NationStates Jolt Archive

Liberty-Island.

Perhaps ironically, the place is a gigantic prison for war criminals and illegal combatants – a grey, jagged tooth of concrete and stone, jutting out from the stormy seas north of the Allanean capital, Liberty-City. Its location – classified. Its protection – supreme.

Several Coast Guard cutters make passes near the area on a random basis, and the very prison itself is guarded by a crew of six hundred men and women, brought into the prison with their eyes tied. The helicopter pilots who bring them are not aware of its contents – to them, it is another secret location, of which the Department of Defense has hundreds. The crews are not aware of the coordinates.

The uppermost levels house both the prison guards and terrorists and war criminals taken in Allanea's various wars – Blackhelmians, Islamic extremists, others. Most troops are not allowed to venture below this level. A level below that rest the Interrogation Chambers – now in disuse, but housing a platoon of troops personally loyal to the Prison Commandant – a man loyal to none but to himself, formerly a general in San Nereiana, and now a member of the infamous conspiracy of former spies, traitors, and infiltrators. His name is Genneth Ikeson. They know him as the 'bastard'.

And then, separated from the interrogation chambers by several meters of solid rock, steel, and concrete – and a narrow corridor – lies the Vault. There, guarded by six of the most trusted guards, sworn not to reveal the man's identity to none, sits Alexander Kazansky.

And nobody knows – except for the President of the United States, his Chief of Staff, and several of Carpathia's most trusted – and those they revealed their secrets to: The Dersconi Monarchy, the Chancellor of Bretton, the leaders of Lyras and a few others. And of course, very soon the people of Axis Nova will know, too.

There sits a man who believes himself to be guilty. Who will be brave enough – to brave the might of the Allanean navy, the rocks and cliffs, the stormy sea – and Genneth Ikeson's defenses, whatever they maybe – to free a man who confessed his own guilt and believes in it?

Some surely will be.

Even in the crawling anarchy, the society where the people simply chose not to have a government anymore, the noble houses maintain substantial power. Not as much as they used to, but still some.

Of course, to the two Andropov brothers, they may as well never have lost the crown. The family has itself ruled the various incarnations of the Empire for well over five thousand years, and has been a great house for almost twice that length, thus had plenty of time to accumulate enormous wealth. Plus, Tarakh knew how to work the market, and possessed a keen eye for investment, thus making the family one of the richest in the world, even without the monarchy to make it stronger. Their biggest Dersconi competitor, the house of Saryudin, was too focused on the outlying space terrories to interfere with the Andropovs.

So naturally, when Marshal Watanabe and Wilhelm Stossel made their way to the free market anarchy of Derscon, the first thing they did was attempt to meet with one of the Andropov brothers.

At this meeting, both Tarakh and Sanin learned everything they needed to know about the situation, and after some brief deliberation, all four men came to the same conclusion - Kazansky must be rescued at all costs.

After said deliberations, Stossel's men assembled on the main parade field in the Tsarhof, where they met two other groups. One group consisted of a few special operations companies operating from the Razladanov Private Defence Corporation, owned by Darii Razladanov, former Commander in Chief of the Imperial Army under the False Tsar Xavier II, purchased at twice the going rate by Tarakh. The other group consisted of five thousand of the Praesillei Dei, the supersoldiers constituting the House Andropov enforcer unit. There were no worries of any intelligence organizations taking notice - several geosynchronous satellites jam all transmissions around the palace.

So once the forces got to know each other, they quickly scattered to their departure points, with Stossel commanding his men, Sanin leading the Praesillei Dei, and Watanabe and Tarakh staying in the Tsarhof to monitor the situation from afar.

Somewhere over the ocean

9:21 PM


Rain pours down as the large helicopter moves through the air. The winds are somewhat intense, but not enough to give the massive craft too much trouble; it's carrying enough supplies to keep the guards for Liberty Island going for several days.

This time, however, it's carrying something a little bit extra: the corpses of the usual pilots, and a third man, dressed in urban camoflauge and body armor, currently strapped into the pilot's seat.

Humming to himself quietly, he manipulates the controls with deft, precise movements.

Of course, the man at the controls is no mere criminal. Nor is he a mere man, for that matter...


---

After several years of searching, the Axis Novan intelligence service has finally located Alexander Kazansky; a combinaton of tracking all dweomerite shipments have gone, correlated with regular 'vacations' a certain Miss Xenia has been making provided an initial clue... and then this was further correlated with a certain amount of supplies seemingly being flown and shipped into nowhere.

After this, the specifications of the helicopter used were looked up, and scanning of every island within it's range began. It didn't take long to find a structure on a supposedly uninhabited island... a heavily guarded one.

Further observation proved that it indeed was the resting place, and thus a plan was put into motion. It was decided that a conventional attack would entail too much risk; the Allanean military, while not quite as powerful as in previous years, is still efficient enough to intercept a large attack force near one of their own major cities.

As such, an alternate option is being pursued.

9:30 PM

“Damn you!” - Xenia kicks over the empty fruit basket. - “What the hell is this? First someone comes in here an gives you fruit – probably some idiotic fangirl that bribed the guards – and then I'm stuck here with you because of the stupid rainstorm!”

Alex looks at the White House Chief of Staff with some amusement. “I will not ask you again why the hell I was charged with killing fifty million people – in fact, informed that I was guilty – while this had nothing to do with the truth. I will not ask you why we evacuated four hundred million people from Haven and gave up our force projection capacity based on the assumption we poisoned half the region. I am however interested in finding out why you assume you're stuck here with me.”

The girl stares for a moment. “Because my helicopter can't take off-”

“Yeah, got it already. But why are you staying in the Vault? It's a rainstorm, not a bombing raid. And the upper levels can take a bomb.”

Only a brief pause, and then.

“Well, I can't very well stay up there with that... bastard Ikeson, can I? He's the most annoying, manipulative son-of-a-whore produced by either Justice or Defense... and he has the class of an escaped Clandonian prison inmate!”

“I got it, I got it.” - Kazansky said, cracking a faint smile and stretching out on his narrow prison bet, the chain clanking slightly.

“So... about those girlfriends... I could never really understand. Why so many women? I mean...all men want more women... but have you never wanted something more... permanent?”

“That's a silly question. Have you never read my biographies?”

“Oh. That. What was this with Miriel?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You stalked her for decades.”

“I didn't stalk her. For decades, as you say... I never wrote to her, never stalked her, never did anything like that. I loved her too much. You know – love at the first sight. I cared about her... like I never cared about practically any other individual in my entire life. And when I looked into her achievements, her speeches, her writing... she was almost perfect... I could not but want her to be happy. To want her to admire what I did – for Allanea and for her own country. It never... really happened. Eventually... eventually I realized that she's not all that much... and besides, she's engaged. She's a great person - she saved Allanea, remember? But... I'm just not in love with her. Not any more.”

Xenia paused before asking the next question. There was something disturbing in how this broken shade of a being was now revealing to her his innermost secrets.

“So, the fangirls?”

“I had women... always readily available to me. I am a man. First I... tried establishing relationships with my admirers. I had two wives and many concubines. They didn't love me. I don't think they did. They loved Kazansky the Glorious Leader. The President, God-King, Emperor. My fame. My money. Never, ever me. Even if they did love me... the doubt was always there The fear, if you will. I married two of them because... they seemed to be genuinely distraught... then they ended up being killed.”

“I'm sorry-”

“Don't be. Then one of my concubines tried to kill Miriel... really, really, a poor crazy girl... can't blame her for it, either. After this, I had no concubines or lovers I kept for more than three days – though of course there are some good friends I've had sex with – but nothing... nothing more.”

Xenia shuddered. “I'm not sure if I should feel sorry for you or for them.”

“Not for me, that for sure. I'd rather if you didn't feel sorry for me.”

A tinge of pride appeared in his voice, grating against something in Xenia she couldn't place.

“Idiot! Well, I do feel sorry for you! You're pitiful! You're just a childish, adolescent jerk! Look where it brought you! You're rotting in an underground spider hole, and none of your fangirls have even challenged your sentence in court – apart from this one crazy bitch that brought you the fruit, I bet none of your idiot followers even care about you anymore!”

Modular cargo vessel Vrouw Skepp
1900 GMT

It was an ugly, if utilitarian ship (http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/library/policy/army/fm/55-30/image63.gif). A high profile, deck-mounted cranes and a rather uninspiring bridge and superstructure marked it as being anything but remarkable - surely innumerable other boats like it cruised the world's oceans at any given time, delivering bulk commercial goods to needy consumers.

The Vrouw Skepp was ostensibly homeported in Leverandon, but it was a Rolatian vessel for all intents and purposes, with a Rolatian crew and ferrying Rolatian cargo: twenty-four Brettonian-manufactured Stahlkörper (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=447922) assault suits, on order from the armed forces. Also carried in stock were plentiful amounts of replacement parts, weapons, and ammunition for the assault suits. As usual, a handful of Brettonian Military Intelligence Service officers were embarked as a security team to deter the prospect of cargo theft, as well as to ensure the assault suits were transferred as per the terms of the production agreement with Brettonian Military Industries. The security detail was slightly larger than usual this time - eight officers, as opposed to the usual five. The extra company on the lengthy voyage was welcome among the Rolatian crew, who themselves numbered only twenty. Upon retrospect, the company would be much less appreciated in a matter of half an hour, but such are the benefits of hindsight in general...

Borchardt-class aviation submarine U-441
12 nautical miles south-east
1920 GMT

The first of its class, the U-441 was a monstrous vessel. It was, for all intents and purposes, two submarines bound together by an outer pressure hull, containing a smaller connecting hull between them. The sail, mounted near the extreme front of the hull, separated the two flight decks formed out of the neatly flat surface of the outer hull - the rear fin, framed by huge shrouded props and festooned with dive planes and other maneuvering surfaces, served to divide the approach and launch paths. Elevators were mounted in the center, along with a number of vertical launch cells.

"Gunnison-1, this is Hugo, situation report, over," the communications officer asked into his headset. He nodded as he received the response. "Yes, they're already in position. Operations remain on schedule, over and out," he flipped the microphone up and turned to face away from his duty station and towards the rather deep command center. "Captain, the hydrofoils have arrived on time. Everything's still going smoothing."

"Excellent, excellent," the boat's skipper, Lucia Prien, commented with a degree of satisfaction. A sign of its Questarian ancestry, the Borchardts supported facilities for a mixed gender crew. Nevertheless, in spite of being flatly egalitarian in nature, circumstances that were still not fully studied tended to precipitously thin out the numbers of female officers that broke O-6 - for Prien to reach the rank in the first place was an achievement, to receive command of her own vessel something laurel-worthy, and for the first-in-its-class U-441 nothing short of a miracle. "Rather efficient operation, yes, Chancellor?" she inquired, taking a sip of coffee from a plain-looking metallic mug.

"Very," Chancellor Gerhard Donner said, partaking of his own helping of the brew. "Though... as Mr. Carpathia here said, 'no plan survives contact with the enemy completely intact'," he said with a barely detectable amount of disdain, regarding the former Allanean superspy to his right, who was as laconic as ever.

"As long as we recover the subject intact and make a clean escape, right?" Prien said, flushed with confidence. Donner, something of a womanizer, had to admit that the navy's captain's uniform did look exquisite on a female frame - the double-breasted collar and buttons tended to follow the torso's curvature ever so gently, setting the mind to wander on what was beneath the white-lined blue wool, brass buttons and insignia-clad epaulets.

