The Thin Blade [GD; TG for Entry]

[Potthan]

Tabanja Arujaanhu - Arujaan, give me power (strength)

As goes the ancient Potthani saying, "One cannot be a brave soldier, nor son of Arujaan, without gold in their blood." This 'gold' is a mere metaphor for glory and faith. According to Barjaaistani insurgents, the Macabeans are known to them as "dissolute". Sure, all non-believers are dissolute but the warriors of the dissolute are worse. Lesser than human even.

I advise taking caution when dealing with Potthani soldiers and insurgents as they know no fear, remorse, or feel no pain.

Sincerely, President Bahaam.

Excerpt from letter sent to Macabean officials in country.

As the convoy closed into the ambush position, the screams of insurgents began. Among these is the ancient prayer "'Tis a joyous day for the God's call upon our souls!" (Abataka nee bashunta Daka behuum". The dynamite was detonated and created an explosion that could be felt for miles. Like ants when their colony is kicked, the insurgents poured out of their hiding spots and began firing upon the convoy and anyone foolish enough to leave their vehicles.

And when it appeared all their cards have been revealed, an Ace appeared from their sleeve. A handful of insurgents with Shemag delalsis hid suicide belts under their garments. They ran towards the soldiers screaming "Gods witness me! To Heaven I come!" in a fearless attempt at taking out as many as they can. Suicide bombers, named Shahumaans in Potthani culture, usually volunteer for suicide missions if they are terminally ill or family has been killed. As it turns out, 2 of this handful had deaths from family in Jujaan. This is why they volunteered. This is why they fight. This is why they die.

Bullets are flying and blood is being spilled, but as always, the side that spills less blood wins.

[The Macabees]

— Vasinda, Barjaanistan

The explosion throws the tracks off of the second vehicle, one of the G11/As. It it lifts off the ground but not far, its weight forcing it to come down right-side up again. It, however, lays silently, smoke sizzling from its surface, as everything around it comes alive. Gunfire erupts from various buildings as dozens of insurgents rush out from all around. The surviving G11/A fires toward its right with its machine gun and automatic grenade launcher. The G11/G to the rear focuses on the right, although one of its Tagus missiles streaks into the gas station and another into the motel. It must have been the G11/A that launched the two smoke grenades.

As their surviving armored escort fires at the running insurgents, the Tiznao-60 trucks pass through without stopping. The six of them armed with remote weapon stations open fire on the move, saturating enemy ranks with grenades and machine-gun fire. You can hear as one truck plops into a body which was running across the street. The smoke is heavy, impenetrable now.

It is a good thing that the Macabéans have infrared sights.

The carnage is absolute.

But there are a lot of enemies. It is impossible to kill them all before they close the distance with the moving convoy. Wearing suicide vests, they blow themselves up as they run toward their targets. The smoke makes it difficult for them to see, but with so many of them in such a tight space damage was bound to be delivered.

Yet they fight against armored vehicles and armored trucks, designed to fight wars like this one. A vest bomb can only do so much, and the torrent of Macabéan machine-gun and grenade fire is unrepentant. The Golden Throne fights insurgencies throughout its lands and those of its vassals, building a knowledge base and an arsenal capable of surviving in situations like this one. The eastern militias are undoubtedly brave and formidable, but they are at war against a wiser enemy than they suspect.



— Overhead

Convoy UAVs circle the village like carrion birds. They seek not the dead, however. Their focus is on those who live, specifically enemy insurgent locations and movements. With this intelligence, ground forces can better coordinate their fire against the enemy. Below, the two surviving armored vehicles are maneuvering. The third one remains unmoving.

There is a larger aircraft in the sky, however. A GF15 Valkyrie circles overhead, with another one just a kilometer away.

The one overhead swoops around in a wide arc, temporarily leaving Vasinda's airspace to come around in preparation for a run. It does not need to dive or decrease altitude. Rather, it flies, almost silently, back toward the village from the east. As it nears, the doors of its internal bay open to reveal a bristling arsenal of small guided rockets. The GF15 fires four, striking insurgent defensive positions with impunity. To the west, the second GF15 is making a run of its own. It comes into the range as the first one leaves to fly back around again. Another four rockets are released, striking enemy positions alongside the roads.



