The San Javier Conflict (IC | TWI ONLY | CLOSED)

[Freedomnonia]

0000, 2 days later, southeast of Isla San Javier
0000 had always been the start of operations, at least in Freedomnonian military tradition. The cover of night was always useful, but it sure was hard to stay awake. The cool sea breeze and ocean spray helped some, but the constant rocking of the boat, and the associated seasickness, was what kept most of the division awake.

The previous day, the Prime Minister had authorized the 1st division of the army to launch an assault on a small island southeast of San Javier. This island would serve as the base of operations for Freedomnonian forces involved in San Javier. Intelligence suggested that the island was mostly unoccupied, but the remianing three Arleigh Burke class DDGs in the navy had been sent to provide support, just in case. In addition, several large tankers had been modified to launch and recover VTOL aircraft for air support. Freedomnonia was in the process of getting carriers, but that was still a ways off. The division of 3000 consisted of 200 engineers with equipment, two tank platoons with M-60s, an artillery battery of 15 guns, and the remainder of infantry. Until the base was completed, the operation would be run from the destroyer Gregorian.

The main mission was to conquer the island, wipe out any resistance, and set up an airfield.

The force reached the kick-off point at 0200. The doors on the modified tanker slowly opened, letting water rush in. LVTs slowly crawled out from each, followed by old hovercraft carrying the heavier equipment.

Freedomnonia was officially involved in San Javier.

Order of Battle
1 division of 3000 soldiers: 200 engineers with equipment, 200 armored (8 M-60 MBTs, crew + support), 200 artillery (15 guns various caliber, crew + support), remainder infantry units
3 Arleigh Burke DDGs, FFS Gregorian, Freedom, Liberty
7 modified tankers (River, Ranger, Palm, Liberty, Resistance, Revolution, Coastal), handle VTOL aircraft (UH-60, CV-22, Harrier) and serve as mobile docks. Equipped with 2 5-inch guns apiece and various small arms for close-in defense.
7 UH-60, 7 Mi-24, 4 Harrier, 7 CV-22
7 Hovercraft, armed with M-240B and Mk. 19 grenade launcher
20 LVT, armed with 25mm Bushmaster chain gun.

[Helvetea]

Martello 'Fortress'
35 km north of Rio del Rosario

The Village was little more than a ruin. There had once been 43 buildings, from houses to a small supermarket, but they were little more than shells of their former glory, pockmarked with bullet holes and shell craters. The Army Camp was on the outskirts, made up of buildings of a different sort. Pre-Fabricated barracks, tents, and two moderate-sized hangars were present, and a small defense perimeter consisting of a wooden fence and several guard bunkers extended around the base. This was the home of the 12th Battalion, of the Royal Helvetean Army. They were backed up by a local militia, which was being trained with the Jeeps and handheld weapons. All in All, the Helvetean/Militia force numbered about 500, minus the support crew that maintained the vehicles.

At one of the guard bunkers, a black-haired sentry was overlooking the surrounding area, frowning a bit to himself. He heard his replacement walk down the small flight of stairs from the sandbag position into the bunker, knocking on the door as she entered. "You're Relieved of watch, you know." Sergeant Alicia Lohrenz said, standing next to him as they looked out at the dismal weather that threatened to rain over the camp. The other Sergeant, Andrzej Seweryn, scoffed as he put down his binoculars, leaning on the concrete wall. "I won't be relieved in any way whatsoever until we get out of this cesspool of a country. The Helvetean Military has more important things to focus its attention on than playing war games in a filthy place like this."

Andrzej was A bit of a snob. Despite being a Commoner, he had a snobby tone and had the nickname of 'Lord' among the Battalion, which he readily disliked. Alicia was liked by everyone else, however. One part loopy, the other half Party, she was a hit with the casual soldiers with the battalion. She backed against the wall, giggling. "Oh Lord, Oh my Highness! You are truly wise beyond your years!" She laughed, ducking out as a pair of binoculars was sent her way by an infuriated Seweryn.

The 12th Battalion had been present for about a month now. Its equipment wasn't much to boast about. a small field hosted 9 Alouette IIIs, while Jeeps, M-113s of various variants, a couple of Troop Transporters and several AMX-30s lay dormant in various motor pools. The Commander of the 12th Battalion, Prince Alexander von Regensburg, was leaving in a small convoy consisting of 2 Jeeps, a Truck, and 2 M-113 APCs. They were on their way to meet the Officials at the Rio del Rosario Refugee Camp, to discuss an alliance between the two factions.

[Keomora]

"President Hernandez" said Secretary of State Arterius Whyn in greeting. Both promptly shook hands before the President told him to take a seat.
"How do you find San Javier," the President acquired, offering him some of the water that was placed by a manservant
Secretary Whyn however pretended to take a small sip before continuing.
"I find it lovely," he remarked and it he didn't lie. While the country needed a lot of help his experience of the years past exposed him to small and quaint beauties.
"I was informed by my chief of staff that you visited this country before? No?"
Secretary Whyn nodded.
"Si Senor Presidente. Yo era- I was an aide to the embassy. Before we pulled out due to our disagreements."
"And now your country is once more on the doorstep on my nation like Vultures looking for a carcass."
Whyn didn't seem fazed but it became increasingly clear that his task of convincing the President in whatever way possible became much harder.
"First the Atish come here with their own Faustian deals, and before that the Vancouvians. What does your country want? Our ports? Our islands?" A bitterness was laced in his voice as he placed a hand on his temple.
"Yo siento- I am sorry, at my outburst. The last few weeks have been hectic."
"I understand." Whyn rubbed his hands together.
"My country intends to reopen the old embassy, but we are not going to press for harbor rights, or the two islands. But let me be frank the next couple of months are not going to be pleasant for your country. As a courtesy I am telling you now that a squadron is arriving within the week."
The Secretary of State promptly stood up and was about to say something before he was lost in his own thoughts.
"I am sorry," he said quietly when he finally managed to find his voice.
Both men shook shook hands and Whyn went his separate way back to his hotel.

[Atnaia]

The airport was a shithole, but by Javieran standards it could have been considered a palace. Guarded twenty-four-seven by a large contingent of ECSJ soldiers, immediately identifiable by their orange-and-blue armbands, the place had been built in the 70's as a commercial and passenger port when the Conflict had seemed like a short-term blip. Now it was an ersatz military base, down to the tanks that rumbled by. A fun detail that LaBelle had noticed was the road straight from the airport to the Presidential Palace, a hallmark token of despotic regimes. He wondered if the road had been built under the communists or the capitalists, but it didn't matter one way or the other.

General Zamora, the fifty-eight year old man chomping on his trademark cigar, gazed out of the windows from his office at the airport. The runways stretched before them, and as they watched a repurposed passenger liner bearing the Atnaian flag swept down, it's wheels settling on the ill-maintained tarmac, bounced once, and then slowed to a taxi that pulled it around to begin dislodging soldiers. The first few hundred from the ships had already disembarked, and these were the supplements. Soon, even more men would arrive, and with them some colonel or brigadier or someone to take over command. LaBelle hoped to make the best use of his time in control before that. He'd already gotten used to the relatively slipshod Javieran command kowtowing to him just because his uniform had red, black and yellow on it's breast.

"Well, isn't this something, hermano," Zamora said. He pulled the cigar from between his teeth and wandered back to his desk. His voice was a load of gravel tumbling down a steel chute. "This is, what, a thousand men nearly at this point? And we are to send the lot of you to guard a half-finished railway. Seems a waste. With that many extra men, we could put together a fair offensive on Puerto Infierno."

"Sí, but those aren't our orders," LaBelle responded. Puerto Infierno was Zamora's nickname for Puerto Polo. The old Javieran general was obsessed with the place. LaBelle had been meaning to dig into that. Aside from the fact that Puerto Polo was a decent enough launching point for trade ships, even that slim usefulness had been smashed out of it by decades of battle. It seemed to LaBelle that the place had become more symbolic than anything. So many of the wars worst battles had taken place near Puerto Polo and its environs that there was a certain proclivity to see victory in Puerto Polo as victory in the war. Taking it would offer a decent staging ground for either the communist rebels or the ECSJ against the opposition, LaBelle supposed. From the photos he had seen of the shelled-out buildings and asphalt streets so shattered and ground up by explosions and tanks to have reverted back to dirt, he was of the opinion that it would frankly be easier to just trudge through the jungles up the mountain and wander into the communist bases, bypassing Puerto Polo altogether.

"Ah, orders," Zamora said, collapsing into his chair. "That is an old excuse for a lack of vision, amigo. Knocking the communists out of the country should be our first concern, not a useless rail-line. Even if we can finish putting down the steel, you really think we can keep it running with constant attacks from all sides? No, it would be a pile of rust in five years. But taking out the communists would let us turn around and kill the drug dealers and desperadoes. Then maybe we can have trains."

"It's not up to me," LaBelle said. Then, to save face, he quickly added. "Or you. We get to mow down a lot more desperadoes on the rail-line than in Puerto Polo."

"But less pinkos," Zamora said. His cigar was a nub, and he put it out in a stuffed ashtray. "Ah, who am I kidding, amigo. Puerto Polo is a pipe dream. I've been fighting this war twice as long as most of my men have been alive. Can't blame me for wanting it over with."

"Then what would you do?"

