine flotillas deployed to the Western Ocean slipped quietly back to the rear of the Fourth Fleet at extreme depth, neither detecting nor being detected by anything on the surface (at least to their knowledge), but the fleet itself kept moving, securing the ocean for the inevitable convoys of supply ships which were soon to follow and paving the way for the invasion fleet, which would arrive at a later, undisclosed date. One submarine, however, was not with its sister ships in their retreat. Instead, the BMS Vorposten slipped unseen to the southern shores of Waldenburg proper, launching its precious cargo silently.

12:41 PM, BMS Vorposten
Off the Coast of Waldenburg

In full wetsuit and scuba gear, Sergeant Amsel and his squad slipped out of the Vorposten into the pitch black, cloudy waters of southern Waldenburg, swimming quickly with the currents and bringing themselves in closer to the beaches, which, in all honesty, were far too rocky for the scuba team’s tastes. They could already foresee tears in the wetsuits—not as though they were ever going to use them again.

Kicking his flippers off and placing them in his pack, Amsel waded to shore quietly, glancing around to make sure that there were no witnesses on the beach on that warm spring night. With a wave of his hand the other men struggled to shore, the weight of their packs bearing down on them, and their carbines impairing the use of their arms, making it difficult to propel themselves forward.

The men shed their wetsuits and scuba gear and disposed of them in the standard manner before surveying their surroundings. The beach was pebbled, but wouldn’t have been a bad place to land troops en masse. Further out, a series of mountains indicated what must have been the Ibblesguarder Mountain chain and presumably beyond that lay the river which ran through the countryside and provided Waldenburg with its lifeblood.

The river was the intended target, of course. Several more KSK teams were being inserted all along the coast to survey places to land and begin the arduous process of wresting a deep-water port out of the hands of the Waldenburgers, but Team Seven, Amsel’s team, was tasked with a far more underhanded mission. With dozens of vials of Vibrio cholerae bacteria in sealed canisters in their packs, Team Seven was tasked with the contamination of Waldenburger water supplies via the Strein River and its tributaries—a task that while horrifying, was ultimately necessary—besides, water treatment, if it was half of what it was in Leistung, would likely destroy most of the bacteria before it reached the civilian populace. The psychological aspect of the attack was what was most desirable.

8:35 PM, BMS Wachsam
Four Days Later

The thudding of the Wachsam’s three five-inch guns awoke the crews of the vessels close by to the Ironside (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13917166&postcount=22)Class battlecruiser in the naval blockade around Waldenburg. Ships had intermittently begun targeting the radar and anti-air facilities painted for them by the special forces teams already ashore and by satellite and intelligence data gathered from a variety of sources, though word of the results had not yet reached the encircling fleet.

Airborne landings around a port city located on the coast of southern Waldenburg (the pickings were slim, with the mountain ranges making ports few and far between) would be supported by naval gunfire from the fleet and amphibious landings nearby by an armored regiment. However, if the plan was to continue as envisioned by the General Staff, air superiority would have to be achieved—the anti-air facilities would be taken care of fairly simply, but no one was exactly sure how many interceptors were poised to strike at a helicopter insertion. With any luck, once the radar stations around the coast were destroyed, the Waldenburg Air Force wouldn’t have enough warning to scramble fighters anyways.

Haydn's Overture to 'The Creation' (http://www.wga.hu/music1/18_cent/haydn_creation.html)

A clock ticked morosely. Somewhere, at a great distance, a songbird was working its way through a trill. The area around the desk seemed entirely devoid of sound and General von Solf stood at a painful attention before the desk of the Emperor. Some of the more realistic pretentious Emperors had constructed entirely from silver, or over holy relics, or with an entire body of an enemy resting in an inkwell. Wyatt von Waldenburg IV had forgone most of these things and instead had picture upon picture, row upon row of silver frames depicting his many children and grand children. What space wasn’t covered with mementoes of the family was stern with papers and indeed pens, and a dozen used Kleenex.

“They are where?” The Emperor asked from behind templed fingers.

“Ah, your majesty,” Solf bowed slightly and with his riding crop motioned to a large in-depth map of the Waldenburg continent at the southern end, “Lügendorf is the closest town. They have been shelling the coast for some days now and have destroyed,” Solf flicked up a file folder, “Six cowsheds, eighteen barns, thirty seven houses, one warehouse, two shore batteries and the local airfield.”

“They are attempting to knock out capabilities to oppose a landing you suggest?” the Emperor asked. Even though he was obviously trying to be menacing his balding head and cheery face could so rarely pull it off and Solf began to feel much more at home with his explanations.

“Apparently sir. Of course we only have three radar stations on the coast, and besides those two shore batteries, a local brigade, and a mine laying submarines they have a clean run on Lügendorf. You see of course we never really expected anyone to invade via the south, most of all in early spring, when the melt waters will be washing most everything away. I’ve told my men to cover up normal building with tarpaulins and camouflage to slow down their advance. Also The local population had been going some distance to build some ‘cannons’ and dot them about the city to compliment the real ones, of course once the Lesitungi storm onto land they will find this out but in the mean time… ” Solf trailed off.

“I was under the impression you had arranged for an agent to give the Lesitungi a clear route through the desert? In fact I had your assurances of it.”

“It was presented to them, apparently they did not take to it sire. Perhaps if we wipe out this spear they will reconsider their mode of attack…”

With creaking legs, and the aide of a cane, von Waldenburg rose to the map. In studying it though it was not simply a map but a beautifully maintained mosaic of precious stones and silver squares; the Ibblesguarder mountains were rough garnets swathing the south of the country in a defensive embrace.

“The coast is not well defended at all, however the mountains themselves are. The Scant Consortium keeps an iron control over the water flow, and until very recently the Mountain Tribes have been a constant source of worry, the garrisons and fortress of the mountains are strong. On the whim of the Scant Group we can flood nearly any valley and wash an army away at this time of year, of course that may kill ruin the entire growing season along the Strein, however they are foolish to assume we won’t. Any fighter pilot worth his salt won’t fly though those mountains, perhaps over them, and once there, they will have so little effect. Do you remember your history General? The Mad Monks of Ur, and Ludwig the Rather Insane, to name a few?”

Solf winced ever so slightly, “Quite so sir.”

“There are tunnels and fortresses lining those mountains and overlooking almost every valley. We could move an army entirely underground, walk in behind them and when they attempt to pursue flood the tunnels. What were they thinking? This is foolish in the extreme; at least the desert is straightforward, it is large and difficult but not impossible. This is a tactical nightmare.”

“Ah, sir. My department had put forward the ideas that this is rather a feint to an actual attack sir… Or of course they are after the water. “

The Emperor’s already paling face flicked almost instantly to ashen, “They wouldn’t would they? Oh dear… We must stop them from doing so.”

“Do not worry sir. They cannot be familiar with the system. I doubt very much they can wade through the country as it is; the melt waters will cut them off, and if they do attempt anything it will be in there. The collection facilities will pick it out and burn out anything. Of course the doomsday scenario is a case of direct infestation of the Strein with a bacterial agent, in which case…”

“Have I struck you?”

“No sir.”

“Have I wronged your family?”

“No sir.”

“Then do not injure me in such a way.”

“Apologies Your Majesty.”

The Emperor sniffed and searched his desk for a mostly unused Kleenex and applied it to his nose, “This problem cannot be allowed to escalate; ISS agents will begin patrolling the more obvious waterways to deter this sort of behavior. In the interim I will be heading to the south. This has gone on quite far enough; the plan has become to warped; I will deal with this personally.”

“I thought General Smithy would be handling it?”

“He shall accompany me, as well as the Vice Admiral Thousis, and General Gröning of course. I will not have my nation, my country be buried by this, not for any longer.” With a fixed jaw and a firm nod the Emperor motioned to a second table, draped in black velvet and containing a smaller but already crowded set of picture frames, “”Not another minute.”
--

A sterile light flicked on and threw a blinding aurora over the patient’s face that naturally flinched at the sudden, blinding, and white light. The patient tried to struggle but found his arms very carefully secured.

The light moved slightly, very slightly, and masked face hove into view, “Good morning Carl,” the face had a set of kindly blue eyes and the Lesitungi strapped to the chair couldn’t help but relax slightly in their presence. “You know you have been through some trying times corporal.” Carl couldn’t help but agree, “You are lucky you survived.” Carl was indeed lucky. “But of course the great writer Horrowix once wrote you only truly meet a man when he is so close to death his true feelings, his most hidden sentiments come rushing out. He would kidnap peasants and take them to Mount Blünder and hold them over the edge with one hand and take notes with the other. In a nation as devoted to God as Waldenburg he found so few who prayed; so few asked their god for salvation. Mostly they turned in on themselves, but a very few damned him and spat at him and lit a flame in their own hearts. It hasn’t yet been extinguished, and by the Grace of God it never will.” A needle gently pushed into the back of Carl’s neck.

OOC: Discussed beforehand, obviously.

9:15 AM, Chancellery
Falkenberg, Leistung

A frigid breeze blew into the Chancellor’s office, accompanied by a fair amount of snow. This winter had been one of the harshest in recent memory, and even as spring drew ever closer, the air remained brutally cold. Chancellor Ringkampf reached behind him and pulled the window shut, closing off the room the outside save for a draft coming in from one of the floorboards.

Two uniformed men sat opposite from the Chancellor, both sitting upright, looks of weariness and fatigue on their slightly wrinkled faces. All three men were going prematurely gray, though it was to be expected in their lines of work. Ringkampf had a finger resting on his temple and was leaning a few centimeters over his desk, his eyes bloodshot.

“Explain this to me again, gentlemen,” he said, exasperation beginning to creep its way into his words. “You’ve just…found a better way? This wasn’t something the General Staff could have picked up on back when we were planning the invasion?” The two men shifted uncomfortably in their leather chairs.

“Our intelligence was sketchy at best, Chancellor,” the man in the black and gold uniform started. His name tag read, “Beckenbauer,” identifying him as one of the two commanding officers in the Oberkommando der Marine. Of the two, Jonas Beckenbauer was the more experienced, and led the efforts to withstand the Waldenburger assault at Hafenstadt some years prior. “New information gathered by special forces teams on the ground seems to indicate that a small peninsula far to the south would be the ideal landing place, far from either the desert or the mountains.”

“And it would facilitate easier execution of Case Red?” Ringkampf asked, keeping his voice low. Case Red was the planned poisoning of the River Strein, though the plan itself was known only by a select few in the Leistungi military, and even fewer in the government itself. Originally, the southern invasion was meant to cover the advances of the special forces teams initiating Case Red, in addition to establishing a beachhead for either further advancement into Waldenburger territory or to draw Waldenburger army groups from the river delta for a secondary front. This new information, though, seemed to eliminate the need for a two-pronged attack.

“It would indeed, Chancellor,” the other man, General Franz Jaeger, responded. “And with a clear shot to Scant, our forces would present a clear threat to Waldenburger army groups centered on populated areas—the movement of forces away from the river is desirable should we intend to go ahead with Case Red.”

“Also important to remember, sir, is that we intend to engage a force many times larger than our own,” Beckenbauer cut in. “We need every possible element on our side, and giving the Waldenburgers a terrain advantage is not only inadvisable—it’s just plain idiotic. We will have ample maneuvering room on this axis of advance, much more so than we would have had trying to fight our way through the mountains of south Waldenburg, and that alone should give us the upper hand should we wish to flank around with our armored divisions.”

The Chancellor sighed, realizing that Beckenbauer was about to go into tactical maneuvering—the one area of war that he simply could not grasp. “Alright. Jonas, Franz, I trust your judgment in the matter. I suppose you want me to deliver a statement to the press explaining why we won’t be invading on our set date?”

“Exactly, sir. Though I’m sure you know not to give out details to our actual plan—make up some military-sounding jargon and wing it.”

“Jonas, even if I did know what you two were talking about half the time, I would never know how to explain it. Your secrets are safe in my hands.”

9:51 AM, BMS Frühlingszeit
Western Ocean, Mediterranica

Admiral Fuchs ran his eyes over the message being sent to him at sea around the far southeastern corner of Waldenburg proper, flicking his eyes upward in irritation. Of course Falkenberg had decided to change the plan—as if the damn politicians could be expected to stick to anything but their paychecks. He forwarded the message over the secure line to the other ships of the Fourth Fleet, the pounding of the vessel’s five-inch guns falling silent as the order was read by each captain.

“New bearing, helmsman,” Fuchs said, nodding to the man behind the wheel of the ship. “Take us due west until we reach this point. All ahead standard.” He handed the piece of paper to the helmsman, pointing at the set of coordinates at the bottom of the page. He nodded and turned the wheel far to the left, sending the Frühlingszeit on a new course.

“Our special forces teams will regroup on the new landing zone?” Fuch’s first mate asked, coming up beside him on the bridge.

“I would image they’ll just move on to Case R—” He stopped himself in mid-sentence, realizing what he was about to say. “I would imagine they’ll do so, yes, Lieutenant.”

11:43 PM, KSK Team Seven
Somewhere in Waldenburg

Team Seven had emerged from the water some four or five days ago, but most all of them felt as though they were still soaking wet. Idling in the middle of the ocean for a week or so on a dinghy had that effect on a man. Panting, the four men now set a course directly for the base of the River Strein, having traversed the several miles of rugged terrain immediately off the beaches fairly quickly—the men’s training deep in the mountain ranges of Leistung had served them well, that much was clear.

Now a great expanse lay before them, and past that, military installations and patrols were visible from the bluffs the four men now were sprinting down. If they should fail, each man knew that the government would disavow any knowledge of their existence, claiming that they were renegades, vigilantes, anything but trained and paid special forces operatives. The capsule of cyanide each man carried around his neck was not for show, after all.

Though Team Seven was unaware of it, several other teams had been inserted along the coast to execute Case Red—should they have known, the incentive to succeed would not have been as strong. Amsel stopped for a moment, taking in a breath of cool air. Spring was coming, in more ways than one.

7:31 AM
20 Kms Outside Luftburg
HQ First Imperial Mountain Army Group

Vivaldi's 'Spring' Adante (http://78.142.45.23/dataup/MUSIC/Music-classical/Classics%2001/VIVALDI,%20Antonio%20-%20The%20Four%20Seasons/01.%20The%20Four%20Seasons%20-%20Concerto%20No.%201%20in%20E%20major.%20Spring%20-%20A.mp3)

Water thundered down hairpin turns and gathered to it the last of the winter snow, the Waldenburger sun was returning in full and resplendent beauty. Millions of gallons of water flowed off the great icecaps of the Ibblesguarder Chain and tore down her mountain valleys wiping away the more enterprising fir tree and sending the nomadic, mountain tribes scurrying for cover.

The great water factories and their concrete dams collected the run off and processed it, before it was piped down onto the plains and distributed to the urban centers for their use.

In general it was a pleasant scene and quite often poets had come to the mountains to see the great flood, and if the country was lucky, most of these poets had quite a personal experience with the waters. The most any guards had to do at the great water purification stations were to fish the odd body out and notify the locals of any diversions. Of course the clans of the mountain, as far removed as one could be while living ten thousand feet above sea level, occasionally took a pot shot at the workers, or in the worse case scenario raided a plant and took hostages which were usually released in a few days without demands or damage.

Ultimately it was a benign placement for any army officer or soldier who had lead a comparatively blameless life. A few battalions could hold out against any Leistungi invasion with ease; at least the local officers fervently reminded their men with greater and greater regularity. Rumor had spread. And to make things worse several Range Rovers had pulled in to, Luftburg, and had scattered about the local area. Over their camouflaged shoulders black oblongs were slung, and when questioned by their fellow soldiers the new arrivals simply replied with a look of daggers.

Up and down the rushy brook figures could been seen darting from tree to tree, surveying the landscape from binoculars, or even standing alone in a field, not moving or turning when called. The ISS had always been a mystery to most of the Empire.
--

No matter how padded the seats, no matter how ornate the paneling, no limousine had the suspension to take the mountain roads. General von Solf bounced along with every rut in the road with a look of foul distaste fighting for dominance on his face against the competing indignation.

“They are moving again, sir down the coast it would seem, or at least they have ceased firing, and moved off sir. The WIS Mazier confirms it as well.” An aide, apparently oblivious to the personal battle raging over Solf’s face prattled on contentedly, “We do not yet know if they are moving down the coast to attempt a landing or simply out looking for more targets.”

“No,” Solf muttered through gritted teeth, “this is foolish.” He turned to the third person in the compartment, a complacent General von Gröning who was gazing out the tinted window while nursing a flute of champagne, “You know the geography as well as I. It’s a three thousand mile sail from Leistung even to the mountains, if they move further down they must either sail around the entirety of the continent, or pinch their way between Waldenburg and Chukacon where our commerce raiders could pick them off like flies. They cannot possibly be willing to commit so many ships to guard both their landing position and the entirety of that sea-lane. This must be a feint; this entire southern theater is a waste of our time! If they put an army down here they cannot realistically keep it in supply.”

“The Emperor wants this dealt with.” This seemed enough of an explanation for Gröning.

“Yes… But…” Solf subsided. That was it really. The Emperor commanded it, and thus it was done. “What’s our compliment down there?”

“Ah… The Imperial Army has a regiment stationed at Stillerhafen. And the local feudal lord probably keeps his own security.”

“Alright what else?”

“I believe there is a derelict cruiser of the Second Grey War in the museum, of course most of the guns have been turned into waterslides and the ‘WIS Adventure’ is not quite fit for sea trials. Other than that, nothing.”

“Only a regiment, and some off duty policemen? Where is our defense Gröning? Where is the army?”

“Standing two hundred million strong along the river, in the mountains, the deserts, the bridges and the beeches; this isn’t your department, it’s barely mine, but let me spell this out nobody cares. Do you remember Thule, that was a city about five times as large as Stillerhafen, it had a cathedral and a purpose; do you remember? This city is not important; the seat of some backwater hack nobleman, a university and cut-rate abbey to not merit our concern. Anyway as you…” Gröning paused, he hadn’t raised his voice, and he was famous for never doing so, “insinuate there are some advantages to unopposed landings. We must always keep in mind that the Emperor has given us precise directions. Although I must wonder what exactly the Leistungi are thinking; they are not making this easy.”

“They are most certainly not. Are you prepared to move your corps southward?”

“Only the Emperor or the Field Marshal Redenbacker, the Cardinal Redenbacker, if you recall, can give such an order.”

“I do recall the man,” Solf frowned. He was generally against the clergy acting in military positions and more often than not he had seen dozens of his agents compromised because of the bumbling local priest. “If I’m not mistaken that places General Banks as his second in command, yes? He was certainly more amenable to change than his senior.”

“We have however.” Gröning paused long enough to recall the aide, now silent, sitting across from him, “uncertain connections to the man. At any rate the Field Marshal is correct in holding where he, should there be an invasion via the mountains and we do not have troops on the ground it will be a scramble for the fortresses.”


“Quite,” von Solf smoothed down one his lapels and glanced at his watch, “we should have been in Luftburg nearly half an hour ago.”

“The roads are washed out for the most part, be patient Solf. We’ll get there in do time. However I could appeal to you for some assistance in the matter of holding Stillerhafen. The army has little presence there perhaps the ISS could secure the ground and a fifth column?”

“It has been done already we will have to hundred agents in the area by next morning; hopefully the Leistungi will be more merciful this time around.” This seemed to be all that needed saying and the car descended into an uneasy silence that besides the bumps and ruts of the secondary road was unbroken. When at long last Solf grew tired of the stuffy compartment and rolled down his window and very bracing breeze immediately blew in scattering the papers and folders of the aide.

A little drone, no more than a whisper of a martial beat could be heard drifting up from the mountain valleys as the army was mustered. “Can you hear it General?” Solf asked in a reticent whisper, “The Army.” A vista opened up and all three men could see the sprawling regiments decked out in banners and glittering steel. “We make wars general so that we may live in peace and if needed, Gröning, we’ll fight dirty to get it.”

A slight vibration erupted in Solf’s pocket and shook his medals until his hand was thrust into the pocket and a satellite phone removed. It was answered quickly, “Yes?” There was a moment of conversation and Solf began to harden again. “I see. How many? I see? ISS will begin to make random sweeps of the river. All travel passes are to rejected unless they have direct approval of the War Department, detain and interrogate everyone you can find. Good bye.” The phone clicked off.

“One of my patrols has spotted movement, they suggest it’s only a herder, but I severely doubt it as this herder seems to have given crack agents the slip. My men have been in pursuit for almost an hour but have seen no signs of him again. General, I would be very obliged if you were to put your corps on standby.”

6:10 PM, BMS Frühlingszeit
Off the Coast of Waldenburg

The conference room of the Frühlingszeit was cramped and hot, even with the air outside taking on such a cool quality in early spring, and no amount of air conditioning could remove the beads of sweat from the brows of the group of assembled generals and admirals. A date had been set, a location had been chosen, and all that was left now was to confront the fact that the Imperial Army outnumbered the Leistungi advance force by about twenty to one.

“Thank you for joining me here today, gentlemen,” the oldest man in the room began, identifying himself as Feldmarschall Ivanov, one of the only Russian immigrants to achieve a rank of any significance in the Bundesheer. He spoke in heavily accented German, his voice taking on an almost comically deep tone at times. “As I’m sure you’re all aware at this point, we cannot hope to defeat the Imperial Army if we fight on their terms.” He rolled down a map of Waldenburg at the front of the room and tapped a southern city with his pointer. “This is Ruhmvolle; seventy five miles south of Stillerhafen. It is a similarly sized city with adequate port facilities for our intended mechanization level and number of troops we’re going to put down.”

General Bremen raised two fingers lazily, indicating that he had a comment to add. Ivanov nodded to him and he stood, walking over to the map as the Field Marshal sat. “Our landing zone has the advantage of being lightly defended and located on relatively flat and open terrain, but as I’m sure we all see, it has the major disadvantage of being in a position difficult to resupply by sea—surely we do not intend to establish convoys for our supply ships and support our amphibious landing simultaneously.”

“The Chancellor has ordered the military to DEFCON two, General,” Ivanov said, standing again and allowing Bremen to take his seat. “Nobalia has been emptied of troops—our own home defense fleets have been diverted to take place in the invasion, to arrive by tomorrow evening at the latest. As it stands right now, General, we intend to do just that.” Muttering filled the room at the Field Marshal’s words and he raised a hand to silence the men. “Our fleets are vast, as every man here knows. The problem at hand is how to utilize our, frankly, rather meager army to the fullest extent.”

The men nodded amongst themselves, flipping through the campaign briefings in front of them to find Ruhmvolle on the map. “The Imperial Army is indeed vast, but it is its vastness that will allow us to combat it effectively. On a tactical level, I have no doubt that each and every one of you can hold his own against a force larger than your own, and I will leave individual mission objectives up to your own judgment. On a strategic level, however, we are at a marked disadvantage—once we land, the brunt of the Imperial Army will simply turn towards us and continue pushing until we are driven into the ocean.”

He tapped Ruhmvolle’s position on the map again and flicked his wrist upwards slightly, drawing a line from the city to an open space to the north. “We can expect their forces to move in fractured groups; otherwise, it will take several lifetimes to procure the food and water to get a two hundred million man army fifteen hundred miles south to face us. If we are to achieve victory, we must divide and conquer—allowing the Imperial Army to face us on a unified front will spell the end of our army, and more likely than not our lives. Using naval and air support, we can pin them in certain places, giving our forces the cover they need to move rapidly and strike weaknesses as they appear in the opposing line.” Ivanov glanced down at his wristwatch. Night was fast approaching, and a week of storms was forecast to hit southern Waldenburg in the near future—this was one of the last days possible for the invasion forces to go ashore.

“Our over-arching initial strategy must be to cripple the Imperial Army,” he continued, hurrying his speech. “Taking settlements is pointless if they can simply be counter-attacked and retaken the next day, and we cannot win a war of attrition.” The other generals nodded in agreement, the gears turning as they each tried to figure out how best to utilize their ultra-mobile armored regiments to their advantage. “Our plan, therefore, is this—an advance guard of roughly twelve thousand men will land here.” He pointed to a long stretch of soft sand beaches on the map before continuing on his same train of thought. “Securing the immediate area before turning their attention to Ruhmvolle and seizing the city. Naval gunfire from the Fourth Fleet will support the landings, as will fighter wings from our three fleet carriers. Once Ruhmvolle is secured, we will land at the very least four army groups from Ruhmvolle’s deep water facilities, to be later reinforced by another six.”

“And what, exactly, do we plan to do then? Wait for the inevitable hammer of the Imperial Army?” General Bremen was voicing his opinion again, without the courtesy of a hand raise or the permission of the Field Marshal.

