NationStates

Richard Clarke-Turner took one last look out of the rain-smeared rear window of the Land Rover before closing his eyes. It was still the same. The drab uniforms of the National Volkspolizei strutting here and there, a personnel carrier or two on the side, the racket from the distance, a series of riot police holding back lines of protestors. The road to the embassy had been rocky, and not even the driver's card — "GSR GROUND FORCES" — the sight of which made any NVP officer stand aside — had made it easier.

"We're almost at the embassy, Comrade-General," the driver said, eyes fixed ahead. Clarke-Turner didn't reply. Truth be told, he had been brooding for the past hour in the heavy, rainy traffic of Salzbeck. The roadblocks made it even worse. It was only more evidence that the country was falling apart, and the buffoons in power - our buffoons, Clarke-Turner though, were making it worse. So now he had been summoned to see the Questarian ambassador, since, as everyone knew,the NPRM was nothing more than a satellite state of Questers anyway. Whatever he had to say would certainly not be good, but deep in his stomach, Clarke-Turner already knew what it was about.

They finally stopped at the building — almost a fortress — that comprised the embassy of the General Social Republic, a heroic revolutionary state, nobly assisting and supporting another heroic revolutionary state. That was what they all said, anyway. Clarke-Turner was led inside, where the ambassador was waiting. There were two gins on the table. The ambassador's face spelt it all out rather clearly. General Clarke-Turner, Commander of Twenty-second Army, Malden Command, sat down and took a drink without speaking. A moment later, his fears were proven right.


Leather jackboots clacked down the hallway. Clerks peered up from their desks to see who the owner was as he walked past their cubicles, and then returned to their work, unwilling to be noticed. The owner of the boots was none other than the base commander, pacing angrily between the signals rooms. The rumours spread through the clerks. Five thousand fresh troops were going to be arriving. No, ten thousand. To replace? No, to fill up the ranks of the four divisions. No, fifteen thousand troops. The commander was being asked to find ten warehouses. No! Twenty! And petrol! Look, here, I've the paper!

The officer in the room smiled coyly, as if to give the impression he knew what was happening. Of course, he didn't. So far, only the base commander and a handful of other officers did. But as the days progressed, rumours did develop, with a shocking accuracy. The figure was twenty two thousand men, thirty warehouses of petrol and eighteen of ammunition, food for sixty thousand men for an indefinite period, and more. Twenty-second Army was coming up to combat strength. And as the rumours spread, they began to pour. And then they began to filter across the border too, to the Mandate of Henaan-Malden, the Gallan client state that shared the island of Malden over a two hundred kilometre border.

They were not happily received.

July 12th, Hanhausen
Gallan Mandate of Henån-Malden

The unrest of Henaan-Malden's southern neighbours had not gone unnoticed. The Grenschutz companies had kept their hands full for past month, arresting illegals at border crossings, and keeping their eyes fixated across the vineyards that made up much of central Malden's agricultural area. All suspicious activities both within and outside the border were reported to the Gallan headquarters in Hanhausen, which had been formulating a fuzzy picture of what was happening on the other side for the past two weeks. The Royal Army detachment in Malden: a pair of understrength infantry divisions, a pair of similar strength tank divisions, and some supporting brigades from VIII Corps, numbered approximately thirty two thousand, approximately a third of the strength of a fully deployed Heavy Corps.

Örjan af Sternberg, the commander of Allied Army Detachment - Malden, had already assumed control of Henaan-Malden's relatively small Border Guard and several Home Guard light infantry battalions. Aside from upping border security, though, the Gallan ambassador had suggested that any pretenses of military buildup be kept to a minimum. No readiness exercises, troop deployments to the border, etc. Nothing that could be construed as some sort of cover for an offensive operation.

Despite this, Sternberg was still able to make defensive preparations. Three divisions worth of troops is not something you bring in for civil control purposes. So, perched over a map of the island surrounded by a cadre of staff officers in the planning room is where Sternberg spent much of the next week. He could expect to rely on a light role infantry brigade consisting of civilian militia and GS border guards, mounted on foot or in trucks or armoured cars. Initial planning had the Gallan forces deployed across the northern bank of the Wahr river and stretching to the south of the Lahn river. Entrenchments would likely be minimal, as the time between preparations and transition to war could be as little as a few hours, or it could be a week. Since you can't borrow time on credit, the assumption rested on the former.

Much of the infrastructure and terrain in the south was useless to the enemy, there were no direct connections to Hanhausen except from Wussendorf, on the far side of the Wahr, the terrain in the south was slightly flatter, mostly plains, and ill suited for providing defenders with necessary concealment and cover. However, the Lahn river posed a formidable water obstacle. Fast flowing, with an average width of two hundred of meters. The most obvious route would be to bypass it and drive straight to Hanhausen, projecting a large, vulnerable salient between the Gallan troops. Attempting to assault across it would be difficult at best, and the Wahr river presented a much more tempting target, but would in turn be more heavily defended by much of the Corps artillery brigades and fixed-wing aviation.

If either position were in danger of being overrun, the divisions had at least two separate fallback positions, marked and surveyed, to retreat towards and occupy. All this would be buying time for the deployment of the rest of 8th Corps, which could take as long as two weeks.

July 16th, 14th Cavalry "14th Hussars" Division Camp
National People's Republic of Malden

The rain made him shiver. It was like home, but not quite as bad. The sea winds swept across the open country and pulled the trees to the north. With them came rain, and thunder. In the cottages on the coast it must surely have had a cosy effect. In a prefabricated building serving as an officers mess, it was only miserable. Miserable and foreboding. Montague settled down in a chair and held the warm mug in his hands. On the table lay the manual. He had read it six times. Six! And most other officers only once. They were away, drinking somewhere. Only Montague remained, freezing in his jackboots. Ever since he had been promoted to a company commander his demeanour had changed.

His first war was Karaman. Not even a war. The enemy's outdated vehicles and ignorant tactics led them straight to their deaths. In his first battle, Montague's gunner had frozen on the sight. He still remembered the impact of the shell. The splinters of armour on the outside of the tank. It was close. Back then he was considered serious. Thoughtful, and determined, his old battalion commander in the Hundred and fifty first had said in the report. Montague didn't disagree. He took everything too seriously, too analytically. For a fresh graduate, it was only natural. His first, and only girlfriend, had told him: Ben, you're like an octopus. You wrap your mind around things and squeeze. You're a bloody octopus. Like all things, he remembered the day clearly, but somehow the feeling was missing. Was it affection or disgust? He simply couldn't remember.

Steam lifted off the mug. He put the memory away, where it belonged. He looked over the manual again. Fire control computers, protection systems, new sights—a definite improvement over the model he'd rode into battle for the first time. He had mastered the last model, and the latest was only an improvement. He was still diligent, he thought. What had changed, then? If not diligence, seriousness, and determination? Montague had never been scared. But he had been cautious. As he survived enemy tank shells, grenade launchers, bombings, even a land mine, he had allowed superstition to slip into his analytical mind. Only a little. But it was enough. No, he had never been scared, but he had known that death was waiting for him somewhere. The superstition entered his mind and ejected this knowledge. Now in his latest evaluation a word appeared he didn't like at all: "unpredictable." So he asked for a transfer, time to evaluate himself. And here he was, with the newly formed Fourteenth Cavalry Division. The superstition was not enough to allow him to believe in fate, however.

Montague could hear the officers coming back. The four lieutenants in his company, plus three from another. He had been better than all of them. That fact alone did not mean he looked down on them: only that his superiority was an eminent fact. And he was not a harsh officer, either. Some commanders ask more from their men then is possible, and then come down hard on them when they don't achieve. Montague only asked for those things which were strictly achievable. The empiricist in him hated meaningless task or punishment. Let them drink, Montague decided. For if they can't keep up with me, soon they shall all be dead.

July 16th, Headquarters 22nd Army, Salzberg
National People's Republic of Malden

Clark-Turner reviewed the tables again. And the maps. And the charts. And the reports. Most of the intelligence information already available was outdated. Questers had occupied the island of Malden years ago: the Gallans raced to capture the other half from the crumbling government. And now the two sides stood each other down, and had done so for years. Whatever situation was arising now was purely of the domestic Maldene making. Those idiots, Clark-Turner thought, again. They were as incompetent as they were brutal. There must have been honourable Maldene at one time, Clark-Turner thought: now they're all either dead, since we killed them, or north of the border.

Six long years. The Commander of the Questarian Mission to Malden. He hated it. None of the days he had spent in this country had seemed pleasant at all to him. He had put in for a transfer - even a resignation - and had been politely rebuffed. Your presence is needed by the Republic... it was you who heroically liberated Malden... no other member of the General Staff has the type of knowledge you do regarding the situation... he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh as he remembered their words. And your wife, Comrade-General, her treatment is being paid for by the People of the Republic, and at no small cost...

Becky.

They had her hostage. One week in every year he managed to see her, and for much of it she was almost lifeless. The illness had left her crippled, in body and mind, and her beauty had left her quickly, followed by her enthusiasm. Later her heart also left her, and she was almost nothing. But she was still Becky, he thought, gripping the chair. There was nothing he could do but scream privately in rage. He let go of the chair. Now he had his chance. All that stood in the way of a united Malden was the Galllan Seventh Corps. He would sweep them away, and then return to care for his wife, for the rest of time.

The word they taught him in the academy was vigour. Vigour and will. The academy was full of words: mass, shock, drill, discipline, fire, vigour, will, mass, shock, discpline, maneouvre, fire, drill, discipline... but those two stood out. Vigour and will. No other academy taught that. He knew the Gallans were strong on paper. But he had vigour on his side. One month, the plan called for. Continue offensive operations against the enemy for one month, and then the follow on forces will arrive. Then it will be over.

The charts and the tables and the maps stared back at him. He smirked at them. Finally! Oh, war - hated war - you have given me the chance. I'll be there soon, Becky - even if I have to walk upon a bridge of dead men to get to you.

July 23rd, Hanhausen Parliament
Gallan Mandate of Henån-Malden

"Are you saying we're at war?" The governor-general raised an incredulous eyebrow. The briefing room was mostly empty, the audience consisted of a small group of Parliamentarians from Henaan-Malden, the Gallian governor-general/ambassador, and several Gallan Army and Navy officers. Two Maldene officers sat off to the right, both colonels.

"Not quite," The officer went to the next slide. The projector on the ceiling clicked and showed a graph, illustrating disparities in troop deployments over the past month. "But there is a clear military build-up, that much is obvious. The most logical conclusion is that the enemy is using the pretext of civil control to lull us into a false sense of security."

"What other possibilities exist?"

"The other possibility is that the enemy has deployed four divisions to Malden to suppress civilian rioting, but this is a lesser probability. The enemy will likely seek to solve its domestic issues through application of strength on foreign powers as opposed to suppression of the civilian population with military force."

"Why is that more likely? Surely they're aware of the costs of such a war, we supply them with petroleum after all. We embargo them, and they lose a major supply of oil."

"The Social Republic believes itself to be morally superior to all other forms of representative democracy. They're more inclined to blame social problems stemming from within a system as being subterfuge from without, and strike accordingly. It's likely that they believe the protests in the south are caused by a desire for reunification, as opposed to an opposition to the internal political system. The Questerian government employs numerous internal security offices designed to neutralise subversive anti-government elements before they manifest, so the bias will be leaning towards unification, whether or not the protestors have expressed a desire for such. The assumption that there is something wrong with the direct democracy system is simply non-existent within the military and political faculties. The Questerians do not believe themselves to wrong."

The intelligence officer took a drink of water.

"The Questerian government was formed from a corrupt monarchy, and thus supposes that all monarchies similar in appearance to its past are enemies of the people. Political dogma proselytizes the existence of a 'general will' which is self-evident in all individuals. The majority decisions of the population are an expression of the 'general will'. Therefore, the best method of government is a direct democracy in which referendum decides law, and any dereliction from such a course is evidence of oppression of the people by a political elite. The Social Republic is essentially an ochlocratic state, seeking to actively destroy political elements who would be a threat to the anarchist rule. This includes outside states such as Gallia, which stand diametrically opposed to the ideals of the Questerian state."