— Ambush Point

They wait until the initial human wave runs its course. Then, under the cover of the two G11s, a four-man ekipé of Morridane régulies quickly slips out of the G11/A. They move behind the vehicle as it covers their run to the stranded G11/A that suffered the brunt of the IED's force. It isn't long before they reach it, and the rear hatch opens just as they approach. The driver's hatch opens just then too, and a bloody face pops up from the inside.

From the passenger compartment walks out a soldier and behind him another, this one barely able to stand on his feet. They are not wearing powered armor, but they do don integrated helmets and heavy body armor.

Two of the full fire team focus on extracting the two remaining men in the back of the armored vehicle. As they pull them out, one looks in very poor condition, the other little better. From the front, the second crewman crawls out hardly in condition to fight any further and the third one is dead. They help the wounded into the back of the moving G11/A, the G11/G quickly moving to guard their flank as the last of the first 20 trucks passed through the village of Vasinda. The two armored vehicles cannot follow, however. There isn't enough room for all of them, only the wounded were put into the G11. The others must fight through the next few minutes.

Of course, they are not alone. The two GF15 UAVs make a second pass, firing another two rockets each to suppress insurgents moving through nearby streets and passageways.



— Convoy's Main Body

The avant-garde had sprung the trap and now the main convoy is about to roll through the wreckage.

60 armored trucks raise a cloud of dust as they accelerate on approach. Two of the Type 52GT IFVs head the column, using their heavy 37mm autocannons to suppress enemy fire. Their passengers unload as well, twelve heavily armored Morridane régulies in all. Any other wounded, even the lightly concussed, are helped into one of the large IFVs, and then it breaks away to maneuver along the road.

The sixteen infantrymen split into two groups of our ekipés and one runs to cover toward the gas station. The structure has taken quite a beating, suffering direct rocket and grenade impacts, as well raking machinegun fire. It looks like a skeleton of a building and, so frail was its appearance, as if it could fall at any moment. Wary of what may lurk inside or behind it, the Macabéans position themselves defensively and wait for their attackers — and any suicide fighters — to come to them. The other eight men set up similar defensive positions on the other side of the road, forming a perimeter reinforced by the two Type 52GTs, G11/A, and G11/G.

Escorted by the other half of the squad of Type 52s and two squads of G11 vehicles, the 60 remaining trucks run through the sprung ambush.

[The Macabees]

—Agadesh, Potthan
Joint post with Potthan.

Kríerlord Ambrot Jokasta arrives in Agadesh early morning, landing in the city’s principal airport. They are taken from there to the Golden Palace, the residence of Emperor Havok. Sitting within the Macabéan military transport helicopter flying him to the palace, Jokasta looks down at the compound with a face that barely betrays judgement. Over its golden bulbous domes on skillfully carved and decorated towers, they land on a helicopter pad behind the imperial gardens. The emperor’s guards are there waiting and escort him to the palace proper, stopping at a wash station just inside the rear gates. Jokasta has done his research and completes the ritual, removing his shoes. All present wash their hands, feet, ears, and hair, the kríerlord looking cool and unperturbed.

When all are ready, they proceed through grand halls to the throne room. The kríerlord is the only Macabéan within palatial walls, the pilots and a bodyguard remaining with the helicopter. In his hands he carries something wrapped in light silk and cloth.

Other, lesser, representatives of the empire are here with him in Potthan, of course. In fact, there were many already in the country since months past, ever since the Golden Throne’s involvement in the reconstruction of Bokan. But none of them were needed here with him now. They would do no good here. Better that they spend their time with the rest of the country’s bureaucracy, exchanging favors and help for goodwill and reciprocation. Afterall, influence — as Jokasta himself often says — to be meaningful must exist at the root of an organization.

Havok sits in his throne, wearing the finest tiger pelt jacket and the finest silk pants. There are slaves offering tea, wine and pastries to his guests. Havok stares at his guest briefly, almost as if he’s staring into his soul. He stands up and greets his guest, saying “Welcome to Potthan, I hope your journey wasn’t perilous” and offers his hand for shaking.

Jokasta embraces the emperor’s hand with his own. “It was enjoyable enough,” he responds. “And something tells me that it will be well worth it. The Golden Throne appreciates your willingness to meet with me today. Know that I am an extension of His Imperial Majesty Fedor where he sends me and that I speak for him, thus what we agree to here is as good as having His word.”

