(AMW) Storm on the Yaik

[Depkazia]

Aqtaw, Mañğıstaw

On the steps of city hall, below the balcony from which the rebel Bey had once made pronouncements and upon which the Caliph greeted his public during infrequent state visits, now lay several broken bodies. The Qadi appointed by Brab Khan to dispense Islamic justice in the wake of his revolution, an elderly Imam unfortunate enough to have been leading prayers at Brab's mosque when Chingiz arrived in the city, and the Bey's own wife whom he had left behind when setting-out on campaign, along with several members of her household staff, all thrown by the Khagan's own hand from the balcony, one by one.

Gunfire had attended the scene as Chingiz's bodyguard battled with 'Brabite' militants in the city streets, neither party more than a few dozen in number and only the former properly trained, and the Khagan had belowed expressions of the betrayal he felt with each heave. "I bought you kiwiiiiis!" he told Brab's wife as he tossed her over the handrail by one leg and a handfull of hair, before emptying after her a crate full of smuggled, and unfortunately flightless, Chrinthani birds.

Before long the Caliph was gone, and his Tu-154 airborne again, heading south by southwest over the Caspian on course for the Byzantine Empire and dangerously close to the southeastern extent of Shieldian airspace.

[Jatriqya and Hoya]

Ekinlik, Byzantine Military Post

Byzantine Radar maps and satellite images filled this screens of the relatively large military post, lost in the mountains of north-east Byzantium. Over the pas couple of weeks, Byzantine intelligence had been closely following the war between Depkazia and the Shield.

One map in particular tracked Airplane activity over the Caspian Sea. Over the past few weeks the Byzantines had noticed some skirmishes on each side. A passenger plane was steadily making its way across the Caspian Sea, unbeknownst to the Commander of the base. That is, until one of the personnel mentioned that something odd was happening over the Caspian.

The Byzantine Military satellites finally having something important to do, the plane was identified as a Passenger plane.

One of the higher-ranking officers took a look at it for about an hour.

"It could just be a passenger flight from Depkazia - although to be honest I don't think anyone's flying there at the moment. Chances are it's some kind of evacuation for rich people. I'd say that if they continue on what I perceive to be their flight path, they're either headed to Armenia in the Caliphate, or they're headed to northern Byzantium."

The Commander looked concerned at hearing the news.

"Alert the air force base at Theodosiopolis (Erzurum), if they hear any transmissions from an unidentified passenger plane coming from Depkazia, tell them to force it's landing at Theodosiopolis, and Theodosiopolis only."

A new recruit asked timidly, "Shouldn't we alert the Shield someone is trying to escape?"

"Hell no! We aren't giving them a chance to get their hands on these people. If they want to come to Byzantium, they're landing at Theodosiopolis."

OOC: Sorry, I'm a bit out of the thread but I figured I'd add something in here

[The ByzantineDiscidium]

Initially, the Caliphate was not unduly concerned by the revolt in Depkazia.

Chingiz Khagan Depkazi was, by all descriptions, a loathsome tyrant, and more importantly, a heretic. He had the audacity to claim the title of Caliph, in defiance of Mashhad and the true Successors of the Great Prophet. Any move to usurp him would be applauded. The rebel leader himself, Brab Khan, had all the markings of a wise and pious man - more than a suitable replacement for that megalomaniac Chingiz.

There were potential economic benefits, as well. Now that Depkazia was embroiled in civil war, its oil outflow had been suspended. This sudden shortage provoked an increase in world oil prices. The Caliphate was totally self-sufficient in terms of oil and petroleum due to its assets in the Manzandaran and Arabian seas, and so did not rely on imports. At the same time, it received more revenue from its own exports.

This all changed when the Shield invaded Depkazia. The Shield - by intervening in the civil war - displayed a total disregard for international law and natural sovereignty. Furthermore, it threatened the tenuous peace of the Manzandaran Sea, where Depkazia, the Shield and the Caliphate had clashed several times over oil. If the Shield gained control of Depkazia, it would threaten the Caliphate's dominance of the sea.

So far, the Caliphate had adopted a "wait-and-see" attitude. The Shield enjoyed massive numerical superiority over Depkazia, but - as the Caliphate knew from personal experience - strength of number did not always ensure a stable occupation. Even if the Shield prevailed, winning a war was one thing - occupying a country was another. Furthermore, the Shield's invasion of a Muslim nation might even spur its heavily persecuted Muslim minorities into open rebellion. Should such an event occur, the Caliphate would be waiting in the wings, eager to embrace its fellow Muslims.

Just because the Caliphate was acting did not mean it was apathetic, however. Indeed, Depkazia and the Manzandaran Sea had been subject to intense scrutiny from Muslim intelligence. The Muslim authorities feared that Depkazia, in an act of sheer nihilism, might bomb its own oil fields, or that the Shield - in a pre-emptive act against Caliphate intervention - might even invade Arminiya and Azarbaijan in an attempt to swiftly knock out the Caliphate's military forces.

As such, intelligence officials noticed when an unidentified flying object left Depkazi airspace, apparently set for Byzantium. Officials dismissed it as social elites attempting to flee the wartorn country. Nonetheless, they decided to keep an eye on it, and military jets at Nasonaya Air Base were primed in case they needed to intervene.

[Cassanos]

Near Saykhin, Depkazia

Unconcerned with monitoring aerial movements, the Nibelung advisors had prepared their post in a small cluster of tents at the Shieldian army's field command post the day before. Numbering around fourty men and women in civilian clothes or unremarkable uniforms, their entry wasn't grand. Apart from the work they had to do, the personnel of "Monitoring Group 47" were also aware of another aspect of their presence - impressing and possibly intimidating the Shieldian elites with their work and equipment.
They maintained a very low profile, quietly going about their work, always professional. Their officers had been well aware of their rather undistinguished appearance, which some of the more boisterous Shieldian officers, especially the generals, seemed to view as improper. It didn't matter - they supplied their forces with a continuous stream of first-class intelligence.
Major Harald Derlett looked up from his screen and stood up when he recognized the person entering his tent.
"Well, Captain Johnson, it is good to see you again. I'm afraid the next satellite transmission is due in fourty minutes, though." The Shieldian intelligence officer, a bright young man and one of the few who seemed to be able to grasp what the Nibelungs were doing, smirked. "I know, Major. I just thought I'd drop by to get a look at your toys again."
Derlett chuckled. Johnson had jumped at the opportunity to examine the Nibelung equipment (though of course, he was not privy to the more sensitive details), and he was seldom seen without his Byzantine laptop computer, which he used to do much of his work. He had told Derlett over a cup of coffee that he had actually bought it from the shelf, using his own money. Apparently, the Shieldian army distributed its more modern equipment mostly to their units facing Beddgelert and Nibelunc, not backwards Depkazia.
"Well captain, you are right on time then. We will soon be getting some imagery from our UAVs about the SMArt strike."
Derlett was referring to one of the other high-tech gimmicks the Nibelungs had supplied to the Shieldians - a small amount of "SubMunition for Artillery", a guided artillery round which fit into the few French 155mm-guns the Shieldians had. Each round would release two submunitions high over the battlefield, which then searched the ground for enemy combat vehicles with very small-scale radars. Nibelunc was very interested in seeing them tested in the field.

