North Point bans possession of all semi-automatic firearms

[North-Point]

Air Station Falstaff Point
Wellington Island
April 12th, 2010
8:00 AM Wellington Standard Time (JMT +1)

Lt. Jeremy Long jogged to his waiting Mitsubishi F-2A. Dubbed the "Viper Zero" by its pilots in the Royal Principality Air Force, the F-2A was a potent strike platform built on the F-16 design. The aviation ordnancemen had already loaded the fighter-bomber with Mk.82 unguided bombs for the ground-attack mission they were about to undertake. His squadron would be making attack runs on rebel positions on Blackburn Island, a small island out in buttfuck-nowhere. As far as Long was concerned, they could have it.

They were supported by some RPAF A-10s and F-16s, which were in turn supported by an Embraer R-99 for AWE&C. He doubted they'd need fighter support. The rebels were mainly a leg infantry force, the kind of guys he'd get in his FLIR sights and cut down with a few bursts from his plane's 20mm Vulcan cannons.

This was a short mission. Blackburn Island was only about 150 miles from Falstaff Point, and there was a KC-10 Extender standing by, just in case. In and out, quick and clean. At least he hoped it would work like that.

At 8:15 AM, the whole squadron was in the air, and the formation of about fifteen aircraft moved menacingly eastward.

[Central Prestonia]

MRP Doire
King Reef
0845 Hours

The storm had quieted some overnight, Doire having escaped the brunt of it by sheltering in the same reef which had protected mariners for centuries. Though the seas were still very rough, the vessel could not risk staying put for long; the North Point armed forces may have been cut down to size, but they still possessed enough naval assets to make the lone AA destroyer's life difficult. Even in the rebel-controlled Out Islands, they could never be too complacent.

That fact was made plain just a few minutes later. As the ship's CO, Commandant Robert Depaul, strode over to the helm console and began to open up the engines to 2/3 power, the call came from the RADAR officer on the bridge.

"Commandant, multiple contacts inbound, IFF is no-joy. They've spotted us sir."

"Very well," Depaul replied before picking up a microphone from his console. "All hands, general quarters. I repeat, all hands, general quarters. This is not a drill," he said smoothly as klaxons began sounding and men rushed through the ship to their battlestations. Flipping the channel, he opened the channel on the mic again and began addressing the men in the Fire Control Center who were now watching the inbound aircraft intently.

"Gentlemen, status report."

"Appear to be fifteen enemy contacts, RADAR sigs consistent with ground-attack type aircraft, probably A-10s if I had to hazard a guess. There's a milk-cow operating in the area too, KC-10 type by her signature. Advise course of action, mon Commandant?"

"Dans la Marine il y a Mon Dieu et mon cul, pas mon commandant!* You are cleared to go weapons free and standby on condition 2. There's probably more where they came from, or there will be," Depaul said, cutting the channel out and turning back to his bridge.

"Radioman, raise Kingston Atoll and warn them, you'll find the channel of a Mr. Van den Berg in your list. Hopefully we'll get them all, but it pays to have help."

A few minutes later, the first of thirty ASTER surface-to-air missiles exploded from its VLS tube, rocketing toward the enemy aircraft. Saturation was a major part of missile doctrine for the Prestonians; at a two-to-one ratio, Depaul found himself wishing for a larger ship, but it could not be helped now. At any rate, the intruding North Point Air Force was about to get very ugly response to their wake-up call.

*="In the Navy there are 'My God' and 'my ass', no 'my commander'"; a common response to a sailor who violates tradition of not affixing the honorific "mon" to a rank.

[North-Point]

Airspace East of Wellington Island
April 12th, 2010
8:40 AM Wellington Standard Time (JMT +1)

The flight was, as usual, boring. Even strapped into a supersonic jet fighter, flying over the vast open ocean got monotonous really fast for Lt. Long.

For Lt. Brian Carpenter, piloting an A-10B loaded down with Mk.82 unguided bombs and Maverick air-to-ground missiles, this was the ultimate rush. His first attack mission against a legit target -- a real, confirmed rebel group operating from a few houses on a tropical island! This mission was the real deal. They were hitting hard and fast, hoping to send a message to the rebels that the North Point government was not going to bow to a bunch of rebels hiding in the jungles so easily. He made a mental note that his grandfather had done this very same thing, flying his SBD Dauntless to bomb Communist positions on these same islands back in 1942...

He was jolted out of his daydreaming by a sharp klaxon and his navigator's warning. "Holy shit, we're being painted!"

"Whoa... what?!"

A missile symbol appeared on their radar readout. "Holy shit, they fired! Pull up!" The navigator's screen showed about thirty incoming missiles. "Jesus Christ, where the fuck did they come from?" The briefing had not specified any rebel air defense, and no SEAD Wild Weasel aircraft had been allocated for the strike.

