Fall Schwarz: Liberation of Spain (MT, TG to join)

[Third Spanish States]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WaO6ZiTbO0&feature=related

- Operación Durruti -

Southwest Coast of Mallorca, 16th of August, 12:45 hours

It has been long travel. The bunk has been sufficient only, giving him the needed comfort to sleep well in preparation for the time just ahead. No longer he was at one of the crew quarters of the Menorca amphibious assault ship, but sat into a tight seat inside a vehicle, with his two comrades at the left, one of them with a small handheld device besides his scoped RBA battle rifle showing three green dots in a row in its display and the image from some camera, and a compact tracked vehicle ahead, armed with an AA-70 machinegun and with a visible sensor mast lowered, occupying the space that would otherwise be enough for more three men. The amphibious vehicle he was inside floated over the waves, and his friend with the handheld began to zoom out its map, showing a much larger quantity of green dots, which then became squad, fireteam and brigade symbols as he further zoomed out. Amphibious infantry fighting vehicles, armored personell carriers, ADATS, self-propelled mine sweepers, amphibious assault ships and even more small amphibious landing vessels marching for the conquest of Mallorca from its southwest, carrying rifles, machineguns, mortars, grenades, engineering vehicles, main battle tanks, a few heavy tanks and all supplies necessary to ensue the first victory of the Confederacy in a ground battle.

From the distance, five Malatesta Heavy Cruisers, which were nothing short of pocket battleships, were ready to send in fire support with their precise guns and missiles, while in the skies, CL-32s and CB-1 Miajas from a nearby carrier air group flew in synchrony with the ground forces, with HC-1 Quijote helicopters taking off from the amphibious assault ship just behind, preparing to land a blow against all the spotted enemies, as sets of unmanned aerial vehicles flew through the island major cities, risking as well incursions into the airspace of Palma They have already gathered significant information about the enemy disposition of forces, and all of them were aware of the fact there were no signs of static coastal defenses. for seemingly the enemies have chosen to hole into the hilly region to the north of Mallorca and inside the cities, which the Confederacy was reluctant to bomb. Nonetheless, there seemed to be a significant line of defenses in next to the road that came from the south, passing through the city of Campos and reaching La Palma.

The defenses were significantly dug in, with rows of sandbags, mobile surface to air missiles, tank traps, razor wire seemingly disposed to funnel enemies into a kill zone, and further hid in the remaining forests of the island, where such discovery has already costed five of the reconaissance unmanned aerial vehicles of the Confederacy, and forced them to resort into the sketchy reconaissance of their satellites for what lied beyond line from south to northwest.. Likely they were motorized, and ready to bend their line. Mine fields were the greatest concern for breaking such line with no clear weak points, and landing behind it would only prompt them to reposition their defenses, for all the soldiers of the Confederacy knew that the People's Republic of Spain also had a quite mobile, albeit outdated army.

Three marino divisions, with their small contingent of armors, were prepared to conquer the island, some among the best of the Revolutionary Army, against what seemed to be at least the double of divisions, for the People's Republic of Spain knew the strategic importance of the island for any amphibious assault against the mainland. Outnumbered by at least two to one, the Marinos would have to still secure their superiority through sheer tactical brilliance, which hopefully would be fruitful combined with the naval and air support.

The man inside the vehicle looked at his comrades, as the time of the battle approached. Although well trained, other than the veterans of the Second Civil War, most of them had never any real combat experience, and would already have to face odds that would be certainly overwhelming without the ever important air support. The mutually planned directives were clear: no establishment of defensive lines unless if utterly necessary, to advance as fast as possible without losing organization of the units, to "punch with a closed fist rather than with the fingers stretched" at any weak point, or potential for tactical encirclement and to, most important of all, seek the support of the local population and attempt to convince the enemy soldiers to surrender or defect before attacking, for if another attack by stratagem could succeed, the Confederacy would have at least more six divisions ready to fight for the freedom of Spain. What has to be seen is whether the plan would work in practice or not, for such was no a conventional operation for most of them, except for the focus into mobility rather than attrition.

The soldier double-checked the grenade launcher attached to his FA-65 rifle, and the fire mode switch, which was currently at full automatic, and made a few adjustments to the microphone attached to his helmet and to the single earphone at his left ear, from where updates about their situation would be heard instantly. Coincidentally a new transmission has arrived, as he heard, in Spanish:

"This is Júlio Santiago to all divisions in the operation. We have detected no human presence in the beachhead, except for tank traps and razor wire they left to attempt slowing us down. However, stay alert and don't go through the most obvious paths seemingly clear of obstacles, for those are likely to lead to traps. This lull is not going to last much longer."

Then, he again looked at his left, and addressed the soldier to his side as the amphibious IFV made its final steps to the beach. The man knew what they were about to face. As a Marino, assault was his expertise, and the time to be bold would come soon, for now, he could only reassure his comrades while he had time, for clearly they would have to deal with defenses in depth rather than with the now obsolete for anything besides slowing down coastal static defenses.

"Pedro Viejas, seems like our enemies are too scared to face us head on, even though they clearly outnumber us. And first I thought they had fighters in Mallorca. Guess they don't want to even try. We have already gave them a real lesson in the air I guess. But these Stalinists still gave a serious blow to the Allaneans. Not that I care that much, they are just capitalists after all. Better for one of them to go down than one of ours."

"Yes, Jaen, they are definitively not stupid, and know air superiority is a faulty proposition and that SAMs close to a beachhead could be easily taken down. I bet they have some tricks in their sleeves." Pedro answered him back, looking at him, as the captain noticed again his brown eyes and brown beard.

"We shall be careful, and come back alive. We will not sacrifice our lives in vain, and now it's not the time for it to happen. If we are fast, we will survive, for like the toughness of an elephant won't make it less prey to the lion than the weaker but faster stag, a bullet will still hurt if it hits, with or without armor." the captain answered, and then they felt a slight bump as finally the treads touched firm soil. They have reached the beachhead with no opposition yet, as seen from a small display in the crew cabin, however tank traps were ahead, and covered nearly all the horizon they could see a few more than a hundred of meters ahead, except for a single corridor of five hundred meters of mostly plains, which was too suspicious, and a too obvious of a trap. The scenery was only degraded by the presence of a few derelict homes nearby, probably of people who were forced to abandon them.

"If they think world war two barriers will stop us, they think really wrong." Jaen then said as he looked at the screen, and pressing to the left of his helmet, he thus communicated, deciding on the logical operational measure to be done:

"Fyre, call in some close-by engineer support to get rid of these obstacles, we must advance fast but cautiously, and bring some minesweepers"

"Sure, I am contacting them as of now, although these fuckers will certainly slow us down. They have layered as far as my sight can notice, and recon doesn't make things good either." the pilot replied.

"Wait a moment. Could your gunner give a shot in one of those traps?", Jaen then asked, as he pondered on a certain possibility about such barriers erected by a crumbling state like the Republic.

"Sure, I see what you are thinking. Hey, let's check if this is Gulag concrete or not!" the pilot answered back, and suddenly a noise came off of the launching of a missile as it took a brief flight towards its destination, leaving a small trail in the sky that would soon vanish. As it impacted with the barrier built by slave work, the same was immediately crumbed into small pieces, confirming the fortunate thought of Jaen, as he finally radioed a more specific group with his helmet:

"We need shore and air support to clean our way from cheapskate concrete, passing on coordinates."

The systems operator of the infantry fighting vehicle he was inside simply used his interface to give the coordinates as he heard the initiative of Jaen, even though Jaen was not the leader he elected or part of the crew. In the skies, helicopters hovered and flew to their proximity, followed by the formations of strangely familiar aircrafts, the Miajas, which looked from below seemed like fighters from the Second world war, with their large, slightly forward swept wings and frame, flying at little more than eight hundred meters of altitude, as they began to lob bombs into the mass of obstacles.

From the distance, naval guns began to fire continuously, lowering down their angle between each fire. as countless shells began to fly over, targeted at the middle of the barriers. With tracer, they seemed to risk on the skies, and like comets, they fell against the fragile static defenses, simultaneously making a loud storm of explosions. The bombardment continued for some minutes, with helicopter missiles, smart bombs from the close air supports as they made their runs, and even the recently arrived Oso self-propelled artillery participated into the obliteration of a poorly devised line of tank traps, until a gap of more than three kilometers was left, and the roaring sounds stopped, as mine-sweeping vehicles began to advanced further, in the first line of the assault, risking themselves to ensure the safety of the operation, stopping suddenly, with no mines yet found and removed, as the vehicles were to be resupplied, with the further arrivals of logistics personell, of the usually forgotten but quickly remembered porta-potties, and because they had to take a break for lunch. It was then that the hatch of the vehicle opened, and the unmanned drone was the first to go outside. Next, Jaen came with his comrades, for they could not just wait.

Hard work was equally essential. Putting their guns on their shoulders, they headed towards the human line that was carrying on the supplies beyond what the machines alone could do to fasten the re-supplying. Sacks, small crates and other objects were passed from hand to hand, increasing his hunger. However, self-discipline maintained his struggle to continue helping, and in a few minutes, it was finally over. Sitting on the beach with his comrades as they took some basic wrapped soy food from their backpacks, they began to have an humble meal among themselves, taking a small rest for what would be the inevitable battle. The drone was next to them, serving as a an improvised table rather than as an war machine. Looking at the horizon, he then reminded more about the strategic importance of the island. It was very similar to the Third Spanish States home islands in population density, packing a million of inhabitants. A million of people who would be freed of tyranny, who could help them with their fight for freedom. It was then that he again realized how important was their goal.

"Pedro, here the first of sixty millions shall be freed from tyranny. And perhaps one day we will remember as we managed to free more people than tyrants have managed to mass murder. As people will no longer be afraid of being true and speaking the truth, and as nobody will be afraid of starving."

"What if half of these millions are drafted to fight against us?" Pedro then questioned, about a fearsome possibility that could threaten their operation, and put them in a very difficult moral dilemma.

"Then we'll take all necessary measures to convince this half million to turn against their oppressors. Civilians aren't as actively brainwashed to obey blindly orders as are the military, and thus are much less difficult to have their minds freed from the Stalinist doublethink." Jaen justified, as they continued to take some bits of the soy food. He wanted a more real meal, however the cooks have not yet arrived with their supplies, and they could not wait for them. Thus he sipped the water from his canteen as the other member of the fireteam finally broke her silence, looking at him as he noticed again her face, her short black hair mostly covered by the helmet, her somewhat north African traces, thick eyebrows, large brown eyes, and also noticed briefly her quite athletic build, which detracted slightly from the traditional standards of feminineness.

"Comrade Jaen, the people might still be entrapped by the mental slavery of the enemy. What then? Should we kill five thousand civilian militias? That would serve as a perfect propaganda tool in the hands of our enemies."

He simply nodded, and looked at her, resolute about his tough stance on the matter, for there was no time for mercy in a war:

"This is still an war, Elis. All those who stand in the path of freedom as servants of the State and who refuse to see the light of truth either by ignorance or malice shall die. Better to take half million lives to liberate half a million than to abandon a million under tyranny." interrupting his discourse, as he looked around to check if they were not taking too much time, but considering most were still eating, that was not the fact, thus he continued.

"Nonetheless those lives would be doomed. We should not blame their losses into our guns, but into the dregs of the Communist Party who have stripped these people of will. They are our real enemies, and should we manage to bypass their pawns to strike straight against them, we should not lose such opportunity. Mallorca might be our chance to prove to the people of Spain that they can and shall succeed into taking down the corrupt Republic."

The woman looked at him again, and said, with a face of disagreement and fear of the means that might have to be used to ensure freedom.

"If there are twelve situations where we will have to kill half million of civilians to ensure the freedom of other civilians we'll match Adolf Hitler. Is that really glorious? What if we selectively take down the Party members? Without a command to force them at gunpoint I doubt they would be willing to fight for such despicable government."

Nodding and smiling, Jaen looked at Elis, realizing what she suggested in the worst case scenario for the operation, and confirmed:

"Indeed. Hopefully you are right about that, and with some propaganda, we could even make these half millions to gun down our enemies or support our effort. Should it come to that, we'll have to simultaneously take down their leaders by surprise with our snipers. That will certainly motivate either defection or surrender. Now if we could find some reluctant leaders as well, then it would be optimal, but I am afraid we shall not have such luck."

The woman simply nodded, for she was not of many words, and they finished their simple meal, packing up as Pedro took again the handheld device and made the robot follow him through the beach with its wrap-around tracks ensuing its successful mobility over such shifty terrain, as they finally came to the plains, where their vehicle was parked and waiting, and in a march, several soldiers headed to their transports as others stood behind to secure their supply lines and prepare for the settlement of a base of operations and logistical supply depot.

With the drone arriving at last, controlled by Pedro, as they took their seats, the infantry fighting vehicle began to move again, and dozens of kilometers away, thanks to the clear skies, small patches of forests could be seen, which would certainly become problem spots later. The mechanized offensive advanced fastly, keeping an steady sixty kilometers per hour, it would gain terrain fast, and eventually be in range to strike the defensive line along the Ma-19 road, and hopefully secure Llucmajor, which had a very important asset, in the form of an airport large enough for their close air support and fighters to operate from. The other two divisions, which also had to clear some poorly constructed tank traps from their way, would head towards Campos and Santanyil respectively, with the latter expecting a peaceful stop in the strategically uninteresting city of ses Saline.

-------------------

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAfhaEoL4hY

Among the decadent buildings and poorly maintained houses of ses Saline, a city completely abandoned by the government, the manner to arrive to the people was very important, and with their weapons lowered down, and refusing to damage the city infrastructure with their heaviest vehicles, the soldiers peacefully walked singing revolutionary songs, as black and red flags waved through the wind, and a small bloodless victory has been ensued, for they have convinced the enemy somehow to give up on the defending the city, leaving its infrastructure and people intact to be liberated, in a way close to what Sun Tzu has said regarding supreme excellence. Perhaps they could still convince their enemies to defect, but that would be a tricky matter.

One risky gesture was done by the soldiers, as in the abandoned prefecture of the city of ses Saline, a soldier, unopposed by the population nearby, began to lower the flag of Soviet Spain. Instead of putting the flag of the Confederacy, an universal symbol was raised over the mast. The [url="http://treesong.org/album/dc/011803_Red_and_Black_Flag.JPG"]symbol of socialist anarchism[/url], flowing in the first city liberated from the Soviet Spain dominion without any battle other than the battle for the mind of the people. Suddenly, rather than hostility, the act was strangely answered with applauses from the curious population. Children, many of which seemed malnourished, dirty workers, and a disturbing lack of old people, a mass which welcomed the twenty thousand marines as liberators rather than as invaders. There were very few cars, most probably left by retreating communist Party members.

In such division, Júlio Santiago himself was. Hero of the Second Spanish Civil War, and purger of slavery. Among the soldiers and people, he stood into a podium, and prepared to make a speech, hoping to justify their existence as a internationalist force that stood for the freedom of the people of the world rather than for the interests of a single nation, and in his fluent Spanish, he began, as a mob began to spontaneously throw ropes around a statue of Carlos Cavallo nearby.

"People of ses Saline. Today is a turning point in the history of our nation! For years the true enemies have lied to you, about the nature of the Confederacy of Third Spanish States, and have taken away your voice, your lives and your dignity. These times are from now on over, and the time approaches as we must liberate the entirety of our land.

The Confederacy is not a puppet of foreign interests, unlike the People's Republic, who has sold themselves to the dogs of Stoklomolvi and will allow for them to annex our nation in exchange of their luxury and privilege! Not only they have betrayed we as a people, but also have betrayed we as a nation!

However, now it's the time for change, and the Republic lies as a rotting and decrepit monster, which only needs a definitive strike to at last fall down, and ensure that you, your children and future generations shall be forever free from tyranny. However, we alone cannot achieve such feat. The revolution must be done by the people, not by men in uniforms and gun alone. We are the people! Today we begin the liberation of Spain. Today we shall find true socialism in freedom. Today you shall begin to learn how to govern the nation by yourselves. Today you are free!" he proclaimed, increasingly enthusiastic, as the crowd cheered and the statue of Cavallo crumbled to the ground.

"However, our freedom is not free. For there are enemies of freedom. The Stalinist scourge, the fascist scum, the imperialistic capitalist pigs who loom around, and deceitfully pretend to support us. We must be watchful of all. We must not surrender. We must fight for our freedom and the freedom of children! We are not here to occupy this land, but to teach you how to fight. A tenth of our men will stay, and teach to all those willing the art of guerrilla warfare. Also, if you have sons sold into slavery, parents lost into the brutality of these monsters. If you see what I see as our future. If you are prepared to march onto the monster, join our march and well shall crush the tyranny of Cavallo for once and all. Libre España!"

And soon the cry came, the cry of the freedom, of the sole goal for which men risked their lives. Not wealth, oil or land. All they wanted was briefed by the uproar of the masses shouting in a chorus of an awakened revolutionary seed:

"Libre España!"

And now, a symbolic destruction had to be further done as the speech continued to inspire the masses for a revolution against the Republic, and looking at the prefecture building, Júlio then rallied the mob with his charisma:

"Comrades! Look at this! What is this? This is a symbol of power and oppression! Of the rotten separation between those who rule and who are ruled. It is no longer worth to exist. No symbols or tools of oppression must stand! Today we abolish the oppressive government of this city! Tomorrow we shall abolish the oppressive government of Spain!"

Amidst cries, using molotov cocktails, hammers and other improvised tools, soon the people begun to vandalize the governmental building, smashing its pillars, spitting at it, and out of control, soon it burned the same, as then all began to back off from the building. Júlio nodded to one of the marines with a GEM 2 missile launcher, as the same aimed against one of the foundations of the burning building, and a missile flew over it, allowing for the already seriously damaged prefecture to finally crumble into the ground with its ashes.

The scene was almost textbook. An anarchist flag waving, a mass of people mobilizing through direct action, and the very infrastructure of the former order burned to the ground. The People's War has begun, and Júlio knew that it would be quite possible for enough volunteers to come from the city to form at least a brigade, or at best an entire division with basic combat training in the next week and half, although hopefully the entire island would be conquered by then.

Soon he would have to leave however, and march further ahead, sitting inside a Mobile Command Center, from where he saw the many green dots over the always moving telemetric map of their position, as they blitzed towards their objective. Spearheaded by Sino 2A1 Main Battle Tanks, their combined arms force was soon to get into range to pinpoint the enemy air defenses and the line between them and the city of Santanyil. The first ground battles of the Iberian War were about to happen, however, the morale of the soldiers was higher than ever after their passage through the city and the encouragement of the people their liberated. It was the sort of morale that only the certainty of fighting for a greater cause rather than for petty interests would ensue. While the city has promised to bring a small logistical aid to their forces, and to defend themselves from any attempt of counter-attack by the People's Republic of Spain, which seemed very unlikely for now, for it would only end into a suicidal march as they would be bombed into oblivion by close air support. Several squadrons have landed into an airfield in the city of ses Saline, to increase their operational range, and air superiority sweeps were still conducted, just in case.

The Division between Júlio's and Jaen's was slower, maintaining a steady pace of forty-five kilometers per hour, specially due to it packing all the Cáscara 2A1 Heavy Assault Tanks, and an extra self-propelled artillery brigade, for it was intended to break through the enemy lines as the two other faster divisions would either perform diversionary attacks or tactical encirclement to perhaps then convince the surrender or defection of some of their enemies, should they not manage to do so without a battle. With the momentum still on their side, the first of many possible decisive moments of the Battle of Mallorca approached as three mechanized marine divisions marched.

[Third Spanish States]

Ma-19 Defensive Line, 14:30 hours

The terrain around, made upon grasslands and already recon'd by the bourgeois unmanned drones, of which a few were taken, has simply been a major factor into the probability of success of their plan. Mallorca was a critical territory to defend, and even though eventually their supplies would become scarce, the island had enough industries to sustain their at least their soldiers. It was basically the doorway to Spain, to which the brave Soviet warriors stood in defense. In ground forces, they believed to be averagely superior, for whereas their enemies wore nothing but Type I body armor, they had Type III armor for all soldiers, an expensive but important investment.

A long, non-contiguous line of foxholes and heavily fortified positions, with non-contiguous tank traps and razor wire walls around tactical positions, extended from the far south to the northwest, and further beyond, laid in a very uniform manner regarding its defensive capabilities, for they knew that their enemies would simply go through any weak point available, and thus, it was better to have an average overall defense than a Maginot line with the northern flank to be exploited. Far from static, most of the defensive emplacements were very fresh, unless if compared to further lines of defense behind, for a somewhat elastic defense could make a major difference. The infrastructure of the roads nearby was still mostly intact, but should the enemy be about to break through them, the orders were simple: to destroy as much of them as possible in their controlled retreat, for roads would sped the enemy offensive.

Although officially called a line, the very setup was much more of a hedgehog defense, with a few lines intentionally laid to confuse the enemy about the nature of the defensive measures, deep enough to keep attacking moving forces, and tough enough to put the decision between attacking them or moving fast, praying that the active protection systems would work, a very difficult one. It was very important to hide as much as possible from the enemy, for while they knew quite well what to expect from the Third Spanish States forces, they equally knew how to cover the hints to their plans.

General Vidal Torres was the man responsible for securing the island, with one hundred twenty thousand men at his command, and at least the double of such number in potential conscripts from the island, who would only be employed should the situation worsen. The self-propelled anti-air vehicles were everything they had, and in prediction to an event like this, the landscape of all the important positions of Mallorca was shaped by the presence of several antennas, static electronic warfare systems, albeit remotely operated, intended to difficult the operation of enemy bombers, and equally, a very strong matrix of radar coverage encompassed the entire island, allowing them to detect their enemies as soon as they arrived.

A big armored truck with some electronic equipment was leading a couple of other communications support vehicles what they had as a mobile command center, but nonetheless, the complex set of communication system, from the ubiquitous radios to a quite impressive amount of computers. Such command center was crewed by many technicians, ready to inform critical informations regarding the battle progress to each or all the platoon captains and squad leaders. Such vehicle was much father behind from the main, and behind many lines and rows of hedgehogs disguised as static trenches, amidst anti air vehicles, minefields and machinegun emplacements. There the general stood, awaiting for the incoming enemy force.

Inside the truck cargo container, an improvised control room was with a small number of specialists and a single, large and black seat of the general next to a military-grade computer attached to a radio communications set. In the computer, a map of the island was drawn, with quickly drawn symbols being added to the dynamic image according to the reconaissance data of some of the recon squads, it was a clever and cheap sort of informational awareness, exactly what they needed. Apparently their enemies were moving in an irregular pace, with the center, expected to be their spearhead, moving slower compared to the divisions expected to be at the north and south of their central strike force. The general knew what they were trying to do, and pondered on a risky maneuver to perhaps turn the tide of such conflict later on. The question of air superiority was tricky, for Cavallo has called off all fighters to the mainland days before the first Confederacy carrier arrived, apparently not very optimistic about his competence to hold off the enemy advance, or because eventually all would be lost in the island, and rebasing fighters which would have to go through the enemy dominated skies and seas could be very dangerous.

Suddenly a transmission would come, with some panic involved as, away from the first line of defenses, the General was finally informed that the battle has just begun:

"This is sergeant Javier of the twentieth eighth recon squad. We have spotted artillery strikes against our northernmost positions. I repeat. Our forces are under attack!"

"Like the plan predicted, carry on." the general calmly said.

"Yes, comrade, we shall keep you updated of the situation."

And as soon as his conversation with such sergeant finished, a new one would come:

"This is sergeant Dejaz from the eleventh recon squad. Our southernmost position in being bombarded by artillery strike. Requesting orders."

"Carry on with the plan comrade, this is happened exactly as predicted. We are going to succeed against their forces." he then spoke again, with no signs of fear.

"Acknowledged, I shall inform the captain."

And thus the connection cut down. Franticly poorer and poorer drawings of the enemy positions appeared in his computer screen, advancing through the map, being little more than scratches done in matter of seconds. However, soon drawing represent enemy airplanes also came, as he simply ignored all of them, trusting entirely in the successfulness of his audacious plan. He knew quite well the unexpected sleights of hand he could surprise the enemy with, and the time for them to be employed was coming as the battles of Llucmajor and Santanyí begun. The Confederacy would pay dearly for their arrogance.

[Third Spanish States]

“Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.”
Sun Tzu, The Art of War

30 kilometers west from the "Ma-19 Line", 14:29 hours

The mechanized assault continued to forward into the depths of Mallorca unopposed for a few hours. Jaen has simply stared at the emptiness of the drone inside the vehicle during all the time, except for the occasional conversation with his comrades about their lives and personal interests, as they waited anxiously for the battle to begin. The display which previously demonstrated the camera input from their vehicle was now switched by him to a tactical map filled with numbered green dots representing the overall position of their squads, platoons and fireteams, some of which seemed to be deliberatedly spreading a few miles from the brunt of their forces, intended to perform diversionary attacks. There was only a rough estimate of enemy positions indicated, aside from static defenses. The support personell surely knew how to update information in a matter of minutes, for such was a very recent data. Checking again his assault rifle, Jaen awaited for the decisive moment. The line seemed closer and closer, for the Battle of Llucmajor was likely about to happen.

First, a few green unmanned aircraft symbols began to move through the enemy lines, as a last try to resolve such conflict without the spill of blood. Unmanned aerial vehicles bearing the truth between their wings, a powerful weapon, capable of shattering whole armies, in the form of revolutionary messages. The bringers were expendable, and thus to ensure speed, they came in fast and could not wait for the air escorts to arrive.

Soon the symbols vanished, as missiles have successfully destroyed them, with the truth set on fire, like that of countless books, articles and newspapers burnt by the gone Third Reich, by the gone rule of Stalin and also by the actual rule of Cavallo. A lasting hope of a bloodless victory gone as new, unnecessary costs were brought by their categorical wish to attempt convincing their enemy soldiers to switch sides before marching to battle. Time could not be lost, for soldiers form the other side of the island were likely heading to their way. Suddenly the silent was interrupted, as aware of their fruitless attempt to win the war of propaganda, their primary strike force announced in Spanish:

"60th Artillery brigade to all of the 1st Marino division! We are in range and preparing to strike a barrage of fire on the enemy air defenses. Slow down your movement to forty kilometers per hour for now to avoid you to get off our coverage. We are coordinating a simultaneous strike with the 67th Artillery brigade and with the Malatestas in five seconds... two, one..."

Simultaneously, shells flew from the guns of many self-propelled artillery vehicles and of the still in range large naval guns of the Malatesta Heavy Cruisers next to the shore. Trails of tracer ammunition covered the skies, and the seas rippled from the firepower. Few seconds later, as the guns lowered their angle and artillery vehicles moved further ahead, another salvo was given in synchrony between the land and naval artillery. Such combined force would only extend as most of the enemy air defenses at such sector would fall.

Hearing the distant roars of the guns from inside the infantry fighting vehicle, the fireteam continued to move towards their destination, albeit at a slower pace to not lose the coverage of their artillery vehicles. The vehicles themselves began to increase the distances between each others, in a more loose formation to reduce the chances of enemy artillery hitting them, although it could be as well suppressed by the sheer momentum of their attack and mobile artillery. Jaen felt a minor shockwave, like if a comet itself was falling, and saw traces representing the trajectory of the projectiles in the tactical map, flying over their heads. In a matter of a dozen and further few minutes, such firepower would be further boosted as their Librecielos would be finally in range to launch their missiles as artillery.

The ground shook as in a work of network-centric warfare, both naval and ground based artillery shells rained against the enemy positions, in what could be considered a quite effective strike for the first real operation of most crews other than some of the naval ones. 135mm, 155mm and 205mm shells, of which the naval ones were rocket-propelled, and others mostly of the air-burst type, able to blow up in mid air to maximize anti-personell and structural damage, impacted against a five hundred meters long line of defense where their fire was concentrated, probably killing anyone foolish enough to not be behind cover, and provoking a nearly deafening noise with their impacts, even from tens of kilometers away, and such ode to death continued for many minutes, as Jaen felt tempted to put on his canalphones for now. However, he simply frowned and resisted the urge, for the noise was still not as horrible as it likely was to the enemy soldiers. Perhaps a barrage of propaganda to convince the pointless of their struggle could help a bit, and indeed, as a strange maneuver, after the many barrages of the first five minutes, complemented by the logistical vehicles carrying further shells behind the line and by resupply vehicles, a uncommon salvo of blank shells filled with copies of the document where Cavallo planned to accept the annexation of Spain into Stoklomolvi and with inhuman pictures of their death camps were shelled, in what could be perhaps more morale breaking than physical artillery bombardments: the literal bombardment of demoralizing facts.

Ten minutes later, the many brigades, battalions, platoons and squads of the division continued to advance without interruption. One of the many deployed drones flew over to verify the devastation after ten minutes of barrage, recording the imagery of black-scorched terrain, with sparse glimpses of charred and mutilated corpses, but many of the soldiers still keeping their positions. And most important of all, as confirmed by the fact such drone was not downed, such area, at best a kilometer wide, and likely any area up to a hundred kilometers away from it, could be safely crossed by aircrafts. A curious fact was three dozens of bodies were quite fresh, and seemed most intact except for what could only be a bullet to their heads. It was the morbid evidence that their propaganda bombardment has brought more casualties than the physical shells, and that without considering the likely effect on the morale of such soldiers, literally forced to fight at gunpoint.

