NationStates Jolt Archive

Alt timeline RP with Munchie. VERY MUCH CLOSED





Some things never change. A man will feel tense when his neighbor is too close in proximity, but too far in talking. And however strong you are, and however many men you control, and regardless of how much money you have, or what kind of shiny tools of destruction you bring...
Some things never change.



...


MARCH 11TH, 2015

2:44 AM


"Sam... Come on man, stay up."

"jon..."

"Come on man, not today, NOT NOW."

"jon......"


...


AUGUST 14TH, 2014

2:51 PM



"Hot as balls man."

Spc Jaime Marone walked the concrete barrier, machine gun slung under his right arm, black boots making a muffled thud on the walkway. The Guardian body armor made walking kind of unusual - typically a Candrian man will swing his shoulders back and forth, and, even though it's supposedly drilled out of him in Basic, even a soldier will swing occasionally. But the armor restricted his movement - rather than swinging shoulders, it was a pivot in the hips - most unusual. That, and it was hot as balls. The thick armor, stagnant air, thick humidity, and temperature (above 90 degrees F) all added up to a delightfully uncomfortable experience. Under the armor, his green camo fatigues showed signs of sweat - dampness, sweat beading under his helmet, under the forehead and to the back where the tan helmet curved up after the ears. Marone wicked some of the sweat off of his forehead with his gloves - even in this heat, he was supposed to wear gloves. SOP.

"What are they doing, Coke?"

"Just strolling along... watching us... watching the planes... Same as they always do. Same shit every day." PFC Marcus Coker watched through the independent rangefinder, staring at a handfull of Endorsian soldiers, staring right back at him - behind them, a few were tracking the B22 Bombers circling 10,000 meters above them.

Even from that distance, you could hear the bombers. They weren't necessarily loud, but you could hear them. The steady drone of those 4 BQ6-3 engines, from 4 bombers above, all flying the usual holding pattern that they've been flying for the past 5 years.


It's been a momentous couple of years - Candiria rearming, Atal Amner growing less stable by the day, and an increasingly paranoid populace demanding a now quite powerless Emperor Petron do something about the "Endorsian Issue". Nevermind the fact that Candrians have been electing Executive Ministers for the past 20 years - that guy's supposed to be the head of state, that guy's supposed to be the head of the government now. None of that seems to matter when you have a prestigious title and lead to massive economic growth. But it's supposed to. The Military Tribunal authorized massive expansion programs, massive weapons sponsorships, massive purchasing contracts, massive projects - 'To make us World Players'... 'To make us safer'... they said. This rearming made a lot of people realize that, right north of them, there was this... madman... at the wheel. And he was at the wheel of a truck full of nuclear devastation. This made people... uneasy.
Nevermind the fact that there's never been bad blood between the two countries. By all accounts... there's never been any blood, really. No Endorse - Atal Amner - have been active players for a long time... but Candiria is still kind of the shy new kid. A new kid with a shiny gun.
People began seeing them as a threat; they pushed for rearming - the long 30 years of rest after endless war coming to an end - they wanted to "preserve their place."

All hogwash.

The tribunal asked for all these new weapons, Parliament authorized their budgeting and purchasing, and they suddenly realized there was no reason to have them. So people began making up an enemy - and who better than what some people would reasonably call a loose atomic cannon?

Suddenly the once quite border got a lot louder. Boots began pounding the ground. Trucks began patrolling the lines. Checkpoints set up along the roads. Tanks began prowling the rolling hills. Helicopters buzzed the trees where snipers set up roost. And perhaps most alarmingly... Strategic Arsenal Command began sending up holding patters for their bombers. Nobody had the guts to ask if they were nuclear, but it was safe to assume they were.
Not surprisingly, Amner responded in kind. Angry phone calls gave way to counter patrols, light patrols gave way to fixed defenses, fixed defenses were suddenly supported by aircraft; the aircraft now suddenly supported - more bombers. And people realized you shouldn't point a gun at someone just because you had one.

