Operation Hearthlight 1980 [IC, PT-MT, Open]

by **Stalwart Socialist Republics of Briganti** » Fri Jun 06, 2025 7:04 am

OOC

ORBAT

1st June 1980, Kapasia, Galatoria - 16:55

It was unbelievably hot. Swelteringly hot. In the building the Brigantine People’s Army had been given to base their operations out of it was nearly unbearable. Its thick stone walls, low ceilings and tall, thin windows didn’t help matters. Whether open or closed the windows made seemingly no difference. The air inside was as hot as that outside the building. All opening the windows did was let in more hot air.

Lance Corporal Llewella Rease had been watching the clock for the past half an hour. Counting down the time till she could knock off work. Since 0830 that morning she’d felt the heat. Throughout the day she’d drank two litres of tea and water and had only used the bathroom once. Everyone in the office was visibly sweating. Dreary expressions and slack faces were worn around the office. Patches of sweat darkened the armpits and collars of their barrack shirts.

Llewella felt beads of salty sweat running down her face, catching in her eyebrows or pooling in above her top lip. It clung beneath her arms, pooled under her breasts and around her thighs despite her wearing of the issued skirt.

Normally a diligent clerk, her work had slowed throughout the day. She’d be stuck on the same pay slip document for the last hour. Slowly adding to it via her typewriter she’d masked her slothfulness behind the chatter of her fellow clerks typing at their own machines.

In the last five minutes she’d slowly been tidying away her desk. Out of the corner of her eyes she watched Sergeant Bowell typing away. With a slam he reset his machine and removed the sheet, glancing at his watch he filed it away to the bottom of a pile of papers on his desk.

“Time to knock it on the head lads and ladies.” He said as he began to clear his desk.

The room filled with the rustling of papers and the shuffling of chairs. Llewella rose from her chair, her skin peeling from it. She pulled her garrison cap down onto her head, feeling it soak up the beaded sweat on her forehead. She picked up her belt with her service pistol and tied it around her waist.

The cold lump of metal seemed almost unnecessary in the capital. While the ongoing insurgency was strong, it was almost entirely contained to the mountains and by the time the Brigantines had arrived in the capital Mujahideen attacks had dropped off entirely.

Exiting the office she strode down the hallway and down the flight of stairs to the exit. Outside the sun bore down on her and she glanced up as she walked towards the barrack building across the square from the Divisional HQ.

The compound was surrounded by a pillared wall with iron spiked bars running between each pillar. On the other side the road was filled with the traffic of small cars and buses that filtered forwards at a slow but steady pace. The sky was a cloudless blue and the distant mountains rose up above the city, silhouetting the high rise apartment blocks and the marble and stone neoclassical buildings.
Life continued as normal in Kapasia. The insurgency seemed almost non-existent from the view of the capital’s citizens. Entering the barrack building she climbed the flight of stairs to her shared dormitory on the third floor.

The barrack building was built in much the same manner as the Divisional HQ building. Some five storeys high it was built from a mix of stone, marble and wood in the typical Galatocrian Neoclassical Style. The walls were painted cream white and its solid marble floors were checkered black and white.

The first thing Llewella would be doing would be to have a shower before seeing what her roommates were doing, which would probably entail going out for drinks. The attitude amongst the Brigantine personnel in the capital was remarkably lax. For most it seemed more like a holiday than a deployment.

Observation Post Cywiro, Galatocrian Mountains - 17:30

OP Cywiro had been set up early on at the start of the year by the two Rheidiwr Battalions, the 63rd and 27th, which were female and male respectively. Being inserted ahead of the ground forces by helicopter the two battalions had set up a series of Observation posts along ridgelines and mountain passes near the border. Tasked with monitoring enemy movement each OP was dug in a fortified with a platoon sized force of personnel manning them.

Not much was observed from the OPs but they instead acted as bases of operations for the regularly mounted patrols that forayed out from them. A patrol could consist of anything from two to twenty Rheidiwr troopers and could last anywhere from a few hours to weeks.

OP Cywiro was manned by the 27th, most patrols consisted of a sniper and spotter. Always setting out at night they would tab a few kilometres away from the OP and set up in a hide position from which movement on the mountain passes could be monitored and the team could operate without too much fear of exposure as they conducted their daily routine.

The main purpose of the patrols wasn’t to engage the enemy but instead to provide intelligence for the Army HQ so it could better estimate the situation they were dealing with.

OP Cywiro itself was on the boundaries between the 27th and 63rd and they regularly had visitors from other Observation posts.

Sergeant Gotch had returned from a week long patrol a few hours ago, his sniper, Trooper Hanmer had tidied his kit away and gone to sleep in his bunk. Gotch had to stay up while he handed in his report on enemy movement, not feeling much like sleeping; he had returned to his own part of the OP. Whoever had put the place together had provided the Troop Sergeants manning the post an alcove in the bastion, a wooden post fitted with a curtain gave the occupant some privacy. The alcove doubled as both an office and a place to sleep with a collapsible table and some chairs near the entrance and further back was his roll mat, sleeping bag and bergen that contained his kit.

Gotch sat at his desk and had begun to disassemble and clean his rifle. Gotch was impressively built. Standing at 6' 4”, he towered over most other Brigantines, he wasn’t lanky either - his body was well muscled and broad shouldered. His face was angular and pleasant with sharp blue eyes and cropped blonde hair. At 27 he was an imposing figure and had risen quickly through the ranks due to a mix of popularity, skill and physical capability. With that being said however he was normally calm and well mannered, not given to bouts of rowdiness or anger.

He was methodically scrubbing away at his weapon’s gas parts when the privacy curtain was pulled back and a head pushed through. The figure had their camo suit’s hood pulled tight obscuring their face. Glancing around the alcove they made eye contact with Gotch and although their face was mostly hidden, Gotch recognised the person’s cheeks rise and eyes squinted as they smiled.

They pulled back the curtain all the way and Gotch rose to greet Tyra Nessid, a fellow Trooper Sergeant from the 63rd. Gotch towered a foot over her as they hugged.

“What do you hear? What do you say?” He said, releasing her from his grip.

“This guy!” she said, the two female troopers behind her stood awkwardly behind her, outside the entrance exchanged glances. Like her they both had their hoods up tight and were covered in a light film of dust. Gotch looked down and realised Nessid was also covered in dust from the mountains and during their brief hug had rubbed large amounts of it off onto his clean shirt.

She undid the strings on her hood as he dusted off his shirt. Returning to his seat she pulled back her hood, revealing her face. A bit more weathered than his, She had dark brown eyes, hair tied back in a bun, a strong jawline, and ears that stuck out slightly.

She gestured to the other two standing outside to come in, once inside she drew the curtain back and sat at the table opposite from Gotch. The other two women sat on the floor, backs to the wall on either side of the alcove and also removed their hoods. Both looked about ten years younger than their leader but looked a tad more glum, like they were already tired of Galatoria. One had her brown hair tied back in a tight plait that sat on her shoulder now that her hood was off, the other had a shaved head with a burn scar around her left ear, warping it into her head.

The pair were of a more pasty complexion compared to Nessid and were most probably troopers. Typical of the 63rd’s patrolling tactics, Nessid and the girl with the plait both had a silenced LLC-35 submachine gun by their side. Plaits had a radiopack which she’d placed on the floor next to her, the girl with the shaved head had the patrols RHL-63, a cross between a designated marksman rifle and a true sniper rifle.

The trio were all around the same height and had the typical build of female Rheidiwr, at 5’ 4” they were compact yet powerfully built, thick, muscular legs on wide hips which tapered into a thin waist, their upper bodies were triangular, with strong, sloping shoulders and short sturdy arms. Altogether, they resembled two triangles joined at the tips - built for speed, agility and violence.
Gotch took out his packet of cigarettes, taking a bind he offered one to Nessid who eagerly snatched it from the box.

“What brings you to my humble abode Nessy?” he said, lighting the cigarette before extending the lighter to his counterpart.

Nessid leaned forwards and sucked on the cigarette as the flame licked at the tip, once the cherry caught she leaned back and exhaled a puff of smoke.

“We got cut off from our OP, a mudslide destroyed the path back, so we diverted here. We're gonna get on the next supply chopper and hop back over.”

Gotch went back to cleaning his weapon, glancing up, his eyes met briefly with Nessid’s before looking back down. There was a spark in her eyes the way she looked at him, a warmth, Gotch could tell she was attracted to him but their mutual regard for professionalism and regulation would kill off any affair before it started.

“Say have you seen anything…” there was a pause as she spoke, “...different recently? In enemy activity I mean?”

“A few things, yeah.” He replied, not looking up.

“Like what?”

“Well a drop off in hostile actions, they’ve not planted any IEDs, they’ve not been racketeering in the villages, they’ve not done any sweeps. But at the same time, there’s been more movement from them, especially at night. Couldn’t tell you how many, but on every night of the last patrol I saw at least a company's worth of men move up the valley before disappearing during the day. Building up strength? Moving into a new base? Why, what have you seen?” he looked up at her when he posed the last question.

She frowned and took the cigarette from her mouth between two fingers.

“Hmm, well much the same actually. More even. They’re up to something.” she said, returning the bind to her mouth and staring blankly off into the corner.

“How long till your ride gets here?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Gotch glanced at his watch. It was half past five in the afternoon.

“Ah you’ve got a while then, a drink?” he asked, producing a bottle of Brigantine Cream Liqueur.

“Yeah why not.” she said, perching forwards as he placed it on the table with four shot glasses. “Girls, do you want some of this?” turning to her two friends.

Baldy shot up from where she was sitting, Plaits pulled herself up more wearily and the pair joined Gotch and Nessid at the table, as he began pouring shots.

Tserakh Vahl, 9th Motor Rifle Brigade Area of Operations, Rural Galatoria - 19:00

The four CA-1959’s wound up the unpaved road in the Tserakh Vahl Valley. Dust and stones were kicked up by their tires and the vehicles were caked in dust. Most of the commanders had their heads out, all wore goggles to protect their eyes and had a variety of clothes, masks and scarves covering their mouths to keep out the worst of the dust and bugs.

The dismounts rode with the hatches open, sticking their heads out, scanning the high ground surrounding the vehicle, singing as they did so.

“Mell-ti-ged-ig! — Par-ti-san-iaid!" they chanted over the roaring engines.

2nd Lt Rhisiart Penmaen scanned the road ahead from his vehicle, the second in the column. When he had been sent to Galatoria he’d been promised a fight however, the fighting mostly seemed to have died down since their arrival. In fact most of the few casualties they had taken were mostly attributed to accidents.

“Bydd ein Brigâd — yn dy ganfod, Yn — nghanol — y mynyddoedd!” They chanted.

Morale seemed high but Penmaen knew his troops were bored. Their only death from enemy activity had been when a vehicle had gone over a landmine, rolling as it did so it threw the commander clear and he broke his neck during the fall. A few more had been injured from other attacks. The second worst was when Private Ifor had his leg blown off at the knee by a booby trap, but he’d been quickly evacuated and from the last Panmaen had heard he would make a full recovery. Another three had been injured in the same blast but they were all minor wounds.

“Mwjahidïaid — a — gwyredigion!”

In comparison, they’d lost seven due to non combat incidents. Four had been killed when the road they were driving on gave way and the vehicle tumbled one-hundred metres down a valley. Another two had been killed when the handbrake on the vehicle they were repairing broke, crushing them against the bastion wall at their FOB. Then there was Private Réamonn Tywyll who had apparently committed suicide, although it was still being investigated as it seemed likely his death may have been one of misadventure rather than any struggle with internal demons. He’d been in good spirits and surrounded by other Privates when it happened so Penmaen suspected it was far more likely to be a stupid game or some hazing ritual that resulted in him putting five rounds on full auto through his head rather than a sudden bout of depression.

“Byddwn — wastad — yn — eich — erlid, Nes — bod — angau’n — eich — taro!”

In return they had managed to get twenty-five confirmed kills, albeit at the expenditure of much ammunition. The biggest bunch they’d got was when they caught a bunch of fighters exfiltrating a village they’d been visiting.
Caught in the open the patrol had lit them up with their 12.7’s, firing over two thousands rounds there was little left of them but from the wreckage they estimated at least twelve confirmed kills. The rest of the kills had been collected up from the various ambushes they had been subjected to.

Typically these consisted of a lone fighter firing a shot at a patrol group from some distance. In return they normally fired on the location before patrolling up to it. Sometimes they found a body, sometimes they found a blood trail but more often than not they found nothing.

The patrols were conducted daily at different times. Normally a platoon at a time would travel around the perimeter of their area of operations in ‘The Vahl’ as the troops had begun calling it. Going from village to village, sometimes they would stop and speak to the elders. Showing a face and trying to win the hearts and minds of the locals. Some were very receptive, a few were indignant at their arrival with signs of hostility beneath the surface, most showed indifference and ignorance, trying to avoid interacting with the foreigners.

Today was no different.

A shot clanged off the roof of the vehicle, followed by a sharp, whining rifle crack. A second came in a bit further to the left and closer to Penmaen’s head. His gunner swiveled the shielded 12.7 and he barely had enough time to duck back down into the hatch before he opened fire.

Almost simultaneously the vehicle gunners fired at the rough location of the shooter. The column began to slow as red tracers travelled up into the ridges and rocky outcrops above and ahead of them. Soon the mountain side was a wall of dust and smoke.

Clutching his radio’s pressel he spoke to his troop sergeant.

“Right standard procedure. Take the platoon and sweep out to the point of contact, over.”

“Roger that zero, out.” Came back the reply.

The troops dismounted from the vehicles, over the sides or out the rear doors. Scrambling to cover, they advanced in leaps and bounds. The vehicle gunners stayed their firing as the troops took over.

Peering through his binoculars Penmaen doubted they’d find anything.

Zintara Barracks, Republikanos Stratos Main Training Establishment and HQ, 10km North of Kapasia - 21:55

Commodore Eirlys Maelor had been in the country for four months along with the rest of the 3rd Naval Infantry Brigade of the Brigantine People’s Navy. They had been added on to the deployment of the rest of the 7th Motor Rifle Division after it was realised that the Brigantines would need to train the Republikanos Stratos up to standard. Even the elite formations in the RS were woefully under or mis trained in some areas.
While Maelor’s job separated her from the day to day training of the Galatocrian’s that filtered through Zintara she had been pleasantly surprised by the upward trend of standards and skill demonstrated by the retrained Galatocrians.

At first it seemed almost hopeless. While the RS Officers weren’t stupid their rank and file were lacking. Maelor still remembered watching a retrained Galatocrian Medic perform a demonstration of how to deal with a casualty with a sucking chest wound. After carrying out the drill perfectly the Medic had looked up and proclaimed that unfortunately the patient would die in this case as the chest seal on the back had a hole in it. He had to be taken aside by one of the Marines and told that the hole in the chest seal was the pressure release valve and they were all meant to have a hole in them.

In the beginning there had been constant cases of things like this. Taking in the training but not understanding the purpose of the individual drills and what they played in the wider picture of their actions.

However as time had gone on the lessons had started to sink in. Sure some of it was due to the repetitiveness but some of it also came from the two armies picking up each other's language as well as changing attitudes in the RS.

The Galatocrian Republican Guard Brigades had really come into their own. Most of their Officers had been punctual and precise, they seemed well motivated and professional. While there was an air of political appointment most seemed to have earned their positions based on talent. The soldiers in the Republican Guard Brigades were much like their officers. Fit, well trained, well motivated and professional. These were men who believed in what they were doing and were a war winning force. They were also the inheritors of the newest Brigantine kit.

The other units were nowhere near as good but were more than capable of doing their job of routing out and destroying the insurgents in the eventual reconquest of the rural mountains.

The 3rd Brigade had also taken up secondary duties that it was felt the Marines would be capable of and required to do. At Zintara Barracks the Marines had replaced the security force and then gone on to further fortify the Barracks themselves.

Their other main duty was to act as a rapid reaction force in the event of any trouble. This was broken down into groups of different sizes and subsequently their readiness states. The 1st Battalion had created a Platoon from their Recce Troops that would be able to move out within two minutes of the balloon going up, then there was the rest of the 1st Battalion that was at a thirty minute notice to move. If it was larger than that the rest of the Brigade would be able to deploy in under three hours.

Other important assets the Marines had brought with them was their complement of MBT-67B’s, a company's worth as well as a platoon of MBT-67B-F AVE Gordds. However it seemed likely that these tanks would not take part in any action and instead collect dust in the vehicle park.

This saddened the Commodore as she’d never seen one go into action, let alone fire its gun. This was likely her last deployment of her twenty six years of service. She only had two and a half years left before she would be retired.

Marine Elin Talar had been in Galatoria with the 3rd since they’d got here. In eight months her national service would end, freeing her to return to her friends and family back home. She had forwent her allotted leave as she wanted to save it up for her return so she could have a few months off before she had to get a job.

While the 3rd’s job was training the Galatocrians this had been given to the Rifle Battalions of the Brigade, armoured vehicle crew, such as herself, were looked down on by the Brigade’s hierarchy for such tasks. As such her and the rest of the vehicle crews had been placed on guard duty.

Manning the watchtowers and pillboxes around Zintara Barrack’s and securing the wire. It was a thankless task and it also wasn’t very interesting. For a week at a time the guard shift would split two hour watches between eight to ten marines.

On their off week they could do as they pleased as long as it didn’t involve leaving the Barracks or getting too drunk, though the latter order was mostly ignored and the higher ups mostly looked the other way. This left the only activities on her off week as drinking, taking part in organised sports or visiting the on camp cinema. There had been a swimming pool but that had been drained before they got here and refilling it wasn’t a priority.

However it was 21:55 and Talar had to replace the Marine manning their section's pillbox. The sun had set and the coolness of the night had begun to set in. Approaching the concrete box, the gravel crunched beneath her rubber soles. She had her YaC-72 in her right hand, pressing the stock against her hip so it rested on her webbing, in her left she had a mug of tea.

At the door she tapped the barrel against the metal door. There was a shuffle and the radio that’d been playing inside was turned down. The bolt on the door slid across and it was flung inwards.

Inside was a miserable looking Anest Gwern, a fellow Marine. A few inches shorter than Talar her miserable look brought a smile to her face.

“Busy evening Gwern?” she said coyly.

“F*ck off Elin.” she retorted as she grabbed her own rifle and left.

Stepping inside, Talar placed down her steel mug and closed the door behind her. She picked up the walkie talkie that was in the pillbox.

“Hello 0 this is Guard Post 12, radio check over.”

“Hello 12 this is 0, workable out.”

With that she placed the radio down on the desk and slung her rifle behind her. Picking up her mug again she approached the pillboxes main armament, its 30mm AGL, and rested her hand on the cool metal. Staring out into the spotlit perimeter she felt for the civilian radio with her hand, cranking up the volume.

Luckily enough the Galatocrians had set up a pop radio station the year prior that played music that Talar could at least claim she’d heard of. The radio blared out tunes as she sipped at her tea.

“Color me your color, baby
Color me your car
Color me your color, darling
I know who you are
Come up off your color chart
I know where you're coming from”

Talar tapped her foot as she stared out. The other Marines thought her mad for drinking tea in such hot weather however she needed the caffeine. The nights at least offered some respite. She began to mouth along to the song.

“Call me (call me) on the line
Call me, call me any, anytime
Call me (call me) I'll arrive
You can call me any day or night
Call me”

The time in the pillbox passed quicker if you tried to enjoy yourself, or at least it felt like it.

2nd June 1980, In the Mountains North of Kapasia and Urban Galatoria - 00:00

Amir al-Jihad, Suleyman al-Farouqi had waited patiently for the past weeks. The time for retribution and justice was nigh. In a few hours his holy warriors would begin launching attacks all across Galatoria in a concerted effort. Not just of his clan or tribe, but all of them. The Mujahideen as a collective would fight and attack as one fortified Islamic Front against the heretics and foreigners. They would be expelled and the Mujahideen would (as they must) be victorious.

Despite his faith and conviction Suleyman still had nags and doubts about the whole operation. It wasn’t his idea after all. The idea for the Grand Offensive had been broached to him by Khalid ibn Ardam. Suleyman was an experienced guerilla fighter and had killed many of his enemies in personal combat but this was different.

This wouldn’t be guerilla ambushes, sniper attacks or IED campaigns. This would be toe-to-toe combat against forces with equal or superior armament. This would be a difficult battle with many casualties and Suleyman knew God would only help them so much. What had tempted him and ultimately made the decision for him was the numbers.

They outnumbered their opponents 3:1 by their estimates and were able to levy massive numbers at short notice, though only for a temporary amount of time. They were also very close to the heart of Urban Galatoria. They surrounded them on all sides and mere kilometres of ground separated them from total victory and annihilation of the enemy.

After he gave his subordinates the go ahead for the plan it had been set in motion. For the past few weeks the War Bands and Fighting Brigades had dropped whatever they had been doing and had begun to muster at key locations.

Thousands were stationed waiting in villages and caves, in underground complexes. The date was set and the orders were given. Cities would be stormed, outposts overrun and the enemy destroyed in detail.

However his most difficult choice was upon him. Would he himself take part in the attacks? He had weighed it up. He wanted to. He really wanted to. To be at the front of a glorious charge for the prophet while his enemies were vanquished? He could fantasise about it. But deep down he knew he must restrain himself. It would be irresponsible to lead from the front, he needed to stay put and relay communications between the various forces and in the event of their victory he would be needed to mediate between the various factions so their victory wouldn’t be soured by infighting from the onset and most of all, should he fall he would leave his men without leadership on the battlefield which would result in routes and death and potentially the collapse of the Mujahideen front.

He lent forward for the last time towards Mecca, bending forth in reverence.

"Allahu Akbar.” He muttered softly.

He rose to his feet and turned towards the door in the cave fortress of Ghar al-Zalim.

“Enter,” he called.

Abu Tariq entered, his beard flowed down his chest, resting against his baggy tunic. He bowed his head as he stepped in.

“Amir.”

“I will not be going Na’ib al-Amir, I must stay here. I want you to go in my place.”

“Of course Amir, anything for you.” Tariq replied in obedience.

Suleyman presented him with fresh, westernised, urban clothes.

“I’m sorry but you will have to shave off your beard to blend in.”

“I understand Amir we must all make sacrifices to blend in.”

“Do you understand the mission? Is there anything you ask of me before you set off?” Suleyman asked him.
“I understand the task at hand, and I only ask for the blessing of the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Tariq replied before dismissing himself.

After he left Tariq quickly shaved his face clean before changing. There were no mirrors but his face felt uncomfortably smooth, like a woman's he thought before he set out to leave the complex.

Leaving the complex he walked for sometime before reaching the nearby village. Once he got there he marched up to the house he had designated as the form up point. Being quickly let in he could see he was the last to arrive.

Once they were ready they went into the barn next to the building. Inside was a stolen bus amongst other vehicles. The fighters filed in, unarmed. They would blend in with the urban Galatocrians with their fake IDs and suitable clothes, but once they had made it past the roadblocks and checkpoints they could gain access to stowed caches that their operatives had prepared before their arrival. Once inside the security perimeter around the capital they would launch their attacks.

After that, victory.

The driver started the engine and the doors closed. They set off on a one way mission, they would either return victorious or not at all.

by **New Aeyariss** » Fri Jun 20, 2025 7:07 am

The winter has passed. Enormous snows that covered tan mountains have melted, opening the path for nature to regrow. The hills were ripe with the color of purple, as endless trees exploded together in one great display of color. Between them a snow leopard has descended from the mountains, hoping to find abundant prey that went there to graze.

And near one such forrest there was an entrance to a cave. Enormous stalagmites hung from the entry, making it look like a giant maw ready to swallow whatever entered there. Yet the man walking in was not choped to pieces - he entered calmly, having looked around to see if no one was following him.

Inside the cave was a camp, with a fire burning. Around it sat a variety of men - most dressed in olive darb robes, sometimes in more casual clothes. Some cleansed weapons, mostly Arakawas of Nifonese production and older Arkawa bolt-action rifles; others roasted a goat. Some other men dazed at a young man dressed as a woman who danced in the midst of them - a practice that Islam condemned, yet could not leave the Mujahedeen.

The man's features could now be fully seen. He was taller than any mujahedeen in this camp and of more slender built. On his head was a massive black turban, and from his chin hung a short bird. Square jaw was decorated with a small nose and narrow eyes.

"Saalaam!" the man greeted another mujahedeen standing over a map.

"Yusuf, good to see you!" the mujahedeen standing over a map greeted him. He was visibly shorter, but of stockier built; with an oval face and nose so long it could be a beak of a predatory bird. His beard was busy and reached until the man's solar plexus. He was Farid Amanullah - the Mountain Wolf, Legandary commander of the Mujahdeen.

"Sit down, friend!" Farid asked, pulling out a large bottle of smuggled Nifonese drink "Shall I give you some sake?"

The tall man opened his eyes wide out of surprise "You, brave warriors of Allah, drink such haram drink here?"

"Bwah, you are in a cave." Farid roared in laughter "Allah does not see if you are underground. And what he does not see, he can't punish you. Ain't that right?"

The assembled Mujahedeen roared in laughter together.

The slender man took the bottle in his hands. For a while, he lustrated it with this eyes, as if his eyeballs waned to pierce it. Then he took a sip, uneasiness painting itself on his face.

"So." Farid querried "What orders does the Shekih have for us?"

"Your battalion is ordered to destroy the Girdi Kas Bridge leading to the Razi province." the slender man replied "The Shekih wants us to create a total disruption of the flow of communications from Razi province outwards."

"But that bridge is used by many good muslim people." countered the Mujahedeen commander "Our merchants use it to move necessities."

"And it is also a key logistic route to the kafr forces in the Razi province." countered Yusuf "Destroying it will islate the flow of supplies to the infidels and open the first phase of our offensive."

"Does Sharia even support this kind of activity?"

"A single look around tells me your men are greatly concerned with Sharia."

"We have our own fair share of sins like everyone, but we are still Mujahedeen. We fight for the noble cause of protecting the ummah from Galatorian kafr. Not to harm the very umman we protect."

"Look." Yusuf countered "I did not make the orders. If you want to dispute them, take them to the Skeih."

"Argh." Farid roared "I am a good warrior of Islam and I will obey my amir. But it does not mean that it sits well with me."

The slender man stood up and left. Meanwhile, Farid also moved, this time standing next to a man wearing a white robe, fixing a radio on a makeshift table.

"I really do not like what is going on with our Shekih, Jamil." the legendary commander spoke, looking down "He seems less and less concerned about the ummah."

"It started since last year. I noticed that too." Jamil replied, continuing to fix the radio "It seems that the defeat has tainted his ambition. He wants to win, no matter the cost."

"I just hope that this will not lead him to a place of no return... But regardless. We have an operation to plan."

And so the operation was planned.

The first thing Farid ordered was for constant surveilance of the Giridi Kas bridge. His Mujahedeen have been dispatched to bribe the local merchants and truckers, who frequently used it. The merchants were to report how many soldiers did they see, how were their positions arranged and when did they rotate.

