Der Krieg vorbei gegangen (PT, Reboot, IC)

by **Organized States** » Sun Feb 22, 2015 3:11 am

...For I send you out like sheep among wolves...
-Matthew 10:16

Supreme Headquarters for Allied Forces in Daitschland, 45 Bächer Strasse, Frühling
10:30 A.M.
February 15th, 1953

The Allied Headquarters for Daitschland was not a grand or ornate building, being just a simple, 4 story, tan-brick office building surrounded by a wrought iron fence. On the front of the building, five flagpoles protruded, each holding a flag of the Allied nations with the center flag holding the light blue flag of the Allies. Luftarmee Major Franz Adler put out the Lucky Strike and got up from the wooden bus stop bench across the street from the Allied Headquarters, grabbing his leather briefcase with his gloved hands as he stood. He quickly walked across the street through the crosswalk as the morning February cold nipped at his exposed face underneath his blue-grey crush cap before presenting his identification papers to an O.S. Army Military Policeman who stood inside of the unheated wooden shack next to the Fence gate, who promptly saluted before Adler responded with a salute of his own. The MP quickly opened the metal gate, allowing his entrance into the building. The lobby of the building was nothing particularly special, the only particularly outstanding pieces other than the receptionist's desk were the couches and coffee tables. Adler walked through another security checkpoint, at which another M.P. looked through his briefcase, looking for spy cameras or the likes, before he walked into the staff area. Dozens of local girls who worked as typists and Allied junior staff officers went about their business, paying no attention to the Luftarmee Major passing through.

Adler walked towards one of the doors at the very edge of the room. He tapped in the door's wooden frame in a quick knock before entering the intelligence officer's small, spartan-like office and stood at attention. The American intelligence officer, Colonel Franks, sat silently signing his name on multiple documents strewn about his desk.

"At ease." Colonel Franks, upon looking up from his paper, said to the Major before motioning to him to take a seat in one of the two wooden chairs in front of the Colonel's desk.

"Major, I'd like to apologize for my frankness, but I don't quite know what a West Daitschlandish instructor pilot would want an appointment with an intelligence officer." the Colonel continued.

"Sir, two days ago, I received these from a friend of mine. He went to great lengths to get these over the border." Adler said, pulling out a few photographs from his briefcase. They were all very clear, and showed dozens of MiG-15s and Il-28s lined up in neat rows on their flight lines. Each of the photos had a date written on the back of them, each showing a progressive increase in the amount of aircraft lined up. The Colonel's facial expression suddenly changed.

"Major, how do you know this man and how did he come across these?" the Colonel asked.

He was my wingman during the last war, when I flew fighters. He now lives on the other side of the fence, and he works as a pilot for Weltweit. He's been trying to immigrate for a number of years now." Adler replied.

"I see. Where did you fly?" Franks inquired. "I flew P-51s during the last war."

Adler gulped, quickly thinking up a response. Luftarmee records from the last war had all been destroyed, it was unlikely that Colonel Franks could ever find out.
"The Eastern front, against the Soviets." Adler replied. That was a lie. A good one, but still a lie. Anyone who admitted to flying against the Allies during the War was almost immediately a pariah. Their career would stop almost as soon as it began, with the new Luftarmee only having been founded two years ago to match the new Eastern bloc threat.

"I see. Major Adler, thank you for bringing these to my attention, I'll look into it further, and I'll be in touch." the American Colonel replied, putting the photos into his desk.

"Thank you, Colonel." replied Adler, and with that the meeting ended.

89 Bauer Strasse, Frühling
1:12 P.M.
February 15th, 1953

Franz Adler sat silently reading this Sunday edition of the Frühling Tribun at the family dinner table. It appeared that the Luftarmee had finally gotten a another full wing of the Mk.4 Sabres that it had received last year operational, bringing the number up to three. Then, the lock began to click before the door opened to the small apartment, revealing his 19-year old daughter Emma and his wife, Laura.

"Du schon wieder verpasst Kirche, Vater." Emma scolded. His decision to work this Sunday had obviously upset his deeply Catholic family.

"Ich weiß, ich entschuldige mich. Also, was ist neu mit euch, mein schöne Tochter?" Franz replied, quickly attempting to apologize for his absence before changing the subject

"Wenig. Philip wird zum Abendessen kommt heute Abend, nachdem er fertig fliegen." She said, mentioning the young OSAF fighter pilot she had began dating a year before when she met him at Frühling University coming out of a Language class. He had decided to learn the language of the first country he was stationed in. His willingness to learn and his love for Emma were things that Franz admired him for, but somedays he could not understand the young man's quirks.

"Nicht, dass Clown wieder!" Franz laughed, teasing as Emma rolled her eyes.

F-86F Eagle Emma, Frühling AB
1:30 P.M.
February 15th, 1953

1st Lt. Philip McDonnell breathed into his oxygen mask as he braced with the weight of the G forces. He banked the F-86F quickly right as the CL-13 attempted to turn. He spoke once over the radio as his gunsight gave him the range to the West Daitschlandish CL-13, "Splash".

"Roger that Blue 2. Red 2, you've been beaten, I believe you owe us drinks tonight." replied Captain Matthew Edwards, Blue Flight leader over the radio. This sparring between West Daitschlandish Canadair CL-13 Sabre Mk.4s and other Allied fighters and OSAF F-86Es and Fs was nothing new. Though it was expensive in terms of fuel usage, the brass allowed in the manner that it allowed for new tactics to be developed and fighter jocks to keep their skills up.

"Oh Scheiße! You got those drinks, Blue Flight." said the West Daitschlandish pilot in his heavily-accented English. However, he would not be getting those drinks tonight. The young McDonnell was not a drinking man, having being raised by parents strongly in favor of temperance. He did drink on occasion, but never to the equal of his peers. Besides, why go to the officer club when he had a date tonight?

RB-45C Golly Gawker!, 2 miles off the East Daitschlandish Coast
6:24 P.M.
February 15th, 1953

The lone North American RB-45C slipped through the sky as the sun began to set over Europe. Major Oliver Sanderson scanned around the sky, watching for MiG interceptors as 1st Lt. Billy Mayer snapped pictures of the coastal airbase and radar installation from the retrofitted bombardier's area. The RB-45C was one of the many bombers that were retrofitted for long-range reconnaissance missions in the OS inventory. Though RB-47Es and the RB-52As had largely taken over the long-range recon roles, the RB-45C and the RF-86F both still found use as short range recon aircraft with OS Air Force Europe.

"Aww shit! MiGs! MiGs!" yelled the Co-pilot, Captain David Carlson as he spotted two sliver streaks with stubby wings climbing quickly towards the sky. One MiG-15 turned towards the RB-45C firing its 23mm and 37mm cannon head-on. Then, it all went to black.

OOC/Signups

by **Republic of Coldwater** » Sun Feb 22, 2015 5:43 am

Allied Headquarters, Frühling
6:57 PM
As typewriters rattle and people chatter, Lieutenant General Michael Acker walks into the headquarters, while holding a cup of hot coffee in his left hand, and a batch of documents on the right. He had just observed a training exercise involving the allied forces in a military outpost, and arrived later in the day, and to commandeer the Coldwateran forces in a time of high tension. Everyone looked very tense in the room, and the atmosphere was anything but jubilant.

Acker then walked into his office, in which his second in command, Major General Montgomery Preston held a single sheet of paper, snow white in color, and immaculate in condition. "Michael, some bird went missing a few minutes ago, haven't heard anything from it, here is the report on it, and the current position of Coldwateran forces"

"Thanks Mont" said Acker. The two men have been very close since they first entered the Army, and served covertly in the Russian Revolution against the Soviets. Both of them had fought with each other in the Second Great War, and called each other by their first names. Acker himself is a third generation Daitschlandian, with him speaking perfect German, and knowing the area well, thanks to not only his parents, who forced him to learn about Daitschland and Coldwater, but also his experience fighting the National Socialists in the Second Great War.

Acker looked at the sheet. "An OS RB-45C, alone, missing, Major Oliver Sanderson and Captain David Carlson" said the General as he skimmed through the report. His aide was beside him, and the aide was also reading it beside him. "Frank, try to radio that jet, if it doesn't respond, send in three CJ-72s, we will have to make sure that it hasn't been downed by those damn Commies".

The aide nodded, and ran outside to order contact. Acker pulled out a cigarette and light it, and as he indulges in the nicotine, he begins to lay his tired legs on the table and read the rest of the report.

"Second Reconnaissance is near the border right?" asked Acker. "Yes sir" responded Preston "Still monitoring the area, and at Camp Hawk, which is some 5 miles from the border" Preston had the smallest of details remembered, and served as a good second in command, and a good leader overall. Acker read through it, and nodded in approval as he saw the condition of the men. The Third Division had just finished a training exercise, as observed by Acker, and the First Division was 70 miles from the border, and able to quickly move if necessary.

