As the Poppies Bloom (TWI ONLY | IC)

[Thuzbekistan]

Ministry of the Navy, Ashluv, Thuzbekistan
Hours After Miklanian Body Returned to Miklanian Navy

Navy Minister Arda Rıdvan went over his notes quickly, feeling the humidity building on his forehead as he looked up at the five men seated at the conference room adjacent to the Prime Minister's office. The Foreign Minister was starting to look annoyed as he picked up the glass in front of him, glaring at Arda as he sipped the water. As he put it down on the mahogany table, the Prime Minister burst into the room, called away from his vacation in Thuzla to deal with this.

"Evening Gentlemen," he said as he sat at the head of the table.

"Mr. Prime Minister," Nalik beamed as he and the other men in the room stood, straightening their ties as they did. "How was your vacation?"

"Short." He sat quickly at the chair and an aide pressed the "record" button on the table.

"Today is March 21st, 2019. Cabinet meeting regarding the Miklanian Crisis begins," the aide said as he stepped back.

"Mr. Ridvan, please catch us up." The Prime Minister stared across the table at Ridvan.

"Yes, sir." The old man glanced down at his notes and began. "Yesterday, our ships encountered a large Miklanian fleet we believe to be the Stormkeeper's escort. After linking up with our allies in the Southern Sea, Chief Admiral of the Central Fleet Ercan İhsan decided to try and make it past the fleet without probing it first. The Miklanian's Stormkeeper's dispatched two fighters, which performed a dangerous flyby meant to thwart our fleet's arrival. They came in below the radar and buzzed the Ashluv, launching flares before our defenses could keep up. Chief Admiral of-"

"Why wasn't the Ashluv able to detect this?" The Prime Minister was writing on his pad as he spoke.

"The pilots were rather skilled, coming in low before we knew they were there. Reports said they were flying practically just above the water, though this may be an exaggeration."

"I see," Prime Minister Alaattin said as he scribbled. "Carry on."

Arda shifted uncomfortably, but continued. "Chief Admiral of the Central Fleet Ercan Ihsan, hereafter Admiral Ercan, then called their bluff and proceeded on course. The Miklanians repeated the maneuver. However, Admiral Ercan had his CIWS ready and were able to shoot down the pilot, killing him in the process. His co-pilot survived and was collected by the Ashluv and given medical treatment in which amputations were required. Both the body and the survivor were returned this morning."

"Did Admiral Ercan contact you for direction in this process, Minister?" Nalik was also writing as he listened.

Arda shook his head. "No, Foreign Minister, he did not. However, protocol does not require him to in this situation. While he is required to report the issue and what happened, Admirals are not required to seek permission to defend their vessels."

"It seems he provoked the Miklanians, though," The Prime Minister said as he looked up. "Did he inform you of his decision, Minister?"

"No, he did not, Mr. Prime Minister."

Nalik shook his head. "So we have a possibly insubordinate Admiral who caused an international crisis." He looked over his notes. "What is their position now?"

"Following the second flyby and the shoot down of the jet, Admiral Ercan found it wise to withdraw to a safer distance and await orders. At that time, both our Naval Ministry and the Miklanian Naval Department issued orders to stand down and maintain a safe distance. After this, the pilots were returned. They are currently at a distance of approximately 20 Kilometers apart with Doraltic and Dothrakian ships shadowing the situation."

"Then this could blow up quickly," The Prime Minister said. "Nalik, what are our options?"

Nalik rubbed his wrinkled head. "We have to take this to the league. Our stated mission was humanitarian aid. All we can do now is demand that it be allowed through."

Marine Corps Commander Tolga Hikmet, who had been quiet until now, spoke slowly. "In light of this, all marines have been returned to port and are currently on standby. We await orders for now."

Prime Minister Alaattin leaned back. "Nalik, let's take it to the league. I'm sure the Miklanians will get a fuss and we can get another delegate to offer us the floor, I think."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

"As for Admiral Ercan, remove him from command. I would suggest Vedat Nur of the Western Fleet. Any officer that creates this kind of situation and doesn't report to the Minister of the Navy and you to me does not deserve to be in command."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

"Good. Dismissed for now. Update me hourly, Arda."

[Miklania]

May 19 2019
09:24
Southern Sea, North-Northeast of San Javier

"Thundercloud, Tangent 3-1, final check."

"Solid copy 3-1. Hostile SAG is maintaining heading, south by west and twenty-nine miles out from your position. Thundercloud out."

"Alright Two, we're checked in with the carrier. SAG is south by west at twenty-nine. Let's go to wave top."

"Roger that One. You good back there Marco?"

"I'm doing fine back here Rag. Keep your eyes on the road, why don'tcha?" The Banshees nosed down, the pilots keeping them below the radar horizon of the Thuzbek surface action group for as long as possible. One pair of fighters had already pulled this stunt yesterday, coming in below their radar and making a fast dash over the bow of the carrier Ashluv before they knew what was happening. But that didn't scare them off, the communists were still advancing towards the last of the "don't cross" lines. The two aircraft of Tangent 3 flight were going to be making the last low level pass before things got really interesting. The fighters bottomed out mere yards from the surface of the water, the Southern Sea's mildly choppy waves lapping at their drop tanks.

"Whoa, little one on the right!" Rag called from the front seat. Marco looked around his pilot's ejection seat, the tiny grey form of a ship growing until they were right on top of it. There was no radar warning indication, they really did slip by the outer pickets. The two jets screamed a few hundred yards off the startled corvette's bow, pressing on to the main event.

"Flattop twelve o'clock!" One shouted out. "Burners on, let's give 'em a show."

"Roger that, One." A subtle roar from behind and Marco was pressed slightly into the back of his seat as the jet accelerated. The "sound barrier" was pierced with little fanfare, with only some condensation flashing around the cockpit due to the humid sea air. The massive form of the Ashluv and an escorting cruiser loomed on the horizon. "She's a big bastard ain't she?" Rag asked rhetorically. There was a series of beeps and information started to appear on Marco's electronic warfare display. The ships had activated their search radars, and had found the jets. Nothing to worry about. They were only a few miles out, and within a minute they'd be out of the effective range of the carrier's armament. Marco set the jammers to automatic anyway.

"Two I'm getting hard spiked." Time seemed to slow down. "Breaking!" One shouted over the radio. Rag started to move the stick left to pull away, just as the piercing beep of a fire-control radar lock sounded through their headsets. The gun, a thick dark cylinder sticking out of a small flattened dome on one of the ships forward sponsons was visible, pointing not at them but just ahead. An angry flash roared from the end. Marco could hear the sound in his head, even though there was no way he could hear the gun itself.

"Fuck" was all Rag could say before the tracers merged with them. One shouted something over the radio. The impacts were sharp and violent, loud cracks that tore all the aluminum in their path apart. Marco was already reaching down for the striped handle between his legs when two shells struck the cockpit, one up front, and one a flash below him. A fine red mist splattered over the canopy up front. Marco's hands, acting on their own, grabbed the handle and yanked it sharply upwards. Explosive bolts separated the canopy frame from the aircraft; small rockets in the front made sure it flipped up and back. Other rockets ignited in the seat as a hydraulic catapult started to kick it up and out. Marco didn't feel the yank of the stirrups pulling his legs back from under the displays. Staring blankly forward, his head wasn't in the right position, causing his neck to compress under the acceleration forces. He blacked out, his eyes seeing nothing but darkness but his other senses still functioning. A rocket blasted from the headrest, pulling out the chute. The seat peeled away from his backside just before he hit the water, hard. He had passed over the carrier, which was now behind him, it's bow wave pushing him out away from it. Rag's ejection seat, activated by the backseater's ejection, splashed down not too far from him. He was suddenly aware of the roar of jets, and made out their flight lead, in full after burner, scrambling away from the ships, lines of yellow tracer following them. His head and neck throbbing with pain, he tried to swim, towards nothing in particular. A horn blast from the ship was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

10:56

A dot tracing a black line in the sky was making its way towards the 4 acre flight deck of RMS Stormkeeper. LSOs standing at their station to port of the landing area tensed up. The aft flight deck had been cleared of most aircraft parked on it in the last hour, either by moving them down to the hangar or by launching them. The forward areas were abuzz with activity as angry Banshees loaded up with HARMs and Mjolnir anti-ship missiles prepared to launch. A pair of air-to-air missile laden Seahawks hurtled off the bow in a cloud of steam and jet noise. No aircraft moved to take their place, the tempo of launching was paused as crewmen cleared off the deck into the catwalks along the side.

"Crash-Rescue standby. Deck crews secure all fuel hoses and ordnance." The ship PA sounded. This had already been done. Two helicopters were in the air, hovering to either side of the ship a respectful distance away. The frigate St. Lo, standing plane guard 2,000 yards astern had her boats and a diver ready to go into the water at a moment's notice. The dot resolved into the form of a Banshee, the black line smoke from its engines. A tense minute of talking between the jet and the LSOs ended with the plane landing, snagging the number two wire. A violent cough extinguished both engines as tension was brought off the arresting gear. Crash-Rescue personnel swarmed the plane, some spraying foam inside the intakes and exhaust nozzles as others worked to get the canopy open and the aircrew out. Now that the plane was down without incident, flight ops on the bow continued, the tentative strike package circling overhead building up to full strength. The pilot and backseater climbed out and were escorted by a gaggle of Hospital Corpsmen down below for a debriefing.

11:24

Marco awoke to murmuring and four bright lights shining down on him. He was intuitively aware that he was in some sort of medical facility. His coming-to must have been noticed because the murmuring got louder, then stopped. A figure leaned over him. A man, the top of his head covered with a blue hair net, the bottom covered by a white medical mask. In between were two sharp eyes framed by olive skin. He said something Marco could not understand, then looked up and gestured to someone else. The realization was coming through his anesthetic-dulled mind. I'm on their ship. He tried to move, but as he did he realized his head was held in place by two pieces of foam and a nylon strap. There were straps holding his body and arms down too. The man standing over him, he'd decided that was a doctor, and a nurse or orderly grabbed him to stop his shaking himself free.

"Don't do that." The man said in accented but clear English. Marco stopped struggling. "You have a significant neck injury, you cannot move like that until it has healed." Fine. "You are not a prisoner. When your condition improves, hopefully by tomorrow, you will be returned to your ship." The man clarified.

"Where's my pilot?" Marco demanded. The man exchanged a look with the nurse. He removed his mask, revealing a closely trimmed beard. He took a deep breath before starting again.

"He was killed by a cannon shell. We have recovered the body and will return it to your people along with you." Marco was too devastated to say anything. The doctor paused, seemingly pained. "The cannon shell that took down your airplane also gravely injured you. We were forced to amputate your legs at the knees." That couldn't be right, they were lying to him. Marco could still feel a throbbing pain in his legs and feet.

"Bullshit." The doctor sighed and gestured again to the nurse, saying something Marco could not understand. She held a small hand mirror over him so he could see.

Fuck.

14:01

Stormkeeper's dual bridges were awash with activity. Communications technicians were busy coordinating the movements of the fighter squadrons and the tankers keeping them aloft, satisfying the demands of the task force's captains for a situation update, and waiting for FLTCOM to decide if they were permitted to launch an attack on the Thuzbek SAG. Captain Scott sat in his elevated chair, his folded hands supporting his chin. This was not what the Navy had signed up for when they had been asked to provide cover for the Mennan invasion. He furrowed his brow even more and tried to tune out the incessant chatter behind him. But he couldn't ignore one word.

"Captain, we're being hailed on Channel 16." The technician turned back to her station as Scott got down from his chair. "The Thuzbek fleet commander wants to talk to you sir." It was the first direct communication they'd received from the Thuzbeks.

"Now he wants to talk. Fan-fucking-tastic." He stepped over and took the handset, holding the mouthpiece against his chest as he added, loud enough for most people on that side of the bridge to hear, "I hope he knows I'm about to let my airwing do the talking." He raised the handset to his ear. "Hello?" "Speaking." "Glad to hear it." A long pause followed, the noise on the bridge noticeably diminished as most of the watchstanders were staring at the Captain with rapt attention. "Tomorrow at 07:00." "Fine." "No, we'll send our own helo, if that's alright. We know your position." He gave the handset back to the technician and went back to his chair. He picked up the intercom at his station and phoned down one deck to Flight Ops. "Get me the Air Boss. Tom, belay further launches. Get our birds down, but leave up two two ship CAPs. I want alert fighters on the bow cats, and everyone else rearmed, refueled, and rested. Tell the CAG we're not blowing up anything yet."

[Menna Shuli]

The circular, central hall of the Sâtêp Chambers thrummed with activity. All the available vêkivêla, well above the required quorum for a vote, were present. The missing members of the senate could be counted on one hand; two because they were ill, one because her husband’s concubine was giving birth, one because they were on the opposite coast and power had given out and so they couldn’t teleconference in. It was uncommon for such an attendance to be available outside of a normal session of the Sâtêp, and it was only available because of one reason.

Âspu Kashaka was returning.

The return of the ‘uhitap had been a long time coming, and no one faulted him for the delay. The Sâtêp was well aware of the ‘uhitap’s condition, with constant updates of the viccisitudes of his health streaming to them from his doctors, from his nurses, and, in many of the vêkivêla’s cases, from less official sources within his household. Any senator worthy of the title had low caste on their payroll in the homes of anyone of import. The backchannel, black market industry in information between high caste households was an open secret so integral to the functioning of Mênnan government that there was a joke that every kivêla was bilingual in Mênnan and doublespeak. The more proactive members of the Sâtêp were also fluent in triplespeak and, if particularly cleaver, quadruplespeak.

Perhaps no one had a network more expansive and intricate than Hitap Mipax Shutu. She was known as the Spider for a reason, sitting at the heart of her web of informants and pulling on threads of manipulation that she weaved with the artistry of an ancient tapestrist. Her fluency in the lies, implications, bluffs and hidden meanings that were woven into every “private” conversation a kivêla of the Sâtêp could have had wrapped from quadruplespeak back into singlespeak; who needed to obfuscate or conceal the truth when truth artfully spoken could be infinitely more effective at the task of manipulating the situation? Such had been Kivêla Mipax’s watchwords for at least a decade.