"Retire," Zamora said with a grin. "Smoke cigars. Sleep with beautiful women. Do everything in my power to avoid any sort of responsibility, and then finally die in a haze of rum, opium and cheap sex. I never got to have an irresponsible youth, you see. I have lots to make up for."

LaBelle shifted uncomfortably and decided to redirect the conversation. "So my men will begin making patrols along the railroad, following the roads in intervals of ten miles. Hopefully just seeing our vehicles will be enough to turn away any attacks..."

"You should be speaking with the Vannies about that," Zamora said. He had retrieved another cigar from somewhere. Frankly, hermano, all of my time is spent just making sure that the capitol doesn't suddenly get blitzed, or the favelas suddenly decide to riot. It's enough of a full-time job without worrying about el presidente's pet projects. Even keeping this airport up and running is a full-time job, and I have about three more of those. Job would be easier with coffee, but alas, rationing."

LaBelel sympathized. He had begun to feel the effects of caffeine deprivation twelve hours after setting down on Javieran soil. "What jobs need doing? I am more than capable of redirecting some of the workload."

Zamora scratched his beard. "The big one is road maintenance," Zamora said. "Me and the other generals gave up on electrical and phone lines twenty years ago, we can live with generators and radio, but you can't do anything without roads. If your lot are going to be patrolling the road to Rio Pena anyways, you could try and make sure the roads are at least usable. Clear away downed trees, smooth them out, dig ditches on the shoulders, that sort of thing."

"It'll make my men less effective guards," LaBelle said. He didn't love the idea. There wasn't any glory in ditch-digging.

"At least with good roads we can move men around, without having to rely on the Vannies finishing a stupid rail-line that will cost twice as much to maintain and four times as much to guard."

LaBelle sighed. "My men will maintain the roads."

"Good," Zamora slapped the desk. "Now I only have 3 full-time jobs instead of four!"

[Freedomnonia]

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

The cry rang out across the area, quickly followed by a loud "thud". A large group of trees began swaying unnaturally and toppled over. The first 1500 feet of a 4500 foot dirt runway had been completed, and this next section would add another 200 feet. Pre-fabricated buildings were quickly being assembled, and the roar of machinery went around the clock.

The initial landing had gone without a hitch. Resistance had been minimal, just a few locals with surplus rifles and trucks. Building the base, on the other hand, had been much more of a challenge. The selected site was a rocky jungle, filled with tall trees and large boulders. But the engineers were resourceful, and had been using what were once obstacles to construct a low wall around the new base. Thankfully, once the foilage was cleared, the ground proved to be relatively flat, so packing down the dirt was simple enough.

Hopefully, within the next 2 weeks, the first cargo aircraft could come and land on the field. That would send construction to a fever pitch, as concrete and heavier equipment could be brought in.

All total, the operation was proceeding smoothly.

Just a little too smoothly.

[Ostehaar]

FJARDP camp, south-east of Monte Rosario,
Near the San Javieran southern coast

Traveling deep inside the jungle after a day-long car journey from the capital, Nicolas and Phil were escorted down a trail by three armed individuals. Nicolas identified one of them from one of his many training sessions with the militia. They were all wearing the usual 'guerrilla fashion' of camouflaged jackets and wide and dirty jeans, but Phil took pleasure in seeing the young men carrying brand new M-4 assault rifles - supplied by him, of course. Ah, he thought, last year's April shipment. They walked past a group of men cleaning their rifles, and then another group, sitting around an improvised plastic table and eating a cold lunch. Out in the distance, sounds of gunfire disrupted the otherwise calm atmosphere, indicating that a firing range was nearby.

The two were led to the center of the temporary-looking yet very permanent camp, to the wooden shack of General Pedro Fresia, head of the Fuerzas. He stepped outside as they approached, and opened his arms wide in greeting, smiling enthusiastically. "Bienvenidos!" he called, reaching forward to shake the visitors' hands. "I was waiting for you, amigos."

Although he has been working with the Fuerzas for years, it was Nicolas' first encounter with the General. His particularly wild, long hair and stubble face didn't seem to fit the well kept uniform he was wearing, loaded with combat decorations. They did, however, fit perfectly with his apparently sunny disposition.

"Gracias, General," said Phil and bowed slightly, "we're sorry for the delay. We expected to be here sooner but got stuck in Castillo."

"It's fine, it's fine" he said in a friendly yet dismissive tone, "we are all here now. How is your Mister Gordon doing? Still in-charge of your money?"

"He's fine and indeed still has us by the balls," Phil replied, still shaking hands with the General. "I'll tell him you asked."

"Shall we?" General Pedro gestured towards the cabin, inviting the two inside. It was warm and comfortable, and furnished like a home. Pictures of the family and other mementos decorated the room and gave a feeling that it was out of place in the middle of this camp. A small table covered with linen stood in its center, and a large old sofa was placed along the wall. The General picked up a pack of cigarettes from a cabinet near the door and offered them to his guests, who refused.

"So," General Pedro began as he lit his cigarette and moved to the sofa, "I hear you have good news for me, Phil... and by that I mean, I hope you have good news for me." A self-satisfied smirk spread across his face as Phil and Nicolas took seats in front of him. He leaned back.

Phil took some air and cleared his throat, glancing briefly at Nicolas. "I might have some good news for you," he admitted, "but times are risky now, and we may fail. I'm sure that by now you've heard about -"

"Ah! Esos pendejos!" The General spat out in rage, revealing a bit of his unsettled darker side. "Those Atnaians and Vancouvians are putting your supply lines in danger, Phil?" He took another long drag of his cigarette and squinted at the foreigner.

Phil nodded. "Sort of, yes. We can't run around with crates full of ammunition anymore. We can find a way to keep the bullets flowing, but it will be difficult and might take more time."

The General sighed and then closed his mouth, breathing out smoke through his nose. "So what is the good news?"

"Javelin and Kornet," Phil revealed casually, "which I'll probably be able to bring here this month."

Their host's face suddenly lightened up. He extinguished his cigarette on his boot, and leaned forward, resting his hands on his legs and clasping his hands together. "Javelin and Kornet..." he repeated and nodded with satisfaction. "Finalmente!" The General declared and rose from the sofa. "We will be able to shoot down these pendejos comunistas! Good news indeed, amigo!"

Phil smiled politely. "Yes, you will, General. But first we need to get the missiles. My people are making preparations to ship them here as we speak, but the real problem would be to unload them at a dock without being seen. If someone finds out or notices, we might face an ambush or a government raid."

"That's not a problem," General Pedro determined. One of the villages down the road to the east from Constantina, not far from here, has a half-working port. I can bring men to get it working by next week, and we will unload there. Is that possible?"

"I think so, yes."

"Good," the General concluded. "So we can do that."

[Noronica]

Rio Del Rosario Camp

Quentin was rather proud of himself and yet very insulted. He was a top diplomat in Noronica and yet he was cleaning buildings that would be hard to call 'lavatories'. A 'new initiative' set by El Capitan himself, the man who came across as pompous turned out to have a vicious streak as well, (the man's actual name was Bartholomew - but Quentin thought the nickname was apt for their current location).
It turned out that insulting the director of the camp would, in fact, have consequences, case in point; Quentin was now on lavatory duty. It did bring him closer to the refugees, however, as they wanted to pitch in as well, something about helping their new "salvadores".

Staggering to the water fountain, Quentin yanked a plastic cup from an offered tube and smashed the cup into the water trigger, barely waiting before drinking the contents and whooping like a madman. If this scene had been replayed in the streets of Nolon, Quentin would have had a multitude of odd looks, and yet water was a resource that caused anyone on San Javier to whoop with joy. After downing a couple of other cups, Quentin, now energised, began walking over to the main tent in the central 'district' of the camp. Looking around him, he felt for the refugees. Their fatigued smiles were ever-present, but you could tell that it was a façade. They all knew the horrors that this island had to offer, even the young ones. They were the worst. They didn't know how to hide their emotions, so they were the ones sobbing with despair, or tucked away in a corner, rocking gently. If Quentin hadn't fought in a horrific war himself, he would be emptying his guts or going mad already. Yet, he continued on under the glaring sun, uncaring of the heat or the few stares that caught his figure.

Entering the tent, he noticed that everything was in pandemonium. Raising his eyebrows, Quentin strode over to his friend Wernen, the Nyssic detachment commander. Seeing Quentin, Wernen immediately covered his nose in disgust,
"Fuck Quentin! What pigsty have you been rolling in? Great Gods above! You fucking stink!" To emphasise his point, Wernen took a step backwards. Rolling his eyes, Quentin spoke,
"Yes, thank-you for your observation. Our dear friend, 'El Capitan' sentenced me to cleaning duty after I insulted the poor fellow." Wernen began chortling and doubling over, which angered Quentin,
"Jesus! My main point, if you've quite finished, is why the hell is everyone so panicky?"
"Ah, it appears that other countries have settled in San Javier."
"Yes, we knew that. Vancouvia has been building a railway - so what?"
"At 0800 hours, our Nyssic Division troops spotted a small Helvetean detachment of 2 Jeeps, a Truck, and 2 M-113 APCs heading towards the camp. This most likely means that they want to negotiate. We are preparing the tent for meeting them, as the resident diplomat, I expect you'll be talking?"
Quentin rubbed his temples in tiredness, he didn't need more stress,
"Fine. I'll do it, I want you there, just to explain why we have 800 of our best soldiers here on San Javier, and a damn frigate."
Wernen nodded enthusiastically, it was essential that Noronica wasn't alone here. If San Javier did go to shit, the refugee camp would be vulnerable.