But at this point, it was too late. All that was left was to keep the gun aimed at their eyes and hope they flinch first.

...


Marone's radio cracked to life; the slightly garbled words crunched through a tiny speaker in his helmet. He reached up and pulled down the mic on his headset.


'PAPA TWO CHARLIE, INCOMING TOWER INDIA TWO INDIA , DO YOU READ TWO CHARLIE?'
II Corps Command.

"This is Two Charlie Dash Four, you're clear India Two." - "Dude it's border command." Coker perked up.


'DASH FOUR, INFORM TWO CHARLIE YOU WILL BE RELIEVED AT 15:00 BY TWO ECHO, PREPARE INTERLEAVE AND LOAD INTO THE MULE. UPDATE TWO ECHO ON CURRENT STATUS OF SIERRA ECHO NOVEMBER'

"Roger India Two, will report S.E.N. to Two Echo - jack shit."

'NO CHEEK DASH FOUR, WE'VE BEEN STAIRING AT THEM STAIRING AT US THROUGH IRON SIGHTS FOR THE PAST 5 YEARS, IF SOMETHING HAPPENS WE CAN'T AFFORD TO BE CAUGHT SLACKING. ARE YOU CLEAR?'

"Crystal India Two, crystal."

'INFORM TWO CHARLIE RELIEF IN T MINUS 7, COMMAND WILL BE NOTIFIED, INDIA TWO OUT'

Marone's eyes drooped down for a bit - he took a sip from his side canteen and swiped any drops from his mouth with his sleeve before strapping back on to his hip, in front of his Breyr pistol. "Goddamn... II Command is a bunch of pricks. No sense of humor, really."

"Can't blame them. They seem to be under the impression that there's a war going on."

"Coke what you staring at?"

"That."

Marone turned his head to the West. On the horizon, he could see two ships cutting across the water of the Haven Strait, as well as faintly make out a few helicopters. Silently they buzzed the water, towing... something. Subhunters. A game of cat and mouse across one of the most bloodied channels in human history.


Station Murcielago, west of Curie Lake, east of the Coast. Nothing passes through here but one road, almost empty for the past 5 years or so, and Murcielago, a small village to the Southwest that used to be a fishing community. Nothing here but a scenic view, and now, 3,000 soldiers on both sides of the fence.

Just waiting.

William James Carson was a good, solid son of No Endorse. Like any good mid-twenties son of No Endorse, he was, at heart, a little lazy. Not lazy in terms of not doing work, he was willing to do an absurd amount of work now to avoid a repetitive task. No, he just made it look like he did absolutely nothing, even in the heat of exertion. At the moment, however, he was occupied with a very important sport.

“Hey Cookie!” He motioned to his comrade Washington Edmund Reginald Cook the Third, known as “Cookie” for obvious reasons, and pointed across the border. “Look next to guard house number four, about two glances down and a glance left. Ten says the Candy picks his nose in the next minute.”

“The next minute?” Cookie peered through his binoculars. “That's pretty brave, I'll take it!”

The two peered intently at the Candiran sentry, knowing full well he was probably looking straight back at them. “There he-wait, no.” “OH WAIT! Damn.” “Easy buddy, don't.... DAMN IT!” Cookie shoved Carson, yanking out his wallet. “That's my last tenner you smug son of a gun.”

“Yeah yeah, it's my first. I'm flat out after Hold 'Em last night, those Candies are good players, I tell you what.” Carson leaned back on the ground, staring up at the sky. “I hear Command is gonna make us stop playing with them. They decided it doesn't count as a hostage situation if we do it every night.”

“Damn shame.” Cookie glanced up at the sky, watching the planes. “Say Carson, is it just me, or do those planes fly in the same circles every day, which we watch at the same time in the same place, after walking the same patrol? We steal the same food from the same mess, lug the same rifles and stare at the same sentry at the same place and take bets on whether he picks his nose, or scratches his head, or anything. We then go out back and shoot the exact same scores every day on the same target range. We then go back to the barracks and play the same card games, lose to the same folks, and on odd days, sneak over the lines for grins and Poker. And that's the last five years of our lives.”

