The Tiger and the Eagle [Closed]

[Questers]

THE TIGER AND THE EAGLE, PART 1
THE WAR FOR THE AXACKAL COAST

BALTIMORE, LOBSTER COAST
SOUTHERN-FORCE CONFEDERATE GENERAL HEADQUARTERS
TEMPERATE 33 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 72%
1400H

The sharp heel of military boots clashed against the concrete floor, each step landing with a rhythmic crash. They stopped for a minute and were replaced by the click of a zippo lighter, and then they returned. Lieutenant General Nicholas Auckland paces were, in truth, beginning to annoy his aide, but the amount of stress the General was under was understandable. This wasn't petty stress, either -- wondering where your girlfriend was, or losing your car keys -- the General was stressing over the future security of the entire Lobster Coast. He stopped pacing and leant over the map of the tiny state.

"How the fuck do they expect me to hold the entire Alacean Army with four divisions?" He didn't get a response. "Is Wanker Whiting on the phone yet?"

"Ah, no Sir."

"Stupid dickhead politician!" Auckland kicked the table, discovering it a good stress toy of sorts. "Get me Major General Haynsworth." What Auckland wanted, Auckland got. He just had that personality, although it probably helped he was a General.

"Haynsworth here." A clipped Southern African accent crackled through the phone.

"General what is your situation?" Auckland demanded.

"We're bringing 1st Motorised into position outside of Calay now. 2nd Armoured is waiting on a brigade and will follow up shortly six klicks north to block the L2. Supposedly they're running into fuel problems. No word on anyone else. Communications are breaking down out here, Sir." Haynsworth sounded worried. Auckland didn't blame him: the situation was dire. After Questarian involvement in Brenningfeld, which was unavoidable, the low level of preparation of Questarian Army units was just an invitation for Alacea to move in to the country. Intelligence was confirming buildup on the border of multiple Alacean Army Corps. Perhaps it was a paper tiger; perhaps the Alaceans would fold in short order under the weight of air attack, stiff resistance, and foreign climate. Or perhaps they would roll straight over the badly prepared Questarians. Either way, they were expect the Alaceans to move soon.

"You're doing good John," Auckland replied, "We're working on establishing proper commnunications as we speak. The PM has not been in touch since this morning. If necessary, we will do things without him. I'm sure local authorities will cooperate with a call of posse comitatus."

"Do whatever you can Nick," Haynsworth replied, sighing. It was the sort of sigh that Auckland knew represented plunging morale; the deep sigh that signals a man believes that although all is lost, he still has a duty to carry on. Auckland wiped his brow. If we are like this before the war, how are we going to cope during it! "I will sort out 2nd Armoured. We'll hold these bastards at the twin motorways for as long as we can."

"I don't expect any less, not from you," Auckland replied. "Just remember: two weeks until the cavalry arrives." Auckland glanced at the train lines on his map that would carry troops and tanks from the North and the West to the Lobster Coast's aid. "Auckland out.”

Auckland paced for a little longer. Fuel problems. The Confederacy was an oil-producing nation – how on earth could they have fuel problems? Somewhere along the line, the logistics boys weren't connecting with the tanks. Auckland surveyed the map. But where? 2nd Armoured's headquarters and supply depot was at Jefferson. Somewhere along the L2 motorway, or even in Jefferson itself, the division's fuel supplies were held up. A helicopter could cover that distance in a quarter of an hour.

Auckland turned to face one of this aides. “Get me a HELO down the L2 – and now!”

L2 MOTORWAY, LOBSTER COAST
678. BRIGADE SUPPORT BTN
TEMPERATE 33 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 78%
1410H

“God damnit!” Major Mitchell slammed the door behind him, having leaped out of his truck to see first hand just what was going on. A traffic jam. In this country. Trucks, cars, jeeps, everything, moving westwards. And his Battalion, trying to move eastwards. They should have fueled the tanks beforehand, damnit... the sound of revving engines and beeping horns filled the sky. It was chaos, utter chaos. A bus tried to get through and was turned away as military policemen tried in vain to get the vehicles moving. Mitchell strode up to the M.P.s, cigarette in mouth and hand on hips.

“Just what the hell is going on here?” he demanded, puffing some smoke in their direction.

“Just who the hell are you, first?” one snapped. Oh, that was enough. They hadn't seen stress in its human representation until they'd seen Mitchell.

“Major Thomas Mitchell, 678 Brigade Support Battalion, 9th Armoured Brigade – we are trying, gentlemen, to get some fucking fuel through to our tanks on the front so we can actually fight the Alaceans when they come knocking – obviously, you aren't quite as enthusiastic about that idea as we are!” He could feel his blood rising. This wasn't going to be fun. “Now get these vehicles either moving, or off the fucking road, so we can get our fuel through!”

The two M.P.s looked at each other. “Sir, there's no way we can-”

“Fine!” Mitchell shouted. He drew his Uzi into the air with one hand and let loose a ten round burst, frightening the M.P.s a little and, after a few moments, silencing the horns. He walked back to his truck and, jumping on top, took a megaphone. “In the name of the Questarian Army, you people are going to move your cars off the road and let my convoy through, or else we're going to move them for you!”

He didn't see much movement. Mitchell fired some rounds into the air again. No movement. “Alright, lets do this,” he whispered to himself. In a country like Questers, anything like eminent domain took balls. “Company dismount!” he screamed down the radio and watched as troops jumped from the sides of trucks and land rovers some way back and began jogging, armed, down the road. The Major smiled to himself. Now we can get this fuel moving.

The Alouette-III glided gracefully through the skies down the L2 motorway. Traffic jams, as far as the eye could see – refugees, probably, the observer thought. But hold on, what was this? The Alouette pushed itself a few kilometres forward effortlessly, and low and behold, Questarian troops were literally pushing cars off the side of the road and slowly, the trucks were rolling through. It was like a sea of green disarming protesting passengers, moving vehicles, and waving through army trucks. The observer picked up the radio. “This is Optic One, Headquarters. We've found the blockage. Never seen a thing like this before... our troops are literally pushing cars off the side of the road so the trucks can get through, Sir. Seems like its working, too...”

Major Mitchell lit another cigarette as his truck moved forwards ten feet. It was working, alright, and the civvies seemed to be getting the idea. That was until a gunshot rang out. Mitchell looked in horror as a black man got out of his car with a sidearm and put a round into the chest of one of his NCOs. He felt his stomach drop as the rest of the section put numerous FAL rounds into his chest while all the time the two children inside the car wailed and their mother began to cry and shout.

Oh shit.

Auckland's field phone began to ring. One ring...Auckland picked it up, dropping his cigarette and quickly putting it back into his mouth. “This is Auckland,” he said gruffly and with more than a hint of sleep deprivation.

“Auckland you son of a bitch, you are in a hell of a lot of trouble!”

The General almost laughed.

“What the fuck do you want Whiting? Either you can help me defend this state or you can get the hell out of my way. I can have my boys down at your office with the Sheriff in ten minutes and lock you up for treason or something. So spit it out you goddamn low-life.” Now the General was laughing. Oh, how he hated politicians.

“I'm not going to be bullied by a man like you, Auckla-”

Auckland hung up the phone and cackled, quickly dialling Sheriff Browns' number. He knew Whiting would be on that case, but luckily he'd already escalated the state to Military Priority A without Whiting's consent. Now that was unconstitutional. But he didn't care. What he was about to do was fully legal, though; the office of Sheriff, Prime Minister, and the Judiciary in the Lobster Coast were all elected. The Sheriff, with the consent of the Judiciary, could remove the PM. The PM, with the consent of the Judiciary, could remove the Sheriff, but neither could remove the Judiciary.

“Good afternoon General,” the Sheriff picked up the phone and was in an unusually good mood.

“Good afternoon Sheriff,” Auckland started, “Look, I'm going to be blunt. We need to remove Whiting, he's getting in the way. I don't care what the papers say, if we don't get our troops rolling, we're going to lose a half of this state, or more, within a day, when the Alaceans come.”

“And Whiting is not co-operating?” the Sheriff replied, interested.

“No. We also need a posse-comitatus to help us clear the roads and get our stuff going. I know I can trust you, Sheriff. If you want this state to hold back the tide we need every man we've got and we need the infrastructure cleared.”

“I'll get on it,” the Sheriff replied. “The cellular communication networks are down. Ring me back at this office in thirty minutes,” Sheriff Brown had already stood up and put on his Sheriff's hat, fumbling for his revolver. “Good luck.”

“Good luck.” Auckland replied.

SANDAKAN, GOVERNMENT HOUSE
POSSE 1
TEMPERATE 33 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 77%
1430H

Government House was an ornate colonial building; its whitewashed walls and gated exterior leaving it little different from any of the old buildings that it shared a street with. Usually, Government House was quiet, as was this neighborhood, but not today. Six land rovers parked outside had made enough noise for the gates to be locked and closed, and also for Prime Minister Whiting to be sitting in his office peering through the window, hand on revolver. What he saw did not please him. Quickly enough, one of the land rovers backed up and drove straight into the gate, tearing it from its hinges and sending it flying a few feet with armed guards scattering. In short order, thirty armed men were pouring into the entrance and the guards surrendered without firing a shot. Whiting slammed his fist on the table. Cowards! The lot of them!

A tense three minutes passed before Whiting heard voices and a knock at the door. “Whiting, open this fucking door!”

“Not to a rabble like yours, Brown!” he shouted back, checking his revolver was loaded. He didn't really know how to use it; Whiting guessed you aimed it and pulled the trigger, or something like that. He aimed it with one hand at the door, which was beginning to falter at the strain of several men barging into it. It was an old door, too. What a shame, Whiting thought, that it was being molested by these troublemakers. It collapsed a second later and Whiting fired all six shots. Three went long; one hit a man in the knee, who fell, and two hit the next man in the stomach, who fell also. He pulled the trigger but it clicked. Bugger.

Brown pushed his way through the remnants of the door and into the open, ancient office of the Prime Minister. Books half a century old adorned a bookcase even older as illustrious paintings covered the walls. Even the carpet had been nice before the blood of good men had covered navy blue in sickening crimson. Whiting moved to punch him but Brown smacked him in the face with the butt of his shotgun and Whiting fell to the floor with a cry, blood flying from his broken face.

“You politicos are all the same,” Brown spat in his face. “Cowards. Resisting a Replacement Order is punishable by death,” Brown said, not even looking over to two wounded men by the doorway who were now being tended to. “I'll see you hang, you traitorous son of a bitch.”

Whiting didn't reply.

Within ten minutes, Brown was driving at breakneck speeds back to his office, intent on making it in time for the phonecall he was due to receive. As he did so, he made as many phonecalls as possible. The Sheriff of the Lobster Coast, and his also elected subordinates, held the constitutional right to posse comitatus – that is, to levy men for the purpose of law enforcement for a restricted period of time. And that is what he was doing. The roads and the airports had to be cleared if the State was to stand a chance in hell against overwhelming Alacean numbers. Behind Sandakan lay three divisions forming up around their headquarters which simply could not move, blocked in behind traffic, delays, and conflicting orders aggravated by a confused communications network. If they could make it to the front in time, they might just be enough.

It was a race against time.

[Questers]

SANDAKAN, LOBSTER COAST
CONAF SANDAKAN
TEMPERATE 29 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 60%
1600H

Air Commodore Charles Simons swaggered into the air traffic control tower of CONAF Sandakan with an expression on his face that could kill a water buffalo. The tower stank of sweat, stale cigarettes, and human tension. Commanding a view of almost the entire airfield, when he looked out the main window, Simons clenched his teeth. Six CONAF Hawker Harpoons sat on the runway, their pilots seething with frustration as a host of military transport aircraft were taxi-ing and taking off to what must have been utter chaos to the control crews. Further back on the runway, twelve De Havilland Dauntless fighter jets waited patiently for their turn to come, a pair of C-130's behind them.

"Just what in God's name is going on here?" Simons turned and bawled at the ATC Officer. "This is Anarchy!"

"Sir, we're trying to get these jets to forward bases." the ATC officer sighed and wiped some sweat from his brow, turning up the fan and lighting a cigarette. "It's fucking impossible. Our orders are to deliver Flight Group 62 to three forward bases north of Jefferson in preparation for a possible Alacean invasion. So far we've got a tenth of the Group out. It's the refugees sir, the fucking refugees. The Government", he almost spat the word out, despite being a Government employee, "Has ordered us to get the refugees out to Carpathium before we do anything military. I opted, without orders..." he paused, wondering whether this was an appropriate response, "To do them both at the same time."

Simons looked at the man. "Sir, the communications have been down all day. We couldn't contact you or Marshal Holborn. Whiting came over here himself in a car..." The Officer looked ashamed, like he was about to break down. "He ordered us all to get these refugees out if we wanted to keep our jobs. I didn't want to surrender Airforce control of this station to the bunch of fucking civilians he'd replace us with, Sir. It's been utter chaos. I haven't spoken to my wife for three days..." he rubbed his chin and let loose a sigh of exasperation. "This is all going to shit."

Simons took a seat. "You've done a good job Captain." The man looked relieved. Simons smiled -- or, at least, he tried to. Nothing much to smile about right now. "But our immediate priority is the defence of the motherland. Good news -- Whiting has been replaced by Sheriff Brown. The bastard is rotting in a Sandakan jail cell right now awaiting trial for treason. Which means," he stood up again, disliking the chair's feel, "We can get this show on the road. As of now we're cancelling all flights out of here and re-directing all flights to Rougecote. We can send tankers if need be. Captain, you have your orders. Get Flight Group 62 to those airfields."

Across the country, Whiting's plan to get all the Cravanians out of the country was falling apart. Local military commanders in charge of ferrying or transporting formations found that, with his departure of office, they no longer had to follow his orders. Sometimes with persuasion, sometimes with force of arms, they forced transports to turn back or stay where they were, and then rolled their units through. Slowly, the system was becoming unclogged, although the communications network was still overloaded. By five o clock, Major General Haynsworth had been able to report that all his formations were in position and that fuel and ammunition was coming in slowly, albeit by the air, as the motorways were still jammed with refugees, both Questarian and Cravanian. The Questarian military machine was on the move once again.

LOBSTER COAST, 70KM EAST OF SANDAKAN
L4 MOTORWAY
TEMPERATE 29 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 60%
1730H

The L4 Motorway connected Sandakan to Baltimore about a hundred kilometres east, and as a major artery of travel, since the day before had become utterly clogged with transports; refugees mainly, moving west from the port cities of Baltimore and Calay where already a million Cravanians had been shipped, and ten million Questarians, black and white, where fleeing from the impending invasion. It was also the route of travel assigned to Brigadier-General Benjamin Palmer's 22nd Motor Rifle Brigade and 24th Armoured Brigade, forward elements of the 7th Armoured Division which, after being finally assembled in Sandakan that morning, had tried to push through the motorway but had been stopped by traffic twenty kilometres in. Now, they were finally moving.

Palmer opened a single eye as an adjutant whispered his name. "General, General, there's something you should see."

"What is it son?" Palmer asked, not stirring an inch. Probably a dead water buffalo or something, knowing this kid.

"Come and look Sir." he repeated.

Reluctantly, Palmer pulled himself up from the bench in the R33 'Adamant' command APC and his adjutant made for him to clamber up to the hatch. Finding it was already open, Palmer pulled himself up and looked, instinctively, to the East, where the sun was beginning to set on the turqoise waters of the Axackal Sea, its shine retreating as it did every day, the bright yellow sands of the beach that lay only a hundred metres down from the road turning grayer every minute. He was about to ask his adjutant what exactly was so special when he heard it. Swinging his head to the other side of the road, ignoring the column of tanks and trucks grumbling onwards ahead of him, he noticed what his adjutant was talking about. Lines and lines of cars, buses and lorries parked off the road, each one a temporary refugee camp, as far as the eye could see. And around them, thousands of people, cheering and waving and shouting and one or two waving flags; state and national, and even a Cravanian flag, Palmer noticed. And ahead of him, all the commanders of the vehicles in his two formations were looking in dismay as troops riding tank desant waved back. A few girls made their way up to the moving column, throwing some hastily assembled flowers onto tanks and APCs and blowing kisses to the troops.

It was as if they had already won the war. What had just a few hours ago was an every man for himself situation, where ones thoughts were drowned out in the honking of car horns and the revving of engines, had completely turned around. Knowing that they could go no further, the people had set up camp and they had realised, that in this hour of national panic, they, while being individuals, were also part of a collective. A voluntary collective. A nation. And this nation that they were so dearly proud of was under threat; soon, undoubtedly, it would fall under attack from foreign invaders bent on wiping out what they had built on this hellish terrain. Palmer watched as the column of vehicles advanced, a sea of green almost swamped by an ocean of multicolour. All people from all walks of life were evacuating the east, mostly women and children but some men, and they clapped and cheered their boys in green, many of whom would be dead, crippled or captured in the following week, like they had never clapped before. The line of people saluting their defenders extended to the horizon and as the convoy passed alongside them, Palmer saw that nobody was shirking. The morale of his troops, sapped to almost impossibly low levels, was immediately restored.

And, in the vehicle behind him, an attached military journalist filmed it all and in short order had it uploaded to the internet, doing his job in spreading it virally with the simple words "dude, check this out, its awesome: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTZEcAY_95A". The armies of Alacea were almost ready to bear down with incredible force into the Questarian Confederacy, but if anything was done by the media to show the morale of the people, despite having left their homes, seen off their menfolk who had taken up arms, left their jobs and communities in some cases flown or shipped seven hundred kilometres north to a foreign country to escape invasion, was still high, then this was it.

BALTIMORE, LOBSTER COAST
SOUTHERN-FORCE CONFEDERATE GENERAL HEADQUARTERS
TEMPERATE 33 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 72%
1900H

As night set, General Auckland found himself in good spirits. Whiting had been removed and now, finally, his commanders in the field had the ability to move their troops and supplies through to the frontline. Within three hours, 7th Armoured Division would be assembled behind Calay in positions ready to act as reserves. By the morning, they would have brought in the 30th Infantry Division and 19th Armoured Brigade, which he had recently discovered was operational and had been awaiting orders for two days, from the air to positions north of Calay to hold the flanks. And five minutes ago he received a telegram dated three hours old that informed him that Flight Groups 62 and 54 would be in position to support his troops within six hours. Everything was coming together. Unfortunately, the General couldn't help but think, everything was not very much at all in comparison to what he had arrayed against him.

The plan was relatively simple. The jungle was covered in thousands of infantry already deployed from anti-terrorist operations, as well special forces and specialist jungle units, and local and theatre air forces. He needn't worry about that. The front that faced Alacea was barely forty kilometres tall; the Alaceans, he calculated, would barely be able to throw in twice as many troops as he had if they wanted any operational maneouvre space at all. Their initial attack would have to rest on the assumption that they'd be able to throw back his two -- now three -- divisions. As such, Auckland expected the heaviest units the Alaceans had plus alot of aircover, and he'd prepared for this by sending the same, as well as mining many of the approaches and authorising, following their deployment, the National Partisan Organisation to use as much force as they liked in defending the thirty kilometres from his frontline to the border. As a result, thousands of IEDs, booby traps, and ambushes had been laid that would slow down the Alaceans and perhaps hurt their command and logistics.

Knowing that as of that moment, he could do nothing but wait -- probably for another few hours -- he sat back, lit a cigarette, and closed his eyes. Finally, some fucking rest.

[Questers]

BAKERSFIELD, LOBSTER COAST, 8 KLICKS FROM THE BORDER
KHUMALO INFRASTRUCTURE
TEMPERATE 22 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 55%
2000H

John Khumalo was one of the generation of Questarian blacks who had grown up during The Troubles and had taken advantage of the rights eventually afforded to him to make his way in the world. Leaving his family home in Baltimore with 50 MGP at the age of eighteen, while his white counterparts dreamed of the day they would no longer be forced to leave home to fight, he had his own dreams. He wished that some day, he would be an entrepreneur, that he would own his own successful business and become a wealthy man. Another one of his wishes, having been educated in a Praetonian charity school, was that the Communists would not be proven right; that they were, in fact, wrong with their claims that the black man had no chance in Questaria.

He had, with hard work, resourcefulness, and good financial management, proven them wrong. Twenty years later, he owned Khumalo Infrastructure. John had noticed in his early days that foreigners were beginning to invest in infrastructure, but often lacked local knowhow and resources. Khumalo Infrastructure was dedicated to providing local and foreign infrastructure investors with soft and hard information; maps, intelligence, and even things like road paints and eventually raw materials. It was big and successful. He had defied internal racism by dealing with overseas agents, and he had built, from the ground up, something he could be proud of. And he was. His office was adorned with certificates of success, gigantic contracts, and even a portrait of Benjamin Russell, the man single-handedly responsible for granting blacks total legal equality to whites in the former Questarian Empire.

His house was in the white suburb of Bakersfield, a town of forty thousand. He didn't speak to his neighbours, apart from a morning hello on the way to work, he didn't go to their barbeques or functions, he didn't look after their dog while they went on holiday and only knew their telephone numbers from the Neighbourhood Security Programme. Yet, he didn't mind, because the same applied to them, and he knew that there was no hostility in either of their actions. No, segregation in Bakersfield -- and the rest of the country -- was voluntary, and neither side particularly minded. This night, though, he was not at home but at the office, finishing off some paperwork, when five knocks in rapid succession on his door triggered something in his mind.

Five rapid knocks on the door meant militia. Ten or even five years ago, he might have been worried. He might even have reached for the revolver in his drawer that he had never fired. But today, he was confident. Confident that the era of violence had left the country, that whites and blacks could finally get along, and so, albeit with significant curiousity, he went to open the door. In front of him stood three men clad in paramilitary uniforms bearing rifles and the insignia of the National Partisan Organisation. He frowned.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked politely, in not quite the clarity of a white Questarian accent, but more in the manner of what international English-speakers might consider civilised and educated.

"We're from the NPO," the leader said. Khumalo, in a different context, might even have replied with a no shit, but he waited for them to continue. "This is a matter of national security," the leader said again. Here we go... Khumalo thought. "If the Alacean Army crosses the border, they will doubtlessly take Bakersfield-"

"Not without a fight," the second man growled.

"-and use it as a forward base. Your warehouse would be perfect for them to store munitions or supplies. Since they could be arriving any hour now, we need to booby-trap it."

Khumalo's jaw almost dropped with horror. They wanted to use his business, that he had built up from the ground, as a weapon of war? He should have known... the news reports, the soldiers, the refugees. He just didn't think that this could happen. That his dream could be shattered.

