Imperial Citidel, Silvas' Office, 16:27
Emporer Cyrus Silva sat at his desk in an overstuffed leather recliner, smoking a cigar. "Cyrus, are you sure you want to do this?" The Minister of Defense, Dairus Taylor, asked. "Look, New Temporis isn't an ally anymore. They are no longer our freindly next door neighbor. They've been helping the Promethians in their fight against the Federation, even though the Promethians are responsible for the death of hundreds, maybe thousands of Imperial, Republic and Nazi lives. Sure, that last part doesn't really matter to me, but the fact that they chose to side with them, even after they attacked New Temporisian cities with dirty bombs, that is what disgusts me." Silva began. "And not only that, but they've refused to give up Iceland. That in itself is reasons alone to do this; Iceland is ours and must be recaptured as per the Clandestine Initiative." Silva stood up, puffing smoke from his cigar, then taking it out of his mouth. "But, Cyrus, they've been a very helpful ally." Minister Taylor responded. "Yes they were." "Emporer Silva, what your planning to do will cost hundreds of thousands of lives--" Minister Taylor was cut off. "Look, Dairus. We've been good freinds forever. But if you are going to go against me, now, I will not hesitate to have the State Police take you to a reformation center. Or I might just have the Honor Guard shoot you now." Minister Taylor fell silent, and Silva stuffed the cigar back in his mouth. Silva then walked back to his desk, and picked up the phone. "Get me Steele." After a brief pause, he continued. "Good afternoon, General Steele. You have your orders, execute the invasion now." Another pause. "No, this is not a drill. Start the attack." Silva hung up the phone.
Aboard the IMAS Taylor, Imperial Navy Battlegroup 39, Off the South Coast of New Temporis-Controlled Iceland
New Axiomite Imperial Marine Private John Carter was laying on his bunk within the cavernous marine barracks within the IMAS Taylor, deployed with the 39th Battlegroup off the coast of Iceland, a territory of New Temporis. He was playing a game on a small portable game device, something with a plumber and mushrooms. "Man, I hope we get to go home soon." A marine on the bunk below Carter said. "Weve been here three months, and I swear I know all of your jerkoff habits!" "That's a weird thing to pay attention to, Jenkins." Another marine said. "Omigawd, I knew he was gay!" "Hey man, it's not my fault your so loud. The Captain can probably hear you on the bridge!" Jenkins said. "Oh my god, change the damn subject!" Carter said, laughing. "If anything, can we please talk about what were going to do when we go home?" A marine on the other side of the room, named Jacobs, said. "I'm gonna go hoe and eat some pizza! The standard issue military food tastes like crotch." "Better what the army eats. Them grunts jest get freeze dried assbuiscuits." Before anyone could reply, the lights in the room blacked out, and just after that, the room was flooded with red light. Alarms started hooting. "Marine Division 32, Marine Division 32, Deploy! Deploy! Report to your company areas! Report to your company areas! Get sooome!" A voice screamed over the loudspeaker, but before the voice had said 'Marine Division 32' the second time, Carter, and the rest of the marines in the room were off their bunks and out of the room, sprinting down the hall towards the armory.
The armory was that awesome type of controlled chaos. Men shouting, pulling on armor vests, helmets, boots, rifles. Fresh mags were shoved into guns, bolts were pulled, LMG bullet belts were pulled around shoulders and chests, and more bullets were stuffed in pouches. After everyone wa geared up, dressed in camoflauge combat fatigues, bulky, intimidating armor and with their weapons slung over their shoulders, they were assembled within the ships garage for a speech.
A man, in his mid-thirties, dressed in solid dark green fatigues with a load bearing vest and a hip pouch on each thigh, wearing a patrol cap and aviators with a SAW slung over his shoulder, was standing on an Apex tank. "Gentlemen!" The man started. "My name is Captain Marcus Cato. I am the commanding officer of the 32nd Marine Division. Listen, men. This is the day we've been waiting for. Our good ole freinds, New Temporis, decided for some reason that New Axiom isn't the greatest country on earth anymore! So, we're gonna go shove some lead down their throats, then drown them with their own blood! We are the Thirty-Second Marines. For the past ten years we've fought on every theatre of war the Communist Empire has been in on gods green earth, then we painted that earth red with communism and the enemies blood! Today will be no different. Now, usually, the lord works in mysterious ways! Well, not today. Today, our job is simple; were gonna be shoved into steel boxes that will be speeding accross the water or sky, both of which are probably going to be filled with explosive democratic destructiveness. Then, if we survive our little ride, we cans look foward to some bad guys having lead down our throats. But! We have one goal and that one goal is to make sure we secure the island, and make sure we kill all of the enemies that are there! So, let's go paint the world red!" Captain Cato finished his speech, and as his men began to cheer, he said, "this ain't no war movie cliche! Get to your craft, we ain't got much time! MOVE!!!"
Private Carter stepped up into a IDT-3 Transport, a large, four rotor helicopter type vehicle that could carry two tanks with twenty soldiers, or fourty soldiers. The IDT-3 had two doors on the underside that folded outwards, then deployed their payload via drop lines connected to the airlift hooks on the tanks or drop line rings in the back of the soldiers body armor. The dropship had two side mounted shredder cannons, foward mounted chin guns, and a pair of tail guns. Well defended, but slow and vulnerable. As Carter hooked up the drop line to his drop ring, he looked out on the horizon, towards Iceland. The Tranquilty-class heavy battleships and Hades-class gunboats were already bombarding the island, targeting military installations and civilian targets alike. Scorpion strike aircraft flew overhead, towards the island, as did Hornet and Sledgehammer gunship helicopters. Pillars of smoke were rising from the island, a couple fires were visibly burning and some explosion flashes could be seen. A group of seven Jackal fighter aircraft flew low, towards the island with bombs loaded onto the hard points. The last thing Carter saw before he was pulled too far up into the dropship was the Marine Assault Ships dropping landing craft into the water. The doors shut and clicked, and the lumbering aircraft began to fly en masse with others of its type, loaded with troops, and below the dropships, landing craft awarded towards the Iceland. This battle would start the war of the century, and everyone, even Carter, knew it.