The Southern Crisis [Kayfabeland]

[Le Savoie]

OOC: If you are not a member of Kayfabeland and want to join this RP, please send me a telegram explaining how you would like to join and it will be considered

OOC Thread

Map of Aldastan and Surrounding Nations

Alda Kush Mountain Range
Savoien Special Forces Team

The team of special forces soldiers had made the long journey into the heart of Aldastan, traveling first by vehicle, then on the backs of animals, and then on foot until they reached their current location: a small cave that opened onto a rocky outcropping. The outcropping looked down into one of the many valleys in the Alda Kush, where rural villages had existed for decades with almost no interactions with the greater outside world. In villages like these, the only sign that it was the twenty-first century of the Common Era, and not the first century, were the assault rifles slung over the backs of the militiamen who stalked angrily around the town and the cell phone in the hand of the man who commanded the militiamen. He was not the man the Savoiens were here to see, but he would show them their target, if they let him.

The man currently yelling into his phone was a commander for Hassan al-Din, one of the biggest warlords in Aldastan. Al-Din was known as “The Cleric” because he had once been a preacher. He had supposedly had a divine revelation of his true path in life, which was to take up arms against the “apostate” government of Aldastan. Along the way he had attracted many followers, and his power had grown. Savoie had sent the government many guns and other weapons to use against him, with little success. Only when Savoien jet fighters had begun to bomb his poppy fields and supply warehouses had al-Din agreed to sit down and negotiate with the government. As part of the deal that had ended the bombing campaign, al-Din had pledged to stop providing help to Jundallah.

Those terrorists had taken their war outside Aldastan, striking at Savoie herself. Everyone in the special forces team remembered where they were the day a pair of zealots had detonated two truck bombs in the middle of a massive street fair in the city of Genevois. Some of them had lost family members or friends in the attack. It was the reason that their team leader had chosen to stay in the Army and become an officer instead of leaving the service when his enlistment was finished. Jundallah thrived in places like this, where they could fill young men and even some women with stories of fighting righteous battles against foreign devils and then send them off to blow themselves up in train stations or on buses.

A car, which looked out of place in this quaint village, rolled into the center of town. The commander got off the cell phone and walked to the door, and embraced the man who exited. The special forces team got high-resolution video and images of the whole meeting.

Bellecourt
Savoien Capital

“There can be no doubt, mon Consul. The images prove that the warlords continue to harbor and support the Islamists responsible for the Genevois attack. In clear violation of their agreement with the government.”

The Minister for Defense spoke with resolution. He stood before First Consul Jean-Christophe Napoleon, leader of the Republic, and a small gathering of the government’s top leadership. He had distributed packets with copies of the images taken by the special forces team. He held in his hand another packet, with a proposed strike plan. It marked targets that Savoien warplanes could target and destroy on short notice – things like warehouses, training camps, and other fixed targets that could not be moved quickly or at all.

“If they do not feel obligated to observe the agreement,” he continued. “I see no reason why we should stay shackled to that document. I propose that we resume airstrikes on Hassan al-Din and the Jundallah camps we know exist in his territory.”

The First Consul steepled his fingers and nodded. “I agree, Minister. Begin the preliminary preparations for the airstrikes. I will speak to the leaders in the Assembly and ensure that we have popular support on our side, and if that is true then we will resume Operation Serval.”

The Minister for Defense nodded. “I will see to it that we are ready to begin whenever you give the order, First Consul.”

World Press Agency: Savoie resumes airstrikes in Aldastan
Kashfar, Aldastan – Savoien warplanes launched airstrikes against several targets in Aldastan today, a resumption of an airstrike campaign previously suspended in 2015. Savoien fighter jets dropped guided bombs on a number of targets near the city of Al-Marja, including a supposed training camp for the terrorist group Jundallah.

The United Emirates of Aldastan have long suffered from deep and bitter sectarian divisions, and the authority of the national government has rarely extended beyond the capital city of Kashfar. Terror groups like Jundallah found refuge in mountainous regions of Aldastan, forging alliances with warlords and establishing training camps and other facilities. The Republic of Savoie first began launching airstrikes in early 2015, in response to a suicide bombing committed by Jundallah in the Savoien city of Genevois. Under Operation Serval, Savoie began providing military aid to the Aldastani government as well as attacking jihadist targets. The operation was suspended when the Aldastani government agreed to enter into World Assembly-brokered negotiations with the warlords. That suspension apparently ended today.

A spokesperson for the Armée de l'Air, the Savoien Air Force, said that the airstrikes were conducted with the approval of the Aldastani government. No official figures for casualties have been released, but observers on the ground report that more than a dozen people have been killed and upwards of one hundred people have been wounded.

[Comorostan]

Sun Tower, Harmony, People’s State of Comorostan

Jaffar Momeni sat cross legged in the small, simple room. It was accessible only through his personal office, which meant that it sat behind some of the thickest security in the entire country. An attacker who wished to catch the Chief Executive of the People’s State and General Secretary of the Party in this vulnerable moment would have to breach multiple gauntlets. Hundreds, if not thousands, of elite guards stood watch over the reinforced walls and entrances to the building. Momeni could sit here and meditate, temporarily removing himself from the mundane concerns that bedeviled him. In this small meditation room, with only a bit of incense burning silently in one corner and the faint sound of a breeze against the small window high in the corner, the man who had taken the reins of state from the Father of the Revolution could put his mind to work on the bigger issues.

Comorostan stood strong. It had recovered from the violence of the War of Revolution; it had suppressed the deviants who had attempted to redirect the nation’s course upon the death of Hassan Qaderi, the first Chief Executive of the People’s State. Momeni had ensured that the factions who had advocated for greater openness, for compromise, had been purged. They had been made examples of. Those who had been too blinded by ideology, too willing to sacrifice the gains of the Revolution for the theoretical ideal of what could be, had been more difficult to deal with. Instead of knocks on the door and bullets to the head, they had instead suffered perhaps a worse fate: they had been made irrelevant. Momeni had shuffled them off to meaningless corners of the government where they could debate theory and praxis until they died of old age or made a mistake that warranted more serious treatment.

Yes, the People’s State was in good hands. Momeni had surrounded himself with men of capability, but not ambition. They performed their jobs well because they reveled in the feeling of accomplishing a task they had been set, not because they desired to supplant him. So all that was required now was to continue to steer the ship of state safely through the currents.

A soft chime broke the silence. Momeni rose from his seated position. His staff knew him well – something serious must have happened for them to interrupt his meditation. He opened the door to face his attendant, a short and serious man named Dastan.

“Comrade General Secretary,” Dastan inclined his head, an acknowledgement of the seriousness of his interruption. “Comrade Chairman Nouzari has requested that you contact him as soon as possible.”

“Did the Chairman give a reason?” Momeni assumed that he had at least said something beyond that – a request from Sadiq Nouzari, theoretically the second most powerful man in the government, was not by itself enough to warrant an interruption in the General Secretary’s personal time. Dastan had all the necessary security clearances so there was no reason for the Chairman of the Central Committee to be vague.

“It seems Savoie has resumed its air campaign in Aldastan,” Dastan explained as Momeni walked out of the meditation room and back into his office. “He wishes to speak with you privately before the Central Committee meets to discuss a response.”

Momeni nodded in understanding. “Very well, Dastan.”

Moravid Palace, Harmony, People’s State of Comorostan

The Pearl Palace had been the home of the monarchy, even after their abdication and the formation of the Republic that had preceded the People’s State. The republicans had allowed the monarchy to retain their estates and titles, in a ceremonial role, even after removing the royals from the political system. This had only further inflamed the peasants, who continued to starve under the republic while the monarch and their family had eaten well. When the People’s State had come into bloody existence, the monarchy had been fully eliminated and their home became the new center of the post-revolutionary government.