"Absolutely not!" was his first reply. "This is my property. You've no right to it."

The men looked at each other. "That is true," the leader said, shrugging. "But others have already accepted. I don't think you understand the severity of this situation. When the Alaceans cross, they won't care about our constitution. They won't care about the rule of law. I hope you know what they think of blacks-" the leader glanced at the cross on the wall next to the picture of Russell -"or christians in Alacea. When Velikov comes'a rollin' with his Army, they'll do what they like. At least this way we'll get some of them while they're doing it." the man shrugged again. He didn't look like he had much time for arguing, but Khumalo thought he seemed pretty reasonable so far.

"Look," the businessman spread his hands in despair. "I've spent my life on this. I've nothing else. Some savings, sure..."

"You think anybody else does?" the partisan's eyes flared up and the man became incensed. "This is our life!" he said, pointing to the town below, which Khumalo couldn't see from his position but still understood. "This is our country! This is all we have too! Half the town has already left westwards with whatever they can carry on their backs. Our families are on the road now, it doesn't bear thinking about what Alacean aeroplanes would do to civilian convoys on open road! Everybody has lost everything. This isn't business. This is war. Now you can tell us to clear off and let the Alaceans come and hang you and use your warehouses to store ammunition and petrol for their tanks, or you can do the right thing."

Khumalo sighed. "What do you want to do?"

The third man who was carrying a heavy backpack stepped up. "We've got explosives in the truck outside. We're going to place IR detectors in the warehouses and plant explosives in the walls and roof. When they move enough people inside... boom!" he made an explosive noise then realised it perhaps wasn't a great idea and looked somewhat sheepish about it immediately after.

"Fine." Khumalo agreed. "I'll lock up the office."

He took the revolver from the drawer and said one last goodbye to the office from which he spent the last eight years building his empire, taking with him a few extremely personal items, and then locked up, for one last, final time. He could feel his eyes welling up... it was all so sudden, so fast, so violent. The three partisans had already ran down to their truck, and Khumalo stood at the top of the metal walkway which led up to the second storey on which his office was located and looked out, past the empty guard tower -- the guard had long fled -- and the open gate, down the hill and over Bakersfield. Beyond the city lay the Alacean border. From his view, he commanded a magnificent observation of the entire town and more. The immediate Alacean border didn't look too much different, but Khumalo knew from his geography lessons that beyond the huge mountains that rose up from the ground and upon which the clouds seemed to gather like moths to a flame, lay Alacea. His sadness was consumed quite shortly by a burning hatred.

Walking purposefully down the stairs, he confronted the three partisans. "Is there any room in your unit?" he asked to three shocked faces.

BALTIMORE, LOBSTER COAST
SOUTHERN-FORCE CONFEDERATE GENERAL HEADQUARTERS
TEMPERATE 33 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 72%
2320H

Auckland opened his eyes and yawned. Despite the uncomfortable position he was sitting in, he'd managed to fall asleep, and for a good few hours too. Wiping sleep from his eyes, he looked up at the young Lieutenant who'd woken him up. Auckland immediately bolted up from his chair and returned the salute the man had given him upon realising he'd woken up. Somehow, miraculously, Auckland had for a split second forgotten that they were very almost at war.

"What is it Lieutenant?"

"There's a one Brigadier Trotter-Jones waiting for your Sir."

"Send him in then!" Auckland ordered, standing up and fixing his General's cap. Morale was important not just for the ordinary fighting troops but for formation commanders, too. They had to have confidence that their strategic commanders were able to do the job. Auckland knew and understood this fact. A moment later, Trotter-Jones entered, looking almost as tired and worse-for-wear as Auckland did.

"General Auckland," he saluted and snapped to attention.

"Brigadier," Auckland replied, ordering him at ease. "What's the matter?"

"I've been trying to get in contact with you all day Sir," the man said, walking over to the command table and removing his cap, Auckland doing the same. The General had heard those words a million times. "What are the plans against a possible Alacean vertical envelopment?"

The General found it an odd question, but answered anyway. It was only right that his field commanders knew. "We have theatre air defence, plus fighter cover. It's been almost impossible to arrange anything serious, apart from a paratroop battalion based out of Sandakan who have been able to maintain contact with us via some internet messaging thing." the General shook his head.

"Well, good news General," the Brigadier beamed. "228 Airmobile Infantry Brigade is at your service. The Brigade is at eighty percent strength and we've regrouped in a field four klicks west of here. Took us two days, but we're here now. We need some fuel and some supplies, but that's it. We'll be ready for combat as soon as you can provide that."

The General tried not to look surprised, but he realised that, although units regrouping and finally finding a headquarters to report to was a good thing, that he had a startlingly low amount of control over his field units. He would have to depend on the initiative of his field officers, unless they could get that communications network fixed, which didn't seem likely. Hope turned shortly to a small measure of despair.

[Central Prestonia]

North Beach
Hudson
1300 Hours

From afar, they looked like any other beachgoing family, of which there were quite a few on this hot summer day. Mother, reading some pulpy novel and catching some sun. Father, a man nearing 50 whose boyish looks and decent build gave him the look of a man half his age, swimming in the waves and trying rather unsuccessfully to ride a few. Two boys, teenagers, playing football on the beach, and a girl of around 12 sunbathing like her mother. Yes, the Fosters looked like any other ordinary family spending a weekend in the sun and fun, but the truth was quite different. The father of this family was David Foster, the Prime Minister and arguably the second most powerful person in the nation behind the King himself. Foster had been Prime Minister for nearly four years, and was coming up on his reelection. He had done a few stops in his constituency, but expected to win handily; he barely remembered the name of the two-bit the Tories had put against him, and at any rate had a twenty-thousand vote majority at last count. Still, the election season had taken its toll on Foster. Day in and day out, he got call after call giving him the latest figures, relaying the latest policy advice to keep control of Parliament for his Liberals, and all indication was that the vote would be a close one. Thus, Foster had given himself a holiday for this weekend, and was immensely glad of it. The weather was perfect, the water cool but not overly so, and the waves moderate. It seemed, for the moment, that nothing could break his tranquility.

Then, he heard it. The ringing, the tone he had picked out for his colleagues in Government, emanating from his cellphone onshore. Dashing out of the water and hoping to God it was just someone calling to ask how his weekend was, he quickly picked it up and looked at the name on the caller ID. Snow. This can't be good, he thought, opening it.

"Foster," he said mechanically, answering the phone.

"Mr. Foster this is Director Snow at RIB headquarters, the CCS and our top intel guys have some stuff they'd like to brief you on. Up north stuff. Can you be down here in thirty?"

"Not particularly Abe. I'm at North Beach trying to enjoy a day with my family. Can you brief me over the phone?"

"No can do Dave, OPSEC says in-person only for all matters relating to the north," Snow replied matter-of-factly.

Of course it does, you paranoid bastard, you wrote the fucking OPSEC, Foster thought angrily to himself before replying. "Right. Yeah I can be down in thirty if I get the Metro fast enough."

"Roger that. Sorry to do this to you Dave but shit's about to go down. I can't say more right now, see you in thirty."

"Honey, that was work. They need me downtown, stay as long as you want and take the car home. I'll try to be home for dinner," Foster said resignedly to his wife, who had looked up from her book after overhearing the conversation. Mrs. Foster simply sighed at this, having gotten used to her husband being pulled away to protect the country. She, for one, was not looking forward to four more years of being First Lady.

Foster caught the Metro on time and was quickly spirited to the stop closest to RIB headquarters, deep in the Government Block of Hudson. Flashing his ID to the sentry and again to the rather amused receptionist, he entered and was soon in the elevator down to the situation room. It was there that he noticed he was still in his casual attire: pastel yellow polo shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals. He looked more like a beachcombing tourist than a head of government, but didn't particularly care at this point. At any rate, it was too late to go back to the house for a suit.

He exited the elevator directly into the cavernous briefing room, instinctively and a bit preemptively saluting the military men who he knew would be rising to render him the honor. "Nice shirt, Mr. Foster," a junior aide jested before a glare from Director Snow silenced him. Foster, taking the jest in stride, took his seat and immediately began speaking, the annoyance in his voice showing.

"As you can see, gentlemen, I came down here as fast as I could. Care to enlighten me as to what the hell I'm here for?"

Rising as he always did to pace about while speaking, Snow began. "Mr. Foster, I'll be brief. We have intelligence suggesting that Alacea intends to invade the Questarian Confederacy within the month at the latest and within a week at the earliest. This has been confirmed by multiple contacts on the ground in both countries, in addition to several news outlets." Snow paused a moment to allow the gravity of his words to sink in.

"So Verikov has finally gotten enough rope to hang himself with, then" Foster replied after a moment, ignoring the quizzical looks on his colleagues' faces. "He does that, the Questarians will whip him back to Karelya and call for his head."

Snow, however, seemed to disagree. "Not necessarily sir. The Questarian Army was always the red headed stepchild of the old Empire and under the Confederacy things haven't gotten much better. Their equipment is passable, yes, but the majority of the soldiers are horrendously undertrained compared to their Alacean adversaries whom we presume received training from the Doomani. With Doomani backing, Verikov could very well get what he wants although there's no denying the fight would be a tough one. I'd say it's a one-in-four shot the Questarians lose this one, maybe one-in-five."

"I still have to disagree, Abe, the Questarians are some of the most paranoid and gun-loving people in the world. Grenville himself said the Alaceans would be staring down the barrels of two hundred million FGRs and I have to agree. Still, I'd like to know the status of the Questarian mobilization or at least whatever you know on it."

"Our contacts say that the Lobster Coast is ass-backward at the moment but sorting out quickly. It's a race against time to get their gear in position essentially. Which brings me to my next point, namely what we feel ought to be done on your end."

"I can only do what Parliament and the King let me Abe, you know that," Foster protested.

"I know that. Consider these suggestions of things to make known to Parliament next session. It'll do them good to think about what this might do for us. We've basically deduced three possibilities for our situation in the coming months. First, and least likely, is that Zukariaa preemptively invades both us and the Kampferians to take SAPAN out of the picture. For now, this seems a stretch though; our intel contacts say the Alaceans and Zukariaans aren't warming up too well to each other because of Verikov offing the monarchy. Second, and highly likely, is that Verikov gets at least a Pyrrhic victory out of his stunt in Questers, and comes for us possibly with Doomani aid. In this case, we rally Questers and the rest of SAPAN, and whomever else has an interest in containing them, and stop them at sea. Alacean soldiers shall not set foot on our soil, the brass has already decided that. If they have the Doomani with them, this is doubly important; you've seen how quickly those bastards can do a city, we absolutely cannot be forced to fight their war. Contingency plans are in development and will be forwarded to you via Defense Minister Trent. I strongly suggest you make a speech or two on Verikov and the possibility of war, get Parliament in 'defend-our-homeland' mode like you did for Clandonia, just in case."

"Will do Abe, as much as I despise the thought of another war. I agree though, we cannot let the Alaceans and Doomani breach our soil. Just wondering though, what was that third possible outcome?"

"The third outcome, David, is the one you should pray for: the Alaceans get routed and Avelo removed from the picture."

[Cravan]

A cold breeze sent a bout of tingling mist and rain droplets across the runway while the roar of jet engines from the line of U.225B superheavy cargo lifers and U.4 strategic lifters preparing for takeoff on the tarmac drowned the area with noise. Chief Warrant Officer Charles Fisher checked off a list on his clipboard while half of his face was covered with a black mask and his noise-canceling headset kept his hearing intact from working around these massive beasts.

"Flights four through six, I have you clear and in the green. Prepare for takeoff on tower's orders," he said as he continued to scribble some notes down furiously with his pencil. The sheet of paper was tearing under the pressure of his writing in some areas, and thus he tried his best to cover the sheet from the coming precipitation.

"Flights six through eleven, I have it all checked out for you, proceed with towers' orders," he declared as he again went down the final list of what had been loaded. He was the loadmaster on this shift for this particular airfield at Base Pelham in the southern part of Volstad. It was a jointly operated base between the Aequatian Republic Air Force and the Royal Air Service, however today the RAS had hijacked it as priority cargo was being shipped south -- far south.

"Flights eleven through sixteen, have fun in the Questarian sun!"

While he released the aircraft from his control and lent them to the tower, Warrant Officer Third Class Pete Gransley lit up his neon green batons and began the task of leading the herd of aircraft from the ferry way of the tarmac to the runway for takeoff. Dressed in a CRAVPAT parachutist's smock thrown over a black wool turtle neck sweater, with traditional RAS green elbow and shoulder patches, he attended to each of the massive aircraft to ensure they were properly aligned and ready to go. Although it was relatively dark and overcast, he wore his tactical sunglasses with his headset over them.

Aboard these aircraft were large elements of the 475th Air Assault Brigade, bound for Questers to support in the coming Alacean invasion. They would be the first line of Cravanian troops to enter Questers as part of a "thank you" for Questarian assistance in Brenningfeld. While Brenningfeld was likely to be a lost cause, Her Majesty's Government was not about to give up on Questaria.

"Flights sixteen through twenty, you are clear. Have a safe trip all of you, and kick some co-ack arse!" Fisher announced to the assembled group of aircraft as he completed his checklist. Gransley stepped to the side, dropped his batons, and saluted with his right hand while swirling his left index finger in circles above his head as the planes rolled out gently. The ground shook underneath the monstrosities that were the U.225B aircraft, which carried most of the Brigade's aircraft and, subsequently, pilots in one swift move. A smaller, more manageable sortie would fly out in six hours' time containing the rear elements of the formation, to give time to those members of the brigade leaving now to set up and gear up while they awaited the rest of their men.

"I feel sorry for the bastards, Petey," Fisher said into his headset, "Going from thirty degrees here to ninety there."

"No, no," he heard come through the radio, "They're going to thirty degrees there. Those Questarians use celsius, remember."

"Heh, you're quite right. Let's get going after the last of these buggers gets off, I could use a drink."

"Right-o, Chuck."

************

"Mum, why're we camped out by this here road?"

"Well, sweetie," Regina Pemcast said to her inquisitive four year old daughter Samantha, "We need to stay here for some time while bad things happen back home. Monsters are coming, you know, and we can't be there while they are or we might get eaten."

"I know, mum, but why are we here? We were supposed to go to a hotel you said."

"Yes, well... These men are going to fight the monsters," Regina said with the most sincere face she could make, "And we need to stay out of their way so they can do their jobs."

Samantha looked back towards the road, where the M113's were rolling with young men aboard waving at the crowds along the roadways. Questarian and Cravanian alike had been stopped on this roadway, some in buses, others in cabs, and others in their own vehicles. Regina's husband, Richard, appeared as he climbed to the roof of their cab. Their cabbie, an elderly black Questarian, had taken to smoking a cigarette on the roof of the car, and had offered his white patron to join him. Richard had obliged, and hopped up while taking his own smokes from his shirt pocket.

"I hope they go and kill those monsters so we can go home soon!"

Regina smiled at her daughter, and told her to go play with a group of children who had gathered on the other side of the line of stranded cars and buses on this side of the road. While Samantha ran off playfully unaware of just what was happening around her, Regina broke down and sobbed at the thought of what was to become of their home, their life; their everything. They were going to lose everything, and all because of that Verikov character. She had heard the stories on CBN, particularly of what was happening to political prisoners held by the Alaceans. People were dying in that country every minute, and it was about to spill over into Brenningfeld.

She sat down on the back seat of the cab while hanging her legs over the side.

"I hope so too," she remarked through tears, "I hope so too."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the road, James Garfield and his friends had been living in Brenningfeld attending university there. They were all either of Carpanthium or the mainland, however they had decided to make the best of their surprise trip to Questers. Although they had intended to wait until arriving at the hotel, they had decided that now was a more opportune time than ever. The group of them had turned their car radios to full on whatever station they could get the best signal from, cracked open several coolers' worth of beer and liquor, and set to making the best of bad times.

While the 'car party' as it had been dubbed started getting larger as refugees of all genders and backgrounds joined in and contributed their own refreshments to the pool, James and his best friend Michael Patterson came running back to the group of assembled university students.

"We found some, we found some!"

In each man's hand was a flag; one Questarian and one Cravanian. They were of a decent size; their colors easily recognizable from a distance.

"Come on, man, let's do this!"

Jim, slightly intoxicated, took the lead as he jumped on top of a car, not necessarily knowing the owner, and began waving the Questarian flag in his hands wildly. Mike, meanwhile, climbed another car and did the same. Shouting and cheering as loudly as they could, they brought the group of party people to the road where they too began cheering for the passing column of motorized infantry.

"Dude, let's give these fuckers some beer!"

"Yeah, man!"

A few of the university students managed to flag down some of the armored units, and began passing out what alcohol they could spare to the young men riding atop them. It was at this moment where they realized there was little different between them; they were of similar age, parentage, and even, in some ways, upbringing. Under any other circumstances they'd likely never have even crossed paths, however, here and now, they were all being affected by the same turn of events. And they were all making the best of it.

"Hey man, fuck yeah! This is awesome," James shouted as he continued to wave the Questarian flag, "Show those fuckers who's boss!"

[Central Prestonia]

House of Commons
Government Block, Hudson
2100 Hours

It was a role David Foster had gotten all too used to, unnaturally so even. The cameras, staring him down coldly. The eyes of his colleagues, all 720 of them, staring at him intently, their anxious anticipation written on their faces. Speaking. Rallying. Bearing bad news, and creating hope. Yes, it was a familiar role to Prime Minister Foster, having done it once before. That time, there had been a war. Prestonia had been wounded, had lost a city even, but had come out strong and united. This time, he hoped to avoid that process. This time, he prayed, things would be different. Shuffling his papers and clearing his throat, he waited for the camera cue, and began.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Parliament, Mr. Speaker, My fellow Prestonians.

"I address you this evening for what I hope will be only a minor interruption of your regularly scheduled programming. The state of affairs of our world is as ever grim, and I feel it important to enumerate certain facts and make known to you my government's position on the events ongoing in the Questarian Confederacy and in the nation of Alacea.

"The Alacean government, led by the illegitimate tyrant Avelo Verikov, stands poised to strike at the Questarian homeland. Verikov, in his twisted sense of irredentism, believes he has a right to the south of Questaria, particularly the state of Lobster Coast. His hordes are well-trained, well-equipped, and merciless in their destruction and inhumanity. If any portion of Questaria should fall to the Coactionists and their rabble, the devastation on its citizens shall be unthinkable. The Coactionist Front has proven itself little better than a rabble of common thugs and criminals, more befitting a prison yard than the leadership of a nation. They have inflicted countless cruelties upon any who dare assert their natural rights. They have suppressed in its entirety the free press, the practice of religion, the right to bear arms and the right of assembly. I am told that there are, even as I speak, government squads going around the nation forcibly confiscating the arms of the citizens who still possess them. I am told that there are plans in the works to demolish cathedrals in Karelya dating to the 1700s and earlier. The Coactionists have done these things to their own people, and more. I have knowledge of offenses so cruel and contrary to the human spirit as to make the stomachs of even the most hardened of men turn. I have read stories and seen evidence of atrocities unfit to utter amongst even the rudest of company. The Coactionists have done these things to their own people, have planned to do them in Brenningfeld and there can be no doubt, none whatsoever, that given the chance they will do them in Questaria.

"Against this tide of oppression, of cruelty and of despair, stand the forces of the Cravanians and the Questarian Confederacy. These forces, and the countries they defend, represent all which Avelo despises. Avelo Verikov despises the notion of religion, for his ego cannot tolerate any being larger than he. He fears the freedom of the press, for he fears what he would hear if the people were given voice. He fears an armed populace, knowing full well he would not last one day, nay one hour, in a country which could express how they felt about his regime through force of arms!

<applause>

"Yes, Avelo fears Liberty, shrinks from its light as a beast from the fire. This, then, is why he has launched his crusades against his neighbors. Avelo Verikov, the egotistic self-proclaimed general of Alacea, has been misled by his Doomani puppeteers and handlers into believing he can do what three hundred years of warfare have failed to: wipe free governance from the face of this continent. It is not inconceivable that, in this misguided pursuit, Avelo will attempt an invasion of our homeland should his government survive long enough to assemble one. It is no secret what Avelo thinks of our people: I have been informed he regards us as the scum of the earth, and as he does his other neighbors, views our land as his for the taking. Avelo, clearly, did not learn a lesson which a good many of us absorbed in primary school: you cannot always have what you want. I say this now, with God and the whole of the nation as my witness: as long as I am Prime Minister, nay, as long as I live, Avelo will not have a single inch of Prestonian soil.

<raucous applause>

"To that end, I plan to introduce a bill to my Honorable Colleagues authorizing the deployment of four divisions to Questaria should it become necessary. This is not a recant of my previous pledge to keep our nation out of needless conflict; rather, it is a move vital to the defense of the Prestonian Commonwealth and its people. It is not inconceivable that should the Alaceans succeed in Questaria, our proud nation will be met with the battle-tested forces of Verikov's infant war machine. It is imperative, therefore, that Verikov be stopped in his tracks in Questaria, shown the error of his thinking through the only language he understands, and compelled to reappraise his imperialistic desires.

"I do not, however, suspect that the Questarians will be content with merely throwing back the Alaceans. No, I know the Questarians, and I hardly believe that the Questarian tiger, having been rudely awakened from its slumber, will be content with a light meal before it goes back to rest. The Questarians, I am sure, will press toward Karelya relentlessly, ceasing only when Verikov dangles from a gallows as all criminals of his sort should. I say today that when the hour is at hand to liberate the Alacean people from the fires of oppression, Prestonia will stand side by side and arm in arm with the Questarians and the Cravanians in the noble crusade. To the Alaceans who I know are listening to this broadcast from their illegal radios, and watching via illegal satellites, I say simply this: do not lose heart. Stay strong. Liberation is coming, and it will not be long before you enjoy the freedoms you deserve. I know the Alacean people. They are an honorable people, one which did not choose the thug and tyrant known as Verikov. He is an insult not only to Alaceans but to good, upstanding peoples across the globe.