“As a matter of fact, General, that is precisely what we will do. By remaining within striking distance of our fleet, we can pin any relief force that may arrive,” Ivanov replied, ignoring the discourteous nature of the comment. “If we cannot defeat the initial relief force, hope is lost—we must win a decisive victory immediately, or momentum will shift.” The group nodded once more, writing notes to themselves and checking their wristwatches periodically. “Then you are dismissed. Prepare to launch on my orders.” He straightened his back and saluted the group of generals. “Long live the Republic.” The group stood in unity and saluted back, packing up their things and filing out of the conference room in an orderly line.

9:59 PM, Fourth Fleet
Off the Coast of Waldenburg

The final notes of the national anthem sounded over the ship before the ramps on the well deck descended, revealing the Waldenburg coastline to the mass of LCU-1647 landing crafts soon to depart their assault ships, carrying the first regular Leistungi army personnel to land on foreign coasts in near twenty years. With a synchronized start-up of engines, twenty-seven of the landers inched out of their well decks before turning to face the beaches.

Taking advantage of the darkness, the landers only traveled at one-third speed, inching ever closer to the beaches while above, three full flights of MV-44A (http://z11.invisionfree.com/Sequoia_Defence/index.php?showtopic=51) tiltrotors made a beeline for shore, preparing to drop their loads further behind the beaches. The night was eerily calm as complete radio silence and the lack of lights from the fleet masked the intentions of the Leistungi fleet, the moon and stars obscured by clouds and lights from shore facing inward. Six Endeavor (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13699624&postcount=150)Class battleships quietly slipped into position, their guns rotating with a whine to face inland at targets specified by special forces teams and satellite date (mainly artillery emplacements).

A blinding flash illuminated the procession as the battleship’s sixteen-inch guns opened up in quick succession, the booming reaching the men on the helicopters a second later as shells were thrown far downrange in an attempt to silence artillery positions and keep them moving rather than firing. All down the line the silence was broken by the deafening concerto of gunfire, firing at known artillery and anti-aircraft positions as far as forty kilometers away, their barrage making quite clear the intended landing site. With the gentle whining of sand on metal the first landers dropped their ramps, men scurrying off their boats with due haste as they pulled their ramps up again and set a course back to the fleet at full speed, awaiting a second load of men and vehicles.

Admiral Fuchs watched the entire scene unfold before him as he leaned on the railing of the bridge, a mug of coffee in his right hand. Feldmarschall Ivanov stood beside him, directing the movements of the men now ashore with an old-fashioned radio. The distant and occasional popping of gunfire could be heard as the men moved into the minuscule coastal village, moving to secure the road to Ruhmvolle for a larger assault.

1:13 AM, KSK Team Seven
Roughly two hundred miles from the River Strein

“Damn it to hell,” Sergeant Amsel muttered under his breath, looking behind him through a pair of binoculars at a group of uniformed men with flashlights searching for some sign of the team. “We need to find a faster way to the river or we’re going to be caught.” The other four men nodded in affirmation and stopped for a moment to catch their breaths.

“Sergeant—look over there,” one of the men, a private, said, clearly exhausted. His finger was pointing in the direction of a farm, and just inside the fence, seven horses.

“Perfect,” Amsel whispered. Horse riding, while not part of standard military training, was outlined in special forces training, and as Leistung was a mostly rural country to begin with outside of the cities, most boys learned how to ride with at least some proficiency. The four men slipped inside the fence and mounted the horses, trotting them outside quietly so as not to awake the farmhands.

“Due haste, men,” the Sergeant said, patting the horse’s mane. “As fast as we can go during the night, rest them during the day. Understood?” The man next to him gave a thumbs-up and kicked the flank of the horse, sending it off in the direction of the river. Amsel and the other two followed suit, leaving the soldiers with flashlights far behind.

OOC: Someone had better appreciate my four horsemen of the apocalypse allegory...

Vado mei Dove oh Dei! (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/23d11.wma)

Chamber music flooded the small series of rooms and wafted the silk drapes in a very pleasing manner. A gramophone had been given a set of bass speakers and thundered forth with a tiny bellow. Those gathered around the room attempted to smile as the music picked itself up threw itself over the scale with crashing chords and a soprano who, despite her best efforts, was entirely in her own key.

Plush armchairs circled the ancient machine and from one a tiny frail hand could be seen conducting what appeared to be an entirely different aria. His Grace the Duke of Stillerhafen Albrecht Needlholm had been granted the title early in his life when he had been a fit soldier and had personally beat six Chuckaconians to death with the Imperial Standard. That was some considerable years ago; nearly 70 years now, and the time had taken its toll on the man, who had grown plump and rotund from official dinners. Most of his hair had fallen out and the tiny crop, which he retained went uncombed and waved in delicate breezes in a most distracting way. Arthritis had claimed his hands and legs, his eyes were lazy with cataracts, and his plump face was well ridged and lined.

This evening, everything was intended to be a meeting of the city council, where the great of Stillerhafen were to discuss the issues of the city. For quite some time this was a period of active debate and rigorous argument, now however His Grace either flipped the gramophone needle down onto one of his innumerable records, or insisted on playing a variety of party games which he subsequently forgot the rules to by the next council meeting.

This was not to say the other members of the council were any different, clad in ancient velvet burgess’s robes and either asleep or in light conversation with the other men of the room. They had all once been intelligent, ambitious men but rich dinners had weighed them down over the years and the robes seemed stained and unwashed.

In truth there was no longer any need for a civil authority, Stillerhafen had the privilege of being the only town on the continent that was not founded by Waldenburgers, and certainly one of the oldest on the continent. It only persisted due to the university, a open and airy set of buildings clinging to a high hill just out of town, Usually the classes attracted a certain sort of aristocrat, though while certainly desiring and education, was by far more interested in doing as little labor as possible. Of course most of them had bought captaincies in the Imperial Army and were at one of the various military colleges, and indeed most of the city was empty save the 90,000 or so permanent citizens and a regiment of the Army that had so far degraded from military discipline that most of them slept in the unoccupied dormitories.

The city was laid out in an unusual and pleasing pattern; unlike the basic grid system of Waldenburger cities the cobbled streets meandered around and through several hills till they all met outside the ancient castle occupying the center of town. Everything in the town was almost a universal and well scrubbed grey stone. Creeping amongst the garden walls lilac bushes that had been blooming for the last four hundred years were beginning to send out the first few flowers.

“What do you think? One more time?” Needlholm rocked himself out of his chair to reset his music. There was no actual response other than a few snores, the sipping of an ancient vintage and the sound of livery clad servant pushing through the door. He marched purposely to the old duke and bent down to whisper into his ear.

“That’s my bad ear boy. Try the other one.” With an irritated look the servant switched sides and began to whisper again. “No, maybe that was my good ear. Just spit it out.”

Clicking his heels together in the manner he had seen the soldiers do when he was a boy the servant came to attention, “Sir the invasion has arrived.” A few heads perked up at this. “There has been some shelling to the south around Ruhmvolle.”

“Is it the Goths or the other ones?” Albrecht asked as he fiddled with his record.

“We can’t be sure yet sir. But it is suggested they will be landing soldiers and pushing north to confront the Imperial Army.” The servant rather prided himself on the his knowledge of politics, and seeing as he read most of the Duke’s mail before it was passed along this was certainly the case.

“Well we better surrender to both of them just to be sure.”

“Quite right.” A face from a velvety chair interjected.

“Send someone down to the radio room and tell we give up and they’re free to land.”

“But sir! People have been killed, there was the shelling!”

“Oh, God!” Albrecht clasped a knobbly hand to his chest, “do you think they will accept an apology?”

“No sir! Waldenburgers have been killed!” The servant was becoming increasingly exasperated and was beginning to fidget with his ruff.

“Oh… Just the surrender then? Yes, yes fine. See to it will you? This if my fief, so I say when we surrender, so that should be all right. Do you think we have any Gothic flags? Well do your best. No resistance understand,” with what little slyness the Duke had left his cast his eye to Abbot Lot, a frumpy old man in a stained cassock who shrugged a little nod of acceptance.”
--

11:15 PM, Luftburg,
HQ First Imperial Mountain Army Group *

“Good evening gentlemen,” Generals Solf and Gröning burst into the situation room in the local Schloss. For most of the day they had been bellow at junior officers to find a mysterious team of infiltrators who had, after several false sightings, entirely disappeared again. It was a most vexing situation and the day was made worse as the Cardinal Reddenbacker had summoned them urgently from their commands and requested their presence along with the rest of the general staff.

“General von Solf,” Reddenbacker was a thing man, his hands veined and waxy and the remained of his skin pulled tight over a bony skeleture, “It seems as it you were correct. The enemy is putting down some miles to the south.” There was one bare bulb hanging over a highly polished cherry table and the assembled shadowy faces were entirely outshone by the bright red choir dress of Reddenbacker. “Here.” A Bony finger jabbed the table. “We would not have been aware had not the local government sent out an open transmission surrender to not only the Leistungi, and Gothic forces but also to Chuckacon and the Yallakian Empire. I have since given orders to move the Army Group south. This force should be quite sufficient to push the enemy into the sea. We have approximately one million combat men, and four armored divisions, as well as a dozen artillery brigades. I have, along with General Tiritz,” a face nodded amongst the shadowy officers on either side, “devised a plan to take the enemy. Our army will be divided into four sections.”

Four identity markers were pulled from a side table and set upon the map, “The first, second, third, and fourth spear. Three of these groups will move down southwards, in the morning. The first shall be under my command and form the center of attack; the left flank will be commanded by General von Gröning, who will be tasked with sweep south then take the from below. My divisions shall attack directly at the enemy while the right flank under Tiritz will occupy Stillerhafen and the rest of the peninsula. Should our attack fail they Leistungi will not dare of pushing northwards till the peninsula is cleared; their lines of supply would be threatened.” Reddenbacker clicked the flags into their new locations.

“Of course the Leistungi will control the sea; the Admiralty has so far not committed any further ships although I have arranged for Vice Admiral Rø to be standing by with a flying column should the need arise, for the moment they are to far off to be of any use in this theater. Casualties may be high within the right flank so the task force will be reduced to a number of around 50,000 and carry considerably more artillery than either of the other columns. The fourth and final spear shall form a reserve, along the river should the Lesitungi outmaneuver us and either sweep to the west of the river and or between our attacks. Also arriving tomorrow will be the Air Marshall Horrent whom will be off some assistance in clearing the seaways. “ There was a mildly rousing cheer from the grouped officers most of whom had seen combat in at least two of the last Grey Wars and saw little reason to differ from those tactics, considering the outcome.

“In seven hours gentlemen,” Reddenbacker held his wrist up to his eyes and checked the time, “we are moving down river. The enemy will either have built up momentum or be dug in by the time we arrive. Good luck everyone, God Bless and Victory to the Empire!”
--

Acting with uncharacteristic efficiency travel permits had been cancelled from the mountains and all those moving under violation of martial law were being detained by ISS agents. Within hours thousands of square miles of countryside would be desolate and open, barring hopefully a handful of what were already being jokingly referred to as ‘ghosts.’ Of course most field commanders weren’t entirely sure what they were looking for and those that were, were skeptical of the idea.





(OOC After landing of course; should we start using dates as well? This was a stumbling block in a past Rp?) Aren't there five men in that squad? The four horseman and a hanger on perhaps?

Sunday, 1:14 AM
Leistungi Field HQ, Ruhmvolle

Ivanov stared at the field map set in front of him, in deep meditation. He was considered one of the finest minds to ever grace the Leistungi military, and the fact that a Russian was able to rise so far in the ranks was testimony to that. The remaining men set around the table propped up just outside the port city of Ruhmvolle were not fools by any stretch of the imagination, but their tactical minds were much more finely honed than their strategic ones—they relied on Ivanov to tell them the general direction to point their tanks in.

“We cannot win this battle,” Ivanov said flatly, jarring the other men from their thoughts. General Bremen moved to stand, but a hand on his shoulder from one of the other officers who had worked with Field Marshal in the past kept him in his seat. “According to my reports, we have only landed four hundred thousand men from the Sixth Army Group (the men cringed at the number assigned to their most important unit that day), and they have advanced a mere eighty kilometers—not enough to capture any major settlements or back the Imperial Army into an urban situation.”

He took a sip from his mug of coffee, spitting it out on the grass in disgust. “This is terrible.”

“Field Marshal Ivanov, surely it isn’t as bad as it looks—we can have the entire Fourth Army Group ashore by Tuesday!” Ivanov raised an eyebrow.

“I was talking about my coffee, General Bremen,” he snapped, turning his head back to the map. “We cannot win the battle if we face them head-to-head, that much is clear. However…” He paused for a moment, moving the pieces indicating Leistungi ground elements from position to position. “Yes…” Ivanov turned his head back to the general, pouring out his mug onto the grass. “General, we need to retreat.”

“Surely you jest!” Bremen cried, the man’s hand on his shoulder not enough to stop him from rising from his chair. “Retreat from the field of battle and allow their forces to pick up momentum? It’s pure madness!”

“Quiet please, General,” the Field Marshal replied. “You misunderstand. By engaging their forces and feigning withdrawal, we allow them to overextend themselves—they will surely not pass up a chance to push our forces back towards the sea, and they must still guard their flanks from our own armored divisions, which will not retreat as the center shall. You recall the strategies of our adversaries in the Grey Wars, do you not?” The men nodded. An armored front followed up by shock troops and heavy artillery focusing their attention on rolling barrages was a hallmark of the Waldenburger military, and a tactic studied in most military academies as an effective one for its time. “Once the enemy pushes far enough through our lines, the First and Third Armies under Fitzpatrick and Bremen, respectively, will counter-attack, cutting off their supply lines as such.” Ivanov drew a red line through where he had drawn a blue arrow a few moments before.

Bremen remained silent, and if the Field Marshal wasn’t mistaken, a smile may even have begun to form on his ancient features. He raised two fingers and Ivanov nodded. “It’s an excellent plan, no doubt, but what of our own center? And won’t the enemy realize that they’ve overextended themselves?”

“It is a marked possibility, yes,” Ivanov responded, glad to see that the General was on his side—it was the Third Army which would have to make the decisive blow to the Waldenburger’s right flank, and Bremen needed to be on board. “False orders for a general retreat will be given through the radio, which the enemy will no doubt intercept. As for your second point, General, I think you may need to take into account the massive size of the Waldenburger force, especially their center force, as our intelligence shows. Such a force will not be able to maneuver effectively—they either go forward, or they go backward, and we all know that in Waldenburg, you take no steps backward. The sight of our forces in a rout will embolden them, allowing them to believe that they can drive us off their homeland once and for all. If they can restrain themselves, I’ll eat my own foot.”

Bremen gave a bow of his head, as if conceding to the Field Marshal’s better judgment. Ivanov continued, nodding his head in recognition of the General. “Once we close the pocket, the fact remains that there will be a large number of Waldenburg military units located in the middle of our formation—this pocket cannot be allowed to break out and reform with the main Waldenburger force. More likely than not they will commit their reserves to the relief of the trapped units, as any intelligent commander would do; after all, the trapped units can last perhaps two days before they begin to run low on food and ammunition, and an additional two before they are forced to capitulate. For this reason, we will commit our flanks to strengthening our entire front line, moving in our reserves to plug any gaps which may arise. The center of our Army Group will no doubt be busy tying up the trapped Waldenburgers, a task which will likely be complicated by artillery fire aimed at keeping the pressure off the units until they can be relieved.”

“Yes, I had this question as well, Field Marshal,” one of the generals piped up. “Artillery pinning our retreating forces will destroy the entire plan.” Ivanov nodded in agreement.

“It will indeed. Our entire fleet will have to lend their guns to silencing their artillery, as will our own artillery,” he replied. “Counterbattery fire is of the utmost importance here, and I thank you for bringing the point up. Also remember that a flight of bombers will be engaging the Waldenburger columns with thermobaric weapons at some point tomorrow. If there are no further questions I will leave you to brief your men personally.” No one spoke. “Excellent. Then you are dismissed.” He waved his hand and turned back towards the map, returning to his thoughts.

Sunday, 1:19 AM
Roughly two miles from the River Strein

From their perch on an unnamed hill, the team of four men on horseback peered at the dark slit in the earth before them—the River Strein itself, almost in reach. There was no point in being over-cautious, as the group had only narrowly dodged ISS patrols up until now, and already the enemy agents could be seen and heard nearer to the river. They were going to be sighted; it was simply a matter of when.

A rustling of leaves behind Sergeant Amsel startled him, and he threw the pair of binoculars he was looking through to the ground. A solitary man clad in black emerged, freezing as he saw the four mounted soldiers. Private Bayer whipped his pistol out of his holster without a thought and put a bullet between the man’s eyes, the crack sounding throughout the valley, met several seconds later by an alarm somewhere near the river.

Amsel sighed deeply and turned to his men. “I don’t think we’re making it out of this one, boys.” All three of them remained silent. “I say we do what we came here to do.” With a kick on his horses’ flank, he bolted down the hill, bellowing a single deep note as he made a beeline for the water, followed without question by his three fellows. He was met immediately by flashes of light from a nearby grove as ISS agents opened fire, confused at the mounted men running down a hill with rifles, but shrugging it off as something that probably should have been shot at anyways.

Private Bayer was the first to fall, his horse jerking forward and dismounting him forcefully, his neck snapping instantly as he hit the ground. The three remaining men paid him no mind—after all, he wasn’t the one with the vials. One by one the other men fell, falling under a hail of metal from both sides until only the Sergeant remained, a mere handful of meters from the dark water that he had pursued for the past week. The horse jerked out from under him, finally felled by a stray bullet, and he flew forward, tumbling and smacking headlong into the mossy trunk of a tree. His vision began to darken but his hand shot out instinctively to the pack beside him. Unzipping the backpack, he felt inside, feeling that the polycarbonate vials were undamaged.

Inching his way forward on his stomach, blood matting his hair and pooling around him, he felt the cool waters of the Strein. With his dying breath, Sergeant Amsel heaved the heavy pack to the river and clicked the timer into place, setting the hundreds of vials to explode and release their deadly contents once they had hit the bottom. Amsel felt a weight on his back and reached a hand back, the realization dawning on him that he had just been shot. With a final forceful push he shoved the backpack into the water, the image of the currents taking it away the last thing he saw before his world went dark.

OOC: Sorry, I couldn't pass up on a final ride to the river. Try to imagine it in slow-motion and with inspirational music in the background.

Panis Omnipotentia (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/20b05.wma)


With jackboots clumping through the soft mud and splattering those behind; ISS agents marched over the fallen. What fools, none of them would survive and in this day and age who rode a horse against machine gun fire. It was pure insanity.

“Set up cordons around the bodies and prepare to move them to Blünderburg for analysis,” a Major nodded to several agents who produced rolls of yellow tape from inner pockets and began to picket off the area. Naturally the ISS had not been informed exactly what it was searching for but rather their were enemies, and now there were none. “Gather their weapons and boots. Leistungi have small feet,” the Major glanced down to the cracked leather of his own cavalry boots and sighed. It was most trying situation, and he had spent the better part of last to days setting fire to shrubbery in an attempt to find these ‘ghosts’ and at last they had appeared and made a dash on the Strein.

“Sir!” An agent yelled up from the shoreline, “There are some little glass tubes down here! They’ll go to Blünderburg too will they?” The Major nodded; he was here dealing with a couple of lone horsemen while far to the south a war was about to flare up.
--

“Come on lads!” Air Marshall Rø very much lived up to his nickname ‘the bull’ he had the mannerisms of a wild one and when his air squadron had put down at Luftburg it was with barely contained energy that the man had bounded down the steps and roared a greeting to General Gröning. Even in appearance, however disguised in the fashionable flying leathers and silk scarf, he was entirely too muscular on his upper half and his waxed blond mustache only drew attention to his disproportion. Everything about the man was loud, his voice, his moods, and when he had the occasion the amount of brandy he would take down.

“Not a moment to lose!” Out of some misguided attempt to appease the man a junior officer had handed the man a large bottle of cheap brandy, which he had opened with his teeth, slapped on his freshly shaven face and down in about two minutes. He waved the bottle now, gesturing with it to the flight of B-1 bombers idling on the runway. It had been a split second arrangement and pilots were reacting with as much promptness as could be asked for. They had only arrived an hour, taken their boots off and were then being bellowed back into their cockpits. Their mission would not be an entirely onerous one, the B-1’s would pull around their service ceiling and at tremendous speeds sweep the seas with cluster munitions, and air dropped mines if time allowed. It would hardly be an accurate process but even the threat of an air raid could slow down the process by hours which would give the far removed 1st Mountain Army a greater advantage in the field.

There were only 18 planes in the squadron but with Stillerhafen and its peninsula still marginally within the hands of Waldenburgers, anti air fire, and indeed intercept would be unlikely.

Rø was the last man into his plane and quickly slipped his flying helmet on and nodded to his co-pilot who flipped down several exhaust switches. “Hug the coast!” Rø bellowed over the sound of suddenly firing engines, “but under no circumstances bomb Ruhmvolle itself, any occupation there is to be left to it’s own devices!” Within minutes the flight was up and in the air.
--

The car, along with the ducal standards that fluttered from its bonnet was a piece of workmanship. This was to say neither car nor flags had been made within Waldenburg, but were rather of the autowerks of nearby Ilum. Loving Pontean hands had created the car by special order and painted it a ministerial black which looked entirely out of place speeding along the long and cracked road of south Waldenburg.

A massive white flag was draped over the top, and the three vehicles behind it all carried similar flags about their exterior. Inside most of the Stillerhafen city council had been packed, and already a slight tinge of sour sweat filled the compartment but no one would say anything as it might bring attention to their own garments.

“Let us simply hope the Leistungi are in a charitable mood.” A senior councilor rumbled sullenly from the rear of the car, “at least the shelling has stopped. That is a positive sign.” Out to sea there could be seen the grey hulks of warship and transport alike ferrying supplies and men into the surrounding area.

Upon viewing the city of Ruhmvolle itself from a pair of binoculars Albrecht could see hardly anything different and the citizenry made room for a passing platoon as was needed and generally continued with their normal lives. This was a city of small workshops and ancient men who had been grinding glass for the last eight decades rarely cared with whom political hegemony lay, so long as sand was delivered, and lunch was on the table.

There were however the beginnings of occupation and checkpoints would soon be set up undoubedetly and the civilian population would most likely be challenged. As Albrecht slip into the borders of the town with his convoy he could not help but cast a weary eye to the stone abbey of St. George, a pleasant and open building flanked by ancient elm trees. Usually there would be columns of black clad monks flitting about the open causeways but now they seemed shut up and wary, as if expecting retribution at any second.

A few Waldenburger guards were manning a water pump on the edge of town; someone had taken away their ceremonial halberds and the men stood at guard as best they could with a mix match of brooms, mops and scrubbing brushes. The little line of cars pulled to a stop beside one of the men and a tinted window was rolled down; a white hand was extended holding a rusty saber. It was encrusted with a few scattered sapphires; the silver was tarnished and oily. “Find some one high up their ladder right?” A sheet of paper was passed out, “Get some one to sign this. It is my personal surrender; my duchy, my forces, nothing more; make sure this is understood. Then bring it back here and I will head back to Stillerhafen, It is by tradition to offer the victorious party dinner; do not stress the fact but make the offer.”

OOC Apologies about the delay; saw Faust (Five hours!) and didn't have the time after that. For the moment I intend on ignoring the bombing. The Waldenburger army is about two days away, so I assume you don't wish to fly to their fortified mountains fortresses. Next post though.

OOC: This is an unfortunately rushed post; I don't have much time, I'm afraid.

Sunday, 2:51 PM
Chancellery Building
Falkenberg, Leistung

“And we’re one hundred percent sure that they’ve been taken out of commission?”

“One hundred percent.” It was an unusual time indeed that the Chancellor’s office should be the site of so many military briefings, even more so considering the nature of the briefing. Case Red was in many respects a complete success—the plan had been executed correctly, and the General Staff estimated that the effects would be felt fully within a few days. Unfortunately, however, the agents responsible for its execution had decided to nobly sacrifice themselves, a fact made ironic by the actual purpose of their mission, and one which had had the General Staff and the Chancellor ripping their hair out for the past few days.

The Chancellor stroked his chin pensively. Case Red itself had not been his idea, and in fact it was he who recommended that a less lethal bacteria be used in the execution of the plan—the psychological effects were more likely to do damage than any physical ones would. “I think this is the doing of the Waldenburg government, don’t you? Vilifying our poor, innocent nation?”

“Pardon, sir?” General Jaeger, the man who had appeared most frequently in Chancellor Ringkampf’s office over the past few days, asked. He fully understood what the Chancellor meant, but the shock of the Chancellor saying it had caught him off guard.

“Well it would seem unlikely that we, as a nation with no real prior human rights abuse record, would stoop to such a level, wouldn’t you say?” he said coldly, taking a sip from his coffee mug. “Seems to me as though the Imperial government is getting desperate for allies, and so they’ve decided to portray us as the villains here.”

Jaeger raised an eyebrow and frowned slightly. “Yes, I suppose that’s what happened here. Shall I order a press release reminding the public to ignore possible Waldenburg propaganda?”