General Secretary Jaffar Momeni sat at the head of a large table with the rest of the Central Committee. The men around this table governed Comorostan now, and an uncharitable observer would say that these men were the new aristocracy. The Chairman of the Central Committee sat to his left. On his right were the heads of the military and the internal security apparatus. The Foreign Minister sat next to Sadiq Nouzari, his presence more of a formality than anything. Ali Reza was a non-entity who could ably perform the day-to-day tasks required of his station but who would never be considered for any position with real power or influence in the government. He would listen to the debate and then he would implement whatever plans the rest of the Central Committee made.

“…appear to only have struck Jundallah positions and facilities belonging to Hassan al-Din, a warlord who operates around the city of Al-Marja.” General Jallal Raisi was explaining. “We expect that other North Andalasian states will join in the endeavor. Avon is a high possibility. Bruzenland may get involved.”

“If their involvement remains on the far side of the Alda Kush then it means nothing to us,” Barram Sadeggi, Chairman of the National Security Commission, interjected.

“But we must monitor the situation closely,” Nouzari chimed in. “If we permit the imperialists a significant foothold in Aldastan it will be turned against us soon enough.”

Momeni listened to the debate, absorbing the information and the different points of view. Nouzari and Raisi were interventionists who would gladly see Comorostani troops cross the border and spread the revolution to Aldastan. Sadeggi was much less concerned with what happened outside the borders of the People’s State, as befit a man in charge of the vast network of internal security that kept the flame of the Revolution burning safely. Intervention, full-scale formal intervention, was unthinkable. Comorostan was not yet ready for that sort of open confrontation with the imperialist powers.

“We will monitor the situation,” he affirmed. “And Comrade General Raisi will direct the planning department to begin investigating possible options for our own involvement. On the covert level,” Momeni clarified. “In the meantime, this new violence from the imperial powers will beget violence from the Islamists. We must be ready for that violence to fall on us. Comrade Chairman Sadeggi will ensure that the Islamists find no openings within our own nation.” This was acceptable to all parties.

[Astoria]

The Central Office
The Executive Mansion
Columbia, United States of Astoria

The room had been cleared for this meeting of the Cabinet, so the usual coffee table had been replaced by a larger wooden table that could be used to display maps or multiple computer screens and the couches had been pushed to the walls to make room for more chairs. President David Jefferson Adams was a known pacer, so it was unlikely he’d be sitting down for very long anyway. One by one the other cabinet members entered the room. The first to arrive was the Secretary of State, Paige Tallmer. Adams greeted her politely and the two made small talk about unimportant things – sports and weather, mostly – until the Secretary of Defense arrived.

“James,” Adams said warmly. “Congratulations, I hear Thomas just got his promotion to colonel.”

“Thank you Mister President.” James Tanner’s son was a soldier, serving in one of the Brigade Combat Teams that formed the main organizational unit of the United States Army. If Adams remembered correctly, Thomas Tanner had distinguished himself in the field of logistics while serving with the 5th Mobile Infantry Brigade. A promotion to colonel meant he would probably be put in charge of supplies and logistics for that entire formation. “He’ll be home for a week on leave in a few days. It’ll be good to see him.”

“Wonderful,” Adams replied. The rest of the relevant cabinet members filed into the room after that. Adams made some small talk but soon enough it was time to get down to business.

“I want to discuss our options for Aldastan,” he said to the gathered men and women. “What do we have nearby, in case we need to do more than sit and watch?”

“Well, the Roseman and her battle group are currently close,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff answered. “We could divert them to stand off. There’s not a lot of room to maneuver on that side of the country, and the other coast is close to Comorostan…”

Comorostan. Adams had been among the many who had hoped that the end of communism in Rusanyia would also mean the end of it in Comorostan, but the People’s State held on. And the Russies had helped them build a nuclear weapons program before the end too. Putting something like the Roseman, a Freedom-class supercarrier, and its associated battle group of cruisers, destroyers, and submarines, near Comorostani waters was a bit too cavalier for the situation as it currently stood.

“The Savoiens are keeping things focused on the far side, right? Across from their own turf?” When the answer to the question was a nod in the affirmative, Adams continued. “Then let’s keep our own focus there as well. The people aren’t in the mood for a staring contest with the Comorostanis just yet.”

[United Avon]

Galion

It was raining again in the capital, filling the meeting room with the constant light patter of raindrops on the windows. The sun was totally hidden behind the clouds, so the room was lit almost entirely from within by lights built to look like old candle sconces. Prime Minister Richard Pitt was beginning to feel the cabin fever coming on: he’d had to cancel his usual trip to the country because of the weather and he was getting tired of the interiors of government buildings. He was also getting tired of the other people in the room, who were probably three of his least favorite members of the King’s cabinet. Minister of War Thomas Fairfax was a brash, arrogant bully. Minister of Realm Security Augustus Fox was a cold, calculating cypher. And Minister of State for the Northern Department Barnaby Nettle was guilty of the truly reprehensible sin of being utterly boring. But unfortunately, these three men were the ones who he needed to consult in order to carry out the King’s directive to assist Savoie in its new campaign against Jundallah.

“His Majesty has expressed to me a desire to reach out to the Savoiens and offer our assistance,” Pitt explained to the other ministers. “In addition to the strategic goal of weakening the radicals, it will also further improve our relationship with Savoie.” Pitt and King William the Third shared a vision of a more united northern Andalasia, one that could act as a single force on the stage of regional and world affairs. Bringing Savoie onboard with this vision of an Andalasian Union would be a strong first step, and joining them in their anti-terror campaign woul help convince them that Avon was a partner worth having.

“We can use the facilities at Roseport for airstrikes,” Fairfax suggested. “We have two squadrons stationed there now, Typhoons an Tornados. With the expansion complete there’s room for two more, or a single squadron of bombers.”

“Strategic bombers might be a step too far, for now,” Pitt said. “But assuming Savoie accepts our offer, then we will want to bring in those additional squadrons of strike aircraft.” Pitt turned to Fox, the man in charge of internal intelligence and security. “What do we expect from our own Muslims?”

Avon had a small Muslim population, mostly Gaipajamans from the Muslim-majority principality of Sethru. The immigrants from Avon’s former colony had assimilated as much as Avonian society had allowed, but since Jundallah’s rise to prominence there had been a constant worry that some of these immigrants could become radicalized. The Ministry of Realm Security maintained surveillance on many Islamic preachers and houses of worship, watching for any signs that homegrown terrorism was taking root among Avonian Muslims.

“We will continue to monitor the situation,” Fox replied. “As well as tightening border controls to catch any potential terror infiltrators. But Jundallah seems mainly concerned with fighting the Aldastani government, and then Gaipajama, and then Savoie, in that order. Even if we do begin attacking them directly, it is doubtful we will see any sort of attempt at retaliation.”

“I will hold you to that,” Pitt declared with a pointed finger. “Very well, gentlemen. I will inform His Majesty that his will is being done.”

Bellecourt

Ambassador James Heartly was a long-serving career diplomat who had been posted in Parina and Bruzenland before finally getting one of the top spots in the Ministry of State’s diplomatic corps: ambassador to Savoie. He had been at this position for several years now and by all accounts he had done his job admirably. Relations between the two former imperial rivals were stable, solid, and growing. Heartly’s love of Savoien food, and their women, was growing as well.

The ambassador was not in his official residence today. He was at the home of his mistress, a stunningly beautiful Savoien woman who worked in their Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He was sure that she was a spy – not that she was a trained intelligence agent, but she was certainly reporting anything that he said in their private moments to someone in the government. He was unconcerned. He kept his wits about him even in their most intimate hours and said nothing that her superiors didn’t already know or could easily find out. And he kept his own ears open in case Aline was not so careful herself.

He had just stepped out of the shower and was toweling off his face when his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and saw it was from the embassy. It had to be something serious for his staff to contact him here. His affair was an open secret, even to his wife. They had never been particularly close and he was sure she had her own lovers to satisfy her needs. Their marriage had been political, and once the passions had cooled they had discovered they shared little in common.