As both the Shieldian and the Nibelung officers sat down, Derlett prepared to switch to the command post's direct video link to the tiny, stealthy "KZO"-drone which had just begun slowly circling the town, when suddenly his radio set began to blare:
"Four-Seven-Bravo, this is Badger Four, do you read? Over."
"Badger Four" referred to one of the Nibelung special forces teams on a ridge overlooking Saykhin, sent there to monitor the area and, later, field-test the latest Nibelung anti-tank missiles. They were not supposed to check in so early, though. Derlett frowned and replied: "Badger Four, this is Four-Seven-Bravo, loud and clear. What's the matter? Over."
"Four-Seven-Bravo, we think you need to see for yourself."
Derlett was uneasy - the always calm, always professional special forces operator seemed audibly upset.
Still frowning, he selected the observation post's live video transmission.
Even Derlett, used to field exercises and live fire demonstrations, needed a few moments to make sense of the imagery, but what he saw was terrifying. There, in a cloud of smoke, was Saykhin. As Derlett looked on, round upon round impacted the small town, crashing and burning buildings seemingly indiscriminately. It was a picture very different from the ones he had seen before, when Nibelung surveillance had assisted in almost surgically eliminating small groups of Depkazi forces. It was only now that he realized the steady rumble of artillery in the distance, much louder and more frequent than before.
Automatically, he checked the KZO's footage. The drone presented him with a wider view of the area, and his computer automatically added an overlay of any known enemy and friendly positions. The image the drone presented was horrible - the rounds, and not only a few stray ones, were landing all over the town, hitting civilian districts and Depkazi trenches alike. As he saw one heavy round impacting a building clearly marked with a red halfmoon, Derlett got up and called over to one of the other operators: "Hentrich, is the colonel still in his meeting with the Shieldian staff?" "Yes, major."
"You'd better get him over here soon." With that, the tall Nibelung officer turned to captain Johnson:
"What on earth are you doing here?"

[Iansisle]

((ooc: boy, you leave a thread for ...er, a few weeks and suddenly it explodes! Dep, sorry if I was tardy. Was unsure as to what we decided in our telegram exchange. To everyone else, I'll get a response up sharpish!))

[Iansisle]

Saykhin

Captain Johnson would never have dropped by Nibelung headquarters if he had known what was in store. His face was an ashen white (even beyond the pasty complexion typical of Shieldians) as he watched the artillery strikes and listened to the steady rumble of reports over the horizon without a word. He could not think of what to say to Derlett, so he said nothing. It was often remarked that one branch of the High King's armed forces didn't know what the other was doing. It was also true that occasionally one man in the intelligence service had no idea what the rest of his department was up to. Lenore House knew of Captain Johnson's obsession with western technology and his friendship with the Nibelung advisers; consequentially, the bureau chief for the eastern front had thought it better not to inform him of the sensitive details of the Saykhin operation, lest he ruin the entire scheme with a loose tongue.

As they watched, Depkazi counter-battery fire opened up and regimental artillery, specifically tasked with suppressing the return fire, zeroed in on their positions and opened fire. The squadrons of Norikers held on runways behind the front lines scrambled as the Koksans opened fire and, with targeting data supplied by tracking radars and supplemented by observation aircraft. Even if the guns of the Royal Shadoran Artillery would not reach, no Depkazi positions were to be safe from Shieldian attack. Aerial attack was accompanied by infantry units ordered in the direction of the Koksans.

Over the Caspian

In what was perhaps a damning indictment of Shieldian military preparedness, the war against Depkazia was now consuming nearly all the aerial resources allotted to the Eastern defensive command, along with significant reinforcements from the Northern and Western commands. Although the flight over the Caspian was monitored, there was nothing that could be done to stop it reaching its destination.

[The ByzantineDiscidium]

Nasonaya Air Base

Lieutenant Raham Abiyev twirled the cigarette between his fingers, sighing.

Since the invasion, a forward command post had been established at Nasonaya, in order to keep tabs on the Shield and sound the alert in case of an invasion. The post itself would be quickly overrun in such a scenario, and most of Nasonaya's aircraft complement had been despatched further south. As it stood, Nasonaya was essentially the canary in the coal mine - sounding the alarm before swiftly succumbing.

Such an event had yet to transpire, however. The Islamo-Shieldian borders had been reinforced on both sides, as expected. But there had been no large build-up of forces in the Caucasus, and the Shield's navy did not seem to be marshalling. It seemed that the Shield was hoping to defuse the Caliphate with diplomacy, not warfare.

But something bothered Abiyev. According to intelligence reports, the Shield had been siphoning aircrafts away from all over to the empire, and apparently relocating them to the eastern front. From the Caliphate's point of view, this was a good sign; the Shield wouldn't dare open a second front with the House of Islam without full air support. Yet it also seemed to indicate that some major operations were on-going. Surely the Shield didn't require all these planes for Depkazia, a country which had already bombed most of its infrastructure?

There were other developments. Islamic intel was picking up a massive amount of chatter in Depkazia. That this chatter was being so suppressed that intelligence officials couldn't understand what was going on spoke volumes by itself. The Shieldians were planning a big operation. And while the Caliphate was not as paranoid as its foreign policy lead some to believe, it had enough self-preservation instincts to prepare for any scenario.

Subsequently, preparations stepped up. Reinforcements were posted to the border of North Azarbaijan Province. East Air Command approved the relocation of a dozen aircraft units to the air base in Tabriz. The North Sea Flotilla left its home port at Bandar-e Anzali and moved up into bases in Azarbaijan. Across Persia and Arminiya, military bases were running drills simulating the sudden invasion of the Caliphate.

The House of Islam was gearing up for war - but in an effort to prevent one.

