This section of trees, like many found in blotches on the hilly grasslands of Azurlavai, was thick, dense and, at times untraversable. This was their main attraction for cabins built to get away from 'it all', ('it all' meaning a variety of things) and it often worked. The only way to get to the place was either on foot or with a single specific dirt road. That's exactly what these men were counting on, about a dozen or so gathered here at this cabin as the sun set and the light faded, even fast here in the trees. A cluster of horses was tied to a rail out front, and a small garage containing a single truck sat off to the side, looking as though it hadn’t moved in some time.
Except these men weren’t here on vacation. Their scruffy outward appearance, scavenged gear and mismatched weaponry told of a different story. As did the trio of men, hanging from the trees nearby, their heads in nooses and the life drained from their eyes as they swung lazily, turning slowly. These men had been ambushed, abducted, beaten, and finally executed, their killers taking sick delight in keeping the bodies around. Inside the cabin itself, two women worked feverishly to prepare a meal with what few ingredients they had, while a portly and particularly tattooed thug watched them with equal idleness and lust, cradling a sawn-off shotgun. Though Azurlavaians were not known for their softness, these women had exhausted their tears over their menfolk, and instead focused on staying alive another day.
Outside, most of the outlaws were either attending to their horses, their guns or were gathered around the truck, attempting to put their limited mechanical knowledge to work. Down by the river, a trio were idly shooting cans, bottles, rocks, trees and anything that happened to move as target practice to replace their boredom. In a few minutes, they’d head inside for their dinner, and hopefully get a turn or two with the new female captives. They’d had good success along this route, poaching caravans and even toppling a fascist convoy, hence their heavy state of armament. In the basement, they had accumulated a small fortune of centra bills (rather worthless out here, but still good tender) some gold, jewels and the more expensive samples of their weapons and ammunition. It was easy to be rich in this day and age as a renegade, and in fact a few of the guys had worked as mercenaries and raiders during the fighting. Now the war was over, however, it was a little more dangerous because the government was actively hunting them, but it was all worth it at this point.
So caught up in their success, however, the outlaws did not realize that they were being watched. The forest had grown eyes, dull green ones that glinted in the low light, fitted to dark shadows as they moved silently through the trees. They slowly surrounded the encampment, a pair of shadows detaching to pursue a lone outlaw who had wandered away to relieve himself. Having just finished up, the man was preparing to head back before a strong black hand wrapped itself around his face, pulling his head back. For a second, the murderer struggled before a vicious serrated knife was drawn over his throat, which leaked crimson like a waterfall. The man’s eyes widened, and he struggled even harder before falling still.
Around the edge of the encampment, the four posted guards fell in the same way, one by one, either with their throats slit, necks broken or two light coughs to plant coin-sized holes in their bodies. Finally, the perimeter was clear, and the shadows moved in.
The thug on the porch raised his cigarette to take another pull, but before his lips closed around the smoke, half of his head disappeared in a blast of red, splashing the wall behind him with blood, bone and brain matter. The nearest good spun his head around, but before he could react, he as well took a shot through the throat, collapsing in a heap as he bled out silently.
The attack began in full after that, the shadows rising from the brush with black, suppressed weapons in hand, coughing out short bursts and painting trails of crimson dots up their targets. One outlaw ducked behind the truck, only to be hill by another shot through the engine block by the sniper on the hit. Two more ducked behind their horses, drawing pistols and firing blindly. For their trouble, their mounts were also cut down, crushing the men and leaving them vulnerable to be finished off at close range.
In the cabin, the portly thug kicked open the door, shotgun up and ready, but a black-gloved hand swept out, grasping around the muzzle and thrusting upwards, causing the buckshot to blast out an enormous hole in the overhang. The goon barely had a second to gawk in outrage and astonishment before a barrel pressed under his chin, and two light puffs ended his life. Outside, it was chaos for a few seconds more, until the area finally fell silent.
The two women in the cabin gawked both at the corpse before them and the specter who had killed him, a soldier standing in jigsaw forest camouflage, black gloves, boots, kneepads and body armor. A balaclava obscured their face, and the coal scuttle helmet was dressed in a cloth covering to help it blend in, but the most prominent feature was the large, googly green lenses over the figure’s eyes. The soldier paused for a second before raising a hand and, surprisingly, said in a female voice “Kilo, status.”
”2, clear.”
“4, clear.”
“3, clear.”
“5, you’re clear.”
“7, clear.”
“6, just finished off another one. Clear.”
“Confirm, Kilo has cleared the area. Set up the perimeter. Zofen, kick our report up the chain. We’ve got two civilians to extract.”
”Jawhohl, Oberluetnant.”