He paused for a moment to let his audience digest what had been said, going to the next slide.

The governor-general pursed his lips, chewing on a thought. The projector showed a map of the island, military symbols dotted around major rivers and a pair of large, black arrows going from the border to Hanhausen and Kothen.

"What do we have to defend ourselves with?"

"Defence Scheme Ochre is our primary war plan. Here is a brief outline, showing the Corps major troop deployments, and the axis of enemy attack. In accordance with the theory of operational strength, and the battle of annihilation, the enemy will seek to divide our Corps into two or more separate formations through a massed armoured spearhead. We expect he will anticipate heavy defences along the Wahr-Lahn Line and seek to bypass through Kothen. This will be defended by native troops of the Border Guard and Heimatschutzen, approximately a brigade in strength with a battalion of light field guns," Click. The projector showed a large black blob in between the two rivers, surrounded by a few squares.

"The tank divisions near Hanhausen and the Hanzer river will seek to engage the enemy in a delaying action while our infantry attack the flanks and complete the encirclement. From there, we simply keep the bulk of Questerian troops surrounded until they run out of ammunition, petrol, food, and surrender. This is a modified form of the 'nuclear net' technique, as political authorisation to use tactical nuclear weapons has not been granted, therefore complete destruction of the enemy is not possible. Attrition is the most effective method of wearing him down."

One of the Maldene colonels piped up.

"How do you intend to engage a full corps with your two divisions, sir? We've seen your organisation charts and read the doctrine manuals, your Corps is at a reduced strength not to be expected except after atomic attack. How will you put up an effort against a Questerian army at full strength? What if they use nuclear weapons, or gas?"

The governor-general glanced at the Maldene, then to the intelligence officer, raising his eyebrow again.

"The situation is not as dire as my colleague makes it out to be. Despite our reduced strength, we still have nine combat brigades and support staff to keep them running. Including the Maldene light infantry brigade this is ten brigades. This is roughly comparable to the Questerian force, although we're undermanned and overequipped, we believe that defensive operations of our force will be more than capable of holding the Questerians until the arrival of the rest of the Eighth Corps in theater," He faced the Maldene officer.

"How long would we need to keep fighting, colonel?"

The Royal Navy officer, an attache, spoke up.

"Ah, I believe I can answer this question, sir. The Royal Navy has the sealift and airlift capacity to move a force the size of Eighth Corps in about two weeks. Since a little over a third of her staff are already here, we've estimated about fifteen days for a full deployment of four divisions and the rest of the Corps headquarters. The principal delivery of personnel will be within the first week, however," He looked to the colonel. "Ah, that is correct, yes?"

The intelligence officer nodded at the Navy man.

"Yes, we believe that the transition from limited to fully offensive operations will begin one and a half to two weeks into the war. We have sufficient stockpiles of ammunition and petrol, and sufficient sealift capability that supplies will not become a significant issue. Provided Hanhausen and Lippberg are held, we expect that resupplies will be almost daily for our divisions. The estimated fuel and ammunition expenditures can be seen here," Click. A table showing the gallons of fuel, tonnes of ammunition and food, consumed by two types of divisions between "limited" and "full" offensive operations. A green bar on the side showed a significantly higher series of numbers than the expenditures. At the bottom, a conversion into supplies/days read "ninety".

"Our stockpile is on the far right there, the green. We've converted it into days at the bottom, although this is expected to be less as the rest of the corps arrives and once the transition occurs. Suffice to say, we have more than enough to fight a war. Our primary concern at the moment is casualties."

The governor looked concerned now and leaned forwards. "What do you mean, colonel? Surely we've enough men to fight a war?"

"Yes, absolutely. However, much of the Corps' equipment is already stored in depots awaiting arrival of the rest of the men. Only a very small portion of this equipment can be utilised to full effect. Our manpower at present, in any other context, would be a total write off as a combat formation. Although we possess parity strength on paper, the Questerian opposition force possesses near full combat strength. If we lack sufficient preparation, we may be defeated in the opening hours of the battle."

The briefing continued for another hour and a half, the governor-general eventually being whittled down by arguments from all sides. The evidence presented was fairly strong, and he finally acknowledged the necessity of a buildup of combat power in an attempt to deter the Questerian force.

July 25th, 1st Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 10th Dragoons Assembly Area
Gallan Mandate of Henån-Malden

An infantry fighting vehicle rumbled down the road, followed by a small convoy of canvas covered trucks, kicking up dust and stones, and nearing sending Captain Degermark into a coughing fit. First Battalion was being deployed along the Lahn River, in a small hamlet called Laufen, having left their garrison at Lippberg a few days ago. The trucks that had just passed by were carrying Adam Company's water trailer and armourer, as well as a platoon of combat engineers. The rest of the company had dispersed itself widely, about two kilometers of frontage and one of depth, in accordance with battalion plans.

The company's IFVs had been parked between buildings or within tree lines. Degermark surveyed what he could see of First Platoon: NCOs were busy at work supervising the enlisted men, who had begun digging trenches or placing anti-tank mines along armour approaches. A bulldozer was preparing a scarp for one of the IFVs, and a Stinger missile team was setting up on a hill far to the south.

A small jeep pulled up beside Degermark. He hadn't noticed until Major Malmquist shouted for his attention.

"Captain, I want you to see to it that your men finish their entrenching by tomorrow morning. Get them up to speed on drills, too, can't be sure how long we have until the enemy attacks." Degermark snapped a salute and acknowledgement and Malmquist returned it.

July 25th, Battalion Headquarters, 10th Dragoons Assembly Area
Gallan Mandate of Henån-Malden

1st Battalion's headquarters was a mobile command post vehicle, built on an APC chassis and with enough room for a table, some chairs, radios, and a map board inside. The table was covered in a thick layer of paper: tables, reference materials, a large spread map of 1st Battalion's operational area, and threat assessments. Malmquist pored over it all. Adam Company was the second line, along with Bertil Company it formed the principal defense of the area. Caesar Company was positioned behind that, to a fall back position for the main defense around Laufen. Malmquist had been allocated a single tank company from 4th Battalion, which was kept in reserve at the moment.

He'd spread his battalion widely, but making sure that each could company could cover itself, to ensure protection from a nuclear attack. Currently, the frontage was about six kilometers and four deep, not including the headquarters, artillery and supply rear areas. His battalion hadn't been allocated nuclear fires, but they'd been assured one battery of 155mm howitzers from regimental artillery, and the area map showed deployment of 2nd and 3rd Battalions to the north and south of 1st Battalion, respectively. Total brigade frontage was about fifteen kilometers, prefaced by minefields currently being set up, and entrenched infantry.

The expectation of support from Maldene troops was minimal at best. Heimatschutzen were ill-equipped and poorly trained. Motivated, yes, but spirit stops when bullets start. In Malmquist's experience, even the most passionate fighters tended to falter where discipline lacked. They might be used as a blocking force against Questerian infantry, but they would be slaughtered immediately. Instead, 10th Dragoons had put their light battalion at the back, having them dig in the second line of defences. They couldn't teach them to march in a straight line, but it only takes an hour and a decent NCO to teach a man to drive a bulldozer.

The cleanly pressed uniform shifted in its seat. A sword with its blade replaced by a lightning bolt stood out brightly on the shoulderpads. The commander of electromagnetic-radio combat troops puffed on a cigarette and listened. He was by all accounts a good listener: perhaps it was intrinsic to the job or perhaps it was just a coincidence of his personality. Anyway, it was one of the skills that had made him a Brigadier of the Guards. A prestigious title for a non prestigious arm of the military. Sure, it lacked the grace of the cavalry; the thunder of the artillery, the tally ho and the firm arrogance of the aviation — and the grim, nihilistic self importance of the infantry. But it was important. And that's why he was a Guards Brigadier when his opposite number in the airforce was only a Colonel. And that is why he was speaking to the General personally.

"You have, I'm sure, taken all necessary observation measures since our last meeting?"

"Naturally, Comrade General. One of our RDF units was damaged in a storm but otherwise we're at full capability. The enemy is not being as loud as we'd like, but we have some natural idea of his positions from his military signals. As to what he's saying, it's all encrypted. We're working on breaking the code. There are GCHQ lads here on it as we speak. I can't offer any promises there, however."

"So what's your interpretation?" the General seemed relaxed. Good, the Brigadier thought.

"The enemy has massed a lot of forces in the front area. Our other forms of intelligence do suggest he's not ready, especially he's lacking in manpower. His frontage is wide. At any rate, he appears to have believed our electronic masking operations. We suspect that they suspect that the main strike will fall at Kothen whereas I suspect that they suspect that we suspect they are unaware of their deployments, which I suspect to some degree that we are."

"Suspicion's not good enough, Brigadier." the General played with a pen. "It's not good enough. We need to hit their staging areas immediately and shatter them before they can properly group up. That's meant to be the job of the EMRC troops. Are you saying you've failed?"

"No, Comrade General. To the contrary. Our electromagnetic reconnaissance has detected significantly larger concentrations in the area Gladenbach-Lippburg-Hanhausen." He almost stabbed the map with his cigarette. "The enemy is here, in force. Whatever he has laid up west of Kothen is insignificant. I don't understand, personally. That must be the area where anyone would attack through. They must expect us. Of course, they have their own reconnaissance..."

"The Gallans know how we fight. They expect us to come at them with everything we've got and split them. It wouldn't surprise me if they're bunching up as tightly as they can under their doctrine. They won't be split like we want them to. On the other hand, we have our own movements. I won't be following the Theory as strictly as they think. But I need a chink in their armour first. We need to hit at least some of their units in their staging areas as a precursor to our operations. The Republic offers great rewards, Brigadier. And great penalties for failure, too."

A threat? The Brigadier thought. It's not my problem if we lose. My head won't be rolling. Is he looking for a scapegoat?

"Comrade General, by the jump-off date we will be able to give the aviation and missile units some data. Our anti-encryption operations will be starting on the first day. You have my word."

"Good day, Brigadier," the General offered his hand. The Brigadier took it firmly and only noticed on his way out that it had been shaking.


Clarke-Turner felt suddenly very tired. Every ounce of effort had been thrown enthusiastically into the organisational fray and now it was testing time. Everything was ready. The Maldene were pushing him to go. His own staff were waiting patiently. He looked over the map again, trying to pretend he was Gallan. The EMRC troops had done well, but not well enough. Many of the first strikes would likely be failures, incinerating homes and civilian stations rather than staging areas. Yet some would get through and swing decisively the first round. Clarke-Turner did feel sorry for the collateral, but not sorry enough. He would kill all sixteen million North Maldene if he had to, to get home.

He rubbed a pen across his upper lip, as if to pretend it was a moustache. He imagined the Gallan general with a moustache. A blonde one. Good enough - Clarke-Turner had always distrusted blondes. He reviewed the plan again in his mind. Seventy-fifth Infantry would advance to the base of the Lahn and advance where possible, tying up the left shoulder of his offensive. His two tank divisions, the Fourteenth and the Forty-fifth, would draw a spearhead in the direction of Wussendorf, maneouvring together, but apart. If one was attacked from its flank the other could wheel in a large semicircle to make a return offensive, and then the other division could come back in a figure of eight - a maneouvre practiced dozens of times in tabletop and in reality.

His last infantry division would launch an all out assault across the Wahn, reinforced with extra bridging units, between Wussendorf and Kothen, and in the East, McKay's mixed group would drive towards Kothen, with heavy artillery barrages emulating the advance of a much greater force.

It was not a bad plan.