"That's the idea, yes," the Chancellor said, raising the mug to his lips again. I hope I'm just old-fashioned... he thought, regarding her from behind once more, Just can't take a commanding officer seriously with a... figure-accenting coat like that. Resigning himself to being outmoded in mindset, he simply crossed his arms and continued to await the unfurling of the plan.

"Gunnison-1, this is Hugo," the communications officer said into his headset. "It's showtime, over."

Vrouw Skepp
1931 GMT

The bridge windows lit up with repeated yellow-white flashes, which disappeared as suddenly as they had begun only a few moments later. The RA87's bolt slammed backwards three, six, nine times, dumping thirty-caliber bullets into the Rolatian bridge crew. Two were felled at once and one crumpled to a knee, arms clutching his midsection; the remaining pair stared aghast as the MIS officer gunned down their friends and compatriots, firing the assault rifle from the hip, stock still folded from its travel position. The officer's face was stoic and austere throughout the entire procedure - unslinging the rifle from his back, dropping the selector to burst, and leveling the muzzle at the back of one of the unsuspecting sailors. The two other leather-clad MIS officers followed suit almost immediately, one finishing off the wounded man and the second standing next to him with another burst of 7.62x39mm jacketed soft points. The one man was mid-stride in making a break for a nearby door, where he might find safety, and was cut down as he turned. The final survivor, the senior helmsman, had almost cleared a pocket pistol from his belt when the third officer's Breyr handgun found its mark, dropping him to the deck with a pair of 9.8mm ACP slugs to the center of gravity.

The entire affair, the murder of five lives, was over in roughly six seconds. A pair of black-sheathed fingers reached to the third officer's ear as he began walking towards the consoles before the bridge windows, keeping the Breyr at hip level.

"This is G1, bridge is secure," he said. "No deviations. Report."

"G2 reporting, engineering is secure. No deviations."

"G3 reporting, cabins are secure. No devi-" two gunshots rang out through the earpiece, which were squelched to avoid a sharply unpleasant increase in pitch. "...repeat, no deviations."

"Understood. Proceed to your duty points in preparation to receive the cargo. G1 out," the officer removed his fingers, shutting off the transmit function. "Good work, gentlemen. Smooth and easy."

"Thank you, sir," the first officer said, replacing the magazine in his rifle. "How much longer until the cargo arrives?"

"Four hours, thirty-four minutes," the lead replied, checking his watch. "No need for concern. The only outgoing communications capable of reaching unwanted ears are in this room. As long as we control it-" his voice abruptly cut off as the sound of something wet striking a hard metallic surface caught his ear.

The lead whipped around, spotting the apparently not-yet-dead Rolatian senior officer desperately reaching for the transmit button on an emergency S-O-S panel with a bloody hand, quivering fingertips not inches away. Four more gunshots, four more hot shell casings bouncing across the deck, and one more mist of red settling finely on the console as a soft point bullet tore through the side of the Rolatian's head. There was a brief silence. "...as I was saying, as long as we control it, the outside world will be none-the-wiser."

Liberty Island, Tower A-4

The armored windows of the tower were closed tight, and water – seemingly the very ocean itself – was pouring down each and every one, making it impossible to see in detail what was occuring outside. The ring of CCTV cameras surrounding the Island did none better – in fact, some of them have completely shut down. It was typical really – after every major storm they had to go out and replace a camera, sometimes several cameras at once, because the previous camera had washed off into the sea.

Mike Lindon sighed. There was nothing useful from any of the cameras, except the ones in the UGAV dock – but these only showed the Protector assault boats bobbing upon the water at their docks.

However, Lindon's sigh was more theatrical than anything. It was addressed at his partner – a prelude to him speaking out in a mock-sad voice. “Oh Johnny, Johnny. Is it not sad we cannot do our duty properly in this weather?”

Lindon's partner almost choked himself laughing. “Mike dear... we have only one choice now... really, only one choice!”

And with that, he reached out into the depths of a small and incredibly cluttered drawer – one of the many on post – and drew an old, scratched immersion heater from the pile of screwdrivers, pistol magazines and discarded porn mags.

Moments later, his partner deployed a pair of instant-noodle cups upon the communications console, and a package of instant curry. Very soon, steam was rising from the noodle cups. Mike had prepared his curry separately – it is long known you do not purchase curry-flavored noodles. You prepare your instant curry separately and pour it lavishly and mercilessly upon the noodles. You wait for a minute or two and begin eating, enjoying yourself wonderfully even in the coldest and most horrible weather.

Liberty Island, Perimeter Wall Section Alpha

The cold-weather trenchcoat was zipped down tight, but even so, Harmon Siegel was not enjoying himself. Neither was his partner, George Hanson. Though even with the advanced optics mounted on their helmets they could not see more than a dozen yards in the storm, General Ikeson insisted that the patrols on each wall be maintained. Thus the two men walked slowly, struggling against the wind, along their section – for they knew that Ikeson could merrily appear on the wall at any hour.

Here he would stand, in his black parade uniform blown in the wind and rain, white non-regulation officer's gloves patting his eternal (and completely nonregulation) beard and his eyes following the troops with sadistic attention from underneath his round, semi-transparent glasses. As far as everybody on the island was concerned, he was either insane or just plain sadistic.

His inspection practices involved checking over every latch and button upon the uniforms, checking every magazine for ammunition and testing – with his finger – the tension of the magazine springs to make sure they held the proper 30 rounds of .308 ammunition. Nevermind the duty sergeant had already done that.

Never mind that nobody would ever come here to try and free the human shit that was locked up in the uppermost levels of the island-fortress. And whoever they had in the basement – probably just another foreign war criminal. Nobody would come for that guy, either. There was just no point in pretending this was a recruit camp – for, as every Allanean knows, only in recruit camps and training zones do officers insist on petty regulations. There it is their job. Out here, in the blowing rain...

No, preposterous. Just preposterous.

Krakenkind 013

The submarine could manage to remain surfaced, thanks to the absolutely horrendous weather. There were no patrols out in this weather, and visibility was nil.

Kynaz Sanin Andropov and Wilhelm Stossel studied the thermal imaging provided by the satellites and the periscope, finalizing their assault plans. Dersconi Special Forces would go in first and scale the wall. Once this was accomplished, Stossel would send his first wave of troops to swarm the docks and surrounding area while the specops moved to take out the various towers with ATGMs. If necessary, the Krakenkind-class submarines carried missiles which could be used to aid in the initial assault.

Once all of Stossel's men were on the island, the second submarine would move close the dock and release the minisubs with the Praesillei Dei on board.

The overall plan was simple. Find Kazansky, and rescue him. If anything got in their way, kill it. Everything on that island was a viable and acceptable target.

Everything.

"Your highness." Prince Sanin looked over to the XO of the lead sub. "Two minutes."

Liberty Island Airspace

About the same time...

*crackle* "...is supply flight DD362 on final approach. Repeat, this is supply flight DD362 on final approach, calling Liberty Island control tower. Turn on the landing pad lights, please, we're on final approach. Transmitting IFF data now."

The man within the supply chopper releases the push-to-talk of the radio as he carefully maneuvers the large aircraft towards the supply helipad. His eyebrows raise slightly as he notes the presence of a second, smaller chopper-- apparently someone else flew in before the storm started.

There's a decent amount of wind, but nothing to give finely machined reflexes a particullar amount of trouble... visibility is low as well, but passive IR provides an adequate enough view of the pad and it's surroundings.

If need be, the helicopter can simply be landed without the lights... though that would be rather unusual, given the skill set of the contractors who would normally be flying this route.

Liberty Island, Tower A-4

The North-East window of the tower blew inwards as the tandem ATGM warhead tore into the small room. Less than a second later, the main warhead detonated inside the room, ripping Mike Lindon's partner out of his chair and sending him flying through the air, mixing his pulverized organs with flaming noodles. Mike himself was tossed to the ground like a rag doll. He heard his left arm snap like a bamboo stalk and yowled in pain.

But he was still alive – somehow. His chest hurt like hell – probably he cracked at least two ribs – and his left arm was useless – but he could still move. He was not useless. And the alarm button was right there... right there... just push yourself a few more inches... pull yourself up... it's there... on the dashboard... press it..

Outside, over the roaring storm, Mike heard the clatter of the first gunshots - and the crackle of a helicopter's radio, asking to be guided in. He ripped on the switch that turned on the landing lights.

Let's hope they brought ammo.


Liberty Island, the beaches

The Zodiac boats converged upon the island, jet-black. The troops did not wear their field uniforms – rather, black parade uniforms were the order of the day.

Martha was lucky. She was with the Deputy Battalion Commander, Willhelm Stossel. Her boat would be the first one to hit the narrow beaches that flanked the ironically named prison. Her machinegun lay in her lap as she listened to him scream his last speech over the raging storm.

“Troops! Infantry! Be proud! For the Allanean Army are not the people who sit before you, behind that wall! They are not the people in Liberty-City! We are the last soldiers of Allanea! We are the last loyal troops!”

Martha seemed not to be there at all...

She was never particularly beautiful. A broad face, yellowish teeth, a squarish jaw, and vision so terrible no surgery could fix. Thick glasses, red hair, and a flattish nose – failing a completely resculpted skull, Martha Hemmings was beyond help. She hoped the Army Service would help her save up for get surgery - but so far, she was still waiting...

The boat engine roared as the Zodiac leaped the waves. The shore drew nearer and nearer... soon, it would begin.

Like in Vault 10, in Allanea there were also Kazansky Fan Clubs. There were numerous – and though they never included the majority of the population, Martha was in such a fanclub since age eight. Ten years. She had every single Cabinets album. Even now, she had them on her implanted MP3 player. But she was more than just a fan or a follower.

Wilhelm Stossel stood on the nose of the boat, holding on to his hat, making the most of the ending of his speech. She wasn't quite sure how he got to the conclusion, but she was quite all right with it.

“Many despise us! The Menelmacari, the Necrontyr, the Amestrians speak of our President in derision. They call our respect a cult of the 'God-King'. Well, I say, UP THEIRS! When a man is as great as our President, he DESERVES to have followers! FORWARD! FOR THE GOD-KING! “

Several explosions rang overhead. Raising her head, Martha saw three of the defensive towers of Liberty-Island enveloped in fire and smoke. It has begun.

She jumped ashore.

Liberty Island, Perimeter Wall Section Alpha

Harmon Siegel swore as he saw his partner fold in half, as if punched in the belly. With horror he realized that George Hanson had in fact been punched in the belly – with several high-velocity armor-piercing rounds. As he looked over the wall, he saw men – hundreds of them – storming the island facility, rushing across the narrow beach. There were explosions – as the men fell, one after another. Landmines. Yet the advance continued.

Madmen. Madmen! – Harmon's conclusion was simple. These were Muslim terorrists of some form, probably from Blackhelm or Kergolastan. They had to be stopped. He kneeled behind the parapet and aimed his rifle. Even through the night scope, he could barely see the shapes of the attacking men – but he realized he had to keep shooting.

On the Beaches

I was trying to hide from my love,
I took a sharp Bowie and I was fixing myself,
I hid underground, I was cutting
The skin that bound my chest...

The song, replayed by the earphones implanted under Martha's skin, rung in her ears as she advanced. Step after step along the soaked beach, ignoring the water seeping into her telnyashka, ignoring the screams of her comrades as they fell around her. Raise the machinegun. Moving shape on the wall, eight meters up. Pull the trigger. Watch the shape stop moving. Forward! Forward!


