The Thin Blade [GD; TG for Entry]

[The Macabees]

Nero, Baarjistan

The dance on the thin blade between humanity and insanity is an inevitable one for the warrior. I danced that rhythm long ago.

Sweat rolls down my cheeks, evaporating before they slip too far and drip down into my uniform. I feel as if I am being boiled alive in this heat. All I see is an endless desert as we drive through southeastern Potthan. I've been on this convoy for three days now after a four-day voyage by ship out of Kríerstatón 'Vos Díelaht.' Strong summer winds lift gusts of sand across barren lands as our column enters the border town of Nero.

Refugee camps abound along these ranges. They stand on the edge of the road, begging us for food, water, and money, dressed in what were more dirty, torn rags than clothing. I can see the filth that fills their pores on their brown faces, as we look out at the wasteland through the tinted glass ports of the Tiznao truck. Shacks made of spare wood and metal, tents if not, spread across the landscape just outside of Nero and the 'suburb of shanties' — as I call it — comes up right against the outskirts of the town. I feel little sorrow as we leave that ghetto behind us, I have by now seen too many of the world's most destitute battlefields to spend emotion on those who are better off dead.

The town is not much to speak of. A small military compound dominates the entrance along the Potthani border. From where I can see, it looks abandoned. From what I know, it might as well be. The Baarjastani military holds little purchase in these areas of their country, and it was too recent ago that they found themselves almost defenseless against the bloody, quarterless raids of the Potthani Terror Brigades, the feared PTBs.

Drab, low-rising buildings made of sun-dried bricks make up most of the architecture. Pieces of tan and charred rubble litter the margins of the streets along bombed-out lots, still left unrepaired since the war. Children play in the street, kicking around a soccer ball and chasing each other around the moving convoy as if none of the death and destruction ever happened. They shouted after us as we kept moving down the long road that cut through Nero like a river of cracked, churned pavement. I turn away from my narrow window at the sound of someone speaking.

"...my little girl, Akidna, is only four years of age. My two boys are not much older, eight and ten." The men are passing photographs around and when they finally come around to me I just pass them right along. I haven't had the luxury of children yet, at least children that I know of, and I'm 34. This asshole should consider himself lucky. "This is my first diplomatic mission away from home," he's telling those pretending to listen. "I'll be away from them and my wife for a year at least, or so they tell me. These types of posts always drag on." Jogornos Viversa says the last with sadness and his eyes dart down to the gray, steel floor of the cabin. When the pics come back to him, he puts them away in a wallet he stores in the inside pocket of his tapered suit jacket. There is no pity for him here.

Each one of us in this truck has sacrificed that dream of a family for the violence of our reality. We each have our reasons. Mine came six years ago. What most civvies back home don't realize is that war and peace are like parallel universes. Like two different countries, with different rules. I lost my connection to your world and have become intoxicated with mine.

I look back up to see buildings turn to sand again. I must have been lost in thought for quite some time to have crossed Nero and not even realize it. The cabin is quiet again, the jogornos — the Díenstadi word for diplomat — keeping to himself and only some of the men murmuring between themselves. It's been a long ride and we are all tired.

By the time we reach Barbakán 'Kuraya Milag' we are in the early evening and if it the sun still rides high it is because of the season.

The base is predictably lyran [OOC: my in-character word for 'spartan'], with tall tan walls made of concrete and barbed wire hiding squat, equally-as-ugly barracks and administrative buildings. It's small, enough for the battalion, its attached anti-air complement, and other small attachments. Only about a quarter of those actually stay here, if our earlier briefing was anything to go by. MPs man the gates, letting us through without forcing us to stop. They know who we are. Inside, the streets are almost bare of soldiers. Most of my comrades are elsewhere, concentrated in eastern forward operating bases, where the war is being fought. That's where I should be, but instead I'm here, taking care of the man telling soldiers who haven't seen home in almost two decades about how much he misses the kids he saw a week ago.

We aren't staying at 'Kuraya Milag' for very long. The jogornos wants to stop here for a meet and greet with Koronel Benjamin Conway, battalion commander. We get to watch, standing in the courtyard of base HQ, while that great yellow ball in the sky beats down us with its arms of fire, our rifles in our hand and in full battle rattle. The jogornos takes his time.

The koronel is a big guy and a good fighter. I've seen it first hand in the dark, twisted, depths of the Indran jungle. I've seen him run another man through with his blade. But the man was a career officer in the Morridane army. If the man split early it's because the Golden Throne pays those that fight for it well, but he's the certified ass kisser that a soldier in his position needs to be. That's why you'll never catch anyone salute at me. Fuck that. I'm just not good at it and I leave it to the people who are, people like Conway, the damn finest commander I've had the honor to serve under.

He makes short work of the diplomat, who's all smiles and pleasures until he gets back into the transport's passenger compartment. Inside, the doors close as the last of us honor guard pile in after him. His face is sour.

"The kríerlord ought to have allowed me to schedule my visit to Falzaah." Is he whining? The diplomat sounds bitter. Soft. He has a face of discomfort, as the convoy jerks into motion again. "This drive is proving to be most inconvenient. Your, do you say,...colonel" — he twists and slurs that word in his Díenstadi accent — "had much to tell me and more that he could not because I could not make the time. The waste. Ah, well."

I bet you're just bitchin' 'cos yer bum hurts from riding that seat all day. It's just a thought. Apparently, an out loud thought.

"What was that, Primsargént Byrd?" The jogornos turns his head and neck at me as they were one unit, like a wide-eyed vulture in sight of a fresh carcass. "You murmured something."

I need to watch my damned tongue. I'm leaning back into my seat, relaxed. Some of the others are looking at me now. They must think this amusing or some shit. I keep it cool. "My apologies, jogornos. I was merely thinking aloud, it was nothing of importance. I assure you."

Viversa eyes me. "I see," he says. "I wouldn't expect you men to understand anyways. It is a thing of politics."

I wish I could shoot him right now. But, I can't. Well, I could. I'm not ready for the brig, though. They say that they send you to New Empire for capital crimes, and not to the underground cesspools they call cities, but to the surface. Up there, all there is death and radiation, all product of a nuclear war dozens of years ago that is distant memory for most. I haven't been, maybe it'll be my next stop, who knows. But, I know blokes in the Morridane army who deployed there for the peacekeeping mission and I've heard the stories.

The rest of the trip, anyway, we make in silence. Despite the diplomat's complaining, we are not driving to Falzaah directly. Our next stop is Barbakán 'Toi Bora', a FOB north of 'Kuraya Milag', closer to the informal frontier with the syndicate-held east. It's a fort out of which a company of fellow régulies operates out of. Bandag 'Kelo'pa Jenein.' 'Dark Repear,' in old Díenstadi.

We arrive at 'Toi Bora' as the sun hangs just over the horizon, it stains the clouds with its dull orange-red glow. In the distance, the melody of small arms fire sounds.

The temperature has dropped thirty degrees from where it stood when we first crossed into Baarjistan. In my power armor I am unaffected, but I am looking forward to shedding all of this gear and meeting up with some old friend — if the diplomat allows. There is hardly any wind, but it's almost as if I can hear a howl and I can feel the chill creep into my bones. Something out there calls to me, lures me to it. The stench of a battle soon to come wafts into my nostrils and I breathe it in as we exit our truck for the last time today.

My veins boil in bloodlust. I am at home. I am at war. I am Primsargént Leland Byrd of Tabor 'Cazaterüs' and this is the story of my adventure in Baarjistan.

[Potthan]

The sands were warm and dusty in eastern Barjaanistan. In a small town in the outskirts of Syndicate territory, the loud roars of diesel trucks and chatter of soldiers didn't go unheard to a specific type of people. The type of people whose morals aren't bound by religion or code, but instead the never ending hunger for more. Greed is something that can destroy all morals in a person. The Syndicate, is the physical embodiment of what greed looks like.

By many accounts, the Syndicate is worse than the Potthani Legion for the sole fact the Legion has somewhat of a moral code to stand on. Granted, it's not much but alas it's still existent. The Syndicate, on the other hand, will do anything to anyone in order to make a pretty penny. Murder, rape, thievery you name it. They've done it.

For the soldiers of the Golden Throne, the Syndicate will be their main enemy for the sole purpose that they are armed and violent. The Coalition has no intention of harming anyone they don't have to. Seeing as the Golden Throne is helping Barjaanistan, the Coalition might even help them if needed.

But the Golden Throne soon may learn firsthand who the Syndicate is and what they do.

A roadblock consisted of street cars with custom designs and gang vans blocked the path of the soldiers. Men with ski masks wearing expensive outfits wielding gold plated guns stood in front of the blockade. A man, standing 6'5" tall, approached from the crowd of criminals. Several scars and gang tattoos decorated his face. "Hey Abikao (OOC: Barjaani slang for foreigner) don't you know this road is owned by the Syndicate? You have to pay the tax." the man said. The nearby sounds of hip-hop music and distant sounds of gunfire, screams, and children crying polluted the scene. "I will not ask twice, Abikao." the main said.

Right next to the blocked convoy was a burned down building left in rubble with only a sign left: "Jujann Police Headquarters". Some of the criminals wore worn out police uniforms, some with bullet holes and old blood spatters. The situation looked grim.

[The Macabees]

We leave Barbakán 'Kuraya Milag' in the early morning. I'm hungover after a night of drinking with my buddies in 'Kelo'pa Jenein.' Still, the diplomat looks worse off than me. The jogornos very clearly did not get a good night's worth of sleep, his eyes are red and he yawns chronically. The good news is that he remains silent for most of the drive.

We leave in our same convoy. Our armored truck rolls in the middle of two HIM-TACs, one behind and one in front of us. Our weapon station is being managed remotely, but the two armored cars have men manning the heavy machine guns. It doesn't take long to put 'Kuraya Milag' behind us.

How did I make it here? How did a Morridhane bloke like me end up fighting for the Golden Throne? I could say it's all about the pay, but the truth is that there's a lot more to my story. I'd start with my time in the Morridhane army, but I'm not ready to talk about that. Not yet. Let's just say something happened and I needed a change of winds, so I found myself signing an imperial contract for a 10-year stint in their regulíes, a kind of foreign legion with a handful of different units that range from company- to division-sized. We're all vets, we're all very good at what we do, so we get deployed to places where they need a few men to do a shit ton of work.

They promised adventure and I sure got it. Zarbia, Indras, New Empire, all places I get to strike off my bucket list. And now I'm in Potthan, pulling high-profile guard duty for the man who's doing the in-the-weeds political work for the man calling the shots, Kríerlord Ambrot Jokasta.

I hear that western Baarjistan is beautiful, with its lush jungles in the north and rolling plains in the southwest. Wherever that is, it must be a long distance away, 'cos all I see is an enormous sandbox.

There's a buzz in my ear. "Chemical spill up ahead, we're taking a detour." About three minutes later, the cabin of our truck jolts as we take a hard right somewhere along the highway. I look out the small slit of a window to see us on a much smaller road where the pavement is so thin that I can see the sand underneath.

We proceed on the same route for at least an hour, gradually drifting further east if my bearings are right. If we're not in syndicate territory, we must be getting close. Viversa, the diplomat, is aware, I can tell by his face, which is a not-so-subtle display of anxious worry. There's a couple of UAVs flying above us, scouting miles around us for the semblance of a threat, so I don't get my hopes up. That doesn't stop the jogornos from shitting a brick the farther east we travel. We keep moving along the same vector for another thirty minutes and by now I'm starting to get nervous too.

The truck starts to slow down suddenly. Buildings dot the landscape sporadically and then start to cluster together, occasionally replaced by ruins and rubble, as we near what looks like a small, backwater town. Strangely, the street here is devoid of any and all civilians, except for the ones poking their head through windows and doors. Something here smells rotten.

"Helmets on, saddle up," barks Komsargént Angu Otus, a man with shoulders broader than the length of the shotgun he carries.

A sign in front of a now-demolished complex reads 'Jujann Police Headquarters' marks where we finally come to a stop. My suit is sealed and ready to go; by now, I don't even feel the robotic IVs as they cut through my skin and connect with my veins, feeding me with utterly delectable chemicals that regulate my mood and emotions. I'm told, probably only half-jokingly, that a year of my life is consumed with each pump of whatever it is they inject in me.

The engines die down to a low rumble as we sit there for a second. I can hear gunshots and the wail of crying coming from inside the town. Looking out the window, I see a group of gold-plated gun-totting bruisers wearing ski masks. Their arms, necks, and even faces are covered in ink, at least anywhere their skin is visible. Our machine gun up top is inactive, but you can bet your ass the gunner is already choosing targets. This, as the Zarbians are keen to say, is no bueno. I can't hear what's going on outside and my hackles being to rise.

"They want us to do what?" snaps the jogornos, seemingly out of nowhere. He's talking to someone, most likely the highest ranking NCO in the first HIM-TAC, through the comm in his ear. His tone is getting gradually more severe and he suddenly stands up. "No. Absolutely not. Do you understand?"

Komsargént Otus, who is still sitting, leans forward and, in a quiet voice, says, "Sir, it's worth considering. Else we're going to have to fight our way through."

"Are you not capable of that, soldier?" There was a tone of challenge in Viversa's voice.

Otus' mouth tightens. He looks about ready to strike the diplomat in the face with the butt of his shotgun. "Sir, it's a question of your safety," he says calmly, in a remarkable display of discipline. "If it were just me and my men, I might try to blow through it. But this ain't about me and my boys, my job is to protect you. What if there's a mine or an IED on the other side of this checkpoint? What if the truck is immobilized? Is a siege something you want to be caught in? Listen to me, you don't want to be found in the middle of a crossfire of rockets and bullets. That's how you die. Let's just pay and move on."

You can see on his face that the jogornos isn't grasping the logic. "The empire does not get extorted. We shall show them what the empire is capable of. Komsargént, you and your men are to...negotiate...our safe passage. Your currency is violence, should they need...remuneration."

My thoughts: ah, fuck. If these guys get spooked, it'll all go downhill from there. On second thought, this might be exciting.

The hatch hisses open and the stepped ramp goes down. Six of us, in full battle armor and heavy weaponry, step down and out. I have my rifle in hand, the komsargént is behind me with his shotgun. The diplomat stays in the vehicle. The HIM-TAC behind us, whose driver I can see through the windshield, has a man on the machine gun. Up front, the other HIM-TAC is set up similarly. My blood courses with passion as I can smell the first drop of blood.

[Potthan]

As tensions began to rise the head hancho of the bunch of Syndicate bruisers started talking in Potthani. With a snap of fingers several men wielding old anti-tank weaponry appeared from the rooftops along with a man. He had a crooked smile about him as if he was scoping out the entire military convoy. he grabbed something from the ground, or what looked to be the ground. The rooftops were at least 4 stories tall, the angle wasn't the best. He held the burning flag of the Golden Throne. Shortly after fire abrupted from both the rooftops and the men in the roadblock.

Several rockets fired at the convoy. "Kill those f***ing tin cans" the head man in charge said whilst getting to cover. Locals started running far away almost a split second before the first shot. Almost as if they knew what was about to happen.

But the best hasn't even been brought out yet. Right as the gunfire sets, the men of the Syndicate is sending an M29 to the location to, as they say, "Purge those tin can military kids."

[The Macabees]

— Jujann

The first gunshot comes almost as soon as my metallic boots hit the pavement.

The komsargént is, of course, correct in his assessment. Already nervous and on edge, the syndicate militiamen open fire on us almost immediately. A bullet pings the metal of the truck's stepped ramp, missing the armor on my legs by mere tenths of an inch. Another one zips by my helmet-covered ear. My HUD is going crazy with threat assessments, taking a second to calm down and reduce the overwhelmingness of the display. I do the best I can to not be useless while I gather my wits about me and join the fight. My brothers are already firing back, and I can hear the sound of rounds striking their armor plating and the thuds of bullets hitting flesh.

I can hear the hiss of rockets streaking through the air. The truck and the two HIM-TACs are outfitted with active protection systems, which boom in exchange. Grenades and chaff abound, half-blinding my helmet's sensors suite until it makes further adjustments milliseconds later. As fast as the system is, my finger is faster and I'm already squeezing the trigger to keep the enemy on their toes and their heads down.

"Keep an eye out on the roofs," says the komsargént through the comms. The diplomat has been cut out of our group comm system, the komsargént most likely keeping only a private line with him, lest he distract us with more of that inexperience and stupidity endemic to politicians like him.

I look up to see a couple of Syndicate fighters burning the blue, white, and gold flag of the empire. The joke's on them, because the soldiers here are Morridhane. They don't last long anyway. The lead HIM-TAC has already opened fire with the 13.3mm heavy machine gun mounted on its remote weapon station and it is lightning that building up. Heavy rounds puncture through sun-dried bricks, wood, and plaster alike, ripping the building's façade along the upper edge to shreds. The damage extends and soon enough part of the roof collapses in, and anything moving up there is either dead, immobilized, or shrouded in the rising cloud of dust.

My attention is unperturbed when a rocket bounces off the side armor of the Tiznao truck. Inside, the jogornos must be shitting his pants. Good, it'll stop him from making the same arrogant decision again.

Outside, the rest of us are doing the fighting for him. We're in heavy battlesuits, our weapons are state of the art, and just one of us has as much experience and training as all of these rag-wearing militiamen combined. Those who didn't withdraw into the town after opening fire on us were the first to get hit. Some are dead, others are writhing on the ground, pools of blood collecting around them and running down to our feet. As I walk forward, my brain sends my suit a signal to increase power in my right foot so that when I step one of their heads — I'm unsure whether the man is dead or alive — I crush his skull with a sickening crack.