Such gruesome image has arrived to a few among the support crew, but already has defined what made such scenery different from any simulation. They would have to tread through cadavers and filth, let their tanks shatter bones into the dirt of the ground, and witness the most gruesome accounts of death from both their enemies and their friends. Another detail that made things even more challenging was the visible patch of human feces that seemed to be disgustingly piled in the back side of one of their larger emplacements, with a part of it seemingly shaken off by an artillery shell, and likely to have landed somewhere else, or perhaps on an unfortunate of their soldiers, which would serve as a very strong argument to justify why some of their division transport vehicles were carrying porta-potties. For soldiers were not machines, and like any living beings, they had to answer to nature's call, and apparently their enemies cared less about sanitation. As many of the Confederacy soldiers have readed Homage to Catalonia, those who saw the image would immediately associate with Eric Arthur Blair's reports of his experience with the First Spanish Civil war.

After the data was recovered, nothing changed. The heavy artillery strikes continued to scorch the enemy line into oblivion, and some of its defenses already seriously crippled. Razor wire patches were now buried in consecutive small craters, many landmines have been detonated by the explosions, some emplacements amidst sandbags and other fast defenses have been operationally abandoned and some tank traps became ruined slabs of concrete. Strangely, no counter-artillery has come yet, and that worried many about it. For it could not be really that easy. There must be something else. For now, it did not matter, and things were at least sufficiently for the first air support to come. The ACA-1 was an expensive drone, designed engaging safely in air superiority conditions rather than in the ideal air supremacy, an oblique flying wing loaded with bombs which approached from west, as indicated in the tactical map displayed to Jaen and his comrades, still waiting for their time to get in action and give support to the allied armored brigade against infantry, for there were still about twenty kilometers to cross, even though the battle has already started thanks to the long range of their artillery systems.

For a soldier inside an infantry fighting vehicle, all that could be ascertained was that a battle was happening from its sounds, and what the tactical map allowed of information to be given. The minutes were tense and difficult to stand in such waiting, for the possibility of dying in their way existed, although enemy artillery has not happened thus far. The barrages continued as more and more ground was crossed, amidst small elevations, sparse trees and few mounds, their way was treaded, with mobile armored logistics vehicles just behind the front lines, ready to supply them.

Two tactical sectors of the enemy "line" were being attacked. A sector to the south mirrored the divisional operations to the north, while at the center, a slower force sought to eventually be the ender of a possible encirclement and induced mass defection of the enemy as the north and south strikes pushed their left and right flanks, should they manage to break through them.

Four minutes of further wait, and suddenly the skies was also lightened from the other side, as shells of the enemy took their maiden voyage from the clearings of a forest a dozen and half of kilometers ahead towards them, with red traces shifting regularly in the tactical display as their systems attempted to predict their trajectory. Soon between the irregular rows, some armored vehicles decelerated to give a wider space between them and those at their front, as interceptor projectiles began to flew from their active protection systems. Daringly, they refused to slow down in face of the incoming barrage of fire, only answering it as attempts to trace the enemy fire would soon determine a new point for their own artillery vehicles to target. Unfortunately such point was already beyond the maximum effective range of their naval guns, in some sort of coincidence that could only be the result of some careful tactical planning of such enemy positioning.

Nonetheless, ignoring the likely ranting of the hippies and tree-huggers, as they saw an uniform indication of a crosshair into a section of the estimated direction of such fires, several artillery companies shifted their focus from the enemy lines to the estimated position of the enemy artillery, as two rains of shells intermeshed in their trajectories towards different objectives. It was by them that perhaps one of the most finalizing touches to such strike could be done.

Hearing the hissing sound of the missiles being launched en mass from the multi-role troop transport even before the first shells would land at their proximity, Jaen finally smiled as thermobaric missiles took their flight together with artillery shells against the enemy. They would probably run for the underground at such rate, incapable of effectively defending themselves. Another strange thing however was the apparent lack of enemy armor, which has been so far very helpful to their advance.

His ears, like the ears of his fireteam comrades, vibrated as the first enemy shells landed into the ground just ahead of them, in their first experience with the toughness of battle. The pilot of their vehicle, probably more stressed than them, was franticly making turns, accelerating and decelerating as estimations of impact trajectory near to their position came in mass, nearly overloading the M135 pilot of information. The deafening thunder of artillery finally came as a final argument for them to temporarily put their canalphones on. Jaen looked at Pedro and Elis for a while, printing their faces in his memory as they would in some minutes get out of the relative safety of the vehicle to face the battle heads on, and attempt to break through the enemy lines. The formation became less and visible as the vehicles began to maneuver seemingly randomly out of the artillery strikes, and their self propelled artillery proceeded into using their agility to avoid their counter-battery fire, and would appear to be completely disorganized in their march, although that was also on purpose to deceive their enemies, for the "fist" of the blitz has not yet formed, giving their doubts about which point they would actually attempt to break through amidst a probable line of five kilometers, and such doubt could make a significant operational difference. Split formations moved, with completely asymmetric and partially unaligned lines and rows of vehicles optimized to reduce the changes of being hit. Some of the enemy successful were deflected by their active protection systems, although most simply were dodged or averted by their skillful pilots.

As the missiles finally reached the enemy positions ahead, rapid flames engulfed many of them, with those few without underground shelter becoming immediate graves. The first operational line of defenses was already abandoned by then, becoming nothing but a charred construct of flesh and rubble between craters of craters done by the shells. They have performed quite well, for seemingly all those trainings of defensive piloting were for a reason. Soldiers thanked for not being on foot, or otherwise the situation would be much grimmer. Some vehicles have actually been hit, but the impact was not against their weakened zones, delivering only a very strong, nearly bone-breaking shock wave to those inside them.

Statistically, the chance of they having no casualties in a battle of such intensity were infinitesimal, although they were prepared to die for freedom, even if such death was an inglorious hit of an artillery shell before getting in range to shoot against their enemies. A further minute passed as the first casualties happened. Thirteen was a number superstitious people were afraid of, and were exactly thirteen freedom fighters that would die as the first martyrs of such war to have lost their lives in a ground battle, joining the ranks of people like the fighter pilot Marie, presumed dead after her CL-32 was downed, who left two children in mourning, and of many other dozens who had sacrificed their lives in this and in the Second Civil War for the cause of liberty and anarchism. Statistically, the casualties of the Confederacy have been exceptionally low in the war so far, but for those who had such people as their closest friends and family, the scar such losses left could never really be healed. At such rate, eventually only a space elevator would be tall enough to serve as the planned Monument of the Martyrs of Freedom, a monolithic homage where would be engraved the names of all those who have sacrificed their lives for the cause of freedom in the history of man, and to also all those who have died nameless for such cause.

A Sucuri Heavy Infantry Fighting Vehicle has been destroyed together with thirteen human lives by a lucky artillery shell of the enemies, and thus the first casualties were brought. The vehicles behind quickly maneuvered out of the burning vehicles, aware that speed was the key for minimizing their losses, and the faster they finished the battle, the least people would die. However, a good sign came as the intensity of the artillery strikes was reducing, probably because their own artillery counter-battery fire against the forest was forcing the enemy, expectingly self-propelled ones to retreat. For now, all indicated that they had the tactical superiority, and as more enemies advanced from the other side of the island, without leaving the same unprotected, every second was precious and such apparent tactical superiority could not be wasted. They had to move and think fast, and find counters to every attempt of their enemies to halt their momentum.

[Third Spanish States]

The eternity of the artillery strikes and the tension of the awareness that any of them could die at any moment served to transform the next two minutes of this battle into an eternity for Jaen and his comrades. In a gesture of aid, each held their hands together, as the waited for the next fourteen minutes before engaging into combat. What moved them to not panic was not the order of an hierarchical figure, nor a formal duty to obey. It was their belief to be serving a greater cause the only reason why they continued to follow with the plans they also have gave small contributions to, rather than the order of a commander or the fear of the punishment for desertion, as there was none in the first place, for only people with fiber could join the war, as there was certainly not a shortage of manpower to justify less selective recruitment for now. They were not following orders, but the hopes of their hearts and convictions of their minds. Thus, the military organization of anarchists no longer became a contradiction in terms.

After such two long minutes, and seventeen minutes of battle, thirteen, the very number of men who have died so far, were still the estimated minutes to wait for them to reach the battle zone and finally make their final storm against the enemy forces and finish what their artilleries and bombers have started. It was by then that the incoming dozens of light bomber drones in the tactical display finally passed through them. Black figures in the sky, flying wings which although clearly visible by eyes, were not so easily visible for the radars of what they still had of air defenses, nor easily locked by their missiles, although at such ranges, all they would manage to do was to have the element surprise for an increased time.

The stealth drones flew over the cratered line for their first bombing run and began to get deeper into the enemy lines, still facing no opposition, and as some still mostly intact emplacements were detected, their internal bays opened, as the small diameter bombs were air dropped, and red dots signaled their guidance systems turning on to head towards running soldiers for underground cover, and taking further lives and defensive emplacements with their dive bombing runs. However, after a single minute wrecking havoc and forcing the enemies to cower, the ACA-1 drones had to return to their hundred of kilometers away air base as their limited carriage had to be re-supplied. As they were just turning their backs into the field, suddenly multiple contacts would be detected coming from the woods.

A legion of medium unmanned aerial vehicles of the enemy equipped with short range air-to-air missiles bent on annihilating the unmanned bombers, which were completely defenseless, except for being faster. Such was considered one of the greatest mistakes of their enemies, for they have finally revealed that they were simply hiding their game with the Confederacy forces. That would pose an important choice to make soon, but now, what mattered was the attempt to out-maneuver chasing unmanned aerial vehicles. Probably the ACA-1 could simply get far above their service ceiling, although the speed loss from going up would simply slow them down enough to become easy prey. There was only one thing to do, as they continued to move at maximum throttle back to the mechanized marines and their anti-air vehicles.

The nearest enemy drones soon managed to launch their missiles, however they foolishly were nearly at the limit of their effective ranges, make such first and last strike of them futile and easily dodged by the countermeasures of the ACA-1 as they began to retreat no longer armed for other rows of drones to carry on with their chase. Thankfully they have decided to send drones rather than helicopters for close air support to prevent risks like this, for otherwise things could become really nasty regarding casualties. More minutes were passing of nearly-continuous artillery barrages as the drones retreated. Far away, the less operationally flexible fighters were arriving from the distant carrier, to make another sweep, although if such drones indeed attempted to chase the bombers all the way, the Librecielos would likely finish them.

They just retreated as they finally realized the futility of the chase, and thus the bomber drones had a safe return to their mobile forward airbase set up by the logistics personell fifty kilometers behind the battlefield. There was only a minute left, and after standing the shock waves and roaring noise of weakening artillery barrages for nearly twenty minutes, Jaen was very glad to be getting out of such tin can at last. Already preparing to disembark, he removed the safety set of his rifle, while Pedro was preparing their ground drone to disembark first. The Sino 2A1 main battle tanks were already firing against the line two kilometers ahead, and companies have been split into a clear pattern, as their central column slowed down slightly. In their path, countless shell craters of missed shots. The scenery was became clearer as they were about to cross the last hundreds of meters to a combat position. There were two small mounds ahead, both serving as defensive positions which seemed to be still standing, even if in shambles, after half an hour of almost nonstop artillery fire against the entire region. Operational reinforcements were hurriedly setting up new machinegun emplacements as they arrived, and a few mortar shells accompanied the withering fire of enemy artillery, still sustaining, although significantly suppressed by counter-battery fire of less than a fifth of all artillery guns in range. Between the mounds a three hundred meter plain continued, eventually taking to a depression and to the Ma-19 road. A wider line began to be formed next to the enemy defenses, as autocannons and machineguns began to fire. Jaen heard the thunder of the gast autocannon of his vehicle as a clear sign it was the time.

Three kilometers behind them, some were already setting up their MOI-20 medium mortars from pieces transported separatedly by several vehicles, and soldiers were making fast dig-ins for their mortars to be fired from, carrying sandbags as they formed a battle position. It was by then that the hatch of the M135 opened, and soon the drone began to march to the outside with its wrap-around tracks, and as soon as it came out, a sensor mast was erected from it, and it turned around to face the defensive line of the enemy, already heavily suppressed as tanks and some of the vehicles continued to spearhead through three key points. Jaen began to walk through the metal floor of the vehicle, and breathed the fresh air... of death. The smell of burning was strong, and he has just stepped into a small crater of the very artillery they have fired as his first step into battle. Taking advantage of the data of the drone as bullets flew past the vehicle, blocked by its armor, they crouched and began to run towards the right as he said very loudly, to not be silenced by the fire:

"The plan is to make a small encirclement. They seem to be in a controlled retreat. Our part in the plan will be to snipe some of those nasty retractable ATGM emplacements in those mounds, sneaking through them. Hey comrade!" he then said, interrupted another warrior in his way to carry some ammunition, as the soldier asked:

"What is it?"

"Could you assume the control of this drone, we need a very specific fire support against that mound to the left, and we'll inform you once our priority changes." Jaen said.

"Of course, I know how to operate this. I will be waiting for you to inform me the right time for it. I'll also be contacting the mortar teams. I see what you want." he replied, as they began to run with their backs lowered through the cover of uneven rows of slowly advancing vehicles, which seemed to press the soldiers to move fast, for they would not be waited for. The grass seemed to become thicker as they advanced, which was a good thing. Suddenly their figures vanished in a meter and half tall patch of grass, which luckily extended to the base of the mound. Silently, they slowly moved through the grass, checking with caution the soil, for that region apparently was not hit very hard by their artillery. It was then that the man pressed his helmet and whispered:

"Drone zero seven three zero one. Follow slowly our IFF beacon through a patch of grass, we need close fire support."

"Acknowledged, I'm moving it now."

Then prone, the three soldiers awaited for their "machinegun operator", which would take two minutes to arrive. They had to be quick, for the mortars keeping the ATGM emplacements downed would slow down their advance. Another problem however was how stretched they became as they advanced deeper, something that could only be solved by taking as much of their time as possible to offset their numerical disadvantage. Jaen continued to run with his back inclined down, letting mud through his uniform, as both marines followed him in the same position, and the robot was behind to cover them, a position soon to change.

Being too fast had disadvantages, and their boldness again met the cynical and battle-hardened experience of their enemy as Elis suddenly blew up their cover by pure bad luck, and herself, as a charge came up, leaving splinters to which they barely had enough time to take cover against. With ears rocked by the noise, a strange, constant white noise made him disoriented for a few seconds, as he finally realized what happened. A small pool of blood was forming, as Elis agonized on the ground, with two stumps where her ankles were before, pleading for an ice bag and for morphine. Pedro did the best he could with his first aid skills, and quickly taking a medical kit from his backpack, tried to tend to the agonizing woman. Immediately, Jaen activated his helmet communicator to call:

"I have a comrade with immediate medical support! Code Zero-Five-Seven"

"Acknowledged. Tankbulance on the way."

A large, converted infantry fighting vehicle began to crush the grassland, firing its gun to suppress the enemies that attempted to stop it, and soon it stopped right next to their position, and three soldiers came from behind it with a gunny. A doctor among them checked quickly the point her leg was cutted at and sighed. Then, as Pedro tried to stop the bleeding, the doctor touched his shoulder and said:

"Let me handle it, your friend will survive. Comrades, sanitize and put her lost legs into icebags. There is still a chance for us to surgically re-implant them."

And thus the doctor applied morphine as she finally calmed down, and the other soldiers from the tankbulance crew grabbed her both legs in a morbid scenery, throwing an anti-septic liquid at them and putting them in plastic bags with ice, and as they brought both to the inside of the armored ambulance, a handy vehicle in a world where the Geneva conventions have the worth a fly, they quickly took her into the gunney and brought her to one of the beds inside, immediately looking for a spare bag of blood compatible with hers inside, for she has lost a significant quantity of blood and was still in a serious state of health, and fortunately there was an O- bag in their medical supplies. Fortunately they managed to stabilize her, even though they were quite aware that she might simply ask to be euthanized, once she realizes that the chances of her ever having her legs again are of five percent. For some, such sort of happening was worse than death.

The tankbulance headed back, to bring her to the campaign medical areas. And sighing, Jaen suddenly spotted a very suspicious patch of dirt amidst the grassland. Gesturing for Pedro, he mowed his gun towards the ground, and Pedro followed his aim, as both shot simultaneously, pushing back a disguised cloth which hid a spider hole, where a now dead soldier was, with a rocket propelled grenade launcher next to his body.

It was perhaps ironic, that someone had to lose her legs, probably forever, so that what for one was bad luck, forcing such to be called off from the war prematurely, for many was a blessing. If Elis never stepped in the mine, they would never have uncovered what was clearly a carefully laid ambush, and with no glory, or without firing a single shot, her sacrifice has saved countless lives from certain death in an ambush.

Even ironic was how, at the exact moment that Jaen opened again the communications of his network-centric helmet to shout "Ambush!", that in the flanks of a line of tanks and armored vehicles, the remaining soldiers, nearly an entire anti-tank platoon would come out of their spider holes with their anti-tank guns ready to fire, and attack the armors with no mercy.

forty-nine rockets against forty nine armored vehicles have come. With no time to react. all they could do was to hope for the active protection systems to succeed. Six Sino 2A1 and ten Modular Armored Cars among the assault had no such luck, and were crippled. Four of them lethally, becoming the metal graves of more twelve freedom fighters. However, the worse came from the flanks of the mounds, as six hidden jeeps, little more than technicals, began to move, hoping to simply survive at the basis of surprise.

It was a poorly executed ambush, to the point that perhaps it was not a real ambush at all, despite the losses it brought in armor. The cost of human lives however would be much greater for them, as with pinpoint accuracy, the soldiers would be massacred from their spider holes, incapable of defending themselves as massed suppressive fire came towards them as well.

Autocannons roared against the jeeps, which have sniped a single Confederacy soldier, lucky enough to have taken a shot to his arm, and tended by a medic, as finally they were forced to run away.

Soon it would be proved what was the point of this. With the burning tanks cremating their dead and crippled tanks evacuated by their crew as the occasional artillery shell continued to fall, their offensive has been halted, and soon Jaen would notice from afar a mirage of metallic beasts... the armored forces of their enemies which were just very close to positioning to the top of both short but wide mounds, taking advantage of the diversionary ambush to get into such advantageous position, as the marine division tanks at such sector retreated and prepared for the real battle.

Their enemies have made plans to answer to exactly what they have done. And in the south, nobody has spotted the ambush, which has downed thirty armors in the greatest single loss of the Confederacy so far, also accompanied by an armored counter-attack, both which coincidentally happened in the few minutes interval between air missions. The true hell of war thus has introduced itself to them as majors desperatedly set new directives from their mobile command centers in an attempt to offset such combination of ambushes with counter-offensives that have brought nearly a hundred of armor losses to the Confederacy, at a greater cost of human lives for the enemy.

[Third Spanish States]

And in the meanwhile, the Allanean Special Operatives spread out through Spain. They were divided into two group. One of the groups, divided into yet smaller, two-person teams, advanced towards Madrid, hidden in various ways – some posed as locals, others simply snuck towards the capital at night, hiding throughout the day. What the purpose of this group was remained unknown – so far.

The other group divided itself into five-person teams, five in number, and began their work against the Fascist oppressor.

* * *

It happened somewhere near Cadiz – the precise location was something Aaron Smolny could have pointed out on a map even decades later. He was the Team Leader, of course. Their mission was simple – at least so they thought.

They had taken a simple mine – five kilograms of high-explosive – and waited for the rail inspection team to pass through the area. Then, literally fifteen minutes later, Aaron raised two fingers. Two of his teammates rushed forward, and, working as fast as they could do safely, buried the mine under one of the rails.

Then, they returned to hiding and started waiting for a military train. When one came, they would wait until it would be so near that its brakes would be useless – and push on the remote trigger.

* * *

Somewhere very near a Spanish military base the Spanish rear, Felix Nizhinsky was lying in wait with his rifle – a scoped Mosin clone. His mission didn't require any better. He simply waited until a completely random Spanish staff car appeared, and fired once, aiming at the driver's chest cavity. The steel-cored projectile had quite enough penetration to breach the glass and get through to the driver – and Nizhinski didn't really care if the driver lived or died.

Before the car veered off the road, Nizhinsky already left his firing position. He knew that his friends were around the base, too, hunting the Stalinist troops and disappearing after each kill.

Soon, the Stalinist fascists would start hunting them.

That was precisely the plan.

* * *

Rapid Emergency Message from the Allanean Government

We see you commenced operations in Mallorca. Would you like us to send a ground force to your assistance? It will arrive once Lysander Spooner and its battlegroup are done rotating out of the area.

[Third Spanish States]

A few green symbols fading black into a screen, such nearly insignificant vision was all that Júlio Santiago could make of what was happening at such moment. It was a meek visage of the lives lost, something not as shocking or emotionally intense as seeing the armors burning, or smelling the scent of crisped flesh mixing with the disgusting scent of the lack of hygiene from the enemy trenches. Twelve main battle tanks and sixty armored cars were taken down, with thirty lives being further sacrificed as the ambush occurred. However, soon a transmission would arrive to him, straight from one of the marines:

"This is Jaen Rodriguez, the enemies are amassing an armored counter-offensive to the northern front line. I see forty... no, eighty main battle tanks heading on in a large line of about fifty to a hundred meters, most Leopard 2Es! Wait, it's an entirely combined arms force, we are trying to slow them down with artillery, but unless air support arrives really soon things will become really bad."

Júlio coldly regarded the situation. The armored brigade attached to the Marines was pretty stretched after they have advanced for so many dozens of kilometers, with only twenty tanks being in the front, and the rest split into separated platoons to secure the flanks left by their rapid advance together with some of Marines left behind for such task. From these twenty tanks in the front, ten were taken down by the ambush, leaving them with only ten operational tanks against eighty of the most modern tanks the enemy forces had. Ten Sino 2A1 tanks against seventy Leopard 2E and ten Leopard 2A4 which were approaching from the distance. Such were twelve percent of the entire contingent of armored units from the enemy and nearly a fourth of the only modern tanks they had. However, from behind, a mass of technicals and infantry units marched, thousands of men against the few hundreds split into squads, platoons and fireteams which secured the actual front. A decisive battle was then set, and Júlio was quick to reply, hiding one of his greatest fears.

For commanding guerrillas and low intensity operations against slavers, he has been one of the greatest military leaders the Confederacy ever had. However, he always commanded with his comrades side-to-side, and has always been a great tactician for the art of guerrilla warfare. Now however, he was giving suggestions to an entire front, in a distant and relatively safe position isolated from the real battle. It was a foreign experience for him, and no matter how he had relatively succeeded in simulations and exercises, it was becoming clearer than ever, that he was not a man to lead from behind. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to be ready to replace such burden of his. Remembering of the fading green dots, he reminded himself of how not being on the field tended to reduce the worth a leader would give to the preservation of the life of those he led, and yet, no matter how it tormented him to stay there while others fought, he had a responsibility to accomplish.

The entire plan wasn't exactly done by him. It was more of a collaborative operation planning done in the last two weeks, where all the strategic and tactical minds of their forces gave in their ideas, and made them concrete and specific to the way they envisioned the one-day conquest of the island. The only contribution of Santiago was with the plans of recruiting militias from the local population, and with the details of how to implement it. A smaller part of a bigger, ambitious project to liberate the entire Spain in the next three months. Or perhaps such haste and ambition were the results of their awareness that of the looming threat from the East. Should Stoklomolvi reinforcements arrive, the tide of the war could literally turn against them. There were other worries, however, occupying the mind of the rarely entitled major.

Something was going completely wrong with the manner things were being organized, Júlio thought as he remembered how a truly loyal organization to the ideals of anarchism should operate, and noticed how he was being the exact opposite of a true freedom fighter. Enclosed, safe asking for people to die for a cause, just like every coward and politician of human history. Sitting on his chair, he looked at a technician to his side and asked:

"Comrade, isn't this vehicle supposed to be a self-propelled artillery and anti-air system rather than only a command center? Then tell me, why is it here, like the desk of a corrupt and pathetic crone only asking for others to risk their lives?"

Looking at Santiago, the man would be quick to reply a very reason, which seemed to imply to a greater worry, that perhaps their revolutionary flames and purity were fading to convenience:

"Maybe because nobody questioned this. But yes, if you really believe it will be better, then let us catch on with them, provided everyone agrees here, of course. As for literally getting into the first line of attack, remember this is not a tank, but if you really want to do it, nothing will stop you comrade."

"Then I'll ask what the crew thinks, comrade Viejas. I hope that the revolutionary spirit has not withered inside this place." Júlio Santiago replied, pondering on whether it would be acceptable or not. It was pretty strange how he was at the mercy of consensus even in such conditions, and perhaps it would force him to make all his way to another vehicle in the back of the front. And interacting with the computer ahead of him, and taking a headset, he then eloquently argued:

"Comrades, please listen to me, for today is a very important day for the world, for our people and for the human race. As we lie in waiting as a superfluous command of men too free and resourceful to be commanded, as we hope for a victory without firing a single shot..."

And before he could finish, a reply came, interrupting him:

"Cut the rhetoric Santiago! We were just waiting for a consensus to get out of this dull position. Moving to point seven-zero-cabron for artillery support. We will arrive in three hours, so all we can do is to mop up or persuade whoever is still alive to surrender until the night comes."

Smiling, Santiago looked at a spare RBA battle rifle inside the armored vehicle command center, and then realized that perhaps the old days would return. The times of fighting side to side with his comrades, long gone, perhaps could be brought back. And he wondered that perhaps such demonstration of courage could work into the goal of attacking by the stratagem. For now however, he was too far to make a difference, however, there was time yet for the Miajas to arrive. It was in moments like this that their unconventional speed and power for a close air support would be considered more than sufficient to offset the price to have one of the fastest aircrafts of its class.

------------

Jaen was still in the sections of the meters tall grasslands not blown up by the mine as he observed the distant armors treading through the scorched battlefield from beyond the two small mounds at such part of the greater whole. With only Pedro to his side, and the unmanned drone, he had to quickly think about how to do something that would contribute for the battle at large. The infamous patch of ground were Elis has met her fate as a cripple was still there, scorched, and behind him, the allies slowly formed into series of large, engulfing Vs, spearheaded by small contingents of armors and coupled with the Sucuris. They were preparing to defend, and mortars were also ready, with their crews attentiously looking at the tactical displays of their maps, fire control systems uplinked with the recon drones which scoured the land. Each second lost was one more second for the enemy forces to the other side of the island to arrive.

The emplacements of the enemy in the small mound ahead were still entirely intact, and would serve as a major obstacle to their advancement, forcing them to encircle it by the side, and even then, it was clearly done as a hedgehog defense, and by the time their strategic bombers would arrive with bunker busters, many hours would be wasted. It was necessary to break it, and soon. The clock of victory was ticking, and looking at Pedro, he pointed to the objective at hand, still being suppressed, and ordered for him to follow him. Looking at the place where the mine detonated, he attempted to perform the risky task of guessing a pattern, as he observed the overall shape of the terrain, and concluded how the least likely placed to be crossed would be the safest.

There was a rough ascent, the sort of thing that only a man and something with wrap-around tracks could ever think on crossing, however, sneaking towards it, they did not step on any mine, as clearly, being the tactically disadvantageous point of terrain, it was much less expected to be climbed than the much leaner, and likely heavily boobytrapped left of the mound. Artillery barrages continued to fire and bullets to cross the skies above towards the enemy emplacements as the enemy counter-offensive approached and he wondered if the drone would be able to get past such slope. Making a gesture to its camera, which the controller immediately understood.

The drone began to move with its wrap-around tracks, not unlike those of the Great War tanks, managed to slowly climb the slope. As it made its way up, Jaen climbed behind it, and his fireteam comrade below. It would be a dangerous crossing and race against the time, for there was no cover in the mound, and should the enemies cross the valley, they would spot them and immediately kill them. However, taking down such emplacement with a perfect line of sight with the other one, and tricking it by cancelling the suppressive fire, Pedro, trained as a sharpshooter, could easily take down the enemies operating the other twin anti-tank guided missile nest with his battle rifle. They would have to match up the command to cancel suppressive fire over it with the exact moment they would acquire a line of sight or at least enough range to blow the emplacement with a grenade, although the latter would make the idea of using such defense against their enemies impractical.

"Comrade, when I say Cabrón, stop the suppressive fire over the right anti-tank emplacement, so I can get rid of it myself." Jaen whispered through the voice-over of his helmet, as they continued to climb as fast as they could the mound, behind the small drone which was basically using all it had of torque to cross such tough obstacle. Bullets were flying less than six meters above their heads, as they continued to climb it, and with tension arising, they noticed as the tank guns of their few tanks aimed up and began to fire, while missiles flew from the infantry fighting vehicles: the enemy was approaching, and their time was running short.

A phenomenal effort of hope and persistence took them to the last meters before the top of the mound, with every step seeming not fast enough for success, the loud roaring of tank guns, and soon of mortars together with artillery, continued to thunder their ears, and eventually, as Jaen looked to the side and saw the distant gun of a tank from afar, despair struck. Perhaps now it was already too late, so ironic for they were so close, yet so far.

Fortunately it was not, as the drone finally managed to overcome its slow climb and hasten, and he immediately announced silently, hoping to have matched the exact moment, and that the reflexes of the operator of the drone would suffice:

"Cabrón!"

Suddenly, as they climbed as armors advanced to their left and below, the bullets stopped flying overhead, and suddenly a mechanical noise announced the raising of the emplacement previously hid underground. The mechanical noise became a cacophonia as the sounds of a machinegun silenced it, together with quick and agonizing screams, and with their heavy breathing as they at last took their final step, just in time to get in cover as bullets flew towards their overall direction.