Out of sand and boxes, he created an entire model of the area. His fellow commanders were asked to play the role of the enemy as they wargamed potential scenarios. Meanwhile, the logistics units of his battalion were ordered to pre-stage weapons in secure locations near the AO, which would allow the Mujahedeen to safely travel through checkpoints and obtain their armaments near the objective.

The intelligence gathering continued, as the planning proceeded.

by **Verdalien** » Mon Jun 30, 2025 1:14 pm

“Galatoria? What the hell do we want in Galatoria?” This was a statement one might have heard on the streets of Verdalia when the government announced that it would be sending an intervention force to aid the government of the small central-Hasuan nation.

Having only just emerged from its own period of political violence in the 1960s and 70s, few in Verdalia were keen to get involved in another long and drawn-out guerilla conflict, especially in a nation with seemingly little significance to the average Verdalian, with most of them not even able to point to Galatoria on a map.
Even most of the commonly cited factors, which one might use to justify such an intervention, would seem to be absent in this case:

Ideologically, beyond a basic commitment to human rights and equality, little seemed to unite the two nations politically. The contrast was even more stark when you consider Galatorias international backer, the Brigantine SSR, which Verdalia had an indifferent relationship to at the best of times, generally seeing the nation as just another totalitarian one-party state.

While Verdalia did have some business interests in Galatoria, they were generally small in scope and nothing Verdalia couldn't afford to lose. Even if Verdalia did intervene on behalf of the Galatocrian government, there's little to suggest that this would necessarily safeguard Verdalias interests. Galatoria already possessed several socialist tendencies, and its international backer could easily force them to intensify these aspects. To many, Brigantia ultimately forcing Galatoria to adopt a similar government to itself, seemed to be a distinct possibility, in which case much of Galatorias foreign industry would be nationalized anyway.

Ultimately, what compelled the Verdalian government to intervene was actually much simpler: Domino Theory.
Verdalia was worried that a Mujahideen victory would prove, that even a relatively modern, western-facing nation, with powerful international backers, could be defeated by a committed insurgency through sheer force of will and fanaticism.
If that were to occur, Jihadists throughout the Muslim world would no doubt look to Galatoria as a template for their own insurgencies, overthrowing their own governments, or pressuring them into adopting more hardline Islamist ideals. Galatoria's new government would no doubt support these budding insurrectionists, turning what was an isolated guerrilla conflict into a regional crisis.
What started out in Galatoria may spread to Ishfahan, then Memphia, Arabia, Qirada, Bashriyya, Tifya, Fyhria and more. In a worst-case scenario, Verdalia may find itself completely surrounded by hostile Islamist governments, itching to pay back an over 1000-year-old debt owed to them when the old Verdalian Kingdom fought off the initial Muslim conquest of its region by the First Caliphate.
In essence, Verdalia saw itself as putting out a trash fire across the street, in order to prevent their whole neighbourhood from going up in flames.

Nevertheless, public support for the intervention was middling at best. Many still had painful memories from the Maurilo-Medinine insurgency and mothers were fearful of seeing their sons returned to them in body bags once again. As such, the Verdalian government made several promises when announcing its intervention:

People fulfilling their national service would naturally be exempt from being sent overseas.
Even contract soldiers, outside of exceptional circumstances, would not be prevented from leaving the military once their contract expired.
Gendarmes (not including the Crisis Response Forces) would be used sparingly and only in rear areas or for installation defence.
Verdalias intervention would remain as limited as possible, with a focus on Training and equipping Galatorian forces for independent operations after Verdalias departure.

These stipulations meant that Verdalia would send only a very limited force to Galatoria, about a battalion’s worth of combat troops. This fact alone, however, somewhat obscures the real extent of Verdalias intervention, as the Verdalian force was very tail-heavy.
In almost equal number to the combat troops, Verdalia would send logistics support and medical personnel, construction and engineering troops, and gendarmerie military police and Special Protection Troops, to the Galatocrian nation. Not announced but also sent were Verdalian army and gendarmerie special forces.

These forces would come together in what would ultimately become known as the “Einsatzgruppe Galatorien” (Task Force Galatoria), a force of around a thousand men, based primarily around the 81^st Combined Arms Battalion.

The Combined Arms Battalion, or “Verbundsbataillon” Was a relatively recent addition to the Verdalian Armed Forces (Nationalstreitkräfte), created by consolidating the cadres and permanent staff of a demobilized Verdalian Mechanized Infantry Brigade into a single battalion.
The result was a firepower-rich but manpower-poor battalion possessing almost all of the capabilities a force needed to conduct independent offensive and defensive operations, at the cost of relatively limited staying power in a high-intensity combat environment.

In addition to the primary combat battalion, the Task Force would also include large contingents from the Verdalian Joint Support Forces and Gendarmerie, which would be organized into their own ad-hoc battalion sized formations.

The Joint Support Forces would form then “Kampfunterstützungsabteilung Galatorien” (Combat Support Detachment Galatoria) consisting of the 112^th Construction and Engineering battalion as well as a company each from the Joint Medical Service and the Logistics Support Service.

The Gendarmes meanwhile, formed the Galatorian “Gendarmerieeinsatzgruppe” (Gendarmerie Task Group) consisting an “Einsatzhundertschaft” (Operational Centuria) or “EHu” each from the Alert Units (Bereitschaften), Protection Troops (Schutztruppe) and Military Police (Profoßkarabiniere). Additionally, a Gendarmerie SF Crisis-Response Group (Krisenreaktionskommando; KRK) was also attached to the Force.

The Task Force also had a company sized Combat Support element attached directly to it.

Finally, The Galatorian Special Operations Command (Spezialkommando Galatorien) was also attached to the Task Force and contained the majority of the Verdalian SOF operating in Galatoria.

What the Verdalian force lacked in raw combat strength, it more than made up for with expertise. Already possessing familiarity with counter-terrorism and counter-insurgency operations from its own period of instability, the VNS knew, at least in principle, what it took to deal with an insurgency such as the one faced by Galatoria.
While the Verdalian forces were, of course, not immune from the culture shock caused by interacting with the local Muslim culture, it nevertheless had limited experience with tribal cultures from its own few remaining tribal Maurilian groups and assumed that what had worked at home would at least be applicable abroad.

Realizing that neither friendship, nor good neighbourliness, nor respect can be produced by bayonets, tanks or blood, Verdalia had set out to engage, not in a battle of arms, but primarily one of ideas. While a fine approach in principle, these efforts could not have come at a worse time.
With tensions rising and preliminary intelligence reports hinting at what would turn out to be a massive insurgent offensive. As a result, Verdalia found itself sorely lacking drastically needed combat personnel for the opening stages of its intervention.

Due to limited Verdalian Heavy Lift Capacity¹, it took some time for the VNS to transport its force to Galatoria and it would need to prioritize which parts of its force to send first. Accordingly, the military leadership would prioritize the transfer of supporting elements over heavy equipment such as tanks and Artillery. The reasons behind this were severalfold.
For one, the support assets shipped in, especially the engineering battalion and the sustainment company, were necessary for the construction of an independent Verdalian base of operations, as the Kapisa International Airport was already experiencing noticeable strain under the load of the multitude of international forces stationed there.
Additionally, while such construction would usually be impossible without the protection of Verdalian combat assets, the relative safety of the Galatocrian countryside allowed these assets to operate with minimal protection. This factor would also allow Verdalia to dictate the pace of their military operations, permitting them to forego shipment of assets necessary for offensive operations until the Verdalian presence in Galatoria had been properly established.
Another major factor was the operational profile the Verdalians were expecting to have to engage in in the opening phases of their deployment, with Verdalian forces mostly intended to relieve Galatocrian forces in rear areas or operate in larger, still to be fully formed, joint formations alongside the Brigantines and the Galatocrians. This meant that, at least initially, transport of heavy equipment could be deprioritized, so that personnel could more rapidly find their feet and familiarize themselves with the area of operations.

The Verdalians first order of business, once troops started arriving in substantial numbers, was liaising with the Galatocrian and Brigantine forces with which they would be cooperating over the course of their deployment to Galatoria. While many details of the initial stages of the Verdalian deployment to Galatoria had of course been worked out in advance, such as positioning of Verdalian bases and high-level objectives, a host of smaller details had yet to be worked out. Furthermore, the Verdalians contended, it was always a good idea to gauge the demeanour and disposition of the forces and commanders the Verdalians would be working with.

Verdalia went into their first Meetings with the Galatocrians and Brigantines with the standard attitude of “hope for the best, expect the worst” and for the most part, the conversations ended up better than expected.
The Meeting with Galatocrians was a relatively standard affair, with the Galatocrian representatives once again extending a formal thank you for Verdalian support and going over the plans previously agreed upon between the Verdalian and Galatocrian governments. Minor anxieties regarding the report containing Verdalias assessments of the state of the Galatocrian armed forces, which were in some cases rather scathing, turned out to be unfounded, with the Galatocrian commanders mostly acknowledging the shortcomings presented in the report, admitting that they had, for the most part, already heard similar criticisms from the Brigantines.
The session with the Brigantine commanders got off to a much more tense start. Both sides were aware of the rather cool relations between the two nations internationally and were expecting the other side to enter the meeting with a rather dismissive attitude regarding prospects for cooperation between the two forces. An impromptu joke by one of the Brigantine officers however managed to significantly lighten the mood in the meeting, with the atmosphere becoming noticeably more cordial. Both sides cemented their conviction regarding the opposing party, namely that they were ultimately there to achieve the same goal and that they were each open to working together to defeat the insurgent threat as quickly as possible.

To this end, those parts of the Verdalian forces, which had already arrived in Galatoria, would set out to start preparing themselves for their ultimate tasks as part of their deployment.
The personnel of 81^st battalion, intended for combined operations within the Verdalian joint brigade, would begin conducting joint exercises with their Brigantine and Galatocrian counterparts, so that the various elements could successfully figure out each other’s strengths, capabilities and weaknesses. The Gendarmes, meanwhile, in keeping with their role as rear area security forces for freeing up Galatocrian units, began familiarising themselves with the local customs and traditions, both on the part of the Urban Galatocrians and to a more limited extent of the more rural Muslim populations.
Finally, the JSF would commence construction of the Zarvandar Air Base, to provide the Force with a permanent base from which to conduct and coordinate all of its future operations in Galatoria.

¹ Prior to its intervention in Galatoria, Verdalia had not undertaken any major military operations outside of its own borders and those of its immediate neighbours.

by **Svadyetsk** » Thu Jul 03, 2025 5:06 pm

General Yuri Mikhailov's apartment, Duovograd, United Soviet States of Svadyetsk, present day

"Dorogaya, have you seen my camera?" General Yuri Mikhailov, the Minister of Defence of the United Soviet States asked, sticking his head through the door of the bedroom. His wife rolled her eyes.

"Darling, you ask me this every time," Raisa Mikhailova remarked drily as she folded clothes to put in a suitcase. The couple were on their way to visit their son Vitaly and his family up north near the coast. "It's in your study like it always is. Bottom door on the left."

Yuri Mikhailov ambled in to kiss his wife on the cheek before making his way through the apartment to the room that used to belong to Vitaly before he'd moved out. Since then, Mikhailov had converted it into a study so that he could keep his work and home life somewhat separated. The room had been painted the same drab shade of light grey as the interiors of the Ministry of Defence building on Yeremenko square. On one wall, Mikhailov had installed the obligatory portrait of the former General Secretary and President Mihai Yeremenko, though it was only mandatory in government buildings, and the other wall was taken up with cabinets holding various documents as well as several of his personal belongings.

It was to these cabinets that Mikhailov made his way, bending down to open the left most cabinet on the lowest row. "A-ha," he declared, spying his prized camera. It was one of the latest models, a recent birthday present from his wife, capable of taking high definition colour photographs. The camera was deep in the back of the cabinet on top of a bunch of paraphernalia that Mikhailov vaguely recalled as being photography-related.

Reaching in, Mikhailov took hold of his prized camera but, as he started to return to an upright position, he banged his head on the top of the cabinet. There was the sound of something falling and the tinkling of broken glass. Swearing violently under his breath, Mikhailov extricated himself from the cabinet and set the camera down on his desk. Rubbing the bump on his head, he bent and picked up the photo frame that had fallen from the top of the cabinet.

The photograph was old and faded, the colours washed out and drab. It depicted a battalion of grinning soldiers, grimy with dust and sitting or standing in front of their armoured vehicles. The backdrop was indistinct, somewhere more arid and hot than Svadyetsk, but Mikhailov knew instinctively where the picture had been taken. His eyes settled on the grainy image of his own face, decades younger and full of good cheer, situated in the centre of the throng of soldiers.

Taking a seat in the leather chair behind his desk, Mikhailov leaned back and cast his mind back to a time some forty-something odd years ago, to a time when he had thought his career to be over, to the day he had tasted combat, to the moment where he had met a certain young officer named Alexei Petrov...

Dravanta Airbase, Galatoria, 17th January 1980

The rumble of the big Il-76 split the air as it came in to land, engines throbbing. The landing itself was rough, the tires squealing in protest as they struggled to find grip on the icy surface of the runway. Thankfully, the pilot was able to bring his craft under control, the massive plane slowing to a sedate cruise down the remainder of the runway before turning in to park outside of one of the base's many hangars.

Colonel Yuri Mikhailov, recently disgraced and reassigned to the most far-flung outpost of the Soviet military, emerged blinking into the light. He was swaddled in a thick winter overcoat and fur ushanka, a scarf drawn up over his lower face. Like all Svadyetskans, he was no stranger to harsh winters. The flight over had been uneventful, offering plenty of time for Mikhailov to ponder the circumstances behind his new posting. It had probably had something to do with the fact that he'd accused his former quartermaster, the nephew of a high-ranking Party official, of quietly selling the regiment's ammunition on the black market. Still, someone somewhere still found him useful, which was why Mikhailov found himself carefully making his way down the cargo ramp rather than languishing in a cell and facing trumped up charges.

At the bottom of the ramp waited the honour guard, a motley assortment of soldiers in various states of readiness to receive the new commander of the garrison. In addition to assuming command of the 187th Motor Rifle Regiment, a dubious honour to be sure, Mikhailov was also assuming ultimate responsibility for the entire airbase along with all of the baggage that that role entailed. For this reason, in addition to the unshaven and slightly drunk-looking infantrymen shivering in their coats, the honour guard also included several men with the blue epaulets and collar tabs of the airborne troops. Given the recent state of affairs in Galatoria, it had been thought prudent to allocate an air assault battalion to the airbase at Dravanta.

The purpose of Dravanta Airbase was two-fold. Firstly, it served as a refueling stop on the route taken by cargo flights from Svadyetsk to southern Wenchuan, where the aircraft unloaded their cargoes of ammunition and other supplies to the Soviet ally. The plane that Mikhailov had just disembarked from was one such flight. The second purpose of the airbase was that it ostensibly provided the Soviet military with a means to project power far beyond the borders of Svadyetsk, though what sort of power they hoped to project with a single regiment of troops was a mystery to Mikhailov.

Mikhailov came to a halt in front of the honour guard. The paratroopers snapped to attention, weapons held straight. A few of the motostrelki did likewise, the rest taking a few seconds to follow suit. It was cold enough to see the exhalations of the troops waiting to receive him.

"Comrade Colonel," the greatcoated figure opposite him barked. "Welcome to Dravanta Airbase." This man's rank insignia marked him as a lieutenant colonel, suggesting that he was probably the officer assigned as Mikhailov's deputy. The only thing that Mikhailov could make out was his eyes. The officer extended one hand for him to shake. The handshake was firm, though softened by the thick gloves both men were wearing. As they did so, the honour guard saluted before falling out, the infantrymen trudging listlessly back towards their barracks while the paratroopers formed up into two neat columns before marching away.

"So, Comrade. What did you do to warrant being reassigned to this hellhole?" MIkhailov quipped as they trudged through the ankle-deep snow towards the command post. The wind was rather strong, so he had to shout in order to be heard. Also accompanying them was another officer, albeit one from the airborne troops. A major, judging by his collar tabs.

"I requested a reassignment to somewhere less administrative," the lieutenant colonel shouted back. "Most of my career has been behind a desk, I wanted something more hands-on."

They stumbled through the door of the command post, dripping melted snow over the tiled floor as they removed their heavy overcoats. The heating was on full blast. "Much better," the lieutenant colonel remarked. "I am Alexei Petrov, your deputy. It is a pleasure to meet you, Comrade Colonel. I've heard a lot about you."

Mikhailov had also heard a lot about his new subordinate. Alexei Petrov, son of General Andrey Petrov, chief of the general staff. By all accounts a boringly average officer whose career had been propelled further than it should have been by nepotism. Mikhailov wondered why he was here. The early remark about wanting to escape desk duty had some merit, but Mikhailov suspected that Lieutenant Colonel Petrov was here to keep tabs on him. He searched for traces of duplicity in the eager face before him.

"And this is Major Lavrentiy Volodin," Petrov continued, unaware of the scrutiny which Mikhailov was subjecting him to. "He is commanding the 469th Separate Air Assault Battalion."

"Comrade Colonel," Volodin acknowledged, speaking for the first time. He had a sort of depressed air of grudging acceptance, as if fully ready to let his career stall in this most remote of postings.

"A pleasure to meet you both," Mikhailov said finally. "I'm sure we will all be working very closely with one another in the months to come."

"Years, more like," Volodin muttered before saluting and heading off down one of the corridors.

"Don't mind him," Petrov said cheerfully. "I've only known him a few weeks, but he seems like a good man."

"A few weeks?" Mikhailov repeated.

"Yes," Petrov admitted. "I've been trying to get reassigned for a while, but it only came through recently. I don't think my father approved of my new posting, probably thinks it's too unremarkable. He has, ah... high expectations."

"I'm sure he does," Mikhailov responded knowingly.

"Anyway this is your quarters," Petrov said, halting in front of a door. "This is the officers' floor, my room is over there." He pointed. "I'll leave you to get settled in."

Dravanta Airbase, Galatoria, 18th January 1980

The weather on the following day was much better. The wind had died down so, though it was still cold, the freezing air no longer nipped away at any inch of exposed flesh. At 6am, the troops slowly stumbled out of bed, assembling on the parade ground for morning inspection. Usually, this was a formality, with the officers merely ensuring that nobody had deserted or unexpectedly died in their sleep, before the men headed for their breakfasts. The troops stood in ragged lines, organised by battalion and company, while the officers walked along, counting heads. Muttering amongst themselves, the soldiers waited impatiently for the order that would release them to head into the mess hall.

This morning, the inspection was taking longer than normal. Colonel Mikhailov walked along the ranks, a grim expression on his face. Taking notes, he seemed to be assessing every individual soldier. When he came to the detachment who were waiting to take up their posts guarding the perimeter, his expression soured. Mikhailov stopped in front of one soldier. "Give me your rifle."

Uncertainly, the soldier unslung his weapon and handed it to the colonel. Mikhailov examined the weapon, removed the magazine and racked the charging handle a few times. His expression of distaste deepened. The action was rough, suggesting a lack of cleaning, and the weapon's surface had spots of rust. "This is unacceptable, private." Mikhailov slammed the weapon into the soldier's arms, turning to the next man in the line. The rest of the detachment's weapons were in similar condition. Swearing under his breath, Mikhailov headed to the front of the regiment, where all the men could see him.

"Listen up, comrades!" he barked, getting their attention. "I do not particularly care if you don't bother shaving. I do not particularly care if you are wearing non-uniform clothing under your coats because it's freezing." At that, several of the men shuffled uncomfortably, pulling their coats tighter to hide the hand-knitted sweaters they were wearing. "I do not particularly care that you look less like an army and more like a rabble. Frankly, the only time I will order you all to put some effort into your appearance is in the extremely unlikely event that we get an inspection from a general. But what I do care about is your ability to do your jobs." He glared at the guard detachment. "I expect everyone to maintain their equipment and ensure it is in full working order. In case you haven't noticed, there is an insurgency raging in this country. If we are attacked, I expect you all to be able to properly defend yourselves."

Mikhailov's tone softened. "I am your commanding officer. That means I am responsible for you and your safety. I will be tough on you now so that I don't have to write a letter to your families explaining to them that you were killed because your rifle was unable to fire. You may hate me, but I am doing my job. And I expect you to do yours. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Comrade Colonel," the troops muttered.

"I said, do you understand me?" Mikhailov bellowed. The troops snapped to attention. "Yes, Comrade Colonel!"

"Fall out," Mikhailov commanded. The troops gratefully began heading inside for breakfast.

Unfortunately for them, they were unable to escape their new commanding officer for long. The soldiers at the back of the queue for breakfast found themselves nervously trying not to turn around and stare at Colonel Mikhailov who had joined the queue just behind them. Eventually, one of the soldiers rotated on the spot and said warily, "Comrade Colonel, the officers' mess is in the command building."

"I know," Mikhailov said gruffly. "But I intend to get to know my men." He waited patiently in the queue, accepting a tray with a bowl of porridge, two slices of bread and an enamel mug of hot tea. The two soldiers who had inadvertently left a space between them jumped as Mikhailov sat down at their table. The colonel took in the slightly terrified expressions looking back at him. "So," he said, picking up his mug. "Tell me about yourselves."

Dravanta Airbase, Galatoria, 19th January 1980

As had been his habit at his previous posting, Yuri Mikhailov got up at 5:30 in the morning and went for a run. Given the late winter dawn, it was dark and cold when he set out. Despite this, he persevered, heading out to run two laps of the runway. Mikhailov figured that this would be a good enough workout. The airstrip was lit only by a few floodlights, the broken ones not being replaced, and the snow had started up again. Gritting his teeth, Mikhailov powered through the gloom, jogging as well as he could in the frigid temperature. The thick winter jacket and padded trousers helped keep out the worst of the chill.

To his surprise, he wasn't the only one out at that hour of the morning. About two dozen men in quilted winter uniforms, wearing full combat load and carrying their rifles, jogged towards Mikhailov. The colonel slowed to a fast walk before standing to one side to let them pass. Resuming his run, Mikhailov decided that he wasn't hallucinating as he once again encountered the detachment of men as he entered his second lap of the runway. This time, one of the men waved to him as he passed. Uncertainly, Mikhailov waved back. After finishing his run, Mikhailov was walking back towards the command building to change into his uniform when the mysterious group of men thundered past on their third lap of the runway. This time, the entire group waved enthusiastically to the colonel, slowing to a trot before powering on again. Mikhailov stopped and watched them go. Through the swirling snow, he thought he saw the men disappearing in the distance behind some of the outbuildings of the airbase.

This strange encounter remained firmly in Mikhailov's mind as he went through the morning inspection and persisted until midday. It was only when some of the airborne troopers went past in their combat gear towards the shooting range that a lightbulb went off in Mikhailov's head.

Major Volodin looked up as Mikhailov knocked on his door. "Comrade Major," the colonel said, lingering on the threshold. "May I come in?"

Volodin indicated the seat in front of his desk with a wave. The commander of the air assault battalion had been squeezed into a tiny office with a small window providing a view of the airbase. "What can I do for you, Comrade Colonel?"

Mikhailov took the chair. "I was out this morning for a run and I ran into some of your men."

Volodin raised an eyebrow. "My men? I doubt any of my soldiers would be bothered to get up before roll call unless it was to use the latrine."

"Then who was it that I encountered doing laps of the runway?" Mikhailov asked, folding his arms. "They were your men, undoubtedly. They had all of the equipment. I saw them, with my own two eyes."

Volodin sighed. "That would be the reconnaissance platoon."

"A-ha!" Mikhailov said triumphantly. "They ARE your men."

"No," Volodin retorted. "They aren't my men. They're Major Bogdanov's men."

Mikhailov frowned. "Who the hell is Major Bogdanov?"

Voldin grinned. "He commands the reconnaissance platoon."

This was a strange declaration. For a major to be commanding a lowly platoon was unthinkable. "You'd best explain what's going on," Mikhailov muttered. "Why haven't I met this Major Bogdanov, and why is he nominally commanding a unit far lower than his rank would warrant?"

"Ask him yourself," Volodin replied, turning his attention to the paperwork on his desk. "You'll find him out by the hangars."

* * * *

Making his way to the hangars running parallel to the runway. Mikhailov recalled that this was where he'd seen the mysterious 'reconnaissance platoon' last. Curiously, the hangar at the end of the row had half a dozen antennae projecting from the roof, along with a barracks block sprouting from the side that was for some reason located here and not with the other sleeping quarters. There were about half a dozen men wearing the uniforms of the paratroopers sitting or lounging outside of it, grinning knowingly as Mikhailov approached. Several more of the supposed paratroopers were beating the hell out of each other, taking turns to fight while the rest crouched in a circle around them.

"I'm looking for Major Bogdanov," Mikhailov said bluntly as he approached.

"Ah." The lead soldier squared up to Mikhailov. As a former tanker, Mikhailov only came up to the man's shoulders. "May I ask why?"

"I am in command of this base," Mikhailov growled, glaring at the soldier. He was consciously aware of the fact that the man was bulky in the manner of someone who trained constantly to maintain their physical capabilities. The sound of the other soldiers slamming each other into the dirt with highly dangerous looking martial arts moves was distracting so Mikhailov did his best to ignore it. "It is my responsibility to know who is stationed here, and nobody told me that there was a Major Bogdanov on the personnel list. And who the hell are you, if you aren't Volodin's men?" There was a hardness to these men, a core of steel that wasn't entirely hidden by the smug air of superiority that they were wearing. Paratroopers, Mikhailov thought. Always thought they were better than you. These ones at least looked like they might actually be better.

"I suppose you'd better follow me," the soldier said eventually. He headed towards the mysterious building with the antennae. If Mikhailov wasn't mistaken, the building also supported a radar dish that was more modern and more advanced than the one on the air traffic control tower. Mikhailov warily followed the soldier to the steel door of the mysterious structure. The soldier banged on the door and spoke briefly to whoever was on the other side when the slot at eye level scraped open. The door swung open and the soldier gestured for Mikhailov to enter.

Inside was a small antechamber leading to another steel door. In this antechamber was a table with two chairs. Two more soldiers, also purporting to be paratroopers, were stationed here, rifles slung across their chests. They eyed the colonel warily. Mikhailov took them in with a careful eye as the steel door swung open and a man in the uniform of a major of the airborne troops entered the antechamber, locking the door behind him. "Thank you, comrades, I think we'll be fine." The two soldiers grudgingly exited the building, taking up positions outside the door. The clang of the door shutting echoed as Mikhailov found himself alone with the officer. "Kirill Bogdanov, at your service." Bogdanov gestured for Mikhailov to take a seat, settling into the chair opposite.

"Alright, Comrade Major, what the hell is going on?" Mikhailov asked, eyeing the man in front of him. Bogdanov had a cold calculating look to him, something which suggested he was more dangerous than his slight build suggested. Bogdanov took off his cap and set it on the table, the hammer and sickle cockade glinting in the light from the solitary bulb above them.

