Ending an Insurrection (Closed, ATTN: Azazia)

[Novikov]

Gabivkovo Square, Downtown Poldi’sk, Novikov

Gabivkovo Square was a solid mass of people, filling the great cobbled thoroughfare which led past the broad low façade of the Lord Advocate’s offices and the looming National Armory up to the political heart of Novikov – the Parliamentary Hall. On the steps leading up to the hall a line of grey-clad Polícia stood between the growing throngs and a small cluster of Novikov’s political elite.

The crowd peacefully milled about the wide square. An assembly was being called, the radio had announced yesterday, and at 16:00 Alicia Cermak, the Secretary of State for Novikov, would deliver an address to the nation. Now, as 15:59 quickly ticked away, the bubbling excitement in the crowd began to die down, and a hush slowly descended on downtown Poldi’sk as twenty-thousand eyes turned to watch Pani Cermak step out from the Parliament’s weathered oak doors and into the sunlight, surrounded by her colleagues.

Approaching sixty-two, the woman’s slouched stature and grey-flecked hair made her look older, and the traditional black scarf of the Novikovian Orthodox faith which covered her head evoked images of babička, the kindly old grandmother, in the minds of younger onlookers. She lifted a slender hand, her simple golden wedding band glinting in the strong light, and the hushed murmur of the crowd ceased, replaced only by the distant sounds of the city and the rustle of a strong sea-breeze.

Clearing her throat, Secretary Cermak stepped to the small podium prepared for her, carefully adjusting the microphones and straightening her posture before beginning to speak in her soft, lilting tone, using the Czech language so familiar to her Novikovian listeners.

“My fellow citizens,” she began, taking a deep breath, eyes momentarily closing, as though preparing to plunge into water. “My fellow citizens, today the Novikovian Parliament, in conjunction with other governmental agencies across Oceania, voted unanimously to declare a state of national emergency within the Home Country of Novikov.

“For over six years, the people of Novikov have permitted a war criminal and a traitor to live among them. Monica Kacnerova, the leader of the Free Nationalist Party (NVP), has been living in hiding in the Gabriko Islands, where she has received the aid and support of the local population. From this secure base, her faction’s militant Free Nationalist Front has conducted constant attacks against civilians and security personnel loyal to the legitimate Novikovian government. These attacks have claimed the lives of over thirteen-thousand of our citizens and have caused over ten billion Euro in damages. Furthermore, the weakness of our security forces in the region has allowed the Free Nationalist Front to gain de-facto control of the Gabriko Islands region.

“No longer will this situation be tolerated. Therefore, effective as of 24:00 tonight, the Free Nationalist Party is declared an illegal terrorist organization. Those seats occupied by the NVP, either in the Novikovian Parliament or the Parliament of the United Kingdom, shall be considered vacant until such a time as either the former officeholder can appear before Parliament to swear allegiance to the government of Novikov and to the United Kingdom or until elections can be organized in those districts so effected.

“Furthermore, it pains me to say that a state of conflict now exists between the state of Novikov and the group known as the Free Nationalist Front. Until all fighters of the Free Nationalist Front and other forces loyal to the Kacnerova regime lay down their arms and the Gabriko Islands are returned to their proper law and governance; until Kacnerova and other criminals are captured and brought to trial for their crimes, this government, and indeed all the people of Novikov, shall not rest. Therefore, the the commander of the Novikovian Security Forces, in concert with the Oceanian military, has begun to prepare for offensive actions against the Free Nationalist Front.”

A great commotion erupted within the crowd, men and women with upraised hands, flailing and gesturing as they shouted out their surprise, and dismay, and questions. After several excited minutes the tumult grew less, and Cermak raised both hands into the air, displaying her enormous influence as twenty-thousand voices faltered and stopped. As silence again descended on the square the aging Secretary turned from the crowd to a small cluster of reporters grouped to her left on the lower steps of Parliament.

“Pani Cermak, what about the thirty million citizens trapped in Gabriko?”

“All loyal citizens should take shelter in their homes. We will not target the people of Gabriko. These military actions are not directed at them – even those who openly support Kacnerova. Our goal is simply to drive the NVF from Gabriko and, if possible, to capture the NVF leadership, including Kacnerova herself.”

“What will happen if Kacnerova is captured?” Another reporter shouted, his hand outstretched, excitedly clenching a pencil. As Cermak responded, his head dropped and he began to frantically scribble on a small notepad.

“She will be brought to trial for her crimes, first here in Novikov and then across the United Kingdom. I’m sure the people of Adarton and many other Celerian cities would like to have her after we are finished. But rest assured, she will be treated humanely and justly in accordance with the Geneva Conventions.”

“Some have said this is a political ploy, and that the Liberal Democrats will use this opportunity to destroy the NV in order to further their own power. What do you say to that?”

Carefully covering her mouth with a frail hand, Secretary Cermak cleared her throat. Her shoulders hunched as she raised her head, she seemed shrunken by the barrage of questions. Wearing her same kindly but pained look, she slowly answered.

“The NVP have for four years refused to participate in the governance of Novikov. Their representatives have never visited Poldi’sk or Imperium so that our Parliaments may hear their voices. This refusal to participate in normal governance has branded them outlaws. If they will not cooperate with other elements of government, they must be removed in order to ensure the just and proper governance that the people of Novikov deserve.”

With that, Secretary Cermak lowered her head, turning from the podium, and walked back through the creaking doors of Parliament. The heavy oak closed behind her, all but blocking the noise of the stunned crowd outside. Settling into a leather chair in the main hall, she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, the stillness of the hall no escape from the prying voices echoing in her mind.

[Novikov]

Žilina, Gabriko Island, Novikov

“They’re out to destroy me,” a harrowed and scowling Monika Kacnerova growled, her eyes fixed on the small radio which rested on the table. The last five years had been hard on her, and she was now thin and pale with the cares of the world. As Secretary Cermak’s words faded, Monika raised a stiff hand, the knuckles knotted and creaking, and with unexpected speed flicked the small volume knob off. Turning to the steaming mug of tea set beside the radio, she raised it to her lips, her face taking a sour expression as she sipped at the potřeba (necessity) tea, the heavy earthen taste so unlike the fine tea she had grown accustomed to years earlier.

“I would expect nothing less from the imperialists and traitors that now sit in power in Poldi’sk.” The man seated next to her responded coolly, his eyes bare slits as he looked at the silent radio, thinking. He was tall and slouched back in his chair while he spoke, a grey military cap pulled down low over narrow, scheming eyes. His face was that of a middle-aged man, covered in fine black stubble, with high Slavic cheekbones accenting his already gaunt appearance. The cigarette he sucked on filled the room with a lingering grey haze.