Ahead, the retractable nest stood, cleansed, with the bodies of five dead soldiers, pierced by many bullets, were. With no thought, Jaen immediately helped his comrade to dispose of them, looking with pity at their lifeless eyes, for he knew that such men could have been his friends, his soldiers to fight side-to-side, that such men were his brothers, his people. But as an irony of fate, they were now forced to kill their own people for the cause of freedom. Such was the nature of war, amplified by the stench of the human sewage left in the open further behind the emplacement.

In the emplacement, where the stink of sweat was strong as ever, they looked at the two Kornet missile launchers ready for fire, and looking at Pedro, he instructed him as his comrade pointed his rifle, and its scope, towards the direction of the other anti-tank hedgehog. Their success would ensue that they would not have to wait for the air support to arrive, and more. The enemy has so far not given any sign to have attempted air superiority. Perhaps they could be hiding their game, or perhaps Mallorca wasn't considered so important, no matter how absurd it seemed to spare a tenth of all their tanks, but no air superiority fighter to the island.

Pedro looked through the scope, ready to fire his 7.62mm battle rifle, in semi-automatic mode, against the threats ahead, once they showed themselves.

"This is Jaen, call off suppressive fire over left anti-tank emplacement. And once I say Joto, get ready to sneak some men over it."

And soon the stream of fire and occasional explosions against it faded, as, just like predicted, the emplacement was popped open, and with precise shots, Pedro took down further five men manning such position. Thus, as the enemies seemed to be concentrating into such region, in the hopes of drawing the Confederacy marines to a trap, as tanks switched fire, missiles flew and destruction came further, their weapons would turn against them.

With no hesitation, the line of forces right after the valley between the mounds, with no more than three tanks quickly retreated as the bulk of the enemy tanks, light armors and infantry fighting vehicles advanced. However, soon it would be proved why a less mobile army is much more vulnerable. To the other sides of the mounds, two large focal points were made, and the seven remaining tanks charged into the soft underbelly of the enemy offensive, together with many infantry fighting vehicles.

Jaen soon took the control over one of the ATGMs, while his buddy took the other, and they awaited for the right moment to attack. The destroyed vehicles formed a nearly finished wall in the valley, still bypassed by their enemies. If they could score exact kills over two tanks at the exact moment they were crossing the wall of destroyed tanks, they would be able to operationally break off the offensive. six rows of tanks converged into two rows, and as the battle continued on, with the tides slowly turning, Jaen saw the opportunity, as gesturing to his buddy, he gestured to his buddy, and asked:

"Do you have a flag, Pedro?"

"Yes, but why does it matter?" the man then asked curious. It was time to exact revenge for what they did to their friend, but before it, Jaen gestured for Pedro to hand him the flag. A black flag, folded over into his backpack, with nothing to sustain it over. As soon as Jaen saw it he then turned back to the tanks still amassing into the large valley, and quickly pointed to the farthest one about to cross the wall of rubble. Aiming for the nearest one to them himself, he attempted to calculate the exact time to fire.

Seconds made the very difference, and in a hissing, loud sound, missiles flew from the emplacement towards both, guided by two red dots which soon would appear amidst the chaos of battle. Franticly adjusting his aim, Jaen finally would realize how such small action could make a difference at such point of the front. Two Leopard 2E went down, and like they have timed, turned the valley between both mounds into a funnel, a kill zone where twenty enemy tanks would have their fate met, it was by then that Jaen would risk himself, and with an improvised pole, tied the black flag and set it over the mound as a sign the time was ripe for attack again, and as a sign that victory was near. To the weary soldiers with their first experience in a real battle, to see such a flag waving in the heart of the enemy territory served as a strange, rallying cry that immediately arose their morale and perseverance to not halt.

Loading more missiles, they continued to take potshots as at least there, their success was becoming clearer than ever, thanks to the small effort of Jaen, coupled with the effort of many other brave fireteams to skillfully disable enemy positions, one by one, based on their training as an elite force specialized on attack rather than defense. Soon their offensive continued to advance again, in contrast to a central of their front retreating and still firing, albeit at a slower pace, with the fast attack groups having no care about the hopeless enemies left behind, tracks smashing through flesh and mud and the artillery barrages silencing the soon gone enemy artillery hid into now ravaged forests, as ten tanks emerged victorious, and soon their ambitions would become true. An entire brigade was encircled in the area behind the mounds and between the guns of their, and now, rather than finishing them off, perhaps no better moment could exist to convince their defection or surrender before reinforcements could arrive. Old essays would come into the minds of those who planned the offensive as a new tactical objective would arise for the division advancing through the north.

In the practical art of war, the best thing of all is to take the enemy's country whole and intact; to shatter and destroy it is not so good. So, too, it is better to recapture an army entire than to destroy it, to capture a regiment, a detachment or a company entire than to destroy them.

Major Riggs, the man who was among those who managed to pin such thousands in battle, looked around, feeling the tolerable pain of an scorch on his cheek, and prepared to attempt to negotiate their immediate surrender, into what would perhaps crown the first hours of their battle. Using a loud speaker, he then announced, in a flawless Spanish:

"As you see, now two choices lie for you, brothers. Yes, brothers, for different from the lies espoused by those who seek to destroy our nation, we are of the same Spanish blood, of the same culture of the same history and past. Why do you fight us? May I ask, for I see no reason for you to sacrifice your lives in such way. To serve for a government which has sold friends and relatives of your families into slavery, who have killed sixty million of our people! Why should you now fight to death for such monstrous den of cowards and swines who refuse to even step into the battlefield?

Traitors who are ready to sell our glorious people and nation to any bidder, who are ready to sell our Spain to Stoklomolvi in exchange of their privileges! Will you truly fight to death for such scum? For such traitors, murderers and tyrants of our people? Look around, see the proof. It spokes louder than any voice. What we ask is not for your surrender, what we ask is for you to allow us to set you free.

We shall take you to wherever you want, perhaps to ses Saline, to take away all your doubts. I just ask for you to stand down your weapons, and walk away from the battlefield, to continue your lives, be in the already free city of ses Saline, or in our truly socialist Confederacy, where you shall be free to live at. We do not blame you for the people you have killed, only those who have ordered for you to kill. Come now, and be free! Come now and find the truth! Come now and find life!"

Silence suddenly was everything in reply to the offer, as seconds passed and their patience began to wear thin, for they could not waste much time there. It was ironic, but if they did not decide soon, they would have to kill them to not put the entire operation in jeopardy. Suddenly the silence shattered as dozens of shots were heard, and the sound of countless of objects dropping followed. By the thousands, soldiers moved with their arms raised, leaving behind the dead bodies of their Commissars and leaders, and as soon as they were at sight, Riggs announced, in a friendly tone:

"You do not have to raise your arms, just, now you are free to go. I believe you need some time to regain the lives the scum of the communist party took away from you. Boats will be waiting for you to the coast, and the Confederacy doors are open. I am very happy to see you have seen the light of truth and as of now, you are free men. One day we shall see all your friends, brothers and families freed from such insidious and rotten enemy of our people. One day Spain shall be a truly free and socialist nation!"

And the weary men quickly lowered their hands again. It was a strange sight. Those who they were fighting against, now were friends, those who shot at them, they now helped, and tended to, those who killed some of them, they now brought to life and freedom. It was perhaps one of the noblest visages one could see a the battlefield, as it was realized who was the true enemy, and the former pawns, now defected, continued their way through the south, in a march towards their freedom, the same freedom they ironically were forced to fight against before. There was no other stronger proof that they were not there to conquer, but to free.

Jaen eventually returned with his friend to the same vehicle they came from, moping up for the continued march of the offensive, Nearly an hour of battle has passed, and despite the enemy insistence, they would still advance. Sitting into the vehicle simple seat, and spotting the vacant space between him and Pedro, he sighed, remembering of her. The enemy has suffered heavy losses, and now, two flanks around their defenses in Campos were for now broken, hedgehog defense or not, it was perhaps the clear sign that those three thousands men were only the beginning.

Unfortunately to the south, although the counter-offensive was driven off, no encirclement was achieved, and although they inflicted significant losses to their enemies, some of them have still retreated, and were to be chased away by the about to come Miaja fighter-bombers, with CL-32s escorting them. It was always disappointing to have to kill men who could be freed in other circumstances, but nonetheless, both were successes, and part of another division, armed with the largest amount of firepower of all of them, would soon be in range for the battle of Campos. For now, the Battles of Llucmajor and Santanyí were won. However, further surprises could await them ahead, and the advances proceeded in the most cautious manner that could be achieved without hindering their regained momentum. The enemy motorized division guarding Campos would not be able to out-maneuver them, and thus, eventually their odds would be much better than now, provided they succeed in such ambitious tactic to compensate for their inferior numbers in the island.

(OOC Note: I'll address Allanea's Ops once I finish to address the strategic battle of Mallorca to avoid mixing up.)

[Third Spanish States]

General Vidal looked at the drawn map of the island, as the symbols slowly shifted of position. A battle that have taken hours was nothing but statistics and symbols shown at his sight. The symbols of the enemy forces continued to advance through three primary directions through the east, and with their trust emboldened as the false, barely manned lines of defense were promptly broken, they simply marched straight into the trap, their armors being very important targets to take down. Perhaps the fools, in their rush, would not pay attention to the dummies stuffed with animal entrails that were positioned into most of the "line", giving them the false impression they have brought heavy losses as artillery and bombs fell over them through the passing of many minutes. It was as much of an exercise of waiting as it was of planning ahead. The spiderholes would certainly surprise them, which in their ignorance and lack of real combat experience would likely lead them to assume that the Army of the People's Republic is like the false depictions of bourgeois movies about the former Soviet Union's Red Army.

Nearly an hour of intense combat and artillery barrages has passed, storming the ears of many soldiers from both sides, knocking over some to nearly bone-breaking concussion in the metal graves of their enemies, and leading to the inevitable end of some lives, a shattering experience that for most in such battle has been novel, and which has led to the necessary of withdrawing one of their self-propelled artillery brigades to safety, as seemingly what their enemy lacked in manpower, they had in mechanization. It was then that the general saw the symbols passing through the ambush line, and hoping for the better, he crossed his fingers and awaited for the result. If successfully halted, a counter-attack, even with little hopes of ever achieving air superiority, could be conducted through clever tactics he had devised, which if successful would buy them part of the necessary time for the crucial Stoklomolvi's support to arrive and for the reinforcements to come from the west.

Now the cards seemed to have been played right, and hopefully their offensive would be halted. Soon, amidst the cacophony of calls that many ensigns were busy replying to inside the main vehicle of their mobile HQ, amidst the lowering of hastily written numbers next to the now halting symbols that indicated how many of their enemies were gone and amidst the constant tension that seemed to come through the old general as he realized his responsibility for the future of Spain, a call finally came to him through his computer, as a familiar sergeant reported:

"This is sergeant Javier of the twentieth eighth recon squad. The enemy has halted the advance in the entire line! I repeat! The enemy has halted the advance!"

"Acknowledged comrade. Carry on with your duties." the General replied as the immediately closed the communication and quickly typed something over the computer, in a sort of highly streamlined message console. It was time for the first part of their plan to happen, for that moment was the exact gap between each run of their air units through the field. From now on, depending on how it would fare, two different branches could be executed later. Strategic insight was something that they were not lacking of in ground warfare.

Code: Select all

Revolución Dos...

Thus, an overwhelming armored assault began, as tanks advanced through an irregular line extending from Llucmajor to Santanyíl to catch up with the two divisions of the enemy clearly seeking to outflank them. The accuracy of the reported symbols was lowering as the battle became intenser, and soon it was noticed that now their enemies were retreating, falling back. He knew what that meant, and realizing that advancing too fast could mean their doom, he then immediately attempted to call everyone to issue his order. However, only static and garble came as he attempted to contact the forces in the front, while the symbols seemed suspiciously static at his computer screen, and looking at one of the technicians, fearing for what such possibility could bring, he asked:

"What is happening here comrade? Our communications are failing. We need to alert them to the trickery of the false retreat from the bourgeois cowards!"

"They have launched jammers, we must destroy those aircrafts if we need a chance to reestablish communications." the technician answered, as the General sighed, and looking at the technician, completely oblivious to the fact they had no interceptor for such task, he then replied back, pondering at the same moment he spoke:

"Damnation! This is what we get from relying too much into a field our enemy masters. The more we rely on technology, the more easily it slips off our control. This if for all the comrades who questioned my proposal of having trained pidgeons as an emergency communication, now contact the animal handling corps, we need to prepare for electronic warfare-free communications as soon possible! Keep trying to reestablish the communications, I must leave."

"Acknowledged comrade, we will do our best to break their jamming." the technician he addressed answered. Vidal then walked through the exit of the command and control truck, observing the outside. The truck was amidst a deserted street in the city of Campos, with sandbags and roadblocks visible as far as the eyes could see further ahead, an infantry fighting vehicle and an old AMX tank escorting the command center five blocks ahead, and at least five edifices, which were the ones straight at his vision. The city seemed a much more potent fortress than any hedgehog or trap they have set up, with its large buildings making excellent covers for prolonged battles, and the unwillingness of their enemies to set the cities they claimed as their own into ruble, it was perhaps there, amidst the brutal streetfighting that an entire division would provide against any invaders with the support of local conscripts, that the tide of the battle would be turned. At the block just behind him, a large square lied with the statue of Carlos Cavallo amidst the green of its grass and the colors of its still tended gardens, an honor to the founder of the People's Republic of Spain and current chairman of the Communist Party, standing as a symbol of their power. As long as it stood there, Campos would be free from the capitalist scourge.

The general looked at a soldier, who was cockling his G36 rifle, bored although very discipline in his guard duty, who immediately saluted him as the general ordered:

"Comrade, move as fast as you can to meet the animal handling corps and inform them that we need their support immediately!"

"Yes, comrade!" he said as he began to move at a fast pace through the city.

With communications temporarily cut down to the front, their enemy would have an advantage that they would not waste, and the general was already expecting to hear bad news about the armored counter-attack which would likely be lured into a killzone. Their aircrafts were likely wrecking havoc over their limited armored support and on the soldiers that advanced together, leading to a significant loss. Sighing, Vidal realized that coping with the losses was everything he could do now. Any counter-offensive was risky, but just waiting would not secure a victory. Among the street, the pavements which had a few crackles through each rough grass came, the buildings and houses barricaded in preparation of a future hellish battlefield in the concrete jungle, only one thing held everything together, their trust to their leader, that no matter how questionable were their actual means, their ends were noble, and that was the only thing that avoided the massive sedition that the Party expected, a belief that they sought to actually create a utopia, that the individual had a duty to the collective, and that sacrifices had to be done.

Although many blocks have been barred due to the war, through the city people still worked, toiled in their daily tasks, lived, talked and did all that they could. Many times it seemed like they were not individuals, but part of a greater whole, uniform, equal and ready for their duties. Militias were being formed by the Commissars in the city, traps were being built, and everything was being readied to, for a change, have their enemies as the takers of the heaviest losses. Looking at the city, the burden the worries of the general brought seemed to be more bearable, for perhaps such city was the before last fortress for Mallorca. If it fell, then their last hope would be to defend the hills and cities to the north, and their capital city Palma, which with millions of comrades, could be the very downfall of the invaders, should they not already meet their doom in the streets of Campos.

It has been a fateful day this 16th of August. The first heavy naval loss of their enemies has happened, reports of an attempt of them to find and destroy their oil reserves through air were coming and now, at the very gateway of Spain, his forces were being pounded, in the hopes that their enemy would underestimate them. He was at the mercy of pidgeon mail, or of a lucky break against the enemy electronic assault, and could do nothing but wait, which was what he did, observing the streets, the propaganda papers swept by the wind, the sandbags over windows, the weapon caches ready to be transferred, and imagining how difficult it would be for their enemies to conquer it. Entire platoons could be positioned at every building, beyond the range of tanks. Civilians could serve as spies, and thus, victory seemed likely. However, with reinforcements, victory would be certain.

Minutes have passed as a bird flew through the skies above the street, and landing next to the general, he observed a paper tied to its leg, and took it with him. Immediately, he came back to the vehicle, saluting the technicians which still struggled to beat the enemy jamming, and typed a quick message, ordering for it to be printed. The paper then, was swapped from his hands to the bag of the pidgeon, as the bird flew back. The message had no doubts about the situation:

The two enemy flanks have disrupted the counterattack and continue to advance in their pincer movement to encircle the city. The 7th brigade has been encircled by the enemy division to the north, and betrayed the revolution. Heavy losses have been reported and very few armors managed to retreat. The enemy will outmaneuver all our forces retreating to Llucmajor, Campos and Santanyíl at this rate. They are recklessly fast in their advance, no matter how many losses they have taken. Because their very armored personell carriers and legions of armored cars are armed with anti-tank and anti-air missiles, we cannot keep up with their artillery capability, and there is little that a static defense could do in an open field.

The message the General has written was very clear. There was only one way to halt their advance for enough time for their forces to reorganize and regroup, and thus, their ancient backup communications would be instructed to send a message to the forces stationed next to the city of Palma. The enemy has taken risks in their northern flank, and a diversionary attack against it would buy enough time. The only problem was how to make such attack last long enough, without air superiority and at the range of their naval artillery, to make a difference, no matter the sacrifices that must be done.

[Third Spanish States]

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfp5gaSS5Jg -

"Pay attention comrades!" a man said in a loud tone of voice, echoing through the entirety of the environment he was into, the inside of an armored truck, where an entire platoon was being transported. Men conscripted against their will, to defend a cause to which any loyalty could easily vanish in the brink of defeat, where perhaps, to command such men was the greatest of all challenges, for the enemy's offer was extremely tempting. There was no doubt that the Confederacy of Third Spanish States most powerful weapon was their expertise in the art of propaganda, and of convincing their soldiers with poorest morale to defect. Drastic, draconian measures were being planned to reduce the impact of their power of sedition over their army, before their ambitious plan of taking over intact entire divisions without fighting in force of arms could succeed. A perfect opportunity for taking advantage of the fact the enemy still underestimated them was about to come.

And that was exactly where such men, afraid of what lied ahead, but still mostly heading from a certain belief, even if delusional, that they were serving the right cause.They were heading for their destiny, to meet with the very flank of the enemy offensive, to distract it for enough time for the controlled retreat to succeed, for the cities of Mallorca to become hells of concrete for their advancing enemies to conquer. If they failed, the likelihood of the entire island falling would dramatically increase, and thus, it was likely an one-way trip, with no chance for retreat, for they would not be able to hide once the storm has broken, or to cower, until the controlled retreat was successful. If truly competent, many of them would survive, if mediocre, nearly all of them would have to die to accomplish the mission, but if failed, their deaths would be in vain.

To the eyes of a soldier, the comrades ahead were everything to be seen, awaiting for the battle, and what lied through the road was an uncertain that generated an inevitable worry. To the ears of a soldier, the sounds of tires and tracks could easily be differentiated, as even if lacking, such offensive would still be a combined arms operation. To the nose of a soldier however, no glory or fear could be withhold, only the less glorious, rancid smell that tended to attract the extremely annoying louse inside their pants, for they were not simple machines of war. As for the senses, even the numbest of men would be able to feel the rough ride they were getting through, and the wooden benches were far from comfortable, something amplified by the length of the trip so far, of ten short but still long minutes. Rafael Viejas had one primary focus at such moment however, which was not to double check his gear, or to speak, but to simply listen to what else the man had to say, their captain:

"We are going to attack the bourgeois invaders at their weakened zone. In their arrogance, they simply are marching as fast as they can, stretching their line through our large island in the hopes of securing what their egos, fed by their greed and capitalist bigotry, have called as the 'One-day Battle'. This shall be their graveyard, for their northern and and southern flanks are barely defended, and if we break through them, their advance shall be immediately halted, and forced between fighting against encirclement and against our brave comrades inside the cities, they will have no choice but to retreat or surrender! For this to succeed, we must advance only, and not retreat unless the time comes for a retreat. Today the People's Republic of Spain shall prove the might of the revolution! Today the Confederacy invaders shall fall!"

There was mainly one problem with both bold advances. The enemy was known for their number of recon drones, and if their advance was spotted, everything could be lost, or then, they would have to advance to the last man to be able to buy enough time. To this, only one way, desperate perhaps, existed. Some of the best snipers of the People's Republic Army were selected to support the mission, and as all typical drones were low altitude, soon the skies began to be scouted by both self-propelled anti-aircraft guns and sharpshooters to snipe anything that could spot their exact location and give it to artillery crew. Of course, this did not remove the risk of a satellite spotting their advance from the skies, a risk they had to take, but as such devices had their limitations, a risk of controllable level.

Placed upon them was the fate of Spain, and their leader had yet more to say, for it was likely a fight to death, with no retreat until the retreat of remaining defenses at the east was completed. Yet it was not the stereotypical human wave assault against machineguns like in that discredited cliché from certain war movies about the Soviet Union in the second world war. For each soldier there was a spare rifle, and not the opposite, they were all equipped with latest generation equipment, including the solid G36 assault rifle and native Type III body armor designed using the Interceptor technology as an inspiration, more than able of stopping the shots from the enemy rifles, provided they weren't set in burst fire. Each of them had more than enough ammunition for the mission at hand, and the assault would be sperheaded by what they had of armors, rather than by a suicidal charge of poorly equipped soldiers against machinegun posts. Of course, without air superiority, no matter how well executed it was, the risk of most of them dying was not small.

"Comrades! Once you are ordered to leave this truck, do not blink an eye, do not wait one second, and take cover as fast as you can. We must provide fire support to the main assault of tanks, armors and mechanized infantry and take down any capitalist pig with anti-tank weaponry! Do not miss anything, for one mistake might lead to failure! Once ordered, move on to other points of cover as we advance, and only retreat when I, or, if my life must be sacrificed for the sake of proletariat, private Viejas here, order for you to retreat! We must delay the enemy at all costs!" their captain insisted, as the rough and bumpy ride continued. "Privates Juarez and Marquis! Move to your posts as designated marksman, and if you spot anything funny in the skies, shoot it and report it immediately to me!"

"Acknowledge Comrade!" they said as they headed to two platforms that allowed them to see the entirety of the skies, and double-checked their AWP Scout sniper rifles, observing at the skies, watchful for the probable coming of the greatest weapon of their enemies: information. There were tales of farmers who supposedly took down V1 rockets with their shotguns during World War Two, but those were just legends. From the altitude of the drones they expected to see, it was more logical, specially when combined with machineguns and anti-aircraft guns from Tunguska vehicles, which they have so far hidden to let their enemies underestimate them, prepared to cleanse the skies. There were still long twenty minutes for the force to arrive.

Elsewhere, next to the shores of Mallorca, a small flotilla of speedboats transported a few platoons as well, intended to support the primary assault force through the deserted and poorly defended northernmost shore they enemies had never landed into. And, painted in a very effective camouflage, lacking any radar or significant profile, they were very likely to get past unnoticed the distant pocket battleships and vessels of the enemy. It was a cheap trick of "stealthiness", but nonetheless effective, and so far undected, they continued through the littoral, to reach their destiny, to advance as a first diversionary attack, forcing the enemy to ignore the location of the real diversionary attack, as a diversion for another diversion to increase the likelihood of success of the entire operation.

For those in the ground however, sooner or later the battle would begin. The speedboats would however arrive ten minutes earlier, to draw enemy forces to their position, and perhaps allow for a few to be encircled on the beaches. There was a second problem however: thermobaric and incendiary rockets used in the artilleries of their enemies, which could wipe entire platoons during an advance, to which the only solution was to be cautious, but at the same time decisive in taking them down with their armor and with their effective anti-tank weaponry, coupled with the crucial element of surprise.

The beachhead began to be filled with soldiers and ordnance, with no visible opposition. They have managed to get past the eyes of the enemy, and now prepared for their important attack. Every second, the enemy forces stretched further, and now it was a good time to slow them down and force them to run back to attack them. Crouched, scouts were moving away from the beaches and into the meadows ahead to locate the enemy disposition of forces, to return after many minutes of risk to their lives, announcing that there were only three tanks and five Librecielos ahead, asides from five hundred soldiers to cover ten kilometers of land which could be easily be subdued and forced to retreat.

The first part of the operation thus begun, as mortars were prepared, and soldiers began to cautiously position themselves to surprise the enemy. Crawling through tall grasses, into a line that extended through one kilometer. The battle was about to begin, as ordered by one single voice, in silence:

"Open fire!"

And thus, announced by the thunder of mortars and light artillery, bringing a wave of unexpected destruction to some who they expected to be the least skilled of their enemies, the assault into the weakened rear of the enemy's northern flank began. An attack of which the future of the island depended upon. An attack which the Confederacy of Third Spanish States was not expecting, for they still were foolish to believe the People's Republic of Spain would fight a mostly defensive war and take no risks.

[Third Spanish States]

There was no major, only several leaders of platoons that have reached, together with their comrades in battle, a consensus regarding the defense of the northern flank of their division. It seemed a small force at first glance, supposedly easy to be routed back, and yet, in the fronts far ahead, a fraction of their forces have managed to pull back their enemies, to encircle an entire brigade and repel an ambush and a counter-attack. They were after all, Marinos, or just marines, and even if it was impossible to replace their relatively small losses so far until the battle was gone, each of them was worth at least five of the enemy soldiers, and willing to give his life not out of fear of being shot by an infamous Commissar, but from his utmost belief over the fact his cause was the right one.

Nonetheless, the attack has proved once again that no matter how technology they had, even then, a network-centric warfare had its shortcomings, and one of them was to trust more into what computers and machines told than on the limited, but more effective competence of having a larger number of dedicated patrol squads. As the close sound of artillery was heard, a man named Antonio de la Vega shouted to the communicator of his helmet while he ran:

"Everyone get down! All vehicles, move! Move!"

A controlled chaos came, as soldiers began to run away from the vehicles nearby, where likely the gross of artillery fire would be concentrated, some throwing behind decks of cards, cans of soda and magazines of questionable content. Others coming out with their pants down from the inside of the porta-potties which have been part of the deployment since the start, and most important of all, as the vehicles began to accelerate out of their vulnerable positions, marked by their computers as areas to avoid, the same systems which have served to ensure such barrage of fire would not destroy anything were now triangulating the trajectory of the flying shells, as active protection systems prepared to serve as one last line of defense against them.

Antonio simply went into one of the quickly built bunkers they have made over the meadows, mostly held together by sandbags, and looked at the many hollowed, but empty areas, from where they could take on the invaders once they came through, and at the traps that such cheap static defenses were prepared with, for they had no intention to hold them for much time, for they would retreat if necessary, as they knew their enemies lacked the mobility to effectively encircle them, and that no cheap bunker was worth the lives of men to be defended. Their goal was not to die for land, but for freedom, and fittingly, the conquest of the minds and hearts of the people was more important than the defense of territory, for without people afraid of them, the People's Republic of Spain would be nothing.

It was perhaps interesting... how the beach still had children toys spread around from past times. And it was an excellent opportunity as well to test a new weapon, an expensive but nonetheless effective device. Antonio knew that the trick would not work twice, unless nobody managed to retreat to tell it, or whatever remained of such invaders swapped sides in the conflict. Amidst shovels, old trucks and plastic buckets, lied a very peculiar educational toy, something nobody would ever care to pay attention to, as after all, who would ever suspect from a mere Rubik's Cube abandoned in the middle of a pile of children toys from days when such beaches and meadows were happier?

Soon the loud, nearly deafening sound of the artillery shells rocked through Antonio's ears, while his small bunker began to become loaded with soldiers, who carrying ZM300 Man-portable autocannons, prepared to take the best positions until they were no longer useful. The bunker had basically twelve spaces for emplacements, which would allow for a very powerful barrage of fire to be given, specially when air-burst rounds were used. While the vehicles would attempt to track the enemy artillery's position for counter-battery fire, with the advantage they would be able to maneuver away. A handful of men prepared to stop the hundreds on their track, and they would only call in reinforcements if utterly necessary. Any air support they requested would be one less for their offensive, and any soldier and tank forced to return for their defense would equally be an important contribution lost, and perhaps that was the exact reason for such suicidal offensive, to divert efforts from their main goal, to delay them.

The defensive line stood as a part of dug in positions stretching between two uneven lines of a hundred meters of extension each, intended to halt the most likely counter-attack attempt to come, for their enemies came as the risks were assumed, and not daring enough to risk their limited supply of armors, they would be manageable, even though they could still manage to get through. Antonio observed as his comrades, most men but with a few women among them, hurriedly prepared positions for the defense, some of them carrying ammunitions, others carrying cleaning oil and tripods, to defend the chokepoint for as much time as it would be a good choice to hold their ground. Their enemies were quick to crouch behind cover, however, as they realized what was at stake. Their advance would be slow, and cunning, rather than rapid and suicidal. There was only one problem however, for such line wouldn't be able to continue firing if artillery was used effectively, and at every interval of seconds, the loud storm of artillery seemed to come closer and closer. Loud sounds of machinegun fire began to throw sand off the beaches. A cacophonic song of war echoed through everywhere, and somehow, every second was precious, and every man important.

Antonio could not just wait and give tactical advices, which in other military forces were known as orders, to his comrades. The artillery barrages were getting closer, and the two Librecielos, with their Air Defense Anti-Tank Systems, were having difficulties to identify the location of enemy artillery from their constant maneuvering to avoid incoming fire. Hundreds of Bolshevist soldiers were prone, hidden into thick grasslands, awaiting for artillery to silence their man portable autocannons and their suppressive fire halting their advance, or likely attempting to sneak through cover, thoughts that were continually interrupted, as a strange white noise was coming from his ears, but to avoid losing awareness, Antonio refused to put the canalphones. It was for him a first experience with a real battle. And one he had to perform well, for the future of Spain was at their hands.