[Modravia]

OOC: This is just a placeholder for now, now that I have some more free time on my hands, the first event of the new year for Modravia will be some sort of diplomatic ultimatum issued to The Shield as an excuse to create a sort of "South Ossetia" situation. It can escalate to war only with Ian's permission, I won't intervene if he finds himself dealing with other nations in armed conflict.

[Depkazia]

(A rushed post, because it's over-due!)

Theodosiopolis

When the Modravian-built airliner daubed in the finery of the Khaganate eventually came safely to ground in the Byzantine Empire, officials at the airport may be surprised to find that, despite it having departed his last known location, the Tupolev did not count amongst its passengers anyone claiming to be or even remotely resembling the infamous Chingiz.

The Grand Vizir, Chorpan, looking particularly drug-addled even by the standards set by his usually sunken cheeks and glossy eyes, instead disembarked with a wad of assorted foreign currency and a request for refuelling and assurance that Constantinople wouldn't afford diplomatic reognition to any government of occupation that the Shieldians may establish over Depkazi territory.

Southern Caspian

Quite suddenly, over Caliphal waters, a radar signature may have popped-up as an An-2 biplane rose from wavetop height and began to transmit requests that an escort be provided to the Khan of Khans, who wished to visit, "the Southern Caliphate".

Having left Aqtaw, Chingiz, it seemed, had sent his usual -and more high-profile- private airliner across the fringes of Shieldian airspace, while he had snuck southwards towards the Caliphate. The Khagan would try to hide his disappointment on learning that the Shieldians had not shot-down Chorpan.

[Jatriqya and Hoya]

Theodosiodopolis, Byzantine Empire

A Byzantine General had immediately recognized Chingiz' plane as it landed in the Byzantine Empire, only to find out that the Grand Vizir had stepped out of the plane.

Immediately boasting and making demands of the Byzantine government, Army personnel escorted the few haphazard Depkazis that had come out of the plane to the Military base, and connected the Grand Vizir to the Foreign Minister. The Foreign Minister, visibly troubled by the appearance of the Grand Vizir, attempted to explain that the Grand Vizir should have time to clean up before starting negotiations.

He added that the entire delegation was to be flown to Constantinople to meet with representatives for the Byzantine Government, although he added that without speaking to Chingiz himself the recognition of his government as the rightful government-in-exile would surely be stalled unless the Grand Vizir could give a good reason for Byzantium to recognize them or intervene in their favor.

In the meantime, the Depkazi Tupolev was moved inside a hangar and locked up in order to avoid anyone's prying eyes from seeing it in Theodosiopolis.

[The ByzantineDiscidium]

Nasosnaya Air Base

Lieutenant Abiyev watched as the radar signature of the original aeroplane disappeared over Anatolia, and furrowed his eyebrows. If he had known that the aircraft was going to land in Byzantium, he would have requested that it be shot down. He had no idea what was on the aircraft, but anything that benefited the Romans deserved to be lying at the bottom of the Mazandaran.

Just as that situation was over, a new one quite literally appeared. Glancing at the radar, Abiyev became aware of a new signature, within the Caliphate's own waters. The Lieutenant gasped at this new development. Such a blatant violation of Muslim sovereignty - and without anyone noticing! For a moment, he even thought that their worst fears might have been realised - a Shieldian attack on the Caliphate.

Just as he was about to relay this information, he considered the situation further. If the Shield was mounting its assault, it would not send out a single aircraft as the first strike, nor send it out across the Mazandaran. It would have been targeting military bases in North Azarbaijan Province, not taking pot-shots at northern Persia. If it was a spy plane, it would not have revealed its position. Besides, intelligence reports had indicated that the entire Shieldian Air Force was entangled in Depkazia. This couldn't be right.

As if to reinforce this point, Abiyev received a message from the aircraft. As he listened, his eyes widened in surprise. This aircraft - which he had presumed to be some Shieldian bomber - was carrying Chingiz Depkazi, the Heretic of the North. Despite being the only two Muslim countries in Asia, relations had been strained between the Caliphate and the Khaganate. And now here was the Great Khan himself, requesting a visit.

Swiftly, the Lieutenant responded to the aircraft and then despatched two fighter jets to its position. The fighters escorted the aircraft to Esfahan, from where they then turned back to refuel. Once the aircraft was safely landed, its occupants were ushered out and taken - in secret - to the Ali Qapu Palace. The air strip had been completely evacuated of all non-essential personnel, and Depkazis and Persians alike were transported to the palace in unmarked vans. The Caliphate Government did not want news of this getting out.

While this happened, the Caliph was contacted in his palace at Mashhad. He was soon on board a private plane to Esfahan.

[Modravia]

Kremly Chyrvony, Modrawa Uplands Voivodeship, Modravian Tekhnist Commonwealth

The central study of the First Consulate was a somewhat spartan and traditional room of stone walls and wood colonnades carved with designs evocative of a 19th-century romanticized vision of pre-European Slavic architecture, all illuminated with the irreplaceable glow and warmth of a stubborn, perdurable fire blazing away deep inside the hearth which dominated the center. Even in these times of high technology and the bold ambition of man, there was a peculiar comfort to be had in heat and radiance whenever a treacherous cold front swept in from Siberia, not from electric light or a heater, but from an old dependable wood-burning fireplace and a bottle of slivovits or potato vodka. It certainly was an irreparable part of the primal notion and feeling of repose and safety from the stinging frost outside which had come to blanket the large glazed window to the left of the room's undeniable centerpiece. Inside this room, using the glow of the fireplace to his advantage, a stern, aged man in a tailored black suit with red embroidered waistcoat wrote in his journal; chamomile, the national flower, clipped to his lapel. At this very same desk, the course of the nation was frequently decided not with streaming data uplinks, political pundits and think-tanks, but with a pen, a journal and various old tomes of statecraft and history for a hopefully measured approach to problems at hand. After receiving his typical daily reports from various departments and bureaus on events domestic and abroad, he had chosen the quiet seclusion of the Kremly Chyrvony, the seemingly-ancient Red Fortress in the countryside outside the capital city on the Modrava River, to bring forth his solutions to problems at hand and reflect on other issues.

