NATION

PASSWORD

The Second Uitland War

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Xianlong
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Founded: Feb 24, 2014
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The Second Uitland War

Postby Xianlong » Wed Aug 05, 2015 8:13 am

Imperial Intelligence Bureau HQ, Imperator Plaza

Agent Tom Carson loved his boss' office. He dreamed of one day owning one like it. It had soaring views over the capital, and was finely furnished with plush chairs, fresh pastries and tea or coffee at the side. So Carson was happy enough to wait whilst Sheng Fei, section chief of the Uitland Desk, finished a conference call in meeting room C. He had helped himself to tea and a couple of biscuits, and was standing taking in the view as the setting sun bathed the Citadel in soft buttery light. 

"The view almost makes up for the bureaucratic shitstorm I have to wade through every day." Carson turned as Sheng eased himself into his chair, which was flanked by two Xianese Imperial flags. Carson sat as his boss slid a folder across his fine Ironwood desk. "I have an assignment for you. Something to get you out of the chicken farm and back into your element." 

Carson smiled. The "chicken farm" was the nickname given to the IIB's analyst's department, a long, low room filled with pasty-faced computer techs crunching through immense amounts of data. He was more than happy to leave. 

"I'm ready, sir. My wound has fully healed." Carson had been hit by a bullet during his last mission, an "erasure"-an assassination- on the insurgent-infested Marana Archipelago in the eastern seas. To recuperate he had been reassigned to HQ, a posting that had almost sent him mad. Tom Carson was a field agent, and the enforced lethargy had been a nightmare. 

"Yes," Answered Sheng, "Your latest Physical says as much. Excellent." The section chief leaned back in his chair as Agent Carson picked up the folder. It was dark blue, meaning that it was going to be an Active Measure. Subversion, sabotage, insurgency. Lovely stuff.

 Green would have meant propaganda. Yellow, Economic Measure. Black, Political Measure. Finally Red, Erasure. 

"Operation Gauntlet." Sheng said as Carson opened the folder.

The Imperial Army had invaded their northern neighbour, the Uitland Coalition,a year ago, following a series of biological attacks on Xianese towns by one of the Coalitions many Militia groups. There had always been skirmishes on the border between the two nations, but the use of such horrific weaponry-including the pathogen Soren-77- had pushed the Armed Forces High Command into invading the Coalition.

 The Coalition was a loose union of diverse regions, divided by religion and culture, that had a long history of internal divisions and conflict. Each region in theory could be called upon to fight for the central government, based in the snowy mountain fortress of Kligenthal. The central government had a small professional army, augmented by each regions militia. The Xianese government could not even be sure that the Coalition government itself was responsible for the virus bombing as each region often acted  before asking the bureaucrats "stuck up the mountain" for permission, if they even asked at all. But it didn't matter; if the Uitlanders could not prevent their own subordinates from using terror weapons like Soren-77, the Imperial government would be forced to act.  

On the 7th of December, 2014, the Xianese launched their attack. The 7th Army, led by General Erich Hartmann, sliced through the Coalitions regular army forces in south Uitland.  The Imperials were greatly aided by the fact that the border region of the Coalition,Hjarmak, contained a substantial population of Imperial Loyalists. These  Xianese settlers had found themselves part of a country that they wanted no part of, and the possibility of returning to the fatherland caused many to rise up against the Coalition in the name of the Empire. 

The conflict was short but brutal. The great strength of the Uitlanders was their flexible army. The militia could be counted on to ferment rebellion and resistance in occupied territory, and even the regular Coalition Army was excellent at breaking large formations down into small resistance cells. This flexibility and independent-minded system was also their greatest weakness, however; many regions were reluctant to obey orders from Central Command in Kligenthal, and as the Imperial Army continued to advance the Coalition began to fall apart from within. 

When the region of Vvarden's Militia was comprehensively defeated during the Nine Days Campaign in early April 2015 by rapid, hard-hitting Imperial forces, Vvarden's Council announced that they were  proclaiming independence and seeking a ceasefire with the Xianese. When General Hartmann signed the Pawder Treaty on the 12th of April it threw the Coalition into disarray. Regular army troops began a systematic program of repression throughout Uitland, bringing the recalcitrant regions into line through fear. But the Coalition was fatally weakened, and the Imperial war machine continued its' relentless march. Imperial soldiers were greeted as liberators by the Xianese population of Uitland. 

The breaking point came in June. The Coalitions second biggest city, Frosthelm, under siege by General Greg "Grim Reaper" Scarpa, fell after the militia units inside began fighting with regular army troops. The rot spread quickly, and within two weeks the Coalition had almost entirely fallen apart. Council Head Magnus Tiersen formally surrendered to General Hartmann on the 20th of July.  The Coalition agreed to hand over all of their stockpiles of biological and chemical weapons. The Xianese did not dissolve the Coaltions government; the state was allowed to survive, although many of its constituent  regions declared themselves separate. A state of constant war now rages in almost all of Uitland. The border region of Hjarmak was annexed to the Empire and the Xianese army given permission to act unilaterally against any threats inside the Coalition. 

Operation Gauntlet was quite simple. One of the major anti-Coalition forces active inside Uitland was the People's Liberation Front, a band of Marxist revolutionaries dedicated to the destruction of both the Coalition and the Empire. The IIB had been considering sending materiel support to the PLF's main rival, the Sons of Silence, for a few months now. The Sons are a religious movement dedicated to the establishment of a Holy Land in Uitland, and thus are the mortal foe of any communist. The time had come to aid the Sons, as the communists were gaining power and support. Agent Carson was to go north to the Uitlander region of Roandel with a consignment of Imperial weapons to deliver to the religious zealots who would in turn serve as a Xianese proxy against the communists and any other power wanting to expand at the expense of the weakened Coalition. 

Carson closed the folder. "Seems simple enough." He said. His boss nodded. "Go to the city of Zhitomir. In the Industrial District there is a whorehouse, Cat's Claw. Ask for Borisov, je will get you in touch with the Sons. You make sure that they do not attack anyone we want to keep out of Uitland. An assassination or something is a perfect excuse for someone else to invade our northern neighbour, and we don't want that. Understood?" 

Agent Carson nodded and got to his feet. Time to go back to work. 

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Die Erworbenen Namen
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Father Knows Best State

Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Tue Aug 11, 2015 9:37 am

USSDEN
Imperial Palace
Hochburg City
Central Command


Breaks like this weren't common in his office. They weren't rare, but they were appreciated all the more. It was then that he liked to take the time off, and stand up, walk around. He liked to grab a drink and walk to the window and watch the snow fall onto the city outside. From where the Imperial Palace stood on the mountain top, he could see for miles around the city, even onto the forests that surrounded them. That was the one distinguishing feature in the real capitol of DEN: The mountains. He got a clear view in front, and to ninety degrees on either side of the city, and the ground, below him, nearly thousands of feet. But anything beyond that was covered by the thick dense rock of the Hochburg Mountain Range. And today he was watching the snow settle on the north side, enjoying his view.

Today the snow was light, and fluffy as it fell. The temperatures had not dived down below freezing for a long time now, and since it was not winter he could enjoy the sight without worrying about the cold. But perhaps it would've been better if it was winter. Sure, he thought, Corinth would have a hard time visiting the southern states, but there would be very little threat of invasion from those imperial bastards in the south. Damn them! Damn them and their political ambitions! He had worked hard to make this empire what it was today, and he was not about to let it be lost to those fools.

"I see you're enjoying the snow as well, Tovarishch Emperor." A voice said from behind. The emperor, as he was now known, turned around to see an older man standing behind him, wearing an olive green military dress suit. He had a charming smile on his face, like all old men seemed to have. He was a grandfatherly person, but he could be harsh when he needed to. The mix of his smile and the uniform proved that. "It's a great day for skiing. Ahh... I shall miss my life north of the Hochburg Range."

"Corinth! I couldn't imagine you meeting me this early, Tovarishch. What brings you to my office?" The Emperor asked, with an equal smile on his face. He was always happy to see the old man, no matter what the circumstances was. To this man, Corinth was more of a father like figure than he had ever seen, and it was reflected in how he treated him. "Come in, come in. Sit, please. Cigar? Drink? Anything?"

"Ahh, I'll take water. Liquor and cigars are bad for my health at this age, Maximus." He politely declined, and sat down as he was asked. He let out a sigh as he eased into the seat, pushing out the creases in his uniform as he got comfortable. "I fear I shall be getting too old for this, my friend."

"Aye, that you are, sadly. I myself am only just feeling the stresses of running this Empire." Maximus replied, and sat down across from him, handing his friend a glass of water and then reclining in the plush leather. "So, to what honor do I have for your visit?"

"I wished to come and say goodbye. And to inform you that this will be the last job I take. After this, I'm afraid I shall resign. Lord knows I deserve to." He said, and paused, looking down at the desk. "If those bastard imperialists hadn't invaded the Coalition..."

"And if I had a blue face, there would be a different picture in the papers. Yes, it is sad. We did all we could against the Imperialists at that time, and now we have to focus on the closest lands. The Border." Maximus said, and sighed. The fall came expected. The invasion did not. DEN could only send weapons to the place at the time, but now they had grown in size, and grown in power. They had drawn a line in the sand in the middle of the Coalition, and anything north of that was fortified to the point of insanity. It was there that Corinth was to go. And it would be the last assignment that Maximus would ever send him on, one way or another. "But now those bastards are undoubtedly funding the PLF. We have to make a statement."

"Oh, oh I know. I just wish, I suppose, that it would be someone else." He said with a smile. He knew that the region was filled with dangers of all sorts, but he would go anyway. It was his duty to the country.

"You know I wish it, too, my friend." Maximus replied, and sighed. Of anything that could happen... he wished that a war was the last of it.
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Xianlong
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Postby Xianlong » Wed Aug 12, 2015 2:20 pm

Agent Carson had never liked organized religion. To him it was just a racket. A scam used to extort the fearful and the weak. The Empire in it's wisdom imposed tight controls on religion, and Carson was thankful for it. But if the IIB wanted to arm a Catholic fundamentalist group to do the Empire's bidding, so be it. Agent Carson would obey. 

Carson had extensive experience in the big cities of Uitland; one of his most difficult operations had taken place in the capital, Kligenthal, just before the end of the war. He had also visited Zhitomir on the way there, and knew how to find it's red light districts. From the moment that the Republican Airways passenger jet had opened its doors Carson had been familiarising himself with the city's feel. Zhitomir felt contented; it's region, Roandel, had successfully obtained semi-autonomy from the Coalition and thus the cities and towns of the region enjoyed greater control over their wealth and industry. Only defence was controlled by the Coalition Central Command far to the north. 

Carson thanked the cab driver before clambering out to stand in front of the Cat's Claw whorehouse. The cab peeled away in a cloud of blue smoke as the IIB agent went inside. The interior was dark and full of smoke. The odour of strong male sweat, alcohol, and marijuana permeated the place. Carson slipped through the mass of people to the bar, where a mostly-naked woman strode up and down atop the bar, high heels ringing against glasses. Carson leaned across, beckoning the barman over.

"No touching her." the man said, pointing at the stripper. "you want a woman, you go upstairs." Carson shook his head.  "I'm looking for a man." He answered. The barman smiled then shook his head. "Try Bertelli's, on Peremite Avenue. We only do girls here." 

Carson shook his head. "Not for that. Guy's name is Borisov." 

The barman nodded. "He's over there. You want to conduct business, you wait your turn." he pointed to a small, nondescript man in deep conversation with two men who were obviously pimps in a small dark booth. Carson thanked the man and ordered a glass of Coke. He sat and drank it slowly until Borisov finished with the pimps. Then the IIB agent went over. He slid into the booth, keeping his hands visible and his movements slow. 

"Word is, you're the man to see about my soul."Carson began the code phrase. 

"Are you a true penitent?" Borisov answered. 

"I will be." Carson completed the code. 

Borisov leaned forward, toying with his drink. "You must be our friend from the south. Good to meet you. I'm Borisov, in case you hadn't figured that out." 

"You can call me Ian." Said Tom Carson. "You know why I'm here." 

"To help the righteous against the godless communists." 

"Indeed." Carson answered, trying not to sound sarcastic.


The Zhitomir Highway was one of the most infamous roads in Uitland. A multi-lane motorway that ran from Zhitomir itself through the bleak wastes of the Icefields, vast expanses of ice dotted with oil refineries and pumping stations. The climate was harsh, constant snowstorms reducing visibility to zero. Borisov drove Carson to the Sons of Silence safe house, located under an oil pumping station, in a huge offroad truck. Not once in their 2 hour drive did the Sons militant speak. Carson was happy enough with that. He was content in the knowledge that the tracking device inserted beneath his skin against the rib cage was broadcasting his location every 25 seconds to an Imperial Air Force XA-110 bomber stuffed with electronics and radar, circling high overhead. 

Darkness had fallen by the time that Carson was lead into the underground safe house. He threw off his coat and gloves, listening to the howl of the wind outside.as Borisov launched into a welcome speech, which Carson ignored. There were four other men present, clearly representatives for the rest of the country. 