"Damned if I know!" Carpenter yelled. The radio was buzzing with warnings from the other pilots. The R-99 AEW&C operators were yelling, "All aircraft, disengage immediately!" The R-99's pilots were already turning around, as was the KC-10.

The Doire's thirty MBDA ASTER surface-to-air missiles streaked towards their targets at Mach 4.5, their guidance computers switching over to terminal active radar homing, each zeroing in on a specific target.

"Launch countermeasures!" someone yelled. Immediately, flares ejected from most of the aircraft, to no effect.

"Falstaff Point, this is Cobra strike leader! We have encountered significant rebel anti-aircraft coverage, do you read?" the communications officer in the R-99 yelled.

Computers in the R-99 bird quickly managed to pin down the source of the SAM launch to a guided-missile destroyer with AEGIS capability. The alert flashed up on a tech's screen. He yelled to the officer. "Sir, computer confirms radar signals originate from guided-missile destroyer in the area, possibly King Reef or Johnson Atoll!"

Carpenter saw the incoming missile and only had time to say, "Oh, fuck," before the ASTER missile destroyed the A-10B. Almost all of the strike package was eliminated.

Lt. Long's F-2A was the fourth aircraft to be hit. "This is Black One, my aircraft is damaged! Ejecting!" Calls of "I've taken shrapnel!" and "Going down!" peppered the radio. The KC-10 Extender was the last to be hit, taking two missiles to its port wing. The fuel tanks quickly ruptured, spraying Jet A fuel into the sky, which quickly ignited. The KC-10 then exploded in an enormous fireball.

Only one A-10B managed to limp back to the mainland on one engine, with a navigator killed by shrapnel, after having jettisoned its ordnance.

------

MRP Doire
King Reef
0845 Hours

"Commandant, all bandits are down or no factor. Targets splashed."

[North-Point]

Salisbury Island Submarine Base #2
Out Islands
3:15 PM Eastern Standard Time (JMT +2)

Lt. McMillan led Marcel Dubois through a maze of concrete passageways, all lined with various pipes and electric lines. Orderlies and enlisted men saluted and stepped to the side as they passed by.

They passed supply, weapons and ammo storage bunkers all guarded by stern-faced sentries armed with an assortment of rifles, including everything from M1 Carbines to SKS rifles and even a few Remington 870 shotguns. All of the rebels in the base were well-equipped, most wearing North Point's traditional Rhodesian-pattern camouflage and South African Pattern 70 webgear. A lot of them were armed with L1A1 rifles, and quite a few had Colt M1911A1, Beretta M9 or Walther P38 pistols in leg or shoulder holsters.

As the two reached the entrance to the headquarters room, the two rebel guards saluted. One of them offered Lt. McMillan a clipboard, on which he signed their names. The two guards then stepped aside and opened the heavy steel door. The room was quite obviously sealed against nuclear attack. "They're in a briefing right now, sirs, but it's due to be over in about five minutes. Just wait by the door until they're through."

"Got it."

The two men entered the room. A spread of high-ranking rebels were around a large mahogany table discussing something. Most of them had kept their Royal Principality uniforms, but many had removed the "NORTH POINT" patches in protest.

One man in an Army colonel's uniform pounded his fist on the table. "We've got to get some sort of air defenses set up! The air force can hit us at will, and there's nothing to stop them! Tell the Aequatians, or the Prestonians, or the fucking Questarians for all I fucking care, to send us some goddamn surface-to-air missiles! Stingers aren't going to cut it anymore, those new drones fly too damn high to be shot down by some dipshit with a shoulder-fired weapon!"

"Yes, we're well aware of the gap in our air defenses -- and we're working on it. Our last request for SMGs, machine guns and anti-tank weapons was well enough answered, wasn't it?" an authoritative man in a Navy commander's uniform stated. There were murmurs of agreement around the table. Since the request for AT weapons had been put out, Havenic countries had responded en masse. Two entire arms bunkers had been dedicated to storing AT-4s, RPG-7s, Javelins, Carl Gustavs, and even some old M1 Bazookas and German Panzershreks. The Chevrokians had even sent several boxes full of captured German Teller mines that could blow up a tank. "If anything, we need to concentrate on getting more ships!"

"Yes, at least we can all agree on that," the colonel conceded. Several entire vessels had defected; most notably, one of North Point's heaviest surface combatants, the Virginia-class guided-missile cruiser RPNS Endeavour. Endeavour had already made several Tomahawk strikes against the city of Weatherford in the Windward Islands, a major staging point for government forces just north of the Out Islands. In the entire Eastern Archipelago, the New Left government had been particularly aggressive in its drive to stabilize operations in the Windward Islands, making the small chain a thorn in the side of the rebel campaign.