The very ground trembled stronger, as the impacts of artillery were coming closer, threatening their lives, but yet they remained, with explosive bursts of fire halting their enemies, as air-burst ammunitions dusted the sand, creating screens of smoke, and scorched the grasses, with their tracers coming through the horizon. The portrait of a battle, where much was at stake, and soon enemy casualties came, forcing them to avoid trying to flank their defenses, as the unwary ended into what would be assumed as a minefield, but which was something completely different. Antonio had to act decisively, and thus, he had to know how the small group of armors supporting them was doing. A Sino 2A1 Main Battle Tank and Two Librecielos were all they got, together with his single platoon of Marines that covered that specific area, with half focused on the defense, and half ready to move and cover their retreat, or to be the first to advances. He was a platoon leader, elected by his comrades with such responsibility, and now he had to prove they were not wrong in having chosen him. Lowering the microphone of his helmet, he then spoke:

"Comrade Alberto from mixed armor squad! We need a counter-artillery barrage now or we'll have to retreat to another position! I will give you one minute!"

"Alberto here! We have located the gross of their artillery and mortars. We have managed to wipe out many of the mortars positions, but their artillery is at the coast! I repeat: they have rigged some damn artillery guns in speedboats!"

Another artillery barrage then interrupted their conversation, even closer, as Antonio began to wonder how much time they still had to bail out from that doomed emplacement. Time was not a luxury to be wasted, for the lives of fifteen soldiers were at stake.

"What? Are you joking me? Can't the Navy wipe them out?" Antonio immediately replied, as he realized the sort of improvisation their enemies have pulled, one that would certainly not work for much time, as if they retreated enough in their elastic defense, they would be out of range of such foolish sort of "technical". Foolish, poorly accurate due to the influence of waves, but still better, for it they were simply laid over the ground, they would have already managed to take them down with their anti-tank missiles, which could do the job as counter-artillery as well.

"Those damn things are tough to be tracked, only a bomber would effectively take them down, but... they are so close that I am sure an anti-materiel rifle could do the service, provided we advance enough to reach their range."

"Alberto! We are thirty men only here! We can't take such risk. If we fail they could cut right through our supply lines! Unless... you give us cover and transport us to an appropriate sniping area, and then, we might be willing to advance against a force that could be twenty times larger than ours, and that multiplied by two because half of us must stay here to suppress these Stalinists. And don't forget to request blank shells with propaganda next time too!"

"It's too dangerous, there is too much artillery fire close to your position."

"Yes, this is war, it's dangerous period! We have legs, not tracks or wheels! We can't run faster than an artillery shell, but you can! So Alberto, send in both Librecielos now to rendezvous with twelve of our man, and time this damn artillery if you need to, it's not like they are firing continually those old rusts!"

"All right! I am sending both vehicles to your position, but you better run like hell to their insides because we are not going to wait you to get inside like sitting ducks for the artillery. And get your AMR ready. At least this is going to be faster than asking for air support to come. Although I've already asked for it, so these damn pigs are dead anyway."

Antonio then closed the communicator, and looking at the soldiers, who continued to fire, but who smartly used indirect means of vision like attached cameras to their guns to avoid getting shot, were restless in their resolve to finish with this as fast as possible. Their ammunition was limited, and after a while the stocks of the quickly built bunker would run out, as support ran around bringing more and more cases of magazines.

"Keep holding them comrades! And use your scopes well. Don't give them a chance to aim a missile launcher against us at all costs! This is going to end soon!"

Five hundred meters was the distance between them and their enemies now. At first, it was a seven hundred, but slowly, they were advancing, cautiously to avoid their deaths, supported by improvised forms of seaborne artillery. Many of their mortars were already gone, with only their most light ones still persevering, as they went frenetically from different positions, carried by desperate soldiers who realized their impending death.

A soldier immediately came with a pair of cases where the two parts of the rifle were, an Antonio prepared to leave the relative safety of the emplacement, together with more eleven combatants who were to make an offensive maneuver to secure a single spot. Taking a small handheld from his pocket, Antonio observed the marked waypoint of the best spot for taking down the artillery boats. It was a one try action, for if they missed, the boats would simply retreat beyond range, and continue their assault. And perhaps, fifteen men and women could die if they failed with such endeavor.

Breathing momentarily, Antonio prepared to time his run for the infantry fighting vehicle, from the exit of the bunker, a ramp that led straight to the top of the meadow, a vulnerable position that would require suppressive fire to be properly defended. There would be few seconds for him to reach the safety of the vehicle, and even fewer seconds for the vehicle to run away from another barrage of enemy artillery before it was too late. Artillery shells fell as close as thirty meters from his current position, and his ears were being continually assaulted by their thundering noises, one of four exits, five others were next to him, ready to embark. The flashes of tracer ammunition, of artillery shells, the noises of the portable autocannons and explosions were everything that prevailed over his senses as he awaited. At the distance, two vehicles, featured by their twin cannons in the middle of eight tubes of missile launchers, their silhouettes becoming clearing as they approached, climbing the soft elevation of the meadow, were in a cadency of stops and goes, following the timing of the artillery explosions as they slowly advanced.

Antonio observed his comrades, and then listened to another comm through the earphone of his helmet, one that reached all soldiers that prepared to embark:

"Listen up comrades! Once I say go, you got five seconds to get inside the vehicle. Get ready to run towards your transports, we are not going to wait and die!"

"You go first!" Antonio said to the other five ones, as the soldiers prepared for their run. Crouched because of the constant barrages of artillery, they observed the slow arrival of both vehicles, which quickly turned a half circle and were now moving on reverse-speed through the last fifty meters towards them, as fast as they could. An artillery shell exploded less than four meters behind the Librecielo, but it was unharmed, and now few seconds remained.

"Go! Go! Go!" the message came through the radio, announcing the time was now. The soldiers quickly got up and began to run as fast as they could, with Antonio right behind them. Two of them were carrying the parts of the RAM-37. The hatch of the Librecielo opened, nearly falling over the feet of the closest soldier due to their hurry, and Antonio began to run, taking a glimpse of the scorched shrubs and grasses around. The soldiers were getting inside the vehicle as fast as they could, taking them seats and sometimes simply having to impact with its edge to lose their momentum. The few seconds were depleting, and a tension filled the heart of Antonio as he, distracted, looked to the sky, seeing as the trace of another shell was about to come from the distance.

He ran for the objective, with only one second remaining, and only one meter between him and the inside of the vehicle. Then suddenly, everything became dizzier, as a lightening strike came. A loud explosion suddenly seceded as he could only hear the muffled whispers of the battle, and disorientated, struggled to get inside the vehicle, realizing that an artillery shell nearly fell over him. Muffled shouts asking for him to move came through, until he tried to balance himself inside the vehicle, and helped by his comrades, was put down. He has risked himself dearly for his comrades, although they had little time for thanks as a strong kick came from the maximum acceleration of the vehicle, which headed out of there as fast as it could.

Another loud explosion was heard then, as another shell fell very close to the vehicle, trembling the very ground, and they realized how they just did it right on time to avoid a disaster. Still dizzy, Antonio de la Vega observed the metallic frame of the vehicle, and sat upon a comfortable foamed bench to rest a bit, for their goal would not be easy. While their six-man group would take responsibility for the boats, the other vehicle, would send two fireteams to take shots of opportunity against the enemies there. Supported by the Librecielo, and by the only tank they had, which has managed to avoid a straight shot of artillery against its roof so far, as firing from boats wasn't a very accurate thing to target anything smaller than a bunker.

[Third Spanish States]

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FldObZIndU -

The sounds of tracks touching the ground were becoming louder as Antonio's ears were recovering from something that could have deafened him, and with his hands holding a RBA battle rifle, he was ready to secure the position with his comrades against hundreds that would likely attempt to stop them. Suddenly the sounds of the missiles launching could be heard as well, coupled with the sonata of the gast autocannon, a very close noise of war, as the vehicle they were in fired against infantry foolish enough to attempt taking it down, bringing a wake of death to a minority who sought to risk acts of heroism for their unworthy cause. The noises of the portable autocannons however, were getting more and more distant, but the travel would not take much time, only a matter of a minute and half for the position to be reached. Antonio hoped he was exaggerating when he claimed the defenses wouldn't last more than a minute without counter-artillery, for now much was at stake. Suddenly, a new sound came, a voice shouting:

"Fire against the AT now Gonzales!" and the sound of the autocannons, loud and strong, resumed again, just in time to avoid what could have been a disaster. Their enemies were advancing more than they expected, and have done a few traps along the way.

"Everything is under control, and we are driving them back, for they are seriously lacking in anti-armor capabilities. Once this is over I'll buy you a beer for this Gonzales, you are the best gunner I ever worked with! And just twenty seconds now, we are almost there!" came the announcement to their earphones. The autocannon rarely stopped firing, likely always busy with some fool trying to stop them. The pace of their advance was nearly insane, but that was how they operated when the circumstances were of calculated and acceptable risks, for mobility could put aside numerical advantages, and allow for numerically superior armies to be slowly gnat by focal points, key advances and the push for surrender that being surrounded and without resources would bring

"Get ready to depart! We don't got one of those ACTs so be careful and take cover as fast as you can!" Antonio instructed, reminding them that, to allow for the vehicle to fit with six soldiers, no tactical combat drone was loaded inside, even because most of those were being sent to the front lines. Ten seconds only remaining, amidst the trembling of the vehicle, the previous near hits of artillery and the utmost tension, such ten seconds seemed like an eternity, the always present need for the virtue of patience in an war, as adrenalin pumped at full strength in their hearts.

The hatch then opened, and Antonio was resolute to leave first. A few bullets were flying close to the IFV, and according to the map they were seeing in an electronic display, the other two fireteams were just unloading two hundred meters west of them for a rapid hit and run assault, supported by the fires of autocannons, and of canister shot and machinegun rounds of the Sino 2A1 main battle tank, with each fireteam going to suppress the closest enemies in their wake as they would advance, to cut the enemy line of attackers in half, and quickly set boobytraps amidst them, using again the weird but effective Rubikampfer Wurfelgranaten for such task, for they could not realistically hold their ground, and would have to take advantage from the brief momentum of their unexpected attack. Moving crouched, Antonio observed everything behind the IFV, and instructed three soldiers:

"Adriane, cover our southwest flank! Rafael, cover our south! Javier, you cover our southeast because you are better with your left hand! And stay alert, if you spot too many, you can call directly Gonzales to give you fire support, and if there are hundreds, ask for the thermobaric rockets then! Douglas, cover me and Ruiz while we prepare the AMR! Stay alert people, we are need to defend this small position of advantage quick, and we must try to avoid letting them spot us as much as possible, or their artillery guns could start to go against our position!"

Their position was a small mound, covered by two trees, which northwest was featured by the beach and sea, which was about three hundred meters ahead, from where even to the naked eye, the distant dots could be seen, from where shells flew towards their destinations. A bunch of rocks restricted access to the place and served as good points for cover, a place which barely had space for the vehicle to park in a small dried bog, which served to hide its profile, specially combined with its camouflage netting, while not hindering its capability to give support fire to them. Slowly, Antonio took one of the cases with a part of the AMR while Ruiz took the other, and they began to mount it, preparing it for the objective ahead.

Suddenly a lowered female voice announced through their communicators:

"Here is Adriane, I have spotted four patrols coming close, but they haven't spotted us yet. We better not waste too much time taking those boats down or they might see us, and then we will have another barrage of artillery to deal with."

"All right, keep an eye on them, and if they spot us, shoot them. Gonzales, you brought some spare suppressors, right?"

"Yeah, let our sys op handle them."

And suddenly another freedom fighter came out of the vehicle, crouched, and began to distribute suppressors among the soldiers. It has been a small error to have forgotten to equip them first, but as their first war, they still were green on a way no matter how many simulated exercises they had, and it was difficult to keep track of so many things when artillery shells rocked so close. Now they would have a chance to take a few of them down without alerting the rest. Adriane continued to watch the patrol, ready to shoot at them if necessary, while suddenly another near whisper came to all of them as a man observed something with the scope of his battle rifle:

"Here is Douglas. Holy... there are hundreds of them crawling through those beaches in specific camouflage for it, dispersed enough to prevent a massacre if a few of them are spotted. We better finish this soon or they could just surround us, even if not on purpose. Seems most of them lack anti-tank weaponry though, but I've counted twenty Khornets so far."

"Douglas, we are almost there, and they are crawling, not running." Antonio replied back in another near whisper, while he concentrated himself to finish mounting the RAM-37. It was a handy toll of trade, a quite heavy one as well, with enough punch to even pierce the sides of some IFVs. It would certainly do its job against such type of "naval artillery", if it could be called this way.

As a final touch, a netting was placed around the rifle, and then Antonio assumed control of it and asked for Ruiz to cover the northeast. Driving his scope, he prepared to take his first shot, when suddenly a medium intensity shot was heard, followed by a whispered warning from the only woman among them:

"They have spotted us! Hurry up!"

The rifle was zeroed and ready to go, but he had to aim well his shots, but still had to not waste much time. Observing the trail of artillery, he guided his scope to their place, and slowly adjusted its zoom to optimal placement. Antonio wasn't skilled with assault, but he was a good sharpshooter. And thus, he saw the boat, and aimed straight at its submerged area, hoping it would be enough to destabilized it.

A loud shot echoed through the beach, enough to call the attention of the enemies, as the large boat began its slow sinking, augmented by the weight of the artillery piece, which nearly placed at the limited of its maximum displacement, a risk they took, and they would pay for right now. With no wait, Antonio began to aim for the next, as he expected they would soon begin their retreat. He kept his aim over it for the next four seconds, to ensure a hit. Suddenly the shots of his anti-materiel rifle were no longer the loudest of the battle, as missiles began to fly from the IFV and its autocannons gave bursts of fire to keep the enemy at bay, coupled with the shots of five RBAs from his comrades, covering all sides, with the priority of trying to avoid being surrounded. Two artillery boats down, and six to go. But instead of retreating, suddenly the boats turned back, and began to fire at a new target: them.

The ground began to shake, with pebbles dropping and a few particles of dust raising, as Antonio realized how important was for him to be fast, and risked no longer full accuracy, aiming against the next boat, which coincidentally was the last one to fire, trying to reach them. Crouched, he could feel the bullets flying close, as heavy fire began. Their enemies got their RPKs ready and were pouring everything against them, as Antonio shouted to emphasize again:

"Don't let them get close enough for grenades! And focus on their anti-tank crews!"

The fifth boat was thus downed, while explosions continued to storm the place, but Antonio had to trust in the competence of his friends, for he could not stop now, where every fraction of second could be the difference between their deaths and their survival. Instead, he observed as the boats stopped fired... and suddenly a deafening noise came, as the ground shook like never before, and his senses became dizzy again, with sounds muffling from another near miss, as he could hear a familiar noise of many falling leaves and crackling woods, and suddenly a bump of an human body somewhere, followed by a loud crash of a tree against the soil.

"Get down! Incoming missile!" Diego then shouted as they fell back to the bog, and suddenly the noise of a missile in its flight became fastly closer. In a few seconds, its destiny defined. It was another close one, as the active protection system of their armor saved the day, for otherwise, even though they would likely survive, having to return on foot would be a massive danger. And soon, recovering from the shock, they shot down the ATGM crew before they could load another one. Antonio then saw as the boats were still retreating, and began to shoot against them. The scope pointed into another one, and with only one second for aiming, he already shot, and before checking if it did hit or not, he moved to the other one. It was a major challenge to concentrate amidst such heavy, deafening fire of machineguns, coupled with the dusted that attempted to asphyxiate him, and with the heavy senses of fear to be held at bay, when sometimes he could listen to the bullets coming a less than two meters above his head. Their position had little more than twenty square meters, and every second, the threat of an encirclement was getting nearer.

"Antonio! Thanks for stopping it, I thought we were going to die!" came as a pleasant answer from his comrades manning the autocannons to the south. But he did not like to leave his work unfinished, and thus, lied his last chance. The boat was soon to leave the effective range of the anti-materiel rifle, and such was the last bullet of the second magazine he loaded there. The enemies were however, resolute, and although some of them have died from their positions of fire and maneuver, they were faring quite well, compared to the "Soviet Human Wave Assault" stereotype, and they were much more cautious than them, while probably attempting to distract them with some pawns, to let them miss as the most stealthy of theirs sneaked all-around. Yet Antonio could only trust his skills, and his friends, as he prepared for the last, decisive shot that would deprive their enemy from the primary mean they had to conduct a proper offensive without a heavily death toll.

The boat, distant, was all that he could see at such moment. And sectioned by a crosshair, his last target, moving, which would require a certain range-finding skill, was about to meet its fate, be it to get out as a whole, or be destroyed. And thus, Antonio pressed the trigger, aiming slightly ahead of the boat's position, as another strong recoil as felt, and he observed. It would require a few seconds, as he paid attention, but suddenly the boat stopped, and began to sink. The mission was successful, but now, they had still to get out of there.

"Antonio! We can't just suppress them continually, we'll run out of ammo if we do!" Adriane explained, as she finally did her first assured kill, shooting the head of an unwary soldier at single-fire mode, with her scope as an aid. It was the first individual she was certain to have killed, a man who was only forced to fight, to die... it was a pity that they had no ways to show them the truth, but if they managed to encircle them, perhaps they could convince them to free themselves from a duty to tyrants and traitors of the Spanish people, for such was the opus magnum of the Revolutionary Army's strategy. For a brief moment, Adriane thought about the orphan child she might have left, about the tears of a woman, about the suffering that such war was inflicting, but the flying of bullets around wasn't very conductive to long-lasting emotional pondering, and soon she resumed her full attention to the environment ahead.

"Adriane and Rafael, suppress them while we move inside, then bail out! We must rush back to encircle the ones you blocked through traps and keep them down with naval artillery! And crush them into our tracks if necessary! Assault team! What's your status? We need you to cover our retreat before we are encircled!"

"This is assault team, we have managed to break down their lines in the shore! We are currently ready for anything! Coming in!"

And thus All the fours crouched back to the inside of the vehicle as Adriane and Rafael burst with their rifles, to keep the enemies at bay, and the autocannons continued to focus on the enemies ahead. Suddenly, the last soldiers began to walk backwards, giving intervals to shoot, as they finally made their way to the inside of the vehicle, which hatch closed, preparing for departure.

Its engines soon went at their power, as it turned another half circle, continuing to fire against infantry. Suddenly it began to advance against a line of enemy soldiers that lied ahead. To their west, the tank and the other Librecielo mopped up everything in their way on their moves. The insides were shaken, as the sounds of bullets and the cries could be heard. Suddenly a sound of smashed flesh and bones came, as an unfortunate soul refused to open way for its advance, as the tracks of the vehicle became loaded with the blood of their enemy, in one of the most visible demonstrations of how war was brutal, no matter the cause it was fought for.

"Gonzales, ATs!" came the communication again, as the sounds of the autocannons were mixed with the incoming sound of further missiles, and a rough turn began to be performed by the vehicle, nearly through Antonio off balance. The tactical map was very clear, although no enemy positions were given to avoid major tactical disasters from depending on seeing red dots to be sure there were enemies. It was time to wear down their pursuers, and to advance against the hundred encircled into the beaches. Suddenly further noises came from afar, as heavy cruisers gunned against the beach, with their shells opening holes and dusting its sand, as soldiers of the enemy ran for cover, realizing they had nowhere to run. It was the time to force their surrender. An excellent opportunity amidst so many risks and threats they have already overcome.

An opportunity broken however, as the truth about the nature of such attack came, and further to the north, another platoon announced in their worries:

"This is platoon leader Herrera! A mechanized brigade is advancing against our position! I repeat! We have armors against us! Requesting reinforcement immediately!"

Ten minutes have passed since the battle has begun, ten minutes of fire, of shelling and destruction which were however enough to give a serious blow to their enemies, and now, even with inferior numbers, they would be able to round up such infantry, but everything has changed. Antonio knew his platoon was the closest one to the platoon of Herrera, and that Herrera was in an even more delicate situation, for although he had a small squad with operators of Durruti 2 anti-tank and anti-air missiles, they lacked any immediate armored support, and now had to face an overwhelming counter attack. A tough decision was to be made, for he either had to risk letting such soldiers to advance and threaten their supply lines with hit-and-run attacks, or risk to let the much more dangerous force further to the north to advance and threaten their supply lines.

He had to take a decision as fast as possible, and to face the consequences.

[Third Spanish States]

The Igovian Fleet

The Indian Soviet fleet had not been making particularly good time, and had just spent several hours at reduced speed owing to uncertainty over the possibility of an impending change of orders. A Soviair flight, BG910, had been hijacked by a group calling itself the Indian Red Army, and it now seemed to have diverted to a tiny East Balkan nation, the People's Socialist Republic of Bulgislavia, making the Spain task force the closest Igovian assets in the region. After wasting several hours in the Eastern Mediterranean, the expeditionary force pushed back up to maximum cruise speed, and here in exposed to anyone aware of the fact the dearly protected secret troubles that were anchored deep in the enormous Soviet war machine.

The fleet was making just fourteen knots, tied to its slowest hulls. For all the rhetorical aggrandising of the Igovian way's global significance, the Commonwealth Guard -claiming to be history's largest fighting organisation- was very much geared towards operation in a theatre defined by the fringes of the Indian Ocean. The Rapier Class mine-countermeasures vessels traveling with the so-called Commonwealth Expeditionary Force Spain, though fitted with satellite navigation aides, digitised communications, and constructed of shockproof non-magnetic materials, couldn't break 15 knots flat out. The sleek, highly automated Hyaenidae Class expeditionary transports, despite displacing some 47,000 tonnes, could make 27.5 knots, but were tied with everybody else to the 21.5 knot Verix Class combat stores ships and 19.5 knot Restoration Class submarine tenders (which might have been left to their own devices but that the whole fleet would eventually have to wait for the MCMs in any case).

Then there were the Nibiru Class light carrier assault ships that carried the bulk of the inbound Soviet Marines. Ordered during the soft-hearted Second Commonwealth of the 1990s and built on hulls designed to civilian shipping standards, they'd served well when they weren't being shot. but had a propensity to catch fire when this actually happened. Gujarat Class corvettes were good little ships, but meant to operate in India's littoral waters, not on intercontinental expeditions, and both India's frigates and its destroyers were built on the same hull and displaced less than 4,300 tonnes a piece. It was only grudgingly that the Soviet Commune had approved funding for the Chainmail Class multi-role missile cruiser run and finally given the Commonwealth a 13,000 tonne surface combatant, but even this was done with no real experience in the field. The Commonwealth Class trimaran fleet carrier was all well and good, but amongst the oldest trimaran type in world service, and like the newer but less complicated Defiance Class single-hull carrier it could support less than seventy aircraft, relatively little by current world standards.

Still, for all their well-hidden shortcomings, the Igovians had some pedigree. Fleet commander Rear-Admiral Viknrix had served in Madagascar long before being elected to his current lofty position, skirmishing with the western imperialists who briefly occupied part of the island, and expedition leader General Indomartus had been a Colonel during the Zhyolatskan civil war, where he lead just 2,000 Soviet Marines up against an entire 15,000-strong Front of the Cynapsian Red Army.

Under him, Major Visterix and Captain Bracharius also served in Zhyolatska, the latter leading a charge consisting of seventy Soviet Marines, two hundred local militiamen, and ten light vehicles against a Cynapsian force of a thousand men and thirty battle tanks, getting himself shot twice in the process.

It won't be much longer before the 'CEFS' infringes upon the theatre of conflict...

Commonwealth Expeditionary Force Spain

Commanders and heroes
Rear-Admiral comrade Viknrix
Comrade General Indomartus
Marine General comrade Dejotarus of Ancyra Newydd
Comrade Colonel Prasutagus
Comrade Major Morgan ap Visterix
Comrade Captain Bracharius, Hero of the Revolution Abroad

Utopia Class battleships
CS Anarchism (Flag) 'In Victory, Liberty!'
71,490t full, 280m, 29kt+, 1,492 hands flag, 3 helicopters, 12x16" guns

Commonwealth Class trimaran fleet aircraft carriers
CS Karnataka
CS Harbhajan
90,000t war, 307m, 32kt, 2,700 hands + 600 Marines, 60 aircraft

Defiance Class fleet aircraft carriers
CS Petropavlovsk
82,500t war, 307m, 31kt, 2,624 hands + 600 Marines, 65 aircraft

Nibiru Class light aircraft carrier assault ships
CS Redoubtable
CS Concorde
CS Belinus
CS Kolokol
CS Nibiru
17,920t, 185m, 21kt, 457 hands + 450 Marines, 20 aircraft, 4 vehicles

Anunkai Class guided-missile fleet submarines
CS Benito Juárez
CS Anhrugarog (Merciless)
7,957t, 102m, 24kt submerged, 127 hands, 6x517mm TT

Ortiagon Class air-independent-propulsion attack submarines
CS Obry (Beneath)
CS Onion
2,310t submerged, 70m, 21kt submerged, 32 hands, 4x517mm 2x670mm TT 8xVLS

Chainmail Class multi-role guided-missile cruisers
CS Ood
CS Antonio Gramsci
12,920t war, 178m, 33kt+, 342 hands, 1 helicopter, 64xVLS

Bodkin Class general warfare frigates
CS El-Ouali
CS Sylvia Pankhurst
CS Dic Penderyn
4,270t, 137m, 29kt, 174 hands, 1 helicopter

Gauntlet Class fleet defence frigates (destroyers)
CS Daffodil
CS Coelacanth
CS Nallapambu
CS Gibbon
CS Gaur
4,241t, 137m, 29kt+, 175 hands, 1 helicopter

Gujarat Class multi-role corvettes
CS Igovia
CS Mile End
CS Salvador
1,800t, 100m, 34kt, 110 hands, helicopter pad

Hyaenidae Class landing pad dock ships
CS Hyena
CS Aardwolf
47,000t, 299m, 27.5kt, 59 hands, highly automated, 500 vehicles, helicopter capable

Palaemon Class heavy support ships
CS Coubert
49,500t, 236m, 26kt, 187 hands, 4xCIWS, 2xhelicopters

Verix Class combat stores ships
3 hulls
15,100t, 179m, 21.5kt, 110 hands, 2x30mm 2x17mm

Brompton Class support tankers
4 hulls
12,085t, 142m, 25kt, 74 hands, 2x30mm

Benefactor Class ammunition ships
5 hulls
18,000t, 165m, 24kt, 136 hands, 3x30mm, helicopter deck

Restoratian Class submarine tenders
2 hulls
21,200t, 171m, 19.5kt, 1,015 hands, 2xCIWS

Ysbyty Class hospital ships
CHS Proudhon
CHS Faithful Hound
62,090t, 303m, 19kt, 1,215 hands incl. 115 civilian, helicopter airlift capacity

Rapier Class mine countermeasures vessels
4 hulls
1,000t, 54.5m, 15kt, 42 hands, 1x17mm

[Third Spanish States]

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TfpZ-H0Wk68 -

There were many announcements that a battle was about to come after many hours of lull and waiting. Waiting perhaps, was the most common fact in the duty of a soldier. Patience was as much important of a virtue as a good aim, and as the courage and readiness to self-sacrifice, if necessary, for brashness was many times synonymous of failure, and yet, the enemy seemed all hasty and brash in their offensive, forgetting of the essential virtue, letting their pride guide them to the belief on an impossible goal: to conquer a large island like Mallorca in only one day. Iwo Jima, a much smaller island, took months to be conquered, how could it be different in such a place, where their offenders were this time, outnumbered due to their arrogant pride that they could achieve the feat of winning an offensive, even with inferior numbers. And yet, half of the defenses were still in the east of the island, away from the front, but heading towards it. Or actually, stagnant. The total lack of air superiority was a major deterrent to shipping troops and resources during daylight, and in main roads, and for now, they were not desperate to the point of risking it. General Vidal Torres knew that eventually Mallorca would fall, but he was confident that their forces would be able to inflict heavy losses against the enemy, and perhaps convince them that the cost of lives would not be worth the island, and that they would stand no chance against the mainland.

However, the strategic big picture was barely thought about by Rafael Viejas, as he had to focus on other worries. The battle was announced by the loud exploding noises and machineguns of not so distant tanks firing, while he still sat upon the truck with his comrades. Their leader has given a speech before, but this time, doing so was much more challenging due to the interference of the orchestra of death everywhere. Nonetheless, it was a common to give an inspiring speech to those who prepared to battle, specially when such was against so uneven odds as it would be.

"Comrades! These will be the most important minutes of your service to the people, and of your very lives. Today the enemy has lost hundreds of tanks and lives, as we have proved the superiority of our cause! The Spanish workers, the Party and our very future lie in your hands!" was suddenly interrupted as a loud explosion came, and Rafael braced himself as he realized the strong pressure of gravity and of the explosion pushing the truck while his rifle was thrown away, falling into the grass behind. It was a matter of seconds, difficult to understand. Only the vision of despair and men falling upon the other end of the truck sides, and the sound of its tires desperatedly attempting to regain balance as it tumbled to the left, displacing some grass of the ground and making a very sizeable noise. He felt a serious ache over his back, like if someone just kicked it very strongly, and witnessed as four men fell over other soldiers, and some screamed and shouted in despair. Some of them managed to slowly regain their standing as they prepared to leave, and others took the rifles back that have fallen on the side of the truck. Their leader, known as Sanjuro, as much of a Commissar as of a Captain, seemed completely oblivious to the incident, and with a calm but exacerbated voice, ordered as he prepared to leave the vehicle himself:

"Move behind one of our armors, for the enemy artillery will not wait! Take any fallen guns! Forward comrades!!"

