Grace of the Gods(Altereal Only)

[Mansuriyyah Islamic State]

Waters between Iverik and Mansuriyyah

Several enemy jets suddenly appeared from the flank just after Iverik’s AWAC was engulfed by a ball of fire, catching the squadron by surprise. As they maneuvered, one of the Mansuriyyah’s jets was destroyed. Thru the radio, they called for immediate assistance.
While a friendly AWACS surveyed the skies with its sensors to find out more about the enemy newly deployed aircraft, two frigates readied to launch long-range anti-air missiles.

In the Jabbar’s command room, Admiral Yunus Aydin observed the screens and listened to the radio reports. “Those must be Vladislav’s! They came sooner than we expected. Send an encrypted messange to the fourth fleet commander, tell him to change course to these coordinates”, the Admiral handed the radio operator a piece of paper, “We must get the enemy with all that we have now before he can counterattack”


Iverik’s coast

A small, old looking fishing ship navigated along the coast. However, inside it, unknown to the eyes of whoever looked, were several high-tech communications and surveillance equipment, as well as two teams of MIS Navy’s Special Forces. One of the teams was getting ready to disembark using a small inflated boat. They were equipped for a deep recognizance mission. The other team would go with the ship further east, where a MIS UAV had spotted what seemed to be a naval base full of transport ships. A small UAV was launched from the boat to go ahead of it, to spot any possible threats.

[The United Front Confederation]

Fort Jahari, New Islamabad, UFC

Commander Scott wadded up the piece of paper he'd been reading. It was a reply directly from Salih in the Islamic State. He was unwilling to budge his forces for the respect of his people. While admirable, it was regrettable. Salih would understand that he also could not budge in his own motives. He looked up at the corporal assistant and called for his attention, "Corporal. Call Kherry. Tell him the decision is made. He must go on." The corporal stared at Scott for a good ten seconds, his Adam's apple bobbed a few times before he nodded and walked out of the command room.

Valley Border

Kherry clicked the phone off and sighed. Since handing the letter to the Islamic State soldier, the group had rejoined the forward army elements of the UFC. He walked up into the closest APC, an old and weathered, but reliable Bradley, where he flipped on the command-net radio. "This is Captain Kherry. All Units: Move forward." There was a pause before all across the front, Kherry could hear the rumbling as dozens of engines of tanks and APCs came to life, black smoke from diesel engines raising above the tan, brown, and mottled vehicles. Soldiers stood and pulled on their packs and weapons and looked forward into the sun. With that, the four central divisions of the UFC oved towards the border of the Mansuriyyah Islamic State.

[Grand Russian Federation]

A few kilometers from the UFC-Russlavian border

Unexpectedly, in the midst of preparation for war, all was quiet. Not a sound except from nature could be heard, birds chirping, leaves getting crunched, and the occasional deer or squirrel treading across the landscape, unaware of what was to happen. It was the silence before the storm, one that would be broken quickly.

2 men in camouflaged equipment appeared from the foliage and proceeded to scan the border with long-range binoculars. 
"Just a few border guards here, comrades," said one man who was radioing in to his command. "We can easily get the drop on them and move virtually unopposed if we begin soon."
"Noted. The assault will begin soon. Your orders are to regroup with our forward forces to assist.", a deep voice over the radio ordered. The two raised themselves from their positions behind a thick bush.
"Affirmative, we are beginning to withdraw." The soldier on the radio gestured towards his silent friend. "C'mon, let's go now! We can do sightseeing later." 

ONE HOUR LATER
3 crewmen stood near their tank, with it's engine running, chatting casually about their families and lives before the military, or whatever they deemed important enough to talk about. One was smoking a cigarette, impatiently checking the time. The uneasy peace was broken by a sudden crackle of a loudspeaker... "How lucky we are, that the Russlavian Army has prevented the scourge of capitalism and fascism from penetrating Russlavia.. How lucky we are." It was Marshal Vasilyev. "How lucky we are, indeed.."
For a moment, after the message ended there was almost complete silence. Then, with an earshattering series of blasts, artillery batteries began a barrage on known border stations and UFC military encampments near the borders, throwing debris and dirt into the air as they slammed into the ground. The message was simply a disguised way of saying attack, and that was the way it had always been - sudden senseless propaganda was the norm.

As the barrage went on, various vehicles started up as their crews and passengers piled into them, and belched ash-colored smoke into the air. The roar of engines and smell of burning fuel traveled throughout the air.
In total, nearly 185,000 soldiers were participating in the invasion of the UFC, along with nearly 470 tanks, 70 attack helicopters, and much more. 