“Why do you think he called us?” asked Hitap Untu, a more junior kivêla of Mipax’s traditionalist school of thought who was one of the gaggle currently in discussion around Mipax. Mipax wouldn’t deign to say that they were in discussions with her. There were other games afoot that these ones weren’t aware of. “Now of all times, I mean. Is it simply to show strength in his recovery?”

“Unlikely,” said Hitap Shukaka, a favoured student of Mipax’s political methods. The young man tugged at his beard. “The ‘uhitap has never been one to revel in shows of prestige. Say what you will about the man’s politics, but he isn’t a braggart or show-off.”

Mipax didn’t nod, instead keeping her ears open to the nearby conversations, but she agreed with Shukaka’s assessment. Humility was not normally one of the values that Mipax allowed precedent, but she’d always appreciated the quiet dignity that spu brought to his role. The man’s politics were occasionally overly moderate, she found, as the man was a peacemaker and usually too fearful to truly rock the boat, but he was usually careful, considerate and measured, and his policies were usually steps in the right direction, albeit small ones. He was neither a braggart or a show-off, and that implied that his reason for calling an extraordinary session of the Sâtêp, especially as his first session returning since his stroke, was more meaningful than mere posturing. Her informants in his household had gathered little, as his physical condition had limited access to his chambers, but she did know that the ‘uhitap and his temporary replacement, Hitap Ihwalâ Luktsha. That was not to be unexpected, but the increasing frequency of their meetings had disturbing implications. Implications she had been trying to build a levy against, but there were cracks in that half-built wall. Cracks which she had no answers to.

Her ears, tuned as they were to other conversations, picked up reference to those very cracks. Hitap Usu Usu was standing in a group of varied senators, hands casually in his pockets, cavalierly discussing the war in San Javier.

“The fact of the matter,” he said, “is that this whole debacle is a representation of exactly how backward some of our military traditions are.”

Mipax didn’t have to wonder if Usu had positioned himself specifically so she could hear the conversation. It was exactly what the man was doing, all in an attempt to rile her. She tuned her practiced ears to the conversation.

“Other nations,” Usu continued, “gave up purchased commissions in their military a century ago. Yet we seem content to allow the untested to lead our troops. Which is, of course, how we wound up in the current situation.”

“Prince-General Mipax achieved victory in Pueblo Ignacio,” one of Usu’s captive audience said.

“Certainly,” Usu nodded. “But a single victory does not represent strategic genius. What has he had to show for his efforts since? Constantina remains unbroken, and our political capital among foreign nations has plummeted. The foraging tradition among the warrior caste is a wholly Mênnan practice, which we are all familiar and comfortable with, but to foreigners it reads as barbarity...raping and pillaging, basically. We are coming across as the villains in this conflict, aggressors and invaders with no impulse control. We must recognize that and evolve or the world will inevitably come crashing into us.”

“Mênna Shuli has never lost a war,” stated Hitap Ititik, a staunch Militarist, although it was mostly out of obligation. Foreigners would be surprised to learn that the military-minded amongst the senators had actually swung hard in the modernist and internationalist read on this particular issue; while warrior rights were a key point in militarist doctrine, they had also been absorbing the lessons of San Javier. Their support of the traditional rights of the warrior caste paled in comparison to their dreams of a modern, powerful Mênnan military. As Mênna Shuli’s first war on foreign soil since the Keverai Expedition and it’s first war with a foreign power in nearly as long, San Javier was a learning experience for every kivêla with dreams of a stronger military future.

“We have never lost a war on home soil,” Usu said. “Beyond that, I believe the Miklanian response to our traditions more than proves that a change is in order, if only in this particular field.”

Mipax’s forehead wrinkled ever so slightly, but it would have taken an expert in microexpressions to truly parse what she was thinking. Even then, it would have been an uphill battle.

“So what do you suggest?” asked Ititik.

“We withdraw, we regroup, and we work out a new set of traditions,” Usu said. “So much of what we hold to be the way things are are really just surprisingly modern constructs. The compound system came about in 1813, yet we hold it as sacred. If we could evolve during the Tribal Wars, or during the Shukushuku Reformations, or a thousand times since, we can evolve now. The modern era is barreling down at us and we can either be crushed or join the flow.”

“What do you think, Hitap Mipax?” asked Untu.

Mipax’s attention was drawn back to her own conversation. While she had not been focused upon it, she had followed closely enough to know that whatever she said would be considered inviable truth.

“I think,” she said crisply, “that regardless of what the ‘uhitap has called us here for, that it is too late for us to act upon it. He will say whatever it is that he has to say, and we will have to react. This sort of guesswork is useful when one has the opportunity to take proactive measures to influence potential future events, but we do not have that opportunity now. We must be the crocodile now, still in shallow waters until the gazelle comes close. We cannot chase the gazelle, but we can trap it.”

The vêkivêla nearby considered that. Their reverie was interrupted by the sudden swell of a metallic echo, the sound of a huge shêwa being rung. The Pride was announcing that the ‘uhitap had entered the building. The senators moved around the chamber to take their seats in the amphitheatre seating facing the ‘uhitap’s throne.

A minute passed, and the chamber doors swung open. Pride soldiers, the ‘uhitap’s personal guard, moved to the ramped dias of the throne, followed by an unprecedented thirteen judges to serve as advisors to the ‘uhitap during session. Mipax cocked an eyebrow at that. The standard number of judges to advise the ‘uhitap was six, and while he could have theoretically called a full complement of thirty-two, pulling in more than ten was bizarre.

Finally, once the elder judges in their white robes and leopard skins had spread across the space behind the throne, there came a buzz, and the ‘uhitap’s wheelchair rolled in. The old man in the chair was nearly completely paralyzed, driving the chair with the few moving fingers of his right hand. A tube did his breathing for him, and Mipax knew that under the ‘uhitap’s traditional dress there were tubes performing other tasks for him as well. Despite that, it would be hard to argue that the old man looked weak. A quiet dignity and strength followed in his wake, spreading through the room. The gathered senators began to clap, and the applause soon became a standing ovation. The thunder of the sound flooded the domed room, echoing and reverberating into a physical sensation that bore through the flesh and into the bones. Some of the younger members of the senate stomped their feet and a traditional victory song rose in the throats of several more. The celebration of the leader’s return stretched, the cheering lasting for one minute, and then two. The ‘uhitap’s eyes moved around the room from his strange position in a chair before the throne, and then turned to the screen in front of him. The nearest Lion looked at the screen on the ‘uhitap’s wheelchair, then turned to the senate and raised a hand. It took another full minute for the applause to die away and for the senators to sit down. A violent silence filled the room as each and every individual waited with bated breath for the ‘uhitap to speak.

“My friends,” the text-to-speech device that the ‘uhitap now used to speak droned, “thank you from the bottom of my heart for the kind response to my return. I must admit, I feared that with the fine work you have all done in the past year that you may have decided that you could do without me.”

There were good-natured chuckles at the joke.

The ‘uhitap’s eyes flicked across the screen, a camera detecting their movements and translating it into vocalizations that were pumped through the speakers in the chamber. “This country has been through much since I faced my illness, and not once in that time have I ever thought that we were in incapable hands. In crisis and adversity, you have risen to all the challenges of your offices with the heart and quality of character that one would expect from individuals of your prestige and high honour.”

Mipax frowned. The honeyed words and compliments were to be expected, but this was heavy handed. Something was happening in the ‘uhitap’s eyes. Mipax’s brain began snapping together connections. Her eyes left the ‘uhitap and crossed to Hitap Ihwalâ, returned to his usual position within the chamber as opposed to his temporary seat upon the throne. The old man was smiling, his eyes wet.

Father’s name, that’s it isn’t it? she thought. Why now?

“I have much that I must become reaccustomed to,” the ‘uhitap continued in his new, robotic tones. “But I do not see the struggles of the past year as an obstacle. Instead, I see my return as an opportunity. We face threats internally and we face threats abroad, but we have the werewithal and cleverness to be able to combat them efficiently, swiftly and capably. My return to these chambers can be a chance for us all to evaluate where we stand and make the hard calls required to make this nation and our people more than they are. We can reach a new era for our country, and truly take our rightful position on the world stage.”

Mipax took a deep breath. She could see the threads now. Thankfully, while the timing was strange for what was about to happen, it was not unexpected. Her webs had already been weaved, forming a safety net for this very eventuality. She could endure. Her family could endure.

“To do this,” said the ‘uhitap, “we must be willing to accept that we have not been achieving our potential as a people. We have been willing to languish, to do ‘good enough’. I, for one, do not believe that ‘good enough’ is good enough. ‘Good enough’ is not good, and it is far from great. The war in San Javier is a perfect example of such mentality leading us to weakness. We have not found victory because we have been allowed to settle for ‘good enough’. To that end, I hope to lead this country out of passivity and into greatness, but greatness has always required hard work and sacrifice. And sacrifices need to be made.”

There was a long moment then, perhaps as the ‘uhitap gathered his thoughts. Then his eyes began to dart again.

“The first sacrifice that must be made is our callous pride. We lag because we have allowed our arrogance to tie us to the past as opposed to allowing our ambition to carry us to the future. Each and every one of us, every individual seated in this room, has spent their lifetimes building reputation and accepting prestige so that we could find our way into these hallowed halls to lead our people. But where can we go when our goal has already been achieved? When the office that we hold is the last resting place of the great and powerful, we have no drive to push for more. We rest upon our accomplishments, unwilling to move for more. We must recognize this.

“To draw a long point to a short conclusion, our pride has blinded us, and in our blindness our people have suffered. I say no more. My convalescence has brought me clarity. I have watched as an outsider and it has given me perspective. And so, as my first act upon my return, I call upon Hitap Ihwalâ Luktsha.”

The old man and longest serving senator in the room stood and turned his eyes around the room. They were moist with the joy of seeing his friend, but keen with the effort of something else.

“With the support of the ‘uhitap, I bring forward the following for the consideration of the Sâtêp: I move that we immediately pursue measures to convene a constitutional council to formalize in law the sovereignty and rights of the Mênna, and to take all due measures to bring our people into the modern age of global politics.”

Before a furor could rise, the ‘uhitap’s droning voice returned. “I exercise my right as ‘uhitap and move this to immediate vote. All in favour?”

[Menna Shuli]

Constantina was a rat-warren city of concrete and sheet metal which spread like a mold across the red, flat fields of central San Javier. Occasional blocky apartment buildings, radio towers, church spires and a single tall, corporate tower punctured upwards from the gray blot of the city, which was otherwise comprised of squat, tightly-packed hovels akin to the city slums of the Twin Cities. Around the city, the red poppy fields spread like a bloodstain, broken by their own towers in the form of oil derricks and adjoining buildings. The partly-paved, crumbling highway that linked the north of San Javier to its southern coast jutted off from the city to the southeast, blocked now by barricades and military blockades from both sides of the conflict. The sound of gunfire was near constant from that direction as the armies fought for short meters along the road. The poppy fields and farms surrounding the highway had been churned into a brown-black slurry for a hundred meters on either side for kilometers along the road to the southeast. To the north, the better-repaired northern highway and the new Vancouvian trainline stretched off to the horizon, under extraordinary protection from the Javierans and their allies.

A constant stream of soldiers and supplies moved into Constantina along that line, but Mênnan attempts to cut the city off had been stymied at every advance. Breaches into the city had been made but repelled every time, as the labyrinthine layout of the streets was unfamiliar to the Mênnan army and the CQC required to advance was outside their normal training and doctrine. Attempts to flank around the city to attack the supply lines en masse had failed due to the open nature of the fields surrounding Constantina allowing for the defenders to mass before the attackers could launch their forces more fully. While the Javierans were incapable of launching a full counterattack against the invaders, especially as the Mênnan forces trickled in a constant stream of reinforcements as quickly as they could bring them in from overseas, they hardly needed to counterattack to survive. Constantina could survive seemingly indefinitely, their defenses established during the civil war and still more than operational, reinforced as they were by a stream of supplies from the capitol. The Javierans had fewer men in their army, but they were on their home ground, and the Mênnan army couldn’t leverage the weight of their numbers against the city since, even with the forward operational post established at Pueblo Ignacio and the new airstrip there allowing for flights into enemy territory, they could barely pull in fractions of their troops at any one time.

For two months, the war had become a stalemate at Constantina, a constant grind along the highway and skirmishes for the oil derricks. Somehow, and Amikiku only had the vaguest inkling of an idea of how it had happened, her squad had developed a burgeoning reputation as an elite infiltration force, the best option for taking points like the derricks. Amikiku had a sneaking suspicion that, at first at least, it had been a childish comparison of the oil towers to the church towers in Pueblo Ignacio, but as time had gone on, something had shifted. Now when they walked by other soldiers in camp, they got looks of respect and bush-sign salutes of honour. When they got new recruits, they were being sent the best. And, all of a sudden, they had new equipment, better lodgings. The Bellringers were becoming...something. Amikiku couldn’t put her finger on what exactly, at least not yet.

They’d taken losses, of course. No soldier was immortal. The Sarge was still around, and Pa and Shaka. Matu too, and Old Lawa. The rest had either been too injured to go on, killed in action or, in Mu’s case, executed for desertion. That was a bad day for the whole squad, but somehow it hadn’t blighted their growing reputation. Amikiku had a sense that the Prince-General had had a hand in limiting the spread of that information. Over the past months, they’d received more and more missions directly from the desk of Hitap Mipax, and she knew that, amongst those who had a problem with the Bellringers, they were being called Sul’s lapdogs.

