Corslak
09-05-2009, 06:14
(OOC: Telegram me if you wish to enter. For the first few posts I will be the only one posting, to set the scene. But once that is over who ever else signs up can post. By the way, I am also Greston, to clear things up.)
“When liberty comes with hands dabbled in blood it is hard to shake hands with her.”
-Oscar Wilde
Saturday, 3:37 PM
Araedin Villa, Vectis
The Republic of Corslak
A bead of sweat ran down the Consul's, Lawrence Wembley, nose, dropping quietly onto the piece of paper in front of him. Wembley had been born in humble beginings, to a farm near Middleton. Now he sat at the top of twenty-seven million men, held responsible for three thousand dead as he reluctantly held a ballpoint pen between his thumb and pointer finger. Gazing deeply into the paper that had been passed from hand to hand. From the hollow halls of the Presidential Palace in Easen to the the small villa in Vectis that had been made the Capitol Building, barely visible from all around due to debris that had landed in the area, the paper traveled to be read by Lawrence Wembley. His hand quivered as it hovered above the black signature line.
It had only been a week since the artilley fire stopped pounding the Chesterfield Coast of the city of Noumea, and in those seven days the Imperial Republic had made a rush to regain Corslak under Grestonian control. Thomas Ronson was the man who had led seventeen thousand militia units who had learned how to handle a rifle playing Call of Duty to a victory against the greatest fighting force in the whole of the Mediterranica. Ronson in comparison to the Consul was feeling rather cheerful and was fully for embracing the Grestonians once again, which he mulled over by breaking open a bottle of champagne he had found in the basement of the villa.
“We are lucky to be alive at any rate, Lawrence! We are no men to be running a nation, my chap, you that of a farmer's son, and I'm actually a bastard. Do you Striker doesn't actually know his real father? Or that Batther was raised in a cow pen next to the poorest city in the republic? God forbid," the man seemed to have a dance to his speech, "were we to be invaded by truer foes? And that such an invasion was not obvious?" - the man exclaimed so vigorously that some of the luke warm champagne he had been relishing on was soaking into the carpet.
"They abandoned us, Tom. You of all people should know how it feels to be abandoned," the Consul had not said it to be disrespectful but it sounded any thing but, "We wer-"
Ronson butt in rather ferociously, "You think because my dad had the attention span of an ADD child that I should think horribly of every person that ever gives up something?" he snapped at Wembley
“It is the the only thing to do, Lawrence,” he urged once more into his ear. He was persistent with his opinion. It would be a signing that would cede over the lives of twenty seven million people that had been abandoned and nearly extirminated. Every eye in the room had gazed upon the parchment, from the solemn glare of the Consul Lawrence Wembley, to the dancing, persistent witness of Tommy Ronson, to the calm, competent gaze of Praetor Governor Allan Roparzh; from Chief Governor Leighton Kory Lincoln, Governor Kenny Chauncey Deandre, Governor Hale Felix to villa owner William Grey Araedin, every man in the upper echelons of the Corslak Government had seen the terms of the contract. And the house seemed to be split directly down the middle.
Corslak would be free. That was, after all, the purpose of the war, and that goal would be accomplished. Or Corslak could be protected, and thrive under a falste power. It was regrettable that the deaths of one million Corslaki militia men would be forgotten and cancelled out if the latter were taken. But the fear of being conquered whilst her own sovereignt brought up what some thought would lead to hundreds of years of suffering and oppression.
“By god, Lawrence, just sign the damn thing already,” Ronson muttered, his breath causing the hairs on the back of the Consul’s neck to stand on end.
“An oppressed Corslak will not favour well upon our people.” The Consul turned in his chair and faced him, Ronson’s face backlit, barely visible against the dusk sunlight streaming in. “We must decide here and now how far we are willing to go to protect our victory here. Were the deaths defending Corslak from the Infinite Empire useless? Why trade in our freedom won from one opression to another? Are we willing to now put aside war, and embrace Greston? Will we be their pansy and counter act the victory brought on the backs of so many Corslaki and Yallakian boys?”
There was a long pause as the Consul’s eyes met those of Wayland Meirion Trevor Corslak, his faded portrait hanging as a memorium to the Cori lives lost in the name of freedom during the Victorian War, specifically the onslaught of the Londinian Victorian Empire at the closing of the eightteenth century. He closed his eyes and gripped the pen harder, thinking deeply upon the events of past. A breath, long and drawn, escaped his throat, and he opened his eyes, turning back to the uniformed man illuminated by the dusk rays of the sun over Vectis.