“No, General, I’ll do it. After all, in the minds of our people, Waldenburg is backward enough to be suffering from a plethora of deadly diseases—they’re just using this one to turn public opinion against us.” Every word the Chancellor spoke was the truth, but the fact that Chancellor Ringkampf was the one saying them made the General cringe. This was the man of morals, the man of integrity—the man who had silenced calls for retributions against Waldenburg after the last war. Still, Jaeger himself realized that war hardened men, and as he himself was not immune, he wouldn’t judge the man’s actions, still undoubtedly taken with the people’s interests in mind.

“Of course, Chancellor,” he replied, walking briskly out of the room to attend to his other duties. Ringkampf turned in his chair back towards the window and took another sip from his coffee, which had grown cold over the course of the conversation. He pressed down on the intercom button.

“Margaret?” he started, waiting for his secretary’s response. “Get my wife, please. Ask her if she could bring the girls over to the office for a little while.”

Sunday, 6:33 PM
City Hall Building
Stillerhafen, Waldenburg

Despite the fears perpetuated by the General Staff about the fanaticism of the Waldenburg people, the Division deploying around Stillerhafen was meeting little local resistance. In fact, between the language and the scenery, some of the soldiers could have imagined themselves living in this quaint little city. Someone had evidently surrendered, as tanks were rolling into Stillerhafen completely unmolested, with no fear of anti-tank fire or mines, and men marched easily into the city, wary but extremely relieved that they had not had to fight their way off the landing beaches.

Twelve uniformed, armed men now strolled up the cobblestone road to the largest building visible, identified as City Hall both by the size and the white banner hanging off the battlements. Though the door was clearly unlocked, the private on point evidently wanted to impress someone and placed his shoulder near the door handle, swaying forward and smashing the wooden frame inward, making quite a scene for the undoubtedly petrified citizens inside. The twelve soldiers marched on, a group of robed, rather sweaty men meeting them and shaking their hands nervously.

“I’m afraid our high ranking officers have gone…” the non-commissioned officer leading the group paused for a moment, realizing what he was about to give away. “Well, elsewhere. Major Fritz Fenstermacher, at your service.” The Major bowed, half-mocking, and shook each of the men’s hands. “I hear there’s something other than sauerkraut around this place.”

Sunday, 2:41 PM
Fourth Fleet Staging Area
Off the Coast of Waldenburg

The majority of the Fourth Fleet had been sent back to Leistung for repairs; something desperately needed after a number of run-ins with commerce raiders and of course the initial engagement with the Imperial Navy. Unfortunately for the forces yet to land, replacements were not slated to arrive for another two or three hours time, at which time the Fourth Fleet would be reinforced by vessels of the First and Third Fleets.

Though the short-range radar on the picket ships had picked up a group of eighteen unidentified targets flying low and fast towards the landing ships, fighter wings were otherwise occupied in reconnoitering the landscape and the mountain range where the Imperial Army was expected to march from to face the landing force, and were unavailable for intercept—foolishly, no one had expected an attack on the fleet at this point in the campaign, where air assets were needed to support the land offensive. The twelve Jäeger Class destroyers still attached to the landing force fired off their long-range SAMs in quick succession, though the effectiveness of the defense was up in the air, so to speak.

OOC: Honestly, flying directly over my ships is probably not a good idea. That being said, for the first time in my time here, I’m going to let you sink as many ships as you see fit, so long as you don’t touch the aircraft carriers (which are far too well-protected to be hit by such an inaccurate attack). It’s also my apology for not being able to post for the last week ;)

The Charge at Mollwitz (http://gustave.club.fr/Musiques/La_Charge.mp3)

Sunday, 3:51 PM
First Imperial Mountain Army Group
50 Miles Northwest of Stillerhafen

“..It is no matter Air Marshall, we did not honestly expect the attack to succeed.” General von Solf hung his head in weary exasperation as he tried to console the livid Air Marshall. At first the attack seemed as if the harbor would be littered with bomblets, as the Waldenburger bombers thundered across the thinning altitudes of the heavens. There had been no jets in sight, no avenging arm of defense to swat them from the sky. Rø had ordered his men to increase speed, and still further for their pass over the harbor.

In Waldenburg, there was not a weapon that could have touched the bombers, aside from those, which had been imported and were reverentially maintained on the Strein or on the Sixth Fleet’s battle squadron; of course this was not a standard that was universally respected. The only reason half of the flight had survived at all was due to large amounts of debris in the air, which had addled targeting for the remaining fighter-bombers. Arguably the mission was a success however, three transports had been struck in some fashion and fuel oil was even now burning merrily on the inky waters. A few mines had also be laid, however the effectively of the charge after such an air drop, at such speeds, and heights had never been tested, and the contact mines may have either been disarmed or exploding with the other munitions.

“His Imminence the Cardinal,” around the little communications vehicle the sounds of the army could be heard; a battle march was being played by some far removed fife and the rumble of tank treads gave General Solf a headache which was only exacerbated by the vibrant Air Marshall, “Has already arranged for another air command for you Marshall and will order an attack either tonight or early tomorrow. “

“Not more damn bombers I hope.” Marshall Rø was one of those who had not quite mastered the theory that even though General Solf was hundreds of miles away he needn’t shout, “What is it then?”

“The Serene Legion…”

“Oh, please Solf, inflicting casualties on the enemy is the purpose of our little exercise in soldiery! The Serene Legion is flying Spitfires, antiques and rubbish!”

“Quite,” though incased in steel and under the constant bombardment of background sound Solf felt a growing tingle in his hand, “however when the command assigned to you is the Serene Legion Southern Air Command, nearly three thousand combat aircraft, one begins to feel more confident. Now, through our intelligence on the matter is sketchy, I would be prepared to wager quite a tidy sum that not one of those Leistungi ships has a proper anti aircraft gun, and naturally it costs less for us to construct a Spitfire, spend six weeks training a civilian pilot and putting them in the air, than the missile that must be used to counter our attack. As our attacks will not be guided by conventional systems, those from this century, but rather by my ISS agents on the ground, a few countermeasures planes will electrically block whatever we can.”

Rø was silent, uncharacteristically so, as Solf continued “And though the enemy will be quite literally capable of flying circles around you, the Lüftenshakers will discern; our engines could not hope of activating the little devils.”

“Where is my command?”

“It is currently in transit to Luftburg and Magdeburg from various stations across the mountains and southern theater. Of course there have already considerable casualties however the wheat has been cut from the chaff.” Von Solf sudden realized why his hand, in a sudden jarring instant, was tingling and the communications vehicle was dragged about two meters sideways as a vacuum sucked the heavy vehicle towards the epicenter of a fiery explosion. The electronic signal blinked out.
--

For over a day the First Imperial Army had marched unmolested and in high spirits; the enemy were weak on the ground, the Prelates were fiery in their condemnation, and the air was cool.

Over a million men, baggage trains, artillery pieces, tanks, lorries and trucks of various dimensions, horses, mules and men marched in dusty columns along the ancient cobbled road. A gentle spring zephyr rippled the banners of the leading cavalry regiment, and an early morning sun shone off brass and braid. In a moment the finery was vanished, and in a twinkling of an eye, without forewarning or prompting the drone of engines became apparent and then faded to be replaced by the more ominous blooming and blossoming of fire.

Mounted Lüftenshaker batteries were spitting up rockets as the first incendiaries hit the Waldenburger lines, and what few precise batteries the army possessed were being targeted and began to return what fire they could. This measure though was now only so useful; thousands of men had been suffocated within the first few seconds and then incinerated as the Leistungi munitions struck home. Entire regiments were snuffed out as overhead the perpetrators most likely flew past unscathed.

Horses and men screamed and began to break ranks or dive to cover as pillars of flame hundreds of feet high blossomed forth randomly along the column and cast a hellish radiance on anyone fortunate enough to be in the blast radius. Eighteen thousand men, and hundreds of vehicles were obliterated and left to burn on the formerly pleasantly grassy fields.

Reddenbacker, resplendent in red choir dress and astride a war charger, lead the column and turned his head back lazily as the first bombs began to fall. A white-gloved hand was held up with a weary sigh, “five minute breather.”
--
Sunday 5:45 PM
Blünderburg, Imperial Department of Special Warfare


“Doctor?” Several nurses crowded around the little man as he pulled a cotton swab from a bacterial dish and swabbed inside a clear plastic vial. “What is it?” All the possessions of the unfortunately late Leistungi Four, as they were being called informally, had been moved to the Imperial Department of Special Warfare and had had a battery of tests run against them. In less lauded terms this included being stacked in a corner and shriven of demons.

“We cannot be sure yet,” a stream of nourishing sugar water was squirted into the vile, “take this to lab four please.” With the general hustle of closing shop white suited lab officials began dispersing about the room, folding their clothing onto pegs, turning off the sterile overhead lights and discussing dinner plans. Left alone the doctor raised a latex gloved hand to his face and gently rubbed aside a thin stream of blood from his nose; spring always did this to him.
--

Sunday, 7:43 PM
Stillerhafen

It was quite surprising to see a Leistungi occupation up the coast so quickly; of course the peninsula was strategically valuable as a shield of the entire Eastern Seas, but the fact that they had even shown up, and expecting dinner had quite put the castle off. There was nothing prepared, especially on the Sabbath, other than a few stale loaves, some renegade cheese, and some rather questionable side dishes.

Occupation though was not so difficult to swallow, and the local regiment had tossed their uniforms into rain barrels and stashed their rifles in the attics of houses and come out onto the streets. Under the Duke’s instructions the unused dorms of the local University were made available to the invaders.

Fortunately, a few seniors officials both in Blünderburg and in Stillerhafen’s abbey surmised happily; some people would always act accordingly, by their own will or through civil order there was simply no overcoming human nature. The Church could try, and often did, but there was something refreshing about the logic behind some men. Stillerhafen was made available to the enemy with open arms and a waiting smile.


OOC You'll have to accept my apologizes; I have been so busy lately, or rather not busy but distracted.

Sunday, 6:48 PM
BMS Frühlingszeit, Off the Coast of Waldenburg

Much could be said about the Waldenburg high command. They were, by most in the General Staff in Leistung, considered to be relics from a bygone era, but every so often, one really had to sit back and wonder exactly what went through those men’s minds when they made decisions like the one to send 1940s-era warplanes to assault a modern, well-supplied fleet. When the first reports from the recon planes were forwarded to Bundesmarine Command and the General Staff in Falkenberg, they were initially passed off as jokes. Perhaps that was exactly what the Waldenburgers were planning, but either way, the first buzzing of propellers that could be heard from the ships of the Fourth Fleet verified the reports.

“If this isn’t the Serene Legion’s doing, I’ll resign now,” Fuchs said dryly, sounding the general alarm with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. The alarm dial had been turned so many times that the paint was beginning to flake off, something that would have hopefully be remedied when the Fourth Fleet was supposed to have been rotated out of the warzone. Unfortunately, the First and Third Fleets were delayed, and would arrive sometime within the hour—at this point, it was about staying alive long enough to leave this hellish place.

“I believe they’re strafing us, sir,” Fuchs’ first mate remarked with a raised eyebrow. “Shall I order the picket ships to open fire with the seventy-six millimeter cannons?”

“Please do so,” Fuchs replied with a wave of his hand. “The missile CIWS’ should take care of the rest, though they’ll doubtless run out of ammunition quickly.” The realization that shooting down monoplanes would be a horrifying waste of ammunition and funds for missiles hit him, though there was little other choice. They would be cycled out of the battle soon anyways, and with any luck there would be more corvettes in the First and Third Fleets.

Sunday, 7:45 PM
45 Miles Southwest of the First Imperial Mountain Army Group

Ivanov peered through a pair of field glasses at the approaching mass of soldiers and vehicles, barely containing a smile. A perfectly-laid trap was a thing of beauty, especially when the stakes were as high as they were here. An antiquated radio sat next to him on a card table, a field map laid out behind him along with several cups of coffee—of course, the radio itself was only to be used to fool the Waldenburg intelligence service into believing that the rout was genuine—real orders would be passed through secure satellite communications lines. He picked up the radio and cleared his throat.

“All forces, this is Heersgruppe VI commander Field Marshal Ivanov speaking. All forces, full retreat. I repeat, all forces, full retreat,” he said, handing the radio off to an aide to fool the undoubtedly listening enemies into thinking that the frequency was the standard communications line. “Keep those orders going, Private, and sound frightened, if at all possible.” The private nodded and picked up the radio.

Leistungi lines were some forty miles long and Ivanov couldn’t see everything that happened from the safety of his field headquarters, but at that moment, the entire Fifth Army, corps, divisions, and regiments included turned tail and advanced back towards their initial positions at high speed while the First and Third Armies held position, radio messages not yet reaching their respective army headquarters (at least in the eyes of the Waldenburgers. In reality, they were ordered to hold position until the Fifth Army’s center position was taken advantage of). Batteries of field artillery pieces opened fire simultaneously, saturating the Waldenburger flanks in an effort to funnel forces towards the seemingly vulnerable Leistungi center while a flight of carrier-based fighter-bombers roared overhead towards the advancing enemy.

“Only a matter of time now, General Bremen,” Ivanov said into the secure SATCOM radio. “Prepare your men for battle and commit your reserves once it is clear that they have taken the bait. Ensure that at least two Corps remain in place to hold their flanks while we pin them in position, and retreat them back to the line once the pocket is made. I will personally command the reserves and puncture it.”

“Of course, Field Marshal. The Twelfth Armored Division has already reported contact, as has the Ninth,” Bremen replied. “Our bombers exacted a heavy toll on their artillery trains, I’m told.”

“Counterbattery fire has been somewhat weak, I agree,” Ivanov said. “Don’t get overconfident now, General—much can still go wrong.”

OOC: Sorry about not responding to the Stillerhafen side-plot, but I think LS is going to be landing there soon anyways, and I don’t want to mess up his upcoming post.

OOC: wasnt sure if an orbat would be necceary or not, so I did one just in case. It's not my greatest post ever, but I'm tired and sick.

Approaching Stillerhafen:

The hull of the HS Illumination steadily cut through the sea's waves at the front of the largest Sumguaian fleet ever deployed overseas. On it's deck stood Admiral William Cole, Supreme Naval Commander of the HIDF. From his position on the fleet's flagship he looked around, smiling as he took in the sight of the armada behind him. The Holy Empire had mustered nearly all of the military might at it's immediate disposal for this vital undertaking: the liberation of Waldenburg.

Nearby the Abrahamic League's own Admiral Roy Wilson sat on a folding chair, humming a tune to himself watching the horizon. He squinted for a moment, looking at something in the distance, and smiled. "I do believe that I can make out Stillerhafen now."

"Excellent." Cole said, following Wilson's gaze and grinning. "Those bloody mountain krauts oughtta be glad to see us, eh?"

"I would imagine so." Wilson replied. "After all, without us victory would have been near impossible for them."

"Indeed." Admiral Cole nodded in agreement, taking out a pipe from his jacket. "Don't know how those madmen ever thought they could beat the Waldenburg Empire on their own."

"We need to watch them, Will." Wilson said, watching the growing speck on the horizon that was Stillerhaven. "This war started with the mass-crucifixion of Leistungi soldiers, and that means that their primary motive in invading is likely revenge. We must ensure that they do not acheive their vengance through any method too barbaric or harmful to the citizenry of the Waldenburg Empire."

The two fell silent, watching the city draw nearer.

_________________________________________________________________



ORBAT:

HIDF-AL Joint Fleet:

80 Type 251 'Triumph' Class Carriers
67 Type 168 'Admiral' Class Cruisers
93 Type 165 'Town' Class Cruisers
53 Type 192 'Sandakan' Class Battlecruisers
400 Type 29 Class Destroyers
120 Type 31 ASW Destroyers
160 Type 46 'Parish' Class Destroyers
53 Type 47 'Captains' Class Destroyers
480 Type 36 'Firefly Class' Frigates
240 Type 540 Class Submarines
3456 FA-18s
1728 F-35s
1728 B-103 Buccaneers
(transports and logistics not included)

Total: 1746 vessels

HIDF Initial Ground Force:

5 Armored Divisions
15 Infantry Divisions
5 Marine Divisions

approx. 750,000 men

Abrahamic League Initital Ground Force:

3 Armored Divisions
7 Infantry Divisions

approx. 300,000 men

HIDF Expected Reinforcements:

48 Armored Divisions
144 Infantry Divisions
42 Marine Divisions

Total: 7,020,000 men

Abrahamic League Expected Reinforcements:

80 Armored Divisions
224 Infantry divisions

Approx. 9,600,000 men

7:12 PM,
Off the Coast of Waldenburg


It had taken very little prompting to put Marshal Rø back behind the controls of his fighter craft, albeit one of a different century. If there was to be said anything about the air group it was impressive. Most of the pilots had not even seen an aircraft of this age and construction till their training began, and some of the more shaky aircraft had been paired with pilots with under five hundred hours of flying time.

In great and sweeping vanguards squadron after squadron departed the air bases around Lüftburg and indeed several planes were seen to crash into the occasional mountain’ their spaces were filled with little bother by one of thousands of spreading fighter craft.

Occasionally and interspersed about the aerial flotilla one of the larger countermeasures and AWACS planes could been seen; like the rest of the air fleet none were of the same designation or make. Luckily for the Waldenburger air flotilla the use of radar was to be limited, as was most electronics, and the AWACS planes would be allowed to use a full complement of its electronic suite. Every frequency could be blocked without worry or bother of Waldenburger loss as the monoplanes were to guided in by eye and with numbers bludgeon the Leistungi to death. Of course in due time, or perhaps not, the AWACS planes would be destroyed and the flotilla would have to rely on conventional methods of deterrence such as the decoys which were being pulled randomly amongst the fleet that would release more of an electric signature than even a spitfire. Chaff had been rather heavily distrusted to the larger aircraft and the High Command viewed the action as a matter of time and numbers.

“Thirty five kilometers!” Rø bellowed once more. “Jam when ready and follow the center spear!” With any luck the Southern Command would approach as a cloud of swirling lightening and frequency. “Three minutes gentlemen! Good luck! Not one step backwards!” Communication was cut with a click and the running lights began to flash on and off on several aircraft to add even more confusion to the wall of aircraft approaching from the North.

As if with one mind the lead aircraft began to fall and increase speed; the more experiences pilots hugged the sea as the sky turned black with roaring aircraft. Light weight aluminum hulls would puncture easily under the cannon fire, under the rockets, and even under the torpedoes.
--
Sunday, 7:30 PM
35 Miles Northwest of Stillerhafen

“General Tiritz you have your orders?” Reddenbacker repeated the age-old lines. It was a custom; no one recalled the purpose of it, no recalled the significance or why it was, but it was done every time.

“I had them only a moment ago,” the General patted his pockets rather mechanically, “ah here they are.” A rectangle of white paper was revealed and waved. “With your permission sir I will take my command and depart.”

“Have you your baton?” the lines wound on.

“It is in the baggage train. With God Field Marshall.”

“With God General.” Tiritz turned and nodded to his aide, who in turn raised a red signal flag. This was met with the click of a portable semaphore, and finally the whistle of officer along a tiny segment of the wriggling line that was the Waldenburger Army.

The detachment of General Tiritz was, under the cover under the impending aerial battle, to drive lightening fast to the sea, and seize Stillerhafen. With heavy mechanization the detachment of 50,000 men was to spring, within two hours to be at the core of the city and prevent the Leistungi from moving up the coast before seizing the city and what could be a potential fifth column.

Across grassy fields, and away from the ancient cobbled roads, vehicles tread outward into the night. Trucks and self propelled artillery struck out and began the dash to the sea.

OOC .... I really need to get the confirmation email deal working again. I had no idea. I really meant the other thread LS but it all works. I'm terribly sorry for the delay I thought I was waiting on you.

Sunday, 7:14 PM
35 Miles Northwest of Stillerhafen

The pounding of the thirty-five millimeter AAA guns amongst the ships of the Fourth Fleet was somewhat underwhelming compared to the sixteen inch barrages taking place a few moments ago, but to the Waldenburger pilots in the skies above, it must have been harrowing none the less. The Zenturio CIWS’ on the warships continued firing until their clips had run dry, but rather than reload and continue tracking and destroying targets, they fell strangely silent.

Admiral Fuchs turned with fire in his eyes to the weapons officer on the bridge of the Frühlingszeit, and without speaking a word the Lieutenant flicked a number of switches on the panel in front of him, finally raising his arms in confusion. “Admiral, they’re jamming our CIWS’ radar domes!”

“I thought we were on an X-band frequency?” Fuchs demanded, furious that for the second time in the campaign, the Bundesmarine’s newest technologies were being bested by sheer madness. “How can they possibly be jamming us without interfering with their fighter’s acquisition radar?”

“Admiral, sir, their fighters are locating us on visuals alone—they must not be using an acquisition and track radar,” the Lieutenant replied, frustrated and pressing buttons in a seemingly random manner. “Shall I order the aircraft carriers to scramble fighters?”

“You’d bloody well better!” Fuchs exclaimed, enraged. “And order one of our frigates to fire off anti-radiation surface-to-air missiles.” He took a deep breath and collapsed into his command chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s see if we can’t draw these jammers out.”

Sunday, 7:17 PM
BMS Wolfshund, 45 Miles NW of Stillerhafen

The engines of the two FA-15N Cardinal strike fighters shot out a bluish haze of exhaust as they taxied to their launch positions, the pilots saluting the flight crew before the catapults shot them off in a hiss of steam.

“Colonel Koenig, I only see one plane out here, and from the looks of it, it’s not going to be much of a fight,” Private Bayer remarked, turning his plane in behind his flight leader.

“Agreed,” he said, lining up the targeting reticule with the enemy aircraft, but ripping it away seconds later. “Too God damn slow for missiles, Bayer!” Koenig exclaimed into his flight mask, pulling up on his stick and narrowly avoiding the Spitfire he had just attempted to get a lock on from behind. With a fluid motion he continued the turn, flicking his nose upwards and decreasing his acceleration until he fell again behind the elusive World War Two era plane. The enemy plane banked right and began to ascend, Koenig following closely behind, coming up directly under the Spitfire’s belly. “This is Engel One, going in for the kill,” he said, flicking the plastic cover off the button on his flight stick the Bundesluft had sworn would never need to be used in modern combat. “Engel One, guns, guns, guns.” Koenig pressed down on the red button, a humming sound accompanying a burst of gunfire from his right wing. The plane ahead of him exploded almost instantaneously, engulfed in fire and plunging into the ocean with a sickening crash.

“Engel One reporting enemy down,” he said, smiling under his mask and turning the stick left. The smile was wiped off his face almost immediately as a mass of planes larger than anything he had ever seen before materialized seemingly out of thin air in front of him. “Ah, Engel Two, this is Engel One. Bayer, do you copy?”

“Copy that, Colonel. Go ahead.”

“Bayer, I don’t think our radar is working.”

Sunday, 9:02 PM
Sixth Army Group Headquarters, Waldenburg

A shrill ring from the field telephone next to Ivanov shook him as he grabbed the receiver and put it up to his ear. “Our right flank is under duress, Field Marshall,” the voice, which Ivanov knew to be that of Colonel Marx, said, panicked. “Several regiments of Waldenburger armor are pressing towards Stillerhafen and the Sumguaian landing zones.” Ivanov took a sip from his ninth cup of coffee and turned to the map laid out in front of him, pondering his response to the move which had been expected, but threw him none the less.

“Inform the XII Corps that they will have to shift from their positions around the Lindeberg hamlet and intercept the Waldenburger advance,” he replied. The XII Corps was made up of two veteran armored divisions, the 41st, and the 92nd Armored, which had been the division stationed at Hafenstadt during the initial Waldenburger assault, but the Corps itself only consisted of around thirty-three thousand men. “Inform our allies as well; instruct them to halt the enemy advance at all costs. I don’t care if they have to beat their men over the head with bibles—the enemy must not take Stillerhafen!” Ivanov hung up the field telephone and returned to his thoughts, contemplating the newly-arrived Sumguaian’s part in the battle which was still raging all around.

Ivanov’s field headquarters was quite near Stillerhafen, and as the long-range artillery began to pound in an attempt to slow the enemy advance long enough for the Sumguaians to unload enough men, the table near him shook, knocking off his cup of coffee and spilling it on the grass. “Bloody hell!” he yelled, lamenting the loss of yet another unfinished beverage. “Tell my aide to fetch number ten!”

Sunday, 9:12 PM
92nd Armored Division, 10 Miles Outside Stillerhafen

Even from the position atop his tank, Lieutenant Zimmerman could have sworn he saw a reflection of glass from the approaching enemy tank commander’s cupola out of his binoculars. Another private surveying the landscape before the inevitable clash, perhaps? Zimmerman put the thought out of his mind and dropped below into the turret.

“They’re nearly in range, boys,” he said, nodding and smiling slightly to the other two men in the turret. They smiled in return, though all three men were, in actuality, petrified. Private Blau, Zimmerman’s gunner, returned to the gun’s sights, adjusting them for the blackness of night. With his arm raised, he read the numbers on the screen.