"Well, I suppose I'll tell you," Bogdanov shrugged. "Your file suggests that you're more reliable than your predecessor, after all."

"My file?" Mikhailov demanded. "Who are you, GUVD?" It wouldn't have surprised him to discover that the state security service had someone keeping an eye on the base.

To his surprise, Bogdanov laughed. "Nonsense, Comrade Yuri Ivanovich. You don't mind if I call you that, I hope? No, I work for military intelligence. Not that you should tell anyone that, of course. Major Volodin suspects as much because we are the same rank, yet I command a mere reconnaissance platoon, and I also spend most of my time here." Bogdanov indicated the building they were currently sitting in. "Your predecessor was not a man who particularly cared about the details, so he never really acknowledged that I or my men were here. You, on the other hand... Well, not every officer decides to go for a run at 5:30 in the morning, do they?"

Bogdanov reached into his uniform jacket and withdrew a hip flask. He took a sip before passing it across to Mikhailov. "So who are they really," Mikhailov asked, taking a sip from the flask. The vodka burned in a pleasing way down his throat. "Don't give me that bull about being the reconnaissance platoon. Volodin already has one."

"Well, reconnaissance is one of their duties," Bogdanov shrugged, taking the flask back and having another sip. "Let's just say that they can do a whole lot more."

"And why are they here?" Mikhailov demanded, folding his arms.

"To protect me and my staff," Bogdanov replied, resting his forearms on the table. "Although they would be at your disposal if needed, Yuri Ivanovich. Provided that we were able to come to an understanding."

Mikhailov sighed. "Fine, Comrade Major. This place doesn't exist, I get it."

"I'm glad we have an understanding," Bogdanov grinned, reaching across the table and giving Mikhailov's hand a shake. "I'm sure we can find all sorts of ways to work together."

"Likewise," Mikhailov grumbled, heading towards the door. The two guards glared at him suspiciously as he left. He could tell they were still glaring as he headed back across the base towards the main command building.

Dravanta Airbase, Galatoria, 25th February 1980

The troops had gradually come to accept Mikhailov's presence at the airbase, along with the increased scrutiny of their activities that came with it. They had grown used to his habit of frequently turning up unannounced to inspect their equipment. So far, he hadn't done too much else to interfere with the usual state of affairs that had persisted on the base for years. The only major surprise had been that Mikhailov's tenure heralded an upswing in the quality of the meals served in the mess hall. The troops were grateful that their new commander had decided against appropriating most of the food budget for personal use.

Therefore, it was something of a surprise when Mikhailov appeared outside the mess hall one day with a can of paint, a brush, and some nails. The soldiers passing by watched curiously as the colonel began effecting repairs to the noticeboard on the building's side that had been neglected for quite some time. After ensuring it was back in one piece, Mikhailov gave the frame a nice coating of paint that made it stand out a little bit more. When he left, the soldiers gathered around to read the notices that Mikhailov had pinned to the noticeboard. The first warned people against touching the frame until it dried. The second was more concerning.

Notice to all troops

Regarding the misappropriation of military supplies for personal use

Attention all personnel,

It has come to my attention that certain individuals have been selling ammunition and fuel to the locals. This will not be tolerated in future.Anyone found guilty will be court-martialed. Additionally, stop drinking the coolant out of the planes. The pilots are complaining.

In order to rectify the situation, all personnel are required to report to Hangar 3B at midday.

Col. Yuri Mikhailov
Commanding Officer, Dravanta Airbase

Unsurprisingly, not everyone turned up at the specified hangar at the allotted time. This didn't bother Mikhailov too much since he only needed a few people who would spread the word. He waited until the last few stragglers filed in before shutting the door.

"Right, Comrades," he declared, striding past them to the other end of the hangar. Hangar 3B wasn't in use since the roof had fallen in in places and the debris was still all over the floor. The troops had seen Mikhailov disappearing into the hangar on a regular basis over the past few days, but none had bothered to investigate. "I've been doing some inventory. There's ammunition and fuel going missing, even weapons. A little bird tells me that some of you are selling our supplies to buy alcohol. That stops today."

There was a murmur of discontent from the assembled soldiers as they wondered who had snitched and what the colonel intended to do about it. Mikhailov shut down the whispering with a glare.

"Comrades, I am aware that simply ordering you to stop will have little effect, and having you all disciplined for theft will mean that I would have little to no men left to staff this regiment. Therefore, I offer a compromise. But first, an economics lesson."

Mikhailov pulled the tarpaulin off of the portable blackboard he had borrowed from the command building. Picking up the chalk, he began writing. "In order to purchase alcohol, you are selling off our supplies at well below market value. Not only are you stealing military property, engaging in illicit trading and harming your own combat capabilities, you are also getting shafted." Mikhailov was displaying this as an visual aid by writing out a rough equation converting the value of the stolen goods into monetary value. "On average, I am told that a single bottle of high alcohol content spirits is going for the equivalent of about fifteen Labour Credits." He tapped the blackboardboard. "That is disgraceful."

There was a murmur of agreement. Mikhailov produced a sack of potatoes from behind the crate that had hitherto hidden it from view. "This," he declared, "costs about three Labour Credits." Setting the sack down, Mikhailov removed another tarpaulin from the covered object situated beside the blackboard. There was a collective murmur of surprise as Mikhailov unveiled a still that he had constructed. "Now, Comrades. How many bottles of potato vodka can we make from this sack of potatoes?"

There was a lot of muttering from the assembled troops. "A lot?" One soldier spoke up, cringing as Mikhailov turned his attention to him.

"Precisely," Mikhailov declared. I am going to institute a vodka ration so that you won't need to sell off our supplies to get some. I am going to ignore all previous theft, but from now on it will be punished accordingly. Now, have I got any volunteers to man the still?"

The sea of hands was encouraging to say the least. Perhaps Mikhailov wouldn't need to send most of his troops to the brig after all.

Dravanta Airbase, Galatoria, 14th March 1980

Lieutenant Colonel Petrov found his commanding officer underneath a tank in one of the vehicle hangars, boots protruding from under the chassis. "What are you doing, Comrade Colonel?" he inquired.

Mikhailov shimmied out from underneath the vehicle. "Performing maintenance."

Petrov raised an eyebrow. "Surely, Comrade Colonel, that would be someone else's responsibility? Someone much lower in rank than yourself?"

"It relaxes me," Mikhailov shrugged. "What did you want?"

Petrov straightened up a little as he re-rehearsed what he intended to say. "Comrade Colonel, with respect, it feels like you are sidelining me. We have had little to no interaction outside of that required by our duties. Additionally, you appear to be handing off all of the paperwork to me in order to keep me occupied." Despite his wariness regarding the lieutenant colonel, Mikhailov had to admit that Petrov was good at his job. Certainly, he was better than Mikhailov's previous second-in-command had been at paperwork. Petrov swallowed. "I am aware that my familial connections are likely a cause of suspicion for you, but I assure you, I am not your enemy."

Mikhailov folded his arms. "So?"

"I would like to request that you involve me more in the day to day operations of the regiment," Petrov replied. "If I wanted to sit behind a desk all day, I would never have left Duovograd."

Mikhailov regarded his subordinate warily for about a minute. "Fine," he growled. "Shpagin is being transferred out of here in a week. You can take over command of his battalion."

Petrov blinked. "You're making me battalion commander?"

"Provisionally," Mikhailov clarified. "If you screw up in the upcoming exercise, you're back on desk duty."

"What exercise?" Petrov asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dravanta Airbase, Galatoria, 15th March 1980

Mikhailov waited until the troops had settled down in the mess hall before getting up from what had become his usual table and striding to the front of the room. While he spent the majority of his mealtimes in the officers' mess in the command building, Mikhailov had made a point of eating a number of his meals with his men. This gave him a chance to keep his finger on the pulse of the regiment and allow his men to approach him in a more informal setting with any concerns they might have. Checking to make sure that he hadn't accidentally loaded live ammunition into his pistol instead of the blanks, Mikhailov fired a shot into the air. Everyone jumped.

"Comrades," Mikhailov boomed, his gaze sweeping across the assembled personnel. Barring those on perimeter duty or manning essential equipment, the men before him comprised the bulk of his regiment and Volodin's air assault battalion. "I have a very important announcement to make." The troops eyed him warily.

"In three days," Mikhailov continued, ignoring the apprehensive looks he was getting, "We are going to conduct an exercise. I feel it is important to gauge the combat effectiveness of my troops. Therefore, we are going to simulate a ground assault on an enemy-held position. Comrade Major Volodin and his air assault battalion will be filling the role of the opposition." There were smug looks from the paratroopers who seemed confident in their ability to humiliate the men of the motor rifle regiment. At the same time, the motor rifle troops began grumbling inaudibly.

"Seeing as you are all so very enthusiastic," MIkhailov added, glaring at his men. "I have decided to sweeten the deal. If we win, I will give every man a hundred dynars, in cash." The muttering became a little more optimistic. The troops were largely unable to access the local currency, being required to exchange Labour Credits at an arbitrary rate for dynars handed out by the base commander. This rate, set by higher command back in Duovograd, wasn't particularly fair and had contributed to the sale of military supplies on the black market by the troops. On the other hand, the base commander was allocated a separate fund of dynars for the purchase of supplies and other use at his discretion. Mikhailov was clearly taking a broad view of what that fund might be used for.

"And on top of that," Mikhailov growled, cutting off the chatter, "The battalion that performs best will receive double vodka rations for a month." This received the reaction Mikhailov expected. Whooping and jeering broke out as the paratroopers and the infantrymen echanged insults and rude gestures with one another. Mikhailov allowed himself a small smile. Clearly, his troops were now properly motivated to do their best in the exercise.

Dravanta Airbase, Galatoria, 18th March, 1980

The exercise began at dawn.

Stepping out of his tent, for the entirety of the 187th Motor Rifle Regiment's combat formations had temporarily relocated outside of the base, Mikhailov set off to view the troops assembling in front of the lines of parked vehicles. For once, nobody was missing kit or articles of uniform clothing. The men stood with weapons slung across their chests, magazines filled with blank rounds for the exercise. Every man wore full combat kit, the summer uniform under a belt and Y-shaped harness of canvas coated in plastic to resemble leather supporting pouches for ammunition, grenades and a personal entrenching tool. Most of the troops had yet to don their helmets, preferring to remain in their pilotka caps until the exercise began in earnest. The soldiers stood arranged by squad, each standing in front of the BTR-60 that would transport them into battle.

The rest of the regiment, the troops responsible for supply and logistics, the medical detachment and other non-combat personnel, were absent. The medical staff from both the 187th and Volodin's air assault battalion had temporarily amalgamated in the designated casualty collection point next to the field kitchen that had been set up for those 'killed' in action. The general plan during the exercise was for the troops to eat whenever they found a suitable moment. Those men not assigned to the field kitchen or medical detail were carrying out guard duty around the base perimeter. Volodin's non-combat personnel, however, had been temporarily assigned to the companies involved in the fighting to beef up their numbers.

Slightly off to one side, the artillery battery was set up, their weapons aimed high in the sky. The plan for simulating artillery barrages revolved around the artillery firing blank charges and calculating casualties based on the target location and a previously agreed-upon table of accuracy modifiers that the artillery officers had put together. To help facilitate this, Mikhailov was in contact with Volodin and his command staff and, for this reason, he was carrying two radio sets slung across his body, one connected to Volodin and one for coordinating his troops.

Stopping in front of the troops, Mikhailov stood ramrod-straight and addressed them. "Comrades," he barked. "Today, we will prove that we, the lowly motostrelki, are capable of beating the arrogant blockheads of the airborne troops." This drew a variety of sniggers from his men. "I expect you to discharge your duties without question, to obey your officers and to complete our objectives. Today the guns may fire blanks, the punches may be pulled, the artillery abstracted. But there may be a day when you face real guns, real bullets, real enemies. By exercising your training, we prepare for any potential threat in the future. Now, tomorrow we may fight for our lives, but today we wipe the grins off the faces of Volodin and his paratroopers!"

There was a resounding cheer. Mikhailov saluted his men and then made his way to his command vehicle. He picked up the radio connecting him to the artillery commander. "Commence bombardment."

Outside, there was the boom of the artillery guns firing. Mikhailov picked up the handset for the other radio. "Mikhailov to Volodin, simulating artillery barrage on the mess hall and medical centre, over."

"Acknowledged," came the reply. "Calculating casualties, over."

Mikhailov stuck his head out of the command vehicle and looked over at the mess hall, visible through the main gate, where several paratroopers were leaving. Each man taking part in the exercise had been required to carry a large white cloth to serve as a hit marker, something which meant that the paratroopers were waving their pillowcases over their heads as they made their way to the casualty collection point. Mikhailov had a nasty feeling that there were still several enemy combatants inside.

Once the bombardment ceased, the three motor rifle battalions sprung into action. The obvious bottleneck, the main gate was quickly seized without resistance, for Volodin had clearly decided against holding it directly. Instead, gunfire erupted from the windows of the mess hall and the medical building. Officers calculated their unit losses and a handful of the motorised riflemen peeled off to head to the casualty collection point. The gunfire abruptly stopped as the first of the regiment's tanks crossed through the gate and began firing. Behind the tanks, the BTRs rolled out, the infantry dismounting and preparing to attack as their armoured transports added their own guns to the suppression. A battle line of infantry advanced on the mess hall under cover of fire before the men disappeared inside. Given the close quarters, the guns were not used, instead the troops fighting for control of the mess hall were required to use their hand to hand combat training. Similarly, the medical center was breached and the troops entered, though they came under fire from positions within the permanent barracks blocks.

It transpired that Volodin had elected to conceal some of his BMD infantry combat vehicles behind the barracks, something which became apparent when one of the motor rifle battalions made to advance on the firing position. The fight devolved into an exchange of blank fire between the battalion and the defending paratroopers, with vehicle crews receiving orders to throw the hatches open and spread out their hit markers as the officers dictated. The battalion's assault faltered, even with the additional support of the artillery battery's purely theoretical bombardments.

On the left flank, the motor rifle battalion commanded by Petrov encountered stiff resistance. A company of paratroopers with their supporting BMDs were holed up in the tented city that had sprung up to accommodate the 187th until such time as permanent barracks could be erected. Petrov elected to have his men stand off and let the armour knock out the enemy vehicles before charging the BTRs right up to the tent line to offload squads of troops. Carefully, the motostrelki went tent by tent through the encampment, doing their best to flush out the enemy. While the first wave of infantrymen eventually trudged out waving white cloths, strength of numbers prevailed and the remaining paratroopers retreated under fire towards the command building.

By the time lunch rolled around, or rather the hour lunch was usually served at, Mikhailov's forces had taken full control of the tented encampment, the mess hall and the medical centre, with the permanent barracks still being heavily contested. This served to foil his plan to encircle the main objective, the command building, so Mikhailov pulled the tank battalion together and threw them at the barracks as a single armoured spearhead. This proved to be sufficient to outgun the BMDs using the barracks to break line of sight between them and the troops taking potshots from behind the medical building, and the badly mauled motor rifle battalion that had been attempting to take the position lurched forward once more. The troops rushed from behind the parked forms of their disabled vehicles and charged, attempting to secure the barracks. The fighting was fierce, but the paratroopers were defeated and pushed back.

At this point, Volodin was left with a single company and mortar platoon, split between holding the command building and the hangars, as well as an ad-hoc formation made up of the surviving troops from the other two companies who had been badly torn up in the fighting. Bogdanov's spetsnaz commandos, as they were ostensibly paratroopers, had been largely responsible for the chaos at the permanent barracks and were no longer in the fight, having remained behind to cover the retreat of what had been left of the platoon assigned to reinforce them. Mikhailov meanwhile had two battered but still serviceable motor rifle battalions to throw at him, though the third was barely capable of defending the permanent barracks from a counterattack, assuming Volodin decided to try and go on the offensive. The artillery was still in play, giving Mikhailov another advantage.

Advancing from the south and south-west, the 187th launched their bid to seize the main objective and bring a decisive end to the exercise. Petrov's unit rolled in, aiming to cut off the command building from the hangars while, supported by sniper fire from the position established facing the command building, the other motor rifle battalion charged across the ground between the mess hall and their objective. To aid them, Mikhailov called in another artillery barrage on the hangars.

The paratroopers fought fiercely, for it was approaching four o'clock and subsequently the end of the exercise. Petrov's men attempted to flush out the enemy hiding in the hangars, preventing them from reinforcing the command building as it was invaded by infantrymen determined to put the boot into their VDV comrades and wipe the smirk off their faces. Eventually, superior numbers prevailed and Volodin exited the command building with his hands in the air. "Congratulations, Comrade Colonel," he acknowledged, shaking Mikhailov's hand when the latter arrived. "To be fair, I had a suspicion you might win purely based on numbers."

"Your men did put up one hell of a fight," Mikhailov grinned. "Seems the cocky attitude you and your boys have isn't entirely undeserved."

Leaving Volodin to debrief his men, Mikhailov went to inspect his exhausted troops. "Congratulations, comrades," he boomed. "You all performed admirably, better than expected. For this reason, I am rescinding my previous statement about providing double vodka rations to the best-performing battalion. Instead, I am providing them regiment-wide."

There was a great cheer from the haggard-looking troopers. Mikhailov found himself abruptly swarmed by his men who dragged him into their midst. "Smile for the camera," someone bellowed.

by **Stalwart Socialist Republics of Briganti** » Fri Jul 04, 2025 12:44 pm

Brigantine Infantry, Equipment and Uniforms

The Summer of Love 1980

2nd June 1980, Zintara Barracks 02:50

Marine Elin Talar had finished her Guard Duty around 00:00, after being relieved she had returned to the guard house and gotten into one of the bunks. Her next shift was at 06:00, not bothering to undress she simply flopped back on the bed, still in uniform and passed out, feet resting against the ground.

The Guard House was offset from the main gate by about 150m. The main gate itself consisted of two barriers that could be lowered and raised manually. Mostly designed for traffic control and ID checks the front gate had been somewhat fortified by a CA-1980. Manning the gate were four Marines at a time. One checked the IDs and passes of people coming in and out of the Barracks, another provided cover for them with a YaC-72, the guard commander stayed inside the CA-1980 with a gunner in the turret to stop any target that couldn’t be easily dealt with by the Marine with the Rifle.

After two and a bit hours Elin’s awkward position resulted in her being woken by the need to go to the bathroom. After lying there for a few minutes hoping the feeling would go away she begrudgingly got up to visit the bathroom. Returning to her bunk, somewhat relieved she sat on the edge of the bed and considered the pros and cons of removing her boots for a more comfortable sleep.

She reached down to pull her trousers up and get at the laces, as she did so there was the distinct pop-pop-pop of automatic gunfire. A sound she was all too familiar with from training it took a split second for her to realise that this was a sound she probably didn’t want to be hearing around about now. Looking up at the corner window she could see out of it from where she was sat, she paused as she heard a distant shout.

“Callyn get up!” she whispered to the sleeping Marine across from her.

Callyn stirred slightly as the popping continued and she could hear the sound of an engine growing louder. Elin grabbed her rifle.

“Callyn!” this time she was shouting.

There was a large flash that temporarily lit the room before a deafening explosion blew the windows in. Elin threw her arms up to cover her face as glass flew through the air. She felt a searing pain on the bottom of her left hand.

The other Marines in the room who had been sleeping were now jolting awake with some letting out small screams or whimpers. As Elin rose to her feet bits of glass fell off her uniform and out of her hair, looking out of the window facing the main gate she saw a sight of destruction.

As the dust began to settle she could make out the wreckage of the CA-1980, it’d been flipped over onto its roof and was burning, a tire had come free and was still rolling. Near it were the remains of some other vehicle that’d been near totally destroyed in the blast. The two barriers were gone and the nearest two streetlights had been knocked flat.

“F*ck me…” she muttered.

The rest of the sleeping Marines were now up and were peering out of the windows, forcing each other out of the way for a better view. About ten seconds later the street lights shut off and were replaced by flood lights that cast a harsh light around the camp's perimeter, this was combined with a klaxon that began to sound.

Corporal Marlas, the guard commander, entered the room dressed mainly in PT kit, she had thrown her flak vest and had her weapon slinged over her shoulder.

“STAND TOO LADIES! PREPARE TO DEFEND YOURSELVES!” She shouted.

The Marines that hadn’t already grabbed their rifles and began throwing on their flak vests and helmets. Elin rested her rifle on the window frame and turned around briefly.

“Callyn!” she said to her friend who was now fully awake and grabbing bits of her kit from her bed.

“What?”

“Can you grab my helmet?...Please” she asked with belated manners.

Callyn grabbed Elin’s helmet and ran over to her with it.

Marlas had the radio pressed up to her ear, clearly listening to someone on the other end. Down the road that led up to the guard house was the small village of Kiran. Not an old settlement, it had mostly been built up in the past few decades for the families of the soldiers in Zintara Barracks.

Elin strained her ears and could hear distant gunfire and explosions. From the barrack buildings Marines had begun to pour out in ebbs and flows as well as some of the Galatocrians. All were in various dress states and all were heading towards the armouries.

“...Out.” Marlas finished her conversation on the radio and returned it to its pouch.

“Listen up!” She said in a firm, commanding tone “Incase you couldn’t tell the camp is under attack, we’re to hold here until relieved, the rapid reaction force is going to be heading out in any second now to see what’s going on in Kiran. Callyn and Tegan you're with me, we're going to get the AGL from the nearest pillbox, the rest of you wait out.”

She turned around one more time before she left.

“Elin, you're in charge until I’m back.” She said and was then on her way.

Elin waited till she was out of earshot.

“Thanks!” she said with false enthusiasm.

After about a minute she could hear the sound of the CA-1980’s and SC-79 scout cars of the rapid reaction force. The convoy of five vehicles barrelled past the burning wreckage around the guard house and tore off into the blackness of the night. The dismounts were out of the hatches', weapons at the ready.

Elin looked on as the vehicles travelled down the road, mostly following the brake lights. As they neared the outskirts of Kiran all hell broke loose.

The first vehicle was hit by an RPG and there was an ominous orange glow and the vehicle slewed off the side of the road. The second vehicle swerved to avoid rear-ending the lead one and narrowly avoided a follow up RPG. The Marines and whoever had been waiting for each other started firing. The 30mm grenade launchers on the vehicles chattered away and the vehicle column slowed and halted. Bright flashes lit up the surrounding area, casting shadows and temporarily revealing the hidden fighters. From her position Elin wasn’t able to make much out except the wider picture.

The first vehicle had begun to burn, the Marines in the back had dismounted and were attempting to disengage. Elin could see one of the squad's machine gunners standing by the rear of the vehicle letting off long bursts of tracers.

The second vehicle took an RPG hit to the turret which silenced the gunner. The 12.7 and 30mm ammunition started to cook off. It took another hit a wheel that was blown off and it started to reverse.

The other vehicles started to do the same, tracer fire and grenades keeping the enemy at bay. The third CA-1980 took a hit but it seemed unaffected.

The squad from the destroyed vehicle were however pinned, having taken multiple casualties from the RPG hit and small arms fire. Elin watched on in awe.

One of the retreating SC-79’s doubled back in itself and gunned towards the pinned squad. Positioning itself between the incoming enemy fire and the beleaguered Marines.

Popping its smoke grenades it advanced towards the enemy firing at any and all muzzle flashes. Murderous fire poured towards unseen enemies. It wasn’t long however before it was brought low by an RPG round to the engine deck. Blowing up the front decking and the drivers hatch there was a large fireball as its fuel tank went up. Even still the gunner continued to fire until they succumbed to the smoke.

It’s sacrifice had allowed the survivors of the first squad to get clear, who had now been picked up by the undamaged CA-1980 and SC-79. As fast as they’d left they came back in.

The undamaged vehicles entered first, followed by the limping vehicle, its hull scraping the road where its wheel had been.

Elin had expected them to halt next to the guard house but once they had formed up they drove back off, deeper into the base.

Elin really wished she had a radio right now.

Suddenly a bloodcurdling whistling noise filled the air. Recognising the noise the hairs across her body stood on end.

“INCOMING!” she screamed and threw herself to the ground. The others started to do the same by the time the first mortar round landed. The building shuddered and fragments whipped the wall. Some of the Marines around her had started screaming.

Luckily the mortar rounds had been aimed for the vehicles rather than the guard house. A dozen or more rounds impacted where they had been before the enemy started to walk the barrage back deeper into Zintara Barracks.

Once the barrage had lifted Elin was on her feet. Peering out into the darkness she could make out the silhouettes and outlines of people approaching the main gate. By her estimates they were about 300m’s away although it was hard to tell as the only source of light was the burning vehicles and the moon. Elin thought about making a run for the nearest barrack building but. Decided against it, not wanting to risk getting caught in the open if another barrage started.

“Contacts at 200m! By the maingate, hold your fire until I give the order!” she barked.

The four or so Marines that had been left with her took up positions at the windows. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She hadn’t even fired a shot yet. Her eyes strained against the inky black night. As she did her thoughts began to drift, she remembered what the Political Officer had said about the enemy, the Mujahideen. They claimed to be Holy Warriors but were little more than savages who were capable of great feats of barbarity. She remembered what she had been told about how they treated women and what could be expected if they were captured by them.

Elin didn’t much fancy getting her bits cut off nor being someone's slave. Near instantly her resolve hardened, ignited by conviction and defiance.

“Iron within and without.” She muttered.

“Protect the Republics and they shall protect you…” one of the other Marines muttered.

“Having a rifle never hurts either.” Another uttered in retort.

Soon the room was filled with low muttering. In the distance, a few hundred metres away, Elin could see and hear gunfire. Muzzles flashed and the further buildings were flashed by orange and white.

Over the sound of gunfire Elin could hear something else. Footsteps. Stones being kicked under foot and gravel crunching. Someone was approaching the Guard House, no multiple people, but she couldn’t make them out, her natural night vision ruined. In the chaos Elin realised the floodlights and spotlights had been shot out.

Without warning it seemed like the night had become day. A brilliant white light shone down from above with a fizzle. Like a light being switched on in a dark room the Mujahideen that’d been approaching the building were fully illuminated by the flare.

Short, mostly scrawny men, some had flowing beards, others had shemaghs drawn across their faces. Some looked up at the flare, others stared at the building and the figures silhouetted in the windows. They had an assortment of weapons with most either carrying Kalashnikovs or older bolt-action rifles, and they were about 30m away.

Outside the fighters heard the cry of “TÂN! TÂN! TÂN!” come from within the building. They barely had enough time to flinch before the five Marines opened up on them.

The dozen or so men jerked and danced as they were riddled with rifle fire. Elin had quickly snapped onto the closest and put five rounds through him, aiming for the belt buckle. The first shot had gone low hitting him in the groin, the next four jumped up the man’s torso hitting the aorta, liver and spleen with the final shot landing beneath his ribs.

