Decisions (AMW)

[Iansisle]

Furthingham

The kiss took him by surprise. For some reason, all that could run through his head was this is supposed to be a sterile environment! After probing around for a moment, he drew back, her lips still clinging to his. Her breathing was quick and shallow. The nurse seemed pretty enough, although it was hard to tell in the flickering florescent light on the hospital hall. Their eyes and hands locked for a moment, just one moment. Then she ran off, leaving a piece of paper in his hand and a sweet taste on his lip.

The guard at the door had a twinkle in his eye, although he didn’t say anything. Probably the wisest thing he could have done in the presence of an officer. Nicodemo Ranalte pulled at his tunic’s hem and shoved the piece of paper into a pocket. As soon as he took a step forward, the private swung the door next to him open.

The room inside was somewhat nicer than the bare concrete walls of the hall. At least there had been some effort put into making it seem like home. Curtains hung over the small window and a few flowers sat next to the wireless set on the night table. Of course, he had sent those flowers. Weeks ago. Now there were really more “sticks in a vase.” But for what the hospital lacked in warmth and creature comforts, at least there was a bed and an IV drip and a monitor. His mother had never looked so frail, so small.

Ranalte pulled a chair over and sat next to the bed. The doctors said it was cancer of the lung, probably brought on by too much smoking or possibly exposure to the soot-ridden air of Furthingham. Either way, she was dying. Her chest rose and fell gently, unaware of the terrible malady it concealed. He could wake her up. After all, it was exciting news – promoted to brigadier, given command of one of Captain Johnson’s new mechanized brigades. In less than a year, the revolution had vaulted him from a lieutenant of artillery to one of the twenty-one officers who would be responsible for protecting the Shield. But she looked so peaceful right now. This wasn’t the time to wake her just yet.

He sat for ten, fifteen minutes while curiosity tore at him. He was such a terrible son. Here was his mother, dying, and he was spending more of his time thinking about that encounter in the hall. At last, when filial duty could not delay him any longer, Ranalte took out the small sheet, with a guilty look over his shoulder. Don’t want anybody to know what a bad son I am. There were just a few lines to read. One side said, “I am off at seven-thirty. Peggy.” The other side was an address, not too far from the hospital. He stared at the sheet for a long while. It’s good to be the hero of the Republic.

A faint groan and shift of weight snapped him back and he hastily stuffed the note back into his pocket. Dark eyes fluttered open in front of him.

“Hey mom. Hey. It’s me, Nico.” It felt a little odd talking to his mother while he was thinking of Peggy.

Grand Street

They had painted over the bloodstains, of course. Madders ran his hand along the wall, feeling the plaster where bullet holes had been filled in. Tom Bowen had died here, shot five times in the chest and neck by the Guards as they stormed in. He had splattered all over this wall and slumped down alongside it. Even with the gunshots and the screaming, Madders had been able to hear him hopelessly gasping for air.

Behind him a camera clicked, then another.

“That’s very good, Mr. Madders, hold that please,” said one of the reporters.

Lawrence Madders could only just suppress a smile. Bradsworth and his lackeys were a thousand miles away sitting uselessly around a table at Kingsmount. The capital’s broadsheets were already screeching with disappointment at the Conference’s lack of a favorable result. Every day that the windbags in Walmington prattled on, the more the local population became convinced that nothing less than the entire bag – Thortraia, Editraequan, the Jave, Wyclyfe, Gallaga, all of it – would do.

And here was the leader of the first real resistance to the empire himself. The man who had nearly been shot, who had lost friends and relatives to the bullets of the old regime, solemnly remembering his fallen comrades on May Day. It would make great press.

Just over two weeks to go. Keep talking, Charles, it’s what you’re best at.

Serpvale, Wyclyfe

The Revolution in Wyclyfe was a curious affair. Like most parts of the Shield, especially most poor parts, the population was not especially well educated. Most of the buckwheat farmers gathering in the town square of Serpvale had never heard of Marx, much less of Graeme Igo. But they did know that some men had come up from Wyclyfe city itself and helped them to throw off their lords and reorganize so that they could produce food for themselves. The entire harvest this year – and it had been a good one – had gone to the community which had farmed it. This novelty alone won the government the undying support of the good people of Serpvale.

The elected local head of the Soviet – although some of the residents were still a little unclear on what exactly an election was, even as they were doing it – was drawn from his office, where he had been working on plans for optimal crop rotation, by all the commotion. Once he realized what was going on, he hollered and hooted along with all the rest. There weren’t any border controls in this part of the country, at least not yet, so he represented the entirety of the welcoming party.

As the residents of the town were informed that May First in fact had some special significance and that it was a celebration, the arriving Geletians (and Shieldians) were treated to a humble feast and a night of singing and dancing.

[Beddgelert]

First, spoilered, the post that came before.

Pentref Tadbrenos, a small city in the centre of the Transpureto-Wyclyfe border, hadn't all that much of a history. Once a small Jewish settlement on the banks of the river called Cogilnon by the Celts, it now marked the terminus of a half-way significant length of track on the Marxist-Chaoist hermit state's extensive and under-used railway system. A couple of concrete pillboxes looked over the otherwise invisible border between what was definitely Geletia and what wasn't quite Geletia or Shield, but these days they weren't often manned. The soldiers of the People's Republic were off in Transdurinos, liberating workers and peasants, executing capitalists and clergy.

But this was May Day, the first May Day on which Europe had been able to boast multiple Communist states, and, what luck! They shared a border!

Just before dawn, with the morning star apparent, the scant few residents of whatever mud-farm lay down-river in Wyclyfe woke to The Internationale as rendered on the Regni Great-Pipes, joined as it rose by the clatter and clunk of tank tracks approaching from the north.

The first rays of sun breaking over the eastern steppe would gradually illuminate a sole vehicle shambling out of Pentref Tadbrenos, the tank dripping with humanity and flags all clinging to its exterior. The TG-77-580 -freshly painted in a brighter green than would be normal for a combat vehicle, its road wheels displaying white walls- arranged its turret in travelling configuration, the gun pointed backwards over the elongated rear deck, upon which stood the piper, leg braced against the barrel. The driver's hatch was open, allowing the female driver to raise her head into the chill morning air, and in the turret's open hatches sat other members of the crew, the gunner an ethnic Shieldian, while clinging with one hand to the roof-mounted machine-gun and holding a flagpole in the other was Ioan Owalgynnal, Chairman of the Central Committee of the Geletian Communist Party (Marxist-Chaoist).

Owalgynnal's Aurochs

There was some shouting as signs of habitation were approached, chiefly from an apparently optimistic Owalgynnal, who exhorted locals lyrically through the piper's din, "So Comrades, come rally!"

Serpvale

The Cesoists (or Kezoists, or Marxist-Chaoists, or Marxist-Kurosites, or whatever else one wanted to call them) were more than a little relieved to be greeted warmly in Wyclyfe, or at least Owalgynnal was... the tank's crew and the piper had been lead to believe that the issue was never in doubt... after twenty-three years of increasing hardship, the revolution really had taken off, and Wyclyfe's liberation was the answer to all of their... erm, not prayers...

The new arrivals had brought with them a bubbling vat of porridge, flavoured with some paprika and other odds and ends, and another cauldron full of cawl (a traditional Geletian broth featuring salted bacon, swedes, carrots, and assorted seasonal vegetables), both kept warm on top of the engine and exhaust of their tank, plus a barrel of mead as was proper for the Calan Haf celebration of summer's arrival, and several cases of wine. Most of these things were luxuries to the crew, who ordinarily had to make do with a thin gruel made from acorns, occasionally thickened with oats, though the wine at least was familiar to them... the Transprut's leading industry was wine, and the Kezoists had invested considerable effort into producing large quantities of high quality tipple, which was their only profitable export to Beddgelert. The Chairman of the Central Committee of the Geletian Communist Party (Marxist-Chaoist) hoped that the locals might take this spread for typical fare in the People's Republic to the north, and be impressed by the Marxist-Chaoist alternative to Igovian Thought.

Once the singing began, the half-dozen guests let their (mostly) Celtic voices loose on any number of folk and revolutionary numbers. Most of them had been born just before the hardships of economic isolation really kicked in, and so stood tall as other Celts. Even the ethnic Shieldian was 5'10”, and the woman, a career tanker, 5'7”. A little suspicious to anyone who really looked into the matter, as shorter soldiers were ordinarily preferred for tank crews, but who was really going to notice?

Ioan would not spend too much time waiting to make it clear to the Soviet representative that the Colonel wanted Wyclyfe's friendship, and that one hundred thousand comrade soldiers were willing to fight in Wyclyfe's defence if it shirked pressure from the Gull Flag, from Akink, from Kingsmount, or where ever else.

”Make a good case for us in the capital, and this could be the making of you, comrade.” He said at one stage, while pouring another tankard full of wine for the representative. ”There are merchant ships loaded with arms, fuel, and food, from Dra-pol, wandering back and forth in the Black Sea, waiting for ports to welcome them. You may worry that we to the north have Wyclyfe's people outnumbered five times over or whatever it may be, but we need you, too. Your ports, our soldiers. Between us, we can defend this revolution, comrade, and do ****ing well off it.”

[The Crooked Beat]

Ianapalis

Citizens of the newly-minted Gull Flag Republic's capital city could hardly be blamed for overlooking Avarga's small embassy, a run-down, shabby, unassuming three-story town house with little more than a brass address plate and a strange pennant hanging from its flagpole to distinguish it from surrounding properties. Representing Avargan interests in King James' court had not usually been a very important or productive exercise, since, apart from a handful of trade agreements in minerals and more frequent letters of protest over various repressive measures, wholly ignored, diplomatic traffic between Republic and Grand Empire amounted to very little. Ever since the Gull Flag started to fly over Ianapalis, however, that had changed. Even now, with a popular, participatory regime in power, Avarga is not invested to any significant degree in Shieldian affairs, but few causes elicit public sympathy, or that of policy-makers in Eminliman, quite so readily as a democratic revolution aimed at a dictator or a monarch, and while small, distant, and until recently immensely distracted, the Avargan Republic is eager to help.

Normally, the embassy itself is tended by a staff of around 30 locals and foreigners, though recent disturbances had it running on a skeleton crew of just 10, Ambassador Hamdi Polgar presiding. Polgar is certainly not upset over James Callahan's eviction, but with a sudden influx of trade representatives, technical specialists, military advisers, and functionaries of all shapes and sizes, space in the small embassy building, never entirely adequate to begin with, is at an absolute premium. Mealtimes, under different circumstances quiet, relaxed, and familiar, have taken on a distinctly frenzied air.

With much-anticipated elections fast approaching, Avargan specialists busy themselves with helping to train a cadre of Shieldians in the complex web of techniques and procedures that accompany a high-level political contest, giving lectures and holding workshops in narrow embassy conference rooms. A team of utilities technicians spend their time with employees of Ianapalis' public works department, discussing possible points of improvement and outlining advantages that might be gained through a program of modernization, though wartime fiscal pressures mean that a grant of 250 million Tugriks previously authorized for exactly that purpose may be delayed somewhat. Several doctors and nurses are also on hand, and take time out to visit poorer sections of the Shieldian capital in order to provide free medical care, though always in close cooperation with local health workers lest they unknowingly commit some sort of slip-up.

A military attache arrives as well, a certain Major Yusuf Herczeg. An Army mountaineer, dressing distinctively in that corps' over-sized beret with bugle insignia, dark-blue parade uniform covered in campaign ribbons and a freshly-issued combat wounds badge, and gleaming black boots with buckle-up gaiters, Herczeg is notably missing an arm, going about with one sleeve buttoned to his jacket front. In spite of this debilitating wound he manages remarkably well with everyday tasks, and dives right into his liaison mission, meeting with Gull Flag officers and attending training exercises whenever possible.

Riga

As Kingsmount, largely inconclusive, winds down, Mikalous Andres-Kletsk and his fellow state councilors mull over Gandvik's next move. It is with particular worry that they look ahead to upcoming elections, any public mention of which in the Principality is grounds for a visit by the secret police. Ever since the Gull Flaggers took power, the twin organs of state censorship and propaganda have been working in overdrive, one attempting to suppress any mention of political happenings in the former Grand Empire while its partner shamelessly harps on patriotic sentiment to vilify Shieldian progress. Overall, this campaign yields mixed short-term results, and while a few underground newspapers exhorting Gandvians to similar ends do appear, especially in restive Ingermanburg, revolutionary ardor in most average people, among Europe's less-wealthy populations but still much richer than their Shieldian neighbors and generally looked-after, if not too well, remains largely dormant.

Information regarding internal politics in the Gull Flag Republic itself is notably lacking, and after the fallout surrounding their intervention in Weshield Gandvik's rulers are not about to risk a high-profile espionage incident in order to try and change that, especially given Military Intelligence's leaky history. Still, from what information filters back from Kingsmount, Bradsworth is taken to represent a moderate faction, one whose electoral victory is far from assured. There are plenty of reasons to believe that a more radical set of Republican leaders might not be on board with Riga's vision of a split-up Shield, while, with Aeropagitician cowed, Nibelunc is if anything probably more of a threat, and much more likely to back Ianapalis than uphold some vaguely-defined understanding reached with a disgraced faction.

With this in mind, army chief-of-staff Edmund Kneiphof pays another visit to Gomey, home once again to most of General Bjorgstrom's depleted Army Corps. Bjorgstrom himself may still be in Weshield with an infantry division and some scattered armor, but sufficient telecommunications connect the two men to enable a short conference. A voluminous after-action report, running to several hundred pages, arrives via courier soon after Kneiphof's plane touches down, intricately detailing the Army Corps's conduct down to company level in some cases. After visiting the hundreds of combat wounded, and pinning medals on such individuals as General Otsason, Captain, or rather Major, Merkel, Major Bartens, and Brigadier Edelfelt, among numerous others, Kneiphof sits down to give the report a thorough reading.

Previously one of Gandvik's least well-equipped Army Corps, the lion's share of modern equipment being absorbed by formations more immediately facing Nibelunc and Thracia, the Army Corps of the Djesna at last starts to receive trucks in quantities sufficient to enable the gradual motorization of bicycle-equipped rifle regiments. On the pretext of replacing combat losses, obsolete Pav.68s are swapped-out for substantially more modern Pav.84s, while another armored brigade, the Holmgard Lancers, is surreptitiously sent south to Polesia from its garrison on Lake Ilmen.

(OCC: Hope I'm not intruding here. As for Avarga, this will probably be the extent of its involvement in Shieldian affairs, while it seemed like a good time to deal with what's going on in Gandvik at this time.)

[Iansisle]

Wyclyfe City

“Our Celtic comrades” were welcomed across Wyclyfe, traveling slowly along poorly-maintained roads through the heart of the new state, encountering plenty of hospitable locals. They knew that things had gotten (relatively) better since the Revolution and were generally not inclined to recognize the difference between Marxist-Chaoist and Igovian thought. There had been plenty of talk about how the conference at Kingsmount was faltering and the international status of little Wyclyfe was still up in the air; in that paradigm, the confident show of support by the only other communist state in Europe was heartening.

Or was it a subtle threat? The readiness of the Soviet militias, so effective in the Revolution against disintegrating imperial power, was abysmal. The elected Comrade General of the militia reported that it would be a tough and ultimately futile fight should Transpuerto invade. War with Beddgelert or the Nibelunc-backed Gull Flag Republic was absolutely unthinkable and only partisan resistance after the invasion could be contemplated as a serious strategy. Some of the more paranoid members of the Temporary Committee to Steer the Revolution opined that, should Wyclyfe prove intractable in either economic or ideological matters, Kezo intended to gain his access to the sea in much the same way as he had ended the MapGelert threat.

Of course, in many ways the TCSR was in itself a transgression against Wyclyfe's own Igovian pretensions. Anne Marken, in many ways the most ideologically pure member of the new government, had initially railed against the creation of an executive committee in defiance of the direct democracy hailed by Igo. Only when faced with the realities of Wyclyfe's crippling infrastructure deficiencies had she relented. In truth, this fight against the establishment was a large part of the reason that she had been selected to represent the state at far-off Kingsmount.

In the end, pragmatism ruled the day and the TCSR decided the relations between the only two communist states in Europe could not afford to hinge on a “relatively minor” (in the words of the committee chair) differences. A diplomatic delegation to Ffynnonnewydd was arranged as quickly as someone who could spell it was found. There was little secret that the mission was not to quibble over issues of ideology but to quickly and smoothly enact whatever formal trade and defensive arrangements Colonel Kezo might want. In a fit of international solidarity, Wyclyfe further planned such expeditions to Dra-pol. Eelam, of course, as the world's only other Igovian state, had alrady been contacted.