“Ready…ready…four thousand meters now!” Blau exclaimed, waiting for the order.

“Fire main gun!” Zimmerman replied, peering through his own sights as the tank rumbled forwards, smoke billowing out of the gun as it threw an enormous piece of metal four thousand meters down range. A line of Cataphract tanks emerged from the undergrowth which they were hiding under, revving their engines and shooting off at high speed towards the advancing column of Waldenburger vehicles. A cloud of dust was kicked up as the tanks advanced in unison, IFVs and infantry following close behind while overhead, the whining of incoming artillery shells mixing with the dull droning of a flight of ground-launched VTOL F/A-38B Sentinel close-air-support planes.

“Fire main gun!” Zimmerman yelled again, targeting another approaching armored vehicle and steeling himself as the turret rocked with the force of the 120mm main gun. “Fire at will, gunner!” he said, picking up the radio and opening a communications line with regimental HQ.

“This is headquarters,” the voice on the other side of the line said plainly, artillery from Zimmerman’s position mixing in with the reverberations from the guns on the other side of the conversation. “Go ahead, Lieutenant Zimmerman.”

“Headquarters, we have engaged enemy forces immediately outside Stillerhafen. Not sure how long we can last, sir—send reinforcements at the earliest possible convenience, Leistungi or otherwise.

Hungarian Dance No. 5 "Czardas" (http://www.audiomidi.com/assets/2782_03hungar.mp3)


Sunday, 7:00 PM
The Chapel of St. Ceno, Stillerhafen

A light breeze swelled amongst the spreading branches of aged poplars that lined the tiny courtyard. Inside a white stone wall a group of Franciscan monks gathered around a well and stood, heads bent in what appeared to be solemn cogitation around the stone orifice.

The air was chilly and several of the monks stamped their feet with impatience and made sullen conversation as one of the brown clad figures trundled up a bucket from below.

“Father Abbot did the Cenobiarch mean that…” One figure asked petulantly.

“He means what he said, and I will most certainly not the one to countermand his orders. Help him with the bucket.” Wearing a red sash over his severely plain brown robe Abbot Lot sucked in his fatty chest and leaned down to pull the barrel up over the edge, it was surprisingly large and heavy.
--

“Whoa there father,” a Leistungi sentry stepped out of an inconveniently placed shadow; for someone so young it was almost embarrassing how easily the column of priests had been apprehended. “A curfew is in effect, and quite honestly father,” a crucifix could be seen hanging from the man’s neck, “command is just looking for a reason to crack some skulls. Go back to bed and by morning we’ll see how everything looks, yes?”

“Oh, a curfew?” if the Leistungi had not imposed one the Waldenburger variant would be setting in a few hours. “I don’t think it,” the pad of soft slippers slapping on cobblestones made barely a sound, “it was really meant,” the unsheathing of a blade made the barest of a whisper, “to apply to us.” In a smattering of blood the sentry went down, with two feet of steel rammed through his back and smiling monk emerging like a heathen god over the dead man’s falling head. “Father Lot. The ISS presents it compliments.”

“I thought His Grace ordered no resistance from Imperial forces?” Lot replied as he dabbed some blood off his face.

“We were flown in some days previously, as you probably recall, however our orders come directly from General von Solf and he has had some plans for quite some time apparently. May I ask what your imminence is doing out on such a fine evening?”

“The Cenobiarch has ordered that we… make a little noise.”

“I see. Well carry on and we will be behind you lending a hand. There is a tank in the main square; I would suggest avoiding it.” With an exchange of pleasantries the other monk vanished; Abbot Lot recalled being asked to fill a rather large consignment of vestments a few days ago, when a Leistungi invasion had been but a dream, and had wondered for what they would be used. “Come on.” There was little more hassle as the column of monks moved on well practiced and silent feet.

Just as promised the looming iron frame of a battle tank sat idle next to the city’s fountain and indeed in the distance Abbot Lot fancied he could hear armored movements and the rumble of engines. He did not worry himself with those; there was something much more pressing directly before him.

“Brother hand it up,” cowering behind a wall the small delegation of Waldenburgers poked their head around a worn slab of masonry into the main square. Abbot Lot shouldering a recently produced RPG launcher took a breath, walked seven paces forward till he was standing in the middle of the street, sucked in his stomach and bellowed. It was a primeval sound that sent the hair on Waldenburger necks quivering, and reverberated through closed up houses like the bellow of a wounded lion. The RPG launched was aimed down the square and fired.

A few rifle cracks followed as unseen ISS agents joined what would soon undoubtedly become an escalating conflict.


Sunday, 7:19 PM
Leistungi Landing Fleet

With every thundering of the cannons below a dozen aircraft would fall from the sky, and with every intercepting jet and streak of cannon fire another pilot would perish. Most of the Serene Legion air crews would simply freeze when confronted with a problem, or fire madly which inevitably threw off another squadron.

Running lights on Leistungi ships were coming into view and the explosions of light around muzzles flashed a staccato pattern against an ever-darkening sea. The enemy fighters however were a problem , and any risk to the jamming aircraft scattered amongst the skies was a threat to thousands of life, and Air Marshall Rø flipped a switched within his cockpit, which in turn ignited a series of colored lights on the fuselage of his Hawker Tempest. After repeating the message several times a plane, shrouded in clouds and smoke, returned the signal and began to fall back, and pivot in the air. Undoubtedly the enemies jet fighters would be having some difficulties keeping up with the nimble, is aging and poorly piloted fighter craft, if for nothing else than for charging an enemy and suddenly finding he is in fact several hundred feet behind the supposed target area.

Lüftenshacker rockets would tear the jets apart if they ever took the advantage of acceleration over the slower Waldenburgers, without discrimination for where the shrapnel would land.

Rø, along with a majority of the first vanguard, began to descend amongst shrouds of flak and shells around the first Leistungi ship. Some sort of escort ship by the looks of it; Marshal Rø remembered the day when ships had been iron monsters, sheathed in steel and bristling with cannons, but over the years steel had been replaced with aluminum and cannons were removed and missiles added. Rø smiled as he pushed his fighter into a dive and applied his finger to the trigger; opening up with the 20mm cannons. Others amongst fleet began to pull down.
--

Sunday 7:21 PM
10 Miles outside Stillerhafen
Right Flank Waldenburger Army, General Tiritz

“Damnit!” Tiritz bellowed as another APC was turned from proud war machine to a flaming wreck dangling dying men and screaming in the special agony of twisted metal. From above munitions were being tossed down from fighters with a frightening accuracy. There had been a plan for little resistance until the force met with the city, and now with a ten mile stretch still to go, enemy tanks were appearing from every direction. Admittedly it was a rather poor showing to stop the spear, but if the Waldenburgers stopped to deal with the enemy properly they would undoubtedly come under the fire of the naval guns out to sea, and that was something they could not risk.

“Put some flack up for God’s sake! And keep pushing Abrhams to the front, and deploy smoke. Run and gun,” the radio crackled as tank commanders signaled their assent and the first of the Waldenburger responses began to fly out.

“Put up a few of the drones,” a comment directed at the Aerial Warfare Command, which consisted of a Captain and his aide de camp guiding a handful of miniature attack and surveillance drones, “ and for the love of God flush them out!”

OOC: LS—getten sie over here.

Sunday, 7:00 PM
9th Light Infantry Division
Town Square, Stillerhafen

The lack of radio contact with Private Goeth was somewhat worrisome, but considering the lack of anything all that interesting to report in about in the first place, it was, to some degree, acceptable. After all, there were far more important things happening to the north, where the veteran, but underpowered 92nd Armored Division had already begun an engagement with a massive column of advancing Waldenbuger army units presumably en route to Stillerhafen. Sumguaian forces were still nowhere to be seen, though General Bremen had assured the men of the Third Army that support was indeed expected by sunset, and that the overarching Leistungi plan was still a go.

What was not expected, however, was for the 9th Light Infantry Regiment, a poorly armored rearguard unit, to come under sudden attack from a group of men who looked more apt to eat them than shoot them. With a deafening bang and the sight of one of the 9th Regiment’s tank’s rear-mounted fuel canisters exploding, taking both tracks with it, however, the lounging men grudgingly awoke and made ready for battle.

Private Scherer awoke to find himself lifted from his resting place next to the town’s fountain and sited in what seemed to be the remains of a fruit cart. With a curse he lifted himself up and brushed the remains of blueberries off his fatigues, cocking his G500 and running to catch up with the few squads of soldiers already in the square and firing at three quaint (he found it odd that the word would be the first one to come to mind in Waldenburg) buildings; by the looks of it, two stout apartments and a multi-story café. Cursing again, he took cover behind the stone base of the fountain, realizing that he had dropped his grenade cartridges when he was thrown.

“Meyers; grenades!” he yelled, despite the fact that Private Meyers was a mere two meters away. Two blue and black grenade capsules found their ways to Scherer, rolling across the cobblestone square until they reached his position. He loaded one in his rifle’s grenade launcher and took aim at the café, men around him taking notice and beginning to do the same. With a dull thump, the grenade left his barrel and lofted lazily towards the building, exploding in one of the windows. Out of the corner of his eye, Scherer saw what appeared to be a morbidly obese man with an empty RPG tube waddling his way into one of the three buildings and he took aim, firing three shots before breaking off and loading the second grenade.

Sunday, 7:23 PM
Blue Flight
Several kilometers from the Leistungi fleets

“Blue Three, my home on jam indicator just flicked on. Can you confirm that we’re being jammed, over?”

“Copy that Blue leader; Waldenburger AWACS, most likely,” Blue Three’s pilot replied, tapping the HoJ light in his heads-up display to make sure his instruments weren’t malfunctioning. “The patrol mission was a dud, and we still have fuel to burn. Should we go after it, Blue leader?”

“Affirmative,” Corporal Krause responded, turning his stick left and falling into formation with the other nine planes. “Clear to engage any planes engaged in jamming our fleet and their respective escorts, if applicable. Switching to anti-radiation missiles now.” Krause flicked a switch on his control panel and armed his two Aequatian-made AIM-360A missiles, glancing on his radar screen to get some idea of where the jamming signal was originating from—because of his missile’s home on jam capabilities, the jamming would not interfere with his ability to achieve a lock, and considering Blue flight’s proximity to the nearest jamming signal, they were in the best position to strike.

Sunday, 7:45 PM
92nd Armored (Panzer) Division
10 Miles outside Stillerhafen

The amount of artillery shells being poured onto the fields north of Stillerhafen were something of a spectacle to watch, though the Waldenburg lead units likely found them less spectacular than did their Leistungi counterparts still holding the line to the south. Their elastic defense was beginning to show signs of wear, and the arrival of the 41st Armored, moved from their positions around Lindeberg, did not seem to ease the assult. Firebases, set up in the initial hours of the landing and consisting of several MLRS units entrenched in crude earthen fortifications, fired off thermobaric munitions into the advancing lines of armor, meeting with the jellied gasoline canisters being dropped by land-based VTOL sorties and smoke popped by Waldenburger tankers to cloud the fields in a grayish haze.

Through the haze, infantrymen advanced, unloaded from their IFVs to take a more direct role in the anti-tank offensive with Javelin missiles and an assorted mixture of anti-tank grenades and one-shot weapons. Lieutenant Zimmerman swore as a squad of infantry took cover in the grove directly in front of his tank—the grove he had been several seconds away from demolishing under his treads. Shells from the Waldenburger armor whizzed by his Cataphract in quick succession, and the tankers returned fire, despite having the enemy column hidden behind a veil of smoke and dust.

Sunday, 7:50 PM
First Army, Left Flank, General Fitzpatrick
Roland Meadow

The one area of the battlefield which seemed to escape the notice of both the Waldenburger and Leistungi divisions, as they roared through the center and up along the coast near Stillerhafen, was the left flank. Concealed by a thick canopy of deciduous trees and camouflaged by undergrowth and thermal netting, the heavily armored and quite frankly ridiculously over-mechanized 1st Armored Division’s commanding officer watched as deer bounded across the field in front of their position, codenamed Roland Meadow by Sixth Army Group commanders. It was here that the First Army would make their decisive “run” across the entire breadth of the Waldenburger center, proverbially choking off the enemy units occupying former Leistungi center positions at the neck. They would be met by similarly mechanized corps and divisions from the Third Army on the right flank and would together constitute the two main pincers of the Leistungi counteroffensive planned for some time the following morning.

Simultaneously, artillery fire on the center lessened as field artillery was brought further up to cover the advances of the right flank of the First and left flank of the Third Army as they made their dash to close the gap. Only the First Army’s self-propelled artillery brigades kept up the fire, and even then, it was mainly directed forwards, at the units which would have to be held off long enough for the gap to be closed, than right, towards the center of the enemy lines.

As the gap was closed and the reserves were committed to strengthening the flanks of the Sixth Army, Sumguaian forces, hopefully persuaded by frequent urges from the Leistungi High Command, would advance along the coast, past the Waldenburger frontline units to turn their right flank in an overwhelming assault after the pocket had been secured. The two assaults, if timed correctly, were meant to negate the Waldenburger numerical advantage completely, separating the hopefully lumbering Waldenburger divisions and corps from each other and leaving them vulnerable to lightning attack with naval and air support.

OOC: Now, should I be assuming that your force in the center has taken the bait and advanced into the bulge as my forces pulled out?

OOC: ugh, I hate war posts.

IC:
Sunday: 6:40 PM
Off The Coast of Stillerhafen


As landing craft swarmed to the harbor of Stillerhafen and nearby beaches, the remainder of the Sumguaian fleet began it's bombardment of the Waldenburger forces. Nearly a thousand tomahawk missiles streaked towards shore, as waves of fighters arose from the fleet's carriers. A third of these missiles were aimed the center of the Waldenburger army, the rest at the force's right flank. From the deck of the armada's flagship, Admiral Cole watched with satisfaction as the missiles grew smaller and smaller as they flew towards their targets. Witness, ye tyrants and oppressors, the might of the Holy Empire.


Sunday: 6:45 PM
Coastal Beach, 11 Miles outside Stillerhafen

"Get those tanks on shore now!" An officer bellowed as the 22nd Hegemonic Armored Division unloaded onto a beach behind the Leistungi 92nd division, whom they would be reinforcing. A few minutes later the division was making it's way inland, a gleaming column of white int he settign sun, and at around a quarter to eight the 92nd came into sight. As they approached, waves of F/A- 18s and F-35 fighters streaked by overhead, drawing a cheer from the men below as they flew to bombard the Waldenburger forces ahead.

Sunday: 7:05 PM
Stillerhafen

The Rabbi John Granger stepped on to the dock of Stillerhafen, grinning as Sumguaian soldiers streamed past him. The men were unloading from their boats at a jog, flooding into the harbor as they hurried to get as many off of the boats as quickly as possible. Granger walked through the crowd and to the waiting Leistungi officers. "I do hope we are in time." He said as he neared the group. "How may the Holy Empire be of service?"

____________________________________________________________________________________________________ ___________________

OOC:specifics:

600 tomahawks fired at Waldenburger left flank (right flank from Leistungi perspective)
300 tomahawks fired at Waldenburger center

150 F/A-18's, 250 B-103's, and 200 F-35's bombarding Waldenburger left flank
100 F/A-18's & 170 B-103's bombarding Waldenburger center
50 F/A-18's & 85 B-103's bombarding Waldenburger right flank
armor is priority target for all bombarding aircraft

22nd division = approx. 10,000 men

3rd, 4th infantry divisions, 2nd AL Chaplain division

let me know if any corrections are needed.

Fantasia in C Minor (http://www.wga.hu/music1/beethoven/beethoven_choral_fantasie.html)

Sunday, 7:02 PM
Stillerhafen, Town Square

Plaster dust and larger chunks of masonry pattered around the suddenly horizontal form of Abbot Lot and bullets ricocheted around the corner that the detachment of monks was hiding. The building was a plaster and stucco affair of the 17th century and had once been a coaching inn but now ironwork table and chairs were dotted about square for a growing clientele.

“Your Grace,” a few hands pulled him up as the crackle of automatic fire began to spark around the town square and into the further reaching blocks, “You seem to be bleeding.” The monks constituted a force of about twenty men and most of them were shivering with nerves and their rifles beat a rhythmic tempo against their chests. “Would you like some assistance?”

Lot checked himself and saw that a hole had been shot through his ample backside, “Oh,” he hadn’t felt it beyond a light stinging, “no. I don’t think so.” A sudden absorption of sound and then a sudden crack followed by a painful shower of plaster work marked the destruction of the gingerbread motiffed wainscoting of the ancient windows. All the monks winced collectively. “No brothers I believe the ISS have things from here. I suggest we guard the harbor bridge tonight,” he winked knowingly at the relieved expressions of his men, “we must prevent such strategic locations from falling to our enemies. Down the alley and quietly down the street yes?”

Elsewhere amongst the city ISS agents were peering from windows and ambushing passing squads and units. General von Solf, after the debacle of the original Stillerhafen surrender had not felt his trust well placed in the Serene Legions of the area and had not issued the orders for the civilian militia to be called up, but his officers had taken the liberty of taking up quarters in town and in hotels around the city, and now were spread homogeneously amongst the civilian population. They had not been inactive in the past three days and indeed had gone some way to rallying the defense of the city.

Thought the Serene Legions were not called up it was a general White Paper policy for the civilian population to be volunteering part of their tithe as defense labor, and indeed great quantities of petrol bombs, squibs, and smoke devices had been procured from civilian sources. Certain members of the team had also been dispatched, in plains clothes, to rally the police and members of the local regiment; they also took down very carefully the names of those who did not pull their rifles from behind the fireplace.

As small-scaled hell was breaking out on the city streets and smoke bombs and the fragile petrol concoctions were being set off to general confusion and annoyance of civilians and soldiery, the three police stations had muster out their officers. By law the Waldenburger National Police carried no weapons, and the armed response team and detectives, consisting of four elderly men, had been disarmed once the Leistungi detachment sent to seize the police houses stopped laughing. However some elderly service pistols had been obtained to augment the usual armament of telescoping police batons and peppers spray.

Three hundred officers stormed down the mostly peaceful streets beside the palace and dashed for the castle along tree-lined avenues where citizens popped their heads out from their dinners to look down at the armored officers.

From the distant university the staccato and rapid pattering of a stationary machine gun began to strobe the nearby pear groves and obvious hiding places.


Sunday, 7:23 PM
Serene Legion Southern Air Command
Several Kilometers from Leistungi Fleet

The lost of one of the sensor package planes was immediate and a great swath of the aerial fleet was suddenly open again and would no doubtedly began to feel punishment within a few seconds. Air Marshall Rø, who lead a squadron suddenly found his radar, one of a handful, to be functioning again. HARM missiles had been expected to be used eventually. There was a plan, and it would be painful. Waldenburger radios began working again on a portion of the aerial flotilla and the voice of Rø filled them directly.

“Everything on boys!” Rø pulled his trigger to send a few cannon rounds flinging at a distant warship, “Everything electrical you have goes on now! They lock onto enemy radio boys. We have the unfortunate duty of being unmasked first; our brothers will live though.” A roar of enthusiasm went over the radio and static filled it as the conflicting waves, both of the occasional AWACKS craft and the various individual fighters. The fighters pulled down ever further and grew closer as once again a portion of the fleet became open to Lesitungi fire.


Sunday, 7:53 PM
Right Flank Waldenburger Army, General Tiritz
8 Miles outside Stillerhafen

The sudden addition of Hegemonic forces to the battle was entirely lost on General Tiritz as his forces barreled through a haze of artificial smog which was only enhanced by the smoke billowing from various wrecks and aerial strikes. Though hits from enemy attack had become much more infrequent his tank commanders often had to now deal with smashing into the occasional oak tree, and though it was usually a toss up as to who would win there there were considerably more tragic incidents.

A white plastic spy drone had been flung from the roof of a tank and had flown ahead some several hundred yards, above the tree line, to find a small grove packed with Leistungi firepower and was stealthily relaying firing coordinates.

Hilly and forested terrain however added to the general nuisance and though aircraft targeting was considerably lessened by these obstacles the ability of the tank crews to return fire and the speed at which the column was advancing was hampered as well.

A battalion of Imperial Grenadiers had been offloaded however to deal with the immediate problem of the Leistungi and creeping low amongst the fog near the agreed upon edge of the column, they began tossing white phosphorus grenades into hedgerows and overgrown patches of forest life which ignited with an oily tinge. The fires would hopefully throw off thermal tracking and indeed add a note of confusion to the already existing quagmire of mayhem. A liberal dispersion of anti material mines would also guard the flanks of the column, albeit randomly.

The Imperial Grenadiers were spread thin however in an attempt to cover the advance and units were disappearing quickly as Lesitungi infantry were dispersed into the growing battle.

Plans were additionally thrown off when wide area missile bombardment from an unknown source absolutely devastated around 100 armored vehicles on the far left of the Waldenburger attack. Tiritz, in a rare moment of speculation, reasoned that if the advance was not being hampered by so many factors the attack would have struck at the center, but as it was the column was moving under what even the enemy expected of it.

Sunday, 8:00
First Imperial Army Group ‘Center’.

General von Solf did not feel entirely comfortable as the night drew in. He was well aware of the actions up and down the coast, from the massive all or nothing Serene Legion engagement, to General Tiritz’s dash to the sea, and even though surrounded by nearly a half a million men spread out over some square miles, von Solf could not help but draw his command cloak more tightly about him.

“It is rather cold General isn’t it?” Cardinal Reddenbacker paused from pushing his finger along an imaginary line on a field map stretched out across the hood of a jeep and illuminated under a lantern that twinkled merrily in comparison to the fire burning some miles to the East. General Solf nodded sullenly and attempted to engross himself in the Field Marshall’s plans. He tried and failed. They were silly plans; they were plans devised by men who wanted everything ended by Christmas and knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would be at least a Viscount no matter the outcome of the battle.

“…Using the 115th Rifle Division in a divisionary attack along their left flank we strike the center and right pivoting them around 115th we could push them into the sea and shell them before they assemble another landing position to the north or south. General Solf your III Corp will…”

“No sir,” Solf perked up to the voice and realized, in a sinking moment, that it was his own, “we should not commit to any large scale battle before we are sure of the aerial attack the naval strength out to sea. If there is a substantial naval presence to be dealt with then our troops cannot go any nearer the coast.” Further thought rose in his head as the General suddenly found himself in the rapt attention of the Cardinal, however his thoughts were cut short as a concurrent set of detonations and ripped a distant grove of trees to shreds and illuminated the army in one brief and total moment. A regular pounding followed as additional munitions thundered into various and seemingly random points along the army’s breadth.

“General?” Reddenbacker raised an eyebrow.

A plump figure with the golden shovel and calipers that marked him as a sapped cleared a froggy throat and spoke in a whisper, “Missiles sir.”

“They seemed to have missed us.”

“Yes sir.”

“The Leistungi have not sent any planes for hours and their pickets are undoubtedly pitted against out own; their intelligence of our exact location is as scare as theirs is sir. If I may suggest Your Imminence a diversionary attack from the other side of the river sir.” Finger was jabbed down to where the source of the Strein some miles to the north and a wiggly continuation was pulled south by a gloved hand. “By around 16,000 light infantry and skirmishers with heavy artillery support from our various fire bases.”

“We have no such force in that location.”

“No, I suppose not. But my V Corp is currently two miles away and marching into position. We could begin an attack in about an hour.”

“Your orders were not to move any units without my orders.” Both men were silent expecting the other to continue speaking. Finally Reddenbacker broke into a faint smile, “the army will begin deploying defenses and set up camp for the night. You will have your support general.”

Ironically though it was a cool Spring breeze that rippled the battle flags, and a gentle sparrow's song that lulled the night into being. And in all its majesty the sun slipped under the horizon and as if in fiery parable promised a yet more fiery night.


OOC Ugh.. tell me about it.

Sunday, 8:46 PM
Sixth Army Group HQ
Somewhere Outside Stillerhafen

The antiquated radio sitting next to Field Marshal Ivanov buzzed intermittently, and he had begun to notice that there was no good news that entire day. He drummed his fingers on the map in front of him, his fingers crossing pastel colored lines and smudging the carefully-drawn battle lines. Generals Fitzpatrick and Bremen had been out of contact for security reasons, and despite his rather strong dislike for both of them, he missed their retorts and questioning of orders—it was somewhat refreshing to see the chain of command questioned every so often.

“Field Marshal,” Ivanov’s aide quipped, waiting for the aged man to turn and face him. He held a mug of some Waldenburger-brewed liquid—presumably coffee, but it was really anyone’s guess at this point. “Sumguiaian forces on the right flank have landed in small numbers, but the city is still at risk of falling if we cannot halt the Waldenburger advance.” There was a uniform frown forming on the faces of the assembled command staff as the words left the man’s mouth.