Three CJ-72s, 2.75 miles off the East Daitschlandian Coast
7:44PM
"Last reported position" said a pilot as he sweeps down to look for the plane. The sun was basically down, and the men were still having no sight of the missing jet. They fly around the area as they desperately try to communicate with the lost jet. "Do you Copy, do you copy" can be heard all over the radio. However, they knew that the Communists were listening in, and they had to move quickly.

"Nothing" said the men. "HQ, subject nowhere to be seen, I repeat, nowhere to be seen" reported the pilot as the jets turn backwards. "What do you reckon happened to that bird" said a pilot "Don't know, malfunctions, we need a ground rescue team to save that pilot" said another. Suddenly, a gleaming rocket screams by and slams into one of the CJ-72s. "SHIT SHIT enemy bogies 6 O Clock" shouted a Captain as he hastily maneuvers his jet to fire at the MIGs. "HQ, unidentified bogies are shooting at us" said the Captain of another jet that was behind the first jet.

"Shit, report this to high command" said a radio operator, but when they try to send anything back, they get no response.

The pilots try their best to fire back at the MIGs, but the MIGs simply outgunned, and outnumbered the CJ-72s, and it was a lost cause. As the jets try their best to evade the glowing rounds and the gleaming rockets, and as they try to fire back with their cannons and rockets, they begin to progressively weaken, until the jets fly out of the sky, gone.

Allied Headquarters
8:05PM
As Acker finished his cigarette and tosses it onto the ashtray, his aide runs back in, panting, "CJ-72s, they, they are shot down, they can't identify what it was, but my guess is that the Easterners did this. "Mobilize the Reconnaissance Division at Camp Hawk, I want a clear observation of everything that is happening over there, and to find any of the downed pilots, if any survived, they know what is going on.

"Sir" said the aide as he runs out to order the resuce of any downed pilots and the mobilization of the Reconnaissance Division.

by **Hohenstaufen-Germany** » Sun Feb 22, 2015 6:39 am

Frankfurt am Main. 1953.
Emperor Friedrich III. was a man old as stone.
At least, it appeared to him sometimes.
When he was born, no one would have dared to built a building higher then the towers of the cathedral in Cologne, not as a building to live in. Now his view from his office in Frankfurt am Main showed him at least one office tower, which was close to it.
When he was born, the major ways of getting around were by foot and horse, with railway networks slowly getting a rise. Now cars and motorcycles were conquering the streets like a vicious army, far smellier then any horse could have ever been.
When he was born, the world hadn't really been at peace with itself. At least that stayed the same..., he though with a world-weary sigh.
The reason for this was the report in his hands. SMS Emden, an old light cruiser from the twenties, was on a training cruise with officer cadets, currently near Daitschland, a country devided in two by ideologies and arms. Despite her age however, the Emden had modern surveillance equipment onboard, the cadets needed to learn to work with these systems.
These had picked up, how two spy planes on two different occassions within a few days had been shot down over the eastern portion.
"It will escalate.", the Emperor predicted, immediately stopping the bickering of Admiral Canaris, his old head of the Intelligence Services, General Heibertauer, Chief of Staff of the Imperial Army, and Doktor Klöbner, his minister of foreign affairs. They had been bickering about the best way to proceed with this information. "It will escalate and it will be bloody."
None of the people present in the office argued that point, the Emperor had far too much experience in the workings of the world to not have significance. So, too, thought his eldest son, Crown Prince Wilhelm, who would one day be crowned Emperor, although the young Herzog of Swabia was more a protege to the old Emperor then his child. He currently sat in school, the workings of the world being taught to him by teachers and not politicians.
"Then how do we proceed?", Klöbner asked, leaning back from his agitated position against the two military officials.
"Mobilize the readiness troops, assure our neighbours, that it is nothing against them and organize transportation to Daitschland, but keep it low profile. And write a secret diplomatic message to the Organized States, Coldwater and the government of the western half of Daitschland."
"What about the Emden?", Canaris asked.
"Keep her on position.", was his order.
"What should we write, your majesty?", Klöbner asked.
"Simple... write them, that we offer them support, diplomatically, as well as, if needed, by the strength of arms."
General Heibertauer seemed thrilled. Klöbner wasn't.

by **The United Remnants of America** » Mon Feb 23, 2015 6:40 am

Fruhling Airbase, Fruhling
8:00 PM

"Sword 1-1, this is Sword 3-1. All lights green. Flight control has given Sword 3 Flight go to take off." The report through the radio was barely audible through the static of the channel. Only a trained ear could make out the report from the flight leader.

"Sword 3-1, Sword 1-1. You know the drill. Be back for landing at 0400. 4th Flight will take over from there. Have a good night, and safe flying." The blonde man with a week's worth of stubble leaned back in the wooden chair, setting the radio down and putting his hands behind his head. The name on his jacket, which was draped on the back of the chair read Maj. K. Simms.

"Copy, Sword 1-1. I'll bring her bak in one piece, Major." Keith Simms chuckled at the joke. He'd only been commander of the 32nd Air National Guard Fighter-Escort Wing for just over a year, now. And they'd only been posted here at the Fruhling AB for a few weeks, having been moved closer to the front from their home AFB in the Organized States due to the reality of war against East Daitschland.

Keith turned his head towards the door at a sound. Hanging from the doorframe was a young man, six years the junior to Keith's 32. "Hey, Major. Lee just got the movie from his girl back home, and we were able to, umm, borrow a projector from the PX for us to use. So, I was just wondering if you wanted to come and see it?" Lietenant Reggie Thompson was the pilot for Sabre 4-3, which was one of the two A-26 Invader light bombers under Keith's command. Keith also had twelve F-86A Sabres and two AT-6 Texans at his disposal as well, but all of them wer ecurrently doing Combat air patrols around Fruhling, with a little less combat than Keith would've liked.

Lee was Sword 2-1, the squadron's second flight leader, and his gal had been putting together a home video with all the friends and family of the 32nd back home, most of whom lived on their home AFB. Keith smiled at the thought of seeing his wife, Sarah, or his little daughter, 2-year old Lisa, in the video. He missed them dearly, as did most of the 32nd's flight crews and ground crews. There were 19 other people in his squadron he had direct command over, and almost a hundred-20 ground crew on the base keeping his squadron and other squadron's aircraft up and running. Keith rose to his feet with only a nod and grabbed his jacket before joining Thompson at the door and following his bounding eagerness down the hall to the squadron ready-room's lounge.

by **West Aurelia** » Tue Feb 24, 2015 4:46 am

Daitschland.

The same people. The same language. The same culture.

But split into two independent states. In the west stood a capitalist republic with free and fair elections supported by the Allied Nations Pact. In the east stood an authoritarian communist state, one of the many satellites which comprised the Eastern Bloc. Both claimed to uphold the superior system of government.

War was inevitable. A political cartoon had appeared in the popular Frühling Tribun showing the leaders of both governments standing in a pool of oil, each holding a match. It was no secret that both states wanted to be in control of all of Daitschland. The only unknown was who would light the match first.

--

Supreme Headquarters for Allied Forces in Daitschland, Frühling - 20:15, February 13, 1953

Nicolai Müller flipped through the report that had appeared on his desk five minutes ago. War was inevitable, the right-leaning papers cried. Maybe they were right.

One and a half hours ago, an OSAF RB-45C Tornado had gone missing near the East Daitschlandish border. Foul play was suspected. Half an hour ago, a search party of three Coldwateran CJ-72s had been shot down near the RB-45C's last known position. The Coldwaterans had already mobilized a reconnaissance division to locate the aircraft... or what was left of them.

The 45-year-old Müller, the son of Daitschlandish immigrants before the country was partitioned, had been the MID station chief for West Daitschland since 1949. His fluency in German and Daitschlandish background had landed him the job after rising through the MID's ranks. Normally, he resided in the West Aurelian Embassy just down the road. Ever since word got in that an allied aircraft had gone missing, he had sped to his seldom-used office in the Supreme Headquarters for Allied Forces in Daitschland. A young military analyst had handed him the report which he was now reading.

There was a high chance that East Daitschland was responsible. After all, four planes don't just go down like that. He wondered what they must have been thinking. Perhaps they were trying to provoke a disproportionate response and pin the blame for the conflict on the ANP.

Müller didn't like it. The match had been lit. Now it was time to see whether it would be dropped.

--

West Aurelian military activity in West Daitschland had been stepped up. Border patrols - both on land and in the air - had been increased. Combat readiness drills were undertaken by most units. Plans for an invasion - by either side - were drawn up and revised. Some on the left had criticized the militarism, but no chances were being taken.

One of the biggest fears among military leaders during this period of heightened tensions was the fifth column - Eastern sympathizers who would act to undermine the West from within should an Eastern invasion occur. These were the same people after all. Many had friends and family on the other side of the fence. Any suspicious behavior was to be reported, although the line between free speech and legitimate support for the enemy was blurred.