Quentin stumbled yet again, out of the tent. He needed some shut-eye before the meeting between them and whatever Helvetean official came with the convoy. Deciding to walk back to his tent, he noticed a small boy was waiting outside it. Smiling warmly, he walked over and in almost fluent Spanish, spoke to the boy,
"Hola! What is your name little one?"
"Its Pablo sir!"
"What can I do for you Pablo?" At this question, Pablo scratched his head as if to think,
"Eh, Mama wanted me to ask you if you would join our family for lunch. She said you helped her in the baño's!"
"Very well, lead me to your family!"
Quentin, half walking - half being dragged, made his way over to the family tent.

Well, at least his toilet duties had actually given him some new acquaintances.

[Vancouvia]

Javieran Steppe
Vancouvian Base Camp

General Harold Storm sneaked into the base like a thief in the night, his small VNA escort trailing behind him. He had done this before, at almost every opportunity he had available, somewhere between a test and a game. Although the moon was out in full and both Vancouvians and Javierans rushed around, Storm managed to get all the way to Captain Marco Rodriguez's RV without being noticed. He gently knocked on the door and then removed his hat.

Rodriguez, just about ready to retire for the night, quickly tucked in his uniform and answered the door, his mouth agape when he saw who it was. "General Storm, sir!" he said as he saluted and forced his mouth close.

"Judging by the big blue flag on top of this fancy wagon, I reckoned you were the man in charge. Is that so, Captain?" pattered out Storm with a slight country accent.

"Yes, sir," stammered Marco. "I mean, no sir. Major Tyler Anderson arrived two days ago and assumed command. I'm Marco Rodriguez."

"Anderson, eh? I know the man. Is he around?"

Marco found his radio and called over to Anderson's trailer. After a couple minute wait, Anderson arrived, panting as if he ran the whole way.

"Gee, son, did you run the whole way?" asked Storm after he told him to be at ease.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Storm chuckled. "Well, that's the kind of gumption to be expected out of the VSF. Now, let's all three take a seat."

The two officers looked around at the seating possibilities. Storm grabbed a small stool, while the two officers decided on the couch across from him. They both quickly got Storm up to speed, with Marco explaining most of the details. Storm sat and listened diligently, stroking his long white beard until they were finished.

"Gentlemen, I believe the first order of business is obvious," began Storm. "This base's security. I snuck on here like a black swan at a tar field, without so much as a single person stopping me."

Anderson glanced at Marco. "Sir, we have been making strides to improve this base's security," Marco began, "but it is by its nature a mobile base. We move it up every month or so as the workers progress on the rail-line. Workers and their families come and go throughout the day, materials and supplies need to be moved in and..."

"You have barbed wire, don't you? A dozen men who are fit for patrols? A spotlight or two?" Storm interrupted. "Security is not tied to permanence."

"That is true, sir," said Marco respectfully, embarrassed at the scolding. "We will begin work on a secure perimeter tomorrow."

Storm gave a wide smile and then turned to Anderson. "A full cohort, yes?"

"That's right, sir. The 34th. Straight from Yorkford," answered Anderson.

"Good. Keep them patrolling on the roads and line only, Major."

"Forgive me, sir, but why? Should we not be actively seeking out the enemy?"

"We are not at war, Major," said Storm calmly. "Maybe Atnaia is. Maybe the half-dozen or so other nations we expect are present on this island are. But Vancouvia is here to build a railroad."

The two officers looked at each other, puzzled. "Sir, with all due respect, my men and my workers have been harassed, threatened, extorted, kidnapped, and murdered by various local groups. I thought the arrival of the Major and yourself was signaling an aggressive move against them," argued Marco.

"Major, I do not speak Spanish," exclaimed Storm.

"Sir?"

"I do not speak Spanish, but I know that this railroad, La Nueva Paz, means the New Peace. Not the New War."

The Major wanted to roll his eyes but held himself together. The General continued, "Here is our strategy from this day forward: security, presence, neutrality. We improve the security of our life-lines and bases, establish a presence with patrols and checkpoints, and maintain our neutrality in order to mitigate any reprisals. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," they both answered at once.

Storm nodded and stood up. "How many Vancouvian flags do you have on hand, Captain?"

Marco paused, thinking about the answer. "Somewhere around 50, sir."

"That'll do," said Storm. "I want all 50 flying high somewhere along the highway or line by tomorrow, Captain. And I want patrols making sure they stick up there. Vancouvia may not be at war, but this is our backyard here on out. Anyone so much as crosses the tracks, I want to know about it."

---

[Helvetea]

Inside one of the M-113s, 3rd Prince Alexander Gaius von Regenburg let out a small exhalation of annoyance as he noted that one of his favourite characters had been bumped off in the Military Thriller book he was reading. "So, he got blown up to cover his hitman's loose ends? A justifiable solution to remove the variable in this equation, but hardly necessary. Or even realistic." He thought, flicking over to the next chapter. "How can a block of C4 bring down a suspension bridge, even if it was situated at a weak point?" He sighed and bookmarked his current position in the book and put it onto the supply shelf behind him.

As he settled down to take a light snooze, a small hand reached up and plucked it back off. "Uhm...Brother?" A small questioning voice caught his attention, and he woke to see a young blonde girl holding the book in her hands, an inquisitive look on her face. "Is it ok if I can read this?" 8th Princess Anneliese von Regensburg was Alexander's younger sister, a naturally curious and friendly (though slightly petulant) young girl who had been sent here along with him. Her presence in San Javier was due to a mutual agreement between Crown Prince Dietfried and Alexander to get the innocent girl away from their cold-blooded father, the Emperor. He was a guy who valued physical strength and political prowess above all else. The Books-Movies-and-Games-minded Alexander and the physically weak Anneliese were in low favour with him.

Alexander gently took the book away from Anneliese and mentally filed a note to have a Nexus 7 tablet given to Anneliese at her birthday, its book app stockpiled with stories for her. "Sorry, Liese," He said, seeing her pout a bit. "It's not for 11 year olds. It's for adults. In a couple of years I can let you read it." He added, trying to avoid an Anneliese-grade tantrum. Taking the initiative he took a book more suitable for her off the shelf and handed it to her. It was lucky it was a book she hadn't read, as she immediately launched into it and completely forgot about his book. He sighed in relief and got up to speak with the driver. "When will we be there?"

"It's in visual range now, Your Excellency. We should be arriving within 5 minutes." He replied. The Prince nodded and sat back down, advising Anneliese to get ready. A few minutes later the small convoy parked in front of the camp, attracting a small crowd of curious civilians and a wary reception from the guards. Alexander emerged from the vehicles first, his white/gold royal outfit catching their attention. Anneliese disembarked right behind him, a plain white/light pink dress in stylistic contrast to her brother's grand appearance. Alexander walked over to the commander of the Guards, bringing his hand across his forehead in a crisp military Salute. "3rd Prince Alexander Gaius von Regensburg and 8th Princess Anneliese Freja von Regensburg," Anneliese bowed, blushing shyly. "have come with peaceful intent, and wish to speak with any diplomats or high-ranking personnel that are present."

[Bhikkustan]

Off the Coast of San Javier
Bhikkustani Army

The submarine rose from the depths like a great, black whale. It's sleek silhouette was nearly invisible in the dark night. The only indication of its presence was the slight lapping of waves against its side and the soft, guttural chugging of the engine. On board it was a hive of activity, as three inflatable dinghies were brought to the top. A light from the thick forest at the land indicated that they were in the right place.

Captain Sülen looked out at the light. He tried to make out the shore, but could not see much. The night was too dark. He thought he could see some kind of light in the distance, but discounted it. Likely his exhaustion was confusing his vision, for he had not slept since leaving Bhikkustan two days ago. He carefully climbed into the boat, taking up his spot alongside eleven of his comrades. When the boat was fully loaded they cast off, quietly rowing towards the shore. Three boats set off, each one carrying twelve men and supplies. They landed at the shore after a minute of hard rowing.

The night was cold, but as Sülen and the others jumped out of their transports they were surprised by how warm the water was. They waded the last two metres to the beach, while three soldiers disposed of the boats. At the beach they were greeted by locals, armed with old AK-47 rifles that had obviously seen far better days. These soldiers were members of the Popular Revolution of San Javier, the smaller of the guerilla factions and the one that the Bhikkustani government had decided to back first. The leader of the Popular Revolution Carla Diogosta was there, along with ten other guerilla fighters. Sülen and his second in command Dzhonji walked up to the Guérillas. Dzhonji spoke Spanish fluently, which was the main reason he was in this mission. He called out to the Guerillas,

"Hola mis compañeros,"

Atnaia I'm will use this picture for Carla. If you want a different one I can.

They looked at him and smiled. Their movement was small and underfunded, so this show of support was very good for them. Carla replied quickly, her voice light and happy.

"Hola! You are just on time. We thank you for this support, it means a lot. Together we shall liberate the people of San Javier."

Dzhonji translated for Sülen. "That is the aim yes. Do not worry about it, we are proud to aid your struggle. Together we shall see your people free."

The two groups set off I to the forest, following a small track towards the mountains.