Rafael struggled against his body as he ran for it. It was a sort of slightly uneven grassland, with a small angled slope perpendicular to the direction their assault was heading towards, that served as a small barrier for running, with a few bumps and elevations, and the distant seas could be seen from afar, as the sun stood in its place, shining the battlefield like an onlooker to its carnage. There was Leopard 2E slowly advancing, firing and maneuvering in face of enemy presence, at about half block to his northwest, and he, following the others, crouched and made a run for it, ignoring the sounds of fire, the ever approaching artillery, the stench of the soldiers, and the annoying louse under his pants. He was one of twenty thousand soldiers ready to fight to the bitter end, and indeed, he still was an human being, with many fears and worries that could not be completely waned by propaganda efforts. His teeth gritted and nearly looked to be about to shatter as suddenly an artillery shell exploded very close to the squad he belonged to, so close that his hearing became muffled and his senses weakened. A strong headache came, as a blank noise disturbed him like a fly inside his ears. Yet he continued to, as a survival instinct, run towards the tank. It took him a couple of seconds to realize one of their designated marksmen, Juarez, or the upper part of his body, a quick glimpse as his need to get behind cover was greater than that of witnessing the miserable last seconds of life of such man.

He managed to get through it, but had no second to rest from his run. His ears were finally getting back from the noise, as he realized how close death came to him. It could have been him this time, it was only a matter of probabilities and luck that allowed him to not be the one who died. Sanjuro shouted to them, the only way to make his voice prevalent over the gunfire, as they were just behind the tank, keeping up with its relatively slow speed:

"Comrades! We must kill all of their anti-tank before they hit one of ours! We have very little tanks to spare, so if necessary, I will want you to jump in the line of fire of a missile! Do you understand?"

"Yes!" Viejas shouted as he noticed the synchrony of his voice with the voice of all others, forming a small chorus as they double-checked their rifles and grenade launchers. Their captain had a radio, for short range communications were not affected as seriously as long range ones by the significant amount of electronic warfare operations of the enemy. Walking through the sloped grassland, the sides of a small hill, they advanced, still not challenged by any sort of direct fire, but only by indirect fire of artillery. There were likely a couple of kilometers from the current enemy position, but the element of surprise was still with them, multiple irregular lines in a spread out offensive, methodic and taking advantage of something that would be as important as their strategic numeric superiority: the fact that for now, they outnumbered their enemy tactically as well. Some have fallen to artillery shells or air defense anti-tank missiles, but the whole was still organized and cohesive. The enemy seemed to be waiting for something, and their unwillingness to counter-attack meant that their only card was air support.

Thus timing was of essence, if they wasted too much into the offensive the close air support of the enemy could annihilate them, but if they managed to take over the enemy emplacements, they would be able to hide safely from the aircrafts, and as a plus, pose a serious trouble to any logistical shipments of their offensive. Such was exactly the most desirable outcome. But to achieve each, a combination of a bit of luck with giving out of their best was needed. One distraction, one mistake, one minute wasted unnecessarily would be enough to increase tenfold the mortality rate of the assault. Large unit and small unit tactics were combined, like the smaller and larger gears of a clockwork, like the maw and pincers of a scorpion, to overcome the enemy with agility, and force their offensive to a halt.

"Follow me comrades! We must be fast for the enemy airplanes will arrive!" shouted Sanjuro, all of a sudden as he began to move quickly to a direction which was roughly southeast, observing the few advancing tanks, the armors, self-propelled artillery, anti-air vehicles and soldiers of their own, of which a few were taking detour from the frontal line. They were dispersed, but still close enough to concentrate their fire. The line was barely two kilometers long, a hammer of which sides anvils would emerge. The tanks were still quite slow, for something had to be done to ensure their safety, and after it, a major breakthrough could be achieved. Running slightly crouched, Viejas accompanied his leader with no fear as they descended the slight slope towards the side of the hill, where a patch of tall grasses, a perfect cover, stood. Feeling the nearly allergenic touch of grass everywhere, he continued to follow with the remainder of the squadron. One single look to the sky was enough to notice a small flying object, one of the many eyes of their enemies, who likely were gauging the extent of their counterstrike, counting all they could of their light armors, tanks and soldiers, before taking more bold actions to stop it. A sense of urgency came to Rafael immediately, and their leader, who also spotted it, fastened the pace.

However, the grassland patch suddenly ended, and standing at its edge, Rafael observed the much barer lands ahead, a small downing that suddenly turned up again to a another roughly plain area, two hundred meters ahead, featured by the number of rocks in the place. It seemed like a perfect hideout for an ambush, specially for an anti-tank ambush, like the ones they have once performed with mild success. Seeing it, he suddenly noticed that now the sounds of machinegun fire were also coming, indicating that the first direct confrontations began. Sanjuro then instructed about a very important point:

"Everyone! We must hasten our advance, but to do so, we must first ensure that at least most anti-tank crews of the enemy are wiped out. This region likely have a large amount of them, so pay attention and try to spot any hid soldier or hint of enemy presence around. Marquis, prepare your G3, for soon it will be necessary."

Viejas tried hard to focus his vision, to attempt finding a speck, a single dot of a soldier who was too confident of his hiding skills amidst the rocks, the elevations and grasslands ahead. Yet it seemed an impossible task, like if their enemies were actually waiting, patiently, to let them fall into their trap, and yet they had not time even to mourn for their fallen comrade. There was more to the squad, and personal relationships did exist. There was a certain reason, perhaps a pet peeve, that led Sanjuro to dislike Viejas, despite his competence. Most high risk, dangerous or plain boring or unpleasant tasks were given to him, to the point that in secrecy, some claimed that Rafael's role was that of the "designated sucker", to do all the handiwork of the squad. Or perhaps it was, ironically, the only reward given for his dedication, if it could be called a reward at all.

Rafael was not surprised at all when he heard who Sanjuro, already realizing that to wait would not work, wanted to do the high risk task in that situation. There was only someone, and of course, this person was him. The captain, pointing to one of the distant rocks ahead, a perfect cover, looked at him and ordered:

"Viejas! I need you to run towards that cover so our enemies will show themselves. We cannot waste any second. Marquis will cover you while you run. Now prepare yourself and wait for my command."

And thus, he took his rifle, and checking it again, prepared his legs in a position not too different from that of an athlete preparing to run through a two hundred meters track. It was not a competition, but instead the preparation for a run that would determine whether he would live or not. Any mistake could mean death, and there was not much time to appreciate the contrasting beauty of the scenery. He simply focused his vision on the distant objective to reach, his waypoint, ready to make his run for it.

"Go! Go!"

Rafael simply came to the limits, running as fast as he could, ignoring everything else in his running spree. His muscles were straining due to the heavy effort, and the burden of his backpack became heavier. Stepping heavily into the immediately displaced grass, he did not pay attention to anything, focusing all his mind into the singular act of sprinting. The partly uneven terrain was no concern, and a few seconds after the safety of the grassland was gone, he could barely notice as artillery shells pounded nearby due to his concentration, as part of the suppressive fire effort. He ran nevertheless, aware of his vulnerable condition, and panting, he saw as there were only twenty meters towards the cover of stone. It was then that he heard the sound of gunfire nearby, but could not waste time trying to locate its source. Suddenly he could swear that a bullet came very close as he could heard it, yet fortunately he was very close to cover. With no time to waste, Rafael simply threw himself towards the back side of the stone with a leap, and almost immediately he noticed as particles of stone were unleashed by the fire of a machinegun, and as tracers quickly flew overhead. It was just in time, and the suppressive fire continued to come, nearly deafening, making any attempt to take a peak out of the cover suicidal.

But then it stopped, although close sounds of gunfire continued and cautiously, he raised himself to observe the surroundings. He could have simply used the radio, but EMCON was important, and considering the amount of ELINT their enemies had access to, unless some serious encryption was used, the content of their messages could be uncovered, and if it would not be, sending them would immediately give away with nearly total exactitude their position, something which wasn't desirable. Looking around, he observed as machinegun fire from his squad was directed towards a certain position, which he memorized and kept his attention to. in the thick and tall grasses, the rest of his squad, except for the machine gunner, began to move. Rafael noticed that his captain and two others were heading straight to the enemy position, taking care to avoid getting hit by friendly fire. He immediately gestured towards him, indicating that he wanted Viejas to cover them as well. He realized that he would have to fire once the machine gunner stopped to reload his gun. And thus observed as some of his squad moved towards his position to cover him against possible threats, while others advanced with the captain through the elevation. observing clearly now, he could notice, from the taller elevation where he was, that there were sandbags hidden behind a slit, but he could not spot the enemies, likely keeping their heads down. It was, if it could be called one, a sort of fast-building trench, expendable but useful. And perhaps their opening ticket to clean their anti-tank weaponry. Two soldiers next to him began to slowly move towards the many rocks, scouting for possible hideouts. Suddenly he heard gunfires behind him, and quickly looked back, alleviated as apparently the first of many AT soldiers was taken down. Then the machinegun stopped, as he began to fire. There was less than ten meters between the handful of assaulters led by Sanjuro and the enemy position. Such was only a fraction of the much larger battle, and in a few situations, soldiers have literally advanced into the line of fire of a missile to sacrifice themselves for saving the armors of the People's Republic and their crew. Lines and lives advancing, dying beyond the concerns of the operational sector, of Rafael Viejas and most of his squad. He carefully shot bursts at the enemy, position, from a vector which would not cross with the heading of the captain. Suddenly however, he noticed as a small, oval object flew from the emplacement.

Not a grenade!

And indeed, they have managed to throw a grenade at the most opportune time towards the captain and the two soldiers accompanying him. At such brief moment, a scene of the survival instinct overriding anything else came. The soldiers simply leaped and threw themselves towards the enemy emplacement for cover. And soon further shots could be heard. Aware of how far shrapnels could fly, Viejas was quick to duck behind cover and wait. The explosion came as fragments flew everywhere in a radius of dozens of meters, when the coast became clear again, Viejas rose back to his firing position and observed as there seemed to be a melee fight in the trenches. The soldiers were facing each other in the most bestial manner, like beasts fighting for survival, they punched, rolled over the dirt of the trench, and yet their distant silhouettes and proximity made it very dangerous to attempt shooting down the enemy soldiers without hitting a friendly instead. Sighing, Rafael could only hope it would be over soon. Further shots could be heard as well from behind, by both him and the soldier who covered his back, while the machine gunner was moving towards the trench Rafael simply felt alleviated when he saw that the enemies have at last been subdued, and Sanjuro waved and gestured for him to maintain his position for five minutes, and then, from what he could get, should he not return, he was to head towards the trench and clean it by his own. They would began the clearing, the wiping off all anti-tank crews of the enemy so that their tanks could advance. The enemy soldiers could have been potential assets to capture, but as soon as they realized their fate, they would simply die. It was part of their strange modus operandi to never surrender, and to never take prisoners, and kill all those who refused to betray the People's Republic.

Cyanide pills? These capitalist pigs are insane.

For a few minutes, he could contemplate the ongoings of the battle. Until he finally heard it. A distant sound, at first, like that of a far away whirlwind or turbine. It was the signal that the worst was just coming. They have been lucky with naval artillery, suffering very few losses from it, but soon things would get really critical in the battlefield. With no air support, the potential for losses would be major if they did not manage to conquer the enemy defenses soon. And coupled with this distant sound, the unmistakable flapping of helices. Close air support airplanes and helicopters meant that they would have a serious issue in nearly open fields, regardless of the many anti-air vehicles at their disposal. It was then that a new sound came as well. A radio transmission broke off the EMCON ruling, for it was pointless now to keep the secrecy that allowed them, and a bunch of other squads to seriously crippled much of the enemy anti-tank capabilities in that specific area of the front:

"This is Sanjuro! My team have cleaned the entire west wing of their emplacements, but we have ignored a much larger southern wing and are too far away to do it in time. I assign you as leader of the Gagarin fireteam, with Dario and Hugo at your command! Godspeed, for the enemy aircrafts are coming!"

"Yes, I will!" Rafael replied back as he gestured to both soldiers who were giving him cover before. They began to quickly advance, crouched, towards the depression where they would not be easily spotted by any possible enemy. Their tanks could not wait, and likely were already moving at their full speed, something probably not mentioned as a precaution. He soon climbed down the hole and got past the sandbags, observing the five dead enemy soldiers. One of them was a woman, and he wondered what sort of people sent their ladies to fight and die, but yet, he pondered about whether such unnamed soldier had children, or a family. It was the very nature of war that people would die, its ninth symphony.

He simply continued to advance cautiously, but steadily with the two soldiers giving him cover, until the turn towards south was spotted in such not-so-static minded trenches. So far no resistance was met, although that could change soon. He took a mirror from his backpack, a strange thing to have, for there was not time for vanity when there were bombers heading in. For something that took half dozen of hours, it was surely well made. Parts of it were covered, and some even hid by camouflage and foliage. Their design was more reminiscent of hideouts and emplacements used by Vietcongs than traditional trenches of regular armies, perhaps a good evidence of their origins as a capitalist guerrilla, and also, maybe just because of their recent construction, they seemed quite hygienic, although some of their soldiers were amused by finding a couple of porta-potties installed into the trenches, at least they would not have to take it into the open, as long as someone was there to do the dirty task of cleaning them sometimes. But there was more to it, and suddenly, he used the mirror to see what lied in the lower tip of the "T" junction without turning left.

It was empty, and there were no further bodies. He then cautiously walked towards it. There was a sinuous curve that made it impossible to use the mirror trick again, he had to react faster than any enemy that could be ahead. Or at least one of his comrades had to. Thus he crossed the curved part of the way ahead, and found only more nothingness. There were just the occasional crates and left-overs, and strangely, the place seemed mostly devoid of supplies, like if it have been evacuated much before they conquered it. Rubbing two neurons together was enough for Viejas to realize he forfeited his life, and that they have just fallen into the enemy web. Immediately, he realized the fact. The bombers would force many of them to hide into such trenches, and yet, there was more to it. He knew that to conquer such trenches was exactly what their enemies wanted. The radio would then announce the words quickly:

"We must leave these trenches! It's a trap!"

"What? Are you insane private Viejas? If we leave we are all going to die! Look around, our anti-air vehicles will be toast before they down even one of those! And this place hasn't exploded. But... yes! It is a trap comrade! But somehow whatever timed bomb is here, it is not yet schedule to blow. I can't believe these pigs built an entire network of trenches to waste as a deathtrap! Try to find anything out of place around! We must be quick. And don't tell anyone other than those who already know. We don't need panic as an enemy!"

"Yes comrade!" Viejas replied back as he sighed. The airplanes were the anvil, and the very trench was the weapon designed to defeat them rather than to defend against them. He desperatedly tried to find anything, as the three soldiers, three of the only four aware of their real plight, scoured through the trenches in search

"Rafael, I found something that seems really out of place. I don't want to touch it though, it could be dangerous. These pigs are insane." Hugo said then, as curious, Rafael asked him:

"What is it?"

"Well, you won't believe this if you didn't see it, but look, it is a Rubik's Cube."

A new radio transmission then came:

"What the hell. This is Dario, I found a rugged computer in a wooden table replaying nonstop a scene from a movie or something I never saw before where a sort of fish man inside a sort of spaceship keeps saying 'It's a trap!'"

Seemed like their enemies had a strange sense of humor. Most military forces of the world were serious enough to avoid throwing an old Internet meme in the middle of an war operation to mock their doomed enemies, but their enemies were neither conventional, and sometimes did not seem to be even serious at all, like if they considered war a game rather than a serious business.

The Rubik's Cube however was the most interesting thing. It seemed to be placed in a very difficult to spot position on purpose, like if it was a bomb waiting to be detonated rather than a children's toy. Realizing it, Rafael then took his radio to call again the captain, to ask him for people who actually were training on how to handle and defuse explosives. He was no fool to risk doing it himself, and if these devices were somehow linked, detonating one could trigger a deadly chain reaction. It was unbelievable, but an entire division was entrapped after hours of combat. Or perhaps not, for it was difficult to gather the status of the entire division.

"This is private Viejas to captain Sanjuro. I need a defusal team to investigate a suspicious and unusual artifact."

No answer came, only static. He could hear many howling sounds of jet engines, be them propfans or turbofans, as likely aircrafts were doing their sorties around. Likely they have sent a significant amount of electronic warfare aircrafts, powerful enough to disrupt even short range communications, but suddenly, he heard something coming from his radio, and like all others, in Spanish:

"My name is Julio Santiago, and I believe that you are aware of who I am. The 'capitalist pig', the 'invader', the 'traitor' and 'childkiller' that came to this sovereign territory to take it over for the 'fifth column of the bourgeoisie' called Confederacy. Yes, I know that is what they have told you. They certainly know how to make a bad image of those who disagree with their views, don't you agree? Or did you see again that friend of yours that once, only once, made even one nearly innocent questioning about even the most minnow problem in the administration of the Communist Party of Spain?"

It was very obvious to Rafael what it was all about. They did not want to kill them, they wanted to lure them into sedition, to convince them to betray the People's Republic, to switch sides with the bourgeois. Frustrated, he shouted into his radio:

"No way in Hell I am going to betray Spain for your imperialist invasion, capitalist pigs! Die!"

Apparently, they were well aware of the answers given, and suddenly a certain slow paced speech about how some of their friends likely were killed by the government changed to a grimmer tone, less loaded with the revelation-like style of speech that was being ushered before:

"Did you just say Spain? At last... finally one of our supposed enemies decided to speak for himself. I guess that you must all be afraid of speaking, considering what your government does to people who are a bit more talkative than usual. Anyway, what is your name, soldier?"

With a certain fanatical anger, Rafael shouted:

"My name is none of your business capitalist!"

"Oh... afraid of being executed for speaking with the enemy? Don't worry... I can assure all of you that the likelihood of you rejoining the glorious Army the people of Spain starve and are enslaved to sustain is essentially zero percent, so now, at this moment, the very hated enemy, the very one who is the invader and capitalist pig looking to exploit and oppress you grants you a right that you never had before. The freedom of speech. Freedom, something as important as keeping up with the legacy of our Spain. As important as respecting its sovereignty. For the sovereignty of Spain as a nation is more important than the perpetuation of any government in it... but seems like your Communist Party disagrees. As for how this disagreement is, perhaps you are well aware that in emplacements like this, sometimes the 'enemy' retreats so hastily that he forgets some documents of importance behind... or many of them... perhaps they contain vital information for your efforts?"

Rafael sighed and refused to further answer this enemy. Yet a sense of curiousity overwhelmed him, and suddenly he looked at Dario and Hugo and ordered:

"Check the tables for anything important."

"But comrade..."

"No buts! We are dead anyway, so do it!"

And thus they verified their surroundings. Tables, counters, closets. Everything was opened and verified in those surprisingly clean trenches. Essentially, if there was truly something the enemy forgot, and that somehow they wanted them to discover, it would be found. Perhaps it was a mistake, but information was a very important tool. Just, sometimes hiding it was essential for the maintenance of a certain status quo.

"I found something!" Hugo shouted as he looked at his finding, and suddenly, seeing as he took a paper from a counter, Rafael noticed as Hugo became paralyzed by the shock of what he found, as he said:

"It... it cannot be true!"

"What is it? Speak!"

"Rafael... this is an official document of the Communist Party, top secret. It is a message sent to Stoklomolvi where Cavallo... it can't be real... it can't!"

Yet it was real. The copy was perfect, with every detail, the unique ID number, the anti-forgery procedures. It was considered impossible to fraud a document such as this, and the signature was perfectly matching. Rafael was wrong from considering that trench as the hammer that would strike them down, as he discovered which was the greatest weapon of their "enemy", which no longer seemed so hostile. Their greatest weapon was the truth. It mattered little how many propaganda was spewing when such terrible evidence was presented, a radical breaking of every paradigm they have been conditioned to accept. Their government betrayed their nation, selling it in exchange of not being dethroned. It was unconceivable, but now everything seemed clear. The words were even more radical:

"Why fight for a government which sells your very brothers, sisters and relatives into slavery, which forces you to obey without question, which is ruthless enough to sell our very Spanish land to foreigners and commit high treason against our very people? This is the true face of the People's Republic of Spain, of a monster called Carlos Cavallo who has murdered more than sixty million of our people. The true enemy of Spain is the traitorous, corrupt and murderous Communist Party, which has brought misery to our lands for thirty years. But now... these very men women you have killed, these very soldiers you hated and despised. Now they risk their lives, so that your children and grandchildren, so that your families and friends, so that all of us, the people of Spain, can live with freedom, dignity and true socialism! The Confederacy is an enemy of the bourgeois exploiter as much as it is of the corrupt exploiters of the Communist Parties of the world. All they spoke are only lies told to deceive and force you to fight and die in vain! For your friends and relatives who were killed or enslaved, we present you an opportunity, an opportunity to stand against the traitors of our people. We offer you the opportunity to join our effort to end the misery the Communist Party brought to Spain for once and all. And yet, we will not oblige you. You may simply ask for refuge, if you no longer feel willing to fight after all that happened, and every one of you shall be granted full citizenship into the Confederacy of Third Spanish States, to join its truly socialist society, to finally discover the freedom you have been stolen of. We just ask you to stop fighting against us, not to surrender, for we do not believe in prisons."

It was simply too much for a single day, and Rafael was unsure on what to do now. With all that he has seen, he lost any sense of duty to the People's Republic, but he felt that, no matter how it infuriated him to discover he was being used, it would be plain wrong for him to fight against them again. Suddenly however, he heard gunfire, but it quickly stopped. Likely, the few hard-liner loyalists were dispatched by a majority of soldiers who saw the truth. It was then that Rafael understood why they never resorted to massive forces, and thought:

With a weapon like this, they wouldn't even need an army to win the war. If only they had a perfect mean to disseminate it. I hope they are not fooling us either... but if staying here means death, there are not many options but to trust that what they claimed is more than propaganda.

What was to be a diversionary attack would soon become a signal of how that it would not be a powerful bomber, an extremely advanced tank, any sort of superior technologies, better trained soldiers or tactical excellence that were leading those he considered enemies once to be winning so far. It was the flowers of spring defeating the cannon of tyranny. The flourish of things that Spain has been devoid of for ages. And yet blood was shed... soldiers who fought together killed those who accused them of treason, and nearly a quarter of the division died in the shootouts between loyalits and defectors that succeeded the revelation of the "enemy". Nonetheless, if the word was excellence, like Sun Tzu once said, supreme excellence consists into capturing an entire army or regiment, and an entire nation infrastructure intact, rather than to destroy it. It depended of factors beyond the grasp of generals... it depended of subjective causes first, and of strategic excellence second. It has been an ideological war, and unlike in the first one, where the atrocities of the Stalinists amidst Republican Spain against the clergy and others justified the loyalty of nationalist soldiers, there was no reason for the bond to be broken once the betrayal of Spain by its current government was revealed. One further thought came to Rafael:

Could the Communist Party be a house of cards and Cavallo its only foundation?

At least now, he would finally find peace. The war experience was brief, but it certainly put his life to risk, and in the end, for nothing. It was unfortunate to hear, no matter how he seemed to dislike him, that Sanjuro was killed for refusing to defect from the Army. Perhaps ironic how that the transition happened by the transformation of a tyranny by the minority to a literal tyranny by majority, for a few bloody minutes.

The only weapon that the People's Republic still had was terror. And perhaps, once they realized that another defection just happened, such weapon could be deployed at its fullest extent. For they had no limits to the means necessary to preserve their rule. He then wondered about the daughter he would leave at the mercy of a lunatic like Cavallo, but soon realized that, no matter what would happen... he had to do the right thin. They would not simply stand idle to such trend of defections, and seeing that mere propaganda wasn't being enough, would resort to other means.

[Third Spanish States]

A cacophony of voices and text now swirled through the large screens as multiple engagements occurred through different sections of the ever widening front, as Julio Santiago struggled to make a sense out of so many events. The geographic wireframe map of the island shifted colors between red and black, as the antagonists advanced and retreated, and aircraft symbols quickly came through the strategic map, sweeping through many areas as their distant, cold representation came to his eyes. He was entrusted with the challenge of deciding for them, one he would have declined in other situations, but in a battlefield, there was no time to ask the opinions of others, or to organize voting sessions before making decisions. Observing cautiously the updated events, he grimly realized how their hastiness could have meant their doom, if they did not have uncontested air supremacy over the island, and predicted the hoes of the ever approaching time for urban warfare, where indiscriminate use of air support wouldn't be as viable, both for ethical and propaganda reasons, as it was for now, and where the fearful possibility of their enemies using children and innocents as human shields and hiding in hospitals and schools could become a reality. And yet, other worries had to be addressed, and soon.

Burdened, Santiago observed as a small red tide advanced against the northern flank of their forces, close to the coast, for the enemy has decided to, and somehow, managed to break through their lines despite their losses and heavy desertions, approaching every second the vulnerable rear supply dumps with some of their best armors and anti-air vehicles, which reduced the effectiveness of most Confederacy aircrafts that were optimal in the role of destroying them. If they manage to destroy it and butcher the logistical personell, the entire operation would become a disaster, and months of preparation would be lost. The MilNet could not raise taxes to repair failure, and thus, the pressure was much greater. Time was essential, and even if their enemies failed to destroy the operation, they would buy time for the retreating forces through east, and for the advancing forces from the west, which somehow managed to avoid being spotted so far, and thus annihilated by air power. Other than it, the only advantage at their hands was mobility, and to allow the six still operational enemy divisions to regroup would increase the difficulty of such operation tenfold, no matter how two divisions had severe losses in both casualties and desertions.

Only a rough ten percent of the three divisions were actually positioned in the still advancing main front-lines, while the rest kept a comprehensive defensive line to ensure that supply convoys from the beach to the interior of the island would arrive safely, and many were occupied setting front-line supplies and the most time-efficient logistical preparations and defensive structures they could. Aware of such fact, and aware of how sending a fast response team to stop the slowly dying attackers would slow down their advance, the major's best choice was to intensify air strikes against such attackers until they were either persuaded to defect or dead. The enemies probably intended to achieve a diversionary strike, and have ended with a mild success that led them to forfeit an entire division for the chance of ruining the Confederacy operation. Or those who did not defect or die from such division, more exactly. To refuse to bend to their move would imply their failure, as they were for a change, too trustful of their capability of withstand air strikes.

Nonetheless, while it certainly would delay severely their advance, the dozens of thousands from a division wouldn't be killed that easy, and Santiago would rather that they would not die. Perhaps the concept of attacking by Stratagem was being taken too far, for he feared, as he sat down next to a handful of technicians, that eventually their enemies would react brutally to such tide of desertions they have achieved through the force of truth rather than through the force of guns. His thoughts then formed, as fast as he could to avoid losing precious time at such urgent moment, realizing how consequences would occur from the decisions of his comrades and of himself, and such could be negative consequences.

What if our actions only fuel more savagery and brutality from our true enemies? Is it worth to risk the life of innocents over a handful of tactical victories? Is truly the right thing to never negotiate with terrorists?

He thought while staring at the aseptic inclined display, surveying the symbols advancing through the map. The Miajas were quite effective close air support aircrafts, but for when taking key targets in heavily defended areas was necessary, the CL-32A Buitre and an accompanying CE-32 Cuervo would do a better job of cleaning and jamming the excessive mass of anti-air defenses, to clear the way for the naturally less stealthy heavy hitters. Thus he moved a control stick, panning the map to a more adequate set up, pressed a trigger when the crosshair over the map pointed at the center of the enemy overall position, taken from all recon data downloaded from the other vehicles datalinks, both aerial and terrestrial, manned and unmanned, and typed some ID codes into a console, before communicating to the closest carriers:

"This is Julio Santiago. We cannot stop our advance now and lose our momentum and tactical superiority, we have to diminish the AA capabilities of this counter-offensive now. Commence a rogue slash sortie now."

And thus he listened to the acknowledgment from the aircraft carriers he contacted. A rogue slash sortie was a combined mission designed to hinder advancing enemy forces without air or naval support, and without ground forces engaging such enemies directly. Where the Buitre would conduct the first surgical strikes with its limited payload, the Miajas would seek to neutralize all remaining anti-air vehicles, artillery and armor, respectively, supported by Quijote heavy assault helicopters to then suppress the advance of foot soldiers and force them into hiding for as long as possible, to either, if necessary, deploy Luddite heavy bombers from the home islands to wipe them out with ground-penetrating charges, or ideally, persuade them to defect. Essentially, it was a tactic conceived to, when necessary, allow air forces to supplement the need of ground troops, at least temporarily, giving greater tactical flexibility for situations like the one currently unfolding. However, it was a risky maneuver, and Santiago was quite aware of it. Not as risky as the moves their enemies were doing, but still something that could bring tragic consequences, and he sometimes wondered if it was the right choice, an answer which would take many further minutes to be given. If yes, it would not be the first decisive victory achieved through air for the Confederacy. But if not, the primary objective of the war, the liberation of Iberia, would require a much greater amount of blood, sacrifice and time. Time which the distant enemies of the Confederacy could use as an ally. The stakes were taken.

And the chance their enemies could be hiding their air force for a moment like this wasn't insignificant. As was the chance atrocities could be done because of this, or that their tactical flexibility would be hindered by the presence of human shields and by the fact bombing schools and hospitals may become the only ways to secure higher chances of victory. Julio would rather not see it again. After all that came, he would rather avoid another humanitarian catastrophe, and another tough decision of grayer shades over black and white that could cost his very reputation, and countless innocent lives.