Ianapalis

Avargan experts are doubtlessly befuddled by the state of the city and the country as they are given a crash course in what passes for infrastructure on the Shield. Even in major cities, sewage is mostly untreated, power supplies are frequently affected by rolling brownouts and certainly not universal in connectivity, what little running water exists tests positive for a bewildering array of pathogens, and roads (except for those frequented by the rich or their companies) are little more than dilapidated cobblestone remainders of the grand days of the empire or else dirt. In some places, bizarre anachronisms exist side-by-side with the most modern conveniences; on one side of a fence, satellite television broadcasts the latest Chrinthani entertainment into modern, well-decorated rooms while on the other side an extended family squats in a single room of a concrete apartment bloc that would have been condemned anywhere in the west.

Election experts encounter a huge amount of enthusiasm across the Shield, although most of it somewhat ill-informed as to the actual procedures involved. In some more remote communities, even the idea of an election is foreign. Somewhat embarrassingly, the Avargans also find a large amount of corruption in the far-flung districts. Around the capital and the Dunourton corridor, the rule of law is firm enough but the periphary is often controlled by what one Nibelung adviser described as “warlords” seeking to profit from the fall of the Empire.

Nor is the military complacent as Gandvik realigns its armarments. Work on the TS-12-720, accelerated over the anemic program of the Empire with Walmingtonian and Nibelung help, continues at a frantic pace while foreign advisers help Lenore House to streamline the army's organization and logistical systems. Chapman remains in overall command of the First Army of the Republic, although the exact composition changes significantly from large, unwieldy infantry corps to new, highly-mobile mechanized brigades modeled on the Nibelung system.

Elections

((ooc: yes, I know I missed my own target date >.< ))

There were certainly bumps and misteps along the way of the first national democratic election held in Shieldian history. Many foreign observers questioned the fairness of the electoral districts, whose lines were drawn based on antiquated demographic information and may have unfairly exaggerated the votes of rural farmers over urban industrial populations. There was also some scattered evidence of local groups physically intimidating voters, especially in Balliat and Mansmouth. Still, all things considered, the elections were considered largely free and fair.

Two hundred and forty seven members of the new National Assembly started to converge from their districts on the capital in Ianapalis. Three other districts had failed to turn up a clear majority after the first round of voting and were now organizing a runoff election. One hundred and thirty six seats, a majority of just about 55%, had gone to candidates endorsed by Charles Bradsworth and the moderate revolutionaries, primarily drawing from middle-class voters in Shadoran and along the Black Sea coast. Ninety six seats, about 38%, had gone to candidates endorsed by Lawrence Madders and the Radicals, drawn mostly from the industrial classes of the Daldan Basin. Fifteen seats, six percent, scattered across the rural areas of the country had gone to candidates running on a reactionary royalist platform, who usually coached their message heavily in religion. Of the three remaining seats, two were strongly tipped to go Moderate and one Royalist.

[Beddgelert]

Across little Wyclyfe there would be before long perhaps more Geletians than had visited since a dispute over swine in the century before last.

The broadly positive reception afforded by the locals to Owalgynnal and his comrades encouraged the dispatch of more diplomats, military liaisons, and surveyors keen to update their charts on the lie of the land, the state of infrastructure, and the demographic situation. There was a celebratory mood amongst virtually all of the Transpuretans, who, after more than two decades in ever worsening isolation, had in the last few months a military victory, the fall of a great imperial menace, the emergence of a prospective new ally, and the realisation of a long-awaited sea-link to the Chaoist People's Republic of Dra-pol, which, they'd been taught, would bring relief and security at once.

In response to the Chaoist tide, Beddgelert's Igovians did their best to endear their particular ideology, Heddwyn setting up a free cinema in a large tent near the capital and showing Cornitouti films. Most prominent were the high-octane adventures of the moustachioed and now middle-aged action-hero Carregrics (sometimes styled Carregrix), the 'stone king' of Geletian blockbusters, whose lyrical put-downs usually preceded the beheading of some enemy of either class or kin, and whose bloody exploits were presented as a moral lesson mingling Celtic tradition with revolutionary socialism.

Lacking the resources of the Chaoists, Heddwyn's mission had become that of a preacher, enticing an audience with pop culture, so it was hoped, before delivering a sermon. Maybe in the interval.

“What I want to do, comrades” he'd tell members of the Temporary Committee whose ear he could catch, “is to establish what you might call Socialist Sunday Schools. We'll bring teachers from Cornitoutia and Siluria once a week to donate their time and offer a bit of basic education to children and adults in rural areas and towns neglected by the Empire, show a film with a revolutionary message to keep people entertained and give them something to look forward to during the tough week faced by workers and peasants struggling forward, and then we'll give them a good Socialist grounding, too. We'll sing, oh, the Red Flag and the Internationale and so on, of course.” He pointedly neglected to add, 'and some pan-Celtic folk songs'. “And comrade Graeme thinks we should teach the ten socialist commandments.”

The big fellow had those committed to memory, and would recite them often.

1. Love your school companions, who will be your co-workers in life.
2. Love learning, which is the food of the mind; be as grateful to your teachers as to your parents.
3. Make every day holy by good and useful deeds and kindly actions.
4. Honour good men and women; be courteous to all, bow down to none.
5. Do not hate nor speak evil of any one; do not be revengeful, but stand up for your rights and resist oppression.
6. Do not be cowardly. Be a good friend to the weak, and love justice.
7. Remember that all good things of the earth are produced by labour. Whoever enjoys them without working for them is stealing the bread of the workers.
8. Observe and think in order to discover the truth. Do not believe what is contrary to reason, and never deceive yourself or others.
9. Do not think that they who love their country must hate and despise other nations, or wish for war which is a remnant of barbarism.
10. Look forward to the day when all men and women will be free citizens of one community, and live together as equals in peace and righteousness
(OOC: Credit to the Independent Labour Party, 1893-1975)

In contrast, Kezo's operatives spoke less of pan-Celtic ideas and justice, and much more of security and industry. They took the view that the revolution was not yet secure against foreign aggression, which might be a little ironic given how many of them were pouring across the border each day, nor against disillusionment if the TCSR did not hasten to industrialise their country. While the Igovians made much of Celtic colours, symbols, slogans, and habits, the Chaoists carried with them everywhere that red flag adorned with a golden aurochs, icon, they thought, of the land between the rivers.

The docking in Wyclyfe City of the first merchant vessel from Dra-pol, which had been loitering in the Black Sea for some time as Da'Khiem waited for the Colonels' all-clear, was greeted by the GCP(MC) Central Committee Chairman and whatever honour guard he could convince the locals to muster. The Transpuretans been told to expect dried fish, pickles, other long-life foodstuffs, medical supplies, munitions including 100mm tank-gun shells and batteries for their man-portable air-defence systems, and, perhaps most important, fuels and several tonnes of strategic metals. The hope was that Da'Khiem would soon send representation to Wyclyfe, along with further supplies.

(OOC: This post courtesy of flu-related sleep deprivation. All apologies and so forth.)

[Iansisle]

Ianapalis

“Citizen Callahan to see you, sir.”

Bradsworth looked up from his work to see the former king standing in his doorway. His secretary was there as well, a smug smile on his face.

“Yes, thank you, Pershing. Please hold all my calls.” Bradsworth hauled himself out of his chair and crossed to close the door. “I'm honored to see you, your majesty. Have a seat. What brings you to the mainland?”

James did not take the offered chair but rather walked to one of the oak-paneled walls of the office. There were pictures hanging there, pictures of the Dunourton Gulls and the early days of the Revolution. He wanted to make this so-called 'Director-President' impatient, to make him angry.

The seconds of silence stretched into a minute, then two. At last, James turned around expecting to see Bradsworth returned to his work; instead, their eyes met. The revolutionary had been sitting, holding his stump in his other hand, a pleasant smile on his face.

“I need to talk to you about your Minister of Energy,” James said at last. He felt powerless and juvenile, as if Bradsworth were patronizing him without saying a word.

“Ah yes. Citizen Defenne. I thought that might be what this was about.”

James' fists involuntarily balled into fists, but he managed to release them. “The man is a murderer and a scoundrel. I must protest entirely the fact that he is not currently in jail, before we even discuss that he is in your government!”

“I see.” Bradsworth picked up a pencil and twirled it briefly, then set it down again. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a seat? Ah, well then. The Revolution was a trying time, you understand. A desperate time. Men did things that I am sure they now regret. That is why, under the constitution, universal immunity was granted. The Republic cannot go forward if it is forever looking back.”

“Then you intend to let the Butcher of Balliat get away with his crimes? You intend to let him rule the country as he once ran his criminal gangs?”

“Thomas Defenne does not have the cleanest of hands, your majesty. Neither do you. I'd advise you to let sleeping dogs lie on this one.”

James' face was entirely red. He had been about to shout, but then he remembered the advice he had been given before this interview. “It seems that justice is not as equal in the Republic as you would have your allies in Munstra think,” he said, then turned and stalked from the room.

Balliat

The cheers were deafening. Thomas Defenne lounged in the backseat of the open-topped Westerton sedan as it rolled down one of the city's central roads past block after block of concrete rowhouses. This was his city, and now everyone knew it. Bradsworth himself had come out to campaign for the moderate candidate in the election – that had ended in a categorical defeat for the Gulls. Some Nib had whined about voter intimidation or some such nonsense, but Defenne knew a cheering crowd when he saw one. He knew a twenty-three point margin of victory. He knew his city.

And now he was in the cabinet. Director of Energy. A fairly insignificant place, perhaps; Bradsworth had balked when Madders put forward his name as one of the radicals who must have a cabinet seat under the constitution deal. Did these high-minded Nibs know about that one? But a place nonetheless. And he intended to make it an important one.

Especially since the crises in Gallaga and Aeropagitican, energy prices on the Shield had shot through the roof. Many cities across the country were now experiencing rolling brownouts and even full-scale collapses of the grid. More and more coal was being burned, much to the consternation of Ianapalis' green friends in Munstra. Which was why Thomas Defenne stood atop a platform in downtown Balliat and announced his intention to make his home town the first nuclear-powered city on the Shield.

[The Crooked Beat]

Riga

All in all, the Gull Flag Republic's recent election did not turn out to be quite the disaster that many Gandvian policy-makers had predicted. On the contrary, it seemed, to a set of observers with very little inside information regarding Shieldian politics at least, that an outcome broadly favorable to Gandvian interests had been achieved. Contrary to fears of a Radical victory -and there are few terms more alarming to Mikalous Andres-Kletsk and his government than Radical- Charles Bradsworth's moderate faction, judging from published information anyway, managed to maintain its preeminent authority, and while of course a Republican, dangerous by his very nature to Gandvik's autocratic, patrimonial leadership, he is regarded as someone who Riga can work with, a leader to be engaged with more than guarded against. He certainly made a favorable impression on Count von Bramstorp at Kingsmount, although, given the Foreign Minister's immoderate alcohol intake at that same event, his judgment may not have been perfectly clear.

In any event, with its long-standing goal of a divided Shield suddenly looking more and more like a lasting reality, a new current begins to surface in Gandvian foreign-policy thinking. Maybe, some way down the road, the Gull Flaggers might actually be worth getting on-side against a nation which, if anything, tends to present a greater threat to Riga's peace and security, for more than ideological reasons at that: Thracia. Having arguably lost its economic and administrative lead over that often murderously-disposed Grecian Republic, and with Boitilia's continued hostility, some would say racially-tinted, to Gandvians and their interests confirmed at Kingsmount, Gandvik could use a friendly government in Ianapalis. At minimum, a trans-Shieldian gas pipeline from Chingiz Khagan's particularly richly-endowed territories would go a long way toward alleviating chronic concerns over energy security.

It would be incorrect, however, to place too much stock in such sentiments, which are as yet the province of more peripheral elements in Gandvian political circles, some of them, granted, associated with such a highly-placed personage as Thorvald Gjores von Bramstorp but still far outside the mainstream. Conscious also of deeply-ingrained hostility toward Gandvik among average Shieldians, which must only have increased following the inconclusive Battle of the Rockfurth Reservoir, as the Battle of Rutters is known locally, Riga decides not to make any overt diplomatic moves toward Ianapalis itself, lest Bradsworth's position in relation to his internal rivals be weakened as a result. Better, most State Councilors agree, to let things settle on that front.

Other projects find a more enthusiastic reception at Riga Castle. In particular, it is decided to try and formalize Gandvik's diplomatic relations with Shieldian successor states, Thortraia and Editraequan especially. Evald Lassman, promoted on Edmund Kniephof's recommendation to full colonel, is nominated to serve, pending Todd Andrews' approval, as special envoy to that particular Republic, his patience and measured analysis, coupled with a refined taste for fine wines, having won him von Bramstorp's favor at Kingsmount. Thortraia, unsurprisingly, is assigned to an individual of more distinguished parentage, Mattias Joseph Ungern von Sternberg, 14th Duke of Dorpat, a member of one of Gandvik's oldest noble families. The Duke of Dorpat's function is viewed as especially vital, as, out of all post-Kingsmount states, most closely aligned in ideological terms and most valuable strategically. Should authorities in Tharia choose to accept him, his first job would be to negotiate a commercial treaty, while simultaneously, and, if at all possible, secretly, arranging military assistance. Another noble, Reinhold Anders Jagerhorn, is sent to Prince Daniel in the Jave, his responsibilities being largely similar to the Duke of Dorpat's, with an added emphasis on facilitating a restoration of friendly relations between it and its northern neighbor.

Wyclyfe, in spite of its clearly Communist leadership, also receives Gandvian recognition, and the thankless job of establishing a small embassy is given to Paul Greig, a relatively friendless but decently hard-working diplomat whose long years of service do, von Bramstorp reflects, deserve some sort of professional reward. As a commoner, he is seen as a decent choice for a post whose acceptance is far from certain, and whose significance is largely formal.

Gomey

With matters in Kingsmount wrapped-up, however inconclusively, Lennart Bjorgstrom's Army Corps withdraws back to its Ruthenian garrison, hauling with it a significant quantity of captured arms but otherwise with few concrete accomplishments to show for its trouble. An optimist might argue that the Army Corps of the Djesna, by imposing a halt on Chapman's Army south of Editraequan, helped to preserve that region's independence in support of Riga's foreign policy, but a similar outcome, it seems difficult to deny, might have been brought about diplomatically, without the consequent hostility and loss of face that were by-products of the operation.

In Gomey, at least, Gandvik's soldiers are in for a rapturous welcome, and parade through the city's main boulevard to the deafening noise of a cheering crowd, mixed with a long program of military music provided by massed bands, vehicle engines, and overflights by LtK.3's fighters and transports, which, as many troopers grumble, made no contribution to the battle itself. Several days of liquor-fueled debauchery inevitably follow, tens of thousands of young conscripts descending upon Gomey's various public houses and music halls to let off steam after an engagement that left nearly seven hundred of their number dead or missing, and close to three times that number wounded in some fashion.

Field Marshal Kniephof makes another appearance, this time with none other than Prince Albrycht II in tow, and the pair arrive at Gomey's main aerodrome amid great pomp and ceremony, the City Major of Riga's Regiment providing a battalion-strong honor guard and brass band. Normally a man with little interest in matters military or political, Albrycht, more at home in Riga's excellent concert hall, is not happy about being surrounded by so many soldiers, the unrefined Kniephof prominent among them, but, having conceded to his responsibilities as head of state is determined to put on a brave and princely face. Reviewing assembled regiments by motorcade, a fairly normal and straightforward procedure, is easy enough, though as an accomplished musician himself Albrycht takes particular interest in the Army Corps' regimental bands, several of which, he later comments, play outstandingly.

Upon reaching Gomey's military hospital, however, things take a sordid turn. Too young to remember the Great War in any detail, little of which he saw in any case, and otherwise largely unfamiliar with violence or injury, having spent almost no time with his famously tempestuous father, Albrycht is visibly shaken by the sight of wounded Gandvian troopers, no small number of whom now bear life-changing disabilities. An uncomfortable and awkward individual, Gandvik's ostensible ruler is unsure of how exactly to interact with those hundreds of military patients, many of them young conscripts barely out of their teens. Nonetheless he is deeply affected, summoning all his reserves of self-control to avoid bursting into tears, and shoots Kniephof a cold expression, as if to say, and look what you have done!