[Atnaia]

Roarke had been pleasantly surprised by the halfway decent cellphone coverage in Castillo Verde. As Flores had explained, "SIM cards and flip phones are cheap, and nothing connects or offers people the franchise faster than a decent cell connection and the internet". From what Roarke had gathered, one of the only major projects that the democratic central government had been able to undertake in the past ten years, aside from the railroad and anything to do with the military, had been a partnership with an expat entrepreneur named Rosco Gallo-Diaz to help underwrite his company, Mobanco. Mobanco was a mobile phone-based money transfer, financing and microfinancing service which allowed individuals to deposit, withdraw and transfer funds, as well as pay for goods and services, from a mobile device, essentially as a branchless banking system. Mobanco had started on Merrit Isle, where it had been very successful, and the government of San Javier, such as it was, hoped that such a service could help encourage the development of small businesses in the capitol by bypassing many of the expensive roadblocks to such service that their people could not afford.

"If we are to have the people pull themselves out of poverty," Flores said, "we must offer them a ladder. Our people can't get loans, they can't buy expensive equipment like computers or ATMs, they cannot get credit cards. But we can get them phones, and with phones we may be able to offer them a better life. And if we can offer them a better life, we may be able to stop the cycle of despair that feeds men into the meat grinder of the Conflict. Without fuel for the fire, the war will end."

Roarke thought such sentiments were a bit utopian and optimistic, but hadn't said as much, and he was relieved for the beautiful five bars his phone showed. He really didn't want to make calls from the Palace's landlines, which could have been compromised by any grade-schooler with an hour and a half of experience and a cereal box prize whistle.

He made a QuickLink call to the Hegemon, a privilege not many people had. The semi-pixelated face and tin-can voice of Atnaia's leader sprang to life on the device.

"Andy," Wessich said with a smile. "How are things going?"

"As well as can be hoped," Governor Roarke said. He sat at the desk in the room he had been given. Somewhere, distantly, he could hear what sounded like a helicopter. "I've spent the last several days speaking with everyone with half an ounce of influence in the Presidential Republic."

"And?"

"You've read my reports," Roarke replied.

Wessich smiled calmly. "Yes, but I would like you to summarize."

"It's worthless," Roarke said. "Haggling up to 1600 men was hard enough. We'll need, what, twice that..four times that...to make a difference here? What they call a democratic government is barely a council of fifteen people, and they have control of less-than-nothing. We're essentially starting from scratch here."

"We knew that going in," Wessich replied.

"Sure, but its worse than I expected," Roarke tapped his toe a few times. "Most of these people have been living so long in a warzone they've stratified into two groups: you've got the ones who literally know nothing but war, who can't possibly imagine there ever not being war, who don't want to even try to win, and then you have the ones who are so bizarrely optimisitic that victory is just a day or two away that they are willing to throw everything at the wall all at once just to see what sticks. Strategy and good rationale went out the window in the 80's."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we need to start considering some uncomfortable, unilateral options. We need to cut out one group or the other, and we need to do some things that are going to piss off a lot of people in this country."

"Such as?"

Roarke shifted. "As I see it, we have two major players. Hernandez is a part of the first camp. He doesn't see victory as an option, just survival. He may talk a lot about winning the war, but he doesn't believe it. He just wants the capitol to remain safe. On the other hand you have Flores, the Secretary of State, who thinks that victory is an option if just a few goals are met. Now, you have a lot of rich people, or at least what amounts to rich here, backing Hernandez because they sell guns to the military or whatever it is that lets this war line their pockets. That's some influential people."

"And Flores?" Wessich's face momentarily lost all focus and became a flesh-coloured smudge on the screen until the internet reloaded.

"Flores has the hearts and minds of a lot of the higher ups in the military," Roarke replied. "A lot of folks who think that one or two really good pushes could win this for them. That's a lot of people with a lot of guns."

"And they oppose each other?"

"No," Roarke shook his head. "Hernandez and Flores are friends and allies, despite their differences. But Flores is willing to undermine Hernandez's authority where it suits the goal of shortening the war. And that's a crack that we could leverage, if we chose to back him."

"So what's your play?"

"Nothing I want to say out loud over my cellphone on an unsecured line," Roarke replied. "But ultimately, I think we have to do something neither side is going to like very much."

"Which is?"

"Make an alliance with one of the other factions," Roarke replied. "Keep them divided from each other and add to our own numbers. My short list are either the paramilitarios or Azul Naturaleza. Either the FJARDP or ANDSJ would do because at least some of the people see them as defenders of the commonfolk against the greater threat of the war. Azul Naturaleza would gain us the support of the native society."

"But such moves would, of course, engender hostility from Hernandez or Flores, both of whom have spent their adult lives fighting those groups," Wessich mused.

"And with further push away whoever we don't choose," Roarke said. "The paramilitaries are black hat cowboys with very little scruples about ruthlessly suppressing and killing anyone who even slightly offends their sensibilities."

"Desperadoes," Wessich said.

"Exactly," Roarke replied. "While some people love them, there's an equal number that are terrified of them and see them as brutal tyrants. Meanwhile, AN, for all of its Robin Hood-esque shenanigans and rhetoric are, at their core, a drug cartel. They sell addictive substances to dangerous people, they murder and maim their enemies to send a message, and they have no compunctions about slaughtering wholesale to protect their interests."

"The same could be said of us," Wessich replied.

"But we also collect tax revenue instead of wandering into villages and strongarming people into handing over whatever they have."

"Some would disagree, but I see your point. Have you spoken with Mr. Red?"

"I'd rather avoid getting SPD involved until we have some definitive direction," Roarke said. "They're nearly as much of a group of cowboys as the paramilitaries."

"That's fair," Wessich thought for a moment. "I'll discuss options with the Quorum. Meanwhile, see what more you can do regarding Hernandez and Flores."

"Will do," Roarke replied. The call closed with a blip.

[Noronica]

Rio Del Rosario Camp

Quentin leaned against the main tent, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips in a very aloof-schoolboy manner. His hands held a few scraps of paper filled with scattered notes which he called his 'important diplomat documents'. He had not been prepared to meet a son of an Emperor on his first week of being at the camp. He had somehow imagined that a month would have sufficed before he had to use his diplomatic skills on some businessman, or whatever an excuse this island could come up with for a businessman. Regaining his thoughts, he let his cigarette fall to the ground before stamping the light out with his foot. Once it was sufficiently obliterated and deep into the dry soil, he turned his attention to an approaching soldier. The man held a sense of urgency about him, even under all his training to appear in a state of calm at all times. A seasoned diplomat knew facial expressions like the back of their hand.
The soldier snapped his feet together and brought his stiff hand to a salute. Quentin knew what was going to come out next, but he decided to humour the soldier, letting the man speak,
"Sir! Prince Alexander of Helvetea and his sister, Princess Anneliese have arrived with a small entourage, shall we direct them into the camp, or do you wish to greet them?"
Quentin brought a breath mint spray to his mouth, spraying a couple of times before acknowledging the soldier,
"I think I will greet them, a Royal family might be rather perturbed being led by foreign troops and surrounded by the 'common folk'. God knows what these poor souls would do to people dressed in royal regalia. Lead the way, Private...?"
"Private Kinsington, sir!"
"Well then Private Kinsington, lead the way!"
Kinsington twisted on his heels and marched slowly to allow for the comfortable speed of Quentin. The two looked rather odd, one dressed in a crisp military uniform, one dressed in a summer business outfit.

The two passed through the columns of people watching them, hoping to get a glance to see where the diplomat was going. He had garnered a bit of a reputation as he was the only one who could speak fluent Spanish without having any Spanish background, and he helped out around the camp along with the other humanitarian workers. This gave him a bit of an audience as he walked to the gates. As the two stood outside, Private Kinsington called up to the guards on the gate,
"Diplomat in the area, open the gate!"
A clang of machinery and metal wire blasted through the air and soon the gates were heaved open. Two figures stepped forward towards Quentin and Private Kinsington who stepped aside to join his comrades. The sight was rather odd to Quentin; a tall blonde haired man, dressed in a crisp military uniform walked alongside a small girl dressed in a stylish dress. The only similarities were their faces and hair. Suppressing his surprise, Quentin grinned easily and bowed before the two royals,

"Welcome to Rio Del Rosario Camp, your Imperial Highnesses."

[Helvetea]

Rio del Rosario

The two royals bowed again. After they straightened up, Alexander walked over and shook Quentin's hand firmly. "It's a Pleasure to meet you sir. Out of the advice of the Crown Prince, I've come here to give to you the offer of an Alliance. As the Romans said, 'Socii Atamus Cadimus Dividui', In unity we stand, divided we fall. Do you mind if we can take this to a meeting area?"

---

Anneliese had opted to stay out of the meeting out of boredom. Politics bored her, and it would have been a bit embarrassing if she had fallen asleep at the table. At the moment she was sitting on a bench outside the tent, being supervised by one of the Helvetean soldiers who had arrived with them. Sergeant Emily Morales was a 2nd Generation citizen of Helvetea, as her Father had emigrated to the country from Spain, and her fluency in the language had made her an apt choice for accompanying the Royals in case they needed translations.