“Yes, we’re well aware of that fact, Lieutenant,” Ivanov replied shortly, turning back towards the map and his hastily drawn plans. The fires burning around the forested areas outside Stillerhafen were throwing off the infrared and laser-based tracking systems on the Sumguiaian bombs, and dense smoke cover had obscured the true number of attackers to the Field Marshal and General Bremen. Furthermore, the vital center thrust had not yet come to fruition for one reason or another, and the Army Group commanders were forced to watch the smoke rising from Stillerhafen helplessly, waiting for the word from General Fitzpatrick that the enemy had advanced deep enough to begin the offensive.

“I thought it was supposed to be spring here,” one of the generals piped up dryly, rubbing his hands together and fastening the top button of his overcoat. “This was supposed to be my week of leave, you know.”

Ivanov chuckled. “At least they didn’t choose the winter to…” He trailed off, realizing mid-sentence why the men were assembled on the grassy knoll on the Waldenburger shore. The generals and their aides shifted uncomfortably, and the Field Marshal grimaced. “Anyways, we’re lucky it isn’t winter.” He returned to the map, flicking his wrist towards Stillerhafen and continuing the red arrow already drawn.

Sunday, 9:13 PM
27th Infantry Division, 1st Army
Leistungi Left Flank

Only a few regiments stood guard over a forested area codenamed (inventively as ever) Forest Green by the First Army command staff, most likely during one of their thinking spells they tended to have while warm in the quaint rural houses which dotted tertiary roads. Forest Green was anything but green, it seemed—whether it was brushfires, pollution, or some unknown blight which had turned the trunks of the trees here to a charcoal black, the men could certainly expect no picturesque views any time in the near future. Perhaps it was this bleak, boring landscape which had made the lookouts that Sunday night doze off much too early.

Private Obermann yawned in his foxhole as a twig snapped somewhere in the distance, immediately perking him up and causing him to shake his neighbor awake. “There’s movement up ahead,” he said, his voice quivering, either from fear or from the lack of a blanket. Another twig snapped, and then another, until they began to mesh into more familiar sounds.

“Artillery fire!” a voice bellowed from somewhere distant, echoed several times as men scurried into foxholes and covered their heads with whatever they had nearby. A shower of dirt and pine needles hit Obermann and he yelled in pain as another shell burst nearby, the intense light searing his retinas. The artillery subsided for a moment, to be replaced with the actual snapping of twigs as shadows appeared on the edge of the forest, illuminated by an ILLUM mortar round. Obermann dragged himself up and brought the MG70 in the foxhole to bear, his loader grabbing a box of ammunition and loading a belt into the machine gun. The gun kicked back and a stream of tracers shot out, voices mixing with shots as the growing darkness subsided in favor of a red and white glow.

“Captain, we have more artillery pieces than God himself could hope to acquire,” Corporal Schwartz roared, struggling to be heard over the sounds of battle. “I’m sure our main advance will not be so hampered by the loss of a few propellant bags that we’ll be forced to call off the entire attack, retreat to the sea, and lose the war altogether.” The captain lowered his eyes and began fiddling with his fingers sheepishly, bending his thumbs back for no particular reason. “Now please,” the colonel continued, rolling his eyes lazily, “fire the damn artillery!”

Sunday, 9:14 PM
9th Light Infantry Division, 3rd Army
Stillerhafen, Waldenburg

Though the initial police advance had been met with tear gas and several 20mm autocannon rounds into the crowd, the tenacity of the enemy citizenry in their defense of their city persisted, whether because of some unforeseen patriotism or devotion to their religious ideals or because someone was behind the curtain with a revolver. Though it was likely the latter, the exact reasoning was, at the moment, unimportant. What was important, however, was the fact that partisan actions were hindering Leistungi lines of supply, and one way or another, the streets would have to be cleared.

Though there had as of yet been no armored support available for the beleaguered 9th Light Infantry Division, a Leistungi transport ship, escorted by anti-air frigates, had managed to break free from the growing air battle off the shores of Waldenburg and landed its contingent of Trojan urban combat vehicles—an Aequatian design never before used in combat by the Bundesheer. Rolling down the cobblestone streets and lurching forward towards masses of Waldenburger police officers who had taken cover behind overturned cars, Private Goeth watched five such vehicles, each painted grey with a blue and white Nordic cross indicating their origin.

A hissing of gas could be heard as the officers firing antiquated revolvers at advancing Leistungi forces poked their heads up momentarily towards the five armored vehicles in front of them. In an instant, five jets of flame shot forward, bathing the entire line in fire, and the inferno turned next to the adjacent buildings, where room-to-room clearings seemed to be negated by the fact that the partisans always managed to sneak their way back in, only to fire on the soldiers when their backs were turned.

As if it were timed to the second (and in all likelihood it was), two jets roared overhead, so low that the engines blew the helmets off the soldiers below. Each aircraft dropped two unguided canisters of jellied gasoline, which exploded instantly on contact with the ground and burned out the entire center of the street, including the buildings on either side. If the city was to be lost, Falkenberg seemed intent on ensuring that the advancing Waldenburger columns would meet only a raging inferno, rather than a liberated township.

Sunday, 9:15 PM
First Imperial Army Group, V Corp
Leistungi Left Flank

Marching was never a pleasant thing reflected most of the soldiers as they picked their way carefully through the forest. Whatever the case marching was certainly dampened when the army was moving silently and at night through a tall forest that whispered and rustled eerily with every waft and shift of the ever cooling wind. Tall lancing poplar trees punctured through the great canopy of oaks for the sunlight of spring and the first of the budding leaves cast shadows down from a full moon.

There was something to the night that had caused the soldiers of the 112th Imperial Light Infantry Regiment to tread through the night very softy and freeze when they heard an inhale of breath from a companion or the snap or a inconveniently placed twig. Several men had already been removed from the advance party as some of the jumpier conscripts had bayoneted the more stealthy veteran soldiers who walked in the shadows of the ancient trees.

“Corporal,” a captain, looking about as stealthy as one can in a shimmering silver embossed helmet, held up a tactically gloved hand and motioned for a soldier to come to him, “do you see that spark of light to the left?” There was a long moment while the corporal tilted his head back and forth and studied the suggested plot of land.

“Yes?” The corporal ventured in a whisper.

“Well either that’s an enemy match or we’ve marched into Paloni. Go and check it out man.” The captain gently pushed the corporal upwards and he in turn sighed and started to slink forward rifle still tucked over one shoulder. After taking a few steps a laugh could be heard from somewhere out in the darkness drawing the suddenly frozen gazes of the Waldenburger infantry. A sharp crack and a machine-gun hidden somewhere in the veil of darkness burst into a wild and violent life. The corporal was lifted of his feet and thrown back to the Waldenburger lines, which, in a moment of horrified realization placed half a battalion on the downwards side of a very gently sloping hillock. The hill placed hundreds of Waldenburgers in the open, and those still arranged at the top of the hill little benefit of elevation and barring that no light by which to see.


All across the slowly advancing Waldenburger column of the V Corp regimental officers realized they had taken about two hundred yards more than they had intended to and were stretched out across about a mile of territory face enemy emplacements.

“Fall back!” The captain bellowed, and himself bursting up like a partridge, began to cover ground at a sprint back towards the tree line. Another laughed echoed ironically opposite from behind him and the Leistungi opened with a hailstorm of lead. Waldenburger soldiers, their brilliant green uniform smeared with mud and dirt were furthered dirtied and the whiz of bullets cut down man after man as they stumbled with only the staccato flashes of illumination from the enemy guns, back up the hill.

When the captain’s own heart had stopped beating and from the protection of a thick oak tree he peaked his head around the trunk, had is helmet shortened by a stray bullet and made a few quick calculations in his head. He slumped back to the tree; there was no need for secrecy now it seemed. “Private Twiler! Get regimental command on the line and give them our position so the heavies don’t drop a shell on us. Then tell them we want illumination, a few flares would be nice.” Fumbling around in his pocket the captain pulled from a tangle of used handkerchiefs a small optical scope, which he slotted onto his rifle. Only two men in his entire battalion were trained snipers but the glass grinding works n Granzimmerburg turned out the 8x magnification scopes as if they were bolts of cloth and the sprawling industrial complex of the Strein River easily turned out the millions of tons of supplies needed for the army every day.

“When we get the light,” the captain dreaded the dozens of bodies of his command left sprawling down the hill that would be so crudely unveiled with the illumination, “it’s firing sequence 1,2,4,9,15 then 3,5,8,7,6, 10. A field hospital will be going up jointly with the 36th so keep the medics back. Keep it quick, and post a spotter to watch them at all time. If they break we must be right behind them. And and…” the captain’s final commands were completely drown by the sudden fulmination of Waldenburger guns and the corresponding explosions. With the included light a few of the conscripts took their first shots and the last words went unsaid.

Sunday, 9:21
First Imperial Army Group ‘Center’.

Reddenbacker serenely sipped a steaming cup as some several hundred feet behind him a battery of 105mm howitzers lobbed shell after shell and even further behind that a orderly officer scribbled madly in a small black book and called out the various requests for fire support. Another hundred yards behind that battery was another of 205mm howitzers that were firing to effect in a rolling barrage that. And so on an so on the litany went. The Waldenburger military had changed its tactical mind very little for the last century and General von Solf, who stood slightly to the side of Redenbacker and watched with a faint smile the firestorm the guns were causing over the horizon, thought it was only a blessing that his men were not being thrown towards the enemies with the shells.

“It appears the Leistungi are returning fire,” Reddenbacker stated, as there was a lull in the immediately present guns. Several oak trees around the concealed battery were on fire and several vehicles to could be seen to be burning over the crest of a few hills.

“We must outnumber them in artillery by at least three to one if not more.” Solf mulled out loud, “this should not take long Your Imminence.”

“I have the utmost faith in you general.”

Solf smiled a smile all of his own.

Sunday, 8:12 PM
Right Flank Waldenburger Army, General Tiritz
4 Miles outside Stillerhafen

Tititz surveyed Stillerhfaen as his command vehicle burst over the crest of another hill and he found it in flames. He had been told of the ISS break out but had not expected the Leistungi to respond so heavy handedly to such a small amount of men. He was unaware of the police column that had been ordered to seize the castle and indeed that phase of the operation had been going quite well until a constable had shot a Leistungi grenadier in the thigh and started a process of terrible retaliation that was evidenced by a towering inferno that was beginning to spread around the castle.

“What the devil is going on?” He spoke rhetorically before slipping back down into the armored interior and motioning to the communications officer. “This is far enough, detach the First, Second, and Third Armor brigades, and five infantry regiments.” Approximately 12,000 men, “they deploy as the rear guard and prepare to hold our backs.” Casualties had been heavy, very heavy, and though most of his men could not be accounted for directly almost 8,000 were known missing, most presumed dead, and at least 4,000 encircled in various pockets by the Leistungi and perishing quickly. Most of Tiritz’s artillery had either been abandoned as too slow for the advance or picked off for the same reason.

“Sir we’ve made contact with the ISS.” His officer whispered to him, “They are taking cover for the moment. They plan to reposition and attack again concurring with our arrival sir. The fire sir…”

“Will burn itself out in time.” Tiritz nodded glumly and climbed back through the hatch and to take a panoramic look around. Stillerhafen was ablaze; behind him through the pall of dark smoke the capering of impish artillery could be seen dancing across horizons. Contently, and with the wind at his back, and glory ahead Tiritz knew how the war would end. And he too smiled a little mile of his own. “Stillerhafen awaits.” He said quietly to the star strewn night sky.

Sunday, 10:55 PM
Chancellery Building
Falkenberg, Leistung

“Nothing has gone right in this God-forsaken war, Jonas,” the Chancellor croaked, running his eyes over the latest casualty reports. “Ivanov assured us that the Waldenburgers would take the bait—we were supposed to have been four hundred kilometers inland by now.” He dropped the heavy piece of parchment and ran a hand through his hair. “And yet now I’m told that our forces feigned withdrawal has been met with stoic silence on the side of our ‘barbaric’ enemies.”

“Apparently.” Großadmiral Beckenbauer replied plainly as he stood opposite Ringkampf’s desk, a mug of coffee steaming in his hands. “It is no matter, really. The invasion has already accomplished everything we had hoped for and more; anything else would simply be a bonus.”

“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of your department’s meddling in Case Red. You’d best pray our allies don’t catch wind of your exploits.” A cool breeze blew into the office and the men paused briefly, reveling in the fact that for the first time in months, the breeze did not chill them to the bone. “The Bundesmarine certainly has done its job admirably, Großadmiral. If only your counterparts could muster the courage to do more than stare across no-man’s land.”

The uniformed man shrugged in response, his eyes rolling upwards in their sockets at the Chancellor’s words. “Apparently there’s a reason we get the lion’s share of the budget.” The Chancellor nodded in reply but did not respond, his eyes scanning over a map of Waldenburg, the major cities near the river delta circled in red. Blünderburg, Scant...yet the closest major city to the slowly advancing Leistungi forces was known by none but the most die-hard geography student—Flüstern—the name reeked of failure to the dejected General Staff, yet it was that city that was next on the list to be seized, after, of course, the situation in Stillerhafen stabilized.

“Tell me what you know of Flüstern—the name has appeared on more reports than I can name in the past few days.”

“I wouldn’t trouble yourself with matters of our tactical situation, Chancellor,” Beckenbauer responded lazily. “The General Staff seems to believe they can break through Waldenburger lines, stabilize Stillerhafen, and seize Flüstern, all in the time it would take you to sip from your mug. At this point it is the Navy’s opinion, and the,” the man cleared his throat dramatically, “the, ah, opinion of my department, that Case Red should be allowed to demoralize the population prior to any serious offensive moves.”

“Unfortunately I doubt that will be good enough for the press, Jonas,” the Chancellor replied with a wave of his hand. “Perhaps I’ll just tell them that our counteroffensive in Stillerhafen is commencing, and that units from our reserves are being brought up for an attack on…” he looked over the map again, “ah, what sounds better, Jonas, Blünderburg or Bad Amberg?”

“I would go with Blünderburg for effect if I were you, Chancellor.”

“Excellent choice.”

Monday, 12:14 AM
Field Headquarters, Sixth Army Group
Several Dozen Miles Southwest of Stillerhafen

There had been no sleep behind Leistungi lines since the invasion had begun, but with the constant pounding of artillery from everywhere (including underground, it seemed), what little shut-eye the men were able to get was quickly snuffed out in favor of long nights of staring forward into the dark in a foxhole, hoping the next shell wouldn’t rip them limb from limb. The dull whining of cruise missiles had subsided nearer to the shore, though this was more a cause for concern than glee, as it meant that the fleet had not yet rid itself of attackers.

Sorties were flown on both sides day and night, both from Waldenburger airstrips further inland and from VTOL planes launched from clearances and hills rid of their forest canopy, and the droning of engines mixed in with the sharp bangs of artillery impacts resulted in a cacophony of destruction that no amount of training could prepare the men for. Smoke from Stillerhafen was visible even on the fringes of the western flank and night quickly was transformed into day as thermobaric weapons detonated down the line in a feeble attempt to stop the Waldenburgers from digging in any further.

Perhaps the one thing considered by the General Staff to be a plus was the arrival of the First and Third Fleets out of Hafenstadt and Kaiserslautern, respectively, the fleets which had been expected to arrive hours, days earlier, but which had been delayed by weather leaving Leistung and the ever-present threat of Waldenburger raiders on the high seas. The aircraft of both the two hundred fifty-odd ship fleets were visible long before their flagships were, and the fighters, lucky enough to be informed about the impending danger, fired air-to-air missiles at long range at the revealed Waldenburger planes, their creeping speeds hopefully spelling their doom.

“The 41st is all but destroyed, Field Marshall,” General Bremen commented wearily over the field radio, gunfire popping over the secured transmission. “The 92nd Armored has retreated to the outskirts of Stillerhafen and is taking up defensive positions, though the 9th Light Infantry inside the city itself seems to be reporting viable gains in the field of counterinsurgency.”

“Insurgencies do not concern me, General,” Ivanov replied, scratching off another number on the piece of paper in front of him. “Reroute the reserves from the center and use any means necessary to secure that city—catch the bastards between the sea and our armored fist.” He prepared to hang up the receiver but added a final note. “The Republikanische Garde division has been turned over to your command.” The Republikanische Garde was the praised as the most elite unit in the whole of the Bundesheer, though in reality it was simply the best-equipped. Its members were hand picked more for their loyalty than for any real fighting prowess, though both had their place in warfare, Ivanov supposed.

“Affirmative, sir, they’ll be a welcome addition. Bremen out.”

Organ Sonata No. 3 In C (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/21a03.wma)

Breathed heaved in and out as already numb legs stumbled over another rut; mud was splashing with ever step and the man could feel one of his boots come off in a quagmire, but still his legs pumped onward. From behind a few jovial calls could be heard and the laughter of several men.

“Wem dernt auser in der nahe mit dem baum? Hölze dert!” Waldenburger voices called out jovially and kicked their horses into a gentle canter enough to give the runner hope and prolong the chase over a period of another mile or so. With a stoic and desperate air the legs pounded onwards until one of the Waldenburgers grew tired with the chase and shoulder his carbine. It was a clean shot, neat and precise that flung the runner down into a puddle.

None of the horseman paused in their ride but dashed over the body without confirming the kill the dinner plate sized hooves of the horses shattering the dead man’s bones, and pounding his flesh into the soft earth.

“Haben sie Glück general!” A voice could be heard through the thick forest as other rifles cracked in the night and other uproarious roaring could be heard. Karl wiped the mud from his eyes and peered out of his hiding place amongst the twisted roots of an ancient poplar. He gazed at the body for an indeterminate moment and realized he recognized the face; not who, in the last three days thoughts had blurred into one overarching truth; running. But he recognized the sergeant’s stripes and the face pricked his memory to perform a cursory review. Crawling forward on knees so bloodied by thorns and bracken that the blood oozed out constantly, Karl hobbled over to the corpse and searched the pockets.

The fool hadn’t eaten his bread yet; the crust was broken and the flour had been stale at any rate but he devoured in hungrily once he had crawled back to his depression in the ground. As he crunched his way through to the soft interior he heard voices speaking softly, their tones carrying over the night air, in a soothing manner he had not heard for some time. Without thinking, without even consenting to the stinging sentiments of his threadbare instincts for self-preservation, he poked his head over the side of his hiding place.

Two Waldenburgers sloshed through a tiny streamlet that cut it’s way through the grove, one holding a lantern, both in high hunting boots, and both cradling rifles under their arms. Both wore traveling suits and the tiny lapel pins that marked them out as employees of the Imperial Merchant Bank.

“Is that one of them Dawes?” The one with the lantern asked as he raised it and peered short sightedly towards Karl.

“I believe so sir.” The one named Dawes raised his rifle and fired a thoughtful round at Karl, which missed and shattered a nearby tree root. “Oh, He’s running sir! I’ll get after him.” A few more desultory rounds were fired at Karl as he accelerated at inhuman rates out of the tiny ravine and back into the forest proper. The only illumination to be seen were the occasional torches of the horseman galloping through the trees or the flash and crack of a rifle. A bright moon was shining down though, but the canopy of early leaves allowed only shadows to creep and fall on Karl’s face. Somewhere, far to his left he could hear the wolfhounds baying and the laughter of the Waldenburgers.

Karl, certainly not in the mood for reflection could not help but wonder why he had been tortured, almost executed than shipped several hundred miles south with the remainder of the Leistungi prisoners. The wardens told them nothing but added an extra ration of bread to the meager food, and sighed heavily as they passed the cells. He had heard one piece of information, deciphered from the etymologically similar Waldenburger Latin, to his own native tongue. Flüstern was just a few miles away and beyond that the war, and his army. Until then he ran. Ran and ran, on trembling legs.
--

Cholera. It was said that it killed more men than any general and it had returned. Blünderburg took it in stride; a city so large was rarely affected by epidemics in a truly systemic way; of course thousands and perhaps even a few million would die but hundreds of thousands died everyday the fear that was intended was entirely wasted in the city where the average lifespan was 55 years. Spreading outward though the mere mention brought terror, and the town of Gindelwalt was ordered burned to the ground after the first thousand cases and the population ordered into sterilization camps. Small villages situated along the Strein, fishermen for the last twenty generations stopped casting out their nets on the few unpolluted sections of the river, and parish priests would not venture into the stench filled houses to deliver the rites.

It was in these villages that army units were being routed and reserve divisions being marched south were often crippled and to save time the more draconian army officers ordered any showing symptoms to be removed from the army and deployed to cities and town considered already at high risk where their infections could be more easily dealt with and the spread contained. Overall though, to the Imperial Ministry of Health, it was merely a thorn in the side and did not receive considerable attention from the any of the government circles. The source however was known, and in the bacteria laden Strein it would multiply beyond a mere disease proportion; that however would take months to truly effect the population in its entirety and it could thus wait. –

Monday, 12:29
First Imperial Army Group ‘Center’.

Field reports and Intel had fallen to a trickle. Most depressing news was filtering from General Tiritz’s sortie, though the attack had barreled through the defense enemy air support was now ripping the column to shreds with precision bombing and away from the cover of the forest the armor was almost entirely obliterated, and the remnants of the detachment were scattered about in a fruitless attempt to relieve the ISS in the city.

Tiritz himself, from his last communication was still alive and leading the last few tanks available to him in an all or nothing attack through the center. Waldenburger infantry would mostly likely hold out for days as they drew to the hills and scattered but not in the meaningful way that was intended to halt hinder a Leistungi advance northward.

Reddenbacker had received the news calmly nodding off the loss of forty thousand men with little aplomb or indeed great emotion. “Order the ISS to intensify the attack deploy whatever they can in the next hour, the Leistungi most get the impression that at least part of the attack force is capable of relieving the city.” The Cardinal nodded as the messenger dashed from the foresters which had been commandeer from it’s sleepy eyed owner who was subsequently attempting to fall asleep in a small pole barn across his neatly kept garden.

“General von Solf?”

“Yes sir.” Solf snapped out of a personal reverie and nodded to his commander.

“Your men are engaged on the right flank?”

“They are calling in artillery coordinates to our heavy guns and I believe have made an attempted attack earlier this evening and have sense been dug in and providing rifle support. However we are in a weak, if deceptive position, and it is sheer luck that the Leistungi have not ordered their left to take the hills. I suspect they believe we have heavy infantry in position.”

“Happily,” the Cardinal stood, “that will no longer be an issue. With the failure of General Tiritz to secure a position on the peninsula of indeed to our left at all, and with the constant threat of naval bombardment we must make a conscious effort to reposition ourselves and anchor the armor to expect an attack from the left. In congress with your V Corp the III, IX, and X Corp will begin a en masse assault against the enemy position.”

“Your Imminence the forest is too thick in that area to coordinate an armored assault.”

“I am aware. However the trees are equally thick for our enemies, and our infantry will certainly overpower them, while our heavy guns can probe further back.”

“Very well sir.” Solf saluted, “with your permission I will take command at the forward post sir.”

“Very good general. Carry on.”
--

Monday, 12:41 PM
First Imperial Army Group, V Corp
Leistungi Left Flank

“Pass the word down. Assault on my order.” Captain Brickerson rushed down the line keeping low from the enemy line of sight and patting his soldiers unthinkingly on the back. “Build up speed on the hill fall down if you must, but get off the hill. Once your down you’ll be fine, and then get stuck in. We have about three hundred yards until we hit their supposed lines.” Upon reaching the end of the column he hunkered down behind an already battered tree and waited until his wireless began to crackle. There was no voice on the other end but a loud cheering of men and rapturous amounts of gunfire.

“Fix bayonets!” Metal shimmered in the moonlight as the directive was carried out.
“Company will advance double quick time on my mark!” A silvery whistle was placed to the captain’s lips and a wristwatch glued to his face. On his given mark he blew hard into the whistle and launched himself along with his men, out down the hill, his company already firing blindly into the night.

Up and down the lines almost a quarter of a million men were also charging down into Leistungi arms as overhead the shells continued to fly.

OOC Well I think It's time to move the plot along regardless of LS. And do I have you to thank for my wikistates page? It's very nice.

OOC: the AL Chaplain Corps has been changed in name to the Paladin Corps, as such is a more accurate name.

IC:

Stillerhafen:

The Reverend Gloria Campbell Shouldered the automatic shotgun she was wielding as all around her Sumguaian troops poured out of their transports and into Stillerhafen. The Abrahamic League Paladins were the first off the boats and now formed the vanguard of the Sumguaian forces, marching in a gleaming white column through the city to join the Leistungi lines. Much of the town was burning, and the Hegemonic and League troops were forced to change their routes to avoid any potentially unstable areas. Several men were nearly crushed as an old apartment building came crumbling down next to them, and there were scattered skirmishes with armed civilians and Waldenburg partisans, but despite this, a steady tide of white, gold, and red spread into Stillerhafen as thousands of infantrymen marched forward while the city filled with buzzing from the rotors of Apache gunships. As the troops advance several officers in a convoy of armored vehicles and helicopter gunships made their way to the Leistungi Field Headquarters.