“No, Corslak will be free.”
Saturday, 4:46 PM
Presidential Palace, Easen
The Imperial Republic of Greston
"No?!"
The nostalgic, brashful, defiant two letter mummer of a word lifted from the tired throat of an aging politician and floated through the Capitol Building. The paper that had been written by Striker's secretary and passed down to the Foreign Affiars Office was thought to be immediately accepted by the crippling, regent government in Corslak. But it seemed that the Imperial Intelligence Ageny had not paid enough attention to the coarse of events post Grestonian withdrawal from Corslak as they momentary government seemed to want to the surviving twenty-seven million people themselves.
"How could they possibly survive a skirmish with the Yallakians?" Striker questioned the room filled with his upper cabinet members and the heads who had ordered the Grestonian withdrawal from Corslak. All of the politicians just stared back emptily, as no one knew how it was possible that such poorly trained, under equipped, and out numbered forces could win a battle against the Yallakians. Striker was trying to make the meeting process go faster as he was meant to catch a plane with Findlay L. Yale Eberhard and David Loyd Gregor to Bad Amberg for a conference.
The president decided it was not worth waiting any longer and he stood from his leather, brown chair at the head of the table and pulled on his jacket, hurriedly speaking, "I cannot speak any longer, Lane, you and Dom Mansel are placed in charge of this situation. I want you to give those Corslaki's a region to come back to the Imperial Republic. Actually 20,000, as I want the 89th Imperial Standard Brigade marching on our soil again."
Striker was then out of the room and the plotting began once more. An hour later, as Striker's private plane roared alive for his trip, the pilots of three B2 Spirit Stealth bombers finished fitting on their helmets and brought the engines to their sleak, metal, horses alive. Within the matter of half a day, the bombers ate up the distance between Serstabele and Corslak. Approaching on the Corslaki Bright, the expanse of picture perfect blue ocean between the island Noumea and the island Kerguellen, the bombers split their v formation, tipping their wings to the right, for Charlie Vector, or the left for Charlie Foxtrot and Charlie Kilo.
DRFM jammers were let lose by the government's command stations in the Grestonian proper, retransmitting Corslaki transmissions. RADAR blockers were thrown up and, essentially, a wall of electronic war fare stood between the Imperial Republic and the Corslaki defenses. The bombers were able to approach their targets with little to no interference. The first target was a small encampment of the actually trained Corslaki militants near Vectis. Charlie Vector unloaded it first lot of ordinance, releasing forty Mk-82 500 lb bombs upon the docks, erupting a blaze upon the water front. As Charlie Vector approached closer to the encampment, now awoken, twenty of the thirty six 750 lb CBU class bombs were dropped upon the areas around the camp and a building that groups of the Corslaki soldiers seemed to swarm to.
The building would later be figured out to be the barracks, as the soldiers were swarming in there to grab their weapons and attempt to shoot back. Their ranks were being blown to bits and in minutes, Charlie Vector's target was reduced to flames.
However the other two target were not as lucky as they were warned by the first target of incoming enemy planes. As their target was a Vectis farm house, told be housing a stock pile of weapons and perhaps even biological weapons, and the other the Vectis Araedin Villa House, there was much more defenses. But the defenses were small and little and it would be pure luck if a sinlge defense system of their did a damned thing.
But it was luck as the doors to targeted farm house opened and a M109A6 Paladin self-propelled howitzer rolled out, crushing the tall grass below it. It opened up and started firing rounds into the sky, and the same pure luck clipped the wing of Charlie Kilo, sending the bomber into a tail spin. As smoke and fire filled the sky around the descending air craft the pilot began to start the eject sequence, but at the moment he would've be sent out of the air craft, a second round caught below the cockpit and brought the charred plane to pieces.
Charlie Foxtrot did not meet much resistance but caught a glimpse of the death of Charlie Kilo and hastened his run. Due to heavy fire, he was only able to get close enough to the villa to drop the ordinance and have it blow in the windows and char off a side.
"Charlie Vector! Charlie Kilo is down, I repeat, Charlie Kilo is down. Abort Operation Downfall."