Not everyone was supportive of their young leader, especially the more traditional warriors who disliked the man’s attempt to squash some of their foraging and victory rights. New rules were being established to limit what was being called “unnecessary violence” against the local populace. Prince-General Mipax’s prestige as a traditionalist and a war-leader was faltering amongst some of the warriors as a result, who saw the right to take war trophies and pleasure from the populace as invioable. Some, like Amikiku herself, didn’t care much about that. She’d managed to take a few small trinkets here and there to bring home and send back to the compound, just knick-knacks like a portable walkman, a few gold rings and a stack of bootleg VHS tapes, but ultimately if the Prince-General wanted to cut down on looting, that was fine. They were having a hard enough time containing outbreaks of violence among the populace in captured territory between the coast, Pueblo Ignacio and their forward camps near Constantina without riling people up.

The squad basically agreed with her, especially Matu. He had some concept of Christian charity that he kept trying to foist on everyone, especially Pa. Pa had taken a gem-studded crucifix from the priest’s house in Pueblo Ignacio during the revels after the victory, and had spent undue time prying the gems out to trade with people, and Matu had decided to focus a lot of effort on reforming Pa afterwards. Pa wasn’t having it, but didn’t seem to chagrin Matu the effort.

“He’s an okay person when he’s not being a Western imperial propagandist,” Pa had joked once with Amikiku. “And the man can clip the wings off a bird in flight from a hundred yards when he had a mind to, so no need to disrespect him.”

It was good, Amikiku thought, that they had quality warriors like that on their squad. Especially given the briefing that Sarge was laying out for them. Their next mission was going to be a rough one, drawing on every skill they had picked up back on the compounds.

“We all know that the Javis have the rails locked down anywhere near the city,” Sarge said. “And we don’t exactly have the means to take them out from the air, which means a ground assault is the best bet. But, of course, every time we’ve made a move we’ve been cut off before we get within five kilometers of the rails.”

“Company D managed to get that APC through,” pointed out Kima, a newer transfer to the squad. She was tiny and wiry with a square face like a hyena. She was also a hell of an expert driver, better behind the controls of nearly any vehicle she touched than any other member of the squad. The exception to that was Hum, who had grown up on the ocean and was better with most boats, especially anything that they could get going fast enough to hydroplane.

“Before being peppered with so much lead that they could have been melted down afterwards,” Sarge said. “And they didn’t even damage the track.”

There were murmurs of assent to that.

“Command has decided that we’re wasting our time and skill taking on derricks,” Sarge continued. “And the number one strategic goal that we need to achieve to take Constantina is to stop the flow of supplies and reinforcements into the city. That means cutting the rail and cutting the highway..”

“So they’re throwing a single squad at the place and crossing their fingers?” Pa asked. “We’re good, but we’re not that good.”

“Not exactly,” the sargeant replied. “We all know that the current strategy to take Constantina has basically been the Prince-Admiral’s. He’s the ‘throw bodies at the problem until the problem goes away or is buried’ man. The Prince-General hasn’t, apparently, been able to get the political backing to be able to fight that, not with the Miklanians looking at us like savages and all the old-school military-type senators backing the Admiral’s play.”

“News says things might be changing there,” pointed out Shaka, lighting up a cigarette.

“Change has never been a fast process in the government,” replied Matu.

“Fair,” Shaka nodded.

“The Prince-General is sending us on this mission directly,” the Sarge barrelled forward. “We’re being sent north.”

“North?” asked Ututu. “We don’t have a north. That’s all Javi territory.”

“Exactly,” said Sarge. “We’re being sent alone to go north to the Rio del Rosario crossing. There’s two bridges there, one for the railline and one for the highway. The highway bridge is a piece of shit, but the rail bridge is brand new and completely solid. Our job is to find a way to block them, bring them down or somehow incapacitate the operations of transportation.”

“We’re being sent behind enemy lines?” Pa asked.

Sarge nodded. “We won’t have contact with the main body of the army while we’re out there, either. We’re being given full operational discretion on how to pull this off.”

They all looked at one another. They didn’t have much choice here. Orders were orders. That said, twelve people versus whatever defenses the Javis had between the camp and the bridges, which was a few days of travel on foot, plus whatever they would have to get through when they got there…

Thank the ancestors that improvisation is our skill set, Amikiku thought.

“We’ll leave tomorrow evening. Try and slink west and then north under cover of darkness. Hope we don’t hit any Javieran patrols, then make our way north as fast as we can,” Sarge continued.

“Do we have a plan for the bridges yet?” Amikiku asked.

The Sarge shrugged. “As much explosives as we can carry is step one, I figure. Step two will be actually getting eyes on the damn things.”

“Not much of a plan,” Pa said.

“It’s what we’ve got,” said Sarge. “We’ve wasted two months at this damn city, and I for one need to do something constructive. Or deconstructive, as the case may be.”

Everyone agreed with that, as evidenced by their shared murmurs.

“Alright,” the sergeant said. “I know its noon, but go get some sleep. Sleep schedules need to be flipped. We’re going full savanna-survival, compund-style-stealth for the next few days. Get your hunter minds going.”

Everyone stood.

“Dismissed.”

[Menna Shuli]

Sul rubbed his eyes. He reached over to a mug of coffee on his desk and found it cold. He sighed and drank the bitter liquid anyways, then looked back to the documents scattered around him and on the screen of the computer where he did the bulk of his work nowadays. Instead of valiantly commanding his forces, he had found that most of his job as a general was managing reports and connections back to the motherland. That and arguing with the Prince-Admiral, which had become so routine as to decay into boredom. Between that and managing the tenuous connections with the allies of the Mênnan forces on San Javier, ninety-five percent of what he did was contained within a single building, wherein he maintained a constant string of radio communiques, phone calls, teleconferences and e-mail missives. He slept more frequently on the couch in his office than in a bed anywhere in Pueblo Ignacio.

He’d resigned himself to the constant grind and stress that was eating him away. He’d lost substantial weight in the past two months, and he had never been particularly bulky to begin with. At first it had been stripped fat, leaving him surprisingly and happily toned, but now the fatigue was eating away his muscle definition. He was beginning to develop premature lines at the corners of his mouth and across his forehead. Combined with an unfortunate case of stress-based adult acne on his chin, he had a bizarre combination of age indicators that made him look like a patchwork person made from scrap cut-outs of photos of the same person from different times in their life hastily glued together as a mosaic. He avoided mirrors. It made him uncomfortable to make eye contact with himself.

His computer played a sudden, upbeat musical chime. A conversation request popped up in the bottom corner of his screen. He checked the name and sighed again. His mother was requesting a conversation. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a few moments, breathed out, then accepted the call.

“Hello, Mother,” he said.

“Good evening, Cricket,” she said. Her image was grainy with the poor internet here and her voice was distorted with electronic interference. “How goes the war?”

“The same as ever, Mother,” he replied, resigned. “I assume you are calling regarding the ‘uhitap’s constitutional proposition?”

“Does a mother require a reason to speak with her son?”

Sul knew the answer where his mother was involved. “I am doing my best here, mother.”

“I know, Cricket, I know,” her sigh sounded like speaker static. “When I got your rank, did I not say that this would be a bad war?”

“You did,” he said.

“I was never expecting a victory from you,” she said. “You should not be ashamed of what you have done.”

“I know what this whole thing is doing to our family’s reputation, mother,” Sul turned his face away from the screen for a moment. “Don’t think that I don’t know that senators were certainly thinking of me when they elected to pursue a constitution. Why should they have listened to your arguments when your son was off making a fool of himself in San Javier?”

His mother’s voice grew an edge that surprised Sul. “I do not blame you for that, Cricket,” she said sharply. “Anyone with a brain between their ears in that senate has been watching the reports that come in and know that you are fighting an uphill battle against...certain inertial forces.”

“Not everyone in the senate as a brain between their ears,” Sul murmured. Hadn’t his mother always made sure that her children were firmly aware of the limitations of the vêkivela?

Any individual can join the Sâtêp with enough money to buy favour and with enough of a time pressure on the vote to prevent the vêhitap’at from considering their options, he recalled her saying. Most senators are fools, and of the ones who are not, an even smaller minority actually have opinions worth listening to.

“That’s true,” his mother replied. She was quiet for a moment, then she spoke again. “I’ll be frank with you, as I think you deserve it at this point. It’s true that our family prestige has been damaged as a result of how the war is progressing, but I expected that from the outset. The fact of the matter is that the Prince-Admiral is an ambitious man with many connections, but my allies and I know that he is also not a man with a remarkable amount of flexibility. Your presence in San Javier was always intended to be mitigating, not game-changing. If one of the Prince-Admiral’s allies had been Prince-General in your place, the war would have been a horrific bloodbath. The low castes would have been...quite unhappy, moreso than they are even at the moment. You’ve held back the more drastic actions that Shala might have taken.”

Sul raised an eyebrow. He took a few seconds to consider this just like his mother would expect of him, and only once he believed he had reached her expected conclusion did he speak. “You were expecting a constitutional conference and wanted to diminish the negative emotions of the low castes to try and prevent...what? Violence? Interference?”

“Either,” his mother replied. He couldn’t tell if she was smiling through the interference. “Both. The facts are that a constitution is an inevitability. The pressures of the world hegemony will always, as inexorably as the tide, draw nations towards certain paradigms.”

Sul blinked. His mother, as current spokesperson for the traditional contingent of senators, had always been the most vocal opponent of a written tradition. This sounded more like the words of Hitap Mashat Hu’, the foremost internationalist.

“What?” he said lamely.

His mother shook her head. “Cricket, there comes a time to understand that support of tradition does not mean blindly looking backwards. Pragmatism, realism...these mentalities transcend any specific political viewpoint. And the pragmatic, realistic read of things has always been that a constitution would happen.”

“So why did you fight against it?” Sul asked. “Doesn’t that make you look foolish when the time comes?”

“Perhaps,” she nodded once. “But it delayed the situation long enough for me to get my house in order. It still came sooner than I expected but that was still plenty of time. I will admit that our old goat of an ‘uhitap caught me by surprise, the man can sometimes be full of surprises, but that may be for the best. Less time to second guess my plans. In addition, my initial opposition will make me seem out-of-touch, but it means that when I acquiesce to certain decisions made during the conference, I will look reasonable and open to compromise. This will give me leverage to ensure that the shape of the constitution is one that holds to the standards of our traditions, as opposed to a carbon copy of some foreign document.”

Sul considered this for several more long moments. Finally, he spoke. “So why have you called me, mother? Not just to chat, I know that…”

His mother stared intently at the screen. For a moment, the image clarified that he could see the intensity in her eyes. “We are reaching a point where the war is going to be a problematic political situation. Namely, our relationship with the other nations involved...we need the political capital to spend in the coming talks.”

“I can only end the war faster if…”

“If you were unshackled from an anchor?”

Sul nodded. “If I’ve been holding back Shala, it’s only because we’ve both been moving in opposite directions. He’s holding me back as well.”

His mother nodded. “We’re close. The Prince-Admiral’s staunchest allies have been in the militarist faction...old friends, old comrades, et cetera, et cetera. But the militarists have been the ones most keen on understanding the outcomes of the war, and they’re coming to certain realizations. Our first war on foreign soil in a hundred years is a big learning opportunity, and I think they have begun to reconsider certain propositions made by Shala.”

“Meaning he won’t be making those propositions much longer?”

“Don’t be too hasty, Cricket,” his mother replied. “The Prince-Admiral has deep roots in tough soil. To weed him out will be a more intensive proposition than you might realize but...if you were to achieve certain victories, and I were to begin making certain claims in the right places…”

Sul thought about that. “I’ve already sent my best men on a special mission that might aid in ending this stalemate.”

“‘Might’ isn’t very certain,” his mother replied. “But if they are successful, that could easily be leveraged to undermine Shala’s position. Are they the Bellringers?”

Sul nodded. “Yes.”

“Even better,” she said. “They’ve achieved successful missions with extraordinary consistency, and their reputation is one of loyalty directly to you. If they were to achieve their objective, we could spin it as being another move of your bold command achieving victory where the Prince-Admiral’s direction continues to be impractical and immobile.”

“That’s not even a lie,” Sul mumbled petulantly, for one moment feeling a childish swell of anger at the Prince-General that overrode his general boredom with the man.

“Of course it isn’t,” his mother said. “Lies are a weak tool for shaping perceptions. But the scale to which that opinion must be spread is substantial, and will require certain groundwork. To whit…”

Sul checked the time. “I have work to be returning to myself.”

“Good,” his mother said. “If you were not busy, I would have a harder time convincing the people needed that the invasion rests upon your shoulders.”

“It doesn’t,” Sul said. “It rests on the shoulders of my warriors.”

His mother nodded once and she ended the call. Sul took a deep breath. Speaking with his mother was always exhausting, and always in unique and surprising ways. He stood, smoothed his leopard-spotted sash, and stretched out, hearing the pop-pop-pop in his fingers, wrists and spine. He let out a sigh of relief and sat back down. Before he could even reach for his cold coffee, there was a knock on the door, which swung open without waiting for his response. Lieutenant Ututu entered, his face contorted into some sort of mix of confusion and panic. That was not a good sign.

“Prince-General,” the Lieutenant said, holding up a document, “we just got word from the Miklanians.”

“Normally one waits for a response from their Prince before barging in, Kilu,” Sul scolded half-heartedly, but he held out his hand for the papers. Ututu handed the documents over. Sul flipped through them, frowning.

“Grandmother’s tits,” he swore, wondering if his mother could spin this one. “There’s no damned rest, is there?”

The Lieutenant didn’t know how to answer, and awkwardly stood halfway between attention and ease. Sul looked up at him.

“Go get me transport,” he said. “I need to go speak with their commanders and get more info on this. Let’s ask every ancestor we can remember the names of to let this be an accident and not active sabotage.”

“Yes, Prince-General,” Ututu looked more comfortable receiving orders and snapped to attention, bringing three fingertips on his right hand to his left cheekbone in salute, before turning and sweeping out.

Sul sighed one more time and glanced at the papers still in his hand. An explosion. A damned big explosion. What else could go wrong?