Several of the battle's key Gandvian participants are in for official recognition, many deservedly and others less so. Arvo Merkel, recently promoted to Major, receives the Order of St. Stanislaus, Gandvik's third-highest military award. Brigadier Edelfelt, whose Royal Estland Horse Brigade performed so brilliantly, is similarly honored, while Major-General Otsason, barely conscious after having undergone a complex operation aimed at removing dozens of bomb fragments from his now permanently-crippled body, receives the Order of St. George. Osasto R, for its part, largely melts into the background as its constituent platoons and companies return to their parent formations, Major Bartens, a nonentity before the battle and equally so afterward, taking up command of 5 ID's divisional engineer battalion. Lennart Bjorgstrom, seemingly alone in recognizing the man's talent, quickly appoints him to lead the remnants of 2/2 ERF, now captained by a suitably-promoted Lieutenant Colonel Haartman, of all the regiment's officers one of very few to have emerged with their reputation intact. Jussi Mattila, for his part, is promoted to Brigadier-General, given the Order of St. Stanislaus, and offered a comfortable staff appointment in Riga. Not a just outcome, certainly, but Bjorgstrom, though aware of Mattila's role in permitting a Shieldian triumph on the Daldan's western bank, is equally conscious of his political connections, and decides, tactfully, to try and have him kicked upstairs, well away from any battlefield posting.

Shieldian prisoners of war, several hundred of which were brought back from Weshield to reside in an emptied barracks, are meanwhile given news of their impending release, and instructed to gather their personal articles in readiness for repatriation. Their guard, never very strong to begin with, nearly disappears, the camp commandant giving his permission to "wander freely within sight of the camp, so long as you are back by nightfall." Intelligence officers attempt to conduct hurried interrogations, hoping to separate those with royalist sympathies out from the Republican rank-and-file.

Partly to that end, General Bjorgstrom pays a visit to Sir John Griffin, ranking Shieldian prisoner, and apparently a disliked personage in his country of origin following his brigade's performance in Weshield. No doubt Griffin made a series of dangerous mistakes, made fatal by a combination of indecision and weak nerve, but, as Bjorgstrom reflects, an individual can never be certain of their reactions under such tense conditions, and attributing treasonous motives to an outcome that probably owed more to inexperience is simply unfair. Mattila, after all, lost the better part of a reinforced brigade to a single well-led battalion, and is being rewarded for it. Griffin at least faced an opponent of equal strength.

[Iansisle]

Depreans Palace
Tharia, Thortraia

“You have asked me to be your minister of intelligence, sir, and I should think that alone would make you willing to take seriously what I have to say.”

“God blast your impudence!” exclaimed Albert, rising out of his chair despite his gout. “You assume too much, Eshbridge, and bank too hard on boyhood friendships. I could have you dragged out into the streets and beheaded if so the whim took me.”

Lord Eshbridge was half of King Albert's size, but what mass he had was lean muscle and sinew; there was hardly an ounce of fat on his frame despite sixty-seven years of long service to the Thortraian crown. He did not flinch before the larger man.

“And I'm sure that the Nibs would look favorably on that,” he said. “You know they consider Kingsmount unfinished business – one step out of line and they would fall upon Thortraia with all their ravenous appetite for new territories. Or perhaps worse, they would just leave; but I am sure that once they are gone, Lord Thesian would be able to protect you from the Javians. Did you get that picture I sent you, sir? The one with the head of an imperial operative in the Jave impaled in a city square?”

For a moment, Albert held his adviser’s gaze. Then, defeated, he turned and slumped back into his seat. Just that little bit of exertion had left his foot aching.

“If your majesty would be so gracious as to listen, I just meant that a visit from the High King might go a long way towards restoring the people's pride in the Empire. It has been many months, after all, since they last saw him. Long months. The people are saying that the Grand Empire is a sham. They are saying that the High King has fled and fears to return. Against that background, the agitators have an easy time finding support.”

“They are just bloody peasants,” said Albert. “Kill them all, and kill those who try to take their place. The mob will get the message clearly enough when its dangling by the neck in front of them.”

“They are more than just peasants. They are Gulls.” Eshbridge paused. “You are living in the past. The old rules don't apply any more. What's needed is not a terror; it's some hope. Give them an inspirational story to combat the one the traitors are spreading about. Bring the boy king back.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I know that you're not keeping him safe. Arabia is about to explode into a revolt of its own. His Majesty would be just as safe here as he would in St. Paul, and a considerable amount more useful too.”

“Under no circumstances.”

“Are you that scared of a boy? For Christ's sake, he's only thirteen. If the people see him defiantly standing against the Republic, standing on the side of God, the situation can be salvaged. Hiding him only plays into the hands of your enemies.”

“And you think that having him here would make things perfect again? That the Gulls would just pack up and head back into Weshield at the sight of a boy?” Albert waved his hand at Eshbridge. “Get out of my sight. I've had quite enough of you for one day.”

Eshbridge did not leave. Instead, he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I'm begging you, coming to you as an old friend. Don't do this.”

“Guards!” There was a clicking of boots on marble. “Guards, remove this man from the Palace immediately. Lock him up while We decide what to do with him.”

Eshbridge shook his head sadly. “You haven't learned a thing, have you? Please, Albert, understand that this is causing me the greatest sorrow.”

One of the guards appeared at his elbow.

“His Majesty is to remain confined here,” said Eshbridge. “No communication goes in or out of this room without my express permission.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he tries to escape, don't hesitate to shoot.”


Editraequan
Weshield

Tiny and landlocked, a small Protestant island in the middle of Catholic Europe.

Although “Protestant” might be going a bit too far in overall terms. Yes, the Movers retained control over their city and most of the surrounding countryside, but they were still a minority of the population. And their rule, ironically enough, was propped up by the might of the Gandvian military, which might at some point decide that there might be more malleable elements within the country. The Walmingtonians were friendly enough, granted, but they were also much too distant to be of real help against the two powers which butted up against Andrews' young republic.

Not that there was any real voting going on. Word of the Gull Flag's elections had gotten out and some in Editraequan were wondering why none of that democracy had seemed to bounce their way. This was aggravated by continual incursions from the GFR aimed at delegitimizing the Andrews government and its masters in Riga. Propaganda tended to focus heavily on nationalistic roots, with an appeal to common Shieldians against the evil Gandvian oppressor. And it was true that the Gandvians were little more popular in Editraequan than they were elsewhere on the Shield – but here they had all the guns.

Or at least most of them. In the southern reaches of the country, farmers and villagers eager to practice their religion openly after more than a century of intolerance had come under fire by roving games allegedly armed by the Gull Flaggers (although the R63s and other weapons used in the raids certainly could have been acquired nearly anywhere). In response, local Movers had formed protection collectives, some of which actively went looking for Catholic militias to suppress. With the failure of the Kingsmount Conference, the line separating one republic from the other was vague at best; firefights were confused and all too often bloody. Several strongly-worded letters of protest from the Gulls had been forwarded to Editraequan (and, tellingly, to Riga) complaining of incursions into their territory, warning of “potential consequences” if the raids were not contained.

Then there was the small army massing in Weshield. The reorganization of Lenore House had produced twenty-one mechanized brigades, which formed the solid core of the Republic's army. Seventeen of these were stationed in Weshield, fourteen of them along or near the Kingsmount Line and Editraequan. Director of War Lawrence Madders explained the distribution simply. “So far, Gandvik is the only one of our neighbors who has directly attacked the Republic. We will station along that border whatever military force is needed to prevent similar 'adventures' in the future.”

[Iansisle]

Little Upswear Aeroflyer Manufacturing Plant
Vess, Shadoran

The largest city in the Gull Flag Republic swarmed with reporters, most of them from newly-formed bureaus reporting to basement printing presses across the country. Most of them were clamoring to get access past a line of khaki-donning soldiers who stood at the gates of Graye and Bankfield's largest assembly plant, which for decades had churned out Colt airframes (only a relatively small percentage of which had failed on takeoff resulting in disaster) for the Royal Aerial Dragoons. There was little secret as to what was happening now – the large “COLT MILLENNIUM” banner spread across the building and the expensive Wychwood automobiles in the parking lot saw to that – but Lenore House was clutching at least to a semblance of secrecy after the embarrassing leaks of tank tests in Weshield.

One journalist, eager for a scoop, tried climbing the chain-link fence surrounding the complex. He quickly found that a mistake as, caught with one leg over the edge, military police brandishing R63s swarmed him. The man was led with some amount of fanfare into a canvas-covered truck that had been parked near the well-polished Walmingtonian sedans, being formally charged with criminal trespass loudly and within earshot of the crowd. Some boos and some thrown trash followed the soldiers, but nobody else seemed eager to test their resolve.

Of course, much of what was being said was already known to the crowd. The Colt Millennium project talks between Wychwood Automation and Graye and Bankfield (and, by extension, the Republic) was an ill-kept secret on the Shield. Most knew that the fuselage was to be assembled at Little Upswear and the engines and wings in Amberland, while G&B took out large loans (many of them from Walmy banks) to open its own production facilities for the specialized components.

It was also well-known that the Republic was desperately attempting to lure Walmingtonian, Nibelung, and other western nation's corporations to relocate manufacturing capability to the Shield; the relative instability of the Revolution was said to be ancient history before the smoothly-running National Assembly and the advantages of cheap and skilled(ish) labor, existing infrastructure and, to a lesser degree, lax environmental standards were loudly trumpeted. In many ways, the Republic seemed to be lunging in a dozen different directions at once. Attracting business, developing local infrastructure, reorganizing the army, fixing corruption problems in the courts – the country was riding high on a wave of revolutionary enthusiasm and a determination on the part of the Bradsworth government to fix the worst failures of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.


#14 Ashall Court
Fullchurch, a small suburb of Pardens, Weshield

Three. Two. One!

The breaching ram slammed into the nice oaken door of the townhouse, splintering the wood around the latch and sending it swinging wildly into the room. The tinkling of broken glass confirmed that the other teams were keeping up with the schedule; a few moments later the flashbangs went off and in went the team.

There was no need for the Geletian-built assault rifles they carried. The troops were able to reach their suspect while he was still in bed and pull him to the floor. There was a girl there, contrary to the intelligence they had before going in, and she was holding her hands to her eyes and murmuring semi-incoherently. One of the officers present took a break from securing the suspect and, ignoring the cat-calls and protests from his men, helped her wrap up into a bed sheet. The man was forced into handcuffs and a robe was draped over his shoulders before being forced out of the room and towards a waiting van.

“John Derone, you are hereby charged with treason,” one of the other officers was saying as the man was led out of the house. “This charge, should you be found guilty, carries a maximum penalty of death by hanging. You have the right to legal representation. You – “

“I don't understand,” said Derone. “Treason? What?”

“According to our sources, you did on the 25th of June 2012 willfully exchange vital state secrets for monetary considerations with one Albert Young, who is also under arrest.”

Derone's head was forced down roughly as he was shoved unceremoniously into the van. “No, you don't understand,” he said. “Al's a friend of mine, he was just asking – and I just owed a couple people some money, you see – ”

“You have the right to representation,” continued the officer, who finished reading off the rights and then slammed the door.

Across the Shield over the next few weeks, similar scenes played out as the Justice Directorate moved in on those who had thought to sell out the Republic for a few generals.

[The Crooked Beat]

Gandvik

Instability in Editraequan is a definite cause for concern among Riga Castle's distinguished occupants, foremost among them de facto national leader Mikalous Andres-Kletsk, whose deep mistrust of all things Shieldian finds a receptive audience in assembled State Councilors. Kingsmount seemed to suggest that Gandvik's long-held goal of shattering the Shield was at last within reach, as a satisfying range of would-be states carved out of the former Grand Empire took their first steps toward sovereignty, but, watching developments across their Principality's southern border, State Councilors grow increasingly worried that Ianapalis may not be quite so accommodating on that front as had earlier been hoped for.

Todd Andrews' small Republic on the Daldan does make for a strange ally to Europe's staunchest Catholic autocracy, something that is not lost on Gandvian policy-makers, but those inherent contradictions seem easier to justify when viewed through the lens of Gandvik's national interest. As most State Councilors would, in private, admit, it isn't an ideal client state, not by any means, and as a venue for confrontations with the Gull Flag Republic, far from Riga's first choice. Gandvian policy regarding Editraequan, however, is built upon a sense that, having made commitments to Andrews' government, and having attempted to brand itself as a defender of those Shieldian successor states at Kingsmount, Riga would risk an embarrassing loss of face, would even lay itself open to domestic criticism from both far right and left, by allowing Ianapalis to take control there. Editraequan's very existence stands as a challenge to any claims that Gull Flaggers might make to represent all Shieldians, and its annexation to the Republic, whether or not it reflects legitimate interests, is something that Riga feels would weaken its position generally, especially regarding Thortraia and the Jave. That Gandvian involvement in the former Grand Empire is anything apart from self-interested might be a fiction, but Riga's eagerness to prevent a united Shield, one that, apart from representing a strategic rival, might also attempt to spread its revolutionary ideologies, is very sincere.

Sentiments such as those command widespread but not universal support among the upper echelons of power. Thorvald Gjores von Bramstorp, chief Gandvian representative at Kingsmount and former Foreign Minister, tended to view domino-theory readings on Shieldian affairs, as concocted by Andres-Kletsk and his closest supporters, with some skepticism, believing that the Principality's interests would be best served through efforts to repair its historically antagonistic relationship with its southern neighbor, rather than through further sabre-rattling. As with most State Councilors, von Bramstorp knows full well that the rosy economic picture being painted by state-owned media does not entirely reflect reality, and, during his official tenure at least, saw trade with the Gull Flag Republic as a means of improving his own country's declining manufacturing exports in particular. He even held out hope, eventually, for a trans-Shieldian network of pipelines and railways connecting Gandvik with Depkazia's mines and oil fields. Unfortunately, von Bramstorp's opinions did not reflect prevailing conditions in the Council of State, which, if anything, had grown more hawkish since Kingsmount, its paranoia fueled in part by dispatches received from Lassmann in Editraequan. Some, indeed, even suspected von Bramstorp of harboring democratical sympathies himself, concerns that the Count's status as an occasional advocate for reformist causes did little to temper.

When Folke Snellmann, private secretary to Mikalous Andres-Kletsk, asks as to whether von Bramstorp might be interested in taking early retirement, in honor of his long and distinguished government service, the Count does not hesitate to express a strong interest in that prospect. Preferring, understandably enough, a quiet departure on more or less neutral terms to being booted-out on some embarrassing charge of sedition or misconduct, von Bramstorp happily removes himself to his family's run-down estate in Savonian Lakeland, to live the life of a modest country gentleman among a numerous tribe of relatives. For the time being, anyway, Riga accustoms itself to a less conciliatory policy line.

Editraequan/Polesia

Responsibility for safeguarding Gandvian interests in Editraequan may rest, in strict terms, with Evald Lassmann and his small diplomatic staff, but most observers would have no trouble discerning Riga's incomplete confidence in peaceful negotiation as an agent of its policy. Several months had passed by since the last of VII. Army Corps* left Shieldian territory, but the atmosphere in its Polesian garrisons remains very tense. Gandvik, it has been made clear, will not instigate another clash with Republican arms, but if Ianapalis appears set on doing so itself, Army commanders do not intend to be caught unprepared.

News that Ianapalis intends to station over half of its newly-rebuilt land army -no fewer than fourteen mechanized brigade groups, according to available intelligence- so as to face VII. Army Corps more or less directly does not necessarily surprise Gandvian planners, who can hardly blame their Republican opposites for taking a logical course of action, but such a deployment poses no small challenge to a nation required to maintain a strong military presence on three separate frontiers. Recent campaigning in Editraequan, it is true, failed to convince many of Gandvik's highest-ranking officers that the Shieldians had become an enemy more formidable than what they themselves were accustomed to believing. The southern frontier had, however, gone from a lower-priority theater, a veritable dumping-ground for older equipment and undistinguished or friendless officers, its other side lined by an army not usually noted for its good performance, to the Principality's top military priority in an inconveniently short span of time.