The Gallans had a plan too, Clarke-Turner knew. A plan to make him fail. A plan to kill his wife. He sucked on an unfiltered cigarette, the dry tobacco spoiling his inner lips. What was their plan? You whitefish eating bastards, he thought. Plan all you like. I'll break you. He took a pin and placed it gently in the centre of Wussendorf. His watch chimed: midnight. Five hours sleep.

Then it was go time.

August 1st, 8th Corps Headquarters, Hanhausen
Gallan Mandate of Henån-Malden

8th Corps Headquarters occupied a large concrete building, and the planning room was two stories tall. Like similar headquarters, it incorporated the latest digital equipments this side of 1965. Suffice to say, aside from the retro-futuristic aesthetic, the data link system left a lot to be desired. Faster, more modern systems existed, using commercial laptops and television screens, but they were not built into a hardened, bomb and gas proof bunker. Despite its shortcomings, the ancient computer system could still manage, to an extent, the needs of air and ground defense of the Corps. The wireframe display in the front of the room showed battalion-sized ground units, aviation units, air-defense systems, both friendly and enemy, and plotted routes of them all, provided you had enough soldiers and sailors to man the magnetic tape recorders, the light gun computer consoles, and the massive projector system which occupied much of the ceiling.

The balcony perched above the third floor was the central brain of the system, where the staff officers peered over their consoles at the enlisted men and junior officers below who were diligently carrying out their orders. It is here where Sternberg would fight. Hunched over a digital, wireframe representation of the battlefield. Squares and diamonds of blue and red appearing and disappearing as the subordinate commands reported up the chain, safely cloistered away from the cacophony of the battlefield.

Right now, nothing was visible. Sternberg drew a line with the light gun attached to the table, dividing the Lahn and Wehr rivers into separate halves. Another line divided Wussendorf and Kothen, represented by the "1 Motorised Infantry Battalion" and "3 Battalion 12 Dragoons" symbol on the wireframe.

"This is our central axis. The Questerians will no doubt attempt to divide our forces into two halves along this line," He traced his finger across the north-south line. "And seek a battle of annihilation with the weaker northern forces. They will be reluctant to attack our strong southern position. If they seek to attack across the Wehr and try to bridge it, we can position the Third Armoured and tank destroyer battalion to attack the flank and blunt their assault, respectively."

The G3 spoke.

"Surely this is expected, but what if they seek to attack through the Rabenau Gap? We have only the Maldenes between them an Arnsdorf." He grimaced at the light board. The G2 spoke up now, the same intelligence officer who had briefed the Parliament weeks ago.

"The plan is flexible. Provided they do not advance too quickly through our allies' forces around Kothen, we will be able to contain them with the Third Armoured and Tenth Infantry. The principal concern is Kothen. The Wahr presents no serious obstacles to a bridging force, but the area is geographically narrow. This would require a significant concentration of armour and infantry in close formation, but our Maldene allies are not so disciplined as ourselves. They will fall for feints and decoys, but the close proximity between their formations means that their combat power is enhanced on the defensive when supported by regimental artillery of the Twelfth Infantry--"

"Yes, I know all of this," The operations officer looked annoyed. "My concern is that they will rout at the first sight of attack, or that the Questerians will suppress their position with nuclear weapons. The Maldenes have no experience or training for nuclear warfare, they will bunch into traditional formations and present nice targets for tactical missiles. Once they are brushed aside, the Questerians will have a nice gap to drive through behind our lines and bypass the corps's net. If we commit the tank destroyer battalion too soon, we may lose the north."

Sternberg nodded in agreement.

"Yes. This our weakness: over reliance on the Prussian fighting spirit. They will fight hard, certainly. Any man will fight hard to defend his home, but they will not fight well. The Maldene troops are so blinded by fury they are unable to see the big picture and react accordingly. With the German soldier, there is no middle ground. Either they will be completely victorious or utterly destroyed, and only luck will decide which is so. Good soldiers, but poor leaders. That said, I disagree with your assessment. The tank destroyers are not our primary reserve, that is the tank regiment. If the enemy commits himself either to Kothen or Wussendorf, we stand a strong chance of containing him."

The G2, the intelligence officer, added.

"Our ELINT has detected no great force in the north. We're aware that the Questerians use radio communications much like ourselves, as a luxury rather than a necessity, they may be massing forces through means of subterfuge. "

Someone shouted from below, attracting the attention of the staff.

"Track number six-six-four-two! Track number six-six-four-three!"

Two red diamonds appeared on the projector board in front of the room, and on the light board in the balcony, heading towards Lippberg. Then three, then four, then eight.

"What air defence do we have in that area?" The air battle officer shouted down from the operations balcony, pointing at a first sergeant.

"Short-range missiles, Rolands, and one battery of medium range missiles." The NCO replied.

"Why aren't they on the board? What about aircraft? Just those two?"

"Two fighters in the air, we can have sixteen more in three minutes."

"Put those missiles on the board, get it from regimental headquarters if you have to."

The lower floor began to bustle with activity as the enlisted did their duties. Sternberg and his staff continued to concern themselves with the coming ground battle, confident that the air defense staff would be able to handle their jobs.

August 1st, A Company, 1st Battalion, 10th Dragoons
Gallan Mandate of Henån-Malden

First platoon had their weapons stripped and readied for inspection when it happened. At first, the assumption was that it was a mistaken case of friendly fire. The Stinger team had been on edge, like everyone, and the appearance of a jet from the south must have spooked them. The missile went up, followed by a trail of thick white smoke, and exploded at some altitude below the plane, missing it completely. Degermark nearly shouted at the men before the bombs hit, shattering a house some two hundred meters behind. Even at distance, the blast sucked the wind out of him and knocked him to the ground. High explosive? No, too much force, they had to be thermobaric bombs. From the plane above? It was too high, and it didn't look like a bomber, but it was hard to tell from twenty thousand feet below.

The supersonic boom followed, smashing what windows remained and possibly Degermark's eardrums. He stayed on the ground, flattened out, and tried to shout at first platoon. His ears were ringing.

"Get those rifles together, we're under attack," A sergeant climbed out of one of the trenches, his voice piercing through the clamor and chaos. "Where's the captain?"

The Stinger team seemed unabated, and a second missile streaked into the sky at an unseen target. Normally, a company of his size would have at least two such teams, of three men each, both led by a sergeant. Staff shortages reduced this to one Stinger team composed of two NCOs, and a trooper who had been wrangled from one of the rifle platoons to carry missiles. At least they knew what they were doing, Degermark thought, watching the disciplined sergeants bring their launcher back up a third time. The third man had disappeared, likely to retrieve more ordnance.

Degermark looked to his left, where the Stinger was pointed, and wished he hadn't. A Questerian jet plane, big, grey and white, with huge missiles slung under the wings. Probably no more than thirty meters off the ground. The plane nosed down, and he could see the pilots, sitting tandem in the cockpit. In his mind's eye, it seemed to move infinitely slower than it should, coming directly for him. Out of the corner of his eye, a white flash, and the tail of the plane exploded into flames. Degermark could see the pilots' reactions, their shock as the plane tilted forwards and black smoke belched from the burning engines. One of them reached for an unseen handle, yanking it several times. This apparently didn't go as planned, because then he started beating on the windscreen, trying to force it open. Degermark buried his face in the dirt and waited for the plane to fall on him. Seconds passed, hours it felt. Nothing.

First Sergeant Erik Loefgren, the CSM, shook Degermark's shoulders, trying to help him stand. The NCO shouted at him, Loefgren's voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

"Are you alright, sir? Can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me!" Degermark nodded repeatedly, or tried to. Loefgren didn't seem too impressed and put him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and headed towards one of the trenches. First platoon had disappeared, as had their weapons, and they were likely occupying their positions by now. The Stinger team exchanged a pair of high-fives, smiles on their faces. Black smoke billowed from behind the town where the plane had buried itself in the dirt. Degermark passed out.

August 1st, Tactical Air Command Center, 1st Battalion, 10th Dragoons
Gallan Mandate of Henån-Malden

Malmquist was currently juggling the responsibilities of the S3, XO, and CO all in one. It was fairly stressful.

The XO's staff vehicle had been caught in a storm of cannon shells from a Questerian "Cheetah" attack jet, the liaison vehicle's relatively thin armour couldn't hold a candle to that type of abuse and disintegrated. The S3 was indisposed, some sort of native sickness, had hives and a gusher of a nosebleed. The medics assured Major Malmquist it was a reaction some insect, and wasn't contagious. The ADO was normally a role taken by the XO, as due to shortages of manpower it simply wasn't an option to have a separate air defense officer for each battalion. The medium range missile batteries had focused on regimental headquarters, unable to provide sufficient support for the line battalions. This, instead, fell to infantry missile teams and Roland missile carriers, which were doing an adequate job at the moment, but the air attack wasn't particularly thick in this area. Malmquist had picked out the most veteran of NCOs and gave him the duty of making sure they continued to do their jobs, taking a bit of the load off his shoulders.

Regimental Sergeant Major Karlsson scribbled something onto the plotting board. Malmquist came around and read it.

"0527 air?"

"Time and action, sir. Air attack at 0527 hours."

"Why is A Company flashing? What do they want?" Malmquist pointed at a blue diamond, marked "A1" indicative of his first company.

Karlsson peered over at the diamond, squinting. "There's fourth battery," He pointed at the diamond. "They have Stingers. Maybe A Company ran out of Stingers?" He turned to an enlisted man behind a typewriter. "Corporal, send a message to A Company headquarters. Ask them what's happening." The man nodded and Karlsson returned to the plotting board.

Malmquist also addressed the typewriter man. "Ask Regimental Headquarters if Corps reports any enemy movement to our east, too. They could over the border already for all we know." He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. Something wasn't quite right, something he forgot? No, nothing was forgotten. The RSM went over those orders with a fine-toothed comb. Whatever was happening with A Company wasn't good, but the air defenses seemed solid. Only a few Questerian jets had successfully penetrated the short-range defences, and those that did were usually at high altitude.

The corporal clicked away on his typewriter and Malmquist headed out of the TACC to find his S4, curious on the amount of equipments and materiel issued to A Company.

1st August, Mid-morning
Mandate of Henaan-Malden

The tiny town's cafe was a good location for a headquarters. Captain Howard was right after all, Cook thought. The town's citizens had been herded into the post office, locked away and fed, but out of sight of what was passing through the town. Mean-faced security troops guarded their small compound, but it was none of Cook's business. The town green had in a matter of a few hours been completely transformed, levelled out, the small outhouses expanded and the main building turned int a military command centre. Antennas adorned its flat roof. In each corner of the long football field a truck sat, tubes pointing into the sky. On the far side of the car park a radar van was hooked up to a portable generator.

The third battery of the Hundred and forty-second separate air defence brigade had occupied this town and transformed it into a venerable air defence command. On the far side, the second troop of launchers were deployed, blocked directly from Cook's sight. That was were Howard was at the moment, but he was bound to be back soon. Cook settled down into his chair and lighted a cigarette. A corporal brought him tea. Life at war wasn't bad at all. Things were likely to get hot soon though: just a few kilometres out of the town the main highway leading to Wussendorf streamed northwards, and on it trucks and other vehicles were now pounding their way behind the Fourteenth Cavalry; to the southwards position, covered by the second batter,y the Seventy-fifth Division was tucked in behind the river Lahn, protecting the vulnerable flank of the advance.

The enemy might bring his aircraft to bear on the supply routes. So Cook would be waiting with his long-distance launchers and powerful radars. Howard entered the cafe. “Comrade Major Cook,” he saluted. A formal man. Cook disliked formality, but he couldn't ease it out of Howard. An executive officer should be a friend too, Cook thought, as well as a professional. Nevermind.

“Comrade Captain, have the second and third troops taken position yet?”

“Yes, Comrade Major. All three troops are in position and emitting in the practiced manner.” That meant rotations, switch ons, switch offs. Tedious and boring stuff if you had to do it yourself. But it was none of Cook's direct concern, so long as he knew it was happening.