Above convoys of tanks and APCs beginning their task of smashing through the UFC-Russlavia border, several jets and helicopters soared. "To New Islamabad," cried a Russlavian soldier initially, which soon became the chant of the invasion force. 



The first Russlavian tanks and infantry forces crossed the border within 30 minutes.

[Pandeeria]

"Welcome General Way" a minister from the Ministry of Strength approached him. Armed Iverik Guards surrounded the plane, with snipers on multiple roof tops, all of which seemed to be pointing their rifles at the General and his men. In the distance was the sound of loudspeakers, spouting out propaganda. "My name is Ivan Jadfer, an official minister of the Ministry of Strength. Welcome to the pinnacle of the peoples' revolution. Welcome to the Iverik Empire! Unfortunately, We don't have much time for the formalities. Please come with me." Ivan signaled. The buildings in the distance looked in a poor state. Roofs were poorly boarded up, the sky was thick with smog from factories churning out more and more military weapons, mostly ammunition and tanks. Even one of the official ministry buildings, the one that was Ivan was leading the General toward, was merely acceptable. With barb wired fences that were electrified, armed guards and police-trained dogs, and cameras watching, did not seem very luxurious. A around the area, the Iveriks couldn't even afford people to remove weeds or properly rebuild homes, yet the Iveriks spent billions on installing cameras that recorded both sound and high-definition color. And they seemed to be omnipresent. Every turn, every corner, there was a camera recording blankly the movements of each person.

Inside the room, there was a blank wooden table in the center. On one side of the wall was a massive Iverik flag. There were two more cameras in this room, each one in opposite corners. "May I offer you something to drink before we begin discussion?" Ivan asked as he gestured for the General to take a set opposite of Ivan.

---

"Sir! One of our patrolling AWACs were shot out of the sky. We believe Islamic aircraft shot it out of the air." One of the younger cadets yelled out to Admiral Leon.

All Leon did sit there. Being on one of the two aircraft carriers, at the heart of the fleet, he felt safe and secure. "Hmmm. Very well. Order the corvettes to take an anti-aerial approach incase those planes come anymore into range. A-"

"Sir!" Another man on the opposite side of the room cried out. "Our frigates have detected undersea vehicles, not ones of Iverik nor civilian signature. So far we've detected three, however we expect there may be more. We believe it's Islamic undersea weaponry, essentially submarines."

Admiral Leon shrugged. "Alright. For now have our Frigates hold off on their long range weapons. Have them fire suppressive anti-submarine rounds with hit for effect in mind. Send this information to our several submarines under the water to began to push up fire as well at their subs." Leon leaned back in his chair, laughing to himself. "They've just out classed themselves."

Before anyone claims I've just god modded, remember: Frigates specialize in the detection and destruction of hostile submarines. Not only do they have a variable depth sonars, but they also have torpedos, along with helicopters and missiles built specifically for the destruction and neutralization of submarines.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frigate#Anti-submarine_role

[Ordoxia]

Airbase on the North-East of Ordoxia.

A General entered the control room, and all the soldiers stood up saluting him. He saluted back and went towards the table with a microphone:
"We finaly got the order" after reaching the table, he continued: "Start the mission".
The soldier in front of the microphone answered: "Yes sir" and then spoke into the microphone: "All teams, we have a go. I repeat, we have a go".
After a short pause, he continued: "Team one, team two, start the engines, prepare to take off in one minute" after another short pause: "Teams three and four, prepare to get into position. Other teams, please stand by."
Radio:
"Team one, copy that CT."
"Team two, copy."

Within the next half an hour, several cargo airplanes accompanied by fighter aircraft were flying towards MIS. The General then exited the room, heading to report to the Central Command.

[Vladislav Federation]

General Way, Iverik Empire

"Sure, Minister." the general smiled after, he observed the room and noticed that there are cameras installed. "So my question earlier, what is the current strategy of the Iverik Empire?"

Waters between Iverik and Mansuriyyah

"We got them, can you see those ships below?" said by the pilot over his radio. "Affirmative." replied by all. The pilot began to speak again on the radio "Before they strike us, a few of us should drop missiles while the rest attack the enemy. Now!"

Mokatopol Naval Base, Mokatopol, Nisanov

The preparations are now complete, the transport aircraft carrying 92 ground combatants each a total of 460 combatants will leave after the fleet. Aircrafts will escort the transport aircraft along the way. "General, the first fleet left 5 minutes earlier. Are you done for the preparations?" asked by Vice Admiral to the colonel of Air Force. "Yes." "You may now order them to leave, it's up to you."