— One Mile South of Jujann

Encryption. Recalculating vector. Reorienting seven-nine degrees.

The modified GF-11 Archer UAV is scouting the low, barren lands just south of Jurjann. It's task: keeping tabs on threat movements. New orders are sent and the pilot, sitting in an air-conditioned office in Barbakán Martel Levov, back in Arras and thousands upon thousands of miles away from the battlefield, follows them gladly.

Shifting northward, the UAV heads to Jujann. It covers the distance relatively quickly, flying not high, but not low enough to be hit by ground-based small arms fire either. She is made of radar absorbent materials to keep her safe from the prying eyes of Syndicates that may have second-hand radar and tracking equipment available. It's not foolproof, but if it's enough to fight in advanced battlezones, then it's enough to fight in Baarjistan. It soon is over Jujann, scanning the progress of the battle with its various downward-looking sensors and soon starts to relay battlefield intel to the battlefield command and control AI.

It catches a small group of men moving through the narrow streets of the small, rural town. Between them, they are carrying some kind of long missile launcher. Another one carries a tripod with thick legs. The warhead looks unlike any other a ragtag band of thugs like these has. The UAV makes an assessment. It does not know the exact nature of the threat, but it perceives it to be critical compared to the rest.


— Two Miles North of Jujann

A second UAV, scouting up north, also turns, but it does not immediately head directly for Jujann. It certainly flies on the appropriate vector, but the intention of its pilot is not to fly over the town.

These UAVs, like most of the equipment used by regulíes, are modified and much, much deadlier. It begins to loiter until soon it again continues southward. While the other UAV performs scouting duties, purposely determined to not engage the enemy as to not reveal its existence, this one has free hands to do what's necessary to eliminate what has been deemed a dire threat to the convoy holding and protecting the jogornos. In Arras, the pilot has direct orders to disregard collateral damage concerns, as the convoy on the main road suffers from the brunt of the ambush.

It fires four small rockets, not quite large enough to be called missiles. They do not have to fly much of a distance. There is not much more than a mile between the UAV and the town by now. As they streak across the light blue sky, they leave a minute trail of condensation behind them.


— Jujann

We're hitting back hard. Our three heavy machine guns are ripping through the buildings and rubble in front of us like a hot knife through bread. The noise must be deafening for the enemy, but my helmet blocks most of it out for me. If they show their face, they get hit. Even behind walls their safety is dubious. The firepower that we have brought to bear is overwhelming.

Suddenly, four explosions shake the ground and four balls of flame, surrounded by pillars of dark black smoke and dust, rise into the sky. They go beyond the tallest building, giving the field a grim hue that accents the violence that has taken place here today. I can hear the rumble of collapsing walls. Some of the buildings must have been damaged, or further damaged — I look to the destroyed police station, signs that war had come to Jujann long before us —, and this was their last stand. It is as if the town cries out in the pain it must surely feel.

Seconds later, we are alerted to a known threat perhaps no more than three hundred meters in front of us, where those explosions just took place. Our intel systems tell us that the rockets were fired by a nearby friendly UAV and that the thread is predicted to be exterminated. None of us are taking the computer's word for it. It has been wrong before and we're not going to wait to see the results for ourselves.

The lead HIM-TAC is already moving forward again, its machine gun still launching those thick 13.3mm projectiles down range. As I see it do its dirty work, I jot down a mental note: outfit one of those remote weapon stations with a grenade launcher. One of those babies could have been very useful. The HIM-TAC moves about one thousand hundred meters down range, signaling the road is clear.

Outside, the air is probably more dust than anything by now. The gunfire is sending up a storm, but our sensors are able to see through it. There's little moving; whatever is alive is behind cover.

It's Komsargént Otus' voice that crackles over our comms. "Let's load up boys. Byrd and Cummings, cover our withdrawal to the gun truck."

Cummings shouts a 'yes, sargént' and I'm not far behind. I have my Hali-53 at my shoulder and my eyes on the building tops and windows, anywhere an enemy can shoot at us from. My comrade Cummings is just as vigilant, focusing on the smaller roads leading to ours and at ground level barricades. The anxiety is real and my blood must be half testosterone.

The last of the rest of the squad load into the truck, where the diplomat is still waiting. I turn along with Cummings to make our own way to it. Its big, heavy machine gun is still blasting away, and the other two HIM-TACs have their own heavy weaponry in the fight. Some of the crew from the one behind us are dismounted, providing us support from nearby the vehicle. Suffice to say, our short sprint to the ramp is largely uneventful because Syndicate militiamen are being suppressed to fuggin' death. Behind us, the ramp closes up and seals as we're inside, and in almost as quick as a heartbeat, the Tiznao is already lurching forward.

Up front, the driver must be applying pedal to the medal 'cos we are speeding up fast. Our getaway is looking successful at this point. The jogornos looks half-pleased, half-scared-to-death. I can't see the komsargént's face, but he must look pissed. Tension is high in the cabin, we've all just went through a lot of shit back there. But it looks like it all turned alright in the end and we even managed to bag ourselves a few bad guys.

Then, all I hear is a crack. My helmet attenuates a magnificent sound and I feel the strap across my chest tighten as it pulls me back to my seat against the will of my body. Henry, a big guy in our squad, apparently never strapped himself in and he's tumbling through midair for half a second, until the truck lands back on its feet and the sargént slams into the back wall separating them from the drivers.

A sharp tingle travels up my spine.

"IED. IED." Someone is repeating that over our comms, I'm not sure who, it's all a blurry to me right now. It wasn't the biggest blast I've been in, but it sure as hell wasn't a small one either. I feel like I've been punched in the ribs a couple of times by Henry over there, who's just propping himself up with those leg-sized arms of his, and it takes me a few moments to get my shit together.

"Status, Bates," says Otus through another channel. Sargént Bates is up front, copiloting our truck.

"He's out. Knocked out, his monitor is reporting that his vital signs are otherwise fine." It's the pilot, Primsargént Meyer. "We're not moving anytime soon. That damn bomb cut our axle right in half."

I toggle the map on the right side of my HUD. We're about three hundreds meters away from where he started. One UAV is still circling above Jujann. It hasn't participated in the attack since that last strike, so whatever they were after that first time must be toast. That's good news for us, at least. Still, the UAV up top is tracking a few warm bodies. I don't know if they're civilian or militants, but right now they're all my enemy. I also notice the second HIM-TAC is stopped. Its pilots must have had second thoughts about driving on after that IED. Smart guy. Its maneuvering off-road now, driving in spurts to always change its position in an effort to shake off any attempted rocket attacks.

"Alright," says the komsargént over the comm, this time including the diplomat. His voice is calm. "This is what we're going to do. We're gonna to backtrack to the town under firing cover, where we're gonna occupy whatever damn building is big enough for us to defend it in depth. That's where we're gonna defend our friend Jogornos Viversa while we wait for rescue." It seems like the diplomat wants to get a few words in, but Otus steamrolls right by him. "These are orders, not the start of a discussion. Our mission is to keep the jogornos alive. Meyer, I want you to take Bates and wait for pickup here. The second HIM-TAC will give you further instructions once the rest of us are bunkered in somewhere. Does everyone understand? Good. Let's move, boys."

I unstrap just as the ramp comes back down slowly. Whatever heat greets us from outside I do not feel in my suit. Of course, the diplomat is merely wearing 'dumb armor' and he looks miserable. I smile.

[Potthan]

The dust and grime once inhabiting the soft, warm ground arose like a tiger leaping after it's prey. The screams of pain and orders being shouted were common sounds aside form gunfire, distant screams of civvies, and dogs barking. Two stragglers working for the Golden Throne were covering the evac of their brothers in arms when a cocky militia soldier popped out from cover and fired a 30mm grenade at one of their legs, missing and hitting almost 7 feet away. The soldier was shot in the arm and receded behind cover to reload another shot.

He shot another grenade hitting one of the men in the upper leg busting open his leg, waist, and lower torso armor. Once this opportunity was seen, a 12.7mm machine gun on one of the roofs believed to be uninhabited started firing around the soldier's position along with any militiaman around him. 3 insurgents went out of cover and dragged the crippled soldier to an old fire station while suppressing what seemed to be his partner, keeping him from recovering his comrade. One can only imagine the horrors this soldier will face.

It was a dim lit room. The smell of rotting bodies and marijuana was prevalent. "Yo, baka. What's your name?" a muscular brute working for the Syndicate asked the soldier. The soldier spit out some blood he had in his mouth and brokenly said "Henric Johann" before glaring the brute in the eye. "Well, Henric. Big boss guy in the high tower thinks you may be useful. You have a chance to make more money than you'll ever be able to imagine. Do you accept or are you stupid?" The soldier just laughed to himself before that grin is wiped off with a punch to the mouth. The brute squatted and looked the soldier in the eye, "Your people. They are going to die. This region? It's ours now, fuckface. You have no idea who we are and what we are capable of. There's a reason why even the Potthani fear us, and soon you and yours will too." the brute stood up and walked towards the doorway before stopping in his tracks and looking back, "I gave you the chance for gold and you chose lead." the brute said eerily before walking out.

Soon after his exit from the room 3 men entered the room. One wielding a camera, one wielding a toolbox, and one wielding a branding rod fresh from a furnace. The camera was set up and the man wielding the rod and placed it in the center of the soldier's chest, between the two nipples the Syndicate's logo (A Phoenix holding a sword in it's mouth) was branded into the soldier's skin. Loud cries can be heard from the rooms, but the screams do not originate from the soldier. The most the branding got out of him was a grunt. One of the bruisers said to the soldier "You think you strong. But we stronger. Baka."

Higher ups in the milita predict a rescue attempt thus defensive have began setting up. The soldiers are better equipped than what their intel stated thus the need for added defenses. Two 12.7mm machine guns were locked and loaded on the roof of the fire station ready to take out any and all targets. Militiamen passed out makeshift grenades made from bullets and firecrackers as well as small pipe bombs made from fertilizer.

[The Macabees]

— Northern Outskirts of Jujann

The run back to town is harrowing as Syndicate militiamen open fire on us from behind cover again. Bullets are flying all around us, ricocheting off our armor, sometimes hitting us full on and cracking the ceramic like a rock on glass. Thank goodness for the two heavy machine guns on the HIM-TACs, because they are saturating the enemy's positions as soon as they reveal themselves. Neither is UAV that fired those rockets earlier staying silent. Guided by its robotic brother flying directly over Jujann, it is pelting the area with its guided rockets, crashing through buildings and striking rooftops, balconies, and windows all around the town's northern edge.

We hustle as we move down the road and toward the link of buildings adjacent to the pummeled police station. There's another structure that looks as big as a mid-sized office building little more than a hundred meters away and just as I spot it the komsargént's voice crackles to live over our comms again, "Head for the building to our two-'o'clock, boys. The one with the big ass radio tower."

I'm to the rear of our little column, side by side with Cummings. We're the chosen ones to guard everyone's six. "Byrd, Cummings, watch those rooftops. Shoot anything that moves."

"Roger that, komsargént." My voice is steady despite the long day of combat we've suffered, with only a tiny hint of strain. More data for the computer in my armor to base its decisions on. The suit has seen to keep me in tip-top shape, using its power to replace mine and pumping me with whatever drugs I need to stay on my toes. My eyes are wide; I can't see them, but I can feel the skin around my eyes stretch. Inside my chest, my heart is pounding, but the suit regulates that too, as it constantly works to balance my emotions in a tug of war that one day is going to leave my brain fried.

As most of the squad, huddling around the jogornos as they are, enter our target building, I can see an enemy militant come out from cover with a grenade launcher. He fires once, but the shot goes wide and misses. I take a shot and the enemy soldier drops. There's no confirmation of his death, but I can only assume and there are too many other angles an enemy can fire at us from. I should have made sure he died. He pops back up not more than a minute later, aims his grenade launcher again, and fires. My helmet's sensors warn me to him only a split second before there's a crashing boom.

The explosion knocks me off my feet and I fall on my back. My vision is swimming and it takes a few seconds to recollect my senses. When I do, I see Cummings on the floor about ten paces away. The scene is surreal; his comm is off and my own helmet is attenuating environmental noises, so I can't hear a thing as I see him writhing like a snake, trying to reach down to an armored leg out of which black smoke is rising in weaving tendrils.

"Shit." I mutter it under my breath, but it comes out stronger than I expected. The IV doesn't miss a beat and it injects something into my bloodstream. All of this is happening in seconds, maybe even millisecond, but when I stand a machine gun on the rooftop of the building the rest of the squad is in opens up on our position. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Pause. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

I scurry with powered boots back to cover, invariably putting me at the mouth of the blown-out garage door that leads inside the structure the komsargént led our team into.

As I stand there, looking out to where Cummings lays, a bullet almost strikes me in the back of the head. Instead, it ricochets off the frame of the steel tracks of the garage door. I spin around, but whoever shot at me has already ducked in back behind the door leading into a storage room after Sargént Abbott popped off a couple of rounds. We're not alone here, that's clear. The sargént rolls a grenade into the room and it's followed by a deafening boom. It's Primsargént Nielsen who chucks one into the second storage room, for good measure I guess.

The jogornos is in the near corner, trying to hide from everything at once, although he's hiding his inner schoolgirl well enough. I'm still thinking about my brother on the floor out there in the open.

Apparently so is Komsargént Otus', who starts giving out orders fast. "Byrd, you, Abbott, and Nielsen will move to recover Cummings. Norris and I will cover the rear. Move quick, when you reach him two of you cover, the other man will carry him back." He paused, signaling a change in comm frequency. "Jogornos, take this," he says, handing the diplomat his sidearm. "If anything moves, shoot it and ask questions later. Understand?"

Jogornos Viversa nods. "Let's move," growls the komsargént, back on the squad's private comm.

But, the Syndicate militiamen are fast and not opposed to taking losses, it seems. I can hear our heavy machine guns still going at it from a distance, as the two HIM-TACs guard the road from either direction. Every so often I can also hear the swoosh of an inbound rocket and I can feel the rumble of it hitting home a fraction of a second later. These gunmen are taking a beating, but they're ambitious — ambitious enough to swarm the road just outside of the building we occupied and pin us down inside of it. As I watch them drag Cummings away, my heart begins to sink.


— Circling Above Jujann

The UAV continues to circle above the town. Its high-definition camera and downward-looking IR sensor tracks movements on the streets below. Dozens of warm bodies are running and up down the various small roads and pathways that split Jujann into a chaotic grid. This data is being fed in real-time into the battlefield management system, communicated to all allied, need-to-know assets through a highly encrypted data link.

Thirty kilometers north, a firebase — Barbakán 'Kuraya Fenokal' — has been scrambling to join the fight. 'Kurayal Fenokal' and her artillery battery was issued targets in Jujann almost half an hour before. Eight 160mm self-propelled howitzers, a Praetorian SAM battery, a squad of regulíes, and attached defenses call the firebase home. But it may be another fifteen minutes or more before the battery can lend support, fifteen minutes during which the lonely UAV over Jujann could count only on its brother just over a mile north of the town and whose arsenal is running low.

Not long after painting coordinates for the artillery battery, the pilot commanding the UAV thousands of kilometers away is told to run programs for another three.


— Cüev CMLV 'Baarjistan'

A short, dusty airstrip sits perhaps one hundred and fifty kilometers away. The lands here are less arid, greener. They say that not far beyond there are jungles even, a sharp contrast to the harsh deserts of eastern Baarjistan.

Three GF15 UCAVs take off in quick succession. They rapidly accelerate until they approach cruise speed, their eastward journey one that would take two hours or more. But their task is not to support the ambushed squad of Morridhane soldiers and the diplomat they are escorting. It is judged that this stranded group will be back on their way to the capital of Falzaah by the time the three UCAVs arrive at Jujann, with or without the soldier named Cummings.

The UCAVs are coming to support another force. One that is coming from the south.


— 15km North of Barbakán 'Kuraya Milag'

Bandag 'Kelo'pa Jenein' — Dark Reaper —is a company-sized unit of almost 130 highly experienced and skilled gunslingers known for their efficiency. 'Cazaterüs' is an elite regiment, with even the most novice member a seasoned infantryman. But, 'Kelo'pa Jenein' is more than that. All almost 130 of the men in this unit are veterans of wars with the Morridhane army, some of them even ex Morridhane special forces. Three of her platoons are on the prowl, with the fourth in reserve back at the FOB. They catch the scent of blood and they are on the hunt.

Elements of the bandag's third platoon were on patrol not forty-five minutes from Jujann when the ambush began. They are approaching the town now from the southwest. They will collect well outside Jujann and wait for the rest of the reinforcement part deploy along three sides of the town, limiting themselves only to harassing and distracting syndicate forces for the time being.

Well above, a third GF11 UAV enters the fray, guarding the roads connecting 'Kuraya Milag' to Jujann. For the bandag, this is a heavy deployment. The ambush of the jogornos' convoy has certainly come as a nasty, unwelcome surprise that will force the empire to reconsider the limits to its advisory mission in Baarjistan.

The Battle of Jujann will echo on.


— Northern Outskirts of Jujann

We recover in our occupied building, which turns out to be an old fire station. There's at least one machine gun on the roof and the UAV is reporting enough fighters for at least a second one. They command our main route of escape, although the two HIM-TACs are no doubt keeping the enemy's head low and their butts clenched.