“You forget, every few weeks we get a day off.” Carson extended his bayonet and stabbed his NESR-21 into the ground. Nearly as tall as he was with the bayonet extended, it was all he could do to not use it as a tent pole at times.

“Which we spend playing cards, at the brothel, or watching the Candies just like every day. Speaking of, don't you think there are a lot of planes up there? Looks like a sub hunt. You'd think they'd just point Geiger counters at the ocean, it'd be more effective”

As Carson began to reply, a black diamond shape screamed overhead at treetop height, banking sharply and screaming towards the coast. “-and there goes the cavalry. Now shut the hell up and gimme a hand, we're gonna mess with the Candies.” Fifteen minutes later, a large target with the words “YOU CAN'T HIT THIS” hung from a large tree branch.


===========================================


Spade Four this is Spade Seven, I'm picking up helicopters ahead. Three, no, four contacts. ECM says their naval ships have spotted us.
Affirmative. Let's make 'em shit bricks!

The two Silent Stalker aircraft shot over the coast and over the sea, speeding towards the Candrian ships and helicopters. Spade Four did a quick barrel roll, before rocketing upwards to a few thousand feet. The two rocketed around the helicopters nearly at the speed of sound, both above and below, turning tightly around one before climbing to a safe altitude. Even through all of this, their wings flexed gently, almost manta-like. The Silent Stalker had been designed without flight surfaces, and to see one in flight was awe inspiring, especially compared to a squat anti-submarine helicopter.

Spade Seven slowed his fighter and deployed its blown flaps, coming by one of the choppers at the slowest speed he thought reasonable. While the pilot of the chopper couldn't see the Endorsian's one finger salute because of the speed difference, it was probably for the better. They weren't the reason the Endorsians were here.

Well, they were on paper. Officially, they were to challenge every Candrian air asset with Endorsian units. The Candies had the same policy, with the limit of escalation sometimes only being the number of air assets in range. Unofficially, they were just here for fun, and there were few things more fun than playing with Candrian pilots.


===========================================


“So my dear, what do you think? Brown or black?” Amner had two suits spread out on the bed, and stared at them quite pensively. “Kara?”

Kara Maddox Amner, President of the Armed Capitalist Republic of The Silver Sky and de facto Empress of the Glorious Military Junta of No Endorse rolled her eyes. “They're both lovely, now put something on. You have a press conference fifteen minutes ago, you're beyond fashionably late.”

“You know there's no such thing my dear!” He pecked his wife on the cheek, enjoying her surprise at how rapidly he'd clothed himself. “Lateness will never stop being in style. It will overstay its welcome until the end of time. Until later!” He strode out the door, straightening his lace collar, arriving at the press room minutes later.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, and the rest of you,” Amner beamed, his milky teeth reflecting the harsh flash of dozens of cameras. “I'm sure you're all quite interested in the state of the border and of the state of the nation. Well, I'm afraid that I haven't yet had my morning coffee, so I currently know about as much as the rest of you- oh thank you!” An aide delivered a mug to the podium before scampering offstage. The leader took a sip and continued, grinning from ear to ear.

“Now, as you are all aware, we're still sitting on our side of the border, pointing everything we have at the Candrian Empire. They're doing the same thing. If they so much as twitch, we'll melt them in glorious nuclear flame, purifying the land of their filth and opening a new age of splendor for No Endorse. Of course, if we twitch, they'll annihilate us. In short, nothing has changed. This has been your daily press conference, please check my website for the newest production figures. Now, I've been working really hard on something on the Sousaphone and would like some honest opinions. Anyone who wants to stay can hear my performance of Rouven's Sousaphone Concerto in Eight Movements!”

