Indran Theater
Krierflot 'Targu Iulia', South of the Michcuatl Islands
Less games, more war...
In such tight confines, the two hundred or so ships of the Imperial fleet were packed closer than they'd otherwise be, like a dazzling longbow being drawn without arrow. Spanning in an arch that wrapped from east to west, a thick picket prowled the steady currents, on perpetual alert. Their many sensors scanned the horizons, always vigilant for an unknown enemy. This formation created a deep pocket in which the capital ships sailed, a thinner picket arrayed to their rear, although this one much weaker than the main early defense lines. Protected by this intricate pattern of cruisers, anti-air battlecruisers, and other escort ships, the Imperial battleships, aircraft carriers, and larger battlecruisers were truly stunning, sparkling under Utu's radiant heat. Above, a handful of Blackjesters patrolled in wide circles, small, agile Falcons darting in and out of the clouds around them. 'Targu Iulia's' combined strength could ruin a lesser civilization, and even against a stronger foe the Krierflot was a formidable force. It was truly fitting that the fleet's flagship was the KN.2270 Otium Aqua, the sole Feathermore class super dreadnought.
A Feathermore had been present then, at Otium Aqua. The very first, actually. It held the same name as the class. The HES Feathermore had been sunk soon after the battle, too. After initial successes, the Macabee battle group was eventually repulsed by a combined Stevid–Hitmen fleet. The English-speakers had sustained considerable damage, but they had won the initiative and they had snatched victory from closing Golden jaws. The remnants of the Macabee fleet returned to Macabea, where the surviving ships were moored for repairs. The Feathermore was sunk then, attacked by faraway Stevidian ballistic submarines. A sad story about a majestic ship that, in its day, was such a symbol of power, such a threat, that the foe had striven to sink it even after the end of the battle. That was what the KN Otium Aqua represented. It was intimidating. More symbolic than practical, but, then again, there was a certain practicality in the threat of its sheer presence. And, if anything, a navy with the money to waste on super dreadnoughts was a dangerous navy.
Deep within the mammoth ship's bowls was a command room, occupied just then by Admirant Strarl Verut, a tall, graceful Frommian provincial. He stood before a wall of digital maps with strange markings marking the positions of his ships. There were two other men in the room, Vicadmirant Norhau Krup and Linkapitán Ger Dardel. The former was Verut's permanent aide and the latter held responsibility over 'Targu Iulia's' battleships. They were also the two men Verut trusted the most, and he frequently drew upon their wisdom to scrutinize and inform his opinions, tactics, and strategies. They all stood separately, in different parts of the room. The Admirant turned from the digital maps to walk over to a beautiful globe carved from exquisite wood colored a perfect blend between light and dark, suspended by an arm attached to a greater platform made from the same material. With a push of his hand the globe split in half, the northern hemisphere rising like a hood, revealing an internal compartment holding a glass bottle of burbán, edges sharp and jagged. Around it were six small glasses, three of which he filled now with the caramel-colored liquor.
He took two, walked over to both men, one after another, and handed them their glass. They nodded and waited for Verut to grab his own. Then together, they took their first sips. The burbán burned down Verut's throat, any sweetness to the drink revealed only as a subtle aftertaste. Lubricated now, the admirant spoke, "Krup, what of reports from our advanced observers?"
He was referring to submarines sitting in isolation deep under the waves, hundreds of kilometers southwest and southeast of the fleet's position. These could help track covert naval movements around South Panooly and Omega. They weren't technically part of the Krierflot; instead, Stratadmirant Mijorán had sent them in report. They were independent formations belonging to Kriergrup 'Indras.' But, Verut had been prized with full control of the detachment, to use them how he needed. They would come in handy, and they might spare his ships and his men a nasty surprise.
"Only two of them have communicated with us," said the vicadmirant. "But, if the remainder aren't in place, they will be soon." He paused, but then went on. "We should still deploy any Blackjesters we can afford to patrol a wider arch spreading from the tip of southern Omega to the tip of South Panooly. It would help fill the gaps of the broader sub picket."
Verut shook his head in disagreement. "No, we cannot afford even one Blackjester. Our warning system here needs to be at full strength." He didn't bother to explain why. He assumed the other two men would understand his reasoning.
