Hands in the Night (IC)
Posted: Sat Jan 25, 2020 8:24 am
In the streets of the Free City, 7:50 PM.
A light snow trickled down upon Borsten, orange light from the setting sun casting off from the falling flakes. The beginnings of the first snowfall for the mountain city. Plumes of dark smoke rose into the otherwise white sky, creating a marked contrast. Fires, emanating from burning husks of vehicles and buildings in equal number, burned around the city, most notably around the massive walled airfield of Polkriz Air Base on the eastern end of the city. The sound of rifle fire was constant; a steady, automatic thumping resounded throughout the city, followed by the occasional explosion that rocked the streets of Borsten. Sometimes, the whooping sounds of rotors descending over the city from the west filled the ambiance. Fewer and fewer of these sounds could be heard with each passing day; helicopters taking off from Polkriz had to avoid both mortars and machine gun fire upon take-off, and helicopters coming into Polkriz had to pull evasive maneuvers against small arms fire coming from different parts of the city. Roads leading into and out of town were locked down with checkpoints, manned by rebels of many different stripes.
The city was at war, after all. Armed groups rallying under the banner of the Free Volkavian Forces were in the midst of their campaign to wrestle control of Borsten from the monarchists. In an odd combination, groups normally opposed to one another - notably the Borsten police services and the radical student groups that spearheaded the nearly two years of protests following the scandal of 2006 - were now openly seen together in the streets, seemingly coexisting in the face of an expected government counterattack. The city government building, the headquarters of the Royal Police, the Borsten Railway Depot, and the local RSS station were to be counted among the most valuable possessions seized by the rebels. Much of the government resistance had capitulated; government conscripts had little motivation to fight in many instances, and in the opening week of hostilities, had given up much in the way of territory and equipment. Aside from isolated pockets of holdouts, the Ground Forces were still holding Polkriz, reinforced by a battalion of Paracommandos and a few remaining helicopters.
In the areas of the city firmly under rebel control, much of the scene was jubilant. Civilians and armed fighters alike crowded many a city block, carrying weapons and posters and flags in equal volumes. Vendors pushed their carts around, selling trinkets and old military items that they had accumulated. The smell of cooked meats and confectionaries coming from food carts and the odd food truck did plenty to dampen the stench of stale explosives. People sang and danced openly around the husks of burned-out Ratels, while mourners paraded the bodies of fallen fighters to their final resting places. There were large bonfires in the many open-air markets of Borsten, upon which portraits of the royal family were being cast into for the flames to feast upon.
Despite the jubilation from civilians and fighters alike, there was concern within the command apparatus of the FVF in Borsten. It had been a week since the first shots broke out, and many people - especially the commanders of the FVF - expected a quick response from the military. Instead, well-motivated fighters, most of whom were local to the area, were engaging in urban combat with a cornucopia of different small arms and improvised equipment, against conventionally-armed government forces - and winning on most accounts. Indeed, a batch of two-thousand government conscripts had arrived to reinforce loyalist police units, RVAF security forces, and Paracommandos against the forces responsible for the uprising. Brash tactics on the part of the RVGF field commanders dictated a straight push by armor-supported infantry into the center of the city, to retake the local government annex as opposed to rallying at Polkriz to break the combat going on in its area. On the third day of the uprising, the reinforcements found themselves wrong-footed by multi-level ambushes, snipers, and other urban threats for which the conscripts were shocked and unprepared for.
Barely half of the force retreated to Polkriz after two days of fighting in the streets of Borsten. Conscripts deserted in many cases, with some switching sides to join the rebels. Some units had held on, but were growing isolated from movement or resupply. The days are growing in number, and soon, they would be expected to surrender for their own survival's sake. Lord Kotro expected more. There was fighting being reported all over Volkavia now, but Borsten was the only city in which government forces were at a severe disadvantage. For sure, in his mind, Velkan would not stop at trying to retake the city. His city was locked into a fight for its survival. If the government was to retake Borsten, it would mean the deaths of many who chose to represent a new path for their nation.