His name was Vaclav Hradek, evidenced by the name stitched simply onto his wrinkled uniform. A career soldier, he had once been a charming officer in the now-defunct NFS, where he has served as the ranking officer in the Prime Minister’s guard. Five years ago, he had fled into exile with then-Minister Kacnerova and, returning with her a year later, had become the commander of the Free Nationalist Front. Rumors abounded here in Gabriko, where there was no press to speak of, and some said that General Hradek’s promotion was due to his unusually ‘close’ relationship with the former Prime Minister. Despite his public denial of these rumors, the two were rarely seen apart.

Kacnerova turned to the commander of her military forces, watching him shift lazily in the chair. Straight to the point, she asked. “Can we stop them?”

“We will.” Furrowing his brow, Hradek gave a sly smile, leaning close to Monika as he ground the cigarette’s embers into the filled ashtray. “We have over one-hundred-twenty-thousand militia on the island. They will pay in blood for every man they send to our island.”

“Good.” She responded, flashing a narrow smile to match Hradek’s. “How will you meet them?” She lifted a hand to her breast pocket, withdrawing an ebony fountain pen. Anxiously, she began tapping the pen monotonously against the wooden desk, her eyes locked on the man seated across from her.

“I plan to use our ships to meet them in the channel. The heights on the island will mask us from their radar until we are close enough to fire. Our regulars are already entrenched at the most favorable landing beaches. We will do what damage we can from afar, and then let them come. On the beaches, we will trap their men in the open and slaughter them.”

“What about their airpower? Have you forgotten the lessons from the last war?”

Hradek let out a long sigh, sinking farther back into the wooden chair. “In this area we can not hope to match our enemies. Our aircraft will be held back, hidden across the island. Once the enemy land, we will use them to temporarily drive the invaders from our skies while our light aircraft punish the beachheads.”

“Is it enough?” The tapping grew louder, more irregular, coming in staccato rhythm. There was fear evident on Kacnerova’s face now. “Have we no other allies?”

Shaking his head sadly, Hradek’s eyes fell from her face. Didn’t she understand they were all frightened? That all her lieutenants would share in her fate if they lost? “The Czechzen division at Bógrod has already been alerted. There is no one else.”

[Novikov]

Prostéjov, Southern Czechzenia, Novikov
One Week Later

“Pan Kopecky,” A young lieutenant wearing the black and cobalt uniform of the Novikovian Security Force’s elite airborne division said. “May I present, General Streizovska, the 51st Airborne’s commanding officer.”

A woman, clad in the same immaculate black uniform, rounded the corner, her heels clicking on the hard tile floor. At just thirty-four years old, she was far younger than most officers who wore the red and golden shoulder boards of a General. She also seemed far too young to require the wooden cane she leant on as she walked, Kopecky noticed. Halting six paces away from the Novikovian Premier, she snapped to rigid attention, the click of her heels echoing in the narrow hall.

"General Streizovska,” He said, nodding his head in acknowledgment and extending his hand.

“Pan Kopecky,” She responded, dropping her salute in crisp practiced form. “To what do I owe this honor?” Smiling out from gritted teeth, the veteran soldier felt this was hardly a surprise or an honor. This meeting, one of dozens scheduled by high-level politicians after last week’s announcement, had been scheduled in advance five days ago. Still, looking past the idiotic formalities she was forced to go through, Anezka took his outstretched hand in a firm shake, fighting back a laugh as the politician’s hand recoiled. Waving a hand to dismiss her orderly, she began to stiffly walk down the hall, leaning heavily on her cane, motioning for Kopecky to follow.

Walking abreast of the stout former paratrooper, Kopecky spoke, his voice echoing in the narrow hall. “As I am sure you know, I have been meeting with the General Staff. Prime Minister Thomason has made it my duty to meet with all local troop commanders in preparation for the upcoming operation.”

Streizovska halted, leaning her cane against the wall while she fished a ring of keys from her pocket. Finding the proper one, she unlocked a heavy wood door, letting it creak open while she recovered her cane and turned back to the Novikovian Premier. “Please, let us continue this discussion in my office.”

Her office was small and cramped, the wood-paneled walls covered in maps and pictures. Behind the general’s desk hung a small flag of the famed 147th Guards Airborne Brigade, and below that a row of framed commendations and her twin diplomas in French and Foreign Relations. Seated behind this impressive display, and with the warm yellow light of a desk lamp illuminating the row of medals across her chest, Kopecky suddenly found Streizovska’s stocky figure more imposing. Shifting in his seat, he took a moment to glance around the room, making sure the doors were closed before again opening his mouth.

“Are your men ready?” He asked bluntly after a few moments. General Streizovska seemed momentarily taken back by this question. When she spoke, she sharp tone was magnified, though whether by pride or simply anger Kopecky couldn’t tell.

“I assure you, Pan Kopecky,” She began, strongly emphasizing her superiors name in an attempt to reign in her emotions while maintaining her composure. “The 51st has never been more prepared. The 147th and 148th Brigades have been drilling for a week straight. All my officers know their objectives backwards and forwards. I worry that we may exhaust the troops before they ever see combat.” With that, she settled back into her leather chair, folding her arms over her chest.

He smiled kindly back. “My apologies; I do not mean to question your command. These are merely questions I must ask.”

“I understand. We all have our duty.”

‘”Ja.” Kopecky agreed, grateful for the opening as he posed his next question. “And you can assure me all your men know their duties?”

“Without question.” Anezka stood, stiffly walking across the small room to a large map of Gabriko Island. “Would you like to see our dispositions?”

An hour of conversation followed, with the pair clustered around the map. When they finished, the map was covered in marks and annotations. Satisfied, Kopecky prepared to leave, gathering his hat and coat, while Anezka returned to her seat. As he pulled the hat down over his dark hair, the general spoke up one final time.

“You have no more questions for me before you leave, Pan Kopecky?”

Kopecky turned to face her, taking a moment’s contemplation as he wondered how far this stern woman would allow him to go. After seconds of indecision, he finally resolved to ask. He leant across the chair which sat opposite the general’s, and quietly said, “There was one thing.”

At this her eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

“I was wondering how you got your limp.”

Anezka dropped her head, smiling knowingly. She had been asked this question by many of the younger officers when she had first taken this post, and now the entire division knew of her history. But this man had not been there then, she thought. Lifting her head, she nodded, as if accepting his question, and simply answered. “I was shot.”

“During the war?”

She shook her head. “No, afterwards, during the riots in Grozny. The bullet caused nerve damage. They told me I was fortunate to be able to walk at all.”

At this Kopecky’s eyes dropped, shaking his head, and he appeared to loose his diplomatic composure. When he looked up again, his eyes were sunken with pity. “I am sorry to hear of that.” He turned towards the door, wanting to leave, but not wanting to end on such a somber note. “Thank you again for your time.”

Anezka stood, giving the politician a cordial nod. “Thank you, Pan Kopecky. We’ll be ready.”

[Azazia]

Georgetown, New Britain
United Kingdom of Oceania

The vernal sunlight lit the streets and sidewalks of the Oceanian capital; but despite the stiff breeze the asphalt, concrete and steel absorbed the light and trapped the heat in a bubble surrounding the city.