“That’s great, shall we begin? Oh I almost forgot, where’s my manners?” Havok says whilst saying a phrase in Potthani with a solid, firm tone to one of the slave girls who offers the guest his choice of tea or wine and pastries. “Best pastries in Potthan are baked right here in the Golden Palace.” says Havok grabbing a pastry and a cup of tea.

The kríerlord nods politely to the young girl who attends him. He takes a small cup of tea from her, sips it, and then picks up a pastry from her as well. He is unfazed that she is a slave, or at least gives that impression. As a Díenstadi, he does not care much at all about the enslavement of others, unless there’s a reason to. Taking a bite of the pastry he he says, “Thank you, Your Imperial Highness. It is very good. Yes, quite tasty. As good as anything I have had at home.” — he lies — “Tell me, Emperor Havok, what do you know about the Golden Throne? What have you heard?”

“Not much I’m afraid. Can you tell me about your homeland?” Havok says sipping his tea, ushering the slave girl away.

“It is a beautiful and diverse empire that is comprised of many people. Its history is just as vast and its experiences just as diverse.,” answers Jokasta. “ But surely you must know something about us. You know us well enough to have signed an agreement over rights in Bokan and the highway to Nero, Barjaanistan. Enough to know that it was we who persuaded our allies in Imbrinium to end the war with Ralkovia over your land. Alas, it matters not. This is a momentous opportunity to better introduce the Golden Throne to you and the opportunities that further friendship with us can bring you. But, first, I bring a gift from His Imperial Majesty Fedor I.”

He unwraps the cloth around the object on his lap and reveals a long, double-sided sword with an elegant hilt made of ivory and scrolled with intricate golden engravings. The ivory itself was carved with geometric patterns, all the work of a great master. “This,” says Jokasta, carefully handing it to the Potthani emperor, “is the sword of Sare Garamanus Jermana, First Man of Macabea in 547 B.C.E. With that sword, he conquered the cities of Tyrano and Kon’korba, while felling the great Fortress of Llukurt. This sword has passed on through generations of Macabéan kings and dukes, until now. His Imperial Majesty Fedor I has seen it fit to give you the sword of Garamanus Jermana, great Sare of Macabea, as a sign of good will and as a piece of our history.”

He let the Potthani emperor admire it, then asks, “Tell me, Emperor, why did you accept my request for an audience today?”

“My great grandfather was a very good warrior. If you don’t know, he led the Crimson Revolution and took back this land from the lies of democracy and liberalism. May the Gods rejoice for they have such a great warrior with them.” Havok says, then pausing to take a drink. “Sometimes a great warrior needs to know when to start fights and let things slide. My father said this to me at a very young age. My father was deemed Son of Arujaan, the warrior god, and thus I am the grandson of his holiness. In this, I know that it is in both of our nation’s interests to be on as good of terms as possible, even if we don’t see everything eye to eye. Even though at first we didn’t like taking our troops out of Barjaanistan and declaring official peace, in the long run it is doing us well. As you may know, war is expensive and costs a lot of lives of the sons and fathers of this great nation. I know this personally as a veteran myself.” Havok says with a lingering frown. “I accepted your audience because you have proven your people useful to the Grand Empire and thus all royalty of your homeland and their aides will be welcomed in my abode.” Havok states before sitting down on his throne allowing his guest to speak further.

“That is good to hear,” replies the kríerlord. You make good choices, Your Majesty. That I must admit and admire. Since you have brought up the subject, His Imperial Majesty Fedor has instructed me to personally thank you and hopes that we can continue to work together for centuries to come. Your country shall continue to be well rewarded for its continued and gracious cooperation. My purpose here, actually, revolves around exactly that, rewarding your friendship with the Golden Throne. Fedor has agreed to lift his veto on the sale of military equipment to Potthan. Should you wish, we can proceed with any arms contracts previously agreed to. Out of curiosity, is there anything in particular your military is need of modernizing or supplementing?”