“Jolly good. Does Brigade have any information for us?”

“Comrade Major, Our missile, rocket and air strike plans have been passed on via paper to the Battery intelligence unit. They've been inputted already, so we should be clear of blue on blue incidents.”

“Good. What about the war?”

“None yet, except the Seventy-fifth has mostly reached their positions across our bank of the Lahn. The Fourteenth has made contact with the enemy. The Forty Fifth is fighting it out in the north with the Gallans, but we don't know any more than that. Ah, and Brigade says, we should be ready to relocate in twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours? Well. You better have a cup of tea then, Comrade Captain.”

1st August, Late morning
Mandate of Henaan-Malden

The transmitter was dead. Frustratingly, First Sergeant Bridgeman couldn't get the damn thing working again. The receiver worked fine, so Bridgeman could at least hear on the net. What he heard wasn't pretty. Out of contact with the rest of his company, his light track had tumbled across in the wrong direction, struck a near miss, and had been shaken up quite badly. It was a lucky escape, perhaps, in the back of Bridgeman's mind, an unfortunate one.

The rest of his platoon were completely out of touch. They were probably dead: well, nobody expected anyone in these vehicles to live long. On the company net he could only hear blinkers of life, reports and callsigns flashing back and forwards. They were in trouble. The enemy's recce screen had torn them to shreds. The company commander was definitely dead.

For the hundredth time he tapped the armoured wall solemnly. It was so thin. A machinegun could get through the sides, probably. On the training grounds, they had boasted of their speed. Yet in the first few painful hours they had found that speed was a fallacy. It was only useful if you knew where you were going to. On the manoeuvre grounds they had mastered, this was incredibly useful. They could tuck themselves behind hillocks, in copses, beside cottages. In this new and foreign country they had had no idea where to go with the speed they had. It was only speed times confusion that had saved Bridgeman's life: the rest of his company who had stayed on track were paying the price for their light armour.

Bridgeman pressed his eye into the periscope again. There had to be something. The roadside cafe they were cowering behind wouldn't last for long. The maps were useless. Except – unless...

In the distance the fields groaned. The artillery was coming down thick. Someone at least had done their job. On the long-net Bridgeman could hear the other company fighting it out. They weren't having much success either. He whispered into the intercom, raising his voice when he realised nobody would hear him anyway: “Driver, do you see that wood on our left? Do you think you can take us through that?”

“I'll try,” he said, gunning the engine, and going off with enormous speed. They did make it through, and then when they broke out of the wood they appeared to be in a farm. Hay bales dotted the field. On the far side, a large barn. The driver already accelerated before Bridgeman could finish. Finally, they tucked their recon tank into the barn. “I'm going out. Come with me,” he ordered the driver, who reluctantly followed. Bridgeman tossed him a carbine out of the turret and they ran into the farmhouse, breaking down the door. There was nobody there. No car out the front.

“Stay down here and cover the drive,” Bridgeman ordered, and went upstairs. The feeling of being in another's home finally struck him when he went into the bedroom and saw the bed unmade. Whoever lived here had left in a hurry, he thought – or maybe they were just civilians who didn't make their beds at the crack of dawn. He looked out the window and raised his binoculars.

There were vehicles streaming down the field across. A platoon, at least. He ran downstairs, calling to the driver. When he was back in the tank he was faced with a dilemma. If he called up battalion, the enemy may pinpoint his position. But if he, and his map, were right, they had found the chink in the enemy's armour. He remembered suddenly that his transmitter didn't work. He got out of the tank and searched frantically in the bustle bins for the spare set. Within fifteen minutes he was in touch with the battalion, and the first column of the Forty-fifth Cavalry Division's battle tanks were streaming down a road, watched over by a single recon track in a barn.

1st August, Mid afternoon
Salzbeck, National People's Republic of Malden

Clarke-Turner sat and listened. In his head, he felt he ought to be speaking, but he stayed silent anyway. His staff were bickering. Most of the enemy concentrations had been discovered west of the Lahn! They are not in position in the Wahr. The Three Hundred and Tenth must peel! Oh, then what about our flank! Let's split them at the tributary base, here! And then endless bickering, back and forwards between the commander of the missile troops and that pompous guards brigadier.

Clarke-Turner sat and listened. Then he casually pushed his regulation mug off the table. He gave it enough force that it shattered on the linoleum floor. There was silence in the room.

“Comrades,” Clarke-Turner said, standing up. “Your enthusiasm to the cause of world revolution is endearing. Each one of you should be pleased with your hard work and motivation.” Silence. “But,” he said, sweetly, and then turning to a snarl: “If you do not cease behaving as children and begin to behave as officers, I will have all of you shot and replaced. The Republic has many men like you. What we need at this time is a united plan of action. From this moment onwards I forbid anyone to enter this room wearing a patch or cap signifying their arm of service. This punishment will remain until you can act like adults, like officers. I will not have any dissent in the ranks, not here. Now, listen.” He got up and walked over to the map.

“Our advance tank units are in contact on this line. But the enemy won't have any serious reserves in the gap between the contact here and Wussendorf. He hasn't deployed enough forces to stop our opening advance – perhaps he has garrisoned the Wahr too strongly – but in any case he knows that any retreat from his current positions by a large force would result in a confusion trapping his own troops against the banks of the river. He has to have space to effect a withdrawal in his rear area – unless he plans to fight to the death. Which is not beyond Gallan conduct, one has to say. But they are more intelligent than that, I think.”

He glanced over to his intelligence officer, who had remained above the bickering. He had to punish him like the otherrs, sadly, but he probably knew and understood. “Isn't that right Comrade Major General Wainwright?”

“Yes, Comrade Army Commander. All our intelligence suggests the rear area between the present forward edge of battle, and Wussendorf, is empty.”

“The enemy's reserves will be between Wussendorf and Hanhausen. We'll find them there and kill them. I want the Three hundred and tenth across the Wahr and typing up everything north of Wussendorf by tomorrow morning, along with Hunter's force on our far right getting over Kothen. Can't believe that the Maldene will put up a serious fight there. With the Three hundred and tenth breaking out north of Wussendorf our flank will be clear to make a main strike westwards. The enemy may believe I intend to split them cleanly. I do not. Who cares if they can throw some understrength units against our flank? We'll stop them with helicopters and aviation and our rear area units. If we collide with his centre of gravity the rest of his forces will spin out of control anyway. No, the split must be here.” He centred on Wussendorf. “A large triangle with the point at Wussendorf, spreading out northwards. Our aim must be to part the enemy across this wide cone. We've not the strength to do anything anywhere else. We must cut as much of his Army from his centre of gravity as we can.”

There was silence in the room. “I want the Forty Fifth to clear that Gallan force immediately. Tell Eringham that I'm clearing him Sixth aviation to work over those Gallans and throw them out. If he can throw them to the left and trap them between him and the Fourteenth, so much for the better, but it doesn't matter – we'll finish them anyway. Right now he needs to get his Division to the outskirts of Wussendorf. At the same time I want Naylor's Hussars clearing his southern flank for that job. Anyone they find they should exterminate. The enemy must have a lot of forces in the Lahn area, dispersed and understrength. Many of them will have been hit hard by our opening bombardment. Let him take a brigade or so and work his way down the left side of the Lahn—the Seventy Fifth can make a crossing with his help. The rest of his division has got to block Eringham's flank so he can clear Wussendorf. That has to happen by tomorrow night.”

“We will be dispersed ourselves, Comrade General—“ someone pointed out, rather bravely — “If the Fourteenth is spread thin on the west bank of the Lahn and Forty fifth is maneouvring around Wussendorf. The enemy will be in a prime position to counterattack. The Gallans won't be sitting around eating lutefisk if we offer them an opportunity to attack.”

“That's right. But that's not a bad thing, not at all. If one of Naylor's brigades can clear out the north part of the Lahn, we can get the Seventy fifth across to expand our shoulder. They can make a wedge south that will threaten the southern axis of his centre. With the north and south of his centre of gravity being pushed, to expand a counter-offensive down the centre: that would be suicide. If the Gallans counter-attack in force, which I think is less likely than you do, then we can recoil in a controlled way, and then spring back with helicopters and aviation, and trap them on their flank, and finish them there, in the plains, where it will be easier. Right now it all depends on the Three hundred and tenth getting across the Wahr, and Eringham breaking that Gallan unit. The plan functions if we take the Wahr and not the Lahn, but not the other way round.” Clarke-Turner sighed. “Get my orders out to the relevant units. And gentlemen, comrades—if we don't break the Gallans here, we're for it. I am confident their screening forces will snap, however. That's all. Dismissed.”

Clarke-Turner watched the map as his subordinates filed out. He traced movements with his fingers. It would work. It would. The Gallan Royalists were predictably unpredictable. They were as aggressive in war as they were brutal in peacetime towards their own people. And they had it out for General Clarke-Turner. He knew they did. This whole thing was all their fault. He traced a line in the map with his finger. Becky, he said, one eye flickering closed, lips whispering. Becky, I'm coming to get you.

And in the far distance, the tanks were rumbling on the plain.

August 1st, Mid-Morning, 1st Squadron, 11th Armoured Cavalry Regiment
South of Wussendorf, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

Captain Olander nearly reached for the transceiver at his side, then stopped and scolded himself. If it was one thing the Questerians were doing, it would be jamming his radio communications. First Squadron had been out of radio contact with the Regiment's headquarters for several hours, they were operating under the assumption of ECM preventing contact and not destruction, but neither could be entirely ruled out. The regiment had been deployed along the Lahn-Wehr Gap, and was waiting for the arrival of the 3rd Tank Regiment from Hanhausen. Whether they'd arrived or not, Olander didn't know, but he knew the last position of the headquarters and the Regiment's fallback position: A wide line across the M8 highway, just southwest of Wussendorf.

"This is Malin Three-Three, contact! Tanks," The radio squawked, the cavalryman's voice on the other side distorted by the digital encryption. "At least thirty and some APCs and armoured cars or something. Looks like a whole battalion, over!"

Olander grabbed the radio.

"Malin Three-Three, this is Gustav One-Three, do not engage. Continue to report contacts, fall back when ordered, over."

While the armoured cavalry squadron had more than sufficient strength in tanks and infantry to destroy the enemy, this battalion was likely the lead element of a tank division, something they were wholly lacking in ability to deal with. He switched to the Regiment's reporting frequency, making sure the encryption gear was on.

"Erik Two-Four, Johan Two-Two, this is Gustav One-Three, over."

"Gustav, standby thirty, over." The reply was quick, at least the squadron headquarters was still in contact. Hopefully they would be able to reach Regimental HQ. Olander ordered his driver to find a hull-down position while he waited. The radio crackled to life again.

"Gustav One-Three, go for traffic, fifteen seconds, over."

"Erik Two-Four, have encountered enemy tank battalion believe to be advance guard of the 45th or 14th Tank Division. I have not engaged, over." He encrypted the message before sending it. The reply came back: "Gustav One-Three, be aware that Johan Two-Two is non-communicative, will forward your traffic to Rasmus Four-One, out."

The radio crackled to life once more: the report of gunfire was clearly audible in the background. Malin was shouting about the enemy spotting them. Olander told him to calm down, stay off the squadron net, and to start falling back to the tank company. "Malin Three Three" was the callsign of one First Lieutenant Geijer, the executive officer of the scout troop, and who was probably overreacting since he was driving a tank like Olander. The actual CO of the scout troop was Olander, but he was busy staffing the tank company and trying to coordinate the squadron with his limited C3 and manpower. Half their IFVs were undercrewed, with maybe four or five dismounts instead of the usual nine, but the infantrymen were trained enough to fill in as IFV drivers and gunners so the actual firepower of the squadron hadn't diminished as much as it could've.