"Goddamn weather," Howard Robertson swore as he shoved his way through a slowly moving crowd seeking to cram aboard a packed tram. "Out of my way, asshole," he shouted to an overweight suit who was sipping an iced drink from a cup with a straw. The man turned to face Robertson, his other hand busy typing on a smartphone while he spoke into an earpiece. Robertson ignored his reply and pushed the suit out of his way until he saw the guy swearing as the tram doors closed. "Does nobody realise I have a country to govern," he muttered underneath his breath as he stuck his arm up in the air to find the crossbar above his head.

The tram accelerated smoothly, a small blessing in the capital improvements programme passed by Salisbury administration several years prior. Robertson stole snippets of the view through the gap between shoulders of two fellow tram riders. Towers of steel and glass rose from facades of Georgian and Victorian era constructions. Deciduous trees and perennials were beginning to bloom. And amongst all of them, the inhabitants of Georgetown were headed to work.

"Yarrow Street Stop, exit on the right," the tram's automated voice announced in its familiar, soothing voice. "Yarrow Street Stop," it repeated. The tram stopped as smoothly as it had accelerated. More people attempted to cram aboard and the Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister felt more arms pressing against him.

The tram started up once more, but as it headed towards a T intersection, it descended into a tunnel that ran beneath a massive park. On the far side was the Citadel and Robertson's office.

Gallston Barracks, outside Zvolen, Novikov

The cigarette hanging from the Lieutenant-Colonel's lips roused a smile from Brigadier Pierre Roland. The dim orange glow, however, was washed out a moment later as a series of deafening flashes erupted but a few hundred metres away. After a minute, the noise subsided and the darkness returned. Roland turned away from the artillery pieces before him to face the Lieutenant-Colonel. "Now if your artillery can perform like that under fire on Gabriko, you shall have little to fear from the likes of Kacnerova. Except for having to listen to her droll rants on the radio."

The lieutenant-colonel laughed politely and then saluted Roland as he turned to leave. Roland had grown accustomed to Novikov. The land and the people were no substitute for his home in Bourbonia, but he had grown accustomed to Novikov. He had served in the war. He returned to his home in Charlesbourg a hero. Then a lieutenant, he had accepted the surrender of an entire Novikovian town and an elite airborne brigade. That very little was left of both the town and the brigade mattered little to his mother, father, brother and sister.

Several years later, he now commanded the 12th Infantry Brigade. And once more, the decision had been made to engage in offensive operations on Novikovian soil. Roland looked down at the glowing ticks on the dial of his watch. His meeting with divisional headquarters was due to start in less than an hour.

The Citadel
Georgetown, New Britain, United Kingdom

"For fuck's sake, Louise, I asked for the briefing on Novikov. It has all the writing in that foreign language your little blonde brain cannot comprehend." Robertson sighed. While he needed to read the Meteorological Office's Planning Report on the long term impact of climate change to the agricultural output of the Cumberland Valley, he did not need to read it before heading into a meeting with the PM about the upcoming operations in Novikov. "And get me some more fucking tea, love."

Without warning, the door connecting Robertson's office to that of the Prime Minister swung open. The tall and well-built personal secretary for the PM appeared between the lintels. "She will see you now." Robertson pushed his seat away from the desk and glared at his secretary as she handed him the correct folder and a steaming mug of Sarnian tea.

Several men were already present in the office, most huddled around the Prime Minister's desk. The tall, rakish man with greying hair was Daniel Blair, Defence Secretary. Shorter and a bit stouter in shape and with thinning blonde hair was Emil Kolar, First Lord of the Admiralty. Standing near them were several well-decorated officers from the armed forces—Robertson could never tell the difference between military folks. The uniforms made them all look the same. And as for all the aides, Robertson smiled as they retreated away from the desk and to the back wall.

"Thank you for joining us, Howard," the Prime Minister began. "We were just reviewing the, what did you call it Daniel?"

"Disposition, ma'am."

"Ah, the disposition of our armed forces."

Robertson nodded as Kolar made room for the Chief of Staff. "All is proceeding apace, Daniel and Emil?"

Both of the men looked at Robertson and nodded. Kolar, who officially represented the Royal Navy's own Meteorological Office, made a motion towards something on Thomason's desk that Robertson could not see. "We may have a storm system moving in to the Sound area within the next 72 hours. We will still be able to operate, but the Nationalists may be able to slip some supplies in and out during the worst of it. That does seem to be their normal means of resupply."

"And that was the fault of that fool Ingrahm," Thomason added. "If he had been born with the spine necessary for this job, he would not have let that bitch run rampant like a rabid, feral cockroach. Instead, he has left it to us to crush her under our boot heels." She motioned for Blair and Kolar to step aside. "This, Howard, is the latest satellite intelligence. Captain Reynolds from ORNI brought it with him."

Robertson found the fresh-faced captain walking over to the desk. "What do you have for us, Captain?"

The intelligence officer offered a professional smile before beginning. "During the past few years, while the Government declined to take direct action against the insurgents, ORNI continued to observe Kacnerova and her corps of supporters with a particular concern about threats to Royal Navy assets. We have subsequently identified several sites that we believe that the Nationalist forces believe that we remain unaware of. Undoubtedly these are not all Nationalist assets, the terrain favours hidden depots and caches. However, ships and aircraft are harder to hide."

Robertson turned around to try and find the most plain and unnoticeable person in the room. "And what does the RIS have to say about this?"

A very plain man approached. He was somewhat short for a tall person while fit for a person who so obviously sat behind a computer screen all day. "At the moment, sir, we believe the Nationalists have a force of some 80–100 thousand individuals. All are technically militia. However, most served during the War and have military training and expertise. They are led by one Vaclav Hradek, who we also believe to be Kacnerova's lover. Hradek served in the elite guard unit designated to protect Kacnerova and he was well regarded professionally and socially prior to the war."

The nondescript man handed Robertson a small dossier of photographs, sketches, and factsheets before continuing. "Kacnerova is an average strategist and tactician. Prior to the arrival of Hradek, the Free Nationalists were little more than a nuisance. His promotion to the professional head of the Free Nationalist militia, however, has seen improved discipline and morale."

"And how do we know all of this if we have not fought the Free Nationalists in years?"

The ORNI officer smiled along with his counterpart. "We have our sources."

"Human or signals?"

"I would prefer not to say in front of mixed persons," the spook replied turning only briefly to look at the various aides in the back of the room.

"Regardless, thank you," Robertson replied. "At least someone can get me the right damned files promptly." The Chief of Staff turned to an older man with angular jaws and soft brown eyes both warm and chilling to the bone. "Field Marshal, how about the operation?"