The after burners kicked into gear and the lights in the sky signifyed the begining of the war between the motherland and her colony that would come to be called the 46 Hour War.
“When liberty comes with hands dabbled in blood it is hard to shake hands with her.”
-Oscar Wilde
Saturday, 3:37 PM
Araedin Villa, Vectis
The Republic of Corslak
A bead of sweat ran down the Consul's, Lawrence Wembley, nose, dropping quietly onto the piece of paper in front of him. Wembley had been born in humble beginings, to a farm near Middleton. Now he sat at the top of twenty-seven million men, held responsible for three thousand dead as he reluctantly held a ballpoint pen between his thumb and pointer finger. Gazing deeply into the paper that had been passed from hand to hand. From the hollow halls of the Presidential Palace in Easen to the the small villa in Vectis that had been made the Capitol Building, barely visible from all around due to debris that had landed in the area, the paper traveled to be read by Lawrence Wembley. His hand quivered as it hovered above the black signature line.
It had only been a week since the artilley fire stopped pounding the Chesterfield Coast of the city of Noumea, and in those seven days the Imperial Republic had made a rush to regain Corslak under Grestonian control. Thomas Ronson was the man who had led seventeen thousand militia units who had learned how to handle a rifle playing Call of Duty to a victory against the greatest fighting force in the whole of the Mediterranica. Ronson in comparison to the Consul was feeling rather cheerful and was fully for embracing the Grestonians once again, which he mulled over by breaking open a bottle of champagne he had found in the basement of the villa.
“We are lucky to be alive at any rate, Lawrence! We are no men to be running a nation, my chap, you that of a farmer's son, and I'm actually a bastard. Do you Striker doesn't actually know his real father? Or that Batther was raised in a cow pen next to the poorest city in the republic? God forbid," the man seemed to have a dance to his speech, "were we to be invaded by truer foes? And that such an invasion was not obvious?" - the man exclaimed so vigorously that some of the luke warm champagne he had been relishing on was soaking into the carpet.
"They abandoned us, Tom. You of all people should know how it feels to be abandoned," the Consul had not said it to be disrespectful but it sounded any thing but, "We wer-"
Ronson butt in rather ferociously, "You think because my dad had the attention span of an ADD child that I should think horribly of every person that ever gives up something?" he snapped at Wembley
“It is the the only thing to do, Lawrence,” he urged once more into his ear. He was persistent with his opinion. It would be a signing that would cede over the lives of twenty seven million people that had been abandoned and nearly extirminated. Every eye in the room had gazed upon the parchment, from the solemn glare of the Consul Lawrence Wembley, to the dancing, persistent witness of Tommy Ronson, to the calm, competent gaze of Praetor Governor Allan Roparzh; from Chief Governor Leighton Kory Lincoln, Governor Kenny Chauncey Deandre, Governor Hale Felix to villa owner William Grey Araedin, every man in the upper echelons of the Corslak Government had seen the terms of the contract. And the house seemed to be split directly down the middle.
Corslak would be free. That was, after all, the purpose of the war, and that goal would be accomplished. Or Corslak could be protected, and thrive under a falste power. It was regrettable that the deaths of one million Corslaki militia men would be forgotten and cancelled out if the latter were taken. But the fear of being conquered whilst her own sovereignt brought up what some thought would lead to hundreds of years of suffering and oppression.
“By god, Lawrence, just sign the damn thing already,” Ronson muttered, his breath causing the hairs on the back of the Consul’s neck to stand on end.
“An oppressed Corslak will not favour well upon our people.” The Consul turned in his chair and faced him, Ronson’s face backlit, barely visible against the dusk sunlight streaming in. “We must decide here and now how far we are willing to go to protect our victory here. Were the deaths defending Corslak from the Infinite Empire useless? Why trade in our freedom won from one opression to another? Are we willing to now put aside war, and embrace Greston? Will we be their pansy and counter act the victory brought on the backs of so many Corslaki and Yallakian boys?”
There was a long pause as the Consul’s eyes met those of Wayland Meirion Trevor Corslak, his faded portrait hanging as a memorium to the Cori lives lost in the name of freedom during the Victorian War, specifically the onslaught of the Londinian Victorian Empire at the closing of the eightteenth century. He closed his eyes and gripped the pen harder, thinking deeply upon the events of past. A breath, long and drawn, escaped his throat, and he opened his eyes, turning back to the uniformed man illuminated by the dusk rays of the sun over Vectis.