Krup harrumphed under his breath, slightly annoyed that his suggest had once again been brushed over. His recommendation had tactical merit. A full strength early warning system here could help minimize the damage of a swarm of missiles, but if the attack could be detected sooner perhaps it could be stopped before any foreign missiles were launched at all. With their aircraft carriers, 'Targu Iulia' could try to engage the treat at a far-off range. If the threat was too strong, such a tactic would help screen a tactical withdrawal, allowing the task force to be pull itself into range of Imperial aircraft in North Panooly and Indras.
Not oblivious to the wake of tension, Dardel attempted to arbitrate. "Our bombing missions over North Panooly continue without hiccup. But, as we all know, we are being supplanted by by the arrival of land-based Falcons and soon we'll have no missions there at all. We can apply more of our strength towards early warning, perhaps allowing us to free a Blackjester."
The stratadmirant stood silent and turned back towards the screens. He apparently hadn't been swayed by the linkapitán, either. The awkwardness of the situation was fortunately soon interrupted by the entry of a lesser officer. Bearing news, he wasted no time to reveal it and he met no resistance from Verut, who was looking for an excuse to end the debate then and there. The younger officer spoke first, "The regulies, sir, they've started to form on the deck of the Kornela."
"Ahhh, yes," responded Verut, his grey hairs flickering under the dim light of an overhead bulb, as he moved to grab his coat from a hangar near the bunker's door. He turned to the other two high officers. "Dardel, return to your post. Krup, tell me when all subs are in places." The two of them nodded. The admirant turned back to the lesser officer. "Is the helicopter ready?"
"Yes, sir," affirmed the young man.
Verut gently put his coat arm, fitting his left arm into the proper sleeve first, the right arm next. He closed the proper number of buttons and then followed the man out. Sailors working in the maze of hallways snapped to attention as the Feathermore's commander passed them by. As they did, he smiled at them and dismissed them. Without wasting much time, they trotted up a number of staircases. Even at his age, Verut panted little, his breath quickly returning to him. He believed in being prepared and he took great care to hustle up and down those stairs each and every day, maintaining his form. Finally, they broke-through to the deck of the super dreadnought, the harsh seaborne winds now whipping past them violently, his jacket rippling in violent defiance. The younger officer led the fleet commander through a labyrinth of working sailors, none of whom who stopped to look, too engrossed in the task at hand. A small distance away, a helicopter's rotors spun against the howling gale, the faint trace of a cyclone surrounding it like a translucent halo.
There was a guide there waiting for them, directing them inside the chopper. Within minutes they had lifted off the steel deck of the Feathermore and Verut was headed towards the KN.7026 Kornela, a massive aircraft carrier sailing a good distance away from the fleet's flagship, yet still technically the closest ship to it. Along the crest of its deck bristled aircraft of various kinds, some of them moving, ready to take off. Others were circling above, waiting their turn to land. Verut could make some other activity out as well, including the now complete formation of some fifty soldiers. They stood in front of a parked formation of Nightblades, identifiable by the irregular and impossible angles that shaped them. Still something of a secret, since they were used on a very limited basis, they could insert a team of soldiers deep into enemy territory with minimal risk of discovery. Verut turned away, looking at the chopper's crew sitting around him. Some of them were looking too. Troop deployments from the krierflot weren't common. The stratadmirant had already told his aide Krup to spread a false rumor that His Imperial Majesty himself had authorized the deployment of Bandag 'Blodøkskompaniet' — having apparently succeeded in their task of pacifying Monzarc — to North Panooly.
In truth, they were headed in the opposite direction.
Somewhere South of the Indras–Omega Frontier
Anti-Lamonian and Morridane covert operations begin...
Sargént Hans Carls' boots made but the faintest sound as he swung down from the black prism above, permanently present but elusive, its shape swallowed by the dark. Even farther up through the clear, yet impenetrably black sky, Gunara — Nammu's second moon — cast its dim reflection, accomplishing little more than forcing a pearlescent tone. Hidden within a larger jungleland, isolated forests of tropical flora that marked the southern reaches of the Indran rainforest, Carls' three men enjoyed a serene welcome to their arrival in Omega. Not even the tall trees stirred, winds still. Disturbing that tranquility were only Carls and his men, the quiet Nightblade, and the symphony of jungle animal noises. Multilegged insects screeched, a distant jaguar roared its cry of war, and beautifully patterned snakes of scaly skin carved evil paths through the loose mud dominating the ground. If there were enemies there, the Cottish regulie would know. He could not speak for the other nine fire teams, but his group was at least safe — for now.