Field Marshal Sir Gerald Covington nodded without hint of emotion. "I have spoken with my counterpart in the Novikovian Security Force and they assure me that preparations are proceeding as scheduled. The Novikovians will take lead in the operation with the Oceanian 3rd Mountain Division from IV Corps in Novikov joining VIII Corps and its 10th Armoured, 22nd Infantry and 29th Infantry divisions all based in Telc, Czechzenia in order to provide support. RAF flights are currently ferrying the requisite supplies for sustained combat operations in the theatre—where resupply to forces on the islands will be difficult at best."

"Difficult at best?" Robertson enquired.

Covington nodded once more. "Have no doubt, sir. We are to be fighting on rugged terrain that is now well-known to the insurgents who have but nowhere to which they can retreat. Surrendering means they become admitted traitors and thus eligible for capital punishment. The Free Nationalists have nothing to lose by fighting to the end."

"This is going to be a bloodbath," Robertson moaned. "For Christ's sake, the Greens will want nothing more than to fuck us with the goddamned trees they hug. The Liberal Union will force us to shit out more concession to the Dutch provinces. And fuck knows how the Tories will fuck us for this."

"The only saving grace," he continued, "is that we are letting the Novies handle this largely by themselves. We are letting them clean up their own mess. We are taking a huge fucking risk. We are screwing a dockyard whore from Victoria without a condom. But fuck knows what Kopecky and his lot have involved down in Poldi'sk."

Thomason smiled. "Then we simply make sure that as harsh as we shall be with Kacnerova, we are doubly harsh to the Tories and whoever else wants to gain from this politically. Besides ourselves, of course."

[Novikov]

Gabriko Island
06:12

The sun edged over the horizon, lighting the eastern slopes of Gabriko’s rugged terrain. On the ground, the NVF defenders anxiously looked up at the rising sun, scanning the skies for the hammer blow they knew was about to fall. Six air search radars were active on the island, providing information to the hundreds of SAMs and anti-aircraft guns which dotted the island.

Using satellite information provided by the Oceanian military command, Novikovian analysts had located all six radar sites. Doubtless, the analysts knew, there would be more secondary instillations, well camouflaged and waiting to reveal themselves, but these six represented the immediate threat to Novikovská Ochraná Kapela (NOK) forces. Therefore, Novikovian military planners had chosen those six sites, as well as dozens of other air-defense instillations, as the first targets of what promised to be the largest Novikovian air strike since the Azazian War ended years ago.

From low on the horizon, sixty converted Dassault Jaguar aircraft followed the rising sun west, skimming fifty meters above the choppy waves of Gabriko Sound. The aircraft had been modified years earlier to carry powerful Radar jamming equipment, and as they approached the Gabriko coast the pilots flipped their systems on, blanketing the Gabriko coast in electronic white noise and drastically cutting back the NVF’s radars. Across the island, approaching from the west, another forty-eight Jaguar aircraft operating from bases in Czechzenia performed the same maneuver.

The NVF radar operators watched as their Radar screens were covered in choppy static, cutting their detection range back to barely fifty kilometers from the coast. Although they could detect no aircraft as of yet, they knew that such a massive jamming effort would be used to protect inbound strike aircraft. Certain that a raid was on the way, each individual commander began calling in air raid warnings to other NVF units.

Just less than fifty kilometers out, the eastern group of Jaguar aircraft began to climb, the pilots beginning to anxiously scan the skies for the telltale smoke trail of an incoming missile. At forty-two kilometers, they reached their predetermined launch altitude and, on command, flipped on the HARM Targeting Systems hanging beneath their aircraft. The targeting pods located dozens of surface-air radars operating on the island. Each of the six air-search radars were immediately targeted, receiving the attention of six aircraft each. The remaining aircraft split their attention between a dozen more SAM sites located across the eastern coast. Approaching thirty-eight kilometers from the coast, the sixty Jaguars of the westbound strike each launched two AGM-88 HARM anti-radiation missiles and, just as hostile radars began to burn through their powerful jamming systems, turned sharply and headed back east to safety.

On the ground, the NVF controllers were just beginning to get a picture of the inbound raid when klaxons across the island began to sound. One radar operator had detected objects separating from the inbound aircraft, and now, as the aircraft turned to run, there could be no doubt. Within seconds, radar operators began to shut down their systems, hoping to confuse the inbound missiles. What resulted was a complete radar blackout over Gabriko for the next two minutes.

Two minute was all the Novikovian commander needed. As the first wave of strike aircraft retreated, hundreds more which had been circling over Nemšová in western Novikov broke off from their lazy circles and headed west. Simultaneously, the second group of jamming aircraft, flying over the south-eastern Czechzen coast, went to afterburner and swung east, timing their approach to coincide with the approach of their eastern comrades.

After forty-five seconds, the first HARM missile began to fall on coastal SAM sites. Half missed their mark, the missiles unable to locate the SAM’s radars as they rapidly switched off. The rest, however, continued to bore in, already close enough that their target’s disappearance made no difference. Within a minute, four SAM instillations exploded in a rippling mass of flames. Twenty seconds after that, the air-search radars, most grouped around the Žilina regional airport or in the highlands in the south of the island, began to take hits, a dozen missiles falling in and around each radar site. The Žilina airport’s control tower took a direct hit, collapsing into a mountain of folded concrete and steel. Of the six targets, five received direct hits, and all took fearful losses to their support units as the missiles rained down on unprotected barracks.

The one surviving ground radar, sitting high on Velka Štít at the center of the island, flipped back on as the smoke cleared. Immediately, hundreds of inbound aircraft were detected heading in from the east, while the west was still obscured in a cloud of ECM aircraft. The site commander, in shock at the suddenness of the attack, immediately began to radio raid warnings to the remaining SAM sites across the island. With the aircraft rapidly nearing the coast, the NVF’s air defense grid lit up, dozens of secondary SAM radars coming online almost as one. They immediately acquired targets and, and the eastern strike bore in, unprotected, a volley of SAMs rose to meet them.

This had been expected, and the SAM’s radars came back online, the western strike group activated their HARM Targeting Systems and fired a volley of ninety-six more anti-radiation missiles to suppress the defenders. These aircraft then turned south, maintaining a respectful distance from the Gabriko coast.

The SAMs struck first, closing with the incoming aircraft at a combined speed of over 4,300 km/h. The inbound pilots, without protective jammers of their own, increased speed and began to jink up and down, hoping to avoid any missiles targeted at them. In all, just over fifty SA-6 and SA-11 missiles had been launched, targeting thirty-four aircraft. In seconds, these missiles achieved twenty-four kills and damaged four additional aircraft. Seconds after that, their targeting radars went off the air permanently as the second wave of HARM missile struck.