"I know that many members of this House, and citizens of this nation, have shied away from expressing support for the anti-Verikov factions in Alacea, out of a belief that they are socialistic or radicals bent on destruction as Verikov would have you believe. This is simply untrue. There are socialists in Alacea, to be sure, but these are hardly the backbone of the resistance. No, the backbone of the Alacean Resistance, as we might term it, is made up of common people, driven to such measures by the tyrannies inflicted upon them. It is the mother who watched, horrorstruck, as her only son was murdered by Coactionists for possessing a book deemed dangerous. It is the father and business owner, who having worked his entire life on his enterprise, has seen it vanish in an instant into government coffers. It is that same father who fears his son will have nothing to look forward to, and worries for his future in a land ruled by repression and brutality. It is the university student, whose professors were imprisoned or murdered for their politics and whose school has been turned into a manufacturing plant for Coactionist drones. It is the cleric, who has seen his place of worship desecrated. Yes, the resistance is all these people and more, and it grows daily. There is nothing Verikov can do to stop it, nothing which he can bring himself to do. Every repression, every injustice and inequity, drives more and more into the arms of those who wish to see him hang. How many times will one commuter tolerate being searched at checkpoints and made late for work before lashing out? How many late-night intrusions will one family tolerate, before the father decides that the next time the police come knocking they will receive their answer in the form of his gun, safely hidden from their searches? For how long will the casual Coactionist and fence-sitter remain blind to the suffering around them? These things I do not know, but I know that they cannot endure forever. Verikov, be warned: your twisted ideology is not eternal, nor are you, and your day is coming."

<raucous applause, exit.>

[Questers]

ROUGECOTE, QUESTARIAN CONFEDERACY
LORIENT, GOUVERNEMENT MAISON
TEMPERATE 23 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 60%
2300H

The Rougecote Republic, a neighbour of the Lobster Coast, had been observing the situation for some time. The law of the Questarian Confederacy allows for States, unless National Emergency has been declared, to steer clear of the foreign actions of other states, including invasions. To this extent, many of the Questarian states were watching with little more than a cautious eye, believing, perhaps falsely, that the Lobster Coast and even Hollandia might throw back the enemy of their own accord, and in their own time, not requiring Confederate assistance. Indeed, on paper, it looked that way; the Questarians were outnumbered perhaps two to one on the ground not including partisans, and at a very minimum could establish air parity. Only to the commanders on the ground in the Lobster Coast really knew the truth: that the State was in very, very grave danger.

Of all the non-border states, only one rallied to the Lobster Coast's call of national unity in the face of Alacean tyranny: that was, the Rougecote Republic. By referendum, the people of the Rougecote, either out of a worry that if the Lobster Coast fell, they would be next, or perhaps out of a desire to defend their fellow Questarians, had voted one hour ago to defend the integrity of the Confederacy to the last cartridge. Two division of the Rougecote Army made preparations to move South, but were already informed that the roads were blocked, and so turned around and headed north to be sent over by air.

The Rougecote Republic had many reserve pilots and few aircraft. It was thought that a good way of protecting Questarian aerial assets from a huge opening strike that would catch the Confederacy unawares was simply to move all the aircraft to isolated bases in the interior, where they were treated as Reserve Units and looked after by skeleton crews. Now, they were coming out. In bases across Mauretania and some parts of Saratoga, crews pulled back tarpaulins, fixed engines, fuelled aircraft and made last minute checks. Within hours, reserve planes of all kinds were being flown to empty airfields in the Rougecote, bombers, fighters, support aircraft: they were all part of reserve flight groups and hundreds of aircraft had already arrived before many pilots had been issued their reserve papers. The Rougecote stood behind the Lobster Coast like a tag-team partner; ready to be called upon when needed, but still flexing its muscles for the fight. Soon, that time would come.

ROUGECOTE, QUESTARIAN CONFEDERACY
CONMAF ETAMPES FIELD
TEMPERATE 22 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 60%
2359H

The sixty Blackburn Blackadders of Maritime Flight Group 224 had been armed and fuelled up before the votes were called in, the Government intending to send them to the Lobster Coast anyway. But given the authority, they were about to issue the Rougecote's declaration of support in a more material way than words could express. Taking off in the darkness, as they had practiced thousands of times, they headed into the Axackal and then southwards, sticking a hundred klicks from the coast and receiving tanker support out into the Axackal sea proper. Each were armed with three long-range, high-speed, high explosive missiles, which would climb out of the ceiling of local air defence systems and then plunge down on their target at tremendosu speed. The targets had already been selected by the Navy; three submarine pens that were suspected of housing either Doomani or Alacean submarines that were intercepting civilian and military convoys in the Axackal Sea, bound for Brenningfeld.

Out of the range of shore-based missiles or interceptors, the bombers launched their missiles, a hundred and eighty plumes of white smoke creating their own, albeit temporary cloud, before zooming forth and replacing the slowly fading cloud with contrails of air. From the sea, it probably looked beautiful, but they were deadly. The missiles were pre-programmed to split up and land on their targets on on the ground, and so now all the Blackadders needed to do was head for home. It was inglorious; it wasn't even particularly hard, but this was modern strategic bombing, and Questarian aircraft were already tangling with Alacean aircraft above the skies of Brenningfeld and Questarian bombers had already attacked Alacean airfields. Those states that were preparing for war were readying themselves. Soon would come judgement day, and anything they could achieve before that was an added bonus. This small subsection of Operation Leister was just an image of what was to come.

L1 MOTORWAY, LOBSTER COAST
33rd MOTOR RIFLE BRIGADE
TEMPERATE 21 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 70%
0100H

Auckland, deciding that he had done all he could do, opted for one last morale-raiser. Flying to the frontline in a helicopter, he arrived to find the troops in a demoralised state, seemingly full aware of what awaited them. He ordered the support men to work; this problem would shortly be rectified.

The brigade were already assembled; in their foxholes, behind sandbags and trucks, in ditches and behind trees and shrubbery, and by the time Auckland had arrived, the support group had set up microphones and a sound system, and had already recruited a team of journalists; war correspondents would be used to full effect by the Questarians in the following conflict. Auckland's tall figure, trotting back and forth on his ceremonial horse, presented in itself a morale-raiser to the troops. In some armies, Generals are far behind and care little for their men, a prime example being the Clandonian strategic staff during the war with Prestonia. Questarian officers have high attrition rates: they lead from the front (or at least, close to it.)

Auckland surveyed the men before him. They resembled more of a rabble than an Army, depressed, miserable, the same expression on almost all their faces: fright. Some wore boonie hats, others helmets, but neither protected them from the rain. Looking into the sky, Auckland saw the clouds form up like huge battleships, raining their ordnance down on the men below. Soon, the land around the L1 Highway would turn to mud if it kept up until the morning, but it likely wouldn't. This was just a squall. The men defending the main road into Calay and then on to Sandakan were not what any General would choose for this job, but Auckland wouldn't trade them for the world. As far as he was concerned, they were his men. His boys. Together, they would do the impossible, the reverse of what the world's military analysts predicted.

His adjutant nodded that the cameras were ready, and Auckland imagined they portrayed a grim scene. Rain, darkness, and him on his horse, facing the troops of the 33rd Motor Rifle Brigade.

"Men of the Coast!" he shouted, as all eyes were affixed on him, rain pattering down on his hair, as he moved his horse back and forth, surveying his troops. "You have a task ahead which no sane man on earth would envy. In time, as we understand, and as all intelligence points towards, the Alacean Army will cross the border, singing the Battle Hymn of Tyranny and treading upon all that stands in their way. You will see things no man should ever see. From here," he said, turning to look in the distance,"You can see the lights of Bakersfield. Soon the light will cease to be powered by electricity and turn to flame. We have not the manpower to defend her." If he could have examined the faces of every single man in the brigade, he would know that some of them came from Bakersfield, and some were shortly ready to break into tears. They were not men, but boys, many not even in their twenties.

"You will watch from the parapets as the enemy tramples upon our people. We all need feel no guilt, nor responsibility. We did not choose to bear this invasion. Instead, we shall feel only anger. Only the desire to avenge what has been imposed upon us. To destroy the forces that have invaded our country and attacked our people and our heritage. Remember, in the heat of battle, what you are fighting for. Remember your mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters at home, on the plantations, in the homesteads, in the suburbs, on the road and in the jungle and the cities. Remember them as they are remembering their boys at the front, risking their lives for life and liberty. And remember that there is one, outstanding difference between the Questarian patriot-at-arms and the rampaging Alacean soldier. The enemy intends to fight a war of aggression out of sheer hatred. We do not. We fight a war of defence, born out of love. Love for our families and friends, for our native soil, for our rights and freedoms. When we lay our lives down on the line, all of us, when we prepare to make the ultimate sacrifice, we remember what it was that brought us here. When we report to the gates of Heaven and to God's face himself, when he asks us what we killed and died for, we say one word. Love.

"It is what we have, not what we desire, that has brought us here. It is in the knowledge that if we perish, it is so that our loved ones may continue to live. There is a statue in Central Square in Sandakan. A statue of men like you, for men like you. Upon it is inscribed; For Our Today, They Gave Their Tomorrow. Surrounding this statue are the pinnacles of our civilisation; places of religion, of enterprise, and of law. For those are the things we are fighting. Make no mistake that the enemy will aim to eradicate all three of them. You are the only thing standing between the villainy of General Velikov and the innocent people of this State. Some of you will not be returning home. Your mothers will stand at your graves and weep openly at their lost sons. Your fathers will stand beside them and wish that if only they had gone instead, you might be alive. Your siblings will cry for the brothers they never knew. But inside, they will all be consumed with pride and gratitude. Pride, for the honourable and brave stand which you have made against tyranny. Gratitude, for your generosity, for you have given all you have so that they may live in peace and freedom.

And remember one last thing, a true patriot asks not for how much longer the war will continue, but for how much longer the enemy resists!"

The men erupted into cheer, and Auckland shouted over the noise; "Give 'em hell!"

[Alacea]

AALEN, ALACEA
2000 HOURS

Hans Amsel was stirring, slowly but surely. My head... what is this? Gradually gaining consciousness, Hans realized he had a sustained a large blow to the head. His remaining tufts of aged hair was damp with drying blood. He was missing teeth. Blinking his eyes, he also realized he was near some kind of... was it an oven? His body was riddled with and emitting from every orifice heat. Gaining sight back made him wince at what seemed to be a growing blaze. An attempt to walk gave him more insight to his condition- he was tied to something. Frantic attempts at moving yielded no results but a jolt of pain in his fractured ankles. He could now vaguely make out what was going on around him, squinting his eyes inside his throbbing temple. It was around sunset, but the air was filled with smoke. Surprising himself, he suddenly began vomiting out what felt like were his very bowels- the air was suffocating yet nauseating him, a devilish and ironic combination. "You're awake." Turning to his side, only to rear over in pain from the hardest punch to the stomach he had ever taken, he glimpsed... what was his name... he couldn't think, his most basic of functions were slipping away. Wilhelm Hoch, the indomitable local Coac organizer. Asshole. Hans made out the silhouette of his towering stature turn to another. That one's voice he couldn't recognize. He now could hear some kind of chant in the distance.. it was as if he were under water, bobbing just at the surface, catching every few words- no, chants. A crowd. What is happening?

"Kommandant of District 301A, presiding over trial of..." Wilhelm shot a look of disgust Amsel could feel under any amount of disorientation. "A Hans Amsel, on charges of: treason by the spreading of dangerous ideas, interbreeding with untermenschen." What was he talking about? "The peoples' wartime court of District 301A has found this person guilty, to be punished by death by most convenient means." The organizer recited the words in monotone, taking no consideration of what he was uttering. It was coming back to Hans now. A loud bang from the foyer. Scuttling through the hallway, his bedroom door flung open. An attempt to resist, futile... a stock blow to the head, and all had been dark until now. What were those charred blocks on the pavement? Were those...? No that wouldn't make any sense.

Suddenly he was moving up on his- cruficix?! Up and forward. What were they doing?!

Hans Amsel died screaming, surrounded by jeers and laughter, his senses returning as the flames ate away his dilapidated body. Here it is. The glory of the Coactionist Dream... Collapsing, he managed to get a glimpse at what the tinder was. Books.

Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen.

---

WOLFSBURG, ALACEA
2100 HOURS

The soothing colors of the large configuration in front of the dark figure seemed to evaporate the violent thoughts buzzing in this particularly monstrous mind. Stepping back, the dictator admired the final outcome of his original plan. "VECHTA" was inscribed plainly on the side, something only he and a few of his closest cronies within Coactionist ideology could understand. Sitting in the middle of monolithic marble room, whose vaulted ceilings required straining one's eyes to make out, the slab resembling a simple island complex, complete with a town whose architecture was just distinguishable enough to say confidently that it was Alacean. Millions would die, soon, in the pursuit of this, this hope for life, for space for the Alacean nation. For salvation.

Whipping his coattails 360 degrees, the echo of his leather shoes reverberated the vacuous room. Dreaming could wait. There were more serious matters to attend to.

Having left his lavish traditional abode for this much better fortified "super-bunker", which resembled more of a cavernous modernly decorated apartment than any kind of Karelyan mountain cabin. If planning for Brenningfeld had been interesting, the last few days had been a blur. The gruff General, having not shaved for several days, remembered fondly the reason for the move. How he had cackled when told of the Questarians' intervention! A fiendish smile would remain for days. This was the chance of the century, no the millenia, or of his entire nation's history. The chance to take a huge swath of Questeria, to have free reign over the Herkunftsland. It was all unfolding better than ever anticipating. While pilots danced over Brenningfeld, most of his army was steamrolling the socialists, the few hundred thousand on the brink of flooding the small colony being an insignificant comparison to the millions on their way to the north. Avelo was certain Colonel Adenburg could oversee the Cravanians' humiliation. Strange- he was at the war room. His brain was brimming with so many matters to contemplate he had forgotten to carefully scan his surroundings.

Turning on his heel through the high plain arch, he was met with a megalithic and paralyzingly bright computer screen against the dark room on the back wall. Buzzing with activity, tiny figures danced around and on smaller screens scenes of events unfolding around the nation like one would see in a newsreel, most of them violent.

Assuming his general staff had indeed been relocated to the new headquarters as well, Avelo closed his eyes, savoring the last few days opportunity, and began dictating a rare few words of praise and delight. "Excellent job. The boys up in electronics have outdone themselves, as usual. Although, we could make every fuck-up conceivable and win this handily. Now brief me on what all that means."

A loan voice spoke up, echoing against the high barriers on all sides of the enclosure. "Sir, the majority of our Army is about to pour into Questers, shortly after cleaning up Socialist resistance, if it could be truthfully called such. The Doomanis have surrounded on three sides their last few blocks of territory in Kaiserburg, and we hold the last quarter. A bloody purge will free this nation of any piece being under Socialist oppression. Much of the north is under occupation by the Doomanis, who will in short order be compounded into our two main army groups, east and west, as well as serving as a large reserve should we run into complications." Which we probably will...

"Operation Tame The Beast is go in a few days, enough time for us to shuffle our armored columns to the coast and form two mammoth army units. We intend to run into minimal numerical resistance. The sheer size of our forces ought to be enough to push all the way to Lusitania if we really wanted to. Our planners have factored more of the plans to deal with civilian traffic on the roads and paramilitary resistance. Care to hear how they intend to deal with that? 1) Burn the rice patties. 2) Starve the insolent mutts. 3) Move in, mopping up resistance. Couldn't be much simpler. Of course, a few helicopters raining hell on civilian traffic should convince them that the roads are ours. Taking a lesson from our Doomani allies, the negerschuetzer will learn quickly that a single potshot will get their town leveled and family killed. From the initial advance we will establish a formidable defensive line of some sort, the distance from the initial border being determined by how successful we are and how deep we can reach into the Commonwealth in what timeframe. This could well last for some time. The people need a proper channel for their hate... having our homelands against one another will mean both of us will put everything into this war. This won't be the typical three day squabble so typical of haven. Then we hunker-down and laugh as the Questarians launch drive after pathetic drive to reclaim their lands...

The only complication may be in the air. Land forces are to head into Brenningfeld tomorrow, the road to demolish Stanley should be a breeze. Our air forces have critically crippled the enemy's ability to support aircraft by effectively destroying their base facilities network. We expect an offer to come from Laurana pleading for safe civilian passage, likely for no scorched earth on the oil fields. If not we intend to offer it, what are a few Cravacks to save us major logistical headache?

The Prestonians will likely insist on involving themselves. Not to fret, be assured our diplomats can work something convenient out with the Zukariaans.

We have accomplished much for a couple of weeks in power. You should be proud, Chancellor. Now go, you know what you have to do."

Quite impressed, Avelo offered a simple nod of approval before again turning on the spot and walking briskly down the same hallway. That new head aide was even more long winded than I had thought, given Vendler's description. Past where he had started he found himself in a large elevator in the central artery of the building. Up. Up and forward. The elevator continued up until it was skirting along the building's ceiling, before exiting and briefly hugging its exterior and descending neatly to the ground, reaching the end of its beltway at a helipad. Stepping out, slapping his hand playfully against several feet of the best bullet-proof glass available, Avelo advanced not a millimeter before being surrounded by men in dark suits and sunglasses with Comark pins, escorting him to a helicopter.

The crowd had been told that they were there to see a famed Coactionist reporter from before the revolution. When Avelo Verikov approached the podium, tales of fanatical screams that pierced the city and could be heard from the deepest sewers would be told for generations.

"I stand before you today, having never been prouder to be an Alacean. Our battered nation has thrown off the shackles of Socialist regression and shown the world that we intend on making our point. The SRA is routed and defeated. Brenningfeld is ripe for the reconquering. The world bates its breathe."

<applause>

But their are those that wish to crush our dream. Who want to cling onto the old order of shame for the Alacean nation, who want nothing more than for her to be denied her place in the sun, to remain a backwater. These people have a symbol, and they gang together in their drive to keep us down.

They are the anglosphere. They have theirs and want and would take ours, too. We will show them fear. We will show them hate, oppression, occupation, imperialism.

People have looked to me, to the greater Coactionist movement as a sign of hope, of deliverance. I come to you today to tell you that I have nothing but frustration and pain, in the name of a goal that may seem at times unattainable. But we are the light of the world, see it through and we will triumph. May fate rain death on all who dare oppose us!

Fellow Alaceans, I am here to alert you of the aggression of the Questarian Confederacy against our burgeoning State. They have stated their intent, and set a precedent of uncalled for aggression. The Questarian Confederacy dispatched several days ago a naval taskforce to interfere with our operations in taking back what is ours. Today, the launched a strike against a submarine depot, without issuing any kind of declaration of war.

The world has acted as it has for the past century of lost glory- collaboration with the great behemoth to the north, beaming at us with its pervasive glare, drooling with dreams of conquest. They call us insane, unfounded, that Coactionism is an evil that has imposed itself on the people of this nation. What fools. Who among you has not been part of the great transformation?

<jeers of agreement>

You know now that I am here today offering frustration and pain. But the goal to be attained is fantastically great. A greater Alacea. A chance to claim the Herkunftsland, the place of our ancestors' origin, for our own. To instantaneously reclaim the honor of a one hundred years of shame. We will shortly punish the instigator, give him a taste of his own medicine, one thousand Brenningfelds! We shall march victorious in the streets of Lusitania! Send your men off proud, mothers and fathers, they leave soon to fight for the greater cause, the hope for our noble race and nation- for the fatherland. Nach Norden meine Brueder!"

[Zukariaa]

Emperor Calls Up The Reserves

Troop movements near Taradoxica

From Anthrax Anthraxos
Aiur Times
Issue of 07/04/XX

Though our nation’s military has already been undergoing movements along with Alacean forces to oust Cravanian ‘militia’ from Brenningfield, a recent series of events has drastically upped-the-ante. In a relatively short time, Doomani forces from across the Axackal have crushed most SRA forces in northern Alacea. A Questarian aircraft carrier, the Hollandia, moved south to help Cravanian forces in defending Brenningfield.

Though its quite obvious to many that this was likely a ploy for Questarian cassus belli against ‘tyranny’ on its borders, it was yet more obvious that the Doomani would sink the Hollandia. Which they did. Within days, Alacea and Doomingsland seem to have initiated the first stages of the first invasion of Questaria since the Four Day War.

This puts Zukariaa in a bizarre situation. Though in a formal alliance with both Doomingsland and Alacea, SICON, the Emperor also has ties to the former royal family of Questers. He was recently quoted saying, “Though they may no longer rule Questaria officially, I somehow find it difficult to accept that they are not still the rightful rulers of Questers.”

To this end, though Zukariaa has for long had ties to Questers, their loss of power seems to legitimize, at least according to aids of the Emperor, a definite obligation to the alliance. Thus today, he has called up the reserves and ended all leaves. It is interesting to note that military forces have been moving heavily towards the south, near Prestonia. For what reason, it is not sure, though Prime Minister David Foster recently gave a hot-blooded speech and indicated his support of Questers.

----

PRIVATE MESSAGE

TO: Rt. Hon. David Foster MP
FROM: His Majesty By the Grace of the Gods Emperor Conrad II
RE: Aid to Questers

By now I am sure you are receiving intelligence reports indicating that I have ordered large military deployments towards our border. Know this: nothing must come of this. Zukariaa and Prestonia are not destined for war and hatred; we are not fated to meet on the battlefield. For too long our nations have lived together yet separate, sharing a common history and similar cultures and yet never sharing them.

In the coming weeks, this alienation can continue. We can go to war once more. Or you can make the right choice and we may finally end this cycle. I await your response, and hope that it is a promise of peace.

SIGNED,
By the Grace of the Gods His Imperial Majesty Emperor Conrad II
Emperor of Zukariaa,
Emperor of Arterusia,
Emperor of Seseer,
Emperor of Demoras,
Emperor of Atomicos,
Emperor of Zukariaan Negroland,
Overlord of Loompastate,
Emperor of the Zukariaans,
Inheritor of the Realms of the Kingdom of Aiur, Kaiserburg, and Taradoxica,
Head of the House of the Aiurioi,
Descendent of Rarlu the Destroyer,
32nd Sovereign Ruler of Zukariaa,
Licensed Barber

[Central Prestonia]

Kentwood Manor
10 Marlborough Road
Hudson
Royal Commonwealth of Prestonia and Her Overseas Realms

Office of The Prime Minister

To: HIM Conrad II, By the Grace of the Gods Emperor of Zukariaa etc etc

Your Imperial Majesty, I do believe you have misinterpreted my speech and its desired effect. In a way, this is partially my fault as I shall admit myself rather easily riled up when speaking on matters as these. Nevertheless, I shall address the points you have brought up within this letter.