"The deal is simple." He began. "I represent certain concerned parties outside the Coalition who are deeply concerned about the direction that the internal politics of Uitland are taking at the moment. The Communist movement, we are sure, is being influenced by an outside party who wish to act as a puppeteer inside this great land. Now we know that you and your brethren are good warriors of Christ, and have sought to contain the Communists for years. But now it is not enough. You need help. I can help you with this." 

Borisov was wary. "In exchange for what?" He asked, lighting a cheap cigar. 

"Our condition is thus: you will not attack any outside aggressor yourselves. We know that DEN, for example, covets regions bordering themselves and is ready to war with anyone who seeks to stop them. Do not attack them. It would bring hellfire down on your movement and the country. Limit your acts to those foes still inside your borders. All right?" 

Borisov pondered for a moment. "And if DEN invades?" 

Carson laughed. "Then it is a different game altogether. But they won't, not until they are provoked." 

"Fine." Borisov said finally, after conferring with the other men in the room at length. "We accept your help. But who do you work for? Will they be able to get the weapons, equipment, vehicles, and such into Uitland?"

"Fear not." Carson said with a smile. "The good Lord will provide."

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Sarxland
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Snakes and Serpents

Postby Sarxland » Thu Aug 13, 2015 4:11 am

One Month ago

James Landat had been many things over the years, he was a veteran of the Uitland Militia in the war against the Xianese Imperialists, he hadn't been a dumb grunt either, he had been a Major and a damned good one at that, he had been at the siege of Frosthelm, he'd seen his people fight over the burning scraps of their nation as the land was aflame with war. He'd followed religion, he'd followed political leaders, he had followed Generals. And there was one thing in common with them all, they had all failed, not just him, but his country as a whole. And that made him angry. Angry enough to pick up his rifle again and prepare to fight once more. But he'd needed a cause. He was a patriot, yet there were no patriots to follow. His faith in Christ had faded after seeing a real war firsthand, so the Sons were of no use to him.

In the end he had turned to Communism, they'd embraced him with open eyes, they'd agreed with him that something had to be changed in their homeland, and it had to be done drastically.
He'd orchestrated a few rallies, and a few fires, a bomb or two that went largely unreported in the media. His actions had grown more aggressive with time as the anger in his heart solidified. It burned within him, even as he walked through the freezing Frosthelm side streets, hands in the deep pockets of his heavy beige coat.

At this time of night, near the poorer parts of town, few people willingly went down the side streets alone, but James had little choice, he had to reach the hideout, and what point was a hideout in a place that saw a lot of through traffic.
His left hand closed upon the key to the hideout as he turned a corner, it wasn't far now, just a few more steps and he'd be out of the cold and-
A hand clasped his shoulder firmly and spun him around, before he could go for his gun he felt a knife at his throat. He was put up against the wall firmly, but not hard enough to cause damage.
The man in front of him was no mugger, in fact he was more dangerous than any back alley thug.
The man was tall, broad shouldered and square jawed, although otherwise he was far from what you would call handsome, his nose was crooked and a number of scars were visible on his bald face.
'Put the knife down Thrask.' James said as calmly as he could, although he recognised the man before him, he wouldn't go as far as claiming to be friends with him.
'Just making sure you didn't go for your gun,' Thrask smiled grimly, he took a half step back and lowered his blade, it was long, sharp and dull with a knuckle duster grip, a typical Sarxland combat knife. Despite lowering the knife, it stayed in his hand, ready for use.
'What do you want Thrask?' James demanded, a little annoyed at the man's sudden interruption of his journey.
'A few things actually, but what you can help me with is... a little proposition I have for your group.'
'Go on.'
'You see, a few colleagues of mine have been working to establish a stabilising Sarxland presence in the region, Uitland is still very much in chaos as you well know. I know your people are doing what they can, although you lack the... means to carry out your plans as much as you wish. You need guns, vehicles and the like, and you also need some gear that's good for the lovely weather of your homeland.'
'And the Sarxlanders want to provide it for us.' James crossed his arms across his chest, 'You're forgetting something Thrask, we're Communists, why would we work with Imperialist scum like the Old Kingdoms attack dogs?'
'Why not? You've done it before.' Thrask grinned, 'your militias were very keen to get their hands on our weapons when the Xianese invaded, so was your government itself when munition stocks ran low. Why not now? I see no reason to let our prefered types of government get in the way of things, besides if you knew anything about our political state, you'd know the current Sarx government is very Socialist in how it operates. So what's the harm in getting some help from Socialists, they're not so different from your own ideals.'
'That's not all there is, is there Thrask? You're a soldier, not a businessman.'
A wry smile spread across Thrasks face. 'But of course there is. But I can't say anymore, although you're free to guess, you probably won't be far off if you do.'
'So you want us to be your puppets.' James growled, 'why would we be your puppets?'
'You may not have much choice if you want to get your way my friend.' Thrask beamed, his smile was strangely menacing. 'Although, we do allow all of our protectorates quite a bit of freedom in return for their allegiance. Besides, I thought your biggest opponents were Catholic. We hate them as much as you do, Polytheists and Catholics haven't really had good relations before after all.'
'I'm still not seeing a reason to accept your help.'

Thrask pulled a handgun out of his coat and handed it to James handle first, the gun looked like a lot of modern handguns, but it had a small holographic scope mounted on it as well, the gun fit James's hand well, it had a strange gel on the handle that helped it fit his hand better. It wasn't too heavy, but it was certainly solid, and clearly much better than the crap .45 He had from his days in the Militia.
'I think this should be able to convince you, and I don't mean this as a whole either, just think about it like this, our guns are the best you'll come by out here, by a long shot. That is the Serpent S9. They're brand new and I'm offering to sell them to you at cost. Along with a whole bunch of other things, but I know you guy's need small arms first, and bombs second, or at least the materials to make them. You won't find a more reliable, cheap source of the stuff out here. In return all we ask is you show a little loyalty to us. Not much, but maybe the odd advantageous trade deal would be worth being given the means to shape your own countries destiny the way you want it to be...' Thrask stepped back into the shadows of the alleyway, 'keep the Serpent,' he said, his voice sounded almost like the hiss of a viper waiting to strike, 'it'ss, a present.' He chuckled and left James to his thoughts.


It was a very nice handgun after all.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea.
James thought... Why not? Where else were they going to find what they needed? Few people readily supplied Communists in this day and age, even other Communists shied from their brothers and sisters. And the Sarxlanders had been nothing but honest in his experience

James turned and continued onto the safe house to show his comrades what their future could look like. Already he could see a brighter future appearing before him, they'd needed an edge over the Sons for some time, popular support had been one thing, but their followers alone wouldn't change things. And now they had the opportunity to get the cold hard teeth they needed to do what they were here to do.
A modernised, Pagan Feudal Country.
What more could you want?


"My enemies are many, My equals are none." - Motto of the combined Sarxland Armed Forces, the quote is originally attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte of France.

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Xianlong
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Founded: Feb 24, 2014
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Postby Xianlong » Sat Aug 15, 2015 5:37 pm

Frosthelm 

The commander of Frosthelm's  Coalition garrison was a man named Edvard Pieterzoon. A veteran of his county's various bloody wars and civil conflicts, he had joined the Coalition's regular Army at the tender age of 17. As a petrified boy soldier he had pounded the streets of Frosthelm, patrolled the harsh Icefields around Zhitomir, and even spent five months isolated in a signals post high in the Svolbard Mountains where a pack of ravenous wolves had carried off three of his comrades in the dead of the frozen arctic night. 

Then came the Great Rift, the chaotic period in the early 1980s which saw a vicious civil war tear the country to shreds. Fate had seen Pieterzoon, then a corporal in the 88th Motorized Infantry Regiment, fighting on the side of a young politician named Alexandr Rodinsky. Rodinsky, then the Minster of the Interior, was the leading figure in the wavering Coalition, which had broken apart yet again under independence movements and ambitious generals. 

Corporal Pieterzoon saved the Minster's life when assassins came for him in the Great Hall in Kligenthal on the 23rd of May, 1984.

 Rodinsky took the young man under his wing, assigning him to the elite 104th Infantry Regiment and promoting him to lieutenant. At 25 years old, it was a dream come true. Pieterzoon's star had continued to rise even after Rodinsky was killed in a car bombing in 1995. His performance in the wars against the innumerable rebels inside the Coalition had earned him a colonelcy and a slew of medals. Then came the Xianese War. 

Colonel Pieterzoon (As he then was) had found the war between the Coalition and the Xianese Empire to be the most tragic occurrence in his country's long bloody history. Because like many regular army officers, he respected the Empire and it's soldiers. Indeed, the Empire and the Coalition had engaged in construction projects together and helped to train each other's armies. The Coalition's main battle tank, the Ursa UA-77, was a licensed copy of a slightly older Imperial Army tank. 

So when the war began, he knew who to blame. Not the Xianese; how on earth could they have done anything else? The virus bombing of several of their towns by rogue Militiamen had forced their hand. The government in Kligenthal  had no choice but to resist, forcing two normally-friendly nations into open conflict. 

The war had gone the way that Pieterzoon had expected. Once again, rebels and traitors, Catholics and Communists, had fatally undermined the Uitlander war effort. When the Xianese 7th Army entered Kligenthal without firing a shot, ending the war, the freshly-promoted General Pieterzoon had been conducting guerrilla raids against Imperial forces in Frosthelm. 

He was both glad and sorry at the cessation of hostilities. He was surprised to learn that the Empire did not annex the entire country rather than just Hjarmak, which was considered basically Xianese anyway. All they did was confiscate all of their biological weapons. Hartmann's 7th Army was out of the capital in four months. Only small Imperial Army detachments were left, at the Coalitions request, to help the regular army quell the civil unrest that flared up in almost all provinces. Even though he had fought the Xianese on the battlefield he didn't hate them. He hated the treasonous scum within his own country who had forced the war upon them. Many of the Coalition's Regular Army felt the same way. 

And now all that was left was to rebuild. Rebuild, and punish those who had betrayed them. 

As Coalition Army commander of Frosthelm, that was proving to be a difficult task.

 Frosthelm had been the jewel in the Uitlander crown. Older and far more imposing than the capital, Kligenthal, it had been built atop the mountain which bore it's name in the days when putting a fortress on a hill made it a beacon dominating the surrounding countryside rather than an easy target for heavy artillery and bombers. It's massive seven layered wall had never been breached.

Until the Empire came. 

Edvard Pieterzoon had served with distinction and honour, fighting alongside his troops as the Xianese 10th Army  under Gregory "Grim Reaper" Scarpa fell upon the city. Scarpa, whose nickname came from his thin sallow face and unsmiling demeanour, had deployed huge artillery batteries all around the city, reducing the outer suburbs to ruin in under a week. Higher up the slopes of Mount Frosthelm the Imperial Air Force carpet-bombed the rest of the city for a further nine days. Infantry struggled and died in the whirling snow as the Imperials pushed up to the walls. Two weeks later the Breach was made in the western wall. Sector 44, Sub-Section A112. Every soldier who fought there, on both sides, would remember that place for the rest of their lives. 

The Imperial Army's 21st Infantry Regiment stormed that breach, engaging in fierce hand to hand combat with the Uitlander defenders. The 21st won the day, planting the Imperial flag in the rubble of the wall as their comrades streamed past them into Frosthelm. 

And the Militia broke. Many of them were from regions already under Imperial control, and this latest victory sent them into a panicked frenzy. They turned on one another and their Coalition Army comrades. The fighting was confused and vicious, but the result was never in doubt. Five days later the city was in Xianese hands. 

After the Imperial Army had withdrawn from the country Pieterzoon had taken command of a divided and bitter city, rife with rebels and populated by a bitter and angry populace who trusted neither the Coalition nor many of their opponents. 

Edvard Pieterzoon turned away from the window of his office, turning his back on the dark city below him. He crossed to his desk and picked up a thin folder from it, handing it to the man sitting across from him. Major Leopold "LL" Lewis, commander of the 100-man Xianese army unit still stationed in Frosthelm, was a small black man with a finely-groomed moustache and delicate hands that belied his strength. 

"But why ask us, General?" Lewis asked, opening the folder. "Surely the regulars could handle this better than we? We are only here, after all, to protect VersaLife." VersaLife was a Xianese-owned corporation that made medical equipment. Situated in the Lower City the building had been attacked several times by rebels, and Lewis and his men had been stationed there to protect their government's assets. 

Pieterzoon sighed. "It hurts me to say this, but I cannot trust my own men for something like this."

"You don't trust the army?"

The general shook his head. "It's not them. It's the militia. One asshole opens his mouth too wide, and the Milita tips off these bastards. It's inevitable. The Militia hate the regulars. Hell, they hate the Coalition. As far as they're concerned, we let your lot win." 

Lewis shrugged. He too had fought in the siege and bore no ill will towards the professional soldiers he had faced.

"All right." He said at length. "So you don't even want your staff to know?"