“Anyone?”

The news the next day would report two people trampled in a mass stampede to escape the press room. Works every time.

MARCH 11TH, 2015

2:45 AM

“Come on man... Keep up. Keep talking.”

The soft earth squished under his elbows; mud smearing on the sleeves of his BDU, on the soles of his boots; anywhere it could get.

“just go... im fine...”

He had to think. 'Keep them talking, keep them conscious.' Someone said this too him. Was it at basic? The stint at the hospital? What was it?

“Do you... remember how we met?”

A labored grunt; hard breathing.

“what are you sayin?”

The strain on his voice was hard to hear; a brother dieing.

The stress was getting to him. “Do you?” A near snap.

“elementary school.”

“What did you say?”

“...”; muffled grunts by the ground. The cold, wet earth, mixed with blood and sweat, softened every noise but it's own convoluted movement.

“you were in my chair.”

“Yeah, I was wasn't I?”

“every other chair was empty,... they all... had names...

... even mine... nothing alike... had to kick you out...”

“Yeah, I remember...”

“had to get... that teacher... awful english... big woman... ortega?”

“Yeah, she was a total bitch. What was that, like... 2nd grade?”

“yeah... i think...”

His hands were wrapped around the other's front straps, dragging him along the muddied footpath crisscrossed with deep footprints and treadmarks, occasionally filled with water. CP was too far.

“Keep with me man.”

“defin...ately was. somera elementary.”

“Didn't you meet Kathy then?”

“... yeah... def...nately... didn't talk much... till high school... though...

... sandra?”

“Don't get me started man,”

“stop being... a pussy... and ask her... already!”

Light laughter; probably the only laughter within miles.

“Ah, ha, fuck you Sam.”

“...pussy...”

Overhead, a faint sound. Ominous, faint droning, and a light, high-pitched buzz...


...


AUGUST 14TH, 2014

1:31 PM

“Knight, Hammer One, requesting spec on highlighted birds”

The two Cardinals streaked over the ocean about 10,000 meters above the water; about 2 km to the west another set of Cardinals, lower set and approaching at a different angle.

ONE ONE FOUR ONE – OH ONE HAMMER ONE; STANDBY, IDENTIYING...

STANDBY FOR SAMBO UPDATE...

“Hammer One, Cheers Knight.”

In the cockpit of the FA-15F Hammer One, faint white circles were outlining the positioning of something in the distance; just next to the circles was a steadily decreasing number and a dash. After a few seconds, the circles turned green, and outside them another circle grew, slightly offset and even less opaque, tending towards the nosecone of the Cardinal. The pilot began switching through weapons modes; IR, the circles became white again; Guns; two streamers popped up on the HUD, anchored to the middle and flowing down and to the left; Radar SWL, the circles still white; Radar LR – the circles became green, and another small number became visible under the decreasing Distance number – closing range. The numbers and positions highlights were updated in chunks – these weren't coming from the aircraft's own systems, rather from regular updates – even these were manually assigned by the control aircraft, fed by some ship in the water over their intended intercept course. Next to the numbers in white was ANOM; the closer the Cardinal was getting, the bigger the jumps that the circles would take.

“Hammer, follow draft at 50 klicks.”

ROGER.

“Knight, Hammer One, rec permission to mail a letter to highlighted birds.”

HAMMER, KNIGHT, REC DENIED. FOLLOW DRAFT. YOU CAN DANCE WITH THE BIRDS, BUT HANDS OFF, NO TANGO.

“Knight, Hammer One, roger.”


...


The interior of the Cardinal 1141 02 HAMMER was packed with info – circles, numbers everywhere, arrows, streamers, digital dials; enough to put someone into a daze. The all-glass cockpit supplemented an OLED sandwich screen that highlighted relevant radar returns on the cockpit glass itself; quite a nifty piece of hardware, and made visual confirmation a lot easier. Right now about 4 green circles were streaking off at roughly 2 o'clock, relative to the aircraft – the pilot's eyes darted off to the right within his helmet, trying to make out the shapes; either they were too far, or updating too slowly. Irregardless, they were just above the frame of the cockpit, still a while away.