While their radio specialist busied himself with such a task while the rest of the team immediately drew up a small perimeter, down on one knee with their MP-61s trained on the treeline, Kilo Leader reached up, pushing her goggles up and tugging the balaclava down at the same time before holstering her Kalt and holding a hand out to the two terrified women in front of her.
“Come on. It’s safe now. We’ve got a ride coming in, you’ll be getting out of here.”
As the two captives broke into relieved tears and stumbled forward to finally leave, Oberleutnant Astrid Deinhardt wondered at how this was a typical day at the office.
Kastell Isolation, Heer Kampfakademie und Verteidigungsbasis
"Triangle" border between Gallgher, Liam and Dhuria states
Kastell Isolation was as old as Azurlavai itself. Perched strategically at the top of a cliff right in the middle of what was now the borders between Gallagher, Dhuria and Liam states, it served as the perfect strategic measure to secure acres and acres of grassland and forest. With its high, solid walls and fortified keep and towers, it had survived an eon of unremitting warfare, and even served as a point of resistance against the Guan Dynasty. The castle had changed hands so many times, as a matter of fact, no one was sure who built it, though with the current conflict who could really care so much?
Up in one of the chambers, Oberst Wolfgang Mannheim peered up at his printer, raising an eyebrow as something began rolling out. Thankfully, he could read upside down, and quickly confirmed the report was coming from the radio room’s computer. A comm. report coming in? Something good, he hoped. His prayers were answered when the report fully printed, and he smirked as he stood, grabbing up his officer’s cap and snugly pulling it down over his brow, sliding his Kalt into its holster and finally grabbing up the now-dried sheet before he strode out.
As he strolled down the halls, other soldiers stopped and made way for him, from simple cadets all the way up to full-fledged kapitans and majors. Kastell Isolation, after all, was not just a major Allied Heer base, it was also home to the Heer Kamfakadamie, the army’s center of officer training and battle strategy. It boasted one of the largest garrisons in the entire country belonging to the central government, and though both Gallagher and Liam had been reluctant in giving it up, they had both agreed it was vital to use in keeping the states from killing each other.
Outside, a storm had moved in, and dark clouds rolled above their heads. For now, Mannheim trekked across the battlements without moisture coming down, but it wouldn’t be long before the clouds opened up in the night sky and drenched everyone below. Ever since the Republic had moved in and taken the ancient feudal fortress for their own purposes, the old catapults and trebuchets had been replaced by machine guns, flakvierling turrets, howitzers, mortars. It was a clash of old and new, a melding of ancient siege mentality and modern firepower. The drawbridge had been replaced by one made of concrete to accommodate tanks, the portcullis by a reinforced steel door to resist artillery and rockets. The same treatment had been made throughout the rest of the castle. Electric networks, phones, the throne room turned into a massive dining hall, wings turned into barracks and armories. The old became the new, and the new had to fit around the old. A building of paradoxes if there ever was one.
Below, in the main yard, a large formation of trainees marched in step, conducting parade ground measures to the bellowing of their drill instructors, who were sharply calling out mistakes for the entire formation to see. These were no mere conscripts, of course. These cadets were in the process of qualifying for command of their own, and had come highly recommended by their units, though less than half of them would pass the stringent trials. The regular soldiers, meantime, conducted their duties as usual, running from place to place with rifles held at the ready, vehicles rolling through to the motor pool or the supply yard. There was a regiment’s worth of troops stationed here in the castle alone aside from the cadets, and operations conducted led the entirety of the 53rd Grenadier division in this area, as well as cross-operations with the Luftwaffe in the area and, when permitted, the State armies of Gallagher and Liam. The Gallagheriscen were particularly difficult to work with, as they firmly believed they needed no help, and being the most militaristic even by Azurlavaian terms, they could be right. There was only one posting in the ultranationalist state, known as Einherjar in the north and the only area in Gallagher where the central government had any authority at all. Needless to say, trying to reign in those fanatics was a task all in itself.
It was up on one of the higher battlements that Mannheim found his superior, just as he expected. Major General Maxim Berger was a man who like to contemplate, and from up here the entire castle and all its defenses and personnel were visible, stretching out before them. Berger nodded as Mannheim approached, not even turning to glance at him as the Oberst came to attention.
“You have a report, Wolfgang?”
“Ja, mein General. Word came back from Kilo-6. The hit was a success.”
The general turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“That is good news. Also unexpected. I figured the intel would be bad like the others. Do we have route 34 secured?”
“The 12th Panzer regiment was sent to sweep down to the south, mein Herr. They’ll head down to Dhuria and report before coming back.”
“Ja, ser gut. Looks like we’ve finally got a break come our way.” The aging general glanced into the sky, away from all the lives he commanded, who put their absolute trust in him, and blinked, squinting as he stared at the clouds. “Let us go inside, Wolfgang. Before we get drenched. I get the feeling your report is not yet complete, ja?”