“Hello Charles, what is it?”

“Message from Home Office, sir. Your eyes only.”

“Right, I’ll be along as soon as I can.” Heartly ended the call and walked back into the bedroom where Aline waited for him. She was lounging seductively on the bed, her curves accentuated by lacy white lingerie. He seriously considered how long he could stretch out “as soon as I can” before making his way back to the embassy. Surely his deputy would understand. But he shook his head and began collecting his clothing from the chair and floor where it had been discarded.

DIPLOMATIC ENCRYPTION
Ambassador James Heartly requests a meeting with His Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs, for the purposes of discussing the ongoing situation in Aldastan and opportunities for multilateral cooperation.

[Le Savoie]

DIPLOMATIC ENCRYPTION
Ambassador James Heartly requests a meeting with His Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs, for the purposes of discussing the ongoing situation in Aldastan and opportunities for multilateral cooperation.

DIPLOMATIC ENCRYPTION
The Minister of Foreign Affairs will gladly receive the Ambassador from the United Kingdom of Avon at his earliest convenience.

Palace of the Consul
City of Bellecourt

Charles Maurice, Minister of Foreign Affairs for His Excellency Jean-Christophe Napoleon, First Consul of the Republic of Savoie, showed no urgency in his manner as he strolled towards the meeting room that had been set aside for the meeting with the Avon ambassador. A pair of his staff, his personal aide Marlene and a page from the Ministry, kept up with his easy-going pace. The Ambassador had been summoned and would be waiting for the Minister’s imminent arrival. Maurice had brought along two fine cigars and an attendant waited outside the door with a bottle of fine wine for the meeting. Marlene handed her employer a thin envelope with some relevant information – the known locations of Jundallah targets, estimates of Hassan al-Din’s strength, and projections of how the Aldastani government would fare if it resumed the offensive against the warlords.

With a dramatic flair, the Minister of Foreign Affairs pushed the two large wooden doors open and strode into the room. “Bonjour, monsieur ambassador,” he said in greeting. He made small talk with the Avon man while he took his seat and got comfortable. “I have a gift for you.” Maurice took out the box with the two cigars and held it out for the ambassador to take one. “I know it’s become passé in some places, but I feel a meeting such as this simply is not complete without some fine cigars, don’t you agree? And we have a refreshment, as well.” At a snap of the fingers the attendant was summoned to pour generous glasses of wine.

“So, I am sure your government has many questions it would like answered about our activities in Aldastan. First allow me to provide some summary: we acquired definitive intelligence that Hassan al-Din, despite the promises made at the negotiations in 2015, has continued to provide support and shelter to Jundallah. So once we knew ‘the Cleric’ did not feel obligated to stand by his promises, we saw no reason to listen to the words of a dead document. I have here a list of targets struck by our Armée de l'Air so far.” Maurice slid one document from the folder towards the Avon ambassador. “Now, I have spoken enough.”

[United Avon]

Bellecourt

“Bonjour, monsieur ambassador,” he said in greeting. He made small talk with the Avon man while he took his seat and got comfortable. “I have a gift for you.” Maurice took out the box with the two cigars and held it out for the ambassador to take one. “I know it’s become passé in some places, but I feel a meeting such as this simply is not complete without some fine cigars, don’t you agree? And we have a refreshment, as well.” At a snap of the fingers the attendant was summoned to pour generous glasses of wine.

“The Astorians are convinced that anything that is good for the soul is bad for the body,” James Heartly replied to the Savoien official. He took the offered cigar, waiting until the Minister had lit his cigar and following in kind. “Thank you, Minister.” He also accepted the glass of wine, taking a small sip and making an appreciative sound. “An excellent vintage,” he said. “But I would expect nothing less from any bottle here in Savoie. Our nations may have been fierce rivals in many arenas, but in wine you have always had us solidly beat.”

“So, I am sure your government has many questions it would like answered about our activities in Aldastan. First allow me to provide some summary: we acquired definitive intelligence that Hassan al-Din, despite the promises made at the negotiations in 2015, has continued to provide support and shelter to Jundallah. So once we knew ‘the Cleric’ did not feel obligated to stand by his promises, we saw no reason to listen to the words of a dead document. I have here a list of targets struck by our Armée de l'Air so far.” Maurice slid one document from the folder towards the Avon ambassador. “Now, I have spoken enough.”

Heartly listened to the Minister explain the situation. It had been many years since the United Kingdom had given any serious thought to Aldastan. The troublesome mountain kingdom had once been a thorn in the side of the Avonian-controlled Gaipajama. Heartly, like all Avonian schoolboys, had grown up thrilling to the exploits – real and embellished – of the brave soldiers of Bedina Station, who had patrolled the long mountain border fighting off Aldastani raiders. The Alda Kush Mountains sat in the popular imagination of generations of Avonians as forbidding dark lands – few Avonians who entered the shadow of those mountains had returned alive, and many who came back whole in body were not so whole in spirit. But when the age of the raider had ended, Aldastan went from the home of fierce enemy to a backwater failed state. But the Savoiens had a longer memory. The Muslims had once surged out of Aldastan and conquered a vast swath of Andalasia, all the way up to Bruzenland at one point. This was their backyard, and as such things that seemed trivial from Galion were far more pressing when viewed from Bellecourt.

“My government wishes to convey, first and foremost, that it has no issue with your air campaign,” Heartly opened. “Our two nations share common goals: the suppression of terrorism and the containment of disorder. If this warlord, Hassan al-Din, is supporting god-bothering terrorists, then by all means he should be sent to meet his maker as soon as possible.”

Heartly accepted the document from Minister Maurice and gave it a quick appraisal. It had clearly been designed for a non-military eye and it laid out the details of the airstrike campaign in simple language. “As long as civilian casualties are kept to an…understandable level – within the margin of error expected in warfare, with allowances for the dispersed and unconventional nature of the enemy – there will be no protest from Galion. In fact,” Heartly leaned in. “The reason I requested this meeting was to inform that my government is prepared to provide direct support.”

Heartly had brought his own documents, and he now slid them across the table into the blank space where the document Maurice had just given him had sat. Contained in the papers were a summary of the forces Avon was prepared to commit to the anti-terror campaign in Aldastan. It wasn’t an overwhelming force: four squadrons of strike aircraft based out of the newly expanded military airfield outside Roseport on Saint Georgia Island, the firepower carried by the trio of guided missile destroyers based in Roseport’s harbor, and – if necessary – a battalion of the Royal Commando Regiment to perform deep reconnaissance, targeted assassinations, or pinpoint raids or strikes.

“Obviously, any sort of large-scale intervention in Aldastan is impractical, barring any sort of sudden shift in the political and strategic situation,” Heartly admitted. “But the Prime Minister and the King are both of the same mind on this – aiding you in your fight here is not only the right thing to do for Avon, but for civilization.”

[Le Savoie]

“The reason I requested this meeting was to inform that my government is prepared to provide direct support.”

Heartly had brought his own documents, and he now slid them across the table into the blank space where the document Maurice had just given him had sat. Contained in the papers were a summary of the forces Avon was prepared to commit to the anti-terror campaign in Aldastan. It wasn’t an overwhelming force: four squadrons of strike aircraft based out of the newly expanded military airfield outside Roseport on Saint Georgia Island, the firepower carried by the trio of guided missile destroyers based in Roseport’s harbor, and – if necessary – a battalion of the Royal Commando Regiment to perform deep reconnaissance, targeted assassinations, or pinpoint raids or strikes.

“Obviously, any sort of large-scale intervention in Aldastan is impractical, barring any sort of sudden shift in the political and strategic situation,” Heartly admitted. “But the Prime Minister and the King are both of the same mind on this – aiding you in your fight here is not only the right thing to do for Avon, but for civilization.”