I want to be with you,
I want to be with you,
I want to be with you,
I want to be with you, and I will be with you…

To the wall! To the wall! Throw the hooks!

Here they go – long, narrow carbon fiber lines linked to small motors. Once the hook has catched on to the parapet, the motor will lift you – slowly, but it's not all that high after all, only a few stories – onto the outermost wall of the citadel. Then they will be inside. The Dersconi special forces troops are already advancing onto the beaches – some of them fall, of course, but the enemy is now distracted with the Fieldmarshal's Own – hundreds of well-trained and determined troops appearing on every wall, fighting like maniacs.

You already bear a different name,
Your eyes are now a different shade.
A drunk doctor has told me – you are no more,
The fireman told me they burned your home down.

Martha was among the first to the wall. In front of her, she saw enemy troops in winter trench-coats, rushing out one of the towers and onto the perimeter wall. She raised her machinegun to the shoulder in a single, expert motion. Three seconds – and five soldiers became a huddled pile of mutilated flesh. One of them was still moving – but seconds later, three powerful explosions rang above the pile of bodies as a skilled Dersconi soldier delivered three precision airbursts just a second too late – and the last man stopped moving forever.

The last tower came alive with heavy machinegun fire, sweeping several Allanean and troops off the southern wall. They returned fire – but it the armored windows held.

But –

I want to be with you,
I want to be with you,
I want to be with you,
I want to be with you, and I will be with you…[/i]


Martha raised her gun to her shoulder, looking to return fire – but before she could, the stream of transonic projectiles swung back. She felt excruciating pain as she was thrown back. Seconds before she lost balance she managed to squeeze the trigger, sending a stream of tracer and armor-piercing ammunition at the machinegun hatch. The firing stopped. Martha's legs gave out from under her and she slumped against the parapet.

She wasn't here anymore.

In her last moments, she returned five years in time. She was at home, watching DVD recordings of the Cabinets' live performance on the Liberty-City Stadium. As a girl, she used to pause close-up moments, so she could look into the Fieldmarshal's eyes – brown, smiling at her from behind his famous glasses.

It was as if she was on a date with him – it would never happen, but she loved imagining it – sitting in front of him at a restaurant table, looking in his eyes, and hearing him talk to her – just to her, not to the entire nation. Only to her.

Now, as she sat there at the parapet, in a pool of her own blood, she almost felt the dream was real. She was looking into his eyes, and the President of Allanea smiled at her – just at her. Not the entire nation. Only at her.

I love you, Martha... rang the voice in her head.

Blood bubbled on Martha's lips as she responded.

“I... love you too... Sasha...”

Krakenkind 013

Prince Sanin was tapped into the Horus Network, seeing and hearing everything his special forces units did on his HUD. He could hear the slaughter of Stossel's men, but thought nothing of it. Eh. We're sending human waves against a fortress. What else should I expect.

The 23 year old prince clicked his helmet into place when the captain turned to him. "We're in position, Your Highness." Sanin only nodded in response, still hearing the death on the beach. The klaxons sounded as the Praesillei Dei made their way to the minisubs and the Zodiacs, Kynaz Sanin boarding the Zodiac that would first land on the beaches. He was an Andropov; he wasn't worried about death.

******

On the ride over, Sanin never felt more alive. Storms are power-givers. Lightning is my sword. Rain, my army. He gripped the Gaia Blade in his left hand and the DAR-1 in his right, feeling the Praesillei Dei, armed with DAR-HWs. Both versions of the DAR were modular, and at least half of the soldiers were carrying various mods for the rifles, just in case. Some of the special teams had equally special weapons, though.

Sanin looked up at the fortress wall, smiling. Three...two...one... He heard the scream of the missiles launched from the second submarine, smashing into the prison walls, creating a sizable hole to storm through.

However, that's not where they were going. Instead, Sanin led his zodiacs behind the Allanean assault. Enough people died from the mines, it was better to make their deaths worth something.

The super-soldiers moved quickly up the beach, using the thermal imaging on their HUD to quickly pick out enemies and dispatch them with their 20mmHE rounds.

Four Praesillei Dei moved along the wall to the base of tower A-4 - chosen because it had already been hit by an ATGM - and used grappleguns to latch onto the top and begin their one-handed ascent up the tower (have to keep the gun ready, and all).

Just before going over the top, one of the Praesillei Dei pressed a button on the sight of his DAR-HW and slipped it over the side. The digital imaging the gunsight created showed up on his HUD, as to properly point and aim the gun over the ledge without having to expose himself.

Seeing Mike damaged on the floor, he aimed and twice depressed the trigger, sending two short bursts of 20mmHE rounds through the window aimed at the guard.

Meanwhile, the door of the tower was blasted with a rocket launcher, and two concussion grenades were lobbed into the hole, followed in quick succession with a WP grenade. Sublety was neither important nor desired for the supersoldiers.

Back up on the top of the tower, the four Praesillei Dei checked to make sure Mike was dead by shooting him several more times and smashing his head into a pulp. Once the tower top was secure, they quickly set up several ATGM launchers and began a systematic bombardment of the other towers.

******

Kynaz Sanin, however, was more concerned with the supply chopper. Bringing twenty Praesillei Dei with him, quickly began the move to the landing pad. The lights would obscure the pilot's vision, so they wouldn't be detected. Something's fishy, he thought. If it was just a supply ship, it would have gotten the fuck out by now.

******

Tsarhof, Derscon

Wanatabe and Tarakh watched the chaos happen on the many displays in the command centre within the palace, switching from soldier to soldier. The central monitors had a satellite display of the situation (thermal imaging), and several smaller displays, showing the HUDs of Sanin, the special forces, and the various commanders of the Praesillei Dei. The volume was muted, not out of some shyness to the screaming and gunfire, but because Tarakh was streaming a live performance of Giuseppe Verdi's Dies Irae over the sound system, and didn't want such a classic piece ruined by the sound of death.

Helipad, Liberty Island

As the helicopter settles neatly onto the concrete of the pad, the man inside frowns. The various sudden explosions, along with the missiles slamming into the wall of the compound, did not go unnoticed. The pilot's seat creaks as he stands up from it, and he steps into the hold of the chopper, then grabs the straps of a large duffle bag in one hand, slinging it over his shoulder... and then pushes the top off of one of the crates, which is a different size and shape than the usual supply crate. This particular crate, in fact, had been loaded in by the man himself, after the usual pilots had been disposed of, and a few superfluous crates removed.

Within the crate are a light machinegun of indeterminate make and model, an oversized box magazine, and a drum-fed grenade launcher of some sort.

Slinging both weapons, the man moves to the chopper's side door, and wrenches it open with one hand, dropping to the pavement with one long step. The pouring rain splashes off of his gear, but doesn't penetrate; being all-weather, it would be rather bad if it were to get soaked and slow one down.

Suddenly, his head rotates to the southwest, and he narrows his eyes.

In his line of vision, text scrolls across the heads-up display built into his vision:

Shifting from standby output to combat levels.

As the sound of booted feet moving quickly becomes louder, the man racks the slide on the machinegun at his side, then grasps the grip with his right hand, aims it at the nearest searchlight, and pulls the trigger, firing a short burst. The light explodes in a shower of sparks, which are quickly whipped away by the rain; he repeats the process with each light in turn, walking around the chopper, until the helipad is only lit by the glowing lights embedded in the corners to aid landing.

Turning towards the side of the helipad opposite the stairs, he begins to sprint suddenly, accelerating at a ridiculous pace for someone carrying a machine gun, a grenade launcher, and a duffle bag full of (apparently) very heavy objects, based on how it swings.

This doesn't seem to impede him, as he leaps off the edge, landing on the pavement about twelve feet below, not even staggered by the force of impact, other than flexing his legs slightly. His head pans back and forth, scanning for targets, as he starts forwards at a brisk walk, headed for the nearby door that, from it's size, is used to move cargo through from the helipad.

Vrouw Skepp
2344 GMT

"Yes. So it went off successfully, then? Understood. We'll move on to Phase 2, then. Out," the MIS lead, Strasser, stated as he closed the channel on his earbud. "The communication (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14478515#post14478515) was sent with no problems, and anyone doing a data trace would believe it originated from this vessel."

"Meaning the ruse proceeds according to plan," one of the two junior officers stated, grinning.

"Indeed. However, also meaning that this vessel is now a target. Keep your eyes glued to the radar, and be prepared that we may be abandoning ship if things get hot," Strasser remarked.

"What about the "cargo"? This is as good a time as any to get them ready to go," said the other.

"Yes, I suppose that's true. Alright then, come with me and we'll get on that. As for you, remain here and be prepared to move on to Phase 3," he said, replacing the magazine in his Breyr. "And don't forget to keep checking that radar." The two MIS officers departed the bridge, leaving the one behind to maintain control over the giant cargo ship amid the hapless Rolatian dead.

U-441
2353 GMT

A rictus of laughter had erupted throughout the massive submarine as a video feed circulated throughout numerous duty stations. Chancellor Donner, clad in the red beret and scarf, black balaclava and uniform, of the "Proletariat Unity League"'s presumptive leader, had long finished the supposed broadcast of terrorist demands, and after the cameras had shut off, proceeded to begin prattling off virtually every stereotypical Bolshevik phrase and expression, adding a fair degree of absurdity and satire to each one.

"And we shall have an atomic bomb in five years!" he exclaimed, then recoiled backwards as if shunned by the nonexistent crowd. "Um. I mean, now!" Even Carpathia had cracked a quickly-suppressed grin at one point - captain Prien, communications officer Auggs, sonar operator Hollman, and most of the rest of the boat's crew were in stitches from the ridiculous display where a tiny set had been assembled in a relatively open part of the command center. Eventually, even the Chancellor lost it, beret toppling off his masked head as he slumped forward against the small desk that had been presented for the PUL's leader to lean on intimidatingly.

"Wait, shit, shut up for a minute!" Hollman suddenly exclaimed, fumbling for his headset and getting it back astride his cranium. The jovial mood became immediately more serious once again, the Chancellor removing the mask as others intently focused on Hollman's station. "...hm... I don't think we're alone here."

"Another boat?" Prien asked, straightening her uniform.

"...it's... possible," Hollman said, furrowing his brow. "This signature might be another submarine, but if so, it's very quiet. Definitely not an Allanean boat, and probably not a Questarian one either."

"Hm... this is unexpected," the Chancellor frowned, stroking his chin. Carpathia was as laconic as usual. "They could ruin the secrecy of this operation."

"Should we get a firing solution?" Prien asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes, but don't act on that yet. For all we know, that might be a false return, or just someone's boat on patrol out here. Making any more of a scene than is necessary is not conducive to this plan," Donner noted.

"Understood, Chancellor," Prien replied. "Himmel, get four ASROCs ready to launch and plot a solution for that course, but you are not to engage unless otherwise instructed, got it?"

"Got and got, skipper," the gunnery officer nodded, not turning away from his station.

"This will have to accelerate things a bit... I think it's time we got this show on the road," Donner remarked. "Before any more surprises float our way."

Vrouw Skepp
2355 GMT

Four Brettonian Navy fast-attack hydrofoils had pulled up alongside the ugly Rolatian cargo ship. Ostensibly, they were to reclaim the boat from the nonexistent PUL commandos that had seized control of the vessel. In truth, however, they were the commandos, or at least a relative approximation of them.