For Elin it felt like time had slowed, she watched the man flinch and jerk, casting his weapon up out of his hands he fell backwards, arms outspread, screaming as he went. Elin could have sworn his scream bounced off the walls of the buildings, echoing. It was by far the loudest thing she’d heard all night.

Elin had expected the adrenaline to wear off but the feeling of excitement and giddiness only grew. There was a lull once the last one had dropped, an almost eerie silence took hold.
Elin looked further out. There were fighters swarming everywhere and many had begun to turn their attention towards the guard house.

Elin watched as one of the fighters stopped and raised his rifle towards the building. He was just over 100m away. Before he could fire Elin switched her aim and dropped him with two shots to the chest.

Then the bottom fell out. Shots whizzed and cracked, impacting the wall of the guard house and flying over the Marines head’s. Dozens more fighters still in the open had seen what’d happened and were now firing on the guard house. The Marines fired back, at will.

One of them had switched to full auto and was now laying out heavy bursts. Elin flinched every time a shot landed near her. Methodically she swept from right to left, firing on anyone in the open. Shots went from accurate and well placed to often wide or off centre.

Fighters were hit in the arms, dropping their weapons, others were hit in the legs, falling to the concrete to writhe in pain.

One of the marines at the other end of the room was grazed on the arm. Elin ducked back to reload and watched Awen fall on her backside and clutch her arm but she quickly got back up and returned fire before Elin had completed her reload.

Elin smiled sadistically. She knew what would get their spirits up. She returned to the window and began firing out. Once reseated she opened her mouth and a piercing shriek tore from her throat.

“YAIIIIEHHH!” she hollered in a rising and keening rebel yell. “Awoo-AWOO! EEEEYAH!”

The next to join her in the unnerving and ululating chorus was Awen. Soon the rest of them joined in. High pitched whoops, yells and cries cut through the gunfire. More of the enemy was dropping. Elin was ecstatic, she shot another man who crashed to the ground, his weapon clattering by his side.

“EEEYAH! WHOO-WHOO-WHOO!” she cried out.

It’d only been thirty or so seconds since the flare had gone up. The enemy's fire was already easing up. Not routed, the enemy had stalled. Many of them were superstitious and were unnerved by the seemingly undying banshees in the guard room. Many would’ve sworn that they would have shot them but a dozen times but that they didn’t die. They weren’t bad shots either, however the combination of sulking around in the pitch black before being nearly blinded by the flare had thrown their aim off. Squinting they had fired above or below their targets with others firing left or right.

The subsequent Brigantine yell and death of their comrades before their eyes had put a severe damper on their morale. However by numbers alone it would only be a matter of time before they would overrun the building.

Most who had survived the initial firefight crept back into cover or darkness before starting to take potshots at the Marines.

About 90 seconds after it had gone up the flare burned out. The Marines ducked back from the windows and began to reload. Their yelling died down.

“Ammo Status!” Elin demanded.

Before the first Marine had a chance to reply outside they could hear their enemy begin to chant.

“ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!”

Elin peered up over the lip of the window. It was pitch black and all she could see was the imprinted after images of her muzzle. Over the chanting she could hear shuffling, running and the cocking of weapons, fresh magazines being fitted.

“Fix bayonets!” she screamed.

Pulling hers free from its scabbard she locked it onto the rifle's barrel lug with a satisfying ‘click’. Returning to the window she felt her magazine pouches. Empty.

She’d fired off two magazines and was on her last. The guard force wasn’t given full ammo loads and if the others had fired as much as her then they too would be on their last magazine.

The chanting grew steadily louder. Elin started yelling again, joined by the others who matched her high pitched shrieking tone.

The next flare went up.

The wall of black-clad fighters charged, screaming towards them. Elin aimed and fired along with the rest of the section. Many fell but they kept coming, firing from the hip as they did so. Briallen caught a stray round through the eye. The bullet punched through the back of her head and she slumped backwards, dead.

Elin kept firing. The men got closer. He gun clicked. Empty. The cocking handle held to the rear revealing an empty chamber. She dropped the gun and went for Briallen’s. Tugging at the dead girl's weapon she kept looking out of the corner of her eye at the approaching enemy.

The rest of the Marines were out of ammo and had crouched below the windows ready to stab and slash at anyone coming through. At last the rifle came free and Elin rose up and trained the rifle out the window.

A fighter who was but 10m away had her bang to rights. He aimed and the world slowed again. Her rifle wouldn’t move fast enough and she could see the man’s finger as it began to squeeze.
WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP!

The fighter's chest exploded and several explosions went off outside the building. Feeling the warmth come off the explosions Elin threw herself to the ground.

Each whump was paired with a deep, low bloop. The unmistakable sound of a grenade launcher.

“About f*cking time…” Elin muttered.

Outside there were screams and yelps between the crunch of exploding 30mm Grenades.

One of the fighters who’d made it to the far side attempted to vault through the window for cover. Awen was crouched beneath and she rose, thrusting the bayonet into his throat and through his neck before he collapsed on top of her. Merran who had been next to her turn and began to frantically stick the man with her own bayonet.

Elin could see her mouth was open and she was yelling something but couldn’t hear it. Elin realised she was quite deaf.

Looking up to the window she could see the flashing from the explosions had stopped. Getting to her feet she peered out. The ground between the guard house and the former main gate was littered with corpses. Body parts were strewn across the pavement and some of the bodies had caught fire.

She looked out the window to where she presumed the grenade launcher was situated. She saw Tegan and Callyn and another Marine, probably Gwenith who’d been on guard in the closest pillbox, huddled around the AGL next to the corner of one of the barrack buildings. Between them and her she could see Cpl Marlas jogging towards the guard room.

The rest of the Brigantine Marines and Galatocrians had begun to return from the armouries and were now arriving in force, firing on anything that wasn’t identifiably one of the above.

Cpl Marlas entered the bunk room. Her gaze met Elin’s and she mouthed something.

“WHAT?” Elin yelled, cupping a hand to her ear.

Marlas’s face soured into a snarl and she stepped closer.

“GET TO THE TANK PARK! THE AVRE’S ARE MOVING OUT!” she yelled at her.

‘Oh’ she mouthed and pushed past her and made for the tank park. Starting to jog she exited the building and sprant for cover towards the trio on the AGL.

Getting in a nice safe tank. Now that was a really good idea, she thought to herself. Once past the AGL she slackened her pace. It was some 2.4km to the tanks which were literally on the other end of the camp.

She liked most of the girls on the guard force but she had missed her crew who were on the other guard shift. As she ran she was passed by Marines from the rifle units and Galatocrians who were going the other way.

Part 2

After passing several buildings she turned onto the main road. The long wide road led all the way down the middle of the camp, recently built it was wide enough for two tanks to pass on either side and had a slight downhill incline.

Elin stopped to take in the view. She felt something between her neck and vest collar. She reached in and retrieved the squidgy object between her finger and thumb. Bringing it up for inspection she quickly dropped the piece of Briallen’s brain and doubled over, dry heaving.

She tried to fight the feeling but the coppery smell of blood mixed with the sulphurous was nauseating. Her body’s adrenaline was quickly leaving her system leaving her feeling weak and tired, between her ribs she was intimately aware of her heart hammering away. She felt her stomach turn and her mouth begin to water. It was no use.

She doubled over again and spewed. Elin had enough presence of mind to ‘aim’ the vomit away from her boots and she heaved up again. When the vomiting fit was over she was left gasping for air, spitting and sputtering.

“Oh f*ck…oh f*ck…oh f*ck…” she muttered between breaths.

Still leaning forwards she pulled a rag from her weapon cleaning pouch and wiped her face before blowing her nose. Tossing the soiled rag aside she started to run again, gradually picking up the pace. She could still smell and taste the vomit.

She zoned out as she ran. Her mind replayed the defence of the guard room over and over. She fought to put it to the back of her mind. Instead she focused on what she would have to do when she got to the tank park.

She imagined that Sgt Dannen and Marine Mairead ‘Red’ Tywyll would already be there. She ran down the distance to the tank park and could now see the vehicle hangers clearly, only a few hundred metres away.

The street lights were off but she could see some of the crews readying the vehicle by red torchlight.

She ran past the first two callsigns, not stopping to greet the crews who mostly ignored her. She sprant the final bit to her crew’s vehicle, the ‘Cegynes’. The stencil on the side, an orange crab clutching a hammer in one claw and a spade in the other, was a welcome sight.

Coming to a halt she rested, leaning on ‘Cegynes’ front right mudguard, head hanging down between her arms. She didn’t see Red approaching but heard her.

“Elin?”

She looked and saw Red coming towards her. Mairead Tywyll had been with her since basic. Not the prettiest girl, her full cheeks gave her a soft look that belied her strength and physical prowess. Dannen their commander called her thump-smart, broad with a well-built frame. She had grown out her brown hair since it’d been cropped at the start of their national service and had tied it back into a messy bun. Overall she gave off a warm, homely appearance and Elin thought that she looked like the stereotypical farm girl.

The two were polar opposites in terms of appearance. Whereas Red clearly preferred the weights section Elin was more into calisthenics. Red had flowing dark, brown hair and Elin had kept her strawberry blonde hair cropped in a short pixie cut. Red’s complexion was pale and rosey whereas Elin’s was tanned and freckled. The only thing they had in common was their height, both standing around 5’2, and their blue eyes although Red’s were a lighter shade to Elin’s deep, dark, blue.

Elin felt comfortable around her friend. She pushed off the tank to greet her friend. She limply extended her arms to embrace her. Red saw the incoming hug and welcomed it, though hugging her back with slightly less enthusiasm.

“I’ve missed you, hairy legs.” Red said.

“You too.” she replied weakly, still catching her breath, “Where’s Dannen?”

“Sorting out are ammunition, I was waiting for you to do the start up.”

“Ok, can I borrow your water first?” Elin asked.

“Um…” Red fumbled for her canteen, “Yeah.”

She handed her bottle to Elin who drank deeply. The cool water had a slight, plasticky taste to it but this was fine, Elin felt it chase the taste of vomit away and cool her throat. After drinking about half the bottle she handed it back.

“Let’s do this thing.” She said and pulled herself up the mudguard. Walking up to the turret she put one foot up at a time. The flamethrower muzzle first, then the top of the ERA panels, then off onto the turret. Both the commander’s and gunner’s hatches were open and she climbed into the commander’s.

Stowing the rifle onto its mounting on the side of the turret she put on the headset. At the same time Red had got in and thumbed the starter switch. The APU whirred into life with a heavy whine. Lights around the turret started to come online, Elin looked over and saw the radio set flicker on and begin to load in. Next the starter motors started to bark and growl and with a heaving shudder the engine came to life. Red revved the engine a few times and after a few seconds diesel fumes started to waft in through the open hatches. Elin fiddled with the radio settings.

“Testing, testing.”

“Yep I can hear you.” Red came back.
Turning to her right she consulted the turret’s switchboard. Identifying the switches she flicked them on in sequence. Turret Power switched to hull, FCS to on, gun slaved to sights, Reversionary Modes 1 & 2 to off, Thermal Observation Sight to on, Laser Range Finder to on.

Once this was complete Elin listened to the fire control computer switch on, several clunks later and it was fully awake. Elin grabbed the shutter handle and began to crank the sighting unit open, once complete she did the same for the commander’s sighting unit.

She put her eye to the sight. Pitch Black. She switched to the thermals and the world was revealed to her in black and red. She heard someone climb onto the turret, their boots clanking against the roof. Dannen peered in through the hatch.

Sergeant Cerys Dannen was a full time professional soldier, in her late twenties she was slightly taller than the two conscripts at 5’4. Years of working on tanks and free gym access had resulted in her being built like a tank. Elin wouldn’t dare say it to her face but her body looked like a man’s. Her face was carved in sharp lines, all cheekbones and brow. There was something statuesque about it. Her jaw was angular, her chin slightly cleft, her high cheekbones cast hard shadows beneath her eyes. Her nose was long and thin, her mouth was thin too. She clenched her jaw when she was annoyed, which was often. Elin had made a note of that and looked for the telltale signs of simmering rage; she was not afraid to slap a conscript that stepped out of line. Her skin was pale but wind-bitten and she had a fading scar on her right cheek in an upside down L-shape. Her hair was pulled back tightly and there were more than a few streaks of grey.

“Shift it, that’s my seat.” Dannen told her with a wry smile.

“Yes boss.” Elin said as she pulled herself up and out.

Once out Dannen stopped and looked at her.

“Where’s your rifle?” she said with a look that could instantly turn fierce.

“In the turret rack.” She said unsure of herself.

Dannen shrugged before taking off her rifle and handing it to her.

“Need any of these?” Dannen said, handing her six fresh magazines.

Elin took them without a word and fitted them to her vest. Dannen climbed into the commander’s seat and a few seconds later Elin did the same.

Seating herself she opened her sights up, and set them to thermal. Next she checked the ammunition selector. Unlike the more purebred MBT-67B which could fire a variety of ammunition the Gordds only had four ammo choices for the main gun, HE-FRAG, HESH, smoke and training. Next was the fuel reservoir for the flamethrower. Hitting the pressurisation switch it hissed to life, revealing a full tank.

“The flamer’s full!” Elin said into her mic.

“Roger that.” Dannen came back. “Check the turret mechanism.”

Dannen released her turret safety toggle with a clunk, Elin did the same. Gripping the controls the turret jolted and twitched as she did so. She traversed it left and right with short quick movements before resetting it to the gun forward position.

“Yeah we're all good boss.”

“Roger…” Dannen said with a pause, “Right we’re going to form up on the road to bomb up, then we're heading for Kiran. Driver Advance!”
Red dropped the clutch and released the handbrake. Cegynes lurched forwards before stepping into a steady pace. Jerking left, then right the tank entered the main road that Elin had just ran up. Crouching on her seat Elin raised herself up, out of the hatch.

The rest of the tank crews from the armoured squadron were arriving and doing much the same as them. Turning around she could see one of the Squadron Quartermaster’s trucks approaching from behind.

Dannen got out of the tank to receive the ammo, as she did so Elin selected reload mode on the autoloader which spun into position. Without a word Dannen began to hand down the heavy, two-piece rounds. Loading in the projectile and the charge onto the autoloader Elin hit the ammo nature button and the autoloader spun and stowed the ammunition into its rack before returning for its next round.

Twenty-four rounds later and the loader was full.

“Can you give me a hand with this?” Dannen asked, not as a question but as an order.

Elin stuck her head out the hatch and saw Dannen struggling with an AGL. Quickly jumping out the hatch she took the other side, lifting it off the truck bed and walking it over to the commander's pintle. Slotting it in, Elin struggled against the weight while Dannen secured it.

Once secured they returned to the truck for the ammunition drums which a Marine on the back handed down to them. Once they were transferred the truck moved to the next Gordd.

Elin watched as Dannen loaded the AGL before putting the remaining drums into the side bin.

“Ready?” she asked Elin.

“Yeah.” Elin replied, getting back into her seat and closing the hatch down.

Dannen did the same and tested the commander cupola. Spinning it she tested the mechanisms before locking the outer turret ring.

“AGL slaved to sights.” she said.

Elin selected coax on her gunners control panel and the sight displayed the letters AGL at the bottom in the tellbacks.

With that they set off for the main gate.

Continued...

by **Stalwart Socialist Republics of Briganti** » Fri Jul 04, 2025 12:48 pm

Part 3

In the time that Elin had been gone, the rest of the personnel on the base had made a concerted effort to drive back the Mujahideen. Most of the Mujahideen had fallen back to their starting positions outside the Barracks, some 1km back.

Their attempts to take the Barracks had been decisively thwarted. They were now reorganising. It would be daylight soon and they had to make a choice; either fall back into Kiran and set up a defence or make a run for the mountains. For now most of them were waiting to ambush any vehicles attempting to leave the base.

Two vehicles could be seen maneuvering around the destroyed vehicle at the gates. The still burning wreck cast enough light to make out shape and movement but not true form.

The rumbling and grinding of tracks even at this range was still loud and filled many with dread. The two vehicles came down the road and at about 400m they snaked off the road to either side and travelled parallel to it.

One of the fighters triggered the IED they’d set up on the road. It detonated, cratering the road and obscuring the machine closest in dust and debris. The rumbling continued and the behemoth burst through the wafting clouds of smoke.

The Recoilless rifle that’d been used to destroy the first vehicle from the Rapid Reaction Force went into action. Its gunner aimed at the silhouette, three rounds struck true with loud, low crumps. The fighting machine traversed its turret and fired. A large boom slammed and a fat tracer arced towards the Recoilless rifle. It impacted with a deafening explosion, the gun crew were vapourised by the blast and the gun, now a twisted piece of metal, was sent flying hundreds of metres into the air. The ammo that hadn’t gone off in the initial explosion was also sent flying, causing numerous secondary explosions.

Panic took hold and many stood up to flee. The machine kept coming. Those on the edge’s of the fleeing mob were cut down by bursts of grenade machinegun fire, hemming the rest in and stopping any from ending up on the flank of the Cegynes. A last desperate attempt was made to stop the vehicle which was now at 200m from the main group. A fighter with an RPG-2 who’d been hiding in a ditch in front of the tank rose and fired. Impacting the dozer blade, a circle of red hot molten metal became visible where the HEAT’s penetrator had punched through.

A jet of flame lept from the turret and fell short of the fighter, instead lighting up the ground before him. He turned, dropping the RPG and attempted to flee. Before he got the chance the demon engine spewed more fire. A jet of flame landed on his back turning him into a human torch, twisting briefly before falling to the ground writhing.

Cegynes didn’t let him suffer for long, crushing him beneath her treads, bloodying them for the first time. The rest of the routed fighters were soon too in range. There was a loud pneumatic hissing followed by a roaring whoosh of flames. The two dozen or so fighters that hadn’t been killed yet were engulfed in flames.

Clothes ignited instantly, skin sagged and dripped from flesh, eyes melted out their sockets and lungs were scorched. Some fell instantly, their bodies cooked inside and out. Others thrashed about violently, though their protests to their immolation were brief and futile.

The dry grass started to burn and the tanks began to back off. Over the hum of the engines the crackling of the burning grass was clearly audible.

“Sleep now, in fire.” Dannen spoke the words like a benediction.

Whenever Elin would think back to this day it would always come to her in muted sepia.

One of the other Gordd’s had broken down before reaching the main gate and had to be towed back by the other. This left just Cegynes and Diffrwynes. The Diffrwynes sat 100m to their left.

If Elin had traversed the turret over she was sure she’d be able to make out Diffrwynes stencil art, a crab holding a pair of bloody shears.

Behind them the rest of the 1st Battalion was following at some distance. The plan was simple: they were going to form up with the rest of the 1st Squadron and then they were going to clear a path into Kiran with Cegynes and Diffrwynes leading the way. Once the path had been cleared the 1st Battalion would sweep and clear the village.

The rest of the Squadron was now manoeuvring into place and coming with them were the other two engineering tanks from their troop. Ogrês and Llythren, which had an Octopus and a naked mermaid on them respectively.

The path to Kiran was mostly clear. By the time they arrived the sun had just started to rise above the mountains.

It was inside that the real fighting took place. The Gordd’s cleared the barricade of cars that’d been strewn across the main road leading in, and the dismounted Marines entered. It wasn’t long before they made contact. Within the first ten minutes most of the 1st Company's platoons were in contact with the enemy.

The Gordd’s were called up one by one to clear obstacles and buildings, before filtering out to rearm and reload. Cegynes was last in the batting order, It was about 0630 when they were called into action. Filtering past the wrecked cars Cegynes drove forward following a Marine NCO as she guided them through the streets.

Kiran was a charnel house. The Fighters had put any they found to the sword. Bodies were piled in the streets, many had severed heads. Elin tried her best to look at the butcher's work that was strewn on the pavement.

The Marine NCO led them up past the market street, scanning with the gun she had switched to the daysight, she caught glimpses of Marines in the buildings, in windows or taking cover by cars.

After the market street the road narrowed again. As they approached the next junction the tank halted before a squad of Marines who were crouched by a wall, the NCO went over too them.

Elin noticed that one of the Marines had something by her feet. Holding a knife in one hand the object next to her was a severed head with streaks of blood dripping through its scraggly beard.

The NCO walked back towards the tank and went around the back. The buzz of the field telephone being taken off its hook cut into the tankers headsets.

“Past the corner of the road and on the left there's a heavy machine gun in one of the windows. Waste ‘em please.” Came the voice. They sounded younger that Elin had expected,

“Roger that.” The phone was returned with a clunk, “Driver Advance and take us left at the corner.” Dannen ordered.

The tank rolled forwards. Rounding the corner the machine gun started chattering. Once clear of the buildings on the left, Elin swung the gun onto the target.

The 2nd floor window she could see the muzzle flash of the machine gun as it harmlessly pinged rounds off the tank. The turret whirred and whined, once on target Elin fired.

All the glass in the area that hadn’t been broken shattered at once and the corner of the building was reduced to cascading rubble. They fired two more rounds, the final one levelling the building, it's floors collapsing on top of each other, crushing the occupants that were still alive.

They completed half a dozen such missions before they were out of ammo. Black on ammunition they reversed out of Kiran and passed Ogrês on its way back in with a fresh ammo load.

As they drove back to be replenished, Elin emerged from her hatch to join Dannen. The replen was only a few hundred metres from the site of the ambush, although all the vehicles and bodies had been removed except for those of the Mujahideen fighters.

Pulling up next to the line of Squadron Quartermasters trucks they reloaded the tank much like they had done hours earlier, although Elin and Dannen switched places. This gave Elin a chance to speak to the SQMS Marine on the back of the truck between passing rounds.

“What happened to the vehicles?”

“They got dragged off about an hour ago, you should have seen what the girls they ambushed.”

“What did they do to them?”

“Let’s just say it won’t be an open casket…”

“Why?” Elin asked though she would soon regret this.

“Well they cut their heads off, stripped them down and then they c—”

“ALRIGHT! I get it!” Elin said to silence the Marine who now had a smirk on her face.

Elin wasn’t sure whether she was telling the truth or not. There was no love lost between the SQMS troops and combat arms, especially not those in Reconnaissance but after what she’d seen in the town she couldn’t be sure.

“I was just joking…” The Marine said, trying to win her back over.

She continued the rest of the reload in silence. Once Cegynes was fully loaded they headed back to Kiran.

Elin’s stomach felt hollow and ravenous.

“Breakfast?” she asked Dannen.

“Breakfast.” Dannen nodded back.

While they waited to be sent back in, Elin warmed up some of the rations in the Boiling vessel behind her. Cigarette smoke wafted up from the driver’s compartment while they waited.

“You do know those are bad for you Red?” Elin asked.

“Piss off Elin.” came the response.

“Only thinking of you.”
They waited another forty five minutes after eating their rations before they were sent in again, and it was another thirty minutes before they were out of ammo and heading back to the replen.

This continued until around 1800 when the fighting gradually died down. After this the armoured units withdrew leaving the Marine Infantry and Engineers to mop up and disarm any unexploded ordnance.

Returning to Zintara Barracks they stopped by the guard house so Elin could retrieve her field kit which she’d left behind before they headed back up to the tank park.

Once there they parked up and switched the engine off. The tank clicked as it cooled off. Dannen was up and out. Clutching the rifle she stepped off the front of the tank and turned to her crew.

“Right, us commanders have a briefing, Mairead go get your stuff I don’t imagine we’ll be staying here long.” she informed the crew,

The two went off in separate directions. One for a meeting, one to get their kit. Exhaustion hit Elin like a ton of bricks. She dragged her rollmat and sleeping bag from her bag. Walking towards the engine, the heat coming from the back decks dissuaded her from setting up there for her nap. She groggily climbed down the tank and placed her rollmat and dossbag down for her to sit on.

She removed her boots and socks before laying back and entering a deep slumber.

Aftermath

The Attack on Kiran/Zintara Barracks was one of many attacks that took place on the 2nd of June 1980 as part of the wider Mujahideen Offensive. Around 1,000 fighters entered Kiran at around 02:30 in the morning and attacked and destroyed the police station before going from house to house killing residents, many of whom were the families of serving members of the Republikanos Stratos.

A detachment of around 150-300 fighters then went on to try and storm Zintara Barracks. The attack commenced at 02:50 with a SVBIED mounted in an unidentified 2-ton truck. The truck had been slightly up armoured with plates welded around the drivers cab. Driving up the main road it was fired on by the Marines who were unable to bring it to a halt. It then crashed into the CA-1980 in its overwatch position on the main gate and exploded, killing 4 Marines.

After the explosion the Marine Rapid Reaction Forces became aware of attacks in Kiran as observed by the Guard Room and by a call from the Galatocrian Police who had been unable to reach the Naval Infantry Brigade due to several communication errors. It was around this time when the Marine Guard Commander, Corporal Marlas, left the Guard Room to retrieve an Automatic Grenade Launcher with two other Marines.

The MRRF attempted to make its way into Kiran but was ambushed, losing two vehicles destroyed and several more damaged. The ambush resulted in around 6 Marines being killed and 11 wounded to varying degrees. Of the 6, 4 were found to have been mutilated post mortem.

Falling back the MRRF was harassed by mortar fire and fell back deeper into the base to deal with their dead and wounded and to reassess the situation. By now the personnel within the barracks were stood too and were sent to get weapons from the armories however this would take around five to ten minutes.

The Mujahideen force advanced, shooting out spotlights and other light sources. They then started to fire on the buildings and anyone they saw. A group approached the Guard Room intent to overrun it.

The MRRF commander sent up a para-illumination flare for a medical evacuation helicopter to identify. This resulted in the Mujahideen Fighters being fired on by the five Marines in the Guard Room. A brief firefight broke out and Marines were able to drive off one assault, however after the flare died out the Mujahideen regrouped for a second assault.

The Fighters assault was making good progress as the Marines had run out of ammo, however by this point Cpl Marlas had returned with an AGL team and proceeded to cut down the next wave.

The fighters inside the wire also came under attack by Galatocrian and Brigantine Personnel who by now had returned from the armouries.

Those that’d survived the assault now fell back to the ambush zone. Around twenty minutes later at 03:25 two of the Naval Infantry’s MBT-67B-F’s drove out and advanced towards the site of the ambush. The two tanks proceeded to destroy the position and killed any of the fighters who’d not yet fled.

The 1st Battalion of the 3rd BPN Brigade then formed up along with the 1st Armoured Squadron and they advanced to Kiran led by the Engineering Tank Troop. Upon arriving at the town's outskirts, the Engineering Tanks (MBT-67B-F’s) breached the barricades on the main road and the 1st Battalion entered the town at around 04:15.

In the lead up the Mujahideen had prepared the defences and were able to prepare for their arrival. For the next 16 hours the 1st Battalion cleared Kiran house to house to dig out the enemy. Tanks were soon called in to deal with difficult positions and in many cases levelled whole buildings to complete their mission. During the day all tanks had to make multiple trips to rearm and repair. During their efforts to clear the town the Marines found multiple instances of massacres. While many were able to flee the Mujahideen, many didn’t and were executed.