My mind is in one place. "What the fuck are we doing? Why are we waiting here? Cummings might be dying while we sit on our asses!—"

"Relax, Byrd." The komsargént's deep voice interrupts me mid-rant. "We're gonna get Cummings back, but we gotta think smart or else we'll end up just like him. Before we can mount a rescue op, we need to eliminate the nest on the roof, 'cos that machine gun commands the whole focken' street and our heavies outside for some godforsaken reason cannot seem to knock it out. And as long as we're holding off against enemy forces in this same damn building as us taking out that crew up top is a pipe dream. The only things going for us are the two heavies outside who will fuck anything that tries to come in through the front garages. That leaves those three right across from us wide open." He pauses as if struggling to hold ground. "Look, this is going to be tough, but we'll all make it through alright if we can keep our heads and preserve."

"Great pep talk, komsargént," I say. The jogornos hasn't said a word yet.

"Shut up, Byrd." His eyes are hidden behind his helmet, but when he turns his head toward me I can feel the heat of his stare. "This is what we're gonna do. There's no way in hell we're going to be able to do everything at once, so listen good 'cos if even one of us fails the rest of the team will be in deep shit. Understood? Good." He leaves no room for opinions. "We move as a unit. We move upstairs, clear the floor, and proceed to the roof. After knocking out the machine gun we make our way back down, re-securing the second floor. We'll have to take the garage again too, but we'll cross the bridge when we get there. Steel yourselves, boys, and get ready to move out."

I arch my eyebrow. Good thing it's hiding behind my helmet. "What about the blokes in the other half of the building? As I see it, if we move upstairs they'll take the garage and block us—" Something lights up on my HUD and it's as if my tongue has frozen still. Otus is a clever soldier.

"I said relax, Byrd." His voice is cool as ice. "That problem is about to be taken care of. Braces yourselves, soldiers. And I recommend that you step away from the wall, jogornos."

The diplomat does just that.

Seconds later, six rockets slam into the brick walls of the northern wing of the fire station as I watch their trajectory across the display. If there was an awesome explosion, I missed it because it's as if a blade of silence has pierced my ear when my helmet buttons up like a puckered asshole at a Marshite beach colony in Levante. The ground shakes a little, the walls look as if they are bending at unforgiving angles, and the diplomat falls on his ass. Nielsen helps the man up. I don't know if I'd have been as kind, even in fubared situations like the one we're in now.

I brace myself again as another three rockets slam into the northern offices of the fire station, and this time Nielson holds on to the jogornos. The building shakes again. In silence, I can see the HIM-TAC in the north reposition itself to open fire into what most be rubble by now. If it isn't, it is soon enough when another two rockets strike home.

"Let's barricade the hallway door with the locker." The sudden harshness of sound is momentarily jarring. I'm not quite sure who said it, until Komsargént Otus repeats himself.

Abbott and I move to do as told, tipping a couple of lockers standing against the wall over. We find some shit to throw in the lockers themselves, weighing them down, making them harder to push out of the way. If there is anyone left alive in the mess that the north wing must be right now, it'll take some time for them to force their way through to the garage. That doesn't do shit about the three garage doors in the back, but there is nothin' we can do 'bout that so we don't fret over it. There's more than adrenaline pumping through my body, the armor is making sure of that. I feel the thrill of battle rushing through my veins.

"Abbott, take point. Nielsen, cover our six. Jogornos, stay in the middle. Byrd, make sure our guest stays alive. Move out." The komsargént's orders feel like freedom from restraint, that is the effect of the drugs making their way to my heart and then back out. But the impulse is almost innate when I move forward, as if merely just one part of a greater unit. We have fought a great many times together, we are cohesive.


— 1km North of Jujann

Encryption. Weapon stores empty. End analysis.

In Arras, the operator does not react to the alert. He already knows, as it was he who gave the order to fire the last of its rockets. It was what needed to be done. Besides, the 'Kuraya Fenokal' artillery battery has finally come online. The pilot simply adjusts the UAV's flight orders, having it assist the other UAV already patrolling above Jujann. Better to have two scouts rather than one, after all.

[Potthan]

I knew what my orders were going to be when I was called into the big man's office. He doesn't intimate me. I can kill him with my bare fists easily even being twice as small as him, He knows that. Hence why he is sending me and not himself. Apparently highly trained soldiers are causing a commotion in the wreckage of Jujann. Being the idiots those thugs are they took a hostage so, as per usual, I have to bail their asses out. The goal isn't to kill all of the soldiers, just to halt their progress trying to save their pathetic friend as the men in the building have time to escape. I told Jackal (OOC: The head hancho in Jujann) that he should've left those soldiers alone but no, he has to go out and prove himself. I hope he gets lead in his neck.

"So here's the situation-" the big man says before I cut him off, "I already know the situation, Jackal is going to get himself killed trying to play tough and I have to bail him and his rag tag team of idiots out." I say, pretty annoyed too. "Listen, I'm just the messenger. Go and get it done, there'll be time to complain later." the man said before setting papers on the table I was eating a meal at. The papers were full of leaked intel on some of the soldiers as well as their photos. Also mundane info like relatives, blood type, physical/mental weaknesses, etc.

I load some mags for my firearm and take the keys for an old dune buggy. I want to bring a smaller vehicle to the scene so that I am less noticed. Interestingly enough I went unnoticed by the petty UAV flying above. "Must be a shitty drone or a shitty controller" I said to myself before entering the city limits, hearing the battle raging as I delve closer. I park my buggy in an alleyway and climb up to the roof of an abandoned office building. As I make my way to the top, I notice shell casings. "Those troops must've been here. Gotta watch my step." I say to myself. I make my way at the roof and unpack my semi-automatic 13.7mm long rifle with an infrared scope.

Within the span of 2 minutes, 3 pf Jackal's men are dead and I'm pretty sure another is injured. In the midst of this, I managed to fire upon 2 of the foreigners. I halted them for an easy 10 minutes or so. Should be enough time; for some to get away. Jackal's lucky I'm even saving one. Just to piss Jackal off I take an old dart I had in my backpack and try to write in my best English "Jackal is might be in 2nd floor bathing room. Check there". Those soldiers seem like they can handle themselves. Was really a shame to kill any of them. Maybe in an alternate timeline we worked together. Maybe we shall meet in paradise.

I make my way back to the alley and head back into command.

Meanwhile in the fire station

"What the fuck do you mean she's here?" Jackal screamed at the top of his lungs, held up snorting coke off of a sink in the bathroom on the 2nd floor. "I mean she is here to assist. She seems to have left though. She picked off about a couple of them soldiers." Jackal's squire said. "Command must've sent here. We cannot fuck up because if command knows about this and we fail it's my ass on the line." Jackal said before coking his gun. Jackal and his squire, as well as the rest of the men on the 2nd floor, readied for a breach.

[Morrdh]

Leftenant-Colonel Archibald Leek (he was glad when he got that promotion) listened intently to the radio chatter as he rode in the back of a HIM-TAC. He wasn't able to influence things since his status was but an observer, but he'd learnt throughout his military career that it paid to keep tabs on what was happening. Leek was pushing 40 and had been in the Morridane Army since he was called up for National Service when he turned 18 years of age. Baarjistan was the last place he'd ever expected to be; it was thanks to the Morridane soldiers serving in the Macabean régulies that he was here at all. Her Excellency's Morridane Government had gotten wind of former servicemen now fighting for the Golden Throne and had sent out Leek to observe and report back, there was some vague suggestion about incorporating Macabean ideas into Morridane military doctrine.

Leek was an infantryman, he'd started out as a National Service conscript (or 'Nat') in the 47th Battalion. Royal Morridane Regiment (47 RMR). He'd signed on for extended service once his initial service was up, then applied for an officer's commission when he hit his mid-twenties. Once the officer's training course had been completed he'd been sent to the Royal Genchi Rifles' 10th Battalion (10 GENCHI) as a newly minted Leftenant. The Genchi Rifles' rank and file were made up of Morrdh's aboriginal Genchi with the officer ranks a mix of both Genchi and Morridane officers. The Genchi were known within the Commonwealth as being fierce warriors and extremely excellent scouts, many Genchi ultimately end up serving in the Morridane SAS. Leek had done many tours of Mordent with 47 RMR, and later 10 GENCHI, as well as many regional conflicts that the Morridane Army found itself in picking up a Military Cross somewhere along the way. He was looking to retire when he hit the 22 year mark, so this posting as a military observer was an interesting way to end his military service.

Before coming out here he'd brushed up on his Dienstadi (taught as a secondary language in Morridane schools) and read through some of the service records the Commonwealth had on the Morridane régulies. Most were ex-Morridane Army types, others were from the Royal Morridane Marines and the RMAF Regiment with some from the Royal Space Marines. All were all veterans with more than a few years' service behind them, a fair number boasted medals with a handful even receiving the Viceroy Cross¹. Some Leek recognised from earlier on in his military service. These men had fought for Crown and Country, then for whatever reason had decided to go fight for a foreign power. Leek had heard that the main draw was the money, almost a king's fortune when coupled with a Morridane service pension, though he had also heard of more concerning reasons. Seemed the government had also heard of those reasons as parliament was mulling over legislation to make it illegal for Commonwealth citizens to serve in a foreign military.

The men here had more pressing matters.

It seemed that an ambush had happened and Leek was trying to follow things best he could. His grasp of Dienstadi wasn't as great as he wished and he had to rely on his minder, a Sargént Mcguire who originally hailed from Mordent, to fill in the gaps. Mcguire bore the red hair characteristic of the Celtic Mordentish and had a thick moustache, one that that was popular amongst more senior NCOs in the Morridane Armed Forces. The moustache also hid a scar from a wound Mcguire had received during his time with the Marines. He was a tough, no nonsense soldier but Leek found him a little standoffish. Leek suspected that Mcguire took his time warming to any new outsider, quite possibly a man who believed in deeds over words. Mcguire's record noted that he'd been awarded the Military Medal on two separate occasions.

Right now Mcguire was on the radio and Leek tried listening in, though his command of Dienstadi wasn't that great he got enough to figure out the basics of what was happening. A patrol had come under heavy militant fire in a nearby settlement, one of the soldiers was down...took a rocket to the face or something like that hazard Leek. The militants had nothing that could match the Macabean power armour, so had to go all out with whatever heavy weapons they could get their hands on. Prompted by its Mokan ally's own project, the Commonwealth had started work on what it called an 'Armoured Personal Exo-suit, Combat' or 'APEC' for sort. It was basically a Space Force personal heavy lifter that had armoured plates welded to it, though it was going through a lengthy development cycle to make it look like something that belonged to a battlefield rather than a cargo lifter. The entire project was in the hands of the Royal Corps of Morridane Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (RMEME) and Leek had only heard snippets from his brother officers, though a new Territorial Army unit called the Fellig Armoured Rifles had been raised for trials of the new APEC power armour.

The Macabean power armour was leagues ahead and Leek in his olive green fatigues, flak jacket and kevlar helmet² felt underdress in comparison. Though he was issued with a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol as his personal sidearm, he did sign-out a Sterling SMG before coming out here. He could've gone for a L1A1 SLR, the standard rifle of the Morridane Forces, but that was semi-automatic and Leek preferred the Sterling's much higher rate of fire over the SLR's stopping power. He also wore a brassard that bore the Morridane flag in addition to a large white 'O', another 'O' was painted in the back of his flak jacket and it was hoped that he wouldn't get targetted by the militants. Leek didn't sure that same belief and was determined not to be a burden on his Macabean hosts.

1. Morridane version of the Victoria Cross.
2. Uniform (https://imgur.com/jB9f7UM) with Northern Ireland Troubles British fragmentation vest and British Mk.6 helmet.

[The Macabees]

— South of Jujann

A small, lightly armored vehicle crawls over the cracked earth of eastern Baarjistan. It is no longer two meters and a half, and less than one and a half tall. Traveling alone, it makes its way northwest in an area so remote that only the tallest structures of Jujann can barely be seen in the distance and that only if you stood on the tallest dune.

It stops suddenly and two bay doors open from the middle to reveal the vehicle's undercarriage. What looks the size of the artillery shell, but carbon-black and threaded in the same way as a screw, falls out from within with a squishy plop on the soft desert sands. On the surface and near its nose are small sensors which sit behind protective transparent materials. A thin blue light around its base suddenly comes on and the device starts to dig into the earth like a snake steadily shaking itself so that its body can lay hidden beneath the sand grains. Within seconds it loses itself under the surface and begins to burrow forward and at a downward angle, changing course seemingly randomly and at will.

The vehicle, seemingly content with this outcome, closes its bay doors and begins moving again. This time it goes west, to round the corner of Jujann, and then drive north to another remote location where it will repeat the same task. Another vehicle just like it is operating in much similar fashion beyond the eastern edge of the town.

Not all insurgents fight for the same reasons, with the same capabilities, or with the same tactics. Tunnels, however, are a pervasive theme in the countless counterinsurgencies that tied down the Golden Throne like chains to a post. Smugglers, criminals, and enemy combatants use them to bypass Macabéan forces and to move throughout their domains without fear of death, and this simply is not a reality that the empire is willing to accept. It is becoming quite adept at using autonomous and remote technology to search for tunnels, locate them, and destroy them. Jujann is being surrounded, not just above ground, but below it as well.

The cordon tightens with every passing minute.


— Fire Station, Jujann

Upstairs, on the second floor of the fire station, there seems to be a commotion. We hear footsteps and men shouting as they dig in and await our ascent.

Níelsen is in the back, swinging his rifle from the garage doors in the back to those in the front. Komsargént Otus is in front of him, but he's facing the stairwell as the rest of us slowly climb it up to the top floor. Abbott is point man and is almost at the top. He stops suddenly, looks at us, then back up, and finally reveals a grenade and tosses it on to the second floor. He leans away instinctively, almost covering his ears with his hands, but the sound of the explosion is mostly attenuated by our helmets. He tosses a smoke grenade up next and we wait until the air is like a black fog, through which we start to move silently.

We are in battle armor which are chock-full of sensors, the smoke is our domain. Still, the enemy is well-positioned behind turned-over tables, walls, and other impromptu obstacles. The shooting starts as soon as Abbott rounds the corner at the top of the stairwell, with Norris spilling out right behind him.

Abbott rounds left, Norris takes right, and I can see the flames of the muzzle flash spit out from the tip of their assault rifle barrels. They move with deadly precision, stalking like tigers on a hunt. By the time I arrive at the top of the staircase the enemy is returning fire, but at least three of them are dead. I turn left, moving in behind Abbott to support him with fire.

These drugged up crazy fucks are looking for us with wide eyes, even as the grenade's smoke persists. The komsargént makes sure there's still a fat haze when he pops up from the staircase to toss another one into the large room.
Still, the enemy is not deterred and they continue to fire as they are cut down one by one. The firefight is mesmerizing, the adrenaline is pumping through me, and my brain has by now devolved into its most primitive status — survival.
I don't even remember the bullet that finally cracked Abbott's thigh plate and the one that sliced into his flesh, cutting deep into his bone and shattering it into a hundred fragments. Nor the round that penetrated Níelson's lower left torso,
leaving him stunned and bleeding while he laid with his back on the ground clutching his side with gritted teeth behind that emotionless, one-eyed helmet.

My own helmet does a good job at filtering out their curses, shouts, and cries. It keeps me focused on the most important of my tasks, which is mopping up the surviving militants. My finger is pulling on my rifle's trigger subconsciously, acting as one with my liberated, unplugged mind. Most of this I will probably not remember as it really was, not because of the drugs, but because of the chemicals that came with the all-too-natural thrill of battle.

Almost as soon as I execute the last one, Komsargént Otus pulls Níelson and Abbott to the back wall, where he props them against it and reads the metrics fed by their suit sensors. It takes only a few seconds and suddenly he hustles back to grab their rifles. "You two are going to be alright, and as long as you can still function you're gonna have to fight," he says, handing their rifles back to them. "Watch that staircase with your life."

"Komsargént, there's a door. It's closed." I'm looking right at it, with my rifle pointed right where I could imagine some local's head being. All I need is an excuse to fire. My blood is boiling with chemicals and drugs.

He pulls his own rifle back up, firmly pressed against his shoulder, and quickly comes to me. "Go," he says.

I walk up to the door and quickly feel for any hasty booby traps set along its frame. My hands find nothing at first, but I suddenly feel a very tiny, subtle bump near the top of the left-hand side. My fingers crawl forward, until they are touching the door itself, and they start to feel around until I am touching a small section of wire. I know this is a wire, I can feel it; this isn't my first rodeo, after all.

Walking backward, rifle still pointed at the door, I make my way back to the komsargént. "Booby-trapped," I whisper through our shared, private comm.

Jorgonos Viversa is poking his head from behind the wall hiding the staircase, but darts back into hiding when the komsargént barks, "Jogornos, I recommend you stay with Sargént Norris, where it is safe." Otus rounds on me without even pausing for breath and with an angry outstretched finger says, "Take down that door, primsargént. Take down that goddamn door. Let's finish this."

I nod and grab one of the dead guys and lift from the back of his shirt and pants with both hands. With a running start, I chuck him into the door and he hits it with a thud but crumples on the floor. The sturdy, metal door is still closed. The komsargént is looking at me, and even hidden behind his helmet as it is I know exactly what expression he has on his face. "It was worth a shot," I say, shrugging. Still, I move quickly back to the door, clear the body, and get to work lightly attaching two of my grenades to the top and bottom hinges of the door. With string, I create a lever of sorts to more gently pull their pins without molesting their position. And that is exactly what I do.