The oil beckoned for the match to fall.

by **The High Lords** » Wed Feb 25, 2015 5:36 pm

"Shit! You're not serious?" Ulyanin Mazhenisky said, turning around on Marcus Caeros. A young man of 32, he had been newly elected as the Chancellor of the Dozher Empire, and was entrusted to half of the nation. With him was Marcus Caeros, a 54 year old man, a quasi-veteran of international politics and the Consul of the Lovarium Dominion. Also in the room, but listening to the reports of the Consul, were the five High Lords of the Unified Grönist Dominion.

"I am serious. Planes falling all over Daitschland, people ready to point fingers, it's all out of control." Caeros confirmed. He looked toward the High Lords, wizened old men (and woman) full of knowledge and insight.

"Marcus. You know what to do. We've been planning for this moment for a while, ever since the last Great War. This is going to end up being a West versus East battle, with the leftists bearing the banner for the East. It's inevitable." Supreme Lord Pollacus Veriosi said, gesturing towards Caeros.

"Dig up Plan 72ADX. Those oil fields are key to this whole thing. The plan outlines exactly what is needed to seize the oil, secure the oil, and use the oil. You know, Mazhenisky and Caeros, that this is much more than the oil. As soon as 72ADX is complete, and the oil is ours, the Allied Nations won't stop. They won't accept that we've won, and will continue to fight. That's why you go to 72ADY, the invasions. The oil is key." said High Lord Miri Slavoutsky.

"But that requires going to war. We don't have a good enough army for this." Caeros said.

Mazhenisky interrupted, "We don't need ground troops. Just break out our naval forces and our air forces - all we need to do is make sure that we're in control of the skies, and the seas. If we can do that, we make our allies' lives easier on the ground. I'll go over the plans first, and then we'll meet again." He thought for a bit, and then excused himself, taking the two plans Miri had talked about from the cabinet to the right. The cabinet held every military plan that the Unified Dominion possessed, ready for every scenario that the world could come up with. After retrieving two manila envelopes that were marked as "TOP SECRET", he left. Caeros remained, and waited for further answer.

"Caeros, I don't know what more you want. The situation is simple - war. We have to go and support our allies. If you must, use the Grönist cover. Of course, we're always advocating for the Grönist ideology, but thus far, Daitschland hasn't really been an ideological target for us. Nevertheless, do it." Veriosi said.

"It's not that - I just don't know... about Mazhenisky. He seems too new for me." Caeros said.

"Ah, yes... That. We'll keep an eye on him."

by **Organized States** » Thu Feb 26, 2015 6:51 am

Supreme Headquarters for Allied Forces in Daitschland, 45 Bächer Strasse, Frühling
8:06 P.M.
February 15th, 1953

Colonel Franks moved out of the away of the Coldwateran junior officer before knocking on Acker's door and opening it. Sure, it was a breech of protocol, but wasn't the time for protocol.

"Sir, the Big Guy wants to talk." said Franks in the respectful but hurrying manner he could, he had just gotten a call from the big guy at his private residence, that wasn't good. He had been woken up. Even worse. The Coldwateran was the most senior officer at the office right now, now, that meant in MacDonnell's eyes, he was the one to talk too, and by extension, the most responsible if something went wrong.

Checkpoint Alfa, 45 Strasse
Franksburg, East Daitschland
8:06 P.M.
February 15th, 1953
(OOC: RPing as the Soviet Union until more Communist players come along)

Junior Sargent Vasily Chernako sat alone in the wooden guard shack as he drank from the single shot glass before placing it down next to the Vodka bottle. Damn Cold. The February air even chilled the liquid. сука. Sure, he wanted to serve the motherland and the Party, who didn't? But this far from home? From Talia? Нет. Damn the capitalists, damn the Americans, damn the Coldwaterans. And most of all, damn the Daitschlanders for starting this in the first place 12 years ago. He grabbed the Tolkarev TT-33 from the table, before drunkingly slid the magazine into the pistol and chambered a round. He quickly stood up and exited the guard shack, putting on the green steel helmet as he stumbled out the door. He stood alone on the road as he looked across the 8 meter dividing line. The Soviet fence dominated on side, while the Western fence dominated the other.

He saw his target, a single West Daitschland sergeant sitting alone in his own wooden guard shack, flipping through the pages of a magazine while sipping on a cup of coffee. "You would, wouldn't you? You western bastard." Vasily muttered to himself. He raised the pistol and aimed down the sights, before pulling the trigger. Then again, and again, and again.

Checkpoint Alpha, 45 Strasse
Franksburg, West Daitschland
8:06 P.M.
February 15th, 1953

The rounds struck the cabin with unrelating fury. 3 rounds went through the shack clean as West Daitschlandish Army Unteroffizier Schultz fell to floor, dropping his magazine and gripping the StG-44 as he took cover, before popping back up and firing a short burst into the Soviet before the Soviet fell backwards. Dead. Then, floodlights on the other side lit up before an alarm began to sound and multiple Soviet soldiers, all in their dark tan field uniforms, ran towards their dead Comrade. He was shooting at me. thought Schultz as the Soviets began to raise their AK-47 rifles towards his position, 8 meters from them. Schultz's mind raced before he picked up the red phone in front of him as a few 7.62 rounds tore through the cabin.

"SCHEIßE! Sie sind auf mich schießen!" He yelled into phone, stressing the fact that they were shooting at him.

"Sprich wieder Alpha?" asked the duty officer, questioning what seemed like an impossible possibility.

"Die Kommunisten greifen mich an!" Schultz said. That would get his attention. Then, he felt a massive pain in the center of his chest and leaned backwards, dropping the phone as blood began to pour out of his mouth. It then became dark. Extremely dark.

TVD, Building 45, 34 Strasse
Sttutvart, East Daitschland
9:30 P.M.

Colonel General Artoym Chernako stood over the massive map table in the underground bunker as both male and female junior officers went about their frantic business, confirming and double checking reports from the border. It appeared that the only firefight was occurring at Checkpoint Alfa in Franksburg. He reviewed his options, but all of them were unavailable without the STAVKA's approval. If he dared to act without them, he as well been defying the one man who could end him. He who wore the dreaded badge on his dark tan uniform and now stood across the map table from him. Viktor Gorbunov. His name spelled 'fear' across the face of every Soviet service member in East Daitschland. Head of the NKVD in East Daitschland, he could have anyone he wanted spirited away and never seen again. Then, a young Ukrainian woman walked up to Chernako and handed him a tele-typed piece of paper.

"Товарищ генерал-полковник, STAVKA Ставка утвердила план 32." The Ukrainian said, her eyes cast downwards out of a sign of respect.

"Хорошо, тогда мы будем делать то, чтоСтавка приказала" replied Chernako.

T-54 За Родину!, 45 Strasse
Franksburg, West Daitschland
6:30 A.M.
February 16th, 1953

The column of 20 T-54s of the 99th Guards Tank Division, 9th Shock Army smashed through the fences separating the two Daitschlands. A few Panzerfaust rockets streaked through the air being fired from the wooden guard towers and from windows of apartment buildings, one striking a T-54 behind Junior Sargent Yuri Kozakov's tank. The mighty T-54 was the direct descendant of the T-34 and the T-44, being the latest and most-well armored member of the line of combat vehicles. The match had fallen. It was clear as a group of Il-28s and MiG-15bis made a low pass before a set of explosions shook the ground. The war became very real as more of the 9th Shock Army crossed the border into the Western side of Franksburg.

by **Republic of Coldwater** » Fri Feb 27, 2015 4:48 am

Allied Headquarters, West Daitschland
8:06PM, February 15th, 1953

Acker was staggered for a while as an American just opened his door without asking. Regardless, he saw the tense mood of the man, and that he had something important to say. Acker allowed him to move in, and say what he wanted to say.

"Sir, the big guy wants to talk" said the American Colonel.

"Which Big guy?" asked Acker. He had known many people who were in high positions of power, and would be therefore "big guys". "If this was about the downed jets, we already know, and have mobilized our forces to fight against the Communists, and to rescue any pilots if any ejected"

Outside Franksburg, West Daitschland
6:54AM, February 16th, 1953
The first stop for the Reconnaissance Division was Franksburg. They had little air support, and had to move on foot to the area, but from their camp, it was quite far. The men had strolled through the night and woke up at 4:50AM to continue their march to Franksburg.

As the men near the city, smoke, ominous, black smoke begins to billow out of the reconstructed city. The men all chatter amongst themselves, confused, shocked and staggered. Many raised their AW-10s, thinking that a battle was ahead of them, while others simply dismiss it as nothing too big.

Suddenly, a huge, ear-shattering rumble rocks the city, and the sounds of a building collapsing is heard. Brigadier General Robert Johnson realized something was wrong, and he says simply to his aide "Move in, and check what the fuck is going on, radio HQ too"

"THE GENERAL ORDERS THE MOVEMENT OF TROOPS INTO THE AREA!" shouted the aide into the megaphone, and soon, the men begin to march into the city, into Franksburg.