VII. Army Corps itself can still muster, on paper at least, around 12 brigades on its own, if one counts independent tank battalions and reconnaissance formations portioned-out to Corps headquarters. Reservists assigned to the Corps' constituent formations, many of them veterans of recent fighting around Rutters, greet their second call-up with less than complete enthusiasm, and, aware of this, Army Staff Headquarters tries to shift the burden of possible extra-territorial operations away from local forces by deploying some of its elite formations to deal with that contingency. Three air-mobile regiments and two additional armored brigades arrive in Polesia to strengthen Riga's position, three of their number drawn from the prestigious (though not, as many insiders would argue, outstandingly competent) Royal Life Guard Corps.

Gandvian military instructors and advisers, meanwhile, work on preparing Editraequan's nascent army for what most expect, and many, for professional reasons, certainly hope, will be an inevitable armed confrontation with the Gull Flag Republic. Planners in Riga initially hoped to get at least nine maneuver brigades, their organization based upon that of a Gandvian motorized infantry regiment, out of Editraequan's population base, but subsequent experience quickly casts doubt on those optimistic projections. Some propose concentrating recruitment on the Mover population, which, while undoubtedly suspicious of Catholic Gandvik, might be more strongly committed to the Republic's independence than those belonging to other Christian denominations, but there seems to be no easy formula for molding a coherent and useful force out of the disparate elements available. Most Gandvian officers and NCOs assigned to the training detachment do their best to act with deference and sensitivity, but their very origin and purpose may work against them when faced with recruits who might not be so eager to serve in what Riga privately likes to regard as an extension of its own armed forces. Truckloads of Shieldian equipment captured in recent fighting, some carried aboard Westertons formerly belonging to General Chapman's army, flow south at a steady rate to augment what is already available, though Republican agents looking to equip a force of radically-disposed Gandvian exiles could probably call upon similar or larger stocks of captured materiel. Arms shipments to Editraequan inevitably include a large volume of unmistakeably Gandvian items, but at least some consideration is given to making sure that Todd Andrews' soldiers look as natural as possible.

[Iansisle]

Dun Adien

“And that's Lord Thesian,” she said, pointing at the screen. “The Javians made him look like quite a fool in the Rose War, sent him running back out of the Ferandervans like there was a Celt chasing him.”

Lord Thesian squinted into the sun, waved at the massive crowd gathered in Cardenat Square, and walked to his place on the stage. Thortraia was pulling out all its stops in a glorification of the old ways.

James didn't say anything but rather squeezed Lucy around the middle and pulled her closer to him. He had met Lord Thesian once, ages ago – before the Revolution. Amiable and loyal, a good enough fellow. Certainly a more favorable impression than he had of the next figure.

“Bastard,” he whispered.

“Lord Evanpass?” Lucy looked up at him. “So the tabloid stories were true, then?”

“He's nothing but a pecker, crammed into a uniform and squirted with perfume,” said James. “I wonder how many times he's slept with my wife since they ran off to Arabia together?”

“And, speaking of, there she is now.” The Queen Mother descended the airplane ladder, although her waves had none of the confidence of a Thesian or Evanpass. Her eyes – he remembered them still, though with little fondness – darted from one side of the square to the other, sizing up the crowd.

“Still nervous,” said James. “There's no place left to run.”

“There's something wrong,” said Lucy, sitting up. “This isn't at all what I expected.”

“How do you mean?”

“This broadcast. Why is it being so widely shown? Surely the government would have clamped down on it – or at least modified the audio with some sort of revolutionary propaganda. Instead we're being shown, in real time, a glorification of the Empire. Why?”

“Shh, there he is!” said James. He sat bolt upright as well.

His Majesty the High King John II, thirteen years old, stood atop the boarding ladder of the Graye and Bankfield Lark. His aunt Jessica was just behind him, her hand on his shoulder. He was almost of a height with her, James noticed proudly. He raised a hand to wave to the crowd. The announcer on the television called the response a roar of approval, but it was fairly obvious that was an exaggeration.

John began on his way down the stairs, over to the dias where the assembled nobility of Thortraia was waiting. James was practically beaming with pride from a thousand kilometers distant. Then everything went wrong.

Halfway to the stage, John staggered and collapsed, a large red smear blossoming over his white tunic. The microphone picked up a loud crack, followed by a second and third. All at once, the crowd scattered, the men on the podium threw themselves to the ground, Grenadiers rushed to the fallen Boy King, and his mother screamed. The camera wavered a bit, tried to refocus on the King but gave up after seeing him surrounded by protective bodies, then panned across the nearby windows as if trying to spot where the shots had come from.

In Dun Adien, a father was on his feet, clutching at the plasma television set and screaming.

[Cassanos]

´Thraia, Thortraia / Republic of the Shield

Those who claimed that it was Munstra which was really pulling the strings in the Gull Flag Republic usually failed to recognize that the Federal Republic had not managed to fulfill its agenda completely, evidenced by the fact that the Kingdom of Thortraia was still that, a kingdom, instead of a part of the Shield proper. This failure still stung, and many higher-ups in Munstra were indeed regarding the whole issue unfinished business. Not that anybody could complain, on the surface. Thortraia had all but relinquished many aspects of its sovereignty in the face of Nibelung power, and was exceedingly forthcoming in dealing with the Heerbann troops still in the country. Some of Thortraia's major motorways and rail lines were regularly closed for civilian use whenever columns of lorries or trains laden with supplies for the 35,000 Nibelung soldiers which had remained in Weshield with the 5th Panzer Division and assorted other units. Measures such as these would not endear the Nibelungs to the local populace, but the Thortraian government assured its neighbours that no "unruly elements" would disturb the bi-weekly transfers. The same went for the elements of the 7th Panzer Division which still lay near the Gandvian border and around Thraia itself. Sooner or later, though, a more permanent solution would have to be found. Unlike Nibelungs relations with the Republic, the westerners were less open-handed (or, indeed, open-minded) when dealing with Thortraia, and had so far refused to enter a mutual defence treaty or an agreement of permanent deployment of forces into Thortraia. Any such agreement would, in the eyes of Munstra, further cement the undesirable partition of its ally and the province through which all Nibelung deliveries must perforce be made. From a Nibelung perspective, they were dealing with the Thortraian government only as much as needed until the inevitable reunification.

[OOC]Basically a tag, but I'd love to be involved in this thread, if you don't mind.[/OOC]

[The Crooked Beat]

Kaunas, Southern Curonia

Officers working for Gandvik's Sotilastiedustelu Osasto were sufficiently upset to learn of Operation Granary's embarrassing discovery in Weshield, but, for at least some of their number, this disappointment did not amount to a major surprise. In spite of, or perhaps due to, its broadly-defined powers, extensive resources, and freedom from any form of public accountability, the STO over its seventy-odd years of existence had never exactly developed a reputation for outstanding competence. This was not to say that the STO lacked skilled employees, but these rarely advanced into upper-level management positions. Practically all large institutions, democratic and authoritarian alike, can suffer from a similar illness, but in a bureaucratic culture that emphasizes conformity, which would select a flawed status quo in preference to disruptive reforms, correcting the STO's traditional shortcomings has proven to be a prohibitively difficult task, and a costly one in terms of career prospects.

All of this added up to a hasty, insufficiently thought-through decision to infiltrate covert agents into Weshield, in order to make contact with an imagined network of royalist sympathizers. A victim of insufficient planning, lax to non-existent security, and a general lack of professionalism that pervades Military Intelligence, Operation Granary was doomed almost from its earliest inception, but that did not eliminate the necessity of finding somebody to blame that failure on. Colonel Johann von Liewen, chief of the STO's Shieldian department, had long been convinced that his organization contained leaks, but Granary's exposure finally gave him enough leeway to try and pursue some of them. Von Liewen was also convinced that the Gull Flaggers had established a covert network on Gandvian soil, and that some of those agents played at least some role in harming his own department, though information-sharing with local Sapo officials was, at its best, sketchy.

Still, within a few weeks, a small investigative team led by the thorough and capable Lt. Torsten Sorolainen managed to collect enough information, and establish a sufficient rapport with their sister agency, to try and make some arrests.

Sorolainen sat in the passenger's seat of a mustard-colored VAT 900, peering through a pair of army-issue binoculars at a café on the opposite side of a small square. Behind the lettering painted on the front windows, he could make out a middle-aged man sipping on a cup of coffee while reading a morning paper, folded double so Sorolainen could just make out the headline. Mystery Meat Scandal Claims Next Victim. A nearby church clock struck nine, reminding Sorolainen to look at his own watch. “Won't be too much longer.” He gave the driver, a plainclothes STO sergeant named Ostling, a gentle nudge, handing over a thermos full of warm chicken broth.

The car’s small UHF radio sputtered to life. “Target’s on the move. Heading your way, Car David.” “Roger that, Bertil,” came the reply. “Holding position, over.” Sorolainen picked up the transmitter. “All units, all units, this is Aarne. Hold steady. Nothing until you hear my order, over.”

Otto Marsh was a mid-level employee with the Ministry of Defense, by no means a powerful individual but one whose duties as an inter-departmental liaison gave him access to secret information. He was also, as Sorolainen discovered, in deep financial trouble, living beyond his means and doing a poor job of hiding that fact. Some of the names connected to Operation Granary were clearly marked as off limits, but Marsh's was not, and a preliminary vetting soon picked him out as a likely culprit. They knew for sure after he was spotted visiting a dead-drop several days earlier, leaving a thimble-sized film cannister by the foot of a park bench.

"Alright, he's going for the tram stop. Car Caesar, on my mark...Now!"

An RAF-2203 wearing the livery of ValPost, Gandvik's national mail carrier, sped down the street toward Sorolainen, who was parked across from the local tram stop. The van's side door flew open just as it screeched to a halt right beside Marsh, and two STO agents leaped out in a well-practiced maneuver while two others waited inside, ready to handcuff and blindfold the prisoner.

Three sharp cracks rang out in quick succession, followed by the sound of an STO man firing off a burst from his submachine gun. Sorolainen watched in mute disbelief as Marsh tore off across the street, brandishing an automatic pistol and shooting wildly at the two agents chasing him. One of the van's occupants lay face-down on the sidewalk, while the van's driver, his sky-blue postal service overalls covered in bloody hand-prints, knelt over another. A young woman lay crumpled-up in a doorway nearby, and a bicyclist sat on the curb, groaning while he clutched his left leg. "Go, go!" Sorolainen shouted at Ostling, banging his palm on the dash for added emphasis, and drew his revolver. "All units, all units, target's making a break for it! Don't let him get away!"

Sergeant Ostling floored the accelerator and the 900 leaped out of its parking space, narrowly missing a dirty Nilfisk microcar parked parallel in the space ahead. Swearing loudly as he pounded on the horn, Ostling sped past the van's casualties, windshield wipers flicking moisture into Sorolainen's now-open window. Ostling turned onto a perpendicular street, trying to head Marsh off as he ran across a small grassy square. An old Fagerberg 164, a stately, well-built automobile, hit the 900 squarely in its rear quarter as Ostling cornered at speed, spinning it ninety degrees and sending it flying into a parked station wagon.

Marsh's lifeless body lay next to a park bench, covered by a policeman's coat. One of Bertil Car's Sapo agents brought him down with a short-range submachine gun burst after Marsh himself shot his last, and a small cordon of local Sapo men now guarded the corpse against onlookers. Reinforcements, in the shape of local police, Sapo, and interior ministry troops, descended upon the formerly quiet quarter of Kaunas within minutes, and Sorolainen observed the growing collection of men and vehicles, recently joined by a helicopter, with a look of solemn detachment. Ambulances soon arrived to carry away the victims, leaving the area largely free of civilians except for the 164's unfortunate driver, who, aggressively questioned by a police detective, kept repeating "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," head in hands and fully expecting to be carted-off to a secret prison.

Sorolainen felt a hand on his shoulder. "Well, my friend, sometimes it's just not in the cards. Smoke?" Major Lenning held out his open cigarette case. "None of us could have predicted this mess. None of us could have changed what happened here, in your shoes. The Count knows this. I mean, who would have guessed that old Marsh was packing?" Lenning paused to speak with a gendarme, and turned back to his colleague. "You know what has to happen next. I'm not going to sugar-coat it. But the department is rooting for you, and when your time is up, you'll be taken care of." The Major reached into an interior suit pocket. "Here, take this card. Professor Engman's an expert in Koranic studies. Practically a Turk himself. He'll get you squared away. Let me tell you, times like these, there's nothing better than a change of scenery."

[The Crooked Beat]

Gandvik/Thortraia Border Area

Recent developments in Gandvik's southern neighbor has given officials in Riga little cause for celebration in general, but news of a GFR armored brigade crossing into Thortraia, and, by all accounts, meeting with a welcome reception, is more than usually distressing. Ianapalis' move on Tharia arrives at an awkward juncture for a Principality just now beginning to gain some diplomatic traction in Western Europe, and eager to show traditionally skeptical international actors a kinder face. Thortraia's political realities are not lost on the Council of State, and there exists a general, if begrudging, consensus among high-level policymakers on its long-term unsuitability as an independent entity. Having already made commitments to uphold Editraequan's troubled, perhaps artificial, statehood, Gandvik's political leadership expresses limited interest in risking its prestige on another lost cause. The prospect of a major trade deal with Valendia serves as an added check on confrontational policies.

Ultimately, however, one concern outweighs all others. Gandvik may not be able to preserve Thortraia's independence forever, but Riga is determined that such a move on Ianapalis' part should not go without reply. Surely, Gandvian thinking goes, the GFR could not justifiably fault Gandvik for taking an interest in Thortraian security itself.

Soon after receiving confirmation of a Gull Flag military presence within Thortraia's frontiers, the Council of State sets a series of prearranged contingency plans in motion. Foreign listening stations would doubtless pick-up a burst of radio traffic as I. Army Corps, forward-deployed to Polesian, Voronian, and Curonian borderlands, begins to stir. Within about three hours, leading elements from three regiments, the 7th Guards Armored, 2nd Guards Mechanized, and 53rd Mechanized, plus three cobbled-together battalion groups, cross the border into Thortraia. Operational Group T, commanded by Lieutenant-General Risto Mattsson, advances in four regimental-strength columns towards (Bialystok) and (Lomza) in northern Thortraia, traveling, where possible, on paved highways for added speed. Each one is spearheaded by a mixed reconnaissance group of tanks and armored cars, but aerial or satellite observation would otherwise reveal a formation in marching order, taking some precautions for local security but otherwise not expecting to meet resistance.

Hopefully, Operational Group T would advance quickly enough, and in sufficient strength, to deter any potential hostility among locals and foreign powers alike, but rather than leave interested parties to guess at Gandvian intentions, Riga makes certain to explain its intervention in a series of diplomatic cables sent to Munstra, Tharia, and Ianapalis soon after its forces cross the international frontier. Gandvik's aim, these cables state, is to carry-out a "peace and security operation" in northern Thortraia, as a means of "protecting the civil populace from armed strife, and fostering conditions permissive to a more accurate determination of Thortraia's political status." General Mattsson's force is not, foreign capitals are assured, empowered or instructed to show any faction special favor, or to undertake combat operations except in self-defense, and will be withdrawn as soon as a comprehensive plan governing regional security has been agreed-upon.

With luck, Nibelunc and the GFR would at least tolerate a Gandvian presence, even if they refuse to accept its official justification, and military observers might have reason to conclude that Gandvik's motives are not entirely cynical. Peace operations are neither a major element of the Royal Army's recent experience, nor a routine part of its training syllabus, and there are few officers who possess a strong concept of how to act outside the confines of a conventional armed exchange, but Operational Group T is built around three high-quality regiments whose largely-volunteer composition stands to enforce a higher level of discipline than might otherwise exist. General Mattsson's force also contains a large number of Shieldian-speakers, brought along to ease interactions with local Thortraians, and to help explain why exactly Gandvian soldiers are there to begin with.

Gandvian planning does not entirely rule-out a hostile reaction by Nibelunc and its Gull Flag allies, but unlike in Weshield, I. Army Corps contains some of Gandvik's strongest military formations, deployed so as to block a prospective Nibelung invasion similar to what took place during the Great War. Official statements by the Duke of Dorpat and other foreign ministry figures emphasize Gandvik's peaceful intent and desire for a multilateral settlement, but, although the threat of force is never specifically mentioned, foreign powers would hopefully think twice before attempting to square matters with a simple ultimatum. Of course, Operational Group T isn't sent to look for trouble either, receiving orders to give Nibelung armor near Tharia a wide berth.