I am a man of peace first and foremost. War is by no means a step which should be undertaken lightly or without first exhausting all viable diplomatic options. I have said this several times before, and as long as God(s) gives me breath, I shall continue to say it. Within my recent address I made reference to four divisions being activated to the defense of Questers, should they require them. As of this communique, neither I nor the Defense Minister has received any indication that they will be required. The Questarians, as you yourself should know, are a resilient people and I have little doubt that they can handle their own affairs as they always have. As an ally, though, I stand ready to act if called upon.

I quite agree that there is no need for our nations to go to war. The last thing, the very last, that I or any Prestonian I know of desires is a meaningless war with Zukariaa over some business up north. I do not wish to alienate the Zukariaan people nor yourself. I cannot predict the future, and thus know not what perils and crises our region shall face in a week, a month, or even a year. For the moment, however, I do not foresee any actions on my government's behalf which will require our nations to fall to war against each other.

God Save the King.

[Signed]
Rt. Hon. David Foster MP
Prime Minister

[Cravan]

[Transferred here to reduce clutter.]

[Questers]

THE TIGER AND THE EAGLE, PART 2
FIRST BLOOD: OPERATION TEMERAIRE

LOBSTER COAST
TEMPERATE 20 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 67%
0130H[/B]

Tropical rain is not the greatest weather to fly in, but the pilots of Operation Temeraire knew they didn't have a choice. The Alacean's were preparing to invade and at any minute might spill over the border. Southern Force HQ knew they didn't have very much time to try and stem the tide: the recent words of Verikov were enough. Marching victorious in the streets of Lusitania indeed. The explicit threat made by the Alacean General had been reported by the Questarian media and internationally, too. Nobody could fault the Questarians for initiating the shooting phase. The danger was too great to stand back and wait. The land forces of the Lobster Coast and even the Rougecote were scarcely sufficient to invade Alacea, and in any case a defeat would lead to the Alaceans simply rolling into the country. Any opening strike would have to be from the air.

The citizens of Sandakan -- those who could sleep -- were awoken in the early hours by the thunderous roar of aircraft engines. Looking out of their windows, the dark silhouette of the aircraft carriers Penampang and Baltimore cruising a few kilometres from the coastline dominated the waterfront, and from her decks shot forth dozens of aircraft, engines briefly lighting up the flight deck and throwing a momentary illuminating flash of light over the characters on the ship, only for them to be covered in darkness a second later. The aircraft took to the skies, powering their engines and taking formations. For those watching, it was not an inspiring moment, for they knew that finally, war was upon them.

At the frontlines, troops looked to the skies and heard supersonic booms, watching as dark shapes flew through the night. Some formations took cover as planes flew over their heads a mere hundred feet above the sky, an awesome demonstration of the power of the Hawker Cossack strike bomber. They caught glimpses of ordnance strapped underneath wings and knew that soon, it would all begin.

Operation Temeraire would be conducted in total radio and emissions silence until the first shot was fired. The pilots had been briefed impromptu before, but had all taken part in this sort of operation before: all Questarian pilots, at this point in time anyway, had combat experience from the civil war. They had been trained by men who had fought in the Four Day War and other conflicts, and were an entirely professional force. They considered that their inferior technology compared to the Alacean airforce was made up by their vastly superior combat experience. It was this professionalism that led to Air Marshall Holborn taking the risk of launching most of the Coast's aircraft at the same time, for one large assault. They would take the Alaceans by surprise, hit their airfields and troop camps and convoying tanks. Teach them a bloody lesson were Holborn's exact words.

Group Captain Roger Swift-Hall didn't take the time to peer out of his cockpit at the terrain below. This was something he did on maneouvres, sometimes, but this would require every inkling of his concentration. His Hawker Cossack could fly at extremely low heights; right now, he noticed, it was flying at 32 metres above ground level. His Flight Group of sixty aircraft was tasked to hit three Alacean camps which command had identified as division size, or perhaps larger, each. That meant twelve bombers per camp and six SEAD bombers per camp. He had been assured he didn't have to worry about top cover, but really had no idea and didn't want to entertain the thought of an Alacean fighter diving down on top of him, so put it to the back of his mind as his computer beeped that it was time for the next waypoint. Flying at such a low height, they would be detected by ground radars too late; any anti air installations spotted would receive an anti-radiation missile or a laser guided bomb to the face before they had time to respond, if they even did: it had taken Swift Hall less than a minute to reach the border from his airbase, such was the small size of the combat zone.

As Swift-Hall crossed the border, the shooting began. A hundred kilometres behind him, a hundred and twenty Blackburn Blackadders, all of the Lobster Coast's strategic bomber wing, had taken to the skies. Their missiles were pre-programmed via a GPS, and their purpose was not one of a precision attack. No, their real purpose was to disguise the sort of Operation that Temeraire really was. Each of them launched twelve missiles which were distributed between all the airbases on the frontline bordering the Lobster Coast. With any luck, these missiles would find their targets in the form of runways and air traffic control, frustrating the Alacean efforts to properly organise resistance to this short strike. As the missiles streamed over the border, it became immediately clear that Questaria was not going to take the Alacean threats sitting down. From twelve large radar aircraft sitting comfortably over Questarian territory, an effort to attack electronically the Alacean lines of communication began. Barrage after barrage of radio interference and jamming flooded the airwaves.

To cover the low-flying strike bombers, LCDF-AF had scrambled all her fighters and split them into two groups, one of which was now streaming over the border, looking to tie up patrolling fighters from attacking the bombers on their way back. It would take only three minutes for them all to dispose of their ordnance and head for home, which would be enough to take the Alaceans by surprise on the way in, but perhaps not on the way out, and so LCDF-AF had committed her fighter elements, on an assurance of assistance from the Rougecote, to defend the bombers.

Swift-Hall could see the camp now; a typical, rapidly assembled thing, to house men and supplies in preparation for an invasion. "Well, we'll see about that" he said to himself, pulling his aircraft up and engaging the toss-bomb calculator. At a range of 28 kilometres, he and the rest of his squadron released three two thousand pound fuel air explosives each and returned to their previous flight path, heading for home with fingers crossed they wouldn't be intercepted. All across the frontline, Alacean troops would be waking up to a nasty surprise in the night; twelve camps had been targeted with the same attack pattern. That so many bombs were used per camp meant that a much percentage of the fuel from the bombs would be ignited, creating a gigantic firestorm over each camp and starving the occupants from oxygen, if not knocking down their barracks with the troops inside. Thermobarics were judged the best way to kill a large amount of men using a small amount of ordnance. Looking at the results in his mirror, Swift-Hall agreed, and only prayed that he had not been a sacrificial lamb in a risky demonstration.

As he turned, and as Questarian fighters danced in the sky with stilettos of death, he knew that the second group was coming in. But they had a different target. The next twelve squadrons of Hawker Cossack aircraft were from the Navy, and were flying over the coast, towards one target: an Alacean armoured column. Following the same pattern as the first strike group, these planes were instead loaded out with an array of anti-tank cluster weapons, to be delivered in the same fashion.

As the bombing operations ended and the Questarian planes struggled to return, Auckland and Holborn both hoped that this brief but powerful display of Questarian air power would achieve its single objective: to attrit the enemy before he even set foot on Questarian soil.

[Doomingsland]

Sanguinia (Formerly Wegensburg, Northern Alacea)
Segmentum Axacalis
18743.C21 Anno Domini (June 6th, 2043 Doomani Calendar)
1445 Local

Thought for the day: Ruthlessness is the kindness of the wise

The constant deafening patter of the torrential downpour was not enough to drown out the noise of tens of thousands of boots thundering in sharp step, and of the clanking of thousands of sets of steel treads. The city that had been put to the torch, whose rebellious population had been exterminated virtually overnight by the legions of Dominus Militaris Corax. Since that time, Corax's engineers had been hard at work clearing rubble and rebuilding the city to suit the purposes of the Imperium. It had been transformed into a fortress and logistical hub into which flowed vast numbers of troops and supplies on a daily basis. In that purpose it was to be temporary; the logistics of the army had already been reconfigured to draw on fresh war material coming straight out of Alacean factories to the immediate south, as well as millions of gallons of fuel flowing across the trans-Axackal pipeline daily to feed into Corax's vast stores.

The rate at which the Doomani had massed troops and supplies in Northern Alacea would have been shocking to any observer, and troubling to any Questarian. They had originally invaded in order to crush the Socialist Republic, which had been hastily formed in the wake of Verikov's ascent to power. The SRA had crumbled within days of the Doomani landing at Wegensburg, terrified at the amount of carnage inflicted upon that city and the potential for rivers of blood to flow across the north for the next fifty years if they didn't submit. Occupation troops had followed the initial invasion, vast numbers of Imperial Guard troops to take over from their more elite brothers, the Legionarii who had seen to the SRA's downfall.

It was obvious to anyone with military experience that the amount of troops dispatched by the Doomani for the purposes of occupying a now pacified Northern Alacea was overkill in the extreme, something the Doomani were known for, but the amount of supplies being amassed and the arrangement of the forces suggested alterior motives to the deployment. The shift from an occupation deployment to a more offensive posture was very gradual and subtle, however; with the Alaceans massing on the border for a potential immediate invasion, the Questarians seemed distracted to a potentially deadlier threat.

Corax was clad in the full dress uniform of a Dominus Militaris, the commander of an entire Frons of Imperial troops. Its black fabric was offset by gold trimmings as well as the vast array of medals that adorned his chest, and a black cape was draped over his back, and atop his head was the crested helm worn by officers of the Exercitus. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with bronze skin. His head was shaven, and his heavy brow helped to offset his arctic blue eyes which seemed to glitter, betraying a cold calculation and menace about him that caused even the hardest of men to shudder. He’d made his name early on as a member of the elite Vesec unit Tridens-IV, making war all across Haven. He’d later gone on to command his own legion, and later an entire corps on Paralentum when the Questarians invaded, and now commanded Frons Alaceanis, the Imperial Army in Alacea.

He watched his forces thunder down the parade avenue from the comfort of his recently finished headquarters building, a spartan structure of concrete and steel made to withstand air and artillery attacks. He sat in his personal study, located in the upper bastions of the structure, watching as the rain drops poured down the glass, obstructing his view.

” Magnificent, aren’t they,” remarked the man standing beside him.

”Magnificent in parade, perhaps, but what of their skill to war, Macharius?” replied Corax coldly. ”Shall they live up to their fathers’ and eldest brothers’ legacies?”

Macharius chuckled in response. He was an inch shorter than Corax and six years his senior. He wore the red-trimmed black uniform of an Imperial Guard officer, a crimson-trimmed black cape hanging from his left shoulder, and a great peaked cap emblazoned with the Aquila Imperialis. His own array of medals were enough to give Corax’s collection a run for their money.

”They are Doomani, brother. The Emperor requires only that they stand on line and die fighting, and this they do magnificently. You’ve probably served with some of these men back on Crux.”

Corax nodded. He remembered making war within that wretched island of concrete and steel as if it were yesterday, though it had been many years ago. The fact that so many who’d fought the Questarians there remained in the Emperor’s service filled him with pride.

”They have waited to long for this to fail now, Corax. They shall bring Questaria to her knees and elevate the Imperium to a plane of power not seen for a thousand years, or they shall die trying. That much I can assure you.”

Corax did not respond, continuing to gaze through the window into the raging storm through which the legions marched. He knew they would fight and die like Doomani, with thundering war cries and blood soaked bayonets. This was their generation’s war now; his generation’s war had too been against the hated Questarian foe. That had been many years ago, when the Emperor had succeeded his father to the throne and the Questarians sought to test him by sending an invasion army into Doomanum proper. He had passed their test, and now, nearly thirty years later, would be bringing the war to them.

Like their fathers before them, these men would march into oblivion unflinchingly, to visit ruination and destruction upon Questaria, the nation that had defiled sacred Imperial soil so many times before. She would suffer the consequences of her eternal belligerence, when the time came. Supplies and troops were still in the process of being positioned, and the time was not yet right to initiate the operation, but the time would come sooner than later.

On that day the heavens would weep, for a war greater than any other seen in Haven for the past hundred years would be wrought.

[Kampfers]

Kampfers Stadt, Kampfers
Kampferian Havenic Command – Home Office

The scene inside the room was a mess. Papers strewn about everywhere, the massive television screens that composed three of the four walls were full of different graphics and tables, and the multi-touch screen that made up the table displayed a tactical map of Haven with thousands of red marks on it that had been scratched out. Perhaps the messiest sight of all, however, was the six middle aged men that surrounded the table. Shirts untucked, ties loosened, and buttons undone, the men were not exactly the personification of neatness, but each was the top of his field for a reason. Jorg Klischten was there, and so was Kurt Schwarzer, together representing the Kampferian Army. Bill Richardson was there, representing the Kampferian Intelligence Bureau. John Schindle was there, representing the Foreign Ministry. James Christian was there from the Kampferian Luftwaffe. Last but not least, representing both the office of the Führer and the Kampferian Kriegsmarine was Großadmiral turned Führer Wilhelm Schassner.

Senseless bickering filled the room. It had been like this for hours. Departmental rivalries had taken hold of the debate, and compromises were extremely unlikely. How could the air force commit to help the navy fight the SL in south Haven? It would be needed to defend the homeland against the assured counterattack. Why would Kampfers attack the SL anyways? Why wouldn't they? Nothing could be agreed upon. Suddenly, something happened that would change all that. One of the three primary screen walls in the room began to flash a red border, and a warning horn began to sound. On the screen, the words "<Incoming Transmission>” began to scroll across.

"Patch it through,” shouted Schassner.

Up on the screen popped the face of a pasty young intelligence agent. "Uh, sir...” He stumbled across his words, attempting to word them as carefully as possible. "The erm, Alacean-Questarian situation has gone Code – Rot. Questers started the shooting, but Alacea definitely provoked it. All indications point to them being ready to attack.”

"Thank you,” Schassner replied, as the screen went blank. "Well gentlemen, you heard it. That about throws an icepick into all of our plans. Schindle, I want a complete tactical overview of the region with our latest information on-map now.”

"Yes sir.” Schindle set about drawing a number of lines on the map, as well as highlighting certain nations in specific colors. “Right now what we've got is quite literally, pardon the language, a clusterfuck. We've got HUNS fighting SL, HUNS fighting unaligned states, SICON fighting SL, SICON fighting SL in other locations, and frankly sir its not getting any easier to make sense of. Let's take it from the top I suppose. First, we've got the Ichkerians and the Cohenians. Pretty far away, so it doesn't matter much to us, but it's got paw-prints of SL meddling as well as HUNS belligerence.

"Let's go ahead and ignore that war for a moment and focus in on the border of Krendakov and Clandonia. This zone is pretty much a powder keg just waiting for a spark, and the Clandonians are doing everything they can to provide one. The SL writes it off as HUNS belligerence, but it's got undertones far worse than that. It's looking more and more like the SL is urging this conflict on so that they can try to isolate and eliminate a few regional contenders to their power. They could give a rats ass about their 'liberty' rhetoric, they're just out their to ensure that they remain the unquestioned rulers of their domain. Sometimes, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims is the most oppressive.

"However what this conflict has done is draw attention completely off of the actions of the Doomani, who are currently pressing two fronts through SICON. You've got the Azahan garrison attacking the Origami DMZ here,” he said circling the spot on the map, "and then you've got Doomani forces working in coordination with the Alaceans to pinch Brenningfield here.” He pointed out the location of Brenningfield on the map. For all intents and purposes, despite the rhetoric of the Questarian and Cravanian leaders, Brenningfield is lost. Now that Alacea moves to invade Questaria proper, Doomingsland is sure to aid them.

"This leads us to a number of interesting propositions. First, who will help the Questarians. Secondly, who will help the Alaceans. Then, what will they both do. Finally, we have to determine what we will do. That, my friends, is the situation that lies before us today. You couldn't write this story in a novel and make it believable enough for the people to read it, but it's happening to us.”

Schwarzer, the youngest man in the group, had earned his stripes during the Tertholen campaign. Under his command, armored Kampferian colonies had swiftly penetrated the landscape, wiping it clear of any native resistance. Despite the horror stories told of his actions by a few survivors who escaped into Pontinia, the administration respected his views. He was an up and coming military genius, and really, the gruesome stories told made him an even more attractive General to the Führer.

"If, we can be certain, that Alacea has attacked Questers, or will shortly, then we know two things. First, we know that the Doomani generals must have approved the Alacean plans, because Alacea wouldn't dare do anything without their aid. As a result, we know that the entire western power-base of SICON is probably preparing for action. There is no doubt in my mind that Zukariaa will aid them, and if Tnemrot answers, they will probably use the WTFH system that was so recently constructed amongst our nations to quickly transport troops into Alacea. If the Questarians have any sense at all, that will be one of their first bombing targets.

"But that's enough of that nonsense. We know that SICON is going to get at least those four nations involved, if not more. But what does Questers bring to the table? We know they have SAPAN, but that's Olmedreca, ourselves, and Prestonia. They really don't expect the whole alliance to jump in for them, do they?”

"No, they don't,” replied Richardson. "I've got contacts out the ass claiming one thing or another, but there are really only a few things we know for sure. For one, Questers violated their neutrality by interfering with the Brenningfield situation. Sure, its lousy, but no one in SAPAN is lawfully required to aid them anymore. Olmedreca, which has worked so hard to craft its neutrality over the years, is unlikely to help, and the future of Kampfers is up to us to decide. That leaves us with Prestonia, and knowing their past history as well as their current leadership, it's highly expected they will intervene. The entire SL is too busy sitting with their thumbs up their asses to do anything about it, they'd rather ignore the biggest threat to them in Haven in SICON to deal with a few petty nations in HUNS that they have small ideological disputes with.

"My contacts in Cravan say that they'll continue to support the war effort, but they aren't much to worry about. Really, the Aequatians are the ones with the guns in the relationship, and Cravan supports them for it. However, the Aequatians have proven extremely susceptible to falling for the anti-HUNS propaganda, and it remains to be seen if they will risk sending any help to Questers. For now, it appears that Questers stands alone.”

"If Prestonia is willing to enter, they risk a lot,” piped up General Klischten. “No doubt Zukariaa will take advantage to open a new front. If Prestonia fights as well as they did against the Clandonians, they might force a standstill. Then again, the Zukariaans aren't Clandonians. With Tnemrotian reinforcements, Zukariaa could push farther enough into Prestonia to cause the collapse of the Prestonian state.”

"Right...” The Führer pondered what had been mentioned so far. "So theoretically, we have no bonds to Questers, and no bonds to SICON. Prestonia has been a longtime friend of ours, and is in SAPAN with us, but Zukariaa too has been a good friend of ours, and their political authoritarian views are much more suitable to us. Verikov is a fool yes, and his economic system is a failure, but this can be remedied in time. If Questers is weakened, even if they survive the Alacean onslaught, it will prove a crucial blow to the nations of the 'libertybloc', who idly sat by as an old friend was quashed. Air Marshall Christian, give me an overview of the Questarian invasion."

"Yes, mein Führer. Due to the nature of the landscape, the initial Alacean attack will be constricted to this 40km wide corridor. In here, Questers will make their first stand. The terrain definitely suits a defender, and it will be interesting to note how Alacea makes use of its manpower. We expect that this area will become an alleyway for Questarian planes, which if Alacea can not gain complete air superiority, could stifle the attack on its own. The lack of a true widespread invasion front has lead me to believe that alternative Alacean and Doomani divisions will attempt to outflank the Questarians by staging a daring amphibious landing somewhere from here to here,” he said, marking two areas on the map.

"Now, what the Questarian plans will hinge on is being able to maintain complete naval superiority. The Doomani fleet is largely geared towards submarine warfare, which should prove an interesting challenge to the Questarian fleet. If SICON can at least achieve naval parity, the lanes will remain open for Doomani reinforcements to flood into Questers. However, if the Questarians can win the battle at sea, Doomani reinforcements are stuck in Doomingsland, and Alacea must brave the storm largely on her own. At the end of any end-war situation, we have a happy ending for Kampfers, excluding the possibility of nuclear war."

"So basically, the entire Doomani plan is predicated on containing the pride of Questers, her Navy? They've got more balls than I thought.” Schassner bit the eraser of his pencil. It was a bad habit, sure, but it was better than smoking, which is what many of his friends had resorted to in the service. "Since we have no obligation to aid Questers, we will not. To do so would be disastrous, as we share huge borders with Tnemrot and Zukariaa. Given our currently relaxed state, we would be only partially mobilized by the time their armies were reaching the coast. Of course, we can not convey this in any announcement, to do so would show weakness. Blame it on the Questarians' inability to remain neutral if we have to find a culprit.

"If Prestonia does get involved against Zukariaa, there is no doubt Zukariaa would begin with surgical strikes against Prestonian military bases. Frankly, the internal policies of Prestonia align to much with the SL for my liking, so we will discreetly support the Zukariaans if the time comes. If war breaks out between the two, forward our entire dossier on Prestonia to Zukariaa. It's quite expansive, given the amount of time we have been allied throughout our histories, and it should give them a great amount of intel to plan their strikes in conjunction with their own intel. Place emphasis on their airfields in the briefs, as no airfields means a loss of air superiority, which means that your army is screwed. By no means do we hate Prestonia, lets just say we'd rather see a regime more friendly to us and SICON get into power.

"Re-state our commitment to the SAPAN charter – if our neutrality is violated, we will not hesitate to attack the nation who interferes with it. Our shipping must be allowed to continue unmolested, we are not dealing supplying a rebellion here. Meanwhile, I want the Cyber Intelligence Divison of the KIB, what's that, the B04.04, to prepare for a complete use of their assets. We want a completely untraceable attack, so route the proxies through as many countries as possible, including as many hostile shitholes where any trace could get lost as possible. If Prestonia joins the conflict, I want a widespread remote DDoS attack on all of their governmental assets. Army websites, email servers, whatever, it needs to go down.

"Meanwhile, inform the Questarians that we will be more than happy to supply them with bullets, gunpowder, and the other commodities of war. While we want to see the giant weakened, we can't simply have Alacea roll over them. Tell them that we will provide our goods at highly reduced prices, and hopefully, our shipments will not be interfered with. The fact of the matter is, Questers probably has everything she needs for the moment. But as the bombs start dropping and the bodies start piling up, she's going to need some outside sources of goods.