The Skeep's hold was packed full of humanity. Sweaty, muscular, tattooed, inordinately violent humanity, all lifted from a variety of Brettonian re-education facilities and labor camps. The utter dregs and scum of society, who were either completely incompatible with any kind of social order or civic virtue, or simply too psychotic to function in any sort of productive manner.

A gunshot got the attention of the brawny mass, which turned shaven heads and stubbly faces upwards towards a catwalk. Strasser had fired a round off into the cavernous ceiling of the hold, and was joined by several other officers.

"Attention, pigfuckers!" he yelled through a megaphone. "All of you have committed some great crime against Brettonia. However... disaffected or not, you are still useful! That is why we have had you brought here today. All of you will be given a fair chance at a complete commutation of your sentence, and be released freely anywhere in the world of your choosing."

A ruckus of murmuring and conversation broke out below. One prisoner, face partially obscured by a snake tattoo, stood up and addresses Strasser.

"This is bullshit! We have to walk across a minefield or something, yeah?!" he demanded over the din of the hold.

"Ha. Much as it would please me to see you slack-jawed invalids go up in pieces, I'm afraid you'll find the reality much more appealing," Strasser remarked.

"Well what the fuck is it, then?!" another man hollered.

"Quite simple, moron. You get to shoot things," Strasser said, smiling maliciously. "And blow things up. And bayonet things, too." The din of conversation in the hold began ramping up considerably. "That's right, you bunch of rejects. In exchange for your freedom, the Chancellor has requested your service for one night of slaughter and brutality. You will all be equipped with rifles and grenades, rocket launchers and body armor, knives and pistols too. Your mission is to seize control of a lightly defended fortification on an island, which we are presently steaming towards." The murmuring turned into an outright raucous mass of exclamations and hoots.

"The island is defended. I have no doubts that some of you will die. However, a swift death at the end of a bullet is better than the rest of your life splitting rocks, digging tunnels, and hauling around radioactive waste, wouldn't you agree? And for those of you who do live, we'll be letting you keep whatever you find there. Start up a crime ring in some pansy-ass leftist country, declare yourself the emperor of some savages with your assault rifle as a "fire-breathing staff of God", I don't care. Oh, and, before I forget. A handful of you useless fucks will be rewarded especially well..." he remarked, signaling to one of the other officers. A modular bulkhead beneath the catwalk receded into the hull, revealing the shipping containers carrying the now-assembled Stahlkörper assault suits. The mob of criminals turned into roars of absolute adulation.

"That's right, shitheads. Soak in it. You get these too," Strasser added. "All of you were imprisoned for murder, death, destruction and causing general chaos. You all now have a chance at freedom by committing exactly the same acts on Brettonia's enemies. Is our Chancellor not benevolent in all things?" A whoop went up from the crowd. "Louder, shit-for-brains!" It was a flat-out howl this time. "That's more like it! Weapons and equipment will be issued presently, as will the Stahlkörper via lottery. I hope you've sharpened your claws, you dirty bastards - it's just about killing time!"

Underground

The building shook with missile impacts as the Brettonian assault tore several holes into the walls of the building. Even down in the Vault, Xenia and Alexander flet the shaking as the anti-ship missiles impacted.

Minutes later, several guards rushed inside, swinging the blast door open.

“Miss Xenia, the arrangements now change. You must wait in the anteroom – you cannot stay in here right now.”

“And why, precisely, is that?”

“The compound is under attack. We suspect this may be a break-out attempt... and under regulations, nobody but the prisoner may remain in the cell during a break-out attempt, for quite obvious reasons.”

“But.. a break out attempt? For him?” - Xenia's eyebrows rise.

“I see my fans didn't turn out so useless after all, eh?” - Alex smiles – only to be kicked in the stomach by a guard.

“Shut up, you-”

“Stop that!” - Xenia's voice rings with steel. - “He's a prisoner, not an animal! Let's get out of here.”

Later, she will wonder why she said that. For now, it is enough for her and the four guards to leave and swing the blast door shut again. They will remain in the anteroom – one bemused girl who doesn't quite understand what is going on, and four guards with loaded rifles.

Upstairs

The compound is standing. The six hundred – by now, about five hundred - guards understand full well what is going on – as much as anybody right now does. From the various internal windows of the compound, from hidden firing slits and walls, heavy machineguns, ATGMs and rifles fire ceaselessly as the men fight for their very life and dignity.

Landmine explosions ring as the Brettonians advance ashore. The night lights up in a wonderful display of fire and death as the Allaneans fire dozens of airburst munitions every second, set to blow over the heads of the attackers. Breaches in the walls become firing positions – at which Stossel's men and Dersconi Special forces fight against the Allanean defenders. There, it is now a new war. A war to the knife, to the bayonet and the machete.

The beach itself, and the inner prison yard become graveyards as they are fought over. Simultaneously, several Protector USVs rip out of the docks, now attacking the rear of the advancing Brettonians from the sea with a hail of 40mm automatic grenade launcher fire and the fire of heavy machineguns. There are ten vehicles – and between them, they can fire up to eight hundred rounds of ammo every second. The Stalkohrpers, if they are detected by Allanean IR goggles or other equipment, are targeted with ATGMs, heavy machineguns, and LAW-type rounds.

Confinement Area A

In the meanwhile, Kenneth Ikeson is doing his job. He is pacing by the cells were the terrorists and war criminals are held. When he reaches a man's cell, he raises his Equinox pistol and fires a shot. He goes on to the next man's cell. Another shot. IT does not matter if the men do not die immediately. They have no medical attention. They have no way to leave the cells. They will die before help gets to them.

After completing his task, Kenneth Ikeson reloads his pistol and walks up to Ibn al-Fadl's cell. He is the only man whose release has been specifically requested. He must get special treatment.

The pistol rings three more times.

By the the last cartridge has dropped to the ground, the Unity League does not have anybody to liberate anymore.

Kenneth Ikeson steps out of the confinement area.

Liberty Island, offshore
0032 GMT

The four hydrofoils had left the company of the Vrouw Skepp, loaded full of their deranged cargo, and were tearing across the water at roughly fifty-five knots, the T-shaped hydroplanes kicking up a rather small wake as they raked through the sea. They'd reach the island in a matter of minutes - the portly cargo ship would take almost half an hour. As the hydrofoils closed with the facility, it became plainly apparent to the Brettonian crew that the party had started without them.

"The hell... is there a breakout attempt going on?" the helmsman of the lead hydrofoil inquired, pondering the rising columns of smoke from several of the towers coming in to view.

"Doesn't particularly matter, does it? All the more reason to hurry up and get our Bolshies on dry ground, eh, "Comrade"?" the commander asked sarcastically, obviously in gesture to the blatantly socialistic flags that whipped about in the wind above the vessel's superstructure. "Anyway, it's time for some action. Start with the missiles already!" The gunnery officer confirmed the order and began lining up his targets.

Fired in pairs, eight surface-to-surface missiles, ordinarily intended to be used against other ships, began streaking out from the backs of the hydrofoils, careening towards points of interest in the compound. Thanks to Carpathia's intelligence, a general plan of the fortification was available to the planning staff of the operation, and a few overhead sweeps by surveillance satellites had filled in where the ex-Intelligence Director could not. Several missiles loaded with fuel-air explosive warheads sailed towards the beaches where the hydrofoils would be disgorging their faux revolutionaries, reducing the number of mines and other obstacles that would have to be dealt with during the landing. The remaining missiles, fixed with penetrating bombs, struck towards the towers and surface-level installations, as well as defensive embankments, pillboxes and blockhouses on that part of the island.

U-441
0033 GMT

"Sir, we have confirmation that the landers have begun their attack," Hollman stated, who was quickly seconded by Auggs' receipt of an order copy from the hydrofoils directly. After dealing with numerous stammerings and corrections from junior officers and sailors trying to correct their address to "ma'am," Prien had simply had them dispense with the formalities and instructed them to address her like any other officer. Who says "sir" needed to necessarily be a gender-relevant title?

"Still on schedule. Himmel, let's "shoot our own load" and really put the fear into those scum," Prien ordered.

"Acknowledged... missiles are firing now," Himmel said, suppressing a chuckle at Prien's ironic innuendo. A dozen tree-sized missiles broke the water moments later, having been released earlier and floating along the path of the neatly framing the Vrouw Skepp. For all intents and purposes, it would appear as though the large-size projectiles were fired from the cargo ship - a PUL "upgrade", as it were. The behemoth "boomers" quickly assumed level flight for their rather short trip towards Liberty Island. Ordinarily, such munitions would be used to deliver a nuclear device to a target on the other side of the world. In this case, the relative proximity of the destination meant the propellant sections could be prodigiously shrunk - the extra space inside the missile simply allowed for yet more explosives.

Moving much faster than the comparatively short-range missiles of the hydrofoils, the U-441's contribution to the bombardment zipped over the island not moments after the first barrage landed. The missiles' thin shells split off, revealing a central spine topped by a guidance suite and festooned with dozens upon dozens of submunitions that were explosively fired off towards whatever was unlucky enough to be under them - the missile performed a full aileron roll to jettison all of its little payloads, then violently blew up in mid-air, its mission accomplished.

The virtual hailstorm of submunitions that tumbled towards the complex were primarily of a contact-fused high explosive, intending to destroy or disable as many soft targets as possible over a wide area; the sheer volume of descending warheads ensured multiple redundant coverage areas in much of the deployment zone. A significant minority had a time-delayed detonator, combined with small braking fins that made their descent much slower than the bulk of the bomblets. These would explode anywhere from two to ten minutes later, hoping to take care of personnel relocating or attempting to fight fires, rescue wounded comrades, or that were otherwise not viable targets when the first wave landed. The remaining handful of munitions were of a more modern fare - explosive-formed penetrator capsules descending on small gray parachutes. These had been stripped of most of their normal electronics, as they would be seeking fixed targets of known location, rather than hoping to get the drop on a moving armored column. These remaining bomblets would hopefully dispense with the location of known defensive emplacements along the landing route and the prison's concourse - any kind of concrete-hardened structure would likely laugh off the thin-shelled high explosive munitions, but the high-speed fragments of an EFP would be another story.

As if it were an afterthought, a single missile containing a full load of heavier penetrating munitions dispersed its significantly smaller (in number, not size) payload towards a few important points of interest: the heliport and the communications facility's topside assets (antennas and relays, specifically), to be exact.

As the hits were registering on the U-441's fire control computers, Donner and Carpathia were conspicuously absent.

Liberty Island, beach
0038 GMT

The sand was heavily cratered by the earlier missile barrage, and bits and pieces of obstacles - shreds of barbed wire, chunks of concrete blown from their rightful positions - littered the shoreline.

When the hydrofoils pulled in close, retracting the planes gently "beaching" themselves, there was already death even as the doors were just beginning to open: two Stahlkorper in the front smashed a few men with their thick arms, eager to get out and into action. What the "revolutionaries" had in excess in brutality and penchant for violence, they lacked in camaraderie and organization. The forest-green Stahlkorper - nonstandard coloration in Brettonian service, so painted for their use in the Rolatian Army - struck the sand and were almost immediately bombarded by a drizzle of explosions from automatic grenade launchers. Inadequately trained for such encounters, the criminal-piloted Stahlkorper struggled to keep their footing as sand was blown out from under them and the heavily armored suits were rocked by explosive force from the disintegrating grenades.