August 1st, Mid-Morning, 1st Squadron, 11th Armoured Cavalry Regiment
South of Wussendorf, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

Geijer peeked through his periscope, noting that the enemy had dispersed himself across a wide line, instead of advancing. The combination of infantry ATGW, automatic cannon fire, and tank shells coming in must have convinced him he was facing a much larger force, maybe he was waiting for orders, or maybe he was just the flank guard instead of advance guard. The former would mean the enemy was seeking to cross the Lahn River as opposed to pushing through the LW Gap like expected.

He nearly called out on the radio again, before noticing the frequency setting was on the command net. He switched it to the fire channel, putting him in direct communication with the ACR's fire direction center.

"Quintus Two Six, Malin Three Three, adjust fire, over."

"Malin Three Three, this is Quintus Two Six, adjust fire, out." The reply was quick, almost immediate.

"Grid David Johan Three Six One Four One One, over."

"Target is one tank battalion, light armour and main battle tanks. Some dismounted infantry, maybe sixty, in the open, danger close, over." The man on the other end repeated his call, and Geijer waited. The FDC came on the radio net after about twenty seconds.

"Karen, Malin, ICM, SADARM in effect, six rounds, over."

Geijer snapped his periscope to a target moving across the field ahead, slewing the turret in that direction. "Target, tank! Fire, fire sabot!" He continued scanning while the gunner went through the motions.

"Sabot up! Identified," The gunner shouted through the intercom, his voice otherwise inaudible above the sounds of the tank itself. "On the way!" The gun breech recoiled back, knocking Geijer around a bit in his seat. The automatic loader leveled the gun and rammed another shell into the cannon before returning the barrel to its previous elevation.

"Shot, over."

Lieutenant Geijer grabbed the radio handset. "Shot, out!"

A loud thud came from outside, and the backing plate of the turret wall became visible dented. The front armour just barely stopped an armour piercing shell, and the driver visibly jumped from his seat.

"Back back back back!" Geijer shouted automatically, but the driver had already begun reversing.

About ten seconds later, a series of parachutes appeared over the enemy tanks, disappearing rapidly in puffs of smoke, and several Questerian armoured vehicles were reduced to burning piles of metal. Flashes of light and dust kicked up around the enemy position soon after. Enemy infantry were fleeing backwards, some of them appeared to be caught by one of the flashes and torn asunder, most of them escaped unharmed.

"Splash, over."

Geijer saw through his thermal viewer that the last of the enemy tank battalion was retreating, as was his, although couldn't actually observe the amount of damage through the smoke that had been launched by the Questerian tanks. He chewed his lower lip, taking a chance and guessed at the number of dead enemy tanks based on the number of puffs he saw in the sky.

"Splash, out. Quintus Two Six this is Malin Three Three, end of mission. One enemy tank battalion destroyed. Twenty tanks, sixteen IFVs, estimate sixty casualties, over."

The man on the other end sounded slightly incredulous, or maybe Geijer was imagining it, but repeated his traffic and cut the channel. Geijer sounded off on his troop. Most of the men responded, a few didn't. He knew at least a couple of the vehicles were missing radios or had broken ones, but as the tank pulled away, plumes of smoke were readily visible through the cupola's periscope. He didn't see any bodies, but he wasn't looking either.

August 1st, Late morning, 1st Squadron, 11th Armoured Cavalry Regiment
East of M8 highway, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

The cavalry troop had moved back about a kilometer when it hit Geijer. He stared at the large dent, paint chipped and protruding from an otherwise flush steel plate. All tension dropped from his body and he felt his hands shaking. Geijer grabbed the commander's cupola periscope to steady himself, ordering the driver to stop. He struggled with opening the hatch and getting his restraints off, but managed and clambered out of the turret onto the ground. The driver, the senior enlisted crewman, followed. The First Lieutenant was retching, hands on his thighs, bent over beside the tank.

"Sir, are you okay?" The driver sounded genuinely concerned, and reached out to put a hand on Geijer's shoulder.

The Lieutenant brushed him away, nodding shakily. "I'm fine, I just need a moment," He put his hand on the hull to keep from falling over. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were still shaking, but not as badly.

Another tank drove up from behind, bearing the yellow squadron command flag of the Voltigeur Regiment. Captain Olander was standing with his head out of the cupola, and took notice.

"Lieutenant, what are you doing?" Olander had to shout over the sound of the tank engines. Geijer snapped to attention, wavering slightly. His complexion was paler than usual, and he looked ready to topple over. Olander scanned around the tank, spotting the reason why. The tail end of a long-rod penetrator was stuck in the front turret of the tank, like an oversized lawn dart. The fins had cut a cruciform hole into the armour plate. Taking these into account, it was obvious that Geijer must have been scared out of his mind when that happened.

"When we make camp I want you to come talk to me Lieutenant. Until then, keep your vehicle close to mine. Don't worry, we're not in any danger of being trailed by the enemy," Geijer gave a quick nod, and started to climb back into his tank. "Ah, one more thing Lieutenant, you did a pretty bang-up job keeping Second Troop together." It might have sounded like trite courtesy to Geijer, but Olander meant it. Second Troop had lost only a couple scout vehicles, and no KIA during the short skirmish. No one knew what the enemy suffered, but everyone hoped it'd been enough to make him second guess another attack.

Geijer seated himself down in the tank, the driver followed suit, and they stuck close to the captain's command tank for the next hour.

August 1st, Late morning, 8th Corps Headquarters, Hanhausen
Gallan Mandate of Henaan-Malden

"What's happening here?" Sternberg tapped the blue diamond marked "11" on the map. It was all alone, separated from either of the infantry brigades by the line it was currently occupying. A red diamond had appeared near Kothen, Sternberg was certain it was a feint, to draw troops away from the planned push through the Lahn-Wehr Gap to cross the northern river. A few officers disagreed, but Sternberg laid out his reasoning well enough that they could see it as a possibility. The G2's tendency towards heavy expository diatribes helped quite a bit in this regard. Two other red diamonds were near the middle of his lower flank, marking the positions of battalion-sized Questerian units, attacking across the Lahn River.

"We're not sure," The G3 explained. "We were in radio communications with them earlier this morning, and all last night. The last communication we received was that they would be moving to a new position further southeast, fairly close to what we're certain is the main axis of attack, but the colonel assured us that they'd seen nothing of the enemy yet and no indications of danger."

Sternberg nodded slowly, taking in the operations officer's words without haste lest the realization of the potential consequences consume him. Unlike other tactical commanders, Armoured Cavalry Regiments had certain amounts of autonomy, both tacit and official. This included being able to move your command post wherever you saw fit, and blunder around a 100 km gap willy-nilly until you ran into the enemy. Of course, this autonomy and self-sufficiency came with certain unmentioned job hazards. One of these unmentioned hazards was driving your entire staff headquarters into the middle of a Questerian light tank battalion (your direct counterpart) and being chewed apart by automatic cannons and machine guns.

"Do we have contact with anyone else? A lower headquarters unit, maybe one of the battalions?"

"No, not yet."

"Hm. I want you to commit the Third. They're fully manned now, including the artillery. That's nine tank battalions to reinforce the Lahn and the Wussendorf Gap. Get Major General Hultgren on the wire and tell him to send a tank brigade as fast as he can to the Wussendorf area to reinforce the Eleventh. If we're lucky, they haven't broken through. If we're not, the brigade will be surrounded and destroyed without ever seeing a cavalryman. Tell the G4 to hurry up and get those firing tables up for the missile batteries, too, I want to stop those bombers from hitting all my command posts."

The G3 nodded and directed one of the teletypists on the far side of the room. The G4 brought up a stack of papers in folders and put them on a table next to the lightboard.

"Supply consumption for the fire missions you wanted, sir," The logistics officer handed Sternberg a manila folder marked "KNOGJARN": Knuckle Duster. It was stamped with a "COSMIC MOST SECRET" marking, indicating the highest level of classification. Under normal circumstance, merely presenting such a folder in the presence of those not authorised to view it would be actionable, but Sternberg made sure the enlisted men were being kept busy with requests to bother pilfering through file folders on a desk. All the remaining staff officers had been granted Need-To-Know clearance by the G2.

"Shame we don't have the Pershings this plan calls for," Sternberg muttered absentmindedly, flicking through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

"See this," He pointed at a table showing the number of tactical nuclear weapons to be expended on battlefield targets and secondary targets. "The airfields, specifically. Ignore the battlefield targets, we don't have the targeting systems necessary for that anyway."

The G3, a Colonel, brushed his way through a pair of majors, observing the lightboard. Sternberg got his attention and pointed at the folder.

"Ah," The colonel blinked twice. "That's a bit of an escalation, isn't it, sir?" He'd taken notice of the purple pages indicating the CMS classification.

"We're adapting it to more conventional methods. What do we possess as far as conventional ballistic missiles, and how many would be necessary to accomplish the mission here."

Sternberg let the G3 in next to him to look at the table. The fire mission called for "destruction" of the enemy airbase, but whether this meant inoperability or annihilation wasn't specified. Only warhead yields, 80 KT, were specified. Other tables showed various data such as air density and altitude measurements for maximising blast wave propagation against semi-hard targets like a HAS which were otherwise immaterial to the question at hand.

"Ah, here we go," The G3 tapped the "yield" section. "The new Pershings have smaller warheads than the old ones. Knuckle Duster originally called for one Pershing missile per airbase with a single four hundred kiloton ground burst to blow a great big hole in the base and irradiate it all. They figured this wasn't good enough for the new missile, so they threw in medium-altitude airbursts to topple POL facilities and shred aircraft on the taxiway and returning, followed by a ground burst. I guess everyone at the bases in an hour from radiation sickness wasn't fast enough."

"That's very good, you should have been a lecturer," Sternberg glowered. "How many missiles will be necessary to adequately suppress the three targets at Salzburg and Haldane, in your opinion?"

"Well, there's the Army Tactical Missile System, we have special counter-airfield warheads for it, sir. They're similar to the Pershing Counter-Airfield Missile, but smaller. I think maybe four or five per airbase to shut them down for a few hours."

"Very good," Sternberg looked at the G4, who was already flicking through the mass of papers in front of him. "Fifteen missiles, Major, do we have them?"

The G4 scanned the document, finding what he was looking for after a few seconds. "Ah, yes. We have twenty CAMs in storage, for M270 launchers. We can have them distributed to the Corps launchers in about eight hours."

The G1 butted in. "Sir, First Brigade Tenth Dragoon's arrived on air transport. We're due for second brigade later tomorrow morning. We'll have the First constituted and on the way by 1500 this afternoon."

The Royal Navy had been making its rounds alright. Lifting sixty thousand troops in a month would be a daunting task, but not impossible. Nominal, or sustained, sealift (also used by the Navy for airlift, funnily enough) provided for moving 1,800 men daily. To keep to target, this would have to be moved to 2,200 troops daily, or half a brigade. Sustained in this context meant over a period greater than one week. Surge sealift gave roughly 5,800 troops moved per day, or a brigade and change, and could be kept up for the first week (as expected). This would allow about three full divisions to be delivered by the beginning of next week, and some support elements. The rest would trickle in after that.

45th Cavalry Division Headquarters, 2nd August, Very early-morning
South of Wussendorf, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

“Come in.”

Brigadier Fuller looked at the van. The vehicle itself was serene in its stillness: only the commotion for the square acre around it ruined the moment. The door was open and he could barely see the General inside. He stepped in. Inside there wasn't much room but a table with two stools and a map sat at the entrance. At the far rear signallers sat at their equipment, busy at work.

Major General Eringham sat at the table. “Comrade Fuller. Cigarette? How was the flight?”

“Very low,” Fuller replied. “And fast.”

“I hope our pilots didn't scare you,” Eringham said, half joking, half insulting. “Now look. I understand your Brigade was roughed up a little by these Gallans. You let them slip. How?”