Motoring down a border highway at a stately 30 miles per hour in his Fagerberg 202 radio car, General Mattsson certainly hopes that Riga's allowances prove accurate, especially given how vulnerable his closely-packed, if fast-moving, regimental column might be to air or rocket attack. With advance elements already reaching the outskirts of (Bialystok), he knows how critical his decisions over the following hours and days will be, and listens anxiously to radio reports for any evidence of trouble.

(OCC: I'm very sorry if this is throwing a wrench in the works, regarding any long-range plans for Thortraia, and would be happy to delete this if necessary. Thought a Gull Flagger advance on Thortraia would have triggered a Gandvian response of some kind, hopefully this isn't stretching things too far. Related news post in the works!)

[Iansisle]

Thortraia

News of the Gull Flag and Gandvian "peacekeeping operations" spread quickly to the imperial capital in Tharia, where it caused no small amount of panic. Lord Eshbridge, who had assumed power from the king in a secret coup, found himself at the center of a flurry of activity as some members of his government pledged to fight on to the end against republican horrors, others fled once again, and still more turned traitor, defecting to the advancing Gulls in the south of the country. One of his primary objectives was securing the Boy King, stabilized but still dependent on machinery for survival, and finding a new safe harbor for him and the tattered remainder of the royal family.

Gandvik was one potential option. While the regime there had been antagonistic to the Callahans, it was possible they would look on the exiled High King more as a potential ally against the dark powers of revolution. Arabia was right out, of course -- Annam was hardly and more secure than Tharia. Walmington, even if allied with the Gulls, at least respected the institution of monarchy more than almost any other country in the world. The Aeros were inconceivable, even before their defeat by Nibelunc. Valendia was an intriguing option; Eshbridge told himself he'd have to look more into that. Rome was another option, although the fickle nature of politics in the Western Empire made even the Eternal City a gamble. The first task, of course, was getting out before the Gulls rolled in.

Military resistance to the incursions was virtually impossible. At the first news that Gull Flag troops were crossing the border, Lord Thesian and most of his command staff had fled to Amberland. Without a centralized command, many units had simply defected to the Republic as they had come into contact -- others, the ones which tried to fight, were swiftly surrounded and either surrendered or were destroyed. Resistance in the air was similarly impossible; one early scrambling of a flight of Colt-IIs had resulted in near complete disaster for the Empire at the hands of Gull Flag Wrens and no flight crews had been willing to try again.

The 15th Strike Brigade was one of the twenty-one mechanized brigades of the Shield which, like most of the units on the front facing Gandvik, received the cream of the Republic's crop in terms of equipment. The R10 had been fully phased in with the mounted infantry battalions and, while their TS-12-720s were not scheduled for integration until mid-2013, they were fully equipped with TS-96-720s and SPG75s. The Shieldian advance was hardly more militant than the Gandvian; speed was more the order of the day, as they were to attempt to beat the Ganders into the heart of Thortraia. Behind the Strike Force was the 5th Motorized Brigade, whose dismounted infantry would be more ideally fit for a local policing duty. Perhaps most amazingly of all, Captain Johnson's Logistical Brigade seemed to be entirely living up to its name; veteran commanders in the 15th and the 6th were amazed at the constant and relevant resupply they received.


((ooc: Might as well get some geography established if we're going to be more involved in the area of Thortraia. The country covers Shieldian Poland (which is to say east of the Vistula and south of Gdansk) and the Lviv oblast of the Ukraine. The population is roughly 12.7 million. Cities will receive Shieldian names as they become relevant, or feel free (as Cass has done in the past) to coin one yourself. As long as it's reasonable, I don't mind. For now, here is a list of cities in Thortraia that I have already named:

Lublin, Poland -- Tharia
Lviv, Ukraine -- Thesia
Suwałki, Poland -- Sherston
Łomża, Poland -- Reans
Białystok, Poland -- Haldsborough

And, TCB, you are as always welcomed. I look forward to thwarting continued Gander meddling! ))

[Iansisle]

Outskirts of Passert*
South-eastern Thortraia

“I'm hardly sure what to make of him, lieutenant.” The young corporal shoved an officer forward. “He ran up to us waving near that tree line over there.”

The officer was dressed in the uniform of the Haldsborough Foot, one of the regiments attached to the Army of the Vistula, although most of the insignia and patches had been torn off. He was covered in mud and leaves and clearly hadn't shaved in days.

“It's easy enough,” he said. “I am Colonel Edderson of the High King's Army and I wish to surrender to you.”

Before the revolution, Lieutenant Hatchers had just been a trooper in the Nenton Dragoons. He had little practical experience with problems of this sort. He frowned at the officer's clearly aristocratic accent. Behind him, his UV70 rumbled into life; he had orders from above to scout the entire outskirts of Passert and they had hardly just started. A trooper on the top-mounted MG59 kept Edderson covered.

“We aren't exactly equipped for taking prisoners,” Hatchers said at last.

“Please. You have to. We haven't much time.”

“Where is your regiment, colonel?”

Edderson looked over his back. “Gone. Most of them, anyway. I managed to keep about twenty together; we've been running this whole time. They can't be far behind us.”

“The Ganders?” said one trooper. He scanned the horizon as if expecting to see the silhouette of a Pav.84 looming at them.

“Don't be stupid,” said his sergeant. “They're miles to the north.”

“The Javians,” said Edderson. “We met them near the border. I was leading a a sweep with a few companies ahead of a concentrated push to get them out of Littlereach^, but they ambushed us on the road a few miles north of town. Our artillery and air support never materialized. Most of my men deserted that first night. I was able to rally a few survivors, but they pursued us doggedly.”

“Tough luck,” said Hatchers.

“If they catch us, they'll kill us all.”

“Can't say as I blame them too much,” said the Gandvian-obsessed trooper.

“They caught some of the deserters. We found their bodies on the road.” He shuddered. “They're barbarians – more Celt than Shieldian. I'm not willing to face that fate for the honor of a teenage boy.”

“I'm sorry, Colonel. Truly, I am. But this here is a reconnaissance unit. We aren't in the business of taking prisoners. Now, get yourself back and head for Thesia. They'll be able to process you back there.”

“I have injured. They can't walk. I don't want to leave them.”

The UV70 driver gunned the engine a couple times.

“Please step away from the vehicle, Colonel. I don't want to have to shoot you.”

“You're killing all of us!”

With a grinding of treads, the recon vehicle turned and lumbered back onto the main road. Edderson hurled a few more useless appeals at its back as it vanished behind a house.

((ooc: * - Rzeszów
^ - Gorlice ))

[The Crooked Beat]

Thortraia

Advancing unopposed from its cross-border logistical bases in several regimental groups, Operational Group T makes rapid progress during its first day in Thortraia. Major roads leading back to Gandvik are soon lined with hundreds of vehicles, moving south and west as quickly as traffic conditions allow, overflown on occasion by Hansa-Wennstrom helicopters performing tactical reconnaissance in front and around the flanks of columns that stretch for tens of kilometers. Though an uneventful journey so far, marred only by a share of unavoidable breakdowns and crashes, Gandvian soldiers, particularly those assigned to rear-echelon tasks, keep carefully to main routes, wary of being caught alone in a country whose population, if not outright hostile, could hardly be considered excessively friendly either.

One of Operational Group T's first major objectives is Haldsborough, located approximately 40 kilometers from the Gandvian border at its nearest approach, or between 50 and 60 kilometers by road from staging areas near Gardinas and Ruotsinvuori. Responsibility for securing northern Thortraia's largest urban area falls to the 2nd Guards Mechanized Regiment, with a second force of two battalions, Osasto Turunen, available for support should it be required. With close to 300,000 inhabitants, according to available information, Haldsborough, Army planners feared, could easily harbor a substantial nucleus of republican irregulars, and intelligence on local conditions still leaves Gandvian commanders with a number of nagging questions. Under orders to press on with all possible speed, however, General Mattsson opts to make straight for the city center with the 2nd Guards Mechanized Regiment's fast-moving, company-sized reconnaissance element, hoping to cow any potential militants into at least temporary passivity until heavier and more numerous forces make their appearance. Mattsson himself joins the 17-vehicle column, transferring from his radio van to a Nilfisk Safari jeep, and speeds off into Haldsborough in search of its mayor.

North of Haldsborough, skirting Thortraia's border with Kingsmount, the 53rd Mechanized Regiment reaches Reans in the early afternoon, covering more than 150 kilometers at a very respectable pace, while, south of the city, Osasto Simberg strikes out for (Siedlce) with the Guards Armored Division's reconnaissance battalion, reinforced by a pair of divisional tank companies and a single company of mechanized infantry.

Gandvik's elite tank formation, meanwhile, is tasked with swinging its considerable offensive weight south at Tharia. Splitting into a pair of two-battalion columns as a traffic control measure, the 7th Guards Armored Regiment races across central Thortraia's rolling landscape under a blanket of misty rain, behind a thin screen of Safari jeeps and armored cars thrown-out as much in order to clear civilian vehicle traffic as to reconnoiter potential threats. Prior to its setting-out, Operational Group T had been given a set of extremely strict rules of engagement, designed to avoid touching off a conflagration through carelessness or confusion. Firing of any kind, as General Mattsson makes explicitly clear, is absolutely forbidden without Riga's direct authorization, and all forward movement is to halt once foreign forces are encountered. As a demonstration of Gandvik's military capabilities, however, the 7th Guards could scarcely be improved-upon. Worked to a high standard of efficiency, and equipped with some of the Principality's most modern vehicles and gear, Guards tankers and mechanized infantrymen do not compare poorly to their Nibelung or Walmingtonian opposites in qualitative terms. Unlike most other Gandvian armored or semi-armored formations, which round-out their tank holdings with older Pav.68s or TelK.71 tank destroyers, the 7th Guards is equipped entirely with Pav.84s, no fewer than 118 of them according to its organizational tables, though some of those inevitably fall-out due to mechanical faults. Though not exactly a groundbreaking weapons system, having been in Royal Army service, in one form or another, for nearing three decades, Pav.84s have never been deployed abroad before, and foreign observers would, in Thortraia, be granted a first-time opportunity to see Gandvik's premier armored fighting vehicle in action under something approaching wartime conditions.

Most Gandvian officers accept that, with their considerable head-start, the Republican 15th Strike Brigade stands a strong chance of beating them to Tharia, but that knowledge fails to diminish Royal Army tankers' competitive spirit, both between their own and a foreign army and within their own regiment. On straight and level stretches of pavement, with governors disabled, some Pav.84s are clocked at speeds in excess of 45 miles per hour, and although any crew caught moving at such a pace in front of a senior commander courts a serious reprimand, regimental commander Colonel Johan Stjernvall is relieved to find that, in his outfit at least, something of the old cavalry temperament lives on.

Riga watches its operations in Thortraia unfold with no small sense of trepidation, awaiting Munstra's reaction especially. Few expect that Nibelunc will allow such a large body of Gandvian troops to approach its own frontiers without some kind of response, though, in their own defense, Gandvian diplomats would argue that only a relatively small proportion of available forces have in fact been deployed. Officers sent in from the Ministry of Defense deliver hourly briefings to Mikalous Andres-Kletsk and assembled State Councilors, while Defense Minister Edmund Kniephof, nominally second-in-command of the Principality's military establishment, pours over intelligence reports from satellite receiving stations, orbiting radar-surveillance aircraft, and signals listening posts for any sign of Nibelung or Gull Flag counter-moves. Perhaps those respective parties have bought Riga's explanations, and do not intend to upset matters further, but experience teaches Gandvian politicians to anticipate a less clear-cut outcome.

(OCC: Ah, I just can't seem to concoct decent-sounding city names in English. For Finnish ones, well, it's a good thing that we don't have any native speakers (that I know of, anyway) on strength! Anyway, many of you will probably not be surprised to see this crudely-drawn paint map:

http://i1209.photobucket.com/albums/cc3 ... ureBBB.jpg

The arrows represent planned Gandvian advances over the next 3-4 days, which basically amount to a dash for territory with less consideration, at the present time at least, for actually establishing a strong presence behind leading elements.)

[Iansisle]

The official diplomatic response from the Gull Flag Republic came just a day after the near-simultaneous start of Shieldian and Gandvian operations in Thortraia. As could be expected, the Foreign Office had to tread a fine line between condemning Gandvik and supporting its own, very similar operation. In the end, an appeal to common nationality was made.

“Thortraia is a Shieldian state,” the statement read. “As such, its people are protected under the Constitution of the Republic (reference). Any interference with the peaceful and democratic transition of authority across the entire country must be regarded as an act of aggression against the Republic. We hereby call on Gandvik to withdraw its military forces from Thortraia immediately and without reservation. This is the second time that Gandvian troops have crossed onto the Shield; without an immediate withdrawal, it cannot be guaranteed that the situation can be resolved diplomatically.”

For all of its bluster, however, the Gull Flag presence in Thortraia was not overwhelming. Two brigades, the 15th Strike and the 6th Motorized, consisting of roughly 7,000 troops made up the majority of Major-General Resdan's command, an ad hoc formation referred to in official parlance as J Force. Its deficiencies are especially glaring in terms of armor; only the 5th Tank Battalion is attached. Still, like their counterparts in the 7th Guards, the inventory of the 5th is as good as the Republic can make it. All 40 tanks presently in company are TS-96-720*s, a design which is at least as old as the Pav.84 but far superior to the TS-77-580 most commonly seen in Shieldian formations before the Revolution. Unfortuantely, they were also marching tanks in their original genesis – and, as such, ill-fitted to a long-distance race, with top road speeds of just about 60km/h, well slower than the Pav.84.

Nonetheless, the 5th is sent to the north on the most direct route for Tharia to try and beat the Gandvians while the main body relieved Thesia, whose plight had ostensibly summoned Gull Flag troops across the border. As the route will take them close to the Gandvian border, there is no small amount of consternation from the troops, although there is something of a feeling that things won't work out too badly, as Gandvik can't afford to anger Munstra too heavily; just look at what they did to the Aeros! Resdan himself, trusting less in Nib promises, hopes to quickly occupy Thesia and then turn north to support the 5th. Reports of Javian activity to the west, however, convince him to detach one mechanized battalion and its support elements for a drive further towards Passert.

This was not the army that had fought at Rutters just eight months ago. Radically reorganized along Captain Johnson's lines with Nibelung assistance, the Republic found itself in possession of new ideas and new inventory all along the line. The R63 had largely been phased out in favor of the smaller, easier to handle R10, although the larger rifle did find space within a specialist role. Wide issuance of Nibelunc-built AT missiles constituted another major change; no longer were infantry squads reliant entirely on Buck-mounted AT rifles for their anti-armor support. And, with the influx of western cash to the Shield, commanders could afford to give their troops practice with their new weapons. It may be less than a year, but the days of "here's your rifle, the end with the hole in it goes towards the Depkazi, out you go, good luck!" seemed long gone.

High above, the reorganized Air Force hopes to demonstrate that its impotence in the days leading up to Rutters was merely an aberration. They are now armed primarily in this theater with Wychwood Wrens acquired on a lend-lease basis from Walmington to plug the hole while the Colt Millennium is developed and produced. However, the crash-training program instituted as part of Captain Johnson's reforms is not nearly complete and the pool of available pilots is far outstripped by available machinery. The Wrens operate from small, dispersed fields roughly hewn across the northern Shield; the hope is that, if any single base is knocked out by enemy action or overrun, the losses to the enemy from AA defenses will outweigh the loss in men and material at the small base. The strategy is extremely inefficient in terms of personnel and it is hoped that full-scale integration of the swarm-fighter concept will be done around the same time as the first Millenniums.

In general, the Republic seemed almost eager for a war. Students marched in the streets of major cities calling for a showdown that would finally push the Gandvians off the Shield. The mob seemed to be of the opinion that even the harsh language used by the moderate Bradsworth administration was too weak, and that the intervention in Thortraia should have involved nothing less than a declaration of war served to Riga. Several Radical politicians encourage this belief, using the crisis as a tool to hammer their moderate opponents in the press. However, with elections several years off, little seems likely to change in the immediate balance of power. Despite the general feeling that the government was idling in the face of a crisis, leave was canceled across the army and air force. Units were brought to full alert across the border with Editraequan and Gandvik.