"Fuck me, we're going to be cleaning body parts out of the hold for weeks," the hydrofoil's commander growled. "Start pasting those grenade launchers!" Even the most seasoned of the bridge crew flinched when a grenade exploded nearby, but the well-protected superstructure absorbed the blast well enough. Outside, a pair of 14cm multi-tube launchers sprang into action, lobbing heavy, unguided rockets at the top of the cliffs. The hydrofoils' artillery - four 30mm rotary vulcan guns and a single 76mm machine cannon - also began hosing down the emplacements where grenades and other explosives were being lobbed down.

As the suppressing fire began working its job, the Sthalkorper could finally begin advancing - most of them were simply firing wildly while bounding ahead, likely not doing anything other than giving the Allanean troops good reason to keep their heads down. A handful of the two dozen acted more professionally - perhaps their operators were former military - firing short, aimed bursts while standing still and advancing quickly as openings presented themselves. The mobs of green-uniformed "Bolsheviks", a handful carrying PUL banners, welled up after them, rapidly dispersing up the beach to avoid making themselves easy targets for grenades. Some men simply disappeared as mines that had survived the support fire from the submarines went off, while others were blown into the air by errant grenades with particularly brave crews.

"Almost makes you feel bad, doesn't it," the commander chuckled - another grenade stuck the hydrofoil's hull, but the crew knew better than to reactively duck for cover this time.

"Those guys getting blown up?" the helmsman, who was now doubling as a lookout through external feeds on the hull in lieu of any navigating work.

"No, the Allaneans," the commander replied. "Those poor bastards are just doing their jobs, and when those lunatics get up there, they're going to hack 'em to pieces and eat their flesh, probably. You know what the prisons do to people who get in there..."

"Shit," the helmsman noted.

"I know, right?"

"No, I mean, shit, we've got a problem," he said in an irritated tone. "There's some small boats moving -very- fast towards us."

"What? This place had some toys too, eh?" the commander smirked.

"Toys, sure, but they've got cannons on them!" the helmsman exclaimed.

"...shit," the commander conceded. "They're going to go after the hydroplanes and trap us here... oi, start lighting those stupid things up with the artillery! Let the assault suits cover the advance of the Bolshies, we've got bigger things to worry about!" The gunner nodded, and two of the hydrofoils began turning their turreted cannons towards the Protectors. The hydrofoils were well armored in the hull, but there was only so much protection that could be offered to collapsible hydroplanes, and the crews were eager to neutralize that threat before anything "unfortunate" were to occur.

On the beach, one Stahlkorper's operator was cackling maniacally, dumping countless rounds of ammunition from a belt-fed support weapon into the positions on the embankment as the PUL revolutionaries ran ahead in front of it, attempting to make their way up a number of paths that would take them to the top of the cliffs and allow them to penetrate into the facility. Some of the less-professional Stahlkorper even began scaling the craggy rocks manually, using massive slave arms to simply ram their fists between outcroppings and pull themselves up. The most eager of the lot cleared the top of the cliff first, using a blown-out pillbox as the final handhold, and emerged to find a pair of Allanean troops not twenty feet away that had just unpacked a LAW.

"...uh oh," the thug inside muttered. Having felt all but invincible in the mighty powered assault suit, as bullets and fragmentation splinters that would have torn through an unprotected man had simply bounced off his armored carapace, he all too late began re-assessing the tactical realities of assaulting a fortified position. The 66mm rocket smashed into the Stahlkorper's face, sending it unceremoniously tumbling down the rocks towards the beach below. Another Stahlkorper forcing its way up a narrow path caught a LAW of its own straight to the torso, but survived with a small cratering of the armor plate - the electric armor had safely vaporized the molten copper jet that should have blown him up. A burst of cannonfire ventilated the Allanean gunners that had fired the rocket.

"Move it, you faggots!" another Stahlkorper operator bellowed over the external amplifiers, firing his grenade launcher up another pathway and into a partially-destroyed blockhouse. A not insignificant number of the motley invasion force had been killed or disabled in the confusion and uncoordinated charge up the beach, in spite of all the heavy support, but with the fire of grenades and airbursting mortars declining swiftly in the face of cannon fusillades, combined with the Stahlkorper pushing ahead and absorbing numerous rounds of ammunition with their heavily armored bodies, the criminal "army" was making inroads up to the facility's concourse in great numbers. The Stahlkorper in the lead blasted breaches in the wall and base of the towers with their pump-action grenade launchers, unloading with the machine cannons at signs of movement as the smoke cleared.

How the Dersconi troops, having landed in nearby locations, would react would be interesting enough.

---

Elsewhere, a convert parasite submersible broke the surface near where the Protectors had launched. Inside, a half-dozen Stahlkorper, painted black - standard Brettonian colors - went through final checks before deploying.

Chancellor Donner tested the feedback on his unit, noting in satisfaction as the adjustments to the control system based on his personal preferences translated over. He squeezed his hand into a fist - the power-assisted master arm encasing his limb followed perfectly, and the monstrous slave arm next to it duplicated the motion.

"Well then, Mr. Carpathia. Are you ready to rescue the President?"

Kynaz Sanin noticed the Axisian jump out of the helicoptor and dash away. ....what? Curious, he quickly followed him, his own metahuman blood aiding him in the quick persuit, outpacing even his Praesillei Dei.

As the Novian approached the cargo door, with Sanin silently persuing, his neuroimplants - tapped into the neurological passageways for sensory information - communicated an audio message from his older brother, monitoring the situation from the Tsarhof.

You have company. It seems we're not the only ones trying to rescue Kazansky. I won't advise making allies or enemies of them. Use your own judgement. Tarakh out.

Sanin bit his bottom lip. Well, that explains all this nonsense. He let his HUD display one of his Commander's HUDs, and saw the Stahlkorpers, as well as the raging convicts. Those look like enemies to me. He silently gave the order to fall back to secure positions and let the chaos hoarde throw themselves at the Allaneans. Afterwards, "use discresion."

This fellow moving towards the loading door, though, was a different breed altogether. The prince couldn't place why he felt the way he did, but he felt...trustworthy?

Alas, the situation was rather awkward, so the prince stayed back, observing and keeping watch.

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

Meanwhile, the Knight Commanders of the Praesillei Dei were in a frenzy. Oh sure, the Dersconi went all-out, sending one thousand supersoldiers to "raid" this tiny, hellish island, but this new chaos hoard threw a whole new unexpected twist into the situation.

But the nearly hiveminded supersoldiers followed their Prince's orders and fell back to the various towers and shadows, letting the hoard throw themselves against the Allaneans, as ordered.

Fireteams were reorganized to allow for the Stahlkorpers. Two fireteams, each equipped with at least one guy carrying an ATGM, and one other carrying the typically-equipped rocket launcher as a secondary weapon, assembled per each Stahlkorper in order to destroy them. Like always, aim for the head.

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

At the request of the Krakenkind captain, a squadron of Praesillei Dei made their way to the docks to destroy them. Amongst that group was one of the Knight Commanders of the Praesillei Dei - effectively the shoguns of the supersoldier army, up to and including the donning of shogunate war banners in the back of the power suit, and a compressed spider silk and kevlar cape to go over the diamond-plated battlesuit, which protected the supersoldier that commanded the Praesillei Dei. And operated a 20mm autocannon.

Hopefully, there weren't any surprises. But, as with all quasi-suspenseful lines at the ends of RP posts, a surprise was guarenteed.

The Allanean defense line had officially cracked now. Upon the sea, the Protector boats cracked like tiny bathub toys as the Praesillei Dei took aim at them with their superior armament. The tiny motorboats were never expected to withstand serious firepower of any kind, and it showed.

Upon the island, the bodies were beginning to pile up – burning Stalkohrper frames, black-clad corpses of the Fieldmarshal's Own, dead PUL operatives and Praesillei Dei. So far, about a thousand men have died attacking the fortress, and – and at least four hundred died defending it. Of the battalion of troops that were originally defending Liberty Island, only about two hundred remained alive.

The inner court was littered with the mutilated bodies. Blood was mixing in with rainwater and concrete dust, and the air was filled with the smell of blood and gunpowder. But still, the prison guards still fought on, even as they retreated deeper into the compound, hoping to engage the attackers there until the Coast Guard arrived.

Four of the remaining guards, in particular, decided to stage their ambush in the stores unloading room, between the packages of fresh laundry and MREs.

The Praesillei Dei pressed on, tearing passed Stossel's men and chasing the Allanean guards as they retreated into the compound. Reinforced door after reinforced door was obliterated with explosives as the supersoldiers charged into rooms with flamethrowers and 20mm rifles, annihilating everything in their path. When one of the supersoldiers went down, his comrades were quick to pick up the suited body and throw it into the enemy before the suit self-destructed, adding further to the feast of Khorne.

The Dersconi special operations forces, however, under protection of several Praesillei Dei since the landing, made their way around the complex, avoiding the destroyed and currently-being-destroyed parts if possible. they had another mission - find Kenneth Ikeson.

Liberty Island
0112 GMT

To say that the penal regiment's assault was "disorganized" would be doing a disservice to non-organized entities; once the Stahlkorper had breached the walls and into the inner yards, the battle-forged camaraderie evaporated, and the invasion force showed its true colors: the troops split up into a frenzied rabble, with groups dispersing about the compound looking for something to shoot, stab or explode.

An all-too-common scene replayed countless times: a small contingent of crack Praesillei Dei advanced steadily towards a position fortified by a small detachment of Allanean troops and making good time. As the super-soldiers prepared for a final push to take the position and clear out the Allaneans, a single Stahlkorper, followed by three times their number of psychotically-grinning convicts and murderers bearing RA-87 (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13261452&postcount=151) rifles and hastily-fitted body armor, skidded around the corner of the corridor.

"Frag 'em!" was often the first and last things uttered. The Stahlkorper's 20mm machine cannon opened fire, with a dozen or more thirty-calibers forming the chorus and an equal number of grenades flying down the corridor and bouncing off the walls. Better equipped but terrifically outnumbered, the Dersconi warriors rarely failed to claim at least as many "Bolsheviks" as their own before they were cut down, but the crushing numerical superiority, backed by the heavily armored Stahlkorper units, were turning the tide as they advanced over the corpses of their would-be comrades, the gleefully homicidal maniacs pressing ahead for no other reason or justification than to cause as much death and suffering as possible.

This wasn't a rescue force - it was a barbarian invasion, simply clad in modern trappings. Bolstered by numbers, and the green powered assault suits, the faux revolutionaries savaged whatever they came across - Allanean, Dersconi, and occasionally each other; "blue-on-blue" incidents were frequent when two motley detachments collided in a blind corner of a hallway. The more professional (and less demented) of their numbers seized strategic locations - the tops of the remaining towers, junctions in the compound's internal works, surviving blockhouses - and trained the mounted and crew-served weapons on anything that moved. At one point, a scuffle between Allanean and Dersconi troops was extinguished when one group of thugs managed to inadvertently activate a halon gas pumping system in the local block, smothering the embattled forces. Their victory was short-lived, however, as the damaged and malfunctioning ventilation system quickly dispersed the yellowish air-displacing gas to their location, toppling the ten or so hooligans in short order.