By the end of the clearance operation, most of the Mujahideen had been killed with a few being able to escape or still holding out in basements and sewers. An estimated 600-900 Mujahideen were killed. In return the Brigantines lost 12 Marines in the initial attack on Zintara barracks and further 15 killed and 30 wounded in the battle of Kiran itself.

2nd June Offensive

The 2nd June Offensive was part of the Galatocrian Civil War (Operation Hearthlight to Brigantine Forces), it was a coordinated, national assault launched by the Islamist Galatocrian Mujahideen against government and government-aligned foreign forces in Urban Galatoria. Intended to be a killing blow to the Republican Government it aimed to overrun key population centres, sever logistical arteries and trigger mass civilian uprisings in the rural regions.

The Offensive the largest Insurgent action of the entire war thus far. It mobilised upwards of 300,000 fighters from several dozen Islamic Brigades, warbands and tribal militias. The offensive was mainly focused on key cities but key installations such as airports or military installations were also targeted by the Mujahideen as well as various tertiary targets. The main thrusts were into the capital, Kapasia, and the eastern cities. Particular focus was paid to the Central Highway which ran through the country from East to West. Against them were around 90,000-100,000 Galatocrian Troops most of which were part of the Republikanos Stratos, 23,210 Brigantine Personnel, as well as around 5,000 Various Foreign Troops.

The attacks achieved varying degrees of success. Many of their civilian targets were successfully attacked or captured but against prepared Galatocrian and Brigantine Forces (as well as smaller foreign interventions) most attacks were rebuffed, particularly in the West of the country. Initially taking the Government Forces by surprise the Mujahideen were able to make significant headway into Kapasia before stalling, advanced elements were able to hit key targets and individuals often using suicidal tactics to achieve success but their main forces were roundly defeated. In the east the Mujahideen were able to capture significant portions of the highway and settlements along the route, cutting off the Eastern Cities and effectively besieging them.

Many Galatocrian Military outposts were attacked by fighters, some being overrun. Most of the Brigantine Forces further out from the capital weren’t directly attacked but instead besieged and harassed by indirect attacks. These Forces were mainly from the 9th, 10th and 11th as well as the Rheidiwrs deployed on the Border. The 3rd Naval Infantry Brigade in Zintara barracks was attacked as part of the Battle of Kiran but were able to fend off the surprise attack before advancing into Kiran and destroying the Mujahideen Warband that’d stormed the settlement hours earlier. In the capital the 12th Motor Rifle Brigade along with two Republican Guard Brigades of the Republikanos Stratos fought to clear the Mujahideen out of the city, within the first 12 hours they had managed to pocket them in the factory district of the city. Of note the Galatocrian Metropolitan Police and their Zetas SWAT teams played a key and vital role in the defence of the city. The 21st Airborne Brigade was placed on high alert although their base wasn’t attacked.

As the fighting progressed over the next 48 Hours the Motor Rifle Brigades and Rheidiwr in the North were able to consolidate and link up, forming more defensible positions so as to not be overrun. The 3rd Naval Infantry Brigade as well as the Republikanos Stratos Training Staff and Cadet Forces were able to clear the area North of Kapasia of Mujahideen Forces in several highly effective search and destroy sweeps. In the Capital itself most of the Mujahideen Forces that’d entered were destroyed in 48 hours and by the end of 4th June were able to declare a victory in the defence of the city. In the East the situation was far more dire. The Galatocrian 4th Infantry Division had become trapped by the Mujahideen and was subjected to multiple probing attacks along their perimeter.

In response the 21st Brigade prepared to deploy along the central highway via helicopter and by parachute in order to secure a path so that Galatocrian Forces could advance and relieve the siege.

The 2nd June offensive is considered to have ended by the 5th of June with a Strategic Defeat of the Mujahideen by the Galatocrians and their Allies. The surviving members of the Mujahideen (around 160,000 all in) retreated back into Rural Galatoria with some even crossing over the border. Around 40,000-50,000 were killed in action with another 60,000-70,000 wounded. 10,000+ were captured by Galatocrian Forces, though most of these were unwilling conscripts who’d gone along with the attacks in the presence of more zealous fighters but quickly gave up after being separated from more hardline fighters.

The Galatocrian Government Forces, including the Republikanos Stratos and various Police and Militia Forces) suffered around 5,000 killed in action, 12,000 wounded with 1,000 missing in action. Galatocrian losses were highest in the capital and eastern provinces. Around 12,000 Urban Galatocrian Civilians were killed in the attacks, many in massacres and executions with around 25,000-30,000 wounded and nearly half a million displaced.

The Brigantines suffered 117 killed in total across the Offensive with about 450 wounded. Less than 10 went missing and most of these were quickly recovered by their own forces. Foreign troops suffered anywhere between 50-250 killed, wounded and missing.

by **New Aeyariss** » Sat Sep 13, 2025 3:42 pm

*** Earlier:

Farid sat on the ground, looking at the creation he had built. Around him, the dim light of fires and lamps shone through darkness of the cave, falling on bearded faces of the assembled Mujahedeen. They sat around an entire model of the object they were supposed to attack, made of food boxes and cans. Small figurines of kafr soldiers based on availible intel obtained from mujahedeen who crossed the bridge unarmed, hiding among merchants moving through it.

"Our objective." Farid started, looking at the map "is to destroy the Girdi Kas Bridge. Doing so would sever the flow of the resources to the kafr forces beyond the river, and separate them from their supplies. Our secondary objective involves clearing the nearby enemy post, and securing weapons for the future warriors of Allah."

The mujahedeen paused and grabbed a long wooden pole:

"My intent is twofold. First, an IED will go up at the ckeckpoint to create confusion. Excactly at the same time, First Platoon will be tasked with fixing the kafrs at the bridge, to prevent them from repositioning. Mortar section will then surpress the enemy in order to shape the incoming assautl.

At the same time 2nd platoon will be tasked with attacking the enemy administrative center, in order to prevent them from reinforcing the enemy at the bridge.

Once the operation is complete, the mortar platoon will lay a smoke cover. The 3rd platoon will then assault and secure the objective.

4th platoon will meanwhile losition itself in ambushes on nearby roads to prevent the flow of enemy reinforcements.

Once the bridge is secured, I will make a decision over weather to continue the assault or destroy the objective and withdraw. Any questions?"

Farid looked at the faces of the assembled mujahedeen, on which appeared understanding and approval.

"There is but one issue. One of us will have to become a shaheed to detonate the bomb prior to the attack."

Silence fell on the assembled mujahedeen, their faces locked in grim thought.

"I will do it." said a tall, lean man with a short beard and a large tuban on his head sitting at the edge of the cave.

"No Ahmed!" another mujahedeen, bearing a long beard and a camouflage vest on his whtie robes "You have a wife and children!"

"And I will have seventy two more in Jannah!" the man boasted.

"While your own wife will rot in poverty here on Earth."

"One of you could marry her."

"I do not think anyone would want to."

"ARE YOU SAYING MY WIFE IS UGLY?" Ahmed roared angirly, his face becoming red as hot iron. He rose his posture slightly, reaching for his kife.

"Enough." Farid said, firmly and strongly "Are you sure you want to do it?"

The man pondered in thought for a while.

"Yes. " he exclaimed, looking the commander in the eyes "I already see myself in the arms of my future heavenly wives! They are waiting for me, telling me that my martyrdom will open the path to heavenly rewards!"

Farid closed his eyes and sighed, but let the man continue. When he finished, he exclaimed:

"Make peace with your family then. In a week you will gain your desired virgins."

Ahmed's face became blue. His eyes went up as he rose his hands into the air. The man stood up and left.

Jamil approached the legendary commander and spoke: "You are letting the young kid blow himself up. And for what?"

"For victory." Farid exclaimed, looking at the flames.

Now:

The operation proceeded slowly. Three rehersals were done before the day came. Two days earlier, the movement started. The mujahedeen moved into the AO in small groups, dispersing in prepared safehouses where arms awaited them. Couriers moved through the safehouses, ensuring preparation of every unit.

When the day came, the mujahedeen covered their faces with turbans and received their arms. They still moved in small squad sized units into their designated platoon assembly areas, hidden in trucks operated by a shell company. Once they reached the drop point, the mujahedeen dismounted and proceeded on foot, using well drilled movement techniques to reduce time the enemy will see them.

The 4th platoon left earlier. They set up ambushes on key roads leading to the AO, in order to delay any eventual attempt at reinforcement.

Farid climbed a hill nearby the bridge, hugging the earth. Laying down, he pulled a binocular and gazed at the checkpoint. Soldiers walked, evidently bored that nothig was happening.

A single truck approached the checkpoint. A soldier approached it, cigarette protruding from his mouth, rifle lifted high in the air. He bent over and lowered himself into the driver's cab. For a while he talked with the man inside.

And then a single cry tore the air. A cry that Ahmed could hear even here.

"ALLAHU AKBAR!"

The silence and peace was torn by a massive boom, following by a tower of flames rising in the air. Parts of the car and human limbs were scattered far and wide. Ahmed grinned under his nose.

"EXECUTE!"

A dull thud erupted next to him as the mortar section launched it's first salvo.

"OVERSHOOT! 50 to the right!" a Mujahedeen shouted as the barrage bypassed the target.

Meanwhile the 1st platoon oepened fire, Arakawas crackling like angry hornets. From behind the bridge smoke started rising; it seemed that the 2nd platoon started firing Type 1948 recoilless guns with HE munitions at the administrative building.

The first battle of the offensive has begun.

ORBAT:
- 1st Platoon: 4 squads
- 2nd Platoon: 4 squads
- 3rd Platoon: 4 squads
- Mortar squad

by **Verdalien** » Tue Nov 11, 2025 12:28 pm

Supplement: Breakdown of Verdalian Forces in Galatoria (1980)

Zarvandar Airbase, June 2nd, 1980, 2:14 AM

"If you build it, they will come." When Gunther first remembered hearing this quote – it must have been in one of his military engineering courses – he thought it was just another cliché stock phrase meant to inspire new students. The Galatocrian insurgents bearing down on the base’s outer perimeter, however, were forcing a re-evaluation of this stance. "It's a threat." he muttered to himself.

When the Galatocrians handed over Zarvandar “Airbase” (formerly Zarvandar aerodrome) as a dedicated centre of operations for the Verdalian armed forces in Galatoria, it was little more than a dirt runway with some basic refuelling equipment and some decaying single-story brick buildings. The runway itself was also only suitable for the most rugged of light aircraft, being only about 750 meters long.
As such, while the bulk of the Verdalian armed forces that had arrived were still stationed back at Kapasia International Airport, along with most of the rest of the international forces, the men of the 112th Construction and Engineering battalion (or at least those of them responsible for the construction part) were sent to Zarvandar to turn the unused civilian airstrip into a usable airbase for Verdalian Aerial Support assets.

Gunther turned just in time to see a rocket slam into one of the buildings from the west. These were in a sorry state after years of dis- and misuse, their interiors filled with trash, rubble and other waste. Even a few smashed opium pipes had been found in the initial sweep. Instead, the men were quartered in tents at the centre of the base. Resultingly, the only casualties of the impact were the rats nesting in the building, though it was no doubt a scare for the few scattered soldiers taking cover behind the row of buildings.

While insurgent activity was expected to be low to non-existent this close to the capital, the first order of business was nevertheless the establishment of a defensive perimeter around the base, something the men were now extremely thankful for, given that the “safe” areas turned out to be far more vulnerable than expected.
With construction having only really begun in the last couple of weeks, most of the fortifications were quite rudimentary, consisting of no more than basic breastwork constructed of sandbags, Gabions and some initial pre-fabricated constructions. Just the previous day, Gunther had been part of the crew tasked with pouring out concrete for a more substantial defensive wall, which hadn't even had time to dry and harden properly yet. The three bullet holes in only one side of the wall he was taking cover behind would confirm that at least that part would suffice against basic small arms fire.

Gunther grip on his weapon tightened and he touched his finger to the fire selector to make sure that the safety was, in fact, disengaged, which it was. Bracing himself for what came next, he thought back to his training “slow steady breaths, single aimed shots, don’t jerk the trigger.”
peeking out from cover, he to his amazement saw about two dozen insurgents no more than 75 metres away, in the open, moving towards the base perimeter roughly parallel to Gunther in a what can only be described as a brisk crouch-jog. Most hadn’t even readied their weapons and were still gripping them by their carry handle or midpoint with a single hand. Either they were baiting him to expose himself fully, or they genuinely thought that they had successfully taken out all of the base defenders, himself included. Either way, the insurgents were only about 15 seconds away from reaching the top of the rampart surrounding the base, at which point they would have free reign to start firing on the tents most of the men were no doubt scrambling out of at the moment.

The Verdalian force sent to the airfield was relatively small, all things considered. The bulk of the personnel were the two platoons of construction engineers in charge of actually building fortifications and the troops supporting them in these duties. Additionally, a platoon of Gendarmerie Special Protection Troops (Anlagenschutztruppe; ASTr) was also stationed at the base, though these were more for deterring individual troublemakers rather than repelling any substantial enemy assault. Finally, some minor assets, such as the logistical, medical and maintenance personnel, which had been assigned to the base, were present.
All in all, around 135 men were usually at the base at any one time and on the day of the insurgent assault it was no different. While the construction and engineering troops were most decidedly not front-line soldiers, they were nevertheless trained to the same basic standard as a Verdalian infantryman. Equipped with the standard SL-58 rifle, the men of the 112th were by no means incapable of defending themselves.

All of this however presupposed that the men were alert and ready for combat, which they currently were most definitely not, putting them all at risk. This left Gunther with no choice but to fire into the crowd of insurgents to defend himself and his men, even at the risk of exposing himself to a lurking marksman.
Gunther emerged fully from cover, braced his weapon against the side of the concrete wall and squeezed the trigger…
His first shot missed to the right of the person he was aiming for, instead hitting the man behind him in the upper back. The victim instantly collapsed and, as far as Gunther could tell, stopped moving.
His second shot was on target, if a little low, hitting the insurgent in the hip. The man fell forward and to the left and began screaming, blood gushing from what Gunther assumed was a major artery.
His third shot, still aimed at the same target, would have been a headshot he reckoned, if the insurgent hadn’t dropped. Instead, it went whizzing ineffectually past the group.
Almost on cue, a burst of submachine gun fire erupted from Gunther’s left, hitting the lead insurgent twice, square in the chest. The shooter, who Gunther could see out of the corner of his eye, was one of the ASTr (pronunciation “Aster”), distinguishable by their patrol caps (as opposed to the side caps or helmets generally worn by JSF personnel), bluish-grey uniforms and SW57 bulletproof vests. The hit insurgent seemed unaffected, for all of 3 seconds, continuing his run until suddenly falling forward face first into the ground, after which he became motionless.

The insurgent response was disorganized, 4 insurgents almost immediately turned tail and attempted to run back to the safety of the surrounding treelines and bushes. 5 more, either oblivious or unphased, continued their advance towards the base perimeter. The largest group by far, went to ground and hunkered in place. Only a few bothered to shoot back at the ASTr, who had already ducked back behind the breastwork. Seemingly no one had noticed Gunther.
The ground the enemy was on was less than ideal cover. Essentially barren dirt with the exception of patches of dry dead grass, the only thing going to ground had accomplished for the insurgents (at least from Gunther’s perspective) was making them stationary targets.

Gunther started at the back of the group, firing a shot that hit the rearmost man centre-mass, silencing his frantic shouts instantly. The man next to him noticed his comrade’s demise and looked around, spotting Gunther just in time to see him pull the trigger a second time, the bullet piercing the man’s throat and quickly causing significant amounts of blood to seep from his mouth and neck. For a few agonizing seconds, the man writhed and tried to call for help, each attempt only producing a larger spurt of blood from his throat. The man then went limp.
His next shot was slightly low, impacting the ground just in front of the next row of insurgents. The closest person received several bullet fragments and small rocks to the face, which caused him to start clutching his head while yelling incoherently. His friends were now alerted though, shouting at the rest of the group and looking in Gunther’s direction trying to spot him.
Another shot from Gunther hit one of the pair in the head, sending a spray of viscera into the other’s face. That would be Gunther’s last shot however, with the blood covered insurgent now pointing directly at him and a good portion of the group beginning to train their weapons on him, Gunther ducked back into cover, awaiting the impending hail of bullets.

In all the exchange couldn’t have lasted more than 10 seconds, but to Gunther, who was now safely behind the wall again, it had felt like minutes, each instant etched into his mind in graphic detail.

With the assault beginning around 2 in the morning, it was really only luck that Gunther happened to be awake. Him and a couple of other men from his squad were enjoying one of their signature early morning smoke breaks. The other guys had always poked fun at Gunther for bringing his rifle with him, even though it was technically the officially proscribed procedure. Simply put, the nearest officially contested areas were the better part of 100 km away, so everyone expected any insurgent threat to come with plenty of advance warning, so not having your weapon with you for all of 10 minutes wasn’t really seen as a big deal. This once again left Gunther to do the heavy lifting while the rest of the men rushed back to their tents to get their guns.

The predicted storm of bullets he was expecting was, all things considered, actually rather underwhelming, barely even a stream. Either the entire group had decided the best course of action was to take careful aimed shots at a concrete wall, or only a couple of the insurgents were actually firing at him. Listening more carefully, something which also caused him to notice the significant ringing in his ears, Gunther could hear the distinct clatter of the working parts of an MP63 on full auto.

As quickly as the fire directed at him arose, it subsided, with the shockwaves from the bullet impacts in the concrete Gunther could just about feel, no longer registering. The insurgents had presumably directed their weapons at the new target presenting itself.

A couple of seconds passed, after which Gunther risked peeking out of cover at the insurgents once again. Their situation had deteriorated further since he last saw them only a scant few seconds ago. He counted 12 enemy casualties now, including the entirety of the group which had initially continued charging ahead. One man got as far as the edge of the parapet before going down, his right arm just about reaching past the breastwork. The 4 guys who had chosen the better part of valour were nowhere to be seen, having booked it back into the brush at a speed only possible under the influence of large amounts of adrenaline and/or drugs. 2 men, including the person Gunther had pebble dashed with his near miss, were now knelt where the group had first gone to ground, their hands raised high into the air. The last 5 active group members were lying at the bottom of the defensive rampart, stuck in a standoff with the defenders above.

As Gunther was bringing up his rifle to fire, one of the men spotted him, turned his weapon towards him and unleashed a volley of suppressive fire. While none of the shots hit him, the burst aimed only roughly in his direction, it was enough to throw off his aim, with Gunther quickly attempting to redirect the shot intended for the man closest to him at the offender, only for the shot to impact harmlessly into the embankment a good foot to the left of the insurgent. The man next to him, carrying a bolt-action rifle, noticed him a split second later and also loosed a shot at him, which flew past his head close enough for him to feel the shot disturb the air next to him. Gunther collapsed back into cover, the near miss amplifying the ringing in his ear to a deafening roar. His peripheral vision darkened noticeably.

Slumped against the wall, he noticed two people running towards him, it was a couple of men from his squad, who had finally managed to grab their weapons. Coming a little closer, he recognized them as his friend Hunrich and Thorvald.

“Are you Hurt?” Thorvald shouted, trying to make himself heard over the sound of gunfire.
“What!?” Gunther shouted back barely able to hear anything right now. Hunrich placed a hand on his shoulder and checked his uniform for bloodstains.
“I’m fine!” Gunther shouted “just kill those bastards before someone else isn’t! They’re at the bottom of the hill, 10 o’clock when looking through the gate!”
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Thorvald asked again only barely loud enough to be audible for Gunther, but which was probably a full volume shout.
“Yes! I’m fine! Just… give me a sec.” Gunther responded.

Thorvald moved past him heading for the rampart at the side of the gate, while Hunrich posted up beside him, where he’d been standing moments before. Seconds passed. Gunther’s vision gradually cleared and the ringing in his ear, while still loud, had finally subsided enough for him to hear what was going on around him. He started to stand up, not going unnoticed by Hunrich.

“So… do you come here often?” Hunrich asked, trying to bring some levity to the situation.
“Only when the rest of you are too lazy to actually fucking help.” Gunther said.
“Hey, it’s not *my* fault you took your weapon with you. You could have just been normal and gone back to get it like us.” Hunrich gave Gunther a cheeky smile.
“What, so we can all get shot while rummaging in our tents like dumbasses” Gunther asked.
“Exactly!” Hunrich replied almost instantly, the ironic tone in his voice not lost on Gunther.
“Anyway.” Gunther said, “I’m no use standing here like a lemon, so I’m gonna get on the perimeter seeing as you stole my spot.”
“You’re more than welcome to have it back. It’s not like I can actually see any fucking targets from here.” Hunrich responded.
“What are you, blind? There’s a whole platoon’s worth of ‛em right there!” Gunther said.
“Yeah, but they’re all dead. Well not all of them, three of them have thrown their hands up like their life depends on, which to be fair it does, but the rest of them are dead.”
“Well they are most definitely not the only insurgents around, so all the same, I’m getting back on the defences.”

These defences, by this point, had already filled somewhat with soldiers emerging from their tents. The timing of the insurgent attack had led to a great deal of chaos and confusion, with significant portions of the soldiers on the defensive wall wearing a mishmash of whatever kit they could quickly throw on in their hurry to defend the base, many were in various states of undress.

The sounds of gunfire from all around of the base, which had been ever-present no less than a couple of minutes ago, was now quickly beginning to subside. One could still hear occasional bursts of gunfire, but the assault had by all appearances been successfully repelled.
Evidently the enemy had concluded that their surprise attack had failed, and that further attempts at a frontal assault would have little hope of success. The assumption (In line with experiences from the Maurilo-Medinine Insurgency) was, that the insurgents would therefore retreat and prepare for a switchover to harassing tactics, keeping the Verdalians on alert and wearing them down through exhaustion and fatigue.

At the very least, this allowed the base personnel to wind down from its “all hands on deck” defence and consolidate back into their squads and positions of command.

As the gunfire around the base subsided, so too did Gunther’s adrenaline induced high, and he quickly noticed all the little things that are easy to ignore when fighting for your life. Despite having barely moved, his heart felt like it was trying to escape out of the top of his head. His left ear was also bleeding slightly from that near miss, and all the grogginess he was experiencing before the attack was now returning in full force. It was at this moment, that Thrasmund, the squad leader, decided to show up. The exchange was short:

“Thorvald, Gunther, Hunrich, link up with the rest of the squad in front of three-five!” Thrasmund barked, “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute, got to have a quick chat with the higher-ups.”
“Yes, Sergeant!” they all replied in unison, though Sergeant¹ Thrasmund Immenfuldr was already on his way.

Arriving at the agreed upon spot, the trio found the rest of the 10-man squad already waiting. After waiting a couple of minutes and with Thrasmund nowhere in sight, the squad got to talking:

“So much for this being a fucking safe zone then, eh.” Thorvald quipped, very clearly annoyed.
“Yeah. So, what was with that map showing zones of control the Brigantines presented? That was clearly a fucking lie.” Hunrich added.
“What do you expect from the Brigantines? They probably practice world-championship level Vranyo all the way up the chain of command. We were fucked the moment we believed a single thing they said!” Private Erich Amelung said, the squad’s newest member.
“Private Amelung.” A voice said firmly from behind the group, which turned to see Thrasmund, who had suddenly appeared, almost as if summoned by Erich’s remarks. “I know this isn’t exactly the most ideal situation, but I won’t have my men disparaging our allies at the first sign of difficulties. Understood?”
“Yes Sir. Of course, Sir” the private said obsequiously.
“And private.” Thrasmund sighed, now slightly more irritated “Don’t call me ‘Sir’.”
“Yes. Sergeant.” Amelung replied sheepishly.
“Anyway,” Thrasmund said, the annoyance quickly fading from his face as he turned to address the squad “everyone listen up! We’ve got Orders to hold out here and await relief by friendly forces. We’ve barely got enough men to cover the entire base perimeter properly, so command wants every man on the defence until we’re relieved.” Thrasmund proceeded to go over the exact details of the defensive plan. “Any questions?” he finished.
“What are we doing with the surrendering Arab Insurgents, scattered around just outside the base?” Erich asked.
Thorvald interjected “They’re not Arabs.”
Thrasmund spoke “For now were looking for someone who speaks enough of the local language to at least give them rudimentary orders to get them into custody. Were also setting up a holding area, where we can keep an eye on them. Handling prisoners wasn’t exactly an important consideration for the opening stages of our construction project.”
“What's the ETA on reinforcements?” Gunther asked.
“Yeah, when’s the cavalry getting here?” Hunrich chimed in.
There was a noticeable pause before Thrasmund began to speak “Unknown, -”.
Hunrich immediately interjected “What do you mean, unknown?” but was quickly shushed by most of rest of the squad.
Thrasmund continued, "According to central, all units are currently engaged. Similar confrontations are being reported all around the region. Seems like something big is going down."
“Well shit. I guess we’re on our own then.” Gunther commented.
Thrasmund concluded “Alright if everyone’s clear on their orders and objectives, let’s get to our assigned portion of the perimeter! Double-time!”

Ironically the portion of the perimeter assigned to the squad was almost the exact same section Gunther had been defending from the initial insurgent charge. When they arrived, he could even still see the 3 surrendering Insurgents a short distance away.

With the sound of gunfire and shouting at the position now having subsided, Gunther finally had time to consciously process something which had already been bothering him since he first took cover from the insurgents. The radio in the Construction trailer they had initially been smoking by. In the commotion to get the cover, nobody saw turning it off as a particularly high priority. Accordingly, it was still playing one of Thorvald's cassettes, he’d recorded from various Radio stations, on loop.
While Gunther would have preferred the radio be silenced so that he could listen for enemy movement, the trailer was sat lit up, in clear view through the front gate and he sure as hell wasn’t exposing himself to enemy fire just turn it off. As a result, the radio would continue to play, making listening to rustling leaves and branches annoyingly more difficult.

“It's a Lovedrive on wings of fire! A Lovedrive just one desire! L– *Several shots sound from the other side of the base* – you drive me crazy Babe!”

After about half an hour, a man came over. He was a shade darker than most of Gunther’s squad, still within the bounds of normal for a Verdalian, but definitely more on the Maurilian rather than Eulabian side.

“Is this the next section with surrendering insurgents?”

The man spoke a remarkably clean, unaccented Verdalian. This meant he was probably from somewhere in the vicinity of the capital. It also indicated that he probably wasn’t lower-class.

“Ah yes. The negotiator, I presume?” Thrasmund inquired.
“You could call me that.” The man said. “All I’m really doing is the bare minimum to get them inside the base and to where the cells are going to be.” He stated. “Where are the insurgents?”
“Just on the other side of the rampart, one’s directly at the base, the other two are about 20 meters away.” Thrasmund explained.
“Let’s have a look then.” The man together with Thrasmund stepped up to the parapet next to Hunrich.
“Anything to add before I begin?” the negotiator asked.
“Not that I can think of.” Thrasmund said.