At the moment she was helping the princess out with the reading, as she had noticed Anneliese getting a bit sleepy while reading. A few minutes later she was zonked out on the bench, while Emily tried to figure out how exactly to keep the sleeping girl comfortable on a bench in a refugee camp. "King size bed is obviously unreasonable, Getting a Pillow would mean leaving her alone and there's no one to keep her company while I'm gone..." She mused to herself, sitting on the bench with the snoozing Anneliese leaning against her.

[Freedomnonia]

10 Days, 2 hours after landing

"How goes it Private?"

Sgt. 1st Class Asfour calmly walked up to the detail and looked down over the men in the ditch

"Not to well Sarge" Responded the private

The building operation had proceeded smoothly to this point. The first 2000 feet of the runway had been completed, but when the trees for the next few hundred feet had been felled, the men sent out had found a very unpleasant surprise. As it turned out, some of the locals had placed booby traps and IEDs in the trees and in the grass, and several casualties had come from that.

The work detail was an ad-hoc EOD group. Asfour was in charge of the northwestern clearing operations, and he had heard 5 minutes ago that one of his details had found an unusually large device.

Another one of the privates pulled out a leatherman and began undoing some of the screws on the device.

"Careful there private, don't wan't to send your family the letter just yet"

"I know Sergea... hoooly crap"

As the private undid the screw, he was presented with the worst possible sight: a fragile bag of liquid bleach and what looked like urine in a plastic bottle, surrounded by a good amount of HE, nails, and ball bearings.

A Mustard Gas-laced fragmentation device.

"Ahhh crap. Get out of the ditch and get the gear. I'll call the boss and let him know we just went chemical. Make sure no one touches the thing or goes anywhere near this area."

5 minutes later
Commander Arain's day had just gone down the drain with Sergeant Asfour's report. It turned out that there were 3 such devices buried in various locations. Thank goodness no devices had gone off

Just then Arian heard a muffled boom through his door. His aide burst through the door out of breath 20 seconds later.

"Sir, we just had one of the devices..."

And there went the rest of Arian's day.

10 minutes after the explosion
Sergeant Asfour simply could not breath. Mustard Gas, in effect, kills by restricting the airway. The combination of all three discovered devices, and another two farther in the field, had created a cloud of death that hung over the newly cleared section.

RIght where most of the Sergeant's men had been working.

Asfour had rushed to the scene and started looking for anyone he could help. He had managed to pull three men out of the cloud before his filter gave out. Holding his breath, he had run the last 30 feet into the fresh island air, and was now desperately trying to stay still and wait for the paramedics to come.

But the wind was not in their favor.

Runways are built so that planes can take off and land facing into the wind. This runway was no different, and as the local winds picked up, the cloud of gas slowly crept down the runway, covering the wounded men.

As Sgt. Asfour started passing out, the last thing he saw was the sun slowly dimmed by the sickly yellow-brown gas.

[Corindia]

The Western Oronas Mountains, San Javier
Poma Uyananche, leader of the Azul Naturaleza Brazo de Combate, was preparing to go to sleep. Just hours ago he had returned to the Azul Naturaleza base camp after a week-long inspection of the Cruzado tunnels and warrens that laced the muddy slopes of the Oronas Mountains, some even approaching the lengthening Vancouvian rail-line to the East. He had just changed out of his filthy, worn fatigues when his sat-phone started beeping. It could only be Col. Trujan. Valos Perido and Col. Trujan were the only other people who could call him via satellite phone, and Perido was just a few tents over. He picked up the phone, and Col. Trujan's brusk voice immediately confirmed his suspicions.

"Uyananche! I have confirmed our fears! Somebody within the leadership of the Azul Naturaleza is selling Corindi weapons to anyone who will buy them, including the imperialists and gangs. We must bring this to the attention of Comandante Perido again; we finally have the proof we need to convince him that there is a traitor in our midst!"

"Excellent news, Comrade. Perido might yet show some reason if we have proof. What were you able to dig up?"

"Soldiers were sent out in plain clothes and attempted to buy newer rifles from the cartels. They memorized the serial numbers of the rifles they saw, and we later cross referenced them with the shipment manifests. Most were older, presumably taken from our dead, but some were from the missing shipments. And they turned up everywhere, in the territories of several gangs. Whoever was selling them didn't care who got them."

"Better to have a traitor motivated by profit than by our destruction. Regardless, by this time next week I hope to see them swinging from a pole in the center of the—"

An explosion tore across the camp, battering the treated canvas of Uyananche's tend and spraying it with dirt. He could hear the inhabitants burst into frenetic activity, urgent shouts were filling the air that seconds ago had been silent. A second explosion tore through the camp, this time closer. The tent was punctured by a piece of flying metal, accompanied by the ever-present, now aerial, mud. As Uyananche hurriedly left his tent, his eyes were greeted by what he had most feared they would see. Valos Perido's tent was gone. In its place was a muddy hole filled with torn canvas, broken electronics, and around sixty percent of Valos Peridos.

[Athara Magarat]

Somewhere near Santa Ana

The small cottage had maps of San Javier on the table and wooden stools for sitting. The leaders of the terrorist groups were discussing their next moves with the People's Army of San Javier.

"This is useless, we have been doing nothing since we came here!" shouted Kaji Man Sherchan of the Dragon Faction. "No wonder the commies here aren't still running the country even after being one of the largest factions here."

"They don't trust us. Yet." Mehtap Demir tried to give her reasoning. "And you don't trust these commies."

"Never trusted a commie. Have a lot of bad history in Athara Magarat as well as Akar and Thasang (that's what we of the Dragon Faction call that island) with commies. Got jailed by Athara Magarati commie government for disrupting social equality, got betrayed to the Keomorans by Thakali commies." The Thakali man took out a cigarette from its pack. "My boys and girls are getting impatient. We didn't come here just for sleeping in shacks and that demon is playing hostage."

"Majipa mentioned that there would be no Athara Magarati involvement in San Javier," Natalie Darkwall reminded them.

"Never like these fishy secret wars." Kaji Man muttered. "Give me a lighter." A young Dragon Faction youth immediately produced a lighter out of his pocket and handed it to Kaji Man.

"Make sure your smokes don't cause us asthma." Darkwall joked and then she was serious again. "The thing is tomorrow we take full control of Santa Ana. I have talked to Lia Balsco, who is under Marino's command. She said that Marino is not here but she has agrees to this plan. We take out the local mayor of the little city, Santiago Florentino and his guards. Liberating Santa Ana from central government clutches will allow these communists to at least have a strong base. Will be a piece of cake. After all we have former Gurkhas, jihadists, internationally wanted SOAR terrorists and Merritian freedom fighters in our ranks. We will show the men and women of Santa Ana tomorrow how a real revolution is fought."

[Atnaia]

The jeep rumbled along the dirt road, hit a pot hole and bounced, nearly sending LaBelle's head into a crossbar. He swore under his breath. Upkeep on this damn road was going to be a nightmare, and he had agreed to it carte blanche. It was a rookie mistake, really. His father, a small business owner, had always told him to read the fine print on any contract, but of course LaBelle had stumbled into this one barely reading the first line on the page. Now his men were going to be spending so much time shovelling dirt from the sides of the road into the many holes and ruts they'd barely have time or energy to actually do the job of fighting rebels.

The road was a winding, red-brown, muddy mess that cut through the jungle like a jagged scar. Off the west side of the road, the jungle had been cleared and tumbled into a swath of rotting logs and brown leaves that stretched for a hundred yards to the shine of steel rails: the Vancouvian rail line. To the east, the jungle crept up on the road like a spider looming over a fly on a web. There was barely a dozen yards from the ditch at the side of the road and the thick swath of trees and tangles of underbrush that made getting a long line of site impossible. Rebels could practically walk up to the road with impunity, if they so desired, and fallen trees and branches collapsed onto the muddy path with enough frequency that the fifty mile drive had taken twice as long as it should have, with LaBelle and his men having to stop and winch aside logs every few miles. It was driving LaBelle a little crazy, but he had to go and meet with the Vancouvians. He wanted to be the first to speak with whoever was in charge of them, before whatever colonel or brigadier general or whomever the Quorum chose to command the campaign now that more men were being sent. He wanted to be the face that the Vancouvians thought of when they thought "Atnaian Command".

Another log lay on the road ahead of them, twice as wide around as LaBelle's waist. The lieutenant colonel groaned as the Jeeps and trucks slid to a stop. "Just a tick, colonel," said Kline next to him, "we'll have the log moved in a jiff."

Just another ten miles, LaBelle recited in his. Just another ten.

The men hopped out of their vehicles and extended tow cables from the front ends of a few vehicles. They began the work of digging furrows to let the cables be wrapped around the log. LaBelle pulled himself from the front of the all-terrain vehicle and stretched. He had a small crew with him, only twenty men, the rest being stationed at intervals along the road to begin the hard work of guarding the rail line and maintaining the road. While a few of the men worked on the log, the rest kept their eyes peeled into the forest. LaBelle was tempted to check in with the crews along the road, but knew they'd update him if necessary. As things stood, he made a show of checking the GPS and his own equipment.

"Hey, Colonel," Kline called, "come take a look at this."

LaBelle made his way over to the fallen tree. Kline pointed at the snapped end. "Look."

LaBelle hunkered down and checked out the snapped end. He immediately saw what Kline was referring to. While half the end was shattered, splintered wood, the other half bore the clean slice of a saw. LaBelle's eyebrows shot up with the same speed as his body. "Everyone, eyes on the jungle, now!" he called. "Guns up!"