"Fire in the hole," I cry out. The komsargént turns away as I scramble to put distance between me and my explosive concoction. Seconds later, they explode and the door is blown off its hinges. The booby trap explodes with it, and if anything or anyone is still alive in that room they are either dead now or so severely mangled that they were better off dead.

When we move in to clear it, me going through the door first, we find it empty. It is a supply closet and its scarce contents were in disarray. There is a window set into the far wall and it is open, a stale desert breeze blowing through it although I cannot feel it behind my plate armor. Whoever was in here got away. I can hear the clatter of the machine guns belonging to our two supporting HIM-TACs. Their fire is growing sparser and they are losing their utility. On my HUD, I toggle to see them as symbols on my screen. They were moving away, opening more distance between them and Jujann, lest they be attacked from a flank and be put out of action.

The situation is bad.

"Shit. Shit. Shit!" The komsargént is pacing and steps back out to the main floor of the second story. The jogornos and Norris are up here with us now. "Jogornos, sit by the wall over there," he says, pointing behind us. "Do not stand up. Avoid windows. I will not let you fuck this up anymore than you already have. Do you understand?"

Viversa quietly did as he was told, although his face betrayed the anger that came with humiliation. If we lived through this, if he lived through this, maybe his treatment would one day come back to the komsargént. Maybe they were better off feeding the jogornos to the militants. He would be harmless if dead, after all.

"Here's what's going to happen," continues the komsargént. "There are three soldiers in full health right now, three. We have two wounded. They will survive, but they cannot move, and we cannot rely on them to defend the diplomat's life. We're going to stay here, fortify ourselves, and hold out 'til reinforcements arrive. Understood?"

"Fuck the diplomat," I say with vitriol. The words came out on their own, but they were true and I stand with conviction. "They still have Cummings. He may still be alive, and we're just going to wait it out?"

"That's right," he answered. "Now start barricading the staircase and the windows. Booby trap the storage room window. Let's make this place goddamn impregnable."

Something snaps inside of me. It's as if the drugs, the emotions, and the stress start to mix in the wrong balance. My shoulders quiver and it's as if a bolt of energy is splitting me in half, warring inside of me, spreading a nervous tingle across my skin. "Are you kidding me? You're just going to leave Cummings to die? What if they torture him? This is bullshit and you know it."

The Komsargént turned to him abruptly and closed distance just as quickly. His face just inches away, even though they talked over their helmets' comm, he said, "Look here, Byrd. We're all on edge right now and I have enough going on to put up with a damn fool trying to be a fucking hero. I won't have it. Do you understand me? I won't have it. I won't lose more men. And if you don't shut the fuck up and do as I tell you, I promise you that I will write you up and have your ass in a chopper back home before you take your first shit back at base. What's it going to be, Byrd?"

He can't see my face, but I am looking at him defiantly. Finally, I let my eyes down. He's right, in our condition retrieving Cummings is impossible. I do not know how many enemies we have in Jujann exactly, I know there are enough to finish off our little, crippled band of out-of-place Morridanes. I stomp off and start helping the others reconfigure the obstacles. Best to prepare our defenses while we still have time.


— Southern Outskirts of Jujann

The town is teeming with militants and even with more of 'Kelo'pa Jenein's' third platoon poised to enter combat from the south, there simply are not enough soldiers to eliminate the enemy. Two more platoons continue to converge on Jujann, but they are still at least thirty minutes away. Still, something must be done to release some of the pressure on the stranded, ambushed forces to the north.

Two of third platoon's squads quietly approach the buildings along the southern edge. In groups they enter through the narrow, dark streets, using intelligence fed to them by the UAV to locate militant pockets and raid them. Like this, they harassed the enemy with the intention of turning the focus of the battle on the south. Few against many, they used the UAV's imaging and intelligence to guide themselves against militant masses moving from position to position as the battle continued to unfold. If they found the going too rough, they turned back and explored alternative routes. The point was only to take the enemy's attention.

Not alone in this fight, it was not long before the men could hear the whining cry of incoming artillery. Bulbs of fire formed all around them as the artillery back at the FOB struck laser-designated targets with precision. The UAVs, with their penetrating radars and sensors, along with ground intel gathered by third platoon's advancing fire teams, provided the eyes the 160mm guns needed to utterly shatter the enemy where they stood. All of Jujann was lit up by this sprinkle of steel and fire. The more the enemy moved, the more visible they were, the sooner an artilery shell came down upon them.

[Morrdh]

Leek continued to listen the best he could to the radio chatter, he made enough to know that things were most certainly not going well. A squad was holed up in what was the town's fire station, though they had a man down in the open and the militants had suddenly grown a pair. The HIM-TAC was backing off, its crew worried about flanking attacks it seemed. Though he still had his tablet and he'd been plotting the course of battle as an overlay on the map of the town he'd downloaded, something he studied as he kept an ear on the radio chatter.

An idea struck him.

He motioned for Mcguire to come over and look at the tablet, Leek had zoomed in on the immediate area which wasn't that far from the fallen soldier and the fire station. "We're still close enough to lend a hand."

"Drop smoke and dismount here," Leek said as he pointed at a spot on the map."We can make it to this alleyway over here, it'll give us some cover to reach your downed man over here."

"Tis risky as heck and I'm willing to put my life on the line, especially for a fellow Morridane." Continued Leek. "Just need you to clear it with your commander sargént."

Mcguire looked hesitant for a moment, though Leek was sure he'd spotted a degree of grudging respect before the sargént got onto the radio to his superiors.

[Potthan]

"There is no sound more beautiful on the battlefield than silence" -Legate Thad Hixov before executed by Barjaanistani officials in 1989.

Militants armed with the same weapons their fathers had in the civil war plagued the streets of Jujann. The Syndicate employed the Barjaani Militia due to their radical beliefs. Their loyalty is unmatched despite seeming nothing more than junkies. In the midst of gunshots a lone lute playing can be heard. Foreigners be confused, however the militants know this mellow rhythm. A Barjaani fighting song "Her Majesty". A song about the greatness of Duke Helena Ynolyss and how she was raped and murdered in 1911 by the first Jericho. Originally meant to be anti-Potthani turned anti-foreigner by the militants in the 90s. The song was quiet at first, but then (For intimidation purposes) the militants layed it over a loudspeaker as a means to distract.

The militia's reinforcements (What is left of them anyway) gathered around the fire station, prepared for a "Death or Glory" mission. These militants have no regard for their well being, only caring about their cause or their money. On this day fathers, sons, and brothers shall die and in their place will be foreign soldiers. These soldiers are called Kazaamash, meaning "He whom dies" in Potthani. Many of these soldiers die meaningless, but few accomplish greatness and become legends and are considered to dine with the gods.

Artillery strikes hurdled, killing the lute player abruptly as the fighting song ended whereas his brethren yell "Aye! May your songs entertain the pantheon!" as tjhey attempt to bum rush the fire station.

[The Macabees]

— Fire Station, Jujann

Nielsen's eyes are starting to look tired, despite the effort he's putting into trying to state alert. He lost a lot of blood before we fully patched him up, and hastily at that. We also used the scarce powdered plasma we had on hand to keep his and Abbott's fuel tanks full. Still, they looked tired. The suits were working hard, but the suits weren't doctors. They couldn't substitute for recovery and therapy. Abbott's and Nielsen's deaths hadn't been averted, simply slowed.

After doing what we could, there wasn't much time to worry about them regardless. The komsargént, Norris, and I are too busy setting up boobytraps, including trip-wires attached to grenades. Blockading the staircase and setting up obstacles on the second floor, where we prepare our last stand, takes time and God knows we have precious little of it.

By now there are at least GF-11 UAVs flying above the town, providing ISR for the ground forces below. They are providing us with good intel. If a bad guy moves, the Archers catch 'em, most of the time. Sometimes the Archers see the good guys too. Sometimes it sees them die. A diplomat of the Golden Throne is at risk and he is to survive, civilians and innocents be damned. If an insurgent changed positions, then he received his very own four-round barrage that would demolish an area along the path of his movement. It is a brutal method, one that is coming with great and extensive collateral damage.

The Macabéan mission in Baarjistan is not starting to plan, at all.

When we finish arranging the available furniture such to force the enemy to take a specific route into the second floor, where we are set up to inflict maximum damage, we wait for the onslaught to begin. I start to hear the rhythm of the battle outside. I can see on my HUD that the HIM-TACs are back in action, using their heavy 13.3mm MGs to comb the streets and alleyways spreading into Jujann from the safety of the village's outskirts. The fire station faces the countryside, so the two vehicles have the option to move in to rake the garage below us.

We're well entrenched, but this battle has been full of surprises, so I'm through with assuming our superiority. I brace myself as the machinegun fire comes closer.


— Flight of the Valkyries

Three GF-15s continue their steady flight toward the target. They carry within them 12 dart-like missiles, carried within a missile bay in the center. The Valkyrie was not well-suited for this sort of mission, but they were all this small contingent of imperial forces had until the unit's attached attack helicopter wing was fully settled.

One week from today a room-full of generals and other lesser officers will convene in the Díedra Institute of Land Warfare, in Arras, to discuss the situational shortcomings of the GF-15. Designed for stealthy low-altitude penetrations into heavily guarded enemy airspace, the Valkyrie is a tank killer above all. It is meant to be cheap and deadly, survivable only to the extent of its mission — the scourge of enemy armor. Killing insurgents is not on its priority list, except here, where the enemy is too poor to own more than a handful of armored vehicles. The room-full of decision-makers will come to the consensus that a new unmanned close air support aircraft is to be developed via a private domestic tender. This will complement a new manned close air support aircraft that has been in development for the past two years.

These three GF-15 Valkyries are all the air support the stranded squad of soldiers and the jogornos have, at any rate. And they are an hour away from raising hell.


— Southern Jujann

Half of 'Kelo'pa Jenein's' third platoon continue to advance into Jujann, aided by aerial reconnaissance and heavy artillery support. Soon their fourth squad assembles just outside of the town, freeing their third to join their brothers in battle. With every inch of ground they gain, it seems like there is half a block of destruction.

Events in the north of the town are dictating the pace in the south. Aerial surveillance heavily suggests a concentration of militant forces around the fire station. There are perhaps twelve dots on the map, but nobody knows the real number and the status of the stranded squad is by now well known. Doubts exist whether the diplomat and his escorts will survive a concentrated attack, leading the company commander to order the engaged elements of third platoon to begin bypassing enemy positions when possible, using artillery to eliminate strongpoints and snipers.

The value of a civilian's life is never taken into consideration, showing how little value a civilian's life has. It is a mistake that occupying armies often make, and one they pay for. Any surviving civilian here will hardly love the Falzaah government after this. As light as the insurgent's defeat today is likely, Jujann will continue to be theirs when the last of the government's troops, and those of their Macabéan backers, left the town, the Syndicate will hold the town again.

Cummings' rescue, or the retrieval of his body — and his armor —, are of secondary priority. The jogornos is indisposable, he cannot die, and enemy attacks on the fire station must be defeated. Even at the cost of Cummings' life.

Even at the cost of the lives of the people of Jujann. Resistance is met with brimstone and fire, and third platoon marches north following three winding routes through the center of the town. Some men wonder, as they toil beneath their hot armor, whether going around is a faster route. It was considered, but there are countless Syndicate insurgents in the south, and what they can do if left alone to coordinate is not something the company commander seeks to find out. They must simply be found out and eradicated with fiery fury.

A bit farther to the south still, two more of 'Kelo'pa Jenein's' platoons approach Jujann. With a squad of third platoon's blocking any insurgents' southward escape, first and fourth platoon are to flank the town in a bid to surround it. The north is guarded by the two HIM-TACs and their heavy machine guns. And soon the Valkyries will arrive in support.


— Fire Station, Jujann

The enemy is a madman. He has no rhythm, he has no rhyme. He only attacks, attacks, attacks.

The booby traps work as intended, but we laid out every last explosive we had. And even if he had more than a handful of grenades left, it's not like we have the time to set up our traps back up. With wide, round eyes of a man doped up on so much shit he couldn't possibly have known better, they attack us without pause. Around us, the walls are riveted with holes, carved by bullets traveling from both within and without. I am not even allowed room to think.

I shoot, duck, move, and when the last guy coming up the stairs is dead I reposition myself to wait for the next group. The room is in tatters because the gunfire was ravaged tables, lockers, and racks are half destroyed, pieces strewn across the floor along with pieces of equipment, clothing, and the personal items of men most likely long dead. In the rush, and too concerned with the torrent of bullets around me, I almost cannot even hear the steady drumbeat of the artillery fire consuming the battlespace around us. I laugh as I shoot, crazed as I am.

In a brief lull, I turn to Abbott. He's half laying on the ground, propped up against a tipped-over locker toward the back of the room. There is plenty of cover for him, but his helmet is off and I can see his face. It is growing pale, blue veins crossing across his cheeks and forehead like rivers. He and Níelsen grow worse with every passing minute.


— Barbakán 'Kuraya Milag'

"What is the status of the arkagrup?" asks Komandánt Klegor Ledané. Díenstadi of mixed-Rezeghi heritage, he thought himself serving in Gholgoth or even in the territories. Instead, he found himself at the head of a small advisory mission in a country that most of the world had long forgotten about. He lamented that for many weeks leading up to the deployment. Litle did he know Baarjistan is just a powderkeg ready for a flame. He knows now.

A régulies liaison answers him, "It is on track to rendezvous with the asset in twenty-five minutes, komandánt. It consists of two squads of IFVs belonging to 'Kelo'pa Jenein's' third platoon."

Ledané nods. Dismounting the platoon's infantry carried with it risks, but Ledané knows full well what is at stake. The death of the jogornos would be a disaster. He turns away to a map laying flat on the table, held down by the weight of a medley of colorful markers. It displays the firebase and the area around it, including Jujann. When he first opened this map not more than two weeks earlier it looked insignificant. Just one out of many villages in eastern Baarjistan. Now, only weeks into the mission, Jujann is the center of the war.

He puts his thick finger on Jujann. "Tell the arkagrup that there is no time to spare. They ought to be positioned outside the north in no more than fifteen minutes, where they can rendezvous with the two HIM-TACs. Together they can suppress the enemy and extract the asset." He sighs, and says, "I can't forgive us for Sargént Quincy Cummings. Gods' willing, he is still alive. We will get him back, one way or another."

"About that," says the liaison. "It seems that the Morridane attaché to our unit has decided to take that matter into his own hand."

Ledané arches an eyebrow. "Mcguire?"

[Potthan]

Fort Grev, 13 miles west of Jujann

"What's this?" Chief Jaurez Camino said as his assistant, Ms. Nai Hanzaf, set a bulk folder with papers inside on his desk. "Our drones have spotted the foreign diplomat's caravan. Was jumped by a Syndicate gang. Namely Jackal's Jackasses. You know? The boys who destroyed Jujann." Nai said whilst taking a seat, legs crossed. "Ah, those rascals. Tell the BSTF to get a team together." Chief Camino stated. "Aye, also your appointment with a Missus Kinse Nadesh has been cancelled. Called in sick." the assistant said as she walked out the door.

Fort Grev Barracks

Me and the boys were playing Uno when the Chief's assistant came in. Which was weird and frankly unsettling because as she opened the door, a cold gust of wind emerged followed by the normal beating hot gusts. "Was there something you needed Nai? I told you if you got your pen stuck in that damned machine I won't fetch it out for you again" I said which was followed by chuckles among my men. Nai did not look amused. She tossed a folder with documents onto the table we were playing on and said "Get geared up within 20 mikes. You're rolling out then. The foreigners are being attacked." Nai said and then left abruptly. Now I feel like an ass.

Fort Grev Armory

I got my gear ready, did standard equipment checks and the whole nine yards. We were ready. There were going to be two teams. One (My team) would go to assist what seems to be some of their guys held up in an old fire station. Another would assist in unconfirmed reports of hostage taking. Command is trying to make radio contact as we gear up, making sure they don't shoot us down once we arrive.

We took 2 Sand Cats. One of them with a mounted .50 machine gun. We were alert the entire way. The Syndicate knows we know what's it's like here. Something the foreigners don't know. It's extremely harsh in this part of Barjaanistan. As I go into deep thought the machine gunner, a fella name Sgt. Hassan, says "Sir we've got possible hostiles in the distance. One woman with a child. Both wearing bulky clothing." I think to myself for a split second and recognize what it is. "Take the shot" I say which is quickly replied with an "Aye. Target down, explosion triggered." Rigging women and children with explosives is common practice for the anarchist militants in this area. The Syndicate doesn't particularly like the anarchists, but they get the job done.

We arrived at the scene and from the looks of it, the sun might as well not have come up. The closer we drew to the station, the more hostiles we'd encounter. Eventually we made it to the front of the station. Few hostiles were left and the ones that were left were hiding. I grabbed a megaphone from the glove box and stepped outside, deciding to see if my night classes learning English were any good. "This is the Barjaani Special Task Force. We are not thy enemy. If there is any friendly alive, please let off 3 consecutive shots into the ceiling." I said and waited for any sign of life another than us.