“No, Corslak will be free.”
Saturday, 4:46 PM
Presidential Palace, Easen
The Imperial Republic of Greston
"No?!"
The nostalgic, brashful, defiant two letter mummer of a word lifted from the tired throat of an aging politician and floated through the Capitol Building. The paper that had been written by Striker's secretary and passed down to the Foreign Affiars Office was thought to be immediately accepted by the crippling, regent government in Corslak. But it seemed that the Imperial Intelligence Ageny had not paid enough attention to the coarse of events post Grestonian withdrawal from Corslak as they momentary government seemed to want to the surviving twenty-seven million people themselves.
"How could they possibly survive a skirmish with the Yallakians?" Striker questioned the room filled with his upper cabinet members and the heads who had ordered the Grestonian withdrawal from Corslak. All of the politicians just stared back emptily, as no one knew how it was possible that such poorly trained, under equipped, and out numbered forces could win a battle against the Yallakians. Striker was trying to make the meeting process go faster as he was meant to catch a plane with Findlay L. Yale Eberhard and David Loyd Gregor to Bad Amberg for a conference.
The president decided it was not worth waiting any longer and he stood from his leather, brown chair at the head of the table and pulled on his jacket, hurriedly speaking, "I cannot speak any longer, Lane, you and Dom Mansel are placed in charge of this situation. I want you to give those Corslaki's a region to come back to the Imperial Republic. Actually 20,000, as I want the 89th Imperial Standard Brigade marching on our soil again."
Striker was then out of the room and the plotting began once more. An hour later, as Striker's private plane roared alive for his trip, the pilots of three B2 Spirit Stealth bombers finished fitting on their helmets and brought the engines to their sleak, metal, horses alive. Within the matter of half a day, the bombers ate up the distance between Serstabele and Corslak. Approaching on the Corslaki Bright, the expanse of picture perfect blue ocean between the island Noumea and the island Kerguellen, the bombers split their v formation, tipping their wings to the right, for Charlie Vector, or the left for Charlie Foxtrot and Charlie Kilo.
DRFM jammers were let lose by the government's command stations in the Grestonian proper, retransmitting Corslaki transmissions. RADAR blockers were thrown up and, essentially, a wall of electronic war fare stood between the Imperial Republic and the Corslaki defenses. The bombers were able to approach their targets with little to no interference. The first target was a small encampment of the actually trained Corslaki militants near Vectis. Charlie Vector unloaded it first lot of ordinance, releasing forty Mk-82 500 lb bombs upon the docks, erupting a blaze upon the water front. As Charlie Vector approached closer to the encampment, now awoken, twenty of the thirty six 750 lb CBU class bombs were dropped upon the areas around the camp and a building that groups of the Corslaki soldiers seemed to swarm to.
The building would later be figured out to be the barracks, as the soldiers were swarming in there to grab their weapons and attempt to shoot back. Their ranks were being blown to bits and in minutes, Charlie Vector's target was reduced to flames.
However the other two target were not as lucky as they were warned by the first target of incoming enemy planes. As their target was a Vectis farm house, told be housing a stock pile of weapons and perhaps even biological weapons, and the other the Vectis Araedin Villa House, there was much more defenses. But the defenses were small and little and it would be pure luck if a sinlge defense system of their did a damned thing.
But it was luck as the doors to targeted farm house opened and a M109A6 Paladin self-propelled howitzer rolled out, crushing the tall grass below it. It opened up and started firing rounds into the sky, and the same pure luck clipped the wing of Charlie Kilo, sending the bomber into a tail spin. As smoke and fire filled the sky around the descending air craft the pilot began to start the eject sequence, but at the moment he would've be sent out of the air craft, a second round caught below the cockpit and brought the charred plane to pieces.
Charlie Foxtrot did not meet much resistance but caught a glimpse of the death of Charlie Kilo and hastened his run. Due to heavy fire, he was only able to get close enough to the villa to drop the ordinance and have it blow in the windows and char off a side.
"Charlie Vector! Charlie Kilo is down, I repeat, Charlie Kilo is down. Abort Operation Downfall."
The after burners kicked into gear and the lights in the sky signifyed the begining of the war between the motherland and her colony that would come to be called the 46 Hour War.