“Well.” Havok says letting out a sigh. “Our firearms are well updated and even better made, but our air force and navy are outdated. Some using equipment dating all the way back to the late 70s. My father didn’t invest much in Potthani Air Force and that’s what made us lose the civil war with Barjaanistan in the first place. My father was a great warrior and even better man, but even the best of men make mistakes. Even the son of Arujaan.” Havok says. “Of course, we’ll pay handsomely and as you know, usually in oil or gold.” Havok states as he grabs a Potthani Gold Coin from his pocket. “What say a little wager? Heads or tails? If you win, you get to take one of the lovely ladies serving us today home.” Havok says.

Jokasta gives a hearty laugh. He would not mind the chance at one, although he wonders what the cost of losing is. It’s not a doubt he shows publicly, though. “Heads,” he says.

Havok throws the coin as high as he possibly could and catches it with his right hand, putting the coin on the top of his left hand. “Heads” he said ushering for one of his royal guards to line up all the servant girls in the room. “Take your pick, trust me. If I wanted to keep any of them I’d have married them.” Havok says laying back in his throne.

The thought of what tails would mean still lingers in the kríerlord’s mind, but if it bothers him, he shows no sign of it. His gaze sweeps across the slave girls, giving them a studious look one-by-one. They were all young, but some were far too young for Jokasta’s tastes. His eyes finally fell upon one with amber eyes and dark hair, her skin exotic to his northerner tastes. That she was of a proper age surely played a role in his decision as well. “You are too generous, Your Majesty,” he says, but then nods toward the woman. “I will take her. What’s your name, girl?”

The girl smiles nervously and says, “Whatever you wish my name to be, sir,” whilst the other girls lined up continue their work as if they were uninterrupted.

Jokasta shakes his head. “Better to leave it a mystery for now,” he replies, smiling. He turns back to Havok. “Again, I must thank you, Emperor Havok.” — he ensured that he pronounced the name impeccably — “I will surely...enjoy your gift. Before I do, I come to you to speak on matters concerning Barjaanistan.”

“Her name is Alihannah. Ah-lee-ha-nah,” Havok says with a smug grin. “Don’t mind her. She is a nervous little bird, just doing as she’s told. I have no doubt you’ll enjoy her services.” Havok seems himself dabbling. “But to more pressing matters: Barjaanistan. What is it you wish to discuss?” Havok asks, more as a statement than a question.

“The Barjaani army is...weak and unreliable. The attack on our diplomat in Jujann opened our eyes to these deficiencies. We must move enough military assets into the country to protect our men and succeed in our mission there, which is to re-stabilize the country. Always in a way that will benefit Potthan in the long-run, of course. Barjaanistan will be a future market place for Potthani goods, where they will dominate, and Bokan will grow rich with all the trade that flows through it. It is, in large part, why Navitek took up the contract to rebuild the port. The future bodes well for all, especially Potthan. But it all depends on our ability to continue with our operations in Barjaanistan.” He takes another sip of tea. “My subordinate, Jogornos Lato Viversa, has come to an agreement with President Bahaam. Part of this includes the deployment of some 48 aircraft to Barjaanistan, but more importantly the use of our carrier-based forces south of Bokan to provide close air support for our forces. My first and foremost concern is the Golden Throne’s relationship with you, Your Majesty. I come here to ask for your permission to use a corridor of your southern airspace.”

“I'll seen to it that access is granted. But let me make one thing clear and please do not take offense. We will not offer any support beyond this. Personally I don't care whether or not they're their own nation or not but many here would gun down a Barjaani citizen given the chance. I'll do everything I can to assist but in this situation, there is social limits,” says Havok with a bold tone..

“I certainly respect that reality, Your Majesty,” replies Jokasta. “And please allow me to ensure you that, as long as relations between Potthan and the Golden Throne continue to grow, we will play our part in securing Potthani economic and diplomatic dominance in Barjaanistan. You can consider us allies in that respect. Your empire is mighty in its own respect, that cannot be denied. And the Golden Throne always rewards those who cooperate with it toward joint goals. I thank you for your unquestionable generosity in this matter, and this thanks is also extended personally from His Imperial Majesty Fedor. I wish I could end the business talk on this note and return to pleasures, but I must bring up the topic of Ralkovia.”

“My father had dealings with them however I see them merely as neighbors. What did you have in mind?” Havok replied.