Polkriz Air Base, 7:50 PM.
While many celebrated in the streets below, the personnel sheltered by the concrete walls and outer perimeter of Polkriz were in more dire straits. The combat posts and defensive emplacements holding the perimeter outside of the walls were under constant engagement with FVF snipers and marksmen hiding in the rubble of the city. Officers had learned to stay within the walls and rely instead on their walkie-talkies to give orders, rather than risk identification and elimination by the sniper teams. They stayed mobile, against the government troops, who sought cover behind sandbags and armored vehicles. The rare missile would strike their position from time to time, usually aimed for the Ratels so as to keep them from hitting buildings with their 90mm cannons and machine guns. Inside, soldiers had to contend with the random mortar barrage.
The main headquarters building was a mess. A handful of mortars had failed to penetrate the metal and concrete structure, but the interior of the two-story building had certainly been shaken and not stirred. Many of the windows had been blown out by the blast, with the navy blue carpeting now covered in broken glass that coated most of the floor space. The lights were flickering as military personnel passed and rushed through the hallways, going about their business with a sense of urgency not seen on a typical basis. Clad in camouflage fatigues - or the civilian suits and black BDUs of the Security Service - that would normally inspire a sense of courage, everyone within the building was in a state of panic, more or less. Miraculously, the station still had a line to the outside world.
In the war room, Volkavian officers of the different branches congregated against a wall-mounted war map of Borsten. Magnetic pieces - labeled blue and red and arranged into different shapes of squares and circles and arrows to denote units and movements - crowded the layout of streets and blocks and important buildings. Major General Drago Drulovic, a tall and fat man clad in a set of camouflaged fatigues, stared with a pained expression at the board. His predecessor, Colonel-General Hrepka, had chosen to take his own life only the day before. Drulovic believed this to be a mercy, compared to taking on the ire of the new king. He had heard the rumors; that Velkan had drained his father of his blood, and sent his special forces troops upon the rest of his family to eliminate anyone in opposition to his rule. He wagered that dissent, at this point, would be treated with a similar courtesy.
Lost in his thoughts, General Drulovic was approached by a young Sergeant, who held in his hands a sat-phone. Drulovic turned his head to make eye contact with the man.
"General Drulovic, sir," the aide began. "You have a call from Shigal."
He did not immediately reply. Instead, he looked back towards the board. A pang of fear made a movement in his stomach.
"I see. Is it His Highness?"
"No sir. It is Director Malkovich."
Drulovic nodded, and looked again at the Sergeant. He held out his right hand, and he received the sat-phone. Drulovic brought the phone to his ear, and responded.
"This is Drulovic."
"General," a raspy voice called out on the other end. "We are still in connection to Polkriz, but I feel that this is the best way for us to communicate. How goes the defense?"
Drulovic's eyes went to the board once again.
"Same as it has been since yesterday. Any attempt at an assault of the perimeter is easily repulsed, but their snipers are keeping movement on our part to a minimum. We have tried dropping barrel bombs with the helicopt-"
"Good, the barrel bombs will work to dislodge them."
"The barrel bombs mean that we are putting our remaining aerial assets at risk. We cannot use the fixed-wing aircraft, and if we need to evacuate, they will b-"
"Do not even mention a retreat, General! That is not what His Highness intends for his city. I have arranged for additional assets to change our odds."
"What are these 'assets?'"
"You may only concern yourself with their nature as special operators, at a platoon-level strength, and that while they will be independent of your command, will be directly affecting the fate of the rebel movements on your base. I am assured that they operate and affect to something disproportionate to their own number. Two battalions from the Airmobile Group will also deploy into the city, which aside from the operators, will be at your disposal."
"I see, and what time will they arrive?"
"Sundown."
"Uh-huh. More specifically?"