As soon as he shouted the order, there was a whistle, a thump and a bang, and one of the Jeeps at the rear of the procession leapt ten feet in the air in a ball of yellow and white flame before falling onto its side a smoking mess. The Atnaian soldiers began diving for cover in the ditch, behind vehicles, around the tree. Their weapons rose and bullets began pinging off of the sides of the vehicles as men hidden in the jungle opened fire. LeBelle dove behind the tree himself and pulled his sidearm, waiting for another explosive, but when none came he assumed that whoever was attacking them had very few and had used their one shot to block the path backwards by taking out the last Jeep. It was actually pretty clever.

As the Atnaian troops began firing off into the jungle, the sound of barking reached LaBelle's ears. He popped his head up and saw mangy, vicious dogs springing out of the edge of the jungle, their jaws streaming trails of thick saliva and their eyes contorted in wild hunting instincts. The rope collars aroudn their throats were the only thing to identify that they weren't just a wild pack, but were a kind of weapon or shield to draw fire. It worked. The Atnaians began taking shots at the beasts as they charged forward. Most fell before they reached the line, but a couple leaped down into the ditch at the side of the road and began tearing at the soldiers within. While the Atnaians were distracted, a pair of men in jeans and T-shirts emerged from the edge of the forest and hucked bottles that trailed fire at the vehicles. One savvy marksman managed to swing up his gun and shoot one of the bottles from the air, a rain of fire splattering down harmlessly across the wet road, but the second smashed on the side of a truck and lit the vehicle on fire. One of the men managed to turn and disappear back into the jungle, but with the dogs dealt with and no distractions, the second was turned into a nice meaty Emmentaler.

More bullets flew. The exchange of gunfire felt like hours, but in all likelihood only lasted a few minutes. Finally, the exchange ceased. LaBelle couldn't tell if the men in the woods had all withdrawn or were all dead, but it didn't really matter. They took account of the damage: one lost Jeep, one burning supply truck, three dead men (one savaged by dogs, two shot up) and six wounded of varying severity. LaBelle swore.

"Jesus Christ," Kline said. "Who was that? The paramlitarios?"

"No idea," Labelle replied. He pointed out three standing men. "Go check out their lines."

The men nodded and crossed carefully towards the woods. LaBelle helped the medics load up a gutshot man into the back of a Jeep. A few minutes later, LaBelle heard a thud and swearing from inside the woods. A few more men rushed over as two of the soldiers who had gone to check out the jungle returned.

"They set up a trip wire explosive," one of them called. "Caught Brown. He's mince."

"Fuck," LaBelle swore again. He yelled over. "Any uniforms?"

One of the soldiers held up a red band. "They were wearing these."

"Communists then," LeBelle said to Kline. The men returned. One of them looked pale as a ghost. LaBelle frowned. "What is it?"

"Not all of the bodies out there are adults, sir," the man replied.

LaBelle cocked his head, and a few minutes later he had followed them off (carefully) into the woods. There were about ten or eleven bodies, from what LaBelle could see, and the soldier hadn't been lying. While three were clearly grown men, the remaining eight ranged in age from around seventeen down to as young as nine or ten. The blood rushed into LaBelle's face. The pale soldier swallowed.

"We killed kids," he said.

"Goddamnit," LaBelle said. "Goddamnit."

[Noronica]

Rio Del Rosario Camp

Meeting the prince had been rather odd. The man was dressed in immaculate finery and he was very calm and confident. He was an odd fit to the people of the camp who were glancing at this new creature as if he was an alien. No wonder, as they had been through hell to get here and had probably never seen anyone dressed so finely. Quentin had though, but was still impressed by the man's appearance and confidence. Helvetea had made contact with Noronica before and there had been state visits between the Overlord and Emperor, but Quentin had very limited knowledge of the country, so he had been tripping over himself, using the very limited and broken wifi in the camp to research.

Quentin led Prince Alexander into the main tent where everything had been laid out as a meeting room. The room was immaculate as everyone had gone into a full-blown panic as soon as they heard that a son of an emperor was arriving. Every table and floor were swept clean, every nook and cranny was highly cleansed, even if it was unnecessary. This fact caused Quentin to thank any deity listening as he was used to meeting important figures in well-kept meeting rooms not usually in a massive tent.

Quentin assuredly walked towards a small table with neatly placed wine and glasses. It was a wonder that either of these were able to get to San Javier, but luckily someone had brought them. He snatched up a glass and filled it with red wine. After pouring himself a glass as well, he moved over to a larger table where the Prince was already sat at, waiting for the meeting to commence. Quentin sat on his rather basic chair and passed the wine to the Prince before taking a quick swig of his own glass. Taking a breath and some time to remember his rather hastily scribbled notes, Quentin began to speak,
"Your Imperial Highness, it gives me great pleasure to host you here in the camp. You must excuse the guards earlier, it has been a frightful time here in San Javier and everyone is rather shaken up from the atrocities committed here. Now, I heard that you wanted to work together with the camp, to what extent? We would gladly accommodate supplies or soldiers as long as we went through some agreements to ensure the safety of the camp. Have you already set up a command base in San Javier? What numbers do you have?"
Quentin stopped himself, he was going too fast and asking too many questions. He was allowed to be excited, dammit! He hadn't met a prince before and he'd be damned if he didn't act like an excited puppy. Coughing, Quentin sat up in his chair and spoke in the calmness of a veteran diplomat,
"I'm sorry for asking these questions, I just need to know the details and we are all rather cautious as this island has proved to be rather perilous."

[Covonant]

New Libang

Following the Prime Minister's approval to allow Covonantian troops to help in the rescue operation of Athara Magaratis on San Javier. Troops were transported from Malvern Alstaer, Sharoni to New Libang, Athara Magarat by a C17 transport plane to gain the coordinates to where the hostages on San Javier are located. Among the 80 troops is Sam Gentis, a Covonantian national of white background in his late 20s. He had a stoic and quiet demeanor. He stood out from the rest of the troops, on account that he was not very verse in taking military commands nor giving salute. Nonetheless, he was tasked with a mission and that was the only thing on his mind. He was anxious of going to San Javier, for he heard of its customs and natural landscape. He was never one who travelled often and couldn't afford the luxury of travelling overseas unless the IDC was sending him out.

"Attention" Shouted Sergeant Major Antoni Wilkis

"I am sure you have all been briefed prior to your arrival in Athara Magarat. I will reiterate the mission only once. You are to aid the Athara Magaratis in locating hostages and terrorist on San Javier. Your mission will take place in the Monte Santa Ana area where we believe the proposed crash site is located. Upon arrival in San Javier, you will gain additional orders from the General who leads the operation there. Remember, you are Covonant's finest and bravest. For Honour, For the Union. Legion Prime" shouted the Sergeant Major

Once all additional equipment were loaded onto the plane and the coordinates were given, the troops were ushered into the skies to aid loyal ally.

Castillo Verde

The Minister of Defense, Batiatus Sula taking the advise from Prime Minister Imperatus Marl, secretly embarked on a trip to San Javier in hopes of conversing with the President of the island nation. The Minister was transported in a old 1980s decommissioned military helicopter that was repainted to hide the colours and emblems of the Union of Covonant. The Prime Minister feared any uncovering of their acts especially in the early stages. He also feared for the Minister's protection which explains why four Praetorian Guards accompanied Minister Sula.

The helicopter landed on a dusty open field where a 1970 Chevrolet Impala sedan was waiting for the Minister to arrive.

"Just great, transport me on a old ass helicopter just to transport me in a old ass car" The Minister whispered to himself.

Standing by the car was a man named Hortensio Mendez. He was a local and knew every secret point and shortcut in the narrowed road city. He introduced himself to the Minister.

"Batiatus Sula, welcome to San Javier. A man named Marcus Quintus told me of your coming. He said I should mention this to no one. That Marcus, always secretive. Well come on, hop in I haven't got all day." The man ordered in a well spoken English but the accent was still distinct. He obviously did not know he was speaking to a Covonantian government official as his demeanor and approach to Minister Sula was very coarse and undignified.

Minister Sula thought of San Javier as the asshole of the Western Isles, well it and Moukere. He was also very prejudice towards the people who he considered rude and illiterate. Nonetheless he was not phased by the man's demeanor in fact, he somewhat expected it and would have been very surprised if it was any different.

The man drove him at the entrance of the Presidential Palace. Weirdly enough President Hernandez, knew of Minister's Sula arrival and was expecting him. It is understandable why the driver couldn't have known. Already he showed himself to be a bit of a chatter, talking excessively on and on about chicken fights and hard San Javieran rum. His insistence on filling Minister Sula with his stories almost drove the Minister to great levels of insanity add the heat of the city and one could see why the Minister was perturbed.

Observing the Palace from the outside, the Minister could not help but be in awe with the historical architectural style the building possessed. He was certain the interior would be to his liken. He was escorted into the Palace by the Palace Guard, two Praetorian Guards still walked along side the Minister while two remained outside for surveillance and to ensure the driver didn't abort the mission prematurely.

"Minister Sula, Bienvenido" expressed President Hernandez as he walked towards Batiatus.

"El, Presidente, Gracias" The Minister responded in a fairly well pronounced Spanish accent, although that was the best the President would have gotten from the Minister as he was not fluent in the language at all.