"No one but you and I."

Major Lewis stood, patting the folder before tucking it under his arm. "So let me know when you want the party to start." 

Pieterzoon escorted the Imperial soldier to the door. "It will be soon, Leopold. And thank you." Once Lewis was gone, Pieterzoon sat at his desk, pouring himself a generous portion of Jagerburg brandy. Another Imperial export, he thought wryly as he reached for his phone. Time to set things in motion. 

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Sarxland
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Founded: May 30, 2011
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Postby Sarxland » Sat Aug 15, 2015 10:22 pm

Frosthelm

To say it had taken James some time to warm his Communist brethren to the idea of buying from the Sarxlanders... Would be quite an understatement. When he had first brought it up, merely a few hours after Thrask had cornered him in the alley outside, he thought half of his comrades would have shot him on the spot.
They had called him an 'Imperialist lover', a 'traitor' and many other things which couldn't be brought up in polite conversation. It was a hard fought battle, helped only by those who had experienced the war alongside him. The Sarxland provided weapons were much better than the old weapons most of the militia had been using. The regular army hoarded all of the good toys for themselves.
When the Imperial forces, lead by the 21st infantry regiment breached Frosthelm's walls, James and a few of his comrades had seen the brutal hand to hand fighting. They had run out of ammunition within the first hour, and it had been all downhill from there. The regular army units stationed alongside them hadn't shared, so they had to scavenge for munitions among the dead from both sides.
By the end it seemed as if the regulars had betrayed them. They had the ammo, they had the guns, and yet everywhere the Imperials had gone, they had retreated without firing a shot.
The only reason the militia hadn't been killed to a man was the last minute gun run from a Sarxlander arms dealer, who had managed to get in and out of the city twice during the siege. By then the city was in chaos, the government had betrayed its greatest city and its people. The only ones who seemed to care had been the gun runners themselves.

James had used that fact more than once to remind his comrades that the Sarxlanders could be trusted. They weren't Communist, but they were far from Fascist, their government was known to pass Socialist laws and legislation. And they had been nothing but fair with the Uitlanders who had wanted to fight against the innefective Coalition, or their foreign enemies.

Slowly, things had changed, and now tonight, the Communists had paid for a Gun Runner to return to Frosthelm.
Out in the freezing cold of night, the Communists waited in an abandoned warehouse, close to the great breach in the wall, this was the heart of the refugee sector of Frosthelm. Less than half the buildings from before the war still stood and most were residential in nature, these days this place was filled with tent cities and petrol fires, surrounded by freezing civilians. It was a perfect recruiting ground for the Communists, whose influence had started solely because they had managed to put a roof over the heads of their followers. A task which had been much harder than many would think.
This section of the wall was rarely, if ever patrolled. Wolves would routinely come in through the gaping hole and drag off a refugee, or four once every few nights.

The Communists had put up a watch, to raise the alarm if the wolves came back, but with their rusted old rifles, with only a handful of bullets between them, they hadn't been able to do little more than stop the refugee's being taken completely by surprise.
But they had been able to clear the rubble out of the way, to allow someone to drive through.
Tonight there were some militiamen on the walls, but James had called in a few favours and without warning a few girls from the red light district had become lost, and wound up in the guard post. No one had left the post since and the lights inside had gone out long ago to keep away prying eyes.
Only refugee's and Communist supporters were around to witness the powerful, tracked snow mobile come trundling out of the darkness. The vehicle was armoured and well insulated, and it had plenty of powerful lights mounted on it for when it wasn't skulking around just outside the walls.
It barely entered the city at all, it just sat inside the gap in the wall before the engine turned off and two men climbed out of the Cab.

'Heard you were looking for weapons.' A smokey voice called.

'We need to replace these old muskets,' James called and held up his aging combat rifle.

The man who had spoke first almost visably cringed at the sight of it. 'I'm going to have to make another run here soon then if that's all you're packing.' He replied, waving James and his comrades over.
He opened up the snow mobile, it had several compartments to store the Gun Runner's stock in them, a few bags of money, liberated from the rich, dirty corporations in Frosthelm were handed over.
No more words were said as handguns and rifles were handed out and large ammo crates were carried inside the walls by teams of volunteers. There was no ordnance in this exchange, James hadn't asked for it. Right now, they needed to solidify their hold on the refugee sector. If they could provide protection to these people, they could work on getting basic comforts through other means, and after that, a sizable chunk of Frosthelm's population would be more than willing to stand by their side underneath the Hammer and Sickle.

With the transaction done, the two Gun Runners jumped back into the cab, little else had been said the whole time, but they all knew the Runners would be back with more guns and bullets soon.

James turned to his people, 'get the rubble back in place, make it into more of a barricade this time, now we have enough teeth to deal with the wolves. Also, get the rest of this ammo into our safehouses, stash it away where no one will find it without our help. We cannot arm the people just yet, but this has been an important step in our plans!'
A small cheer went up in the group and they set about their tasks with fervour. James, in the meantime turned to the nearest 'bar' in the refugee camp. There was a pretty young bartender he planned on spending the night talking to, she laughed at his jokes far more than she was paid to and he felt lucky this evening. Especially now that his people were armed. Now they just needed to make sure they could all stay warm and fed.
And at least for now, he himself could enjoy a bit of all three as he stepped into the large, tarp covered space which was called a bar. In here the cold wind wasn't as harsh, and the little fire in the middle did a surprisingly good job of keeping the patrons warm, alongside the whiskey of course.
A modernised, Pagan Feudal Country.
What more could you want?


"My enemies are many, My equals are none." - Motto of the combined Sarxland Armed Forces, the quote is originally attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte of France.

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Xianlong
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Founded: Feb 24, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Xianlong » Sun Aug 16, 2015 7:27 am

Lower City, Frosthelm. 

There was an ancient legend about the winds that blew from the summit of Mount Frosthelm. It was called the Harbinger, and it was said that when it blew  there would be blood shed in the city. They had blown hard when the 10th Army had swept up the valley to pound the city flat. 

Harbinger was howling tonight. 

The desolate, deserted buildings near the breach were garishly lit by oil barrel fires, homeless and destitute people huddling around them for warmth. A dark, dim warehouse rose above the ruins around it, heavily scarred by shelling. Across the street was a destroyed furniture wholesaler, gutted by fire. It was deserted save for one man. Corporal Sam "Iron Bollocks" King was a veteran of the Imperial Army Intelligence Division and could remain concealed for weeks at a time if necessary. 

So keeping watch on a band of commies was no problem. They hadn't done much-mostly sat there waiting for something which had turned out to be a delivery of some kind. Weapons, maybe. Bombs, drugs, perhaps. Whatever, King had relayed the info back to Major Lewis who had ordered him to hold position and await further orders. 

So now he watched as the communists continued to unload another battered truck. Food, by the looks of things. They would probably distribute it to the refugees too. Or rather, would have wanted to. They wouldn't get the chance. A helicopter clattered overhead, a Coalition gunship. They flew over the city, regular as clockwork. The communist guards barely glanced up at it, so used to it were they. 

The chopper flew on before suddenly sweeping round, cannon blazing at the warehouse. A rebel fell, huge holes torn in his torso, as the rest scattered. Ropes dropped from the chopper as two Imperial APCs roared up the roads leading to the warehouse. The rear doors opened, disgorging Imperial soldiers. More troops dropped from the chopper, cutting down the rooftop guard. 

Sergeant Felix Zeitzler snapped up his StA-52 assault rifle, firing a short burst that killed a rebel stone dead. "Form up, form up!" He yelled at his men. He led them towards the doors as the communists returned fire. Trooper Drogba caught a round in the face, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. Zeitzler reached the doors and kicked them open, tossing a grenade into the building. Before the explosion faded he and his men stormed through the entrance. He fired off a long burst at a rebel trying to clear a jam. The man screamed as he fell, blood spattering the wall behind him. The sergeant moved quickly, firing tight three-round volleys at everything that moved. His men followed in close formation, sweeping the interior of the warehouse in waves of lead. The rebels were disorganised and untrained, and could offer scant resistance to an assault of this ferocity. Some tried, firing wildly at the Xianese soldiers. Sergeant Zeitzler saw another two of his men hit. Taking careful aim through the holographic sight of his weapon he brought one of the shooters down with a single well-aimed round as the others fell back, trying the get away. There was no way out of the building as the Imperials had surrounded the place. A couple that tried were gunned down by the waiting APCs. 

Jurgen Prosser had been a communist since the age of 15, and had experienced various sorts of persecution since then. Arbitrary arrest, police and Militia brutality. Dismissal from jobs because of his political leanings. He had sat out the Xianese war in a Coalition prison, but had hated the Empire all the more after seeing the ruins of Frosthelm, his hometown. But he had never experienced something as violent, as brutal, as sudden as the Imperial attack on his resistance cell. The Xianese soldiers, faces hidden by their trademark goggles and masks, seemed to him like an apparition from a Hell he had stopped believing in years ago. His men, brave souls all, could do nothing against them. Prosser swore bitterly as an Imperial trooper, rifle roaring, killed his second in command in a hail of armour-piercing bullets. The cell leader slammed the reinforced door of his office closed, locking himself in. He could hear shooting, screaming, explosions. He didn't have long. There was only one cell close enough to him to offer him an escape. The communist leader shoved his desk to one side, pulling open the tiny escape tunnel dug for just this purpose. He grabbed his encrypted mobile phone before crawling into the tunnel, pulling his desk back to hide the entrance. Even if the Imperials found it, it had enough booby-traps to send the entire building to the moon. 

Two streets over from the communist hideout Prosser crawled from the tunnel exit, which was concealed in the basement of an abandoned hospital. Shaking the dust from his clothes he pulled out his phone, dialling the number of James Landat, one of his oldest friends. As the dial tone kicked in he on e again gave thanks to his contact in the Coalition Army's Intelligence Agency who had supplied them with the phones. They had never been compromised since they used the same signals as the regular army's comms, and were one of the communists greatest assets. Now all that Prosser hoped was that Jimmy Landat still had his own phone. If he hadn't, Prosser was toast. 

Pick up, man. Pick up.

The message service started, informing him in a robotic monotone to leave his message.

"Jimmy, it's Jurgen. They've just hit us. Those motherless Imperial bastards have just slaughtered my men. I got out, but they'll be locking down the district. Message me as soon as you get this. I'm heading to the Deimos Avenue printing press. Meet me there if you can. Please, Jim. I need help, and soon." He hung up, stowing the phone in his coat before trudging off into the snow, Harbimger whining in his ears. Blood had been spilled, all right.
Last edited by Xianlong on Sun Aug 16, 2015 7:48 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Sarxland
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Postby Sarxland » Mon Aug 17, 2015 9:37 pm

James absentmindedly checked his phone before he ordered his second Whiskey. He'd put it on silent before he went out to meet the Sarx Gun Runners, the last thing he wanted was for it to go off during the exchange and bring more attention to his position.
The moment he saw the voice message from Jurgen he told the pretty bartender, Astrid to hold his drink. He stepped outside and found out what was so urgent from the next cell over...

"Jimmy, it's Jurgen. They've just hit us. Those motherless Imperial bastards have just slaughtered my men. I got out, but they'll be locking down the district. Message me as soon as you get this. I'm heading to the Deimos Avenue printing press. Meet me there if you can. Please, Jim. I need help, and soon."



Hell. It was the Imperials, and they were gunning for his boys.
'Shit.' James muttered under his breathe. He poked his head back in the bar and announced he had a family emergency and had to leave right away. Everyone at the bar knew which family James meant, his family had all either died in the war, or moved afield to greener pastures, the Communists were his family now.


James made his way to the nearest group of Communist fighters and told them to spread the word, the Imperials had hit their brothers and for everyone to arm themselves and get ready for trouble in case the Imperial Devils wanted to have a go at them as well. He also told them to get 'The Old Guard' ready to launch a counter attack if necessary. The Old Guard were all former militiamen who formed the experienced core of the Communists fighting force, James had been appointed their commander last year, although it was little more than a ceremonial position. The Old Guard hadn't been used in battle before, but individually they were tough and experienced, and had been the first to get the new weapons brought in by the Gun Runners. A few of them had been at the warehouse, so there was no use waiting on them, but there were plenty spread out through the camps.
Aside from being the Communists main fighting force they were the ones who had the most 'souvenirs' from their days in the militia. Including radios and weapons with more kick than a rifle, although not as many as James would like. The Imperials were only targetting them however, which meant they weren't invading again, not yet. So he didn't have to worry about more than perhaps 200 of them being inside Frosthelm. If necessary he could whip the refugee camps into a frenzy and expel them through sheer riotous numbers. Although he'd prefer not having to resort to those kinds of tactics. Things were bad, not utterly desperate.

James reached the printing press not long after, a band of street toughs and former soldiers behind him.
He found Jurgen downstairs, beneath the 'official' building above them in a secret Communist hideaway known only to a few of their more trusted members.

'Jurgen!' James called, 'I got your message, what happened? Do you know if the bastards are still there?'