"Finally, I want the Ministry of Financial Security, B04.01, to be completely aware of the release of any war bonds by the Questarians, Zukariaans, or Doomani. Neither of those three states is destined to fall any time soon, and we can expect big returns. Buy as many as possible if they come available, in order of best rate of return first. Also have them start working on ideas to destabilize the Alacean market – to do so would prolong the war, which means we make more money. Don't forget that we provide both sides with material. Just because we're cutting the Questarians a deal doesn't mean we don't sell to both sides."

[Kampfers]

Kampfers Stadt, Kampfers
Questarian Embassy

A young Kampferian envoy now sat outside the office of the Questarian Ambassador to Kampfers. He felt akin to a child sitting outside of the principal's office, waiting for his turn to enter and receive a scolding, but he knew that the man inside the doors would be at least pleasantly surprised with one of his revelations, and hopefully he would be understanding of the others, which were pure posturing on behalf of the Kampferian Reich.

The doors were opened by the ambassador, who invited the Kampferian envoy inside pleasantly enough. Surveying the office, the envoy took note of his surroundings. The furniture was quaint, but nice, and was definitely a step up from the offices he was accustomed to in the Kampferian foreign service. The room emanated a feeling of antiquity, yet the computer on the desk suggested otherwise. All in all, it was typical Questarian; trapped in a society the world seemingly had passed up years ago, but still somehow on the cutting edge of modernity.

"Good evening, ambassador. Surely you know why I am here, so I will skip the boring small talk on the current weather and state of sports and cut straight to the details. The fact of the matter is, we as a nation have to look out for our own interests, just as your nation has to look out for itself and its own. It is because of this that we can not aid you in your war against Alacea, no matter how we might want to. Seeing as how you have forgone your status of a neutral nation by directly intervening in the attack on Brenningfield, we are not legally bound to your defense, and as a result we will not be sending troops to your aid against those we so recently called ally. However, being the astute man you are, I am sure you had already ascertained this, and my words are just confirmations of the diplomatic discourse you had already presumed would happen.

"However, I have not only come to inform you of my governments stance of neutrality in this war, for I could have easily done this through the form of an official communique, and I am sure one will be released shortly for the nations not privy to this discussion. The matters I have come to discuss today are of a much different approach. While I am aware that the Questarian nation is most certainly supplied quite well for the time being, I am also aware that in wartimes, supplies often run short, and even the largest stockpiles are drained of their resources. As a result, my government is willing to sell your nation anything ranging from ammunition to foodstuffs for a reduced price. Currently retired warships and submarines would also be available for purchase. It is worth noting that these are of Questarian design, and would likely integrate quite well with the current Questarian Navy. Should your nation be interested, we could arrange for the delivery of these items to any Questarian port or airfield, by any means of transportation thought necessary. As Kampfers remains a member of SAPAN, there is no reason to expect that our shipping would be interfered with. Would such an arrangement be of interest to you?”

The Questarian ambassador, Edward Crampton, had been expecting this. Like other Questarian diplomats around the world he was sure that Questaria would probably stand alone, with Cravan, against the Alacean onslaught. An isolationist himself, he was sympathetic to the Kampferian position.

"If," he said, offering a glass of whiskey to the younger Kampferian, "Alacea is to invade Questaria," he poured himself a little as a testament to the sour idea "Then we shall of course need all the help available to us. Ammunition we have in extremely large quantities and without sounding ungrateful, is likely to be cheaper on the commercial market in our own country and is likely to arrive at the frontline faster. On the other hand, the Army has not prepared for a full conventional war. In fact they have done quite the opposite. We are therefore in dire need of some particular items." He pulled out a sheet from a drawer, kept immacutely with the Confederate seal stamped on it. "Tinned foodstuffs and other meals-ready-to-eat, and especially, medical supplies, which are in short supply and not easily found available in our own country."

He put the requirements sheet on the table and scribbled a note on it. "Unfortunately for your workload, I'm only a representative of the Confederacy as a whole. The Federal Government is specifically prohibited by the constitution from being in debt, or even from borrowing money, regardless of interest. Therefore, you'll have to talk to the Lobster Coast representative. I've written some directions to his office. Good luck Sir. And thank you."

---

Meanwhile, the following notice was being distributed among the involved Havenic embassies located in Kampfers. Various sources would leak the letter, and it would become widely circulated among the press and the internet. Although it would be criticized by many different entities, it made one thing clear - Kampfers would not go to war.

Although it is the sad news of war that brings me to writing this communication, let me assure you that the great Kampferian Reich by no means intends to involve herself in this affair. By involving herself in counter-belligerence, as defined by the SAPAN charter, Questaria has essentially denied herself the right to have the assured defense of other SAPAN nations such as Kampfers. Although others may, nay, will come, Kampfers can not stand against her old friends and allies in SICON to uphold the laws of a charter that have been violated. This is by no means a condemnation of the Questarian nation, but rather should be interpreted as the nation of Kampfers assuming the stance of true anti-belligerence, which Questers herself has promoted.

To that end, Kampfers remains a loyal member of SAPAN, and is still committed to the ideals contained within it. Should the trade of Kampfers come under attack by any party during the course of this war, we will not hesitate to act in accordance with the SAPAN charter and attack those who are responsible. It is our wish to be left to our own peaceful means, that we might conduct trade as normal with nations of both sides, unhindered by the politics that might trouble the involved nations.

Sincerely,

[Alacea]

The otherwise blank screens of the Aspect AWACSs across the northern frontier gave a jolt of surprise to many a stirring operator, as the emptiness was filled with a swarm of red blips. Hostiles coming our way- a rather high amount of them, to complicate things. As if in some kind of telekinetic unison, the minds of the said operators simultaneously had a simple two words to them. Of course.

The some four-hundred fifty pilots of their stealthy Havenfighters heard a shrill few tones in their collective ears, now listening intently for their new orders; their own RADARs were powered down to prevent the Questarians from sniffing out their emissions, leaving the AWACS to be their eyes. Something interesting instead of another patrol mission? Beautiful as it was, rolling hills and snow capped mountains could get boring after maneuvering in them for a few hours. Heinz Fannburg was one of these such pilots, complying eagerly and guiding his bird in pursuit of this new menace. Not far from the border in flyboy terms, an upbeat beeping signaling him to push down enthusiastically on his favorite red button on his joystick, sending two trails of white smoke in their wake as two ATAIM-9s honed in some poor Questarian, hoping to add a low-flying bomber to the landscape below. They were some eighty miles away from their targets- well inside of the ATAIM-9s no-escape-zone, their targets still well inside Questarian airpspace. The second he squeezed the trigger, the poor bastard on the other end was essentially doomed.

Meanwhile on the ground, installations on the ground let fly their stocks of the heavy, long-range Angelus-M SAMs towards the Negerschuetzer AWACS, hoping to blind them in the sky, as an eagle would in scratching the eyes out of the admittedly larger tiger. Screaming through the atmosphere, chasing their prey's RADAR and (if they started it at that point) jamming emissions like a scent and a trail, the tubular beasts set off with wild furor towards their assorted targets. While streams of smoke descended upon the Alacean countryside, the very earth fought back, dotting the air with its own missiles hailing back towards the instigator.

In the meantime, electronic warfare variants of the Havenfighter began to initiate heavy comms and datalink jamming against the Questarians to prevent them from coordinating against the hellfire that was about to descend upon them; at the same time their jamming pods went to work, though instead of actively barrage jamming (which wouldn’t have been terribly effective against the modern RADARs fielded by the AWACS) their foe in the manner of the Questarians, elected to use their sophisticated EW pods to create many false RADAR signatures in order to confuse their enemy and distract them from the true threat, which would have been far more difficult to spot on RADAR.

The groups of fighters scattered around the area of contention split off into three distinguishable prongs, some heroically staying behind to swat out of the sky as many foreign cruise missiles as they could, while another two squadrons, including Fannburg's squadron, made north and up, bearing down on the Questarian strategic bombers, the former caches containing the cruise missiles gliding down on the fatherland, lobbing more ATAIM-9s their way as they tried to flee before diving down towards the approaching naval fighters; the third group of fighters had already rushed to engage them with short range IR guided missiles after expending their payload of eight ATAIM-9 medium range missiles, and so the Questarians would now likely find themselves attacked from multiple angles by what at this point was a now more-numerous and difficult to detect foe.

Making a swerve up and left in coordination with his fellows against the soft patter of rain on the glass enclosure of his cockpit, Hermann was positioned to swoop in on any escorting fighters, coming down at his target and firing as he got a lock on, cheering as he sent it downward in flame with his short-range IR guided missile. Poor bugger probably hadn't even known he was nearby considering their stealth and his enemies' relative shortage of AWACS.

Glancing down, the brave airmen could see the flares of bright bluish-white streams emanating from the ground, as passively guided AA guns locked on to the intruder with their thermal imagers and laser range finders and spat out a highly accurate burst of 45mm AHEAD, accompanied by (albeit not visible in this dark and stormy night) low level, highly-accurate Ara SAMs as they ripped at anything crossing the border. The entire arrangement would have been eerily similar to what the Questarians faced on Paralentum from the Doomani, who had used these same weapons to great effect, ultimately preventing the Questarians from actively providing low level air support and breaking the stalemate across the islands that lasted for so long.

Perhaps the AWACS had been wrong in their gut feeling of initial dread- perhaps here they could earn the chance to march into Questaria unmolested from the air. At worst yet another attack prior to declaration of war would offer plentiful propaganda opportunities.

[Questers]

LOBSTER COAST
HALLANDER FIELD
TEMPERATE 20 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 67%
0137H

It had been a tense five minutes as Swift-Hall had used his low flying skills to dodge missile after missile and AA round after AA round. A number of his squadron mates had not escaped, but this was nothing new to them. Their aircraft and equipment were designed for low-level flying and for low-level attacks and they had flown thousands of hours in these missions during the civil war, flying against the same kind of targets with the same kind of density of air defence, although the equipment they were flying against was perhaps not as advanced.

Fifteen seconds across the border, it became too much. He felt a jerking sensation and a loud crash as a missile exploded right beside his fuselage, and the cockpit became a blur of smoke from the exterior and loud beeping sounds. Losing control, Swift-Hall pulled a map from his chest pocket and located the nearest airfield to his location whilst trying to bring his plane back under control. He was going to stay alive. He was not going to die today, not on the first day of the war.

Hallander Field was a light aircraft runway used for civilian transportation. Popular in Questers as an alternative to buses and trains, public transport in the form of small aircraft had taken off in recent years. At Hallander Field, however, hundreds of people waited in tents and underneath the shade. Refugees who found, once arriving at Hallander Field, that they couldn't leave. Several dozen soldiers occupied the field and it was being used as a helicopter base, although no helicopters were present today.

The occupants of Hallander Field were given a surprise that morning in the form of wailing aircraft engines. Looking up from their tents and sleeping bags, they saw a Lobster Coast Defence Force Aerial Forces Hawker Cossack come in low, trailing thick black smoke that went straight over the heads of many of the sleeping refugees and giving them a nasty cough. The pilot skilfully crash-landed it on the runway, burning rubber clogging the nasal cavities of those awake and sending sparks flying in all different directions. Within moments, his aircraft, despite being unsafe and probably about to blow up, was surrounded by people, both military and civilian, who hauled Swift-Hall from the cockpit. He was wounded, but he would fly again. That was the important part.

LOBSTER COAST
SOUTHERN-FORCE CONFEDERATE GENERAL HEADQUARTERS
TEMPERATE 24 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 70%
0500H

"Major General Haynsworth? Yes, it's Major Carver. Something has happened..."

...Two minutes ago...

When Auckland heard the words "Sir, there's someone to see you," only good things ran through his head. Every time he had heard those words it was the signal that a new formation had been activated and found their way to a suitable location. Good. He thought. Hopefully another anti-tank regiment. The door swung open and a hardly recognisable man, surrounded by military policeman, barged his way into the command room. He was wearing a suit. Okay, so not good. The only thing suits caused in a military room was trouble, and everyone knew that. Auckland fixed his cap. You had to react to these sorts of people in the knowledge they were irrelevant, the General thought.

"What can I do for you this morning?" Auckland asked.

"General Auckland," the man said with a stone face. "I'm the under-secretary of the interior of the Confederacy."

Auckland's expression turned sour. What did this idiot want?

"Well then, Sir," Auckland said, "You'll be happy to know that our preparations are going well. The Alaceans-"

"Is that so," the under-secretary cocked an eyebrow. "General Auckland, I have it on good grounds that you have escalated the state to military priority A?"

Shit. "Yes, Sir, that's true." Auckland nodded.

"Without the consent of the State's Prime Minister?"

Whiting, you bastard. "That's also true, Sir."

"And I also have it on good grounds that you have ordered air attacks against the Alacean mainland?"

"Again, that is true Sir."

"Well, General, I hereby arrest you under Article 10 Section 4 of the Confederate Constitution, for violation of two Sections of the Constitution and for acting unconstitutionally in an executive office. Men!" he said nothing but stood still, hands in pockets, while the MPs advanced towards the General. Auckland looked to his left and Major Carver and another man had already drawn their revolvers, but he waved for them to holster their weapons. "Forget it Major. The last thing we need is more of my officers rotting in a Kepayan jail cell." Auckland surrendered himself and let the military police handcuff him, observing Carver's face. A mix of desparation and anger on the facial features of his young direct subordinate. He knew that Carver was just itching to shoot them down and arrest the under-secretary for treason, but he knew that his Major would follow orders. "The Jury will see me released, don't worry!" Auckland shouted as he was taken away, mustering as much dignity as he could while being forced out of his command.

The Lobster Coast was now in a dire situation: Alacean troops ready to storm the border at any minute and their highest ranking General taken to a jail cell.

It was barely an hour's flight by helicopter from his Jefferson headquarters to the notorious Kepayan prison which sat like a fortress against the cliffs on the Sandakan coastline. Water crashed against the brown, hardened face of the coast and repulsed itself, nature demonstrating perfectly the futility of escape from Kepayan prison. Seagulls whistled their morning tune as they tried in vain to search for any scraps of food they could find around the prison as the heat beat down on them. They scattered in short order as the CH-53 landed ordinarily on the landing pad, discharging its extraordinary cargo. Escorted through the maws of the prison, Auckland pondered his fate. All trials in the Confederacy were, by law, required to be jury trials. Surely they would let him free. There ought to be no question of that. And the under-secretary would probably want the trial to go ahead as soon as possible. What bloody purpose did this whole thing have?

He came to a heavy bolted door with a pair of guards who looked strangely at the General, still wearing his uniform and his cap. That much he had saved by telling the under-secretary if they took him from them he would have them all killed when this thing was over. Force had its own persuasive powers independent of charisma or money, Auckland thought. He realised that these men were his troops, identifying their badges as the 290th Garrison Division. They must have read his "LT-GEN. AUCKLAND" and "LCDF" uniform tags, Auckland noticed, as to the under-secretary's greatest frustration, the two guards gave the General a stiff salute. He instinctively moved his arms and felt the shackles bite into his skin. Nonetheless, the door moved for him, and the General's smile fell into a sad frown.

The first thing that got him was the absolute stench; human sweat and a hint of faeces and urine permeated the air. It swept through your nostrils and clung there like phlegm in the throat. The men inside had long since degraded from men to animals. Auckland knew that this was the high-security political section. One long walkway down the centre led to another door, and on either side prison cells filled with hundreds of prisoners, probably black Communist cell leaders and the like, looked to their impromptu new cellmate. As Auckland was escorted through the walkway, the jeers began.

Paleface!

Pigeonshit!

Gubba! Gubba!

The laughter. The incessant, howling laughter, like a pack of baboons or hyenas. For these prisoners, the roles had reversed. Now they could make fun of the European. Now the European was at their mercy. And they enjoyed it.

Auckland moved to hang his head, but remembered something his father had told him a long time ago. Auckland had done something wrong at school. Taken to the Headmaster's office with his parents, he received a heavy scolding from the Headmaster, and had looked to the floor in shame. Then, his father's stood up and returned the speech. The General remembered those words clear as day. Never look to the floor son, because when a man is ashamed of something he did that was right, he has been defeated. He has admitted that injustice has triumphed over justice. And that has been the great folly of the human race. Stand and be proud of yourself. Keep your head high and know that although all around you may condemn you, in your heart you did what was right. Slowly, he moved his head upwards, and looked staunchly ahead. Despite the fact that the under-secretary, a cousin of Whiting's, had sent him to his section of the prison specifically to humiliate him and to destroy his dignity, Auckland barely looked like a man defeated.

Thankfully, his cell was empty. His handcuffs were unlocked and Auckland manhandled inside. The key turned slowly in the door behind him, and for the first time, the General collapsed. Vulnerability, helplessness, futility. For all he knew, the enemy could already have invaded. They could already be torching Bakersfield. He smashed his fist into the straw that made his bed.

LOBSTER COAST
CONAF SANDAKAN
TEMPERATE 24 DEGREES, HUMIDITY 70%
0630H

CONAF Sandakan was the Southern Region Air Headquarters. This massive airbase, protected on all sides by various types of air-defence, not only controlled all aerial operations in the state, but also all three tiers of air defence in the state. As the information on Op. Temeraire had been compiled, numerous field commanders had rushed to CONAF Sandakan's command operations room to discuss the results and what they meant for the future, of the war, and of the Lobster Coast. Ten different field commanders, five Army, four Airforce, and one Navy, had assembled and were led by Air Marshal Holborn in the absence of Auckland.

"Despite... setbacks," Air Marshal Holborn coughed, "The information has come through. Overall, we're looking at a 13% attrition rate, which isn't too bad. Furthermore, all squadrons reported that all ten camps had been hit in some capacity or another and a good six hundred of our missiles broke through their defence. The bad news is that we're already running low on effective anti-runway munitions." Holborn looked at the officers who either remained silent or made some nodding or grunting in response. "What we've ascertained, unfortunately, is that the defensive pattern used by the Alacean air defence, and the doctrine of their pilots, is pretty much a carbon copy of the same sort used by the Doomani army and air forces."

"Perhaps not just a carbon copy, given the level of advisory we're assuming the SPQD is giving to the Alaceans, considering how many boots they've got on the ground in the mainland at present." the Intelligence Chief butted in. "We're not looking at a doctrinal copy here gentlemen. We're looking at a full-scale Doomani advisory operation, especially in terms of AAA and LADS layout on the ground."

"Well, quite." Holborn continued. "We've already got our old doctrine from Paralentum in place to deal with this, improvised along the way of course, but we've thrown all that out already. Presumably their air defence is set up to counter what they assume we're going to do, so it would be unwise to do that. We've been developing new SEAD and Strike doctrine since the civil war that is fully classified. Our air tactics are going to be totally new here." the Air Marshal said. "Intelligence is rough at the minute but we're estimating their frontline airfields are going to be pretty heavily hit. That may or may not delay their invasion a while depending on how impatient Verikov is. As soon as we can get some more munitions we're going to be continuing to hit their airfields in barrage whilst we prepare our primary operations. Hopefully after sufficient attrition bombardment, our OPFOR will start switching their air defence around. We know that Doomani AD patterns are, if anything, flexible, but with sufficient prodding we might be able to force them into believing our primary pattern of attack is going to be by missile barrage.

"Of course, it won't. While we're running this subversive counter-intelligence mission, we'll be concentrating on preparing our best aircraft, munitions, and pilots, and working hopefully with SOF on the ground, and the Secundarian and Basutolander Air Forces, for three large attacks on C4I and C3I targets. Following that, we'll be switching our SEAD pattern away from our typical method of doing things to a more 'dumb' doctrine. There's no point in fighting the Doomani in cyberspace, gentlemen, but while we make them think we're going to be doing just that, we'll be preparing for the opposite. With any luck, we can clear the way to actually destroying their airbases within any operational vicinity of the battle front. We can't hit them behind that, but forcing their fighter formations to operate on the behest of tankers will be enough. Air superiority will be required if the Border States are to hold.

"Meanwhile, CONMAF and Fleet attacks on the coastline and coastal airfields will force the Alaceans to concentrate significant air defence forces there, and therefore, away from our Primary Area of Operations. We might even make some amphibious and aerial landings against the Alacean mainland. It will all coincide with putting SOF on the ground in Alacea to attack logistics targets and long-range strikes by Penetration Aviation against logistics. Every gun, tank, truck, missile, aircraft and second of attention we can draw away from the PAO is a victory. Virtual attrition as a large-scale doctrine is practically unheard of in Haven. We plan to change that.

"Doubtless, they may try the same thing against us. I've ordered, in General Auckland's absence, that extra air-defence units be deployed to all C4I, supply headquarters, and airfields, and that even the numerous decoy communications facilities we have erected for many years now will be defended. It's paramount that we can keep our aircraft in the sky, our lines of communication as open -- as they are now, at least -- and our ammunition and fuel flowing to the front. The airforce and air-defence forces will be doing their utmost to secure this."

There was satisfied nodding and affirmatives now from the officers, happy in the knowledge that the Airforce and Navy was doing its best to make it possible for the Ground Forces to defend the State.

"Now, we've something else to attend to." Holborn said grimly. "With Lieutenant General Auckland in prison, myself and Major General Haynsworth have hatched a plan to rescue this State. You, Commodore Simons, will be heading to the National Assembly to meet our Representatives there. Commodore Ripley, you will be going to the State Legislature. It's your job to persuade them that if our Representatives aren't interested in the Defence of the State, that they must act and order Auckland's release. Gentlemen, our Regional JAG has informed me that although Auckland has acted unconstitutionally, it is not the job of the Feds to intervene unless they have declared a State of Emergency. Now, either three things can happen. They declare that State of Emergency, and then the entire Subcontinent will come to our aid, or they don't, and we will free Auckland. The third is that Auckland's trial happens before we get this sorted out. If that happens and in the unlikely event he's judged guilty, or is sentenced anyway, I intend to coup the State. That will force a State of Emergency. This whole affair is robbing us of vital officers we need to mobilise our defence."

Holborn looked around. They were all motionless, taking in the information. "Well? We don't have much time, you have your orders -- get to it!"

[Doomingsland]

Aerarx Sanguinia, 10km East of Sanguinia, Northern Alacea
Segmentum Axacalis
18843.C21 Anno Domini (June 7th, 2043 Doomani Calendar)
0500 Local

"...From what we can tell, the Alaceans managed to blunt the enemy strike significantly, avoiding what would have been catastrophic losses to their ground forces. A good deal of enemy fighters were blown out of the sky before they even crossed the border. Unfortunately, the Questarians aren't idiots. For the most part, they're better trained and more experienced than our allies, so that seemed to even the odds a little," the image being projected shifted to a crater created by one of the thermobaric munitions where a building once stood.