Leistungi Right Flank:

The 22nd Armored Division joined the lines of the Leistungi 92nd, coming to a momentary halt as the division's commander sought out his Leistungi counterpart. When he had, he approached the man, waving as he did so. "Hey there!" He shouted over the noise of battle. "I hear you folks could use some help!"

OOC: I’m going to assume you meant 12:41 AM, since you said both moonlight and night. And you’re welcome for the page, though I really only wrote the first paragraph.

Ave Maria (http://www.imeem.com/jukeboxmusic16/music/cikl36Zb/andrea-bocelli-artist-ave-maria/)
Monday, 12:41 AM
27th Infantry Division, 1st Army
Leistungi Left Flank

A nighttime fog seemed to be rolling its way through Forest Green, obscuring the canopy, yet strangely not the ground. The moonlight was lost in the mist and only a few stray rays of light managed to poke their ways through the clouds of gray-white fog, giving the forest floor an almost ethereal appearance. A piercing whistle broke the silence and the heads of the soldiers turned instantly towards the supposed Waldenburger lines, resting their automatic weapons against dirt embankments and the edges of their foxholes and peering in the darkness towards the source of the sound. A high-powered searchlight, normally used for close-in anti-air fire missions along with its six Vulcan cannon light anti-air guns, swiveled to face the hillside and turned on with a blinding flash.

The glinting of bayonets, of all things, was what gave the advance away to the remainder of the men, and with all due panic the men immediately began firing at anything that moved, futilely trying to halt the advance of some ten thousand men in their sector alone. Colonel Schwartz could only imagine what sort of hell was being experienced along the line where the distance between Waldenburg and Leistungi lines was less than fifty meters. He instinctively reached for his radioman and tugged at the back of his collar, jolting him out of a trance which involved throwing all his available grenades at the advancing horde of enemies.

“Gruber, get some fire on the hill, damn it!” he bellowed, shoving a folded field map in the radioman’s hands and pointing with a gloved hand at a set of coordinates. He turned back towards the hillside and removed his pistol from its holster, firing off a few rounds before realizing how ridiculous he must have seemed, firing pistol rounds towards a mass of men that seemed to dwarf the Mongols. Gruber’s voice was barely audible over the sustained gunfire, the six anti-aircraft guns manually swiveled to face Waldenburger lines, now firing at an incredible rate at the front of the advancing line in a vain attempt to make the Waldenburgers think twice about moving forward.

“All batteries, suppression fire mission – target aimpoint one, maintain rolling barrage north of our position,” the radio officer barked, dropping both the radio and the map, reaching for his own pistol to place a round between the eyes of a sprinting Waldenburger officer – by the lack of a full chest of medals, likely a low-ranked one. “Ninety-second infantry under extreme duress, recommend alert red, recommend alert red.” The radio cut out as a bullet ripped through the receiver and Gruber turned back towards the front lines to see Waldenburger soldiers pouring over the first foxholes, sounds of metal on flesh drowned out by the second line of Leistungi soldiers opening fire, hopefully catching the men unawares by holding their fire until the last moment. The seven foxholes which made up the second line each had a squad automatic weapon, and bursts of tracer fire illuminated both the second, and the first, lines of foxholes.

Monday, 7:28 AM
Field Headquarters, Third Army
Lindeberg Hamlet, Waldenburg

Though the annals of the Bundeswehr would likely credit the defense of Stillerhafen to the counterattack by the Republikanische Garde and men of the 92nd Armored, the real heroes of the day were the Sumguaian fighter-bombers and their key reinforcement of the 92nd, breaking the morale of their Waldenburger counterparts in a way bombs and shells simply could not. General Bremen had ordered the final last-ditch Waldenburger assault halted and its leaders taken captive, though he had no real intention of allowing them to be taken prisoner – the men would never receive the order, and even if they did, the idea that a high-ranking officer would be given any treatment other than a bullet was laughable.

“Flüstern is only a few miles away, you know,” Bremen commented to his second-in-command, a sickly looking Major by the name of Nicklas Engel. “Strange to think that only a few hours ago we were preparing for the imminent breakthrough of Waldenburger forces and the complete loss of the right flank.”

“Strange indeed, sir – and fortunate.”

“Fortune has nothing to do with it, Nicklas,” Bremen replied with a flick of his wrist. “How long until the reserves can be brought up to reinforce our front lines?” He knew the answer but still would relish the sound of it being said – the attack was to commence the moment the words left the Major’s mouth.

“They are ready now, General,” Engel said, nodding his head at the radioman perched close by to the field headquarters. “Shall I give the order?”

“Please do so. The XII Corps will hold the left flank secure while the III and V Corps advance northward towards Flüstern – we do not stop for anything – is that clear, Major?” Bremen said firmly, nodding too at the radioman. “If one of our tankers catches a glimpse of a black robed skeleton with a reaper, he is expressly ordered to run him over.” Engel chuckled and relayed the orders to the radioman who then gave the order to individual division commanders. Four fresh divisions for an assault on a backwater Waldenburger city they likely forgot existed unless they were suffering some plague, some fifty thousand men in total, not counting the reserves which were being brought up to cover the advance on the left.

Simultaneously, orders were being relayed to Sumguaian commanders now marching triumphantly through Stillerhafen to stabilize the left flank of the advancing armored divisions, striking at any attempt to cut off the spearhead from the bulk of the army. If all went according to plan, Flüstern would be under the blue and white by the end of the week.

Monday, 2:39 AM
Bundeskriegministerium Building
Somewhere in Leistung

The energy in the war room of the Bundeskriegministerium that evening was palpable as a blue one-storey screen projected perhaps what was the first interesting thing to come out of Waldenburg since the thumbscrew. A BKM analyst was speaking frantically and excitedly to the group of assembled generals and admirals. “Thermal scans indicate a single man, likely military—” he stopped himself and nodded his head at the man entering through the door, an entourage trailing behind him. “Oh, good evening Chancellor. As I was saying Chancellor, thermal scans from our reconnaissance satellites have revealed patterns in Waldenburger patrols which indicate a search, perhaps a search and rescue for a downed pilot, perhaps not.”

“And this is what brought me up from Falkenberg?” the Chancellor asked, a frown beginning to form on his prematurely aged features. “Downed Waldenburger pilots do not concern me – in fact, it’s what allows me to sleep at night.” The analyst squirmed and flicked to the next slide, a thermal image of a man with several more heat blooms behind him.

“This, Chancellor, was taken from a spy satellite at 0030 this morning.” The Chancellor did not budge. “It is a thermal image, you see.” There was still no movement from the other side of the table, and Chancellor Ringkampf sipped a cup of coffee lazily, his lungs forming a number of sighs, each spaced at intervals of about a second. “We believe this may be a military or civilian target attempting to escape from Waldenburger captivity.” Ringkampf set the mug down and folded his hands.

“And you believe this man may have information he wishes to get to our forces?”

“I cannot see any other reason why he would be running towards five hundred thousand angry soldiers – were he a Waldenburger, he would not dare to approach our lines, unless he wore a helmet and had a bayonet.” One of the generals at the table whispered something and there was a collective chuckle, after which the analyst continued. “There is another possibility as well, Chancellor, one which warranted waking you up and bringing you to the Bundeskriegministerium in the dead of night.” He paused for effect. “We never actually took a tally of the men killed and missing in action in the Waldenburger Legion – it is very possible that not all of our legionnaires were killed as we originally thought true…”

The Chancellor was on his feet, and continuing the train of thought was thoroughly unnecessary. “And this may be an escaped prisoner fleeing to friendly lines!” Hope had returned to the man’s graying eyes and the generals murmured amongst themselves and Ringkampf turned towards the collective military staff. “Forward this information to our forces on the front lines and report to our field commanders that any friendlies recaptured from Waldenburger captivity are to be sent immediately to Falkenberg for debriefing.” He paused before he stepped out the door. “Please do not hesitate to call me if there are any further developments, generals.”

OOC: LS, I think Waldenburg was referring to that other thread you guys have. All this stuff is interconnected in typical Waldenburg fashion :D.

Viaticum In Domino (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/20a12.wma)


Monday, 12:43 AM
First Imperial Army Group, V Corp
Leistungi Left Flank

Bickerson’s men surged down the hillside firing their rifles whilst running from the hip at the forest, and taking to his advice most of his men leapt to the ground on their side and rolled down the hill or in some way stumbled the hundred yards or so as Leistungi machine guns probed the hillside for soft marks. There were many found and the silver embossed helmets of the Waldenburger infantry spun off and above as their limp owners were thrown backwards.

A staccato cracking suggested that an air battery had been employed in less traditional use and a sudden explosion from a lance corporal in which his arms were removed and his torso refined into a light might that spattered comrades behind.

Numbers alone and the sparkle of bayonets at their backs held the conscript infantry together and when the Waldenburger line met the first Leistungi there was a great bloody cry and a flashing of bayonets. In a strobing light the Leistungi solder would have caught his first glimpse of a Waldenburger soldier; a wild eyed beast cover in blood and shrieking as he plunged bayonet repeatedly into a struggling soldier.

Like a hammer Bickerson’s men struck the first line of foxholes and slashed the first line of defenders mercilessly while advance fire teams slipped into the now vacant fortifications and peppered those behind with rifle fire. The rest of the command attempted as best they could to find cover behind trees or simply laying on the ground, and fired sporadically forward.

“Smoke!” A sergeant bellowed and on cue a few grenades rolled out and a think cloud began to envelope the clearing. “On, my mark, K Company, with grenades! Three… Two… One,” there was a simultaneous pulling of pins and arm motion as a few then dozens of explosives sailed up and over.

Moonlight glistened off the sudden flash of a saber as Bickerson rose, his face as bloody as the rest and part of his left hand missing and bleeding profusely, the whistle was still clenched between his teeth; it was given a long sharp blow and again his men roared and sprang from the ground, climbing over the ever mounting piles of dead and wounded. The few Heavies that were mixed in the regiment took control of the first set of foxholes and began to assemble a pair of Vickers machine guns, which had been in service with the Empire for almost a century and prepared for either counter attack of Waldenburgers who were unsure about a certain maxim about shields.

Monday, 12:49 AM
First Imperial Army Group ‘Center’.

Every so often General Solf would have to cease speaking as the rumble of artillery made communication over the field telephone impossible. Artillery units were practicing the ancient tactic developed in the Grey Wars where a battery was almost stacked on top of itself and fired in unison in a creeping barrage at the exact coordinates of a given field commander who was leading an advance. It was called ‘sheeting’ and though slow to load an redirect fire it could leave an area of land roughly the size of Olympic swimming pool devoid of human life, and quite suited for a sudden dash to newly dug shell holes for an advancing unit.

Originally the tactic had been employed on the large and sweeping plains of the Border Marches against Chuckonian invasion when the horse was the pillar of transit and miles upon miles of grassy field was turned to splinters and ash.

“Could you repeat that sir?” Solf pressed his hand to the receiver and covered his other ear. “Really? Already? Yes sir! Shall I inform the Cardinal and take command of the reserves? Very good sir. We await your presence sir.” The receiver hit the cradle for a moment, and was a button hit. “All commands this is General von Solf, Operation Oberon is in effect, await orders.” The phone once again clicked home.

In his private tent Solf was allowed a moments thought before an aide attempted gallantly to knock on canvas and deposited a handful of field reports on a side table, and silently departing. With his tongue probing between the cracks in his teeth von Solf aimlessly studied the dreary fabric of his camp bed, which he had not had a chance to use other than for stacking some papers, and his feet kicked at the grassy floor.

“Eight days at sea, three in the mountains, two in Stillerhafen, two to Flüstern. Two before the city falls,” he mumbled to himself under his breath, “four for the navy, three for the air, six days here.” A few fingers went up as he continued to count allowed to himself. He only made it to seventy-three. This frightened somewhat, but as always his position was to hope for the best.

With desultory fingers he scanned a few repots; supposedly the attack was going very well thus far; though surprised had not been achieved sheer weight of numbers was throttling the Leistungi command and may very well push them back towards Stillerhafen or to the south.

“General,” a pale-faced Captain poked his head around the tent flap, “the field marshal wishes to see you.” Sighing Solf followed the man. In many ways there had been less odious commands than being subject to the apathetic and mechanical commands of a senior Church official and usually Solf would have found the post unbearable, but he was in the convenient position to see all the cards of the game.

What Leistung was walking into in Flüstern almost brought a tear to his eye.
--

How many miles was it? Twenty at least probably thirty or more. Karl had stopped only once on a small rise to throw up, and peer down at what his comrades were doing to the pristine landscape; this made him smile. He could see no actual shapes or troops but he could see fires eclipsing the entire panorama and could hear the angry rumbles of artillery. He began to run again. Slower now, he had left the Waldenburgers behind some miles ago, and allowed himself now a few moments to think, which perhaps was a poor idea as within half a mile he was upside down in a holly bush and cursing fluently in three different languages.

Blood coursing through his body for the last dozen miles began to pool in his legs and suddenly he felt close to unconsciousness, the holly would hide him for a time if he could only sleep. He closed his eyes and immediately felt himself drifting away.

Some time later a bony finger prodded his chest; Karl tried to bat it away without thinking or rising. “Hey!” A petulant voice shouted somewhere in front of him. The finger was reapplied.

“Wake up!” the voice was like nails being driven through Karl’s ears and the Leistungi resolved to resolve this problem and return to his sleep. A crusted eye was open and a white face came into view; that face suddenly withdrew hastily.

“You’ve… burst some blood vessels… .Your eyes… Who are you?” Upon focusing Karl could make out an almost boyish figure and a chest that could have been used as a toast rack squeezed into a green uniform complete with silver buttons and a gleaming pickelhaube. Karl’s heart sunk.

“Would you like some water/” The Waldenburger soldier produced a canteen from his hip undid the top and handed it to Karl, who despite himself drank deeply. “So,” the boy continued in a singsong voice, “what unit are you from. I was with the 171st Heavy Armor but we seem to be out of armor, so I thought best to just slip away from the battle for the moment uh? You were thinking the same thing right?”

Karl nodded and continued to drink.

“Corporal Scriemer says the Lice won’t be marching this way. Not with the reserves ready to cut them off, so I thought maybe I could wait till dawn and see how everything turns out. That’s what you were thinking right?” The Waldenburger boy seemed to be guiding the conversation and Karl could not help but agree; they’d never march this way; it was best to wait till dawn!

“Your uniform’s half gone though; your sergeants going to throw seven kinds of fits when he sees that.” The boy smiled slightly which turned out to be a terrible mistake as the canteen, and Karl behind in clipped him across the jaw and sent him sprawling backwards. In a second the Leistungi was on the boy beating with the thin metal against the boy’s face again and again until it ceased to struggle and still more till the previously handsome face was bloated and swollen and the teeth scattered across the ground. Karl could not be stopped till a Leistungi patrol eventually dragged him off the corpse.


OOC Whoops, yeah I did mean AM. Speaking of which Leistung you should be some sort of wizard in the near future I did mean the other thread for LS but the time frame won't work now so eh. It can be used afterwards I guess it makes more sense then anyway.

Brothers Requiem (http://www.imeem.com/people/8s0btP/music/4JYNqg3z/michael-kamen-band-of-brothers-requiem/)
Monday, 12:44 AM
27th Infantry Division, 1st Army
Leistungi Left Flank

Smoke began to billow over the short clearing between the first and second Leistungi lines of defense, obscuring the line of sight for any machine gunner not killed or wounded by the mass grenade attack. Casualties were pulled back towards waiting 4x4s to be taken to nearby field hospitals and an infantry fighting vehicle made its way precariously through the thick undergrowth, swiveling its body to avoid smashing into the huge trunks. Tracers, presumably from a Waldenburger machine gun, cut through the white smoke steadily, and the line of Leistungi soldiers, dug into earthen embankments and foxholes which protected them from shrapnel and light artillery blasts, returned fire blindly, firing into the darkness in hopes of hitting something more than a tree.

The arriving IFV unloaded a further nine soldiers which Colonel Schwartz immediately sent running towards the front line to reinforce the preliminary line of seven foxholes which had been decimated by grenade attacks. He called over the radioman with a wave. “Gruber, instruct our artillery to—” Schwartz stopped in mid-sentence, realizing that his radioman was lying face up with several large pieces of shrapnel in his upper chest. He pulled two bloody fingers over his eyes, closing them, and called for a runner.

A private arrived at his side quietly, crawling along the forest floor as though he could mask the company’s presence from the soldiers now firing at them. “To headquarters, sir?” he asked, removing a folded field map from his pocket and motioning towards a black dot.

“Yes – inform division command that our lines have been pushed back to phase two positions, and that the attackers have little to no mechanization. They’ll know what to do,” Schwartz responded. The private made to leave, but he grabbed his shoulder. “Find us a new radio as well, Private,” he muttered, gesturing towards Gruber’s bloody body.

Monday, 12:59 AM
Division Headquarters, 29th Infantry
Four miles behind the front lines

Private Obermann reached division headquarters winded and thirsty, and managed to secure a fresh canteen inside the church being used as a command post before checking in with the major in charge of the division. He reached the altar and noticed that maps and indicators had taken the place of bread and wine, and that the church itself could hardly be considered a place of worship any longer as wounded men trickled in for care, surgical procedures taking place haphazardly on the cold wooden operating tables (pews, in reality).

He saluted the major and his staff, the aged man nodding in response. “Private,” he said flatly, acknowledging the enlisted man’s presence. “News from the front? R Company has been out of communication for some time now.”

“Yes, sir – R Company’s radio was destroyed during the initial Waldenburger assault,” Obermann replied, his mind flashing back to Gruber’s body. “Colonel Schwartz wishes to inform you that they have pulled back to phase line two and that the enemy assault is made up almost entirely of unmounted infantry and skirmishers. He said you’d know what that meant.”

“Thank you, Private,” the Major responded. “I do indeed. Take one of our radios here and report back to the Colonel that assistance is inbound.” He turned back to the map and circled R Company’s position in red marker.

Monday, 1:13 AM
Alpha Flight, F/A-38B Strike Fighters
12 Kilometers from Forest Green

Sixteen dark shapes cut their way through the night skies above Waldenburg, passing over batteries of artillery now all squarely aimed at the western advance which dwarfed the entire 1st Army which was attempting to fight it back. Under their wings the planes each carried four Aequatian-style GTMD cluster bombs loaded with one hundred twenty five incendiary submunitions, their airframes only barely able to sustain the weight.

“Alpha Flight, be advised, this is a danger close fire mission – friendlies are in position due south fifty meters in target areas.” The disembodied voice of their flight commander came over the flight’s radios in a strange, crackling fashion, but the pilots indicated their acknowledgement nonetheless. “Use caution on approach, and when you come in, come in low from the east – drop from minimum allowable distance and then bug out to the south, over.”

“Roger that, flight leader.” The pilots were aiming to halt the advancing Waldenburger infantry through, quite literally, blocking their axis of attack, and the flight’s wide-spreading submunitions would be sufficient in coating the entire flank in fire, albeit not a long-burning fire unless the trees managed to light.

“Alpha leader, dropping down at twelve kilometers, over.” There was a barely audible click from the cockpits of the fighters as the bombs dropped, lofting to the earth on pre-programmed trajectories.

Wednesday, 2:20 PM
Chancellery Building
Falkenberg, Leistung

Food and drink had been offered to the young man opposite Chancellor Ringkampf and he devoured both within the span of time it took the Chancellor and General Staff to lift their forks. Ringkampf folded his hands and smiled warmly at Karl, who was now again in clothes which covered his entire body, his off-duty dark grey uniform now adorned with more medals and ribbons than the men could count. His face was plastered across more newspapers than the Chancellor was even aware existed, and his name was used by the Ministry of Defense as a synonym for courage and stalwart patriotism.

Presumably, the man had just been lucky enough to escape. Still, best to let him have his few moments of fame – he had earned them regardless of the manner of his escape, and Ringkampf did legitimately feel empathy for the man.

“A long flight, eh, Colonel?” the Chancellor quipped, using the former private’s new title. He nodded blankly in reply, as if he was unsure whether or not to speak. “Please, don’t consider us your superiors, Karl. In fact, today’s meeting is only about you.” In an instant, six generals and admirals began speaking, all asking questions concerning his time in Waldenburger captivity. Of course, his mental health had already been proven intact, but there was always the possibility that he had been allowed to escape to pass on faulty intel to the Leistungi commanders in Waldenburg.

“Please, please,” Ringkampf said, raising his hands to silence the military men. “Karl, we’re all very curious to hear your story, especially if it can help us to better understand the minds of our enemy, and perhaps even their plans. Is there anything you may have overheard during your time in captivity? Anything important you wish to share with us about your capture? You are, presumably, one of the soldiers sent to fight in the Waldenburger Legion, no?”

OOC: If you’ll notice, I actually skipped ahead two days to get Karl into Leistung. I hope this is alright – it should also serve to cut out the always-fun “the troops marched” post concerning the Flüstern attack, but I wouldn't expect to move the attack on the left flank forward two days, so that might have to either be sped along or be played out in the past.

Ode to The Glorious 24th Of March (http://www.elizabethparcells.com/Music/InRecital/1976%20Recital/1976%20Nachtviolen%20Schubert.mp3)

Wednesday, 2:20 PM
Chancellery Building
Falkenberg, Leistung

A fork was dragged around the fine bone china as the last drops of sauce were gathered onto the fork from an otherwise spotless plate. Karl heaved a heavy breath, which set his medals jingling. “50 miles sir, in one night. Yes sir, I thought it was impossible too but there are so many limits to which the body can stretch.” Karl leaned back in his chair and set his chin at a defensive angle.

“When we arrived in Waldenburg, at first, we were treated well and the officers sir like kings. We attended a week at orientation and were introduced to some of the units we were to be fighting along side, a division of mercenaries, Kellian Rifles, and so on. They were friendly, shook our hands, bought us drinks, and we went to their parties. The Field Marshal was aloof and distant, we only saw our commanding officer once, a thin Waldenburger as he ordered our unit onto trains for ‘resistance training’ in the Ibblesguarder Mountain Chain. “ Karl paused and wiggled his mouth about, “there was a camp there called Raßenholm where we were offloaded and most of the Corp was either burned alive on the boarding platform, or were taken some miles away and I assume crucified as well.”

“I was one of the fortunate ones apparently, they told me that, they didn’t torture me, not as such. I was given ample food, more than the guards, they made that quite clear and was examined by a doctor of the first day. They’re starving you know? The whole country is starving, but they will not admit it.

The guards did not seem to care what we overheard and though the language is different the words are quite similar, and we heard about the invasion, about a great cholera outbreak, or scare perhaps, and of massive mobilization; hundreds of millions of men and machines pouring out of Blünderburg and heading south, and they speculated about the navy, how we’re in a natural gulf and our fleet were sitting at anchor over seafloor mines and that the Waldenburger High command was simply waiting until we are fully committed on land. They didn’t care what we heard, but one day they cut the food, and stopped talking near the cells, and then they tortured us. They didn’t ask questions, they just beat and beat; they tore off Corporal Zwiliger scalp and attached a clipboard to a rather vital area before stripping him naked and throwing him to the damn wolf hounds.

Five days ago we were taken from the camp and under heavy guard force-marched south; anyone who fell or hesitated was stripped naked, bayoneted in the knees, and was discarded along the road.” Karl leaned forward as if inviting a nearby admiral to some great conspiracy, “and you know what? They fought for the dead men’s boots and trousers.” After two days we arrived in a city called Flüstern, a pretty city where the citizens stared blankly at the soldiers and you could almost hear them moo. We were taken to the cathedral and paraded before a Bishop Svanner, he made damn sure we knew his name, he selected about fifty of us, including myself, from the parade and the soldiers took us to a prison camp outside of town where a great many Waldenburger officers and gentlemen were milling about. We were given a ration of bread, an hours rest and told that the Leistungi army might be in that direction if we hurried. We were told ‘you have one hour’ we didn’t understand but we ran anyway. At first with occasional pauses for breath, and in groups but then we heard from behind us the baying of those damn dogs.

And all of a sudden horns blared, laughing shouts. It was near nightfall then and when we first saw them they had nets and lances, businessmen on war chargers; some of my friends stopped to gawk and they were attacked by the hounds, and were ripped apart. Then we started to run madly, all night, in never ending bursts, and always you could hear those dogs, those fucking dogs, and at night they brought out torches and they were laughing, always laughing. I kept running until I reached our lines and after that there was a lot of sleeping.” Karl smiled faintly, “not all that much though.” With a new hardness that suggested he had taken the Chancellor’s suggestion of being equals to heart, “There are almost two thousand of our countrymen in Flüstern alive, when I left there were.”
--

Monday 1:15 AM
Army Group ‘Center’
V Corp Assault Front

Of all the counter attacks that were possible the last that jumped to mind was aerial assault, when the Waldenburgers were perusing at bayonet range of allied forces. In the rear the Waldenburger defenses had had time to dig in and deploy the portable SAM launchers and even the occasional phalanx system.