Drulovic could hear nothing but a dead dial tone. He brought the phone down by his side, and gave a long sigh before turning around, to stare out of the broken window that captured a rather panoramic view of Borsten. Assets. Drulovic, along with the rest of the Volkavian officer corps, knew greatly of the present King's involvement with the RVSOC. Since his ascension two months prior, there was talk of Velkan investing heavily upon the special forces, in terms of personnel and equipment, and funding. He feared their mandate; a single platoon operating without his direction.
He turned back to the map, staring on intently and contemplating his next move.
Royal Armory - Borsten, 8PM
Istvan Savic - Free Volkavian Forces
Istvan Savic - Free Volkavian Forces
Leaned up against his black Caprice, Istvan smoked a cigarette and stared towards the throngs of people crowded around the main armory warehouse. Some were being handed guns from the backs of government trucks, while others ripped apart old crates of surplus arms they had pulled from the main warehouse. He had no need to join them; an M16 was leaned up against the door of his car. His window was rolled down, as to better hear the crackling sound of his police radio. His ears were open, but his mind pondered the anxiety of his present situation. Rosica is at the government building, firmly in our lines. It's her choice to be a technocrat, and I have no say. I want to be there, but I have an obligation here. I hope that we can maintain the city, at least until I can figure a way to get her out of here. His wife was pregnant, and the civil war had begun in their home city. It terrified him.
However, his obligations to the city remained standing. Indeed, as a participant in the city coup, he could not simply hide away with his wife in the basement of his ancestral home, and simply wait for the war to be over. Volkavia needed fighters; Istvan had fought before. He counted many high schoolers among the fighters gathered in the asphalt lot outside of the armory buildings, even some individuals who looked far too young to be without adult supervision. Sure, many conscripts had deserted to the FVF and the majority of adult fighters in Borsten had varying degrees of military experience, but the young men and women - armed with eighty-year-old weapons and molotov cocktails - were beginning to wear under the grind. Motivated assaults against the perimeter of Polkriz had seen close to a hundred FVF fighters - mostly students from Tuchansky College - fall prey to RVGF Ratels and machine gun posts.
His radio crackled once more, and Istvan turned his body somewhat, to the open window. He took one final drag of the cigarette and flicked it away.
"DC-Actual to HU-3, do you copy? Over."
It was the Detachment Commander, Colonel Florian Shodorow. Istvan reached into the car and grabbed the receiver. His thumb keyed the device.
"HU-3 here. Go ahead, DC-Actual. Over."
"Word from Government House is in, so you're a-go for deployment. We're tasking you with establishing a combat post within 125 meters of the main line at Polkriz. Over."
For a brief moment, Istvan paused. Sure, within 200 meters of the base were numerous buildings, many of which were already being utilized by the fighters. Within 100, there was a city block that was firmly in the firing zone of the main gate. The two concrete MG posts at the main gate, normally for show, were now supplemented by entrenched positions in the green in front of the base, as well as armored vehicles pulled up at the main gate. 125 was well within the range to be lit up at arrival. Fucking suicide.
"I see. What's being installed? Over."
"We're supplying you, and a team of mixed fighters that have been given their orders, with several vehicles, including a munitions truck carrying several machine guns and a MILAN system. I don't know what that is, but someone told me that it's a good-enough missile for knocking out armor. Over."
The MILAN made him feel a little better. Not by much. Still suicide.
"Copy that, DC. Where am I to find these vehicles? Over."
"Motor Pool. When you have arrived at the AO, report in. We will divert assets to take pressure off of your back. Over and out."
"Copy that."
Istvan dropped the receiver back into his seat, and looked towards the large concrete garage far to his right. An M35 truck sat parallel to the front of the garage, with a green Jeep Cherokee at the back of the M35, and an M2-equipped Land Rover Defender at the front. After placing his M16 in the passenger seat, he climbed into his Caprice and started her up, rolling slowly through the armory lot towards the garage. Istvan stayed mindful of the many people who crowded the area, his foot riding the break in anticipation for someone errantly walking in front of him. In no time at all, he parked some twenty feet from the M35, and climbed out, rifle grasped in his left hand as he approached the vehicles.
Shit...