It was an expensive price to pay in order to suppress the enemy air defenses, the Novikovian commander knew, but one that he knew had to be paid so that other pilots would return home. With the SAM crews in disarray, the other aircraft in the eastern strike, still numbering over two-hundred, continued their approach, coming over their targets less than a minute after the last missile hit. Most of these aircraft were Mirage 2000’s, laden with ground attack weapons, skimming over the island’s coasts at Mach 1.2. They struck hard, first at known coastal defenses, dropping cluster munitions and American-designed AGM-65’s on their targets before quickly turning and retreating out to sea. Other aircraft continued over the island, some to strike Žilina’s concrete runways and hangars, others roaring over the city to drop their bombs on suspected NVF headquarters. Anti-aircraft fire rose to meet them, but without their radar guidance, they had slim chance to hit the supersonic aircraft. In five minutes, all the bombs had been dropped, and the second wave turned south, streaking low over the mountainous interior of the island.

The southbound ECM aircraft turned, circling twenty miles past the island’s southern tip, providing a protective curtain of electronic noise for the escaping strike aircraft. Three were damaged by flak as they headed south, but all reached the relative safety of Gabriko Sound before circling east and returning to base. As they broke contact, a third and final wave, consisting of forty-five Jaguar ground attack aircraft and thirty L-1 Duša of the NOK naval command turned towards Gabriko from bases on the southern tip of Czechzenia. The Jaguars, receiving confirmation that all friendly aircraft had left the area, fired off a wave of SCALP EG cruise missiles from the safety of the Czechzen coast, half targeting select coastal defense sites, the other half falling on the slopes of Velka Štít, their explosion tearing the last surviving NVF radar. The Duša continued their approach, sweeping towards the small fishing villages of Gorno and Altai, where satellite intel had revealed several NVF patrol boats.

Armed with two Exocet missiles each, the slow moving Duša carefully approached the coast, using look-down radar to identify the hostile ships before launching their weapons. This maneuver required them to close to within forty kilometers of Gorno-Altai, well within range of ground-based SAMs. The two sides fired at almost the same time - sixty missiles splitting their attention between a mere three Tarantul-I patrol boats while a meager four SA-11 followed the turning aircraft out to sea. All four SAMs found their mark, but so did the Exocets, rapidly impacting the small ships and spreading death and destruction across the harbor facilities.

The raid had taken barely twenty minutes to conduct, but its results were undeniable. The Novikovian pilots had, in one fell blow silenced two-thirds of the NVF’s air defense systems and had seriously damaged dozens of other sites across the island, paving the way for other pilots to conduct other missions in the days to come. The NVF, for their part, claimed sixty-one aircraft downed – no small feat – although in reality Novikovian losses amounted to twenty-nine aircraft, with eleven damaged. These losses came as a surprise to the Novikovian aviators, who had been told the opposition was inexperienced militia, untrained with their weapons, but just the same both sides knew who had won and who had lost.

[Azazia]

The Citadel
Georgetown, New Britain, United Kingdom

"Over thirty aircraft?" Thomason glowered. "These are the elite pilots of the Novikovian Air Force? Even I know that one should use stealth bombers. Or ships. In Sarnia we use cruise missiles from ships if not aircraft."

A tall and angular man stood before Thomason. He wore the sharp dress uniform of the RAF and the rank insignia of an air chief marshal. Sir Raymond Hemming was the Chief of the Air Staff, head of the RAF. Standing beside him was Field Marshal Sir Covington, the Chief of the Defence Staff.
"Ma'am, the NOK operation was largely sound. They were provided several high-value air defence targets and the NOK, using the best means at their disposal, eliminated those targets."

"But we lost over thirty aircraft."

"Ma'am, the NOK no longer maintains any long-range bombers or stealth aircraft. All strategic resources were absorbed by the RAF. Any such operation would thus require deployment of resources currently under RAF operational command. An RAF operation with the same aims could have been accomplished with the loss of far fewer aircraft; but we have the greater resources in terms of technology and numbers to call upon."

Thomason closed her eyes and sat in silence for a long moment.

"Very well. However, I want to make sure that Kacnerova and her generals know that they are not dealing with just the Novikovians. I want them to feel our boot heel on their jugular. Crushing their trachea while the NOK uses their dull scalpels to slice the traitors into tiny pieces for the vultures and hyenas."

Covington nodded professionally. "You wish to authorise a punitive strike against the rebels using RAF and potentially Royal Navy strategic assets?"

"Yes, Field Marshal."

Colonial Office
Georgetown, New Britain, United Kingdom

"But what happens after capitulation, Henry?" Sir Iain Bashir eased back into his leather office chair and pushed the maps back across his desk. "We have over thirty million Novikovians living on Gabriko and in all likelihood a significant portion of them support the Free Nationalists. Or else our bounties for their leadership would have been taken up years ago. If we let these people vote and give them democracy, they will vote for the sycophants that propped Kacnerova up over the past half-decade."

"And so we deny them the democratic freedoms we have been promising them?"

Bashir clenched his hand into a fist and beat his knuckles upon his chair's armrest. "Not necessarily. But all of us in the Cabinet decided that Alicia's announcement in Poldi'sk would be vague as to the aftermath. Fortunately the matter never arose as the locals seemed preoccupied with the fate of Kacnerova and the political advantage for the LDs."

"And if national security is politics and all politics are local…" Bashir's aide dryly commented.

"This operation will be over by the Novikovian elections. And if the LDs can recover and take back control of the Novikovian Parliament, it shall secure our own political position here in Georgetown."

"But what about the aftermath? The Prime Minister did not seem as concerned about that as 'drawing every last ounce of Free Nationalist blood'," Henry commented, imitating the Prime Minister's voice.

"I have been in touch with Alicia at the Novikov Office, Daniel at the MoD, Emil at the Admiralty, and Alan at the Home Office. We are setting up an informal working committee to discuss the future of Lesser Novikov."

"And the PM knows?"

"I informed Howard the other day. He recognises the value in ensuring that whatever occupation follows, it is an efficient, equitable, and well-run occupation. When the lot of us are up for re-election none of us need to be mired in some guerrilla war in the highlands of Gabriko."

Gabriko Sound, Novikov

Night had fallen across the region while the fires still burned from wrecked radar and SAM sites in Gabriko. Slowly, however, those fires were being extinguished as a light rain was beginning to fall and the seas were starting to swell.

The Gabriko Sound was an interesting geographical feature that had long defined Novikov and the separation of the various islands into the distinct, historical kingdoms that still largely defined part of the Novikovian identity. Czechzenia and Novikov, the largest two islands and the two largest groups of population were separated by the Sound. And the Sound ran almost as deep as the division between the two peoples.

For most of its length, the Sound runs deep. During the War, the last refuge of the vaunted Novikovian submarine force was in the Sound. In fact, days before the end of the war, one of the last warships lost by the United Kingdom would be the Royal Navy patrol ship HMS Unicum. However, the depths of the Sound shallowed quickly as one neared the Gabriko Islands. And as the water shallowed, the storms swelled the seas and pushed the swells across the narrower straits between the islands and the Novikovian and Czechzenian coasts.