Jokasta puts the tea cup back down on the table. “We have no interest in creating problems for you. You have our respect. The Ralkovian garrison in Potthan will be left alone for the time being, unless you one day decide to take your northern sectors back. The Golden Throne will always be there to aid you if that was ever the case. However, our neutrality toward the Ralkovian garrison can only go so far. Their sabre-rattling will surely bring war if they ever have the guts to truly pursue their agenda, and if it does I fear that Potthan will become embroiled in it. Surely, the Macabéan presence in Barjaanistan presents Ralkovia with an enticing target and the Golden Throne will do everything in its power to exact retribution should they invade the country. Again, Your Majesty, I wish not to add further problems to your plate, simply to hear your thoughts regarding the issue.”

“My father was tolerant to them. But I see through their facade. They do not know of our struggle, they only wish to have our resources. Shortly after this meeting I will let the garrison know they are no longer welcome here.” Havok stated.

For a moment the kríerlord is taken aback. That the Ralkovian garrison is parasitic is something that all strongly suspected, but Havok’s eagerness to eject the Ralkovians is surprising not least of which because of the risk that Ralkovia would protest the decision with violence. Jokasta realizes that it is time to fully commit. “A bold decision, Your Majesty. One that I respect you for. Would you like the assistance of the Triumvirate should things come to worse?”

“Potthan was formed by war. Our people are not just warriors, but physical incarnations of the warrior deity. We suspect that we will have no troubles purging the Ralkovians from Potthani territory. But should we find ourselves between a rock and a hard place, I believe you’ll have the tools to carve a path out.” Havok states.

“My mother, may the Gods rest her, believed in something more for Potthan however. Past all the guns and blood was a cultured people. Music, theatre, and fine art. That is what our great warriors fight for. Ralkovia has no such culture. It is bleak. Its soldier have nothing to go home to. Hence, why they will lose.” Havok shrugs.

Havok’s words are bold, but if the emperor executes his decision to expel the Ralkovians then all the better. The kríermada has already drawn up plans for such an eventuality, much like it has for all predictable eventualities, that Jokasta knows. It is his duty to know of such things as leading Imperial Bureaucrat of the Vosscher Stratekom, of course. A long, sinuous river connects Ralkovia to northern Potthan, requiring relatively few resources to clog it as an artery. Jokasta nods, “You speak with the conviction of man who could only be telling the truth, Emperor Havok. I look forward to the development of this relationship. It promises good things for us both, for a long time to come. It is Willed, as my people would say.”

The kríerlord takes one last sip of his tea, then places the cup back on the table. “I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, Emperor Havok. You are an important man with many things to do. I shall leave you to it. Alihannah can find my quarters, I trust. Again, emperor, your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Ah, yes. Be sure to come again, even if it’s just for vacation,” The emperor says with a smile.

“I will, of course,” says Jokasta. He turns and leaves, escorted to the room he would be staying at for the night. Alihannah came by later, as promised. Jokasta, a married man, indulged himself. She was his now and the slave woman would return with him to Fedala. There, she could do whatever the hell she wanted, but the kríerlord intended to rid himself of her. She would see her initial hardships paid for and her future in a new country secured, and if she ever dared talk about the encounter publicly she would be killed. If she was smart, she’d never talk about it again and, instead, the girl would her enjoy a new life in an empire where anybody could fight for their dreams. She would appreciate the opportunity, one that did not come around to many Potthani slave women, and join the ranks of so many other women who had entered Jokasta’s life — former slaves or otherwise — in the form of an indiscretion.

What happened to the girl is, ultimately, of little concern to the kríerlord. He has just accomplished an important diplomatic feat, with rewards beyond what he was tasked to extract. If the Potthani emperor remained true to his word, soon the Ralkovians would lose their relevance and the last immediate threat to Barjaani democracy would be neutralized. His Imperial Majesty Fedor I would be pleased, yes he would. Jokasta would be rewarded, his position of influence alongside the emperor solidified, and the other kríerlords would be consumed in jealousy. Jokasta smiles as he thought all about his impending glory.

[Potthan]

Nadajeshdika, HQ of National Laborer's Revolt, Southern Barjaanistan

A scrawny man accompanied by two big brutes of Potthani origin walk down a land hallway decorated with ornate Potthani artifacts, the sounds of the dress shoes of the smaller man echoing these halls. Dressed in a two tone black and grey uniform, clean shaven, most likely in his early thirties he's a powerful asset into the NLR, a fascist terror cell operating in Barjaanistan and have been since the late 50s. Dedicated to the purity of the Potthani blood they will stop at nothing to grow what they deem "The Timeless Empire".