And so on went the slaughter. The Brettonian scum and filth were cut down en masse, the survivors falling upon the Dersconi and Allanean soldiers and blasting them at close, if not point-blank, range - their lack of professionalism and excess of brutality was evidence enough in how quickly combat closed to very "personal" ranges. Long bayonets were thrust through skulls and ribs, rifle butts crushed faces, pistols were emptied into chests with the spent shell casings ejected into the victim's own visage. One criminal, squatting over the corpse of an Allanean soldier, darted to peek over his shoulder as the sound of an explosion caught his interest. The man's partially-tattooed, craven expression was bloodied, as was the collar of his fatigues and strap of his helmet - the results of apparently eating the dead soldier. A Stahlkorper shrugged off two incoming rockets and rolled forward, clubbing a Praesillei Dei with the butt of its depleted machine cannon, then dropping the weapon and smashing another super-soldier into - and partially through - the reinforced wall of the corridor with its mighty arms. A third rocket slammed into its shoulder, partially disabling the limb's rotational ability; it stumbled forward, hand outstretched, attempting to get another Dersconi within its grip and electrocuting him via the electric armor subsystem - a fourth and final rocket intercepted the Stahlkorper's visor, and the resultant blast blew the head apart from within, sending the battered green assault suit to he ground in a heap. No sooner had it fell that a batch of live grenades sailed over it, rolling to a halt at the feet of the Praesillei Dei, who found themselves facing at yet another mob of Brettonian convicts.

---

What the hell...? Is that a samurai? Donner thought as he saw the small detachment of Dersconi troops descending from the island to the docks. His Stahlkorper was mid-stride in navigating the nearly vertical cliff near the docks - the rain chilled his assault suit, hiding it from thermal imaging, and the OLED-laminate optical camouflage hid it from passive scanning as well. He was concerned about the rain hitting the armored machine, however - close observation, especially under direct illumination, would show the downpour striking something that wasn't there.

"Should we flatten them?" his second asked, touching his Stahlkorper's hand to the Chancellor's own to facilitate direct induction communication.

"Negative, just keep moving and don't displace any rocks," Donner said, continuing ahead slowly, being especially cautious of his footing. "I don't care what those are, but it'll be another fantastic complication if we get involved in a firefight before we make it to the Vault."

"Understood," the officer noted, following in Donner's path. A half-dozen Stahlkorper ascended the slope - one occupied by Donner, and another by Carpathia. A third was actually empty, moving on a slave setting - it would be used to smuggle Kazansky out of the Vault, providing him with a reasonable amount of protection from gunfire, blast fragmentation, and so forth. The remaining three were crewed by crack MIS officers, handpicked by Donner for their competency in facilitating "quiet" operations and familiarity with the Stahlkorper's faculties. The covert parasite submersible had dived back under the waves as soon as the last Stahlkorper had cleared its hold, and would remain there until signaled back to the surface after Kazansky's successful liberation.

The six powered armors ambled up and arrived on the outer yard - a mostly intact wall loomed before them. This part of the island had been spared the vast majority of the bombardment, and for good reason. The defenses remained, for the most part, but the lack of preparatory attack, combined with the massive assaults on the other parts of the facility - the Dersconi had done a great favor in attacking from a slightly different vector - would likely divert the Allanean troops to those areas, leaving the Chancellor's small team to quietly infiltrate with a minimum of problems.

Using the viewing slits and firing ports as handholds, the Stahlkorper ascended the wall, aided by the conjunction between a tower and the wall itself. One at a time, the black armored suits went up, over, and down into the inner yard, with those on the outside covering their advance against a possible discovery.

"Alright, hold here for a moment," one of the officers asked, queuing up the mission intelligence file. The eye-tracking GUI allowed him to navigate the pop-up display inside the Stahlkorper's helmet, which superimposed over the visor. A three-dimensional map appeared, and he zoomed in on their present location. The outer structures of the facility became transparent and he examined the layers below. "...alright, we need to go through that wall, then drop down through the floor. That'll bring us to a maintenance corridor, with a steep stairway leading down to the Vault. There's a big-ass blast door in the way... not for long, I think."

"Good," Donner nodded, content to play a subordinate in matters of a tactical nature. "Alright, get the entry charge up there."

"Sir," another acknowledged. This Stahlkorper had had a metallic container affixed to its back, containing a few extra goodies. The container ejected a manhole-sized directional explosive, which the Stahlkorper operator collected and affixed to the wall of the blockhouse. Once secured, the fuse began automatically - not a tool for those without a great deal of skill in demolitions. "Thirty seconds. I suggest we give it some distance." The armored suits cleared away and pressed themselves against the wall, visors turned away from the blast. A rather muted explosion blew a relatively neat hole through the wall, deflecting little force and debris outwards. The concrete dust settled quickly in the rain, and the infiltrators quickly vaulted through the opening. It was still quiet - the action was occurring elsewhere. The officer worked as quickly with a second, much more potent charge, sticking it to the floor. The charges were numbered in dispensation, intended for specific work against the fortifications they were to encounter. Another blast blew downwards, collapsing in part of the ceiling in the maintenance corridor below.

"Alright, it's good. Move it!" he exclaimed. Donner's unit went in second, followed by Carpathia, then the two remaining officers, and finally Kazansky's escape facilitator.

A heavy blast door, a stairway, another door, a corridor, and then the Vault itself.

The man sprints down a corridor, his Category IV body armor slightly worse for wear, and covered in blood here and there.

None of it is his.

After entering the storage room, he had immediately picked out the four men waiting in ambush; four quick bursts of MG fire had shredded their cover, and the men themselves, before they could even finish aiming their weapons.

Since then, he's moved at a rapid pace through the prison. Chaos is erupting everywhere, what with at least two other forces attacking the island. The three-way brawl between the remaining prison guards and the invaders is proving more of an annoyance than an actual inconvenience, however.

The sound of howling voices echos down the dimly lit passages as he turns a corner and finds himself face to face with an oncoming mob of some sort. Whether it's prisoners or some of the invaders, he doesn't know, nor does he care.

Machine reflexes allow him to get off the first shot; his right finger pulls the trigger of the machinegun, sending a wall of lead down the corridor and chopping into the group. Fire from various small arms lashes back at him, but thunks off of his armor with little obvious effect.

Indeed, he starts to move -forward-, aiming the machinegun like a giant pistol, even as he continues to fire, mowing down dozens of people... until, with a loud click, his machinegun finally runs out of ammunition.

Not missing a beat, the man drops the machinegun to the floor, then extends the grenade launcher held in his left hand, again, aiming it like a giant pistol. The men at the back of the group he's run into are no longer trying to run forwards; indeed, the shock of suddenly being peppered by a massive barrage of 7.62mm rounds has them already beginning to scramble for cover.

Unfortunately, it's impossible to outrun a grenade, and dust poofs outwards from the impact point... and pieces.

Unzipping the duffle bag with his right hand, he pulls out a new weapon: a large, drum-fed automatic shotgun of some sort. This serves to dispatch the survivours of the group, in a series of thundering blasts which echo throughout the corridors.

Proceeding onwards, the man strides towards the area where the elevator to the sublevels is concealed. No further interruptions (other than two lone guards at various points) are encountered, though the sound of gunfire and screams echoing throughout the prison complex continues.

In his field of view, a small, three-dimensional wireframe map of the facility slowly rotates, a little dot showing his current position, and another dot showing his destination. The two continue to become closer to one another, as he strides through the prison as through he's on a grand day out, rather than in the middle of a life or death situation...

In the meanwhile, the Vault guards take up their positions for whatever their final fight is going to be. The door between the Vault's anteroom and the last staircase down is locked, and Xenia instructed to take cover in a corner. Finally, the four men take position – four firing points across the antroom, loaded rifles pointed at the entrance. These men are all that remains between the rescue teams and the Vault's door.

Airspace over international waters
0120 GMT

"Major, we're now in synchronous laser communication with the Q-ship."

"Good. Situation report?"

"The op is still golden. We are on schedule to deploy at 0145."

"Cutting it awfully close... those Intelligence blackshirts don't fuck around, do they."

"No sir, they do not. I'd hate to run afoul of that lot. They never sleep, if you catch my meaning..."

"Of course. All the more reason we should drop on schedule and not ask any stupid questions."

A lone BA-104B Arbiter II (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=452252) stealth bomber continued circling high above the vicinity of Liberty Island. Its crew wasn't aware of the prison facility below, nor what it was they were supposed to be bombing. They did know, however, that the entire operation was conducted under the auspices of the Military Intelligence Service, including the payload that they were forbidden from seeing. Even still, it didn't take an idiot - much less a veteran bomber commander and his subordinates - to know how the aircraft handled when it was lightly loaded, indicating a rather small payload. One far too small to be conventional in nature...

Within the sealed bomb bay, a single earth-penetrating bomb with a 850 kiloton nuclear warhead patiently waited for its activation. It was an unassuming cylinder roughly eighteen feet long, and not even two feet wide. Multiple fins studded the oblong munition's surface, which tapered to a rather thin tip - a hardened tungsten penetrator that mounted a simple guidance system. The bomb itself was made of surplus armor plate, contributing to its ability to withstand impact at the massive speeds that would allow it to punch through upwards of 30 feet of concrete before setting off its payload. An internal chronometer ticked down as the seconds past, waiting to arm the delayed fuse that would trigger the detonation after its successful impact. Slightly under twenty-five minutes remained.

Prince Sanin saw the cyborg dash into the mob and used that time to break away, dashing off down a side cooridor. Throughout his journey in the complex, he happily encountered little resistance - the Allaneans were too busy fighting off the Brettonian hoard and the Praesillei Dei, and the Brettonians haven't made it this far into the complex yet. Eventually, he came to the hallway he wanted to be in, where he met two fireteams of Praesillei Dei that managed to get by the hoard. All communicated through the neurochips.

"Your Highness! This barbarian hoard is insane. Suggest we pull out."

"Negative. We're not far from the staircase. In fact..." Sanin pointed down and smiled, although you couldn't see it through the helmet. The Praesillei Dei merely nodded, barricading the doors of the hallway with anything they could find, and setting directed charges on the floor of the hallway, and then set up 20mmHE autoturrets (IFF settings on, of course) at each enterance.

"On my mark..." They braced themselves away from the blast location. "Mark!" The explosion shook the hall, creating a large hole in the floor, leading straight into the top of the staircase to the Vault.

Four Praesillei Dei jumped down immediately, disapatching any and all Allanean guards with concussion and WP grenades backed up by 20mm and flamethrower fire. Sanin and the other four Praesillei Dei followed after, setting up two more autoturrets to protect the hole in the floor. Sanin smiled. "Not too far now."

The nine Dersconi made their way down the staircase, finding it strangely devoid of guards. Sanin used his psionic abilities to fly down the stairs at superhuman speeds, with the Praesillei Dei just barely able to keep up with him.

As the prince made his way down, the whole situation seemed...odd. Why aren't there any guards here?

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

Meanwhile, above ground and in the buildings, the Praesillei Dei were killing everything that moved. With near hive-mind precision (aided in their own genetic engineering, mental conditioning, training, and the implants), their own friendly-fire was kept to a nice zero in the chaos. However, they were unprepared for the sheer size and savagery of the convicts and the maneuverability of the Stahlkorpers. They kept the enemy's casualties higher than their own, but no structrue, no matter how sound, can withstand such a continuous bombardment.

Out of the one thousand Praesillei Dei that landed on the island, about 600 remained...so far. They were too busy fighting the Brettonians to make any progress against the Allaneans.

However, a sizable portion of the supersoldiers - about a hundred - manage to disappear and sneak away from the barbarian hoard, seeing the Prince's tracking signal on their HUD locator. They made their way across the base, sticking to the shadows outside, using any and all precautions necessary to avoid detection, including sacrificing entire squads just to prevent the chaos hoard from picking up on the movement.