A man in camouflage fatigues with a Captain's rank tabs stood up. "Well, alright, gentlemen, this concludes today's briefing." He had a broad Scottish accent. His nametape read "NICHOLSON" in block letters.

As the rebel leaders filed out of the briefing room, Lt. McMillan saluted. "Sir, this is Marcel Dubois, our man from Prestonia."

Nicholson looked Dubois up and down, then looked back at Lt. McMillan and saluted. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He turned to Dubois. "So, Mr. Dubois, I understand you have something important to tell us."

[Central Prestonia]

Dubois soaked in the scene unfolding around him as Lt. Macmillan led him into the headquarters of the North Point resistance. He had to hand it to the North Pointers, they were more organized than he had been told to expect; intel back home would no doubt be pleased to know that the remnants of the Royal Principality Army who defected had not melted into mainstream life, as had been thought. Quite the contrary, they appeared to be leading a bona fide resistance to the New Left.

"Captain Nicholson, good to meet you. As I briefed your man Van den Berg yesterday, my government is willing to send you whatever you need. Advisors, money, weapons, hell we might even be able to supply you with some aircraft we've phased out; not Havenfighter standard, but enough to give the bastards a run for their air superiority. The President, once things in our neighborhood calm down to somewhat-sane levels, is prepared to send you as many divisions as you need to take back your country. At present, once they're done mopping up some pirates, we can give you the Foreign Legion, all five divisions of them if you need. Not Prestonian citizens, most of them, but they've shown themselves to be worth their salt in battle. You mentioned you need better air defenses? We can ship you some Crotale platforms or some SA-2s; not the best, but a good start I'm sure you'll agree. As it stands, we've got a destroyer sitting in King Reef providing AA cover for the Out Islands. The Auxiliary Fleet on Innovata can bring up a full battlegroup in three weeks' time if you'd like. I'm sure the addition of a carrier will send a message to the New Left. You'll be pleased to know that the Republic recognizes your group as the legitimate government of North Point and the New Left as an illegal terrorist organization. Any declaration of war they make on Prestonia as a result of our aid to you will just open the floodgates and hasten their demise.

"In short, Captain, the Republique Prestonaise stands by you and will continue to do so until North Point is free once more."

[North-Point]

Salisbury Island Submarine Base #2, Briefing Room
Out Islands
3:30 PM Eastern Standard Time (JMT +2)

"Bloody good!" Nicholson replied. "Now, we're not really in the business of conducting a full-out war against our countrymen. North Point is far too precious to most of us to destroy in a drawn out conventional war. The consensus between most of us is that the war should be waged as a low-intensity guerrilla war. We don't really need advisors, since a lot of us have prior military experience... but access to some of your special forces operators at a future date would be, well, fantastic. We appreciate your vote of confidence, we really do... but for now I think the best course of action is to lie low while we conduct some sabotage and guerrilla operations, you know, the usual."

"Right."

"If you'd like to return to Prestonia, we've got a Seasprite heading to Kingston Atoll for a "mail delivery"," with this Nicholson winked. "King Reef is right on the way if you'd like to be dropped off, or you can stay here. Your call."

------

Jacksonville
Emerald Forest State Park
April 14th, 2010
5:30 PM Jacksonville Mean Time (JMT)

Mahmoud Abdul-Aziz slapped his forearm with his right palm, killing a mosquito and leaving a bloodied spot where the insect had been shattered. He had been sitting in this wooded position overlooking the park for about four hours, and the insects were really getting to him. Oh well, he thought, I'm sure Paradise is devoid of mosquitoes.

Noticing an approaching black Chevy Suburban, he slowly went prone next to his concealed Romanian PSL semi-automatic sniper rifle. The weapon was similar to a Dragunov SVD, but not the same. He had recently equipped it with a telescopic sight, and he was capable of hitting targets at over 600 yards. He had the rifle's ten-round magazine loaded with Bulgarian-surplus "light ball" 148-grain full metal jacketed ammunition, and two spare magazines loaded and standing by. His Cugir-factory manufactured rifle fired the 110-year old Russian 7.62x54r cartridge, originally designed for the Mosin-Nagant rifle.

North Point Senator Tommy Wilkinson was set to make a speech to an already-growing fan of liberal supporters, and he was planning on making a speech about the benefits of multiculturalism, sensitivity, and mutual respect for all races. The Secret Service had already swept the area for bombs, and had a perimeter established to 100 yards. Agents carrying MP5 submachine guns patrolled the perimeter. Their attempts at preventing a sniper's attack were laughable. They seemed mainly focused on some sort of full-on frontal attack, since most of the agents were set up for close quarters battle.

Abdul-Azziz watched the growing crowd with disgust. Here was a gathering of what he hated most about the West; feminists, homosexuals, transsexuals, socialists, and just about every type of degenerate pig the decadent Western society had produced. He blamed MTV.