It was at the Red Fortress where he chose and deliberated carefully upon matters of statesmanship, science and philosophy in the manner of voivodes and gentlemen of yore. It was to be expected of a national leader who had been groomed from childhood to be more an architect of the nation than a destroyer, than to fall prey to the corruption of power and hedonism and actually be the most worthy of his position from among the chief architects the Commonwealth had to offer at the time of his ascension to the First Consulate. Here at Kremly Chyrvony, First Consul Daniil Aleksandreevich Kuzaniv, second of that name, was free of the illusions and temptations of power of a government which has housed itself in either new glass spires of modernist extravagance (which could be called nothing more, despite being constructed in the name of and for the people and in the style of Tekhnist realism) or the remains of the decadent Imperial palaces of old where men and women seeking an audience with the Consulate took on the trappings and styles of the Napoleonic and Victorian Eras; the latter largely being a staple left behind by the very first First Consul, an avid fan of French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, in an attempt to emulate his rule and the idea of a "nobility by merit". The Consulate itself has always had the Catherine Palace in Modrov as its official residence though, it appears, as the elder First Consul has aged, his trips out to the woodlands surrounding the modern capital have increased, to where the spartan atmosphere of the fort constructed during a period of Old Slavic Revival in the middle of the Belle Epoque offered some sense of escape and meditation for the aging leader.

"Verhovnyĭ Konsul Kuzaniv", the imposing paneled oak door slowly opened, "I did not mean to interrupt, I was informed by a member of your office that you request my presence." Premier Anatoly Antonovich Sakharov had a mind which was well-suited to leadership and the intricacies of diplomacy, yet, as a lanky, socially-awkward theoretical physicist, lacked both the charisma or the imposing presence necessary for statemanship. In most nations, no one would dream of such a man reaching a position as coveted as head of the government, at best the most one could hope for was an advisory position. Yet this veritable computer on two legs, with very few other discerning qualities, found himself quite peculiarly and much to his own shock and amazement, the President of the Central Committee of the Tekhnist Party and Premier of all the Modravian Tekhnist Soviet Commonwealth. More importantly, Anatoly Sakharov was one of a select group of people who were the sole confidantes of the First Consul of the Commonwealth.

"I'm afraid it is time, Anatoly, time for the plan to be put in motion. The Shieldians are at just the right level of international aggression and beligerence." For such grim news, the First Consul's voice was surprisingly monotone. He had anticipated and meditated on when this day would come for so long, though he still took no pleasure in the price that must be paid, in manipulating peoples' nationalist feelings. Premier Sakharov, in bewilderment and shock, offered a reply, "Daniil, surely there must be another way. While it certainly seems that the prevailing winds are blowing towards war today, we do not have to move with them. We can call for international sanctions, apply pressure to regain our land, we may very well be weakening ourselves for whatever tomorrow will bring by initiating it now..." First Consul Kuzaniv certainly sympathized with the Premier's sentiments. After all, it was on the back of public agitation towards his uncle's unchecked and unwarranted aggression which had seen him into power over his more favored cousins. With no other solution in sight, however, the most powerful man in the Commonwealth, for once, felt powerless to change the course of history. He rose from his chair and walked to the frost-bitten window of his study. "Humanity is simple, ignorant. Bestial. While we may have our high moments, it seems that the current course of our brethren throughout the world at this moment is governed by primordial instincts. Reactionary feelings of nationalism, of loyalty for the sole purpose of birth into a particular clan, and a general apathy towards the sufferings of those in other clans, governs the thought of many at the moment. We have passed our last golden age, Anatoly. While we may still be euphoric from basking for so long in its warm glow, there are dark times ahead." Premier Sakharov detected the cause of this outburst from the Supreme Consul for what it was, a symptom of Daniil Kuzaniv's cynical, anti-social demeanor. Strangely enough, it all rang true. As Anatoly Sakharov let that thought drift by, he came to attention once more when the First Consul continued. "No, Mr. Premier, I'm afraid there's not much we can do. From my latest analysis, I have determined that we are, in fact, in a worse state than we were two decades ago, the only effective stimulus humanity seems to respond to at the moment is brute force. Unfortunately, we must use humanity's own stupidity, its greatest folly, to bring its salvation. It's unfortunate that some sacrifices must be made on the path to utopia, and this decision has been weighing heavily on my shoulder as I've watched the state of international affairs deteriorate over the past month."

Premier Sakharov let those last words of his First Consul sink in, it was definitely a lot more to take in than the earlier general indictment of human civilization of which he was already aware of. Consul Kuzaniv turned his head, looking less into the winter landscape and more directly at his head of government and, unbeknownst to many, closest confidante, he spoke, "Anatoly, I want you to take care of this." This was, by far, the most shocking revelation yet for the young Premier. Barely able to form a response, stuttering along the way, Anatoly Sakharov replied with utter stupefaction, "Sir, Comrade First Consul, Daniil, I... I wouldn't know what to do." Daniil Kuzaniv finally let out a smile, a warm, fatherly smile, "Nonsense, Anatoly. The last thing we want is a Grand Empire of the Shield with a complete and utter monopoly on Caspian Sea petroleum reserves. Little does the Central Committee know that the rest of the world, while pretending to be outraged at civilian deaths in Depkazia, are little more than using it as a cover for their true horror: the prospect of one empire with control over all the oil in the Caspian and the Caucasus simultaneously. They are, therefore, the first logical target for the world revolution. A nation which none of their foreign counterparts and so-called allies would mind failing in their goals. You may not admit it yourself, but you know precisely what to do. If you were not the greatest mind in the land, you would never have been identified for your merits and risen to where you are today. I know what you are capable of, Anatoly. I know you will make me proud."

Anatoly may have lacked many of the feelings and social graces of most of his fellow men, but what he did have was logic and an uncomparable analytical mind; with humility, he recognized the First Consul's words for what they were: not an attempt at flattery but the simple truth. Already, the Premier's mind was concocting a means to the end laid out before him, long before his leader ever finished his speech. Despite his audience with a man most in the Commonwealth only dreamed of having a camaraderie with (though receiving an audience with the "People's Consul" was not too difficult), his anxiety was getting the better of him, all that came out of his mouth was "Yes, Your Excellency" and he turned to exit. He gave pause to some simple parting words from the First Consul, all business, "Oh, and Anatoly. You do what you must, I will take care of those snobbish elitists in the Cultural and Press Departments."

Anatoly Antonovich Sakharov, youngest Premier of the Modravian Tekhnist Commonwealth, concocted a plan not too different from the one First Consul Kuzaniv had expected from him; the First Consul, for all his social failings, understood people well. An ultimatum would be issued to the Grand Empire, one which both condemned past actions in Depkazia and on the former Modravian land down to the Kuban, while at the same time demanding of the Grand Empire a peace which everyone knew Ianapalis could not provide. It would be a simple set of requirements, yet one which the Grand Empire would be unable to meet, it would then be followed by a series of failed negotiations and, if the Shield would not attack as anticipated, then Modravian Commonwealth will attack the Shieldians with the official motive of preserving international law. Best of all, Modravia still would not appear to be the antagonist in this situation. Confident in his plan, the Premier entered his chauffered auto-car and headed back to Modrov.