James's men fanned out and scoured the room, even the most secure places could be watched, and this particular bolt hole didn't get a lot of use, someone could have planted something here since they last used the place. At least that's what he told his men. Although it was a little odd that Jurgen had escaped so easily, so two of his men hung back in the corner, keeping a watchful eye on their comrade just in case. More than one of the more efficient Communist leaders had died from a traitors bullet over time.

James trusted Jurgen, but things were moving quickly and he couldn't take the risk that he may be walking into a trap, even for Jurgen. Although he made it clear to his men not to be openly aggressive towards his friend, and his own bearing was not a frightened, or angry one as he approached his comrade.
A modernised, Pagan Feudal Country.
What more could you want?


"My enemies are many, My equals are none." - Motto of the combined Sarxland Armed Forces, the quote is originally attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte of France.

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Die Erworbenen Namen
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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Fri Oct 16, 2015 12:21 pm

DEN
USSDEN/Coalition Border
Leningrad, Leningrad Fortress Line
Army Group E


With the howling of the wind, the chilling of the air, and the arrival of light snowflakes, the world showed Leningrad that winter was coming. And it was going to be a cold one. For the first of a very long time, though, winter would be welcomed by the soldiers living on this front. Over 1 million men buckled down and awaited the long, cold months that would begin in the north. As harsh as it would be, a frozen winter would signal another year without a war. One more year without the inevitable invasion.

Although... Commissar General Krusechov thought to himself, a thick woolen trench coat wrapped around his body. A single firefight would break the monotony of this place.

He pulled the trench coat closer to him, and tightened his gloves on his hands. The wind was howling against him now, and the snow slowly collected on his fur cap, reminding him how cold it actually was. His leather gloved hand reached into his pocket, searching for a cigarette pack in his coat. There was one, hiding in the deep of his pocket, and he pulled it out, lighting a single one on his lips. The smoke curled above his head as he stared down onto the runway below. At least one of the aircraft down below would leave within a few minutes. And from there, at least one more would appear.

"When will he get here?" A man said behind Krusechov. The Commissar General turned around around to see a man walking up the steps to the top of the tower. That surprised him, to say the least. No one that he knew of was supposed to be up there that moment. "Last I checked he was due at 1530."

"Oh, it's you Vasilyev." Krusechov replied, and gave a slight smile to him. He shifted again in the cold and turned back around. "Yes, sir, Field Marshal. He"ll be here soon. Did he wish for an Honor Guard?"

"Not exactly. He wished for it to be more or less quiet. He said that you and I and maybe one or two others were quite alright for the moment." Vasilyev replied, and fished a cigarette out of his mouth. As he lit it, he turned back to him. "After all, it is a simple inspection of the lines, no?"

"Oh, oh yes. I do know that." He said with a laugh. That was true, after all. That was the reason Corinth was coming, to inspect the fortresses and the soldiers on the front lines. No one but a few people would know about that. "Oh, there he comes."

Krusechov was pointing at the sky, which now had a small transport aircraft coming in slowly on a downward angle. Vasilyev was actually chuckling to himself. He knew how he did it. He had a radio on him at all times that monitored the HQ channel for information. He had conveniently gotten it from an old spy, and found it rather useful later on. "Come, Krusechov. Lets get a move on."

The Commissar General nodded and turned around, heading down the stairs to the bottom of the fortress tower. They were on the road now, with a general, calm attitude around them. Not a single person paid much attention to the group of five. To the rest of the people there, they were simply normal officers strolling down to get the mail.

"Can we really bring him to the front lines, Anatoli? The locals don't entirely enjoy us here." Krusechov inquired about the inspection. As the Commander of Leningrad, the fortress and city, he got reports on only what was the most important to his command. He didn't get anything of the situation north, south, west, or east of him, which frustrated him more than ever. This was no exception; rather, it was standard practice. That is why he had informants, and had Vasilyev with him. "And I haven't gotten a single repot about the situation, informants be damned."

"Motya, Tovarishch, the reason you got no report is simply because there is nothing to report. Relax. There is nothing you need to worry about here." The Field Marshal replied, nodding to Krusechov. "There hasn't been a single issue. Not even a single arrest. It seems most of the issue is on the other side of the border. Quite a lot of infighting, it seems."

"Ah, it was probably some sort of paranoia. Still... That seems like it might be an issue." The Commissar General replied, and sighed. "Lets get Corinth out there, give him the inspection, and get the hell out of here."

*****

DEN
USSDEN/Coalition Border
A couple miles out of Leningrad


There was a single, normal sized armored car strolling down the street next to the border. It had a pair of MG-303s arranged side by side on top, which was configured with an APS as well on top. It was simply the standard of the time, and it was very welcomed by the soldiers nearby. Most people on their patrols along the city were nervous when on their own, though the new addition of this armored car settled most of them. In the softer parts, where they were, there were no ACs. They were usually present in the most dangerous areas.

The armored vehicle rolled to a stop just in front of a large roadblock around five and a half to six feet tall, and looked slightly improvised. The front of it was, which they had purposefully designed to hide AT and Anti personnel mines. There was a single platoon of men at the roadblock, with the building next to the road cleared out and used as a forward makeshift bunker. Up on the front of the building, with the barrel jutting out of the window, was an ATC-88 and her crew, though from the back it wouldn't be seen.

The metal, armored door of the armored car opened, and a soldier in his trench coat jumped out, clutching the LG-A2 SMG that he was issued. He stood out in front of the car and held the door open for the rest of the people in the car. The first person to come out was Corinth, his hand on the top of the car, pushing himself up.
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Xianlong
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Ex-Nation

Postby Xianlong » Fri Oct 16, 2015 4:28 pm

Somewhere close to the USSDEN/Coalition border

"Listen, I appreciate operational security as much as the next man, but this is getting a little ridiculous. "Agent Carson said for the third time in the trip. The Sons of Silence militants ignored him, keeping close watch on the snowfields around their heavy-duty truck . Carson rolled his eyes, leaning back against his seat. 

The shipment of surplus weapons, mostly captured Coalition Regular Army ordinance, had been received by the religious group with enthusiasm. They had promptly gone out and used the weapons to settle a few scores in their own ranks. As a result four out of the seven strong council that led the Sons of Silence had been murdered. This internal power struggle had weakened the Sons throughout the Coalition, and Carson had recommended that the Imperial Intelligence Bureau withdraw support for them immediately, before they did something worse. The IIB had been adamant: accompany the Sons on one active measure against the communists to evaluate their effectiveness. From there the decision could be made to stop the operation or not. 

So that was what brought Agent Carson to the far north of the inhospitable country, sitting in an old Militia truck heading to God knows where to observe a Sons ambush on a cell of Communist fighters returning from a meeting with some of their foreign backers in the border town of Grom, not far from the DEN city of Leningrad. Borisov, the taciturn contact the imperial agent had met back in the whorehouse and who had thrown his lot in with the winners of the resistance group's new leadership, turned to speak. "We will shortly be in position to ambush our enemy." He said, gesturing at the whiteness surrounding them. 

"Fantastic." Carson answered drily. "Any chance you'll give me some details?"

"Suffice to say, we know where our enemy is."

Carson rolled his eyes again as the truck came to a halt outsidean ice-encrusted oil pumping station.

"Here we are." Borisov said, dropping from the cab.

"I thought the commies were coming from Grom," Agent Carson said, raising his voice over the howling of the wind. Snowstorms, wind, sub-zero temperatures, what a shitty country. He pulled his parka closer about him as he followed the Sons into the small cabin that served as a control centre for the pump. There was also a small garage for maintenance. Borisov uncovered a small bolt hole, extracting a cache of weapons. "Courtesy of our mysterious benefactors." He said, inclining his head towards Carson. "Come."He beckoned to the IIB agent. "I'll show you the enemy."

A small observation post had been hollowed out of the Icefields a little way away from the pumping station. Carson crawled up to it with Borisov besides him. The Son handed him a pair of high-powered Zeiss binos. "Across the field. Watch the road." The road was a good distance away across the open ice, and a DEN checkpoint, complete with armoured car and fortified bunker, sat beside it. It looked as if they might even have a gun of some description installed in the building. 

"Some DEN soldiers. So what?" He finally said. "They're on their side of the border. They're doing nothing illegal."

"Yet they supply our enemies." Borisov seemed angry. 

"Yes." Carson said patiently. "But if you give them a reason to invade, they will crush you and your country." 

"Besides which the Xianese Empire would invade us again?" Borisov shot back. Carson was silent. As far as the Sons of Silence knew, he was just Ian, a representative for peoples unknown, but these religious zealots were not complete fools. 

They knew "Ian" was acting for one of the other powers in the region. The Frizian Republic, the Xianese Empire, the Serniak Khanate, he could be working for any one of them. Borisov had his suspicions, though.

"Our communist enemies will be using the road inside DEN for as long as possible before crossing into the Coalition." Borisov went on. "They'll go through this checkpoint. We watch and follow. Once they're across the border, we kill them. Simple." 

It did sound simple, but such things never were. 

On the far side of the border, safely inside DEN, a battered civilian sedan made its slow and careful way down the icebound road. Inside were four men. They were communists, and had been since youth. More intellectuals than partisans, they had always been involved in the finance side of he operation. The meet they had attended in Grom had been fruitful. Their friends, who remained mostly anonymous, had promised further support. Money, guns, food, medicine. Everything asked for. Then, as they had done many times before, they had crossed the border into DEN to follow the border for as long as possible before heading home in the Coalition. 

"Another damn roadblock." One of the men said crossly as the car slowed. "You'd think there was a war on."  

His companion nudged him. "Hold your tongue. You really want another full-on war?" He pointed to the armoured car that was disgorging its passengers ahead. "Just be thankful that that thing isn't pointing its guns at us."

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Die Erworbenen Namen
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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Sun Oct 18, 2015 1:19 pm

DEN
USSDEN/Coalition Border
Checkpoint 28, Leningrad


Corinth stood outside the winter camouflaged armored car, his politician's trench coat standing out among the military around him. Next to him stood Krusechov and Vasilyev, both of them clutching a cigarette and their own rifles, or rather Carabines, in their hands. From a distance, they looked like they were simple officers chatting together, with a political man standing next to him. They could be anyone. But to Krusechov, he knew all too well that this could take a turn for the worst. And that is why, no matter what he did, they would try to prepare for what could happen.

The first step in this was to spot potential enemies. The sedan, although most definitely civilian, was stopped at the checkpoint. Four soldiers walked out in front of the car as it drove up to the checkpoint, and three other soldiers had their MGs trained on the car, one of them a .50 to destroy the engine. One other man joined them, the soldier from the car, who actually walked up to the window and knocked on it. He waited until the window began to roll down to actually begin their talking. "Afternoon, sir. We need all of you to step out of the car for a moment."
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Xianlong
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Founded: Feb 24, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Xianlong » Mon Oct 19, 2015 4:58 pm

Coalition Central Command, Kligenthal

Colonel Christian Pieterzoon closed the file, handing it back to the junior officer who saluted smartly and turned away. The colonel looked across the situation room, dark and quiet at this hour of the night. All was normal. Pieterzoon took a sip if the tepid tea at his elbow. 

He was a slim and scholarly man, correct and punctual in his duties, but he was not a fighter. He had spent his career behind desks. His brother, commander of the city of Frosthelm, was the real hero of the family. But Christian did not thirst after glory; order and precision were his narcotic. So he was a perfect staff officer. He scanned the large screens showing operational deployments, knowing them to be unchanged but enjoying the exactitude with which he had planned it. 

The Coalition had two major borders. To the south was the Xianese Empire: large, powerful, committed. An enemy who had humbled the Coalition not even a year ago, and taken a province from them.  To the north, in the barren ice, was DEN. Another powerful nation who, although  it traditionally left Uitland alone, was no doubt sympathetic to opposition inside the Coalition. 

And that opposition was the true problem. Although the government did have regular army units on both borders, their hold was not secure. In the south the Imperial Army had withdrawn to Hjarmak, their newest province, and had been fortifying it. Pillboxes, trenches, artillery guns, and minefields now turned vast swathes of land into killing fields. The 7th Army was commanded by General Ernst Hartmann, one of the finest officers in Xianese service. Although some of his battle-hardened troops had been transferred elsewhere, he still could call upon some of the best formations in the Imperial Army.  

There was less opposition to the central government in the south as the Imperials had inflicted heavy losses on the militia forces there. The Coalitions Southern Front, facing the Xianese, was commanded by General Anton DeSalvo, a veteran officer. 

In the north, facing the DEN border, the situation was more complicated. Local resistance to the government remained strong as the Imperial Army had never reached that far north. The Northern Front, which spent its' time chasing rebels around the Icefields, was commanded by General Samuel Talbot. He too was a career officer, and his loyalty to the Coalition was unshakable. The same could not be said about his men, however. Many of the formations were local Militia units, and they were not always willing to obey orders. To balance this the Regular Army had some of it's finest units in the north, including the famous 107th "Arctic Shield" Motorised Infantry Regiment. They would fight hard against any invader. 

