The Macabeean anti-insurgency campaign has been successful...from a narrow point of view. Certainly, it destroyed the large bodies of bloodthirsty militiamen who pledged their loyalties to the various warlords that had up to recently ruled post-Montesçu Indras, driving their remnants south into the demilitarized zone and into Omega. But, this was a veneer, a superficial victory that hid the fractures that remained. Resulting in widespread destruction and displacement, the Macabeean campaign certainly did not do much to solidify the Golden Throne's rule over the Territory.
It has not been even a year since. The fruits of growing investments, both public and private, had yet to ripen. Few Indrans truly feel the benefits of paved highways and new factories. In fact, for most, life was now much, much tougher. If their homes weren't in some way damaged, or even destroyed, then it was the new lifestyle that the Golden Throne brought with it. In the jungles of northern Indras, farming is rare, and with an open trade policy soon to become rarer. Instead, it was the plethora of petrol fields, and high-value stocks of minerals and jewels, which characterized the new economy. Over the long-run, sure, factories can bring wealth and prosperity, even to the worker. But, in the beginning, they bring nothing but tears. Men, women, and even children, toil for hours — ten to twelve hours a day —, suffering the risk of injury from the machinery and the sheer monotony of assembly line production, for a measly wage just enough to purchase the day's ration.
The washing machines, refrigerators, and other luxuries of capitalism — now open to the middle class for prices and volumes never beforehand imagined — would not trickle to the poor for years, if not decades. In the meantime, the poor brood. And just west of Botoşani the first violent manifestation of dissatisfaction takes the form of the incipient Indran Liberation Army (ILA). Small, and for the time being relatively passive, its ranks continue to grow as the situation in Indras fails to improve at quick enough of a pace. The threat of open rebellion, and worse still terrorism, looms over the territory's peaceful inhabitants.
In the southeast, warlord Mutu's loyalty change to the Golden Throne provoked separatism within his camp. Rogue elements of his militia, asked to lay down their arms, instead broke off into a faction of their own. They comb the sparse jungle line of southern Indras, with a heavy presence in the demilitarized zone and Omega as well. Of all the militias still threatening Imperial rule in Indras, they receive the most attention from the Golden Throne's military. Macabeean naval infantry and Theohuanacan auxiliaries find themselves in daily firefights with small bands of TK-60 wielding militants. Their strength wanes, but that does not lessen the fact that they are a threat.
The Golden Throne's arrangement with Mutu, made during a time before Lamoni's decision to annex the southern half of the island, has created more problems than it has solutions. The competing militias that Mutu was hired to combat and overpower are, for the most part, no longer relevant. And the Golden Throne's goal of democratizing the local government clashes directly with their promise to Mutu: that he would come to command much of Indras south of what is now the Arad Treivurlui prefecture. But, cutting him loose altogether would reunite his forces under a common rebellion, which would be disastrous. And so the Imperial bureaucracy in Fedala would have to come up with a solution to this inconvenience. But, the longer they wait, the more likely it is that Mutu become aware of his inevitable falling out of favor.
In the northwest, two large militia groups resist the weight of the Second Empire's omnipresent boot. The remnants of Adrian Aurelio's militia tenaciously hold their ground south Targu Iulia and Vasozia, hiding in the deepest and darkest depths of the northern Indran jungle, running from Imperial bombs and infantrymen. Their numbers are dwindling, but as they retreat into the tightest spaces of Indras' lush tropical foliage, they become harder to root out. The case is similar at the Ghendul Holdout, a relatively large area touching the western beaches of the island. Even with the death of Dragoş Ghendul — ironically, given the incessant bombing of his ever-moving headquarters, he fell to a cancer of the lungs —, his men continue to defend their ever diminishing estate. Little by little, they are pushed into the ocean and their support amongst the locals, who are benefitting from the growing commercialization of the coastline, slowly slips. But, the Golden Throne's resources are stretching dangerously thin with war in Gholgoth, and the Ghendul Holdout becomes progressively harder to exterminate. And so the Second Empire finds itself with the need to squelch these hot zones, but the forces of thinning resources and an ever entrenched enemy push against each other.
And, thus, throughout Indras the flames of fire jump and dance with the promise to spread.
Cruzau, Arad Treivurlui Prefecture
The sharp blade of nation-building...
Koronel Gravitas Kristo looked out of his office's window as if he were deep in thought, his back turned to four Macabeean officers sitting in wood carved seats. They wore the platinum sword of a kapítan on the front band of their collars, their mughal berets neatly folded across their laps. Koro Kirim. They waited cooly, not unattentive, but at the same time at rest — relaxed, but ready to kill at a second's notice. Kristo, hands gently clasped behind his back, gazed down upon the airfield on the other side of the glass windowpane. He looked on as hundreds of men, scurrying like the deceptively tiny worker bees they were, prepared six tiltrotor aircraft in a open space between five mammoth zeppelins. A sixth airship floated high up in the grey clouds above, its metallic, armored shell half submerged in darkened skies. Behind the airships, the koronel could just barely see the rotors belonging to a squadron of Boneharvesters, but his concern was more absolutely placed on those majestic castles of the sky. Their armor arranged in crustacean-like scales, like behemoth sky-faring lobsters, those airships would come to define the Macabeean occupation of Indras.