((ooc: * - Export/license version of the Walmingtonian Turtle Mk.VI

And you know that I love your paint maps, man. Here, I made one of my own!

http://i947.photobucket.com/albums/ad31 ... amoves.png ))

[Walmington on Sea]

The Walmingtonian response to the feeding frenzy consuming Thortaria was fairly typical. The Home Guard received activation orders in Amberland when the level of Gandvian military activity in the neighbourhood rose substantially above normal. The newly appointed ambassador to the GFR, His Excellency the Lord Standish (because who better than a decrepit, overweight, colonial paternalist, ardent royalist to represent the Empire to the Gulls?), privately protested about the lack of warning given to Great Walmington before the beginning of cross-border military operations. The EBC aired condemnations of Gandvian disregard for the community of nations and of Riga's unilateral approach to matters of regional importance.

But, for now, nobody on Lime Crescent really did anything.

Herefordshire*, Amberland

”Left!.. Incline!”

The men and boys of the Home Guard, Brampton Abbotts Platoon, veered impressively close to 45 degrees leftwards without losing step or formation in the process as they marched down the A544 towards the Thortarian border and ((Mlawa)) just beyond it, .280” Johnson battle-rifles and carbines sloped over their shoulders. Above them fluttered the banner of arms of the House of Walming and the Sovereign of the English Empire, a flag they were not really entitled to fly in this situation. Of course, Amberland's Home Guard was not really entitled to cross the border into Thortaria, either, but Captain Gwatkin was quite, quite resolved in the matter.

This morning's phone-call from Laundburugh police station left him little choice, he reasoned. Authorities that were prepared to hassle Sir Henry, even if he was only detained for a few hours, wouldn't hesitate to snatch the pips from his comparatively lowly shoulders. And somebody has to stand up to the Ganders, even if Lime Crescent won't!

”Sergeant, some music, I think!”

Drummer and bugle boys were called up with a few yelps from the septuagenarian Sergeant, and before long the whole platoon was singing as they, few dozen in their crumpled olive fatigues and turtle helmets, quite illegally crossed the border, intending to stand between the Gandvian army and the small portion of Thortaria that lay to their west.

”A silly Gander sausage
Dreamt Napoleon he'd be,
Then he went and broke his promise,
It was made in Jumalille!

He shook hands with ol' Bradsworth
And eternal peace he swore,
Naughty boy, he talked of peace
While he prepared for war!

...He'll have to go to school again
And learn his geography,
He quite forgot Amberland
And the hands across the sea,
Australia and Canada,
Tobago the and the Drap,
And England looked so small
He couldn't see her on the map”

((OOC: Quick comment- I think Ian's map is just slightly off so far as the borders of Amberland are concerned. To the best of my knowledge, Amberland took over Belgeland's former territory, which was supposedly the Warmian-Masurian voivodeship and as much of the Pomeranian voivodeship as lies east of the Vistula (which, helpfully, is -I believe- the four eastern most counties in their entirety). So, for example, Ilawa and the surrounding county is within Amberland. I think the border should run along the dotted line just north of Mlawa. Not a big difference, just the extreme northwest on that map. Unless I'm misreading it, of course, which is very possible, as my sense of scale seems to be a bit skewed.

Unfortunately, this has caught me in the middle of giving English names to all of Amberland's towns and cities, so I'm probably making a mess of both this IC post and my factbook, because I can't seem to leave one alone while I do the other!

*Działdowo County, Warmia-Masuria))

[Cassanos]

[OOC]
Nibelung names for cities:
Warsaw - Weichselburg
Torun - Dhorunn
Lodz - Saileachen
Kalisz – Glaerenkreuz
Kielce - Boiadh
Gdansk – Dun Hansa/Hansenhafen
[/OOC]


North of Haldsborough - Thortraia, Republic of the Shield
Gandvian operations H-Hour

Private Kai Fuder was staring out the window of the small shack, his mind drowsy from the monotony of the sleet falling outside and the sound of Private Giehm's soft snoring. Inside his snug toll house, he was too bored to even keep up his frustration at being stuck with this task. Monitoring border traffic between Thortraia and Gandvik was dull even during summer, in this weather, it was as close to total isolation as you could get. Still, Fuder and Giehm had it better than most others in C Company, 302nd Panzeraufklärungs Battalion. They had been exempted from going into the bivouac with the rest of their comrades due to a slightly dislocated wrist and a nasty cold, respectively. Not enough to put you into sickbed, but for the next few days, they were deemed only fit for light duty.
Even though Private Fuder felt for his comrades freezing their assets off in bivouac, he would not have cared to change places with them.

Their commander, Captain Herbst, was a good leader, but seemed to be the only person in the company still feeling they were on a dangerous mission. While the young men had been excited at the prospect of deployment to the Gandvian border at first, this had soon given way to routine when the Shieldian crisis had died down. Fuder had often wondered why they were still here instead of in their freshly refurbished kaserne in Cassanos. The Ganders had been browbeaten into compliance pretty quickly, and only a few flyboys had seen real combat, and now the main threat to the health of Fuder and his comrades was the weather. Rumbling outside seemed to herald another sleet storm in this dismal... Wait. Fuder sat up. That isn't the weather...
Tired, bored and with a bandage around his left wrist, Fuder was still a trained reconnaissance soldier, and this was a vehicle. No, several vehicles. Fuder was up and shaking Private Giehm's shoulder even before he heard the tell-tale squeaking of tank treads.
„'ssup, man, is it my turn already?“, Giehm mumbled, then perked up. „Shit!“

They ran outside, just in time to see a growing shadow looming through the curtain of sleet, which soon turned into the unmistakable shape of a Gandvian Pav.84 tank. Fuder stood staring, dumbstruck as the tank smashed through the wooden boom barrier and raced past him, followed by another. And another. On the other side of the road, a portly Thortraian customs officer had come out of his booth and looked at Fuder, his eyes wide with a strange mix of panic and glee.

Meanwhile, Private Giehm was already back inside the shack, wide awake and screaming into his radio:
“Rooster Six-Six, this is Post Hamlet! A large number of armoured vehicles has just passed our position! Repeat, company-plus of armour has broken through the border!“ … „No, they are Ganders. They're going west! WEST!“
Three sharp cracks made Giehm look up. Outside stood the Thortraian officer, waving at the passing tanks, pistol in hand. There was no sign of Private Fuder.


North of Haldsborough - Thortraia, Republic of the Shield
Gandvian operations H+30 minutes

Sirens were wailing at the 3rd Armoured Reconnaissance Brigade's field headquarters. All over the fortified camp, soldiers in various stages of undress were running to and fro. Brigade headquarters was located in a well-heated container, covered with camouflage netting in a decidedly lacklustre fashion.

Inside, Brigadier General Peter Deutz was trying to make sense of the situation. He had only just ordered the few Nibelung soldiers at the border crossing to retreat, seeing as there was not much for them to do apart from counting the numerous Gandvian vehicles which had smashed through the border without so much as firing a shot. Contact had been lost with at least one border post, with several others reporting large numbers of Gandvian armour coming through.
General Deutz had ordered all his forces to stand to after informing III. Korps Headquarters in Saileachen of the situation. He had just received the order not to engage from the general commanding the Korps when a radio in the corner blared.
“Hunter Prime, this is Avian Six-Six. My forces are in contact, repeat, battalion is engaging advancing enemy forces. Please acknowledge.“



Along the Haldsborough Highway, Thortraia, Republic of the Shield
Gandvian operations H+10 minutes

Guidelines for the Hari officer, excerpt:

It is paramount that all leaders on all levels are not only aware of their mission and their orders, but keep in mind his responsibility to act as he or she believes the situation demands at all times.

Captain Daniela Herbst was just about to leave for another round of his company's position, nestled into a patch of forest near the highway. She knew her men hated drills like this, but she knew that they needed to remain alert. Thortraia might look placid, but during the last weeks, disturbing reports had come in. In case of an – admittedly unlikely – Gandvian incursion or Thortraian insurrection, she wanted his men sharp and familiar with their area of operations, dismal as it was.

As she drained the last of her coffee, a radio in the corner of the command vehicle cracked: “Rooster Six-Six, this is Post Hamlet!“ … Herbst's head whipped around. After the first frantic report, a series of shouts and ever-louder rumbling were all that came through the radio. The Captain left her radioman trying to reach the outpost and instructed another to inform Battalion HQ. The Gandvians were coming. She had to stop them. It was simple.

Minutes later, C Company, 302nd Panzeraufklärungs Battalion, was standing to. Captain Herbst and the Battalion Commander had agreed that the company, the Battalion's only readily available force near the border, was to assert the situation and, if possible, delay the Gandvian advance. Fortunately, this was what the Nibelungs had been training for for the last couple of months. Within half an hour, B Company would be ready, followed by the rest of the reinforced battalion as quickly as possible. While they talked, the company staff was packing up all equipment as quickly as possible and would take the command, supply and medical vehicles back to the first rally point.

Herbst's men and women did not have long to wait. Ten minutes after Private Giehm's call, the troops in the company's eight Fafnir 2A6 tanks, fourteen Vivere A3s and two attached Surtur A2 tank hunters were ready. The company's attached engineer section was about to block the highway when an observation post one kilometre down the road reported advancing tanks of Gandvian design in the distance.
Cursing, Captain Herbst ordered the engineers back. Her Surturs, nestled into the woods, had already elevated their long, crane-like weapon stations, each filled with eight Spike ATGMs. Unfortunately, neither the Surturs nor the Viveres could engage the enemy at maximum range, since the bad weather reduced visibility for both regular and infrared sights. Quickly, Herbst decided on a plan relying on brute force and surprise.

The screening vehicles would be allowed to pass. If the company was detected by the screen, they would finish it and withdraw.
When the Gandvian column, estimated to be at least a battalion, passed the first road bend visible from C Company's position, some two kilometres distant, 1st and 2nd Platoon's tanks and RFVs, along with the Surturs, would engage simultaneously with a barrage of missiles and tank cannon-fire. At 1,500 metres, the Vivere's 50mm autocannons would engage lighter enemy vehicles.
When the Gandvian's attention was caught by the Nibelung troops firing from well-concealed positions east of the road, they would either retreat, push through or try to circumvent the Nibelungs from the north. The first was best. The latter two options would take them square into the sights of 3rd Platoon west of the road.
Herbst's orders were clear. One salvo for the Surturs, one minute of fire each for the tanks and IFVs. After that, without any air or artillery support, they were to fire their smoke grenades and make a hasty retreat to the south. With some luck, they would give the Ganders a very bloody nose.


I made a paint map, too!
A bad sketch of C Company's positions.

[OOC]
1.TCB, I hope I didn't take too many liberties here! Also, the roadblocks will probably take at least 90 to 120 minutes to construct, probably more.
2.More to come, especially regarding higher-level responses, but I have to leave for work for now.[/OOC]

[The Crooked Beat]

(OCC: You know, Cass, it looks like I'm the one who took the liberties this time! The presence of most of a Nibelung panzer division in northern Thortraia, although mentioned in your last post, completely failed to register with me, otherwise the Gandvian intervention never would have happened. Curses!)

North of Haldsborough

Under normal wartime conditions, a better target than 2/2nd Armored Regiment could scarcely be imagined. Drawn-up in marching formation, moving with all practical speed under what are assumed to be conditions of relative safety, Gandvian troops motoring toward Haldsborough, with many of their armored vehicles still strapped-down aboard wheeled tank transporters as a wear-reducing measure, are in no position to defend themselves if faced with opposition more serious than bands of armed locals. Fortunately, Royal Army planners did not abandon all due caution in their emphasis on speed, and were sure to deploy a sizable, theoretically battle-ready reconnaissance force on each axis of advance, but for the 2/2nd Guards, this does not help to avert disaster. Thanks to a dramatic failure of intelligence, it had not dawned on military authorities in Riga that Nibelung forces could be present in any strength much north of Tharia, where they expected to encounter armor in brigade strength or greater protecting lines of communication with Weshield. Though eager to show Munstra that its earlier success in coercing a Gandvian withdrawal from Weshield was a one-off, Riga does not intend to start a war to prove that point, and if Army planners knew or recognized that several Nibelung brigades occupied positions opposite that of I. Army Corps, any operations in Thortraia would have remained nothing more than hypothetical exercises.

Already, elsewhere in Thortraia, Gandvian columns, their inevitably career-conscious commanders following Riga's instructions to the letter, find themselves brought to an unexpectedly early halt by their Nibelung opposites, and it soon becomes clear to General Risto Mattsson that Operational Group T will not advance far beyond his own country's border without a level of violence that few in Gandvik harbor any strong willingness to commit, at least under present circumstances. Even the 53rd Mechanized Regiment, whose relatively untroubled southwestern approach from Curonia swings it past strong Nibelung blocking forces and deep into Thortraia, is ordered to check its progress, out of a concern for its very long and none too secure supply line.

Still, with their own orders in mind, most Gandvian soldiers do not expect Nibelung troops to make any secret of their presence, or to open fire without warning, and having not yet encountered any signs of foreign forces, the Guards blunder straight into C Company's ambush.

Standing in the open hatch of his Pav.84 main battle tank, Major Ivar Degerlund surveys with some unease the stretch of road in front of him, overlooked by several thick conifer stands and veiled in a curtain of cold grey mist. Ahead of his tank, a platoon of four Pa.61 armored scout cars conducts a preliminary sweep to a south-facing bend, and after their all-clear, Degerlund orders the rest of his combined armored battalion, 28 tanks, 36 armored personnel carriers, and at least as many unarmored vehicles, to move up. Procedurally, Degerlund knows that there is a great deal wrong with his battalion's maneuver, but having crossed many similar sections of roadway already and without incident, and under pressure to travel as far as possible before an anticipated Nibelung reaction, he feels confident enough to press on without attending to every battle-school precaution, especially after a smaller convoy carrying none other than General Mattsson had already passed through the same area and met with nothing worthy of note.

Ivar Degerlund's surprise is total, then, as a depleted uranium dart slices through his tank's turret armor, killing his gunner and sending him hurtling through the air, but sparing his driver who bails out with almost superhuman speed and agility. Within moments, 2/2nd's leading company group is gutted by a wholly unexpected shower of high-velocity projectiles and ATGWs, losing no fewer than ten MBTs, fourteen APCs, and four scout cars without reply. Surviving crewmen and infantrymen scatter, most making for the woodline to their left, while vehicles to the column's rear hastily reverse and speed off in all directions, hoping to get out of the still-unseen enemy's line of fire.

For Gandvians belonging to the battalion medical section, watching their comrades' predicament is more than they, or at least their battalion medical officer, can bear, and, flying red cross flags, a pair of Fagerberg 202 ambulances make their way at top speed into C Company's ambush. Captain Mellin, battalion intelligence officer, left in charge after Degerlund and his XO both fail to report, frantically attempts to raise Regimental HQ while extricating his following companies from what has revealed itself to be a deadly trap. In spite of further casualties, junior officers and NCOs sternly repeat orders to hold fire, though without a clear idea of where exactly enemy forces are located Gandvian tankers and mechanized infantrymen can do little except fire smoke grenades.

After what feels like an eternity, Captain Mellin finally gets through via radio, and in a distraught state attempts to outline Reconnaissance Group Degerlund's dire situation. Speaking first to his own Colonel, and then to none other than General Mattsson, Mellin's instructions are clear. "Captain, you're doing a fine job. Now listen to me, fall back to (village), and we're sending first battalion up to meet you fast as possible. Get your men out and do not, I repeat, do not return fire."

Back with his headquarters van, General Mattsson takes a moment to steady himself before confronting the crisis now looming before him. Like any career Royal Army officer, Mattsson knows that someone will have to pay for 2/2 Guards' slaughter, and, as overall commander, that responsibility will almost certainly fall, at least in part, on his shoulders. For now, however, he concentrates on managing what, it seems, could develop into a major conflagration. There is little doubt in any Gandvian officer's mind as to who attacked the Guards near Haldsborough, but what if anything they ought to do about it is much less clear. All encounters with Nibelung troops until that point had been peaceful, Royal Army personnel being bound under very strict rules of engagement not to so much as fire their weapons without prior authorization from Riga. Hari personnel caught behind the Gandvian advance were to receive safe conduct back to their own lines, and at several junctures Gandvian columns had even shared roads with Nibelung vehicles. What took place outside Haldsborough, Mattsson concludes, is probably not evidence of a wider policy, but more likely the work of an isolated unit operating on its own initiative. Such considerations do little to temper worries felt by Mattsson's headquarters group and escorting reconnaissance company, who now find themselves somewhere southwest of where the Guards came to grief, and quite possibly in grave danger themselves. Seeking to clarify matters as much as possible, before national governments inevitably step into the fray, Mattsson's headquarters broadcasts an unencrypted radio message in hopes of reaching Nibelung listeners. Explaining Operational Group T's restrictive rules of engagement, and professing a desire to avoid any further loss of life, the Gandvian broadcast requests that all Nibelung forces make their general locations known, and asks that they refrain from firing upon medical personnel attending to the ambush near Haldsborough.