"We on the other hand have plenty of experience fighting the Questarians. Our technology and training is superior, and our cause is just. The time to strike is now, brothers. It is time that we pushed them off balance," bellowed Legatus Aeris Numerius Cassius Sejanus, appearing to breathe fire with the amount of cigar smoke emanating from his mouth.

"Tribune Atellus will now give you your briefing,"

He stepped away from the podium, allowing Atellus, a shorter, slimmer man in a similar camouflaged flight suit took his place, "Good morning gentlemen, I will now be giving you your brief..." he clicked his remote control, and the powerpoint program spouted off some amusing animations with various letters flying about and the Aquila floating down into the center of the screen before settling into position.

"This materiel is classified Arcanus-IV, disclosure of its contents will result in summary execution to both discloser and disclosee," he said in a dry tone, being a phrase spoken on a daily basis. Clicking on the remote again, the image projected changed to a black and white image of what appeared to be an airfield, its aircraft glowing a bright white.

"These photos were taken five hours ago. The recent Questarian strike has allowed us to pinpoint their real airbases from the decoys we know to exist courtesy of our MVG friends."

Indeed, Doomani knowledge of various Questarian defensive doctrines was inevitable given the involvement of Doomani personnel in their civil war on the side of the anti-communists. Indeed, some of those that had served alongside the Questarians against the black communists had been active MVG infiltrators, constantly feeding data regarding Questarian tactics and strategy back to their masters on the mainland.

"The decentralization of the Questarian military has resulted in a relative shortage of airframes on their part, and possibly of pilots. Uncle Corax wants us to kill as many of their pilots and destroy as many of their airframes as is reasonably possible to aleviate pressure on our Alacean allies. We now know that the local enemy air force is very offensively postured, so we can expect another attack from them relatively soon, and this only gives us a limited window to strike. If we can deal suffecient damage to the enemy while they are on the ground, it will deal a severe setback to their operations in this theatre.

Before we begin, are there any questions?"

Silence.

"Very well..."

The mission briefing dragged on for a full eight hours, and the discplined pilots managed to stay awake throughout it, taking in every tiny detail. This operation was to be one of surgical precision. The pilots were to strip all ACID insignia from their uniforms and three cyanide capsules were issued to each man to be kept in predesignated areas on their person (including a false tooth). Their fighters were painted shades of black with a RADAR-absorbant paint, for this was to be a night mission. It was to be a moonless night, though the stars over the Questarian jungle would work well enough for the purposes of emergency navigation and providing light for their night vision equipment, though it'd be dark enough for them to operate without being detected visually.

Their strike package was comprised of three controlling AWACS aircraft, a flight of Ares-E (EW Havenfighter) electronic warfare birds, two squadrons of Ares-T strike fighters (Havenbomber), and two squadrons of the venerable Ares (Havenfighter) air superiority fighters. The operation hinged upon the stealth characteristics of the Doomani aircraft, which had been employed to great effect against the Questarians on Paralentum, and the element of surprise. If the Questarians saw the strike coming, the entire operation would be botched and the strike fighters redirected to destroy targets of oppurtunity on their way out of enemy airspace.

The aircraft began to launch from their airfields promptly at 2300 the same day, maintaining full emissions silence save for the AWACS (who would be replacing their Alacean compatriots flying the same patrol routes on the border and inheriting the protection of their escorts and the integrated air defense network). On the part of the EW aircraft, their jamming pods (shaped to be stealthy so that the aircraft's RCS would not be comprimised by carrying them) would remain on recieve mode, monitoring Questarian comms traffic and RADAR emmissions while the AWACS would relay to the fighters the positions of enemy patrols.

The strike package would divide into nine distinct flights, eight of which were strike flights with its own jammer (1), attack(6), and escort (3)component and move towards their targets on designated infiltration routes as designated by their AWACS controllers, whilst the ninth flight consisted of the remaining Ares squadron, which would remain inside . Enemy fighter patrol routes would be used to the advantage of the Doomani, who would be able to use their stealth to avoid then and slip through their routes, while at the same time maintaining enough distance from ground stations to render themselves indistinguishable from background noise. Any surviving enemy AWACS in the area likely wouldn't see them until they were relatively close (fifty to sixty miles perhaps); their infiltration patterns were also configured to stay as far from them as allowable. The strike packages would move in at a rough altitude of 40,000 feet (though it varried for the different aircraft inside each package) to prevent personnel on the ground from ever seeing them.

The entire point of this exercise was, of course, to penetrate enemy airspace without causing the enemy to scramble interceptors. The strike fighters, 100km from their target airfields, would then unleash their payloads of four Lancea air-to-ground missiles. The missiles themselves were fairly stealthy, and their approach pattern would put them at treetop level, making them difficult to detect. At this stage, the electronic warfare aircraft would initiate heavy comms and datalink jamming if their monitoring of enemy radio traffic indicated that they were aware they were under attack to prevent the enemy from coordinating their defenses. A prerecorded message in a demonic-sounding voice had been recorded for this for psycological warfare purposes, designed to be flooded over both conventional radio channels used by civilians and over enemy comms channels: WE HAVE COME FOR YOU.

The missiles themselves, flying at high subsonic speed, would be able to close the gap in under five minutes and plow into their targets with their 1000lb warheads.

Different targets were assigned: hangars, rows of parked aircraft, munitions dumps, barracks, and shelters (which had been mapped out via ground penetrating RADAR) were all prime targets, with missiles assigned to airburst over parts of the runway that were expected routes to be traveled by scrambling fighters. For the part of the other missiles, 1000lb airburst fragmentation warheads would be suffecient to shred both airframe and aircrew on the ground, while in other cases they would penetrate their target, be it a barracks, shelter, hangar, or munitions dump and explode inside, while those targetting the runways would penetrate as deeply as possible before detonating, upsetting the whole of the runway. Secondary targets included maintenance facilities, air traffic control and RADAR sites, fuel dumps, communications, C3I and C4I sites, etc.

After launching their munitions, they would exfiltrate enemy airspace, escort fighters shooting down enemy AWACS and fighters in the way with medium range munitions and EW aircraft jamming ground RADARs with their own RADAR's attack mode, overloading them and frying them. Meanwhile, the squadron holding back near the Alacean border would spring their own trap, screaming in towards the enemy fighter patrols from behind and ambushing them with ATAIM-9s, a missile with an estimated 95% kill rate that the Doomani had used to great effect against the Questarians in the past.

Only time would tell how Operatio: Clementia would unfold; for their part, the Doomani were highly experienced and had the technological advantage over their enemy. The Questarians would be able to note the difference between them and the Alaceans soon enough...

[Questers]

WEST RUANDALAND
CONIO CROCKER RANGE
TEMPERATE 29C / 84F, HUMIDITY 65%
0510H

The control panel's glowing screen sent shades of light screaming from the few uncovered slits where post-it notes had not been carelessly stuck, writing scrawled all over them. Lieutenant Aldridge leaned back in his chair and sipped some coffee. Confederate Intelligence Operations Crocker Range commanded an impressive view, both for the eye and for the gigantic network of long-range radars and electronic/communications intelligence systems that lay spreadeagled across the mountain face. From his numerous consoles, Aldridge could see across the entire border, albeit in a fairly low resolution. The unit across from him just a few metres away could command the Ruandaland's Air Force's complement of AWACs and forward RADARs and the one behind him could summon a veritable array of interceptors, SAM sites, and theatre air defence.

Manned by a coalition force from all the Southern border states, CONIO Crocker Range stood as perhaps the most important intelligence site in the entire country. Just like her sisters watching the Hattian Communists across the border, or scanning the Western coastline, she was the first line of defence. Nonetheless, the problems evident with a conscript army were on display at Crocker Range. Laziness and carelessness were high, and discipline was low. Aldridge looked into his cup and saw a few grains of soggy sugar and not much else. "Tom," he turned to his left. "Be a sport and fill me up." yawning, he set his cup down and nudged it a foot in Tom's direction.

"How many do I owe you now Mike?" Tom frowned.

"Alright, alright, let me add it to the score..." Aldridge took his pen and marked sharply another I on a post-it note. A little too sharply, perhaps, as the carefully positioned note fell to the desk like a parachute, wobbling from side to side as it began its slow descent. "Aw shit," he sighed, moving to stick it back and then pausing. "Wait a minute..." Aldridge called over a Air Force Major and flicked a switch. "Contact reading has gone up," he flicked it back down again, "But assigned observation patterns are still the same. There's more contacts, somewhere, out there."

"Missiles?" The Major inquired.

"No Sir, our forward operators would have picked up the launches. They don't have the computational power that we've got here up at Crocker Range to notice the difference between previous patrol patterns and and increased number of 'random' contacts.' But we do."

"Direction?" The Major replied. "No Sir. The readings are too weak: all we know for now is that they exist."

"Good work Lieutenant."

The Major patted him on the back. "Keep me informed."

Crocker Range could focus its radars on the narrow area where it was guessed the new contacts were approaching from, but for a few aircraft, the Major didn't think it was worth it, especially as it would require abandoning a greater amount of intelligence from other areas, where the Alaceans might shortly move troops and aircraft through. Nonetheless, if enemy aircraft penetrated Ruandalander airspace, it would most certainly require an armed response. The Major returned to his station and picked up a phone. "CONAF Harvey Field, this is Crocker Range speaking..."

The sun had not even began to rise yet as lights flickered on and off across Harvey Field. In the darkness, twenty four SUSAF-36 engines lit up and powered their respective aircraft into the sky as Able Wing, 162nd Interceptor Aviation Regiment took to the skies. Loaded with six Aequatian Star Thrasher missiles, they awaited their orders. Two patrolling radar warning aircraft had been told by Crocker Range to keep a look out, and were now sitting back comfortably behind the border, with other ELINT aircraft running on silent, scanning obtusely for targets. If the Questarians had known the exact Doomani intentions, they might have opted instead to lay some sort of impromptu trap, but this was neither the desire nor the aim of Southern Force Headquarters. Air doctrine insisted that enemy penetrations were unacceptable.

With the AWACs watching from the respective far sides of the eight enemy advancing formations, they produced a target bracket, with the possibly enemy hostiles inside. This produced little information, and the waiting patrol fighters and scrambled interceptors were sitting silently, withdrawn from their previous patrol positions and reorganised into operational fighting groups. The Doomani surely expected that CONAF would operating AWACs, and the withdrawal of the fighters in a fashion that indicated they would be returning to base or a suitable tanker was in itself stealthy by operational, although perhaps not physical standards. Being monitored and commanded by Crocker Range, who still had no idea whether these purported hostiles were an intrusion or an expansion of a pre-existing patrol, the six AWACs with their radars off turned them on. At any one time, only three of these aircraft would have their radar activated, and at all times the six aircraft would be moving about in random patterns, part of a typical Questarian deception operation.

It would be obvious to the Doomani that their enemy would have more AWACs then they were showing, but where, and how many, would not be known to them, and all the time, a greater intelligence operation was being built up by the Questarian forces, who could see that there were eight groups of aircraft now about to penetrate their airspace, but had no idea yet as to how many aircraft, of what type, or for what reason. Sitting on the jungle border, numerous Ruandalander air defence companies had been deployed, guarded by light infantry of the Long Range Jungle Patrol.

Expecting an airmobile invasion of the jungle state by helicopter, the Ruandalander Army had moved numerous anti air forces to the front. The RADAR employed by the air defence troops on the ground was enough to notice that there was disturbance in the air. This information was relayed up and then back down the chain of command with unusual speed. With Crocker Range having withdrawn their fighters and interceptors to reserve, and with two more wings of interceptors sitting on the tarmac, the Doomani commanders were now faced with an option: cross the border in the face of certain interception and possibly take losses, which would include experienced and well tarined pilots and high-technology aircraft, ACID's primary force multiplier against CONAF, or call off the mission and lose only fuel... and time.

SANDAKAN, THE LOBSTER COAST
A SUBURB
TEMPERATE 32C / 89.6F, HUMIDITY 87%
0800H

Wendy Baxter was going through her typical morning routine; shower, then breakfast, and it was working fine. Sitting down at the breakfast table in her silk dressing gown, she munched through some cereal while watching the television. Footage of jets and reporters... "We have been informed that the Air Force and the Navy last night launched an air offensive... thousands of Alaceans rumoured to be dead... in response to alleged Alacean scouts crossing the border... 'No Surrender' General Haynsworth warns Velikov..." she sighed and ate some more cornflakes. Luckily, little Andrew was still in bed. Hopefully he would stay that way until her parents came over later to look after her twelve month old boy while Wendy and the help, Jeremy, would go shopping for birthday presents: it was, after all, his first birthday tomorrow. As she finished the bowl, Jeremy entered the room solemnly.

"Ma'am," he said.

"Yes, Jeremy?"

"Somebody at the door for you."

She stood up and tightened the belt on her dressing gown before coming to see this visitor. Who was calling at this hour? She would scarcely look respectable in only a dressing gown... she hadn't even done her hair yet. She opened the door and her jaw dropped. A young man, barely twenty -- five years her junior, though -- stood to attention in a military uniform. Holding a box. With a flag over it. She clasped a hand over a mouth.

"Ma'am," he began.

"No," she murmured.

"I regret to inform you that your husband was killed in action at 0137 this morning. His aircraft went down over Alacean lines. Both crew have been reported as lost."

"Please tell me..."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. The medals will be delivered via post in the next week or so."

Her eyes exploded in a flurry of tears. "He promised..." It would take days for the knowledge that she would be a widow and her son would be brought up fatherless to set in. Just the day before she had sat with her newly born baby and pointed to a plane soaring through the sky and whispered the words that's your daddy up there... that's right, he flies one of those planes, and he's going to protect us. Well, no more.

Eight hours earlier,

Flight Lieutenant Peter Baxter threw his signal receiver to the ground. "Piece of shit," he spat. It was supposed to broadcast a wide signal informing that he was still alive. Except it had broken; either on the fall, or it had never worked in the first place. Probably, he thought, it had once worked but was then reused. Now he was alone, sixty klicks behind enemy lines, with fires raging not so far away. The Alaceans would probably be all over him. He could hear dogs barking in the distance and shouts in German which he didn't understand. Abandoning his chute and anything he didn't need, Baxter followed the terrain and walked for some time. Entering a wood, he shortly lost his direction. The dogs were getting closer. Flashlights lit up the sky around him. The bastards had seen his parachute, for sure...

"Negerschutzer, negerschutzer!"

Baxter turned around to face four rifle barrels and the muzzle of a particularly angry German shepherd. He dropped his pistol to the floor.

Bollocks.

"For you Tommy, the war is over!"

SANDAKAN, THE LOBSTER COAST
SANDAKAN COURTHOUSE
TEMPERATE 33C/91.4F HUMIDITY 80%
0900H

Auckland wiped some sleep from his eyes and some sweat from his brow. He stood in shackles, facing the judge, the jury, and anyone else in the courtroom. He had decided to represent himself, and put his case to the jury, and if they wouldn't accept it... well, he would just have to go down fighting. He was sure that Holborn and Haynsworth and the others had plans. They wouldn't let him rot in a Kepayan cell while the enemy stormed across the border. The court began and the typical procedures went ahead as planned, with various arms of the Federal Government sitting smugly in their chairs, watching Auckland stand and swear on the holy bible. Whiting was there, too, surrounded by lawyers, and Auckland noticed Sheriff Brown sitting with his arms crossed defiantly. Well, at least he had some friends.

In Sandakan's ancient Occident Street, the pavements were still alive with the sounds of printing. The press was busy. Very, very busy. They had a lot of work to do. Questaria's formidable propaganda industry would be the first to convert itself to a war footing, starting from day one. Publications such as the Straits Times and the Axackal Telegraph blared their respective headlines; "AIR FORCE HITS ALACEA: THOUSANDS OF FASCISTS DEAD", "CRAVANIAN FIRST MINISTER'S DAUGHTER SLAUGHTERED." On paper, on radio, on television and on the internet, the media spread its message of resistance. And why shouldn't they? Their counterparts in Alacea had already been shut down or converted to Government talking puppets. Their freedom to operate was a mere two hundred kilometres away from the radical fascist movement that threatened to engulf South Questers. They would do all they could to assist the war effort. And perhaps, they'd make a little profit from it too. And so, in front of Auckland, major newspapers sat as part of his evidence alongside his Commission and a copy of the Federal and State Constitutions. That was all he could muster. That was all he had been given time to muster. He knew they were attempting to convict him quickly so a peace offer could be given to Alacea. Not on my watch.

Examinations in chief came first, and little was discovered. Auckland admitted what was true and denied what wasn't (including spurious claims that he himself had appeared and punched Whiting for no reason, as well as a claim by the Federal Government he had prepared for a nuclear launch, which was also untrue). What the court did discover was that Auckland did act unconstitutionally on two counts; firstly, he had changed the military readiness of the state without the permission of the Executive or the Legislature. Secondly he had ordered a military strike on Alacea, which could be read as a declaration of war, without the consent of the Executive or the Legislature. Was thoroughly guilty on those two counts but refused to change to a plea of guilt. Presenting their closing comment, the prosecution noted that the defendant had admitted to two counts of unconstitutional behaviour and under Chapter Three, Section Seven of the Federal Constitution could be removed from his station... and hung by the neck until pronounced dead.

Presenting his closing comment, the General stood up and faced the court, blanking the grins of Federal prosecutors. They thought they had outmaneouvred him. He looked forward to that debate. "Your Honour, Honourable Members of the Jury... and of the Prosecution," Auckland began, coughing. "The Tenth Amendment to the Federal Bill of Rights grants States legal supremacy over all other articles of the Constitution that are not part of the Bill of Rights. Whilst the Prosecution is correct that under the Federal Constitution I ought to be removed from my post, under the Lobster Coast State Constitution, which I swore to uphold in my Commission, a military officer may only be removed from his post if he takes action that directly harms the State -- treason, in other words. The precise definition of this is left to the Jury. The actions I undertook in the previous four days were based off intelligence on the ground in Alacea and from the Army, Airforce, and Navy planning rooms of the Confederate military, which to this court are classified information.

I therefore will leave it to the Jury to decide whether robbing our armed forces of their most senior commander would be beneficial to state security in this hour and whether my actions, in the face of total incompetency from elected politicians, constituted direct harm to our state. Any of the members of the Jury who have been following the news must surely know of the tyranny that now presides over Alacea. According to this morning's news, Alacean operatives assassinated the teenage daughter of the First Minister of Cravan. We know now they are willing to target the most innocent in society to further their ends. My question to the Jury is this: will they deprive our Army of it's Commander in Chief the moment before we are on the verge of war with Alacea. That is all."

Just as he finished, Sheriff Brown stood up. "Your Honour, Honourable Members of the Jury, I have just received word that the Alaceans have crossed the border."

Gasps filled the courtroom. "Look what you've done Auckland, you moron!" Whiting stood up and shouted.

"Order, order!" cried the Judge.

"Can it, collaborator," Auckland spat.

"The Jury is dismissed to find their verdict." the Judge motioned.

As the Jury left, Auckland sat down and curled his fists into a ball. His Army was waiting for him. The enemy had arrived, and all he could do was sit here and wait.

"May God help us all," Whiting sat down, shaking.

Luckily, it didn't take too long for the Jury to find their verdict. Six minutes later they filed back in to an audience holding their breath. The lead Juror coughed and read the verdict. "The Jury has voted unanimously to find the defendant Not Guilty."

Within ten minutes Auckland was taking a helicopter back to his base. And not a moment too soon.

[Cravan]

"Jesus Christ... could it get any fucking hotter here?"

The weather instruments at CONAF Sandakan read thirty-three degrees, that's Celsius degrees, and a humidity upwards of 80%. And yet, it wasn't even noon yet.

"Leftenant, you want I should grab these here bags and bring 'em up?"

Lieutenant Ellen Quinton, an executive of E Company of the 475th air assault brigade, turned her head back towards a few NCO's offloading a trolley brought off of the U.4 air freighter.

"Yeh, load it up and haul it over, we're not going to be here long," she ordered, having remarked earlier that upon arriving at Sandakan they would be heading out to Questarian camps and to establish their own forward positions in the province. Already the young officer had stripped off her outer armored plate carrier and tossed it into an LMWUV that had been offloaded for her platoon's headquarter section, of which she was a member. She had rolled her sleeves up, and her C24 rifle, which she herself would probably never use again in combat and her carrying it was more a formality than anything, hung low over her chest and abdomen on the custom strap she had purchased, much like a saxophone would hang from a jazz man's neck when not being played. She had forgone a helmet, and instead her brunette locks were tucked away underneath a CRAVPAT field cap, with a small pony tail creeping from the rear of her head. Reflective aviator shades perched themselves upon the bridge of her nose, and were already steaming from the sweat pouring from her forehead.

This was, after all, Questaria, where shade only meant instead of being cooked alive, one would only be broiled. The heat was only rivaled by the humidity.

Quinton walked slowly across the tarmac as she awaited word from her commanding officer on the platoon's destination. It would be at least an hour before a few of the central assets of the 475th were online, referring, of course, to its complement of UH.28 Black Falcon multipurpose helicopters. When the Alaceans crossed the border, the 475th would be operating as a mobile support unit, inserting and extracting quickly in support of Questarian ground pounders who would be toe to toe with Alaceans constantly in the bush. In addition, the 475th had a MEDEVAC unit specifically trained for operating in as tight spaces as the UH.28 allowed; they would likely be indispensable in jungle warfare. She watched keenly as one helicopter was offloaded and was being prepared by a number of mechanics in CRAVPAT fatigues.

"Why the fuck is this uniform so heavy," she remarked to no one in particular as she continued her stroll. As she walked, she watched Questarian aircraft rocket off into the wide blue sky on routine combat patrols, while the aircraft she herself had arrived in were preparing to do much the same and head back to that, in hindsight, beautifully frigid chunk of rock called Volstad. Sliding her well-manicured fingers into her pockets, she remarked at the thought of jungle warfare, "Spend fifty fucking quid on a good nail job and then get deployed to a fucking mudpit. Beautiful."

A member of her platoon, a staff sergeant, managed to catch up with her. His SAW-5 light machine gun was slung across his back on a leather sling he had bought specifically for it, not liking the synthetic look and feel of similar nylon straps. He was in a very similar state of undress as the Lieutenant, with sleeves rolled up and a plate carrier forsaken for shirt sleeves. A green beret sat perched upon his head, with gleaming air assault wings, in stark contrast to Quinton's own plain field cap.