The negotiator cleared his throat and took out a small piece of paper. The man began to speak, bellowing commands in a language Gunther didn’t understand.
The first sentence elicited a response from the insurgents, who each individually responded with the same word, which sounded something like “bele” or “bleh”. The negotiator continued, giving a series of statements, each of which resulted in this same response from the insurgents.
Finally after another command given by the negotiator, the insurgent closest to the rampart began to stand up slowly.

Suddenly a series of shots rang out from the treeline. Gunther instinctually ducked his head down. Several men returned fire, which however provoked no further response from the insurgents. Once the fire subsided, he looked down to see the three surrendering insurgents lying on the floor. The one closest to them had a new through hole in his head, which wasn’t ideal from a staying alive perspective. The second man seemed to have eaten a burst of submachine gun fire; an evenly spaced row of bullet holes visible running up his back.

The last insurgent, the same one whose face had been cut up by Gunther’s near miss, was miraculously still alive, his previous injuries joined by a new one to his ear, the top half of which was now missing. He was attempting to hide the fact that he was very much still breathing, betrayed by his pained facial expression and inhales through gritted teeth, which the base defenders could just about make out from only about 20 meters away. Something told Gunther however, that they were not the intended target of the deception.

“Shit man!” Hunrich exclaimed “They’re shooting their own! What the fuck did they do that for?”
“Istishhad” the negotiator said calmly “It is better to die a heroic death as a Martyr than dishonour yourself by surrendering. Seems the enemy were just helping their comrades along.”
“You don’t seem surprised.” Thrasmund commented.
“This is the third group of POWs I’ve seen them cut down tonight.” The negotiator said.
“And Muslims believe this shit?” Hunrich asked incredulously.
“Absolving yourself of sin by dying to defend your faith, is a widely held belief even outside of Islam.” The negotiator explained “Opinions differ on to what degree surrender is dishonourable. On the one end you have moderates who generally treat it no different than you would – sure, cowardly in certain circumstances, but generally acceptable in the face of unwinnable odds – and on the other end you have people like our friends here, who see it as inherently shameful to the point of being worthy of death.” He continued: “It also denies us the opportunity to question the prisoners, not that they are likely to know anything of importance, seeing as they are simple foot soldiers.”
“So why wait? Why not just get it done with and shoot the poor sods?” Hunrich asked.
“They were probably hoping we would send someone out to take them prisoner. Would give them an opportunity to take a couple of the ‘Kafir’ with them.” The man proposed. “When they realised, we weren’t budging, they cut their losses and just shot them.”
“Oh, so using non-coms as bait – completely acceptable, the height of honour even – but surrendering when fighting on would be futile – disgusting behaviour punishable by summary execution.” Hunrich summarized sarcastically.
“People who sign up to atone for their lives through Holy War and Martyrdom generally aren’t the most pious people, to say nothing about how knowledgeable they are regarding what is and isn’t actually allowed under Islamic law.” The negotiator stated matter-of-factly. “Anyway, I’ve got to go watch the next set of insurgents get blown away trying to follow commands I’ve given them in disjointed Dari.” He continued. “If only we weren’t so stingy with our limited supply of smoke grenades.” He muttered to no one in particular.

Thrasmund escorted the man back to the bottom of the rampart and bid him farewell. “Thanks for the support” he finished. “Don’t mention it, all I did was get some Galatocrians shot.” The man said glibly. “Anyway, I’m sure we’ll see each other around!” before turning around and leaving.

“So, uh… what now?” Gunther asked.
“Weren’t you listening at the briefing?” Hunrich sighed “Now we sit here for the next however-many hours and wait for the relief force.”
“No, I meant with the guy still lying in the field. I mean he’s obviously still alive…” Gunther clarified.
“Not much we can do.” Thrasmund interjected. “Anyone who goes out there to try and get him is liable to get shot. Even if he gets back up himself, his ‘buddies’ are likely to just finish the job.” He explained “His best course of action is probably the same as ours: ‘Hurry up and wait.’ None of his injuries are immediately life threatening, so he should survive, assuming our relief force arrives sometime soon.”

And with that, Gunther and the rest of the squad went back to silently observing, looking for any sign of insurgent activity. During this time, they noticed the smoke appear above the trees, lit up by flickering lights from below, gunfire could also be heard in the distance at semi-regular intervals.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones getting attacked.” Erich said absentmindedly.
“Yeah, difference is, that we can actually defend ourselves.” Hunrich replied.
“What do you mean?” asked Erich.
“Well, do you know of any other military bases nearby?” Hunrich asked rhetorically, “It’s obviously Zarvandar the insurgents are attacking. They’re burning down the whole town.”
“Ok, but why are the Galatocrian insurgents attacking the Galatociran Settlement, huh?” came Erich’s reply, giving off an air of smugness.
“Because…” Hurnich paused, genuinely taken aback that Erich didn’t already know the answer.
“Because what?” Erich interjected “Stumped you now, haven’t I!” he declared victoriously.
“Because the people living in Zarvandar are Galatocrian and the Insurgents aren’t, at least not ethnically.” Gunther explained, jumping in to help his Friend Hunrich.
“And?” Erich retorted.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed in the many, many briefings we’ve had, but the two of them haven’t exactly been getting along all too well recently. It’s – y’know – only the entire reason this conflict has been going on in the first place.” Gunther elaborated.
“I know that!” Gunther stammered angrily, “Stop treating me like a retard.”
“Then stop acting like one!” Hunrich shouted.

Minutes passed. The smoke slowly began to build as the fires producing it intensified. The gunfire didn’t seem to be reducing in intensity either.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Gunther asked.
“Not unless you want to add every one of us the to the list of battle casualties.” Thorvald remarked, “I’d guess the insurgents outnumber us at least 3 to 1, probably more, otherwise they wouldn’t have tried to assault the base. If we try to act the hero and march out of here to defend the town, I doubt most of us would even make it to the treeline, let alone the settlement.” He further explained, “No, leave the heroics to the actual combat troops. We’re gonna have our hands full just with surviving.”

Most of the early morning consisted of a series of harassing attacks, in which small groups or even lone insurgents took small bursts of fire or single shots at the defenders. A few attacks even involved the use of the insurgents’ limited stocks of anti-tank rockets, which managed to inflict casualties among the defenders more reliably. The response by the 112th and the rest of the base was in almost all cases a reliance on the only real option available to them: Application of large volumes of rifle fire at the offending muzzle flash. This may or may not have actually inflicted any enemy casualties.

Early on this reactive fire would be met by an equal response by the insurgents, with minor firefight reigniting as a result, though the insurgents quickly ceased this practice after the first couple of engagements, with the enemy combatants instead falling silent after the initial harassing shots.

The situation improved markedly, once the sun had begun to rise, with the steadily increasing light levels forcing the remaining insurgents to retreat further and further away from the base so as to remain hidden. This increase in Range also more than cancelled out any improvements in insurgent accuracy from improved lighting conditions and prevented many of the shorter-range insurgent arms from firing completely. Another advantage of the longer sightlines was the reduced personnel requirements for manning the base defences, which allowed casualties and other, no longer needed, squads to be pulled back from the defences, treated and/or rest and recuperate.

The light also brought difficulties with it, however. Locating the exact firing position of insurgents became much harder, as muzzle flashes, which were easily visible at night, became practically impossible to spot unless one was looking directly at them. Of course, It generally only took one shot to prompt any exposed personnel to stick their heads down, so the practical effect was to greatly reduce the number of episodes of return fire suffered by the insurgents.

This allowed the attackers to sit in a single location for a comparatively longer amount of time and slowly dial in their sights on the base, adjusting their zeroing and giving them ample shooting experience. As a result, insurgent accuracy gradually increased over the course of the day.

Despite this, practical accuracy at range was still limited by the poor quality of weapons and ammunition. With the attack primarily carried out by second rate forces (even by insurgent standards), most equipment was generally old and in poor condition. Most recovered weapons consisted of bolt-action rifles and (more rarely) submachine guns, most commonly of Great War vintage, showing considerable signs of wear and degradation. The ammunition was only slightly newer on average, with corrosive primers and breakdown of powder charges making consistent ballistic performance little more than a pipe dream.

At around eleven o’clock, Gunther’s squad (3rd squad, 2nd platoon, Alpha company, 112th CEB) received a transmission from base command. The squad radioman – Gunther kept forgetting his name – received the transmission on his manpack.

“Cäsar Cäsar, this is Zero-Zero. Radio Check, over.” The voice could be heard from the Manpack.
“Zero-Zero this is Alfa-Two-Three, reading you 5 by 5, over.” came the reply from the Radioman, with similar responses coming from the base’s other units. Though listening in, Gunther could only make out occasional snippets.
The radio continued. “Cäsar Cäsar, this is Zero-Zero. Message: theatre command reports eight-one-beta dispatched to relieve at 0923 hours but has been engaged at – * unintelligible * – hostiles. Currently reporting no casualties, but delay is now – * unclear * – hours behind schedule. Expect actual ETA to be – * unintelligible *. Continue to hold positions until further notice, over.”
“This is Alfa-Two-Three. Roger Zero-Zero, Willco.” With radio replies from other units also coming in along similar lines.
“Cäsar Cäsar, this is Zero-Zero, OUT.”

With that the radio once again fell silent. Thrasmund, who had been listening together with the radioman, turned around, no doubt to see a good portion of the squad staring at them with perked ears.

“Ah, you were Listening.” Thrasmund said admonishingly. “Guess that saves me the Effort of relaying the Information to all of you. I really wish you lot would expend as much effort looking for the enemy as you do eavesdropping in on radio communications I’m going to relay to you anyway.”
“So where’s the relief force?” Hunrich asked.
“Nevermind,” he sighed, “your Listening skills obviously aren’t any better either…” Thrasmund rose to address the squad “Okay, eyes and ears everyone!”
Those who hadn’t been doing so already turned to face Thrasmund.
“Alright, I’ve got good news and bad news.” he explained “The good news is command finally remembered that we exist and has dispatched reinforcements, the bad news is that they left Kapasia airport, got about 10 minutes down the road and then immediately came under fire." He continued “So far, it’s been limited to harassing attacks – no casualties or vehicle losses – but it’s slowing down the convoy significantly. At the rate their progressing now, their ETA is still over a day away.”

“You’re shitting me.” Hunrich exclaimed. “We’ve been sat here enduring insurgent assaults, RPG attacks and constant sniper fire and the best response time the HSK² can manage is on the order of days? All because some guy with a rifle took a shot at their armoured vehicles?! You can’t tell me –”
“Enough!” Thorvald spoke firmly. “We are not the only unit that has had a rough night. In actuality, we’ve come off markedly better than some and the fact that command elected to dedicate their relief forces to other, more pressing, concerns until now is a testament to how well we’ve managed on our own.” He continued “Additionally, you must know just as well as the rest of the squad, that barrelling through contested areas with all hatches closed is a great way to roll over a mine or eat an RPG from an unseen contact. The HSK is doing this by the book. If that means it takes them 30 hours to get here, then that’s better than them trying to make it in 5 and getting chewed up by the insurgents.” He concluded “Finally, you seem to be under the impression that we’re being rescued. Well, truth is that we ain’t going anywhere. Insurgents or not, this base still needs to get built and we’re the ones who are gonna be doing it, so you might as well get used to the new normal. Besides security getting beefed up, the base is going to continue to operate pretty much exactly as it has been up until now.”

The silence that followed only drove home Thrasmund’s statement. For more than one of them, accepting the facts was a bitter pill to swallow. Even Gunther, for some reason, had assumed that, once the reinforcements arrived, they would be loaded up and whisked back to Kapasia like proverbial damsels in distress. Being stuck here until the base was finished was seeming like a comparatively horrible experience now that insurgent attacks would presumably become the norm for the foreseeable future. It didn’t help that what constituted a “finished” base was constantly evolving, something he had already experienced plenty of during his deployments back in Verdalia.

“What are you waiting for? Breakfast in bed?” Thrasmund asked rhetorically “Get back to guarding.”

The hours ticked by slowly. Gunther and the rest of the squad had quickly fallen into a pattern of sleeping whenever possible, with the squad taking 6-hour long shifts during which a third of the men respectively were allowed to sleep (uncomfortably) against the defensive breastwork, while the rest of the squad kept watch. Occasionally harassing fire from the insurgents or some other disturbance would force the squad into action, reducing the quality of the sleep further. By the time the second mostly uneventful rotation was up, Gunther having of course drawn the short straw and been allowed to sleep last, the sun was already low above the horizon. In the handover, Throvald gave them a quick brief on any important events which they had missed.

“Bad news” he started with immediately.
“What now?” Gunther said, annoyed.
“The relief force sent by command failed to report in for their last radio check.” Thorvald said.
“What’s that mean?” Gunther asked, his annoyance quickly turning to concern.
“Who knows.” Thorvald explained “Could be as straightforward as a simple electrical fault. Could mean they all got wasted in an ambush. The Brigantines have agreed to send a chopper looking for them, though that won’t be on station until tomorrow morning. Since the convoy will be driving with blackout lights, spotting them at night would be difficult anyway.”
“And the plan is…” Gunther began
“The same as before.” Thorvald finished “We’ve been told, once again, that we are to hold out until further notice.”
“When it rains…” Gunther trailed off.

The setting sun also brought with it a renewed increase in insurgent activity, with the frequency of attacks gradually increasing to the point where the time between attacks could more easily be measured in minutes rather than hours.
In contrast to the 112th, which had spent most of the day under continuous insurgent pressure, leaving them fatigued and irritable, the bulk of the insurgents were able to use the day for extensive R&R, as well as for renewed preparation, studying the base for potential weak points and blind spots.

Of course, the fading light also made the insurgents muzzle flashes more visible once again, allowing the defenders to, at the very least, feel better as they were now able to respond to enemy fire more easily.

Once the sun had fully set, the insurgents sprang into action fully. Unlike with the surprise attack the previous night, the attackers began launching probing attacks, testing the Verdalian defences in advance of what everyone could already tell was going to be a renewed assault by their irregular opponents. 2-3 (Gunther’s squad) would experience one such attack.
The attack was small, between 5 and 8 men (it was hard to tell in the darkness), directed the gap between the two strongpoints formed by 2-3³ and a fireteam from 2-2 (the adjacent squad). The insurgents got surprisingly close before being spotted, having picked a somewhat concealed path through some of the grass near the base. The men had only been spotted crawling, when they attempted to cross a larger gap between two patches of grass some 50 metres from the Wall.

The resulting exchange of fire was a rather short affair, the first shot came from 2-2, which opened up on the group and thereby brought it to 2-3’s attention. The insurgents returned fire, highlighting their position for Gunther and the rest of 2-3, which now also opened fire. Gunther himself fired 8 rounds into the grass, though if any of those shots landed was another matter. By the end of his burst, the insurgent weapons had already fallen silent, Thrasmund giving the order to hold fire. Only two casualties were visible⁴, with 2-2 also reporting one casualty, a man hit in the forearm by a pistol calibre round.

The enemy probes would continue for the next couple of hours, sometimes launching simultaneously in sets consisting of up to five groups of insurgents. Most almost immediately pulled back when fired upon, generally only taking minimal casualties, though some did give more substantial pushback, often resulting in unfavourable exchanges for them.

Then, shortly after midnight, the attacks suddenly ceased entirely. “Well, at least the insurgents aren’t very good at not telegraphing their next move.” Gunther thought, as the pause by the insurgents was almost certainly to allow them to prepare for another large assault. This time the Verdalians would be ready and waiting.

The attack began with a barrage of RPG rockets, directed at strongpoints identified by the probing attacks, alongside the simultaneous opening of fire from every weapon the insurgents had. While casualties were forgivingly light, most rockets either aimed high, flying cleanly past the defenders, or low, impacting theearthen rampart and doing minimal actual damage, the barrage stunned the Verdalians defenders and forced them into cover. Simultaneously, lone insurgents, sneaking to a distance considered relatively risk free based on previous probes, ignited smoke grenades/bombs⁵
and ran towards the base until within throwing distance of the rampart. The thereupon thrown grenades landed (mostly) at the base of the outer perimeter.
With fire continuing to pour in from the surrounding attackers, including the occasional RPG, the smoke slowly began to build, combining with the darkness to limit the Verdalians vision out of the base to at most 15 meters.

“Where the fuck are they getting all these rockets from!?” Erich shouted.
“Fuck knows!” Thorvald responded “Wenchuan maybe?”
“Feels like they’ve got more of the goddamn things than the actual Galatocrian army!” Erich complained. “They can’t have many left at this point!” he added.
“Can you shut up!” Hunrich shouted, “It’s hard enough listening for the enemy when there isn’t some private shitting himself next to you!”
“Fuck you!” Erich replied, though he did remain quiet from that point on.

¹ For ease of reading, Verdalian ranks have been translated into their English equivalents.
² Heeresstreitkräfte (Verdalian army)
³ Unlike most other squads, which had been split up into fireteams, Gunther’s squad had been kept together as one unit to guard the front gate.
⁴ A subsequent search would reveal 2 further casualties lying hidden in the tall grass.
⁵ Mostly of Republikanos Stratos design, no doubt looted from armouries and bases overrun by the insurgents in the previous months. Many crude homemade smokebombs were also found in the After

by **Verdalien** » Tue Nov 11, 2025 12:29 pm

The enemy suppressing fire had slacked somewhat by now. Gunther assumed this was the enemy assault groups moving into their starting positions.

“Fix Bayonets!” The sudden shout from Thrasmund startled Gunther somewhat. That might have been the first time he heard that order issued outside of training or the parade ground, but if there was ever a time to do it, now was most definitely it. Gunther and the rest of the squad fumbled around with the scabbard containing their bayonets, taking rather longer than he would have expected, took out their bayonets and attached them of their rifles. Gunther moved his fire selector to full auto.

While the enemy fire had diminished somewhat, it continued to pour in, each shot lighting up the smokescreen between them and the defenders with a faint flash of light.
Then suddenly, all at once, it ceased. For a brief moment all that could be heard was the quickly fading sound of the previous gunfire echoing of various terrain features.
Then the screaming began.

As if the smoke itself had become some infernal entity, a chorus of hundreds of shouts began emanating from all around the base. Barely visible silhouettes began to appear in the smoke.
“Open Fire!” Thrasmund’s voice bellowed, barely discernible from the cacophony of noise surrounding the base.

The squad unloaded into the smoke at the base of the rampart, the muzzle-flash from their rifles lighting up the smoke to reveal a growing number of men charging towards them. Gunther felt himself get pushed back by the recoil of his SL58, having expected one trigger pull to result in one bullet being fired, despite the fact that he himself had put the rifle into full auto only moments ago.

The 6.5×52 was by no means the most powerful rifle cartridge out there, but, compared to the MP63’s 9mm or even the AK70s 5.7mm round, it definitely had a far more noticeable kick. As a result, most soldiers are taught to always fire the weapon in semi auto. Some training rifles even had the full auto setting permanently blocked to prevent overeager recruits from putting the rifle into ‘fun mode’.

Gunther was once again reminded of why that was the case. The world around him faded into the Background, his field of vision narrowing, as he wrestled to control the bucking bronco in his hands. Only his first three shots were anywhere near where he was aiming, the first one essentially being on target, and then recoiling up from there until the third was up at around head hight. The rest were strewn all about the place, either flying high above the intended target, or impacting into the ground in front of it as he overcorrected in an attempt to control the recoil. Side-to-side sway was also an additional source of inaccuracy.
Gunther held on for dear life, the time between pulling and releasing the trigger feeling like an Eternity, though the fact that there were still rounds in his magazine after the burst meant it couldn’t have been more than 1 or 2 seconds. In that time, he must have seen himself and his squad drop at least 6 silhouettes on this side of the gate alone.

The insurgents in the smoke seemed unperturbed by this though, continuing their charge across the last dozen or so meters to the perimeter. The only change the defenders fire seemed to have provoked, was prompting the enemy to do the same. The hostile fire was laughably inaccurate, excused only by the fact that most of the shooters were still in a full sprint and essentially firing blindly through the smoke.

Gunther fired another burst from his rifle, this time attempting to limit them to between 3 and 5 rounds at most, something which in this case happened automatically when his rifle stopped firing after 4 rounds. He was out. At least his target had gone down.
Ducking down, he pressed the Magazine release, ejecting it from his rifle. In one smooth motion he retrieved another Magazine from his breast pocket, placed it in his rifle and racked the slide.

Gunther popped back up just in time to see a grenade fly out of the smoke, clean over the rampart and land somewhere behind them in the base.
“Grenade! Get Down!” He shouted, hearing others in the squad shout similar variations.
By the time the grenade exploded, everyone was luckily already well covered by the trench, but it had given the attackers valuable seconds to get closer.
That was all they needed apparently; A burst of submachine gun fire raced down the trench they were in, all but confirming the worst-case scenario. Gunther felt time slow down, as he looked up to see the offending insurgent. He by all accounts looked fairly unremarkable. Average build, average height, short surprisingly well kempt black beard and hair. He was dressed in the traditional rural Galatocrian style, though he was wearing Galatocrian military pattern webbing over his clothing. The submachine gun he was pointing at him was a couple of decades old at least, the well-worn exterior hinting at a long and storied history.
For a single instant, the two of them stared at each other, a hint of hesitation visible on the man’s face as he was forced to look his victim in the eyes. An instant later, he pulled the trigger.

*kachunk*

Despite the battle raging on around them, in that moment it felt like the entire world went silent, the guns’ bolt slamming impotently forward without producing a shot. The would-be executioner’s expression became panicked as he reached for the bolt-handle to chamber another round, but before he could even grab it a bullet tore through his midline, causing the man to stagger backward. Another shot, directly to the thorax, sealed the deal, sending the insurgent tumbling back down the embankment.

With only a split second to react, Gunther, still on both knees after taking cover, whipped his weapon up to point at the space in front of the trench where the next attackers would no doubt be appearing. Before he could even begin to shoulder his weapon, another combatant appeared headfirst as he made his way up the rampart. Gunther pulled the Trigger, sending a pair of rounds careening in the direction of the insurgent. One of the rounds flew God knows where, but the other hit the enemy in right in the forehead. As quickly as the head emerged (if not quicker), it disappeared back out of view.
A second man appeared about a metre to his right and received the same treatment, receiving a three-round burst, of which one hit the man in the jaw.

Gunther pushed himself back to his feet and shouldered his rifle once again, making sure to keep it pointed in the direction of the enemy approach. He waited. Seconds passed. The air in front of him seemed remarkably insurgent free all of a sudden. He dared to take a quick peek down the rampart at where the insurgents were no doubt waiting. Against his expectations there were no hostiles to be seen on the slope, with the last silhouettes just about visible running back into the smoke.
“Was that it?” he thought to himself, “Are they just giving up like that?”
He looked to his right to see Thorvald transfixed on the space in front of him. Hunrich was still face down on the floor… There was blood on his back…

“Shit.” Gunther exclaimed, quickly running over to Hunrich and turning him over. As he did so Hunrich groaned loudly. “We’ve got a man down!” Gunther shouted, checking the front of Hunrich’s uniform for signs of blood. This seemed to snap Thorvald out of his trance, who turned around and started to move towards the pair before stopping himself.
“Amelung, help Gunther get Hunrich to the medical post! We’ll hold the line here.”
“Yes Corporal!” the private quickly replied.
Rushing over, Erich grabbed Hunrich by the legs, while Gunther grabbed under his arms. Lifting the man, they slowly made their way down the embankment. Before they could get any further than the bottom however, they were interrupted by Thrasmund.
“Gunther. Erich. You’re with me!” he shouted, him and the rest of the 1st team having made their way down from the embankment.
“What about Hunrich, Sergeant?” Gunther asked, “And what about the defenses?”
“He’ll take care of Hunrich!” Thrasmund pointed behind Gunther. “ASTr will be along to relieve the rest of Thorvald’s team momentarily. Right now, we’ve got to make it to northeast corner of the base!”
The pair put Hunrich down and Gunther turned around to see a man jogging towards them with a wheelbarrow. The man was obviously a casualty himself, judging by the bandages wrapped around the top of his head.
“Don’t put him down just yet!” The man said, “Lift him in for me, would you?”
Placing Hunrich into the barrow, the squad, minus Thorvald and company, quickly set off across the base, while the man made his way in the direction of the medical post.
“So what are we doing running across the base and basically abandoning our positions?” Erich asked.
“There’s been a breach.” Thrasmund explained hastily “The insurgents managed to get through the defences at the northern end of the runway. From what I’ve heard, most of our guys managed to pull back, but a team from 1-2 got overrun completely.” He continued, “The breach also apparently wasn’t sizeable enough to be exploited fully. From what I’ve been told over the radio, only about two squads worth of insurgents, the same amount we had on there, made it into the defences. Enough to hold it, but not enough to push further into the base.”
“So the guys attacking our section pulled back to reinforce the breach?” Gunther asked.
“Most likely, yes.” Thrasmund responded “The insurgents definitely seem a lot more coordinated, compared to yesterday.”
“How do you think the insurgents by us found out about the breach so quickly? Radio maybe?” Gunther speculated.
“Entirely possible.” Thrasmund said. “Although it could have just as easily been some guy shouting it to them. It’s not like I can tell the difference between a ‘Charge!’ and a ‘Fall back!’ when shouted in rural Galatocrian. Hell, with the smoke blocking sight, they could have been using flag signals for all
I know.” A joking grin appeared on Thrasmund’s face for a second, before quickly vanishing again.
“And the plan –” Gunther said
“Close the breach.” Thrasmund answered before Gunther could even fully finish his sentence. He continued, “Ideally, we’d push the enemy back off the defences and retake them ourselves, but we don’t really have the men or equipment needed to do that properly. Luckily, with the ends of the runway being the most exposed parts of the base, command already tasked some men, who were too injured to fight and weren’t already helping elsewhere, with setting up a second line of defence across the runway. They started sometime yesterday, but given it was only a couple of already injured guys, it’s currently still limited to sandbags, gabions, metal drums and whatever else they could find to fill with dirt. Should at least stop the insurgents from just waltzing down the runway though.”

Arriving at the defences, where the northern stretch of the base runway met with the corner of the base proper, Gunther was greeted by the sight of about 60 men from the 112th and another 10 men cobbled together from the base logistics contingent. Gunther was once again reminded just how lopsided the force balance between them and the insurgents was. The singular attack against their section of the wall must have been the same size at least. Some ASTr could be seen on the defences, manning what was at this point undoubtedly a worryingly thin defensive line, now that the bulk of the 112th had been redeployed to defend against the insurgent breakthrough. Sporadic gunfire could be heard up and down the length of the trenches running alongside the runway. Second lieutenant [Unterleutnant] Iordann Rietmaior, the platoon leader, hastily briefed the assembled men, explaining who would take over which section of the defences. 2nd platoon, which included Gunther’s squad, was directed to take up positions behind the makeshift barricade, which ran across the runway, on the ramparts to the left of the runway as well as in the trench running along the right-hand side of it. A squad from 1st platoon was sent to reinforce the currently engaged squad towards the end of the runway, with the final squad from 1st platoon held in reserve in case the insurgent attack vector ended up being redirected to another portion of the defences, somewhere else around the base.