For the crew aboard MV Nesrozumitelný Zisk, the light rain was an inconvenience. The swells, however, were another matter entirely with the winds forecast to increase in speed; navigating the waterways nearer Gabriko and then attempting to dock at the small civilian port of Tseel would be tricky. Captain Ignác Sokoll, a bearded man who visibly enjoyed fine meals and drinks, merely squinted at the flickering radar display on the bridge. He had been to Tseel, Gorno, Altai, and numerous other ports and harbours over the past few years. And almost always in bad weather.

Sokoll turned away from the display, as Tseel was still about two hours distant, and headed for the coffee machine in his cabin—he would need the caffeine on a night like this. As he poured himself some of the instant-crap preferred by his first mate, Sokoll heard a muffled scream. The captain placed his mug on the desk and walked back out to the bridge. And the barrel of a rifle.

"On the ground, now," a darkened face barked.

Sokoll hesitated. And then Sokoll was on the ground. The blow to his knees came from his right side. He had not seen it. But he had felt it.

"Who, who are you?" Sokoll hissed.

"Fucking Santa Claus, you Kac-lover. Now shut up."

Sokoll felt the oddly warm end of a barrel at the back of his neck. But it was cold and raining outside…

HMS Defiant
Gabriko Sound, Novikov

Several kilometres away from the MV Nesrozumitelný Zisk, the sleek lines of the Type 21 stealth frigate scattered the civilian radar emitted from the freighter. And above the freighter, a stealth Sea Sprite drone beamed false returns into the civilian receiver. Running in silence, the HMS Defiant was difficult to find especially during stormy weather.

But for Commander Alan Hayes, nestled deep within the ship in Operations, with a steaming cup of tea, the weather was the perfect cover for Operation Icy Caviar. In support of the NOK operations, the Royal Navy had despatched additional patrol ships—specifically a squadron of the stealthy Type 21 frigates—to intercept illegal arms shipments headed for Gabriko.

On one of the high-definition flatscreens before him, Hayes watched the live feed from one of the Royal Marine boarding parties that had secreted aboard the freighter. The Office of Royal Navy Intelligence had received a tip from a contact on Gabriko that the Free Nationalists were expecting several shiploads of materiel during the storm with the hope of receiving weapons before the arrival of Novikovian and Oceanian troops.

The MV Nesrozumitelný Zisk had been identified as some sloppy paperwork actually listed the ship as having a destination in Gabriko, not Tseel, but that did not matter. Most smugglers listed either Prostéjov or Zvolen as their final destination but took a few hours' detour to Gabriko.

"Captain," the Royal Marines officer stated, "you are going to want to see this."

Hayes turned to the screen in question and underneath the flickering lights of the freighter's cargo hold, Hayes saw row after row of armoured vehicle.

"Tanks, IFVs, and mobile surface-to-air missile launchers, sir. I cannot state with certainty here, sir, but these are not cheap knock-offs, these are some quality goods."

Hayes shook his head. "Very well. I am going to transfer over some personnel to take charge of the freighter." Hayes turned around to find his first officer. "I want you to take charge and get the ship Zvolen. Nobody is going to like this news."

[Novikov]

Near Žilina, Gabriko Island, Novikov

The past two days had been sheer murder for Vaclav Hradek’s conventional forces. The Novikovian air campaign had fallen on his island like a lightning storm, striking anything and anyone who did not have the sense to go underground. For all his preparation to this point and all his experience in the Azazian conflict, he had not been able to withstand the massed firepower arrayed against him. Two days prior, Gabriko had boasted an impressive array of over three-hundred anti-aircraft missiles and guns. Now, just the shattered remains of some sixty weapons remained to him.

The recent change in weather patterns had brought only the briefest rest to Gabriko Island, as Novikovian planners shifted tactics on the second day. The weather did decrease the number of air strikes reported on the second day, but this still brought little relief to the defenders.

To make matters worse, the cloudy grey light of morning had today brought news of the ever-tightening blockade, drawing slowly round his neck like a noose. The last two planned supply shipments – including the missiles and guns he so desperately needed – had not reached their destination. Counting on an incoming storm front to cover his last few transports, he had planned to use the brief respite the storm provided to prepare his forces for the coming landings. But without heavy weapons, his reserves were little better than militia units. It seemed that his grand strategy had been swept away with the strong northern breeze.

“Kamarád-Generál?” The tentative voice of a young courier peering meekly out from the hall of an NVF command bunker in the hills overlooking Žilina. From where the youth stood, he could see his general’s silhouette black against the deep blue flickering night. A sudden burst of light and the youth cringed, the thunder echoing distantly from the sea. With a sudden determination, Hradek turned, his boots dully echoing as he moved towards the youth.

His eyes seemed to stare through the young man as he quickly paced by, hurriedly speaking as he plotted his next course of action. In the face of such evident air superiority, he could not afford to hold his forces in the open. Hradek silently cursed his decision to hold his few missile boats in harbor, where they had been easily located and destroyed, robbing him of one of his longest range weapons. With few options now left to him, he knew that if he were to change is dispositions it must be done while the weather held. “Nicol. Take this message to the reserve brigades - in person, mind you, and with all haste: Expect landings in the area northwards of Tseel. Brigades should move to reinforce these areas. Due to enemy air power, transport must take place within the next 72 hours under the cover of weather. Maintain complete radio silence. Deploy at your discretion and hold the beaches.”

Znojmskí Bay, South Western coast of Czechzenia

Sheltered by the hilly inland of southern Czechzenia, Znojmskí Bay had been chosen as a secure assembly site for the gathering Flota Novikovská Ochraná Kapelsku (Novikovian Security Forces Fleet or FNOK). Now, as each piece in the Novikovian strategy drew into place, the deep and sheltered bay became home to dozens of ships, hosting the largest assembly of naval power since the Azazian war. Far off the coast, the mighty NL'L Kníže Boleslav Ukrutný, one of Novikov’s two massive Dreadnaughts lay at anchor, rocking in the heavy sea. Beside her, two Kveta-class battleships and the aging NL'L Prostéjov waited as some forty smaller escorts assembled, completing the FNOK task force.

In Znojmo harbor itself, nearly two dozen Ocean-class amphibious assault ships and other transport and supply vessels finished boarding their compliments of already weary and seasick Naval Infantry. Amphibious assaults were a relatively new concept in Novikovian warfare, having faced almost unopposed landings in nearly every previous engagement. However, the past six years had seen a rapid change in doctrine as the NOK prepare for her eventual task of reclaiming Gabriko island. Now, as these men embarked onto their ships, the eyes of the Novikovian military turned towards these untested warriors. Tonight they would set sail. In three days, the attack on Gabriko would begin…

[Novikov]

Nemšová Airbase, Eastern Novikov

The rain had been falling for four days straight; the water whipped frothing into the air by the strong and constant wind from the sea. It made for impossible flying conditions, and entire squadrons of Dassault Jaguars, the aging backbone of Novikov’s ground attack force, had been grounded since the first day of operations. The sprawling airbase south of Nemšová, home to over one hundred Mirage 2000-6A all-weather fighters, had been one of only a handful of facilities able to continue operations over Gabriko.