"Morning, Lieutenant," he announced as he walked in step with her, "What's the word?"

"Nothing yet, Covington," she replied, "Captain Ridgeby and the other up jobs are still meeting with some Questarian big shots at the regional headquarters for a brief and a coffee."

"And what are you... or we, supposed to be doing?"

"I'm supposed to be getting you sorry fucks in line in case the Questarians want us deployed immediately," Quinton replied with a tinge of agitation in her voice.

"And you're not why?"

"Because it's fucking hot and I'm jet lagged to shit."

"We didn't change time zones."

"I know that, fuckface," the lieutenant remarked as she ceased walking and turned towards her subordinate, "But damnit if I won't try and use that as an excuse. Besides, you fuckjobs are all right at handling yourselves, sections one and two are already in a decent order. Three always lags behind."

"Yeah they do. I don't know why I trust them to save me in combat."

"I wouldn't," Quinton said with a cocked smile, "That's why they're third section."

Covington shook his head and laughed as he turned towards the sound of jet engines streaking overhead to see two De Havilland Dauntless fighters flying wingtip to wingtip over the base.

"Sometimes I wish I chose a different career track," he remarked with admiration as the two fighter aircraft pulled around and performed the same maneuver in the opposite direction.

************

"Flight lead, seven, the last of the sortie is in the air behind us, sir."

"Good," Captain Leon Harvey announced as he brought his F.6 Adeline smoothly into formation with the rest of the four-seventy-second tactical fighter squadron, "As long as we can stick together we shouldn't lose anybody. When is the second section lifting off?"

"About an hour in total; they have some heavier assets to protect."

"Right," Harvey said while checking his rear to ensure visually his squadron was tucked in close.

The air defenders of Brenningfeld, or what was left of them, had received new orders that morning from regional command in Millingston: to save men and materiel and escape to Questaria or Clandonian South Haven on whatever little fuel reserves they had left. Approximately one hundred aircraft of varying types and sizes remained in working order in Brenningfeld at only four airfields still operating aircraft, not including Stanley's two international airports funneling late-leaving civilians out on chartered jets. Those aircraft which could not all be flown out, mostly utility craft, were left behind; there crews were to either stay behind and join the militias or hitch rides with those utility aircraft which had the manpower and fuel reserves to make the journey.

Of course, a mass of aircraft would attract attention from opposing forces, namely the SICON blockade. The few Cravanian naval forces stationed in Stanley, two destroyer flotillas, had put to sea earlier the previous day and established an air cover perimeter. Questarian naval assets in the region made effective air corridors for traveling north making Questaria the safer bet, the only problem being fuel reserves. Units divided up on their own and decided their destinations, and broke off into the respective groups. Before doing so, however, they all came together before leaving and wished each other good luck and Godspeed; knowing one group or the other would likely need it. While the group traveling north to Questaria had maximized loadouts for extending fuel range, the group moving south had tried to equip to best manage extending fuel reserves and maintaining combat capability. Such was difficult when only scraps were left at the airbases with still-stocked armories, and many munitions in said armories had already been claimed by militias for use as improvised explosive devices. The pickings, as some would say, were very, very slim.

What would happen to these vagabond combat aircraft after arriving in safe havens was unknown, but even more unsure was the journey ahead. These pilots knew, however, that their experiences were going to be told and taught for generations to come, as their exploits in holding the Alaceans off in a war of attrition where their numbers, supplies, and in some cases technology were to their disadvantage. They were collectively proclaimed as heroes by both people on the ground in Brenningfeld and by the media and civilians abroad in free nations.

Captain Harvey hoped they also wouldn't be martyrs. He was confident the route to Questaria was clear, but then again, he had been confident the Royal Air Service would have held out longer against the Alacean hordes.

"Four-seventy-second, stay sharp, we made it this far all together. I'm not about to lose any of you."

"Sir, scopes are clean as far as the horizon and then some," a concerned second in command came back.

"Yeah, well that's what some cocks* might want you to think. Keep sharp."

"Yes, sir."

Harvey sighed. He so needed a rye and coke when he landed.

* it should be referenced that many Cravanian servicemen and the like have taken to the practice of shortening "Coactionist" to "cock"

[Doomingsland]

Northern Alacea
Segmentum Axacalis
18943.C21 Anno Domini (June 8th, 2043 Doomani Calendar)
0100 Local

"They're playing games with us," muttered Tribunus Posterior Felix, callsign Starscream IV, his eyes glaring at his electronic warfare scope.

Data transmitted from their AWACS element gave them the precise location of the patrolling Ruandaland AWACS aircraft; he'd been watching as they switched their RADARs on and off in an effort to spoof them. This had alerted the Doomani to the fact that they were being watched. A contingency plan for this was already in effect; there would be no need to expend valuable missiles on the enemy birds, especially as that would alert the enemy to an immenant attack. Besides; their attack was to be on the Lobster Coast, not against Ruandaland. They wanted very much to destroy their primary targets, the air fields in the Lobster Coast.

Orders screeched through the open comms channel, instructing Starscream IV to begin its attack. He set his powerful AESA RADAR into its attack mode, and, feeding on data channeled to him from his own AWACS, Felix selected the nearest Questarian AEW aircraft as his target. Next, he began to toggle through the settings on his jamming pods, which would be seeing extensive work. His job would be by far the most dangerous in the operation now that they'd selected their secondary attack profile, as it would require him to be the "bait" for the Ruandan Air Force This attack was to be perfectly synchronized, though it would be alot less risky than the initial plan for the majority of ACID's pilots.

The timer ticked down, its green Roman numerals rapidly descending to nullus. When finally the boldened 'N' numeral appeared on screen, Felix initiated his attack. The Ares-E's AESA RADAR activated, along with those of several of his element mates, their beams concentrated into attack mode, and lit up the Questarian AWACS; in their attack mode the sheer power of the AESA RADAR would be concentrated onto the enemy RADAR to completely overload and fry it; once that had been accomplished the could cut power to their RADAR. At the same time, he'd kicked on his comms jamming against Questarian radio channels, though instead of using a demoralizing message he'd been instructed to use a simple 'blank' noise that very well could be mistaken for problems with equipment (at least for a short time).

This same attack was replicated against other enemy AWACS aircraft, and quickly the strike fighters shifted their positions, splitting up and moving towards a single launch location. Simultaneously EW aircraft along that border, remaining where their strike groups had been, turned up their jammer pods, creating false signals modified to appear as if they were cruise missiles in order to get the attention of the enemy's interceptors and anti-aircraft defenses. The EW birds quietly slipped over the border, concealed amongst an enourmous gaggle of simulated cruise missiles that now appeared as if they were targetted at Ruandan installations; they were able to project the missiles to appear as if they were a good distance in front of them and could even toy with what their airspeed would appear to be to the enemy, so there was quite a good chance that they could evade being shot down.

As this was occuring, the strike fighters commenced the real attack, releasing their stealthy Lancea ALCMs into a corridor that would take them through Ruandan airspace and right through the northern border of the Lobster Coast, where their air defenses would hopefully be weaker. The EW aircraft would play their game for several deadly minutes as the cruise missile barrage cleared Ruandan airspace in order to distract the enemy from the true attack, which wasn't even directed at them. The combination of the stealthy cruise missiles which would hopefully be able to avoid detection by the weaker ground and fighter RADARs, the false signals generated by the EW aircraft to further distract these (and intentionally lead them away from the missile corridor), and, perhaps most importantly, the jamming of enemy communications and datalinks to destroy the enemy's coordination of a defense (and, more importantly, to prevent the Ruandaland Air Force from alerting their neighbors) would give the cruise missile barrage a very high chance of reaching their targets inside of the Lobster Coast. The datalink jamming even stood a chance of blocking the communication between SAM batteries and their parent RADARs, if they were wirelessly linked, or at the very least throw their integrated air defense network into disarray, forcing every individual battery to rely only on what they alone could see in the big picture rather than any sort of well coordinated plan handed down by a commander with a view of the big picture.

For the minutes that the cruise missiles would be moving through Ruandaland airspace, Felix and his EW compatriots would be puppeteers for their jamming pods, manipulating their false signals to direct the enemy's interceptors and SAMs away from the corridor while they themselves made sure that they didn't fall into the category of a 'target', keeping their distance from their false signals and hoping that they would blend into the background (they were stealthy, after all, and the loss of their AWACS would likely render them mostly invisible). The Questarians would have much bigger things to worry about than them, as far as they knew, like a 2000kg cruise missile packed with nerve gas crashing into one of their cities. It would only be a matter of time before the enemy's interceptors came in amongst the false signals and realized they were just that: a distraction.

At that point the Doomani would be lighting up their afterburners and kicking themselves back into Alacean airspace, where they'd at least be safe if they were shot down.

Though Operatio Clementia had not gone precisely according to plan, the existance of contingencies had given it a very high chance of success. It would now fall to the men of the Lobster Coast and Ruandaland Air Forces to attempt to counter ACID's surgical strike.

[Alacea]

Click, Click.

The sound of cameras and of shifting gears and conveyor belts filled the ears of Avelo Verikov, as he forced himself to smile in the painfully intense din. /Photo ops.../ Before him was a cavernous room filled to the brim with all sorts of machines and industrial workers, and plenty of severe looking supervisors viciously patrolling behind them as they toiled on the belts, arms folded behind his back. /Doomanis. Got to love them./ All over the plant were cameras and their operators, shouting orders over the deafening going-ons of the machines around them, as a trail of escorts and a mob of others trailed after the Alacean leader. Grabbing a frail older women in uniform, he smiled and informed the surprised thing to do the same as he was bombarded with flashes of light. All over the country similar, albeit less picturesque scenes could be beholden- Alacea's industrial base was converting and gearing up for prolonged and bitter war. Gathering himself, Verikov stared up at the gigantic symbol composed simply of a Doomani word and a skull, before briskly finding his way to his armored- (quite literally- tanks had been dispatched for largely photo opportunities) escort. There was business to attend to.

---

They had done it- albeit with a twinge of impromptu, the Alacean armies, having been quietly mobilized and positioned weeks in advance, had shifted from reincorporating the largely defenseless Sovereign Republic of Alacea in a giant steamrolling to being poised to flood Quester's southern frontiers with nightmarish amounts of Alacean boots. Two monstrous Army Groups, East and West. A few incredibly stressful days for Alacean High Command would allow in short order for an initial odd four millions to take their northern neighbor by storm, with a large reserve in tow. It was all the masterpiece of General Friedrich von Berg, nominal head of the Alacean Army. Meanwhile, the vast majority of the Airforce's working airframes had been put forward to assist in the assault. It was a particularly pretty day on the northern frontier, especially considering how it would mark the beginning of a bloody and horrific conflict of hate and misunderstanding.

later kinda

Alacean Troops in Southern Questers

QUESTERS PUNISHED

Alacea has never wanted more than what was righfully hers- the traditionally and linguistically German territories of Brenningfeld and her rich natural resources, having been under illegitimate Cravanian control for almost one hundred years. Following the outbreak of conflicts between Cravan and the Greater Coactionist State, Questerian forces intervened in the temperory naval cut-off of any vessels trying to enter Brenningfeld. Several days later, a large strike occured on an Alacean submarine installation, killing some odd thirty and causing irreparable to several KSM ships. Later, an unprecedentedly large air strike occured in the dark of night as our foe, overestimating his prideful supposed cunning, intruded into Alacean airspace and damaged several ground installations. However, considering the size and scope of the strike, our brave airmen blunted the nose of the assault significantly, with intelligence estimating about 15% of participating invaders were added to the valley landscape below. Teaching the Anglosphere to never underestimate Alacea again has begun. Damage was minimal in comparison to what should have been inflicted. The sheer infinite superiority of our German heritage manifests itself even in survival rates.

Now, the world will learn firsthand how the new Alacea deals with threats and aggression. We are not socialist cowards. The world will learn to respect us and our way of life. After excessive instigation on the part of northern arrogance, we have declared war upon Questers and penetrated /her/ borders, freeing land for our overgrown populace and looking at the prospect of capturing many important Questarian cities on their southern coasts. Onward to Sandakan! Lang lebe Alasien!

*For reference, a Cravanian bombing raid injured Verena, who was pregnant with triplets, however she lost one of the fetuses which was somewhat unhealthier than the others. She has ordered an imminent nuclear response in return.

Verena Verikov twiddled the pamphlet between her fingers, looking over her departments' work in the comfort of her cozy flat-like bunker. Sipping her coffee, she suppressed the powerful feeling overcoming her as her husband approached. "How is it?" Lowering the floodgates, Verena threw the steaming cup all over her spouse before hurling the cup at him, which missed by inches, showering the cabinets behind him with a hail of glass. "Du schwuler Arsch!" The Kanzlerin's words rang truer than she realized, but such an expression was a common Coactionist slur. "I hate being here! After what I ordered the Cravacks wouldn't dare bomb Karelya again!" Burying her face in her hands and sobbing before looking up in contempt, she forced herself to a calm. The Chancellor was used to such a reaction from her. The already disturbed woman he had met ten years earlier had long since descended into a radical pyschopathic void- but then and now she was a good actress, especially for the public.

"I thought it'd be best, for the tr- twins. Plus, we'll see each other more often." His words were empty, and to as sharp an ear as his "wife"'s, probably detectable as such, despite his adeptness at deception.

[Herr] Verikov leaned against a niche filled with Doomani Saint Michael, a gift from the Mrs.' Uncle, the [in]famous Maximus. /Why did I marry such a foreigner./ Trying to soften his demeanor, he turned again to face his partner, surprised to find her already at his side, embracing him and sobbing wildly. Quite agile for a woman just out of the hospital. Looking down at the unfamiliar mess of hair, he wondered how much of her was left there. "I. Want. Them. All. Dead!" choking back a vicious wave of tears from further drenching her hospital gown, she looked up longingly at her husband before again burying herself in his breast, pounding the space next to him with her spare hand, breaking in the drywall. Perhaps they both had some feeling for the other remaining. Most ability for passion for anything had, inescapably, grown cold- both seemed to be finding it difficult to love most anything.

More out of amusement than out of sympathy for his wife, Avelo's voice picked up a twinge of twisted warmth. "Don't worry baby. I won't let you down." Verikov was not looking at his spouse, however, but rather at the large newsfeed display on the back wall showing a white trail of smoke tailing a hauntingly sinister projectile. Laughter filled the room as Verena beheld the wondrous sight. /Serves you right. All of you./

---

Lt. Colonel Otto von Sankamer turned his head every which way, taking in the beautiful aerial universe before him from the cockpit, blazing over mountaintops that were quickly winding down into swaths of tropical green. So this was Questers. Much more interesting than Brenningfeld. Having been transferred last-minute to this new, much more significant front (not to mention there wasn't exactly significant conflict for control of the air in Brenningfeld) , Otto had tried his best to adjust quickly. The photograph of his young wife and toddler son, fruits of his rushed efforts, filled him with bravery and hope over this strange land, a ray of homeliness in the intimidating Havenfighter cockpit surrounding him.

Otto couldn't quite inspire the same hatred in himself that had been drilled into him and every other brave Coactionist serviceman of Questarians than he had of Cravacks. They didn't have the history of conflict or the long campaigns of propaganda targeting them. Supposedly there were even some Germans in their number! He wished he could be back on Vessia, pounding all fuck out of his nation's real enemies. It was a shame that after so long a wait, the liberation of the small sliver of such rich land had to be overshadowed by an instantaneously arising total war between two immediate neighbors. Everyone had been surprised by the Questarians' brash actions- no one in the higher ups anticipated intervention, but almost all looked to the north with envy at the chance to gain some easy spoils.

Snapping himself back to reality, Otto set about his work, determined, if not by ferocious spite for the receiving end, for a need to avenge his nation's vast debt of honor.

Wave after wave of Coactionist Aircraft would descend upon the Questarian defenders, striking at ground forces and anything creating resistance in the air with a vengeance. With some 450 planes in every rotation the attacks would come in several waves and rotations, weakening the enemy for the armies to march in lockstep behind them. Comprised of Havenfighters, Aquila-IIs, and EW havenfighters, perhaps some of the airframes would be distinguishable as related to those of their Doomani Cousins who had swept through earlier. Their AWACS would be used to exactly pinpoint their prey's patrols, information to be fed to many hungry Havenfighters, sinking their ATAIM-9s and 8-s into the already airborne Negerschuetzer like sharpened fangs. Their packmate Aquillas had internally stowed 8 small diameter bombs each, venom to spit into the eyes of the foe, seeking out their RADAR and blinding him from as far as eighty miles away. Once left bumbling in the jungle, throngs of Aquila-IIs armed with Cornix ATGMs as the weapon of choice would rain down hellfire, destroying armor, trucks, buildings, and any other insult that dared stand up to the new Alacea.

Perhaps most wicked were the cluster bombs that would pound the troop concentrations. Any scraps left to pick off from the Doomani onslaught would be attacked from the indomitable Sariel, relentlessly spurning the instigator with Lancea missiles, tipped with munitions dispensing warheads.

All of the commotion would precede the drive into Questers by armor, helicopter, and infantrymen. After days of drama and commotion, the first few inches of Questers was under Alacean control.

OFFICIAL DECLARATION OF WAR

Following numerous strikes into Alacean territory and insults to her sovereignty, The Greater Coactionist State has no choice but to deal with the behemoth to her north intent on setting a violent precedent. A state of war now exists between us and the Questarian Confederation.

Avelo Verikov

[Unkerlantum]

Questarian-Unkerlantian border
Canal Zone, Staging Area Fox-1
0000-Local time

The steady influx of troops had been going on for weeks now as the federal government had carried out brilllantly a master plan of lies and deception. The last line of trucks finally arrived, the center vehicle carried Field Marshall Zeuk Von Zimmerman. The Butcher of Mont Send as he liked to call himself, Commander of the 88th White Brigade.

Zimmerman stepped out of his vehicle as a line of junior grade officers, and guards greeted him with a salute. Abandoning his typical dress uniform, Zimmerman exited the vehicle with a bit of trouble, as his chest plate made it difficult for the old man to stand up. Pausing briefly Zimmerman adjusted his helmet's chinstrap and the proceeded on, returning his saulte as his guards now took up flanking positions next to him and his entourage.

His second in command, High Constable Vimsal walked slightly to the left and behind Zimmerman, as was regulation and protocol. The pair discussed the status of the upcoming operations.

"So Constable, tell me, what is the status of our forces here on the east bank? Please, for your sake tell me something good."

Vimsal quickened his pace in order to keep up with Zimmerman, beginning to stutter as he talked.

"We-we-well sir, all forces in areas Alpha through Fox are green to green, Golf to India are experiencing some minor setbacks, the operation should still be a go on your time table though sir."

Zimmerman stopped, turning to Vimsal and pulling the subordinate in closer by his collar.

"I leave you in charge for two weeks, and upon my return you tell me my troops are not ready because they are experiencing difficulties?"

Zimmerman was clearly irate as he was now yelling, the guards around the pair proceeded to form a square formation in order to block the argument from view.

"How am I supposed to fight Questarians when my men are delayed by difficulties?"

Zimmerman threw Vimsal to the ground drawing his side arm and placing it firmly against the back of Vimsal's skull. His finger slowly easing back against the trigger

"Enough!"

Another voice carried across the camp from a large central tent. Even Zimmerman snapped to attention as his guards hurridly made an opening in their square formation

"What the hell do you think you are doing Zimmerman, Have you forgotten your place? You might be commander in the white brigades, but this is my show. You'll have your chance to spill blood, but it won't be here and it won't be any of ours."

Zimmerman nodded, clearly unhappy with High Marshall Levy's decision.

"Return to your position Zimmerman, constable Vimsal, you will be transferred under Field Marshall Herdun."

Vimsal dusted himself off as the group finally entered the command tent. Computer screens, radios, maps, reconnaissance photos and a number of other intelligence communications equipment were spread throughout the various compartments of the command post.

"All units green to green sir."

A tech issued the report as the group of officers entered the command tent.

Levy nodded, thanking the tech for the report as he and his subordinates proceeded to a closed section of the command center.


The last pieces of the greatly anticipated offensive would be worked out behind closed doors. For weeks now slowly but surely stockpiles had been discreetly moved towards the canal zone, artillery pieces had been disassembled and reassembled on location under concealed positions. Now in the early morning hours the camo covers were removed, the crews of some twenty five hundred guns punched in the first coordinates for their series of firing solutions and prepared to rain down on the unsuspecting Questarian defenders.

Around the various staging areas troops finished their last pre-combat checks and piled into their APCs and IFVs while Tank crews topped off their fuel tanks and prepared to roar forward as the tip of the spear in the coming assault. The troops on the western bank did much the same as their eastern bank counterparts. eighteen hundred guns prepared with nine divisions and six in reserve ready to pour into the canal zone.

At airbases around the canal zone and southern Questers dozens of strike squadrons and their fighter escorts roared off most equipped with JSOWs and HARM 88's or ALARMs meant to knock out or at least suppress the air defenses while the strike fighters struck at Questarian airfields and strong points with a combination of combined effects munitions and five hundred pound bombs. Several bombers also departed for targets, carrying fuel air bombs to obliterate enemy strong points along the canal zone. While multiple MLRS batteries would fire the opening salvo's against Questarian airfields and air defense network locations.

Two hundred and twenty aircraft in all made up the strike wave, broken down into various waves each with pre determined targets in northern Questers or the canal zone. An additional wave of seventy five B-22 Zeus bombers with fa-15 escorts roared out over the sea, aiming to bomb the industrial sectors of the cities of Beresford and Soho. Particular targets of interest would be power plants and any naval production facilities. All the while specialized electronic warfare craft would begin jamming Questarian radar and communications so as to further delay their reaction times.

This heavy strike wave would sweep in just after two SEAD waves swept the area around the cities of as much of the enemy air defense network as possible.

Southern Unkerlantum-Questarian border
0245 Local time

The large column of tanks and IFVs rolled down the streets toward the Questarian border, twelve divisions in all would soon begun an all out offensive on the northern lowlands that were separated by a narrow strip of Unkerlantian territory between the Questarian mainland and the canal zone.

Here the main focus was to be speed, as was the case much of the southern army was armored or mechanized and far larger numbers of strike craft soared in over head aiming to knock the Questarian air force out of the fight before they could even take to the sky.