[Morrdh]

Leek busied himself with ensuring that the map on his tablet device stayed up to date as much as possible. His plan was still evolving, though he needed accurate info to ensure that it worked. He was confident that they could stick to the alleyways in order to reach Cummings, though Leek had identified a brick building close by that they could drag Cummings to. As improvised pillboxes went, it didn't seem too bad...though they probably would have to clear out some militants from it. Leek also noticed that the building would put them in a good spot to bring some flanking fire on the militants storming the fire station, something that he pointed out to Mcguire.

Mcguire, for his part, was on the radio to his Macabean superiors and was wondering how he could convince them it was a good idea when he didn't truly believe it himself. Military Cross or not, Mcguire was worried that the Morridane observer might have a fool's courage. But Leek's plan seemed to have some merit and sometimes in battle you were forced to act on the fly. Though he didn't have long to mull things before none other than Komandánt Klegor Ledané came on the radio.

"Mcguire here," Mcguire replied, all but gulping. "Our friend, the Morridane observer, has a plan of action for Cummings' recovery. Secondly, he reckons he's found a good spot for some flanking fire on the militants attacking our lads in the fire station. Sending grid ref now. Over."

---

"What the hell is that man doing near the fire station?" asked, nay demanded, the voice on the other side of the radio, a subordinate of Komandánt Klegor Ledané. "The area is hot and I'm afraid there's not much more we can do other than what we're already doing. Tell him to pull back, to exfiltrate Jujann through the west. He can link up with first platoon in the area and they can escort him back to you. Do you understand, sargént. Last thing we need is a dead Morridane—"

"Who is this?" It was a new voice, even more demanding than the last. It could be none other than the komandánt himself.

"Sargént Mcguire, sir," he answered.

"Good. Listen to me Mcguire," said Ledané. "Does Leek have any form of electronic communication?" When Mcguire replied that the Morridane had his tablet, the commander said, "Great. Tell him to move south. Have him open his tablet to a one-way encrypted transmission from our ISR assets overhead. We don't know what this building is, but we know Cummings is in there and we also know he's heavily guarded. This data will be made available to him. He will rendezvous with friendly forces. I can't offer more information than that." Ledané paused for a moment, then finished, "And do tell him that the intelligence he's receiving is incomplete. We don't know what kind of intel capabilities these insurgents have. Keep radio chatter to a minimum. Is all of this understood, sargént?"

Those friendly forces would be two squads belonging to fourth platoon, which was still settling in along the town's eastern flank. But there was no sense in revealing their size or vector over radio, or through a download, lest the enemy's intel sophistication turned out to be greater than any of them cared for.

---

Leek stood by and listened as Mcguire spoke over the radio, trying to follow the best he could even if his Dienstadi wasn't up to par. The sargént switched over to Stevidian for the Morridane obersver's benefit and explained what the orders from his superiors were, though Leek seemed disappointed he'd made a incorrect assumption to where Cummings was.

"Hm, guess things got lost in translation." He shrugged and then played around with the tablet in order to receive the Macabean data transmission, a moment later the data flashed up on the tablet's display. He quickly studied it and revised his plan; the location was in the opposite direction to where he'd assumed Cummings to be and involved crossing a couple of wide streets, though there was still some alleyways he could use for cover. The main thing would be to move quickly, though he wanted confirmation on the positions of enemy forces so that he wasn't wandering around blind. Regardless he could supplement the data from the Macabean ISR assets with a ground level view of the route.

"Well sargént..." Said Leek as he checked over his gear and made sure the Sterling SMG was loaded and ready to fire. "You coming?"

[The Macabees]

— From Southern Jujann

Third platoon's movement through central Jujann is quick and decisive. Artillery support keeps the enemy suppressed and hidden. Whenever they defend in concentration they are hit again and again, until they are pummeled to death or forced to withdraw. The armored infantrymen do not stop in any one place for very long, preferring to keep advancing through the town's short, narrow streets at a steady pace. Guided by the UAVs still loitering above them, they zig-zag their way north by following paths of least resistance and ambushing the enemy when aerial intelligence makes it possible.

They make it a mere two hundred meters from the stranded squad and the diplomat, which triggers a short, sharp artillery barrage strikes the space between them and their target with impunity. The white phosphorous rounds strike irrespective of what stands in the way, be it a road or be it a home. A thick curtain of smoke rises over the area.

The régulies strike like snakes in the bush, running through the smoke to attack the remnants of the syndicate militia around the fire station. Using the IR sensor on their helmets and the DLIR on the GF11s circling in the sky they stalk and kill their prey. In their heavy armor, they take enemy fire. The plates can take only finite damage, but the Morridane legionnaires are fast shooters and they are much more veteran warriors. Still, wounded régulies kneel and fall here and there.

It does not take long for them to close on the fire station from the south. Striking in tight fire teams, they sweep the area street by street, moving from house to house.

Despite the smoke and the aerial reconnaissance, third platoon's is a tough job. Drugged and aggressive, the syndicate enemy fights to the death when cornered and run only when driven to a breaking point. As the smoke dissipates the fighting continues and, to the north, it is only just about to escalate.


— North of Jujann

The arkagrup is gathered and position north of Jujann when the Baarjistani task force rendezvoused with them. Ahead of them, a screen of smoke forms across the edge of the town and then quickly dissipates. The sound of gunfire picks up. Cued, the nine Type 52GT infantry fighting vehicles rol forward alongside friendly forces to approach the fire station. They open fire with their long-barreled AGS.37 autocannons, tearing into the already half-collapsed buildings around the station like scissors through a fabric sheet. Dust and smoke rises, covering the area like a dark gray fog of debris.

When the dust subsides, one of the Baarjistani vehicles rolls forward and halts. "This is the Barjaani Special Task Force. We are not thy enemy. If there is any friendly alive, please let off 3 consecutive shots into the ceiling," says the vehicle's commander, through a mounted speaker.

Inside one of the IFVs, the driver and the copilot look at each other.

It rolls forward itself, trailed by another four vehicles moving in pairs. The two HIM-TACs which have been fighting in the area since the firefights beginning come in support, one following each group of two Type 52s. As the lone IFV moves into the open garage of the fire station, the two columns enter Jujann through streets flanking on either side of the building. Their cannon fire is unstoppable, pulverizing just about everything around them. Whether there are any enemies even alive now is a question with an answer no one is concerned with. Friendly units are avoided through the Komkent network, everything else is a target.


— Inside the Fire Station

The gunfight comes to an eerily silent end. Smoke covers the roof, pieces of torn particle board, drywall, and other sorts of debris float gently through the air. I am almost out of breath and I'm kneeling behind a thin table that is serving as my only cover, taking advantage of the undoubtedly brief lull to catch my taxed breath.

With tired determination, I nod my head in affirmation to myself and bring my rifle back to my shoulder after replacing the near-empty magazine. I put the one I take out back into my pant leg pocket. It will come into use when I start to run out of ammunition and need every last bullet I can scrounge up. In fact, I am coming dangerously close to that point. I am sure that the others are all just as low on ammunition as I am and we're all sure as hell hungry. None of us have gotten a chance to eat our rations since this morning and all this battling has worked up our appetites. There are other things to worry about now, regardless.

Abbott and Níelsen are on their last remaining thread of life. If we don't get out of here soon, then the two of them are dead men. That's the way it looks like it'll be, at this rate.

I'm interrupted by another artillery barrage directly to our south and the almost immediately concurrent explosion of gunfire. I can hear the grinding of the treads of several armored vehicles outside and the groan of them coming to a halt, then the accented Morridane of some local declaring himself friendly. His announcement is not long after followed by a barrage of cannon fire, each thump of a round fired reverberating within my stomach.

The komsargént, of course, is composed and already doling out orders. "Norris," he barks, "grab the jogornos and bring him here. Byrd, take Abbott. I've got Níelsen. It's time to move out, the cavalry is here."

The diplomat is sitting against a corner, trying to hide within its two adjoining walls. The handgun Komsargént Otus had given him is on the floor. Jogornos Viversa was no fighter, but I had seen him kill a few men of his own. He's okay in my book. Norris helps him up and, while he does that, I check out what's going out as I throw Abbott over my shoulder and take my position by the head of the staircase. An arkagrup is to our north, here to extract us from the town. To our south, two squads of third platoon are combing through the buildings that flank us, chasing down the last of the syndicate gunmen that had been assailing us.

Of course, there's not much time for me to really appreciate the sudden turn of events. "Jogornos, stay in front of me and stay tightly glued to Níelsen. Me and Níelsen here will take up the rear. Norris, you follow Byrd and make sure any one of those bastards who may still be alive die before they know we're coming," Komsargént Otus growled.

I move quickly down the stairs, Níelsen pressed almost against my back. Abbott is a heavy motherfucker. I soldier on as we reach the bottom of the staircase and I turn to see one of our IFVs parked in the garage. Its rear ramp is already deployed and ready for loading. No time is wasted as I hustle into the vehicle, laying Abbott on a seat and buckling him before taking his own. Norris holds position by the ramp, scanning the garage with his rifle, while the komsargént and the Jogornos follow me in. When the komsargént is ready, he bangs on the metal wall behind him and shouts, "Norris, let's go, let's get the hell out of this place."

"I'd be happy to," replies the sargént, as the ramp closes behind him.

The IFV jolts into reverse and peels back out of the fire station, coming to a stop just outside to turn around and quickly keep going again. We put distance between ourselves and the town, avoiding the IED-riddled road and using our vehicle's treads to traverse the untamed desert terrain. Behind us, the two armored columns are still raising hell, although they're backing up too, lest they be caught by an errant rocket or missile. Inside the town, third platoon's two infiltrating squads are still raising hell. I realize that this is all just a microcosm of the greater picture of the battle, yet I put it all aside in my mind as I finally come to realize that I have survived another day. I take a deep breath and knock against the wall behind me lightly. I wouldn't want to jinx myself.


— Western Jujann

First platoon enters the town from the west almost as soon as it is assembled along that flank. Fourth platoon is mirroring it on the eastern side, ready to attack Jujann in coordination with their brothers in First. Their advance is slower and more painstaking, as they are tasked with clearing the enemy from the get-go. The syndicate presence is to be removed from Jujann until Cummings' body is retrieved, dead or alive.

In the south, the other half of third platoon is taking up position just outside the town. There is very little fighting along the southern fringes and it is expected that any syndicate fighters looking to retreat wil favor a southward approach, as it is the past of least resistance. Third and fourt platoon are meant to squeeze from the sides, as the other half of third and its supporting arkagrup keeps the northern edge tightly cordoned. Outside, under the dirt, unmanned burrowing devices continue to patrol for tunnels. Jujann is surrounded and 'Kelo'pa Jenein' is committed to destroying the enemy.

Artillery fire from 'Kuraya Fenokal' continue to punish the village. Few, if any, buildings are left unaffected by the fighting. Few, if any, people have avoided loss. Hundreds of civilians are dead, certainly more than true enemy fighters, many hundreds more wounded and likely to die soon, given the unlikelihood of medical aid. Certainly, the Macabéan advisory group is no position to intervene and it does not seem as if the Baarjistani government cares much about the fates of these people.

Almost better if they died in a fiery explosion. At least then their death would be quick.


— Less Than One Hour Away

The three GF15 still fly toward the small desert town of Jujann. As the will of the enemy is slowly chipped away at and broken down, the trio of UCAV continues to approach the battlefield.

[Morrdh]

Leek and Mcguire worked their way through town on foot, heading east to link up with 4th platoon. They were able to keep up a reasonable pace moving along various alleyways, the fighting round the fire station seemed to have drawn the militants like moths to a flame. It wasn't long before they came to the first of two wide streets that had to be crossed, Leek gave a hand signal to Mcguire to hang back from the mouth of the alley whilst he moved cautiously to the edge of the street. A wrecked car provided some cover, which he crawled to from the alleyway before pulling out a pocket mirror. The mirror, which Leek angled to look both up and down the street without exposing himself, was a useful trick he'd learnt during an early tour on Mordent. Satisfied that there wasn't any immediate danger, he motioned for Mcguire to join him.

"Wot ye see sir?" Mcguire asked, dropping back into his native Morridane accent now they were away from Macabean forces.

"Road south looks clear," Answered Leek, gesturing with his hand in the direction he meant. "Theres a truck on the road north, pretty certain I saw a heavy MG and what I'm presuming to be some militants."

"Reckon they're blocking the road?"

"That would be my best guess sargént."

"How do we get past 'em?"

"Don't think you're superiors are aware of that gun truck..." Said Leek as he consulted the data on his tablet device. "Probably an idea to tip them off."

"Aye sir." Nodded Mcguire before he got onto his radio and called in the 'Tango' (T for target). There wasn't much of an acknowledgement, but shortly afterwards there came a shout from the militants as one of them spotted something in the sky. Leek glanced up and spotted a small, dark object that he took to be a UAV. There wasn't any of knowing for sure whether somebody in the Macabean chain of command had gotten Mcguire's report, but Leek figured he'd count his blessings all the same. The militants opened fire on the UAV with the truck mounted heavy MG and their own rifles, Leek couldn't have asked for a better opportunity.

"Go!" He called to Mcguire before leaping from the cover of the wrecked car and running across the street to the welcoming embrace of another alleyway. Luckily the militants seemed too busy with shooting at the UAV to notice him or Mcguire, though the truck would be destroyed minutes later as the Morridane duo worked their way through some more alleyways to the last obstacle between them and 4th platoon.

---

Just short of the second street that they had to cross the duo came across a small courtyard, though Leek found himself being abruptly yanked into cover by Mcguire. The sargént gestures with his hands to explain his action. Up ahead. Two tangos.

Leek nodded and asked in a low whisper. "Plan of action?"

"You stay here and gimme some cover fire if needed," Replied Mcguire as he slung his rifle, the famed Macabean Hali-53, over his shoulder and pulled out a knife. "I'll silence one of the bastards and then tackle the other, might have some intel that could prove useful."

"Right, I've got your back then sargént."

Mcguire nodded and then slipped into the courtyard like a shadow as Leek found a spot from which he could cover the Morridane legionnaire. The two militant soldiers, both young and clearly bored, were blissfully unaware of how short their time on the mortal plane was. The first to die certainly had no inkling until a hand clamped over his mouth, followed by a brief and sharp pain where his throat was sliced by Mcguire's knife. The sargént gently lowered the militant to the ground, where the last of the soldier's life force seeped away, and crept towards the other still unaware militant. Mcguire almost made it when a third militant emerged from a nearby doorway, the man spotted his dying comrade and was about to cry out before he was felled by a burst of fire from Leek's SMG. Thus alerted, the second militant turned and received Mcguire's savage left hook for their troubles. The Morridane sargént then grabbed the militant, brought his knee up sharply between the man's leg and was rewarded with a gasped cry of pain as the militant soldier doubled over. Giving no let up, Mcguire then grabbed the man's head and slammed it heard into the ground.

"Best shift it rather sharpish." Mcguire sated, breathing heavily. "Though thanks...sir."

"You're welcomed sargént." Nodded Leek. "Hang on a sec."

Leek went over to the third militant who had taken the brunt of the fire from Leek's Sterling SMG, as the bloodied holes in the man's chest attested. There was nothing that could be done for the man, but Leek was more interested in the rifle that the man had been carrying. Much to Leek's pleasant surprise it turned out to be a L1A1 SLR, though he did wander how it had gotten there. He was aware that periodically the Morridane Armed Forces liked to sell off its stock of older weapons and that there was probably thousands of old SLRs floating around the grey and black markets of Greater Dienstad. This particular rifle was a second generation SLR complete with plastic stock and, thankfully, its serial number still intact. Leek made a mental note to make inquiries to see if the local Macabean forces had come across other SLRs and then report back his findings to Morrdun.

Mcguire meanwhile yanked the second militant to their feet, the man was still winded and Mcguire's handiwork meant the man would have an extremely hard time getting a girl. Leek checked over the SLR and was delighted to find that the magazine felt almost full, as did the other two magazines he found on the dead militant's body. Though Leek had brought the Sterling with him because of its much higher rate of fire, he still felt happier to have a SLR back in his hands. The rifles of the other two militants turned out to be little more than bolt-actions, in addition to being different calibers and therefore of little use.

Consulting his tablet device, Leek found that they weren't far from 4th platoon's position and Mcguire made contact to notify the Macabean unit that they were inbound with a prisoner.

[Potthan]

A higher ranking official within the militia arrived at the old butcher shop to talk to the PoW. However, upon entering the front he heard a baby crying in a maintenance closet to his left. Upon opening the door to investigate he saw a young mother holding a baby, crouched and scared for her life. He glared at the infant for a second and snatched the baby out of it's mother's hands. The mother shrieked and started panicking with the brutes holding her back. "Congratulations ma'am, your child has been chosen to die for the militia" the man said with the mother begging not to harm it. The baby was rigged to a bomb and placed in a box a little ways outside the shop so that enemy soldiers would die trying to save the baby, and the man shot the mother.

Meanwhile at the Barjaani Fort, civilians were being evacuated from Jujann to receive medical treatment. 70 soldiers and 5 tanks were deployed to assist in securing Jujann and occupy the town once the foreign soldiers leave. With the death of most of the Jujann Cartel, reconstruction will surely occur. Additionally, 34 white helmets and EMTs were led to the scene to find and identify dead civilians as well as give immediate medical treatment to civvies in critical condition.

Barjaani troops mainly arrived from the western edge of the town and fought the militia with few casualties. The last of the militia that was scattered across town (AKA, not in the butcher shop) were mainly firing from rooftops or inside 2nd or 3rd floor windows. Naturally the tanks would decimate these guys, however an IED struck a tank destroying it and killing the crew as well as another IED immobilizing another tank, critically injuring one crew member and injuring 2 infantrymen that was near the tank. Additionally, 4 men were killed and 6 were injured when a HE tank round made a meth lab explode.