“Kurwa!” a rain-drenched sentry cursed, throwing back the hood of his rubber poncho as he stepped under the overhanging roof of his small guard shack. Inside, a second, considerably drier guard sat hunched over on his Kevlar helmet, face lit by the faint orange glow of a small wood stove. His face, squashed between a thick brown and squar jaw, appeared much older than that of his companion. Shaking the water from the poncho’s clinging sleeves, the youth leaned back against the brick wall and fished a damp cigarette from his fatigues, lighting it with a match. “Never rained like this in Trnava.”

The old man grinned, moving his gaze from the boy as he spoke, his gravely voice in the accent of northern Czechzenia. “It reminds me of Svitavy in the early spring. This is Czechzen weather. We would ride these storms, these winds, south to Košice and beyond.” His smile flashed wider in the firelight.

Exhaling slowly, the boy watched smoke fill the small hut, curling and lingering in the humid air. “Do you think they’ll postpone the attack?”

The elder soldier stood, peering out into the rain. “No…” He began slowly, motioning out the widow. In the distance, the red glow of an aircraft engine streaked upwards, followed by the dull roar as it passed overhead. “It hasn’t slowed them down yet.”

NL'L Kníže Boleslav Ukrutný, Gabriko Sound

The ship rocked slowly despite the heavy surf. One of the best things about being aboard a dreadnaught, thought Serhei Kistiakowsky. As a journalist with the prominent Russian-language Tribuna, he had been aboard over a dozen warships and had sailed into three conflicts in his day. Gabriko would be his fourth.

He had been at sea for over a week, traveling by helicopter to join the assembling fleet near Znojmo. Four days later, the ship had set sail into rough seas, agreeably giving Serhei time to find his place among the bustling three thousand man crew. Already he had filled a notebook of stories from among the crew, many of whom knew his work, hailing from the great Russian city of Duma or nearby Rožnava, whose narrow harbor had been dredged deep enough to accommodate the massive ship. With a radio blackout in effect since the fleet left Znojmo, though, there had been nowhere to send his stories off to, so he had taken to passing the days collecting yet more in his notebook and watching black shores go by under drear grey skies.

Now, after three long days, the fleet neared their destination in the sheltered waters between the Czechzen coast and Gabriko Island’s smaller cousin, Skala, so named for the rocky cliffs which jutted into the sea near the island’s southern tip. From a narrow porthole, Kistiakowsky could see those rocky cliffs pass slowly by, a mist hanging low over the dark shore. As the sun settled into the west it shone low on the horizon, breaking through the clouds for a moment to illuminate the island’s jagged crags in a flash of orange and scarlet. Then, sun slipping below the dark line of Czechzenia which stretched far into the distance, a darkness settled on the fleet. The ships would come to anchor during the night, the main fleet waiting some sixty kilometers off the coast of Gabriko while seventeen transports, escorted by ten small frigates and destroyers, continued on towards their landing areas.

North of Gabriko, the dark waters of the sound were home to fourteen submarines, all Víčor-class nuclear boats, the pride of the Novikovian fleet, silently working their way south. They had been deployed to the sound over a week ago, assisting several small ships of the Royal Navy and FNOK maintain the blockade around Gabriko. Each ship carried a deadly compliment of eight Líška cruise missiles, specifically designed to strike ground targets like those across the island. Because of the missile’s pervious use against Azazian civilians, they were a closely monitored item, and one which Novikovian forces could use only sparingly. For these reasons, the submarines had been held back from launching attacks on Gabriko up until this point. But as the invasion prepared to kick off, they were directed south to lend their weight to the assault.

Prostéjov, Southern Czechzenia, Novikov

As the sun settled down below the horizon, General Streizovska anxiously watched the men of her command assemble on the tarmac and board their waiting C-160 transports. It took over an hour for both combat brigades to board their aircraft, and another half-hour for each of the eighty-five transports to assemble and begin heading south. As the rumble of their engines faded into the distance, the general glanced down as her watch. 22:40 - Just one hour and ten minutes and her men would be on the ground.

[Novikov]

Over Southern Gabriko

“Pohnout kostrou!” The roar of the aircraft’s engines and the noisy gusting of the wind ripped the words from his lips as Starshiy Leytenant Janek Nizich’s hand fell heavily on the back of the young Yefreytor in front of him. The boy’s head turned, casting a glance over his shoulder, wide-eyes white against the black paint on his face, and nodded silently to his company commander, steeling himself as he stepped forward and leapt out of the aircraft into the cold night air. Immediately, the young soldier’s place was filled by another man, then another, leaping two-by-two out the slow moving transport. Finally, only Leytenant Nizich remained. He took a deep breath, and plunged out the aircraft.

There was a rush of wind in his ears, thick droplets of water clinging to him as he rushed down with the drizzling rain. A sudden snap as he pulled his parachute, and his body was snapped upwards, the rushing wind replaced by an eerie calm as he floated downward. The dark ground loomed up before him, and he straightened his body, tensing his legs straight as he struck the ground. It was foolish, almost amateur mistake, and one he had practiced hard to avoid. He felt a jarring impact in his left knee, tumbling down into the clinging mud of an unplowed field. Crying out, the Leytenant yanked on his parachute’s release, letting the parachute flutter down into the mud twenty meters away as he rolled over, clutching his knee.

Groaning, Nizich rolled himself into a sitting position, stiffly slipping his heavy pack from his shoulders. He scarcely had time to take stock of his surroundings when he heard the sound of a hushed voice from the tree line. A momentary pang of fear struck him as he removed the safety from his weapon, leveling it. The sound of booted feet squelching through the mud, and the figure of a helmeted soldier appeared through the rain.

“Stoi.” The Leytenant growled, and the figure halted, sinking down onto one knee.

“Leytenant?” The soldier peered through the darkness, a smile breaking out on his face. Shouting, he turned his head. “Kristof, we found the “Leytenant!”

More booted feet quickly approached, and Nizich was carefully helped to his feet by two riflemen, while another quickly grabbed his pack before retreating into the safety of the tree line. There, “Leytenant Nizich found a cluster of some forty men quietly kneeling. Settling against a tree twenty meters into the forest, he waved his arm, quietly commanding, “Platoon leaders, here.” His command was relayed in hushed voices down the line. In a minute, two crouching forms rested next to the injured company leader.

“Maladshiy Leytenant Tuplov, Praporshik Jakes, sir. Fourth platoon.”

“Good.” The Leytenant groaned, shifting his back against the tree. “Contact with the other platoons?”

“Yes sir. First and third platoon are assembling about one kilometer north of here, in the forest along the rail line. Second platoon is across a field north-east of here. They’re still picking up a few stragglers, but almost everyone is accounted for.”