And the result, Colonel Pieterzoon reflected as he drained his drink, was that the Coalition couldn't win. If the country faced another invasion like the one the Xianese had unleashed in the summer, the Coalition would fall. They had barely held together when the Empire's soldiers had struck from the south. If they invaded again, or if DEN attacked, they were done. 

Or worse, if the Xianese and DEN were drawn into conflict over the unrest inside Uitland, there was a very real danger that his country would become one vast battlefield, a land where two massive, ambitious powers slugged it out amongst one another whilst his people suffered. 

Please God, he prayed silently, preserve us from both DEN and the Empire.


Checkpoint 28, near Leningrad

The DEN trooper spoke politely, and the four communists saw no reason to be belligerent. "All right, son," the driver spoke calmly, "we're getting out. No trouble." the four men got out of the car, keeping their hands well visible.

"The bastards have been stopped!" Borisov clambered up from the observation post, sprinting back towards the pumping station. Carson scanned the roadblock again, feeling his chest tighten as he recognised the uniform of a member of DEN's senior leadership. 

"Christ on his Cross." He swore, scrambling to his feet.

Borisov was haranguing his men, ordering them to the pumping station's maintenance shed. Carson grabbed the Sons leader. "What the Hell are you doing?!" He hissed, pointing towards the checkpoint. "There is a member of DEN's high command over there! Attack them and you're declaring war on DEN! Is that what you want?" 

Borisov shook him off as his men wheeled a squat, fragile-looking trailer from the shed. Agent Carson groaned. It was a Xianese JA-22 multiple rocket launcher, capable of raining down 37 high-ex warheads in the space of 13 seconds. The Sons militants readied the weapon as Borisov turned to the IIB agent. "Those communist scum are about to be taken into custody. We'll never get this chance again." 

"You don't know that!" 

Borisov shrugged. "I'm not prepared to take that chance." Agent Carson drew his handgun, pointing it at the Sons militant. 

"You can't do this. I won't let you-" A crashing blow to the back of his neck sent him to his knees. His pistol fell into the snow. Borisov took the firing mechanism and addressed Carson as he made the final adjustments.

"DEN harbours our enemies. Gives them sanctuary, weapons, funding. They are as much our enemy as the communists." 

"They will crush you." Carson snarled, trying to clear his head. "Uitland cannot survive another war." 

Borisov shrugged again. "Our cause is a sacred one. In the Lord's name, we purify!" With that he pressed the firing button. The JA-22 roared, spewing deadly high explosive towards the DEN checkpoint.

"No!" Screamed Carson, but he was drowned out by the missiles.

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Die Erworbenen Namen
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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Tue Oct 20, 2015 1:51 pm

DEN
Near Leningrad
Checkpoint 28


The trooper with the 5.56 mm SMG nodded rather apathetically, and waved his hand to order the soldiers to search the car while he patted the man down. He didn't even have to do much, for he had found his Communist Card. This man, at least this car, was alright for transit. When not a single issue was found in or with the car, the soldiers began to turn around to go back to their positions and let the car pass by.

"Tovarishch Corinth, as you can easily see here, sir, not a single issue. This is what happens mostly every day. Someone comes along, someone is stopped..." Krusechov said, and smiled, putting his hand out to point towards the car. A single cigarette appeared from his pocket again, and he lit it with a smile. "Excuse me, Tovarishch. I must use the restroom."

Krusechov waved his hand and turned around, walking away from the car for a brief second to enter the building being used as an HQ by the men at the checkpoint. His hand clenched the knob of the door, and he pulled, disappearing into it. He had barely shut the door when the first whistle came along. He instantly opened it, only to see Corinth laughing with a wink. The bastard. It was him, making a joke. He did the whistle again, then waved his hand. Rolling his eyes, Krusechov closed the bathroom door again.

The first rocket slammed down on the sedan, a perfect bullseye on the roof of the car. The windows were instantly blown out with the explosion, showering the immediate area around the car with glass fragmentations and blood. Out of nowhere, the left driver's door was ripped off it's hinges and sent flying, twisted and flaming. The second rocket detonated in the middle of the road, fragmenting in front of the Armored Car and destroying the engine and front wheels. Corinth and one of the soldiers was sent flying a few feet away as the rest of the rockets blanketed the entire checkpoint.

"SON OF A BITCH! CORINTH! VASILYEV!" Krusechov burst from the bathroom with his handgun out and cocked, and sprinted to the now burning wreckage of the armored car. He hadn't even gotten a single feet before a sergeant tackled him onto the ground, and justly so. A large rocket had landed right outside and fragmented right into the sergeant's back who had tackled him. The thirteen seconds passed, and in that time, the rockets had ripped through a dozen cars, and collapsed a building behind the road.

"KRUSECHOV! COMMISSAR GENERAL, ARE YOU OKAY?" A voice shouted out. Krusechov shook his head, and the sergeant rolled off him, his back slapping on the ground with a splat. At least a dozen people in the background began screaming from wounds of the attack, and he heard at least three calls for a medic. "KRUSECHOV!"

"I'm alive, Vasilyev!" The Commissar General shouted back out, and shouted out for a medic, standing over the sergeant and listening for a pulse. He barely had a pulse, and was barely conscious. There was blood flowing down the front of his chest, from his mouth, and from his back, and the Commissar General began tearing off strips of the Sergeant's clothing to bandage the wounds. The medic ran forward and pushed him away, trying to attend to his wounds.

"Tovarishch! Come to the car! Quickly!" Vasilyev shouted out again, and stood up, waving a bloody hand in the air. Krusechov picked up the soldier's rifle and ran forward, passing the sedan. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the four dead civilians burning, one of them in the driver's seat. Two of the four soldiers, including the one Honor Guard man, were on the floor, clutching their wounds and shouting out for a medic. He ignored it all.

"What's wrong?" Krusechov asked, sliding behind the armored car and looking at the Field Marshal. He was standing over the political envoy and was pounding on his chest, his breath coming out in bursts. There was nothing to debate. There was nothing to contest, to think of, or to assume. The man in the civilian trench coat, with half his arm missing and his left side smoking and covered with blood from the shrapnel, would die. "Tovarishch, sir. Vasilyev! Ivan! Stop!"

The Field Marshal stopped pounding his chest and began breathing heavily, half from rage and half from the effort. His face twitched as he looked down onto the bloody body on the pavement. He didn't even notice when an officer ran up to them, ducking his head and sliding in, patting the Field Marshal's back. "TOVARISHCH, SIR! The enemy left a smoke trail, and we've traced it back to the Coalition side. Sir, we need your orders!"

"Call in a helicopter and get these wounded out of here. Get on that radio, put those goddamn coordinates in, and rain hellfire on those goddamn bastards! And get me a connection to HQ! I need an escort out of here!" Field Marshal Ivan Vasilyev shouted out in an order, and turned around. "Blast those fuckers!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" The soldier saluted and ran back to the checkpoint HQ, grabbing a radio and calling one of his buddies next to him to get two helicopters over to retrieve wounded and a VIP. He himself covered the artillery. "Adolfsburg, Adolfsburg, we need immediate artillery support on grid two ten, blanket cover. High explosive, fire!"

There was a pause then a loud boom as an artillery gun went off in the background, and another explosion as it detonated in the distance. There was an officer on the top floor, looking through a pair of binoculars, acting as the artillery spotter. He gave the thumbs up to the soldiers downstairs, and the man on the radio nodded. "Fire for effect!"

The artillery guns started booming, launching over a dozen high explosive shells over the checkpoint and into the shack two clicks from the road. Krusechov looked at Vasilyev as the artillery rounds detonated in the background. Both of them had blank faces, but only one of them was covered in blood. They had a knowledge of the war that would happen. And neither wanted that. Their faces and their mood was interrupted by an officer running up to them with a radio. "Tovarishch, sir! Your command!"
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Postby Xianlong » Thu Oct 22, 2015 3:28 pm

Uitland-DEN Border, near Checkpoint 28

Agent Carson watched, appalled, as the missile launcher pounded the DEN checkpoint to pieces. Borisov whooped with glee, throwing his fur cap into the air. "We got them! We got the bastards! God be praised!" 

Carson shook his head sadly as the Catholic militants reloaded their launcher. "You've condemned your country, you fool." He said, letting himself fall back into the snow. "DEN and the Empire will fight until there is nothing left of your country but ashes." 

Borisov opened his mouth to respond when the first shell landed smack bang on the heavy duty truck that had brought them there, blowing it to smithereens. The Sons militants dived for cover before the second round landed. 

Carson saw his chance and lashed out, striking the militant leader in the face. Borisov collapsed, blood streaming from his broken nose. The IIB agent snatched up the fallen man's weapon, an Uitlander FA-14 automatic carbine chambered in 5.56mm, and swung it into his shoulder. He fired two quick shots into one of the zealots who had been struggling to draw his weapon. The man was thrown to the ground, blood gushing from the two holes torn in his chest. His comrades, quicker off the mark, began firing at the Imperial agent. 

Carson took to his heels as more shells bracketed the area. Borisov swore as the man disappeared into the snow. "Stop! Stop firing, damn you!" He bellowed at his men. "The launcher is reloaded. Fire again!" As he spoke a shell landed a direct hit on two of his men, reducing them to a fine red mist. Borisov knew he didn't have much time. 

He pulled a satellite phone from his parka, yelling at his remaining men to aim for the building beside the checkpoint, which still stood. As he spoke to his superiors, advising them that the Holy War had begun, the launcher fired a second salvo, striking the building. Borisov punched the air as the DEN checkpoint was hidden in smoke and fire. His jubilation was short-lived; just as the last missile fired, a DEN shell scored a direct hit on the launcher, engulfing it along with two more of his men in a roiling ball of orange flame. Borisov swore and waved the men in the open back into the shelter of the pumping station, which had been dismantled and turned into a Sons of Silence bunker. 

As the reinforced steel door slammed shut, he ordered his men to arm themselves with as many heavy weapons as they could. Borisov was a zealot, but not an altogether stupid man. He knew that DEN was a powerful adversary, and wouldn't content themselves with shellfire. More enemies would be coming, and soon. And they would find out how the Sons of Silence spread the word of the Lord. With lead.

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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Fri Oct 23, 2015 9:24 am

"INCOMING!!!" The officer on top of the building shouted, right as the rockets engulfed them. 18 high explosive warheads tore into the ground, the road, and the building, shattering the top of the once nice looking three story. The top two floors were instantly engulfed in flame and shrapnel before the barrage stopped. Now smoking, the front of the building was in ruins, and at least five men lay dead on the roads and in the buildings.

"Platoon! Get a man on the top again! Give me the layout!" Krusechov instantly took command of the battle, his hand up and pointing to the top of the building, a rifle held in his right hand. Two of the soldiers instantly ran up the stairs to the top of the ruins, looking down a rangefinder/laser designator, and zoomed all the way in. "Get the wounded out into the open for transit! Man that 88, and don't let them attack us from here!"

"Sir, we've got confirmation on the enemy position! Enemy battery destroyed. They've retreated behind a makeshift bunker!" The soldier, a corporal, reported on the radio. Krusechov held the earpiece close to drown out the sound of the wounded and dying screaming, and nodded. "She's two and a half clicks out, just about, over!"

"Roger that, Tovarishch. Hold position and report. Over and out!" Krusechov responded, and walked into the building, grabbing the radio transmitter and putting it on, locking in a channel. "Adolfsburg, Adolfsburg, this is Checkpoint 28, enemy bunker at grid two ten six five. Requesting immediate artillery fire on target. Hold barrage for 10 minutes. Over."

"Roger that, 28. Firing first salvo. Report and adjust. Over." The radio crackled, and Krusechov waited, listening for the boom. Out of the window, he held his binoculars to watch. He was not disappointed. Five high explosive 155 mm shells slammed into the ground in front of the enemy bunker, churning the ground into the air. He waited until the smoke cleared before reporting again.

"Adolfsburg, Adolfsburg, this is 28. Adjust twenty meters north, fire for effect! Over and out." Krusechov replied, and put the radio down, watching the enemy recovering. Leningrad had ten checkpoints along their lines, and had dedicated 5 artillery pieces to each one normally, with 5 rockets standing by. The other 55 artillery pieces stood in the base themselves, arranged into 5 gun batteries. At this point, the battery that supported 28 was firing, with fire support from two more batteries. The result was a blistering barrage of heavy shells into the enemy's position. And for a long time. "Tovarishch Field Marshal! Artillery coming in on enemy target!"

Vasilyev stood near the destroyed armor car, and popped his head up when he heard his name called. With a short wave of his hand to mention his acknowledgement of the report, he returned to the radio, of which he was contacting Leningrad. He was right in the middle of it when he heard the whirring and chopping of helicopter rotors above him, and saw two helicopters begin their descent. The ground around him was blasted instantly with the backwash of the helicopter, tossing up loose items, and whipping him with the air.