“Comrade Major General,” Fuller began, “The enemy gave out blankets of very fierce fire then withdrew. They had escaped before I re-appraised the situation. My light elements-”

“A fight, Comrade Fuller,” Eringham said, his face blank: “Is a fight. What casualties have you taken? Is your Brigade battle ready?”

“Comrade Major General, we're ready to attack immediately. We only lost a small number of tanks and whatever has been disorganised has been returned to battle readiness.”

“Good. I'm giving you everything this time. Hit the Gallans straight on and don't stop going: force them to move. Littleton's Brigade will come at them from their flank when they begin to buckle. You'll have all the Division's artillery, rockets, and helicopters. I'm giving you Byron's artillery regiment too. That's almost a hundred guns and half as many rockets. Lay it on thick. Don't be shy about the rockets, we've got plenty. If for whatever reason you're stalled in any area then roll them over with the helicopters: I'm putting you in direct contact with the Sixth Aviation. Push them and we'll hit them from both sides. Naylor's Fourteenth is about to hit the Gallans in a few hours. I want our attack to be well under-way and approaching success by then. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Comrade General.”

“The Gallans are fighting hard but they aren't supermen. They won't be able to take another attack especially if it's larger than the last in scope. Get them fighting and stuck in so that Littleton can do the easy job of rolling them on the flank. Afterwards your Brigade will keep on moving with its momentum: Littleton is my control right now. We've got to get to Wussendorf. Things are only going to get harder so get used to it.”

“Comrade General. Ah – Comrade, General, what about Byron's Brigade?”

“The Infantry will be kept in reserve for now. Don't think about that. Just keep going on.”

“Comrade General.”

“Dismissed,” Eringham waved. Fuller left and boarded the waiting helicopter. The General had been soft: friendly, almost. Nonetheless, Fuller knew no more mistakes could be tolerated. From the helicopter he got a view of Byron's artillery regiment moving forwards, chased by a column of trucks. The sheer firepower made his blood run cold. The Gallans were not in an enviable position. Then again, he thought, feeling the helicopter rush through the sky at top speed, neither was he.

2nd August, Early-morning
Salzbeck

“I don't know why they're behaving this way...” the Guards Brigadier, lacking his unit patch, sat at the table, chewing on a cigarette. “It doesn't make any sense.”

“They're Gallans,” someone suggested. “Aren't Gallans crazy?”

The Guards Brigadier continued unabated. “Look, they're pushing their combat power to our centre, and reinforcing their north. Ok, they see that Wussendorf is our centre of manoeuvre. But they're presenting a line for us. We don't need to take Wussendorf to have it act as a hinge. If the Three hundred and tenth get across, its even worse for them.”

“So what would you have done if you were our Gallan friends?”

The Guards Brigadier sat up as if the question was so obvious that it didn't need answering. “I would have concentrated my strength at Wussendorf and then – BAM – I would have broken in the hinge. I mean, we have more combat power, but it may have worked if they really threw their all at it. Instead most of their forces are drawn out all over the place.”

Clarke-Turner sat, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. His face presented the very image of calmness, but beneath the table, his foot tapped incessantly. That had started yesterday, and he could not keep it under control. He was sure people were talking.

The Guards Brigadier went on. “If the Fourteenth pushes them back here and allows the Seventy Fifth to cross, the hinge is basically complete regardless of how we proceed at Wussendorf. We have already won, it seems.”

“Don't be stupid,” Clarke-Turner replied. If we don't take the transport hub at Wussendorf and execute a swing around it, it cannot act as a hinge. Or rather, it will be a hinge without a doorframe. We've got to split them before we squash them,” he leaned back, allowing his words to soak in.

“The Gallans,” his Chief of Staff began, “Have not allowed us to squash them so far, although they do seem to be allowing us to split them. They're fighting very tenaciously. I don't understand it myself either. There's no love lost between them and the Maldene.”

“Gallans are crazy but not stupid,” Clarke-Turner intervened again. He got up and went to the map. “If they can concentrate their combat power here, south of Wussendorf, they can turn us regardless of what direction we advance in. We've got to break them here at Wussendorf otherwise our operational manoeuvre will need to be rethought. At the same time make sure Naylor's division advances. I want them attacking as soon as possible on the southern flank of this counteroffensive,, with the Seventy fifth. And the Three hundred and tenth across that river today.” he sat down again, and there was silence. The Guards Brigadier stared at the table. Clarke-Turner looked at him. “So you say that the Gallans are shifting their reserves North along the Wahr line to Wussendorf?”

“It looks to us like the beginning of a counter-attack.”

Clarke-Turner leaned back in his chair and put the cigarette in his mouth. He lighted it as his Staff waited nervously for his decision. “I am diverting all our aerial combat power to strike the Gallans here. I want every plane we've got flying sorties over those bastards in their re-staging areas, on their trains, in the battle area, wherever. Cancel all sorties on their equipment depots. I want the whole Air Army on the attack to break them as we advance, as fast as we possibly can. And I want Eringham's division to keep going, no matter the cost. We'll support him from the air.”

The Ground Forces Avation liaison, a Major attached to the Army command, made several motions, as if to speak, and then stopped – but finally began: “Comrade General, our airfields have sustained serious attacks from enemy surface to surface weapons.”

Clarke-Turner rounded on the GF Aviation officer, pressing his palms to the table and hissing from the sides of his mouth: “Comrade, are you telling me that the Fifty-third Air Army is incapacitated? From a few lutefisk rockets? You're not—”

“Comrade General, the Air Army is not incapacitated. We're ready to fight. But the Gallans have modern fighters, and we don't. And our airfields are damaged and will need time to be repaired. We need reinforcements from the mother country.”

“You'll get whatever you need, Comrade,” Clarke-Turner said, leaning back, “But your Air Army must hit that Gallan relief force travelling to the front to-night. I don't care what losses you take. I want every plane involved in striking that force.” He struck the table with his finger. “The cavalry, mounted troops and infantry are giving their all in the field. The pilots must be no exception. The casualties are irrelevant and can be replaced.”

“But, Comrade General,” he tried again, “The attacks on the enemy's depots have been widely successful. We need to keep striking those targets in order to cripple his follow on forces.”

“There'll be no follow on forces if we can break them now.” Clarke-Turner stared down his nose at the junior officer, “Execute,” he said, calmly, “my order.”

14th Cavalry Division, 2nd Brigade/1st Battalion/1st Squadron, 2nd August, Early-afternoon
North of the river Lahn, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

Montague was sweating. That was the main thing that he realised as he tried to clamber out of the tank: his clothes were sticking horribly to his body and made his task quite difficult. The first thing that had packed up in the battle was the air conditioner: he made a strict mental note to the aid detachment to see if they could get it fixed. He hauled himself up and sat on the roof of the tank; the rest of his squadron was laid out around him in a scattered formation, taking advantage of what natural cover there was for tanks. The platoon commanders came around to see him: his squadron had come out very well. There were no casualties, although two vehicles were essentially out of action. All in Hunter's platoon. Montague made another mental note and filed it away—no further responsibility to Hunter. They still had fuel and ammunition, and could still advance.

He dropped back into the tank to look at the net. If there was no one else calling desperately for replenishment, he would request it. On the other side of the breech, the gunner slept, sprawled, spread-armed. He sat diagonally, taking up as much space as he could. Montague regarded him with derision. He was a child only. Montague always had bad gunners: first there was Hogarth, and he did turn out alright in the end, but then... it wasn't worth thinking about. And the others were no better. Montage knew the Battalion commander thought that he was cursed, although nobody else knew of his appalling track record. He regarded the boy again, and felt only a cold feeling. It's nothing to do with me. They die because they're not quick enough, or they're undisciplined, or the enemy just happened to...

The battlefield management network beeped. This, Montague had been taught — and Montague always believed what he was taught, because that was how science worked — was the greatest innovation in modern military history. Whereas before radios had to be used with complicated systems of control, a battlefield network was much cleaner and simpler. And it had better encryption, too. On the glowing screen Montague could see the location of the other Battalion, spread out at the base of the road, about to move into action. Behind them a battery of the Brigade's air defence units were protecting the advance. To his far north the two companies had not yet been engaged, but they were moving up in column order. The enemy was folding. He sent off a request for replenishment.

Eventually the three trucks arrived, cresting the hill and coming down to them, and he came to sign for it. “Looks like you lads have been in a fight,” the lieutenant looked down at the paper, and then back at Montague. “Comrade Major.”

“Nothing major. A screening force only. The enemy's anti tank rockets caused some damage, but we're still capable of going forwards to chase them.”

“So why stop here?” the Lieutenant asked.

“We're softening them up from the North with artillery and rockets and then we will execute a fish-hook, probably. Since we entered combat first, we'll be the shoulder, I suppose. The Second and Third will have to execute the main push.” The Lieutenant was not listening. He directed some troops off a truck; behind them, petrol tankers filled up the hungry tanks. An armoured recovery vehicle began poking around at one of Hunter's vehicles.

“I see,” the Lieutenant replied. He looked around briefly, then back at Montague, and the tanks. Montague began to walk away: the Lieutenant called — “Comrade Major. What – er, I – what is it like?”

“It's alright,” Montague said. “It's alright.” Then he returned to his tank. The gunner was outside, stretching his legs with some bizarre exercise: Montague only looked at him, and the boy stopped, saluting. “Carry on,” Montague sighed. It's always the little things that they think will help them, but in the end...

2nd August, night
The Wahr river, between Kothen and Wussendorf

Diary of Lt. Colonel Macmillan, 310th Infantry Division, 1st Brigade/2nd Battalion

Bridging troops made crossing in the night today, when it became dark. It's a wonder to watch them. The night itself was lit up with flashes of the guns who were having targets spotted for them by the scouts who'd crossed earlier in their boats. The whole battalion cheered when the first security units got across and set up a post on the other side, uninterrupted. Our battalion was the first across.

They say these vehicles are protected. Against what, nobody is completely sure, but the manual says machineguns and artillery shrapnel. Of course one feels better about oneself when in a vehicle rather than out of it, but whether this confidence will carry over once under fire, I am unsure. There was wet weather, and the vision blocks in our carriers hazed over: the cleaning system malfunctioned and so we took it in turns to lean out of the hatch to clean the viewpoints. If this malfunction is not fixed, or if it repeats itself, it could be disastrous.

No doubt one would feel better if in a more protected vehicle, like the armoured infantry. But we've no such luck, so we endeavoured to do our task as well as we could. We only secured our forward positions and cleared the way for defences to be set up on the enemy's side of the riverbank. Later the armoured infantry went ahead and made contact with the enemy. There's no news yet but vehicles have been streaming across the bridge all day. The boys are getting agitated. Soon we will make contact. I hope that all the training we've managed to do will help us through. No doubt there'll be casualties. If they are not made in vain I shall be able to bear them, I think.

Time: 21-05 2-10-14

August 2nd, pre-dawn, 1st Squadron headquarters, 11th Armoured Cavalry Regiment
South of Wussendorf, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

1/3 Tank Brigade had arrived just prior to midnight with the 1/1 Cavalry Squadron, and established a line of communications with the 3rd Cuirassier's headquarters company, informing the Corps headquarters that most of the 11th ACR had been destroyed in combat while conducting reconnaissance operations. Together with the tattered remains of 1st Squadron, 11th ACR, and the regimental helicopter troop they numbered about half over eight thousand. The regiment behind them, fully manned, would bring another ten thousand by the evening.

Colonel Sparre, the brigade commander, seemed convinced the enemy would divert between Wussendorf and the Lahn, and Olander could have spent much of the morning convincing him otherwise, instead he sought sleep. It was shortly after 0400 when Olander was roused from bed by a lieutenant with a clipboard, claiming that Sparre needed to see him, and it was urgent. Olander felt a pit in his stomach, being woke up at four in the morning so his commanding officer could say 'I told you so' wouldn't be getting the day off to a good start.