Eventually, they made their way to the loading door that the Novian and the Prince found first, and made their way through the building - using the same sacrificial tactics if necessary to prevent Brettonian detection of their movements - in order to act as a barrier agaisnt anyone else from entering the Vault. Their job was to rescue Kazansky, but these convicts clearly would murder the president, and such an act could not be allowed.

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

The Staircase

It was quite a long way down. Sanin had spotted a few dead soldiers along the sides. Shit. Someone has been down here already. He tightly gripped the Gaia Blade, dashing down the stairs until...

WHAM!

The demigod prince smashed against something hard and flew backwards, slightly dazed from the impact. He heard the Praesillei Dei behind them rush down with weapons ready. The young prince stood up, with the Dersconi Imperial Eagle proudly displayed on his battlerobes. When he saw what he ran into, he could only stare in morbid curiousity. Several Stahlkorpers, right in front of him, some of which were now facing him. But the one... He held up his hand, ordering the Praesillei Dei to hold fire.

"Chancellor?"

Liberty Island, above the Vault
0129 GMT

Another blast of demolition cord and the massive blast door's hinges fragmented across the room. The huge steel barricade crashed to the floor with a cacophonous roar, and the six Stahlkorper quickly ambled over it and towards the stairway.

"....uh oh," the lead officer muttered as they arrived at the circular construct.

"What?" Donner demanded, covering the group from the rear.

"...it's not wide enough," he remarked matter-of-factly. The distance between the column and the walls was simply too narrow for the Stahlkorper's shoulders to fit between.

"Oh," Donner said, a bit surprised. "Well, isn't this just delightful."

"S'alright, Chancellor, this isn't much of a problem. We'll just have to make some more noise," he said, ejecting another object from the canister on his back. A long, tube-like device presented itself, which he proceeded to slap onto the side of the central column that supported the staircase. It stuck in place, and a few moments later, began rolling down the circumference of the column, leaving some kind of yellow tape in its wake. "Hah! There we are."

"...a self-propelled demolition charge?" the Chancellor posited. "That must be new."

"A prototype, in fact," said the first officer. "This is the first field test."

"Well, let's hope it works, then," Carpathia remarked, laconic as ever.

"Yes, let's hope," Donner added, eyes slanting in the direction of Carpathia's Stahlkorper. You are a very strange man, Mr. Carpathia... he thought. Seconds passed that seemed like hours - half a minute later, a metallic band at the end of the tape lit up a pair of green LEDs.

"Perfect. It made it to the bottom," the backpack-laden Stahlkorper officer grinned.

"...it would be a good time to stand back now, yes?" said another, backing up his powered armor and shielding its visor.

"Probably. Fire in the hole, fifteen seconds," the first mentioned, ducking aside the wall. The Chancellor's and Carpathia's units shielded in place, scanning the corridor from which they'd entered, as did the slave unit, with the third officer taking a point behind the doorway of the former blast door.

A blast shook the ground, sending cracks through the nearby concrete as the pillar exploded, dropping it and most of the stairs down the shaft; sounds of tumbling and shattering concrete could be heard as a precipitous cloud of dust emerged from the hole - which was now conveniently wide enough to fit a Stahlkorper's body. One of the officers peered over the edge.

"That went well," he remarked. "I think our prototype is a stunning success."

"I'll say, it was perfect," said the first. "Minimal obstacles on the wall as well. Alright, at the bottom of this shaft is another blast door, followed by a corridor, and then an antechamber. We get that door open and the subject is as good as ours."

"Very good then. Get moving and secure that door. Mr. Carpathia, you and the slave unit stay up here; we'll cover the rear to make sure no more surprises fall on us," Donner said, making a hand signal to the other Stahlkorper units. With a unanimous "Sir!" three Stahlkorper plunged into the shaft, slowing their descent by grinding the heavily-reinforced feet along the walls. They arrived at the bottom swiftly - the officer's unit began working on prepping the door for demolition.

It wasn't long before a loud thump issued from the shaft.

"That's got it. We're waiting for your arrival, Chancellor," one of the officers radioed from below.

"On our way," Donner replied. "Right then, time to take the plunge..." The Chancellor's Stahlkorper stalked towards the shaft, gazing over the edge and sizing up the path of entry. Just as he was about to leap down, the Stahlkorper's audio pickups informed him of the sound of multiple approaching footsteps. What the... he began, quickly turning about and finding himself staring at a group of rather ornately dressed figures - clearly not Allanean soldiers, or his own "Bolshevik" revolutionaries. Oh. Company, he thought matter-of-factly. The lead one said something, but the Chancellor did not hear it over the HUD's acquisition reticule and the Stahlkorper's grenade launcher cocking.

"Wait!" Carpathia exclaimed, smashing the arm of his own unit under the barrel of Donner's machine cannon - the Chancellor's reflexes were fast, but Carpathia's were faster, less dulled by age. The grenade fired and bounced off the ceiling, the distance too short to activate the impact-sensitive fuse. "Hold your fire!"

"What?!" Donner exclaimed, staring aghast at the ex-Intelligence Director.

"These are Dersconi," the former superspy said flatly, and also though his external amplifiers - everyone nearby would hear his statements. "They're our allies. Apparently Kazansky is more popular than I imagined."

"...allies, is it," Donner muttered, still a bit dissatisfied with the slight Carpathia had delivered to him. "Well. My apologies for trying to blow you up," he said, turning on his own external amplifiers. "You're trying to rescue Kazansky, right? Everything is under control. Mr. Carpathia here," he gestued towards the other armored suit, "is Alex's former Intelligence Director, and we have formed a rather bulletproof breakout plan. Don't mind the rabble on the surface, the lot of them are decoys. However, I suggest you and your men evacuate the vicinity posthaste. Not only should the Allanean Coast Guard be well on its way by now, but this entire island's future is measured in minutes."

Liberty Island, offshore
0130 GMT

The Vrouw Skepp was, for all intents and purposes, a ghost ship - the hydrofoils had pushed away from the beach (one that got stuck was scuttled on the spot, with the three remaining taking on its crew), abandoning the faux revolutionaries to their bedlam. One had pulled alongside the massive freighter and retrieved the contingent of MIS officers, then departed as quickly as it arrived, leaving the vessel to plow ahead at flank speed on a direct path towards Liberty Island.

A new demand had been dispatched to Allanea from the nonexistent Proletariat Unity League: either order their forces on Liberty Island to stand down, or be punished with a "non-conventional device" packed on board the stolen vessel. This was, of course, a lie - but, from the outside perspective, the boat would strike the cliffs unceremoniously and begin crumpling, and within minutes, the whole place would go up in flames and ash, the result of copious and obsessive levels of detail in planning and time management. The PUL revolutionaries would cease to exist, preventing any of them from spilling the beans about who they really were, and all evidence of Brettonian involvement in the operation would be swiftly erased.

(OOC: Apologies for the delay, and for the short post. Blaugh, writer's block...)

Liberty Island, above the Vault
0131 GMT

As the Dersconi and Brettonian soldiers have their conversation, a third person crouches, out of view, around the corner. A dead sentry lies next to him, his neck and larynx crushed to a pulp, having died without a sound.

Unfortunately, the fighting he's been involved in has delayed him significantly, and he plays a poor third place in managing to get to the vault...

...but, no one is actually TO the vault yet.

And the large grouping of troops in a small space presents a rather inviting target.

However, that many troops, plus six Stahlkorpe assault suits, is too much for even the man, as inhumanly strong and tough as he is, to take on singlehandedly. There are means to equalize a numerical disparity, for example... such as killing most of the people who outnumber you.

Thus, a duffle bag suddenly skids across the floorr until it bumps into a piece of blasted door near where the Stahlkorpes and the Dersconi soldiers are. The bag splits open along the zipper, and a bundle of seven 20 kg satchel charges spills out, skidding a few inches more across the floor, each with a blinking digital timer.

An active, blinking digital timer.

4...

3...

2...

The man checks his weapons one last time, as he waits for the ensuing explosion. He's managed to expend virtually all of the munitions carried into the facility with him, except his personal weapons: a pair of CLAP Mk II superheavy pistols for cyborg use. Based on the design originally produced by Vault 10 under contract, these utilize an even larger and more powerful round, and a longer barrel for increased muzzle velocity.

Of course, with the recoil equivalent to some IFV mounted autocannons, these are completely beyond the means of any flesh and blood person to use...

Sanin was the first to notice the plastic explosive bag, and as a warning, quickly shouted "oh shit!" and jumped down into the shaft to avoid the blast.

One Praesillei Dei grabbed onto the duffel bag and had just let it go to throw it back when it exploded, killing him and two others that had been the last to find cover in the small area.

Sanin had made it about halfway when he grabbed onto a block of chipped concrete that used to be a stair, and looked up to see the blast suddenly covered by three Stahlkorpers falling down the hole rather quickly, knocked in by the force of the explosion.

After waiting until they were about two seconds from squashing him, Sanin kicked off and did a quick barrel roll into where some of the non-exploded stairway remained. Just as the second Stahlkorper passed him, he kicked off from the wall and grabbed onto Carpathia's battlesuit to ride the rest of the way down.

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

Up top, the two surviving Praesillei Dei were...angry, at best. Unfortunately, the sheer force of the explosion nearly crippled them - the other 7 were already dead. However, they did have the strength to raise their weapons - a rocket launcher for one, the 20mmHE rifle for the other - and keep them pointed at the opening. They were bred to fight to the death for the imperial family. They were going to keep that oath.

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

Once at the bottom, Sanin leaped off of the Stahlkorper and made his way down the hallway to the door into the anteroom. The Brettonians were just behind him, which was fine.

Closing his eyes, the Prince touched the door and went into a sort of meditative trance, allowing him to tap into the feelings and emotions of living beings in the vicinity. It really wasn't something suited for battlefield use - more political or clinical - but through the thoughts and emotions of people, the Andropov prince could approximate their locations.

However, once voice stood out to him - it wasn't the adrenaline-filled excitement and fear of the four soldiers. It was a different fear - sheer terror. Someone doesn't belong here.

He snapped out of his trance to find the Brettonian chancellor glaring at him impatiently. Sanin bit his bottom lip and sighed. "We have a minor complication."

Liberty Island, above the Vault
0133 GMT

"Wait a minute-!" Donner exclaimed, extending a hand. The nimble Dersconi bolted for the shaft, grabbing on to the Stahlkorper's arm and vaulting up and over its head. What in the hell?! he thought, bewildered that anything human-sized could move so quickly. In a moment, the figure had disappeared down the shaft. Oh no you don't, you scum! The Chancellor racked his grenade launcher again, shouldering the machine cannon. Via a rear-view feed, he saw Carpathia's unit suddenly lunging towards the shaft as one of the Dersconi soldiers thrust its hand towards the ground. A moment later, a massive concussive force slammed into the backs of all three Stahlkorper, flinging them directly into the former stairwell. The Chancellor's struck first, Carpathia's slammed into the back of it, and the unmanned slave unit collided nearby; the heap plummeted down, limbs flailing about in confusion - Donner lost his machine cannon in the fall.

"Chancellor?! What's going on?!" one of the MIS officers radioed from the bottom as the sound of the blast reached them. The Dersconi prince landed gracefully at the base of the shaft, eliciting three machine cannons leveled at him by the crack Stahlkorper. Seconds later, the three remaining Stahlkorper crashed to the ground, throwing a cloud of concrete dust up from the demolished remains of the stairway.