"PLATOON! Load the wounded onto the choppers!" The order was barked, and he returned back to his radio once more, listening to reports from HQ. With the background of screams as the wounded and dying were ushered into the choppers, he found it hard to concentrate. Then he had an opening. "Command, Command, this is Field Marshal Igor Vasilyev. We are under attack, I repeat, we are under attack by enemy forces. Contacts have been made. I am requesting immediate support. Over."

"Two eight, this is command. What do you need?" The reply over the waves came, relaxing Vasilyev a little bit.

"Under the authority of the Emperor, I am ordering the immediate and urgent mobilization and deployment of the 1st Infantry Division to checkpoint Two Eight. Prepare the Army for invasion." Vasilyev ordered, holding the headpiece close to his ear to block out the booms of artillery (which was still heard through the radio) and the screams, both of which made through silently.

"Invasion? Sir?"

"Transfer me to the command, Tovarishch!" He knew he should not be talking to this private, who was now shocked by the news. It took a little bit, but he got through to the soldiers there. "Under the authority of the Em-"

"Yes, yes, Tovarishch Marshal, we got the news. Calgar is mobilizing the 1st Army as we speak, and the 1st Infantry is getting their shit together. What is it that you need from them?" He knew that voice. It was none other than General Zukhov, the acting officer in the room.

"I am in need of one immediate company of airborne by chopper on grid Two Ten, with a battalion moved by air to that grid." The Field Marshal replied, watching. Not even three minutes had gone by, and the shelling continued. What in gods name did Krusechov order on those soldiers? "Can that be done, General?"

"Aye. They're deploying. ETA seven minutes. Hold in there, sir." The General replied, and hung up the radio.

"KRUSECHOV! INFANTRY INBOUND TO GRID!" Vasilyev shouted, and they cheered at the news, still in their positions. God help those poor bastards...
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Postby Xianlong » Tue Oct 27, 2015 6:35 pm

Krosnoje, Hjarmak Province. Empire of Xianlong

"Sir, your transport has arrived." General Erich Hartmann looked up from the folder he had been perusing. He held the trooper in his gaze for a moment before levering himself upright. Hartmann, a stocky man with greying hair and a bushy moustache, was the commander of the Imperial 7th Army stationed in Hjarmak who maintained a constant vigil on their Uitlander neighbours to the north.

The general shrugged himself into his grey greatcoat before following the trooper outside his HQ to the helipad. An XA-17 transport helicopter was there, rotors idling. Hartmann clambered in and the chopper took off, flying north. The commander slipped on a pair of headphones and mic. 

"Hold for Chessboard." A voice said in his ears. Seconds later a new voice spoke, that of the man in charge of all Xianese ground forces. General  Kurt Zeitzler sounded preoccupied, like he has holding two conversations at once.

"Erich, how long will it take you to get your boys rolling?" 

Hartmann, who had been briefed on the fighting that has erupted in the far north, didn't hesitate. "5 hours at the most. The 71st Motorised Infantry is conducting an exercise on Highway 90, we'll have to regroup them before moving. Are we going into Uitland again? 

"We might have to" Zeitzler answered. Hartmann said nothing for a moment, staring at the freezing plains whipping past the window. 

"We'll be ready if we do." He finally said.

"Good. We're sending the Foreign Minister to Kligenthal. We need to know whether the Coalition is ready to resist any invasion from DEN."

"From what I gathered the firing started from the Uitlander side of the border." 

"Perhaps. But that doesn't mean the Empire is ready to stand by and watch DEN tanks roll down Constitution Way in Kligenthal."

Hartmann gripped the rail as the XA-17 banked westwards. "We've been fortifying Hjarmak for months. It will serve as an admirable defensive position if necessary."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Although if we do have to cross the Coalition, we need to be ready for civilian resistance again. Not everyone will welcome us as allies."

Hartmann frowned. "General, my men are used to it. They fought them before. It won't be a new experience for most of them."

Zeitzler was satisfied. "Continue to prepare them, Erich. Once you get to the border and have set it in motion, you will be contacted with further orders. The Foreign Minister knows that the Uitlanders will demand our help if DEN invades, and your men will need to be moving into the Coalition minutes after word is given." 

"I understand, sir." Hartmann said as the chopper slowed. "We still have some troops in the north, what are their rules of engagement?"

Zeitzler pondered that for a moment. "Unchanged. They are there to aid the Coalition government to quell domestic unrest, they should keep at it. They do not have permission to engage DEN forces unless they themselves are fired on." 

"Understood, sir. I shall await further orders." 

"Very well. Chessboard, out." 

Northern Front HQ, Fort 98. 

General Samuel Talbot snatched up the receiver, chewing on the unlit end of a thin cigar. 

"Well?" He barked down the line. He was a tall, thin man with a scruffy beard. His plain uniform and lined face marked him out as a veteran soldier.

"Artillery fire is intensifying from the DEN border, sir." His scout commander sounded tired. He had been on the road for hours, moving from position to position whilst the 33rd Infantry Division came up behind him, readying itself for combat. 

Talbot had access to artillery and air support that could have struck at DEN already, but the leadership hadn't given him the green light yet. For the moment all he could do was ready his soldiers for war. 

"Very well. Any more idea what they're actually firing at?" 

"A disused pumping station. It's also a suspected Sons of Silence safe house." 

Talbot was silent for a moment. "Regardless, they're firing at our people. Keep watching. Any ground units cross the border and all bets are off."

Talbot threw down the handset and left the command post. Outside, beside the base's gate, was a Ranger IFV bristling with radio antennae and sensor equipment. The general climbed in. His staff officers waited there and saluted him as the Ranger moved off, swinging into position at the front of a convoy of UA-77 tanks. The armoured vehicles drove away from the base, kicking up a cloud of minute particles of crushed ice from their tracks. 

Talbot tuned the radio in the Ranger to the known channel used by DEN's armed forces in the border area. They couldn't listen in, unfortunately, but they could broadcast.

"To whom it may concern. This is Samuel Talbot, commander of the Uitland Coalition Army's Northern Front. You are currently attacking the sovereign soil of our nation. If you do not desist immediately you will be treated as hostile. I repeat, cease your attack immediately."

Talbot leaned back, wondering if was just whistling in the wind. For all he knew, DEN was readying its' well-trained army to surge across the border. By God, he would fight them do his dying breath if necessary. He had fought their new friends the Xianese with a steely resolve, and DEN would meet the same iron will if they so chose. 

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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Tue Nov 03, 2015 10:49 am

"To whom it may concern. This is Samuel Talbot, commander of the Uitland Coalition Army's Northern Front. You are currently attacking the sovereign soil of our nation. If you do not desist immediately you will be treated as hostile. I repeat, cease your attack immediately."


"Tovarishch Field Marshal Vasilyev! Enemy units have sent us a communication on our channels!" The radioman shouted, and Vasilyev stood up from behind the car, picking up the large radio and running towards the building. He kept his head down when he heard the artillery shells whistle overhead and strike the enemy bunker again and again. Every single time a shell hit, the ground beneath them shook with fury, making the traversing difficult, especially for a man lugging a large radio behind him. Passing the Commissar General, he jumped into the room, just as another shell hit.

"What is it, soldier?" Vasilyev shouted above the blasts, and looked directly at him. He had the radio leaning against the wall behind him, and a headset covering one of his ears, the other open to hear him. He had forgotten his comms, which made communication difficult with each other, even at this distance.

"Sir! The Coalition is demanding we cease our attack!" The lieutenant shouted, looking at the large helicopter that was taking off with all the wounded on board. The backlash from the helicopter whipped their hair and clothes, causing a din. "They threaten us with military action!"

"How far away are the airborne?" Vasilyev shouted back, a pointing at the helicopter. There was another H-1 helicopter that came over, and landed in the middle of the place, and thirteen SS soldiers dressed in combat gear jumped out of the open door, running towards the Commissar General and the Field Marshal. The Captain of the group came up to him and handed them their comms, and began outfitting them with battle gear.

"They're right on us, sir!" The Lieutenant shouted, pointing in the air. The Field Marshal put his hand to his ear just as the comms were put in and turned on. But he didn't get a response from the Lieutenant, as right then, just about 100 feet above, the twenty H1 Helicopters roared overhead, their rotor blades surprising the Marshal. Before he could even compose himself again, they were gone, just as the artillery had stopped. Now, four columns of white smoke began pouring from the ground, and the helicopters started flying right into them, hidden from the enemy.

"Commissar General, Honour Guard, move out!" Vasilyev ordered, spinning his hand in the air in a circle, looking at the pilot. He got a thumbs up from the officer, and not a moment too soon as the rest of the Honour Guard, as well as Krusechov, jumper onto the white camouflaged helicopter.

The rotors of the Command helicopter began spinning faster and faster than they had been when it landed, and the Captain of the Guard grabbed the door handle, and slammed the door shut with a bang, muting the roar of the blades. He had barely sat down when the ground beneath them disappeared, and they angled forward to head towards the combat zone. Behind them, another helicopter came carrying reinforcements for the Checkpoint, doors opened.

"Sir! Your rifle!" A lieutenant said, and held out a Vintovka TPV bullpup rifle, which the Field Marshal took and cocked, loading one of the spare mags into the left side, and let the bolt go back. The Commissar General, however, was handed a Vintovka TPC C, the carbine version, which he took as well. But he was also given his sword, as well as a powerful 5.56 mm pistol, which he pocketed.

"You ready, Tovarishch?" The Field Marshal asked, giving him a smile and a laugh as he fixed up the rest of his battle gear.

"Well, Vasilyev, it looks like we've just jumped out of the frying pan... And into the fire!" Krusechov shouted back, sitting eagerly in his seat. The helicopter already began to slow as it started it's landing cycle.
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Postby Xianlong » Wed Nov 04, 2015 2:04 pm

Sons of Silence bunker, near the DEN border

The enemies' artillery fire had been pummelling them mercilessly for too long, thought Borisov as he braced himself against the reinforced concrete of the bunker as more DEN shells slammed home. They wouldn't be getting out of this one. 

But it didn't matter, thought the zealot as he dimly heard the whip-whip-whip of helicopter blades coming from somewhere outside. All that mattered was that the faithful had struck a blow against the apostates and filthy unbelievers who sought to control God's land. They would be martyrs. And in one thousand years men would speak their name with reverence. He said as much to his men. They grinned at him, showing no fear, and Borisov felt pride swell in his breast. What men! He was honoured to die amongst such heroes. 

"Be ready, my boys." He said, raising his voice to be heard above the cacophony of enemy movements outside. "They will be coming to die soon enough. Remember, make your shots count. And do not worry about breaching charges or anything like that-the sandbags will stop any blast wave. Just be calm and kill them." 

Northern Front HQ section, close to the DEN border

"General, it appears that DEN are crossing our border!" The staff officer shouted excitedly. Talbot reached down and grabbed the receiver from him. 

"Captain, have they set foot on our soil?" The commander of the Northern Front asked. The captain, whom the general had spoken to just hours before, didn't sound tired any more. Adrenaline wipes away tiredness better than any drug. 

"They are preparing to land helicopter troops on our side of the border, sir. They seem determined to assault it." 

Talbot was silent for a moment. "Thank you, captain." He said at last. "Keep your eyes on them." 

The scout captain acknowledged and cut the connection. Talbot sighed heavily before signalling the comms officer to change frequencies.

"Firebase 7-4, this is Drumroll. Do you copy?" 

"Copy, Drumroll. Awaiting orders." The battery commander responded crisply.

"Prepare your guns for action. Target Marker Steelhand-barrage pattern Sierra 4." Ironically enough the pumping station the DEN were about to assault was used as a practice target during many artillery ranging exercises. But the battery commander had never thought to fire on it for real. He showed no hesitation, however. 

"Understood. We will be ready."

Talbot grunted and changed frequency again. He instructed the 181st fighter-bomber squadron to take to the air in preparation for action. They would be overhead within 20minutes. Finally, he called Kligenthal. He got through to Chessboard. Dispensing with any pleasantries Talbot demanded if he had authorisation to engage DEN.

"The Xianese Foreign Minister is meeting with the Council as we speak." Zeitzler answered. "Once the Imperials agree to support us, you will be cleared to engage." 

"And in the meantime?" Talbot tried to stay civil. "I'm to allow the enemy to attack our country?" 

"Calm down, Sam." Zeitzler tried to soothe his subordinate. "They are almost finished. Deploy your troops and stand ready."

"Very well. But make it quick. Talbot out." 

With a snort of disgust the general threw down the receiver. He stood, heaving open the hatch of the Ranger and poking his head out. Raising a pair of binos to his eyes he could see the flash of artillery fire. Bracing himself against the bucking of the command vehicle, he steeled himself for the clash that he was sure was coming.

Great Hall, Kilgenthal

Foreign Minister Karl Brandt gripped the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the pain and frustration of the last couple of days. It was a nightmare, dealing with these people. Prideful, arrogant, and obtuse, the Coalition Council was the perfect example of how not to run a government. No wonder half of their regions were forever trying to escape their control. 

He tried, once again, to steer the conversation away from blaming one another as the council was fond of doing. Two men, a minister of industry and a staff officer from the southern front, had just finished screaming at one another. Security had actually had to physically separate them. 