[Third Spanish States]

One day later, in Mainland Spain



Madrid, a city lost to the dark, gloom smog formed by the dread ashes of gas chambers and unbreathable smoke of industries of war building their tools day and night, by the hands of unwilling men and women. Madrid, a city lost to the eternal marches of the People's Army, where facing no choice, people watched and saluted the instruments of their suffering, at the realization of their bleak hopelessness of ever changing such reality, many hiding their dissidence, trading their freedom for the mere survival as basic instincts overruled ideals. And yet, beneath the facades, thousands wept for the loss of their cities, of their freedom, of their nation... of their selves. The only smiles that could ever be seen across the city were of scheming young Party members forming back room deals with other crooks while planning each demise, and those of utterly innocent children, whose fates the government predestined them for, sometimes were worse than death.

Madrid, a city lost, where parks which once served for mothers to have moments of joy with their children, for people to meet their best friends to relax and celebrate, now were twisted into hideous sculptures of sandbags, trenches and razor wire, and in some cases, the former symbols of natural life amidst the grey of cities became guarantees of death, spots where minefields were carefully set, both to avoid invaders from getting in, and residents from moving out. Madrid, a city lost, where no man could dwell beyond the set routes, locations and destinations by the government, like if they were not humans, but cogs of a rusted, corrupted gearwork which did grind their souls at every day, watched by the omniscient eyes of a terrorist State, every time, everywhere, like if they were hostages rather than citizens. And as any hostage, their fates were not as clear as those of freed victims.

Madrid, a city... or perhaps a ghetto, where, over many streets, over the ever-vigilant eyes of surveillance cameras, inside the cover of the drab brown, decayed bricks of one of many apartment blocks, a woman prepared for the routine, her expression cold and grey like that of people who lost part of their spirits, captured by the six cameras of the Party positioned inside her house, while the television, constantly turned on, showered government propagandas, highlighting the glory of the Soviets, the inferiority of the bourgeois consorts of Third Spanish States, and glorifying their great leader, Carlos Cavallo. Massive LCD screens were positioned strategically across the streets, where the ever vigilant State watched and spoke to its cattle. However, like many, such woman knew that everything was a lie, that the fact her shoes were nearly rotting away, that she had nothing to cook during the last weekend and that she nearly died of cold with her son during last winter due to the lack of gas for the apartment had nothing to do with a "bourgeois conspiracy"... and yet, such knowledge only served to augment her suffering, as she equally knew there was nothing that could be done to change the reality... nothing but pray for the victory of their "enemy", and to hope they were not lying about their intentions.

"Julio, your breakfast is going to get cold!" the woman said, with a particularly weighed down voice, like if a burden she carried continually influenced on her tone.

"I am coming mommy!" the innocent then replied. Four old wooden chairs were lined to an equally wooden table in the cramped kitchen, and soon as the woman served the dish, a reflex of their conditions as a cheaply made toast with nothing as cover, and two glasses of a sugar-less lemon juice, mother and son sat side by side, leaving two vacant chairs to their sides.

"Mommy?" he asked, his voice recorded by one of many bugs the government had nearly everywhere,"when is daddy coming back?"

"Julio, my son," the woman then replied, carefully stopping, like if pondering on what to say next without risking to have her son orphaned, "your father is still fighting against the bad men, but he will come back, and everyone will be proud of him," she said with a visible lack of belief in her very words.

"What about my sister?" the boy then innocently asked, "is she still on interchange?"

"Yes, she is still on interchange and studying in Stoklomolvi, Julio" the woman then replied, as a burst of emotions began to challenge her fear.

"Why are you crying mom? Did something bad happen to Isabella?" the son asked, as he noticed her reaction as she mentioned his sister.

"No son," she said, gulping down and holding her tears, shattered and torn for the memories... of how they came in, how they forcefully grabbed her daughter, putting a sack over her head and beating her because of what she said... and then, she never saw her daughter again. She would be making eighteen years old now, and such event happened four years ago, during which the scars it has left never mended. If not for her son, Elisa would be willing to face a clean execution, for life seemed meaningless, and yet the realization that her son could face an horrible fate, and even fall down into slavery, should she give up, made her move on.

As they ate their poor breakfast, suddenly the sounds of knives cutting bread, and hands grabbing every breadcrumb like beggars would be interrupted by the immediate slam of their apartment door, and their conversation replaced by an unspeakable terror as gas grenades began to roll over the old linoleum floor of its kitchen. Their despair at such moment could be considered infernal, specially of Elisa, as she feared for her son, a fear so greater than the pain of the prodding, and soon she could hear his screams, as she began to cry, and in turn be further prodded.

The Hell, its horrors told in many religious lores, could not compare to the plight of a woman who stood defenseless at the misery of her son, fearing for his fate first, as they were dragged into a black Van, and an endless, agonizing trip allowed for her to feel the aches of her bruised body together with her despair at what awaited.

Feeling her body once again dragged, as they prodded her once again as a reminder, her fear increased, sweat covering her body, tears nearly drowning her inside the sack, and her heart beating faster while the closure of such horrors seemed to come. An horrible pain came to her as her bare knees were dragged over the rough floor of what could only be a street, small pebbles sometimes digging deep into her flesh as she wallowed in agony.

On her bloodied, bruised knees, they finally stopped dragging her, although a greater despair came. The voice of her son shouting for her help, demonstrating pain was coming ever close, until it seemed close enough to be very few meters ahead, and ruined, Elis was allowed to have the strong sunlight over her face, temporarily blinding her as the image began to form.

It was one of the areas which once were parks. Razor wire stretched at every corner, and minefield warning signs were prevalent. However, a new complement seemed to have made such sculpture even more hideous: hundreds, if not thousands of wooden stakes seemed to have been laid across the "park", in preparation for what could only be a mass execution.

"Mommy, please! Help! I didn't do nothing wrong!" Julio shouted, his infantile voice augmenting a scenery of the worst mankind could bring, as Elis looked above and despaired... Her son was being lifted with a pulley high above one of the stakes, and immediately she despaired, shouting as tears flowed from her eyes, attempting to escape from the hold of the three soldiers holding her in place:

"Nooo! Not him! He is only a children! What are you doing? This is insanity! Stop please!"

Then another prod formed yet another bruise over her body, as a soldier moved right ahead of her, blocking her view. The man seemed to evoke even greater feel, his eyes evoking the ways of men who lost part of their humanity in past wars, cold and calculating, demonstrating neither fear or compassion as he looked towards what could only be his superior, and then, as if approved, he came extremely close to her, while the other soldiers began to hold her tighter.

Her eyes scanned his pocket when he moved his hand to it, taking a leather poach from inside. Strained, her muscles bulged as she struggled against those who held her in place, and stared as the soldier slowly moved, as if to build her despair. He then opened the pouch, and from it too a sharp scissor. With another, even stronger prod, Elisa screamed, and before she could perceive, another soldier forcefully sticked her tongue out, nearly bleeding it from the pressure he made with his tool, while the other promptly scissored her tongue, as she began to scream, unable to endure the physical pain.

Still shocked, feeling the warm blood spouting from her mouth, she watched in powerlessness, the screams, the cries for help, her eyes nearly entirely red of tears, as her only still alive son was set over the stake, and slowly impaled over it, with every second of the horrific atrocity becoming an eternity of agony for her, as she realized the suffering they have subjected her son to, and worst, he was still alive, condemned to an horrible death.

Eventually, ropes began to weave across her body, as she no longer could feel the touch of the ground. A slow downfall, and the pain, as her entrails were carefully pierced to avoid enough damage to kill her outright... and then an agonizing death was set as her fate, a hellish eternity in her last moments, an eternity made greater by the knowledge her son had the same fate, right at her eyes. She never imagined, ever, that their government would be that inhuman... Cavallo was a true monster.

A true monster, perhaps far beyond the monstrosity of past tyrants like Hitler and Stalin, for every direct family member of every soldier who deserted the Army of the People's Republic of Spain would be placed to the same horrendous fate, as a message of terror against those who dared to listen to the propaganda of the Confederacy and to betray the State by deserting or even switching sides. More than three hundred thousand of innocent women, men, children and elder would be victims of one of the most brutal and inhuman atrocities ever committed in the history of warfare: a mass impalement which would make the mass crucification of slaves done by the Romans or the atrocities of the man who gave the birth to the Dracula myth meek in comparison. The August Massacre thus would be written and recorded by future historians not as another statistic, but as one of the darkest days in the history of Spain.

Or perhaps, as the catalyst for a much greater event...

[Third Spanish States]

16th of August, 13:50 hours, onboard the CCN-4 Catalonia

"It is time for this battle to end," a hand waved over an immense electronic display inside the bridge, through which black aircraft, helicopter, tank and infantry symbols continued to make their advance while red symbols continued to retreat at a slower pace, sometimes being erased from the display as their retreat was cut off. Next to the Tactical Theater Display of the cruiser-carrier, he observed as other red symbols slowly advanced behind the front lines, threatening to cut off the formations of black symbols in two.

"But comrade," another hand pointed at the black aircraft symbols, and at the absolute lack of red aircraft symbols over the display, "what sort of men are we to let the Army fight and die now, sending in cheap and light unmanned bombers, while most our pilots slack?"

"We take necessary precautions," he waved again at the red symbols, "they are hiding their game, bidding their time, trying to lure us into their trap. And besides, we could gather more allies from giving them chances to surrender"

"Or perhaps, Miguel," the other man waved across, "perhaps we are doing exactly what they intended for us to do. To cower, to let our initiative and momentum fade. I suggest we conduct the rogue slash, and proceed to wipe their forces out. Being humanitarian doesn't win wars."

"Correct, and it seems they have run out of tricks. Perhaps risking this will bring less losses than risking urban warfare," the man then said, observing the shifting front lines over the display. As expected, they were still pushing ahead quickly, and yet one of the enemies divisions, which heavy anti-air defenses banded with, advanced against their left flank. Leaving such diversionary attack not addressed couldn't be acceptable.

13:52, Onboard the LHAN-3 Barcelona

The sound of several nearby rotor blades flapping intensified, the skies were clear ahead, and from afar, the continent could be seen, the destination. Digitally displayed measures, from altimeter, inclination, fuel to gravity meters, remaining missiles and ammunition, information on mission objectives and a miniaturized satellite image of the region southwest of Mallorca where several black dots were visible, and a overall separation of the friendly and enemy controlled territories shown through nearly faded black and red shades over the map, appeared across a set of four screens. Suddenly a slight vibration came into being, as the pilot lifted his control stick up, and it began to ascent through the skies.

With a spread-out, reversed V formation of HA-1 Quijote Gunships, he watched the way ahead from the glass of his cockpit, looking at the altimeter briefly as it signaled sixty feet of the extremely low pass flight they were conducting, and as the satellite map showed his squadron was still away from the dangers that could lie through the course of this operation.

"Warcrow One to Barcelona, requesting Intel update." he simply spoke, switching no trigger or button, for he knew that without air supremacy, the mission would be tricky. Concentrated, the pilot could not distract himself measuring how much it would take for him to be answered, but instead sharpening his mental acuity and reflexes with the quick in-flight exercises he has learned.

"This is Barcelona to Warcrow Squadron," the answer didn't take too long to come, as the map screen on his heads-down display changed, with several red dots and a couple of red stars appearing on a geographical location twenty-eight kilometers roughly on their east by south, as he stepped on the right pedal, and the chopper began to yaw towards the exact location of the enemy diversionary attack, "all known enemy positions have been updated through your datalink. Most of their air defenses have been destroyed, but be careful: we have spotted multiple soldiers with MANPADS, and although our fighters have softened them a bit, they aren't as easy to kill as self-propelled anti-air units."

Sighing, he again replied, hoping that it would make enough sense to be understood:

"Warcrow One, zoom in hostile positions on my left."

The previously vacant heads left display then suddenly flashed with life, as the old, usually square-shaped NATO symbols, indicated the type of every identified enemy platoon on the map, a nearly overwhelming information load if not for the way the least relevant were slightly faded while the most were highlighted, and some were highlighted as platoons from a spread out anti-air brigade, mostly relegated to infantry with Stinger missiles, but still a very significant threat for any heavy-hitter specialized at close air support.

"Warcrow One to Stuka One," the pilot continued doing his part to coordinate the operation, "we need your psychological support, let us see how well they can point a Stinger with their ears bleeding." obviously referring to the hearing unsafe, stupendous noise that the propfans of the CB-1 Miajas made.

"Stuka One to Warcrow Squadron," your speed parameters were downloaded into our systems for simultaneous arrival at battle zone. We shall ensure they won't be able to aim any missile. Wait a second," the other pilot then said, "check your systems, all targets other squadrons have already designated have appeared on mine. Better to not focus too much on a single threat while others might aim against us."

Looking at the heads-down display, he saw as many of the NATO symbols of of enemy platoons were circled, with arrows and acronyms of squadron callsigns displayed at each of the circles, most encompassing more than one platoon. Including his own, as it seemed some of his squadron members decided to take the initiative. Theirs would be a cluster of entrenched infantry into an intact set of partially underground fortifications a mound had. It was no wonder that far behind them, two Eurocopter EC 725 Cougars were moving with two platoons of Marines from the same three divisions that were already advancing, for they would be far more effective at eliminating or forcing the defection of whoever fled inside the underground bunker, or to at least, setting a minefield all around it to pin them down until Mallorca is freed.

Time began to blur for him, as he watched through the map, across the sea, twenty-five allied attack helicopters at full cruise speed, twenty-one Miajas and ten EC 725 Cougars, tasked to wipe out a division which was still with most of its manpower alive, divisions spread through five choppers, three planes and two air transports squadrons. T-minus three minutes, and finally he observed the beach, some of its sand shaken by the distant, intermeshing blades he could sometimes see above from the cockpit. Some sand began to cover the front screen, and thus he pressed a button, activating the wiper and dousing some water to improve his awareness to optimal again.

"Warcrow One to Warcrow Squadron, our enemies are only ten kilometers away, get ready to lock on armored targets."

Using the stick, he began to toggle between the already tracked targets as their platoon symbols were highlighted. A single mobile SAM, probably hid into the bunker to avoid being destroyed by the previous suppression of enemy air defenses sortie, was his greatest worry, and strangely it hasn't fired yet, probably awaiting for them to reach the no escape zone of its missiles.

Nine kilometers only, while flying adjacent to a local road and to many grasslands, a warning sign flashed on his heads up display. With his left hand, he immediately flipped a switch to his left, as a new tracker appeared at heads up display. reticles began to swirl, until finally setting around the incoming missile. A countdown appeared right into the bottom of the HUD, fifteen seconds only. His heart raced faster, as he knew that this could mean the end. His squadron began to break formation, as the eight missiles from the SAM were heading towards them. A drop of sweat began to flow through his forehead, until getting caught by his helmet, and thus five seconds remained as he pressed the left pedal and carefully dived, realizing that there wasn't much space to maneuver down due to their low pass flight.

Four seconds, the distance between the nose of the helicopter, the ground, and the missile shortened, while a finger was ready to press a button. Three seconds, and he shifted immediately yaw control to the right while rolling slightly to the left, starting a vertically inclined nonlinear strafe with his helicopter. It came very close, close enough that one meter separated his chopper from the ground during the daring evasive maneuver, and with the counter at nearly exact one second, he pressed the trigger, as the helicopter became partially hidden over a mass of chaffs and flares. He could even listen to the sound of the missile engine flying over the helicopter, as the warning sign faded, and alleviated, he tried to regain focus over the mission. Elevating the chopper, he pressed a throttle as a camera image on the heads-down display began to be zoomed in, until displaying clearly as soldiers reloaded the mobile SAM.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfzWd1cPYAk

For their misfortune, eight kilometers was enough for an extended Trigat anti-tank missile, and it would take less time for them to get a further kilometer and regroup than for the missiles to be reloaded. Meanwhile, a loud engine noise was going in a crescendo, nearly vibrating everything around, but he could not let it distract him from his goal, and soon a targeting reticle was set against the mobile same, and releasing the safety, he pressed the trigger, firing a single missile, and not waiting for it to hit its target. Instead he switched targets again, as the optical targeting system recognized the visual signatures of them, and no longer they depended exclusively of the datalink. The loud engine noise intensified, and thus he looked to his right, and saw as three Miajas went past his squadron, all of them with shark teeth nose-art, as it seemed Stuka Squadron was quite fond of retro military aesthetic, despite far out-speeding the helicopters

Dozens of Stinger missiles began to fly against the Miajas at first, and another shower of countermeasures came in answer, as they could see. Suddenly explosions began to rock his ears while he still approached engagement range against infantry, and the tracer of heavy autocannon fire began to brighten the skies, while stand-off bombs slowly broke their will to fight. It still wasn't simple, and he could see the frames of the CB-1s as they went up and down, rolling and conducting multiple evasive maneuvers, to the limits of their airframe and human endurance. The sight of the battle was becoming clearer as they approached. Soldiers ran screaming towards the bunker deepest underground, covering their ears in despair as the Miajas strafed back and forth, echoing a booming sound scales of magnitude more terrifying than the Trumpets of Jericho of the Nazi fighter they have ironically named their squadron after.

Soon they would be close enough to start.

Looking at an aiming reticle as it lowered to the bottom of his HUD, the pilot pointed it towards a zoomed in trench, he pressed three triggers at once, as APKWS rockets, air burst grenade-like rounds from a 30mm chaingun and countless rounds from a MA-65 minigun began to raze the ground, filling the air with gravel and dust, and provoking a vibration over the cockpit. The combination of firepower was deadly suppressive, and he soon stopped moving forward, as he found it safe enough to strafe left and right, to slowly eliminate all that haven't hid into the bunker.

Five minutes later, they burned, they were, like ragdolls, turned into dismembered pieces, bowels igniting, men split in half, as he saw sometimes their despair, and sighed. The rogue slash was going well, specially as it has succeeded without losses and now all that truly mattered was to mop up survivors with the Marines that were coming behind. However, he couldn't help but think that perhaps, none of there were heroes, only makers of desperate wives and orphaned children, cold-blooded killers who used ideology to overcome ethics, and extremely effective ones at that. Perhaps they could have been convinced to defect, but sometimes, like a certain captain of a ship would say, it is important to remember that humanitarianism does not win wars.

That some among the Marine fireteams were armed with napalm grenades should say enough. Such operation has made it clear, that without air superiority, the Soviets would be sooner or later doomed. Considering that their air-to-air combat capable fighters still far outnumbered the ones of the Revolutionary Air Force, and that the same could be multiplied by ten when involving an attack without air superiority, such realization was not truly freshening. Mallorca was only an island, and the gross of Spanish armies had yet to be defeated. Besides, four divisions were getting ever close from retreating to the cities, and thus, after returning to the close logistical forward base established, five kilometers south, the pilot began to make his way towards the front lines, as their and the Miaja squadrons would be given a new mission: to pin down three enemy divisions before they could reach the safety of the cities of Campos, Llucmajor and Santanyí. Otherwise, it would be unlikely that Mallorca could be liberated in only one day.

Meanwhile, certain fortifications had to be cleared, in the old tunnel fighting way. Perhaps it could serve as a preparation, should fighting in the cities become necessary.

[Third Spanish States]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWAhVbayGv4

There was no time to wait. With all anti-air defenses of the enemy besides infantry-launched ones destroyed, and all alive soldiers forced into hiding inside a bunker built next to one of the nearby mounds into the field. Corpses were ungloriously kept undisturbed, as remains of the dead were ignored by the advancing forces. Beneath groups of transport helicopters at multiple entryways, Milicianos hovered as they were cautiously lowered to defensive positions all-around the bunkers entrances, intended to shoot at the enemy soldiers fleeing for their lives during the remainder of the operation. All except for one of each bunker.

From ropes, two fireteams of Marines descended from a single EC 725s as the others remained on their way, part of a large air cavalry bridgade heading towards the cities of Llucmajor, Les Salines and Campos. The mission of those who headed down was far "simpler", as with their FA-65 rifles, they prepared to storm the bunker, and clean it. However, such was only one of many bunkers through which thousands survivors of the defeated division have hidden, and thus the challenge wouldn't be simple.

Simpler was an understatement, however, as they were eight men against at least a hundred of men, a small force sent to one of many lower priorities tasks than to secure the cities before the blunt of the enemy forces could get inside at them, encircling them together with their advancing terrestrial forces. Not considering the fact such men would have no armored support to defend the city perimeter against retreating enemy tanks and artillery, and against enemy soldiers, including those without uniforms, hiding in the city. No bombings would be made, due to both ethical and propaganda reasons, and thus they would have to achieve victory through the hardest possible manner: fighting in tunnels, inside houses, the hell of urban warfare could not be averted if they were to achieve victory in such day.

Tiago Aragón held his rifle slung over his shoulder, as he sat inside a Cougar, hearing its constant rotor and blades sounds as he prepared for his mission: to liberate the small town of Llucmajor. Even a small town like it, with its plenty of old three and two-store buildings to provide cover, would still offer a major challenge to be secured, and the pressing matter of an entire enemy division heading towards it would make the situation even more complicated, no matter the constant bombing runs against their positions devoid of anti-air vehicles that were wearing it down.

He was breathing calmly despite what he knew to expect, as the helicopter began to turn to the right, he was informed that they were already aware of enemy positions to take the safest air routes towards the city, while ahead of them Quijote attack helicopters advanced to clean possible ground threats, and further ahead, a escort of CL-32s flew at a far higher altitude, a mere precaution at the moment, as there was no sign their enemies had any fighter aircrafts in the island.

"Comrade Tiago," another man then spoke in Spanish with a worried tone of voice, as he cocked his rifle, "have you thought about the possibility of these pigs using innocents as human shields? I wouldn't like to kill an innocent in the crossfire, but it seems the situation may become very difficult for us, because if we wait too much, their armors will arrive close to the city, and perhaps they might have armors behind, hiding into the city as well."

"Dozens of millions of lives, Miguel, dozens of millions of lives depend upon our courage to face difficult situations," Tiago gestured exacerbatedly, "their freedom lie in theirs and ours hands, if we don't give the example of courage, if we are not prepared to, if necessary, die for the cause of freedom and anarchism, how can expect them to be?"

The Marines, like all special forces of the Confederacy, were a heavily politicized branch of their military, men and women taught that the cause of true liberty was above their very lives, comfort and happiness, that the good of everyone was above any egotistical whims they could have, and thus they were among the most collectivist inside the Confederacy, people who lived in a quasi-communal organization, conditioned and educated to care not about their personal wealth and well-being, but about the well-being and freedom of everyone. In many ways, however, they were far happier than those who set their lives for the pursuit of wealth, even though ironically, their lifespan was usually smaller, as perhaps life wasn't made for joy, but for suffering, and in some cases, death was the only form of liberation.

"But, I don't want to taint my hands with the blood of women and children, I don't want to be forced to threaten their lives." Miguel replied during their travel, which was yet to take many minutes.

"There is a reason why we had anti-terrorist training," Tiago cockled his rifle as well, "our enemies are by extension an army of terrorists, with a few desensitized slaves of the State virtually conditioned to be perfect murderers of innocents, able to kill children without any remorse or feeling of regret. Because that is the terrible truth: that the government can transform human beings into monsters, killing machines for their lust for wealth and power. And for such men, raised in conditioning facilities, only in death they shall meet freedom."

Miguel sighed then, as he reflected upon such words, and knew that such was the truth. Where the Confederacy children were from their very birth, conditioned to be free, like human beings were naturally inclined to, the victims of the People's Republic of Spain, the starving ones, were sometimes ripped from their mothers, and raised by the government to become loyal servants. There were rumors of an elite force of their enemies, which like in the dystopian predictions of works like 1984 and Brave New World, were created in an artificial manner, like breeds of animals set to have features of utility for the government, and conditioned to servitude.

"How have they allowed for this to happen? I have only found similar reports about legends beyond our very world, I do not want to imagine how they would end if we allowed for them to remain."

"In collapse and further suffering once their decadence hits the bottom," he then answered, "because such societal model cannot survive, and thus, if we did nothing, the death toll could be measured by the hundreds of millions, and unmeasurable suffering would wail through Portugal and Spain. But we are not cowards who write fancy words condemning what they are unwilling to make personal sacrifices and take risks to really fight against. It is very easy for a fat ass politician to write fancy words and rhetoric while soldiers die in vain."

"Like Lockhelm," Miguel shrugged, "who did nothing to really help us. Who spoke for this attack to happen, because she would not participate of it, because she would not hear bullets glancing near her, yes?"

"I would not judge Cecily that harshly, Miguel," Tiago then looked for a while at the clear skies, admiring the way they gave the sensation of freedom, a freedom they would soon bring, "she once was a combatant, but she recognized that what she liked to do was not what she truly was gifted to do, and thus gave it away to become a shadow, a powerless figure for the Confederacy, with no prestige, no reason to feel proud of as everything she ever done was nothing but the will of the people rather than her own will. To be a head of State in the Confederacy is an humbling position."

"I see, so are you saying she did chose unhappiness following a carreer she hated for the sake of the people?"

"Yes," he then spoke with a far more serious tone, "Cecily Lockhelm wanted to join us, but she saw that she would be far more helpful to the people there. It is not anyone who would take a job she is sure that she hates just to help others. Now, on our mission, I think we are almost there. Just more four minutes."

And thus the first urban battles of the war of Spain were about to happen.

----------------------

10 hours later, somewhere else far beyond the battlefield

In a hospital in Tucker, eyes stared at the clear lights, at the white ceiling, trying to forget, to forget a sacrifice arguably greater than death. But there was no way to do it, no way to run away from the truth, the images were still vivid, the deafening white noise of the explosion, the pain and the violent thrust of her body, the bone of her left arm that broke, and she could not avert raising her head to look at the bandaged stumps of what once were her thighs.

But they said there was a chance they could re-implant her legs, they made batteries of exams into her, always being inconclusive in their explanations for now, but after such many hours, her memory still repeated the scenes, the firefight, and her forceful but honorable discharge from active duty for the Marines was still very close, and perhaps it would be a permanent one. She knew that soon they would inform her whether it would be possible or not to reimplant them, whether she would be condemned to live for the rest of her life as a handicapped victim of anti-personell mines or not.

The double doors of the warden opened as a doctor began to approach her, her eyes attentiously keeping at his direction, as he came to her, she immediately asked a question, the most troubling question that was coming to her mind:

"Doctor Murra, do you have information about my friends who continued to fight?"

The doctor immediately smiled as he answered:

"Elis, very few people in your situation would first worry about their friends than about themselves, and it is good to see there are still good people around. These were the good news: yes, I have been informed all the members of your fireteam are alive and well."

Although she had a brief moment of happiness, she soon realized what he meant by saying they were the good news. It was not necessary at all for her to ask the other question, for she said the answer herself:

"I will be trapped in a wheelchair and shitty leg prothestics for the rest of my life."

"I am sorry Elis, but it is impossible to reimplant your legs... you have done much for the Confederacy, and I am sure they will give you what you deserve. In fact, it is a pity a woman like you to be given no choice."

"But doctor," she then replied, trying to hold her emotions, "you said yourself the truth, there is no hope, and all known prostethics are completely limited, don't give me false hopes!"

The doctor then smiled to her, but first he looked behind, as if seeing whether someone else was listening to their conversation or not:

"Elis, yes, that is truth, all known prostethics are extremely limited and unable to truly equate to natural human limb performance... but what if there were not only prostethics," his voice then lowered to a whisper, "but also, how should I say, cybernetic limbs, offering superior performance to human limbs, which are still under research and development?"

Skeptical, she said to him in a lowered voice:

"I see, so you wish to inscribe me in a program that doesn't even exists? You are joking right? 'Cybernetic'", she scoffed, thinking it was some sort of sick joke, "augmentations, are only in the works of cyberpunk writers, and even if they were possible, they would never be practical or economical to be used in a reasonable scale so that anyone would bother investing in them."

"Yes," he whispered, "you are right on how they will never be economical to become widespread for non-peaceful purposes, but with the way stem cell implants research stagnated, they may be for now the only hope for many who are in the same state than yours."

"Aha!" she then said in a surprisingly low voice, "why would this hush be needed if this was a project for nearly entirely civilian purposes?"

"All right, it is not only for civilian purposes," the doctor replied, "we are, besides seeking to give a hope for the handicap, that might not concretize, to also have a very... very small and select force, of half a dozen at most, and perhaps you might be interested in getting off here, you have been invited because your genetic profile is compatible. But I will be honest to you Elis: these implants aren't really safe, and... if you volunteer to test them, there is a death risk involved, or they might not work at all because not everyone have the necessary endurance and tolerance to foreign bodies to maintain implants directly integrated with their brain. If you agree, you should know that I cannot give you certainty it is going to work, and... let me warn you: we are not butchers and monsters, but even with all the anaesthesia, it is going to be a painful operation, because we will have to remove these stumps of your legs as well to attempt implanting them into you. So I hope you are well aware of this..."

"I..."

And thus he interrupted her with another whisper:

"And if you don't agree, remember: we never had this conversation. But take your time to think about it, I know it is a difficult choice."

She then nodded, and thinking about it, she wondered whether to let the fear of what they could do with her, should she accept, overcome her urge to be able to walk once again, for she could still even feel her legs even if they weren't there, and the prospect of remaining at such state was perhaps more frightening than to join a shady experiment voluntarily. Pondering on the price of each decision, she leaned at each during a few minutes, until she finally spoke:

"I agree, doctor... I'd rather risk dying than not trying."

"Very well Elis Navarre, very well, if that is your decision, tomorrow you shall be relocated. I wish you good luck and success with it."

"How many successful surgeries have you already done?" she then asked.

He simply left the room without answering, as she realized that she has simply chosen a fancier way of euthanasia over accepting to live as a handicap. Or perhaps, perhaps there was a small chance it could work. Better to not get her hopes up though, and as the doctor vanished, she tried to calm down, to think about the good things of her past life.