Wilkinson took the stage, doing his own personal imitation of Richard Nixon's two-handed waving peace signs. The crowd loved it. Abdul-Azziz flipped down the universal bipod clamped to the PSL's barrel, lifted the rifle to his face and sighted through the scope. He had already adjusted the Leupold scope for windage and elevation, using a flag emblazoned with a Peace symbol and a COEXIST logo to estimate the windage at the target. Abdul-Azziz chuckled again about the arrogant "Coexist" statement; he had seen it several times around Jacksonville, usually as an obnoxious bumper sticker on some aging Hippie's Volkswagen or slapped on the back of a teenager's Subaru. The fools; there could be no peace while the Jews and Crusaders controlled half the world.

About a minute into Wilkinson's speech, as he was mentioning something about "respecting our Muslim countrymen and not looking down on them for practicing non-assimilation", Abdul-Azziz took his eye off the scope and inserted the first magazine, setting the front lug on the lip of the magazine well and rocking it back into place. It locked firm with a satisfying "click". He immediately racked the charging handle, letting it fly home to strip a round off the top of the magazine and chamber it. He resumed sighting through the scope. Wilkinson was gushing about the "beauty of Islam" as Abdul-Azziz set the crosshairs on the senator's head. He exhaled and began squeezing the trigger. The rifle discharged with a loud "bang". Leaves and dust were thrown up around his position.

The first bullet entered Wilkinson's head travelling at approximately 1700 feet per second, blowing off the top of his skull and spattering blood and brains all over two Secret Service agents. The crowd, momentarily perplexed as to what had happened, simply stood there, stunned to silence. Half a second later, someone yelled, "Sniper!", and the whole crowd, as if through some animal instinct, immediately started dashing in every direction trying to escape the rain of bullets. Those who had the good sense to drop to the ground were trampled by the crazed supporters as they tried to escape.

Abdul-Azziz kept firing. After seven shots, the PSL jammed. Running on pure adrenaline, he clicked the trigger five times before realizing that the gun was not firing. The rifle had encountered a rather common rim-over-rim jam, but Abdul-Azziz was too fired up to properly clear it, so he just removed the magazine and inserted a fresh one. Racking the charging handle again, he kept firing, this time into the crowd.

A Police counter-sniper scanned the far-off forests and noticed the occasional muzzle flash from Abdul-Azziz's crazed firing. "Ground One, this is Shooter Four, I have a visual on a muzzle flash, 500 yards out, requesting permission to engage, over!"

A few seconds later a frantic radio call went out to engage the sniper. "Shooter Four, you are weapons free!"

"Roger that!" The counter-sniper sighted onto the dim outline of a man firing a rifle and pulled the trigger on his Remington 700 PSS, sending a jacketed hollow point .308 round down range. The muzzle flashes stopped.

Abdul-Azziz was hit once in the right side of his chest. The bullet slewed right and exited under his right arm, leaving a gaping exit wound. He slumped to the ground, knowing that he had done his duty as a Lion of Allah and brought the fight to the Infidels. Muhammad Abdul al-Maliki would be proud.

[North-Point]

Salisbury Island Submarine Base #2, Helipad
Out Islands
5:30 PM Eastern Standard Time (JMT +2)

Warrant Officer Dave Lovat sat in the pilot's seat of his OH-58D Kiowa Warrior on the tarmac above the rebel fortress. Like all of North Point's decommissioned submarine bases, this one was outfitted with a helicopter landing area recessed into the sheer cliffs of Salisbury Island. It provided the rebels with a hidden staging point from which to operate their precious few helicopters. Over the past month, the rebels had acquired a motley collection of rotorcraft. Two SH-2 Seasprites, veterans of the Landsdale Rebellions and over 20 years of service each, sat in the reinforced hangar. Also present were five Alouettes, two MD-530 Little Birds, an Mi-8 'Hip', three Kiowa Warriors, and one battered CH-46 Sea Knight. A junked SA.365 Panther complete with a black paintjob and Safety and Security Team (Special Tactics Unit) markings was also sitting on a flatbed trailer in the hangar waiting to be repaired.

Lovat's aircraft's weapons had been removed, but the helicopter retained its all-black paint scheme and its Mast Mounted Sight. The Kiowa Warrior was a potent light attack helicopter, and Lovat normally went into a fight carrying a .50-caliber machine gun in a gun pod as well as a block of Hellfire missiles. Today's mission would not require any weaponry, since all he was doing was resupplying an entrenched rebel group fighting government Stabilization Forces in the jungles on Kingston Atoll. From the briefing, it had sounded like these guys had been a real tough nut to crack, holding the Stabilization Forces at bay for over a week before requesting resupply and casevac. Lovat wasn't going to be alone on this flight; the Mi-8 'Hip', brought in clandestinely from Yanitaria, was also going with him, bringing in a load of RPGs and mortar rounds and then being used as the medevac bird on the way out. In this situation, he would have preferred to use the Sea Knight, but the aviation techs had already grounded it due to some problem with a fuel line.