EDIT: I realized that in an old Slavic language, "city by the Modrava River" would have likely ended up being called Modrov, the same reason Moscow was not called "Moskva" by the old Russians. I have thus changed the name of the capital to Modrov, for future reference.

[Iansisle]

((ooc: basically, I had a whole post and lost it like an idiot. I ALWAYS save my posts on a word processor, no idea why I didn't this time.

Mod, what exactly does the document demand? It'll make it a lot easier to formulate my response if I know that. =)

Caliph: A relatively unknown diplomatic service official will be coming to visit with the full blessings of the High King and his government. They want to keep the visit secret. I'll...actually RP at some point. I was rushing to finish this post because of my early shift tomorrow, and now I reap what I sowed. Damn.))

[The Crooked Beat]

Riga

Events in distant Depkazia did not escape the notice of Gandvik's Council of State, especially not its energetic though elderly chairman, Mikalous Andres-Kletsk. As a teenage conscript, fighting in the notorious Pripyet sector, Andres-Kletsk succeeded in nurturing an extreme hatred of his Shieldian neighbors, a sentiment that has if anything grown with age. Relations between the Castle and Ianapalis may be governed to some extent by shared Aventine obligations, but nationalist feeling, no doubt in both cases, can still reach noxious levels whenever a suitable sequence of events presents itself. No doubt Gandvik's feeble state leader was alone among Catholic Europe's executives in his sharp exclamations of displeasure upon receipt of news that the Shieldian campaign in Depkazia did not unfold quite so disastrously as hoped, but he was not alone among Gandvians, who, in spite of their often dire circumstances, and leery attitude towards their own leaders, still, in very broad terms, take pleasure in Shieldian misfortune. Still, Andres-Kletsk, never a kind or forgiving individual in his prime, is even more unpleasant today, and he quickly perceives in Depkazia's crisis an opportunity for Gandvik to spill a bit more Shieldian blood, or at least cause it to be spilled.

Riga is of course unaware of just how events in Central Asia are playing-out in anything approaching real time, and it is deeply unlikely that any of the involved governments would see fit to consult Gandvik in any capacity. Still, what few Gandvian representatives there are in that part of the world, official, semi-official, and covert, make every effort to contact anyone connected with Chingiz's government, failing that anyone who seems willing to fight the Shieldians in Depkazia. Andres-Kletsk would not likely think twice about an average Mahometan, he being, among other things, a deeply bigoted and intolerant fellow, but Mahometans willing to fight Shieldians might find themselves granted access to not-inconsiderable sums of international currency and a substantial quantity of small arms and explosives. While official Gandvians may not be known for their honesty in business dealings, they are talented smugglers and experienced grafters, well-acquainted with underground channels worldwide.

[Depkazia]

Saykhin

Though it was thrown up by the tonne, dust did not hang long over the border-town, swept as it was by the wind off the steppe. A great blanket of the stuff rolled never the less out from Saykhin, much as the populace should have liked to follow.

Radu's forces and the town's people had by now fallen in their dozens and scores respectively, never to rise again, and continued to fall in such proporiton as the barrage dragged on, their homes and trucks crumbling and rolling over with them. Though the earth grumbled under his feet and the air spat steel over his head, Radu Khan trotted about amongst his beleaguered men as if nothing had changed since his youthful participation in the victorious Chingizid insurrection against Shieldian rule, exhibiting little concern for the spread of fires and the profligacy of shrapnel as he went between one truck-mounted mast and another, demanding updates from as much of his ground surveillance radar as was still operational.

Then, sharply, without informing those surviving artillerymen and entrenched infantry out of ear-shot at the time, the Bey climbed back aboard his tank and lead what remained of his armour out of the town at above top speed, hoping to intercept elements of the Shieldian infantry as they made for artillery pieces tens of miles off. Since they would have to by-pass the town to reach his Koksans, there seemed to exist at least a theoretical window of opporunity for a strike that would not entail heading towards distant enemy guns, and if he could close with the enemy infantry perhaps he would be shielded from further artillery fire.

The Koksans themselves, meanwhile, had managed just a few further salvos by the time Shieldian Norikers closed on the first of them, at which point one of the force's precious few anti-aircraft vehicles, a Geletian-designed quadruple 25mm Escos turret mounted on a modified Modravian-built BTR chassis, broke cover, driving out from a near-by rural mosque that had suffered the disfigurment of a demolished northwest wall.

Radu's hope had been that the modest technological capability of his enemy would limit his ability to conduct high altitude bombing against a precision target such as a single artillery position, and with little to obscure its short-range radar and infrared search and tracking system on the endless steppe, the anti-aircraft vehicle would have a good chance to see the Norikers coming even if they stayed low. When they did close, the crew would attempt to engage with 25mm cannon fire, which the vehicle could do effectively up to an altitude of almost seven thousand feet, or the turret's four side-mounted Saeth-10 infrared-guided missiles up to almost eleven and a half thousand feet. Beyond that ceiling the only hope was that the Norikers would miss as often as the gunners.

With each of four heavy guns protected only by a single anti-aircraft vehicle there could be little hope of repelling a determined air assault. But that was no reason to leave the tempting targets unprotected, and in the event of even a single success, a downed jet always played more impressively with the media than a few wrecked vehicles, so Radu evidently deemed it worth the attempt.

The 'Other' Caliphate

Radu's efforts in Saykhin were, of course, a side-show so far as Chingiz was concerned. Something to keep eyes on the north while he headed south with everything his biplane could carry.

The big man appeared to be in remarkably good spirits as he arrived in Esfahan in full regalia, a sword hung on his hip and, "I've got an idea!" written on his face.

St.Gabriel

With a small drone still, well, droning about like a bee over the city streets, the Mubarizun let rip with one of her multiple launch rocket canisters, Azat Saygıner having confidently identified a, "military or police billet", which in fact may or may not have been any such thing. In any case, four 130mm rockets carrying scores of submunitions were headed there with a moderate degree of accuracy. And Comrade Saygıner was scrutinising a black-and-white video feed from his drone, now apparently in search of something he could call city hall, royal palace, or some other suitably substantial government centre.