Meanwhile, the aide opens his radio, inside a tank. There were a few tanks with them, but because this is a reconnaissance division, the need for them wasn't paramount.
"HQ this is Chancellor 1-2-9, request a sitrep on Franksburg over"
The men hoped and prayed that the radio would function, as signal wasn't particularly great over here, and communication was spotty over the past few days.

Suddenly, a grainy, barely audible sound emits from the radio.

"Chan.....HQ.....Franksburg...unknown......communication....v....spotty"

"They don't know whats happening to Franksburg" said the aide.

"Tell them what the fuck is happening"

"HQ, Franksburg has smoke coming out of it, large sounds, think there might be an attack, or internal violence"

"Chan...HQ.....will.....CJ-72s....move in......what....going on"

"Alright, orders from HQ that are the same as ours, great" said the General

"Also, Joshua, tell them to be ready for combat, chances are, there is some form of anti-allied violence going on"

"Forces, move in with caution, we may be entering a warzone"

Soon, the tanks move straight ahead, with its engines as full while the men of the recon brigade begin to run towards Franksburg.

Dussellburg Airbase
7:10AM, February 16th, 1953
Major General Joshua Anderson was a very stoic man, having seen the worst of humanity. Many of his airmen died in the Second Great War, and he himself was shot down in the first one, having barely survived and crawling through enemy territory, before reaching friendly territory where he was so weak, and so crippled that he couldn't even stand on his own.

After the war, Anderson had lacked any emotion, and couldn't deal with having a family. He soon divorced his wife, and lived on his own in airbases where he was stationed. He direct all his energies for work, and was known for not doing anything else but work. That was what made him a very effective leader, and soon became a Major General because of it.

"Major Anderson" said a Colonel as he ran up to him. Anderson nodded "HQ requests the use of 8 CJ-72s, we need a clear sitrep on Franksburg, we've lost communication, and the men on the ground indicate that something ain't right over there"

"Right, will deploy" said Anderson, and he soon said to an aide in the most passive tone possible, "send 8 CJ-72s to Franksburg, arm them with rockets and bombs in case they need to do some cleaning house"

Soon, the engines of the CJ-72s warm up and sing its hum, as the men begin to chatter and fuel the jet. Other pilots begin to wish each other luck, that god will be on their side, that they don't suffer the fate of the others.

Franksburg
7:52AM, February 16th, 1953
The men march in, and they soon realize that the situation wasn't simple, there was an invasion of the area. Rubble litters the streets as the lifeless, bloody corpses of others stay there. The men walk around, looking horrified at the carnage and destruction.

The tanks move around slowly, rolling over the ruins of buildings, but the rattle and crackle of gunfire keeps the men at ease, ready to fire at a moment's notice. The troops walk around, aiming their weapons everywhere, before a group of T-52s begin rolling towards them.

The Coldwater MBTs move into the city, looking for enemies as the men try their best, only before they see the Communists, with their tanks, and their forces, ready for a fight.

by **West Aurelia** » Sun Mar 01, 2015 5:54 am

Franksburg - 8:00am, February 16, 1953

Sergeant David Archer adjusted the sight on his sniper rifle. He laid in the shadows of the abandoned four-storey building on his makeshift sniper hide - a dining table he had pushed to the window and covered with a blanket. His adjustments complete, he scanned the low buildings around him for movement. They were just like the sky - grey, dull, lifeless.

The battle of Franksburg had begun an hour and a half earlier. The match had dropped the previous day, when an Eastern border guard decided to open fire on his Western counterparts without provocation. At precisely 6:30am, Eastern tanks had smashed through the fence dividing the same people into two states. The West Daitschlandish armed forces had been trained by West Aurelian, Coldwateran, and American advisors for the past few years. Now it was time to put them to the test.

It had been an open secret that war was coming - no one was surprised when it happened. Archer was a member of the Special Activities Group, West Aurelia's secretive tier 1 special forces unit which drew from each branch of the military to form a formidable fighting force. His platoon had been deployed the minute word got in that war had begun. As a sniper, he had been deployed to scout ahead of a major counter-attack. He could see the border in the distance and could clearly feel the rumble of tanks.

Fortunately, he thought, a West Aurelian officer had been among those killed at the border. Or unfortunately, for the officer in question. With the attack on an "asset of the West Aurelian government," as was written in the War Powers Resolution back in 1823, it saved the hassle of Congress having to declare war. His platoon - and any West Aurelian military force - could be deployed immediately.

The sound of jet engines roared overhead, interrupting his thoughts. He took his eye off the sight and watched as a flight of CJ-72s flew past. He had heard reports of Il-28s and MiG-15bis; the Coldwaterans would likely be heading to deal with them.

He sighed, wondering how he had ever made it past sniper school. His lack of patience was notorious among his platoon members. He looked through his scope again. How he longed for an Eastern soldier to poke his head out.

by **Organized States** » Sun Mar 01, 2015 7:07 am

Allied Headquarters, Fruhling
8:06 PM

"It's Doug." Franks said, mentioning the Allied Supreme Commander in West Daitschland, General Douglas MacDonnell. Doug was no doubt on the other end of the phone waiting, hopefully the Coldwateran would be the subject of his ire. Franks left the room, before proceeding back to his office in the corner of the room, far away from the activity. There, he kept a small pillow in the drawers of his desk, bringing hopefully some well-needed rest. It would be a long time before anyone would get any more.

(OOC: We could probably just drop this part for now).

45 Schmidt Strasse, Fruhling
7:25 A.M.
February 16th, 1953

1st Lt. Philip McDonnell sat up in the bed as the phone on the bedside table began to rang. What now? On today of all days? he thought as he looked over towards Emma's side of the bed, who had clearly already gotten up. Her modest one bedroom apartment had sort of become a secondary residence for him. Most people knew, if he wasn't at the barracks at the airbase, he was here. He picked up the phone and answered, "Hello?" rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Thank God, Phil. We need you here at 8. It's bad. We're getting all of the pilots we can together to fly a sweep down south. Most of the F-94s still haven't come back yet." came a familiar voice, Captain Edwards.

"Why? What's going on, Sir?" asked McDonnell as he stood up.

"The Reds have invaded Franksburg. The Daitschlanders have already shot down two Il-28s near Fruhling on Recce missions." Captain Edwards said, his frantic tone only multiplying the seriousness of the situation. It was all out war. Edwards continued to relay the details. Hundreds of Commie tanks reported in the South. They had already overrun half of Franksburg and were engaging the Coldwateran Corps to the south.

"Jesus, I'll get there as soon as I can." said McDonnell, quickly putting down the phone as he moved towards the closet, opening the wooden doors and frantically taking out one of his three Sage Green flight suits that he kept here for just this very reason. It had taken a while for Emma to let him store some of his equipment here, and her allowing of it was quite reluctant.

"Philip, are you up?" Emma's voice in her accented english came from the small kitchen and living room just outside of the bedroom door, the scent of fresh coffee coming through as well.

"Yes! I'll be out in a minute." he replied, slipping on the Flight suit over his white t-shirt and boxers before zipping it up and putting on the pair of black M1948 Russet Combat boots over his socks before walking out of the door into the living room and kitchen area. A clearly surprised Emma, still in her nightgown, stirred from her seat on the red couch in the living room. Two plates were set on the table, each containing breakfast, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

"You're leaving?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. He did have leave for another week.

"The Reds attacked Franksburg."

She sat back in her seat as her eyes began to space away, lost deeply in thought. She had friends in Franksburg. Philip leaned down kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back! I love you!" he yelled running down the stairs of the building towards the street.

Briefing Room, Fruhling AB, West Daitschland
8:06 A.M.
February 16th, 1953

After giving a taxi driver 100 Marks to "Holen Sie mich in die Air Base so schnell du kannst!" and after a slightly terrifying ride, involving 10 minutes of thinking he was going to die, McDonnell made a run across the airbase to the squadron ready room, then proceeded to suit up in a G-suit and grabbing his helmet before proceeding to the briefing room. The squadron was all located inside of the room, 24 pilots, all awaiting the mission briefing. The mission was simple, well, simple in the sense that it wasn't overtly complicated. Fly down to Franksburg and kill MiGs. However, what made all of the pilots' mouths drop was who was leading the flight of 12 F-86Fs. A Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Buchanan McGuire Jr. The 2nd Top scoring ace in the previous war against the Japanese right behind Bong, who had left in OSAAF in 1946, and was now a distinguished test pilot for Lockheed. Lt. Colonel Bong's exploits were legendary, exploited by the newsreels when most of the young pilots were kids, whether it was shooting down 3 Zeroes in a few minutes or narrowly avoiding crashing in the Philippines and shooting down more Japanese aircraft.