Nodding, Nizich reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a small map and penlight. With the dim red light illuminating the map, he briefly took stock of the situation.

“Weather pulled us four kilometers south-west of our intended drop point.” Jakes, the platoon’s warrant officer complained, hunched over the map.

“You said first platoon is at the rail line right now?”

“Yes sir.” Jakes leaned in, pointing to a curve in the Trans-Gabriko Industrial Line as it climbed the hills into the interior of the island. This railway served as a vital transit route across the island, and his company’s objective was to seize the rail bridge spanning the Nemska Gorge, high in the hills of southern Gabriko.

“Assemble the company in the wood alongside the railway in ten minutes. First company is on point. We’ll have to follow the tracks all the way to our objective.”

“Yes sir.” Both officers nodded in unison, Jakes turning to scurry off to a waiting radio operator. Tuplov hesitate, nervously eyeing his injured commander. “Should I send for a medic?”

The Leytenant nodded. “May as well. But I have to walk on it all the same.”

[Novikov]

Southern Gabriko Island
04:35

They had been on the move for over five hours, cautiously trudging up a rugged path which ran through the forest near the railway. Twice, the company had been forced to cross small roads running west out of the hills down towards the coast. There was real danger there, and it took the company - over 140 men in total - almost half an hour to cross the busier of those two intersections. Now, though, they had left those last vestiges of civilization behind as they climbed higher into the hills.

The rain had almost stopped, slowing to a bare trickle as a break in the storm-clouds blew overhead, briefly exposing the twinkling eastern stars. As the din of falling water died, Leytenant Nizich's company climbed higher, their boots scraping on the gravely path. They continued on another twenty minutes in silence, then halted, a hushed whisper, like wind in the reeds, slowly crept down the line to the Leytenant. "Objective in sight!"

The sky was suddenly lit by the sound of explosions, and two aircraft streaked overhead. The Leytenant checked his watch. 04:55. Right on time. The airforce had been doing heavy work across Gabriko this past night in support of the Novikovian airborne units now on the island. Most of the air strikes had been launched to suppress the remaining enemy air defenses in preparation for the attack. Now that the paratroops were on the ground, though, the attacks shifted focus, turning to hammer hostile units in the north, which would undoubtedly come hurtling down on the airborne as the invasion started. Another series of explosions followed in quick succession. From far below them, to the south-west where the land stretched lazily down out of the hills to meet the sea, a fireball erupted, than another and another. The sounds of gunfire drifted up to the ears of the company, and Nizich looked anxiously down on the scene below him.

In the pre-dawn darkness, the lands below him were black and untextured, save where the land rose against the deep blue-black of the ocean. But he knew that below his position lay a small gravel airstrip built by the NVF. That was his brigade's primary target, and the noises below had to be his fellow soldiers attacking the airfield. Leytenant Nizich's heart pounded in his ears. Men were dying! He knew he had to hurry. He turned to his platoon leaders, kneeling in a semi-circle around him, whispering frantically.

"Mortars set up here. This is the fallback point. First platoon offers supporting fire, second and fourth envelop left and right. When you have the near bank, fire a flair. Third platoon ready to rush the bridge on that signal. We go at 05:00. Understand?"

The men nodded as one, hurrying back to their platoons. The men had practiced this operation for weeks, and each unit knew what their role was to be. In a minute, the infantrymen were in position. The clock ticked agonizingly slowly past 04:59, each second lingering for a seeming eternity before slipping past.

An wall of fire erupted from first platoon's sheltered position in the wood line. From behind a gradual curve in the railway, Leytenant Nizich could see his men firing, but could not see the objective itself. Cursing, he lifted himself up, limping carefully towards his men in the trees. From somewhere far off to his right, he heard a shout and then a hurried exchange of gunfire. He threw himself down behind a tree. All around him, the men of first platoon were crouched, carefully firing downrange. Peering out from the shelter of his tree, Nizich could see perhaps twenty men scurrying to and fro between two sandbagged fighting positions. A burst of fire from the vegetation to the right of the tracks was answered by the heavy chatter of a machine gun. Tracers reached towards him, and the Leytenant ducked back behind the relative safety of the tree.

"Where is second platoon?" He growled, wondering if he should return to his radio operator in the rear. No. Good commanders trusted their subordinates. He couldn't micro-manage every engagement; this wasn't training anymore. Then, as if on cue, a burst of fire from the trees to the left of the bridge, then an explosion. A rifle grenade exploded sandbags in every direction, sparks flying high into the dark night, illuminating the scene. The surviving defenders turned to flee, racing away across a narrow footbridge into the returning darkness. A few more shots followed them, the airborne troops using their night vision sights to seek out and engage their retreating foe. Then, a moment of silence.

The bright red glow of a flare streaked up into the sky, and with a shout third platoon rushed forward. From somewhere to his right, Nizich heard a call for first platoon to hold fire as the rest of the company hurried past. A machine gun reached out into the darkness from across the long span of bridge, and there was a sudden cry from first platoon. A sudden scrap of booted feet, and the company radioman flung himself down next to his commanding officer.

"Mortars, on the far side, now." The Leytenant hissed. Moments later, the first round fell of the far side, thirty meters beyond the small enemy position, silhouetting the enemy against a flashing red background. The next explosion landed five meters away. Then, the entire position was covered in crackling flashes, a cloud of smoke rising to obscure the far side of the bridge. With a sudden shout, third platoon rushed across the narrow footbridge. They were met with scatters small-arms fire, returned in volume from the other side of the bridge. The firing tapered of, then ended completely, leaving a strange calm over the deep gorge.

"Third platoon reports enemy disengaging. They say the bridge is secure."

"Casualties?" Nizich breathed a sigh of relief.

"Four dead, eleven wounded. Most from third and fourth platoon." The radioman answered after a moment.

The Leytenant nodded. "Good. Have third platoon dig in on the far side, listening posts at 150 meters. First platoon does the same thing on this side. Dig in boys, we got the place. Now we have to hold it."

05:41

The firing below Leytenant Nizich's position had died out, replaced now by only scattered gunshots and to occasional roar of an explosion. In the distance, the noise of attack helicopters could be heard, buzzing low on the horizon, hunting to keep a clear lane of travel for more transport aircraft which were inbound to the newly captured airfield. With the 148th Brigade in control of the heights around the airstrip, and the 147th in possession of several more bridges on the narrow Jamur River, which flowed from Nemska Gorge down out of the hills west into the sea, the 51st Airborne began to dig in along this new defensive line. To their rear, there were still reports of militia units, but they were expected to flee in the face of the coming invasion. And at any rate, an airlift was beginning, ferrying the rest of the 51st Division's men and equipment to Gabriko within the next six hours, and that was supposed to be more than enough to drive off any NVF militia dumb enough to try to take back their airstrip.