The rear compartment of the OH-58D was filled to the brim with ammunition, mostly 7.62x51mm ball, which the guys on the ground had requested. There was also a crate of camouflage uniforms, boots, and an odd mixture of Pattern 70, Pattern 58, and M1936 field gear broken down into its individual parts. A second crate held spare nightvision devices, sound suppressors, flashbangs, wirecutters, flex cuffs, ballistic/wind goggles, gloves, empty bandoliers, stripper clips, spare magazines, combat knives, and just about every other piece of gear one could imagine. The rebels on the ground had apparently been caught off guard when the Stabilization Forces had arrived, and most of them were fighting in civilian clothes with no battle gear readily available. The final and most important crate held a long-range radio and field phones so the rebels could call in gunship support. Three of the five Alouette helicopters had been converted to a combat air support setup, with a 20mm cannon on the port side and an FN MAG or Browning M1919 to starboard. Both of the MD-530 Little Birds were also CAS-capable. When properly vectored in, the gunships were devastating.

Lovat and his co-pilot started the helicopter's engine, and the rotors began turning with a satisfying whine. The OH-58D was a four-bladed chopper, unlike the older Bell 206 from which it was derived, which only had two rotor blades. The older helicopters made a distinctive "thump-thump-thump" as the rotors turned. The newer ones did not, making for a much quieter aircraft. With a crackle, the radio call of "Doberman" came through the headset. Recognizing the mission launch codeword, Lovat gave a thumbs-up to the ground crewman, who responded with a thumbs-up and got out of the way. Lovat eased up on the collective, and the chopper lifted off the ground. He moved the cyclic forward and worked the pedals, flying out of the restricted heliport with professional ease. The Mi-8 did the same.

"Mother Goose, Mother Goose, we are feet-wet," the aviator said as the two helicopters flew out over the water, heading to Kingston Atoll. "ETA to target, approximately forty-five mikes, over."

The tower answered back. "Roger that, Chainsaw Lead. Resume own navigation. Good luck out there."

[North-Point]

Henderson Island
Kingston Atoll
Out Islands
5:30 PM Eastern Standard Time (JMT +2)

The fighting had died down for the moment. Over the past week, Cpt. Nathan Sorenson and his outnumbered, rag-tag band of rebels had held off a heavily-armed and determined government Stabilization Force. There were twenty rebels still alive; five had been killed outright and three injured during the past week. It was unclear how many government troops had been killed, but every attack had been effectively repulsed. They had taken over an eighty-year old concrete fortress, set into a hillside in the jungles on Henderson Island. The fortress had been built by North Point's security forces during the Out Islands Conflict back in 1942, and the bunkers were still mostly intact. Sorenson and his men had fought a running battle over the entire island, eventually being pushed back to the old fortress where they made a stand. They were armed with a large assortment of small arms; Sorenson carried an M16A4 with an ACOG scope he had liberated from a government arsenal on the island, and most of his men carried rifles of some sort. Two of his guys were armed with RPG-7s, and two others formed a machine gun team around a Browning M1919.

Only Sorenson was wearing camouflage, which had made the constant jungle fighting a nightmare; blue jeans stand out in an all-green environment. The rest of the guys had mostly been caught off guard, being forced to grab only their small arms and hide in the woods as government sweep teams descended on neighborhoods and farm stations. The rebels had been fighting a constant rearguard action against the pursuing government troops. Two days into the fight, a Pvt. Classens was able to get service on his cell phone, and Sorenson used it to call rebel command on Salisbury and request a resupply at the old bunker. A day later, they reached the bunker, and immediately went into defensive mode. The following Stabilization Forces didn't know what hit them, and they took massive casualties. After four more days of fighting, the men were all exhausted and most were wounded in some form or fashion. They needed the resupply very badly.

"Contact right!" someone yelled. Immediately, shooters went to the firestep on top of the bunker and began firing. They had expended the last of their M-67 frag grenades the day before. Sorenson bounded up the stairs to the top of the bunker, and immediately went to the firestep. Two squads of government regulars were advancing through the jungle. Sorenson put the red chevron of his ACOG sight on a man and squeezed the trigger twice. The man dropped to the ground immediately. Next to Sorenson, a rebel was firing bursts from a Sterling submachine gun, and he could hear the steady whomp-whomp-whomp of Pvt. Coetzee's Browning Automatic Rifle. Sorenson turned to his RPG gunners and yelled that they should volley-fire the explosive projectiles at a group of trees. A second later, two palms came crashing down and a government machine gun nest was eliminated. Sorenson again shouldered the M16A4 and squeezed off a few rounds at some shapes in the distant trees. The last shot was a red tracer, indicating to him that his magazine was empty. He hit the M16's mag release with his right index finger, dropping the empty aluminum mag to the ground, and only then realized that he had no more ammunition for the rifle. He set it against the firestep and drew his Browning Hi-Power from his shoulder holster and began firing it at the attacking troops.