"I hope you enjoyed your journey to the island thus far. Please have a seat. You must be thirsty from the journey and the heat. Here is a cup of water to quench your thirst." The President implied while extending his hand forth to Minister Sula.

"Si Senor Presidente, I have been enjoying my time here so much I am sadden that I would have to leave" The Minister expressed. This expression however was clearly a lie as he was at odds with himself ever since he left Coventry to come here. The odd grew more vehemently once he landed.

He took the water and had a light sip and placed it on the desk before him.

"So Minister Sula, I will get to the chase, is how you say no" Asked the President.
"Why are you here. I mean I am surprised more so shocked, that a high ranking government official from Covonant of all places would come here to talk to me. why?" The President asked looking right into the eyes of Minister Sula as if he was scouring for hidden motives.

"Well, Senor Presidente. Covonant has been monitoring the situation in San Javier and have grown concerned with the ongoing conflicts, and we fear the rise of terrorism and more casualties that may lead to an international response. We come with a proposition to aid your government in ensuring that we don't reach to that point. I am but humble servant to the people and Government of Covonant and wish to relate such message." informed Minister Sula

"I find that very hard to believe Minister Sula. You see fighting in San Javier has been going on for over 4 decades now, I didn't hear Covonant then, and I can assure it was bad 40 years ago, so why now?" Asked the President

"Covonant at the time when conflicts were excessive, thought it best that the San Javierans dealt with their differences. We have seen the error of that option and would hope not to see a repeat. Mr. President" answered the Minister

"And what is in it for Covonant"

"Nothing, Mr. President. We believe a safer, democratic and stable San Javier is a good for the region. That is all we want." Expressed Minister Sula with a daring smile

The President at this time got up and began pacing the floor. Minister Sula eyes followed his every move.

"Minister Sula, you are a young man and I know you are not naive as you would not be in the position you are in. Do not take me for a fool, Minister" The Minister eyes opened wide at the President's remark." I don't for one second, believe that Covonant would send her men to fight for a foreign country which can do nothing for you without proper reason or interest. So I ask again, what is in it for Covonant. And please Minister answer me truthfully and plainly or I will leave." threatened the President.

"Well Mr. President. Covonant is concerned with the levels of interest the Atnaians have been showing in your country, and we fearing their rise of imperialism wants to apprehend it, as well as to crush the commies who would seek to take full control of this island. Covonant simply can't allow it. That is my unfiltered truth as to what we hope to gain." Responded Minister Sula

"And what does Covonant plan to do" Asked the President

"Well, we plan to send roughly 1200-1500 troops few military planes and equipments to fight against those who stands between your rule. With your approval which would make Covonant perceive you and your rule legitimate and just, will see our troops deployed post haste" expressed the Minister

"Minister Sula, I appreciate Covonant's interest in San Javier's matters, but those are a lot of troops, don't you feel it is a bit excessive. So far I have proposals coming from the Atnaians and the Keomorans. I just don't want my country to be an international battlefield." expressed the President now beginning to take his seat.

"And trust me Mr. President, that is the last thing Covonant will want. If those countries you just called have the same goals in mind, then best you use it to your advantage. You know the old adage There is strength in numbers, I would respectfully advise that you use it to your best advantage. Mr President." advised the Minister

"I like you Batiatus, you are a fine diplomat. Go back home and tell them their aid is well appreciated. But please tell them not to send their entire army to come and fight." Expressed the President implying he is not pleased with the numbers.

"I will express your gratitude, and can assure you, that the amount proposed is the amount that will be sent. Nothing more, nothing less. I give you my word." Expressed Mr. Sula

The two men having concluded their talks began to walk in a direction that led out to the courtyard of the Palace where the Minister drive was parked. While the two men walked with guards escorting them. They exchanged lighter more personal conversations. Once reaching the vehicle, they both bid their farewells. The Minister stepped into the car while the President was escorted back inside the Palace.

"You must be very famous to have a private meeting with the President Batiatus" expressed Mr. Mendez

"Just drive to the helicopter so I can get off this fucking island." The Minister ordered while giving the driver the dirtiest look possible.

[Vancouvia]

Javieran Steppe

The cold November air was beginning to blanket the steppe. Omega 34, the most recent squad inducted into the VSF, had the fitting task of manning the farthest checkpoint away from the Vancouvian camp, several miles north and with limited support. The freshly unpacked Vancouvian flag hang like a bag of bricks, the absence of wind so preventing its colors from being spread that someone from afar may have only noticed a line of blue wrapped around a makeshift pole. The sandbags, packed with dirt and mud, were stacked only so high as to mildly inconvenience a dog, and the small shack placed at the edge of the road barely kept all 16 men and women out of the rain. Still, for two days work, it was better than the officers expected out of them.

When the sergeant heard pops off in the distance, she almost failed to recognize it for what it was: a firefight. Used to the live-action up-close fire training of North Yorkford, she had, for some reason or other, never heard distant gunfire in real life. But when the rest of her squad poured out of the shack, their guns drawn and their eyes looking to her for leadership, she knew they had to take action. With relative silence, half of the squad jumped up into their Bovine vehicle, checked their guns, and ventured north towards the fire. The young sergeant looked back towards the checkpoint, brushed her hair off of her eyes, and took one last glimpse of the Vancouvian flag.

[Athara Magarat]

Dragon Faction members being briefed before the Siege of Santa Ana.

The siege of Santa Ana was a great success for the People's Army of San Javier. The small city's security forces had been able to keep the insurgents at bay but with a combined attack from the communists and foreign terror groups, the town didn't last long under rapid gunfire and explosions.


The communists had child soldiers in their ranks.

Even the members of Dragon Faction, SOAR, Merrit Isle Liberation Front and Talvaar al-Islamiya were appalled that one-third of the People's Army fighting force in Santa Ana constituted of children. Most of these child soldiers were no older 16. They were used in support roles, as first aid medics, messengers, scouts and even as combat troops.

"So the situation was this desperate, huh?" Kaji Man asked a boy of maybe fifteen who had a rifle in his back. The boy was tending to the wounds of a much younger People's Army soldier.

"Si, senor. We volunteered after adultos in this la aldea died at government hands. I enlisted after my el padre, my papa, was killed. I apply what little knowledge I have of first aid to help my comrades."

"Alright, kid. You have my respect." Kaji Man called a female Dragon Faction member to tend to the wounded girl. "She used to practice medicine. She will look after your friend. What's your name, boy?"

"Alfredo, senor."

"Well Alfredo. Take this with you." The old Thakali man handed a large curved knife to Alfredo. "It's a kukri knife. It can be used for many things, foremost of all in saving your life."

"But senor what will you do after I take your sword?"

"It's not a sword kid. And I have another one."

Alfredo realized for the first time the pale-skinned and brown-skinned men and women with slanted eyes all had such a curved knife each at their sides.


Talvaar al-Islamiya members patrol Santa Ana.

Later on, senior members of the People's Army of San Javier tortured Santiago Florentino, the mayor of Santa Ana. Nothing useful information came out of him and two Talvaar al-Islamiya men took him to a different room where they beheaded him swiftly. The head of the mayor was kept at the city center and captured security forces were paraded across the town to show them the hanging head. Most of the security forces swore loyalty to the communists but they were wise enough to keep an eye on the new recruits. Security forces who refused to volunteer were kept in torture chambers for either hostage negotiation or as slaves to build the trenches, work in farms or dig graves for the dead of all sides to be buried.


Merrit Isle Liberation Front and SOAR members position themselves after the battle.

Meanwhile, Lia Blasco, the new governor of Santa Ana under communist rule, had her people and the foreign terror groups positioned around the town and patrolling the outskirts. The first day after the Siege of Santa Ana had gone well. The general population was supportive of the communists but even members of the People's Army of San Javier were wondering what these foreign terrorists really wanted.

As far as the foreigners spoke, they were fighting a war to prevent the Atnaians from taking over the island. They called themselves anti-Atnaian forces. But the innocent villagers could not understand what they said. For now, they were just happy that they had been liberated.

[Athara Magarat]

Inside the C17 Transport Plane



Lieutenant Milan Gurung was the commander of the Athara Magarati troops joining the Covonantian soldiers for the rescue operation of Athara Magarati civilians take hostage by some terror organization. Their destination was Monte Santa Ana area. Unlike most of the men and women under his command, the lieutenant knew full well about the real mission, that the hostage situation was done by Athara Magarati Intelligence.

In the armed forces, he was a hero, a role model for other soldiers, the leader of Tigers Battalion Royal Company 1st Platoon. In the AMI, he was White Tiger, the one responsible for capturing the leaders of various terrorist organizations and making them listen to AMI. And now the National Assembly had ordered for the most dangerous Athara Magarati soldeir in existence to go MIA in San Javier. He definitely was no one-man-army but he was definitely a tough guy trained not only in guns but also in martial arts of all sorts. The only reason he was not in the more famous Gurkha Rifles of foreign countries was because of his devotion to his nation.

[Atnaia]

Roarke hung up his phone, stretched his arms, felt the satisfying pop in his fingers and spine, and went back to typing the e-mail. It seemed that LaBelle had made contact with both the Vancs and the enemy, and both of those things were useful, if not proper. The earlier they could rip off the band-aids, so to speak, the less pain there would be in the long-run. The men had to get used to shooting blind into the jungle and thinking like the men who had been fighting this war for forty years.

