Between Ice and a Cold Place [MT, OPEN]

[Arcadian States and Commonwealths]

La Caras Altaguay.
Hugo Plas

La Caras Altaguay.

-Snip

"Well Mr. Wood there are too many prying eyes and ears by the pool." Hugo looked around as the tables around them were empty and the device in his bag would scramble any recordings of their voices. Hugo continued "It's time to use your power to divide the CGU, the AAF is beginning to drawdown from the region leaving a small defensive force. If you wait any longer there is no guarantee that the Green Republic will survive long enough for you to take it. If we act soon we could arrange a training exercise so to speak and our GR and AAF forces will be in a position for the invasion. All we need now is you to divide the CGU within the next few months so a swift military offensive can get you into power and if you can divide the CGU into a civil war in the meantime that would work even better."


[align=center]Schuttler-Lay Army Air Corps Joint Base, Green Republic
WO2. Steffen Heydrich, 171st Fighter Reconnaissance Squadron, UFAF Air Force

The peculiar state of the drawdowns in the Green Republic left many Arcadian servicemen lent out to the Unionist Forces in a strange situation, while he was an Arcadian warrant officer he also belonged to the Unionist Forces Air Force. His squadron was looking like it will be divided soon. He looked out the window as the snow kept piling up with the runway crews working to keep the airfield operational despite the snow. He got off the phone with Katarina about an hour ago and is now wondering if he goes back where will that leave the two.

[Phoenxia]

~snip

Tereš drudged her way through the sea of cubicles in the analytics department. There was always a clear division between the half dead bureaucrats doing full reports and the operators who were given connect the dot puzzles as busy work by the way they all huddled around the vending machine giving her sweet eyes. She would never get a glance out on the street, but whether she was in the field or the office, military men were always drawn to the steely gaze of her bleak green eyes and frazzled dark brown hair. Maybe it was just the way she carried herself.

"Miss Darožnija?"

She turned around to see a sharply dressed man, probably from higher up standing behind her. "Yeah, that's me."

"I'm aware. You've been called for at Tunnel," he spoke in a robotic military fashion. Tunnel was the literal basement of the Ministry; the home of the Directorate's Bureau of Special Activities and whatever other shadow organizations that lay in the depths of the Ministry. It's where all the operators went after five o'clock, and it was a place where none of the other analytics workers like herself would ever really want to find themselves. "Come with me."

She followed him down the hall to an elevator locked by an RFID terminal, and from there it led to a basement hallway to the office space in Tunnel. It was the room that everyone said 'doesn't exist,' but she was being called down for something bigger than herself.

What awaited her was an office occupied by an older man in No. 2 Fatigues, no doubt dangerous if you were on the wrong side of things. His nameplate read 'Col. Orenov.' "Miss Darožnija, is it?"

"Yes, sir. May I ask why I was summoned?"

"We'll get to that, take a seat," his voice sounded like gravel. He sighed and slid a file over to her, “You’re aware of the situation in the Green Union, Miss Darožnija?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he opened it up. “Now tell me. How did you slip under our nose before? You have a very handsome college transcript, C1 fluency in Sanarian, Ekaterinan, and Arsenian, Native fluency in Žeknijan and Jelenik, C2 Fluency in Markish and Acivic, and B2 in Emerstarian? Tell me what we in this department looked over your file for?”


“I believe it was squeamishness, sir,” she felt ashamed in this seat, like she was just being judged.

“Ah yes, well I have good news for you. We have an assignment for you where you won’t have to see blood,” he unveiled an unsettling half grin. “If you look at this proposal dossier, we need someone to act as a graduate teaching student with a university study group.Your job is to ensure that this group passes customs. You’re a smart girl, Tereš. If there’s someone who can pull this off it’s you.”

“Who would I be working with?” She slipped on her reading glasses and began studying the paper.

“Twenty royal marines, four of my own, and another female attaché. Small mission, enough to make some sway,” He sighed once again, “Will you take it?”

“Will I get a promotion?”

“I’ll make sure it goes in the books.”

“You’ve got a deal, sir.”

Approaching into Fyrland

The engines of the charter jet hummed a little lower as they began their descent, the marines had either been sleeping or bullshitting around Tereš, a couple had even asked for her number, and her response was the same every time, “In your fucking dreams.” But in the back, there were the four EKSG men, dead silent, of the Grenadier/Recon variety no doubt. Their presence was eerie, no doubt, but their job as far as she was concerned was not too entangled with hers.

As they landed, taxiied, and parked, the plane suddenly went quiet. The whole unit knew it was game time. They all descended the stairs, with Miss Darožnija in front, and the operators in back. Through the swirling, biting snow the new arrivals were greeted by harsh spotlights and armed C-Sec security in their yellow reflective vests, ushering them past without a moment to dawdle. After a moment the Phoenixians found themselves bundled past into a small reception building, a tired looking ethnic Vilhalan border guard staring at them from behind his desk. He looked up at Tereš first, waving her forward.

The man took her passport, giving her a lazy stare. “What is your business in the Green Union, Ms. Nakarov?”

“We are a foreign relations class from Vietschen Modensad University under Doctor Jarin Verevodić,” she slid over a manifest provided a week earlier by the Directorate.

The man’s eyes snapped up, scanning the entire room as if only noticing the twenty four military aged males standing in front of him. “You, uh, are all together?”