"Evolution," said Kristo. "Gentlemen, you are looking at its face." He looked away from the window and started to slowly pace. "Fortune blesses us."
"How do you suppose, sir?" asked the kapitán furthest to the right.
"The war against the Scandinvans strains our resources and so the rest of us must learn how to do a lot with very little." The koronel stopped pacing to look at the officer who had spoken. "Our forces here can no longer afford to be bogged down in the quagmire of counterinsurgency. We are not guaranteed reinforcements in the event of invasion, and thus our forces here must focus on fortifying themselves. We turn our backs on our enemies within to prepare ourselves for a worst case scenario. But, the truth is, if we ignore the resistance it will grow, and if it is allowed to fester then it will slowly corrupt the Territory, fracturing it like a shattered ceramic plate. We arrive at a paradox. Our desire to hold Indras at all cost moves us to invest fully in the possibility of invasion, but by doing so we cannot stamp out the embers of a dying resistance." He turned back towards the windows and spread out his arms. "The paradox has been solved."
The same koro kirim kapitán who had spoken earlier said, "How do airships solve this...paradox, sir?"
"Admittedly, the airships are only half of the solution." The koronel turned around, mouth twisted in a smirk. "You gentlemen are the other half. Get to know those zeppelins well, boys, because you and your men will be calling them home for the foreseeable future. Each company will be assigned a mother ship. It will act as your mobile base of operations, equipped with six Snow Swallows" — referring to the tiltrotors — "which will be your work bus to and from missions." He looked up at the large dirigible overhead. "That one, already high up in the sky, will is yours, Kapitán Farduk."
"So that explains why you ordered my men to form up on the tarmac below," said the koro kirim, who was sitting second from the left. Farduk was shorter than his peers, but much bulkier — a pitbull, as they say.
"Indeed." Kristo turned away from the window again, this time to address the stunted, but brawny kapitán. He couldn't see them, even when he was looking out the glass pane, but he knew that all of Farduk's hundred-man bandag was neatly arrayed in a warehouse sitting just below them. Their hands clasped behind them, patiently standing at parade rest, they withstood the sweltering Indran heat as their superiors discussed operations. A few floors about them, Koronel Kristo continued to explain the mission to Kapitán Farduk. "Within the hour, you and your men will be ferried up to the LN.720 Gamayun by those Snow Swallows being prepped as we speak. Komador Trespek will assign one of his men to give you a tour of the facilities. You can then brief your men. They will have forty-four hours to accommodate themselves, including the time we're spending here, because your first combat operation will take place in two days. You will receive your briefing for that mission tomorrow. That being said," he said, "expect these late and sudden warnings, gentlemen, because we're fighting a new kind of occupational war. One of minimal resources and maximum gain."
"What kind of war is that, sir?" It was the one all the way to the right again.
"I'm glad you ask, kapitán." Kristo strode to the office wall, where hanging from the ceiling was a hook on the end of a piece of thick string. He pulled down on this, unveiling a projector screen that came out of somewhere above the ceiling tiles, like a cheap magic trick. From a narrow aluminum shelf-like ledge screwed chest-high into the wall, he took a remote control. Once the projector was turned on, the screen filled with a map of Indras with various red dots scattered throughout the territory. Pointing to one, the koronel said, "These indicate militia attacks within the past sixty days. Sometimes it's a simple IED. Other times it's a full-on gunfight. Most of the time, they're not hitting our men, they're striking civilian centers. We need to be able to respond and quickly, putting boots on the ground within the hour. That's one kind of mission you and your men will be sent on, and your briefings might take place as short as ten minutes 'til start point. The other kind is hitting at known militia encampments, homes, and training centers. You'll have more prep time with these, but our targets have a tendency of moving around, so your men should always be ready to go at a moment's notice, so to speak."
"Sounds like a solid plan, sir," said the koro kirim on the right.
"I'm glad you approve, soldier," responded Kristo. He turned to Kapitán Farduk. "Go to your men. I have an air traffic control man on the ground to direct loading procedures onto the Snow Swallows." Farduk stood at attention, saluted, and did an about face. Kristo's attention was on the other three men before Farduk had time to open and close the door behind him. "As for the rest of you, your boarding orders will come tonight. Three of you will be in the air at any one time. The fourth will stay here on reserve. We'll be doing three-week rotations — three in the air, one on the ground." He turned back to the window, the koro kirim still sitting behind him. "Alright boys, ya'll are excused."
They left like panthers tightrope walking on a branch towards hidden prey, like the koro kirim that they were. Kristo did not even hear them leave, his attention already back on the majestic zeppelins still on the ground.