F-86F Eagle Emma, 20,00 feet above Franksburg
9:02 A.M.
February 16th, 1953

The A-1CM gunsight gave him a range before he pulled the trigger as he began the dive on the MiG-15. The 6 .50 caliber M3 machine guns chattered as they spat dozens of rounds of hot lead into the MiG-15bis' fuselage before it fell away and impacted the ground. No chute. The G forces pressed against him as he pulled out of the dive at Mach 0.92 and leveled out. McDonnell looked out towards his right side to see more flaming MiGs fall away while parachutes slowly dropped their former pilots towards the ground. This was the A-1CM's handiwork, no doubt. The A-1CM was an advanced gunsight that calculated range and gave the pilot a much better lead on his target, due mainly to its use of the AN/APG-30 radar mounted above the Sabre's guns and next to the gun-camera in the nose. First introduced the Block 5 F-86As, before becoming standard on the subsequent F-86E, the A-1CM had proven its effectiveness recently on OS Navy FJ-2 Furies (a Navalised-derevative of F-86) recently in Huaxia. This, combined with the all-flying tail and leading edge slats for maneuverability, made the F-86F the world's most advanced day fighter, albeit underarmed, particularly when compared to its contemporaries and its number one opponent, the MiG-15bis. The Soviet interceptor that found success in the fighter role was equipped with a 37mm cannon and dual Nudelmann 23mm cannons, a formidable package that would tear apart most modern aircraft if converged correctly. However, it appeared that none had the chance of doing that today...

89 Königin Strasse, Franksburg, West Daitschland
9:03 A.M.
February 16th, 1953

A group of F-84Fs flew in low and fast before dropping tanks filled with napalm about what appeared to be half a mile away, only adding to the noise that filled the wounded city as it struggled through the winter and the carnage of the battle around it. 2nd Lt. Thomas Baker looked through the pair of binoculars from the top level of three-story apartment building towards the park 400 meters away from him. Königin Elsa Park, a large meadow filled with pine trees that had been preserved for over 100 years by whatever variation of the Daitschlandish government had exsisted at the time. It had become in the past few hours a Soviet anti-tank gun battery and was holding up the convoy of M47 Pattons and T43E1 Heavy tanks that had come to reinforce the embattled West Daitschlandish forces and Coldwaterans already in the city. Thus, Baker and his 1st Platoon, C Company, 85th Pioneers were sent in to take it out. Then, a sudden poof of dust impacted the side of the brick next to him. "SNIPER!" the call went out.

"Hey Radar!" yelled Baker back behind him after dropping below the window.

"Yes, sir?" asked PFC. Arnold "Radar" Thompson, the platoon's radio operator, a be-speckled young recruit in his early twenties.

"We have any artillery around here?"

"Yes! Shall I call for fire on the park?" Radar replied eagerly.

"Yes, and do it right goddamned now!"

by **Hale Isles** » Mon Mar 02, 2015 12:09 pm

Halian Parliament Building, February 16 1953, 8:59 AM:

The helicopter floated shakely over the large lawn for a moment before settling to the ground. The Congreveopian Integration Minister stepped out, ducking his head under the whirling blades of the Bell 47H-1. He straightened his ruffled suit as he walked up to the doors of the Parliament Building where the Prime Minister was waiting for him.

“Good morning, Richard.” he said as the helicopter lifted off and headed back to the airport.

“And a good morning to you too, Thomas.” said the Prime Minister, holding the door for him. “I assume you’ve heard the news.”

“Heard?” said the Integration Minister, Thomas Greene “My good sir, I am here on account of the news.”

“So I assume that Congreveopia wishes us to take some action on their behalf?” said Richard, with a sly smile.

“Oh you know Congreveopia, they always want us to take some action on their behalf.” said Thomas “I’m the bearer of good news today too, though. They’ve decided to try honey over vinegar this time.”

“Well I hope the Congreveopian government views us as slightly more important than flies.” said Richard with a laugh.

“And that is why I chose to use that analogy right now rather than in the council chamber.” said Thomas.

Thirty minutes later, Council Chamber:

“...and so you can clearly see how it is essential to the interests of both the Hale Isles and Congreveopia that the East emerges victorious from this conflict.” said Thomas “Thusly, I would like to request on behalf of the Congreveopian government that this Parliament of the Hale Isles move to declare support for the Eastern forces immediately. I do not, however, request this task of you with nothing in return. Congreveopia will, after the cessation of the conflict, as determined by an official declaration of peace between the major parties listed table eleven, regardless of the final resultant outcome, provide complete or partial funding for all programs listed in table twelve. I will briefly touch on some on the more important programs that will be funded. Firstly, the Congreveopian government will refund the entire cost of the conflict incurred by the Hale Isles including but not limited to, equipment losses, combat wages and bonuses, death payments, and more. This amount will be determined through arbitration by a third party working in cooperation with the government of the Hale Isles. Also, the government of Congreveopia will fund the modernisation of your current generation of main battle tanks to the T-55 model, and cover the costs of the T-54-2 modernisation program thus far. Gentlemen, this is a conflict that the Hale Isles cannot sit on the sidelines for, yet Congreveopia offers to cover the expense of the war. I yield the remained of my time to general discussion.”

“I move that we recess for thirty minutes to consider this offer, followed by a vote on issuing a statement in support of the Eastern Bloc to be followed by armed aid.” said someone.

Three hours later:

“We are then resolved.” said the Prime Minister “That we shall, if it aligns with the goals of the Eastern Bloc, enter into a state of armed conflict with the Allied Powers. I’ll begin preparations to discuss this with the soviet leadership.”

Message to the Leadership of the Eastern Bloc:

The Hale Isles feels that it is in our best interests to support you in this conflict. Towards the end of establishing a deal to best facilitate our aid for your forces, we wish to send our Prime Minister to meet with yours at your earliest convenience. Please reply with haste to dictate a time and location for this meeting.

by **West Aurelia** » Tue Mar 03, 2015 5:08 am

Presidential Palace, Riverside - February 16, 1953

It was evening, Riverside time, when the news came in. Congress, already in session, had pushed forward a declaration of war before President Peter Carlton informed them that it was unnecessary due to the unfortunate death of the West Aurelian officer. Speaker Nicholas Parkinson had offered Congress' support for the war effort. After a long meeting with a range of officials, from Cabinet members to his closest advisors, it was well into the night.

Carlton entered the press room to deliver a televised statement. Anti-war protesters had massed outside both the Presidential Palace and the Capitol, but Carlton paid no attention to their chants which he could faintly hear even inside the building. He stared directly into the camera; the teleprompter giving him the text of his pre-written speech.

"Good evening. In 1949, Daitschland - a world power no more - was divided into two states. The same people, the same language, the same culture. In the west stood a state which upheld freedom for all people, and held free and fair elections. In the east stood its polar opposite - an authoritarian regime which brutally suppressed its people's freedoms and held a total disregard for basic human rights. West Aurelia, along with its allies, extended its support to the West. The Soviet Union propped up the Eastern regime. For four years, an uneasy peace held despite the opposing political systems. Today, that peace was shattered. At 6:30am, Franksburg time, East Daitschlandish and Soviet forces crossed the West Daitschlandish border, costing the lives of hundreds of brave allied soldiers, and a West Aurelian officer. This was done without any provocation; in fact, an Eastern border guard opened fire on his Western counterparts just yesterday, again without provocation. It was only due to the commendable restraint of the West Daitschlandish border forces that no retaliation occurred. In response to the violation of the sovereignty and territorial integrity of a close ally and the threat to West Aurelian interests, I have ordered all West Aurelian military assets located in and around West Daitschland to organize a full response against Eastern and Soviet forces in coordination with our allies in the region. Congressional approval is not required due to the attack on an asset of the West Aurelian government, as per the War Powers Resolution of 1823. Rest assured that the dark, twisted ideology of the enemy will never see the light of day again, and that the forces of freedom and democracy shall prevail. Thank you."

Carlton turned and left the podium. More meetings awaited.

--

Franksburg - 9:04am, February 16, 1953

Archer spied the American troops through his scope, taking cover from enemy sniper fire. His counterpart - like himself - was likely using an internal flash suppressor, which made it more difficult to ascertain his position. Not that it would be much easier if he didn't have a suppressor. The city had been evacuated when the first tanks rumbled across the border, and so there were a number of buildings the enemy could be using.

He swept his rifle in the general direction of the sniper fire. Movement. Something had moved across the rooftop of a three-storey building 200 meters to the south. Archer placed the crosshairs on the building, adjusting for elevation and windage. Thankfully, wind wasn't too much of a problem. He waited.

A minute later, someone stuck his body out. Archer immediately placed the crosshairs on his chest - the center of mass - which was a far easier target to hit than the head. It wasn't a sniper, just an Eastern soldier. The man scanned the area with his binoculars. Archer steadied his breathing as his finger curled around the trigger.

He fired.

The crack of the .30-06 round breaking the sound barrier rippled through the air. The round impacted the soldier and he fell backwards. This kill wouldn't be confirmed as there was no witness. Unfortunate, Archer thought as he loaded another round into the chamber.