August 1st, Mid-Afternoon, 1st Squadron headquarters, 11th Armoured Cavalry Regiment
South of Wussendorf, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

Geijer stopped outside the command vehicle, which had a make-shift tent attached to increase the space afforded and a crude sign hanging: "11 CAV HEADQUARTERS" scribbled in black. The sign formerly read "1ST SQUADRON", but that was now Geijer shuddered, and brushed aside the flap to the tent. A pair of warrant officers were chatting next to a coffee machine, and Olander was in the back of the armoured vehicle, looking at a map on the table. The captain beckoned Geijer without looking up, and the lieutenant approached briskly.

"You wanted to talk to me, sir?"

Olander looked up at him, turning away from the map. He had a friendly smile on his face.

"That's right," Olander pulled up a chair, motioning for Geijer to take one. He did so.

"Sir, I know what you're going to sa--"

"Shush," Olander stopped him before he got worked up. "I know how you feel. Like you fucked up. You did something wrong. You didn't. You did fine." Geijer stared at him. The captain looked and sounded honest enough, and Geijer couldn't recall a time he'd ever lied. Still, the thought nagged at the back of his head. This was just a show, or was it the truth?

"Why do you think you fucked up, Lieutenant?"

"I--I--earlier when we were fighting, when the artillery was hitting the enemy, I was looking through the FLIR. I could see them. The soldiers. They were running, I couldn't stop watching. The shells came in, you couldn't see them well on the FLIR. Just little dark puffs, and the soldiers dropped. And one of them, he got caught by one in mid-air. It tore him in half. His legs were still running a bit," Geijer started to tear up, and dabbed his eyes. "One of them was curled up on the ground, he'd dropped his gun. I could see his face, through the FLIR. He was screaming and covering his ears. Shouting something. I think he was shouting for it to stop, then they hit me. I panicked, I hadn't been paying attention to the tanks, I shouted at the driver to go back, I don't know if he was already. There was a dent in the wall--"

Olander raised his hand and Geijer stopped, focusing on the captain.

"We all feel like this, Lieutenant. Each and every man in this regiment does. I do. I feel like I fucked up every day, that I missed something. You saw the sign outside? On the tent?"

Geijer nodded slowly.

"I had to make that. No one else believed it. I saw it. Put in a liaison helicopter, they flew me out where they found our proud regiment's headquarters, had me pick up the banner and carry it back like a fucking hero. All the bodies were where they'd fallen, pilfered for maps and codebooks. I wanted to puke. I wanted to get up, and walk away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home. I felt like I fucked up. I felt like I failed the colonel, somehow, I just didn't know how. I felt like there was some piece of the puzzle that if I could just sit down and think about, I'd not make whatever mistake I made again. Do you know what I'm saying, Lieutenant?"

Geijer stared back for a few moments, and slowly nodded.

"What am I saying?" Olander got up to close the door to the command vehicle, shutting out the world.

"You feel like--you feel like you're being forced into a corner, imagine you're in a room, and it's shrinking. There's no door or window. And it keeps shrinking until all you want to do is curl up and you can't escape,"

Olander nodded.

"What do you do about it?"

"I don't know." Geijer buried his face in his hands and gave a quiet sob.

"Look at me," Olander's tone was firmer now. "Lieutenant, look at me."

Geijer looked up, his face was streaming tears, red. "I fucked up." He bawled.

"You didn't. Let me tell you how to get through this. You look at me, Lieutenant, look at me," Olander put his hand on Geijer's shoulder. "You do your job. No matter what you feel, what you think about yourself, you do that job you're given, and you do it well, alright. You do your job, you do it well. You did that. Nobody cares about the rest."

Geijer gave a look as if he were going to cry again, then swallowed and gave a deep sigh.

"Yes, sir." He nodded, and Olander helped him to his feet. Geijer's legs were shaking, but the captain pretended not to notice.

"I'm putting you on light duty for a day or two," At this, Geijer gave a look of alarm. "Calm down, Lieutenant, you're just going to be working messages for me here in headquarters. It's a new beast to be managing the aviation troop and the cavalry, and I need a lot of help. You're my XO, and I need you here, now, doing things XOs do."

Geijer nodded while wiping his eyes and Olander tossed him a box of tissues. "Use those, I've been." The lieutenant rubbed his eyes and face with a tissue, blowing his nose. Olander took the box back when he was finished, pointing to a waste basket by the door.

"Go get whatever you need done, report back here in an hour."

"Yes, sir!" Geijer snapped a salute and Olander returned it.

August 2nd, pre-dawn, 1st Brigade Headquarters, 3rd Armoured Regiment
South of Wussendorf, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

Olander rubbed his sleepy eyes, yawning as he entered the tactical command post, carrying a mug of black coffee. Sparre punched him in the shoulder, nearly knocking the coffee out of his hands, one hundred kilos of fat blindsiding you would have been enough to topple some of the smaller men in the cavalry.

Colonel Sparre was an older man, completely bald, liver spots on his scalp when it wasn't covered by a field cap, and a bit on the large side. The only reason the man wasn't in the general staff by now was because he'd refused to play the politics to get promoted. The utility dress, a sort of blueish grey, did a fair bit to cover up his portly nature. The belt helped too.

"Good to see you awake, Cap'. Got a job for you," He smiled lecherously. "Come here."

The command post was much larger than the 1st Squadron, consisting of a series of command vehicles linked together under an olive tarp. The ground was insulated with some sort of plastic, and the center of the whole thing was a large map board with pins and marker drawings on it. Next to it were a series of computer terminals manned by a few enlisted men, showing digital representations of the battlefield. Sparre snatched the wooden rod from the base of the board, taking on a the air of a schoolmaster.

"See this," The colonel smacked a red pin with his stick. "This is the 45th Tank Division. They've stopped, for now," He smacked a pin below that. "This is the 14th Tank Division. They haven't. Right now they're in a great position to split us up when the 3rd shows up to kick their asses. The only thing between them and us is a ripped to shit battalion of infantry and some helicopters. The only thing between us and Wussendorf, the best damn rail hub on this rock, is fifty kilometers of prime vineyard soil and some angry Prussian farmers,"

Olander sipped his coffee. This must be the part where Sparre tells him to go stop a tank division with his cavalry squadron.

"See this," He smacked a blue pin a bit to the north. "This is the 12th Dragoon's first brigade, or what's left of it. Some infantry, field guns, and a bunch of angry Prussian taxi drivers." The red pin next to them nearly fell off the board this time. "And this is the 14th Infantry Division or something like that. They haven't stopped either, well not much anyway. They're in a great position to fishhook along our northern flank and take Wussendorf from behind and all we got to stop them is a few angry policemen with rifles, some armoured cars, and coarse language,"

The colonel pointed at Olander.

"How much do you think you can do with a second cavalry squadron?"

Olander nearly gagged. "Excuse me, sir?"

"You heard me."

"Well, assuming that I can keep the regiment's aviation squadron, we'd have a nearly full strength cavalry regiment. It'd be short some field guns and a third squadron, but sixty percent strength is better than nothing. We could do a holding action to the south until the third arrives, I suppose, that is one of the missions they laid out in doctr--"

"Good. Need you to keep the Fourteenth Infantry in place until the Twelfth's brigades can arrive this afternoon and start driving south. You should be reinforced by the infantry by dusk if they're still waiting for another planeload to come in."

"Sir, wouldn't it be better if we went south t--"

"Hell you thinking boy? The enemy is at the north. We got tanks and infantry fighting south. We ain't got nothing in the north. Nothing. You're something."

Sparre continued for some score of minutes, detailing the size and composition of the Heimatschutzen battalions, their positions, what sort of positions the 3rd Battalion, 12th Dragoons had taken up, and other tedious minutiae for Olander to digest.

"Go meet the first squadron. I'll give you a tank battalion, they can be your third squadron."

"What about your brigade, sir, wouldn't that battalion be better here?"

"Don't trouble yourself over my problems, captain. Get your men together, I've already briefed Majors Ljungberg and Hellberg, they'll know what to do. You got any questions you can ask them, I got a meeting in about six minutes. Dismissed."

Olander snapped a salute, and walked out.

August 2nd, Early Morning, 1st Brigade, 10th Dragoons
Hanhausen, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

The missile attacks on Hanhausen's POMCUS depot had been less than catastrophic. Damaging, sure, but the depots were spread out over square kilometers and covered in thick metal prefabs. Proof against bombs? Not really, but enough to keep gas and EMP from coating/frying everything inside, and they absorbed bomblets well enough, even if the latter tended to congregate like the pigeons along the gutters. Sometimes they rolled off and smacked into the ground (harmlessly, so far), sometimes they took a bird with them. Sometimes, birds took them with them, as was the case at the moment.

"Look out!"

Major Malmquist dived for cover behind an armoured car as a pigeon flew overhead, dropping an ICM bomblet about ten meters onto asphalt. It exploded with a flash and crack, throwing out some steel and rock fragments that ruined the otherwise flawless paintjobs of a pair of nearby tanks.

First Brigade was composed of four battalions, one tank, three infantry. A second tank battalion had come along for the ride and asserted themselves to be under Colonel Rehnquist's command, Malmquist was his XO and unofficially had been commanding the Second Brigade for the past few weeks. Malmquist had taken a helicopter from 2nd Brigade headquarters, now that Colonel Reynard finally showed up, and was due to be briefing the First in its assembly area in approximately four hours.

This wasn't going to happen. The pullout from the POMCUS site was a complete disaster. First Brigade was supposed to have been on assembly three hours ago, and out of the depot four hours ago. Traffic delays and confusion resulted in a mess of disorganisation, culminating in a tank crew crushing the front engine block of their company captain's liaison car and holding up the entire brigade for nearly thirty minutes. Bird bombs were only adding to the tension, everyone was too busy watching the skies for so-called "killer kits" to pay attention to the road.

Combine this with the necessity of civilian firefighting units to get inside the compound before "it starts a fire", and Malmquist was putting it at about six hours before they would be able to arrive at the front and reinforce the understrength 2nd Brigade. Third brigade would be arriving this afternoon, and Malmquist wanted to be gone before they arrived. Trying to cram a fire department's worth of bomb trucks and ten mechanised battalions through a two-lane thoroughfare would be an impossible task for the world's best traffic controller.

"At least no one's got hurt yet," Someone said. Malmquist looked around: A private, probably from the mainland, was staring at where the pigeon had dropped the bomblet. He was smiling a bit, then stopped when he noticed Malmquist, realising what he'd said.

Malmquist wanted to shoot him.

August 2nd, Late Afternoon, 1st Battalion, 601st Tank Destroyer Brigade
North of Wussendorf, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

"Identified! Tank! Front! Fire!"

"Identified! Ranging! On the way!"

The vehicle gave a lurch and thud, and Second Lieutenant Palme reseated himself on the periscope. Another loud thud came from outside, reverberating within the armoured fighting compartment. The sounds of armour-piercing shells smacking into the hull and turret, and failing to penetrate. Despite their name, the tank destroyers were just as tough, just as fast, and even better armed than the tanks they were fighting, so far the enemy's counter fire was doing little more than embedding itself in the paintjob.

Through the thermal periscope, Palme could see several Questerian tanks and APCs in the treeline ahead. They all looked very modern, sleek and with low silhouettes. Boxy, angled turrets with protected sights and large guns. These were a far cry from the stereotypical hemispherical turret, high silhouette Patton-style tanks he was expecting (and had chewed apart with 140mm sabot earlier). They weren't bogged down in spring mud, either, they were bounding across the field like heavily armoured thoroughbreds straight towards his platoon of tank destroyers, presenting perfect targets.

Palme was happy to oblige.

"Identified! PC! Right! Fire coax!" The turret drive kicked in, slewing the turret rapidly towards the tank. It overshot slightly, the fault of one slightly overzealous tank commander, and quickly braked and realigned with the personnel carrier.

"Coax! On the way!"