Upon reaching the border crossing a Unkerlantian MAD VI 140mm shell blasted away the Questarian checkpoint, leaving nothing but rubble in its place, as the armored column pressed onward. Above the low drone of rotor blades grew louder as several attack helo squadrons surged ahead of the armored columns lighting up enemy border security targets with 50 cal and 30mm cannon fire, the Helo's gun fire proved to be deadly accurate through the use of their IR imaging displays allowing the pilots to see clearly through the shroud of darkness.

By the time the sun rose the Unkerlantian columns would have penetrated deep into the Questarian North West sector destroying everything in their path. The first units themselves rushed towards the already targeted airfields in an effort to further shut down the Questarian ability to mount any kind of effective resistance.


Joint Command center, Classified location in Unkerlantum
0500 Local time

"All units are green to green, all we await is your order sir."

A signal operator spoke from his computer as he sat busily typing away through streams of data and passing off information to other tech operators.

Lord Marshall Servo stroked his chin, smoke bellowing from the sides of his mouth as he exhaled, his cigar embers lit the darkened section of the room he sat in revealing his scarred hardened face. His right eye covered by a patch.

"Let it begin."

With those words radios across the staging areas finally broke silence as each units codeword for commencing operations began. Tank columns on both sides of the canal zone jerked forward as the SEAD and strike waves coupled with the specialized electronic warfare waves roared overhead towards their targets. Infantry units poured into their VAM V's and rushed forward as well anxious to spill Questarian blood.

In the distance a low grumble gradually building in intensity like a distant storm rolling in as the Unkerlantian artillery unleashed salvo after salvo its deadly rain upon southern Questers and along the canal zone. Some batteries however remained silent as they assumed a counter battery role and prepared to further cripple the Questarian defenses should an effective defense be mounted.

Jammer pods attached to the electronic warfare craft switched on blocking Questarian communications and radar as jamming signals swept from one signal to another, each assigned craft set to sweep at different intervals so as to ensure the maximum number of frequencies could be blocked at one time. Other EW planes focused on jamming enemy data links to ensure maximum effectiveness.

All across the North West sector lancea missiles and ARMs streaked across the night sky launched from their MTR.VIII Extinctor MLRS batteries positioned at the border began sending their payloads towards airfield after airfield waiting to liter the runways, hangers and any aircraft caught in the open with their bomblets. In conjunction with the MTR.VIII Extinctor's several batteries of MTR.VII Neco's carried out the same role firing off massive missile salvos at enemy airfields all before the first strike wave even crossed into Questarian airspace. Their mission was to completely obliterate the northern Questarian air force on the ground. Other batteries carried on with the advancing columns, stopping only after new airfields and radar arrays had been identified, firing off their salvos and then proceeding on.

Other aircraft began their attack runs streaking towards Questarian targets. Firing off their Lancea missiles at two hundred kilometers out from the first targets, filled with bomblets aimed again at airfields and radars, as well as troop concentrations and stockpiles. Other craft fired off their HARMs and ALARMs at enemy radar positions that were within current range of the strike forces. Several special waves of attack craft prepared to fire their Cornix missiles at government buildings, particularly those belonging to the judiciary side of the Questarian government.

The next wave would press deeper into enemy airspace and attack newer radar installations thus opening gaps in the Questarian air defense network. So on and so on until entire alley ways had been cleared through the skies into Questrarian territory.

Above fighter squadrons equipped with ATAIM-10s patrolled like a pack of wolves ready to pounce on anything the Questarian's put in the air.

The heavy strike wave now made for the cities of Beresford and Soho, their payloads of thermite and high explosive bombs would wreak havoc on the industrial sectors of the cities which they fell upon. It would now be but a matter of minutes before the sleeping inhabitants of the cities awoke to the deafening sounds of explosions.

War had come to the land of Unkerlantum and Questaria.

East Unkerlantum

While offensives began in the west, the eastern garrisons, including the Zukariaan forces which had been brought into the country under the ruse of joint training operations continued fortifying their positions. The hilly and mountainous terrain would mean fighting would be brutal and slow, MANPADS, light AT guns were passed out and spread throughout the various defending units.

Concealed 105mm howitzers and 203mm field guns dug into mountainside bunkers readied themselves to face what would surely be an assault from Questarian allies. Mortar units readied themselves

The defenders spread themselves out thinly, operating in platoon sized elements instead of mass formations except for various choke hold points in the numerous valleys that crossed most of the eastern portion of the country.

Helo's equipped with special dispensers littered valleys and approaches with mines of all types, bridges, damns, roadways were all guarded and several frontier bridge ways already rigged to explode.

Any advance the Questarian allies hoped to make would be slow and bloody.

Atlantic Isle

Like the men stationed on the eastern sections of the country the men stationed at Atlantic Isle hunkered down, dug in, and prepared for what would be the inevitable assault. .
As a last resort each man carried with him three cyanide capsules which he would consume should he face capture. Air defense crews readied themselves and caches of ammunition and AT rockets were spread throughout the base.

Each man readied his equipment and began preparing himself mentally for what would surely be his last battle, saying his last goodbyes, clearing his spiritual conscious and solemnly contemplating the end that would await them.

[Cravan]

House of Commons, Palace of Lancaster
09:00 local

The Rt. Hon. Sir Robert Cartwright's First Address to Parliament as First Minister

"This past evening, Her Majesty assigned to me the task of forming a government fit to perform the duties and responsibilities required of it in a time of crisis such as this, and it is this task which I have set out to complete with great haste, yet thoughtfulness.

"Already, this morning, the majority of this task has been completed. The names of those who I wish to have as Ministers have been submitted to Her Majesty for approval, and already she has given me her confidence despite my deviation. Originally, my task had been to specifically create a coalition of Liberal and Conservative viewpoints, to best represent the viewpoints of the two largest power blocs in these Halls. I have, however, gone against Her Majesty's specific request, and instead have gone further: Members of my own Liberal Party, as well as the Conservatives, and representatives from Labour, and even members from the Royalists have been among those summoned to serve in this Cabinet of War. It is evident that the inclusion of only Conservatives and Liberals would go against my very own sensibilities, for in a time of war such as this the broadest of viewpoints are required. In order to best represent the will of our nation's people, the will of the majority must not be the only will. Dissent, as they say, is patriotism.

"It was necessary that this government be formed so quickly, unlike how most previous governments have been formed, for time works against us. Time, today, is a valuable resource which shan't be wasted. Alacean hordes pour into the free lands of Brenningfeld and Questaria, while the Unkerlantumites pound Questaria with shell and fire, and charge across the border en masse. The Doomani prowl Strobovia, and "the HUNS" have already begun their rampage against our allies. I assure you, however, that despite haste this government is of the finest calibre which one could desire in a ruling organ. Among its ranks are some of the best and brightest this nation has to offer, and I am certain that this legislature shall come to appreciate such.

"I felt it necessary to ask Sir Chancellor Tefton to call this House to session this very morning, so as to enter into it a resolution to record its approval and assent to this new government. This Parliament is in summer recess until September, and thus it is imperative to gain recognition as early as possible such that, unless an emergency occurs, this Parliament need not be called until the day it is due to resume. Tomorrow I will visit the Peers, seeking the same recognition I seek from you.

"The resolution I propose reads such:

“'That this House accepts and welcomes the formation of a government which represents the widest of viewpoints in this nation, in an attempt to maintain unity and provide for a common defence to our people, our allies, and our ideals. That this House welcomes the formation of a government which seeks to prosecute a war against the Coalition of Tyranny and bring to it a victorious conclusion.'

“To form an administration of this scale and complexity is a serious undertaking in itself, especially in a time frame so limited. And yet we are in the opening stages of perhaps one of the greatest conflicts in history. The eyes of the world are upon us; let us not fail them in the face of tremendous evils.

“In this crisis, I think it apt to excuse myself from lengthy address to this House on this morning, as following my visit here I plan to hold the first meeting of this new war cabinet which I have assembled at Hancock to immediately dive into work. I hope of any friends and colleagues afflicted by this reconstruction of Her Majesty's Government to forgive me for the lack of ceremony with which this new government has been implemented; I am certain you understand that time does not allow for such luxury.

“I say to you as I have said to the ministers who I have requested join this government, that I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many months of struggle and suffering. We have before us a grave danger to our life, our liberty, and our pursuit of happiness.

“You ask, 'what is our policy?' It is, in simplest terms, to wage war; to wage war as valiantly and as effectively as we ever have and then some. The Armies of Darkness march upon our lands, our homes, and our peoples, and we must wage war against these armies with all of the might and justness which our God has given us. To wage war is a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark catalogue of the crimes of mankind. It is a lesser of tyrannies, however, as the alternative is all that is unholy in this world save for death, and should we fail, death will be the preferable alternative. And so it stands: our policy is war.

“You ask, 'what is our aim?' Our aim, in one word, is victory. Victory at any cost, save for the greatest cost of all: the liberty for which we fight. It is victory in spite of all terrors which await us, for without victory, the ideals which this Empire has stood for centuries will mean nothing other than the textbooks in which it shall be written by hands which did not know of it. However long and hard the road may be, victory is our only chance for survival.

“I take up my task, my responsibility, with hope and dutiful obedience to all which we consider holy and just. It is not, however, my responsibility alone. As darkness encroaches upon the free lands of the world, hardship will become a daily aspect to all. But that hardship is not for naught, for one day when our grandchildren walk this Earth, they shall know of the sacrifice their forebears made so that they may live in the light of liberty. They will know that we spilled our blood and tears so that they may live in a better tomorrow.

“My colleagues; my friends. Let this be the beginning of the end of a chapter where tyranny plagues shores not far from our own. Someday, our children will run free without worry nor fear of war amongst our lands. That day, ladies and gentlemen, is soon, and I have every intention of expediting the date which we see it.”

[adapted from Sir Winston Churchill's famous Blood, Sweat and Tears address to Parliament]

************

Offices of HMG
Lennox Block
15 Hancock Drive

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Cartwright announced as he entered the Red Room and put his coat on the rack near the door, “How are things this morning?”

“The death toll in Carpanthium has reached over two-hundred thousand, with well over a million injured,” announced Secretary of State for Health and Human Affairs Cooper, “Recovery teams are already hard at work, and cleanup is progressing quickly.”

“What about in Stanley,” the new Secretary of War, Jeffrey Keene, asked assertively.

“Sources in Stanley are currently unable to accurately estimate the damage considering the evacuated population and the amount of damage done beforehand,” Cooper replied, “Besides, Stanley is a fortress at this point, not a civilian population center, and therefore out of my area of expertise.”

“Now, now,” Cartwright said, taking his seat at the head of the table, “there's no need for that tone here. No matter party affiliation, we're all on the same side here. Jeff, militarily where are we?”

The Secretary of War shifted his weight uncomfortably in his seat while clearing his throat.

“Reservist Army units called up thusfar are at thirty percent activation. Our war infrastructure is gradually on the rise as the government is calling eminent domain over several of the larger rail lines to get equipment from storehouses to ports as quickly as possible. We've offered to reimburse rail companies for profits lost, but apparently there isn't enough cash in our coffers to do so without cutting into some major pieces of the budget. We can cover it with a small reorganization of priorities, but it will take time-”

“Don't bother. We'll worry about that when we have our gears in motion. Our priority is fighting a war right now.”

“Indeed, but who is our primary goal? I would like to think the Coactionists,” a familiar voice piped up. Lord President of the Council and First Secretary of State Annadale sat forward in her seat, “I would personally concentrate on the west for now, as things have yet to fully heat up here in the east.”

“Indeed,” Cartwright said, sitting back, “Our pieces on the board are just falling into place as well, and fairly well in our favour. For the moment, it appears the Doomani and the Unkerlantians are ignoring us and instead concentrating on the Alacean socialists and Questarians, respectively. First Lord of the Admiralty Callahan will be here shortly to discuss initiating operations with Olmedrecan and Aequatian allies on Atlantic Isle, and later landing in northern Unkerlantum to draw fire off of the Questarians.”

“Well that's all well and good,” Secretary of State for Camden Grant declared, “But what of the HUNS in our own backyard? Things may not have fully heated up yet, but they're still damn well heating up.”

“They are of a separate concern right now. ADENFOR is our primary commitment to a war against the HUNS, and SETO has everything under control at the moment. The Clandonians have been shooting all willy-nilly there, but I assure you ADENFOR will pull it all together. I have a meeting with a few representatives from SETO this afternoon, and I'm quite certain the situation is well under control. Osthafen is of little to no threat to us directly, to be honest I don't even seek aggressive war against them unless made necessary.”

“What of the Tipperites and the Praetonians?”

“The Praetonians need not our help, at least not at the moment. Liz and I conferred earlier and she has said that her discussions with the Praetonian government have painted the Alaceans and Unkerlantumites as priorities alongside Tipperites. They shall handle New Tipperary, we shall concentrate on what is pertinent to us.”

The room shifted its attention as the main doorway opened abruptly, and First Lord of the Admiralty Callahan entered the room, followed by a few of his assistants. Callahan's white hair and old spectacles contrasted with his neatly pressed black uniform, adorned with silver and gold ribbons and medals.

“I see you've started the party without me, Cartwright,” he said with a wry smile as he took a seat, “Let's get to business, shall we? We've a war to fight, after all.”

************

HMCS South Ayrshire, BB-117
No. 21 Battleship Sqdn, North Sea Fleet
Haleigha Sea, 0310 Local

The calm frigid waters of the Haleigha washed over the sides of the mighty South Ayrshire as she cut through the waves of the dark morning. From the pilothouse, one could see the lights of her escorts twinkling in the darkness against the waves. A clear sky of stars was open above the Haleigha, and visibility was perhaps the best it had been in weeks in this part of the sea.

“Receiving a flash communique from the Admiralty, sir,” a communications officer declared to the officer of the deck, “It's a flash bulletin for the Admiral.”

“Forward it down to his command section. None of our business.”

“Aye, sir.”

The South Ayshire, although not the flag of the North Sea Fleet, was a major task unit within the fleet and flew the flag of Rear Admiral Albert West, who often assembled under him a grouping Task Group for exercises at sea. The Ayshire, however, had never fired her guns in anger.

That was about to change.

A short rapping on the door stirred West from his slumber. Rising, he donned his navy-blue robe and slippers and slowly marched across the ornate Shansekian rug which adorned his floor groggily. Many commanders purchased goods to decorate their quarters with in foreign lands; West was no exception.

The Admiral swung the hatch open carelessly, barking out in a gruff voice at the man who interrupted his sleep.

“What the fuck you want at this hour?”

“Priority message from Laurana.”

“Oh?”

West snatched the paper from the young man's hands, and read it aloud in a half-mumble.

“Orders for Admiral Albert West. You are hereby ordered to gather under your command the units of the Fourth Task Force in Haleigha and make contact with allied assets including Aequatian and Olmedrecan assets in the region as soon as possible. Unkerlantians are to be considered hostile and should be treated using your own discretion; you may engage as you wish. The Fourth Task Force is to assist in the capture of Atlantic Isle pending cooperation with allied forces to use as a staging point for further operations against Coalition forces in the region. Beware Unkerlantian submersible vessels in-region, and be forewarned that RCN submersibles have been given orders to hunt out and destroy Unkerlantian submersible assets at their earliest convenience. Good luck, and God speed.”

The aging admiral let out a sigh, and tossed the paper to the side into a wastebasket.

“You're from my command, right?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good. Warm up a pot of coffee for me and tell them I'll be over in ten minutes. Start searching around for the highest ranking Aequatian officer in this part of the world that you can find and get him on the line, and start making calls to assets out across the sea to enter a wide formation centered around us, and to concentrate on anti-sub sweeps. Set up the pickets to provide the most protection. Oh, and be sure to let that louse of a captain upstairs know what's going on.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Now where the fuck I leave my pants,” the admiral remarked while turning back towards the interior of his quarters.

[Doomingsland]

THE TIGER AND THE EAGLE, PART 3
THE AXACKAL CRUSADE: THE EAGLE UNLEASHED

Urbs Doomaus, Doomanum
Segmentum Doomanus
19143.C21 Anno Domini (June 10th, 2043 Doomani Calendar)
0700 Local

Thought for the day: Reason is the cloak of traitors.

The sky above the legion vast was blood red; an omen of the great purge to come. Tens of thousands of black and gold banners flapped amidst the torrential wind blowing across the mighty city of gold, silver, and marble, yet not even it could drown out the steady drumming of millions of boots, of the clanking of thousands of treads. Towering pillars, vast spires, and statues of mighty heroes reached out towards the heavens above; vast and intricately engineered avenues were now clogged by the thundering legions, stretching as far as the eye could see. Untold millions had been assembled in the Imperium's capital for the most holy of rituals: the preparation for Holy Crusade. An endless sea of men and tanks, an endless sky consumed by the roaring warplanes on high; it was all too natural for this ancient fortress-city, a place from which madmen had engineered the deaths of countless billions.

The banners of the Cross and the Aquila could be seen wherever one looked about the place; hung from every window and light post. The citizenry as well as the countless battle-hardened warriors were present to pay homage to their Emperor, a man revered as a living Saint amongst the Doomani, all clad in the patriotic colors of black and gold, each waving a banner of their own, however small. One could not escape the constant drone of their war cries: Ave Imperator! Deus Vult!"

It was a grim yet jubilous procession, preceding by the thundering of war drums and the blaring of trumpets and the solemn chanting of the monks arrayed to bless the armaments and war machines of the Imperium's soldiers. At the center of the vast parade was Saint Michael's Square, the heart of Urbs Doomanus. A sprawling field of polished marble upon which sat many mighty arches, monuments to victories past, Saint Michael's square was a military parade ground within a city; surrounding it were the holiest of buildings: the Cathedral of Saint Michael and the Papal Fortress; the vast halls that housed the Senatus, and perhaps most importantly of all, the home of the much venerated Imperator Doomanorum, the Emperor: The Holy Citadel.

A vast fortress encompassing an area nearly a quarter the size of the city itself (which housed over eighty million people), Saint Michael's Square lay at its very gates. As the vast cohorts and legions finally halted in place, they easily covered the entire square; indeed, the streets of the city many miles away remained occupied by stopped columns of men and armor. From the might Palatine Wall of the Citadel, adjacent to the Papal Fortress which lay some two kilometers across the square, a lone trumpet blared, and suddenly the city was cast into utter silence. It seemed as if even the howling of the wind ceased. Two mighty banners bearing the Caput Mortis, the Crusader's Death's Head, personal standard of the Emperor, were unfurled from beside the Podium Imperatoria, an enormous balcony which jutted out from the wall high above the square.

A steady beat was formed by the thousands of war drums and a regal tune was blared from the trumpets: Ave Imperator, the Emperor's anthem. Hundreds of thousands of monks, most unseen, began to bellow the holy lyrics of the anthem in their low, solemn chant. Row after row of soldiers dropped to their right knee, planting the butts of their rifles and tips of their swords firmly into the ground, bowing their heads in perfect unison until the long wave ended with the last of the warriors prostrate before the Holy Citadel as many as ten miles away. One after another, their banners were lowered to honor their Emperor, who remained out of sight.

As the final words of the song were chanted and the last notes played, a lone figure appeared from out of the shadows of the Podium. A giant of a man clad in golden armor, polished to a mirror's finish, his breastplate emblazoned with a black Aquila, a mighty gladius hanging from his left hip, strode forward in a regal swagger to the Podium's edge, gazing upon his amassed flock with cold, calculating eyes. The golden laurels resting upon his head, the Apex Sanctus, appeared to glisten amidst the red sky as if it were a halo; the light reflected eerily from his armor, giving the appearance of an otherworldly aura. His face bore the scars of past wars and the creases of time; his shortly-cropped hair was a snow white. Though he was visibly aged, he appeared as fit as one in his prime.

Resting his gauntlets upon the intricately carved gilded marble railing at the edge of the balcony, he called out to those below, his voice loud and commanding, carried to those far away by the many thousands of speakers arrayed throughout the city, his image projected upon enormous flat screen monitors throughout.

"Servants of the Imperium, arise!"

The clanking of weapons and the shuffling of feet resounded as all rose to their feet in perfect unison, dropping their weapons to order arms.

”This day we find ourselves once more on the path to Holy Crusade for the glory of our God and our righteous Imperium. Once more, our ancient enemy, Questaria, in their infinite belligerence and shamelessness, has seen fit to make war upon honest men, allies of the Imperium. It falls again to us, servants of Our Lord and Savior, to come to the aid of our brothers and sisters across the mighty Axackal, who as I speak wage bloody and holy war upon our foes. These same foes who ruthlessly tainted sacred Doomani soil with their heathen filth not once, but twice in the past three decades!

“On both occasions, the mighty warriors of the Imperium fought and crushed the infidel in glorious battle, sending them crawling back to the jungles from whence they came. Instead of learning from their past failures, miserable defeats dealt to them by men in service of the One True God, they have again taken to the path to ruin. Vast barbarian hordes threaten to overrun an entire continent, baying for the blood of the innocent. They seek to raze the capitals of our brothers, to butcher their men and enslave their women, to torture and slay their leaders. Yet we shall not allow this to come to pass.

“The Sea of Axackal is in our grasp; the Holy Fleet swells in number and the fleets of our enemy are weak. Where our foe was once mighty, they are now vulnerable. What once protected their homes from glorious retribution no longer stands in the path of the righteous. Even at this moment, the legions of the Imperium stand on foreign shores beside our allies in their glorious struggle against the Questarian Tiger. No longer can our enemies sully our lands with their cruel decadence. Now is the time for the Long Crusade to carve its way into the lands of our enemy, to purge the unclean!

“None can stand before the Crusade of the Righteous. Let our enemies reap the doom they have sewn: The heavens shall bleed and they shall be devoured in a storm of iron, for we are devastation incarnate!

“Fear grips our enemy, for they know we are coming for them. Vengeance for their many transgressions shall finally be ours. This Crusade shall rage on until their monuments to depravity have been cleansed in holy fire and our foe utterly vanquished. Those who have sought to destroy this Imperium shall be punished, and your Emperor shall sit upon a throne of their skulls. No longer shall we be threatened by the unbeliever. By the blood of our fathers, by the blood of ours sons, I swear this: Jesselton shall burn! Questaria shall be crushed, and the Axackal shall become Mare Nostrum!

“Let the barbarian hordes fear our wrath, for we are the warriors of righteousness and cannot be stopped!

“Deus vult!”

“Deus vult!” the entire city roared in unison, shaking the very ground beneath with their fury. War with Questaria had been declared.

The Axackal Crusade had begun.