Off to his left, a rebel fired an M1903 Springfield, cycled the bolt, and fired again. Sorenson then noticed that the government troops were fleeing, and immediately begun yelling "Cease fire!" He immediately inserted a fresh magazine into his Hi-Power and holstered it. The firing slowly died down. "Alright, everybody OK?"

There were murmurs ranging from "yeah" to "I'm hit, but it's not bad..." to the all-too-common "I'm totally out of ammo".

A man holding an L1A1 with a still-smoking barrel asked, "When's our resupply? We can't face an attack like that again and win."

"I know, I know, they should be here any time!" Where were those damn choppers, Sorenson wondered. He hoped they were bringing some 5.56 ammo; he liked the M16A4 and didn't want to have to discard it. "Morrison!"

"Sir!" a rebel with a British accent answered.

"Get down there and see if that son of a bitch has a radio!" One dead government trooper had been left by his comrades in the bushes.

"On it, sir!" Morrison slung his Lee-Enfield SMLE and took off down the steps. A few minutes later he returned, carrying a fancy satellite phone and a small Magellan GPS device. Sorenson noted drily that Morrison had liberated the dead man's helmet, knee pads, boots, drop leg holster and MOLLE chest-rig. He was also carrying a small black assault pack with an integral CamelBak hydration system and the man's LWRC M6A2 tactical carbine. His Enfield was slung, barrel down, next to the backpack. Morrison had tied his old ASICS running shoes to the backpack as well.

"Jesus, did you leave anything behind, Mr. Morrison?"

"Well, uh, yes, sir... his uniform was pretty well shot up..." Morrison chuckled. He unlaced the ASICS running shoes from his backpack and tossed them to a man who had previously been stuck wearing flip-flop sandals, then took the backpack out and dumped its contents to the ground. Inside were two laminated operational maps of the area, a sealed MRE, a small mess-kit, a Zippo lighter, a folded camouflage flap-cap, a flashbang grenade, two more M4 magazines, a melted candy bar, and some dry socks and underwear in a Ziploc baggy. Sorenson took the two extra M4 magazines, and Morrison then repacked the backpack and shouldered it. Morrison had already stuffed his remaining two five-round Enfield charger clips into a pocket on the chest rig. The other two cells were filled with four M4 magazines, and a side pocket held a single M-67 frag grenade, as well as an M-18 smoke grenade.

Sorenson picked up the sat phone, and dialed the number he had memorized. "Salisbury control, this is Charlie Two at Kingston, over."

"Go ahead Charlie Two."

"Uh, Salisbury, requesting an ETA on resupply, code was Chainsaw, over."

A pause. "Resupply is on the way. ETA momentarily."

"Thank you, Salisbury... Charlie Two out."

[North-Point]

Henderson Island
Kingston Atoll
Out Islands
6:10 PM Eastern Standard Time (JMT +2)

Sorenson heard the distant helicopters. He picked up the sat phone again and redialed the rebel command at Salisbury. "Command, this is Charlie Two. We can hear the choppers; tell the pilots we're marking our position with white smoke."

"Roger that, we'll relay the message."

"Thank you!" Sorenson folded the antenna down, ending the call. "Morrison, pop the smoke grenade now!"

Morrison again did as he was told, pulling the pin from the M-18 smoke grenade. He held his fingers over the spoon, then quickly released them. The spoon flew off with a "ping", arming the grenade. He drew back and tossed it into the small clearing 20 yards from the bunker, where it immediately began to give off a cloud of thick white smoke.

-------

"Chainsaw Lead to Chainsaw One, have the LZ in sight. Follow me in, over."

"Roger that, Chainsaw Lead. Following your approach."

Lovat's Kiowa and the trailing Mi-8 bled off speed as they approached the landing zone. A rebel stood at the end of the clearing, guiding the choppers in for touchdown. The Mi-8 landed a second later. Both helicopters kept their rotors turning in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

Two rebels immediately ran to the Kiowa, where Lovat simply pointed to the rear compartment. The two men opened the doors and quickly began extracting the crates of supplies. The same was done with the Mi-8. Sorenson stood on top of the fortifications and gave Lovat a thumbs-up. A few minutes later, the job was done, and the dead and wounded were carried to the Mi-8 for extraction. Within five minutes, both choppers had dusted off and were headed back to Salisbury.

[Northford]

The sun was setting in Jacksonville, which meant it was time. Not summer time, wintertime, fun time, sexy-time, or any other time, it was just time. Having spent the last 4 weeks hiding in a 1 bedroom apartment, Agent Rogers was glad it was 'time', too.