He got up and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He moved two apartments to the right, noted that he still had a good vantage point, and set up a new sniper hide in the shadows. He patiently waited for the enemy sniper to make the next move.

by **Republic of Coldwater** » Tue Mar 03, 2015 5:42 am

Franz Street, Franksburg
7:53AM, February 16th, 1953
As the machine guns rattle, and as the rockets gleam through the gray skies, a Sergeant shouts "GET TO COVER" as men dive behind the nearest piece of cover, trying to give themselves a peace of mind, shall that be what was once a wall, or a table, or a chair, anything at this moment was better then being exposed with the rattling rounds in the air.

As troops slide across the ground, the rounds tear through two men, with their weary fingers on the trigger of their weapons. The crimson red blood gushes out of their crippled heads as they lay there, so pale, so lifeless. As Private Ford Donelson stares into space, at their perished carcasses, the tanks continue their rattle of machine gun fire. Donelson, a new soldier to the Army was in shock, before collapsing.

"DONELSON, GET BACK" shouted a medic as he rushed to the attention of the men.

"RETURN FIRE!" shouted Captain Wartz as he pulled out his rifle and popped a short burst from behind a pile of rubble, before quickly returning back to his cover.

Wartz orders his troops to enter the nearby building, to safer cover. The troops run to the building, while wearily firing their rifles as the machine gun rounds tear through so many, rendering them an inanimate, lifeless body, a casualty of war. Suddenly, one of the Eastern Tanks fires a huge shell. The glaring shell soared through the dusty air, before hitting a pole, exploding. The scorching heat, the massive explosion, the thunderous roar rattle the troops as a few more lose their limbs, while others have their bodies torn into many pieces.

Inside the building, the men regroup and quickly begin to move to upper floors as Lieutenant Alistair Mackenzie hastily radios the tank units "THIS IS FIRST REGIMENT, COLDWATER RECON BRIGADE WE ARE UNDER HEAVY ATTACK, SOVIET MBTS, REQUIRE ANY ALL AID AT FRANZ STREET OVER" shouted the Sergeant, right before he fell, and he looked at his leg. A large, 7.62mm round had been lodged in his leg. The blood trickles down his leg, his one pale skin is soon dyed with the cardinal luster of blood.

5,000 Feet above Franksburg
8:02AM, February 16th, 1953
"-----FIRST---COLDWAT--ATTA---MBT----AID---FRANZ STREET" was what was heard over the radio of the CJ-72s. "Buffalo 1-2, think we should aid them at Franz street, should be a few MBTs shooting down a street" said one of the pilots.

"Yeah, good idea" said another one.

The CJ-72s dive down, beneath the clouds, and into the roaring city, so stentorian with the battle down beneath.

"Think I see a few tanks, can't confirm which ones" said a pilot. "Remember, we are here to report on the situation, not risk friendly fire" said another.

"Fuck dammit, I'm going down, I ain't letting our boys die, no chances"

"SAMUEL, THAT IS NOT A DAMN ORDER" shouted a Captain over the radio, but Lieutenant Samuel Hansen didn't care, he dived down, and armed his 30mm Cannon. "FUCK YOU COMMUNIST" shouted him as he let out a long burst of rounds and fired a rocket, sending the tank ablaze.

Bismarck Street, Franksburg
The tanks heard the radio signal, pleading for help, and they quickly roll to Franz street, where all the action is supposedly happening. The five tanks moved down the street as they scanned for any enemies. As they begin to turn to Franz street, a friendly CJ-72 rolls down. "Huh, friendly" said a soldier, before the CJ-72 let out a large burst of incendiary cannon shots, and a rocket. One of the tanks exploded ablaze, with a fire so brilliant and so bright.

"WHAT THE FUCK" shouted one of the soldiers. "FRIENDLY FIRE, FRIENDLY FIRE" shouted one over the radio.

1,000 Feet Above Franksburg
"Huh, what the fuck" said the pilot as he heard the calls for friendly fire over the radio. "SHIT!" shouted the pilot. The rest of his wing had flown back, not wanting to deal with him, something against protocol, so a lone CJ-72 flew inside hostile air, with a pilot shocked by his actions. The pilot, enraged by his own actions flew to the border, his goal: to atone for his friendly fire, knowing that he would probably be sent to prison for shooting his own men.

Dussellburg Airbase
9:13AM
"Where the fuck is Samuel" said a Colonel as he looked at the men. "We were going to be out of fuel, that fucker decided to shoot some damn tanks, he probably still there"

The Colonel had a clear sense of repugnance of his face. He rolled his fist up, and let out a strapping punch onto the Captain who said that. "YOU NEVER, EVER, FUCKING LEAVE A MAN BEHIND, LIEUTENANT"

The Captain, now a Lieutenant looked around in horror, knowing that he had been demoted for leaving the man behind.

Shadowville, Coldwater
7:00AM local time, 11:00AM Daitschland Time
President Ian Mackenzie was awoken by an door knock as he looked outside. Beautiful day he thought to himself as he stood up, and dressed, before meeting the person who knocked so early.

It was his aide. "Ahh, Jerry, what's going on"

"Three CJ-72s were downed, apparently some of our men are fighting in a place called Franksburg, Commies did it"

"What?!" exclaimed the man. His wife was awoken by his exclamation. "Ian...what is going on..this early?"

"Commies, they declared war on us" said the President. "I'll prepare an address to the people, they need to know this, we need to win this war, we need to let Daitschland be a vanguard of liberty"

by **Organized States** » Sun Mar 08, 2015 7:13 am

The beast that thou sawest was, and is not; and shall ascend out of the bottomless pit, and go into perdition: and they that dwell on the earth shall wonder, whose names were not written in the book of life from the foundation of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is-Revelation 17:8-10

88 Kaiser Strasse, Franksburg, West Daitschland
9:08 AM
February 16th, 1953

Katya Volodin flew backwards as the .30-06 round impacted her center-mass. A searing pain caused her to pull up the blood-stained and torn, dark tan Red Army tunic. Revealing a small cut along with a small red scar along her side. She laughed. The Allied Sniper's round had only grazed her. Виходьте фашистську наволоч . Я не зроблю тобі боляче. she thought to herself as she looked though the scope of her Mosin-Nagant M91/30 PU searching for a glint, a sudden movement, a shadow, anything. However, Katya had something to her advantage. She believed that the enemy sniper thought her dead. Good. Then, a window slipped open 6 meters to the right. Ahh, he returns. She held her breath and steadied the rifle on the Allied sniper's center mass, before slipping her finger to the trigger and squeezing it. A 7.62mmR round flew through the air down towards the apartment window.

STAVKA, underneath Red Square, Moscow, Russian SFSR, Soviet Union
9:10 AM
February 16th, 1953

Joseph Silach stood silently as he leaned over the map table of Europe. Small flags dotted the area. Some Soviet. Some West Aurelian. Some Coldwateran. Some American. One West Daitschlandish. His mood changed upon seeing the one flag. Anger suddenly began to form on his face. A scowl deepened his face. One defined by the black mustache and bushy eyebrows, however that had begun to gray recently. Indeed, he was old, now 74. He saw the days of the Russian Empire. The days of the Revolution and the Civil War that tore his Russia apart. But, in the chaos, the new system and he had risen to power. He ruled with an Iron Fist, indeed, it was sometimes needed to build Communism. But, now, he had the opportunity to spread it throughout Europe. Through out the world even. All it took was a little push.

"Дайте мне CHERNAKO!" Silach yelled upon throwing the West Daitschlandish flag onto the wooden-tiled floor and crushing it with his heel, as the dozens of staff officers immediately got to work. If one failed, all of them could be taken in the night by the men with the dreaded badge. NKVD. They immediately got to work. A female officer immediately connected one line to another before handing Silach the phone.

"Товарищ Силач! К чему я обязан честь?" Colonel General Artoym Chernako said over the phone, maintaining his composure in his tone where most other commanders would have broken down.

"Товарищ генерал-полковник , как бы я хотел обстоятельства может быть лучше. Я слышал, что наступление , чтобы подтолкнуть капиталистов из Franksburg буксует . Правда ли это?" Silach said, his tone firm.

Chernako paused, choosing his words carefully. The wrong word could have him sent to a Gulag or even killed. "Я боюсь, что это , товарищ Силач . Я обещаю , моя следующая наступление , безусловно, подтолкнуть союзников из города, и вы можете начать вести переговоры там" Chernako replied, his composure wavering at the mention of his failure to win in Franksburg, his only objective. The Soviets only wanted Franksburg as a whole and being able to proclaim a great military victory and force the Allies to the negotiate table.

"Помните, товарищ генерал-полковник , у меня нет терпимости к продолжению недостаточности. Тем не менее , обстоятельства изменились . Мы никогда не больше не принимать только Franksburg . Мы будем идти на frühling . Затем, в Амстердам. Затем, в Париж. Затем, чтобы Риверсайд. Тогда , наконец, Фэрфорд . Это там, где начинается . Помните, товарищ генерал-полковник , это мой первый и последнее предупреждение , вы выиграете здесь." Silach responded, the grandeur in his tone a uniquely bourgeois feature. The plan had changed and the world would be changed, forever.