[Menna Shuli]

“Father’s name,” Pa swore under his breath. “That right there is what we call a fucking problem.”

He handed the binoculars over to Amikiku. From their position on a low ridge to the southwest of the crossing, they had perfect line of sight to the bridges while still having cover from the tangles of weedy bushes and copses of thorny trees that dotted the Javieran Steppe. Over the past several days of travel through the wilderness of the Steppe, the squad had discovered that the tiny orange berries that grew on the bushes were bitter but not poison, and a small handful every once in a while filled their stomachs enough that they could operate on half-rations, especially if they caught rabbits or birds to supplement their diet. Since they had doubled up on explosives, they’d had to carry less food, which meant that the discovery had been a welcome discovery when it came to stretching their resources.

Amikiku looked through the binoculars. On the distant horizon, she could see the blue shapes of the mountains rising from the plateau. The river cut a channel down from the distant shadows. At this point in the Plateau, the river had eroded deep into the earth, slicing a wound-like ravine of jaundiced stone into the red-and-orange fields. Amikiku was glad that she and the squad had forded the river to the south, using swiftly made log rafts that they had been able to break apart and send down the current to avoid leaving traces of their passage. Had they tried to cross here, it would have meant a long climb down before crossing white water and a long climb back up, all without belaying equipment or proper rappelling ropes.

The bridges crossed the ravine side-by-side. The further of the two was an old, wooden construction of huge log pilings forming cantilevers, embedded deeply into the stone on either side of the ravine. The highway, a poorly maintained black line of graying asphalt, stretched north and south away from it. Military vehicles moved across it in either direction, with a series of checkpoints on the southside to check in on the rare civilian vehicle that chugged northward. None came south.

The second, more southerly bridge, was all gleaming metal. Suspension cables held it aloft, the great towers of the edifice standing sentinel on the edges of the cliffs. The railines stretched away, and as Amikiku watched through the binoculars, a train approached from the north and slowed only slightly as it blew across the bridge. She could imagine the sound of the wind bubble moving across the bridge cabling, sending shêwa-like warbles ringing through the echo chamber of the gorge.

She could see what Pa meant by it being a problem. Both bridges were solid, defended and would be difficult to approach. The squad was lucky in one regard, in that the defenses were focused on the east-side of the river in case of Mênnan attack from Constantina. The squad had expected this, which is why they had crossed to the west side in the first place. Even with that small edge in stealth and surprise, it was going to be a massive issue just to reach the bridges unseen, given the military traffic on both. As evening fell, Amikiku could see floodlights begin to activate, illuminating the bridges, the surrounding area, and even a fair portion of the ravine below. So even the night cover that the squad had used to get here would be limited.

Beyond that, even if they could reach the bridges, both were significant issues when it came to the primary mission objective. Demolition of the crossing would be extraordinarily difficult with the ordinance they had brought with them. They’d carried explosives, but none of them had been expecting the bridges to be as solid as they looked. Even the older of the two was a monster of wood beams and metal pilings which could probably tank a fair amount of abuse. The rail bridge was brand new and brought with it all of the engineering prowess a Vancouvian with trains on the mind could leverage. Which, Amikiku knew, was a whole hell of a lot.

Trying to barrel past the obvious problem, she tried to get a sense of the defenses on the bridges. “I think the Wellsians are giving the Javis some defensive support down there,” she said.

Pa nodded. “Yeah. What do you reckon? A company on defense?”

Amikiku counted vehicles. “Equivalent, I’d guess. A couple of Wellsian patrols, plus a platoon of Javi mechanized infantry. Wonder where the rest of that company is, if they’re being filled-in by Wellsians.”

“On patrol, I’d guess,” Pa chewed his lip. “We’ll want to make sure that we keep lights to a min back at camp. No fires.”

“Lion-hunting,” Amikiku agreed. Anyone who had spent their life on a savanna compound knew that going on a night hunt meant that, as often as not, whatever you were going after was either also being hunted by something else that would want you out of the way, or was probably hunting you right back. A warrior learned to operate by moonlight as much as possible.

Amikiku handed the binoculars back to Pa, who began to tuck them away. “Let’s get back and let the Sarge know what we saw. The other scouts have probably already begun heading back.”

“Can’t let Matu beat us back with the message,” Pa said. “He’d find some way of turning it into a sermon.”

The pair of them crawled away from their perch and slowly made their way down the embankment behind them. Then they moved west, keeping low in the scrub of the fields around them. It took them a half hour to return to the squad’s encampment, which they’d made in a sheltered hollow ringed with stones on one side. The place was eerily silent for an outside observer, with everyone in and around it communicating primarily with Mênnan bush-sign and occasional, hushed tones.

They made their way to the only tent they’d brought, where the Sarge had the few maps and charts they had acquired of the area spread around him. Most were photocopies of maps kept in the town hall of Pueblo Ignacio. He looked up at them as they entered and waved for them to sit on the ground with him.

“Welcome back,” he said. “What did you get?”

“Bridges are going to be rough,” Pa said. “They’re big, solid and well-defended.”

“How well defended?”

“At least a company of mechanized infantry,” Amikiku said. “Even without that, the whole place is lit up like a Mak Nâ festival. Night won’t be our ally.”

“The bridges may as well be concrete bunkers,” Pa leapt in. “At least compared to the explosives we have. Everything we have could probably take down one of them without an issue, but splitting it between two is going to be a problem.”

“Any way of us getting more from enemy stockpiles?” the Sarge asked.

Pa and Amikiku glanced at each other. “Maybe,” Pa finally said, “but the defenses are still there. They have Wellsians, and we’ve seen the weapons that the Javis have started carrying. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have more Balniki weapons in reserve.”

The Sarge nodded. “What would you say is our best option?”

“The trains are the bigger problem,” Amikiku said. “If we have to choose only one bridge to reliably render useless, the new one is our target.”

Pa nodded his agreement. “Trains are faster and more reliable right now. We should do our best to hit that first.”

The Sarge nodded again. “Agreed,” he said, “but that isn’t our mission. Taking out only one bridge won’t have us tag another success.”

“Then we need to get clever,” Pa said. “Not sure how yet, but sneaking in and placing explosives isn’t going to be good enough.”

The Sarge mulled this over for a moment. “Alright,” he finally said. “Matu and the Old Man will be back soon. Once we have their read, we’ll start working on something.”

[Miklania]

The young artillery officer finished his report. Colonel Gavin was not pleased. Not only was it bad enough that his forces were being kept out of the disastrous siege of Constantina by the Prince-Admiral, who was simultaneously demanding area artillery fire missions on the town and roads, he was now unable to fulfil more than two or three good fire missions with his 105mm howitzers. The evidence was sitting on the ground before him, held tightly in it's wooden crate. A shell, green, with three yellow stripes painted round the tip. Gavin's XO stood next to him, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head in exasperation. Those three stripes meant this was one of the most dangerous pieces of equipment in the Army's inventory. In fact, it shouldn't be in the Army's inventory.

"When did they stop making these things? Fifty-five?" The XO asked.

"Something like that." Gavin replied, sighing. "They should have been gone by ninety-five. Remember how they made a huge thing about that? Controlled detonations were all over the news for a week."

"Oh I remember. I was at Fort Killade when those guys from 3rd Armored got blown up doing firing practice. Pulled the lanyard, the shell blew up right in the tube. Killed half the gun crew. Back then it took the force of firing to set one of these things off. Fuck, that was twenty-four years ago. Think of how bad they've degraded by now, they might go off if you breathe on them wrong."

"We've got at least twelve 463L pallets of them waiting next to the air strip, a few dismounted crates made it up the hill to the gun positions." The artilleryman stated.

"What have you done with them?" Gavin asked.

"Not touched 'em after we figured out what they were."

"That's the best thing you can do. Alright, I want your guys to get away from the position, on the forward slope, I'll have the engineers bring something up to take them down. We'll have to move the rest of them out into the woods somewhere and blow them in place. The last half-dozen pallets came in on a plane this morning right?"

"Yessir."

"Damn that aircrew are the luckiest men alive." The XO added.

"Alright, get people on it. I'll warm up the satcoms and see who sent this crap over here." Colonel Gavin turned to one of his staff. "There aren't any more flights with artillery ammunition scheduled for today are there?"

"Uh, no sir, not until tomorrow morning."

"Good, at least there's time to cancel them before we have a C-17 blow up in mid-air." He turned to another staff sergeant. "Get me Dyess."

"You gonna tell those Logi guys what I think of them?" The XO asked.

"John, I'm going to tell them that I don't want to see another shell that doesn't have one thick band on the nose and that isn't in a crate marked with a date bigger than at least 1960. Any more of this three striped crap and I'll have someone's ass on a platter."

By now the artillery officer had left, taking the Combat Engineer Company commander with him. The safest way to remove the shells was by placing them very carefully on the thick steel blade of one of their bulldozers, which would hopefully be able to stabilize well enough to prevent them shaking or falling. The cabs of the Light Infantry Division's bulldozers weren't armored, but the blades were the thickest pieces of steel on any military vehicle on the island.

Yellow is the color code for high explosives. Missiles, shells, and handgrenades all have yellow bands painted around them. Between 1920 and 1956, the Army had specified that HE shells for it's field guns and mortars be marked with three yellow stripes around the tip. These shells were made to the highest quality standards of the time, but by the 1980s it was clear that there was something wrong with them. Some were beginning to explode immediately on impact even when they were equipped with a delay fuse. Some people commented on them seeming to explode more violently and unevenly. The Army blamed fuses until 1994, when soldiers conducting artillery practice at Fort Killade put one of the oldest series shells in their howitzer. Fuzes weren't the problem at all. The explosive compounds were unstable, and had deteriorated significantly over the years. Violent impacts could set the most deteriorated portions of the explosive filler off. The characteristic uneven explosion pattern some had seen was part of the explosive detonating violently on impact, blowing the shell apart before the fuse did, sending chunks of unexploded filler off fractions of a second later. That one particular shell was so badly deteriorated that it exploded under the stress of firing. The gun barrel shattered, killing five men and wounding twelve others. It was a national scandal. The Army responded by taking all shells of that type into the middle of artillery ranges and blowing them up in massive piles. Ever since the late 1950s, when a new specification of shell had been issued, with a new and improved filler, new production shells had been marked with a single yellow band at the tip. Fortunately, that made the problem of identifying the dangerous shells easy, they were the ones with three stripes. All of them had been disposed of by the end of 1995. Except for the dozens that had found their way into San Javier, that is.

Colonel Gavin thought for a moment. What should he tell the Mennans? The Prince-Admiral already held him and the rest of his force as beneath contempt. Telling him now not just that they wouldn't provide him with fire support, but that they couldn't provide him with fire support was not going to improve relations. Better to just keep on telling him no. He let out his thousandth exasperated sigh of the day. Communications needed to be maintained with their erstwhile allies. It was already starting to slip away. Sul could be trusted to be more helpful. He typed up a brief report explaining the situation, printed it off, and tracked down his liaison with the Mennan Prince-General. As he ran off to the other side of town, Gavin turned his attention back to resolving the situation. His communications sergeant gave him the handset.

"Dyess Air Force Base for you sir." She said.

"Thank you Sergeant." He held the little black Bakelite phone to his ear. "Hello? Yes, could I speak to Colonel Oakes? Thank you." He endured the awful holding music as the line was transferred and Colonel Oakes found. After a few minutes, the other end finally picked up. "Colonel?" "Good." "Would you care to explain how I got twelve pallets of three-stripe one-oh-five shells?" "No, setting up the sat line is too involved for it to be used as a joke device, Colonel." "We most certainly did." "Well I was just staring at a bunch of them not fifteen minutes ago. I want you to halt all further shipments of high-explosive ammunition until you have checked every single crate you have. I don't want a C-17 blown out of the air by it's own cargo." The communications sergeant and most other people in the tent were watching the one-sided conversation with interest, although they all pretended that they weren't. Colonel Gavin pretended to not notice that they were pretending. "Clearly we do have some left in the inventory somewhere." "I know it should have been destroyed, but here it is." A long pause as the unheard voice on the other end got in his monologue. Colonel Gavin's brow furrowed. Almost nobody in the tent had ever seen the old man loose his temper before, but whatever the person on the other end was saying, it looked like it was getting ready to make him blow. It did. "Now you listen here Colonel, I don't give a damn what someone told you you needed to send over here, and I don't give a damn if you think it's possible that there's bad shells in the mix. You are going to halt all further shipments of high-explosive ammunition to my command or I will take those shells and correct your attitude with them! Do you understand?" The brief silence was broken by an explosion. Heads turned towards the direction of the sound: the airfield. It was too close to be where the engineers were going to blow the bad shells. A second after the first blast, a second shook the ground. A massive WOOOMPH as powder charges conflagrated explosively. The shock wave tore seams in the command tent until portions of the walls were hanging together by threads. Gavin stood in the center of it his mouth agape. "Damn you." Was all he had to say before he slammed the handset down.

[Menna Shuli]

Corporal Rodrigo Sante Elba was a man comfortable with heights. No. Rodrigo Sante Elba was a man in love with heights. In his short twenty six years of life on God’s green earth, he had spent an inordinate amount of time in high places. Drafted by the paramilitarios when he was 10, his original job had been planting “drop mines” in trees near jungle outposts. Drop mines were simple traps, basically a tripwire on the ground that would detach a grapevine of grenades from a tree right on top of whoever or whatever was below. They were stable and easy to make, if also fairly easy to detect if you were looking for them, but planting them could be dangerous since a fall would easily kill a person. Kids were best at it, since they tended to be more flexible and more natural climbers. Rodrigo was more than a natural himself, scampering up and down trees like a little monkey.

His skills were pretty swiftly noticed, and he was soon moved to a more critical but skillful job: stringing up telegraph and telephone wires through the jungle. This required carefully moving from tree-to-tree, hiding the wiring and ensuring there were no snags or crosses. Often, it meant crossing into enemy-controlled territory, which meant booby traps and the risk of being shot out of a tree like a bird. That never happened to Rodrigo. He moved around with tremendous ease, never missing a grip and never triggering a single trap.