They had been inserted via Nightblade, which had come from the west, where the Imperial fleet lay. They stuck close to the waves, then rising only just a bit, adjusting to the terrain. All ten choppers came together, sharply skewing their flightpath southwards once they had arrived to a position about ten kilometers west of the the occidental Indran shores. From there they had all split up as planned, each attempting to pierce through whatever warning systems the Lamonians and their allies had managed to put in place. Going in at it alone would decrease the chance that all of them be detected, but it increased the chance of dying if they were detected. Again, Carls couldn't speak for the other teams. Their fates did not concern him, for he had a great deal of work to do ahead of him. All his men had hit the ground by then and the peculiar stealth helicopter begun to pull away back into the night sky. Soon, it would return with another team. By then, however, Carls and his men would be long-gone. Each ekipé was outfitted to act independently of each other, like a decentralized network of terrorist cells.
The overwhelming peacefulness of it all was sharply shattered by Kabo Makinen, who spoke over the secure com embedded on the right edge of the front of his helmet. "I don't see nuthin' out here, sargént."
Carls scanned the frontier around him in a three hundred and sixty degree angle. This was the second time now. The display unit stretched across his eyes transmitted various data, quickly analyzing the surrounding area, interpreting it, and spitting information out arrayed in a space-efficient dashboard. Nothing but wildlife and plants. Still, you could never be too sure. "Makinen, goddammit, keep quiet."
Taking another minute to determine his next move, he finally motioned to his ekipé with his palm in the air, leading them through the jungleland. Unlike the nightmarish jungles of Zarbia, where Carls' Bandag 'Blodøkskompaniet' had helped first conquer the country, in this part of the Indran island the forestry was accessible and, best of all, finite. He heard that the jungles up north of the Frontier were much more difficult to traverse, but he'd believe it when he'd seen it. Here, where mammoth roots were rarer, and the flora was less dense, it did not take long for the four Cottish legionaries to finally exit the jungleland and enter a broad grassland, occasionally pocked by tropical woodlands such as the one they had just left. From there, they continued onwards in a southeastern directions. They seemed surprisingly and confidently knowledgeable of their destination, although none of them had touched Omegan soil before this. On and on they trudged, passing through new junglelands and exiting into new grasslands. Time blended and lost relevance, and soon enough the third moon had arisen and passed, and finally Utu crept up into the heavens and engulfed the eastern horizon.
The heat swelled and the moisture manifested as a torrent of sweat beneath their armor and their uniforms. Soon they stopped and another kabo, Saksa, rose his arm to point at some speck up far ahead. "You see that, sargént?" He closed his left eye, as if peering down the sights of his rifle. "Yep, those are definitely humans. They're headed our way, too."
Either they were those Carls and his men were searching for, or they were civilians, or they were hostile forces. The chances of a firefight were two out of three. That didn't seem to bother Carls, as he had seen plenty of firefights in his lifetime. Several sizable scars throughout his body, including one stretching across his right jaw, were testament to his experience. "Sit tight, Saksa. Heikkila, Makinen, split-up and watch our flanks. Saksa, come with me."
The other two men did as ordered, while Saksa followed the sargént towards the abstract forms of men in the now nearer distance. Carls pressed something and his display unit turned into digital binoculars, zooming his sight towards those were heading towards them from the east. They were of darker skin and wore the rag-like uniforms of insurgents. They were those who the ekipé had sought out. The sargént halted alongside Saksa and then called over the other two men. Just like that, they marched on, meeting the insurgent envoys halfway.
When they finally met, Carls clasped the forearm of who seemed the leader of the group, the other man meeting his salute. "You must be Radu," said the sargént.
"I am," nodded the assumed leader. He waved to the other five similarly-dressed men behind him, "We are your escorts."
Radu's díenstadi was a bit rough, but Carls could fortunately still understand the garbled version of the regal tongue. Speaking slowly, the sargént delivered his terms, "Give me one of your men to lead us to your camp, you take the rest of your men and follow behind us. We'll march up ahead."