Palace of the Consul
City of Bellecourt

“This is most unexpected, monsieur ambassador,” Charles Maurice said as he looked over the document. The government had, in fact, suspected that this offer might be coming once the airstrikes resumed. The Avonians were not quite so on the front lines in this fight, but they understood the threat that Islamism posed. The analysis generated by his own staff had suggested that Avonian support would be forthcoming. Still, it was nice to hear the offer and confirm the prediction as accurate.

The Minister of Foreign Affairs puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “Our forces will necessarily need to coordinate their activities, to avoid any sort of unfortunate mishap. Our operation is currently being commanded by General Choffard, who has set up his headquarters in Paloma.” Hugo Choffard was a bull of a man and a soldier’s soldier who had entered military life by doing a term of service in the famous Foreign Legion. The service had been mandated as his punishment for attacking an officer who Choffard had thought was attempting to kidnap a woman. The officer had in fact been the woman’s brother and had been helping her to move into a new apartment. But the army had apparently been just what the brawler had needed in his life, and he had risen out of the Legion into the regular Army and eventually all the way up to the General Staff.

“Once you have appraised your government that we are prepared to accept Avon’s offer of assistance, my staff will help facilitate a connection between General Choffard and his equivalent among your forces.” Pointedly, Charles Maurice did not make any sort of offer for shared basing or joint operations. Avon and Savoie were no longer the bitter rivals they had been in the days of antiquity, but to describe the two states as allies also misjudged this relationship, or at least Bellecourt’s perception of it. Savoie would work alongside Avon in this campaign, but the idea of loosing dozens of Avonian pilots, ground crews, and perhaps even soldiers – especially Commandos – on the people of southern Savoie was out of the question. The Avonians had their own island, one they had conquered from Savoie centuries ago; let them use that for their base.

“The thing that concerns the First Consul and the government the most,” Maurice said rather suddenly. “Is Comorostan. The theocrats and communists there will not take kindly to our intrusion into their backyard.” Maurice knew that the People’s State had no love for Islamists and jihadists either, but Aldastan – especially Aldastan south and east of the Kush – had long been seen as firmly within their sphere of influence. “For that reason, and because Hassan al-Din likely fears them equally, our campaign will largely remain on the near side of the Alda Kush, specifically around Al-Marja. I would appreciate it if you would impress upon your government our desire that you abide by this restriction as well.” The last thing Savoie needed was the Avonians dragging them into a long-distance confrontation with Comorostan while the cancer of Islamism still festered closer to home.

[Astoria]

U.S.S. Roseman, Freedom-class Supercarrier
Great Pacific Ocean
Off Saint Georgia Island

Rear Admiral William Trent, commander of Carrier Strike Group 4, stood with his hands clasped behind his back on the observation deck attached to the bridge. He could feel the sea air blowing across the deck of the carrier, pushed along by a light but steady breeze. The smell of salt water mingled with the smells wafting up from the flight deck below him – all the sorts of smells one would imagine coming up from where a portion of the carrier’s air wing, more than 70 aircraft, were undergoing routine maintenance and upkeep. Looking beyond the deck of the Roseman, Trent could see one of the battle group’s two High Tower-class cruisers, with its complex array of sensors and communications devices providing a unifying link to the defensive systems of the whole flotilla. A little way farther out was one of the Logan-class destroyers responsible for providing the main layer of that defense. Trent knew that more of these destroyers were arrayed in a loose oval shape around the Roseman and her smaller sister, the Republic-class light carrier, which was sailing behind and to the right of the fleet carrier. The Republic-class were a subclass of the Astoria-class amphibious assault ships designed to function as light carriers - removing the Marines, their equipment, and the well deck for landing craft opened up lots of additional space for an expanded air wing. One of the normal assault ships was also in the carrier group, the U.S.S. Delmarva carrying a battalion from the Third Marine Division and the rest of the soldiers and equipment that made up a Marine Expeditionary Unit. It was a powerful force, carrying dozens of top-tier warplanes and plenty of firepower. At the moment, none of it was necessary: the group had been on a shakedown and flag-showing cruise of the Great Pacific Ocean, stopping in friendly ports in northern Andalasia and getting the ships’ crews up to readiness standards. Many vessels had just taken on new complements to replace men transferred elsewhere or mustered out of service, so it was vital that the newbies and the remaining veterans get synchronized. Especially with the new orders from high command.

“Admiral, sir, we’re getting close to the EZ for Saint Georgia Island,” an officer said from the doorway.

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Trent replied. “I’ll be inside in just a moment.” He lingered on the platform, looking out over the impressive display of industry and military power that he commanded. His orders were merely to move to a position where he could be ready to assist Avon and Savoie in their air campaign. He wasn’t one to start second-guessing his superiors without good cause, but something niggled at the back of his mind. An entire carrier strike group seemed overkill for the task of bombing jihadists in the Alda Kush. He turned and began walking back into the bridge, as if he could leave those doubts by themselves outside.

“Captain Bradley, how is old Rosie doing?” The ship’s commanding officer was a tall woman who kept her blonde hair tied back under her captain’s hat. She smiled, pleased with the news she had to deliver.

“Drills are getting back to where they were before the new class came aboard,” she reported. “A few more weeks and we’ll be back at top readiness and efficiency.”

“Excellent.” Trent moved to the large tactical display which showed the battle group as a whole. “As you know, our mission here is to stand ready to assist Avon and Savoie in strikes against Jundallah, pending Congressional approval for such a mission.” The President of the United States had limited authority to order military activity without the authorization from the national legislature. President Adams could order small and short-term actions but joining an open-ended airstrike campaign was well outside those boundaries. “I’m going to fly over to the Congress and speak with Captain Curling. The Roseman is a big lady, and I don’t want her to knock over any china trying to scoot around in the gulf.” The U.S.S. Congress, the Republic-class light carrier, would be much easier to maneuver in the relatively tight spaces of the water between Savoie and Aldastan. “If we do need to move closer, I’ll recommend that your ship and most of the group remain out here and continue running drills. The Congress and a couple of escorts should be sufficient.”

“Very good, Admiral,” Rear Admiral Anna Bradley replied. “With your permission I’ll arrange a shore leave schedule with the authorities in Roseport. Get the sailors some island paradise time.”

“Permission granted,” Trent said. “Carry on, Captain.”

[United Avon]

Bellecourt

“Our forces will necessarily need to coordinate their activities, to avoid any sort of unfortunate mishap. Our operation is currently being commanded by General Choffard, who has set up his headquarters in Paloma. Once you have appraised your government that we are prepared to accept Avon’s offer of assistance, my staff will help facilitate a connection between General Choffard and his equivalent among your forces.”

“Our first priority, as you say,” Ambassador James Heartly replied to the Foreign Minster. “Will be to ensure that our forces operate in synchronization. Vice Admiral Barrender, I believe, is in command of the garrison on Saint Georgia Island. Barring any sort of unexpected personnel shifts, I expect he will be the one to liaise with your General Choffard.”

That the Savoiens had not offered bases in their territory was expected. Relations remained cool – too cool for the likings of the Andalasianists in the government, who had pushed and proposed all sorts of schemes to bring the nationstates of this portion of the continent closer together. All of them had foundered on the rocks of domestic public opposition or foreign reluctance. Avon simply had not earned the full trust and friendship of those it wished to form a community with. But perhaps this joint undertaking could be the beginning to a new chapter in that story.

“Some of the forces which are listed in that briefing,” Heartly continued. “Are still in the process of moving to Saint Georgia from other bases. But I have been told to give assurances that Avonian aircraft will be ready to launch their first missions within a week.”

“The thing that concerns the First Consul and the government the most is Comorostan. The theocrats and communists there will not take kindly to our intrusion into their backyard. For that reason, and because Hassan al-Din likely fears them equally, our campaign will largely remain on the near side of the Alda Kush, specifically around Al-Marja. I would appreciate it if you would impress upon your government our desire that you abide by this restriction as well.”