But deep inside, she still wanted to cry, to realize her helplessness as she verbally agreed to become nothing but a test subject for what would be another suicidal money sink into what probably were trains of failed over failed attempts to merge flesh and machine.

But in some ways, it was better for such technologies to be arguably feasible but impractical because of factors like high mortality and failure rate and costs than for them to be both. For otherwise, the horrors nations like the People's Republic of Spain could commit with such technologies would perhaps bring the world to a new dark age of human minds enslaved by government machines, a dangerous path to a Brave New World.

Of course, if somehow she survived it, she would be an exception to the rule, and perhaps the last attempt with such researches of questionable utility, for despite all advances with brain-computer interfaces, the human body was still gifted with a strong immunological system that made such tecnophile delusions of building a "cyborg" impractical, for the human immune system did not evolve to accept the blending of flesh with machine, but to logically reject it.

[Third Spanish States]

East Glacia, Unknown
Unimportant
August 15th, 2039
24.4 Celsius

Roman deClark the Third stood in the room, which was ornately designed to reflect the status of its most common visitors, the Royal family and its highest consultants. It was positioned deep underground, thus the light was generated by twelve wall-strapped bulbs with beautiful blue and gold shades, which were once closed-flamed lamps but after a fire was started by a broken lamp during his father’s ran, Prince Roman deClark the Second, it was decided that such a design wasn’t necessary in a confined room due to safety issues. The single entrance, a two-paneled door, was exquisitely molded and panted to look like a mahogany door, which it imitated imperviously, was actually a three-inch thick steel plate that was mechanically opened. The flooring was a brown-stained marble and the large round table was also of wooden structure, along with the metal gold and blue painted seats that they used. In table was four meters long, with a space cut from the middle, which was filled by a circular television screen that connected the men to the rest of their Principality. The ventilation room had once been connected to the room, but was completely seal off except for air ducts for safety reasons. This room contained a mass of plants and mechanics that funneled the CO2 produced into the plant chamber and the fresh oxygen into the room. This all made the structure nearly impenetrable, adding to that the deep secrecy that was authorized to it, and only two guards which watch the pre-entrance which was told to them to be a lead to the helicopter pad, which by a secondary way it was.

Roman rubbed his chin as he read the Spanish MilNet news of the most recent atrocity committed by the Soviet Spain, the ideological opponent of the former, the men around him did the same. “Well it seems the Anarchists have a stable advance, but with atrocities like this occurring with every victory the pace of this must be increased.” The faces of the men surrounding his portrayed their similar dislike of the civilian executions, something that was carried out towards them in the civil war, obliterating their populace. “Now, from the reports we’ve gathered Anarchists also seem to be forcing mass desertions, something that prompted the last heinous act. The Anarchists are winning, but it is my belief that we must speed this up. I understand they are not our people, I understand that we can not save the world, but we must do something. Ask yourselves, how many times did you wonder why no other nation intervened in our internal strife? Ask yourself how that intervention could have saved so many lives. Now we have the power to make sure that this doesn’t happen again, at least to them.”

General of the Army Charles leMenn was the first to reply, his broad chest draped in the characteristic East Glacine military parade garb of navy blue shirt and pants, which golden shoes and beret cap, topped of in excellence with several exorbitant pieces of cloth connecting to symmetrical section of his uniform on the opposite side of their origin. And the final cachet being a mass of metal find home on both his cap and left breast. “Your highness,” It displaced no additional respect to the Prince, but it was tradition, and lacking such an addendum could lead to a charge of treason, theoretically. “I understand your place, I too wish that some nation could have intervened to end the war, but they didn’t, and look at us now.” He extended his arm all across the room, showing the extravagance and high placement of the cabinet, “We survived, learned lessons, and became stronger.” -- He paused for the real reason for his obstruction to the Prince’s position. “We have a constant enemy on our border, their name is unnecessary, for we all know of them, and to send any amount of forces that would make a difference to the Spanish theatre would give the enemy the most opportune moment to strike in decades. It is something we simply, on the most basic levels, can not afford for our Principality, my liege.” Equivalent in necessity to the antecedent.

Minister of Civil Affairs, John Kennington another veteran of the civil war, however his role in the conflict was the safe evacuation of the surviving royal citizens to the south western region of the nation and reconstruction of over a hundred thirty-two cities and villages. His attire was much simpler then most in the room, being a black suit with eloquent white lines intermediately placed across, matched with a white shirt and blue tie tucked under the suit and a very business-like haircut to match. “Well, there’s on option,” He paused for dramatic effect, he was a bit of a drama queen, but it was a single characteristic flaw that didn’t often get in the way of his overall excellent résumé. He also had didn‘t have the General’s previous necessity as he was referring to group in the room, not directly to the Prince. “We could organize a few volunteer brigades. It would allow us to send a group to help aid against the enemy, and to also to keep our current stance against your Western counterparts,” Pausing again, but this time was for his thought process to catch up to his words. It was easily distinguishable from his more dramatic action where he scans the room with his eyes, alternatively his face was drifting up and to the right as his eyes seemed slightly more glazed. “Any objection, General, or my liege?”

Roman looked at the General with an intriguing look, and was replied to by him with a slow shake of his head. The General was not one to aid words unnecessarily, although he was quite talkative and funny in a more private, and social, gathering. The Prince looked up once again straight at the television screen, his eyes also drifting though not nearly as noticeably as the Minister of Civil Affair’s. “But Minister, we both know that we have no rights for the citizen’s the hold guns. So we’d have to fully equip these volunteer brigades and send them with our own ships, encase they were to be attacked by pirates or the Soviet Spaniards.” He looked again at the General, expecting to see some kind of opposition now that there was some ground based on cost. However the General understood that the amount of monetary aid and ships they would have to send would not be a serious hindrance on their ability to face the West Glacine military, nor would it even reveal to be a correct time to response for anything that was bought or in the process of being built that was larger then a patrol boat was unceremoniously destroyed by several missiles of the East Glacine Naval Corps, thus even without a brown, green or blue-water navy the chance of an enemy preemptive attack was as small as it was constantly in the region.

“Your highness, this is true, but we could give them a privilege, similar to that of a driving license. Of course, their privilege to weaponry will be arrested as soon as they return. Last thing we need is a few thousand idle citizens with rifles,” Minister Kennington laughed as did the whole room, it was an old joke on West Glacia’s given right to bear arms and the desultory way that their schools were attacked by crazed teens with access to firearms, coupled with similar events with discontented workers that took their fury out on bosses and co-workers. “But on a more serious note, if we send under sixteen thousand men our work force will not be hampered and the amount of rifles and other apparatus of war along with ammunition will also not dent our pockets too much.” He looked over to Minister of Internal Resources Jennifer Forborne, a beautiful mother of two at the age of forty-seven, she still had the body to woo even the most conservative male, which also led to several rumors flying about the government that she had used ‘out of mainstream’ channels to reach her position. However these were completely false as any competent teen with internet access and a rather long attention span could find that she was rather good at her job, however most men, and yes even women, would rather take the shorter route of believing gossip. “We still have quite a few Leopard Is and G36A2s, correct ma’am?” Ending his part of the conversation didn’t need any additions as his final word was with Minister Forborne and not the Prince.

Minister Forborne removed her right arm, which was previously placed underneath her rather conservatively sized breasts, to a newer position on the desk. She cleared her throat a bit, being a smoker from the age of fourteen to thirty-two had wreaked havoc on her lungs that would probably not be repaired until she was in her mid-fifties. “We have approximately,” Her eyes stayed glued to the Minister of Civil Affairs, however her mind was off recalling the statistics of their military inventory, a feat that had been her strongest asset to reach her current position in the government. “Six hundred thirty Sumerian Leopard 2M10, and eight hundred sixty-two thousand four hundred fifty-one G36A2s. Along with three hundred twenty-six Puma IFVs and fifty thousand JDAM systems.” The men in the room were taken back by her memory, although she did notice this she gave no visual show of pride. She had lived with her memory as it forced her to remember every bad, and yes also the good, boyfriend, friend and the most horrible memories of the civil war. The scars of life that were amplified by her memory made her humble about her ability, another asset that was liked by her co-workers.

“Alright, that settles it.” The Prince’s face was solid as he finally gotten what he had wanted. It wasn’t in a childish way however, he had appeased both his own ethics and didn’t risk the his land to be overrun by their belligerent neighbors to the north east. “Good, good. Make sure the ones that get picked have at least gone threw reserve training. And make sure that they know the atrocity those Soviet bastards did, I want them to understand completely what their fighting for. Any objections?” Everyone in the room had been satisfied, even the General seemed to have a small smirk on his face. “Alright. I guess it’s time to go.” With that last comment all the people in the room stood up and left. As they all reached the room which had three doors, one to the secret room, one to the above-ground building and the last to the helicopter pad they all took the last, taking their helicopters to their positions.

East Glacia, Makerville
16:21 Military / Local Time
August 17th, 2039
4.2 Celsius

Crag Klaus had just finished his reserve duty, serving most of his time in the garrison defending Kingstown, once being transferred to an active duty frontline unit which was acted several days later. He had received a grazing in his left leg and served with distinction after being the only survivor in his fire team after an assault on his forward post, holding long enough for the rest of his platoon to push back the enemy skirmishers. Now Crag was walking the streets of his home town, heading towards the local pub for a drink with his friend. He glanced at the ground, noticing a blue and yellow poster fluttering on the ground, this immediately identified it as a royal creed or state news of at least moderate importance. He chased it about two meters down the street before stomping on it with his shoe, leaving a foot print on the back of the paper. He leaned down, picked it up and then read it. Soviet oppression in Spanish… need men to stop the atrocities… only requirement: previously been trained in the reserves. Klaus carried the flier with him to the pub.

As Klaus walked in, he saw his friends already on their second round jugging their Donmouth ale beer, one of the roughest distasteful beers sold in the country. He walked to them, all of them rejoicing which was multiplied by their slight drunkenness, and offered him a beer immediately. He placed the poster on the ground, and looked at his friends. “We’ve got to volunteer.” Immediately their joy departed from them as they had all been in the reserve, everyone of them had served at least one cycle in the frontlines, and they didn’t like war. “Look at this!” He yelled, as he pointed to the longest section of the poster: the atrocities of the Soviets. Their faces visibly changed as they read the details, it was horrifying reminiscent of the civil war books that they read about their own country, none of them old enough to have first hand experience with the war.

Brandon Bruce rose from the table, he was the largest of six men weighing an easy hundred eleven kilograms and over two meters standing, the began to move towards the bartender, noticeably taking his drink. He went over to the man at the counter and handed him the amount that was due for the rounds of beers they had taken. Klaus was the first to ask him the question that was on the men’s minds. “What the fuck are you doing, Bruce?”

Bruce looked back over to him, and with his signature low tone that accompanied his large body said, “You jus goin’ tu sit der and let dus Suviet suns a bitches du dat shit?” And with that the men quickly rallied to their feet and followed him, it wasn’t Bruce or Klaus’ spirit or charisma that had roused them, for they truly lacked such qualities, it was their ethics, they didn’t want any nation to have to go threw what their’s did, and even though they weren’t on the front lines most of the time or even for an extended period of time they all understood the strife that had come about because of the internal dispute. The men quickly exited the pub, Klaus holding the flyer directing them towards the recruitment post.

After about ten minutes of a rather brisk pace they finally reached the recruitment station, and surrounding it was easily over a hundred men, some randomly screaming ‘let me go!’, ‘I know I haven’t gotten reserve duty yet, but shit man!’, ‘Nigga, il giv ya an unce tu let me gu!’ and that last particular one had the six men intrigued, manly because they would dive at that kind of deal to let the man join be in one of the volunteer brigades. It was kind of heart-warming to see so many Glacines wanting to help their fellow man, or maybe it was something else, the thrill of war they were after. No, that couldn’t be it, for their hole existence was dumped in it such conflict… or could it be?

It was a solid five hours that they’d be standing outside and the light from the sun had left them, as did its warmth and their relative light clothing was starting to have biting consequences. However they were next in line to get inside, and the interior only allowed about ten people at a time so it was a going to be comfortable, warm and still spacious in their. Many of the younger men had been turned down, it was easy to tell as they left in droves with a hail of curses as both the government’s policy and the men who were upholding inside.

Finally the men got inside the recruitment station, and to maximize their luck the three front-most people were a group of three teenagers who would undoubtedly be turned down due to their age. After several minutes of cursing their prediction had come to fruition, and there was now a single man in front of them, and elderly looking gentlemen who had to have served in the reserves, and he was quickly accepted after a brief identification check and was ordered to report to the police station for additional instructions. “Alright, so you guys are in a group or individual?” The question was a reasonable one as they had been standing a line, but were rather close together so, especially with his recent experiences with other groups and singular personnel, the men did not make any sarcastic comment as they usually would.

“Group, of six. We all served, we all saw some sort of combat on the front,” he stated with a bit of pride, which was replied to by a slight giggle from the man, who was probably a professional soldier who saw combat at least once a week. This was probably a token job given to him for serving distinctively in the field, hell every soldier wanted some down time after fighting the Wanks, the new term evolved from the old derogatory for them, ‘Wens’ and a term for crazy people ‘Quacks’, and it was combination that found a place in most of the people’s hearts. “Alright, well we all want to be in the same unit.”

The man had a rather blasé tone about him, it was infuriating to the group, especially for Bruce as his temper towards disrespect was the shortest of the group, no doubt amplified by his self-confidence regarding his body size, even though everyone in the group knew that Pablo Alvarez was the best fighter in group, although he was of athletic build at a meter point seven and not to large in muscle area, though he had a lot of explosive energy, and a temper to match. “That’s not up to me, boys.” He took this tone because he was older than any of them, or at least he looked it much like a thirty-seven year old. “Well, whatever.” He started writing up slips. “Too lazy to fill this shit out myself. Put your names in print, print god damn don’t fucking write your signature, cuz I won’t give you another one.” He said this obviously because he had to deal with some thick headed men in his time at the recruitment post. “Alright, now when you fill that out, head towards the police station.”

East Glacia, Port Royal
13:13 Military / Local Time
August 21st, 2039
19.8 Celsius

Admiralstadt George Claudius was the commanding officer of the 2nd Overseas Marching Group that had been slatted for use in Operation Nathaniel to transport the volunteer brigades to combat in the Anarcho-Commune Spanish War and also offer heavy support to reduce the ‘civilian’ casualties, however the term civilian referred more to the members of the volunteer brigades than that of the Spanish homeland. The Admiral walked briskly across his ship, the GNC Glacier an over twenty year old Hafenstadt-Class CV that had been the flagship of the fleet since before he reached the rank of Captain. Now he was tasked with coordinating his own small fleet alongside an exponentially larger ‘civilian’ fleet that was made up of over two hundred fifty ships of various class and size that had been donated from eclectic origins. That civilian fleet would be the dominant force in transporting the eight thousand volunteers to the shores of the Spanish homeland.

A young Ensign ran up to the Admiral, his speed revealing the importance of his message as he quickly recited what was told of him, “Admiral, all civilians are onboar-” he paused for a moment to take in a large breath of air, it would be no small wonder if the young man had been smoking since the age of ten, and would explain his shortness of breath, although the Naval Corps. Doctrine citied this as an ‘admissible adversity due to the brusque distance inherent in inter-craft travel’ a very incoherent way of saying, ‘because a ship isn’t as big as the ground, you don’t need good lungs to make it from one side to another’, however Claudius had petitioned against this false tenet and also held several demonstration aboard his own craft proving his point, however the reply was always the same, ‘No reason to mess with the boys, George!’ it was an irritating redundancy. “Sorry sir. The civilians have boarded all their ships, our fleet and theirs is fueled and stocked, we’re awaiting your order, Sir.” He saluted his commander, the gesture of respect was returned and he ran off to report to whoever was necessary, evidently even before he made it to the end of the corridor he had to stop for a good coughing and to catch his breath.

Claudius sat down in his command chair and opened up the communications channel for the both fleets, a completely unencrypted channel. “This is Admiralstadt George Claudius, the commander of this military fleet is what my men know my position as, and to the civilians we are accompanying I am the man in charge of the flock of guardian angels that surround you. You may only refer to me, either group, as Admiral or Admiralstadt, any who does not do so within my earshot will be thrown overboard.” This was the first sign of his self-depiction as an illustrious Admiral, though his relatively minor role in the Naval Corps. was a revealing contradiction to this. “Now that my main concern has been dealt with,” a failed attempt at a joke, he neither recognized its failure nor halted to realize either, “Prepare to make head-way, we’ll be arriving in Spanish territory in less then two weeks, until then myself and my men will make sure that all of you brave men are safe.

Claudius shook his head from his day dream about spending time in bed with his wife and several of her friends, thanks to several years of training he was able to do so without any rise of erection or portrayal that he was having a dream of that kind. They had departed six days ago, and the current situation was a simulacrum of heaven; food control was incredibly lax and even so they still had only consumed a quarter of their supplies, they made a stop at Canary Island, a small colony of some far-off nation and were welcomed efficaciously by the town whores as their business was booming, the men, Claudius who notably had partaken largely in this, bought small trinkets such as cocaine and heroine which were exponentially more abundant on this colonial island than in their home country, many of them celebrating with organizing their lines in the shape of the small island and then offer a salute to it, it was called the Canary Sweet. There were several overdose cases, none of which resulted in a fatality, but due to the Admirals own sympathies in such substances they were never reported officially.

Now Claudius’ mind was content as he thought about the luscious stockpile of cocaine that he had stored in his room, a full kilogram of the droppings of heaven’s clouds. Glacine society and schooling had taught him that moderation was key, and his left lobe agreed with this, moderation would keep him from becoming an addict, though he was one by conservative principle, also aloud him to maintain his supply for an extended period of time, and the most important it would allow his ‘glorious military mind’ to keep from being overcome by the drug, and thus operate his admiralship with ‘continued excellence’. He smiled contentedly, oh so contentedly that he had drawn noticeable attention, and as thus his smile quickly resembled a vigorous frown, which forced the curious men to aim their eyes at their work space, despite the lack of actual work. Several stood up and left to go somewhere else, most likely to get on deck to breath some fresh air and smoke a cigarette.

International Waters
21:13 Military Time
August 29st, 2039
22.3 Celsius

Civilian Commandant Richard Fillmore sat in his ‘headquarters’ that was nothing more than an average dormitory that was outfitted to only fit three people compared to eight along with a small bar and a table, currently he was alone, his other executive commandants were off mingling with the fellow officers in a large sections of the ship, or perhaps on deck is was of no concern to him as he pondered about the Anarcho-Commune Spanish War, he had joined on a wind of destiny, or more realistically as an escape to his work-wrecked life that had destroyed his marriage and his child-less life, the only object to maintain his life being marijuana, and more recently a foray into cocaine, which while it did destroy his depression it only did so for an hour at the most, opposing it marijuana was effective in making him forget his issues and for a much larger period of time, adding to that it was legal in his country and his choice was overly easy, though he was ecstatic about his chance to try cocaine in a place where he could not be prosecuted to over ten years in a work camp.

Fillmore pulled out a full-colored blue cigarette of the Mainard’s Select the filter half a gold trim around it and a lighter shade of blue, the tobacco was of a higher concentration of nicotine, twelve point five percent to be exact, it was also hand-made, as was the rule for both marijuana and tobacco contained products that were self-proclaimed ‘elite’ , and as thus was filled with much less disturbing substances, which lead to a much more clean smoke, including this the particular type of cigarette he was smoking had been slightly laced with marijuana, with was more to induce a slight form of euphoria, however at ten USD a pack it was not a cheap brand, especially when compared to the three it cost for a normal brand. As the smoke allegorically caused him to connect several thoughts together, though incoherently at first he soon formulated his thoughts. He had a total of eighty-seven men under his control, seven of which he had already conversed with, and in all honesty he found them repugnant, within no more than ten minutes he was forced to come up with an excuse to evade their presence, without showing how utterly disgusted he was, he did so with a lack ability, and looking back on the lie, which was ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have some orderly things to attend to.’ He groaned audibly in repentance, oh how his men must hate him, talk about him at this very moment, he paused to take another prolonged pull of his cigarette. This forced a kind of epiphany in him; the men didn’t give a shit! He laughed, his current situation reminiscent of an insane man, but that didn’t matter, he was off to fight, something he didn’t regret, the battles would be hard, maybe he would die, but at this moment he gave no care, even knowing the possibility of his death.

Then it hit Richard, the true competency of his mortality, no matter how good a soldier, how high his eminence, he could be killed by any moment by a man so similar to him that it would be possible for his wife to make love to that man… that enemy… while thinking it was him. It displeased him so completely that his body began to physically ache, no wonder helped by the fact that strong emotions effected men physically moreover then woman, but soon this disgust, this irrefutable need to destroy something passed, as he realized he and his wife were no longer together, no, now it was darkness that enveloped him, but somehow he preferred it, over the thought of his wife and another man, what an abhorrence. At that moment, he decided that he would survive the war, and he would see his wife again, and he would do anything he could to get her back, but at the exact same moment he also made a last, more dangerous pact to himself, that if he were to find her with another man, that all of them, his wife, that man, and his children were a blot on history, and he would do his soldiering duty to erase it, and himself with it, not being man enough to keep his wife. That would keep him alive, no matter how adverse the conditions, he would survive this war.

But as all the cognitive thoughts died down, as the pain dropped out of his body, it was replaced by an unending weariness, not that of emotional strife, not it was physical entity, and entity determined to retire him to sleep. Yes, this was his secret pleasure, the weariness that the marijuana brought upon a man. He slowly moved towards the bed, every step worn down with the attrition of time, taking it all away, all the pain, sacrifice, death, yes the death of millions of beings that sacrificed themselves for his existence and which he requited nothing, yes his thoughts were to that of the humble, mostly obscure skin cells, indeed the billions of cells that formed his body and the identical ones of his peers and his compatriots all round the world. This was his last thoughts as his body hit the bed, his eyes eclipsed, and off his weed-influenced dreams began, all the while he was slowly creeping towards the battles to come.

[Third Spanish States]

Battle of Llucmajor

The small town's sight was right ahead through the helicopter's window, with its old buildings now becoming clearer to the sight, as they were about to touch down into the rooftop of a three-store apartment, to initiate their risky enveloping operation behind the enemy lines. Aragón's rifle was pointed over the open doors to the right, as he looked through its scope to survey possible ambush spots into the approaching outskirts of the town, aware that in ten minutes at best, hundreds of retreating enemy soldiers, dozens of artillery vehicles and tanks would converge into their position. An AA-70 machinegun was mounted next to the rear ramp of the chopper to provide cover, for the many Quijote gunships escorting them would not be enough, for they could come from any house, from any window, from even a manhole.

The streets were becoming closer, but no resistance of their enemies has yet been found, they seemed dead, deserted like if a permanent curfew has been going far longer than their brief presence in the island. There were no children playing by the streets, no elders or young couples walking by, no signs of civilian activity anywhere. Many of the classical-like windows of the weathered, ancient buildings, have been boarded with at least six wooden planks, and in the entrance of every street, tank traps, sandbags and machinegun emplacements have been placed, strangely empty, which was something far too stupid for any minimally competent leader to allow.

"Miguel, isn't this strange?" asked Tiago, without moving his sight off the permanent vigilance, "why would they completely abandon their defensive positions and risk letting them be used against themselves?"

The weathered cobblestone and asphalt streets still showed no signs of movement, as at such moment the helicopter began to decelerate for its landing, and thus every marine prepared for disembarking, while Miguel answered in the limited time he had before getting on the rooftop:

"This certainly is suspicious. We better not give much leeway for ambushes, for perhaps they are already here, but hidden and waiting for the best opportunity to strike at us," Miguel scratched his chin and considered the implications of such strange facts, "to strike while we are busy fending the retreating enemy forces!"

"Everybody move!" the rear ramp of the Cougar opened with a loud clamp, and Aragón immediately moved to the outside, stepping over the terrace of the building, followed by his fireteam, and by all others inside the helicopter. As soon as they disembarked, the helicopter began to move away, heading back to its landing zone, and seemingly no attempt to take it down happened. Looking behind, he saw as the other teams began to take positions over the rooftop, and two carried two parts of a ZM300 to assemble an emplacement. Their primary objective was still to pin the retreating forces rather than to completely secure the town, but how to achieve such objective was up to every fireteam to decide at the heat of the moment. Two men carried man-portable ADATS launchers, and from afar it could be seen more helicopters landing on rooftops with further platoons of marines across the town outer perimeters, preparing themselves to face enemies from likely both sides. The Quijotes remained to give them air support, two for each street where the marines were taking control of, and maintained random, unpredictable patrol routes, nearly touching the roofs but at high speed, to reduce the window of opportunity for the enemies to target them. Two of the heavy gunships over the horizon however, seemingly began to move towards the core of the town, even without any "order" for them to do so, because they were far too much independent sometimes.

There was an staircase leading down to the building, covered by one meter tall stone railings like those that surrounded the terrace to avoid accidents, and Tiago immediately nodded to the three other men following him as he looked at one of the supply crates that were offloaded with them, and seeing its label, he opened it: inside the crate, divided in two segments, there were some suppressed SF-27 submachineguns in one segment and 9x19mm caseless magazines in the other, he took one of them with him, and six magazines, putting his rifle on the shoulder, as he could bear the weight of carrying both, and then he stepped aside as Miguel came to equip himself with another more appropriate gun for indoors fighting. Another member of their fireteam took a compact shotgun, slightly larger than a submachinegun, from another supply crate set over the rooftop, which had a large suppressor seemingly melded into it, and then came with them.

They had to check the building first, to take down any enemy soldier, to whom the advantage stood, and to perhaps disarm possible boobytraps inside, and at worst, tripwires could exist, there was no way to be sure that all was clear while fighting inside a town. To their side a marine stood with a caseless RFA sniper rifle lowered, and immediately asked:

"We better have at least this building safe, you know that we are doing this together." four of the soldiers cautiously climbed down the building with a rope while the marine explained to them, while four others approached slightly above each of four of the windows of the second floor, with flashbangs hanging from their belts, and covered by four designated marksmen who stood at every corner of the terrace, covering three hundred sixty degrees around them. The building would be stormed from three ways to ensure maximum efficiency, shouldn't something be hiding inside, as for now there was no signs of civilian presence, perhaps the town population has been evacuated, perhaps as they feared that their enemies would one by one, arm their people to fight against them, as already was happening. But if they did that, there would be no reason to avoid using precision bombing against them, provided it did not cause too much damage on civilian buildings, and their enemies knew pretty well that maintaining civilians would inhibit the Confederacy, for unlike their masters, the Confederacy had morals to uphold in such conflict.

"Comrades, you have seen the overall plan," affirmed the same marine, "we must coordinate our actions, but at the same time avoid predictability. Those of us tasked to secure the city have twenty flexible waypoints to cover in the operational level, and five primary waypoints that once completed, will mean most of the city becomes secure. As for those of us tasked to defend this city, we must position ourselves and trap this city with our own tools. And all scouts, you must observe cautiously the route of retreating enemies, as that route will give in the paths that are cleared of minefields for our main forces to proceed through. We have ten minutes at best before the enemy arrives."

"You heard him Miguel, Júlio and Paco, now follow me," Four marines risked their lives in a vulnerable position as they stood suspended by ropes next to windows from the second floor, flashbangs ready in their hands, and below, a man armed an explosive over one of the building walls, while his team gave him cover and stood in the other corner of the building, from where the road and the countryside could be seen.

The very marine who armed the explosive retreated immediately and got down, as he approached the microphone from his helmet, looking at his digital watch before speaking. Meanwhile Aragón checked whether the door ahead was locked, and for anything suspicious in it that could be a trap. The door was locked, as thus he instructed for one of his comrades to approach and aim his suppressed shotgun at its lock. Meanwhile another helicopter flew in a high speed over their heads, coming from south to north at the western perimeter they were currently at.



"Arriba! Go Go!" the announcement through his earphone was nearly silenced by the sound of an explosion, as immediately a somewhat silent sound of a shot came, splintering wood from the door, when Tiago immediately kicked the door, throwing it over the floor with a heavy thud sound as he nearly instantly checked for what lied ahead, to fire if necessary, but there was no enemy, nobody, and thus he immediately leaned to the left hearing soon the noises of four flashbangs below. The corridor was bifurcated at both ahead and left directions, and thus Miguel began to move quickly ahead with Júlio, while he turned to the left side of such corridor with his submachinegun ready, finding immediately three doors to cramped apartments of those who once inhabited there.

He gestured for Paco, the soldier armed with the shotgun, to cover him as he crouched before handling the door next, verifying it for possible hints something was off place as he was trained. As he conclude it was free, he immediately, with his senses at their fullest, opened the door quickly and aimed ahead, seeing nothing again but a nightstand and an old bed with a dusty matress over it, as he then leaned to the left to check if anyone was hiding, and saw nobody. The place has been completely deserted, and some of the drawers of an opened closet were still open, as if someone packed up in a hurry. There was no bathroom or additional room, and thus he went to the next door, repeating the procedures while trying to hold his tension.

Nothing either, but another sign of a hurried departure which was particularly depressing, specially for the downed portrait over one of the nightstands. Curious, Tiago moved towards it, as he tried to think about how much the people who lived in this town suffered already. Lifting it up, he saw the photograph of an young children, while Paco's eyes also turned to it. The boy was barely three years old from the looks of the photograph, smiling with authentic happiness, innocent to the horrors of the world around him, or perhaps more hopeful than his parents, hopeful for men who would be ready to give their lives for such children, and the image gave a warm comfort to Aragón, a strong motivation to stand at the difficult times ahead. Looking at it, Tiago raised the portrait with his hand, and nodding to Paco, he putted it inside his backpack. It was a truly refreshing sight of hope, a better reason than anything to not give up.