The man, named Commander Hannes Domes, approached a door at the end of the hall and hesitantly entered. Inside, there was a conference room with other people dressed like him, and an older man in his 50s. "Good day Domes, we were just about to begin, I assume you have a progress report?" said the older man.

"Yes, my sire. We've reports of foreign soldiers in Eastern Barjaanistan. Moreso, being attacked by Jujaan Militants." said Domes. "Keep at eye on these foreigners, should they pose a threat to our plan have this" the older man gave Domes a briefcase. "Inside that case is the launching mechanism for several nuclear warheads we've managed to uncover in those early 70s Potthani military compounds that have been abandoned since the civil war. Use them if necessary."

"Understood sire, is there anything else required of me?" Said Domes. "Not at the moment, but should I need you I will contact you. Be careful and remember, Hail to the true Potthan." they both saluted and Domes left.

Vasinda, Barjaanistan

Taking never ending machine gun fire the militants continue to rush the downed convoy with pure bravado. If they aren't drowned by the sound of gunfire, you can hear war chants that have been said by Potthani warriors since before dated history.

Anti-tank ordinance stars being fired from the motel and some squads of militants begin to retreat deeper into the village. A few flare guns fire off into the sky and the distant sounds of artillery can be heard. However, none of the artillery shells make it close to their target and at this moment many other squads retreat deeper into the village.

[The Macabees]

— Kríerlord Jokasta Writes President Bahaam


++++ Fully Encrypted Direct-Deliver Message ++++
Dear President Barhaam of Barjaanistan,

I write you to introduce myself and I, admittedly, hope to persuade you on a matter of much urgency.

My name is Ambrot Jokasta, Kríerlord to His Imperial Majesty Fedor I. Know that I plan to visit Barjaanistan very soon. It has been many years since I first wanted to see your beautiful country with my own eyes and once I attend to present matters I surely will visit it finally. When your power over your people is fully restored, perhaps we will even tour the whole country together.

The road to glory is long, however. We must go on as all crusades do, with the next step.

Sometimes I myself wonder what to do next, the world as it is. I find that most often the best answers are the simplest. They are the ones that seem the least important. Their character misguides us, president. Issues of man, problems that all of your people, even the poorest, face each and every day, these are the most important, for they are the ones which offer men like you and I the opportunity to prove who they are and what they stand for.

Your people need food and water. They need security. Deploy your army that we are training and arming to the cities, towns, and villages. Leave not one unprotected. As we liberate new settlements, move your ground forces to enforce a just rule of law. And I do mean just. Good and fair. Punish those that deserve it, protect those that need it. Let my men do the fighting. Remember, they are there for you and your people. They can eradicate, but to be effective an eradication must be coupled with something better, something the people can truly stand for, a government that serves their interests.

Thanks to you, because of your wisdom, there will soon be fifty thousand of my men in your country in your service. Let us put them to work.

Barjaanistan is an ancient nation, a great nation. A great nation is not corrupt, it, in fact, aspires to the opposite. Corruption is weakness. When you cannot trust the people who say to serve you, when they serve others who are not those who you've put in charge, then a country begins to fall apart. If we are to restore greatness to Barjaanistan, which we will, then we should rid of corruption. Perfection cannot be achieved, but it can be aspired to and one can work toward it. Provide Jogornos Viversa with a list of the names of the people you trust and those you do not. Trust, remember, is the foundation of good governance.

Do not tell anyone of this list.

Division is a weakness. We cannot risk division now. We are leaders, you and I, Baka. Strong leaders know what must be done and they must be disciplined in their actions. Unnecessary risks must not be taken as there is much at risk. Remember that the eastern half of your country remains a shattered ruin and the south rules itself. This is only the beginning.

The Jogornos will notify me when he receives your list.

As it is Willed,

Kríerlord Ambrot Jokasta
++++ End Encryption ++++



— Agén Enkubíer 'Vinkreto' Wing, Macabea, Province of Díenstad

In a plain-walled office building in downtown Sidi Rezegh, a team of analysts labors in silence, staring at their computers and crunching numbers. This is the thirteenth hour since the beginning of their shift and there are many more hours ahead of them. They are here on orders of His Imperial Majesty, who seeks to supply his good man the Kríerlord Jokasta with the information needed to succeed in Barjaanistan, as they were all told long hours ago.