Mattsson's staff quickly pack-up their equipment and head back east on secondary roads, while the General himself awaits word of Riga's official reaction.

[Iansisle]

Lenore House
Ianapalis, Republic of the Shield

First excavated during the Great War, when Byzantine and Gandvian bombs had rained down on the city, the Lenore House Caverns were a series of bunkers underneath the War Office from which the High King's officers could watch the unfolding calamity in relative security. They had later served as a base for Greek officers in the brief interval between the city's fall and the High King's surrender and abdication. Now, sixty years and two governments later, the caverns served as the headquarters for the highest levels of the Republic's military and intelligence forces. Lawrence Madders, the Director of War, was there, scowling at a large map of Thortraia plastered over one wall. Captain Clayburgh stood just behind him, offering up the intelligence office's most recent information.

"We have indications from the field of a firefight between elements of the Nibelung 7th Panzer Division and advancing Gandvian troops. I don't know who opened fire first -- my contact with the Hari has indicated that Munstra gave no authorization for live weapons. It would be reasonable to assume, then, that the Ganders are the ones initiating the violent contact."

"And yet there is no indication of movement from their units deployed further east?" said Madders, his sagging jowls clenched in a frown.

"No reports from our border stations of any activity out of the ordinary. All units along the Gandvian frontier remain on high alert."

"This is damned peculiar, damned peculiar." Madders shook his head. "Until the Nibs decide to share more with us, there's not really anything we can do."

"Perhaps, Director, as long as you're here, you'd like to discuss other matters?" Clayburgh held up another folder, marked 'TOP SECRET.' "Operation Stocking, perhaps?"

Madders shot a glance over at an open door to an office. The nametag read ‘Capt. H. Johnson, Operations.’ “Not here,” he said. “Conference Room C.”

AFR Kalersville
Northern Weshield, ~50 kilometers from the Gandvian border

It had taken the Logistical Corps just a week to construct the runway and other facilities at Kalersville. The airbase sat about four kilometers outside of the town for which it was named, in what had formerly been a field of buckwheat. The runway, 1000m long, had taken the longest to construct, or rather flatten out, and most of that had been preparing the ground and waiting for the heavy equipment to arrive from the south. There was no tower as such, although a small radar set, formerly used by the Royal Shadoran Artillery, had been installed. That was placed atop a series of repurposed shipping containers – ones which, ironically enough, had been used to deliver Wrens – that were strung together, three horizontally and one vertically. A young private with the Logistical Corps had the job of painting them up to look like buildings. Two operational Westerton Bucks along with several broken down trucks and other vehicles were parked in front of the ‘tower.’

The generator for the radar was several hundred meters away, under a dense stand of trees, further protected by camouflage netting. There, the airbase staff and pilots had been sleeping in makeshift tents, also camouflaged, and complaining loudly of the ‘troubles’ which had dragged them away from the more comfortable beds available to them in the nearby town. Ordinarily, only a few patrolmen circled the airbase’s perimeter but the crisis in Thortraia had recalled all defense elements to full alert. The pilots had flown a couple sorties in their Wychwood Wrens – three of them were assigned to Kalersville – but so far the crisis had produced little other than sore backs and grumbling.

After they had landed and been refilled and rearmed, the Wrens were carefully parked in another stand of trees across the way from the generator and ammunition and fuel dumps. Every effort to make them invisible to the air was taken. Camouflage was less careful on the base’s other aircraft – six old model Colts, strung next to each other in another stand of trees on the far end of the runway. There, deliberate holes had been left to aid in their detection, careful to emphasize the Wren-like silhouettes of the gutted airframes. All valuable material from the Colts – heat-resistant metals, engine components, and so on and so forth – had long since been removed.

The entire airbase was surrounded by barbed wire and a high chain-link fence, occasionally patrolled by the guards stationed there, with signs warning of a minefield. Kalersville was virtually identical to thousands of other small airbases cut into Weshield by the Republic. Some of them, like Kalersville, hosted Wrens and Colt-IIs in addition to their half-scrapped bait brothers; others were simply a sham, operated by nobody other than a handful of security guards.

Lenore House

“Our operations inside Gandvik itself have had mixed results,” said Clayburgh, passing over a document for Madders to read. “The greatest successes have been in and around Ingermanburg, which seems to harbor more deep-seated resentment for the current regime than other areas. Unfortunately, even there, people seem scared of the Sapo.”

“Scared of that bunch of nincompoops?” said Madders, looking up. “Christ. I’m glad they weren’t with me at Grand Street.”

“Well, Director, as I’ve mentioned, the Sapo is overstretched and weighed down by a lengthy bureaucratic system, but they’re not incompetent. Look at the Marsh case. There’s still a bite to that old dog, and they’ve been none too shy about displaying it.”

“Overstretched means they’re about to snap,” said Madders. “Which is where we come in, Clayburgh. I want you to break them. Do it however you would like – blow up a state office, assassinate a key official, expose a vital secret, whatever – but I want the Sapo discredited and scattered. Show our ‘comrades’ in Gandvik that the Revolution is not scared of some princely running dogs.”

“Ah, yes Director.” Clayburgh paused. “I trust that this has the full sanction of the Director-President and the cabinet?”

Madders fixed him with a long stare. “Of course it does, Clayburgh.” His tone itself conveyed that the intelligence officer shouldn’t look too closely into the veracity of that claim. “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Munstra” – he looked purposely over at Captain Johnson’s office through the window – “should be kept in the dark.”

[Iansisle]

Dillers, Thortraia*

The city of Dillers was the last major town before the border on the main highway between Passert and Totston. Or, at least, what you could call a highway in old Shieldian imperial parlence – in Nibelunc, it likely would not have passed muster. One lane in each direction, half paved (and that half covered in potholes untended to since the 1970s), lined with trees on both sides whose roots had torn up the even surface. One frequent traveler on Shieldian roads had opined that “the Buck's poor suspension owes most to a placid acceptance of the inevitability of having your teeth jarred loose.”

Of course, on this winter day, on this particular road, trees were not all lining the sides. As C Company, 5th Mechanized Battalion, advanced down the road, their progress was constantly interrupted by a grisly message sent from a shadowy enemy. Half a dozen times, their scouts had reported “bodies” on the road and the entire company had stopped to cut down Thortraians – soldiers, mostly, but occasionally civilians with “tax collector” or some such scrawled across their chest – from where they had been impaled, presumably by the Javians reported by Lieutenant Hatchers. It was just about sixty kilometers from Passert to Dillers but C Company had hoisted down and buried more than two dozen bodies. It caused quite the commotion in the ranks, not least of all because they had not yet encountered a single Javian.

Nor would they, until their scouting elements reported a road block just north of the old Dillers gate. C Company had assigned to it Lieutenant Samuel Rassel, a political officer of some experience, as part of their “peacekeeping” operations in Thortraia. He had gone to treat with the Javians and was amazed to find himself whisked into the city itself and right up to the old Baron of Dillers' palace. Rassel was a confident man, liked to consider himself bold and imaginative, but even he wilted in the presence of King Michael of the Jave.

Javians were big for Shieldians, it was true, and Michael was no exception. Standing just over six feet and nearly as broad as he was tall, he towered over the decidedly average Rassel. The old sitting room where they were meeting was pleasantly equipped. There was a bookcase with titles in German, Shieldian, and English. An elaborate, gold-crusted crucifix hang over the fireplace, which roared happily with several logs. Several overstuffed chairs dotted the room, arranged for courteous and intimate conversations. The only thing ruining the ambiance was the young man in the back corner, his hands bound and mouth gagged. There were several charred holes in his tunic just over his gut, surrounded by large black and red stains through the khaki of the uniform. The fire poker was propped against the wall next to him. He was conscious, just, with tears leaking from his eyes. All that could be heard, however, were animal-like whimpers.

“Ah,” said Rassel when he had been led into this scene by a Javian guard. “Ah.”

“And now there's the Gulls,” said Michael, turning his head. He had been reading a book on the probiats. He tossed it casually into the fire. “But you look uncomfortable.”

“Ah,” said Rassel, again.

“How rude of me. Here, have a chair.” Michael gestured to one. Rassel nearly stumbled on his way there, clutching onto the back of it for support. The Javian smiled at him.

“Ah,” said Rassel, glad to be in a seat. His knees were knocking slightly. He had seen some light combat at Rutters, like many in the Shieldian armed forces, but this was something entirely out of his experience or training.

“Tell me, Lieutenant Rassel,” said Michael, taking the seat opposite him. “You are from Dorchet, yes?”

“Ah. Yes. Ahem.”

“I could tell, just from your mannerisms. I have been to Dorchet on multiple occasions.” Michael paused. “It is an ugly city.”

“Ah. Thank you?”

“But then, it is in Shadoran. There are only ugly cities there. Dunourton, for example, and Ianapalis. I think that is why people from there are so eager to conquer other places; they know that their home is ugly. Would you agree?”

“There is a man dying right there,” Rassel finally worked himself up to say.

“Only dying?” said Michael, looking over as if he had just noticed. “Is the good colonel still with us?”

The only reply from the corner was a light whimper.

“You are distracting my guest!” bellowed Michael, leaping to his feet. His tone and demeanor changed entirely. He grabbed a lamp from a nearby end table. It shattered just inches above the young Thortraian officer's head. “Shut up! Foul, disgusting coward! Be quiet!”

After a moment of silence, Michael pulled on the hem of his tunic and retook his seat.

“You have my apologies, Lieutenant. There is nothing I detest more than cowardice. The colonel there, after we took his unit, begged with me not to kill him. He told me everything he knew of your forces in the area, he swore on his mother that he had rejected the Boy King and took up the Gull Flag. He even offered to tell me the hiding location of some of his own men if I would just spare him.” Michael shrugged. “What could I do? I decided to let him live.”

“Ah,” said Rassel. It had been a very useful word this conversation.

“And now he may serve a purpose for me,” said Michael, calling one of his men over. He bore a beautifully engraved wooden box. “This is for you – well, pardon my rudeness, Lieutenant. This is for your masters back in Ianapalis, and their masters in Munstra.” The man handed the box to Rassel.

“Thank you,” said Rassel.

“Your hands are shaking, lieutenant.”

“Ah. It's ...an old injury. Ah, that is to say, nerve damage – Gandvian shell at Rutters, you know.”

Michael clucked sympathetically. “We all have our war wounds.” He pulled up a shirt sleeve to reveal a scar. “From one of Lord Thesian's running dogs, at Pallpass. I got my fists around his neck. He made the most unusual noises as he died; far more entertaining than Colonel Edderson here.” Michael shook down his shirt sleeve. “Of course, the only thing I hate more than cowards are liars. Wouldn't you agree, lieutenant?”

“Ah.”

“But you haven't opened the box? Aren't you curious what tokens of esteem I have gotten for Mr. Bradsworth?”

“Is it a head?” blurted out Rassel.

“How unusually perceptive you are, for a Shadoranite!” said Michael. “Very close, very close indeed – but not quite. Open it, lieutenant.”

Rassel hesitated for a moment with his hand over the box's lid. Michael's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed.

“Open it,” he said again, before shoving the end table over. “Open it!”

Rassel dropped the box lid as he took it off. Inside was a letter composed on the back of a human scalp. He had expected something like that, so it didn't discomfort him much more than anything else in the room.

“I have written them a letter, you see,” said Michael, standing. “I shall summarize it for you – my best calligraphers couldn't promise me that the ink would have great permanency, given the medium. I am telling Mr Bradsworth that he may have Thortraia to himself. It is a dreadful place, anyway. Tell him that. Tell him that I am giving it to him, from Passert to the border with his German friends.”

Michael drew a P35 from the side of one of his guards. He turned it over in his hands as he talked, checked the magazine, then turned off the safety. Rassel could hardly concentrate on the words, so preoccupied was he with the weapon.

“You may also tell them that they are not welcome in the Jave. We are a fiercely independent people, you see.” He dropped his voice. “Tell Mr Bradsworth that if any Shadoranite, if any Weshielder, if any Thortraian takes so much as one step over the border, with my words before God, it shall be the last step he ever takes.” Michael emphasized this point by discharging one round into the ceiling. “We will kill you. And we will kill you. And we will kill you – until nobody wants to come to the Jave, ever again. Tell Mr Bradsworth this.”

“Ah,” said Rassel.

“Tell them,” said Michael. He put the P35 on the table next to Rassel. “This interview is at a close. You may give Colonel Edderson mercy, if you desire. And if your ...'war injury' permits you to hold the gun steady.”

((ooc: * - Krosno

Also, Cass, I realize I've no right to talk after how badly I butchered my map, but doesn't the Vistula pass directly through Krakow?))

[The Crooked Beat]

Riga

Gandvians, dependent for their news and information on state-owned and shamelessly partisan media monopolist YLE, may not be planet earth's best-informed people, but after close to ninety years of living under a secretive authoritarian regime, most could pick up on indications of government behavior more subtle, and usually more telling, than those published by official sources. Rigans who find their evening commute halted as main roads are cordoned-off by rifle-toting Gendarmes cannot help but recognize a sure sign of crisis, and some even catch sight of speeding Fagerberg and Savander limousines, their ample and luxurious if none too agile lines sweeping majestically through cleared streets, flanked and followed by white-helmeted police motorcyclists. For those wanting in terms of dinner-table conversation it is a godsend, and no few skeptical remarks are directed toward news broadcasts reporting on the Principality's "Successful Peace Operation" in Thortraia, though families of military personnel view events through a more worrying lens.

Under an ornate chandelier of cut glass and ormolu, and a thick cloud of cigar smoke, 25 Councilors of State sit around a long oval conference table in Riga Castle's luxuriously-appointed former dining room. If walls covered in equestrian portraits, battle scenes, and deceased monarchs bearing very regal scowls ever fail to impress upon Gandvik's ruling fraternity the seriousness of its trade, Mikalous Andres-Kletsk's steely gaze and angry outbursts would not, and in his 79 years Chairman Andres-Kletsk, some might say, looks if anything more imperious than his younger self, infirmities aside. If anything, his notoriously short temper had become even more so, almost in direct proportion to his declining health.

"For God's sake, speak up!" roars Andres-Kletsk at Social Affairs Minister Soininen, muttering insults as he adjusts his hearing aid. "Stuff your statistics, Soininen, will we have a revolution, or won't we? Know your work, man!"

"Ah, hm, no, Mr. Chairman. No, I believe not." An embarrassed Soininen takes his seat.

"Now then, it is clear what we must do. After Weshield, we must show Nibelunc that we are not to be trifled with. We must also show Europe, Valendia in particular, that we are not the aggressors here. Take two divisions from the Reserve Corps, mobilize the Civil Guard in Curonia, Voronia and Polesia, move another Special Artillery Regiment west. We shall demand an apology, and threaten to shut off the Nord Stream* if they refuse. I expect the Duke of Dorpat's office will have no trouble drawing-up a suitable communique within the next 24 hours. But we shall stay put in Thortraia, and press for a new diplomatic settlement." Andres-Kletsk next calls on Gandvik's Communications Minister. "Idman, I believe the time is right to let on about this business at Haldsborough. You men have your marching orders, now are there any questions?"

Autuansaari District, Ingermanburg

Another chilly late-autumn morning had just begun to break over Gandvik's sprawling second city as Lieutenant Pajunen's police task force descended upon a shabby block of apartment buildings near Ingermanburg's commercial harbor. For Gandvian police services, in spite of their international reputation as ruthless agents of an authoritarian regime, early-morning surprise raids were something of a rarity, especially in Ingermanburg, which was not called "Venice of the North" for no reason. A citywide network of drawbridges, raised at night to permit barge traffic along canals and inland waterways, left some districts all but unreachable until daybreak. For Pajunen, leading an operation into one of Ingermanburg's mainland neighborhoods, this was not so much of a concern, but any moderately-cognizant local drunk or early-rising commuter witnessing the convoy of police vehicles speeding through deserted, snow-dusted streets would not be wrong to conclude that something significant was afoot.