Comorostan – an unfortunate black mark on Avon’s colonial record, alongside Naruba. Avon had been one of the nations that had run roughshod over a century’s worth of imperial governments in Comorostan, carving out “spheres of influence” and creating de facto colonies out of its port cities. The whole enterprise had eventually turned sour, and in the place of the nice pliable monarchy that Avon and others had left to manage affairs, now the whole state was run by communist god-botherers. Comorostani agents had been exporting revolution, or trying to, for decades now. They’d stirred up trouble in Gaipajama and directly assisted the Narubans in throwing off the colonial yoke – for all the did it good them. Heartly knew his government wanted to avoid a confrontation with the nuclear-armed annoyance just as much as First Consul Napoleon did.

“That should not be a problem,” Heartly confirmed with confidence. “My own government is also very much of the opinion that this is best confined to as small a geographic area as possible. I will ensure that your desires are communicated both to my government and our military staff.”

Roseport

Roseport Station – the command responsible for all military forces stationed on Saint Georgia Island – was a strange bit of military bureaucracy. The position included command over units of the Royal Army, Royal Air Service, and ships of the Royal Navy, but the formal rank for the position was Vice Admiral. This was because Saint Georgia Island had once been the exclusive domain of the Royal Navy, back when its primary purpose was to serve as an advance port for wood-and-sail warships involved in blockading the ports of the Kingdom of Savoie. The land garrison had, for much of the island’s history under Avonian control, been almost exclusively local militia and independent companies raised and commanded by the city’s bourgeoisie. It was not until the twentieth century that regular Army troops were sent to the island, and then planes of the nascent Royal Air Service. But the island remained a Navy dominion, and so the current chief of Roseport Station remained a Navy officer.

Specifically, it was Vice Admiral John Barrender who received the call from Galion early the next morning. Or rather, Barrender was awoken by his aide and informed that the Admiralty was calling on the long-distance phone.

“This is Barrender,” the portly man said once he had risen from bed.

“John, this is Anson,” the voice on the other end replied. Barrender straightened, as if the man speaking was physically present and could see him. The Admiral of the Fleet had that effect on people, even over the phone. “Are the facilities on Roseport ready to receive a full complement?”

“Yes sir, Lord Admiral.” Philip Anson was not only Admiral of the Fleet, but also Lord of Tuesbury. “The engineers delivered their final report just two days ago.”

“Good. We’ll be sending out two additional squadrons of Lightnings the day after next. The PM has decided we’re going to be helping the Savoiens out in their little air campaign, and Roseport will be the main base.”

That meant this would become a combat command, albiet rather one-sided and distant combat. But still, that meant it was a chance for Barrender to advance, and perhaps get a title of his own. “Very good, sir. I’ll make sure we’ve got facilities ready for the pilots and crews.”

“And some Commandos,” Anson added. “A battalion of them, to be precise. Group Captain Mandrake and Major Brodie will both be flying in tomorrow to coordinate ahead of their units.”

“Understood sir. I look forward to meeting them.” Barrender didn’t know either man personally, but he was already dreading their introduction. The Royal Air Service was a pain, somehow full of both excruciatingly detail-obsessed bureaucrats and irrepressible daredevils. Every Flight Group seemed to be held together barely at the seams, constantly threatening to burst in the face of the energetic personality clashes going on. And the Royal Commando Regiment was full of cold killers and glory-hounds, neither of which would make for good company at afternoon tea. Barrender was starting to think a title and an estate might not be worth the trouble.

[Rusanyia]

On the Docks of the Port of Bishkek

The rusted old freighter had seen better days two lifetimes ago. The tough hull had started out hauling ores, filled full of riches torn out of the earth. The mining conglomerate that had commissioned the vessel had gone under, and the ship had passed between several owners until the freighter wound up in the possession of its current owners. The Petrov Group, on paper, delivered various industrial equipment to developing countries. It made sure to never do business in any country with a well-established customs regime. On this haul, the freighter was carrying very unusual industrial equipment – the customs inspector who greeted Ivan Grigorievich at the gangplank agreed, after his tour of the hold and the exchange of several thickly padded envelopes, that it was a funny coincidence that the crates marked “COOLING PIPE” looked so much like containers for surface-to-air missile launchers.

Ivan Grigorievich stood on the dock, smoking a cheap cigarette while locals carried crates full of weapons and ammunition off the freighter and into waiting trucks. Some of the trucks looked just as old and worn as the ship. Standing on the other side of the procession were a handful of armed men with long beards and dirty clothing. Ivan Grigorievich didn’t pay them any mind. Hassan al-Din had paid for this shipment, and Ivan Grigorievich had delivered within the timeframe that his employers had given. If the warlord’s men wanted to kill him here, they wouldn’t get their money back.

Vyacheslav Anatolievich walked up to stand next to Ivan Grigorievich, accepting a cigarette and light from his fellow gun-runner. “It will be good to get back to some place where you can get a decent drink, eh Vanya?”

Ivan Grigorievich nodded. “Da. And better-looking women.”

The two Rusanyians laughed. The dock workers and the warlord’s soldiers ignored the strange foreigners and their unfamiliar tongue. They spoke amongst themselves too. These weapons would be a welcome surprise to spring on the Savoiens who flew overhead and rained down death. Rusanyia was full of spare weapons that could easily find their way, quite by mistake and with the total ignorance of the government of course, to various buyers or “worthy causes.” Rusanyian-made assault rifles had probably killed more people on more continents than any other man-made weapon since the invention of gunpower. Ivan Grigorievich had been making connections and deliveries between those who had the guns and those who had the money for years. Vyacheslav Anatolievich was newer to the game, and Ivan Grigorievich suspected the man was probably some sort of government agent – a spy from the foreign operations wing of the Committee for State Security, or an operative from the covert action branch of Military Intelligence. Not that it mattered. Ivan Grigorievich had always gotten the job done. It was what had kept him alive and in the good graces of the various criminals, legitimate and underground, who ran the arms trade in Rusanyia.

[Le Savoie]

OOC: We now have an OOC thread for discussion and planning.

Aldastan had been at war with itself for decades. The government in Kashfar had never gained the loyalty or trust of the mountainous interior. The Alda Kush and the lands surrounding it had always been the domain of raiders and warlords. Sometimes they pledged their fealty to the government, and sometimes they violently rejected its authority. On the other side of the mountains, the other half of the country barely interacted with the capital. Dushanbe, the “sub-capital” of Aldastan, ran its own affairs. The two lowland areas were connected by only a handful of road and rail routes running through the Alda Kush. The current government under Omar ben Salaad had tried to expand the reach of the government’s authority and all it had gotten for its troubles was more of the same. But Salaad's government had something that many past governments in Kashfar had lacked – a powerful outside nationstate that was interested in seeing them succeed.

In the Skies Over Aldastan
Savoien Attack Aircraft

Two sleek, modern fighters cut their way through the clouds high above Aldastan. Their delta-wing design, with a pair of small canards jutting out in front of the main wing on either side of the cockpit, only added to their cutting-edge aesthetic. It seemed ridiculous to match this sort of high-technology firepower against farmers and goat herders armed with guns older than their owners. But this was exactly the message that Savoie hoped to send to Hassan al-Din and his soldiers: that they were vastly outgunned. The sooner they realized that, the sooner the bombings would end.

When their navigation systems told them they were approaching their target, the two planes began to descend. “The Cleric” might have prayed all day and night to Allah for help against the “infidels” of Savoie, but his god had not yet sent the warlord anything that could seriously damage the Savoien jet fighters. They could afford to get close to the ground and carry out their attack with precision, especially since they would be striking near a major city. Popular support for the campaign was still high in Savoie, thanks to the still-fresh wounds inflicted on the Republic by Jundallah, but heavy collateral damage would erode that support quickly.