[Republic of Canador]

40 Kilometers from the UFC/Mansuriyyah Border
-Mansuriyyah
Auðmundur Finnólfurson hauled his equipment from out of the trunk of his rented car. He put the briefcase down on the fading paint of the car's peeling green roof and opened it. The black matte finish of his single lens reflex camera greeted the intense sun that struck down upon Auðmundur like a vengeful spirit of the sky. He gazed pleasurably at it, the USB flash drive wedged in between the camera and the felt lining of the case contributing to the eager grin stretched across his face.

The media will have a field day with this information...

Auðmundur had been capturing photographs and video footage of the paralyzing terrors of the war tirelessly for the past week, and was gratuitously rewarded for his efforts with revolting documentation of displaced citizens and the burnt remains of children who were nothing more than an anonymous statistic in the civilian body count. All around him lay charred earth and the scorched skeletons of once proud trees. War was an impersonal affair, arbitrarily seeking its talons into the flesh of those wishing to take no part in it. It seemed almost haunting to Auðmundur; a surreal occurrence paying no attention to the standing or social status of the belligerents engaged. They were all but pawns on a gargantuan board of political chess waged by a select elite.

The photojournalist swiftly pulled his camera out of the briefcase and removed the lens cap. A series of several electronic beeps welcomed him with the push of the power button. He brought the viewfinder to his eye and peered out at the destruction spread in front of him. Auðmundur snapped several pictures, the soft clicking of the shutter the only sound he heard save for the whistling of the wind. His camera had always soothed him; without it he felt vulnerable and unprepared for whatever worthy event the world could throw at him at any time. It was an extension of his own body and mind, serving to physically record the scenes he had the opportunity to see unfold before his presence.

After snapping about several dozen photographs of the landscape, Auðmundur felt satisfied with his work. He replaced the lens cap and put the camera back in its brief case nesting. The next shoot would be one in the midst and total chaos of relentless combat.

My weapon is superior to the rifle, for I am the purveyor of change...

[The United Front Confederation]

UFC-Russlavian Border, Peuntian Territory, UFC

The young Peuntian militiaman shouldered his rifle lazily as he walked along the litte outpost. Not much happened here. The Adjunct was a good leader, a strong one, and the militiaman knew he was serving a just cause. Being one of the more privileged territories in the country, the Peuntian Empire's militia all had matching uniforms and weapons that were, while not new, they were at least made within most of the militiamen's lives. The militiaman who was patrolling this small outpost was barely twenty, and his views on the world were still radial and optimistic, but as soon as he was old enough, he'd attempt to become an advisor the the Adjunct or possibly work in Commander Scott's staff in New Islamabad.

The whistling sound was new the the militiaman, who'd never heard the sound before. But the explosion of the vehicles at the opposite end of the outpost made him realize what it was: An attack. He'd known the Russlavians had been amassing at the border, but this was crazy! They were attacking the Peuntian Empire? The young soldier ran to take cover under a roof outcropping while he looked on in horror as civillian cars and the few military technicals the outpost had went up in flames.

Camp Pacifa, Peuntian Territory, UFC

The Adjunct nodded as he hung up the phone. He commanded the respect of nearly 900,000 people, and his word was law in this territory. He'd heard the report as it came up the line of command, and he'd made a quick and rash decision. He re-opened his phone and dialed the numbe rof the militia commander on the other side of Camp Pacifa, the Peuntian Territory's HQ. "Captain? I want out entire militia to pick up and move against the invaders this instant. Yes, all of them. No, I don't care about defense of Pacifa, my territory is under attack! Well, there are 2,500 officers of the central government's Security Division in the territory, have them defend here, but I want my men defending the Empire's land, do you understand me?! Do it now or I'll shoot you myself!" The Adjunct clamped the phone shut. Really, he was a coward, and his nervous breathing could show it. The man feared for his live, and prayed that his eight-thousand-strong militiamen armed with nothing more than personnel weapons, a few AA and AT weapons, and a few dozen technicals would be enough to at least give the Russlavians pause. He hope so, for his sake.

[Grand Russian Federation]

Peuntian Front HQ, south of the UFC-Russlavia border

In a leather chair inside of an elegantly furnished room, complete with wooden bookshelfs crafted from the finest wood, paintings of historical people who upheld Russlavian socialism and independence, and several glass cases with alcoholic beverages inside, sat Marshal Yuri Vasilyev, shuffling through several propaganda posters with his aide and 2 artists, while 4 guards stood at his door.