By the time he was thirteen, he had been moved to one of the best jobs a climber could have in those days: radio tower repair. With the constantly shifting lines of the civil conflict, communication was a key currency, but one that was often in flux. Climbing radio towers to either cut the lines for the enemy or repair the lines for one’s own side was a dangerous, frightening task, but one that came coupled with the most fun a kid could have in the armies of San Javier. A radio repairman wasn’t just a climber with some tools, but was also a sharpshooter and sniper. At thirteen, Rodrigo became the assistant to one of these repairmen, and acted as a mobile toolbox and as a spotter. He and Jorge would climb the tallest towers, dangling precariously a hundred feet above the ground, and then Rodrigo would get to scan with the spotter’s scope and call targets while Jorge took his potshots. By the time Rodrigo was sixteen, he was no longer just the spotter, but was the triggerman. He had chalked up dozens of kills since then, which had earned him promotions and even better assignments. It was the best time of his life.

But then the war had ended and the paramilitaries and the ECSJ had merged together, and everything on the island had become about peacekeeping and construction and all the peacetime tasks, and the need for climbers had diminished. Most of what Rodrigo had done since was wheel around from town to town with his company, handing out fuel rations or helping set up the new telephone network. This had a lot less wire-hanging than his old version of the job, and a lot more overseeing local workers. He hated it.

When the Mênna had invaded, a goodly part of Rodrigo’s heart had leapt for joy. It meant that maybe, just maybe, he would get to do what he was best at again. Climb. He could strip off his boots and tie on his toolbelt and start the upward trek, the hand-over-hand, foot-over-foot ascension that let him look over long drops and feel the twisting vertigo that always gave him that rushing high that other soldiers usually got through copious amounts of coke.

And then he’d been put on guard duty out here at the bridges. It wasn’t awful, not really. He could sometimes go to the edge of the bridges and look down into the crevasse of the river gorge and feel the momentary twist in his guts that he loved so much. But it wasn’t the same. His feet were always firmly planted on wood or steel, and there was none of the risk of falling that made the whole thing worthwhile. It was the adrenalin spike of knowing you were always just holding on to life, that a wrong movement could spell disaster, that made the heights the rush they were. This job, while critical, was just so boring. Somehow, being given this milder, watered-down version of his drug-of-choice was somehow worse than not being given any taste at all, or so he felt himself thinking in his most self-pitying moments.

So when the floodlights on one half of the rail bridge went out, Rodrigo suddenly felt an electric thrum of excitement rush his spine and fingertips. When the company commander called for someone to go check the electrical lines and bulbs, the words hadn’t even fully left the man’s mouth before Rodrigo was stepping forward.

“You don’t have a problem with heights, do you Sante Elba?” the commander asked.

“No, sir,” Rodrigo grinned. “I was a radio repairman, sir!”

Five minutes later, Rodrigo was strapping on a toolbelt, stripping off his boots and socks, and was being offered a rope by one of the child-soldiers sent to help him out from the bridge.

“I don’t need a rope,” Rodrigo said.

Captain Aljendro, the officer on duty, shook his head. “I’m not losing any men because of wet metal, Sante Elba.”

Like a waterslick would take me down, Rodrigo thought, but didn’t argue orders. That was a lovely way to get shot. He took the rope, ran it through the straps of his toolbelt, and swiftly tied a triple-wrap O slip knot that would make the best fisherman or sailor proud.

“Good, sir?” he said, only mildly petulant.

Aljendro nodded. “Get climbing. We don’t have long to check this out before the next train comes.”

Rodrigo walked to the edge of the bridge, his heart pounding in excitement. He looked over, felt the familiar pulse in his hands and ears. The waters of the river churned black and white in the darkness below. He smiled, took out his penlight and flicked it on. He tucked the light between his teeth and, with no fear, stepped over the edge.

His weight swung pendulum-like from the rock-steady grip his left hand had taken on the metal suspension beam. As he came around, his left hand shot out and caught one of the hand-wide rivets on the far side, so that he was hugging the vertical beam, feet dangling free. Leaning back, he braced his feet on the interior of the beam, and began to edge up, hand over hand.

It took him less than a minute to reach the first floodlight. He looked past the wire mesh that protected it and saw that the bulb seemed fine. He’d guessed that would be the case. All the lights on this side had gone out, which meant that it wasn’t going to be a bulb problem. It was probably either a transformer blowing out or the line being broken somewhere. He felt a breeze push around him, the sudden sweep of wind tugging at his fingers. He smiled looking down. He was at least sixty feet above the river and thirty feet above the surface of the bridge. He felt the twang of the suspension cables in his fingertips, the sounds of everything around him echoing and reverberating through the metal and the air a presence in his skin and not his eardrums.

He found the mounted cable for the lights and tracked it up another ten feet to the second light, which was also fine. From here, he could grab the wrist-thick cables of the suspension system and muscle his way out to head for the other suspension column. He could hear the voices below worrying for him as he dangled from beneath the cable by his hands and feat, edging along like a sloth. The rope dangled beneath him like a tail, stretching down to the hands of the others below.

As he crossed the suspension cable, Rodrigo could see the approaching train in the north. He had to weave around the vertical supports that connected it to the main bridge as he moved. This was most worrying in the initial descent along the cable, where each vertical suspension required him to momentarily trust in only two of his limbs at a time to support his whole bodyweight. It was also these vertical suspension points that had made him try and avoid the rope, as weaving between them required frequent stops for the ground crew to untangle the rope. This, coupled with having to check each foot of the electrical wire that ran along the suspension for flaws, slowed him, and by the time he reached the other main suspension column his shoulders were starting to burn. He hooked a knee around the suspension cable, braced his toes in the crook of one of the vertical I-beams of the column, and let himself hang hands-free for a few minutes to give his arms and hands a break. He had a small, plastic bag of chalk on the toolbelt, which he reached into and rubbed into the joints and crevasses of his hands. The light from his penlight danced across the beams as he did so.

“Are you crazy?” someone below yelled up. “You’re going to fall. Get your hands on something!”

Rodrigo rolled his eyes and grasped the I-beam, unhooking his knee from the cable. He checked the next floodlight, then descended to the one beneath. Both were fine, as was the cabling. This left the two floodlights and transformer box on the underside of the bridge. While the groundcrew had probably though the high verticals of the suspension columns or the underhang of the cabling was the most harrowing part of Rodrigo’s job, Rodrigo himself knew better. The underside of the bridge was going to be a mess. It was near pitch black down there, with none of the ambient light of the rest of the bridges or camps or dusklight glow to help him out. Furthermore, runoff from the bridge and rail line would collect on the metal down there, leading for it to be oily, messy and slick. It was also the most likely hideaway for birds and other animals, meaning that there was a fair chance of coming face to face with an angry eagle or osprey, or maybe even a troupe of troublesome monkeys that might try and attack his hands, feet and face. The drop was lower, but the climb was going to be far worse.

Still, Rodrigo was Rodrigo. He’d been climbing for nearly twenty years, and no bridge would best him. As he dropped past the groundcrew, he grinned and winked, and then lowered himself into the shadows of the underbridge.

Just as he had expected, the area was dark, wet and oil-slick. He had to carefully move hand over hand, like a child on monkeybars, to avoid getting the ropes tangled amidst the cluster of bars and beams. The first floodlight had a bird’s nest perched amongst its electricals, but was otherwise fine. Rodrigo had become certain that the problem lay at the transformer box at the middle of the bridge, which became his next destination. Feet dangling in mid-air above the thirty-foot drop to the water, he moved towards the middle of the bridge, the smile on his face threatening to become permanent.

Before he even reached the transformer, Rodrigo realized that something was seriously wrong. As he monkeyed along the underside of the bridge, the penlight in his mouth shone a swinging beam that lit small portions of the bridge’s engineering at any one time. As one of these arcs passed over the transformer box, he could see the dangling shape of the box’s lid hanging wide open. The box was supposed to be locked shut, and shouldn’t have been able to be opened without a key or significant force. Rodrigo frowned, and took a moment to adjust his grip on the slick metal. The sudden stress was making his palms sweat even more than normal.

He moved closer to the transformer. The bridge was beginning to shake. The train was approaching. The circle of light from his penlight shifted with each swing of his body, casting strange shadows against the underside of the bridge. The shadows seemed to form the shape of creatures, crawling along the bridge’s belly like vampire bats on the side of a cow. As he reached the transformer, he stopped, swinging his legs up and hooking them around a bar to help support his weight. He shone the light into the box and furrowed his brow.

The edge of the transformer box was blackened, like there had been an electrical blowout, but the interior was unmarred. Instead, all of the cabling and electricals had been torn and smashed. Someone had, very deliberately, destroyed the lighting on this bridge. Rodrigo’s heart began to race.

“Oh fuck,” he said.

At that very moment, the entire bridge shook. There was a sound of sheering wood and creaking metal and, somewhere above him, there was a flash of light that illuminated even the underside of the rail bridge through drainage gaps. Rodrigo twisted in his position as the bridge shook violently and was nearly torn from his holds as the rope around his waist went suddenly and violently taut. There was a terrifying sound of sheering metal and the entire bridge shuddered. There was a clattering boom and then, from Rodrigo’s vantage, he watched as the train suddenly dove off the edge of the bridge towards the river below.

There was more noise surrounding Rodrigo now. The rope around his waist slackened, and then went completely limp. As the train struck the water below him, there was a shockwave that pushed him up and into the bridge’s underside. At the same moment, three loud snapping noises reached his ears and he had to hug the transformer box to keep a grip as the bridge above him shifted and leaned. There was shouting and screaming from above, and a car suddenly dropped into Rodrigo’s sight, landing on the pile-up of traincars being caught in the river below. It exploded, and Rodrigo felt heat surround him. Gritting his teeth as his bare feet got singed, he carefully leveraged himself around the transformer box and lodged himself into the mess of metal beams and struts beneath the bridge. With one arm, he grabbed the dangling length of rope attached to him and swung it around a beam, then gripped it with both hands, lashing himself to the subnetwork of metal without tying himself off.

He tried to make out what was happening around him, but all the sounds had rendered his hearing a mere screech. He couldn’t see anything from his angle, and all he could smell was blood in his nostrils. He was vaguely aware of another explosion. Maybe some shooting. He couldn’t make it out.

He hung on to the now diagonal lean of the bridge for what seemed like hours. It may have been. Even after noises had stopped, he clung there, and when he finally moved it was completely dark. The penlight had fallen from his mouth at some point and he had to climb the vaguely shifting bridge in near total darkness. But he was Rodrigo the Climber, and even with sore feet and torn hands he could make it nearly anywhere that needed him to. He ascended, and reached topside.

He gazed around in stunned disbelief. Both the bridges were the first things he noticed. First, the wooden bridge across from him, which was nearly totally collapsed on the northernmost side. Then, the rail bridge he sat atop, which was twisted into a vague helix with the suspension lines torn away on the far side. Fires burned everywhere. Soldiers were shouting and running about. There was no one near him.

What the hell just happened? he thought.

---

Through the binoculars, Amikiku watched the whole thing go down. The mission objective had been secured, but their loses had been critical. Half the squad had been sent to infiltrate after Itu had taken out the lights, and none of them looked to be coming back. That included the Sarge. As the next in command, that left her in charge.

“Christ Almighty,” Matu whispered. “That was...something…”

Amikiku set down the binoculars. Without waiting she looked at the remaining five squad members aside from herself. Matu, Pa, Hêwutik, Shaka and Lu.

“We have five minutes of confusion, tops,” she said. “We have to get as far away from here as possible in that time. Understand?”

The squad all looked at one another, then made signs of acquiesence.

“Alright,” she ordered, “now! Run!”

[Wellsia]

As he did every morning Sanjunero stood on top of the tallest building in Constantina watching the sun risemover the man made hell that had once been a fair city with fields, gardens and playgrounds. Now it was churned blasted version of Tartarus made of blood and dead bloated bodies. Sanjunero knew he was putting his life in danger each time he walked out here, a sniper with a .50 cal rifle could end all his problems, but every omrning the shot never came, and another day of death and destruction would follow him into the night. A shot rank out on the field and hordes of vultures lifted form death's ground, screeching in protest as they lifted off the half-eaten bloated bodies that littered this modern version of Hades. Snajuerno shivered from the sight and involuntarily crossed himself.
Below him in the street a company of men marched, no walked down the road, he looked upon them with disgust, two months ago soldiers defended Constantina, now so called militia men filled out his command. These irregulars were for the most part thugs working for Warlords and Drug Cartels. The good thing was the Javerians now had almost 20,000 men protecting the city, the bad thing was that half of them were undisciplined and untrustworthy. Six times the Menna human waves had broken through the Javerian defenses, six times the breaks had been filled and the Menna driven back, Sanjunero was afraid that a seventh breakthrough would be the end.
A train whistle broke through his thoughts, and thankfully the live line connecting Constantina to the capital was still intact. If that artery was ever cut, his army would be forced to retreat back along the single badly maintained road back toward Santa Anna.

Casey Oswald stood on a small rise near the twin bridges that he had been entrusted to protect, an ad hoc company of three sections and a small command team was his command. Goodenough, to reward (punish) him for his defense of the vineyard at Pueblo Ignacia had promoted him to Understeadholder (OR-9) and gave him a company made up of survivors from the shot up remains of the two Wellsian battalions and sent him to keep an eye on the Javerians and the bridges.
A slight movement on the hilltop caught Casey's eye, a single leaf moved with no wind anywhere. Six years serving in the colonies watching the the border with Menna Shuli, chasing poachers and drug dealers, had taught him that the Menna warrior caste were experts when it came to stealth. He was tempted to lob a few grenades into the spot, but knew that he couldn't waste the few remaining 1.5 inch mortar rounds they still had on a hunch. He thought about telling the Javerians, but no one who hadn't spent time on the Velt would understand what and who they were facing. He would increase the patrols and possibly send a squad up to the hill to check things out. Standing there deciding what to do, he was surprised when behind him things got darker as a string of lights under the rail bridge went out plunging the area into darkness. "Damn."
He could see that Aljendro would send a man or men to deal with the lights going out, he looked back to the ridge and took off at a run for the Wellsian bivouac.
"Zak, Wallace, get over here now." Casey waited as his two subordinates ran up to him. These two had been with him for years and had served in the colonies with him. "There here, the Menna are here."
Neither of them spoke , but both turned their heads quickly trying to look everywhere at once. "I saw movement on the ridgeline just before the lights on the bridge went out, Zak take your section up the right side, Wallace you up the left, and don't forget who we are hunting. No beast in the forest is more deadly and cunning then a Menna warrior. I'll keep the third section here for fire support, incase they make an attack on the bridge."