[The Macabees]

— Ten Minutes Earlier, Central Jujann

Two figures, one of them a régulie and the other a Morridane observer, are crossing the street behind a gun truck pounding away at an object high in the sky. This 'object,' as it turns out, is one of the stealth GF15s circling above the town in aid of the GF11 reconnaissance UAVs. It banks to begin evasive maneuvers, but it's caught off guard. How it, and the other recon assets in the area, had missed this gun truck it did not know — the mistake would have to be analyzed and corrected for future battlefields —, but neither did this lifeless UAV or the pilot behind it have much time to think about the problem. Bullets almost five inches long carve into the left side of its one-piece wing, sending it on a downward sloping spiral with smoke billowing out behind it. Somehow it seems to maintain height, even as it falls, as the pilot — thousands of miles away — desperately struggles to guide the aircraft toward a friendly landing area.

A GF11 is alerted to the situation and catches two figures crossing the street behind the gun truck. One of them is Macguire, who is aiming the grenade launcher mounted along the underbarrel rail of his Hali-53 assault rifle at the gun-mounting flatbed vehicle. Running across the street as the gun truck's attention is on the UAV, he takes aim with surprising steadiness. Today he may be trailing an observer, but Macguire is a warrior and has been to more than his fair share of rodeos as an ex-commando in the Morridane Marines. He was here, with the Macabéan régulies, because action is his lifeblood. War is what he knows; he was born to fire this grenade.

With a shallow thud, the explosive ejects from his barrel with the quick tug of his finger against the trigger.

The grenade travels its way to the truck...and goes wide, striking a building behind it.

"Shit," Macguire mutters under his breath. The militants on the truck turn their attention to him now. Leek has almost crossed the street and is just about to reach cover when he turns to look at who attacked what. The observer gives the other Morridane a sharp, disapproving look, but Macguire has no time to see it. Less than a hundred yards away, the heavy machine gun has already stopped firing into the sky. It turns toward the régulie.

Firing a quick spurt from the barrel of his assault rifle, Macguire does what he can to cover himself as he sprints to Leek's position. The gunner is caught in the shoulder it seems, although Macguire hardly has the time to follow his shot into the goal. "What were you thinking?" the Morridane Lefttenant-Colonel growls when Macguire finally reaches him.

"It was a threat," Mcguire replies, shrugging as he ejected the empty grenade casing from the underslung launcher, and slotting in a new one. "I should have had it too."

"Should have, could have, would have," says Leek. "C'mon, let's keep moving before you make a bigger mess of this."

Minutes later, the area where they had just stood moments earlier is pummeled by a quick, unrepenting salvo of artillery fire that must seek to simply obliterate the gun truck that had just compromised one of its UAVs. Whether the threat has been fully neutralized is an unknown, but its crew must surely be living in a world of pain now.


— Eastern Jujann, Cummings' Retrieval

First platoon is well into western Jujann as the struck UAV zips right above them like a flaming meteor fragment headed toward impact. The men largely ignore it as they continue to fight. Most of them don't even notice, too preoccupied with the heavy gunfire as they hunt down the Syndicate militant fighters who are still resisting the attack.

One of first platoon's squad is led by Korpal Angus Morris, an eight-year infantryman with the Morridane army turned foreign legionnaire. There are five other men in his squad, and they are split into two ekipes — fire teams. So far, the fighting has consisted of knocking down doors, blowing holes through walls, and using the destruction wrought by the artillery bombardment to clear the western extremes of Jujann house by house, room by room. While the rest of first platoon continues to clean up the western side of the town, Morris' squad is closing in on Sargént Arnold Cummings' last known position, a house that one of the GF11 Archer UAVs had seen him being dragged to by his Syndicate captors. There are dead men, women, and children, everywhere. Arms stick out from the rubble, like lifeless pleas for help. It makes Morris want to throw up, although his suit is quick to counter the queasiness with drugs.

After hard fighting, aided by the various reconnaissance assets in the air and by unrelenting artillery support, they arrive at Cummings' suspected location. The noise of heavy battle continues all around them, but Morris and his men find themselves in a bubble of focus around the heavily damaged building.

Sargént Morris waves his men forward. One fire team lines up by the front doorway, where there is a baby crying inside some sort of crate a number of feet well away from the door. It's not their problem, so they ignore the wretched, poor thing. Better that it die now, anyway, than live in a life like this one. Morris, oblivious to any babies and things of that nature, is busy taking his own ekipé around the back. They enter the location simultaneously.

Despite their aggressive entrance, they find the place empty. Except for two bodies: a woman's, shot in the head, and Cummings'.

The captured régulie is badly mangled. He is still in his suit, although you could see pieces missing from it. The helmet is badly mauled and scavenged, and you can see the dead sargénts' face — or rather, what's left of it. It's hard to recognize him as Sargént Cummings, hard to recognize him as human at all even, but his suit is still connected to him and it identifies Cummings. Sad that it came to this, and angering that the Syndicate had done this to him. He had been clearly tortured, injured, and slowly killed. The Syndicate's men in Jujann, and thereafter, would pay for their transgression and disrespect. They would pay more so than they already had.

It was Morris' squad which rendezvoused later with Leek and Macguire, who escorted a prisoner with them. Morris has one of his men take the prisoner from the two men, and nods to Macguire to take their Morridane host to the rear, where they can be picked up and driven out of the battle. They did not wait for Macguire and Leek to leave fully before they simply executed the prisoner where he stood.


— Barbakán 'Toi Bora'

We arrive at 'Toi Bora' in under half of an hour, making good speed as we're trying to keep Nielsen and Abbott alive. My feet are in a pond of their blood.

Someone decided to throw us a helping hand and sent out a tilt-rotor with a medical team to retrieve us at a landing zone well away from Jujann and well secured. It was a minor detour compared to the time saved flying into the backwater forward operating base. It wasn't soon enough, though, that its hatch swung open and we piled out. Fluid followed us out at the corners of the ramp, falling onto the ground below like a wine-colored waterfall.

We are still outside the base, but it feels good to be away from it all. The medical team pushes our help away and get into their own vehicles to take our two dying comrades to the field hospital inside 'Toi Bora.' The rest of us get picked up by an IFV and are slowly driven inside. We all sit solemn, in silence as we rattle from every shake we get as our vehicle's treads pass over the uneven earth. Our wits are at the world's end and we are fatigued beyond tired.

Komandánt Klegor Ledané, who flew in from 'Kuraya Milag', is here to meet us. Other than him and a few of his aides, there aren't many people here beyond this small group. In fact, 'Toi Bora' is empty, devoid of life almost. I realize that most of our boys are still fighting in Jujann, trying to find Cummings. Suddenly, I feel worse than I already am, but this time the pain is not physical. We've abandoned our brother, left for him dead with a band of bloodthirsty criminals who were probably torturing Cummings at that very moment. It made me sick to my stomach. "Fuck this, I want to go back, "I say as if saying my thoughts out loud.

The komandánt looks at me, and then at the komsargént. I hadn't noticed that he was talking. Komsargént Otus' eyes are gettin' real narrow, but the Macabéan officer waves him down and continues right where he left off, "You boys are heroes. You did what you had to in order to protect Jogornos Viversa. I understand that you left behind one of your boys, Primsargént Arnold Cummings. Three more of them, Sargént Jonathan Henry" — in all this chaos, I had forgotten about Henry, the squadmate who had smacked against the wall of the IFV when we struck the IED just outside of Jujann —", Sargént George Abbott, and Primsargént David Nielsen are wounded, two of them in critical condition. That is a high cost to pay for your success, but a cost that does not deny your success. It's time to rest men. Tomorrow morning you will leave to escort Mr. Viversa to Falzaah, this time by air transport."

For a moment, we are too startled by the news to react. "Sir," says the komsargént, finally, "my unit is understrength by more than half and those of us still alive need more than one night's nap before being able to escort a high profile target. I mean, look at what we just got out of. With all due respect, sir, we are not in a state to continue the mission, I beg you to reconsider."

"Beg all you'd like," replies the komandánt, the díenstadi arrogance commanding his voice, "but I have already made arrangements. I have hand-picked five of the best men in 'Kelo'pa Jenein's' second platoon to reinforce your escort. They are under orders to report to you, Komsargént Otus, tomorrow at 0400 hours at our little impromptu landing pad outside the base. You will go to Fazaah with the jogornos. Don't worry, I suspect that the rest of the mission will be quite comfortable for you all. I trust, anyway, that elite soldiers like yourselves can tough out any further rough patches that you may encounter along the way."

"Rough patches, sir?" says the komsargént, his voice heated. "I assure you, Jujann was not a rough—"

Ledané holds up his hand to silence Otus. "That will be all, komsargént. Your orders are final." With that, he turns and walks away.

One of his aides remains behind with us. The komsargént is still fuming and the man eyes him warily. He waits some time and then tells us to come with him. It is a short trek to a prefabricated building unit that sits on the fringe of the barbakán's command nucleus. Inside, we strip out of our suits — fuggin' finally, in my opinion — and are directed to a shower, where I take the longest shower under hot water that I've taken in years. It feels amazing. All good things must come to an end, however, and I dress up in a fresh uniform. We move out as a small group to a barracks building, where we are shown to our rooms for the night.

I get four hours of sleep before it's time to move out again, this time to Falzaah to meet with the Baarjistani government.


— Battle of Jujann, Wind Down

When news of Cummings' retrieval is made known, orders are received to disengage from the battle. The Baarjistani army had entered the fight and the Macabéan advisors are eager to transfer responsibility for the cleanup to them. Third, first, and fourth platoons finish their dirty business and then withdraw back out to their positions along the cordon they have established around the town. In the north, the arkagrup is also well positioned along the perimeter, keeeping watch over the area to make sure that no militants are able to escape alive or without being captured. Below them, the unmanned subterranean devices burrowing rings around the area in search of tunneling continue their task.

They will remain there until Jujann is fully secured by the Baarjistani military. Once they are assured that the local Syndicate forces had ever been killed, captured, or are nowhere to be found, they will continue their withdrawal to 'Toi Bora.' For 'Cazaterüs,' the Battle of Jujann is over. Their is a distaste in the mouth of every soldier under Macabéan command and they look forward to their next encounter with the Syndicate, pledging that this time their victory would be even more resounding.

[The Macabees]

— Fort Bashaar, Central Baarjistan

Our flight to Falzaah didn't happen until three days after the battle of Jujann. The morning after, half-awake, half-dead, we were airlifted out of 'Toi Bora' to a Baarjistani military airfield farther inland. As strange as it sounds, a sudden feeling of dread swept over me when I saw bleak desert give way to arid grasslands. In the distance, I even saw the fabled lush, green forest of western Baarjistan. I remember wondering if it was any better there. Something was saying no.

Truth be told, the jungle has never held good memories. The night we arrived at Fort Bashaar I fell asleep thinking of what had happened in Jujann and the destruction that was brought down on that godforsaken town. And I drifted into a nightmare...


...Five Years Ago (September 2023, Macabéan calendar), Frontier of the Zarbian Marke.¹

The air is thick with hellish humidity. Sweat rolls down my face and back, down my whole body, and my thighs are chafing like a Mordentish lad tending to the flock on his lonesome for the first time. We're moving through the thick jungle,the mud below our feet acting like an invincible suction that does not want to give up, resisting us as we try to march forward. My muscles burn, my back aches, and we've been advancing down this narrow dirt path for over four hours without seeing a single hint of the enemy yet. This has been the story of my life for the past two months.

When I joined the régulies not half a year ago, I never saw myself here. I bloody well should have with my decade of military experience in the Morridane army, but alas it is far too easy to let the label of "elite soldier" go to your head. In Zarbia, you learn very quickly that "elite" soldiering is a lot like regular soldiering: a lot of walking, sporadic action, and much boredom.

It's too easy to fall asleep at the wheel and that is exactly what the enemy is trying to get us to do.

The smell of burning flesh still fills my nostrils every time I recount the events of Tierranublada, when I was viciously reminded of that lesson. We had been on the march for several days, deeply penetrating over a hundred miles into Zarbian territory beyond the frontier of the Marke. As we bivouacked outside the village of Tierranublada in the early morning of the fourth day, preparing to turn back without having made contact with the enemy, the Zarbians sprung a trap on us. I can still remember the ring in my ears from the gunfire as if I was still there, facing a torrent of fire whose source I could not quite pin down. It was as if the bullets were flying from every direction and no direction at all. We lost three good men that day and claimed killing thirty of them in return...the truth is that I only counted eight bodies. Three brothers is a high price to pay for such little reward.

It was a painful lesson to experience and one that has lived with me ever since, but never as strong as today. And what a day it is. I don't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep and neither can my comrades, given their half-closed eyelids and empty faces. Tierranublada is heavy on my mind and I start to get the back of the neck itch of a bad feeling.

The fear of death is gone, of course. Only the anxiety of when remains. I'm a different man to the kid I was twelve years ago, before the soldiering. I've since seen things others would cringe at, done things that would cause some to cower, and experienced the type of things that turn boys into men by their bootstraps. Still, I'm nervous and I know that if I were the enemy, I'd be looking through the dense foliage on either side seeing an opportunity ready for exploitation.

Platoon XO sees it too. "Pick it up!" he barks. "Stay alert and alive, boys. Wouldn't want any of you lads going home in a casket."

"Aye, gi'sargént," I say. The díenstadi word still sounds sour in my mind. Their language is so twisted, not for the likes of one accustomed to the smoothness of the stevidian tongue. Sometimes we still refer to each other by our stevidian equivalent rank because godsdamn we miss the language of our home, even if the Macabéan officers up above don't like it. Maybe that's why they give us the toughest jobs.

"Núo soretus, Morridanus. Enkagena kemen nosoñor." I jumped when I traced the voice to a man encased in carbon black power armor walking out from the darkness of the jungle. If he meant to harm me I would already be dead, that much I know. I would not have time even to raise my rifle. And remember, I am infantryman with a decade's experience. But this man is koro kirim.

The stories of the koro kirim travel far and wide, almost like the bards' tales told at medieval inns. I must admit to having indulged in quite a few. I must look the fool as I stare at him mouth agape, having to tell myself to clamp my jaw shut. Three more special forces operatives appear behind him, too covered in armor from head to toe. One of them carries two limp bodies, one in either hand. They hang by the collars of their jackets as their feet drag along the muddy jungle floor. I do not know their story, but I can see how they've been treated by their captors. Their handlers may be koro kirim, but such is not the way I was taught to treat prisoners of war.

"What the bloody hell did he say?" croaks Primsargént Key, my squad leader.

"Quiet, primsargént," says Rhodes, the platoon XO.

I cannot see the Macabéan's face behind his one-eyed mask, but I know that he is smirking. "Kontrolist mannlaech, gi'sargént."

"Aye, aye. Don't you worry, I bloody well am," says Rhodes. He nods at the two bodies. "Who the feck are they and what the feck happened to them, anyway?"

"Kalkus mannus," the lead man answers. Dead men. That I could understand with even my comparatively limited command of the language. In broken stevidian now, his voice sounded like gravel as it came out of a small speaker along the lower surface of his helmet's front plate. "They sleep now. Soon they wake. Tonight ve make camp here, have your men prepare off the road now."

"And what the bloody feck will you do as we set up camp? We're not your personal servants, you know," It's Key again. Rhodes shoots him a nasty look.

The Macabéan seems not to notice the dynamic between the two régulies and says, "Ve shall return when ve are finished with our prisoners."

"What are you going to do with them?" I blurt out, almost without wanting. All heads turn to me.

I know the koro kirim still has that mischievous, condescending faux-smile on his face. I cannot see it behind the helmet, but I can feel it like the itch you get when someone is looking at you from behind. He is the epitome of that fabled, but nonetheless quite real, Macabéan arrogance. I hear it in his tone and can see it in the way he stands. "Núo befretriónsorns, Morridan," he replies, rather cooly.

I look at Komsargént Rhodes questioningly. "He said it's none of your concern, Byrd," the komsargént tells me.


Above us, the sun comes down and the sky turns dark before the Koro Kirim return to camp. Their tents are already up, Key and I were charged with that. The primsargént helped only reluctantly, meaning I did most of the work. There are six special forces operatives now, or the entire contingent attached to our bandag, and they walk toward their side of the bivouac without as much as a look toward the rest of us. Their helmets are off and cradled within their arms. Only one of the prisoners is with them, bloody and beaten. His fingers are a dark red, so encrusted in his blood that I cannot see the skin underneath — if there still is skin underneath.

They leave him by his lonesome by a half-cold fire on the edge of our encampment, or what the Macabéans call a makato. It has cooled down quite a bit since earlier today, but it is by no means cold. I suspect that the prisoner is shaking for reasons other than the weather. He looks hungry and tired, but mostly afraid. I cannot even begin to fathom what the koro kirim may have done to him.

Without thinking, I stand. Few of my fellow Morridanes notice me as they chow down, but they start to turn as they see where I am going. Key remains seated, but Rhodes soon rises. "Sargént Byrd!" he calls out.

I don't look back and I keep walking. In my hand, I am holding part of my ration pack, a piece of cold faux-turkey seasoned with some preservative-based spice that makes it reasonable to eat. All six of the koro kirim are looking at me now, I realize. I don't care. I was trained to handle prisoners differently.