When the Leistungi pulled in low over the forest the aerial defenses had their first test run and easily found targets; launching dozens of missiles outward from camouflaged positions amongst the artillery batteries. With a slight break between the rear batteries and the forward lines the missiles had ample time to gain elevation over the tree line, however the Leistungi had dropped their bombs and the great gully across which the Waldenburgers were advancing was reduced to flame and the conifers amongst the tree lines were turned into merrily blazing torches, but thick spring sap pulsed through the trunks and kept the wood wet and ultimately stable.

Reserves funneling to the front were suffocated then burst into flame as oxygen depletion collapsed entire battalion collapsed to their knees; smooth river rocks were turned red with heat and streamlets were vaporized in seconds.
--

For a moment General Solf had hoped for at least a few moments of rest, and he had learned some time ago to sleep through artillery barrages but Cardinal Reddenbacker kept him awake with a string of runners and communiqués.

“General von Solf? A now familiar looking captain peered his head through the tent flap.

“I’m coming, I coming,” rising like some great mountain god Solf slung his feet over the edge of the camp bed and stared into the face of the cardinal smiling sweetly at him. “Sign this.” A sheaf of papers was thrust forward and a pen along with it. The papers were sleepily signed and return. “Thank you.”

The cardinal made as if to leave when Solf recalled the first rule of the military actions, “what was it?”

“Co-authorization for the use of chemical weapons.” The reply was clear and nonchalant. “Some minutes ago our reserve divisions were almost annihilated along the river bed by incendiary devices; chemical saturation bombing will surely thin the lines a bit. Our men have gas masks as you well know and the order has already gone out to put them on.”

“But not all our men have radios.”

“Well,” Reddenbacker smiled thinly, “in all fairness not all of them have gas masks either. Sleep well General.

OOC I was to busy messing with you in my lest TG to wish you an arbitrary good time in Boston; doing whatever it is that is done on the East Coast.

OOC: Thanks, it was a fun trip :D

Wednesday, 3:27 PM
Chancellery War Room

The Chancellor and his staff had taken leave of Karl an hour prior, and the group of men was still in a state of disbelief concerning the plight of both Karl himself, and the remaining soldiers still in Flüstern. The attack would, in all likelihood, go on as planned, but the fate of the two thousand Legionnaires now confirmed alive would be unknown until the gates of the city were battered down. Theories as to what Waldenburger High Command was planning were being thrown about in the dimly lit halls of the Bundeskriegministerium, yet there was no concrete way to tell if there was any purpose to the action beyond causing great pain to Leistungi commanders in the field.

“Initial intel seems to indicate that the defenses around Flüstern are light as far as troop strength,” a general piped up, the Chancellor not bothering to learn the man’s name. “There is a danger should the heavy divisions on the river choose to attack, but – ”

“But they would never take any action which would put them in range of our fleet’s heavy guns,” another faceless general finished. “An attack of that magnitude would likely be suicidal in the face of our naval superiority, and we would easily exploit the gap along the river line.” The men had loosened their ties and removed their overcoats, ribbons, and sashes, something which would normally never be done in the presence of the Chancellor. It only highlighted the desperation of the men as they planned how best to avoid having a regiment-sized unit massacred when Leistungi units closed to Flüstern.

Chancellor Ringkampf sipped from his mug of coffee, drumming the fingers on his other hand against the table in a rhythmic pattern. The tension was palpable, and no one dared suggest that which was on every mind at the table – the attack should continue regardless of the possibility of minor Leistungi casualties. The sacrifice of a few would save many, a philosophy which was actually taught word for word at Falkenberg Military Academy. Unfortunately for the General Staff, the majority of the public did not attend classes at the Academy, and the Chancellor was up for re-election shortly – even without the casualties sure to be caused by the attack on Flüstern, the war had begun to lose popularity steadily, and further action would need to be considered much more carefully.

“Admiral Beckenbauer,” he started, catching the attention of the man, who constantly seemed to be lurking somewhere in some shadowy corner of the room. “How possible would an attack on the city be – enter quietly with special forces, secure the hostages, and then follow up with a major assault from our main force?”

“Even if it were possible, it would require extremely in-depth knowledge of the garrison at Flüstern, the location of the hostages, the layout of the city, and far, far more than I’m recalling right now,” Beckenbauer replied, somehow with less urgency than would be expected in the situation. “Even our dear friend Karl doesn’t have that sort of knowledge, considering how long he has been away from the city. We would need a man on the inside.”

“Well, Admiral,” the Chancellor said, not waiting for the rest of Beckenbauer’s sure to be pessimistic tirade. “We have two thousand. If we were able to get an agent inside, say, someone who knew the layout of the city extensively, would he be able to give us the information we need?” There was a long pause in the war room as the idea circulated, possible courses of action now mixing in with the idea of sending a war hero back into hell.

“Yes. Yes, someone with knowledge of the guard’s habits and who is known already among the prisoners would be ideal for an intelligence-gathering mission,” the Admiral replied hesitantly. “There is of course the issue of sending Karl back into Waldenburg – back to Flüstern, in fact. It’s doubtful that he would be recognized, but the psychological trauma is something to consider.”

“Unfortunately I think we’ve reached the point where the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few, Admiral. Besides, he’ll be there for a few hours at most before the attack begins. Now please, send for Karl.”

Monday, 11:14 PM
29th Infantry Division, 1st Army
Leistungi Left Flank

Another body was heaved into a waiting cloth stretcher and hauled away, the face of the young soldier bloated, his fingernails assuming a pale blue hue. The medics both wore gas masks, as did the remainder of the soldiers in the 29th Infantry Division – unfortunately, they had come far too late for the vast majority of troopers, and the stretcher was beginning to show signs of wear as men were carted to aid stations, or in most cases, hastily-dug mass graves.

Though by the Constitution of Leistung, nuclear war had been authorized the moment war had been declared against Waldenburg, neither the Chancellor, nor the Bundestag, nor commanders in the field planned to reply to the attack with overwhelming force – such a move would have undoubtedly sealed the fate of the nation, and in all likelihood, the Waldenburger government would have appealed to some of its less savory allies to reciprocate to tactical nuclear weapons with something far more deadly. That certainly did not mean, however, that the chemical attack which was even now continuing down the line, from Forest Green all the way to the advancing column of men headed in the direction of Flüstern (at an unusually slow pace, Field Marshall Ivanov noted), would go unanswered.

Tuesday, 1:17 AM
BMS Mannheim, off the coast of Waldenburg

Waldenburg was a strangely beautiful country, even when viewed from a periscope. Once one managed to see through the baking deserts, the oppressive regime, and impoverished peasantry (it seemed interesting, though not unsurprising, to the sailors that near everyone seemed to be a peasant), the nation itself had an almost ethereal quality to it. It was as if one expected to be lifted up – hopefully without banging into the smog, which was thick enough to pluck small birds out of the sky – and see a nation of men and women who were, yes, starving, and yes, more likely than not brainwashed, but who were somehow, in some small way, always contented. Or perhaps fanatical. Either way, it was far more interesting to observe than say, Leistung.

“Down scope,” the captain chimed, snapping the handholds together and watching as the metal. The captain of the submarine was likely the only one who knew the real purpose of their mission – yes, the official report was to say that a number of high-yield conventional missiles were fired at Blünderburg and were intercepted before doing major damage, but in following with the General Staff’s attitude towards the whole war, there was once again an ulterior motive to the submarine crew’s actions. The missiles were never truly meant to penetrate Waldenburger defenses – however, the mere knowledge that there was a ballistic missile submarine in the vicinity of the Strein River Delta was meant to dissuade the Waldenburgers from attempting another mass gas attack; and indeed, the General Staff had no qualms about leveling the majority of Blünderburg with incendiary weapons if von Waldenburg reached for the chemical button again.

“Conn, weapons – missile tubes one through five and eleven through twenty primed for launch, Captain.” The voice of the weapons officer was somewhat garbled by the ship’s communications system, but anyone with even a basic knowledge of operating procedure knew what came next.

“Weapons, Conn, you are cleared to launch tubes one through five and eleven through twenty. Initiate attack plan Delta for conventional missile launch,” the Captain replied, removing the key from the metal chain around his neck. “Launch on my signal.” At the same time aft of the conning tower, the weapons officer’s key was turned, and the green light above the captain’s station flicked on inaudibly. “Three, two, one…launch.” He turned the metal key, and with a click the last green light engaged. A massive vibration went through the ship as the missiles lifted out of their tubes into the ocean, and from there, to points beyond.

Mandolin Concerto, 2nd Movement (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PW2O-HdZnzM&feature=related)

The Imperial Palace, Streinlikstern

A pen scratched relentlessly on a sheet of vellum paper and arced brilliantly through the lucid and elegant letters. Beside the writer a stack of papers was airing out and indeed the pile had been building all day.

A door burst irreverently open at the opposite end of the hall and a pair of jackboots hove into view to the downcast eyes. “Your Majesty!” An anxious voice whispered across the desk, “we have detected ballistic missile launch from the Leistungi fleets, at least a dozen heading for the river delta area.”

Wyatt von Waldenburg turned his eyes upwards and blinked a few times to break the crusts which had formed around them over the course of a long night, “Do we have a radiological alert?”

“No sir. As far as we can tell they are conventional or chemical warheads. The War Ministry has ordered Central Fighter Command scrambled and countermeasures around Hizenburg set to full alert. There is a General Staff Meeting that is requesting your presence, and commanders in the fields are requesting orders.” The aide was a young one, his former intern had met an unfortunate end whilst trying to outrun a bullet, at least according to the Inquisition’s report.

“What are high end casualty reports listed at?”

“Approximately 300,000 killed, up to a million injured or displaced provided that any of the water reprocessing plants are struck, or if any of the gasworks are damaged. Otherwise General Butter says maybe 75,000 killed and two hundred thousand injured.”

“Can we calculate trajectories?”

“Within ten kilometers with a high degree of uncertainty.”

“Are any going to strike St, Michaels, or the Imperial palace?”

“We suspect not.”

“Stand down Central Air Command, order the defenses to be put on standby and to only activate should the heart of Blünderburg be threatened.” The Emperor leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his thin frame, “The Leistungi wish to frighten us. Let us see if we cannot frighten them a bit. I will however be in the air, fetch me my briefcase will you,” he pointed to a black leather attaché which stood dejectedly under a hat rack, “and the traveling cloak.” The two items were brought to the Emperor who stood, flung the cloak around his shoulders, fastened it at the neck with a silver clasp then shackled the briefcase to his wrist. “It’s all a matter of mentality, who will break first, who will be humiliated by the other’s bluff and who will back off first.”

A few envelopes were pulled from a desk drawer and a few names scrawled on them, a letter slipped in, and then were sealed with a feeble tongue. “Takes these to General Boris Klepmagen, this to Field Marshall Marcus Brafzimmer, to Grand Admiral Sloan, Vice Admiral Thousis, and this to Prince Ruprecht.” The letters were passed out and the aide collected them silently. “if I may suggest Harold that you get underground with the General Staff, this promises to be a most exciting night.” His Majesty patted the leather bag and made for the door as what he thought was a swift stride but in all actuality was perilously slow speed. “I have a beast to tame.”

The beast, which he spoke of, sat outside; dull armor glinted off opulent light from the palace was a aeroplane, vintage for almost a quarter century but still capable of deflecting all but the most direct radiation and considerable amounts of energy.

Under a detachment of armed ISS agents the royal party, which had gathered a few hangers on, flew shambled across the tarmac and to the boarding ladder, just as air raid sirens began to cut the night up with shrill blaring.

“Captain?” The Emperor asked rather distractedly to a junior military officer struggling under the weight of a box of charts, “how far are the Leistungi from Flüstern?”

“About twenty miles I believe sire.”

“And our vanguard?”

“About fifty-seven. Not till Wednesday sir.”

“Shame.” Wyatt von Waldenburg tapped his walking stick a few times against the ground, “still let’s get a move on. It’ll be a long day tomorrow, today I suppose.”
--

Monday 2:27 AM
Army Group ‘Center’
V Corp Assault Front

Things had cone rather quiet for Bickerson and his men, who had been very fortunate to be fully fitted out with gas masks and proper defenses when the first gas canisters began to fall. For a few minutes his company, or rather what remained of it, dug in and huddled as all around they could hear screaming and the collapsing of lungs; it wasn’t quite for certain where these bellows of pain were coming from but with an unspoken agreement enlisted man and officer alike no one budged an inch.

“Captain?” There was a crackle from the radio out of code, “Captain?”

A corporal picked up a receiver silence the speaker function and handed it over to the captain, “what is your position?”

“Couldn’t really say. We lost visuals on Captain Tyrell about during the last charge.”

“Are you currently engaged against the enemy?”

“No we are not. We have no visuals on any enemy and we are not drawing any fire. “

“Hold position, repeat, and hold position then. Post pickets and sentries, advance a squad of skirmishers and await further orders. Command out.” The radio clicked off leaving Bickerson mid bellow.

“Second squad! Advance twenty meters and find some cover. Sergeant Miroz,” he motioned for the companies sharpshooter and pointed to two other men to act as spotters, “the night is yours.”

The squad was a hellish visage as it advanced, dripping in blood, bayonets dulled with gore, and masked against dissipating gas that clung to the boots and tree stumps in an effort to spitefully linger. No enemy could be seen. No ally could be seen. An entire enemy battalion could have been hiding behind the conifers as the skirmishers up and down the line took up positions and snipers took to boughs roots to search out the enemy while another offensive was prepared. It was if all eyes were drawn elsewhere and the stage that had been the battle of Roland Green, or as the Waldenburger command charts deemed it, Patterborn Stream, was suddenly left unattended, and the lights turned off.

OOC: Alright, time appears to be caught up.

Wednesday, 6:12 PM
Chancellery War Room

There were mixed reactions from the assembled generals and admirals arrayed in Chancellor Ringkampf’s office as news of devastation in Blünderburg streamed in. The Chancellor himself could not suppress a smirk as he imagined his Waldenburger counterpart picking apart his thought process and ingeniously turning it against him. The war had reached a level of unpopularity previously unseen with news of the civilian casualties. Both his political team and the General’s Staff were either hiding similar grudging respect, or were too caught up in the backlash across the nation to notice.

“Strategic Missile Command recommends an attack against military targets,” Admiral Beckenbauer muttered with a lazy grin. He had been one of the few to see the logic in von Waldenburg’s actions. “They claim that Waldenburger anti-air defenses have been rendered useless by some unforeseen…” He paused for a moment. “Something unforeseen, Chancellor. It seems as though our bluff was not fully understood by the SMC.”

“Agreed,” Ringkampf said, waving the idea off without a second thought. “Nor was the enemy’s response.” There were nods in response, though only Beckenbauer was really on the same page as the Chancellor in regards to military planning. “You know, if getting missiles inside Blünderburg’s defense network was this easy in reality, we never would have needed to go for the river…” He trailed off as the men exchanged looks of uncertainty, brows furrowing as they realized there was something about the running of the war they were not privy to.

“On a slightly less depressing note, Karl is parachuting back into Waldenburg in a few minutes,” Beckenbauer commented, glancing down at his watch. “Or more depressing, I suppose. The plan is to insert Special Forces silently and secure the location of the hostages while the rest of the rest of the Corps moves down the axis of advance directly into the city.” The other men checked their watches as well, and Ringkampf stopped his pacing, sitting back down at the head of the oaken table.

“We still have to contend with the issue of walking into a massive pincer, you know,” he murmured, audibly enough for the men on the other side of the table to hear. “As well as being boxed in in the gulf and apparently floating above a massive minefield which is ready to surface – speaking of which, Generaloberst von Keinberg mentioned that that had been neutralized.”

“Not neutralized exactly, but we’re fairly confident that any electric signal transmitted to the mines can be jammed or intercepted,” von Keinberg interjected. Ringkampf nodded.

“Yes, jammed or something of the sort.”

“There’s still the issue of the massive armies bearing down on us from all sides, Chancellor,” Beckenbauer replied, with no apparent happiness gained from the news that the fleet would not likely implode spontaneously. “There is going to come a time where we will have to abandon the march on Blünderburg and focus on our naval advantage to starve the populace – something of the sort, anyways.” The silence after Beckenbauer’s statement was broken as the Chancellor began laughing, to the point where tears began to well in his eyes. The generals exchanged confused looks and chuckles, not understanding in the slightest what was going through the man’s mind. Beckenbauer cracked a smile, though it appeared to be more of a smirk to the casual observer.

“What the hell are they on about?” one of the generals whispered frantically. Generaloberst von Keinberg turned to face him with a look of bemusement.

“If our plan is to starve the Waldenburgers, we’ve already won, General.”

Wednesday, 11:29 PM
Flüstern, Waldenburg

The aircraft which dropped Karl by parachute had long since left the area, but the ringing of the engine still resonated in his ears as he observed the city from a wooded hill through a pair of field glasses. It had changed surprisingly little since he had been forced into, then out of it, and though he could see the prison camp where he had been before being hunted out of his peripherals, he did not allow himself to focus in on it.

The defending forces were indeed light as Falkenberg had anticipated, and the sole battery of anti-air guns was so small it could only barely be made out. He painted them with a laser designator nonetheless before moving on to the barracks and a section of the city’s interestingly intact wall. A flight of fighters had been scrambled to make way for the special operations groups idling not one minute away from the city, and the engines were already audible, the chopping of the helicopter rotors blending more into the background.

The city was still silent, though within moments of the buildings being painted a shrill whistle sounded through the blackness, followed by the lights immediately darkening to nothingness. The fighters buzzed over Karl’s position and he could not suppress a smirk as the city he had had the pleasure of spending much of his time in Waldenburg in was illuminated with intermittent flashes. Smoke billowed over the city, though whether or not any of the painted targets had been hit would not be known until either the mission was complete, or the approaching helicopters were swept out of the sky with anti-air fire.

90th Special Operations Group
Fifty feet overhead

Without awaiting confirmation of any target’s destruction, nine Osprey tiltrotors pounced on the city, flying at extremely low altitude on the opposite side of the city from where the AAA had been sighted. At hopefully stealthy speed and altitude, two hundred sixteen special operations operatives debarked, noting with glee that the air raid warning had been heeded, and all lights remained off.

With any luck, the men wouldn’t be sighted or heard over the blaring of the sirens and the crashes which accompanied dropped ordnance. There was a numbers check and the men advanced, moving in single-file lines through the cobblestone streets towards positions marked on their maps.

OOC: And I have no idea where those positions are. Seriously, none. That whole last section was the biggest “wing-it” I may have ever done, and now I’m hoping you didn’t just execute the prisoners :D

The King Shall Rejoice (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIdsmniLXqU&feature=related)





"God's my life, stolen hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was."
A Midsummer's Night Dream

Wednesday, 11:41 PM
Flüstern, Waldenburg

Like a great black protrusion the cathedral of Flüstern lay heavy and foreboding. Shrouded prayer towers jutted from rough-hewn stone transepts and even the earthen rise that dominated the center of the city and on which the cathedral was perched, seemed to dissuade any activity. This did not seem to represent a problem to a handful of Leistungi jets that took an easy flyby over the city and peppered the few known military facilities with an unerring precision. The slack gunfire that could be expected from the ground was all but silenced and small arms fire, combined with supposedly menacing spotlights were thrown into the air in an attempt to hold together some sort of order.

Like most of south western Waldenburg, Flüstern had barely been touched by the rapid industrialization of the 1960s and indeed only a handful of sleepy factories dotted the walled circumference of what would have been called a ‘medieval town’ were it not for the cars and occasional electrically lighted window which gave up the scene. Timeframe houses burnt merrily as a convivial fire leapt from street to street, and the nighttime denizens of the city were roused into firefighting service.

Well cobbled streets meandered through unleveled terraces to the eventual mound that was the cathedral complex at the center of the city; citizens ran back and forth while soldiers ran through the press slipping into their uniforms and reporting to posts already destroyed or meant to control the series of roads that meant cathedral mound and looped around it before heading south and west. It was these roads that kept a constant series of trucks, loading a constant series of riverboats, which in turn supplied an army far to the south in its campaign.

Anti-tank guns were lodged in common houses or in barricaded positions along the roads and the serene legion had been prepared for weeks to construct barricades and tank barricades, for which they had drilled, to block off the already difficult avenues from Leistungi armor. If this city was to be taken it was clear it would be tooth to nail, and these defenders would not so easily desert as the garrison of Stillerhafen had.
--

Hurried feet padded along tile corridors and outside thunderous explosions sent pillars of flame rising to the night sky and obscuring the few stars. Clergy of all rank were gathered around the great three-meter high paneled windows mingling in a taciturn and fearful silence. Below their feet, a great cheer was rising. Despite the best efforts of the Divine Legion and the Inquisition the Leistungi were cheering the every explosion, which they could not see, roused them to ever-greater volumes of giddiness. In the pits and catacombs they had been shackled and chained, to posts or simply locked in rooms by the dozens and the floors almost shook with their bellows and to a constant beat their feet stamped.

“Why were they even transferred here?” Bishop Svanner whispered as a bomb rocked a nearby fuel depot. Despite the late hour of the night he had found the foresight to pull his miter from the bedside and pull a pallum over his shoulders. “Shut them up! Shut them up.” With a white hand he clasped and aimlessly shook a senior deacon who stared coolly at the man. It could be read in everyone of their eyes that they knew this was the night, and the only difference between the jowly bishop his deacon was that the less senior had already resolved to die. “Shut them up! Somebody!” Out of a intense social pressure a novice was sent running to the catacombs to aid the situation.

“Your Grace, perhaps it is time we order the evacuation?” A Divine Legion Captain whispered into the bishop’s ear, “we can move the prisoners as well.”

“No! The Cenobiarch will be much more adamant about the location of my head than the enemy. The entirety of the clergy stays here,” there was a flash of inspiration in the desperate eyes, dragged from recollection of dusty old tutors and ancient history, “to silent prayer before the alter.” Svanner snapped his fingers a few time, “in simple white frocks. Yes, all of you!”

Before his orders could be followed the copper sheathed front doors of the cathedral burst open and a flood of light poured in with it. Imperial Grenadiers, brilliant in dark green uniforms, but dirty about the face with soot and grime marched purposefully into the building, brisling with their weapons, packs, stepladders and shovels.

“Finally!” Svanner threw up his hands in exasperation, “take cover by the doors-“
--

Later there would be many analogies to describe the Leistungi forces in their various endeavors and victories, tonight though, dropping silently from the sky on darkened parachutes, none quite so fit as that of a hot wind. Like the great sandstorms that brewed on the High Desert they struck silently and only a whistle through soft air. Creeping as starlets through an early morning sky the Leistungi Special Forces cut through the scattered and aimless defense with ease.

Winding inevitably upward their command sergeants laid eyes on the cathedral and squared their shoulders, there was no easy way up, without climbing up perhaps a sheer cliff face, but this would certainly be the least troubling method.

“Platoon one fan out and cover us, platoon two double quick time across the square!” A sergeant laid out the law to his group as the majority of the attack force had encountered one of numerous public squares, originally intended for grisly scenes of public retribution but was currently occupied by a rather drab looking farmer’s market.

No one was about in this part of the city and they had not bayoneted a sentry for at least two streets down, “on three.” Some fingers were extended, counted off, and second platoon began to dash madly, but silently to the other side of the square and safety.

Halfway through the square a private yelled, “Spinach!” From a stand in the farmer’s market a Waldenburger rifleman rose like an avenging devil from a pile of leafy green vegetables. Halting to aim and shoot down this intruder before he called more attention to the attack the Leistungi squad paused and raised their rifles.

Silver pickelhauben began to poke through mixed greens and lower rifles at the exposed invaders. Every singled light in every single house on the block lit simultaneously and from open windows heavy machine guns and more soldiers appeared. Mechanical rumbles suggested a tank was not far off, and indeed from every door on the street dozens of grenadiers poured.

Weighing the odds with a calculating stare the Leistungi men gently put down their weapons to the great relief of the Waldenburger detachment. Everything was silent, barring of course the raging fire.

A slight tick tick, sound escaped from somewhere between the vegetable stands and grew louder. Everyone in the square turned their heads to the faint noise and waited patiently, for a figure in a black traveling cloak to brush aside a discarded watermelon and step into the light, every preceding on a thing black walking stick. Without pause the figure walked, cloak hiding his face whispering gently over the ground. Flanking the man two meter tall ISS agents emerged from the shadow bearing what was clearly imported weaponry.