"Interesting... Very good... Excellent! This is quite the good material. In fact, so good that I will greenlight this for distribution," said the Marshal enthusiastically to the artists. His aide was watching over his shoulders gazing at the posters. One of them read "Don't die needlessly! Surrender guarantees: your life, your freedom, and your proper treatment!" with an illustration of smiling soldiers holding up a white flag. Another read "Surrender is not a crime; it's a lifesaver. Don't die for your country, but live for your family." with an illustration of a wife and children hugging a returning soldier. 
"You both have quite the talent for this sort of job, and we will consider employing you both." Vasilyev stood up with his stand outstretched, and gave both artists, one man and one woman, a hearty handshake. The woman began to talk in a slow and nervous voice. "T-t-thank you, comrade marshal, I-I have certainly dreamed of beginning a famous illustrator, but I n-never thought it would happen this way." The male artist simply nodded in agreement, with a blank expression on his face.

"You are both dismissed, go on with whatever you may have been doing. I need some time to attend to important matters." The Marshal motioned the guards to leave along with the 2 illustrators. 2 guards armed with fully loaded and automatic assault rifles escorted the visitors out of the room, leaving only Vasilyev and his aide. "I want you to tell our propaganda guys to print these en masse. I have an idea..."

MUCH, MUCH LATER - Peuntian Territory

While the whistling of artillery and mortars suddenly became large explosive blasts, the engines of tanks droned on through the moderate landscape of the United Front, and the constant machine-gun fire tore through foliage and people alike, a few strange shapes appeared on the horizon, not on land, but in the sky. They teetered heavily and flew relatively slowly at a low altitude, and once they came closer, it was clear what they were - compact strike fighters that didn't look to be of the current generations of combat aircraft. They didn't seem to make any combat movements. None strafed any troops with machine-guns, or fired a payload of missiles. However, they were mounted with several bombs.

Once flying above Peuntian lines, the bombs were dropped. However, instead of dropping to the ground and exploding, cratering the ground and blowing off the appendages of soldiers, they broke apart to reveal a flurry of papers that steadily drifted to the ground. A leaflet drop. Most made it to the ground, with some getting stuck in trees or being soaked in bodies of water. Once the payloads were delivered, each pilot proceeded to head home.

Propaganda leaflets. "Save your family from grief - surrender to the Russlavian Armed Forces!" was just what was written on a single one, with a large assortment of different leaflets. "Life or death - an easy choice." said another, with a photograph of a surrendering soldier alongside a different photo of dead, shot-up soldiers being walked over by Russlavian conscripts.

As the advance of tanks continued, the enemies were left to consider their options in the face of overwhelming Russlavian force.

[Republic of Canador]

South of the UFC Border
Auðmundur had wandered his way to the general location of UFC camp Pacifica. He knew the dangers that were at hand; after all he could very well be mistaken for an enemy combatant and shot on the spot. But he wanted a good story, and the central camp was the photojournalist's ultimate opportunity to find such. If he were lucky, he'd be granted admission into the camp and perhaps interview the unit's commanding officer.

Auðmundur's cell phone buzzed from inside the car's cup holder. With one hand, he reached over and picked it up.

"Hei, this is Auðmundur Finnólfurson,"

"Hei Auðmundur, it's Sebina. Listen, we need to talk,"

Sebina was a fellow photojournalist currently roaming the streets of Novokalatsch.

"Ja, sure. What do you need?"

"I'm trying to schedule an interview with someone high up in the Russlavian government. Do you think you can give me a hand with the story?"

Auðmundur contemplated the matter for a short moment. He felt content with his work here near the front, and didn't want to give up any military action. An interview with the Russlavians however could possibly win him the Pulitzer Prize.

"Of course I will. I'll find a flight to there as soon as I can."

Sebina squeaked with delight.
"Thank you! I look forward to seeing you again! Anyways, I have to go, so I'll text you later. Farvel!"

Auðmundur hung up the phone and placed it back in the cup holder. He was anticipating his first trip to Russlavia, and could almost hear his Pulitzer calling.

[The United Front Confederation]

Peuntian Territory, UFC

Peuntian milita looked helplessly above as leaflets and propaganda fell on them. They were marching towards the front even as the planes flew by, but there was no AA here, only closer to Camp Pacifa. The soldiers looked at the leaflets, and then at each other. They'd heard of the surprise artillery barrages against the friends, brothers, and sisters on the border. And now the Russlavians insult them with this garbage? How dare they! The Peuntian Imperial Militia marched with vigor, only 8,000 strong and dwindling, but still full of heart, onward to meet the attackers.

Closer to the border, at small outpost camps strung along the border, militiamen took potshots and incoming soldiers, with the occasional RPG rocket fired towards the incoming tanks. Some of the troops died as the oncoming Russlavian wall moved ever closer, but the militiamen on thw front refused to move, even after being battered by artillery. They fought with renewed courage as they were notified that the rest of their militia moved to join them.