The target of this particular strike was a large warehouse outside the city of Al-Marja. According to the briefing that the pilots had received before takeoff, it was most likely being used to store weapons and other military supplies. Hassan al-Din was the government in Al-Marja, and the true government in Kashfar was not yet ready to make a real push to remove him. The more damage Savoie could do from the air, the sooner that Savoie’s allies would find the nerve to start taking real action. As the Rafales began to descend below the clouds, their pilots nervously scanned the instruments, waiting to see whether the enemy had acquired any sort of air-defense radar that might be guiding missiles towards their planes. But no warning bells sounded. A few lines of tracer fire began to drift into the sky from where the warlord’s men were firing at them with machine guns and assault rifles. The gunfire could be dangerous if it happened to puncture an important component, but the men firing the weapons didn’t know how to aim them effectively at the fast-moving aircraft.

Guided bombs dropped off pylons underneath the delta wings and fell backwards, down towards the earth. The two attack planes were pulling back into the safety of high altitude when the explosive warheads detonated, covering the warehouse in fire and smoke. The eight individual explosions of the bombs, combined with the explosion of ammunition inside the buildings, came together to form a massive fireball and a huge plume of smoke that rose into the air.

Alda Kush Mountain Range
Warlord Encampment

Hassan al-Din raged at his subordinates. The Savoien air campaign seemed to know exactly where to strike. Not a single plane had been brought down by his soldiers. It seemed they hadn’t even succeeded in damaging one of the cursed things. He knew that men were beginning to desert him. Other warlords would recruit soldiers away from his army, offering them “safer” employment fighting the Comorostanis or the lackey government in Dushanbe. The Savoiens had begun dropping leaflets on villages in the Alda Kush, saying that they were targeting Hassan al-Din’s forces because they were allied with Jundallah. He had ordered that his men collect and burn the leaflets, and that anyone found in possession of one of these flyers be executed.

Surely his holy mission was not supposed to end in infidel fire from the skies. He knew that Allah had chosen him to bring the truth of his word and law to Aldastan. Yes, he supported Jundallah – how could any true believer deny the Soldiers of God the aid they requested? They had taken the fight to the infidel homelands, finally giving the nonbelievers a taste of the death that their infidel governments and their apostate puppets rained down on pious Muslims every day. He had agreed to the truce to earn time to restore his army to fighting shape. That time had been well-spent, and now he had many more fighters and better weapons. But the Savoiens had discovered his duplicity and threatened to tip the balance of power back towards the apostates in Kashfar.

The weapons he had purchased from the Rusanyians would be arriving soon – it would take time for the trucks to make their way from Bishkek to Al-Marja. Other warlords had to be bribed or convinced to allow the vehicles to pass without taking a cut of the most valuable weapons. The handful of roads that existed in the country were poor, and he expected that many vehicles would be delayed by the need to repair flat tires or other mechanical errors caused by the rough terrain. But they would arrive, and then he would clear the skies of the Savoien vultures.

[Comorostan]

Dockside, Bishkek, United Emirates of Aldastan

Hama Sayyed leaned against the side of the warehouse, watching the line of workers carry box after box off of the rusty freight ship. The man wasn’t trying to blend into the shadows or skulk around; trying to make himself hard to see would only draw attention to himself. Instead, he simply lounged like he belonged there. If anyone hassled him, he had a perfect reason to be leaning against the wall: the owner of the warehouse had hired him a few days ago to guard the building. It was a good cover job for an agent of the Sepâh-e Pâsdârân-e Enghelâb, the Army of the Guardians of the Revolution. The Sepâh, commonly referred to as the Revolutionary Guards, were a small army within the army. They were responsible for undertaking the most vital missions in defense of the People’s State. They had their own intelligence branch which deployed agents like Hama Sayyed around Andalasia, watching vigilantly for any threats.

What Sayyed was seeing here did not quite amount to a serious threat to the Revolution. A few containers of old SAMs and assault rifles would not seriously increase the capacities of Jundallah or the warlords who backed the terror group. With the bombing campaign going on, it was far more likely that these weapons would make their way across Aldastan to Al-Marja, rather than being used against Comorostan. But that did not mean that they would stay on the far side of the Alda Kush…

National Security Commission Headquarters, Harmony, People’s State of Comorostan

Barram Sadeggi looked over the reports from the Revolutionary Guard’s agents in Aldastan. Rusanyian weapons were beginning to enter Aldastan. On its own, this was nothing new: Rusanyian weapons had been entering Aldastan for decades, even before the collapse of the Socialist Federation had flooded the regional arms market with a massive surplus. But these were not more assault rifles and machine guns. Surface-to-air missile launchers and other crew-served weapons, especially anti-air weapons, would doubtlessly affect the tactical calculus of the Savoien aerial campaign. And some of those weapons might find their way into the hands of groups who were less concerned with Savoie, and more concerned with Comorostan. The People’s State was not kind to Muslims, and Sadeggi knew there were hundreds, if not thousands, of Comorostani Muslims in exile in Aldastan. They filled the ranks of Jundallah and the various warlord armies on this side of the Alda Kush.

Sadeggi began scribbling notes on a small pad of paper – a habit he had retained from his school days, putting thoughts onto paper for better organization and processing. The passing thought of funneling arms to the handful of Zoroastrians in Aldastan, who operated their own militias for protection from the Muslim majority, went in the top right of the page. In the center of the paper went a large note to bulk up the army and border guard forces deployed facing Aldastan. And in the bottom left went a note about speaking to General Raisi about coordinating some sort of covert action by the Sepâh and the Army’s special forces units. By the time he was done scribbling, the page was full of small print text. To an outsider it appeared to be a chaotic jumble of single words and short phrases. To Sadeggi, it was the beginnings of a response plan. He reached for a phone that would connect him with the headquarters of the National Military Commission…

[Narrowleaf]

Northern Aldastan, Alda Kush Mountains

The far ridge line glowed in the sunlight, turning the summer snow fields a pale orange. The bright pastel colors of the sky gave way to the pale browns and deep greens of the Khast River Valley. Movlid watched the local farmers tend to their opium crop. They paid no mind to the clattering of gunfire from the Jundallah training camp, it had become commonplace in the past few months.

He turned his attention back to the firing line, correcting some of the newer men’s form. “Press the stock into your shoulder, brother, it won’t jump up on you”. The recruit nodded determinedly. The Alda fighters had little experience, but they were quick learners, and his best men were now capable of leading a whole squad of fighters by themselves. He knew they would need it with the new Savoien bombing campaign. Whenever the westerners dropped their bombs, their special forces soon followed. And the new Savoien planes were cause for alarm as well. These fighters were a different beast than the sluggish Rusanyian attack aircraft that he had encountered in his homeland of Alier Ed-Essor, fighting the Narrowleaf Confederacy. Whereas the truck mounted autocannons Jundallah had were enough to keep an old Mig or Hind at bay, the Savoien planes moved much too fast for the analog weapons to hit.

But word had come down that Hassan al-Din had managed to get his hands on a shipment of old Rusanyian MANPADS. Movlid knew the influence Jundallah had on the local warlords, and was sure he they would be able to get their hands on some of the launchers. If they could keep the skies clear of the western fighters, then there was little anyone could do to stop them from spreading the caliphate across southern Andalasia.

Shobani, Narrowleaf Confederacy

The Defense Council Chambers were on the third floor of the Federal Defense building, facing North towards the Laras River. Lyalya Mansur watched the sunlight glint off the water as she waited for the other council members to arrive. She was the newest member on the entire council, but representatives from Helmesh were typically given heed on issues of defense, given their proximity to the heart of Jundallah territory.

The Defense Council had been called together because of the recent Savoien airstrikes in Aldastan. Lyalya personally didn’t mind Jundallah camps being destroyed, but knew that regardless of the target, a restart to the imperialist campaign in Aldastan was cause for serious alarm. The westerns weren’t known for their concern over dead innocents, and any re-escalation of the violence was likely to spill over into Narrowleaf.