"Th-that was the Chancellor's unit!" one exclaimed.

"We've been had! Open fire!" the other seconded.

"HOLD IT!" Donner exclaimed, coughing. "Don't shoot!" Yet...! he used a great deal of mental effort to avoid saying, prying Carpathia's Stahlkorper off his own as he returned to his feet. The armored suit was heavily scuffed and dinged, and a prominent crack ran across its visor. Nevertheless, it was still operational - a quick diagnostic revealed that the NBC systems were still functional and the overall armor integrity remained at combat levels. He liberated the machine cannon from the slave unit and chambered a round.

"You're damn right, we have a complication!" the irate Donner exclaimed, amplified voice echoing throughout the room. "The moment you and your lot showed up, the entire operation went pear-shaped! It would be inconvenient for Alex if I had you perforated on the spot, otherwise..."

"Chancellor..." Carpathia muttered, putting a hand on Donner's Stahlkorper. "Derscon is a key ally for us, an "incident" right now would jeopardize our plans."

"I'm fully aware of that, Mr. Carpathia," Donner growled, head turning towards the no-longer-intact door. He gestured at the three officers, weapons still trained on the Dersconi prince. "Two of you, stay here and make sure our "key ally" doesn't cause any further trouble. Mr. Carpathia, it's time to make good on our mission. Step lightly, we have barely ten minutes left." Donner's Stahlkorper moved its fire selector to automatic, then stalked over the the felled blast door, Carpathia and the remaining two units, including the slave, following suit.

"We'll handle the 'complication'... you handle whatever just tried to blow us up!"

Ikeson

Genneth Ikeson realized that the fortress had fallen. Everywhere he could lay his eye there were the dead bodies of the PUL terrorists and other attackers, mixed with the corpses of his men. But he had a solution yet. Hidden in one of the secret rooms of the castle was the Emergency Weapon. He even called it that in his mind - the Emergency Weapon.

It was time to activate it.

Antechamber

“Don't you lot worry. They're not coming here.” - Xenia said to the guards, smirking.

“How do you know that?” - one of them replied, his hands quivering on the rifle.

“Well... I don't think anybody would want to free Kazansky anyway – he's killed, what, twelve billion people in his lifetime? Not even Mina-fucking-goroshi wanted him free! And besides, his location is classified. Nobody know's he's here. It's not the same with the other prisoners. So I suppose whoever came here is after them, not-”

There was a terrible explosion just outside the antechamber, then a crashing sound as the staircase fell in. And then – a second, eardrum-bursting explosion. Xenia raised her hands to her ears and opened her mouth to avoid having them burst – and quite on time. Seconds later, the door fell in.

What happened next was a blur to her – there were screams of horror as an impossibly large mass of steel erupted into the room, and Xenia felt herself scooped up by a pair of incredibly powerful steel arms – and heard the impossible, mind-bending noise of an automatic cannon being fired indoors.

As the smoke cleared, the pilot of what seemed to be a tiny mecha – or an oversized powered armor – lowered Xenia to the floor.

“Greetings, Miss Reynes. I'm Nicolae Carpathia. You've written some columns about my nomination, I believe. This gentleman here is Chancellor Donner, of Bretton. Chancellor, this is Miss Xenia Reynes. She's the daughter of Allanea's foremost Senator, and also the White House Chief of Staff. No, Mr. Donner, that door is not locked from the outside. Just swing that lever down and pull. It'll swing open. IT's designed to be opened by a regular human being, and you're in a Stahlkorper.”

Seconds later, Kazansky is discovered standing in the middle of his cell, still chained to the wall. He looks disheveled – every bit as sick as you would imagine a young man who spent several years in a closed cell chained to the wall with a chain made of pure poison.

“Hello. Judging from the explosions, I take it you're General Ikeson's inspection team.”

Liberty Island, Vault
0136 GMT

With the two MIS officers remaining with their guns trained on the Dersconi prince, the four remaining Sthalkorper marched down the corridor single file. Making a ninety-degree turn at the end of the corridor, Donner found himself staring at a massive metallic door - four soldiers, peering out from behind makeshift defensive embankments, leveled their rifles at him and opened fire at once. The .308 soft points spanged off the Stahlkorper's composite armored skin, shredding its transparent alumina laminate and OLED optical camouflage sheet, but doing little to the hard armor under it.

Mouth turned down pronouncedly at the corners, Chancellor Donner twisted the Stahlkorper's machine cannon ninety degrees to the side and depressed the trigger, letting the weapon's recoil carry it sideways and sweeping across the room. The flashes of the muzzle blast lit up his grim visage, pronouncing its already hard edges. Seconds later, twenty or so spent shell casings littered the ground, smoke still rising from the tips of some. Lowering the cannon, Donner marched forward, observing the massive door.

Carpathia's unit brushed past him, tending to a previously unseen figure hiding in the corner. Acknowledging his instructions, Donner placed the Stahlkorper's massive hands on the mechanism and threw it. The reinforced door swung open, revealing the rather downtrodden-looking former President of Allanea.

"Afraid not, Alex," Donner remarked, popping the Stahlkorper's head up as if about to egress the powered armor. The upper half of his head and face was exposed, showing his familiar grayed hair and pencil-thin eyebrows. "You look unwell. A dose of freedom and a heaping portion of revenge ought to fix that up right nicely. Your good friends Nicolae Carpathia and yours truly are to facilitate that."

The Stahlkorper stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the spartan Vault, and took a grip on the chain affixing him to the wall. A chain? How delightfully archaic... the Chancellor scoffed. A plasma cutter made short work of the shackle connecting the chain to the wall, leaving the length of it still attached to the soon-to-be-former prisoner.

"You've been set up, my friend," the Chancellor remarked, queuing up a macro with the Stahlkorper GUI's eye-tracing system. The slave unit followed him into the Vault and knelt, popping open at the waist to allow an occupant to enter. "We'll fill you in on the details once we're a safe distance away from this facility. Time is of the essence, as they say." Trying not to injure the apparently emaciated-president, Donner loaded him up inside the Stahlkorper's body, closing it up to offer him the maximum protection from stray projectiles and other harm. Checking the slave's bio-monitors and ensuring that Kazansky was secured and safe to transport, he returned the slave's macro to shadowing him and headed out the Vault door.

"The subject is secured," Donner declared, checking his chronometer. "Eight minutes, forty-four seconds until soup time. Time to move."

Liberty Island, surface

If "the bastard" had a good view as he moved to activate his Emergency Weapon, he'd have seen a massive object emerging from the pouring downpour. The now-derelict Vrouw Skepp was heading directly towards the sheer cliffs on Liberty Island's southern face at flank speed, and showing no sign of stopping. A good show had to be put on for whatever spy satellites might be lurking about, of course...

The ugly freighter collided with the rocks with a massive crash, sending chunks of cliff and hull into the air like confetti at a parade. A full third of the hull crumpled like an accordion before the vessel's forward momentum died, sending massive fissures throughout the craggy surface.

---

High above, the Arbiter began turning to make its final approach vector. The time-delayed detonator activated automatically as the bomber crew aligned the flying wing with the computer-generated optimal flight path. The operation was locked in.

As the Brettonians, the Dersconi, and whoever else was still alive tried to rush for their escape vehicles, one of the compound sub-walls began to fall apart. There it was, standing between the Chancellor of Bretton, the President of Allanea, and the Prince of Derscon – and safety and freedom.

It was a full-scale Partisan mecha.

Greetings, Communist vermin. I am General Genneth Ikeson. How are you, gentlemen?

“Eight minutes and thirty seconds... is that a proper thing to say to someone who just got out of jail?” - Kazansky mutters as he takes over control of the assault suit.

Seconds later, the Stalkohrper shifts color – a creative use of the OLED camo indeed.

Genneth Ikeson and his crew blink as the suit runs towards them, turning into a shade of brilliant red – and jumps. The President is not in a condition to execute complex maneuvers – but he can get close – below the mecha - and fire the automatic cannon into the Partisan's hip.

Seconds later, Ikeson is still alive, his 'superweapon' twitching on the ground and spewing motor oil and sparks.

“Now we can go” - the President waves to the black-clad Fieldmarshal's own - "Come on! General evac! This place is going to burn!"

His voice is recognized. And, for a second, the black-clad Allaneans stand and cheer.

Then, they make way back to their boats.

When the Brettonians and Kazansky made it back out of the Vault, they found Sanin meditating, the two guns trained on him. He quickly snapped out of the trance, looking up at the President. "I have nothing dramatic to say. The Brettonians don't trust me. Oh, Watanabe says hello." In one smooth motion, he leaped up from the ground and vaulted over the Chancellor's suit, landing on Kazansky's. Sanin dropped down and held onto the back of the President's suit for the ride up.

The prince, of course, jumped off in the battle with the General's mecha, so as to not inhibit the president's duel, but simply jumped back on again when it came time to evac.

During his meditation time, he had already issued the evac orders, which he found were being executed before the prince even issued them, the Praesillei Dei having finished off the last of the convicts by blowing up an armory.

The remaining Praesillei Dei had boarded the Krakenkind 013, which departed as Kazansky's party made it to the surface. The second Dersconi submarine, KK-016, remained to transfer out the Fieldmarshal's Own, which had come with the Dersconi. Sanin, though, remained with Kazansky, riding his battlesuit, simply because getting across the island would take awhile.

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

Tsarhof, Derscon

Tarakh bit his bottom lip, turning to Marshal Watanabe. "That was one of the largest clusterfucks I have seen in my entire life." He shook his head before pulling up a computer and typing in an order to the cloning facilities. The Andropov family would need another 500 Praesillei Dei.

Liberty Island, surface
0140 GMT

...oh, shit... Donner's train of thought derailed as they broke the surface, seeing the decommissioned bipedal tank stomping out from behind a bombed-out warehouse. Where did they get one of those?!

"Alright, get ready to move! The firing arcs are extremely limited, almost entirely over the frontal degree," Donner exclaimed. He'd personally seen to it that the A4G Partisan had been removed from Brettonian service after a number of weaknesses became apparent. Almost all of those were against MBT-caliber weaponry, however... the Stahlkorper would have very little chance against it.

"Carpathia, get Kazansky and make a break for the left! You two go to the right; and you're with me, we're going back and finding another way around! The Partisan won't be able to fit inside the narrow corridors!" Donner barked. No sooner had he issued the orders than one Stahlkorper burst ahead of him, charging straight towards the Partisan. It was Kazansky's! What?! How can he even move like that?! he mentally demanded. "Wait! What are you-!" The Stahlkorper slid under the Partisan's cannon firing arc, and before it could bring the groin-mounted laser emitter to bear, dumped the magazine of its machine cannon into the bottom of the neck and hips - spots that were specifically outlined as being vulnerable to light cannons, but only from angles that should have been very, very difficult to exploit...

Leg actuators shot, the Partisan crashed to the ground head first, mirroring the Chancellor's jaw dropping. That... shouldn't be possible... he thought.

"...Alex, what... what did you..." he stammered, having difficulty comprehending the phenomenal performance he'd just witnessed. As the survivors of the earlier loyalist assault emerged - another contingency he hadn't planned for - Donner suddenly shot back into his usual methodological mindset. "Alex, let's discuss victory later, shall we?" he radioed directly to Kazansky's Stahlkorper. "There's not even five minutes left before the 'plausible deniability' cleans up this entire mess. I have a submarine waiting we can escape in, but we have to go now!"