Waiting was the hardest part of warfare, you knew shit was going to hit the fan, but when and where was the question. Caset was surprised when he saw Zak and his section returning to the encampment. He was even more surprised when he noticed he was four men fewer and three of those with him were wounded. Zak Asher, brushed dirt and sweat from his face and looked at Casey. "Damn, boss you were right, Wallace and his bunch should becoming back soon I let him know that we found them, or I should say they found us. A half dozen hit us with knives and hand to hand,. came out of bush before we knew they were there, all I can say is that it's a good think we had em outnumbered three to one, and I think they forgot that we carry bayonets on our guns still, otherwise I wouldn't be here telling you this. Well at least we know the brid."
A loud whislt gut off the ret of Zak's report as a train moved onto the bridge loaded with supplies and reinforcements for Costantina, before another word could be said the rail bridge exploded, followed almost instantly by the road bridge as well.
"Damn it to hell", Casey exclaimed as he saw his charges disappear in flames, spitting on the ground, he continued, "well now don't that just screw the pooch, Goodenough's gonna be fit to be tied, not to mention Sanjunero. Well boys tighten your belts, it's going to get hungry back in Constantina.

[Scantarbia]

Imikalani’s Haven Mountain Complex - Outer Taurus Island
Morning

The sound of a Mi-26 helicopter disturbs the serenity of the morning. The behemoth, equipped with an eight-blade rotor, is carrying an important figure in Scantarbian government. The 28-tons behemoth proceeded to land at a helipad deep in the thickness of the jungle and the person inside is then transferred to a vehicle before making its way into the heart of the mountain.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Mr. President,” said Andrew Lutjens, Person in Charge for Imikalani’s Haven Mountain Complex which resides in the outlying Outer Taurus Island at the Laniakea Islands Region.

“They’ve been waiting for you”, adds him before the vehicle stops and Akylas is escorted deeper into the complex before he finally enters a room.

The white colored room is built soundproof so no one could hear them talking. Inside the room, there’s a large table topped with an LCD screen, it is displaying the map of San Javier, surrounding the table are chairs. Sitting on these chairs are Scantarbia’s head of the military. All of them have ranked OF-10, highest on Scantarbian Military. They are Ignatius Handoko from the Army, Antonius Bagaskara from the Navy, and Suharmaji from the Air Force. They gathered here to discuss planned Scantarbian military participation on the Menna-Javier War.

“I have spoken with the Board of Ph.D.s”, the voice of Nicetas Akylas echoes via the walls of the bunker, starting the discussion, his face filled with relief and determination.

“Good, you have done the hardest part of this entire operation,” chuckles OF-10 Ignatius Handoko, turning his chair to face Akylas that just entered the room.

"How many ships will be sent?", adds OF-10 Antonius Bagaskara.

"I'm thinking about half of the surface fleet, and roughly 2500 men and vehicle, we are requested to provide battlefield support, medical, logistics, indirect fire. We’ll need especially Mare Imbrium and Mare Australe and the amphibious warfare ships alongside their support vessels like the SNAS Grapefruit. We will also need our Type 214 that is equipped with a drydock, SNS Grapplehook, to insert a special operation team, who do you recommend for this, Handoko?" answers Akylas to his generals while taking a seat facing his generals.

"I'd say Orion Team 6, at this moment the only team available is them, the rest of the Orion is either in deployment or is resting. But first, what are they going to do there?"

"I believe we are all aware if we want to achieve victory in this operation, we need to win the hearts and minds of the people, we need them to support our cause. Now, many years ago, the National Intelligence Agency, NIA, has inserted an agent on the island, we'll call him Roger for now. He was tasked to link up with people who despises the current government, people who want change. Years after years we have been supporting him and this group, San Javier Freedom Front, SJFF, with money, vehicles, and armaments. With this resource, they have been performing hit and run attacks, sabotages against the government military, helping communities, giving supplies, building infrastructures, and with the help from Solaria, providing electricity via microgrid to the people. Essentially they have been establishing trust from the people. He now lives at the capital, Castillo Verde. Now, back to this Orion Team, they'll link up with him and his guerilla army, then they will assist them with their operations and eventual cooperation with our troops on the ground. They’re not a major faction as of status quo, but they’re developing, they’re the underdogs here on this chaotic realm we call San Javier.”

“Sounds great, Scantarbian Air Force aircraft operating from SNS Mare Imbrium will provide COIN, CAS, Recon and SEAD/DEAD missions to cover our ground troops.” add Suharmaji, he himself believes that this operation will provide much-needed experience for Scantarbian troops and a chance to experiment and test tactics in real-life conditions.

“But, let us not forget what the hostiles that we are going to face there. Citizens of San Javier has seen combat practically their entire lifetime, they’re experienced with guerilla tactics and they know their lands, we need to avoid urban combat as it will be costly to our troops. With that sorted out, how are we going to announce this operation to our people,” replies Handoko after hearing the explanation from Akylas.

“We need to portray that we’re playing on the good side, we’re fighting a corrupt regime which used chaos to maintain their reign on the island, not to mention that the regime has intimate ties with the drug cartels and terror groups, that will provide us a reason to send troops to aid Menna Shuli, even if the true cause is to push forward our economic agenda in Menna Shuli, but hey, if we managed to win this war, set up a government that is pro-Scantarbia, it will provide a boon for our economy,” adds Bagaskara to this discourse, now everyone agrees on what to do there and the casus belli.

“What we need now is a name,” continues Bagaskara.

“Operation Hephaestus Sword, we’re departing our troops the day after tomorrow, then they’ll rendezvous with Miklanian and Menna Shuli fleets already operating in the waters just off the coast of the island. If there are no more questions, the meeting is done,” said Nicetas Akylas, closing the meeting.

As he exits the room, followed by his generals, he was then approached by a female officer of Greek descent, reporting to him that the KEEPSTAR satellite is operational. “Good work, start reconnaissance on the island of San Javier,” replies him while makes his journey back to the helicopter which waits for him outside the complex. Meanwhile, the generals head to the operation room, still discussing the course of actions that they’ll take, considering scenario after scenario. The sun is already above the horizon when the behemoth departs, back to the governmental capital of Arcturus.

[Menna Shuli]

The fall of Constantina began slow. At first, it was barely noticed that the trains weren't running on time. Soon, however, it became clearer and clearer that something in the siege was shifting. The defenders were growing slower, their response less measured and more confused. Then, three days after the change began, it altered entirely. Word amongst the Mênnan army was that the Bellringers had returned, and they had brought word.

There would be no reinforcements for the Javierans. The chance to take the city was now.

After that, the siege accelerated rapidly. Prince-Admiral Shala swiftly commanded Sul to order a direct attack. Sul obliged, but not before contacting the Miklanians. The ammo dump explosion had had some negative reactions on their homefront, but quite apart from the reaction that Sul had expected, namely an order to withdraw and leave only token aid for the Mênnan invasion, the reaction had lit a fire under the local Miklanian commanders. They needed to end this war, and it needed to be ended quickly and efficiently. This aided Sul's position immensely; the Miklanians were becoming less patient with Shala's tactics with each passing day, and while Sul had been unable to contract the amount of revelry that his warriors took part in, his plans were becoming more and more attractive with each faltering second of the headlong human wave.

As such, Sul knew that the best opportunity to take the city was to utilize the strengths of the Miklanians to their best advantage. Where the Miklanians excelled in comparison to either the Mênnans or the Javierans was in their technological and equipment superiority. They could utilize specific forms of combined arms tactics that were simply outside of the Mênnan oeuvre. Their specific form of Blitzkrieg would be perfect now that the Javierans were faltering, especially with the distraction of a Mênnan charge.

The Scantarbians had yet to fully settle in to the new aid they had offered, but once the alliance had taken Constantina, the Scantarbians could be leveraged to a much greater extent. That would, however, require the city in hand. So, as the bulk of the Mênnan forces began a new headlong charge into the southern end of the city, charging along the highway, the Miklanians and a smaller Mênnan contingent circled around to the west on a well-worn approach to the northern highway and rail-line.

Where this attack differed from previous attempts to take the city was in the lagging response of the Javierans, the faster attack of the Miklanians, and the forced division of the Javieran forces. The Javierans, hungry and outgunned, began to be forced back into the rat-warren streets of Constantina. The Miklanian armor would have difficulty navigating such narrow, uneven streets, but that was where the accompanying infantry came in. To the south, the Mênna were able to break into the streets, and the battle became a street-to-street, building-to-building push towards the corporate tower at the heart of the city.

[Scantarbia]

That midnight a white unmarked cargo jet descended on Castillo Verde. It came to stop on the runway before rolled into the tarmac. Men could be seen approaching the aircraft alongside a bunch of trucks. Only their silhouette could be seen on the dimly lit tarmac. Wearing a plain t-shirt with tropic dazzle-camo colored cargo pants, holding a Telestar-M8 satellite phone on its right hand. “The package has arrived,” said him. “Good, bring it to Pachualla Base as soon as possible, very well appreciated, Jay.” spoke the man on the other side of the call.

Not long after, the cargo doors of the jet swung open and containers were lowered into the awaiting trucks. After the loading is complete, the man began to board the trucks before departing from the airport. Waiting outside the airport is a Land Rover Defender mounting a .50 cal and a Toyota Hilux carrying a ZSU-23-2 anti-aircraft gun on its back. The convoy then made its way through the war-torn-but-still-somewhat-operating city of Castillo Verde, making several dogs barking along their way.

Thanks to informants all around the city, the convoy made it to the outskirts unnoticed. Rolling through the city of Rio Pena, the convoy made a shortstop on the south of the city to refuel. “Be advised, the road from here is going to be rough all the way down to Pachualla, keep your guard up, we’re almost there.” brief Jay to the whole convoy. The convoy then continues to roll, unharmed and unnoticed, all the way to the SJFF camp near Pachualla.”

“The package has arrived,” reports Jay to the leader of SJFF, Diego Ramirez, while unloading the cargo. “Good, it’s about time,”. Among the package are several single-use AT4s and RPG-7s with their explosives, enough to take down any APCs that happens to pose a threat to the SJFF. The package also provides the RPG-7 with the tandem warhead, enabling them to defeat ERA blocks that are commonplace on Javieran armored vehicles. Alongside the RPGs are mortar rounds to replenish SJFF’s mortar munition, MREs, and solar panels to be installed on villages in order to provide them with electricity, and hopefully also securing the villager's support for the SJFF.

“Now, I have received intel from the command that the main invasion is coming soon, they’ll send a spec ops team down through the shores of Castillo Verde, I’ll link up with them,” utters Jay while he cleans his SCAR-L battle rifle, yet to see any action. “Good, I believe that the downfall of this pathetic regime will be days away, then freedom will be ours!” replies Ramirez with joy during the debriefing of the entire supply operations. “Oh, we also got explosives, we could stuff one of our cars with them, rig it as a car bomb,” points Jay while he inventories the newly received supply. “We need to help the Scantarbians any way we can, they have been our partner this entire time, with them, we can usher in a time of stability and prosperity into this war-torn nation. Anyway, have the engineering team made any progress recently in establishing electricity with the solar panels at the villages near Rio Pena? And how did that village supply mission goes, I believe we have secured the support of the villagers? Not to mention we gave them electricity with the panel we place last week,” asks Ramirez to his SJFF compatriots.

The discussion on the SJFF camp continues well into the dawn. Meanwhile, far offshore, the Scantarbian fleet is approaching, it’ll be any day now.

[Scantarbia]

“Sir, we have reached the destined coordinate, sir!” reports the helmsman of SNS Mare Imbrium to his captain, who’s also the admiral of the fleet participating in Operation Hephaestus Sword. The fleet is now sitting just 20 nautical miles from the shores of San Javier. The surface search radar on the ships indicates the existence of several ships that are not part of the fleet, which is assumed by the admiral, OF-9 Frederick Hayes as Miklanian and Mennan ships.

He then proceeded to attempt to contact their fleets, “Be advised, Scantarbian Navy Fleet entering the AO and proceeding to disembark.” announce Hayes via the secure link to both fleets. With one key press from the buttons on his console, he changed the communication channel to the only broadcast between Scantarbian vessels, this secure communication link is provided through GNOSIS satellites partially operated by Telestar Technologies, “Commence Operation Hephaestus Sword,” said the admiral with a serious voice. It is now 03:12 in the morning.

The main fleet (SNS) consists of 1 carrier, 1 landing helicopter deck, 5 submarines, 6 frigates, 8 corvettes, 10 fast attack crafts, 4 patrol boats. While the landing force is carried via 2 landing platform docks, 8 LCACs, 4 landing ship tanks, and 6 landing ships. The auxiliary force (SNAS) consists of 3 replenishment tankers, 1 submarine tender, 2 dry cargo/ammunition ships, and 1 hospital ship. In total, 68 ships participated in the operation.