"That'll show them we're serious" he asserted while great smoky fingers flexed skyward from his flagship's after deck where lay his rocket launchers, "and they'll get more if they continue to treat house guests like that." which no doubt was a reference to the critical wounding of one of the men sent ashore.

[The ByzantineDiscidium]

Esfahan

Sayyid al-Sadr reclined back in his chair, sighing.

This was supposed to have been the de facto foreign minister's holiday. He had finished work at 9 o'clock sharp, informed the Board of Correspondence he wouldn't be available today (much to their hysteria) and finally flew north to Sari, where his luxury ministerial yacht - the ISS Al-Mahudi - was anchored in port. al-Sadr had even gone to the trouble of having the fridge stocked with Persian Osetra caviar and Moët et Chandon champagne.

And that's when the call came through.

With a swiftness that belied his considerable bulk, the minister turned his ship back to the coast and docked in Amir Abad. Soon, he was on a plane back to Esfahan, still wearing his ochre tank-top and off-white swimming shorts. As soon as the plane had landed at Esfahan International, he bolted from the airport, hailed a taxi and was soon on his way to Ali Qapu.

Upon arrival, al-Sadr barked at his bemused secretary to get him his winter trenchcoat and a falafel sandwich. The man faltered, suffering from genuine surprise, until a second order sent him scattering like a Depkazi militiaman from a Shieldian armoured division. No sooner had he received both items than he was on the move again, scattering civil servants in his wake. Eventually, he arrived at the Mawlana's office, where he now resided.

The Mawlana was a strange position. In theory, it was supposed to be the Muslim equivalent of a prime minister. In practice, it was essentially an advisory role, the Caliph preferring to exercise his powers as both Head of State and Head of Government. As such, Mawlanas tended to be quiet and ineffectual - a convenient post to shove unruly politicians and keep them quiet.

Abdullah ibn Ouyahia was no different. In fact, he was worse than usual. Chief General al-Banna had a habit of referring to him as "Minister Doormat", even in official documentation. Every other member of the Caliph's cabinet tended to circumvent him, and Ouyahia had only discovered that President Longtern had visited the Caliphate after he had read it in the evening news. As such, when al-Sadr burst in and told the Mawlana - in no uncertain terms - to clear off, Ouyahia swiftly obeyed and vacated his own office.

And now the foreign minister was left alone, waiting for the arrival of Chingiz Depkazi. It was a meeting that al-Sadr knew he would dread. Depkazi was a lunatic - and worst of all, an unpredictable one. At least Bantu could be relied on to behave in a way contravening all logic and common sense. You could never tell what Chingiz was going to do next.

Suddenly, there came a knock on the door.

Sayyid al-Sadr sat up straight.

He was here.

In one fluid motion, the foreign minister downed the glass of vodka, filled from a container al-Sadr discretely kept tucked away in his office. The alcohol steadied his nerves. Exhaling slowly, he stood up and gave the order to enter. The door opened, to admit entry to Chingiz - and the Muslim soldiers 'guarding' him.

"Ah, Mister Depkazi," al-Sadr remarked, feigning enthusiasm, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

[Iansisle]

((ooc: I believe that the complete encirclement of Saykhin was part of the strategy outlined, to prevent civilians from trying to flee. Would Radu therefore be charging a part of the line he figured was weaker? Just because of the diffusion effect, the “cordon” would probably be less of a “hold hands” line all the way around the city and more small knots of soldiers grouped around a few anti-tank guns at strategic points, which the thickest concentration around the majority of the artillery to the west of Saykhin. At any rate, because I've been far too OOC recently: ))

Saykhin

The flares which the Noriker pilots confidently dropped as each flight of six approached their targets were supposed to be utterly infallible, according to their superiors. Depkazi missiles were of the lowest quality, after all, and would surely fall victim to Shieldian countermeasures. In retrospect for seven pilots, perhaps it was more a propoganda tool designed to make sure they stayed on target even when faced by enemy countermeasures. Despite the wreckage strewn over the steppe in a few different directions, the remainder of the ground attack aircraft pressed onwards, delivering their ordnance at the target. As the Depkazi AA guns began to come into action, the Norikers spun up and away, attempting to climb out of the engagement envelope.

St. Gabriel

The rockets surprised and destroyed a small emplacement which had been set up at a post office near the waterfront. A local police officer and a few thugs who had been rapidly deputized in the chaos following the approach of the small fleet were torn apart in the explosion and several others wounded. They retreated farther into their makeshift cover.

Meanwhile, the drone – drawing small attention from small arms fire itself should it duck too low – probably would identify the residence of the Governor-General of St. Gabriel, responsible for the entire Shieldian colonial presence on the northern Caspian shore. Unlike the rest of the city, which was still recovering half a century later from another war, the residence was set back amongst green lawns in finest Shieldian splendor. St. Gabriel was a lucrative posting for a colonial administrator, after all, one that could eventually make someone enough money to live the court life in western Ianapalis.

It was just the sort of place to wreck, in other words.

the (other) Caliphate

David Felixston was, officially, not in any way remarkable. A commoner from Clyfton in the Daldan Basin, he had been drafted into the army and soon made a favorable impression with his higher-ups. Uncommon literacy for the son of a factory laborer got him staff work and, eventually, a rare promotion to the officer corps. From there, he had done some work with Lenore House and served as a military attache in several minor embassies.

Now he was bound in secrecy to the Caliphate, a place where few Shieldians had ever gone except under arms. In light of the actions in Depkazia, the Shield needed now more than ever a diplomatic realignement. The Aventines were weak, crumbling. There was no chance that the Byzantines would stick their necks out for the High King, let alone the western European allies. The natural course, therefore, was to talk with those who shared a common border and could cause unending troubles in Dianatran if they so chose. He had been empowered by the High King to offer sweeping administrative and religious reforms amongst the Empire's considerable Muslim minority in exchange for certain favors from Esfahan.

As ever, Felixton proceeded officially by in secret. The ultimate coup for him would be to win over the Caliph while not yet alienating the Aventines.

[The ByzantineDiscidium]

Baku, North Azarbaijan Province

These were exciting times for the Board of Correspondence.

Once the most inactive sphere of governance, recent events had propelled the Board into activity. There was the Caliph's efforts to court Chrinthanium, the heightened tensions in the Persian Gulf, and most importantly, the Shieldian invasion of Depkazia. Not to mention the tonnes of paperwork and logistical issues arising from the Caliphate emerging from its shell and building international links.