The radio crackled.

“Eagle-hawk, Fence in, go mute to Eagle until playtime. Stop squawking, turn on searchlights, Eagle is going birdwatching. Show feathers.”

Off in the distance the two shapes were becoming more visible, passing 1 o'clock. Little black triangles streaking through the sky, climbing from near sea level. The pilot switched modes to IR, a push on one of the MFDs on the center console put the SAMBO link information on supplemental – and activated the top MOTS dome – there was now a circular reticle on the canopy, mated to a smaller reticle that now appeared on the pilot's helmet – there was a bit of lag between the two, and to target he had to babysit, but he would now be able to target the odd-looking Endorsian aircraft – sorta. Details were still a bit sketchy, but at least he could see a bit more than just a triangle. Behind him the RIO was sorting through the targeting information; although the Cardinal has an auto-prioritizer, it's ultimately up to the RIO who targets who. Ultimately, it's NEST to EAGLE to EAGLE HAWK to RIO for permissions over who does what. RIO targets and highlights, EAGLE or EAGLEHAWK approves, Pilot goes after them.

At this point the aircraft were crossing 12, and were roughly on level with the aircraft, and close enough to make out distinct visual features. Two Stalkers streaking across, a few degrees south of west; two Cardinals on a high intercept approach coming from the Southeast, and two low from the Southwest. approaching It was also at this point that the pre-determined opening engagement was made – lag behind and coax the Endorsians into a break, into the face of 2 other Cardinals engaging from the West. There isn't much for them to do but break and split between the middle; damned if you do, damned if you don't. Of course, these guys in those little black triangles are smart; they can think of something creative, even if it's entirely suicidal.

They didn't disappoint. Yeah, they broke to the middle – there wasn't really much else to do, after all. Cardinal HAMMER ONE tipped up, climbing and rolling to pull up next to the Endorsian bird; above, HAMMER TWO pulled an immelmann, without the roll, and pulled on top of the other Stalker.

To some passive observer, this would be awkward.

Over the seas of a tense Haven Strait with enough blood in it's waters that it might as well have a red tint, there was a moment of levity between these pilots. The pilot in Hammer Two looked 'up'; under him, the Endorsian pilot looked up to him and his RIO; the RIO delivered a salute, the pilot waved. The Endorsian pilot waved back up, turns out this is a regular occurrence. The two other Cardinals broke off to cap the area; the RIO in HAMMER ONE started pantomiming to the pilot in the other Stalker; a raised hand, holding his camera like a card, whistling, swinging his free arm a bit. Those guys are refs; don't mind them. The Stalker pilot nodded his head, and appeared to make a call over the radio – the other pilot seemed to laugh, and looked up at HAMMER TWO's crew. He, too, started acting; pretended to raise a flag and shrugged his shoulders. How do they call fouls? HAMMER TWO's pilot pointed at himself, then rolled forward the engine control knobs on the throttle and pushed the canard wheel down a twice on the stick; outside the canards 'dipped' (relative to the upside down plane, at least); Foul on us! He pointed to the onlooking Endorsian fighter, pointed at him, and reversed the actions; outside the canards tipped up; Foul on you!

The rules have already been decided; get too close, foul on the closer and they have to hit the brakes for a few seconds; two pilots get caught up in a scissors too long, and they both get fouled, too close to the ground or water and foul again. Start slow, foul. Start fast, foul. Mostly common sense rules. Dance until the refs launch the chaff.

“HAMMER ONE, KNIGHT, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

“Knight, Hammer One, RIO observing unusual characteristics from birds; EAGLEKNIGHT requests EAGLE go birdwatching.”

“KNIGHT IS CUTTING CHATTER;”

HAMMER ONE's RIO looked off to the Stalker on his port side; he held his hands open out to the pilot, fingers splayed out. ONE FOUR FIVE.