The kríerlord collects information, intelligence, on notable Barjaanis. Noblemen, those with aristocratic roots, business owners, any with means to power. He seeks information on their beliefs, character, history, any and all there is to know about a man...or a woman. No stone is left unturned for the kríerlord.

Little do they know that their data is to be used to corroborate Baka Bahaam's list.



— Vasinda, Barjaanistan

Engines at full roar, the advanced guard pushes through the village and out, leaving behind the smoldering wreckage of the knocked-out G11 vehicles. Surviving crew members are picked up along the way, but the segment never seems to stop moving forward. To stop is to be stationary, and to be stationary is to die.

As they leave, the head of the main column begins its own journey through the war zone of Vasinda, the small village turned hellscape. By now, though, the convoy's intense firepower has taken effect as the enemy's withers. The UAVs overhead see some, but only a handful — as always —, withdraw through narrow streets that twist this way and that. Despite the apparent relief, the convoy's main body does not let down its guard. Overhead weapon stations blaze on, firing spitting out of machine gun barrels and cannons. Smoke and dust rise from all quarters, obscuring the vision of those in the battle.

The walls of the buildings that line the village's main road are pockmarked and in tatters. Little glass, of the little there was, remains intact. Some structures lay collapsed and in ruin. It is a far cry from the destruction in Jujann, but it will take years for the families of Vasinda to recover from this. And in a war like this one, who could say that Vasinda wouldn't host another fight like this one again?

With insufficient manpower on the ground, reinforcements yet to be fully available, the convoy accepts its losses and allows the surviving insurgents to fight another day. Yet, the battle of Vasinda is to prove an outlier, should the empire's plan come to fruition. For villages like this one will be taken, by force if necessary, and secured, defended by the Barjaani army. And the guerrillas are to be hunted wherever they stand.

[The Macabees]

— Far Western Command, General Military Order 137

Barjaani civilian and military personnel who break the imperial military code on corruption, racketeering, and abuse of powers are eligible for military tribunal under this code. Those who are found guilty will receive the sentence of capital punishment, of a means deemed appropriate by the tribunal at the time of the trial. This order is to be pursued and enforced with immediate impunity.

— His Imperial Majesty Fedor I



— Falzaah, Barjaanistan

A green-and-tan utility vehicle pulls up to a large estate on the edge, but still within, Falzaah. It is a HIM-TAC and the soldiers who pour out are Macabéan, or rather Morridane volunteers fighting for the imperial army. A second HIM-TAC comes to a stop several hundred meters behind the first one and another four men emerged from within. One team quickly moves through the front, following a driveway that leads for a while through a garden of considerable size. The other makes its way toward the back, snaking along the perimeter to avoid being seen. The sound of a rotor beat in the distance.

As soon as it reaches the front door, the first team lines up along the wall. The man on point twists his body to knock on the door. "Mr. Jawhar el-Dada, it is the Macabéan military. Open up."

Silence.

"Come on, make this easy, Mr. el-Dada. This doesn't need to be hard," says the soldier.

By now the second team is at the rear entrance. Receiving the order through their comms, the point man kicks down the door. Two men follow each other into the room, the third one moving in soon after to cover another angle, and the fourth one only when the rest are inside.

In the front, the first team moves in by force, too. Breaking down the front door, the four-man team moves its way quickly through the house in search of their target. Jawhar el-Dada is known to be inside, monitored by the Agén Enkubier. By the time they find him, hiding with his women and children in the master bedroom, the two teams link up and the house is cleared.

The target is ripped away from his family, carried by the collar of his shirt, and hastily pushed back out of the house. The sound of the helicopter is nearer than ever, thick rotors beating against the wind, and soon enough it is right on top of them. It lowers to an opening in the gardens, flattening any flower or plant in its way, and after a minute it touches down. Jawhar el-Dada is thrown inside, where heavily armed and armored soldiers are already waiting for him. Quickly, the helicopter lifts off once again and soon disappears into the horizon.

For their part, the eight soldiers who rode in HIM-TACs return to their vehicles, load up, and drive away. Behind, they leave behind a family bewildered and confused at what just happened.