In the meantime, a teletype message was discreetly sent to the Hale Isles.

12:45 PM. 18 FEBRUARY. KREMLIN. MOSCOW. SILACH WILL MEET YOU THERE.

Northern East-Western Border, Daitschland
1:30 PM
February 16th, 1953

Staff Sargent Anthony Bellancio's ears rang as the T43E1's 120mm cannon cracked as it sent a M469 HEAT round towards the T-54, igniting the Soviet tank's ammunition storage as it cut through the tank like a hot knife through butter. A massive secondary explosion sent pieces of shrapnel flying through the air and even splashing part of his commander's viewer. Then, another view struck him. Fifteen T-54s, followed by dozens of supply trucks, all of which were carrying infantry and artillery guns.

"LOAD EVERYTHING WE HAVE AND AIM IT TWENTY DEGREES LEFT!" Bellancio yelled at his crew. The driver, Private First Class Harold Eckart, quickly attempted to move the tank, before a massive white light pierced the side of his tank, then darkness. Nothing but darkness. The invasion of Northern West Daitschland was on.

Fruhling AB, West Daitschland
1:52 PM
February 16th, 1953

Major Franz Adler sat in his office, alone. No more trainees would be in for a very long time. There were recruits, no doubt, eager to join the Luftarmee's pilots in defending Franksburg and the skies above the southern border from MiG-15s, but what Free Daitschland needed was infantrymen and tankers, not pilots, at least according to the eternally good wisdom of the Chancellor. Goodness. He silently flipped through his logbooks, correcting whatever mistakes he found. An extra hour here was by accident when it should have been on another day. Then, a knock on the door.

"Eingeben." Franz replied to the knock. A familiar face appeared behind the door. Erich Koch. He had grown an inch and appeared far more muscular than the young baby-faced boy that Franz knew. The three dots of a Hauptmann were pinned on the cloth epaulettes on his shoulder.

"Erich! Mein alter Freund! Wie geht es dir?" Franz exclaimed, greeting his old wingman as if he was his own brother. Erich's face, often with a smile on his face, was somber.

"Ich wünschte, ich könnte besser Franz zu berichten." Erich replied. "Ich bin mit JG- 171 nach Süden fliegen und wir haben bereits zu viele Männer verloren! Sie sind bei weitem nicht genug gute Piloten. Wenn es nicht für den amerikanischen und Coldwaterans, wir würden schon die Luft Krieg verloren!"

"Ich wünschte, ich könnte etwas tun, aber alle unsere neuen Azubis haben alle in die Infanterie genommen." Franz said, attempting to defend the actions of the instructor pilots since the Luftarmee had been rebuilt.

"Eigentlich gibt es etwas, was Sie tun können. Ich wurde von Oberst Strauss geschickt, um gute Piloten , Große Krieg Tierärzte, lernen die Sabres mit uns fliegen. Wir brauchen Sie , Franz . Es wird wie in alten Zeiten. Genau wie die Zeiten in der Schwalbe." Erich replied, a smile regrowing back onto his face.

"Du und ich erinnere mich an die sehr unterschiedlich Schwalbe." Franz laughed, but the conversation was still serious. Am I ready to go back? He thought to himself.

"Bitte, Franz. Wir brauchen Sie dort oben. Es wird wie in alten Zeiten." Erich said.

"Geht Es. Das mache ich. Aber Sie müssen diese an Emma und Laura erklären." Franz said. Erich pulled out a Manila Envelope, placing it onto the desk. Inside, was a set of pre-written transfer orders.

Fruhling AB

ORGANIZED STATES AIR FORCE
RECIPIENT: OPERATIONS, 32nd FES, OHIO AIR NATIONAL GUARD
TOP SECRET

12 TU-16 "BADGER A" SPOTTED VIA RADAR 121 MILES SOUTHWEST OF OLSENSTADT. SCRAMBLE IMMEDIATELY. ENGAGE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

by **The United Remnants of America** » Sun Mar 08, 2015 1:58 pm

Fruhling AB
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L1sxibr8IA

Simms leaned forward in his chair as the telegram typed itself out. At the top of the type was an address to his unit and "Top Secret." Oh, shit, what happened, did someone shoot down a friendly pilot or something? Am I being kicked out? Keith's fears were dispelled as soon as he he tore the sheet of paper out and read the entire message. "Oh, hell. That's cherry." Simms leaned forward in his chair and slammed his thumb onto the transmit button on the radio, not wasting a minute to contact his ground attack flight, which was on patrol. "Sword 4-1, Sword Lead. RTB immediately. Repeat, return to best at once. 32nd is scrambling for air-to-air interception."

"Shit, Major. That's cherry!" was the response from the AT-6 Texan pilot and flight leader, which was eerily similar to Keith's own reaction. "Copy, Sword 1-1, Sword Flight 4 RTB ASAP. Hey, Major? Give 'em Hell."

The encouragement illicited a grin from Keith who left the radio room and ran down the hall, screaming past all the rooms, "Hey, everyone, get the hell up! We got a mission! We gotta go kill us some commies!" He had mixed reactions from the bunk rooms, ranging from cheers as other Sabre pilots hurriedly got their flight suits on to groaning responses from pilots rolling out of their cots, woken up from Keith's yelling.

twenty-five minutes later, three groups of four F-86A Sabre fighters sat in formation on the tarmac, engines warming as the flight crews went over last checks on the planes, pilots waiting in their cockpits, keeping their muscles loose to keep from cramping in the confined space. The Texans and Invaders had already landed fifteen minutes ago, and the crews of the 4th Flight watched on from the hangar as their comrades started to take off, two at a time, on their way to meet the enemy, the first combat the 32nd Fighter Escort Squadron, Air National Guard has seen in this conflict.

In The Air, 40 Miles and Closing to Radar Contacts
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTR-SsNRcnU (For remainder of entire battle)

"Sword 2-1, it's Sword 1-1. I think we're about 40 or so miles out from where those Badgers should be, so keep an eye out. They should be visible in a few minutes. We're lucky the sky's clear. All flights, stay in diamond formation until contact, understood?"

Lee was flying in the front of his diamond, which was to the left of Simms' flight. "2nd Flight, diamond formation, confirm."

The third flight's leader, which was to 1st Flight's right and slightly behind, also replied, "Sword 3-1 confirm."

Sure enough, in a couple minutes, small dots the size of gnats were seen on the horizon. The sun was directly overhead, so there was going to be no surprise attack. First three, then six, and soon all twelve Badgers could be seen, flying in 4 "V" formations. "Sword 2-1, confirm contact, 12 Badgers flying in formation, bearing directly ahead, range probabaly about 35 miles, copy."

Sword 2-1, Sword Lead copy. I see them. All Swords, fan out into a rough V and concentrate on the Badger opposite you. Watch them and keep pinging until they close within 3 miles, then I want everyone to let loose two Holy Moses at your Badger. Copy?" 11 confirmations flooded the radio.

Simms licked his lips in his cockpit, his hand squeezing the joystick as he rhtyhmically pressed the rangefinder button every few seconds. 30miles. 25. 20. 15. Simms' heart was racing now as the distance between Interceptors and Strategic Bombers closed rapidly. 6 miles. 5. 4. Finally, Simms pressed his button and the distance crossed just under three miles. "All Swords, fire at will! 2 killer whales in the water!" As Simms yelled the squadron's code for a friendy missile launch, his thumb pushed the cover on two launch switches as he flipped them, hearing the small rocket engines of the 5in HVAR "Holy Moses" rockets ignite and the small fast-moving bombs begin to accelerate off their rails before appearing as small orange dots and white streaks in front of him, "Good launch." He quickly got eleven excited replies saying the same thing, and soon, 24 rockets had filled the space between the Sabres and the Badgers, quickly closing the distance to the enemy bombers.

by **West Aurelia** » Wed Mar 11, 2015 4:59 am

Frühling

Son of a bitch! Archer thought as the round ricocheted off his rifle's barrel and into his right shoulder. He tossed the rifle aside; the thing was useless now. He made his way into a bedroom and sat on the bed, taking his shirt off to examine the wound. It looked like multiple fragments had penetrated his skin, possibly impacting the bone - it certainly felt like it. He immediately began cleaning and patching it up as best as he could with his left hand. When that was done, he pulled his shirt back on and grabbed his radio. He informed command of his situation and rattled off the location of the enemy sniper. Within a few minutes, that information was passed on to allied units in the area.

He also called for an extraction but was told there were no readily available units - they weren't going to send a platoon to rescue one man when that platoon could be repelling the invasion. Fuck.

The enemy sniper had spotted him, and an Eastern/Soviet force could be on its way as well - unless, of course, they thought that he was dead. While trying not to fall over, he pulled the couch with his good arm and kept it against the door. Next, he grabbed whatever he could - chairs, side tables, shelves - and stacked them against the door. It was a slow process, as he tried to keep his right arm as steady as possible. He would rather pull everything off to let a friendly unit in than have nothing there if the communists came.