“Ok, everyone’s here, let’s begin.” The voice of Shamil Satiev, the most senior member of the council, called Lyalya’s attention back to the room. Technically all council members were equal representatives, but some deference was given to the most experienced members, especially those who had fought in the War of Liberation, like Satiev.

The issue at hand today is the restarted Savoein air campaign in Aldastan.” The room was filled with grim looks. News of more imperialist interference in Southern Andalasia was not surprising, but the inevitable death it would bring was still a great trouble to them.

“Now, we will let the council members from Helmesh and Alier Ed-Essor speak first, given their proximity to the conflict.”

The Alier Ed-Essor council members relayed the condition of the ongoing regional insurgency, which sounded much like that in Helmesh; Not a significant threat, but not going away anytime soon either. When it was the Helmesh Representatives turn, Lyalya joined her fellow council members in giving their report.

“The insurgency threat is about the same as it is in Alier Ed-Essor, but activity across the border in Aldastan has been picking up. Aerial surveillance photographs have detected 3 new training camps in Northern Aldastan, but there are probably more. Additionally, local militia activity has increased markedly, but that’s no surprise sense given the airstrikes struck assets of Hassan al-Din. Given that all parties, especially the westerners, seem to be escalating, we recommend moving additional federal forces to the southern border, to prevent any spillover of the conflict.”

The council floor murmured in agreement; Despite the threat of Sokovia to the north, everyone in the room remembered the horror when Jundallah’s precursor were at their most powerful. After everyone had said their piece, Imran Kaydrov, another senior council member, called a vote to retask a Motorized Infantry Regiment to the Alda border, which passed unanimously. Lyalya was glad the other council members understood the threat, but hoped the westerners had learned their lesson, and wouldn’t again provoke the Jundallah into a frenzy.

[United Avon]

Roseport

Vice Admiral John Barrender held up a hand to block the piercing rays of the midday sun, muttering curses under his breath as he waited for the occupants of the transport plane to disembark. The Royal Air Service transport jet had landed a short time ago, carrying the two men who Vice Admiral Barrender would be supervising as they conducted Avon’s portion of the air campaign against Jundallah. Barrender had been forced to reschedule a social call with the island’s governor-general and his attractive wife in order to go and meet the plane at the military airbase. Now he was sitting in the sun of a cloudless day, sweating and blinking against the bright orb in the sky. He could have been sitting in a parlor making polite conversation and drinking some perfectly fine tea. Barreder tried to keep that resentment buried, lest it show on his face and begin this new working relationship on a bad footing.

Group Captain Lionel Mandrake looked just as uncomfortable as Barrender did, squinting as he left the bulk of the transport and throwing his own hand up to try and cut the unfiltered brightness of the sun. Major Alexander Brodie, on the other hand, seemed totally at home. The Royal Commando Regiment officer strolled forward seemingly unbothered by the heat or the light, thanks in part to the pair of slick military sunglasses he wore. Brodie carried his own luggage, a large duffel bag that almost certainly carried more military-issue clothing and maybe a rumpled and infrequently-used dress uniform. Group Captain Mandrake’s baggage was being carted off the plane by a pair of aides, who were struggling just as much with the bulky cases as the Group Captain was with the environment.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Roseport,” Vice Admiral Barrender said, extending a hand to each man in turn. “I trust the flight was uneventful?”

Brodie simply nodded and voiced a wordless affirmation. Mandrake had plenty to say about the quality of the flight from Galion to Roseport aboard the spartan transport aircraft. Barrender let him ramble on as they walked towards the shade of a vehicle pool, where Barrender’s staff car was waiting. When they were close, Barrender gestured for the two men to enter and took his own seat in the front. His driver began to take the vehicle and its occupants from the airfield to the main headquarters building.

“Once the remainder of the air wing and the Commando battalion have arrived,” Barrender said. “My orders are to provide overall coordination and act as the main point of contact if the Savoiens want to talk. I’ll leave operational planning to you – I trust that you’ve been briefed on the parameters set by our man in Bellecourt?” Both officers replied that they had. “Excellent. Then Clarence here will take you to your quarters. I will see you gentlemen this evening – we’ll dine with the Governor-General.” Barrender stepped out of the car and walked into the headquarters building, and the staff car slowly drove towards the block of homes which were reserved for the use of Avonian officers such as Brodie and Mandrake. Barrender instructed his aide to call up the Governor-General’s residence and see if there was still time for him to pop over for a spot of tea.

[Le Savoie]

Between Kashfar and Al-Marja
Along the Lake Road

While the Savoiens and the Avonians attacked from the air, the Aldastani government would attack from the ground. That was the plan that Savoie had tried to implement back in 2015, when Operation Serval had been initiated. The Aldastani government in Kashfar did not have an army by any professional standard. What Emir Omar ben Salaad had was a collection of tribal militias and armed bands who agreed to fight for him. They were not loyal to the government, or to the idea of an Aldastani state. They were tied to the government by family ties and corrupt patronage. But this was what Savoie had to deal with, and trying to make them into something they were not would waste time and resources. So instead, Savoie was hoping that their aerial campaign could soften up Hassan al-Din sufficiently that the “Aldastani Army” could be an effective fighting force. It was time to see the results of this strategy.

Robert Bocuse rode in the second vehicle in the column, watching the gently rolling hills pass by through the lens of his sunglasses. He was a longtime veteran of the Légion étrangère, the Foreign Legion of Savoie. The Legion was Savoie’s first choice for rapid military response, and they also had a large number of foreign-born soldiers who spoke many languages. Robert’s mother was Aldastani, and she had taught him the language alongside the Savoien he learned in school. Speaking languages that weren’t Savoien was frowned upon, and Robert had never used it much outside the home when he was alone with his parents. But the Legion had recognized the benefit of that knowledge. He had been sent to the land of his mother’s birth, to act as an advisor and observer. He would help this collection of military amateurs fight the Islamists and the warlords, and tell Bellecourt how well they fared.

In the vehicle ahead of him, Captain Andam Durrani turned around and waved at the Savoien officer. Durrani was a good man, Robert had discovered: he came from one of the tribes that lived along the coast, who had traded raiding and fighting with each other for fishing and trading with Savoie across the gulf. He was a man who always had a positive attitude and had been very friendly to Robert. He was commanding this expedition because most of its soldiers were from his tribe, which was loyal to the government because Kashfar left them alone to carry on their lives. All the Emir asked was that they fight when called, and Omar ben Salaad had called for their services. So now they were rolling along, on a sort of test-drive offensive aimed at seeing just what sort of defenses or fighters “the Cleric” had thrown up along the primary route from the capital to Al-Marja.

Dusahnbe
Sub-Capital of Aldastan

The convoy of trucks rolled through the city, pushing aside carts and other vehicles carrying produce or livestock to market or moving people around. Drivers leaned on the horns and cursed at each other as they exchanged harsh words and unkind comparisons between each other’s parents and various farm animals. In theory, the government here should have tried to stop these trucks from carrying their load of weapons through the sub-capital towards the Khotal Pass and onward to Al-Marja. But the government here rarely followed orders from Kashfar unless they wanted to, and Emir Hakem ben Rahim had been well paid to ignore the instructions from Emir Omar ben Salaad to stop any weapons shipments. Taking bribes to allow all sorts of guns pass from the port at Bishkek to the warlords on the far side of the Alda Kush was much more profitable than trying to actually enforce the law. So Amir Daoud could lead the trucks through the city without issue, except for all the other people trying to use the same space as him.

Soon they would be out of the city and on their way towards the Khotal Pass. Amir expected that it would be an uneventful stretch. The Savoiens had not extended the reach of their bombers to this side of the Alda Kush, and the mountain passes were far too narrow for a jet plane to navigate. The convoy would be safe from attack until they were through the mountains. Once they were on the other side, if the infidels tried to destroy their vehicles, they could unveil the surprise they were carrying in the back. The enemy had become arrogant, expecting that nothing could harm their sleek jet fighters. Once the surface-to-air missiles were in the hands of Hassan al-Din’s fighters and his Jundallah allies, things would get much more difficult for the foreign aggressors.