A series of short, muffled claps, like thunder from a distance. This time Palme kept his eyes through the periscope. A series of bright flashes appeared on the side of the personnel carrier, puffs of dust coming up from behind where the penetrators had continued through the entire fighting compartment. The turret hatches popped open then, jets of flame shooting forth, followed shortly by the rear personnel hatches and doors. The vehicle kept rolling on despite this, and Palme quickly looked away to avoid witnessing the inevitable mass of charred humanity which would pour forth from the burning vehicle.

"Tank! Right! Fire, fire sabot!" Palme shouted, slewing the turret further.

"Identified! Sabot up!" The gun didn't penetrate the compartment, but Palme could faintly hear the sound of the ribbon motor spinning up, the ramming arm loading a shell, and the gun laying drive placing it at the previous superelevation. One of the things you paid attention to without actually being aware of it.

"Ranging! On the way!"

The penetrator flew towards the tank, illuminated by a single bright dot, and covered the short distance in less than a second. A bright flash on the front of the tank and it kept moving. The barrel fired a single round into the sky, and smoke belched from the bore. Palme had seen this previously, he knew what was coming. The turret hatches didn't pop off this time. Instead, the turret itself sputtered, shaking spasmodically. Puffs of smoke appeared from underneath the turret ring. Then flames. Flames spat out at least five meters around, the turret continued to pop and rattle. Palme turned away as the vehicle erupted into a massive fireball, fire and smoke spraying out of all hatches and from underneath the turret. The vehicle rolled to a stop shortly afterwards.

Palme's platoon (and by extension the tank destroyer battalion) continued its counter-attack on the attacking Questerian troops until their ammunition was expended and then retreated towards friendly lines.

August 2nd, Mid Evening, 1st Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 10th Dragoons
West of the Lahn, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

Lieutenant Degermark had been taken to the battalion aid station, suffering from a moderate concussion. Loefgren, as Company Sergeant Major, had taken over command of A Company. Major Malmquist had been requisitioned by First Brigade, as their executive officer, and Reynard had arrived from the mainland with his staff to take over Second Brigade. All of this had filtered down to the battalions and companies of Second Brigade, scattered over sixty kilometers of rock and soil, and desperately clinging to their second line of entrenchments, prepared in a somewhat haphazard manner by conscripted Maldenes with bulldozers. Third Battalion, 7th Cuirassier Regiment had provided a blocking force for the 1st Battalion to retreat through, and now it was their turn to do the same.

First Sergeant Loefgren cradled the submachine gun as the last of the friendly tanks drove past. Questerian infantry were not far behind, Loefgren had heard the sounds of machine guns and artillery in the distance, and had a corporal standing nearby with a radio. The company had lost at least six APCs and a mortar vehicle during the past twenty four hours, and some casualties had been sustained by the extensive air bombardment, but nothing as catastrophic as some other units in the battalion.

Someone spoke over the radio: "Two columns, northeast. APCs and dismounted infantry, over,"

"Copy, APCs and dismounted infantry," The corporal responded.

Loefgren looked through the night optical device perched on his helmet. It was an old, monocular type, but sufficient to see out to the treeline. He could see green shadows milling about in the distance.

"Infantry in that treeline," He pointed so the corporal could see. "Put some flares out there."

The corporal got up on the dugout, shouting over to a recoilless rifle team to put some illumination rounds over the forest. They shouted something back and a few seconds later, the loud thwump of the gun firing, and a cloud of dust from the backblast. A tracer shell arced high above the treeline, igniting into a white ball that slowly floated downwards, casting hard shadows along the trees. Now readily visible, maybe thirty meters away, the Questerian reconnaissance troop began firing.

They were answered by sporadic rifle and machine gun fire. The Questerian troops weren't stupid, though, and they ducked behind rocks and logs to seek shelter, and one of them shouted something into a radio. Loefgren's English was poor, but he could make out "tank", and "help". The sound of crashing trees and a revved engine spelt it out. A small, light armoured tank appeared in the tree line and peppered the trenches and machine guns with automatic cannon fire in short, accurate bursts.

Loefgren dropped to his stomach and crawled slowly towards the recoilless rifle team, keeping his face buried against the ground to present as small a target as possible. Tracer rounds whizzed by, and Loefgren felt his blood run cold with every near miss.

A machine gun team down range opened up on the tank, very brief. Mostly to distract it and draw its fire. Cannon shells tore apart whatever cover they'd been using, but by the time it arrived they'd already relocated and were firing again. No one was firing rockets at the thing, and the small armoured vehicle began to cross the field towards the trenches.

Erik reached the small foxhole where the recoilless rifle team had been. He stifled the urge to vomit. The gunner was burned and had a large gash on his face where shrapnel hit him, the loader had been hit either directly or very closely by a cannon shell. His chest was torn open, his face pale and drained of blood, eyes glazed over. Loefgren looked away and coughed, the stench of death was heavy in the air. He covered his face with a handkerchief and crawled into the pit, hefting the launcher.

The tank continued its assault, infantry rushing behind it with bayonets fixed. Sporadic rifle fire, a LAW rocket spat out from some foxhole far back, smacking into the ground short of the tank and kicking up a cloud of dirt and mud. It stopped and started to reverse, the tank commander evidently overestimated his own position. Cannon rounds continued to spew from the bore.

Loefgren opened the rear of the launcher, checking to see what shell had been loaded. High explosive. He gingerly placed it aside and looked down at the dead loader. Underneath his corpse was the ammunition ruck for the anti-tank rounds, covered in gore. Erik put his sleeves up and hefted the corpse aside, gagging as the stink from ruptured intestines reached his nose. The tank was now back in the treeline, the infantry slightly ahead and firing at potential rocket positions. Return fire was still sporadic, but slowly picking up as a second machine gun fired on the infantry, and a pair of flares illuminated the field.

"Sergeant?" The corporal was poking his head out of the dugout.

"I'm fine," Loefgren shouted back, unscrewing the canister top and pulling out a HEAT shell. It was black, with yellow letters: "RSV 84mm" and indecipherable armoury stampings beneath that. "Stay on the radio, corporal!"

"Aye, sir!"

He slammed the shell into the rear of the rifle and closed the breech, locking it. The click of the firing pin was audible when the breech locked, and Loefgren hoisted the launcher to his shoulder, sighting the tank in. It was still sitting behind the infantry, and was now firing off to the right at some unseen target. The range pip on the sight went down to about fifty meters, and Erik sighted it in slightly above this. He pulled the trigger.

Loefgren's ears rang, and he found himself brightly illuminated for a terrifying split second. The backblast kicked up dirt, dust, and blood in a swirl around him. The recoil felt like he'd been punched in the chest by a boxer, and Erik cursed under his breath. The tracer shell arced through the air for half a second, hit the side of the tank, and detonated. The HEAT jet set off the internal ammunition, and the turret split open like a melon as cannon rounds in the gun exploded.

It took a few seconds for the Questerian troops to realise what had happened, and the Gallans likewise, then the trenches erupted in counter-fire. Rifles, machine guns, and recoilless rifles quickly escalated into a deafening cacophony, and the Questerians withdrew rapidly through the treeline under the cover of mortar fire and smoke.

After a few minutes of lying in the foxhole with dead men to avoid the artillery, Erik crawled back to the dugout, covered in gore and carrying the Carl Gustav and several canisters of ammunition he'd hefted from underneath the crew. The corporal stared at him, mouth agape.

"God..." The man's voice trailed off. Erik's boots and trousers were soaked dark with blood, and his hands and forearms were smeared with it. His blouse had streaks of blood where he'd tried to wipe it off, to little avail. His handkerchief had splatters of it, the corporal didn't know if he'd been coughing it up or if it flew into his face. His eyes were glassed over, looking past the man in front of him. The CSM regained his focus when the corporal met his eyes, and blinked. The First Sergeant glowered at the corporal.

"Well, what are you staring at, corporal? Get on the radio, no one called off the war because you got a little blood on your boots." Loefgren said, then set the launcher and ammunition aside and returned to his post.

First Brigade arrived an hour later, reinforcing A Company with a platoon of main battle tanks and a second rifle company. CSM Loefgren was officially relieved by Captain Drake of H Company, 1st Brigade, 10th Dragoons, although the personnel shortages in A Company meant there were no suitable officers to actually take command, and Erik was left to tend to his men.

August 2nd, Late Evening, 8th Corps Headquarters
Hanhausen, Mandate of Henaan-Malden

General Sternberg stared at the light table, tapping his finger on the display. The Chief Warrant Officer of his missile battery was standing across from him, working with the G3 and G2 to figure out the best targets for his surface-to-surface missiles.

"Hmm," The general stared at the board in front of him, imagining it a giant chess board. Spread across it were symbols. Blue diamonds marked with numbers like "11", "3", "10", "601", and red ones marked "45", "14", "310", and others. "For certain, they're taking us in now."

The G3 looked up. "Sir?"

"For certain, boy," Sternberg stared back at the colonel. "The enemy has most certainly been waiting for us to commit ourselves so that we may seek a battle of annihilation with him. Well, he has gotten his wish. Let us hope he can handle it, and let us hope our dogs of war are not so fat and timid that they shirk from mortal danger, but not so foolish and bloodthirsty that they seek it as a matter of course."

The G3 blinked. He obviously didn't understand. Sternberg affixed his gaunt gaze upon him.

"I'm saying, boy, that the battle has shifted from strategy to tactics. All that has been done is done. The die is cast and the pieces are in place. Now we must hope that luck is on our side and we do not flinch nor yield to his onslaught," He addressed the colonel directly. "What's the status of our brigades?"

"First Brigade is holding out, they've formed with the Third Battalion, Seventh Armoured. Last transmission from their headquarters they said they were 'locked in a titanic clash of wits and will with the Red Menace'. Second Brigade, Tenth Dragoons should be at their assembly area now, if not already joined with First. Second Brigade, Twelfth Dragoons is on the move, they've left the depot in Stendal, they should be passing through Arnsdorf at the moment. First Brigade, Seventh Armoured is currently constituting themselves as are the Twelfth and Seventeenth Air Defense Battalions, and Third Brigade, Twelfth Dragoons should be arriving this evening in Stendal. The Twelfth Air Defense Battalion is reporting that much of their equipment has been destroyed by surface-to-surface missiles, though."

"Hm, it's all going according to schedule, then, minor hiccups aside. How is General Hultgren? Word from him?"

"Plenty. He's stuck in traffic and being swarmed by refugees asking for money, food, or flights off the island. Says they're a bigger obstacle than anything he's ever seen, but he should be at the front sometime early morning, around 0200."

"Ah, good. What sort of deep targets can we attack?"

"Working on that, sir, but we've identified a fairly large series of missile batteries in the south, we think. We might try to hit them with ATACMS, they're too far for our field guns, but those are getting a workout putting rounds on the frontline and counter battery fire."

"Good, good. The lines are stable?"

"As much as they can be, sir. We've given up a lot of maneuver space, we're tightly bunched up, but so are they."

"The northern flank? I see there's the 11th Regiment there, and the tank destroyers."

"Yes, sir, that's all we've got against the 310th, but they've been hammered by interdictors from Arnsdorf. Admiral Syren claims to have killed their divisional artillery, I believe, but the 601st brigade reports that they're still receiving some sporadic artillery fire."

"Tell Admiral Syren to put all his aircraft towards supporting the north. When the Twelfth arrives, I want the 11th Cavalry to keep the 310th occupied while Second Brigade comes in from the flank and cuts their link across the river." Sternberg stared at the red diamond on the map. If they went north, they would be chasing down the tank destroyers, right into the second brigade. If they went towards Wussendorf, they would be engaged with the 11th ACR and their flank would be open. If they went east to open up the Kothen Gap, the 11th and 2nd Brigade could attack their exposed flank and cross the river. The only question was whether the troops in Kothen could keep the Questerians occupied long enough.