Slab of artificial meat in hand, I crouch by the prisoner and reach out my hand. He takes the food I offer greedily. But just as he is about to put the manufactured turkey piece in his mouth a large, gauntleted hand strikes the prisoner across his face. The piece of not-meat lands inside a patch of spiky, tropical shrubbery infested with worms, insects, and spiders. I'd still eat it, but I'm not hungry now.

"You didn't have to do that," I say.

The Macabéan stares back at me with cold blue eyes, then looks down at the man. The prisoner recoils as if someone were about to hit him and he starts to plead in Zarbian. I cannot understand him, but the Macabéan sneers. "Kallist!" The prisoner silences himself abruptly and the koro kirim looks up at me. "You," he says, "come here." He is surprisingly calm with me.

I follow him back to our side of the makato, where Komsargént Rhodes, Primsargént Key, my lieutenant, and the captain are gathered. The officers are angry. They hate unsettling the Macabéans, especially when they're koro kirim, acting as if we were second-class citizens who need to watch our step around our betters. Well, I spit on their cowardice. They wouldn't put us on a tracking mission if we were second class, is how I figure it. By their faces, I can tell that just about everyone except Key disagrees with me. The primsargént looks amused.

"The prisoner eats when we say he eats, soldier," says the Macabéan. "Do you understand?"

"There's no reason to treat him like an animal," is my answer.

Rhodes rounds on me, but the kapitán waves him back. It is the koro kirim who speaks. "That man vas running to alert his comrades of our location,...vat vas your name?" This is the same masked man who spoke earlier, when the koro kirim had first emerged from the jungle with their captured prey. "Ah yes, Byrd," he remembers, finally. "He would have killed you vithout so much as blinking an eye had he the chance, Sargént Byrd. He is the enemy, do not forget it."

"Even the enemy is human," I say. "Besides, he's without weapons and harmless. I'm sure you've already killed the other one, he'd still be with you if not. You are acting like barbarians. I thought you lot more civilized than this."

Fire burns in the Macabéan's eyes. The Díenstadis are a prideful bunch. Willed to conquer and rule, they say they are. "Vatch your tongue, Morridane," he says, his tone as frosty as a low winter chill. He takes a step forward, toward me.

I narrow my eyes. I don't care if he koro kirim, I'll brawl with him right now. My blood is pumping through my veins a million miles a minute and my adrenaline-filled heart is about to beat from out of my chest. I take a step forward myself and soon enough our faces are almost touching. His chest is as far out as mine and our words have run out. This dispute can only be solved in one way.

It is Captain, or rather Kapitán, Mcgowan who intervenes. "Gi'sargént Makües, I implore you to return to your men. You will share watch duty with my men tonight, as always, and I want your men in their sacks by twenty-two hundred. Those are orders. Now fall out and choose your watch rotation for the night."

"Vas, kapitán," the Macabéan says, with a curt nod. I can tell he does not like being ordered about by a Morridane, but Mcgowan is the ranking officer here. And arrogant as they might be, the Macabéans are a disciplined enough bunch on the battlefield. The operative turns and walks back to other operatives, all of whom still have their eyes on me. There is no emotion on their face, no intentions scrolled upon it, and that is what scares me the most. It's only now that I fully realize what I have just done. My hands are shaking and I still cannot quite believe that I have just talked down a Macabéan koro kirim.

Before I can replay what has just happened in my head, Mcgowan turns to me and steps forward, holding out a finger at me as if warning me to shut my mouth or otherwise be sorry. "Watch yourself, Byrd," he says, angrily. "Those men whose tactics you question, they've managed to discern the location of a larger body of Zarbian guerillas. They're convinced that this is the unit that hit Juanavivalda earlier in the month. Apparently, the prisoner told them after they offed his partner. They're scouts, sent to look for tracking parties like ours. No doubt expected us to follow them after their raids in the March. Those men you question, those are our main assets. Don't be fooled, Sargént Byrd, you're just here for the muscle, so put your brain in a box and do as you're told. I've put a lot of work into making our unit look good to the higher-ups, and I'll be damned that our reputation be ruined by a loud mouth like you. Understand?"

"Yes, kapitán," I say, my meek tone hiding the brooding storm within me.

"Good. Now fall out."


The intelligence they extracted from the prisoner, who died unattended during the night, takes us to a tiny village named Villacasera. Just outside is an encampment full of hastily constructed shanties and patched-cloth tents. It looks to be the right size. I get a flash of an arm sticking from out of the earth. Another one of a child's head rolling across the mud. As Villacasera is engulfed in dancing flames, those still alive scream from inside their homes as they struggle to find some way to escape. But any hope is in vain because the koro kirim have trapped them inside. I look on in horror and something inside me is torched alight, burning along with the village.

There are no militants here.

I raise my rifle, point it toward one of the Koro Kirim, and just as my finger pulls back the trigger it clinks...and I wake up...


— City of Falzaah, Capital of Baarjistan

The flight to Falzaah is not a long one and after our short stay at Fort Bashaar I am ready to move on. That place gave me the creeps and a lot of bad dreams to boot. Held back only by a large polymer strap that comes down beside my waist from its outlet just above my left shoulder, I lurch forward when our small military transport touches the ground. The plane has no windows, thus I cannot see where we are or what it looks like. But, I know we are in Falzaah.

As we board off of the transport, I can see the tall skyscrapers of central Falzaah several miles in the distance. A tall fence marks the inner perimeter of the airport and, behind it, all I see are tall trees with their branches full of green leaves. We're taken to the city by armored truck, one of the six-wheeled MRAPs the Macabéans sold Baarjistan no doubt. The trip lasts no more than half an hour, and only for a few of those minutes can I see the real Falzaah. There is an ocean of shanties that lead up to giant granite walls that rise around Falzaah like one of the legendary cities of antiquity. Once we pass these I can see that they divide Falzaah and its people between the fortunate and the poor.

Inside, the city is splendid. It looks modern and surprisingly affluent. Not at all what I expected, especially after seeing the dump of Jujann. We drive toward the center and after some time our destination appeared before us through the thin slots they call windows in this truck. The Baarjastanis call it the Presidential Palace. To me it looks more like the keep of a castle, with twisting stone steps traveling up its side toward doors at different levels. As we continue down a broad boulevard I see its façade and the giant stone staircase that leads to the wide front gates of the wall to the inner courtyard.

A guard waits for us to arrive. The jogornos steps out first, greeted by his Baarjistani peers.

Komsargént Otus turns his attention to us as soon we've all come down the truck's rear ramp. "Alright soldiers, you all know where you need to be. Byrd," he says to me, "you're with Williams. The rest of you are with me."

I eye Williams. He's one of the guys who reinforced us out of 'Kelo'pa Jenein.' He and the other new guys don't talk too much, at least not yet. Big, broad-backed, and heavily muscled, he looks every inch of the special forces soldier he was with the Morridane army. No surprise he was running with the 'Dark Reapers.' And from what I can tell, he still has his head on his shoulders and that's all I can hope for in a man with who I am destined to fight alongside. Yet, I doubt he can replace Cummings.

I am suddenly reminded of the same thought I've had several times since the fighting at Jujann. The jogornos is the reason for Cummings' death. It was the diplomat who refused to pay the Syndicate's road toll. It was he who had forced the Syndicate's hand and their own. He was the reason for the battle. I truly hope that Cummings' death will be worth something. I wonder whether the diplomat will prove the value of keeping him alive. As it stands, I'm not sure we'll be so willing to sacrifice our own lives next time, not for a man of such arrogance and lack of sense. A man with so little respect for us that he would risk our deaths for something so trivial as a road toll.

Williams and I follow the jogornos into the palace. I look at the back of his head, reminded of Villacasera. Strange. What had made me think of that? No matter, the diplomat must prove his worth today.

Cummings' death must not be in vain.


Notes:

1. Marke is the díenstadi word for march, which is a border area between two countries used as a buffer zone. The Zarbian Marke was created in 2016, during the War of Golden Succession, and saw the bulk of the continued fighting the annexation of Zarbia in 2026.

[Morrdh]

Leek turned round when he heard the shot being fired and saw the militant crumple to the ground, a rapidly growing pool of red soaking the dirt. He shook his head in disgust, gave the men a long hard look before walking away. Both he and Macguire walked in silence before the latter spoke up. "Sorry sir, ain't no Crown Regulations out here."

"Yes, I'm aware of that sargént." Leek replied, then sighed. "Shouldn't be surprised that the Macabéans operate differently to us..."

"Yes sir." Responded Macguire before he fell silent once, neither spoke as the two men walked to the background of distant shouts and gunfire. Both were accustomed to the sounds of battle, but the Morridane observer was still troubled. Back in the Morridane Army prisoners wouldn't have been so coldly executed. Yes there were the occasional 'heat of the moment' instances, but they were few and far between and typically fully investigated by the military police. The threat of a year or more in a military prison was usually enough of a deterrent to ensure that it happened less often than a blue moon.

Though, the Genchi...

Leek, and other officers leading Genchi units, had learnt that the Genchi language generally lacked words that covered the concept of 'taking prisoners'. The closest the Genchi got to the concept loosely translated as 'taking the heads of my enemy'. Given that the Genchi had a long tribal warrior culture, that stretched back to before the first Stevidian explorer step foot on the shores of Morrdh, it wasn't all that surprising. The Morridane Army generally got round the problem by not employing the Genchi on tasks were they'd be expected to take prisoners, or send them as backup for a Morridane tasked with that duty. Thankfully with the increasing number of Genchi officers now coming through training the concept of 'prisoners' was slowly working its way through the Genchi rank and file. Least the Army was wise enough to encourage the rumours of head taking to play on the psyops warfare angle.

During the ride back to base news of the recovery of Cummings' body broke, though the silence only seemed to deepen as neither Leek or Macguire spoke as both men questioned in their minds whether they could've done any better to bring back Cummings alive. The point stuck, a fellow Morridane had been killed and the big question was for what purpose? Leek wandered whether it'd be worth trying to ban Morridanes from serving in the forces of foreign powers, whether the Commonwealth would be turning its back on those who chose to fight for the promise of foreign coin? Leek had no crystal ball to divine the future with, but what he could do in the immediate future was to submit a request for the serial numbers of any SLRs that had been recovered from the Syndicate forces. The one he'd picked up during the course of the battle certainly looked like it was Morridane in origins, so sending the serial numbers back home where they could be checked against the inventory records could potentially nail down a source of some of the Syndicate's weapons. Once back at the local base Leek filed the request before heading to his assigned quarters to shower and pull on clean clothes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A while later Macguire joined his fellow régulies who, like him, were in the Royal Morridane Marines. They gathered round a small campfire and every man was poured a tot of rum, the traditional 'rum ration' of the Morridane Naval Service. One man, who'd been a piper in Morridane service, setup his bagpipes and played a few low notes that sounded like a banshee's wail. Satisfied, the bagpiper began playing a low and mournful dirge on his pipes. Macguire and his fellow ex-marines started singing 'the Drunken Whaler', the unofficial song of the Royal Morridane Marines. The other Morridane régulies, recognising the gesture as a wake in honour of Cummings, soon joined the ex-marines and were duly issued a tot of rum. Though they hailed from across the breath of the Morridane Armed Forces, each man was united as one in that moment. They were giving a brother-in-arms, a fellow Morridane, a final salute as he journeyed into the Great Veil beyond life.

Across the camp, Leek paused for a moment and smiled before resuming drafting his report.

[Potthan]

Falzaah. An ancient city protected for many years by granite walls and a city militia. However, many are uncertain for the future as several growing threats harm not only Falzaah, but Barjaanistan as a whole.

'Twas a bright and sunny day when the foreign diplomat and the soldiers arrived at the Presidential Palace, an ancient palace which was the former palace for the Potthani emperor until the 1911 revolution. A whole town surrounded by big granite walls with only one bronze gate; that made it the envy of all for thousands of years. Even today, the Syndicate wants a piece of the wealth, and others as well.

A soldier came into the office of the President, where Nanji Danesh (Chief of Falzaah Police), Colonel Thad Jackul (Commander of the BSTF), Dr. Jonn Hachka (Secretary of Justice), and of course President Baka Bahaam. The soldier saluted the men and informed them that the foreign diplomat has arrived. The president contacted his assistant who had the maids clean the conference room and add fine win, cheese, and crackers on the table. Additionally, three young mistresses who all looked seemingly identical were sent to accompany the soldiers as it is tradition for soldiers to be in the company of a mistress when meeting an authority figure. The mistresses in question wore silken dresses and expensive jewelry, and most likely aged anywhere between 18-20. Short, as Potthani girls usually are, standing at 5'2".

Nanji and Thad were both former revolutionaries and looked very stern with a few visible battle scars. Nanji was a fairly attractive woman in her younger days. Now she has developed slight wrinkles and stress lines.She can still fight any given moment if she had to however. Thad was a tall man with a beard and eyepatch, called "Blackbeard" by his peers back in the BSTF. Being a man of few words he makes sure the words he does say are quick and to the point, usually because he is too busy these days for casual conversation.

Dr. Hachka was a slim man in his 50s. His job as a prosecutor made him noticed by many as he had a major success in the long court trial against a top Syndicate figure in 2011. A few years later he was elected as Secretary of Justice.

Finally, President Bahaam is a charismatic guy. Although not being a soldier, he served in the Barjaani revolution a different way. He was a recruiter. In fact, he was the man who recruited Thad. An older man in his 60s, he is very outspoken about his beliefs and doesn't scare easily.

"Well show them to the conference room" Bahaam said to the soldier whilst gathering his things and getting up, ushering his peers to do the same. He walked a hall full of ancient art depicting Potthani victories in battle and made his way to the conference room to meet the foreigners. If all goes well, a new future for Barjaanistan will be created on this day.

[The Macabees]

— Meeting in Falzaah
Coauthored by Potthan and The Macabees.


The Macabéan group is escorted to a conference room sitting deep within the palace. They pass walls decorated with stunning paintings of battles and other famous events of Barjaanistan. It is an opulence that contradicts the perception most Macabéans hold of the country and it represents a wealth at the very opposite end of the spectrum when compared to places like Jujann. Jogornos Viversa wonders whether Falzaah is merely an oasis within a desert, like a small island of rich land within an ocean of poverty. It is simply inconceivable that a people can live in a city like this when their government can barely govern a quarter of the country they claim to rule.

Perhaps he is not equipped to judge, Viversa realizes. The events in Jujann were largely his fault after all. The Barjaani military estimate that over a hundred Syndicate militants were killed in the battle, without offering a figure for civilian casualties. Some military commanders claim that many of the civilian dead were Syndicate victims, killed before and during the battle by insurgent gunmen. Still, that it was by Macabéan hands that Jujann was handed its most recent pulverization leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

He knows that the men are angry with him. That soldier Byrd, the one walking behind him now, is looking at him with eyes that burn the back of his neck like laser beams. They consider him at fault for the death of their comrade, the men do. What was his name? Cummings. If the other two, Abbott and Nielsen, die, there might be a mutiny to contend with.

Still, he would have done nothing differently in Jujann. The Golden Throne and its representatives cannot allow themselves to be extorted. In no alternative scenario would he have paid the Syndicate’s road toll.

He is happy enough to come out of Jujann alive, regardless.

They walk to a large conference room, where President Bahaam and a group of other Barjaani officials are seated, waiting for the arrival of their Macabéan guests.

The conference room is filled with 3 young women, the president of Barjaanistan, the Chief of Falzaah Police, Secretary of Justice, and Commander of the BSTF. President Bahaam stands up and greets the guests, “We’ve got girls for the soldiers, as well as wine and fine cheese for consumption. I’ve heard your journey here wasn’t exactly easy and for that you have my apologies. Commander Jackul tells me you have lost a man. You have my sincere condolences. I think everyone here knows what it’s like to lose a comrade. Anyways, introductions are to be in order.” Bahaam says in his charismatic tone. He points towards the Chief of Falzaah Police “She is Nanji Danesh. Veteran of the Barjaani Revolution and nowadays she’s Chief of Falzaah Police,” he says, then gesturing towards the Secretary of Justice. “He is Dr. John Hachka. Secretary of Justice. A fine man indeed.” he claims, then pats his hand on Thad Jackul’s back. “Now this brute here is a long time friend and veteran of the Barjaani Revolution, Colonel Thad Jackul. He’s commander of the Barjaani Special Task Force. BSTF for short.” All the Barjaanis sit down and await a response from the Macabéans.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” says Viversa. “And I thank you for the hospitality. Although my men will forego your women today, I will gladly accept a glass of your wine. I am quite the aficionado myself, and have recently acquired a substantially-sized vineyard of my own in the Havenic Territories. It would be good to taste Barjaani wine.”

He catches the soldier named Byrd staring at him. The jogornos’ face did not change, but he ads, “And yes, the loss of Sargént Cummings was a grave one. He was a fine soldier and will be missed by his fatherland. And he will be avenged. But we shall get to that later. Tell me, President Bahaam, how has the Syndicate found it so easy to dominate eastern Barjaanistan? How has it come that your military forces have been unable to enforce your rule there?”

President Bahaam pours the diplomat a glass of Barjaani wine from vineyards in southern Barjaanistan. “Well until a few months ago, local anti-government militias have been backed by Potthan. New weapons, real training, that sort of thing. We could easily march tanks and soldiers into eastern Barjaanistan and blow everything sky high. But there are still many civilians who need our help. They use that to their advantage. We’ve had evacuation efforts. Trying to get the civvies out of there. They threaten civvies families so they’ll stay. We get only a handful of evacuees. If it looks like we are getting more than 50 evacuees they’ll attempt an attack on the facility.” President Bahaam says whilst providing pictures of destroyed evacuation facilities.