Casually dressed, he strolled down one of the main shopping boulevards, keeping his eyes low and the thin cotton hood on his T-shirt half way over his head. He knew there was no point trying to hide, since that would attract attention, but, at the same time, he reasoned there was nothing to be gained by exposing himself. He had planned this. In fact that was incorrect, it was planned for him. Flipping out his his Cellphone, he looked at the small moving pin on the map. 'He was moving!' he said to himself. Everything was going according to plan.

He looked forward and spotted a small group of people leaving the office. It was natural, their meeting had finished. It was the 6:30 in the evening, local time, and the monthly meeting of the Jacksonville New Left organisation was ending. Stopping at the edge of the road, he hailed a passing taxi.

'Right on time' he mused to himself quietly. He got in the car, and looked at the driver: a balding man, wearing a floppy cap and sunglasses.

"Under your seat" said the Driver, barely moving his mouth, and keeping his eyes on the road.

Agent Rogers fingered under the cushion. A small case, right where he expected it. Casually, he popped it open, withdrawing the small pistol and the magazine of bullets.

"There's 12 Rounds. The Blade is to the right" said the Driver, again, barely moving.

He palmed slightly to the right. There it was!! Feeling the edge of the blade, he smiled as he felt its' sharpness. Long, thin, and Narrow. Standard Issue Blade IX, just what he ordered. Putting it in a sewn-in kevelar sheath embedded on the inside of his shirt, he gazed side to side. A car in front was stopping.

"Here you are Sir" said the Driver, pulling over 50 meters behind the car in front.

"Thanks" said Agent Rogers emotionless.

Rogers gave the driver a banknote and approached the target. By this time he was entering a passcode into the intercom of his apartment block and the car he was driven in had left. Casually palming the blade, walked behind the Target.

"Mr Lewis, if you move this knife is going to rip your jugular vein open in less than a second."

Mr Lewis swallowed, with a bead of sweat forming on his brow as he felt the blade rest upon his neck.

"Open the door now, very quietly. You'll do as you're told."

Mr Lewis went upstairs, walking as Rogers walked, not daring to look behind him. They stopped on the 2nd floor.

"Open this door" said Rogers quietly.

The door opened as Agent Rogers kicked Mr Lewis inside. The room was mirrored, the ceiling, walls and floor were all covered in mirrored tiles.

"What the..." said Lewis as he fell to the floor. He tried to turn around, but as he did, he felt a fist land on his neck, paralyzing him. A pair of plastic plexi-cuffs tightened around his wrists as they were put behind him. He tried struggling again, but as he did the cold Standard Issue Blade cut through his right ear. He screamed.

"There's no use making noise Mr Lewis" said Agent Rogers, keeping his voice level. "I've had this room industrially soundproofed."

Mr Lewis's eyes widened. He took stock of his situation and looked around. There was nothing in the room apart from a small chair and a videocamera mounted on a tripod.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked his tormentor.

There was a short silence, as he was hoisted onto the chair.

"You are going to be made an example of Mr Lewis." said Agent Rogers. He struck him with the bottom of his pistol, rendering him temporarily unconscious. When Lewis woke several minutes later, he was bound with ducktape by all limbs to the chair.

"Why... are you doing this?" asked the bound man, blood still flowing from his stump-of-an-ear.

There was no answer. Agent Rogers withdrew a sheet of paper from his back pocket. Unfolding it, he placed it on the lap of Mr Lewis, smiling as he pressed record.

"Mr Lewis," spoke Agent Rogers with a coarse German Accent,"You are going to read your confession, and then you are going to pay the price for your membership of the New Left."

Mr Lewis protested.

"I will do nothing of the sort!" he said, the pitch of his voice rising.

Agent Rogers withdrew his knife and took a step towards his victim.

"I assure you, you will" he said, lifting the shirtsleeve of Mr Lewis.

He ran the knife along the surface of his forearm. The blade was razorsharp, so as he did, he cleaved a very thin layer of flesh from his skin. Another scream broke the air.

"Tut Tut" said Agent Rogers, a smile appearing on his face as he saw the blood flow from his forearm. "Did I not tell you the room was soundproofed?"

There was a slight whimper and Mr Lewis's eyes focused on the sheet of paper that was in front of him. 'Evidently, this man does not have a strong will!' mused Agent Rogers, as he pulled the pistol from his belt strap.

"I, Samuel Lewis apologize and forgive all those who have opposed the New Left. I apologize for supporting such an organization, that kills innocent civilians, robs people of their liberties, and destroys the living standards our ancestors fought for. As I pass from this life to the next, I wish to be remembered as the man who paid the ultimate price for supporting such an evil and corrut regime. Good Day, and God Bless North Point.