The sea is calm that dusk and the breeze is the only thing creating noise, filling what should be a calm morning. But not long after Hayes announced the start of the operation, the silence is broken and the radio is filled with chatter as the ships prepared to disembark their troops into the Mennan beachhead at the delta of Rio del Rosario and the FOB at Pueblo Ignacio. Not long after, the flight deck on SNS Mare Imbrium, Mare Australe, Mare Tranquillitatis and Carstensz Pyramid started to be bustling with activities, with helicopters being lifted from the hangar into the flight deck and being prepared for taking off. Not long after, Chinook and Osprey helicopters from Mare Imbrium and Mare Australe are being filled with troops that are about to make their way into the FOB at Pueblo Ignacio.

Below the waves, some activity also took place. “Grapplehook detaching,” the distinct thick Russian accent belonging to the Admiral of Scantarbian Submarine Fleet, OF-9 Fyodor Alexei could be heard through the radio. The submarine -equipped with a drydock and a submersible, called the Orion Delivery Vehicle (ODV)- then proceeds to loop around the island before sneaking its way to the capital, Castillo Verde, in order to disembark the Orion Team 6.

Ospreys and Chinooks are not the only helicopters they’re carrying to this mission. Each of the Mare Tranquillitatis-class landing platform docks carried a single Mi-26 helicopter. The first flight of the giant behemoth that morning which departed for the FOB carried some troops and a BTR-80M inside its spacious cargo compartment. In the next following days, the helicopters and landing ships will go back and forth multiple times to fully disembark troops, vehicles, equipment, and munitions from the ships at sea into the FOB at Pueblo Ignacio.

Changes during preparation considering the strategic goals of the operation mean that Scantarbian Armed Forces is deploying 5200 personnel for the operation, more than twice the size of what is initially planned, 2500. The manpower came from 1st JFTF Combined Mechanized Brigade “Osiris” (4000 personnel), 1st Construction Battalion “Balustrade” (600 personnel), 1st Artillery Battalion “Sunshine” (450 personnel) and 1st Helicopter Squadron “Hellbringer” (450 personnel).

[Miklania]

Fort McFarland, Miklania

Walter Kennedy's current interviewee was one of his least favorite types. Old, military, bureaucratic. Giving him the sort of copy-paste drivel that was so obviously a spin on a bad situation they didn't even bother to pretend it wasn't. And the people of this backwards nation would gobble it up as a matter of course. It revolted him. He couldn't fathom how they could allow themselves to be mislead when it was so obvious that they had to realize it. He wasn't mean spirited enough to assume that all his fellow Miklanians were idiots. The best answer he had ever come up with was that his people had become so engrossed in "the national interest" that they were willing to play along with whatever lies the military and the government came up with. Like so many other parts of the culture he had been born into, it bothered him immensely. He had wanted to be a foreign correspondent at one point, in his angsty teenage years when he just wanted out of the backwardness, but on his first trip abroad in college he realized he couldn't stand the shame of his place of birth among a truly free people. He had instead dedicated himself to forcing change within the system, from the outside. He got the Army to pay for him to be educated as a journalist, although all they actually had him do was write the sort of dull lying press statements that he was on the receiving end of now.

"And as stated previously, our forces are not at the front of the decision making process in the campaign, and as a result we have no loss in confidence in Colonel Gavin due to the slowness of the operational tempo." The interviewed lieutenant colonel concluded. "Any further questions?" Of course Kennedy had further questions, this was an exciting opportunity for him. For the first time ever, as far as he or anyone else could tell, Miklanian troops were committed to a battle abroad that the people had not overwhelmingly supported. No one really knew what to make of it, or what to do. Kennedy did. It was the time to put the screws to the stale conservative political system that had ruled its way into this tropical blunder. This could be the catalyst for real, meaningful change. But he had already interrogated this man for half an hour, and it was clear he only had a handful of lines to give. Kennedy was done.

He stood up, thanking the officer for his time, shook his hand, and was escorted to the door. The long hallway was deserted, except for two junior staff officers walking towards him, talking about something. Kennedy made out "Howitzer shells blew the whole ammo dump" before the officers noticed the civilian suit stepping out into the hall and shut their mouths, a look of alarm flashing across their faces before they reverted to stone. A conversation that the military didn't want him to hear was exactly the sort of thing he was looking for. He acted as if he hadn't heard anything and walked past, smiling and nodding in polite acknowledgement of their presence. He didn't dare look back, he wanted them to start talking again, and they'd only do that if they thought he wasn't listening. After a few paces they started whispering to each other. Kennedy slowed his pace and focused on picking out the hushed words. The soldiers weren't totally stupid, they'd allowed for some distance to open up before renewing their conversation. He was frustrated in his attempts to make out anymore than a few phrases and words. "four men killed" "artillery shortfall" "incompetent".

By the time Kennedy had made it to the elevator, the officers were at the other end of the long hall, and totally out of earshot. But he had enough juicy morsels to start what could be his big story. As a young Corporal escorted him to the visitors parking lot he couldn't help but smile from excitement.

[Wellsia]

Puerto Polo, San Javier
Fieldwatchmaster (OF-7) Fredrick Conningham was pleased with the way the defenses of Puerto Polo were coming. It was about the only thing he was pleased with. The remains of the 9th and 10th Battalion were retreating from Constantina to Santa Anna, the 11th Battalion was moving toward Castello Verde in the face of the Scantarbians, he was glad he had left the 12th Battalion here to assist the Engineer Company. Puerto Verde was now a fortress, surrounded by trenches with cement pillboxes spaced every so many yards. Beyond the trenches were hundreds of concrete dragoons teeth interconnected by miles of razor wire, lastly thousands of landmines formed a death trap for anyone attacking. The skies over the port was protected by batteries of anti-aircraft guns and surface to air missiles. San Javeria would fall without a miracle, but Conningham was determined that his men would be paroled back to Wellsia or make the Menna, Miklanians, and Scantarbians play a bloody price.

Santa Anna, San Javier
Commandant-sreadholder (OF-5) Wallis Goodenough watched as the battered remains of his command limped into Santa Anna, the 3rd and 7th companies of the 10 Battalion, that had been left as a garrison, rushed to assist there fellow Wellsians. The company cooks were already raiding the well stocked warehouses in Santa Anna, and the smell of cooking food was a welcome smell to men who had had little over the last month. He saw Casey oswald, who commanded his rear-guard entering with his command, and knew that Sanjuro still held Constantina. Goodenough decided to let his men rest for three hours before they continued the retreat to Puerto Polo.

Constantina, San Javier
General-Capitan (OF-7) Alesandro Sanjuro looked about the gathering of officers. The defense had fallen apart once the the bridges were destroyed. Even now the seventh wave of Menna warriors was breaking through overextended lines to the south and west, while the northern front was being driven into the battered remains of the city by the Miklanians, reinforced by elite Menna units. Addressing his senior officers Sanjuro begin: "Gentlemen, we have failed. It is only a matter of time before all defenses collapse leaving us with a ragtag mob. I have ordered the Wellsians to retreat back to Santa Anna and as you all know, we have had over 5000 desertions. The way I look at, we have three choices; First: to continue to fight until total defeat, Second: surrender to the tender mercies of the Menna, or third: send a delegate to Prince-General Sul, informing him that we are going rogue and have declared ourselves independent of the Junta and the People's Freedom Coalition. Your opinions gentlemen.
The senior ranking regimental commander, General-Major (OF-5) Pancho Franco stood up and faced his commanding officer. As he rose, Franco let his hand drop to the pistol resting in it's holster on his hip. "General-Capitan, let me get this straight. It would seem that you are asking us to betray the oath we made to protect San Javeria? It would seem that you expect us to join forces with the Menna, even after what they did to Pueblo Ignacio? Am I understanding you right General, you want us to betray everything we stand far?
Sanjuro, looked at Franco's hand on his holster. "Pancho, if you are going to shoot me, then please do, then all of this will be your problem. So gentlemen, what will it be."
Franco looked at Sanjuro, and a small smile begin to spread across his face, "I'm sorry Alesandro, I just couldn't keep it up. We discussed this among ourselves three days ago and the only thing we have to say to you is, Viva el Presidenta, Viva Sanjuro, Viva la Republic."

[Menna Shuli]

Sâtêp Chambers
Shuhakallu, Mênna Shuli

The collected senators buzzed. The lost energy of victory had been recharged. Rekindled. There was a fire burning under the leadership of the country. The fall of Constantina, so long in the making, had been enough to distract from even the most important business of the senate, which was the looming and constant construction of the new constitution. As Mipax had expected, that business had stalled with the arguments and debate so common to Mênnan politics, and the new war-fervour had been yet more of an anchor, a distraction, which suited Mipax’s interests just fine.

Time was Mipax’s weapon. The longer that the debate dragged on, the less impassioned the more liberal members of the Sâtêp could be. No one could maintain destructive energy indefinitely, and eventually all passions could burn down to something more manageable and controllable. A steadfast adherence to tradition was an immovable rock, a foundation on which futures could be built. While the strong winds of change could blow against it, and those forces could be useful to move ships, the rock of tradition could outlast any storm they brought with them. Time, Mipax knew, was what would allow her to shape the future of the Mênnan people in the image their forefathers and ancestors had intended.

A critical component of that mission was a liberal change that Mipax could actually support. The Mênna needed a firmer ground to stand upon if they were to withstand the corruption of foreign imperialism, and that required a military that was capable of withstanding foreign barrage. That required that changes be made to the way the military operated, and the old guard needed to be changed out for the new generation of military thinkers. The victory in Constantina was attributable, every senator knew, to the efforts of the now-lauded Bellringers. The Bellringers, it was also known, were the tools of Mipax’s son and, therefore, their victory was his. While Shala’s supporters argued that the city had truly been taken under the massed charges planned by the Prince-Admiral, and that the collapse of the bridges had only been a small part of a much bigger situation, those supporter’s voices were growing quieter and fewer in number. Sul’s victory had won him prestige, and that prestige was associated with the Mipax family name. Mipax’s voice in the Sâtêp had gained more weight, and it had weighed much to begin with.

The screws were to be turned on Shala, and his militarist supporters began to flock instead to Mipax’s camp. If she continued to allow Sul to show his willingness to evolve Mênnan military doctrine and cooperate with foreign powers, they would support her domestic policy concerns for the constitution. Most importantly, their voices were already being added to the fight to keep the proposed Lower Circle purely advisory in nature, and they were also supporting Mipax’s proposal to provide a priestly veto to legislation.

However, to maintain that support, San Javier could no longer be allowed to fester and draw out. Sul needed to maintain a constant string of victories from this point forward. Thus, Mipax’s immediate proposal.

“Prince-Admiral Shala’s continued interference in the land war in San Javier has obviously caused problematic delays to victory,” Mipax said over the hum of excitement. “Let’s be frank, ladies and gentlemen, Shala overstepped the boundaries of the command we granted him early and often, and he needs to be reminded of his position in this war.”

“What do you suggest?” asked one senator from across the hall.

Mipax turned her head in that direction. “I do not mean to question Shala’s devotion to the country or his long and illustrious service record in the command of various military engagements, but there is a difference between fighting pirates and warlords, and with fighting a war on foreign soil. Simply put, he needs to be shown our disapproval. An ultimatum: he either withdraws his tampering with Prince-General Mipax’s endeavours in the land war, or we remove him from his command entirely and install someone who will understand their place in things.”

“It is rare and it is strange for us to agree on anything,” said Usu Usu from his position several seats to Mipax’s right, “but in this case I cannot agree more wholeheartedly. How many warriors has Shala’s interference fed to the grinder? How much swifter could this war have been won had more forward-facing eyes been gauging the horizon?”

“Shala has command of the bulk of our navy,” rose the voice of Kinikiw Têtuplimsêvi from the far side of the room. “What is to stop him from simply turning his ships around and blockading the capitol if he disagrees with our decision?”

There were murmurs at that. Usu glanced over at Mipax, and when he saw that she had no intention of speaking, he stood and spoke himself.

“The fact that we even need to ask such a question is indicative of how much we need military modernization,” he said. “What other country has to worry about a Caesar crossing the Rubicon if they call back a commander?”

Mipax nodded once. “Indeed. However, I for one believe in the dedication of our warrior caste to the unity of our people.”

“Shala encourages traditional warrior practices,” stated Kinikiw. “Trophy-taking, victory celebrations, all the associated revelries. Your son has put into practice rules and regulations which contradict those traditions. I fear that such rulings may have polarized the soldiers in San Javier against Prince-General Mipax.”

“Perhaps that is so,” Mipax answered. “However, I will remind you all that a rogue commander could not threaten the homeland, especially when all he would have with him are ships. The people, surely, would not stand with the man who is responsible for the invasion dragging out as long as it has. In addition, our defenses are more than capable of resisting any attack from Shala’s forces.”

“By blowing up our own ships,” said Kinikiw.

“By rooting out potential traitors,” Mipax replied. “If, and this if is so far from certain as to be infinitesimally small, Shala did decide to ‘cross the Rubicon’, to put it in our esteemed colleague’s words, we would simply be locating and destroying a potential threat ebfore it ahd time to fester. We need this war over, my friends. We need it over as soon as possible. Shala does not represent an end of this war. We make that clear to him now, or we resign ourselves to further losses when we can least allow for them. No matter what shape the constitution takes when we complete it, there will be people in this country and abroad who dislike our decisions and make it their mission to undermine and, if possible, destroy us. We must be unified when that inevitability comes, and if we can end this war or root out a traitor with a single strongly-worded letter, then I say we do so.”

The crowd issued their agreement. Mipax looked at the ‘uhitap next to the throne. His text to speech device sounded.

“We are in agreement then. I will have my office draft a command to this effect to Shala. Do we have any other business?”

Usu held up a hand. “I apologize, but I have one more issue to address regarding the war. We have all heard of the reports of the activity of communist groups on the northern isles of San Javier. Remnants of the old enemies of the current government. They have been accepting refugees and, from what we can tell, are acting as equivalent to a small, local government. I would like to suggest a single, simple fact: the enemy of our enemies can be our friend. Or, at the very least, we can prevent them from becoming an enemy as well. I believe that the communsit sympathizers on the island are likely to begin looking northward as our victories mount and the PFC becomes incapable of maintaining the standards of growth they are lauded for by the locals. If the communists become our enemies, we could have significant problems in the long term.”