The barricade was pretty much as Thrasmund had described. A roughly 90 cm high, single thick wall of sandbags, interspersed with 55-gallon drums and the occasional gabion for support. It would stop bullets, but even a near miss from an RPG would blow it apart and the defenders along with it.

Almost on cue with them getting on the barricade, the first small figures could be seen popping into view at the end of the runway, before quickly ducking back down into the defensive trenches. Gunther aimed at one of the fleeting targets and almost pulled the trigger, remembering at the last second that his rifle was still in full auto. Quickly switching his weapon back to single shots, he acquired another target and actually pulled the trigger this time. Miss. The rest of the platoon had begun firing as well. He tried again with another target. Then another. And another. Each time seeing no effect. The 5th shot finally seemed to send a man tumbling, though whether he was actually responsible for the offending shot, he wasn’t sure. “This was a lot easier when the enemy was more than just little black specs in the darkness at the end of a long runway.” He thought to himself.

What was also worrying, was the sheer number of enemies pouring into the breach, with a continuous steady stream of men flowing into the trenches. The only thing slowing them down, was the physical capacity limitations of the defences themselves. A single grenade would easily wipe out dozens of insurgents, not that the 112th were issued any. The ammunition situation was also concerning. Construction and engineering troops were already only lightly equipped (carrying only around 100 rounds of ammunition) and what little ammo had been stored in the base armoury (which was little more than a tent with some secure storage boxes inside) was quickly distributed and ran out before the initial offensive had even concluded. Gunther was already down to less than a third of that from the previous assaults and return shots at insurgent harassing fire, and this was with the squad attempting to conserve as much ammo as possible, once it became clear that the relief force would be delayed significantly. To be exact, he now had 32 rounds remaining, with his current magazine having 15 rounds (after shooting 5 at the hostiles at the end of the runway) and another 17 in a second magazine in reserve. If he kept up shooting as he had been, he’d be out of ammo in only about a couple of minutes. He assumed most of the rest of the platoon was similarly low on ammo.

It was somewhere around this point, when Thorvald’s team rejoined them, wordlessly moving in to take up positions next to Gunther and Erich at the leftmost edge of the barricade.
“What took you so long?” Gunther asked.
“Ask the ASTr who was supposed to be there ‘any second’. You’d think they’d be a bit more proactive about getting a move on, seeing as we are literally under attack.” Came the reply from Thorvald.
Gunther shrugged, “Got any spare Ammo on you?”
“No. I’m down to one mag and change. You?” Thorvald said.
“32 rounds le-” Gunther paused, taking aim and firing a shot at an exposed insurgent, hitting the man in the arm and sending him sprawling back into the trench he was peeking out of, “31 rounds left.” He said.
“Well, then you’re in better shape, ammo wise at least, than most of the rest of us. Anyway…” Thorvald trailed off.
Whether that was actually true or not, Gunther was unsure. He had after all blasted away almost an entire magazine on full auto not too lang ago and had just plinked away another 5 rounds at fleeting targets he was unlikely to actually hit, both things he was now kicking himself for.

Despite thedefenders dwindling ammo reserves, the rate of consumption appeared to only speed up. Better fire discipline on the part of defenders was seemingly countered by the insurgents presenting better targets, both incidentally (through drawing ever closer to the Verdalians), but also to a certain degree intentionally, due to a higher risk tolerance on the part of the attackers. A riskier movement here, a slightly longer exposure than would have really been necessary there, all of it suggested the enemy was somehow acutely aware of how bad the Verdalian ammo situation was.

As the defender’s ammo came ever closer to running, base personnel were forced to resort to ever more desperate measures to get their hands on munitions. MP63s and their magazines were requisitioned from the ASTr, leaving them with only a pistol. Even here, spare magazines for their sidearms were emptied of their 9 mm rounds, making sure to leave them with not even one non-essential round on their person.
Some even risked briefly leaving the safety of the base perimeter to retrieve insurgent weaponry from bodies at the bottom of the rampart, resulting in several casualties in order to retrieve weapons which in many cases seemed just as likely to blow up and kill the user, rather than the intended target.
Insurgent ammo was also found to be essentially useless to the Verdalians without their corresponding weapons, as the insurgents relied on a an almost completely different and mostly non-standardized set of calibres compared to them. The most common ammo types found, both for rifles and for submachineguns, were various 7.62 mm calibre rounds, with 7.62×25mm in particular being pretty much universal for the sub guns.

Verdalian casualties were also beginning to mount. One man in Gunther’s platoon was hit pretty early on, receiving a rifle round to the upper arm, which shattered the man’s humerus and took him out of the fight. Another received a remarkably similar injury, having also been hit in the upper arm. After a quick patch up however, he was able to keep going, as in this case the (much lighter) pistol calibre round had passed through cleanly without hitting arteries or bones, causing a comparatively less grievous wound. A third guy, in a stroke of unimaginable luck, received a non-penetrating hit to the helmet, with the round glancing off the top of the helmet. Whether this was down to a faulty insurgent round or some other fortuitous circumstance no one knew, but they definitely weren’t going to question it. A final man received a spray of bullet fragments to the neck and lower face, causing a variety of gruesome looking, but ultimately superficial cuts.

Despite this and other, on the whole more serious, injuries among other units, the number of casualties in the base medical post had actually decreased since the assault began. This was however not because injuries were being treated faster than they were being inflicted, but rather because the increasingly desperate situation necessitated sending a large portion of those previously being treated at the post back into the fight despite their injuries. Men with wounds, which in a more typical situation would have been considered incapacitating, were now being forced to fight on due to the circumstances, with anything less than immediately life-threatening or debilitating injuries not even warranting removal from the fight.

Gunther watched as, over the course of the next several minutes, the rounds slowly disappeared from his magazine. Most of them hit their intended targets, but even so, each round became more and more painful to part with as his reserve came closer to running dry. Going through his first magazine took him only a couple of minutes, despite his increasing reluctance to shoot at anything but the most guaranteed hits. All the more embarrassing when his final round missed, as the insurgent who was moving down the left-hand side trench next to the runway hit the deck at the last possible moment. Loading his final Magazine into the weapon, Gunther could have sworn that his magazines weren’t usually this light, though he assumed this was his mind just playing tricks on him.

Around this time, the two squads from 1st platoon, which had been holding the trenches either side of the runway were now also pulling back. 2nd squad, which had been badly mauled, both by one of its teams being overrun and now due to the continued fighting, was pulled out of the fight entirely, with 3rd squad (which was waiting in reserve) sent in to take their place. Only two men from 2nd squad were still in fighting shape, each dragging another badly wounded man from the trench, two more men, which were injured but still standing, also emerged, carrying a final incapacitated man between the two of them.

Gunther’s second magazine didn’t seem to last any longer than his first. If anything, it seemed to be going faster than the previous one, with a marked increase of enemy combatants now moving about in the trenches from which 1st platoon had retreated. Before he knew it, he was back down to single digit ammo counts. At the very least, the seemingly endless stream of insurgents entering the defences now finally ceased, with a final group taking up positions at the end of the runway, after which no more followed.
Even so, this still left the defenders overwhelmingly outnumbered, with the now roughly 55 defending Verdalians easily opposed by 4 to 5 times that number on the enemy side, something which the casualty numbers were also beginning to reflect. More men in the platoon started going down, with a man each from 1st and 2nd squad wounded. The first was shot the chest, resulting in a sucking chest wound, while the other was shot in the shoulder. Both were quickly rushed to the medical post.

Gunther fired off his last five shots. He was now officially out. “I need a mag!” he shouted to the rest of the men, with the responses essentially confirming what he had already been expecting.
“Welcome to the club!” came one voice “on my last mag myself!” said another. If the insurgents kept coming at this rate, they’d be down to trying to fight them off with bayonets and harsh language. Erich handed him a magazine wordlessly.
Gunther began to speak “Thanks, you’re a lifesav…”, but stopped himself. “… This has 3 rounds in it…”
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers. It’s what I have.” Erich replied.
Thorvald commented “Don’t spend it all in one place, I guess.” and gave Gunther a weak smile. Even his usually perpetually upbeat attitude was cracking under the rather bleak prospects for continued survival. They probably had mere minutes left, which was already including the time it would take the enemy to reach their position once they ran out of ammo completely.

With their fire dropping off exponentially, it was equally obvious to the insurgents, that the Verdalians were running out of ammo. Some insurgents weren’t even bothering with cover anymore, spilling into the open on the runway and advancing in (rather sloppy) bounding overwatches.
At least with the insurgents in the open they were easy pickings for the defenders, admittedly limited, fire. Almost as quickly as he received them, Gunther fired off the 3 shots given to him by Erich, each one scoring a clean hit. The return fire was from the insurgents was inaccurate as usual, despite
their attempts at overwatch, impacting into the Sandbag barricade with dull thuds. For the most part the enemy seemed content to throw bodies, rather than bullets, at the problem, apparently unperturbed by their losses up to this point. “They know they have us dead to rights.” Gunther thought.

With his ammo load completely exhausted, there was little Gunther could do but watch as the rest of the platoon also slowly ran dry, the insurgents drawing closer and closer to their position. He briefly considered closing the bolt on his rifle (which had locked open when his magazine was out of rounds) to hide the fact that he was out of ammo from the insurgents, but concluded that it probably wouldn’t make a difference. Retreating would only delay the inevitable, giving him maybe a couple of minutes at most before he got shot hiding in one of the bases tents. No, better to go down fighting, trying to get another insurgent or two with his bayonet than die cowering in some corner. He tightened his grip on his rifle, steeling his nerves and preparing himself for what was to come.

He thought back to the series of events that had led him to this place and what he could have done differently. If he’d been asked a couple of days ago how likely it was that he would die here, he would have said ‘very unlikely’. The higher ups had after all told them again and again, that Zarvandar was as safe as Kapasia, as safe as back home in Verdalia even. “Maybe they were referring to Verdalia during the Civil War” he thought to himself, managing to provoke a brief snigger.
He wondered how they would be remembered back in Verdalia. Would they be celebrated as heroes who held on against the odds, or would they be quickly forgotten as hapless victims of what might soon be regarded as an unpopular and foolish foreign policy decision by the Verdalian Government. “The truth was probably somewhere in between”, he thought to himself.

His continued musings on life and death would however be cut short at that moment, when suddenly all hell broke loose around them. Explosions started going off in front of them, deafening them and sending a hail of shrapnel in all directions. 2nd platoon quickly ducked down behind the Barricade, though one man had already received a fairly nasty cut to head. “Have the insurgents somehow gotten their hands on an AGL?” Gunther wondered, “Not that it matters. AGL or not, the insurgents are about to overrun us all anyway. But then, why would the insurgents paste their own guys by firing at a position they were actively assaulting.” It wasn’t that the insurgents were particularly casualty averse or anything, they had proven quite the opposite time and time again, but it was more that the explosions would surely stop the successfully proceeding assault dead in its tracks.
Of course, before Gunther could even finish fully forming this thought, he realized two things:
First off, the fire (upon anything more than the most surface level inspection) sounded nothing like an automatic grenade launcher and secondly, the source of the fire was coming from behind them.

Gunther turned around to see the turret of an Orkan IFV peeking over the embankment at the base entrance, lighting up the insurgents on the runway with 25mm autocannon fire at 600 rpm. While the Ramparts had been built with the Orkan being able to fire out in mind, it seems being able to fire in from the outside was equally unproblematic, extremely beneficial in the current situation. Gunther peeked his head up over the barricade, allowing him to see the carnage being wrought on the base’s attackers. In the few seconds Gunther had been behind cover, the IFV’s had already inflicted an entire squad’s worth of enemy casualties, their bodies strewn about the runway, having suffered grievous injuries, with some even blown limb from limb by direct hits from 25mm high-explosive shells. The rest of the insurgents were scrambling for the cover of the trenches (though even these offered only minimal protection from the IFV’s enfilading fire) or directly back towards the treeline.

With the immediate threat to 2nd platoon, from the enemy advance, dealt with, the Orkan switched over to its coax, only occasionally firing off short bursts or even single shots from its cannon. Only an RPG rocket, which flew harmlessly past a good two metres above the tank elicited a more substantial response, with a large burst from the cannon presumably eradicating the offender.

A second IFV rolled into view (Gunther’s vision to it was, up until now, blocked by one of the tents next to him) as both vehicles set off, driving towards the runway at around the pace of a quick march. In the meantime, the insurgents had thrown a pair of smoke grenades (no doubt an emergency reserve for just this occasion) between themselves and the IFVs, as the previous smoke from the assault had already dispersed into a larger diffuse smoke blanket, which enveloped the base. This however did little to cause the Orkan’s fire to abate, with the vehicles continuing to fire bursts of machine-gun fire through the building smoke from the grenades.
Rolling over the trenches and onto the south side of the runway, the IFVs proceeded to move down the runway towards 2nd platoon, their dismounts in tow behind and to either side of them.

Once the IFVs had made it up to just before the barricade, a woman emerged from one of the squads and made her way up to 2nd platoon. Rietmaior moved to greet her.

“About time you showed up!” Rietmaior said in a firm but very obviously elated tone.
“We tried to call ahead, but we weren’t getting through to anyone on your frequency.” The HSK leader replied. “Doesn’t help that our comms have been patchy since we rolled over a mine yesterday.”
“Where’s the rest of you?” Iordann asked.
“One of the Orkans threw a track trying to go around an insurgent IED. We heard the gunfire, so we decided to leave the mech inf there to cover them and pushed on without ‘em.” She explained. “Glad we did, too. Seemed like you were in a bit of trouble there.”
“If you’d waited a couple of minutes, you would have probably gotten to see us use our bayonets.” The Iordann replied.
“Now that’s something I would have wanted to see! A CeeBee tryna’ stab a guy with a bayonet!” the woman let out a momentary chuckle. “When’s the last time they made you lot do bayonet drill? Not exactly known for getting up close and personal, are you?” The platoon leader quickly changed topic to more serious matters, “so what’s the situation?”
“Well, you’d have to ask lieutenant colonel Sunfried for an exhaustive report, but from my perspective – we’ve been under constant attack for the past 24 hours, the base aid station is overflowing with wounded, and the ammo situation is ‘we have a grand total of about 3 rounds between all of us’.”
“That bad, eh? Well then it looks like we showed up at just the right time!” The woman continued, “speaking of names, I’m lieutenant Theresa Rosgadr 1st troop, beta squadron, 81st Combined Arms Battalion.”
“Second lieutenant Iordann Rietmaior 2nd Platoon, alpha company, 112th CEB.” The man replied.
“We’ll Mr. Rietmaior, nice meeting you. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a unit to lead right now. I’m sure we’ll have ample time to talk in the near future, so until then!” And with that the officer returned to her unit, barking out orders as she approached them.

As the men and IFVs of the 81st started splitting up into teams to take up positions around the base and Iordann called the platoon over to issue new orders, Gunther’s awareness finally caught up to the situation. They had made it. They had actually made it! The assault was over, and the insurgents had
been beaten back.

The rest of the early morning was a blur to Gunther. The debrief in particular had been almost entirely wiped from his mind the moment he was finished with it.
They had been briefly ordered back onto the defences until they were swapped out with the rest of the relief force, which arrived roughly half an hour later, after which they were debriefed and told to help with cleanup efforts.
Most of the remaining time was spent clearing landing zones and assisting with the many Verdalian casualties, which could now finally be evacuated via helicopter to higher level facilities to provide a more adequate level of care. Thrasmund managed to organize a quick send-off by the squad for Hunrich as he was being sent off back to Verdalia to recover. Additional work came in the form of cleanup duty. The many insurgent (and to a much lesser degree Verdalian) corpses, as well as the captured prisoners needed to be collected and processed. Bodies needed to be tagged and bagged, Equipment needed to be catalogued and stored, and prisoners needed to be held until they could be transported. The initial work of cleaning up the most obstructing of the wreckage and debris around the base was also started with.
By the time Gunther and the rest of his platoon made it back to their tents, it was 3 PM. Gunther had slept for maybe 8 of the past 60 hours if he was being generous and the toll it was taking on his mind and body was beginning to really show. Collapsing onto his bed, he fell asleep before his head even hit the pillow and did wake up until, ironically enough, 2 AM the following da. Having woken up, he meandered over to his squads usual smoking spot and found a good portion of the usual suspect already there. This time however they were, without exception, all carrying their weapons with them.

Over the following days, things in the camp slowly returned to normal. The armoured infantry platoon from the 81st had quickly set off towards Zarvandar to scout out the settlement and assess the damage done by the insurgents. After remaining there for a day, the platoon handed off to local forces and set off back to Kapasia. The platoon of mechanized infantry meanwhile remained at the base to provide increased protection.
After Verdalian heavy lift assets arrived, the lone ASTr platoon was quickly replaced by a pair of more heavily equipped military police platoons, further boosting security.
By the end of the week, construction operations were once again back in full swing, with the only difference being that materials were now being transported in via helicopter, as the central highway connecting Zarvandar to Kapasia was heavily contested by the insurgents.

Aftermath of the Battle of Zarvandar

The altercation, which became known as the Battle of Zarvandar in Verdalian circles, was one of the bloodiest endured by the Verdalians during the June 2nd insurgent offensive, with base personnel suffering upwards of a 40% casualty rate (Though this includes minor non-incapacitating injuries). Nevertheless, given the base’s low readiness and relative lack of firepower compared to front line formations, casualties were considered to be remarkably light.

As a result of the attack on the base, defences would be bolstered significantly in the following days and weeks, with the more civilian oriented ASTr platoon quickly replaced by a pair of more traditional gendarmerie military police platoon (Profoßkarabiniere; ProfKa). Additional security would be provided, initially by a platoon of mechanised Infantry from the 81st Combined Arms Battalion and later by a company sized air force (Luftstreitkräfte) force protection (Objektschutz) contingent.

With base personnel barely able to hold their own position within the base during the attack, the town of Zarvandar itself was left to the wolves, with dire consequences. Distinguished due to the presence of the former Zarvandar aerodrome, as well as its ethnic Galatocrian inhabitants and relatively
isolated position roughly half-way between Namtara and Tarnaka, Zarvandar had always been one of the more difficult settlements for the Republikanos Stratos to defend. It was hoped, that by allowing the Verdalians to set up their base of operations at the disused aerodrome, that the defence of the town could essentially be offloaded, freeing up outsized Galatocrian assets relative to the town’s actual importance. This of course relied on the Verdalian base being at least somewhat complete and manned. As it was the settlement fared essentially the same as it would have without the Verdalians presence, with the insurgents given free rein until the arrival of the of the Verdalian (and later Galatocrian) relief force over 24 hours later.
When Verdalian forces finally entered the settlement on the 3rd, the damage had already been done. Insurgents, going house to house, systematically purged large swathes of the town’s population. Most died within their homes, hunkered together and awaiting a rescue which would come far too late. Those which attempted to flee towards the airbase or along the central highway were cut down by prepared insurgent positions. The bulk of those that survived instead had chosen to flee into the wilderness surrounding the settlement, cautiously returning once the insurgent threat had subsided.
The local police substation was turned into a burned-out husk, the handful of officers which manned it hung from a nearby tree for good measure. Many other parts of the town had also been burned down, with fires left to spread unchecked. Defiled and mutilated corpses were an all-too-common sight, with most who witnessed the aftermath preferring to believe these acts all occurred after death rather than when the victim was still alive.

In total, of the roughly 1500 people living in Zarvandar, only about 200 survived the insurgent attack. Accordingly, the event would become known as the Massacre at Zarvandar among the Galatocrians, with the battle which took place at the airbase mentioned only in passing, if at all. The event would also be seized upon by Galatocrian nationalists and the occasional insurgent sympathiser, who exploited the public’s limited knowledge about the events in order to stoke animosity between the Galatocrians and international forces. Often omitting certain facts or simply lying wholesale, the most common claim was that Verdalian base personnel simply stood by as the slaughter took place, remaining in the base either out of sheer cowardice or out of outright malice. Occasionally it was even claimed that the insurgent attack was just a cover story, and the Massacre was in actuality committed by the Verdalians themselves or some other pro-Government group.
While most remained unconvinced, as similar incidents had occurred or been barely averted in large parts of the rest of Galatoria, the conspiracy would linger in certain circles far longer than it had any right to, occasionally leading to violent incidents between the Galatocrians and the Verdalian forces,
but also, to a more limited extent, against the international forces in general.

Casualties

The base defenders suffered 13 KIA, which have been listed individually here:

Anlagenschutztruppe (ASTr)

Paulus Gislar (28): Suffered multiple chest wounds during the initial defence of the base. Initially survived, but ultimately died of blood loss at the base medical post (which had been turned into an impromptu surgical centre) after it was determined that the bases limited medical resources could save a greater number of lives if used elsewhere.
Theodorich Gento (24): Received a fatal shot to the head while defending the base from the initial insurgent attack.
Theresa Valentinius (22): Shot in the leg, severing the femoral artery. Survived after quick application of a torniquet only to suffer multiple shrapnel wounds, while being carried to the medical post, due to a close RPG impact. Dead by the time she was finally gotten to the aid post.
Gelmar Theodot (40): Shot a combined total of 9 times during the final insurgent assault. Declared Dead on Arrival at the medical post.

Construction and Engineering Corps

Friedrich Ammatus (22): Shot in the Gut during the initial defence of the base. After successful initial surgery, his condition gradually deteriorated due to an infection from gut bacteria entering the bloodstream. Evacuated via (Brigantine) helicopter late in the afternoon once assets became available. Ultimately died of Sepsis on route to Kapasia.
Gelarius Rechiar (27): Hit in the head by a large piece of shrapnel while carrying Theresa Valentinius (see above) to the medical post.
Eudocius Valmirsen (19): Killed instantly by an RPG impacting less than a metre away, experiencing total body disruption due to the blast.
Richard Ansil: Received multiple severe burns and other injuries from shrapnel due to a nearby RPG impact. Classified as Expectant (“hoffnungslos”), given morphine and allowed to die at the medical post.
Adulph Theedicus (32): Shot in the head by a pistol calibre round, which penetrated the right eye socket and exited cleanly out of the top-rear of the head. Miraculously survived the initial wound with seemingly minimal effects, beside significant disorientation and confusion. Still able to walk. Collapsed shortly after entering the aid station and suffered a massive seizure resulting in death.
Sigfried Siggen (25): Part of the fireteam from 1st platoon 2nd squad (1-2), which was overrun during the final insurgent assault, resulting in the entire team ending up as casualties. Shot “Mozambique style” with two shots to the chest and one to the head. Based on impact angle, the shot to the head occurred while he was already incapacitated on the ground.
Wiederich Mühler (21): Part of 1-2. Shot over 20 times, presumably when an enemy combatant emptied an entire magazine into his body after he went down. DOA.

Medical Contingent

Siegmar von Greuten (48): Shot by retreating insurgents while retrieving casualties in the immediate aftermath of the final assault. Airlifted to Kapasia. Despite good prognosis and classification of injuries as not life-threatening during triage, condition deteriorated suddenly and rapidly after some time. Ultimately suffered cardiac arrest and died due to previously undiagnosed internal bleeding.

Logistics Contingent

Johann Autzen (18): Shot in the side of chest, piercing both lungs. Quickly died of a combination of blood loss and asphyxiation after arriving at the medical post.

Injuries by contrast were somewhat more common, with 46 base personnel suffering some degree of injury during the confrontation, though many of these were walking wounded who continued to fight or helped with treating more severe injuries.

The most common of these were blast and other, fragmentation related, injuries from RPGs, other explosives and/or bullet fragments from ricochets and near misses. These accounted for 29 injuries with 9 of these being serious enough to be immediately life threatening. A further 11 were urgent but not requiring immediate medical intervention, with the rest being minor enough to be treatable without medical personnel (bandages and antiseptic) or stable enough for care to be delayed for several hours.

The next most common category was (unsurprisingly) gunshot wounds, accounting for 13 casualties. Generally more severe when they did occur, only 1 Injury (a grazing shot) fell into the minor category, with the majority (8) naturally requiring prompt medical care. Another 4 injuries, consisting of shots which passed cleanly through a target without hitting bones or major blood vessels, were classed as urgent but not life threatening.

The final 4 injuries each fall into a category of their own, not occurring directly as a result of enemy action. One man tripped and fell in the scramble to man the defences, managing not only to break his arm, but also to concuss himself to such a degree, that he remained unconscious for close to a quarter of an hour. Another man caught food poisoning, severe enough to fall into the urgent category, after consuming contaminated food he had bought from the locals the day prior.
A third man received a minor injury due to friendly fire, receiving a cut to the head believed to have originated from shrapnel from the relief force’s 25mm cannon fire, which were fired danger close in order to destroy and insurgent group attacking the fireteam the man was a member of.
The final man, in still not entirely clear circumstances, managed to cut off his right index finger with a bayonet while guarding the outer perimeter with the rest of his fireteam. Besides confirming that the injury was self-inflicted, none of the members of the team are willing to divulge any further details regarding the incident, even under threat of court martial.

Base personnel (thankfully) suffered no missing in action.

An exact count of enemy numbers and especially casualties is hard to ascertain, as there were several known instances of insurgents going to great lengths, even at great risk to themselves and others, to recover fallen combatants. Whether this was motivated merely by strict adherence to local burial customs or represented some organised effort to obscure the true casualty count, is unknown. Nevertheless, using a combination of those casualties which were discovered, and reports made during and after the battle, it is possible to construct a rough outline of the size, composition and casualty rate of the enemy force which assaulted the base on the 2nd and 3rd of June.

Based on these facts, it is estimated that the force, which attacked the Zarvandar and the airbase, was between 400 and 750 men strong, possibly reinforced by an additional roughly 100-man strong element after the initial failed assault in the early morning of the 2nd. This additional element is believed to have been better trained and equipped, explaining the more complex tactics used in the subsequent assault on the 3rd, which allowed the enemy to achieve a breakthrough.
The enemy is believed to have been equipped almost exclusively with small arms and some limited man portable AT weapons. No vehicles or artillery pieces are known to have been used.

Estimating enemy casualties proved equally difficult. 126 enemy bodies were recovered in the aftermath of the battle. 76 immediately around the base (from both assaults), 23 on and inside the base defences and 19 within the base proper. Only 8 bodies were found in the wider area surrounding the base, during searches carried out in the days following the attack. Expended and discarded medical supplies were a much more common find, with 21 of these locations of various sizes found. Additionally, 16 combatants were captured by friendly forces, mostly those incapacitated by injury during the battle.