Nonetheless, as loaded with work as the Board currently was, it jumped at the chance of discussions with the Shield. Excepting the past few days, military analysts were convinced that the next war the Caliphate would fight would be against the Shield. Not that anyone wanted a war - the millions of deaths resulting from the Mesopotamia Campaign still left a bad taste for the Persian public - but it seemed evident that the foreign policies of each country was putting them on a collision course. Finding a way to defuse hostilities peacefully would be to the benefit of both parties.

Furthermore, since the Muslim State was also secretly negotiating with Depkazia, the meeting between a representative of the Caliph and a Shieldian envoy would have to be conducted clandestinely - meaning that the Board of War wouldn't be able to step on al-Sadr's toes. The Board of Correspondence could claim full responsibility for any arrangement made.

As such, the meeting was held in Baku, rather than Esfahan or Mashhad. A Shieldian so close to the border wouldn't look out of place, and since no major Muslim figures would be present at the meeting, there would be nothing else to attract unwanted attention. Even the Mayor of Baku had been 'convinced' to turn his office over for the day. The meeting would be hiding in plain sight.

One man who would be present, however, was Fakhr Hirmandi. He was the chief undersecretary of the Board of Correspondence - a man senior enough to be relied on, but not senior enough to draw attention to his sudden departure from Esfahan. As one of the few Persians occupying a high position in national governance, he was a rarity, and it was a testament to his sheer devotion that he was able to reach such status.

He sat patiently in the study of the Baku Mayoralty building, awaiting the envoy from the Shieldian Government.

[Iansisle]

David Felixton was bundled up not just to partially conceal his Shieldian identity but also to protect against the biting wind of a Baku winter. He was helped to the Mayorality building by several tough-looking guards whom he assumed were amongst the most loyal that the Board of Correspondence had at its disposal. On entering the room, he sized up Fakhr Hirmandi and realized that he did not know the man. Of course, he thought with a grin on the inside, it was unlikely that this man knew him either. If their negotiations were successful then perhaps one day Lord Inswick would meet with Sayyid al-Sadr, or even the High King with the Caliph, but for today these two unknowns would have to do.

Of course, neither Felixton nor his government had any idea that Chingiz Khagan, the man against whom the war in Depkazia had been launched, was now on Caliphal territory. Therefore, the Shieldian friendly hailed the man in the study in passable Arabic.

"Hello! It is a great pleasure to be here in this magnificent city. Please allow me to present my credentials."

Felixton had with him a small package of papers announcing that he carried all the diplomatic backing of the High King's government. There was also a small battery-powered shredder in his briefcase; he had been instructed to destroy those documents if they seemed likely to be captured by anyone outside the Caliphal government.

[The ByzantineDiscidium]

Fakhr Hirmandi nodded his head politely.

"Peace be upon you, friend," he said, before glancing over the package. The documents seemed to be legitimate, but it was impossible to be sure. Hirmandi had not completely ruled out the possibility of a false-flag operation, or even an elaborate journalist trap. Nonetheless, he had enough confidence in his government to have the right man. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair.

"Your papers seem to be in order," he said, "Have a seat, please." Hirmandi motioned for the envoy to sit down. He glanced at a man sitting in the corner, who was responsible for taking note of what was said at the meeting. Their entire conversation was being digitally recorded, anyway, but Hirmandi was old-fashioned. At the same time, the guards quietly left the room, locking the door behind them - leaving only the Persian, the envoy and the secretary.

"If we can begin, I believe the most pertinent question to ask is why you have come here?"

[Iansisle]

Felixton sat down in the offered chair and glanced briefly around the room. He noted the guards' withdrawl -- trusted enough to know he was there, but not quite enough to know what would be said.

"An entirely reasonable question," he started, crossing his legs and folding his fingers into one another in the Shieldian manner. "I will not mince words. Tensions between our countries have been running high, exacerbated I fear by scandalous rumors concerning our intentions in Depkazia. The lack of formal diplomatic ties worries my masters in Ianapalis, for it means that our side of the story has not been able to be communicated to your government. I have been sent to try to correct this imbalance and hopefully to end permanently the misunderstandings between our two countries."

Felixton leaned forward. "Look, I started out life as a street urchin. I have some talent in languages, but I am not a talking man so I will speak frankly. There are elements of the Treaty of Rome that cause great concern to your government -- the Church's prominent role in Shieldian society, the official repression of all religions that the Pope does not approve of. There are elements of the Treaty of Rome which we do not like as well. But with the isolation the Empire faces, we fear breaking away from the Aventine bloc. That is where the Caliphate enters the picture."

[The ByzantineDiscidium]

Hirmandi remained expressionless.

"We were not impossible to reach, my friend," he replied, crossing his arms, "Did your government not think to send an envoy sooner?"

"Regardless of the intentions of your government in the Mazandaran Sea, it was foolish of it to act alone and without first consulting my government. The sea is an asset of my nation - as it has always historically been. Any threat to the stability of the sea, or its surrounding states, is a direct threat to our national interests. We had the right to know of your intent, and you had a duty to inform us."

"I believe I understand just what you are suggesting," he continued, "You understand that of course my government is interested in revising the Rome treaty and securing friendly relations with your government. Such an event cannot be brought about, however, until the situation in Depkazia has been resolved. It is the ultimate stumbling block to any entente cordiale, and furthermore, it threatens to bring my government into conflict with countries that would otherwise be favourable to our interests."

"My government believes that the long-term foreign policy goals of your government are fully compatible with our own. We would readily accept an agreement, however informal or clandestine. A complete harmonisation of relations would be most preferable to us both. But in order to achieve such an outcome, we must resolve the short-term issues that divide us."

"I pose the question to you, my friend," Hirmandi said, leaning forward, "If I can guarantee concessions and a favourable peace for your government, will it agree to a complete withdrawal from Depkazia?"

[Iansisle]

Felixton let the slight jabs about Depkazia roll off him. Hirmandi's words about the possible future relations of the Shield and the Caliphate were far too important. Better to be apologetic than proud.

"It was perhaps a mistake. We may have acted rashly. Please understand our frustration: regime change in Depkazia has long been a priority of our foreign policy. Chingiz is a deranged madman, one who left alone could threaten the stability of vast regions of our empire. So, to answer your question: we have no intention of staying in Depkazia one moment longer than is necessary to remove the anti-Shieldian Chingiz government."