“Your suggestion, then?” the ‘uhitap asked.

Usu glanced around, meeting Mipax’s eyes for a moment. “Your grace,” he said, “I suggest that we reach out to the communists now and offer an olive branch.”

Mipax glowered. “Are you suggesting an alliance with the island’s communists? While we work alongside the Miklanians? Are you mad?”

“Perhaps,” Usu said. “If madness is looking beyond the end of this war, perhaps I am.”

“That sort of potential alliance is the purview of my office,” the ‘uhitap said. His eyes flickered for a moment, and then the text-to-speech spoke again. “I must consider it. Draft a proposal for me to look at. Until then, I say we close this meeting until we gather this afternoon for the continued constitutional discussions.”

[Thuzbekistan]

Isla Mujeres

"Manolo," the radio crackled. "We have another boat coming in."

Manolo leaped from his chair atop the makeshift watch tower and scanned the straight between the Main Island and Isla Mujeres. After a moment, he saw them. A bunch of people huddled onto a makeshift raft, fighting its way through the churning seas. He grabbed the radio off the table next to him.

"Send out the boats to pick them up. They won't make it with this storm coming in."

"Are you sure?" The radio crackled back at him. "We are low on gas and I don't know if we can spare it."

Manolo watched as a wave washed over the raft, the refugees barely clinging on. "I don't care, Leandro! The last boat we couldn't help, but we can get these people to safety."

"Ok, Manolo. Sending two boats out."

He put the radio back down as he heard the speedboats engines start and begin racing towards the raft. Through the binoculars, he watched as the raft was tossed by even the smallest wave, barely holding together in the water. The wind was only moderate given a storm was coming, but this raft was made out of almost nothing. Some metal tied together, most likely. Soon the boats reached them and the make-shift rescuers were pulling who they could into their boats while securing the raft between them. He watched as they yelled back and forth with a man and child, and then taking the child and leaving the man behind. Both boats sped away from the raft as the man clung for life.

"Leandro," Manolo breathed into the radio. "Can we get another boat out there?"

"We don't have any with fuel, Manolo. We can have one make a return trip, but both boats are full." The radio crackled louder as the wind picked up.

"Dammit," he breathed as he watched the boats returning. As they were docking, a large gust of wind brought the first rain of the storm as well as a wave. It crashed against the raft, washing over it. When the wave dissipated, there was no one left on the raft. Manolo scanned the surrounding waters, but could see no one. He slowly put the binoculars down and picked up the radio. "Negative on a second trip. I've lost sight of the last refugee."

There was a long pause before the "copy" came back from Leandro.

Manolo let out a sigh, then climbed down the ladder to go to the dock. The boats had tied off and around 20 people were unloaded. The small child, a boy, was dazed staring out into the sea. Maria was already scooping the boy up by the time he got to the dock, leading the children to the doctor's house up the road to have them checked. Manolo and his wife made eye contact briefly. He shook his head and she turned away, grimacing. Manolo let out a quick prayer for the man, then turned to head into the town. Leandro was soon behind him.

"There was nothing we could do, Manolo. The boats were full."

"I know, I know," he said, waving Leandro away. "We need to go inform the council now, though. We need gas. And food, and shelter. And just... everything."

"Well, we can try." Leandro said quietly. "Even as Chairman, I can't supersede them when they vote against an action."

"I know," Manolo glowered back at him. He looked up at the hills, now covered in tents and smoke from fires being put out before the storm. "We have to convince them though."

Leandro smirked. "So now, after weeks, you want to go with my plan?"

Manolo sighed as they stepped onto the main street of Guadalupano. "Not exactly, but parts."

"Fine."

The pair was silent as they walked up the road towards the community center. Outside of it, armed guards waved them through. Inside, the Council was just now convening. Manolo and Leandro took their places.

"Gentlemen," Felipe nodded towards them as they sat. "Can we get started now?"

"Yes," Leandro said quickly smacking his pen unceremoniously against the table. "We're in session. Manolo, tell us the situation in Guadalupano."

Manolo stood. "Friends, the situation grows more dire everyday, as you can plainly see simply by walking outside. As of tomorrow, we will no longer have gas for the generators. In a matter of weeks, we will run out of food, despite our friends in San Juniper providing much needed access to their stores." He nodded to Felipe and Toni as he spoke. "Besides that, conditions in the camps around Isla Mujeres are simply not good. Sanitation is a major issue that we simply can't keep ahead of. Even when we do dig enough latrines or fill others, we get 20 or 30 additional refugees a day. With the fall of Constantina, that number is about to skyrocket. We simply do not have the supplies to handle this. If this keeps up, not only will the refugees begin to starve or become diseased in large numbers, but so will the people of Guadalupano. Our Friends, our families. There will be nothing we can do."

Manolo let the words hang over the Council for a moment, studying each of their faces. Felipe seemed cold as ever, though the others seemed concerned, not wanting to look up at Manolo. "There is one thing we have lots of, though, and that is men with guns."

"And how do you suppose those will help us, Manolo?" Felipe said with a smirk. "You plan to fight them like in Santa Ana?"

"No," Leandro interrupted. "We need to declare these islands a neutral zone and our party as a non combatant in this fight. We need to enforce this and take the docks across the straight to safeguard the refugees that can't cross. We have the people and guns there. Once we do that, we use the station in San Juniper to broadcast a message to the League. At the very least, someone will finally know the situation here. By doing that, we can get international pressure on the foreigners, maybe even get them to lend us a hand."

"Are you suggessting we work with the Mennan and Miklanians? Let alone the Scantarbians who just landed? Surely their first reaction will be to bomb the only station left on the whole island!" Dionisio was wide eyed as he spoke. "They have proven to be ruthless. The stories we hear from the refugees of Pueblo Ignacio are nothing short of horrifying."

"And strictly about the Mennan," Manolo said. "Not the Miklanians. As far as we know, they haven't been doing anything beyond what has been called of them. We've heard no stories of war crimes committed by fellow Catholics. Only the Heathens."

"Wouldn't this plan of yours require the last of the gas to transport supplies to the port? Let alone the risk of interception from Puerto Polo or the Miklanians mistaking us for combatants, which we would essentially become by taking ground on the main island," Fermin added. He was the youngest of them, but his words seemed to carry weight today. "How can we hope to launch an offensive when we can't power our generators or feed our own?"

"Regardless, we need to get the message out," Manolo said quickly. "If nothing else, we need to do that. If we can't get help, then we will be refugees by the months end, driven out by hunger."

Leandro eyed Manolo from the end of the table, hiding his scowl the best he could. He opened his mouth to say something, then regained his composure. "He is right," he said finally. "Even if we don't take the dock and try to establish ourselves better in this conflict, we must seek help from outside. A message addressed to the league would be the best way to go."

The others nodded, but Felipe was still stubborn. "So we send the message, start broadcasting to the shore that we are free of conflict, then what?"

"We wait and see," Manolo said. "The only other option is to do nothing." There were murmurs of agreement. "Then shall we put it to a vote?"

Dionisio and Toni both nodded, Fermin followed suit.

Leandro grabbed his pen. "All in favor?"

Dionisio, Toni, Fermin, and Manolo said aye.

Leandro noted it, then turned to Felipe. "Shall I add a nay?"

Felipe stared at the ground, kicking at something under the table. "Yes."

Manolo smiled. "Then it's settled. We declare ourselves neutral, call for aid, and broadcast these islands as a safe place."

The men nodded, then set to work crafting the letter to the league.

[Scantarbia]

Shores of Castille Verdo

Polaris, the northern star, can is visible that night on the dimly lit shores of Castille Verdo. Sitting near the beach, with the engine on idle, is an ambulance, on its sides, written the word “Castille Verdo Hospital”, albeit it has somewhat faded already. The doors on the rear of the van are open, and on its seats, sits a man, Jay.

“It’s twenty-three hundred already, where are these guys,” said Jay kicking sands on the beach, enjoying the cold midnight breeze.

Just a few seconds later, from the waters, emerges 6 men, equipped with diving gear from head to toe while lugging a rucksack full of equipment on their back. They’re Omega Team 6, delivered using a submersible from the SNS Grapplehook submarine. The team leader is called “Mike”, half-Greek half-German, lead his team into the awaiting ambulance.

“You must be Jay, we’re here, let’s go before anyone notices us,” Mike spoke, with a serious tone. His hand is holding a GTAR-21, a regular TAR-21 with a grenade launcher mounted on the under-barrel.

“Well then, what are we waiting for, jump in!” replied Jay when the guys are nearing the ambulance. Each of them entered the back, closed the door, then Jay stepped on the gas.

“It’s always good to be on solid ground again,” said Schmidt, who is the dedicated sniper attached to the 6-person-team, he lugs a .50 BMG Barrett M95.

The ambulance then enters the main street, making turns here and there, taking shortcuts and avoiding patrols. The city, albeit it is still alive and has its resident, is somewhat bleak due to the influx of refugees and patients experiencing battle-injuries from the clashes happening southeast of the city.

“I heard they’re making good progress on the south coast,” said Roger, who is the engineer and electronic warfare specialist on the team. He carries a TAR-21, standard issue for regular Scantarbian special operatives.

“Yeah, we have pontoon bridges and dirt roads built by the construction battalion. It stretches from the landing point, which we called San Tarbia up into the Pueblo Ignacio base. HQ is not amused with the condition on the Pueblo Ignacio FOB, they wanted something more discreet for them and not packed with the rest of the foreign forces,” replies Jay, who is driving the ambulance before doing a hard turn right into a shortcut.

“So we’re building our own base?” adds Kenway, the team’s anti-tank specialist. He carries a Carl Gustaf alongside the regular issue TAR-21.

“Yeah, sort of, we’re also building a refugee center there, the SRC, Scantarbian Red Cross is doing PR and humanitarian work with military escorts on the region. Oh yeah, we also built a makeshift pier on the landing spot. The TCC, Theater Coordination Center, resides on this base also,” Jay replies to Kenway.

“Any other news on the situation on the ground?” replies Watson. As the team light machine gunner, he sports an HK MG5, ready to provide a hail of covering fire if necessary.

“Images from the KEEPSTAR satellite indicated that there has been an indication of emerging refugees camp on Isla Mujeres, the activity on the harbors of both islands and a further visual investigation from our F35 solidifies the information,” said Jay before hitting the brake.

“We’re here, home sweet home, also known as, your safehouse. Disembark,” said Jay while the guys on the back of the ambulance unpack and enter the compound.

"We won't stay here for long, in two days, we'll be moving to RV with the SJFF," reminds Jay to the team while he slams the ambulance door.

[Wellsia]

Royal Palace
Ealdwic, Wellsia

The room was quite, three of the four men sitting there each nursed a brandy sifter in silence, the fourth man watched his three superiors and wondered why he was even there.
King Harold spoke first "Gentlemen, we need to get ourselves out of this San Javier mess as quickly as possible. Now that it is public knowledge that our men are there I am receiving calls from all sectors wanting explanations. We need something to tell the people."
Fieldmarshal-Commandant Sir Francis Fettleworth's responded in anger; "I tried to warn you about this your majesty, I told you this sneaking around was a mistake. You can't hide 5000 men any more. To many damn cell phones with cameras, I'm surprised this didn't get out sooner then now. now I'm being called before the Assembly to explain actions that I was against in the first place."
Hamish Dewar, the Chancellor of State and the kingdom's chief diplomat used a pause in the Fieldmarshal's response to cut in. hut up Francis, we all know you were against this, we have heard it a hundred times, now we need a solution, not you trying to sit on a high horse and tell us our mistakes."
The fourth man in the room,now spoke, his voice just barely above a whisper. "Your majesty gentlemen, whay we need is a scapegoat. Sacrifice an officer or three for overstepping their orders. We should be able to fine some poor sap to turn over to the wolves."
"No," screamed Fettleworth, "you will not sacrifice any of my officers. These are good men doing what they were told and doing it to the best of their ability. They went there under orders, I will not see them destroyed because of a misguided policy of state."
Your right Fieldmarshal, they shouldn't be destroyed for obeying orders, but what about you. You gave those orders, it was your voice on the line that send these men into combat. What was in it for you Fieldmarshal, kick backs from the Cartels, did you get drug money to send Wellsian soldiers to uphold a crooked regime. Did those men die on your command? Did his majesty and Folkmoot have any idea that you had gone rogue? Tell me Fieldmarshal, who do we sacrifice?"
Francis Fettleworth sat in stun silence, it had never crossed his mind, that he might be the sacrificial lamb. A lifetime of dedication and devotion erased in a single lie. What would become of his three sons, all who had followed his footsteps into the military. The shame of his 'betrayal' would tarnished them as well. Before he could make any response, the King responded for him.
" No, don't worry Francis, there will be no sacrificing of careers, I was the one, upon the advice of others to send these men to San Javier, I am the one responsible. The need to make Wellsia less dependent on oil imports was the goal, but the Kachee maneuver seems to be the better pay off. Wait, how about this, instead of disobeying orders, a misunderstanding of orders, orders that were to vague and subject to wrong interpretation. We can give a mild reprimand to those involved."
"Of course, your majesty," interrupted Hamish, the dipolmatic wheels spinning in his head. We can let our Ambassador in St. Michael's City present this to the Miklanian Secretary of State. This whole San Javier affair is nothing more then a misunderstanding of orders. That our men were sent there to protect Wellsian interest only, not engage Mennan and Miklanian forces. The orders sent led to the officers on sight to mistake their intent and they will be dealt with upon returning to Wellsia.
They will know it is all bullshit, but it will give them an out for us to get our men off the island. THis war has turned unpopular for them as well after Pueblo Ignacio, and reports are they weren't as well prepared as they thought for this war. There has been rumors that faulty ammo is what caused their supply dump to explode outside of Constantina. If you'll excuse me I'll get on this right away. I'll get a letter prepared and sent at once to the Ambassador."