"We really need to focus on the most important issue here, gentlemen." Brandt raised his voice slightly so that all could hear him. "The Coalition may be facing an invasion that it cannot hope to resist. What we, the Empire, want to know is simple. Can your people accept us as friends? Because we will not send our soldiers into this country if they are to suffer constant attacks while we are trying to help. We cannot." 

The Uitlander leaders were silent. Finally one man spoke up. It was Nielsen, Chairman of the Council. "We can assure you that our people will understand that the Empire is no longer a foe. They know what is at stake here; they will understand."

"I hope so." Brandt didn't sound all that confident. "The other issue is how to coordinate our armed forces to fight effectively. While I am not a soldier,I have with me a suggestion from the Imperial Armed Forces High Command. We would form a joint staff, operating from Kligenthal, to oversee all Imperial and Coalition operations. It was also suggested that the Coalition take the lead in defensive deployments whilst the Imperial Army would direct offensive operations. But all operations would be green lit following a consensus in the joint staff. Does that seem acceptable?"

The Council thought about this for a moment. Yes, it was decided, it would be acceptable. Before anyone could change their mind Brandt excused himself, pulling out his secure phone to notify Imperial Citadel that they could begin moving Hartmann's 7th Army north into Uitland. Not as enemies, this time, but as allies.

Command vehicle "Gotha", 7th Army command echelon. Xianese-Uitland border

Erich Hartmann had been as good as his word; within four minutes of receiving authorisation to cross the border the first armoured vehicles were inside the Coalition. Troop transports, IFVs, Tiger MBTs and even the huge heavy Imperator tanks rumbled along the frost-bitten roads, heading northwards. 

The Coalition was not an especially large country, but it would take the 7th Army a few days to cross it if they wanted to keep their fighting vehicles in any kind of condition to actually fight once they reached the northern border. 

General Hartmann knew that a few days could make all the difference in war. So he had also sent one of his subordinate generals, Richard Armitage, to the northern industrial city of Gartmorth. Armitage was a paratrooper, and had brought with him many highly-trained and motivated soldiers in the  several huge transport aircraft. Also there was a single regiment of the Imperial Guard, the 78th Infantry. They specialised in asymmetrical warfare as well as traditional Imperial combat doctrines. This advance force could be in battle within three hours, if need be. 

Also there was a contingent of the Imperial Intelligence Bureau's Special Operations Executive (SOE), who had been present in the Gartmorth area to help root out insurgents. They were quite able to perpetrate an insurrection against any foe; Indeed, that was what they had been originally formed for.

General Hartmann watched with pride as the leading Tiger of the 12th Armoured Regiment roared past his stationary  Raptor command vehicle, a huge Imperial flag flowing behind it. He returned the tank commander's salute, wishing him luck for the hard drive ahead.

Operation Polaris had begun.

 
 

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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Thu Nov 05, 2015 9:47 am

Attack Helicopters

H-1s were never designed as a dedicated attack helicopter. They were, first and foremost, a transport helicopter for the Airborne and Calvary, with whatever added role the units wanted. With no original wings for hardpoints, any weapons they wanted on the side had to be bolted on when it was grounded, and loaded from there. The standard on all helicopters was the same across the board: two 7.62 mm miniguns, and two rocket pods that held 15 95 mm rockets apiece. These specific ones loaded on all five modified H-1s, were Thermobaric warheads. Perfect for bunkers.

The five helicopters flew over the modified bunker without firing a shot first, and turned to circle back around the bunker. They split, with two going left, and three going right. The first one to engage had slowed down after turning left, and was now facing the enemy bunker dead on. He instantly launched two rockets at the bunker, before rolling the aircraft left, and stopping.

Both 85 mm rockets shot out of their pods and flew in a straight line towards the bunker, spinning as it flew. Both of them detonated in midair, near the walls of the bunker. In a split second, the first charges on each rocket detonated, sending a massive mist of liquid fuel into the air, which was quickly ignited by a second charge on each rocket. The result was a massive fireball that would find its way into any crack or crevice, any opening, followed by a shockwave that would kill or injure anyone within a ten meter radius of the detonation. If it was near a bunker or even inside, it would suck the air out to fuel the detonation, then blast it with flaming liquid, and a concussive shockwave that would bounce off the walls.

"Target hit! Both rounds detonated. You are clear to enter." The pilot reported, checking the infrared cameras on the bottom of the helicopter to monitor the detonation sight. If the enemy wasn't killed, they would be knocked back and stunned by the weapon, and that would definitely buy the soldiers some time to attack.

On the Ground

The massive explosion was welcomed by the troops, who stood by at 50 meters from the bunker. Even through the smoke screen they heard, saw, and felt the shockwave from the blast and the fireball in the distance, which came to them as a bright flash of light. A few of them cheered, but they were quickly drawn out by the roar of helicopter blades, which began retreating into the distance to return with more soldiers.

"1st Company, Second and Third Platoon, move up! Fourth, cover them!" The Commissar General shouted out, and started to run hunched over, making himself smaller to hide from any fire. The fourty five men started running, covering the distance without much worry, before slamming themselves against the now slightly burnt walls of the bunker. There, the Commissar General put his hand up as a sign to hold.
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Xianlong
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Ex-Nation

Postby Xianlong » Thu Nov 05, 2015 3:37 pm

Son of Silence bunker

Borisov's dreams of a last, glorious battle were crushed in an instant by the DEN missiles. The wave of fire that engulfed the bunker suffocated over half of his men instantly, while the massive concussive wave killed most of the others. Borisov himself, along with several of his bodyguard, survived by chance, but were hurled across the room by the fearsome detonations. For a moment, a long, painful moment, there was silence. Then the screaming started as wounded men died. 

Borisov pulled himself roughly upright, wincing in pain from his numerous wounds. He was pretty sure he had multiple broken ribs, maybe a broken arm. He was coughing blood, which was not a good sign. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Watch the door!' He gasped. His men complied, though their leader could see that many were in a bad way. Not that it mattered. 

"Just hold them!" He said again, limping as fast as he could into the bunkers' makeshift control room. Seconds later the lift that dug deep into the bowels of the earth began to rise to their level.

Northern Front Command vehicle

DEN-Uitland border

"They're going for it!" Talbot looked round at the voice. It was the Ranger's driver, who sat with his eyes glued to the rangefinder and his jaw dropped. "They've fucking done it!" He sounded delirious.

"Who? Who's done what?" The general snapped. 

"Ground troops, sir! Enemy ground troops are now in our country!"

Talbot leapt to the cupola, binos in hand. He scanned the scene in front of him. His driver was right. Talbot sighed inwardly. Time to go to war again.

"Sir! Message from Central Command!"

"Yes?" The general forced himself to sound calm.

"We are--" The comms officer stopped, swallowing, then tried again. "We are to engage the enemy with all the forces at our command, sir. The Imperials have guaranteed us their support. It's happening again, sir!" 

Talbot wished he could reassure the man. "Just trust your training and your comrades, John. We will survive." 

With that General Talbot gave the orders to his battery commander to open fire. 

As the first Uitlander shells exploded amongst the pumping station Colonel Robert Ewing, commander of the 33rd Coalition Infantry Regiment, ordered his leading units of  infantry to attack. Moving in behind the soldiers, radars scanning the skies, came AA vehicles and IFVs. The IFVs, modelled after last-gen Xianese models, began firing on the Namenian soldiers waiting in front of the pumping station, although they were at the very limit of the MGs effective range. Talbot also took a call from the closest elements of the 181st Fighter-Bomber squadron who had also been cleared to engage.

"Northern Front Command, this is Starfire Leader. Incoming on your target coordinates in five. Over."




Gartmorth, northern Uitland

Captain Marcus Taylor, holder of the Iron Cross 1st Class and commander of the 7th Company of  the 78th Imperial Guard Inf. Rgt, laughed at the joke which had come from the pair of Guardsmen flanking the door of the immense hangar where two Imperial Air Force HM121 transport aircraft unloaded the men of General Armitage's Paratrooper Regiments. 

"Never heard that one before, Keith." Captain Taylor grinned at the soldier as a section of paras marched past, heading for the assembly point on the airfield where they could board their armoured infantry transports. The Coalition Army had also donated some of their own transports, licensed copies of older Xianese gear. So the paras knew how to use them just fine. Captain Taylor watched in approval as the paratroopers clambered into their vehicles. 

Normally the paras would be preparing to strike with their attack helicopters and light artillery, but the helicopters being transported north with the 7th Army wouldn't arrive for another few days. In the meantime the airborne units would be used as crack infantry. As for Taylor and the 78th, they were to begin preparing Gartmorth for a DEN attack. If things really went badly at the border, the allies would need a secure line  of retreat and a prepared position to defend. A pair of Coalition fighter-bombers screamed overhead, heading north, and Taylor fought an urge to duck. He had been bombed by those aircraft in the first war, and hoped that those pilots were as accurate as the ones he had suffered under in Hjarmak. He raised a hand to a para he knew, a major called Gillespie, as his armoured transport swept by. 

"Save some Targets for us!" Taylor called. Major Gillespie grinned and waved as he passed through the gate, heading for combat.

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Die Erworbenen Namen
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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Sun Nov 08, 2015 5:04 pm

Commissar General's Det.

With their backs to the wall of the bunker, they heard the screams echoing, and the whine of an elevator coming up from below the ground. Krusechov turned to face his squad and pulled out a grenade from his belt, nodding and pointing at two others. "Flash bang and grenade! Now!"

He ran across the opening and tossed in his flashbang grenade, while the other two soldiers tossed in two frag grenades. There was a loud bang, and a massive flash, as the first one went off, and two loud explosions as the frags went off. "Flamer! Torch them!"

One of the soldiers holding a full TPV assault rifle stood in front of the door and held out his weapon, pointing the under-barrel flamethrower towards them, and pulled the trigger on the secondary weapon. A great roar erupted out of the flamethrower as a torrent of blazing napalm shot out into the bunker, illuminating the entire area, and catching on the ground, walls, ceiling, and anything else it touched. The sound of screaming would be overwhelming now.

"AHH FUCK!" A shout came over the comms, and Krusechov turned around to see where the voice had come from. Two men away from the bunker were instantly gunned down by a torrent of MG fire that, although incredibly inaccurate at this range, suppressed the group. The two companies were pinned down by enemy fire.

"MOVE MOVE MOVE! INTO THE BUNKER NOW!" The Commissar General shouted into the comms, pointing his hand towards the bunker. Just as the artillery began to fall onto the soldiers, the whole first Company (including the platoons in front of the bunker) began rushing into the bunker at will. But the second company, including the Field Marshal, had been stuck out in the open by the artillery fire. Every single man dove for the ground, and hid behind any piece of cover they could find, preferring to jump into artillery craters to act as cover. "Marshal! Give us counter battery fire, Tovarishch Sir!"

"I'm fucking working on it, Krusechov!" Vasilyev shouted back into the comms, lying down in an artillery crater with a radio next to him. He had the headset back on, and was trying his best to not get shelled. Every time he tried to move the channels, he got a little bit of static, but now he could finally get Command. "Adolfsburg, Adolfsburg, this is Field Marshal Vasilyev, commanding Able and Baker Company. We are under heavy enemy fire, repeat, heavy enemy fire. Requesting counter battery fire on enemy position!"

"Vasilyev, this is Adolfsburg. Artillery radar has tracked enemy rounds over your position. Track and report damage. Be aware: enemy aircraft are incoming. Will engage." Adolfsburg, the codename for Leningrad, replied. Vasilyev was grateful for the reply, but goddamn he was angry that the enemy was going to attack. He leaned forward, and drove himself back into the crater when a heavy shell tore into a squad and obliterated them.

Leningrad
Artilley Command


The artillery command bunker was in the middle of the large fortress, and sat a little bit above the ground. Around it stood the rest of the guns, and all of the rocket artillery, dug into the ground and surrounded by sandbags. At every interval was another bunker, this time sitting mostly underground. There, the ammunition lay, but for the most part was out with the actual guns and units. Though this time, it was all on the rockets. The commander of which, was inside the Command bunker.

He instantly relayed the order to the guns outside, who began to punch in the coordinates to the vehicles. They had to be quick. Only two out of the ten had been called into service for counter battery fire, but this was dire. They had to cover two grids. Nicknamed the Grid Sweeper, these powerful weapons could clear a 1x1 km grid each with clusters. And that was just what they wanted.

Fifteen cluster warheads were loaded into each vehicle, and shot out in a massive roar. The noise from the back lash of the rocket motors was deafening, makin a daemonic screech as they shot off. The worst part for the enemy was that each vehicle was ordered to perform a simultaneous impact barrage, where each round would hit at once. No one would be ready for it.

Seconds passed by, and although he couldn't hear the roar in the distance, he could hear the reply.

"Command, Command, target hit! Target hit!"