He sighed, keeping his M1911A1 sidearm and Predator combat knife close while watching the door to the apartment. He was trained to shoot left-handed - all SAG operators were - and he knew that he could nail a man in the forehead if he walked through the door.

He was a tough son of a bitch, and the wound wouldn't stop him. But the thought of getting captured by the communists made him shudder. He had taken a brutal resistance to interrogation course as part of his training, but every man had his breaking point. He could take the "coward's way out" - the "L-pill" developed by the MID - which he decided was preferable to the torture techniques used by the communists, in complete disregard for international humanitarian law.

The L-pill is an oval capsule, shaped like a tooth and carried in the mouth, consisting of a glass ampoule covered in rubber to protect against accidental breakage and filled with a concentrated solution of potassium cyanide. If swallowed accidentally, it would pass harmlessly through the body - the user would have to bite down onto it to break the ampoule and release the poison contained within. Brain death occurs within minutes and the heartbeat stops shortly after.

Archer got up and walked over to the kitchen to look for something to eat. Rummaging through the fridge and cabinets, he produced two ham sandwiches and returned to the room, where he ate and listened to the roar of fighters and bombers, the thunder of artillery, and the staccato of small arms fire. He would have to wait it out - either a unit would come for him during a lull in the fighting, or the communists would be on him. In the case of the latter, he wouldn't go down without a fight.

by **Republic of Coldwater** » Sun Mar 15, 2015 2:11 am

Franz Street, Franksburg
The troops begin to head towards the decrepit windows as they unleash their organized gunfire towards the enemy infantry and armor below on the street. The rattle of fully automatic fire rocks the city as some men fall behind and bleed and scream. Medics rush all over the building, trying their best to take care of the wounded as the battle rages on.

"Have the rockets ready?" asked Lieutenant Richard Watkins as he wearily clutches his rifle. "Yes sir" replied a colonel as he pulled out his rocket launcher. Seasoned with scratches, marks and dirt from the wars before it, the launcher was a weapon that proved it itself again and again. Indeed, that launcher had seen service fighting against numerous guerrillas within Coldwater, but also in the Second Great War. "Blow that fucking Communist Tank up!" shouted the Lieutenant. The corporal moves towards the windows, takes aim at a tank, and fires the rocket.

The red glare of the rocket lets out a blinding light as it tears through the dust and smoke of the battle, flying towards the Communist tank. The tank commander looks at the rocket and shouts "rocket!" on the top of his lungs, before it strikes his tank.

Despite one tank being destroyed, the tank unit realizes that they have to move on. They drive their tank alongside the rubble, collapsed lamps and destroyed buildings towards Franz Street.

"I spot, four Soviet Tanks on the street" said one of the commanders. "Light em up said the commander" as the gunner readies the trigger.

Meanwhile, up the building, the men see Coldwateran Tanks move into the street. The men let out a rousing cheer as they intensify their fire. They were ready to vanquish the Communists and destroy the evil empire.

Vanburg, East Daitschland
The lone Coldwateran jet trails in the land of East Datischland as the distraught pilot seeks to regain his lost honor. He soon soars over the small town of Vanburg, with a timid populaiton of 750. The citizenry of the town look up in the sky, and look at the jet. The jet was shaped differently than the rest they usually spot in the sky, and it is flying in a direction they usually don't see. As suspicious as they are of the jet, the jet was a spectacle, right before it starts diving down. The jet moves towards the town and begins to launch all of its rockets, and begins to open fire with its turrets towards the town. The once abnormal jet had now become a security threat to Vanburg as the first rocket strikes into a building, igniting it into a crimson blaze, as the second one slams into the street, sending rubble everywhere.

The troops in the area begin to rush out of the garrison. They fire upon the diving Coldwateran Jet as they try their best to avert being destroyed by its immense turrets and rockets.

Coldwateran Naval Headquarters, Northpoint
In the gray, wet skies of Northpoint, a massive military hub, the military planners begin to work out on how they can navally decimate the enemy. The officials run around the area as people chatter amongst themselves. Soon, a committee of some of the highest admirals in the navy begins to assemble in the largest conference room. Head of the Navy George Carson walks into the room, with a large folder carrying a variety of files. He stands in front of the committee, and says simply "Who here supports a naval blockade". All the Admirals raise their hands, nodding in approval of a plan to blockade the coast to eventually launch a ground offensive of East Daitschland.

"Alright, assemble a strong blockade, we want to defeat the enemy" said the Head Admiral, and then he walks out of the room. The admirals gradually leave and plan out the attack, while others communicate to the enemy

FROM: THE COLDWATERAN NAVY
TO: THE NAVAL COMMANDS OF THE ORGANIZED STATES AND WEST AURELIA
SECRECY: MAXIMUM

Our naval forces have agreed upon a blockade on the East Datischlandian coast, and an eventual land offensive upon their land to decimate their industrial and logistical base to quickly vanquish Communism from the region. We hereby request support for this plan. Alongside our blockade, we also have conferred with the Army, and have agreed to allot 60,000 Coldwateran Men to surround and besiege major cities of East Daitschland. They ask us to request whether any of your armies are willing to send men to help our offensive into East Daitschlandian coast.

by **Hale Isles** » Tue Mar 31, 2015 4:29 pm

Approaching Moscow, 11:35, Halian Presidential Aircraft:

“Внуково башня, Lockheed Constellation Семён Па́вел Фёдор Никола́й Зинаи́да тридцать километров к востоку с информацией Рома́н, входящие, чтобы приземлиться. Мы Halian дипломатический самолет, на борту премьер-министра Ричард Уэббер.”

Richard straightened his tie, and made a few final corrections to his notes as a flight attendant advised the cabin that they would be landing shortly. He looked over the pages, and, once satisfied with their contents, placed them in his briefcase.

“Номер два на землю, Фёдор Никола́й Зинаи́да. Введите левую базу для взлетно-посадочной полосы нулевого шесть, следуйте Илюшин 12 на тесном финале.”

“You don’t have to come, Thomas, you know.” said Richard to the Congreveopian Integration Minister, sitting across the table from him. “You have me fully up to date on all of Congreveopia’s positions with regard to this; I can engage in politics by myself.”

“Есть трафик в поле зрения; Фёдор Никола́й Зинаи́да.”

“Oh, I’m certain you can.” said Thomas “It’s just that my bosses don’t have the same degree of faith that I do, and it never hurts to err on the side of caution when matters of war are on the agenda.”

“Фёдор Никола́й Зинаи́да, Ильюшин ясно взлетно-посадочной полосы. Вы разрешение на посадку.”

“Caution I can approve of wholeheartedly.” said Richard “My fear is just the presentation of a unified front. We must remain aware of the danger of appearing to be working at cross purposes.”

“Разрешение на посадку; Фёдор Никола́й Зинаи́да.”

“Don’t trouble another thought on it.” said Thomas “I am at your back every step of the way; my presence here is a mere requirement and nothing more. I have total confidence that you will never force me to intervene or even raise an objection at any point.”

“If that’s the case, I’m sure everything will proceed as smoothly as at all possible.” said Richard as the plane turned on to final approach into the airfield.

11:50, Vnukovo Airport Apron, Moscow:

No sooner had the Constellation stopped at its assigned parking spot then a small group of official vehicles drove up to escort the diplomats to their meeting.

“Now that’s efficiency and quality.” commented Richard, looking out the window, as an aide helped him pull on a coat over his suit. “We’re running fifteen minutes early, but they’re already waiting here to meet us.”

“Fly into Congreveopolis airport, and the welcome committee will neither be earlier or later than you.” boasted Thomas “Our government can watch your flight once it enters our borders and adjust the schedule to your exact time of arrival.”

“Preposterous.” said Richard, as a stairway pulled up to the rear door of the plane “Utter nonsense. You go too far this time. It would be far too hard to organise such a system; there would be an utter catastrophe within a week.”

“Oh just you try us.” said Thomas “Our government is organised better than any in the world.”

“I shall have my pilot fly us in two hours ahead of schedule next time then, shall I?” said Richard “And then we can see how well your supposed system holds up.”

“Oh now you exaggerate the capabilities of this aeroplane.” said Thomas as a flight attendant opened the door and the two diplomats headed out accompanied by two aides and a translator.

“Well maybe when this war is over I shall have parliament buy me a De Havilland Comet with some of the funds your government promises.” said Richard.

“Assuming your party is still in power when the war’s over.” thought Thomas “Or even that the Hale Isles still exists.” He avoided saying any of this, though, and simply said with a smile “Well it’s good to have plans for the future.”

12:35, Kremlin, Moscow:

Their vehicles pulled up at one of the buildings inside the walls of the ancient fortress. Thomas knew its name immediately, what government agencies were located in it, and more. Richard just noticed it looked like an old and fancy building.

“Telegram said we’re meeting with Silach.” muttered Richard as they got out of the car. He glanced at his watch. “We’re ten minutes early, I wonder if he’s free yet.”