“We’ve focused our efforts elsewhere. Specifically taking down drug labs and prostitution rings. That’s their money maker right there. We take away their money, their soldiers will start to leave.” Commander Jackul says.

Viversa takes a sip from the glass. “This is divine, Mr. President,” he says as he puts the glass back on the table. “I understand your conundrum in the east. And back to the east I shall return, after I get a better understanding of what is occurring in the south. What is your arrangement with the People’s Coalition there?”

Chief Danesh steps in and says “Long story short: They’re not enemies. But they’re not friends. They armed themselves and police themselves. Don’t blame them. They’re scared. The Syndicate’s new target is the south once they get more foothold in the east. The more Syndicate assholes who kill or lock up, the more of them join us. A lot of them are former police or military. They’re good people at heart. They’re just tired of the BS going on here, everyone is.” Danesh halts herself then sits down.

“I see,” says the jogornos in response.

He takes another sip of his wine. “It is good you make excellent wine. Where did this particular grape come from?”

“A vineyard located in Ramanden, southern province. Huge. Been there for centuries. Imperial Vineyard. If you wish, when you leave you can take a bottle when you leave.” President Bahaam sats pridefully.

Viversa smiles. “By the time I leave, I hope to have taken the whole vineyard. The truth is that those lands where this wine comes from are governed by an organization that is not your own. An organization that, as it sounds, you have very little control over. In the east, you have a network of loosely related rebel and militant groups. In most of your country, your government does not actually rule its people. And by rule its people I mean provide security and other basic services, but how can you if you cannot hold the territory against opposing forces. How was it that your land became so fractured?”

Commander Jackal and Chief Danesh look negatively towards the diplomat. Bahaam sees this and reassures “In the years after the revolution there has been several economic recessions mainly due to the Potthani gunning down any planes we send outwards or inwards. No importing, no exporting. Sure, that's changed. But for how long? Give it a year, two years, it'll be business as usual.” Bahaam says with gloom.

“That is a problem that we will solve,” says the jogornos. While not the time to tell the Barjaanis of this, Kríerlord Jokasta was due to speak with the Potthani emperor in the coming weeks. Macabéan operations in Barjaanistan would be the primary topic of discussion. Viversa changes the subject.

“The death of Sargént Cummings presents me with something of a political conundrum. While Cummings is Morridane and not a citizen of the empire, he is a soldier of the empire nonetheless and the imperial people will see it as a great affront. They will call on His Imperial Majesty to avenge the soldier’s death. The more we wait before correcting this disrespect, the harsher the punishment they shall demand. So best to solve it quickly and as non-intrusively as possible, I think.” He pauses to take another drink. When he is done, he puts the glass down, bends over to grab the bottle, and fills it again. “Where was I?”

“Sargént Cummings, jogornos,” says the soldier called Williams. He is one of the new ones. The one who replaced Cummings.

“Ah yes, thank you,” answers Viversa. “I suggest we solve this little international drama of Cummings’ death and the attack in Jujann now rather than later, and save ourselves some effort in the process. Now, to do that, we need to rectify some problems. The first of those is that I have insufficient men. The task at hand is more than what we first realized, my advisory group must be larger. I would like to bring in two additional divisions, forty to fifty thousand more men. Mechanized.”

President Bahaam and Commander Jackul speak to each other in their native tongue for a few minutes. After which, Bahaam says, “That could be arranged. What would you need from our end, exactly?”

“Simply approval,” replies Viversa. “My commanders would also need various terrain options for our main and forward operating bases. Some of these must be prospective, mostly in the east, although also in the south should our presence be required. My forces shall be responsible with taking the battle to the enemy, driving them out of the eastern cities and towns, and hunting them back to their safe havens. There is a second problem that needs to be resolved first, however. Jujann revealed another deficiency. Our forces lack adequate air cover. The unmanned aerial vehicles we employ were crucial to our success, but we needed heavy and precise firepower delivered by air. My commanders advise me to request unrestricted access to Barjaani airspace so that our aircraft can strike whenever, wherever. The Laerihans” — Macabéan airforce — “would like to deploy six squadrons in-country, including three fighter squadrons and two close air support squadrons, as well as a support unit. It will allow for more rapid response times. Our air power will also assist government troops, of course. Your men will always be able to count on our air support.”

The president grabs a small box from underneath the table and opened it, revealing cigars. He takes one, out it in his mouth, and lites it. After a few puffs he speaks, “The citizens there won't like it. It'll be 1987 all over again. We need to evacuate as many as possible. I expect your boys will also assist in this mass evacuation. There's families there that desperately need our help.”

“From where do you import your tobacco?” asks Viversa.

“It's grown in hydroponics here in Falzaah. Down the street actually.” Bahaam says.

“Interesting,” answers the jogornos. “Do you mind if I tried one?”

“Absolutely.” Bahaam smiles and hands the diplomat a cigar and his lighter.

Viversa takes another sip of wine first, placing the cigar on the table while he does so. He savors the drink. Truth is, he prefers Macabéan wines, but such is natural given what he is accustomed to. Still, a cultured man must appreciate what is outside of his immediate bounds. He picks the cigar up and places it between his lips, inhaling its smoky nectar as he lit the other end. After a first puff, he takes another, and then another. “Excellent,” he says, exhaling. “Quite good. Your country has much to offer, I must admit. Now, where were we...that’s right, mass evacuation. My commanders advise against that. They say that it is a mistake to tear the people from their home. It is your country, but my objective is for you to succeed, you must understand. In fact, you must succeed for us to continue investing in you. The empire does not back losers, President Bahaam.” He paused for just a moment, then went on, “To accomplish what we both seek, a stable Barjaanistan under democratic rule, my soldiers recommend that the advisors focus on hunting the enemy while your army deploys in our wake in strength. Take back the towns and cities after we clear them, reinforce them against the enemy, and allow us to destroy the enemy by land and air. All, I assure you a thousand times over, while minimizing civilian casualties. Indeed, the objective will be to provide the security and justice services eastern Barjaanistan has been lacking for years.”

Bahaam sighs. “May the gods help us. Your troops and planes are allowed. You also can have access to our special munitions armory. We never use any of it, it's not humane. It's all left over from when Potthan stockpiled white phosphorus based weapons and mustard gas here.” Bahaam said.

The Macabéan diplomat nods, “If you agree that those weapons are inhumane, better to destroy them then. My men will see to their elimination, to ensure that such weapons are never used on your people again.”

Viversa pulls again on his cigar, intaking its sweet fumes until they fill his mouth. Then he exhales and repeats. “I think I shall have to order these for my home in the empire. Soon enough, these will flood into imperial markets throughout the region. If we do things right, Barjaanistan will be returned to the world of the rich soon enough. But we must do things right. With two more divisions worth of men, ample air support, and greater cooperation from your armed forces, the imperial advisory group can do what it needs to deliver your country back to your government. First things first, we must create a united front against the eastern militias. Your government must reconcile with the south, the armies and police forces must reunite, and we must reoccupy the east together. Organize a sit down with the leadership of the People’s Coalition. Have it take place on their ground. They will think they have the advantage, but they will learn where the power lies. In the meantime, my advisory force will continue to patrol the border with the east, harassing militia formations until our larger forces arrive. By then, the People’s Coalition will be with us and we will be ready to push Syndicate forces and other militants back into Potthan.”

The jogornos is about to rise, the meeting over, but there is one last matter that he suddenly remembers about. “Ah yes,” he says, sitting back down, “the Morridanes have requested permission to deploy a battalion of soldiers to Barjaanistan. They would like to learn our approach to counterinsurgency and share their own experiences. I believe that no more than a couple of companies will rotate into the country at any one time. It would be a good opportunity for your country to build positive relations with another major state in the region, and one with clout in the east.”

“They have access to our lands,” Bahaam says before reaching for a card in his pocket and handing it to the diplomat. “This is the number for the company that makes the cigars. Falzaah Elegant Cigars. Worth every penny, trust me,” Bahaam says with a smile.

“Good,” says Viversa, taking the Barjaani’s hand in his own to shake it. He does the same with the other Barjaani officials. “It is time for me to go again. I shall meet you again when we speak to the People’s Coalition. Until then, I hope that your troops enjoy their new weapons and vehicles. My troops shall help train them and prepare them for the offensive to come, and a great offensive it shall be. The empire will help you make history, President Bahaam.” With that, the jogornos stands, motions to the two Morridane soldiers with him, and is escorted back to his vehicle.

He is taken to the new imperial embassy being built in Falzaah. That is his quarters here, along with the rest of his escort, even though the building is still in the midst of construction. It is said that it will be grand, a manifestation of imperial wealth. Clearly, Fedor — or perhaps it is Kríerlord Jokasta whose idea it is — seeks to make clear the imperial brand in these far western extremes of the region. From his study, Viversa videoconferences Jokasta and tells him of what was agreed on. It will take only a month or two for the new Macabéan forces to arrive. In the meantime, the Golden Throne will position its kríerflot based out of Kríerstatón Vos Díelaht just south of Potthani Bokán. Jokasta is due to meet with Emperor Havok in days time, and as soon as he was done there Syndicate forces will know true pain.

Edit 5/20/18: Díelaht Est is incorrect. The name of the naval base in UVR is Vos Díelaht.

[Potthan]

Flashback to June 19th, 1998
Village of Vasinda, eastern Barjaanistan

It was a calm Friday morning. The shops were busy, schools were in session, and kids were playing in the small village of Vasinda. At first, many thought it was a orchestra of car horns. Weird, but they thought there was no other thing. Except, the sound they heard was the bugles of war. Backed by Potthan, the Jujaan Militia acting on behalf of the Grand Empire began a terrible year long campaign seizing most of Eastern Barjaanistan. Vasinda was an easy first target. Only 15 police including off duty ones.

The sounds of screaming and guns were deafened by the sound of bugles the flapping of the flag of Potthan. The bloodthirsty siege of the town lasted just below 3 hours. Children were taken from their parents to witness their deaths then sold into slavery. Mass crucifixion where, to this modern day, the crosses can be seen and the bones of those who were lashed to it are still there.

The songs of the soldiers were sung. "My, my, Amhalia. I will come home safe and in your arms. Please don't weep for if I die I'll watch from Heaven. Glory bring me victory and Gods give the enemy fear. My, my Amhalia."

Modern day
Abandoned village of Vasinda, eastern Barjaanistan.

200 men from the Jujann Militia gathered in a street surrounded by a broken gas station and motel. They set down their prayer mats and prayed to the god of war, drawing blood in from their palms with their bayonets as sacrifice and representative of the blood they shall spill. Afterwards, a few engineers set up the explosives and some grunts filled the long empty fuel tanker with gasoline. Others got into their respective positions and gathered a variety of items. Flares in case of infrared sights as well as making molotovs. Two squads set up on top of the gas station, one set up in the gas station, three set up on top of the motel, and four set up in the motel itself.

The leader of the ambush, Captain Vasaf Nadulstafa, spoke onto the squad leaders walkies. "We all know what to do. When that convoy hits, blow the whole thing to kingdom come. That'll teaches these foreigners to stay out of our lands. The lands our families have lived in for thousands of years. Our holy lands. They do not have the blood of Potthan within them. We are the greater soldiers. Failure isn't only not an option, it is merely impossible. Gods willing, we will capture more prisoners and show them more lessons on what happens to cowards that hide behind armor to compensate for their weaknesses." the Captain said then letting off a short prayer. "Oh Arujaan, God of War, we cleanse ourselves today in the blood of your enemies and hope that those who come to your kingdom today are given the mansions of gold you promise. We spill our blood for you, and you grant us strength. In your holy name, we fight."

The men wait eagerly for their victims to fall prey to the trap they have set.

[The Macabees]

— Bokan, Potthan

Their material came first, their lighter equipment arriving in Bokan not even a week following the meeting in Falzaah. Heavy equipment, including their tracked and wheeled armored fighting vehicles, came next. All the while, almost 50,000 Macabéan soldiers began trickling in and moving into southern Barjaanistan.

Harka 'Berach X', a brigade-sized unit of just over 5,000 men, deployed first. Veterans of 'long wars' in Theohuanacu and Holy Panooly, they had most recently fought behind enemy lines during the War of Panooly Reunification against Ordenite forces. They were one of the most elite, battle-tested forces in the Ejermacht and completely composed of Amastolian volunteers. Harka 'Invictus I', a Doomani régulies unit, was deployed next, with the newly organized Terch 'Rey del Manzanar' — a division-sized unit — following. This represented almost two-thirds of the escalated Macabéan deployment, representing a total of 29,000 men.

The final deployment would be the newly organized Terch 'Ogre's Blade,' composed of roughly 21,000 New Imperial "volunteers" extracted from the slums of New Empire's most dangerous cities. Flying them to the other side of the region was a useful way of removing troublemakers from the already brittle environment of the new satrapy. Better to have them take out their anger on Barjaanistani militias.

Together with the regiment-sized 'Cazaterüs', this would give the Ejermacht two full divisions, two brigades, and a regiment, organized into 'Ejer Barjaanistan.'

Alongside this new ground-based firepower came the air support that had been so clearly lacking during the Battle of Jujann. The first items to arrive in this respect was the logistical infrastructure, with about 72 GLI-76 expected to arrive in three to four weeks and 48 new GLI-23's to come two weeks later. The single support squadron would come sooner, providing reconnaissance and intelligence support for units on the ground.

Macabéan commanders must have been rubbing their hands together in anticipation, eager to see what all of this firepower could accomplish for them. Jujann had been an unsettling surprise and they did not want a repeat of it. In due time the eastern militias would know to avoid contact with Macabéan advisors or otherwise face certain death.

But those new forces were not available just yet...



— Near the Village of Vasinda, Barjaanistan

A Macabéan military convoy snakes its way up a highway just west of the frontier with eastern Barjaanistan. It has been moving between the string of advisor forts for five days now, resupplying forces licking their wounds after the fight in Jujann. The small, mostly abandoned village of Vasinda lays along its route, one of many tiny towns and villages laid to waste in the decades of invasion, civil war, and genocide.

It moves in two segments. The advanced guard, made up of two G11/A armored reconnaissance vehicles and a single G11/G light tank hunter, approaches Vasinda from the south now. They escort a section of 20 Tiznao 60 armored trucks, every third truck armed with an overhead weapons station holding either a heavy 13.3mm machine gun or a 37mm automatic grenade launcher. A fifth are equipped with rudimentary active protection systems as well. Two kilometers separate them from the convoy's main body, with another 60 trucks escorted by a squad of Type 52GT IFVs, their mounted infantry, and two squads of G11 armored vehicles. It is a heavy force that, after events in Jujann, expects the worst to happen at any moment and at any time.

Overhead, two GF15 UCAVs loiter. Every hour the pair is rotated out and replaced by another two, giving the convoy constant protection along the most dangerous portion of the route. ISR is provided by smaller UAVs deployed by the convoy itself, scouting the flanks, rear, and forward areas. Some of these are retrofitted with ad hoc weapons, like bombs or machineguns, emulating insurgent innovation learned during the 'long wars.'

This is the extent of the support, however. With too few forces in-country, the Macabéan advisors cannot afford to assign flanking recon forces. It's an important weakness, one that the UAVs barely make up for. With such a force an ambush can be caught so far in advance it can be dealt with prior to the convoy's arrival. Not today, not without more men available for escort.

One UAV flies over Vasinda at medium altitude. It can see a long tanker, as well as activity on several rooftops and along the narrow streets.

The militias must be unaware of the UAV's presence. There are at least 50 insurgents in the village, some of them manning rooftop emplacements on a low-rising gas station, a taller motel. Where there is one cockroach there is usually an entire colony, but how many militants there are in Vasinda exactly the UAV — its operator, more accurately — does not know. But an ambush this must, or is likely, to be.

Still, the convoy has no plans to stop, learning its lesson from Jujann. Its avant-garde rolls forward at full speed, now simply aware of and bracing itself for what lay ahead. A G11/A was at the head of the group and fires a quick spurt of its machine gun at the long petrol tanker parked by the side of the road. What better IED than that? Oil begins to leak out from the still steaming holes along the trailer's surface. The G11/A refrains from using its grenade launcher, content with allowing the tanker's innards to simply spill out. Better to avoid unnecessary collateral damage, another lesson learned in Jujann.

Overhead, the two GF15s accelerated until one was over Vasinda proper and the other circled two kilometers from the village. They flew higher than the smaller recon UAVs being used by the convoy's escorts and were armed with an arsenal of small rockets. Barjaanistan's eastern militias had already learned of it at Jujann.

Two kilometers to the rear, the convoy's main body begins to speed up. They don't want to give the enemy time to recover.

The vanguard section's three armored vehicles open fire as soon as they are in range. They suppress the gas station's rooftops with their machineguns first, harassing the motel's in the meantime. The lead G11/A uses its automatic grenade launcher on the gas station. Behind it, a sudden hiss from the G11/G is followed by a bright red flash and the quick-moving shadow of a TA-100 anti-tank missile. It strikes the top of the motel, shearing through it to lop off a shower of falling debris. Whatever damage it does is hidden behind a cloud of dust and smoke.

In this chaos the advanced force reaches Vasinda. Even under attack, the ambushing militant force may still be quite dangerous.