They will not see Jawhar el-Dada again.



— Somewhere, Barjaanistan

Mohammad Al'Haya stepped into one of the utility vehicles waiting in a line inside his complex. The opulence of his life manifested in the byzantine trim around the windows and doors, as well as wrought iron balconies, that few Barjaanis enjoyed. Armed guards walked alongside him, some getting into the same vehicle and others into the ones ahead and behind his.

A long gate opens mechanically, two gunmen standing on either side of it who look mean and ready to kill. The small convoy begins to move forward.

Just outside, there is a small car parked next to the compound wall. It is one of many.

Al'Haya, a well-known and popular, but corrupt, figure has been marked for proscription. Intelligence points to the selling and communication of critical intelligence that puts imperial lives at risk and undermines the building of a stable, reliable democracy capable of taking care of its people in the right way. Furthermore, he is a slave trader. Din Hadi must go.

When the convoy begins rolling through the front gate and onto the street, it turns immediately to go in the direction of the small white car that is parked among others there.

Without warning, the small white car explodes.



— Overhead, Eastern Barjaanistan

The proscriptions in the west have not put a pause to the war in the east.

Four GLI-76 Falcons scream through the clear and open sky above eastern Barjaanistan. Below, the desert rolls on seemingly forever, only the dunes and small towns breaking up an otherwise monotonous landscape. A highway cuts through the center, although the sands have covered much of it up. These areas are controlled by the Syndicate and other militant groups.

These four jets are not the only ones on the prowl. Since the approval of the use of imperial carrier-based aircraft, flying from just south of Bokan, through southern Potthan, and into Barjaanistan, bombing and interdiction missions are happening almost around-the-clock. Aircraft based in the country itself also contribute. The ear-piercing noise of jets breaking the sound barrier is a common occurrence now, one that has awakened many a Barjaani at night as they sleep. The blast of the bombs are likely not much better in that regard.

Flying for some time, a village appears in the distance. At first, it is a speck and it slowly grows into something larger and full of life. There are people entering and leaving on carts, on their legs, and even some in small tractors. A small oasis not far from it is where the locals can farm, harvesting produce they sell at the big city markets.

The town is crawling with militant forces.

Dots as small as ants grow larger as the four jets approach. Their target is there, in the town. The Syndicate isn't exactly subtle or witty, as their ambush in Jujann went a long way in showing. No, the Syndicate is prideful and aggressive, the sort of militants who make a lot of noise but are also easy to find...and kill.

In the time-space of less than a minute, the four aircraft screech over the small village, release their payloads, and begin to turn in a wide arc. Behind them, several black towers of smoke, fire, and debris rise up in the air, marking where the bombs were dropped. The targets are suspected militant leadership, defense points, and concentrations, as well as other important enemy personnel such as hackers and other intel. Before the victims, any left alive, can recover, the four Falcons speed overhead once again to drop another salvo of bombs. This time, when done, the aircraft rapidly return to base.

Imperial aircraft bomb enemy positions like these day-and-night, unceasingly, and without end in sight.



— On the Ground, Eastern Barjaanistan

As land- and carrier-based air support does its part, lighting the eastern Barjaani landscape up like a beach full of bonfires, imperial troops on the ground move into the untamed east.

'Berach X', Amastolians all of them and veterans of Theohuanacu and Holy Panooly, is on the vanguard. The Harka, or brigade, is 5,000 men strong. It is joined by Terch 'Rey del Manzanar' of some 24,000 men. Together, this represents much of the muscle behind the operation. Soon, they will be joined by Terch 'Ogre's Blade,' composed of New Imperials. 'Cazaterüs' holds the forts that stretch along a rough line that surveils the informal frontier between government-controlled Barjaanistan and the east, and the Doomanis wait in reserve.

Along with this vanguard of elite imperial infantry forces, there are a hundred thousand Barjaani troops ready to move in as well. The strategy is simple. The elite Macabéan infantry, backed by ample artillery, armored, and air support, are to clear and liberate all villages, towns, and cities. Tasked with occupying...and holding...these areas is the Barjaani army. While a hundred thousand is less than what the empire recommends, it will have to do for now.

For their part, enemy militants who are not killed but instead captured, their future holds temporary deportation.

Gradually, Barjaanistan will be rid of its filth.