But there was a mission to accomplish, and thus he immediately moved with caution to the next door in the corridor, the last one. No shots could have been heard yet, meaning no enemy has been located so far, and that their efforts have been somewhat unneeded, but without certainty, it was better to do this than to risk dozens of their lives in a reckless entry inside the building.

With one last advance, he checked for another apartment room, another empty one without any presence, but with more signs of a hurried departure.

"All clear!" the message echoed multiple times through the earphone, with the IDs of all fireteams clearing the building, indicating there was no enemy. Immediately boots began to be heard coming from upstairs as snipers and soldiers began to take defensive positions from the building east side, as it faced directly the countryside from where, sooner or later, the enemy forces at retreat would come.

"Attention, this is a message to all comrades inside Llucmajor we have received confirmation of no enemy resistance or civilian population found so far, and as thirty buildings have already been checked, this don't make any sense statistically. There is something else going on, I am sure of it. Our enemies would not leave entire defensive emplacements unmanned and an entire town undefended for us to use against them. I suggest we conduct a full scale, house-to-house investigation over this town."

The message echoed through the ears of every soldier, as one of them took the initiative to announce how strange the circumstances were. None of them, all across the western limits of the urban perimeter, have encountered any civilian or sign of life. Something truly was not right about the situation.

"Everybody!" Aragón explained, "I suggest we keep only the minimum necessary of men to defend the outer perimeter while we search off this town for whatever reason it has been completely deserted. There must be a place where the support personell for all those divisions is hiding, perhaps we could find a clue if we reach it."

"Our enemies are hiding like mice," Miguel looked at Aragón, "they seems unwilling to fight for the moment, and have sacrificed a major tactical advantage, we better head off now through the streets."

"Requesting Banda team's support," Tiago communicated while he went down the building they were taking to hold their ground, theirs Pavlov's House where sixteen men would remain to shoot against the retreating enemies, where soon helicopters would bring sandbags and further equipment.

"Seven minutes! We got about seven minutes before an entire division arrives against us!" The street and apartments were being converted into defensive positions as fast as they could, while already existing, vacant emplacements were being manned. Aragón began to walk through one of the sides of the tight streets of the town, heading cautiosly towards its center. The fact windows were heavily boarded was a blessing, for none of them offered the necessary sight for snipers to pick them, and if any window was not that boarded, it would immediately give them away.

In the fireteam to the other side of the deserted street lied the only man nearby armed to take down an armored vehicle, for theirs was currently a light recon unit, walking as they saw the old buildings, as they checked for every corner, every crevice, every door where the enemy could be hiding, advancing block by block, aiming at doors, while behind them other teams were doing the task of checking one by one every building in their perimeter.

"Four minutes!" a general transmission announced, their time was running out, and soon they would have to rely on a handful of men and helicopters to take down whatever the air and naval bombardments haven't eliminated from the forced march of retreat towards the town, and they would not be small numbers, while the number of anti-air units would make things very complicated for the helicopters to support those who landed.

Strangely, after six blocks, Tiago saw no opposition of any form, no ambush, no attack, the place seemed to have been completely deserted. Small bars unscathed by the "revolution" due to their irrelevance to the interests of the Party, small apartments and groceries were being checked for anything, and the search became ever frustrating as it brought no results, bringing anxiety and fear of what could eventually come. All windows were boarded, there was no sign of enemy presence, and this was so bizarre and unbelievable that it could not be true.

[Third Spanish States]

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/dd/Llucmajor_at_rushhour.jpg/800px-Llucmajor_at_rushhour.jpg

A few seconds later another block was crossed, and they were now next to another typically deserted street crossing, where the hanging placard of a forgotten bar stood ironically with the name of an old brand. Also, to the left street crossing it, there was a large closed garage of a car shop that was long abandoned and languished, with its metal door rusted and dirty like the streets.

"There is no damn thing here! What game are these Bolsheviks playing with us?" Miguel frustratingly shouted, forgetting the operational procedures to avoid calling unneeded attention. Aragón immediately gestured for him to remain quiet, followed with a nod. Suddenly the sounds of gunfire were heard, as Aragón pointed to the direction he presumed them to be coming from: below him, and immediately went for the nearest cover he could find leaning in one of the corners of a building next to the bar with Miguel while the others leaned to the opposite corner.

Cover Fire

"Clink!" the noise repeated multiple times as an object hit over the ground somewhere to the left while Paco and Júlio threw themselves over the ground for cover, and instinctively Tiago got down as well. The noises of a very powerful engine being started began to echo from the same overall direction, interrupted by the detonation of the grenade, which disturbed his ears for seconds. The fireteam behind them took defensive positions immediately, while the sound of treads began to echo as well, prompting Aragón to run towards the apartment's door, as Paco again shot against its lock, not even thinking about checking it, and with kick, they entered inside to hide from the coming enemy.

Gesturing for them to take positions over the windows of the first floor while covering the staircase and to remove their boards as fast as possible, he climbed the stairs to the first floor of the building, and moved to one of its front windows and began to attempt yanking one of the boards out with the help of Miguel. The vehicle was moving through the streets by now, and the sounds of men walking in a fast pace could be heard. The last board was to be removed as Paco threw a fragmentation grenade downstairs and took cover. As the last board was removed, a loud shot came, and in confusion, Tiago looked as Miguel fell over the floor, thumping over it, and immediately checked for where the shot hit.

"I am fine," Miguel winced, "this shit doesn't stop bullets... but it still saved my life." yet for safety, Aragón turned him on his back, while Miguel gritted his teeth and tried to withstand the pain, to check where it came out. Fortunately it had a diagonal trajectory, and unfortunately Aragón was not a medic to be sure whether the bullet really did not hit a vital organ or important artery, and simply he took quickly a first aid kit from his backpack and began to bandage his now undressed torso, while Paco and Júlio laid suppressive fire downstairs, for the enemies were already trying to storm through the building.

"This is Tiago Aragón from Arriba Team, we have been ambushed by a hidden enemy force in coordinates Arrego Trabajo Besta Cubo Pobre. Requesting immediate air support!" there was a clear despair, a realization they were no longer in an advantageous situation, that they have fallen into a trap.

"Drag me to the staircase..." Miguel asked, his voice nearly silenced by the shots as his body slowly recovered from the gross of the impact, "I still can shoot a gun... I can still."

"Remain alive comrade," Tiago dragged his friend to one of the safest points of the room, as he laid him down next to a nightstand and to the right of the bed inside, removing the cloth covering half of his face to allow him to breath easily, which was an influence of the black blocs into their way of dressing, being used even over gas masks in situations where they were necessary. Meanwhile, Paco gestured to him that he had only four magazines, and having already switched back to his assault rifle as his shotgun was emptied, they would soon lose their ability to defend themselves. Júlio switched his submachinegun to single-fire mode to conserve ammunition, and tried his best to keep the enemies at bay and unable to toss a grenade against them. Aragón threw two magazines to Paco, as he grabbed them and continued to take shots.

Something had to be done, but perhaps they have found their secret, and that was why they were attacking with such strength, sending their mans charging against their position to die sometimes. There were five corpses of enemy soldiers already cluttered in the downstairs corridor to the staircase, and their lifeless complexion and the stressful combat was driving slowly, in small steps, what such men had of sanity.

"This is Banda team... there are nearly half a hundred who are pouring from that garage and from the bar and one BMP-T infantry fighting vehicle, we lost two of our men... I and Luis are pinned here! How is your situation?"

"Banda team, we have one wounded and our ammunition is running out!" between shooting the encrypted transmission came as he whispered to avoid letting their enemies know. They were six men against at least fifty soldiers and one armored vehicle.

"Wait... banda team over! Do you have a few spare WP missiles?" in desperate situations, whether weapons were humane or nothing became less relevant, for it was a matter of success or failure, and their enemies had to learn the price of stacking so many soldiers against so few. The helicopter was coming, but at such rate they would be already dead once the air support arrived

"We have only one besides two ADATS... we lost our missile loader and we couldn't carry all of them to here! I understand... I will help Luis to fire it against them," holes were pouring from the concrete while bullets pierced them, and crouched, Aragón now moved closely to the window above him as he explained in a near whisper through the embedded communicator in his combat helmet "wait! I will bring them a distraction", he took a grenade and pulled its pin, throwing it below. Screams immediately came as it exploded and immediately he putted himself into the fire as he rose to the windows height and aimed his submachinegun below, where multiple enemy soldiers hid beneath a BMP-T, and the mangled corpses of a few and dying few could be seen, he did not wait as he pressed the trigger of his gun and began to shot against them, despite the shots fired back at him, but soon he crouched again, as he saw the turret of the vehicle heading towards him.

"Get down!" he began to crawl beneath the large, sturdy bed in the bedroom, his ears deafened and his teeth nearly broken as he felt the pressure of a massive collapse, as he looked behind to see the concrete from ceiling falling just behind his retreat, as a large explosion from a missile sprayed splinters through most of the room, and a white powder.

Coughing, he crawled back to the left side of the bed, and looked at the damage, the floor somehow did not collapse as well under the weight of part of the ceiling, and as the dust vanished, a second explosion would be heard, this time on the outside. Disturbing screams then began to echo, screams of burning men whose suffering could not be quenched by water, only by death. The deed has been done, but not all of them have fallen to the white phosphorous missile. Another explosion shook him, as another missile was fired against their position, and heavy autocannon fire was coming from the torn apart walls which once were the location of a window.

"I am pinned... here and we are going to be killed! Banda team... we need you to take down that damn vehicle." he could see already crackles forming over the floor, and look at another section of the top floor which fell over the left, crushing half of the bed and nearly crushing one of his arms together. He could only hope for the courage of the others... his life was now at their hands.

Another explosion, and he finally felt an immense alleviation as the massive tracer lights of autocannon bullets stopped coming. He crawled again away from the bed, and cautiously leaned through the still intact wall towards the large hole opened over his side. Finding five soldiers covering themselves over the wreckage, he moved his gun with both arms holding it against them and shot a burst, immediately leaning back, just in time as less than a second after, their bullets flew next to him. He quickly loaded another magazine, and leaned towards them again, aiming at their heads uncovered by the destroyed BMP-T, and leaning back before he could check whether he killed one of them or not. All their grenades have already been used, and he checked that there were only two more magazines for his submachinegun, and were it not loaded with caseless ammunition, there would be hundreds of spent cases all around. He had to be precise, and thus he swapped to single fire, and repeated his dangerous move to fire against them, keeping the ghost ring sight of his submachinegun perfectly at the first head or image resembling a head he could spot, as he shot and leaned back once more.

"Tiago!" Paco shouted with clear stress in his voice, coughing due to the many particles released by multiple explosions, before he continued "we are going down to help you... cover us, as he began to descend the stairs with his FA-65 in hands, covered by Júlio's submachinegun.

"Stirner group! We are taking heavy losses! There are six Leopard 2A6 and ten BMP-Ts at our position and infantry coming from inside the town, requesting support of any force inside the town... if you..." the desperate voice suddenly stopped due to static, bringing fear to every men who heard such distress call, for it was beginning already, the retreating enemies were now going against them, and there would be no mercy... no stop. Trying to contain his emotions, once again, he leaned towards the hole in the wall and quick aimed at another enemy helmet, shooting twice. He had to keep them focused at him while Paco and Júlio would move to take them down.

The sound of a falling helicopter echoed through the streets as well, as the few surviving anti-air vehicles arrived to worsen the situation, the battle continued on many places, where men trained from their late teens were facing a force made mostly by barely green draftees in larger numbers than theirs. However, they allowed for them to take their own defenses, had they not, their chances of success would have been slim. For while well trained, most ground forces of the Confederacy have never faced a real war before, and thus were not completely free from making tactical mistakes due to their lack of real combat experience.

"Tiago, give us covering fire once I announce waypoint Cabrón!" explained Paco as Aragón prepared to fire once again, switching back to full automatic mode in hopes that it would be fruitful. Thus he raised his senses even further to react as fast as he could once the instruction was given.

"Cabrón! Go Go!" nearly instantly Tiago leaned quickly towards the hole and acquired immediate visual contact to all enemies still behind the destroyed IFV, shooting multiple bursts against them, even after they crouched down. Down below, Júlio also stood to give covering fire from another angle to Paco as he moved through the other side of the street, cautiously avoiding as much as possible of exposure to the open door of its bar. Meanwhile, both survivors from Banda team also advanced in synchrony, as Paco communicated with them as well about such small operational move, one of many which could give them advantage against the large units of the enemy. Despite the risks of neglecting anti-infantry, all anti-air enemy forces were being prioritized and destroyed, even when destroyed them would the lives of one or two brave freedom fighters, for were their air defenses not obliterated by both their effort and the support of the CL-32s far above with what they, as air superiority fighters, could do, the operation and the lives of hundreds would be doomed.

"All clear!" Tiago felt a massive burden leaving, as he looked at his wounded friend in the ruined bedroom and crouching next to him, he then said:

"Miguel, I'll have to leave you for a while, but a medical team is already on the way to help you."

"Go, like I said," due to the environment, he suddenly coughed, "don't worry about me, I am not dying."

And thus he went downstairs, still leaning his gun at every corner due to instinct and trying to avoid focusing his stare for too long at the now dozens of corpses of the soldiers they have killed, having even difficulty to avoid stepping over such piles of bodies of those who tried to perform suicidal charges against them. There was a certain horror he tried to contain about the scenery, and as he looked to the outside, the burned and mangled corpses, of which one stood with both eyes blown out, and one was split in half, forming a macabre scenery he preferred to avoid.

"They are not innocent civilians" he repeated inside his head to avoid thinking too much about the visages, but he couldn't control the growing anxiety. The four men, two of the other team and two of his, were waiting next to the bar's door.

"I suggest we split in two groups to clear the garage and whatever may be inside this bar." Paco suggested as he pointed to the obvious signs such soldiers came from the bar. With a nod, Aragón simply gestured for his team members to follow him, while the other team would check the garage.

The bar was deserted and dead, its cheery and busy nights no longer visible, its counters devoid of even drinking water, let alone any joy or delusion of joy. In fact, it would fit perfectly as part of a scenery for a ghost town, except for one lively part: a trapdoor, now opened, leading to a set of hidden wooden stairs which led to a basement of sorts. Treading carefully through them, Tiago saw a door also opened, leading to a large, unkempt room filled with military supplies and bedrolls. It was their hideout... and there was one thing that called more attemption than anything: a thick, far large metal crate labeled Confidential. As he approached it, he looked at Paco and Júlio, as all of the three held its front hatch.

"One... two... three."

The large crate was opened by their combined effort, and its confidential content revealed why the place has been deserted. The unmistakable nuclear symbol was painted over the device, with a timer placed in its front. The timer marked one minute and thirty seconds remaining. One minute and thirty seconds between the life and death of dozens of thousands.

[Third Spanish States]

Agnus Dei(Adagio for Strings)

For a few seconds, the three marines halted, staring at the decreasing counter of the nuclear device ahead, feeling that today they have been defeated, that it would be all over now. Into a trap they stepped, damning perhaps not only dozens, but hundreds of thousands of lives. Neither of them were experts in defusal, neither of them felt the courage to risk being marked as the one whose failure caused the greatest military disaster of the Confederacy, although perhaps, their refusal to inform others in the front on the fact their deaths were coming, breaking instantly their morale, could mean that perhaps a glimmer of hope was not yet lost. Tiago remembered then of the old lessons he once was taught, as a part of him still refused to give up:

"Never surrender. Even when it seems we are powerless to defeat tyranny, there is always a good option."

However, the "good option" crossed his mind. The counter was marking only one minute and ten seconds left, every second painfully reminded with beeps of ever increasing pace, as despair overcame Paco, who simply watched, like a powerless spectator, the fulfillment of his death. There was a funeral silence inside the cellar room, a silence for the burial into the glassed crater that this town would become, that would now was to begin in fifty seconds. Paco left and returned quickly to the room, with a bottle of beer in one of his hands, as with no words, he offered the opened beer bottle to Aragón, who took no time to evaluate the gift, or the spider web in its neck, instead breaking the bottle over the ground, shattered pieces of glass spreading through the stony floor, as his strong voice commanded:

"This battle is not lost!"

By a stroke of coincidence, the web survived the impact, remaining together with a piece of the shattered bottleneck, which was the least shattered of all pieces, and soon Júlio eyed the brief, soundly disagreement, trying to avoid letting despair overcome him.

"Pay attentions to details, for many times it will save your life."

Hurriedly, Tiago looked a Júlio and unzipped his backpack, taking a laptop from it before his friend could even understand.

"What are you doing? It is over," the timer now went to forty seconds, hope being lost with every beep, for all hinted that defeat was inevitable, all but the flickering hope.

"No!" Aragón, and hundreds who have been asked to retreat amidst ever worsening battle conditions replied. Outnumbered, threatened to be surrounded from the town outskirts, but aware of how decisive their action would be for the future, the marines still maintained a strong morale, not knowing of the events in a small piece of such wide battlefield. The heavy presence of anti-air vehicles continued to inflict losses under these key minutes, and an enemy advance through the town, which would bring to them a major tactical advantage, seemed likely than ever. Llucmajor, Campos and Santanyí became drenched in blood, while the wreckages of a dozens of fallen helicopters began to scorch the landscape, turning heritage sites into ruins, and end the lives of nearly half hundred among the brave pilots of the Confederacy naval aviation, which although well-trained, were in their first combat experience, and many times, gullible to the traps laid by the enemy. Fortunately, in a few minutes the massed mobile enemy air defenses would be crushed, for without air superiority, their fate would be eventual defeat.

Of course, in a few dozens of seconds, nothing else would matter. Quickly typing commands over the notebook, Aragón lowered the microphone from his helmet and began to speak to the man he finally manage to connect through the MilNet:

"Hello! This is an urgent request for help! Nuclear bomb in Llucmajor!" he spoke in a hurried manner, racing against the bitter remaining seconds.

"All clear, record this device image!" the man did not make any further questions. However, the operating system interface was not very forgiving, as he could not find a video conference software. Thirty seconds remained, as he finally found it. Opening it, he broadcasted the image and rapidly asked:

"See it? Twenty-five seconds!" Aragón grimly noticed.

"Quick! Screwdriver! Uncork those screws in the compartment next to the timer," before he could check for his backpack, Júlio handled three electronic drivers to him, as he putted the driver over the first screw. Turning it on, it made no progress, for the screw was bolted too strongly, and thus stuck. Quickly he tried to uncork the one in the lower right section of the device.

"It is stuck!" the terrible realization came with only fifteen seconds between life and death.

But he refused to give up, and came to the lower left bolt. With a terrible stress and burden, Paco grabbed a spare screw driver and moved it into the upper left screw, nearly simultaneously activating the device with Tiago. It was their last hope.

Were even only one of them to fail, dozens of thousands would die, and the entire strategic campaign of the Confederacy, whose population was now divided between the liberation of Spain and the defense of the allied Commune Kell in face of the dark storm of Gholgoth, could easily press the MilNet for ending the conflict through boycotts and political pressure. Were even only one of them to fail, many more millions would be murdered by tyranny or starvation in the brutal regime of Cavallo, and perhaps the last chance to liberate Spain could be gone for decades.

The two screws were pulled back, allowing for the case to be pushed away, revealing a set of electronics and wiring. Four seconds were remaining as the man from the other side of the network issued:

"Cut red and grey at once!"

Two seconds remained when with the best his agility could offer, Tiago grabbed two pliers with each of his hands and quickly pushed them towards the mentioned wires. Were his dexterity to fail him, all would have been in vain. All the other two marines in the cellar had for long focused their attention at such herculean effort against time.

One second remained, and now, everything would be decided in the fractions of seconds between the reaching of the pliers and their pulls.

It was there that time itself stopped.

To give place to success, or oblivion.

----------------------

For a moment, the fighting ended, for a moment, peace has arrived into the island of Mallorca. For a moment, the combatants stopped fighting, the tank and armored vehicle engines stopped rotating, as they listened to the thundering roar of a gigantic shockwave and glimpsed at the distant lightning and the expanding mushroom cloud, or perhaps the cloud of an human skull. In only one moment, as a town was wiped clean from the planet, ironically the battles for the island were interrupted. For the first time since the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, a nuclear weapon was used in the Earth the Confederacy belonged to.

"We did it!" Tiago couldn't believe he was still alive, for one tenth of a second, was what the stopped timer displayed, and suddenly a cheerful celebration among them began, "thank you my friend! Were it not for you..." before he finished his thanks to the defusing expert he contacted through the MilNet, the eerie silence once again came to the room, as the earth began to tremble, and the sounds of a distant, expanding storm were heard.

He sprinted through the stairs, returning as fast as he could to the ground floor of the derelict bar, and looking immediately for the stairs that led to the level above. Stepping up, he then turned his sight to one of the windows of the main corridor in the second floor, facing south.

Tiago couldn't have words for the sight. The mushroom cloud was plainly visible through the far south, emerging through the skies, announcing a terrible disaster, that perhaps the darkest days of Spanish history were only now beginning. Holding his hands over the window frame, he observed the raising sign of nuclear devastation, when the footsteps of his comrades were heard, and the question asked:

"What happened?"

And he simply pointed to the south. Júlio and Paco looked then through the other window.

Time stopped.

The small town of Santanyí was the only one, of the three towns where the enemy laid nuclear devices, that was not evacuated, and the only one, where the attempt to defuse it has failed. Seventy thousand defenseless civilians and at least ten thousand marines, together with most of their equipment and vehicles were instantly exterminated by the blast wave. With the laptop's webcam, Tiago recorded the distant image of the growing mushroom cloud, the first image of the greatest loss ever suffered by the freedom fighters of MilNet and of the Confederacy, the most tragic loss ever suffered by Spain, for fallout could condemn the entire island and its millions of inhabitants to death by cancer and the curse of growing birth defects, and perhaps make the island uninhabitable for many years to come.

---------------------------------------------

Awakened by a sharp and terrible pain, a man struggled, raising his arm through air, burdened by the weight of rubble that attempted to crush his body and by the ashen dust that attempted to choke him. With an unthinkable strength, the dying man arose from the rubbles that were supposed to be his grave, enduring the suffering of burnt skin, and his eyes opened to the blurred sight of the ruins of Santanyí. The rubble of razed buildings, with nowhere to go, other than a distant sight of a still standing building amidst the town shattered by nuclear fire. Impelled by an unknown reason, for he was mostly aware he had no chances to survive, he began to walk in shambles, like a zombie that had yet to be put to rest, witnessing the desolation of ashen fields which once were serene trees, gardens and parks, and the horrors amidst the path, remains in the form of charred of corpses and skeletons, some no bigger than small children, and while he approached the standing building, he was nearly broken by the sight of two carbonized corpses, of a mother curling around a small baby to protect it in vain, nearly led to weep for such sight.

Sighing, he moved on, as the sight was becoming less likely to have been a mirage in his dying. It was a two-store building, spacious, with an emptied, charred flag mast in its terrace which was probably the holder of the flag of the enemy: it was the Town Hall of Santanyí. Half of its wall was gone, destroyed by the nuclear devastation, together with half of its ceiling in the topmost floor. It was a miracle that it still stood in such conditions, as much of a miracle as the fact he has not yet died.

Going through the now door-less entry, he noticed in its main, quaint main hall, the carbonized corpse of a soldier holding the mast of a tattered black flag even after his horrible death, such were the beliefs of this man for what the flag represented when he was alive. Seeing the flag, the symbol of their cause, the man struggled to take it from the dead soldier's hand, and climbed the stairs to the second floor, and thus to the terrace, with a terrible pain still worsening over his body. With the sight of the flag mast ahead, his consciousness was already struggling hardly to not fade away, and his body nearing exhausted from its crippling wounds and from the effort he has done. Shambling, he began to approach the goal.

It was very close, and he was already blacking out for a few seconds, hearing the call of death, when for some reason, he still had strengths, believing that somehow, such gesture would be important for the cause of freedom. And thus he knelt next to the mast, no longer being able to stand, and slid the tattered black flag over it, as he slowly fell and died, and yet, even after his life's last second expired, his right hand still held the black flag.

------------------------------

A digital screen displayed military company symbols overlaid to a map of Mallorca, now zoomed in Santanyí. In its top right, a number existed, which grew every time the heart of a revolutionary soldier stopped beating, updating the number of casualties as instantly as it served as a basis to communicate Intel instantly to the men who fought in the battle. Occasionally, the number grew, and although the watcher of such progress could not see the dying men, or feel their last breaths, Major Júlio Santiago still had to hold himself ever time he knew that soldiers were dying in battle, among those who were close friends of him or not, for even though for a conventional military, the losses they have taken so far have been more than acceptable, and their losses to enemy losses ratio very good, he still couldn't stop feeling an urge to mourn for those who had to give their lives for the cause of freedom.

Júlio Santiago was not prepared for what he would then see. Suddenly, all company symbols next to Santanyí vanished, and the number of deaths counted in the top right of the screen, once in two digits, was now written in five digits, while a rumbling came, shaking the ground, as the M135 Mobile Command Center he was inside suddenly stopped moving.

Stepping through the rear hatch, he moved outside, and stood with no words at the sight. The mushroom cloud expanded over the distance in the horizon, as the crew members of the vehicle stood outside, and watched with horror the signs of a terrible disaster. As the mushroom reached its summit in the sky, Santiago finally broke the silence, and said in a solemn and enigmatic manner:

"Our future"

"What are you talking about? That is not our future!" the driver of the vehicle argued, still not sure of what he meant.

"Our future will be challenged by the darkest age of mankind history." and thus he waved towards the nuclear sign, "Mark my words: this is only the beginning. Even after Cavallo is defeated, it will not be over. Even after our grandsons die of old age, it will not be over. The more we advance against tyranny, the more ruthless and dangerous our enemy shall become."

"Then why should we bother fighting," the gunner, either low on morale or trying to play the devil's advocate, questioned.

"Because if we don't, then it shall, like Orwell feared, last forever," he then raised his voice, "and mankind's future will be that of eternal slavery. We must be prepared to fight to the end to avoid this. Even the false facades of the 'democracies' are deteriorating as their capitalist and political masters realize the futility of replacing oppression with rhetoric and lies forever. The trend is clear: in a few decades, we will have to fight alone, when our 'allies' no longer see their deceitful support to our struggle as useful to the interest of their rich and powerful, when the world's tyrants and wealthy realize we will not let them enslave mankind."

"But what should be done right now?" perhaps the entire discussion was an attempt by Santiago to avert the most painful question, which the driver did not mind asking.

"We are fighting with a rat leader, with a monster who is more insane, and far more coward than the greatest mass murderers of our past history." Santiago sighed, realizing what they would think on it, "a rat trying to provoke us to kill our own brothers like he does. A rat who couldn't pick a fight with an armed five years old boy but who has a group of loyal of goons he cowardly hides behind."

"A savage beast, a shame to humanity that is our duty to kill!" Júlio began to show hatred in his way of speaking, "We must kill Cavallo for the millions of oppressed suffering! For the millions he enslaved, tortured and killed! And take all the scum sucking him up to their graves!"

"Júlio?" the gunner touched his shoulder, "are you all right?"

"We will defeat this pig without humanity and honor, and we will defeat him without firing one nuclear weapon!" Júlio shouted, "for we will never lower to the level of these subhuman monsters!"

He immediately returned to the inside of the vehicle, taking his headset as he began typing commands to contact someone who needed to be informed. The public opinion was sometimes misguided, and such event could lead them to endorse a terrible mistake if not prevented with clarification. As he properly introduced to the receiver of his call, he was straight to the urgent matter

"Cecily! Four of our regiments were nearly wiped out and dozens of thousands of civilians butchered by a nuclear bomb set to detonate in Santanyí, the only of three our men did not manage to defuse! These Stalinist pigs are trying to provoke us into a full scale nuclear war. You must address the people now before the extremists manage to press for a total nuclear war."

"What?" the answer came, "I can't believe they tried to wipe all the marines in this coward way, and butcher their own divisions two. These monsters," Cecily Lockhelm spoke in an angered way, "I will do my best to hasten Operation Reconquista! Now how is the morale of the survivors?"

"I believe they still think as highly of the cause they are fighting for as the SS thought of theirs," Júlio shrugged as he made the not so clever comparison, "and they won't forget their fallen comrades or the innocents that were and are being murdered once deciding whether to retreat hastily or not."

"What about the enemy soldiers? Or should I say, our soldiers? Who is going to serve a government that uses nuclear arms against their own people and against their relatives?"

"Cecily..." Júlio said in a regretful manner, "I feel bad for telling you this, but maybe this tragedy will benefit us in the end. I expect desertions and defections to skyrocket in the next hours, specially among soldiers who had relatives in that town. Cavallo might have shot over his own foot this time..." he sighed, "wish it could have happened without so many innocent lives claimed."

"If you secure the island in the next five hours, we will shatter the enemy's morale." Cecily explained, "You are already doing great, for you attacked an enemy that outnumbered you at two to one, and so far they are on the run. Encircle these enemies if possible, and try to reorganize our comrades for it. Perhaps if surrounded, they will be more willing to think whether it is a good idea to fight to death for a man who killed their own families."

"I will, also, I don't care about what you think, but I am going to the front lines. I am no coward to stay sitting behind telling others what should be done." Santiago replied.

"None of my business, now I have to quit because I cannot lose time. The people wanting for a total nuclear retaliation are gaining ground in convincing people to vote for it. Good luck Santiago. These men will not be forgotten, and you can be sure their deaths will not be in vain."

As the connection ended, he said to himself:

"I wish I could be sure, but I cannot."

Only history would tell whether so many deaths would be in vain or not.