The Indran nodded his head again. He had obviously been told to follow the Macabee's orders. Before he left, he looked Carls up and down, and then said, "You know, your presence here means nothing, Imperialist."
The Cottish sargént shot back a penetrating stare. "What are your meaning to say? Speak your mind, Indran."
"Your people will always be Imperialists. You help us now, and we will eventually turn that help against you." There was a solemn seriousness about the conversation, and Radu seemed to imply a certain inevitability. "We will still operate north of your imperialist border, we will still infiltrate, and after we push the Lamonians back into the sea, we will come for you."
Carls' lips curled in the shape of a heinous smile. "Sounds like fun." His smile faded, and he looked towards the uncertain distance, finally finishing his thought, "For now, however, I think we can both agree to focus on the Lamonians. Then, we'll let everything sort itself out."
The Thinning Jungles of Southern Indras
Macabee units being mopping up the insurgency in the territory...
Lasagos Ankil Verdát's small convoy was met halfway from Barbakán 'Barboja by a large mechanized forced. Apparently, the insurgent presence in the immediate area had multiplied. The vanguard of the great insurgent migration was just making it through to the Radictistani-side of the Frontier. Soon the main insurgent body would sweep through, tens of thousands of trained Indran warriors attempting to outrun the incessant Macabee bombardment to their north. Even as they moved south, Macabee GLI-76 Falcons hassled and harried them, dropping mass murdering bombs and precision missiles on the roving crowd of militants now increasingly revealed in the thinning foliage below as they continued to advance. Verdát barely made it to 'Barboja' before the core wave of migrants hit the zone. But, the thunderous noise of battle could already be heard from all quarters, the clatter of small arms fire in the distance joined by the louder, explosive crash of artillery fire. The sun was setting to the west and the sky was painted alive with the colors of war, drenched predominately in red, the color of blood.
Later that night, sitting safely within his armored command post, he was joined by his bodyguard Thiago Partrude. Outside, the sounds of fighting still clashed against the hollow sky. Verdát took a sip of burbán, his face torn in frustration, and he said to the infantryman, "Partrude, you realize that we are not surrounded by our enemies." Not so much of a question as it was a statement.
The other man arched his eyebrow, a scar running beside his eye stretching in tandem. "Are the Cesçus not our enemies?"
"No," responded Verdát, turning his gaze towards Partrude. "On this side of the Frontier, they are merely rebellious subjects that we must attempt to force into order. On the other side, they are our allies. Our true enemies lay in that direction." He fell silent for a moment, rose from his chair, and walked over to a large political map of the island. He outstretched his arm, sweeping the inside of his hand across the image spread on the wall before him, his brain thinking, computing the implications of world events.
Partrude interrupted the lasagos' thought process. "You know I'm not much of a big picture thinker."
The officer released a deep laugh. "You underestimate yourself, son." He looked at Partrude, then back at the map, adding, "The answer to who our enemy is, or will be, is much more obvious that you think. I will give you a little hint. That Frontier isn't as stable as you might think."
The infantryman shook his head, as if uninterested in continuing with this particular line of conversation. The lasagos seemed to understand, so moved on to some other topic regarding the base and the ongoing battle outside. Apparently, while the militias had mostly keep themselves busy continuing southwards, rather large groups of them had decided to at least attempt to attack the major forts along the border. Some of the smaller-operating bases were overrun, although most of these had been abandoned in anticipation of the migration, and 'Barboja' was herself had been assaulted intermittently throughout the night. Despite their efforts, the insurgents were not able to breakthrough into the camp and most of their efforts ended with their slaughter. Imperial air superiority, of course, made any other outcome unlikely, so it wasn't as if the men at 'Barboja' had accomplished a great dead. The Indrans were but flies swarming only to be swatted away. It was no wonder that the lasagos had not seemed particularly concerned about them.
As the night came to an end, Partrude came to the sudden realization of the veracity of Verdát's argument. Would a man call a fly his enemy? An inconvenience, perhaps. An annoyance, certainly. But, they weren't an enemy. They were a minor cause of frustration that was better off eliminated. Hopefully their migration, driven by an expanding carpet of bombs, would accomplish just that.