One fourty five; the game would start in about a minute. They cruised alongside eachother; Hammer Two rolled down and level with the other Stalker, as per the rules, they all climbed to about ~1,000 meters, spread out, and hit the sound barrier.

1:45. The game was on.

Hammer One rolled up and around the first Stalker; a quick drop in thrust, and a moment later the aircraft dropped back; above and behind. Ideal. The Nukefighter wasn't about to lose that quick. It began a climb, and when it turned above the Card, rolled over and pointed it's nose down; the Card responded in turn, firing off a few stringed IR flares and whirring it's IRCM module; within moments the two aircraft were locking in what seemed to be some kind of climbing horizontal sliding scissor lock; the Cardinal had the advantage with low speed, but that didn't mean it could safely break the lock. Neither aircraft could hope for a radar lock; the Cardinal wouldn't be able to lock onto the Stalker without the radar screaming ANOM for dear bloody life, the Stalker didn't even carry a radar. All they could do was track via IR; and for both of these aircraft at least, that required the opponent stay in their forward hemisphere long enough to lock on. This was a lot harder than it sounded; even with a helmet-slaved infrared targeting and tracking system, they would still have a lag; the aircraft were vertically moving too quick for either pilot to stay on long enough to lock.

For the Candrian pilot, his strategy was simple – pray to whatever god he chose to believe in this time of day that he wouldn't run out of flares and that the oil wouldn't be sucked out of the engines, then let the Endorsian pilot break out or stall; if the Endorsian pilot broke, he could try and grab a lock; if he stalled, it gave him time to pull away. The current state of affairs meant that neither plane was really losing energy; all trading to potential in the hope that one of them would either make a mistake or a pull out.

The Stalker started blowing it's flaps; at this point both aircraft were getting dangerously slow, and were passing 2,500 meters. Just a little longer.

The other pair was fairing better; once they started, they split as far as they could and turned in on each other, some generic drive towards each other before the Card broke off to the west and started firing off a few flares to distract the Stalker's ridiculous IRST system; a quick bank to the left put the Stalker back on his visible zenith. At this moment they were circling around each other, slowly climbing; the only plane who could claim an advantage being the Stalker. I need to do something... The Card's nose tipped towards the Endorsian aircraft, the whole time it's years-old steel frame rattling while the pilot pushes the G's. Just as he was doing this, the Stalker seemed to... waft up. “I didn't see it man, the wings sorta bent; I can't tell what it's about to do.” “Fat lotta good that does me, rio; I've lost it!” “Listen!” “Too much noise, I can't track the buzz!” “Look! Ten, plus three!” The pilot looked up and to his left; off to the North, he could see the Stalker, it's wings he could just see flexing under the forces of the aircraft trying to climb; he could make out the shape; he could hear it. There wasn't a radar return, the radar uplink from the ships associated an image, and this was hooked to a buzz in the pilot's headset, but the lag kept it from being updated enough to do anything but help visually locate it. But that's all he could hope for. SHIT!

The Cardinals circling started spitting flares.

”HAMMER, KNIGHT, CLEAVE IT, INCOMING BIRDS FROM 30 OFF SOUTH, CLEAVE IT.”


“Spec on birds”

“RANGERS, CLEAVE ENGAGEMENT.”

Above him, the RIO of HAMMER TWO looked at the pilot of the Endorsian fighter, still circling, now significantly closer. He gestured with his hands; clasped them around his wrists, and shrugged his shoulders. They got us handcuff'd.

So damn close.


...

AUGUST 14TH, 2014

2:58 PM


Coke stared through his rangefinder, scanning the Endorsian line. He paused for a bit, staring intently at a few soldiers and a tree. Behind him, the diesel engine of the MULE hummed, while a few soldiers unpacked from it. A bit of a smile formed from his chapped lips.

“Smug bastards.”