Disembarking several doors down so as to preserve a measure of surprise, nearly one hundred Gandvian civil policemen and interior ministry troops, including a tactical unit bedecked in helmets and body armor, surrounded their target with all the stealth they could muster, an effort not helped by the fact that many among them nursed hangovers of considerable intensity. With a mighty heave, an interior ministry trooper drove a metal battering ram into the building's graffiti-covered front door, and Lieutenant Pajunen, followed by a stack of submachine gunners, leaped through the gap into what appeared to be a sloppily-furnished living room. "Police! Nobody move!" said Pajunen, taken aback to find himself brandishing his P.35 automatic at a young couple on a dirty armchair, wrapped in a blanket against the bitter cold and staring with shocked expressions at the fearsome array of weaponry pointed in their direction. "Out, out, out!" shouted policemen as the building's occupants were flushed-out from their beds and bundled unceremoniously into the street below.

After clearing the ground floor, Pajunen immediately made his way downstairs, shattering an ancient wooden door and descending into a damp, cobweb-infested space lit intermittently by slashing flashlight beams. So far, most information regarding 1034 Torsland Katu, a low-profile hangout for Ingermanburg's sizable population of bohemians and university students, had been accurate, and as Pajunen's boots met concrete, his sense of excitement was shared by all of the following policemen. "Somebody find the lights," ordered a voice from the staircase, and the weak flickering of an old bulb revealed a half-naked individual collapsed on a pile of old newspapers, clutching an empty bottle of paloviina. An interior ministry trooper gave the man a forceful slap, bringing him, spluttering and incoherent, to a state of semi-consciousness.

Pajunen and his subordinates set to ransacking the basement, tearing through piles of foreign journals and crudely-published leftist broadsheets, taking axes and sledgehammers to walls and floors with a fury driven increasingly by desperation. By the time Pajunen emerged from an atmosphere heavy with dust and debris, soaked in sweat, morning was in full flood. Piles of shattered furniture indicated that an aggressive search was underway in upper floors as well. Some 57 people were arrayed in two parallel lines in the street, many of them wrapped in police overcoats against the cold. Some of those not wearing shoes had been given floor mats from police vehicles to stand on as they awaited processing. Stopping for a swig of brandy from a deputy's flask, Pajunen slowly made his way to a Fagerberg 264 radio car.

"...this just won't fly, Lieutenant. This won't fly at all. Hmm...alright, listen, stay put, and I'll be there in ten minutes. Try to think of something in the meantime, out."

Dejected, Pajunen slumped into the passenger seat and attempted to steady his mind, trying without much success to avoid dwelling on his likely career prospects. As he watched uniformed police officers pass-out cigarettes to the building's occupants, cutting a pitiful figure in their nightclothes, he was struck with a flash of inspiration. Grabbing a shotgun and a submachine gun from the Fagerberg cruiser, he hurried back to the basement, where his reappearance took everyone by surprise. "If you aren't in the Special Task Force, I need you to get out of here, and don't come back until I give the word." Pajunen waited until dust-covered interior ministry troops and uniformed police had gone upstairs before laying his shotgun and SMG on the ground, and producing his own service pistol. "If anyone doesn't want to be part of this, now's the time to step out. Otherwise, keep your mouths shut. Stenroth, Tanner, Gylling, get all the guns out of your cars and bring them down here. And leave your service pistol. Holsti and Kallis, get filing."

Meanwhile, outside 1034 Torsland Katu, a quartet of police trucks had finally arrived to cart-away the building's former occupants. "Listen up!" shouted a police sergeant. "For the crimes of sedition, illegal association, unlicensed operation of an alcohol distillery for profit, and possession of contraband, we have no choice but to place you under arrest. If there are any draft-dodgers among you, your case will be treated more favorably if you confess now and present yourselves for military service. Officers will now take your names and personal information, so have your identification ready."

(OCC: Took me long enough! Not a lot of concrete stuff here, unfortunately, but hopefully enough to provide some background for future intrigues at least.

*I'm not sure what the status of RL pipelines and supply networks in AMW happens to be. Gandvik certainly has plenty of natural gas and petroleum, where it goes, and how it gets there, is another matter entirely. The Nord Stream can probably be read as Gandvian pipelines leading to Western Europe and to Nibelung markets in particular, provided of course Nibelunc buys gas from Gandvik to begin with.)

[Cassanos]

[OOC]Sorry again for the long time this took me. I hope this gives you an idea of what is going on in Nibelunc.[/OOC]

North of Haldsborough - Thortraia, Republic of the Shield

The Gandvian vehicles were still burning, their ammunition occasionally cooking off amidst the intrepid medical personnel, when the commander of the 302nd Panzeraufklärungs Battalion contacted Captain Herbst. The young woman felt a terrible sinking sensation in her stomach when she heard the news. The smells of burning metal and cordite from spent 50mm shells burned in her nose. After a few seconds which seemed like hours, she answered her commander. "Avian, this is Rooster. Acknowledged. Preparing to disengage. Do we have permission to assist Gandvian forces in recovery operations?" The lieutenant-colonel in the battalion CP sight. Rooster, Avian. Affirmative, but take care of yourself. These people are still not our friends, whatever the higher-ups say. The 120s will fire smoke to cover your move." A pause. "Rooster, we have just received a message from Hunter. We are transmitting it now. Uhm... It looks like you are an envoy, now, captain." Another pause, while a screen nearby began displaying a few sentences. "And Rooster - you did an excellent job under confusing circumstances. Avian out. Captain Herbst put down the headset and began reading the brigade commander's message.
A few minutes later, 120mm smoke rounds began popping to the east of C Company's position, covering the withdrawal of most of the unit. Before that, however, Captain Herbst ordered her command vehicle, turret turned backwards, towards the wreckage of the Gandvian position. Herbst stood in the turret herself, holding an aerial to which a white sheet had been tied hurriedly. Any angry Gandvian would have a clean field of fire.
From behind the woods, the company's ambulance was heading towards the victims of its comrades' barrage.

Message
TO: The Gandvian Commander
FROM: BrigGen Peter Deutz, CO 3rd Panzeraufklärungs Brigade
Sir, my government regrets that Nibelung military forces had to engage your forces on Shieldian territory. Be advised that Nibelung military forces have been put on alert but will not initiate combat unless your forces violates the following conditions:
The government of the Federal Republic of Nibelunc will not tolerate any foreign incursions into Thortraia or any other territory of the Republic of the Shield. Following the recent crisis, the interim government of Thortraia has invited Nibelung forces to protect Thortraian and Shieldian interests and territory. Nibelung forces have acted upon this agreement.
All Gandvian forces will not advance any further and will withdraw from Shieldian territory NLT than 1200 hours tomorrow.
Nibelung forces will assist with traffic control and medical personnel as needed.

The same message had been sent to Riga and news agencies around the world, and would be read by Foreign Minister Fischer later that day.


Munstra, Nibelunc

Late evening the same day
The Alderman looked at his assembled ministers and advisors. "Well, that's bad. That is really, really bad. Couldn't those Ganders see that we wouldn't let them do this? One would think the world knows by now that we are no pushovers."
That drew some uncomfortable faces in the room. The decision to use tactical nuclear weapons against Areopagite forces had not been an unanimous one.
Before Ahler could continue, Peter Hambacher, Minister of Defence, spoke up. "Jo, my people have a preliminary theory about this. With the crisis winding down and some of our forces returning home, it may have looked like we were not ready to get involved again. Besides, the bad weather of the last few weeks made most of our forces in Thortraia return to their temporary bases - camps, former Shieldian barracks, community centres, the like. They were largely concentrated away from the major roads and not doing much of anything. To the Gandvians, it might have looked like we were... Inert." Ahler coughed. "Well, then they should have remembered that we don't hibernate. That captain demonstrated that, at least. Well, be that as it may. We have to formulate a position on this, and quick. Jonas, how badly would the loss of Gandvian fuels affect us?"

Jonas Reichert, Minister of Economics and Energy, shuffled the papers before him and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "It is not going to be nice. Let me give you a rundown of the overall situation with our main providers. We're in the middle of winter and imports from Arabia are still dried up, though we expect them to rise significantly if the new government holds. Imports from Areopagitican are resuming as part of our post-war agreement, but are limited. We're already buying everything we can from the Byzantinesand the Walmingtonians. Depkazia is still not delivering through the Shield. Krasnoyarsk can deliver large amounts of natural gas and oil, but their pipelines run through Gandvik and Depkazia. We're not sure whether Gandvik will block those, too. That leaves the North Sea projects, and those not at least partially under Gandvian control are modest to say the least. Geletia is risky, and we don't need their coal anyway. Other sources can not provide as much as we need. Now", Reichert said leaning forward, "our national reserves are now fully replenished after we tapped them during the Areo War. We have 30 days worth of natural gas and 90 days of crude oil and products for the industry as well as 60 days of diesel and other fuels for civilian use, 120 days if we impose rationing. The Heerbann has another 45 days of fuels in war stocks, and many corporations have at least some reserves.
A complete loss of Gandvian oil and gas would hit regular citizens the most. We are importing some eight percent of our oil and about 25 percent of our natural gas from Gandvik. The industry can cope for some time, but not only are heating prices going to rise, we have to face the possibility that many people won't have heating in three to six weeks, depending on the weather and other conditions."

Alderman Ahler leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "Thank you. Well, given this, what are my options?" Peter Hambacher and Albert Fischer's aides got up and set up a whiteboard hanged with sheets. The Minister of Defence began: "Al's Ministry and mine have prepared this briefing together to give you a broader picture. I will present you with several worst-case-scenarios:
As you know, Riga has begun mobilising its forces in Estland, Curonia, Voronia and Savonia, which amounts to more than half a million troops. We expect this mobilisation to be finished within four to seven days. According to your orders, Jo, we have refrained from doing the same, although units in Cassanos have been put on alert and prepare to move. We're going to present ourselves as the reasonable side here. There are two possibilites here: Either the Ganders want to make of show for their own people and the world and this whole mobilisation business is just them flexing their muscles. The sheer cost and scope of it, however, indicates that a large-scale operation in the northern Shield is quite possible. If that is the case, we would have to mobilise our own forces within three days at the latest and begin airlifting troops into the Deep Shield to take up the equipment we are prepositioning there. This isn't complete, we have enough for one understrength brigade, some 2,500 troops, and possible some airmobile forces. We can move two or three Luftwaffe wings there, too, but we would be hard-pressed to keep them supplied."
He pointed to a set of black-and-white images on the board. "What worries me is that Gandvik is also moving some of their Special Artillery units closer to the border. This is their RakH.6, a tactical missile like our Gungnir and capable of carrying nuclear warheads. We do not know which warheads they are fitted with - but the Ganders can reach our territory with nukes anyway. This leads to two possible conclusions, neither of which is reassuring. Either they want to reinforce their conventional deep-strike capabilities for a possible war or they seek some insurance in case either of us employs nuclear weapons tactically, like we did in Areopagitican. I don't want to sound alarmist, but this is a possibility we can not discount. We have prepared emergency orders for our missile units in the region, but take no overt action which could be perceived as escalatory."
Hambacher's aide flipped another sheet which showed a map of Thortraia and eastern Cassanos, with dark green and burning red arrows pointing at Thraia among a set of blue circles. "Our dispositions in Thortraia are not ideal. The 3rd Panzeraufklärungs Brigade's main supply lines are now blocked and they lack room to fully deploy. They are consolidating and preparing to either defend or move against the Gandvian lines of communication. The 21nd and 23rd Panzer Brigades are moving to block the Gandvian advance at the indicated positions. As per standing orders, they will not open fire unless fired upon, but their engineers are busy building road blocks and laying minefields. The obstacles should be ready by noon tomorrow. The weather isn't helping, though. It also interferes with our air reconnaissance and would make possible air attacks that much harder.
Finally, our Gull Flag allies are making good progress towards Thraia. There have been few reports of Thortraian police or military forces interfering, and they remained either passive or largely supportive of our operations. Should we decide on more aggressive actions, we have also prepared lists of required transport and other assets." With that, the 68-year-old Hambacher sat down, his lined face looking grim.

At the other side of the table, the younger Albert Fischer rose. "The international situation is tolerable. We don't expect most European nations to buy into the Gandvian accusations - it was rather plain that we were merely abiding by our treaty obligations with the Shieldians and the Thortraian authorities. In fact, we would legally have been able to shoot their columns to bits. But we didn't, and if we play our cards right, this will not be seen as weakness, but as a sign of being reasonable and predictable - unlike them. Should Peter's worst case scenario come to pass, we could count on our mutual defence agreements with the Shield and Avarga, and probably also Valendia and Rome. Walmington has also shown some tentative support of actions against the Gandvian incursion and would likely offer to broker another agreement at least. It is my opinion that we should not give in to Gandvian demands of an apology or punishment of this Captain Herbst. She did nothing wrong, and neither did we: That should be our line. We should express our regret that lives have been lost, but make absolutely sure that Gandvik is the aggressor here. Forget about this whole "Nibelunc always resorts to force" nonsense. We were merely protecting our friends.
Now, apart from this, we still need to defuse this issue as soon as possible. As Jonas noted, we can not afford another crisis like this economically, politically or morally. Peter's and my people have prepared three options: One, we mobilise, too, and go for a stare-down. Gandvik retreated once, but this might increase the risk of conflict should they feel they have to demonstrate to their own people and the world at large that they are our equals. Two, offer talks in a neutral location to decide on the future of Thortraia. This would harm our credibility as an ally and also with the people who look to us for help, not backroom realpolitik. Three, we do what we are doing now - stand our ground and take no offensive action politically or militarily. We condemn Gandvik's incursion but offer to go back to the status quo ante with Shieldian troops securing Thortraia along with local Shieldian authorities. We have already contacted Ianapalis and asked them to hold a referendum in Thortraia soon. We are confident that a vast majority of Thortraians would vote for joining the Republic. Meanwhile, our troops remain there as per our agreement with Thraia. We would also offer to welcome the Boy King in Nibelunc should his safety be compromised. Personally, I still think it was the right idea not to capture him. Dragging children from their beds is not our policy, after all." With that, Fischer finished.

"Thank you both", Ahler said. "Now, some final words on the home front, Frank?" Chief of Staff Frank Diercke looked at his boss who sat smoking and smiling wryly. "Sure. I'll make it brief - right now, we are the good guys. The people are viewing the Shieldians as some kind of poorer little brother - they admire their revolution and feel we should help them keep their new freedoms. "The Shieldian" is no longer a strange buckwheat farmer, but the media reports during and after the revolution have given him - and his family - a face. Bradsworth and Johnson also looked very stately when they got their medals and Bradsworth spoke before the Ting - true heroes. I heard", Diercke grinned for a short moment, "that Johnson has garnered quite a following on various social networks. And apparently, 17 magazine has named him 'The Hot Hero'. All told, the people like the Gull Flaggers and don't like the Gandvian government. However, all this might change when people have to live in cold flats and can't drive their cars because there's no fuel. And the people haven't gotten the Areo WMD scare out of their system yet, so any escalation would be harmful. After all, people know that Gandvik has these weapons. What it boils to is this - whatever we decide to do, we have to do it quickly."

The discussions went on for a long while after that. Early in the morning, a sleep-deprived and weary Alderman Ahler would call Mikalous Andres-Kletsk to explain the Nibelung position to him. Ahler would attempt to come across as reasonable yet firm, but not haughty or arrogant.
Nibelung troops would not engage the Gandvians, but the government wanted them gone as soon as possible. Munstra was open to a referendum in Thortraia, but would remain there until "the danger of foreign aggression is reduced". The Gull Flag Republic was the legitimate successor to the Grand Empire and as such the power to be present in Thortraia.
As for Gandvian sanctions, Ahler would note that this would violate several long-term contracts and might hurt Gandvik's reputation on the international market. As an aside, Nibelunc would have to consider halting exports of certain key goods, most prominently machinery and chemicals, into Gandvik. This destabilisation of the market situation might also lead to a rise in interest rates on Gandvian loans in Nibelunc, and possibly Walmington and other nations as well. Hopefully unbeknownst to Andres-Kletsk, Jonas Reichert and Albert Fischer's Ministries had already extended feelers to several financial centres about this.
To summarise, both sides had a lot to lose and little to gain from this dispute that, Ahler, would be adamant, Gandvik had begun.
In calm and polite words, Ahler would also ask Andres-Kletsk why, following an unwarranted aggression, Riga was now upping the ante by mobilising hundreds of thousands of troops - and what, exactly, were those missiles carrying?