There was a light tap on the door and Roarke called permission to enter. One of Flores' aids entered the room, a diminutive man with thick, dark hair and thin lips. The man's most striking, or at least most apparent, feature was the crooked scar that dented his right temple and hooked down to the corner of the same eye. It looked like the man had taken a face full of metal years ago, and the nearly purple spider-web of scar tissue tossed strange shadows across the side of the man's face. Given the man's age and the duration of the conflict, Roarke wouldn't have been surprised if he had been a child soldier in the 80's and that the scar was a lasting reminder of those days.

The rolodex in Roarke's brain ticked over. It was easy enough to remember the names of the aids and clerks in the Presidential Palace. There weren't many. Knowing the names of all of the soldiers, on the other hand, would have been a trick.

"Sebastian," Roarke said, standing from the desk. "How are you this morning?"

"Well enough, sir," Sabastian's voice was a reedy baritone, like the low register of a tenor saxophone. "I am a bit surprised that you asked to speak with me."

That's right, Roarke thought. He had nearly forgotten. He'd been putting out so many feelers, looking for individuals who could serve his needs in practically every office he could find. Obviously, the President's office and the Secretary of State's office were of the greatest concern, but he'd also been reaching out to the staff of generals, administrators, engineers, even the absentee vice-president, for what little that was worth. The vice-president was in his late seventies, older by a wide margin than half of the country, and seemed to Roarke to mostly be kept around to go on the radio with placations for the populace. He was even more grandfatherly than Hernandez, and Roarke had heard that people called the old man "Papa Perez", but the man was growing senile and wasn't of much use to anyone.

Still, Sebastian Reyes was a useful individual to have on Roarke's side, so he donned his most congenial and conspiratorial smile and swept up his blazer from the back of the chair. "Of course I did, mi amigo," Roarke said, swinging the blazer on and clapping Reyes on the shoulder. "Come with me. Let's walk."

They moved out into the hall. Roarke wanted to make sure people saw them talking. There was a certain power in rumours, and he wanted Flores to know that he was attempting to court favour with his staff. Even more than that, he wanted Hernandez to think that he already had his fingers in Flores' office. It would take Hernandez's gaze off his own people, which was useful. As they moved, Roarke made sure to drop his voice to a point above a whisper but not so loud as to allow the soldiers to make out the full conversation as they moved down the hall.

"I can understand why you'd be surprised about me reaching out," Roarke said. "When I first started out in the diplomatic service, I was an aid to the ambassador to Ostehaar. The first few times I got tugged aside to have private dinners or to meetings without the ambassador, I bore the same confusion. But then things started to become clear to me."

"How so, sir?"

"You and I both know that the people with their names on the doors are...big picture people," Roarke said. He let the words trail out. "Planners and plotters, but not necessarily workers."

Sebastian frowned. His scar crinkled. He looked for a moment like he was going to speak, but no reply came.

"People like you are the real movers and shakers in places like this," Roarke said. "You know all the little things that make the Palace gears turn: schedules, details, rumour-milling. When Flores needs to know something, he doesn't store it in his own brain, he stores it in yours. When was the last time that Flores knew who to call to set up an interview with Radio Nacional, or had to run his own damage control when one of his plans went sideways? Hell, when was the last time that he even spoke to his other aides directly? He tells you to do something, but you are the one who actually knows how to get those things done."

"That's true," Sebastian's brow furrowed. "But that doesn't explain much."

"It means that you are better at getting things done than Flores is," Roarke said. "That you know things he doesn't. I am not here to wait out another decade of war. I'm here to see that this war is won. And I'm going to need your help to do that."

"How?" Sebastian asked.

Roarke chose his next words carefully. There was a fine line between back-channel subterfuge and actual espionage, and what he was going to ask toed the line into betrayal of national secrets. He was banking on his judgement of the aide, that the man was not a leader but a follower. Like most followers, he wanted to believe that he was just a leader waiting for his shot, but in reality, followers usually remained that way. And if followers were good at one thing, it was following.

"I need you to keep me up-to-date on the things that Flores doesn't think are important enough for me to know," Roarke said. "But the things you know really are important."

"Such as?"

"Who is calling his office. Why they are calling. What meetings he is taking. What meetings he is declining. What aides are on his good side. What aides are on Hernandez's good side. Who in the office is pissed at whomever else in the office. And, most importantly, who he has flying in from around the Isles."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Sir, some of those are state secrets."

Roarke waved a hand. "You don't have to tell me anything that would get you in trouble. Just...basics. I need to be kept abreast of situations around here, and I don't think I am. I think they see me as an ambassador, not as a way of helping finish this war. The leverage I can apply is not being utilized, so I will have to utilize it myself. And you can help with that. We can make sure that no one else is hurt by this war."

Roarke studied Sebastian's face. Tiny muscular twitches, microexpressions in the pupils and corners of his mouth. Roarke smiled. He had the man. He knew it a whole minute before Sebastian did.

"Okay," Sebastian spoke. "But nothing illegal."

Roarke nodded. "Nothing illegal."

[Covonant]

Monte Santa Ana, San Javier

The C17 plane had landed near the proposed crash site where the Athara Magarati personnel were killed. The troops had already disembarked the plane and were moving towards where the other Athara Magarati troops were on the rescue mission. The mountain area was arid but was very cool due to the elevation and noting that the winter season was drawing nigh. Sam Gentis the special agent on assignment of the IDC, did not follow the troops towards the Athara Magarati personnel, as he had other duties. With a detailed map of San Javier with routes leading to towns and cities he made his way to the side of the mountain where there was a track with a small jeep waiting for him.

"Samuel, welcome Mi Llamo es Miguel Moreno. I was told of your coming. For some strange reason I wasn't told when. As you can see, I had to camp out here awaiting your arrival, well enough of that, hop in. The Journey to Agustin is long and very dangerous. I want you to know, I don't travel at nights so we would have to make stops along the way."

"I have no time Senor Moreno, I need to get my task done ASAP." informed Mr. Gentis

"Better you get there alive don't you think. Now come hop in." replied Mr. Moreno

The journey of the mountain was possibly the worst part of the journey, as the tracks were so undeveloped it was very bumpy. Leading on to the road passing through the town of Santa Ana, the road became manageable. Mr. Gentis was however not phased as he was more so eager to arrive in Agustin to deal with important matters.

[Atnaia]

"Do we have them in sight?" asked Bakker.

"I could toss a rock and hit them, if I threw hard enough," replied Yeardly.

"And they still haven't surrendered?"

The Commander shrugged. "They're either suicidal, or stupid, or zealots, or all of the above."

Bakker leaned against the console and sighed. "Fine. Open fire. Blow them out of the water."

There should have been a shake or a thud or a visible explosion or some other indicator of the launch of their attack on the smugglers, but instead there was a quiet moment and then an ensign looked up and spoke. "Target down."

Bakker sighed again and checked his watch. It wasn't even noon.

"Do any of the other ships have eyes on targets?" Bakker had gotten used to smuggler hunting, and they rarely moved alone, at least in these waters. They liked pack tactics. Or schools, he supposed. They were like schools of anchovies and the Atnaian fleet was a swarm of sharks. One or two sometimes slipped through the dragnet, but usually the scent of blood in the water would whip the fleet into a frenzy and in no time at all the seafloor would be coated in broken steel and criminal bodies, all to feed the real sharks.

"They took out two others, just refitted cargo boats, nothing big," replied another crewmember. "Topaz is still complaining about their engines."

Bakker wiped his face with the heel of his hand. It got warm on deck. "Alright, I'm tired of that. Can we get them to dock in Castillo Verde to properly fix that damn problem?"

"It's not like Castillo Verde has proper docks, Admiral," Yeardly pointed out. "It'd be patchwork at best."

"Patchwork is better than what we can do on the move," Bakker replied. "Send a request to shore."

Yeardly frowned. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

"You tend to do that regardless of what I say, so speak," Bakker said.

"Sir, we're all stressed and bored out here," Yeardly said. "Shooting rusty tubs carrying second-hand weapons isn't what we signed on for. I had an...idea."

"An idea, commander?"

"Just something to do to pass the time," Yeardly replied. She shrugged. "Something with some action."

Bakker raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"There's an old naval base on the southern end of Isla Mujeres," Yeardly said. "The reports say that it is used by communist-aligned smugglers as a hideout, but of course the ECSJ can't do shit against it because their idea of a ship is some steel with an outboard strapped on it."

"The point, Commander?"

"More troops are landing, right?" Yeardly said. "We grab a company or two and launch a strike on that base and take it for ourselves. It would be well within our smuggler-hunting directive, but I will bet you any money it is more fun than what we are doing now."

"We're not here for fun, Commander," Yeardly said, but he was already turning the idea over in his head. After a few minutes he spoke again. "Who do we have flying in?"

"LaBelle is still in de facto command of the forces that have arrived so far, but Brigadier General Kay will be coming soon, I think," Yeardly replied.

"Get LaBelle on the horn and let's hash this out," Bakker said. "It would be useful, even just to reduce the sheer load of ships that try and get past us."

"Yes sir," Yeardly grinned. "What do you think LaBelle will say?"

"Knowing him, he'll likely want to press the red button to blow the place to hell," Bakker mumbled.