There was a click of the pistol, followed by the thump of a bullet leaving the silenced chamber. Closely followed there was the sound of bone being broken, and a loud "crack" as the mirrored tile behind Mr Lewis snapped.

Agent Rogers pressed 'Stop' on the video camera. He had not been seen, nor had he been heard. Leaving the room, he withdrew an envelope and placed a small SD card from the Camcorder inside, sending it to the largest Newspaper in North Point. Tomorrow would not be a good morning for the New Left.

Justice...

[ChevyRocks]

SRM Stjørsjøen
Senja Strait class fast support ship
Salisbury Island, Out Islands, North Point

The fact that the newly-installed North Point government might discover the location and intent of the Stjørsjøen was not something that was especially concerning to her crew. Given the situation in Haven, it was entirely possible at least three other nations in the East would have attempted to sink her. She had been detached temporarily from the Home Fleet to provide a certain special cargo to the rebels fighting the new North Point government. Of the many containers on her, three were full of Mi-24 Hind attack helicopters, purchased from Berlevåg Aircraft Refurbishment, and partially disassembled so they fit, with spare parts taking up any remaining empty spaces. A fourth container was loaded with armaments, primarily rocket packs and ammunition for the guns on the helicopters.

Devoid of escorts, which remained outside of North Point’s territorial waters in the event urgent help was needed, she had proceeded towards the rebel-held island as the sun set. The ship’s transponder and other electronic transmission equipment were configured in an attempt to disguise the ship as a Hjeltland-registered freighter. The crew had kept a close eye on the radar and radio for any suggestion that the North Point government had disputed the authenticity of their identification. Thanks to the fixed transverse thrusters on the forward hull and the azimuth thrusters on the rear, the big 50,000 ton supply ship was able to carefully maneuver up to the dock without the aid of harbor ships.

While the deck crew was already getting to work positioning the cranes to offload the containers, the gangway was lowered to the dockside, and the commander of the Chevrokian ship, Captain Olav Gustavsson, walked down it to meet his counterpart.

“I hear you have some special deliveries for us,” said Captain Nicholson.

“Yes indeed, Captain. I suppose I should introduce myself. Captain Olav Gustavsson, of the Chevrokian Republic Navy ship Stjørsjøen.” The two men exchanged salutes. “We received your request, and while we don’t normally operate the type of helicopter you requested, we were luckily able to find a company which had a few available. Three Mi-24VMs, partially broken down so we could fit them in the containers, and we threw in some spares for the common wear items. The fourth container we’ve got for you is full of weapons for these birds. S-8 rockets, of HEAT, penetrating, and FAE varieties, and some B-8V20 launcher pods for them; 9K114 anti-tank missile systems; and plenty of 23mm ammunition for the gunpod.

“We had heard your requests wouldn’t be especially large, which I suppose is appropriate for our situation as well, as I don’t believe we can supply particularly large numbers of equipment and munitions, given the turn of events all around Haven. But I do hope that this should satisfy what you need for the time being.”

[Central Prestonia]

Salisbury Island Submarine Base #2, Briefing Room
Out Islands
3:30 PM Eastern Standard Time (JMT +2)

"Bloody good!" Nicholson replied. "Now, we're not really in the business of conducting a full-out war against our countrymen. North Point is far too precious to most of us to destroy in a drawn out conventional war. The consensus between most of us is that the war should be waged as a low-intensity guerrilla war. We don't really need advisors, since a lot of us have prior military experience... but access to some of your special forces operators at a future date would be, well, fantastic. We appreciate your vote of confidence, we really do... but for now I think the best course of action is to lie low while we conduct some sabotage and guerrilla operations, you know, the usual."

"Right."

"If you'd like to return to Prestonia, we've got a Seasprite heading to Kingston Atoll for a "mail delivery"," with this Nicholson winked. "King Reef is right on the way if you'd like to be dropped off, or you can stay here. Your call."

"Ah, of course Captain," Dubois replied, holding his tongue. If they want their country back, killing their countrymen will have to be accepted. Ah well, it's their show, no sense trying to persuade them. They'll come around in time. "A guerrilla conflict does have it's, ah, advantages yes. My supervisor will be pleased at your level of organization; we had assumed your people were more of a loose organization of rebels, no offense intended of course. With regard to special forces, yes I do believe that can be arranged. The BSSs* are available whenever you need them, through my correspondence of course. They're well trained in sabotage, guerrilla conflict and assassinations; in short, everything we'd expect your people to be undertaking in their conflict. Just give the word and I can have a troopship heading up tomorrow.

"As for me, I would like to stay here if its all the same to you. As a former BSS commando myself, I feel I can do your forces some good yet, and will submit myself to your command. I will go wherever you need me, and upon my honor as a Prestonian, a soldier and a man I will carry your cause as my own."

*=Brigades Spéciales de Service, the Prestonian special forces.