[United Avon]

Dusahnbe
Sub-Capital of Aldastan

The convoy of trucks rolled through the city, pushing aside carts and other vehicles carrying produce or livestock to market or moving people around. Drivers leaned on the horns and cursed at each other as they exchanged harsh words and unkind comparisons between each other’s parents and various farm animals. In theory, the government here should have tried to stop these trucks from carrying their load of weapons through the sub-capital towards the Khotal Pass and onward to Al-Marja. But the government here rarely followed orders from Kashfar unless they wanted to, and Emir Hakem ben Rahim had been well paid to ignore the instructions from Emir Omar ben Salaad to stop any weapons shipments. Taking bribes to allow all sorts of guns pass from the port at Bishkek to the warlords on the far side of the Alda Kush was much more profitable than trying to actually enforce the law. So Amir Daoud could lead the trucks through the city without issue, except for all the other people trying to use the same space as him.

Soon they would be out of the city and on their way towards the Khotal Pass. Amir expected that it would be an uneventful stretch. The Savoiens had not extended the reach of their bombers to this side of the Alda Kush, and the mountain passes were far too narrow for a jet plane to navigate. The convoy would be safe from attack until they were through the mountains. Once they were on the other side, if the infidels tried to destroy their vehicles, they could unveil the surprise they were carrying in the back. The enemy had become arrogant, expecting that nothing could harm their sleek jet fighters. Once the surface-to-air missiles were in the hands of Hassan al-Din’s fighters and his Jundallah allies, things would get much more difficult for the foreign aggressors.

Roseport

The sheaf of papers clattered onto the desk with the finality of an atomic bomb. The manila folder that had contained them failed upon contact, letting satellite photographs and other intelligence documents spill out across the mahogany wood in front of Group Captain Lionel Mandrake. The Royal Air Service officer looked from the papers now cluttering his impeccably organized workspace, up to the face of the man who had dropped them there. Major Alexander Brodie had a look in his eye that Mandrake recognized from his previous run-ins with the Commando Regiment. The bugger had some sort of stupid ambitious plan to propose.

“The god-botherers are bringing surface-to-air missile launchers into Aldastan,” he announced. Mandrake said nothing, leaning back in his seat and waiting for the other officer to continue. He knew this already: he had copies of all the documents that Brodie had deposited onto his desk in his own files. They were part of the standard regular briefing coming from Military Intelligence, containing all the information that the Avonian officers were cleared to see. The Royal Commando Regiment officer did not wait long before continuing with his speech.

“Now Mandrake, I don’t think either of us want to see those missiles get across the mountains and into the hands of someone who might use them on us.”

“Obviously,” Mandrake replied slowly. The Avonian contribution to the Savoien aerial campaign had been slow to start, but was now fully active. Three squadrons of Andalfighter Typhoons, configured for ground attack missions, were performing daily missions dropping guided bombs onto Jundallah training camps and Hassan al-Din’s weapons caches. The estimates from Military Intelligence, which were also contained in the same briefing, estimated that the campaign would soon being to show tangible results as “the Cleric” started to run short on ammunition, especially for his heavier weapons. When the insurgents could no longer effectively fight, Savoie could finally get results out of its pet army.

“What kind of strike package could you put together to hit them before they get to the mountain passes?”

This question was both surprising and expected. Mandrake had figured out that the Commando officer wanted to push past the limits of their mandate and launch an operation that crossed the unofficial “no go” line across the Alda Kush moments after he had entered the room. But the brazen way that the man approached it, asking about practicalities before even asking if Mandrake was onboard with the idea, was still shocking. Mandrake tried to muster the words to make that clear to the other officer.

“The way I see it, we can do more than just bomb some ragheads,” Brodie continued. “We have some long-range helos here with the range to reach this target zone, just before the mountains. If your boys can hit the convoy, we can sweep in afterwards and secure whatever intelligence is left. Maybe grab a bigwig commander or something. I figure the Cleric has someone important riding herd on the shipment.”

Mandrake had to work to keep his jaw from dropping. The Commando officer wasn’t just suggesting an airstrike near Comorostani territory. He was suggesting a full-fledged military incursion, dropping Avonian troops onto Aldastani soil close to the People’s State. And all to pick up whatever pieces were left after the strike fighters had turned the trucks to scrap. It was just the sort of off-the-cuff plan that the Commandos were famous for. Mandrake wondered if Brodie and his subordinates had come up with the idea over a round of drinks at one of the local bars.

“This is a lot of think about, Major Brodie,” Mandrake said cautiously. “Even if Admiral Barrender signs off on the idea…”

“I’ll handle the Rear Admiral,” Brodie said with a laugh that made Mandrake uncomfortable. “You just start putting your side of the plan together.” Without waiting for a response, and apparently taking Mandrake’s hesitance as affirmative support for the plan, Brodie threw off a quick salute and was out the door before Mandrake could say a word.

[Astoria]

U.S.S. Congress, Republic-class Light Carrier
In the Georgian Gulf
Off Ile de Roches

The U.S.S. Congress was now at the center of a new formation, formed from portions of Carrier Strike Group 4. It sat in the central position, with the Astoria-class amphibious assault ship U.S.S. Delmarva behind it and the High Tower-class cruiser U.S.S. Sentry in front. The Sentry would be responsible for coordinating the defensive fire, if necessary, of the four Logan-class guided missile destroyers that escorted the big ships through the Georgian Gulf towards the Bay of Tijara. While the flotilla – which had been designated Task Force Curling in the Astorian tradition of naming ad hoc commands after their commanding officer – lacked the incredible weight of firepower that the full Carrier Strike Group could bring to bear, it still represented a sizeable projection of military power. The Congress carried twenty F-35B strike fighters capable of taking off from the shortened deck and landing using vertical thrust. The Delmarva carried a battalion of Marines and their associated armored vehicles and artillery, plus the landing vehicles and helicopters necessary to ferry them ashore. The cruiser and destroyers all had both cannons and vertical launch tubes that could fire long-range cruise missiles.

On the bridge of the Congress, Captain Curling listened to the sounds of his bridge crew working to navigate the ship and the rest of the Task Force through the waters of the Gulf. For now they remained in international waters, but once they passed Ile de Roches they would be operating in Savoie’s EZ. Rear Admiral Trent had told him before the Task Force had split from the Carrier Strike Group that the State Department had already secured permission from Savoie for the Astorian ships to take up a position in Savoien waters, so there shouldn’t be any trouble from that side of the Bay. It was the other side that worried Curling.

“We’re working on getting a channel of communications set up with the Savoien general commanding their operations, as well as with the Avonians at Roseport Station,” he explained to the two officers in the meeting room. Captain Bethany Hammond of the U.S.S. Delmarva, commander of the amphibious assault ship, and Colonel Harold Jones of the Third Marine Expeditionary Unit that the assault ship carried. “I want to make sure we’re ready to lend a hand to either of them.”

“Captain, what are our operating parameters?” Captain Hammond asked plainly. “Are we authorized to initiate combat operations?”

“Not independently,” Curling admitted. “I imagine we’re going to be doing a lot of sitting around. This whole venture is basically an elaborate showing of the flag, as far as I can tell. But,” he added, “That doesn’t mean we get to relax. If some sort of situation comes up where Avon or Savoie need additional assistance, I want us to be able to respond ASAP. That includes putting Marines on the ground, if necessary.”

“First Battalion will be ready, Captain,” Colonel Jones declared proudly.

“As will we,” Captain Hammond echoed.

“Excellent.” Captain Curling rose from his seat. “Hopefully this little cruise will be as boring as we’re all dreading.”