“Yes sir, I’m their graduate student teacher,” she pointed at the manifest, not skipping a beat.

He just frowned, clearly too tired and possibly high to properly puzzle this out. “You do know there is a war on, correct?”

“We’re a foreign relations class. We’re studying the geopolitical effect of wartime foreign policy.”

The man shifted suspiciously, eyeing them up. “Into a warzone. With a load of military aged men.”

“You mean college aged men. All of these students have signed up to come here for their undergraduate theses. I feel we are being discriminated against, sir, that men who look like they should be in the military cannot be scholars? These are some of the finest undergraduate students I have ever seen.”

The border guard was utterly unconvinced. “I’m going to need to see you in the back room, ma’am.”

“Why? We have all our papers from the university right here?” But the man was already standing, gesturing for one of the heavily armed security officers to come over.

“Sir, please. We’re just trying to make it through, we’re as tired as you. And you’ll be rewarded for your time if you just help us a bit,” she gestured to a briefcase in the hand of one of her ‘students.’

The man hesitated for a moment before waving off the guard, taking the case and giving the contents a quick once-over. “Well ma’am, you’re fortunate. It seems this was just the type of entry documents you needed.” He hurried then to slip it beneath his desk, waving them past. “Enjoy your visit. I hope it’s educational.”

“Thank you, sir. Have a good night,” she said as she began leading the group through the terminal. Thank god they didn’t get caught with all the guns they had packed. At the front of the terminal was their local attaché. Behind the wheel of a large tour bus a small man sat bundled up, nestled down in his oversized winter coat and mittens. It was only as she and the men approached that he raised his head, dark eyes almost twinkling in excitement at the sight of them.

“Mr. Khadim? I’m Tereš,” she swung her scarf around her neck as she approached the doors.

Already on board in the front row was her supposed partner for this mission, "Jolina, it's been a good little bit." She sat down next to her.

"Good to see you, Tereš."

[Made with the help of GU]

[Phoenxia]

~snip~

On the Road

Jolina Andropov was a familiar face to Tereš, who had worked on and off with her for the past four odd years. They always had a certain unspoken chemistry which allowed them to mainly just get their shit done and go their separate ways.

Ms. Andropov herself was an interesting character. She always had the same cold cutting gaze, which seemed to compliment her wavy blonde hair with dirty streaks of frazzled Jelenik brown. Occasionally, her stone cold face would break into an awkward smirk, reflective of a dry, morbid sense of humor. She was born in a Sanarian oil town to mixed Jeleni parents, and when J16 started hitting in Tenogoroč and Solazok too, they left for Phoenixia to escape the discrimination.

Mr. Khadim broke this train of thought with a cheery tone, "Ah, Ms. Darožnija, how was the flight over? I assume these squared away young marines didn't cause you much trouble?"

She looked back for a moment, "Nothing I couldn't handle, Mr. Khadim."

At a safehouse held by Fyrlander nationalists, whilst the Marines were busy fraternizing and trying to hit on their attachées, the four operators in the back plotted for plans they were going to execute later that night.

Jarinkov started plotting out documents, "Orenstein and his men always go to the tavern on Saturday nights and get shitfaced. We have reason to believe he's a closeted pider. Who wants the job of seducing him into the bathroom? Otherwise it's nose goes."

As quick as he said that, the four of them quickly moved a finger to their nose, Tarkoveć was too slow on the draw and interjected with a quick, "Fuck!"

Svensson Tavern
2145

The stage was set, all the operators walked into the bar, concealing PM-22 PDW's in their thick winter jackets except for Tarkoveć, who carried a marine toad knife in a boot sheath. He walked over to an empty seat next to Orenstein, feeling a lurch inside his stomach for what he was going to do next. "Hey, how's your night going?" He tried to feint an expression of sexual charisma, he thought it was pretty good at least.

The C-SEC officer's eyes met his and he immediately caught onto what he was trying to convey, "It's nice to unwind a little bit, you know? We work hard, we've gotta play hard once in a while."

Tarkoveć's hand gingerly moved to Orenstein's thigh, "What do you say we take this conversation somewhere else?" He winked and gave a tug.

He smiled in return, getting up from his barstool and loosely dragged his alleged new acquaintance to a restroom stall. "I could use a strong young man like you to do me good right now," he chuckled, but the young operator was having trouble keeping up the facade.

"Yeah? Turn around then, I'll give you a little surprise," Tarkoveć let out an uneasy giggle. The moment that the C-SEC man put his hands on the wall, he drew his toadspike and started stabbing him violently, starting at the neck and then spinning him around and going for the chest. The finely sharpened spike was able to shatter ribs with ease, turning his thoracic cavity into a pincushion. Because he hit all the right spots, there wasn't a single scream, the only noise the target could make for those last seconds was a weak, broken wheeze.

As the other operators saw their comrade walk out of the bathroom, they drew their weapons and opened fire on the obliviously drunk C-SEC soldiers. Most of them panicked and started running out the door, as the ones with their rifles had been targeted first.

As the carnage raged on, one of them broke into the office, where the security computer lay. He placed two frag grenades on the server rack and ran out.

The getaway driver was Jolina, who knew the streets of the city to a more than proficient degree. They wasted no time getting into the old minivan that the militia had commandeered months before. The bloodshed and carnage that four men had just caused likely would turn into an international incident, but it couldn't be traced to them for now.