*****
Alpha and Bravo Company

With the arrival of light smoke trails, the soldiers cheered. At the detonations, however, they cheered even more. Thirty of the large rockets tore through the sky in a parabolic curve, and released their submunitions thousands of feet above the battlefields, showering the two grids with explosions. The noise was deafening from the Field Marshal's position, and must have been hell for the enemy artillery as well. The entire ordeal allowed the rest of the soldiers time to rush into the bunker, and occupy it further. There, they would be protected against their strikes. For now.
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Xianlong
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Founded: Feb 24, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Xianlong » Tue Nov 10, 2015 7:39 pm

Sons of Silence bunker

Borisov winced as the chorus of denotations announced the DEN attack. His remaining men, totally outmatched by the flamers and grenades, were slaughtered. The lift was almost at his level when the Namenian troops entered the bunker and shot the Sons of Silence operative in the back of the head. Borisov was dead before he hit the ground. But his actions would result in the deaths of countless loyal Namenian, Imperial, and Uitlander soldiers.

The leading infantry units of the 33rd Coalition Army Regiment were commanded by Captain Anton Freidmann. Freidmann led from the front, struggling through the snow with his assault rifle slung around his neck. He saw the enemy pile into the bunker and raised his gun, firing off a couple of shots. He missed every time. "Shit." He growled, running on.

Northern Front Command vehicle

"Sir! Firebase 7-4 reports counter battery fire!" Talbot's comm officer reported as the general watched his men move closer to the bunker. 

"Casualties?" He snapped. The comm officer listened for a moment. "Eight guns destroyed, three more damaged. They were in the process of moving to their second firing positions. The destroyed guns were the last ones firing." 

"Very well." Talbot paused. "Have batteries 7-5and 7-3 commence firing. Target the same coordinates." 

"Yes, sir." General Talbot grabbed another radio handset and called up the flight of fighter bombers that was in the vicinity. 

"Starfire Leader, this is Drumroll." 

"Go ahead, Drumroll." The pilot sounded calm. 

"Assume CAP position at our location and await further orders." 

Starfire Leader sounded disappointed that he wasn't going to engage the enemy, not yet anyway. "Copy that. Starfire Leader out." 

"We're not going to bomb the enemy artillery?" Hildern, one of Talbot's staff officers, asked.

Talbot wanted to punch him. "You are aware, Major, that those batteries are in Leningrad?" He said instead.

"Yes, sir." Hildern answered. 

"Then you know they are defended by a ring if flak so dense that we could almost walk on it. No, Major, we are not going to bomb the enemy guns . To do so would be a waste of men and materiel." 

Turning away from Hildern General Talbot watched as the IFVs halted to cover the infantrymen as they closed in on the enemy. He ordered the 33rd's light armour to the flanks, so that they could counter any enemy reinforcements. 

"Sir, incoming message from Colonel Huber. He requests permission to join the assault." 

Talbot frowned. "Who the Hell is Colonel Huber?" 

"He's the commander of the Imperial Army's 87th Paratroop Regiment, sir. It's the Xianese!" 

General Talbot felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Things were looking good, so far. 

"Advise the colonel he would be welcome! Request him and his men to hit the enemy from the east. They should find the slight elevation useful for their MGs and cannon!" 

"At once, sir!" Talbot could see far off to his right the first Imperial APCs and IFVs crossed the rise. 

It was good to have allies, he thought.

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Die Erworbenen Namen
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Postby Die Erworbenen Namen » Tue Nov 17, 2015 12:59 pm

Enemy Bunker, Able and Bravo Company

"Get those MGs set up! Goddammnit, don't let them get up here!" The Commissar General shouted, pointing to the walls with his hand as he held his carbine up in the air. This was a Commissar's job, to boost morale and beat the men into their positions. If they did not want to, that is. Each squad had two MG units in their midst, and that served to benefit the soldiers who were now inside the armored structure. A large number of Machine guns were suddenly deployed in the direction of the enemy soldiers (in reality, they were labeled as 'Heavy Weapons', and as such used different weapons for different things), and began to aim.

"Wait.... Wait... WAIT..." The Commissar General Krusechov ordered, watching outside. Out there, the enemy was rushing up the hill towards them, and had already gotten into range to fire upon the makeshift structures. But now it would prove futile. Krusechov raised his hand, and in one swift motion, brought it down, and shouted out an order among the roar of explosions. "FIRE!"

Of the 175 infantry, 13 SS, two officers, and 18 squads there, around sixteen men had MGs, not including the two MG-303s that the SS had, and the V-ATW-LMG/G Krusechov's squad had. Arranged in such a way that the MGs were in front, and their ammunition was steadily fed to them, the soldiers provided blistering fire upon the enemy, creating a loud noise, almost like a massive buzz saw. The fire might be able to defend them from the massive amount of infantry, but the tanks that were advancing upon them would surely be protected. With the artillery still pounding them mercilessly, Vasilyev had to make a decision to stop it.

"ATTACK SQUADRON! GET THOSE GODDAMNED GUNS OUT! JUST GET THOSE FUCKING GUNS OUT!" He shouted into the mic, trying to speak over the deafening roar of the artillery, and the buzz of the machine guns. Needless to say, the pilots could all hear what he ordered.

Attack Squadron

"Alright, boys! You heard the man! Get ready! We're going in hot!" The squadron leader shouted into his helicopter, banging on the wall behind him to alert the four gunners sitting in the cargo/transport. They could easily hear them over the comms, but the addition by the commander helped them. As the helicopter rolled to the right and began to turn, the four gunners checked their guns and ammo, and cocked the receivers of their MG-303s, sliding a round in.

They were almost over the bunker when the doors of the aircraft slammed open, unlocked and affectionately kicked open by the gunners. They brought their guns forward, watching as the fire erupted from the bunkers. It wasn't even a few seconds before the helicopter turned left, rolling towards the enemy armor column clearly heading towards the bunker. They didn't look like coalition vehicles to any of the men, especially the commander. That troubled them. Troubled them greatly.

"Adolfsburg, this is Squadron Leader. We've got armored tangos on the ground, inbound on Vasilyev's position. Definitely NOT coalition. I repeat, NOT coalition. Permission to engage?" The commander asked, looking out the side of his helicopter's window. There was his wingman, just a little bit higher than him, looking as ready as ever.

"Squadron Leader, you are clear to engage Xianese troops." The reply came. That stunned the commander a little. Xianese? Xianlong troops were in the area? This little battle suddenly had become the start of a war, and he was very sure he did not like where this was going. Shrugging after having seen the soldiers, he turned his aircraft around to get a better firing solution, when his radar suddenly alerted him.

"Shit! Hostile aircraft are inbound. Adolfsburg, are you getting this?" The Commander asked, looking in the air for any inkling of the enemy aircraft. He had hoped they wouldn't be assaulted by fighters, but to his dismay... It might just happen. "Shit... Adolfsburg, requesting immediate cover fire on my position!"

"Squadron Leader, this is Adolfsburg. We've got tangos on our screen. Covering fire inbound. Stay low. Over and out." The reply came, and not too soon. The helicopters were starting to turn around and face the enemy column, when the air suddenly began to explode around them. Eight 120 mm guns, and 16 88 mm guns open fired from the lead Combat Tower, showering the air with heavy, explosive shells that detonated, leaving shrapnel and smoke. The idea was that the amount of Flak would disrupt enemy radar, targeting, and provide cover in the form of psychological warfare (as well as physical damage to the enemy). And it was good enough for them.

"Target enemy ground targets. Weapons free, weapons free. Attack with extreme prejudice! TALLYHO!" The squadron leader shouted, pushing the yoke forward, diving the helicopter forward. Relying on experience and the situation, the pilot waited a little bit, before pulling the trigger on the yoke. The 7.62 mm minigun erupted as he shot overhead, showering the enemy with a spray of bullets. Carefully timing his launches so they covered ground equally, he released all rockets in his first two rocket pods, showering the enemy in a blanket of 30 90 mm Thermobaric rockets, before he pulled up. His buddy next to him did the same, running over the same ground as before, and letting loose another barrage.
The beatings will continue. Regardless of morale.

Hurtful Thoughts wrote:Also, nominating DEN as ATLAS's Chef Ramses.
The United Remnants of America wrote:I'm collecting friends. Hate to say it, but you qualify.

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Xianlong
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Posts: 220
Founded: Feb 24, 2014
Ex-Nation

Postby Xianlong » Fri Nov 27, 2015 6:17 pm

DEN-Coalition Border, Sons of Silence bunker

Captain Freidmann swore viciously as he saw his subordinate and friend, Lieutenant Bortmann, scythed down by the sudden heavy MG fire from the bunker. Many more of his men suffered the same fate within the next minutes. Their captain, who had taken cover in a large blackened shellhole along with several others, shouted obscenities at the  Uitlander APCs that remained out of range. He knew they should have disembarked closer to the target! What the Hell year did his superiors think it was? 1815? Because sending unsupported infantry en masse against enemy positions was a quick way to wipe out an entire regiment. Only 300 men had mustered for this assault, and Freidmann could see at least fifty of those already slain.

To the flanks he could see the Coalition light armour concentrating fire on the DEN held bunker, punching high-velocity HE rounds through the holes made by DEN prior to occupying it. That, along with the Coalition barrage,should disrupt their MGs at least. Friedmann toggled his comm, raising his men. "Alright, boys!" He growled. "we're dead 'uns if we stay in the open. We charge at my command!" He received a chorus of affirmatives from his surviving squad leaders. 

Command vehicle "Zhuge Liang", 87th Paratrooper Regiment

Colonel Johann Huber stood stock still despite the fury of the enemy helicopters sweeping above his men and the swaying of his vehicle as it bounced over the frozen rock. The DEN helicopters' first strafing run had destroyed five of his armoured transports and had heavily damaged at least two others. As he watched another burst into flames. The paras scrambled out, their squad leaders waving them forward. The crew, minus a couple who must have been already dead, hefted their assault carbines and fell in with the paras. They would fight as infantry for the rest of the battle, their training allowing them to change roles effortlessly. 

Huber nodded in satisfaction as the  Coalition's mobile AA, which had been advancing on the flanks along with the Uitlanders' light armour, spat lines of explosive shells at the Namenian choppers. Four AA missiles, fired by his men from shoulder-mounted launchers, stabbed skywards on tongues of fire. 

Starfire Flight

Flight Lieutenant Guthrie hauled his stick back into his stomach, sweeping his KI-45 "Defender" fighter-bomber around in a wide turn that brought him within range of the battle surrounding the devastated pumping station. His flight, eight aircraft of the 181st Fighter Bomber Squadron, kept station around him. Drumroll, codename for General Talbot, came on the air. 

"Starfire Leader, request you provide air support for the Xianese forces attacking from the east of the bunker. Those enemy choppers need to go." 

"Copy." Guthrie scanned his instruments. "Ok, fellows. We're splitting into three. Henderson, you're two flight lead. I'll stay one. We get three apiece-Sanders and Forbes, you're with me. Zhou and Anders, with Henderson. Peters, Aaronson. You two are going for the enemy air. Hit them with everything you have. The rest of us are going for that flak tower. It presents us with the most immediate danger. Alright, boys. Go for it, and good luck."

Sergeant Vincent "Big Vic" Manzano of the 87th Imperial Paratroop Regiment threw himself flat as a Namenian rifle bullet cracked past his head. Bastards were good, he thought grudgingly as he crawled forward. Damned good. Despite heavy shelling and the battering they were getting from the Coalition's light armour, the enemy wasn't wavering. Instead they continued to pour accurate, concentrated fire into the joint Uitland-Xianese forces. Manzano hauled himself upright, firing a burst from his StA-52 assault rifle at a Namenian who showed himself through one of the holes torn in the bunker. The sergeant stormed forward before taking cover behind a smouldering truck. Taking careful aim through his holographic sights he fired a tight three round burst at a running DEN soldier. He saw the rounds hit the man but his view was blotted out by a cloud of dust thrown up by the cannon shells fired by a pair of Coalition planes that had roared out of the slate-grey sky. The sergeant didn't know if he had killed e enemy or not, but hoped so.

The aircraft swept overhead, air to air missiles leaping from their weapon racks and homing unerringly  in on the heat signatures that the DEN helicopter's exhausts gave off. 

Sergeant Manzano was joined by a group of his fellow paras who took cover as best they could around the truck's carcass, exchanging fire with the Namenians in the shattered bunker. Manzano could see Imperial soldiers disembarking from their transports, still under fire from the helicopters. He saw a man fall, struck clean through the head by one of the heavy MG bullets. The main Imperial force was close to the bunker now, and squads began to advance, dashing from cover to cover. The APCs provided covering fire, engulfing the defenders in a hail of MG and light cannon fire.

Twice now Captain Freidmann had wanted to give the order to charge across the open ground to assault the bunker, and twice the sheer volume and accuracy of fire had caused him to hold off. He saw his allies begin to descend the slight slope to the east, and decided that the time to attack was now. 

"Fix bayonets! Use frag when you get close enough!" He reminded his men. Then he took a deep breath. And another.

"Charge! For Uitland! For the Coalition!"


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