Felixton grinned, a little half-sneer that raised one part of a scarred lip. "You know, of course, that Modravia has an longing for Depkazia? I think we can both agree that it is in our mutual interest that their influence in the region is kept to a minimum. We've no wish to be bogged down by what will almost certainly be a resistive government. But your great nation, my dear friend, could build a stable and independent Depkazia free of the lunatic Chingiz -- and free of meddling Slavs. We make no askance of the energy reserves of the country; that can go towards rebuilding after we leave. All we ask is that the last traces of the former regime be torn down. If you wish for this to be above the board, we may hold an international conference on the future of the country. I am sure you will find my government most willing to back any proposals you may make during this talk."

[Cassanos]

Near Saykhin, Depkazia

To the neutral – and somewhat cynical – observer, it might be strange that operations in the Nibelung command post appeared to be continuing as usual. However, the outward appearance of calm hid an underlying mixture of agitation, fear and, most of all, anger.

As soon as sergeant Hentrich had reached Colonel Ansgar Witt, commanding officer of Monitoring Group 47, the 52-year-old army officer had cut short his meeting with the Shieldian staff members. Witt soon realized why the Shieldians had him talking about largely inconsequential issues with largely inconsequential officers as soon as he saw the images of the attack on Saykhin. He, and his second-in command Harald Derlett, were now facing a serious problem, as their mission was a political one as much as a military operation.
However, Derlett, after biting back a cutting remark and escorting captain Johnson out of the operations centre, had made his point very clear: He would not stand Nibelung assets supporting an attack aimed deliberately at civilians.
Had captain Johnson still been present, he might have been shocked at how frank the junior officer was telling his colonel what he was thinking. This was not only due to the open Nibelung society, however – Derlett was Suabian, and thus, he had a very distinct view on such issues. The reason for this was the same reason why Suabian reserve units had not, as was custom in all other realms, maintained their regimental names, flags and honours: The military of Suabinc had, after all, taken part in the repression, internment and killing of many “undesirables”, mostly Jews.
It was because of this that many Suabian officers, even more so than their colleagues from other realms, held one Nibelung tenet sacred: First of all, and overriding anything, a Nibelung officer has a duty to his own conscience.

Colonel Witt let his exasperated second-in-command finish making his point, then headed for a nearby secure satellite communication console. “I think we should tell Munstra then, shouldn’t we?” The colonel’s face darkened. “And Derlett – cut all links, and do it right now. Keep the Ops out there, for the moment, but account for all our advisors equipment and don’t give any more data to these bastards.”

Harald Derlett sprung into action immediately. The SMart-demonstration captain Johnson had been so eager for would not take place.


[OOC] Would love to see more of Johnson, though, Ian, maybe we can keep him around the CP? Also, Muntra will be calling their embassy in Ianapalis right away, expect the ambassador to come crashing down the doors soon . [/OOC]

[Iansisle]

The ongoing roar of the artillery made a good chorus with Captain Johnson's heart pounding as the young Shieldian officer was shoved unceremoniously out the door of Derlett's operations center. He had been talking, he realized, increasingly in Shieldian as his limited knowledge of Nibelung failed him, and in an increasingly higher tone at that. In his hands was his Byzantine laptop, its power cord abandoned where he had just a few minutes ago been laughing with his friends.

"I didn't know! They didn't tell me," he tried to explain, but the bitter stinging of Depkazi wind carried his words away. Across the square from him, a small knot of Shieldian staff officers puffing their cigarettes stared at him. Everyone knew that Johnson had been getting close to the Nibs; now that relationship appeared to have soured. A few of the brighter bulbs even connected that with the offensive against Saykhin, if the massacre could be called by such a politely military term. No one went over to comfort him. Shieldians tended to be a grossly xenophobic people, perhaps due to the centuries of living under the threat of constant raiders from one side or the other. Working with foreigners was sometimes unavoidable, but becoming friends with them made one almost a traitor.

"Here." A gloved hand reached out from beneath a khaki greatcoat, holding a fresh pack of Virginian cigarettes with one extended. "These are the good stuff. You look like you could use one."

Shifting his laptop to his lefthand, Johnson gladly accepted one before realizing his lighter was still in his pocket. "I ...uh," he started, turning to the man.

An eyebrow raised at Johnson's sudden speechlessness, but it wasn't unfriendly. An impossibly white smile slowly crept across young olive features. "That's about the same expression I get every time I meet someone new. Yes, I am an officer."

"But you're -- you're..."

"Dianatranian, yes. Well, half -- my father was a Fiat executive. Met my mother on a business trip. Decent enough fellow; gave her enough money for a small apartment in Furthingham and to put me through school. Unfortunately, academia wasn't for me, so I bought a commission instead." The man put away his cigarettes and drew a lighter. Johnson held the tip of his smoke to it then took a deep drag.

“How do you survive in the army? Surely there must be issues.”

“Oh, of course. I've talked to more men from Lenore House than any other lieutenant in the service, I should imagine. But I've my father's Florentine money to back me up and I genuinely believe in the service, so I don't really have any trouble.” He gestured over at the officers, who were doing their best to ignore the two men. “Never really been welcome in the officer's mess, you might say. And I've a feeling you might not either. The Nibs are pulling out. The higher ups knew they could never stay after a demonstration like we've put on. Leave you rather in the lurch, doesn't it?”

“I suppose so,” said Johnson, taking a deep draw on his cigarette. “There will be a lot of doors shut for me after this. No one will want to remember that we were even associated with Nibelunc, much less who our liaisons were. Er, I feel self-conscious. Aren't you going to have a smoke?”

“Don't smoke myself. Don't worry, though, I don't mind the smell. But that's the shame, isn't it? The army doesn't value men of talent. I've heard about you, Johnson. They say you're almost as good with that thing as the Nibs are.” The Dianatranian officer gestured at Johnson's laptop. “I command a few guns, 122mm pieces from when we were friends with the Beddgelens, with the regimental artillery attachment of the Furthingham Fusiliers. I was thinking perhaps it might be possible to convince the colonel to transfer you to our outfit. He's a decent enough man and we could use someone with your expertise. What do you say?”

There was a brief lull, broken only by a helicopter flying overhead. Both watched it, both knowing that it likely ferried Lord Westergate to a hopeless meeting with the Nibelung colonel. Then the sounds of the guns in the distance broke through again.

“What the hell. Sure, I'd like to meet this colonel of yours – er, what was your name again? You seem to know everything about me, yet I realize I know nothing about you.”

“Me?” the man smiled again, a flash of white against swarthy features. “I'm nobody. Nicodemo Ranalte. Name's my father's; usually use Nick in Shieldian company.”