Not stopping in the face of the hundreds of weapons arrayed and speaking now in a slightly labored fashion the cloak spoke, “In a thousand languages they call me a fool and a butcher, in a thousand nations they are so very right.” The cloaked figure stopped before a Leistungi officer and swept back his hood, “But here,” the cane was tapped for emphasis, “here I am never wrong. Good evening gentlemen,” there was a pair of sparkling blue eyes in a wrinkled but jubilant face, a few of the Leistungi might have recognized it“if you don’t mind we don’t have much time. If four of you will come with me the rest of you have prisoners to rescue in the cathedral.” There was a briefcase shackled to a pale and boney arm; he patted it. “I wish to discuss the terms of the surrender of the Waldenburger Empire.”


OOC You’ll apologize for yet another intrusion but this will go more smoothly in this fashion.

If you have nothing to add at this point, (since essentially you'll just be lead up to a meeting place and the story will unfold. But of course you're more than welcome to say anything) drop me a TG and I'll get on with it.

Zadok the Priest (http://www.4shared.com/download/50747774/212b668b/Handel_-_Zadok_...)


"That they have overborne their continents:The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain, the ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard; The fold stands empty in the drowned field."
A Midsummer's Night Dream

Breath wheezed from ancient lungs as the Emperor dropped himself into a well-stuffed arm chair in a coaching house by one of the main gates; the five men were gathered around a small circular table sticky with beer and carved with the graffiti of centuries. The owners had been kindly but firmly pushed out into the night and then moved several blocks away, under firm guard.

A few guards hovered amongst the shadows of the room of which an oil lamp provided many; the flame flickered as from some location an explosion warped the air and left the Emperor speechless for a moment before he settled back. The four most senior Leistungi officers stared at Wyatt von Waldenburg with a mix of sullen loathing and utter confusement.

“Don’t worry, your officers on your fleet will see this as well. One of ‘your’ radiomen is about to pick up a very rare and strange channel indeed.” The Emperor rolled his eyes slightly at their shock, “every civilized state knows that other nations have agents inside of it, and we are only civilized if we allow those agents to persist. At any rate you are not alone.” There was a moment of silence and the feeling of absolute secrecy pulled over the table.

“You know the smell never leaves your nose,” von Waldenburg leaned back, clutched his chest and massaged it gently as he began what was obviously going to be an elongated expose. “The fires never leave your heart. And when you feel the ash swirl around you, and hear the screams of the tormented; it is only half the horror. When your eyes stray from the stake you see something much more terrible, and that is the priests calling for blood. Holy foam bubbles from their mouths, and bile fills otherwise pious hearts. In many ways I feel so much more sorry for them, than their victims. Then my hearts steels. Then my illusions vanish. Then blood fills my heart.”

“When I told you I wished to discuss the terms of our surrender that was only half true; the Waldenburg Empire will surrender for with, and immediately if you so like, but on one condition; that Leistung assist me in one matter.” He paused again and smiled slightly at the tension, which he knew he was building in his counterparts.


“I wonder how much you gentlemen know about religion, my religion to be specific. Not much I suspect, very few do. God was my life stolen in meaning with holy verse and it left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision then. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. And I dreamed of a Church without a clergy, and sacraments without blood. It started as dream, a little spark inside of me; that is supposedly what our religion is, not the voice of God, but the clear path, which defines our existence and the inspirations that guide us. So that spark grew to a feeling, one I could hold in my heart and examine, not pin it down with harsh definition or weigh down with harsh words, but one I could feel the edges of, and feel the form.”

“Then that feeling became a desire, something I wanted something which I thought about and made plans; and those plans then burned me with such a fire, with a burning that ripped me apart at all times other than when I sat in wicked contemplation. And then I started something, something grand. It goes back but it started with humble Anagonia, slightly before Leistung emerged on the world scene, I sent agents to suggest the best way to destroy the Waldenburger state, planted agents in every level of society in the hope that the Anagonians would march across the High Desert and appear at the Holy Citadel and in a second destroy everything my country had become. They did not, through a miscalculation we won that war, with our scars and bitterness.

We were not finished and through my contacts in the MU I order the propagation of a war, between an alliance you know well, the LION and the Hegemony, one clearly set to destroy the other in numbers and prowess. How better to destroy myself that to throw myself under the war engine that was LION so I invited your allies to a conference at Bad Amberg, ordered their death, and attacks on Greston, Leistung, Barronia and every other LION member we could get our hands on.” Von Waldenburg slid back even further in his chair as if he had let a large weight of his chest.

“I do not care a fig for the Hegemony, never have. I did not order our intercession on behalf of some common ground or great familial bond, or to save their pathetic alliance, I ordered our intervention in a style that left us with nothing but hatred between us; I had hoped LION would have roared and attacked and destroyed the Waldenburger state, allowing myself to rebuild it, but you were destroyed instead. Once more I stretched forth my hand to Anagonia, I sent soldiers in the guise of assisting them, but in actuality to lay low, and once again I was disappointed in the failures of the Anagonian state to have a little backbone!” The Emperor waved a hand irritably. “I invited the Goths to invade as well. Who knows what they are doing or think?” It was added as an afterthought.

“But it all had purpose I see, four years in planning and Vice Admiral Thousis made a phone call ordering the slaughter of 30,000 of your countrymen and you reacted as you should. Every action. I have machinated four wars to gather you four gentlemen around this table. The wars we thought were so important lead to this. Even your own invasion has brought you here? Did you really think you could approach this continent with only one minor naval battle? I have two thousand warships prepared to sweep your fleets from the seas should the need be, but you have something I need, and that is why I am willing to surrender entirely to you. Did you really think you could land with aerial superiority? And I wish to take this point to state that if Leistung crosses me at this point it will, along with its allies be reduced to a steaming puddle of glass, and consequences be damned.” Standing now the Emperor stretched his back, “come with me please. We must see the cathedral.
--

It was quite a walk to the Cathedral and in utter silence; it seemed the entire town had been shoved back in doors and the only figure that could be seen about the streets were looming ISS agents.

Doors left ajar the cathedral stood almost abandoned and when the small party entered the nave the only lights were faint candles by the ceiling. “Oh, my god!” A Leistungi soldier muttered as he put his foot in a small slick of blood; his eyes could not move though; they were locked on the lights.

Each candle was enshrined in a chrysanthemum of white linen, which made the soft glow into an almost angelic half-light. Dangling from the high dome were hundreds of men in white robes, and between each of their legs a candle hung. In the gloomy light the nooses could hardly been seen on the high roof.

“A new light in heaven tonight, a hundred little angels for God tonight!” The Emperor yelled with a touch of madness entering his eyes. More softly, in a whisperer that carried across the transept and across the fine alter ware, “this is the sum of all their pettiness and stupidity, and they will pay for their crimes before the almighty. The fact is I have buried to many of my sons to live another as I am, I have stood silent and powerless for seventy years on the throne. Not one more day. Not one more day.” Though the five men were unaware most of the Leistungi prisoners had already been evacuated by a tunnel dug some months earlier for this exact situation, and were heading back towards their allies.

“I ordered the slaughter of every Leistungi man, woman, and child ever killed by Waldenburger men our her allies. I am the greatest war criminal, but in what court will I be tried? I am ashamed but I allowed those missiles to strike Blünderburg hours ago to prove to you, that I am willing to finish this.” An eerie creaking noise suggested a breeze was wafting through the rafters. “In time I will stand for my crimes but first you must heap one more sin upon my frail head, so that in time my children must not burden themselves so. Bring down the Church. Here is my deal: Today is the 31st day of your invasion, on the 35th Leistungi forces will launch an offensive in the south and completely smash our army group, the details have already been prepared. The Waldenburger army will barely escape past Flüstern, which will be in Leistungi hands as of tomorrow, I assume. On the 39th day new lines will be drawn around this city, Leistung too outnumbered to attack, to proud to fall back, Waldenburg outgunned and with poor positioning.

On the 45th day Leistung will discover in Mitzgibber bay the entire second fleet at anchor, send marine commandos and capture the entire thing. In retaliation on the 47th day Waldenburg will launch a comprehensive and complete offensive around Flüstern, which will degrade to hand to hand fighting in the streets. Leistung will withdraw and there will be light skirmishes for the next two weeks as the lines are redrawn. On the 66th day Leistungi fire teams, after inserting themselves deep into the country will strike simultaneously.” For a moment the handcuffs restraining the briefcase were shaken before a combination was inserted into the suitcase lock and both sprang open. A very thick wad of file folders was withdrawn and thrown irreverently on the floor.

“1,234 men and women in the Waldenburg government, military and clergy will all be killed within a period of two hours, as my ISS agents sneak a few Leistungi assassination fire teams into Blünderburg himself to handle a few dozen of the targets, then handle the rest. There will be ample evidence and in actuality it will be a enemy action. The government, besides myself will be entirely paralyzed.” One of the Emperor’s feet began to kick through the pile and dark gray mug shots fountained into the air, “The Cenobiarch, the Canonarch, the Palliantus, the High Cardinal, Chief of the High Command, Field Marshall Nappflplatz, 373 cardinals and senior clergy, 116 generals and admirals, the War Minister, the Minister of Education, Of War productions, Leopold von Waldenburg, my brother, my own brother, will all be killed. When they are dead, on the 67th day I will declare martial law, disband the Serene Legion, as there will be ample evidence that it colluded with the Leistungi heathens, hang their leaders. Using my newfound powers, I will purge the Church and state, from the top down, my entire cabinet will be reined in or executed, clergy who do not swear a oath of loyalty will be hanged, generals who do likewise will be hanged; some actual traitors might be killed as well who knows.” Without preamble the Emperor clapped his hands loudly and from the wings of the hall ISS agents carried forth another table and several chairs before bowing a vanishing back into darkness.

“Once the state is under my control, I will give you what war criminals remain, Vice Admiral Thousis chiefly, and you will want to shoot him, but you will not. You will give him a trial, and if you find him guilty he will be hanged, and you will want to strangle him, but you will break his neck like any other criminal. But I am getting ahead of myself.”

Motioning for the Leistungi men to sit at the table with him, he removed from his attaché a single sheet of white paper and in a much more subdued voice continued. “On the 70th day I will have obtained complete control of the state, and will, along with the remainder of the general staff prepare an offensive to drive the Leistungi from the continent. After a series of sweeping feints and a sudden naval sortie, which draws your vessels from the coast, we will have encircled the enemy and on the 76th day after a brave battle the Leistungi army will capitulate. On the 79th day the Leistungi navy will attempt to retrieve the previously captured 2nd Waldenburger fleet, and sail it home for refit into your own navy, a brave sacrifice by the crew will see sixty ships scuttled and the fleet sent to the bottom.

On the 84th day Hegemonic forces will be driven out of Waldenburg and into Paloni, tremendous celebrations shall break out in the capital. On the 89th Day Leistung will ask for terms. A mock conference shall be held. In exchange for the release of all captured prisoners all around, and 100 billion Reichmark indemnity the war will be ended on the 94th day. The last Leistungi man will leave the continent on May 25th, and the war will be over. It will perhaps be a bitter victory for you, as only your high command must ever know of this, but the Church will be my puppet, the nobility destroyed, the butchers put to bloody rest. No more ashes. Not one more bloody day. That is what is expected of you. Now we will discuss your payment.”

A single sheet was removed from the briefcase and placed before one of the men, “read it out so your officers can hear it.” This was done with a few pauses to make and many sidelong glances to see if this was indeed correct.

'As Approved by Order of HMIM
CoSigned: General von Solf

Terms of Surrender:

1: All hostilities cease between Waldenburg and Leistung
2: Extradition of war criminals to Leistung for processing and sentence.
3: An indemnity of 40 trillion Reichmarks will be paid to the Leistungi state in bonds and liquid Grade A dividend bearing stocks in 5,000 Waldenburger companies through various hedge funds and shadow corporations. No more than one fifth of these shares may be sold every year.
4: Lucias Cato von Waldenburg, Emperor Consort of Djelli Bebyi and heir presumptive to the Waldenburger throne will arrange a marriage between his first born child and an appropriately gendered Leistungi family member of note.
5: 80% of the Waldenburger surface navy shall be surrender into Leistungi hands to do with as they please, one the current military situation, and indeed the threat posed by Ghogoloth is exterminated.
6: A new navy will be purchased from Leistungi shipyards, en masse and over the course of the next twenty years.
7: The office of Cenobiarch will be removed from the civil list, the office abolished.
8: All feudal serfs will be release from both temporal and spiritual lords.
9: A constitution will be issued guaranteeing the freedoms and liberties of Waldenburger citizens.
10: All statues and precedents within the Holy Book of Ceno will be struck down and the Church shall cease to exist as a temporal power; no longer will they have to the right to torture or kill in the name of God.
11: The Church shall issue an apology for the hundreds of millions killed under her dictions and begin to make resitutions.
12: A bicameral senate will be set up to govern the Waldenburger Empire and within twenty years the state shall switch to that of a Constitutional Monarchy.
13: After the Ghogoloth affair has been dealt with the Imperial Armies will be limited to fewer than 100,000,000 serving men.
14: The Serene Legions are abolished.
15: The entire Church spy network currently in place in all ODECON states will be delivered to national police forces and their presence destroyed.
16: All naval and national intelligence currently in the hands of the Waldenburger state, barring internal matters, will be handed over to the Leistungi government.’

The document ended. The reading ended. The Emperor smiled.

“We are not all butchers. And in my chest beats a heart as human and pained as the rest of yours.”

OOC it would probably be easier if we discussed terms over MSN or such like. I'll be busy until about 8:00 central tonight, if you interested, I believe you had my AIM.

(OOC: I've been invited by LS.)

Off the coast of Womer...

The first convoy of two hundred and ten thousand Look Incorporated Mercenaries left the harbor after orders were issued from the Sumguian Command to the mercenary commanders to send their available men right away. Months ago, Lord Sumguy "bought" many of Look Incorporated's mercenaries as reserves. Finally after months of waiting, the mercenaries were on their way. Their transport vessels were being escorted by three hundred and seventy private naval vessels operated by Look Incorporated. Their top commander was General Rathers, who was subjected to orders from the Sumguian Command. Rathers did not like this command, but it was better then more months of inactivity at an mercenary base. The vast convoy was on its way to Stillerhafen and its mercenaries from there would march into the darkness of war.

Many of these mercenaries were Greali, but some were from overseas colonies such as Grunt and Lasom or even other countries. It was not uncommon to see Gruntians outnumber Greali in a division. Captain Sanders led a squad of "mechanized" mercenaries who used IFVs as their main type of transportation. Crowded abroad a transport vessel with thousands of men and dozens of vehicles did not make Sanders feel comfortable despite their commander's assurances. His squad was cleaning weapons and making sure the gear worked. For many of these men, it would be their first large scale war.

OOC: Really, Greal? The thread is basically over. Anyways, TG me if you need to do anything else, but don't OOCly respond in this thread.

Kein Schöner Land (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRZ2K_7XQt0)
Thursday, 7:34 PM
Chancellery Building, Falkenberg

A bead of sweat ran down the Chancellor’s nose, dropping quietly onto the piece of parchment in front of him. He gingerly held a ballpoint pen between his thumb and pointer finger, his hand quivering as it hovered above the black signature line. The parchment had been passed from hand to hand, over the great ocean which separated Leistung and Waldenburg and like a weary traveler it now rested upon the Chancellor’s mahogany and oak desk.

There were several edits on the paper, made over the course of a day’s worth of deliberation behind doors locked and locked again, in many cases then locked once more for good measure. Fifty men, plus the four senior officers in Waldenburg, had now seen the paper which would undoubtedly lead to the resignation of the Chancellor should it ever come into the hands of the press, or the public. Beckenbauer had been the quickest to trust the aged Waldenburger, perhaps because he too was weary, or perhaps because he recognized that greater threats loomed past the borders of the most notorious enemy of the Federal Republic.

“It is the right – nay, the only – thing to do, Chancellor,” he urged once more into his ear. He was entirely correct, yet there was a degree of pain which came with the man’s pen stroke as he signed the line at the bottom of the paper. It would be a signing done completely without the knowledge of their allies; perhaps in the future the Sumguaians would know the full reason for his actions, and the full consequences of them, but for now, informing them that the Waldenburg Empire had unofficially, secretly, surrendered would suffice. The men on the ground would die with the full knowledge of their superiors, and it pained every man in the room – yet, there was a certain nobility to their actions. The men would die whether or not the terms were signed off on; at least in this case, Falkenberg would know that their sacrifices were not in vain.

Waldenburg would be free. That was, after all, the purpose of the war, and that goal would be accomplished. It was regrettable, however, that the Chancellor’s constituency would never know that it was he who ultimately signed the document which would end hundreds of years of suffering and oppression, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would soon be replaced. The full effects of the war would not be known to the public until von Waldenburg seized back power from the Church officially and the allied forces had left Waldenburg, and by that time, he would already be gone, living perhaps on his farm outside Falkenberg, but certainly not in the Chancellery. History would remember the Leistungi nation’s actions, but history would take time to write – for the time being, the Spring War, the Hundred Days War, would go down as a tactical defeat for the Bundeswehr, as well as an ideological blow as the forces of democracy and freedom were forced from the continent, dejected and defeated.

“There is something else, Chancellor,” Beckenbauer muttered, his breath causing the hairs on the back of the Chancellor’s neck to stand on end. “A free Waldenburg will not be taken well by Gholgoth, even less so now that von Waldenburg has grown a spine.” The Chancellor turned in his chair and faced him, Beckenbauer’s face backlit, barely visible against the dusk sunlight streaming in. “We must decide here and now how far we are willing to go to protect our victory here. Are we willing to now put aside war, and embrace Waldenburg? Will we defend their freedom won on the backs of so many Leistungi and Waldenburger boys?”

There was a long pause as the Chancellor’s eyes met those of Karl Sørensen’s, his faded portrait hanging as a testimony to the Leistungi lives lost in the name of freedom during the initial onslaught of the Imperial Germany Army at the closing of the nineteenth century. He closed them and gripped the pen harder, gradually lowering his arm and setting it down on the wood. A breath, long and drawn, escaped his throat, and he opened his eyes, turning back to the uniformed man illuminated by the dusk rays of the sun over Leistung.

“Yes.”

General Luther Jackson took one final look at his documents before the division was to pack up and make way for Waldenburg. It would not be an easy move considering the impending possibility of obliteration from Golthic forces. Over ten million soldiers and thousands more equipment would need to be packed up in as quickly a time as possible. Luther knew this was a logistical impossibility and that all forces would need to be moved in stages. The first wave would start with his navy giving protection and support as the transport carriers began their journey to Waldenburg. Considering there was no formal government left and he was the speaker for the military here, no declaration of war or hostilities would need to be spoken. There was no Anagonia left. Nothing the Freekians or Gothic's could do would damage the homeland more than it is now.

They literally had nothing left but the supply routes to the nations of the Anagonian Confederation.

He stood from his desk with his suitcase, uniform tight upon him and in proper order. He was the last vestige of a dying Republic. Soon an Imperial Empire would take its place, converting all who swore an oath to the Constitution and Nation to an Emperor and Empire. He scoffed, there was no Constitution left anyway. No nation to defend. All that was left to them was the Confederation and the territories it allowed Anagonia to consider its own.

Luther gazed up as a secretary came in and handed him a notepad. He gazed it over, nodding. It was to be a telegram to Hegemon and Leistungi forces that the remainder of Anagonian Military Might would be on their way to ensure that Waldenburg would be kept existing. The cover for this was assisting in the liberation. Considering it was nearly over at any rate, Anagonia would act as a buffer zone against Gothic forces. This region belonged to Anagonia and soon Waldenburg would too if Luther had any say in it.

He snarled as he started towards the door. The Freekians had ruined everything. No, he corrected, the madman did. The freekians were just the added spice to the boiling soup of the Republics demise. For a long time Anagonia had literally worshiped the freekians as brothers and sisters. Now it seemed they were nothing more than a false image of hope and superiority. "Backstabbers," Luther corrected out loud. "The lot of them."

As he made his way down the hallway and out of the building where a transport helicopter waited, Luther considered the battle before him. Leistung and the Hegemonic forces would have equal control of his military. Reinforcements would only come when the other remaining General's saw fit. In all rights this entire ordeal shouldn't be happening, shouldn't have come to pass. Gothic forces should remain in their region, should never even try to embrace what was rightfully Anagonia's. But now, as he considered, the demise of the Republic being at hand....why shouldn't they?

"Because they know we'll kill them all," he reminded himself. "They will know now that no matter how hard they try, Anagonia and her allies will truthfully give them on helluva fight."

A Marine looked puzzled as he gazed at the General, Luther waving him off as he boarded the helicopter. There was no time for explanation. The fleet would be leaving out soon.

Off the shores of Greston

The navy, what remained of it here, started it's journey towards Waldenburg with due pace. Every land asset in Greston was moving towards the docks to be loaded onto a transport, whether air or sea. Then flying or sailing off to be placed in Waldenburg and coming back for more. The scene was chaotic, some forces even left behind like the aging WARSAW equipment. They would create logistical hell if supported, so most were discarded. Eventually things began to smooth out, and a clear supply line became apparent. Anagonia was now poised to ensure Waldenburg's liberation was final.

Finally an undisclosed message was sent to Hegemonic and Leistungi Commands. It would inform them of needed logistical assistance in getting forces there, that supplies and troops were en route. It would also inform them that total command would be given unto them as an act of Allied Operations in Waldenburg. General Luther Jackson was sure that his choice, and that of many others, was to be the right one.

OOC:

Total Military Amount being transported from Greston to Waldenburg currently (http://hawk.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=Military&action=display&thread=90&page=1#370)

Saturday, 11:31 PM
Flüstern Cathedral
'34th Day'

The Emperor was left alone, and was finally allowed to reflect on the small pool of blood that was gathering around his chair from above.

“Your Majesty,” a voice and figured extended from a shadow, “those are humiliating terms by anyone’s standards,” General Gröning had casually watched as the often rehearsed plan was played out, and he could not help but feel the great darkness of the Cathedral drawing in on him, as if probing and picking at his shoulders for secrets. “There is no honor in this, we remove one set of chains for another.”

“Oh,” the Emperor pulled a few sheets of paper from his attaché case and scanned them aimlessly without looking at the general,” they’re not so bad General; but they are worth it. The Leistungi liberate from an evil greater than we could ever propose, so we will pay, and if ever they betray that trust they shall find themselves most poorly placed. Consider it a lasting investment it our future.”

“For forty trillion, that is worth the entire equity of the Church.”

“Oh, dear how shall we ever pay for that.” Wyatt von Waldenburg leaned back in his chair and with a faint smile studied his handiwork strung about the ceiling. “Three thousand years of slavery, sweat and labor can be taken from our hands, while handily being injected into industry for five years. All terror all maliciousness has its advantages, and from blood we bloom General.”

“As you say sir,”

“Quite. We are leaving in ten minutes, get your men together, the Leistnungi will be moving through this area and occupying the city, and then the battle will ensue. We must ensure minimum casualties so we will be spiking most of the defensive guns on our way out, and taking most of the ammunition with us. See to it General.”

“Yes sir,” footsteps retreated amongst the tiles and faded. A shattered window allowed a cold breeze to ruffle the Emperors cloak. With a arthritic hand he rubbed his neck; it had nothing to do with the cold. “Tomorrow the Leistungi smash our armies around Stillerhafen, on the thirty-ninth day they take Flüstern, on the…”
--

Sunday, 8:25 AM
Army Group 'Center'
'35th Day'

A field phone woke General von Solf from an uneasy sleep, for the last three days the armies had mostly stayed put with artillery shelling being exchanged at long and sporadic intervals. A light drizzle had dampened military spirit, and most Waldenburger soldiers had settled into their foxholes.

“Yes?” The phone was picked up and a clam voice from far removed Blünderburg calmly intoned, “Oberon stage two is in effect. Execute orders.” The electronic voice clicked off, and before the phone had fallen to its cradle Solf was on his feet, buttoning his jacket and pulling his revolver belt around his waist.

Grey dawn greeted the general as he sloshed through quite a pile of mud, which had begun to accumulate outside his tent as what seemed like the entire army came to rouse him from his sleep. A few sentries clicked their heels as he passed, but he ignored them.

Brilliant banners were heavy with condensation and lay heavily against their gaudy lances, shells had to be covered, but it seemed no one was awake to take care of this.

As always though Cardinal Reddenbacker stood in red choir dress scanning papers outside his much more brilliantly ornamented tent. “Cardinal may I have a word?”

“General” the Cardinal seemed surprised, “you’re out of bed. Of course what is it?”

“Away from the common soldiers, in your tent. The ISS has discovered something which way very well turn this battle”

“If you wish.” Both men stomped into the tent, and at least General Solf was taken aback by the Spartan interior, which suggested that the more rigorous type of hermit called this his home. “What was it general? I’m all..” Without hesitation, but with his mouth hanging open, General Solf reached for his belt and pulled the revolver from it’s holster and shot the Cardinal squarely in the forehead.

“Sniper!” Solf, after confirming his kill, hit the ground, “everyone down!”

OOC Sorry for short post, trying to catch up with everything. Not quite sure how we are going to do the rest of this but I at least want to do the purge and maybe some other things.