Accordingly, it is estimated that between 300 and 400 casualties were inflicted on the enemy, with between 150 and 250 of those being deaths. Here a greater proportion of deaths (In comparison to the Verdalian casualty mix) is assumed, both due to worse quality medical treatment and a much higher proportion of casualties caused by rifle rounds rather than shrapnel.

Political fallout

The Battle of Zarvandar was an especially contentious topic in the domestic discussion surrounding the June 2nd Offensive, with the anti-war camp holding it up and proclaiming it as an example, which would become the norm, should Verdalian involvement in the conflict continue.

In particular the usage of the ASTr, led to a great deal of criticism from the Verdalian public, with many arguing that the ASTr should never have been deployed to such a risky position in the first place, as the Verdalian government had promised that Gendarmes would only be deployed in rear areas. The Government countered that Zarvandar airbase had been considered rear area and that the risk to personnel stationed at Zarvandar was considered minimal (prior to June 2nd). It was further argued that installation defence had been specifically carved out as an exception to the rear area rule and thus
even if the risk had been higher, the deployment would have still been permitted. Nevertheless, the replacement of the ASTr with the more heavily armed ProfKa was undertaken and went some way to alleviate the public’s concern (Despite both technically being gendarmes).

Much ink was spilled at home by military personnel of various ranks (retired or otherwise), historians and armchair strategists alike, over whether or not the position at Zarvandar even remained tenable. With the central Highway heavily contested by the insurgents and (safe and consistent) supply by land therefore cut off, it was argued by many, that the base was effectively besieged and that rather than continue to reinforce the position, the VNS should just cut its losses and abandon the base. The debate became so prominent in fact, that the Verdalian government would be forced to issue a public statement in which they clarified, that contingencies for such a scenario were in place and that the general staff was in agreement, that the position would not be abandoned (barring any unforeseen developments).

Strategic consequences

The change of Zarvandar, from a supposedly safe base comfortably behind the lines to a frontline strongpoint inside contested territory necessitated a range of adjustments in VNS planning in Galatoria. Besides the obvious need for additional base defence (far sooner than initially expected) the Verdalians would also need to rapidly commit large contingents of rotary heavy lift assets to resupply the base, which was effectively cut off until control could be reestablished over the central highway. To this end Verdalia would draw up these assets as quickly as possible, even to the detriment of still undeployed units from already committed formations, further delaying the arrival of these assets. By the end of the week on June 7th, almost all Verdalian heavy lift assets had either been deployed to Galatoria or were being used to ferry troops and supplies there from Verdalia.

Verdalia and the wider June 2nd insurgent offensive

The insurgent offensive, which began on June 2nd, would come as a wake-up call to all parties involved in the conflict, the Verdalians being no exception. In the minds of Verdalian civilian and military leaders alike, the situation in Galatoria had suddenly gone from a stable, low-intensity insurgency, which was well under control by Galatocrian and international forces, to a nation on the brink of collapse, with little more than a second insurgent push required to topple the Galatocrian state completely.

Of course, that second push would not (and in fact could not) come. The sheer scale of the black eye inflicted on the insurgents had gone mostly unnoticed by government aligned forces and only became truly apparent in the weeks and months following the offensive. The insurgents had pooled almost all of their forces and bet almost everything on one grand offensive, which would overrun the enemy and bring a quick victory. When the resulting operation failed to achieve most of its ultimate goals and led to the destruction of almost half of the participating insurgent forces, it sent the enemy leadership reeling and forced a major revaluation of the insurgent strategy. The “swift victory” faction, which had been dominant prior to the offensive, was delegitimised and unseated practically overnight, replaced by those who favoured a strategy of more protracted, drawn-out warfare. Big set piece battles were replaced with smaller-scale, quick attack and quick withdrawal operations, with one insurgent leader captured after the offensive stating: “Never again were we going to risk our entire military force for such an offensive. On the contrary, from then on, we endeavoured to preserve our military potential as much possible for future operations.”

A major topic of discussion after the offensive was centred around how allied forces had been caught so off-guard by the insurgents. After all, initial signs of impending enemy action had been picked up as early as mid-February and by the start of May (at the latest) allied intelligence was convinced that something big was underway, with one high-ranking Verdalian officer stating (in an official report) that the insurgents were expected “to undertake an intensified countrywide effort, perhaps a maximum effort, over a relatively short period of time.”
The primary reason for the allied intelligence failure would ultimately be determined to lie within the allied intelligence methodology itself. Simply put, predictions on the enemy’s course of action were based upon their capabilities, not their intentions. Since, based on allied intelligence, the insurgents didn’t possess the capability to successfully launch a general offensive even if they had wanted to, “There was little possibility that the enemy could initiate a general offensive, regardless of his intentions.” (As one report stated). A Verdalian military analyst summed up the situation: “Even if we'd gotten the whole battle plan, it wouldn't have been believed. It wouldn't have been credible to us.”

Another hot-button issue discussed, in the aftermath of the offensive, was the role the media should play in informing and influencing the public. At the start of the conflict, the VNS allowed unprecedented access for journalists in Galatoria, with almost no restrictions on the press (a marked departure from policy during the Great War and Maurilo-Medinine insurgency). These factors produced coverage the likes of which had never been seen before, with explicit coverage of human suffering available from the comfort of the Verdalian living room. In addition, and unlike in previous conflicts, where Verdalian coverage was almost universally supportive, journalists in Galatoria were often highly critical of the VNS and the Verdalian government during the June offensive, and generally painted a rather bleak picture of the situation.

In a particularly memorable broadcast, captured during the offensive, Verdalian journalist Huberth Groenmeyer gave a report from the Galatocrian capital of Kapasia, with constant gunfire audible and fires from burning buildings lighting up thick clouds of black smoke in the background. He finished the
report with a statement: “The time has come to call a spade a bloody shovel. This country [Verdalia] is in an undeclared and unexplained war in Galatoria. Our Leaders have a lot of long and fancy names for it, like ‘police action’ and ‘peacekeeping operation’, but it’s a war just the same.” a statement only hammered home, when moments later the deafening sound of a nearby explosion could be heard, sending the entire news crew scrambling for cover.

With the situation in Galatoria being presented as rapidly deteriorating, public attitude with regards to the conflict reached an all-time low. Large portions of the Verdalian public called for the withdrawal of all Verdalian troops from the conflict, a proposal which was even briefly considered at the highest levels of the Verdalian government and military. Proponents argued that the insurgent offensive, which occurred mere weeks after the Verdalians arrived, was a sign and that further involvement in the conflict would bring only pain and suffering, with all of the worst fears expressed by the public prior to the intervention becoming reality, as could be seen by the news coverage.

Once casualty figures had been compiled, showing that the Verdalians had actually withstood the offensive remarkably well, and feared predictions (from media and anti-war protesters alike) about the collapse of the Galatocrian government failed to come to pass in the days and weeks following the offensive, much of the public’s discontent with the conflict dissolved. Instead, the focus shifted to the sensationalist reporting, which had been the primary cause of the public panic and had even managed to influence those who had access to reliable inside information, pointing to a far less dire picture than the media was reporting.

In the resulting inquiries, several news companies would reveal that they felt pressured to release news stories as soon as possible, regardless of potential inaccuracies, due to fears that potential stories would be “scooped” by competing outlets, driving down sales and losing the company readers. In
addition, sensationalism would also be implicitly encouraged to drive engagement, with stories provoking anger and outrage being particularly favoured by outlets as “easy winners”.
As accusing the Verdalian government and/or military of incompetence or other improprieties, such as corruption, was a surefire way to generate such stories, any information of events, which hinted at such things, were especially amplified, even if the underlying realities of the situations were ultimately far more benign.

As a result, the Verdalian Media Council, in cooperation with the National Defence Directorate, would set out new guidelines for journalists and war correspondents operating in Galatoria. Rather than reinstitute censorship regimes, as had been done during previous conflicts, the council instead opted
to implement a simple regime of tiered news embargoes. All events in Galatoria would be subject to a mandatory 24-hour embargo, still allowing relatively up-to-date coverage of events on the ground but preventing hasty reporting by allowing media publications enough time to properly source and contextualize their reports. This embargo would be extended to 72 hours for events involving service member deaths, or which mentioned locations of any Verdalian assets. Verdalian forces also reserved the right to set an arbitrarily long agreed upon embargo on any information provided to journalists by them. This was used primarily to inform the media about upcoming Verdalian operations, while preventing security breaches that might stem from premature release of such information.

While these guidelines were non-binding in theory, in practice Verdalian forces and officials would refuse to talk or provide information to journalists who did not agree to abide by them and those who broke the terms were blacklisted and essentially barred from operating in Galatoria entirely. Officials justified this approach by highlighting that the fight for the information space was as important as – if not more important than – the fight on the ground.

Casualties

Verdalian forces, all things considered, suffered only relatively minor casualties during the offensive. This can be attributed primarily to the concentrated nature of Verdalian forces, with Verdalian assets such as the 81st CAB either performing joint manoeuvres with the rest of Brigantine and Galatocrian forces of the Verdalian Joint Brigade or remaining stationed at Kapasia International Airport. The only exception was the small contingent of Troops sent to Zarvandar for the construction of the Verdalian airbase there, which (as discussed above) had a much higher casualty rate.

In total the Verdalians suffered 97 casualties during the offensive, with the majority of these (59) occurring as a result of the insurgent assault on Zarvandar. The next largest sources of casualties were the defence of Kapasia Airport (17) and the subsequent involvement in the wider defence of Kapasia in general (21). Of these casualties, 19 were deaths, with the defence of Zarvandar once again making up the bulk (13) of these. The proportionally much higher percentage of deaths relative to casualties at Zarvandar can be attributed to the lack of proper medical and surgical equipment at the base, as well as its greater distance from larger medical facilities to which wounded personnel could be safely evacuated. Of the remaining 6 deaths, 2 occurred in the defence of Kapasia airport (one of which due to a VBIED set off at the vehicle access gate upon the start of the insurgent assault) with the remaining 4 consisting of individual casualties taken during the defence of the city proper.

by **Stalwart Socialist Republics of Briganti** » Sat Apr 11, 2026 2:20 pm

Observation Post Cywiro, Galatocrian Mountains - 2nd June 10:00

During the beginning of the attacks the Observation Posts had been routinely bypassed. OP Cywiro had only been probed twice at range by mortars which had been silenced by airstrikes. It seemed like any other day and one couldn’t tell that the country was in the throes of battle.

Gotch felt apprehensive as he watched Nessid and her pair dust off in the Ataliwr-77 helicopter, its contra-rotating blades whirred as its engine spooled up, taking it off the ground and gracefully into the air.

Gotch waved as it left before returning to the radio room. Since the early hours of the morning they had been on high alert and Gotch had listened to the incoming reports of combat from the Urban lowlands. The mountain passes between the outposts were swarming with insurgents but it seemed that they were more focused on heading into Urban Galatoria proper rather than trying to storm the well defended yet isolated Observation Posts.

In the At-77 Nessid sat next opposite her two squad mates. Plaits, or Trooper Ffion Trevelyan, was the trio's Signaler. Unflapable, precise and introverted she made a perfect fit for a radio operator and as such had been laboured to carry the 12kg radio set. Plain looking, her face gave away nothing except faint hints of glumness. Her hair from which she gained her nickname was tightly tied back in two brown plaits.

Next to her and closest to the door was Baldy, or Trooper Brona Kaern. She had been in a year longer than Trevelyan and had signed on as a volunteer after completing her two years of national service. This was her first. She had gained the burns around her ear after being involved in a car crash as a child rather than some military action. As soon as she was conscripted and away from her parents she had kept her hair shaved short, earning her her nickname. In terms of temperament she was the opposite of Trevelyan. Emotive, aggressive and outspoken. Loyal to a fault, at least to Nessid, she had a zero tolerance attitude. One day she would make an excellent NCO, or mother.

In the helicopter with them were the two pilots and crew chief. The crew chief was sat next to Nessid and was turned away, looking out of the forward canopy and at the back of the two pilots.

The helicopter lurched upwards and forward, rolling towards their OP which was only a few minutes away by air, a journey that would have taken them nearly a whole day of travel if done on foot.

The trio sat in silence, Nessid and Brona stared out the window at the brown-beige of Galatoria’s mountains. Ffion looked downwards, her radio between her feet. The helicopter's flight evened out as it set into its course.

Suddenly and without warning the cabin juddered. Metallic pings rang out like hailstone hitting a sheet roof. Ffion hunched into the corner and huddled her arms up against her head. Glass shattered and the engine whined as the At-77 banked hard to the side. She felt Brona thrash out and grab at her as she was thrown about in her seat. The pings carried on. There was a wet smack, like a fist hitting a sack of meat. Ffion felt something wet splatter on her arms and neck, accompanied with the gurgling sounds of someone choking on their own blood. One of the people in the front had been hit, she didn’t dare look up to see who. The smell of burning and iron filled her nostrils.

“This is 322, Pan! Pan! Pan! I say again Pan! Pan! Pan!” said one of the pilots.

There was a pause and the helicopter banked again, this time to the right and the crack of automatic gunfire and pings of rounds hitting the helicopter died off.

“Arwel…Arwel wake up god damn it! F*ck!”

Brona was still holding onto Ffion’s arm. She felt Brona inhale sharply in a harsh gasp, followed by a scream that was cut off in her throat. Ffion looked up. The crew chief was leant forwards, held up by his harness his arms flopped downwards and hung by his ankles, his form limp he bled like a sieve into a growing pool of blood. Nessid was leant back, her hands resting around her neck. Her mouth was open and lifeless, blood splattered her face and ran from her mouth and a gouging wound that’d opened across her neck. Upstaring eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Ffion quickly shifted her eyes to the cockpit. The horizon tilted, rotated and banked through the forward glass as the pilot on the right took evasive action. To his left the other pilot sat limply, lolling back and forth, shifting in his seat with every movement.

“Gwelin, Gwelin!...” The pilot shouted back, not turning to look.

“Is anyone alive back there?!?” he asked.

“Yeah, two of us.” Ffion shouted back.

“Okay!” he shouted.

Brona had her other hand across her mouth. Ffion rose and she felt Brona tugging at her arm. She yanked herself free and Brona seemed to snap out of it. Tears streaked down her grimaced face and she reached for her rifle, clutching it to her body. Ffion nodded and walked the best she could towards the cockpit, steadying herself with her arms.

Reaching the threshold of the door she stared inside. Multiple lights on the panel flashed and various alarms and buzzers were going off. The pilot briefly looked over his shoulder, acknowledging her presence. The Co-pilot, or maybe the pilot themselves, in the left seat was clearly dead. Riddled with bullets just like the crew chief.

“What’s going on?” The pilot asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me that.” Ffion replied.

“I meant in the back.” he came back shortly, focusing more on piloting the helicopter.
“Your crew chief and our squad leader’s dead.”

There was silence after that. The engine was making an unhealthy sound and the smell of smoke was getting stronger although Ffion couldn’t see any. The pilot flicked as switched and spoke again, this time into the radio.

“This is 322, Pan, Pan, Pan, I say again Pan, Pan, Pan.”

There was another silence. He turned to her.

“I think the radio’s f*cked, you got one back there you can use?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Ffion replied before turning back to grab it.

Dragging it towards the cockpit she pulled the handset free and braced in the doorway. Switching it on she watched it flicker to life. Checking the channel settings she turned to the pilot.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Our callsign is helicopter 332, were declaring a Pan-pan, were off course and trying to make it to Op 221. The Channel is 105:15.”

Ffion spoke into the radio, broadcasting the information, she hoped someone was listening.

“...over.”

She waited ten seconds and it seemed like there would be no response.

“Roger that 332, this is 0, we are—” before the voice on the other end had a chance to finish there was a loud bang that came from the engine followed by a grinding noise. The helicopter dropped, Ffion felt herself being lifted up. Hitting her head on the roof she quickly fell back down to the floor. The pilot swore.

“MAYDAY! SEND A MAYDAY!”

Ffion brought the handset up again. Whoever it was they had stopped speaking.

“332 Mayday! I say again Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” she said.

The voice came back but it was a garbled mess. She looked up. The picture outside the cockpit was frightening. The blue skies were rapidly being replaced by the brown-grey of the mountains as the helicopter sank from the sky.

Ffion hoped that the message had been received.

“What’s happening? Are we crashing?”

“Engine 2 just died, engine 1 is overheating…yes we're crashing. Did you send the message?” He asked.

“Yes”

“I’d suggest getting back to your seat and bracing. I’ll do my best.” said Co-Pilot Glasten and with that she turned and made her way back to her seat, the pilot behind her fighting with the controls. She’d only just seen his name and position taped on the back of his seat.

The helicopter began to shudder as she made it back to her seat and strapped herself in. Brona was still sitting clutching her rifle, facing forward, fixated on her dead squad leader.

“Brona we're going to crash, you better brace.”

“Oh…” Brona replied before assuming the brace position.

The two waited in silence for the impact.

In the cockpit Glasten fought against the machine that was doing its best to kill him. The altimeter told him he only had a dozen or more seconds before they’d crash. He looked for a place to put down the chopper. It would be a rough landing but fatal? He wasn’t sure. With seconds left he chose a part of the slope that’d flattened out, somewhere where the At-77 wouldn’t be inclined to roll off. He watched the ground coming up through the glass. It loomed and the last engine screamed.

“Not flying…” He muttered “Not f*cking flying…”

About a second and a half before they touched down the engine cut out and it lurched, nose tipping and BANG!

The At-77 crunched into the flat. The glass that hadn’t been shattered did so now and the nose crumpled. Dust and rocks were kicked up and the blade bent downwards, still spinning they cut into each other, chopping themselves to bits and flinging debris in all directions. The door to the cabin came loose at the bottom and flung open, allowing dust and smoke into the compartment.

Ffion thought they’d died until she heard Glasten’s screams. Starting off slow they became louder and more guttural. The gooseflesh on her arms and back flared up. She rose to get up and Brona pushed her back down in an effort to get up and out of the chopper. Composing herself she got back up and watched as Brona leapt out the door.

Unslinging her weapon she followed. Stepping out of the cabin she saw Brona crouch and aim, scanning their new surroundings with twitchy movements.

“Clear! For now.” Brona said. “I’ll take up overwatch up there,” she gestured to a rocky outcrop about one hundred metres away, above them in elevation, “you help the pilot.”

Ffion gave an ‘ok’ sign to her before walking up to Glasten’s side of the helicopter. His door had fallen off and she could see him writhing, there was blood on his uniform. His screams had died down and he was moaning in pain as his body's adrenaline and natural pain killers took over. He was clutching at his leg, she could see that much.

Sticking her head in, she assessed the situation. His right leg had a visible dent in the upper thigh and his leg was bent at a sickening angle where part of the cockpit had broken it.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Glasten mumbled, unable to form a sentence before returning to mumbling. She looked for the pilot's morphine injector but couldn’t find it. She thought about using her own but doubled back into the helicopter through the cabin door.

Nessid’s corpse had twisted over in the crash and Ffion patted down her leg. Feeling three injectors she undid the pocket and pulled them free. Whilst she was there she also picked up the radio and dragged it back out with her.

Returning to Glasten she screwed the cap off one of the injectors reached across, plunging it into his good leg. He had gone silent now, breathing with deep, heavy breaths. He grunted as the needle pierced his skin.

“We're gonna have to move you.” Ffion told him.

“No…” he said, still hunched over.

Ffion undid his seatbelt and reached over to grab his shoulder and pull him free. As soon as she started to move him he let out a terrible scream and thrashed at her. Ffion caught the back of his hand to her mouth and staggered back tasting blood.

“More morphine…please…” He said, little louder than a mumble.

She stepped back into the cockpit.

“I can give you one more— Hey!”

Before she had a chance to finish he pinned her arm against the glass and snatched the injectors from her hand. Releasing her from his grip he unscrewed the caps from both and slammed them into his thigh, one after the other.

He sat up, his head lolling back and let out a ‘Woah’. After a few seconds his head tilted forwards and he started to laugh quietly before he faded out of consciousness.

Without a word Ffion tried to move him again. He stirred slightly but that was all. Freeing him from his seat she rolled him across onto her back and stood up. He was heavy but not too heavy.

She walked slowly around the front of the helicopter and looked up towards Brona’s position. She couldn’t see her, but knew she was there. She walked with laboured steps and careful deliberate footing towards the position.

The outcrop jutted out of the slope. Accessible from higher up, its steep face on the lower side offered no access or purchase. Ffion waddled up the rocky slope with the man on her shoulders, he weapon clattered and bounced off her knee. She wished she’d reslung it properly but if she stopped now and put Glasten down she was sure she wouldn’t be able to pick him up again.

By the time she reached the back of the outcrop she was near totally exhausted. Walking a few paces up the outcrop she looked for a place to set him down. Spotting a flattened area in a sunken part of the rock face she did her best to set him down gently.

“Brona?” she called out.

“Here!” came the response up ahead.

She jogged over to find her positioned facing down into the valley near the edge of the outcrop. Ducking down she lay next to her.

“Hows the patient?” Brona asked.

“Down for the count, his leg needs splinting. I need to go and get the radio, I’ll have a look for medical stuff on the helicopter.”

“Ok, I could hold this position for years.” Brona replied.

Ffion nodded and stood up, jogging back off the outcrop and down the slope, back towards the helicopter. Reaching it she saddled the radiopack on her back. Looking around the helicopter she found a splint and a collapsable stretcher. Exiting the helicopter, she ran back up the slope. Never in a million years did she think her radio would feel this light.

Returning to Glasten she removed the radio and knelt by him. She took out the stretcher and put it together. Positioning it so it was firm on the surface next to him she rolled him over onto it with a grunt. Once on it she did her best to splint his leg, but it was clear she was no medic, nor was Brona for that matter.

Ffion stopped to gather herself for a minute and catch her breath. The mountains were much cooler than the lowlands but the thin air was catching up with her exertion. A film of sweat covered her face beneath the hood and cooled her brow.

Picking up the radio she returned to Brona and began trying to reestablish contact.

Observation Post Cywiro, Galatocrian Mountains - 2nd June 10:05

Back at the OP Gotch hadn’t seen the helicopter go down but he had been made aware of the ambush by one of the other Rheidiwr at the outpost who reported the gunfire and watched the helicopter go down. In the intervening time he’d been able to switch channels and heard the mayday. The OPs CO, Lieutenant Eamon Vaughn, had quickly come to the radio room and roughly plotted the location of the crash site on the map. The ambush site was estimated to be 4.5km away and the crash site 7km. A few hours of hiking would be required in either case.

Gotch had been forming a plan since he’d heard the mayday. Once it was fully fleshed out he approached Vaughn, slamming his heels in he braced his arms against his sides.

“Sir!” he barked.

“Yes sergeant?” Vaughn, who had been studying the map, turned to him.

“Permission to take Corporal Meredydd with me to get eyes on the crash site?” Gotch asked.

Vaughn nodded “Granted, go immediately. I’ll be following you with a larger force in a few minutes, stay in radio contact and inform me as soon as you’re in position.”

“Yes Sir!” he braced again and left the radio room in a jog.

Running to the southern side of the OP he entered the bunker where Meredydd was lodged.

“Caddy! Get your gear and a radio, we're heading out.” he ordered.

Cadfan Meredydd was already dressed and had most of his kit next to him.

“On it!” he replied, rising and slinging his webbing on he grabbed his rifle and made to leave the bunker.

As Cadfan ran to get a manpack radio Gotch rushed to get his own gear and a RHL-63. Grabbing it he met Cadfan by the closest exit to the OP. Checking each other over as a final sanity check they set off, twenty paces apart.

The helicopter had crashed by their estimates in the next valley over. They ran down the slope that their OP was situated on. The hard, slow part would be ascending the opposite slope to get a good view of the crash site. Gotch knew that it might already be too late. When the seconds mattered, help was only minutes away. The thought chewed at his mind and spurred him on as he led the way. Caddy wasn’t far behind, still keeping pace despite the extra weight of the radio. If they kept up the pace they would be there in about ninety minutes.

Camp Vardanyan, North of Kapasia, Urban Galatoria - 2nd June 10:20

The two At-77 Gunships lifted from the concrete landing pads in near synchronicity. Part of a notional Reaction Force the two helicopters had been armed and scrambled as soon as possible following the mayday. Once up they began their flight up into the mountains.

The first was piloted by Captain Lerna Voskan and Lance Sergeant Milo Gweir. The second was piloted by Lieutenant Hovik Samarian, Galatocrian flight officer on part of their exchange program, and co-piloted by Lance Sergeant Rhosyn Pell. Only given a rough location of the crash they were to scout the crash site so that the situation could be assessed and survivors rescued if there were any. They were a good forty minutes of flying away.

Both pilots and helicopter had been flying non-stop since daybreak, conducting various missions to counter the attacks. This had meant that the helicopters were being serviced when the balloon went up and the pilots had to drop whatever pre-flight activities they had been doing.

Each At-77 carried four rocket pods carrying some one hundred and twenty eight anti-personnel flechette rockets as well as a 30mm autocannon.

Rising to a decent altitude Voskan led the way in callsign RF12, flight number 413. Flying in formation was RF13, 414.

Neither crew knew what to expect but had been told to avoid flying low which was somewhat counter to their training.

The Rocky Outcrop/Helicopter Crashsite, Mountains of Galatoria - 2nd June 10:25

“There’s no signal down here.” Ffion said flatly.

“What do you want to do?” Brona asked.

Ffion turned and craned her head up the slope.

“I might get a better signal up there on the ridgeline.”

“Ok but hurry, I keep seeing movement.”

Ffion sat the radio pack on her back and began her ascent. Brona listened to her footsteps as she left. Still scanning, she occasionally turned back to monitor Ffion’s progress until she lost line of sight.

The mountains were silent and any movement stuck out. At the moment she could see none. Occasionally at the edge of her vision she caught glimpses of movement but they fleetingly vanished before she could pinpoint them. Minutes went by.

Then there was something. Out front she could just about make out the noise of foot fall. The pat of sandals and the kicking of rocks. It was near the helicopter. Training her scope she scanned the scene, unsure of what to expect. Behind where it’d set down was a drop and deadground from her position.

A man’s towelled head began to rise above the horizon behind the helicopter. His face was covered in cloth with a narrow portion pulled apart for his eyes, revealing bronze skin and dark, beady eyes.
Brona pictured him in the sights of her rifle. As he climbed more of him was revealed. Dressed in beige clothing and a shawl, he carried a rifle across his chest. Approaching the helicopter he disappeared for a moment, out of line of sight.

From noise alone she could tell more were coming, and more came. Coming up the same path another man in similar garb came up behind him, and another, and another. After about a minute there were a dozen or so and the number grew.

Some pulled their facewear down, laughing, others climbed onto the helicopter in an almost child like manner. Hunters and their kill. Observing in silence, Brona knew that if she fired she would give her position away and that wouldn’t be good for anyone. Their numbers still grew and one produced a Nifonese camera.

One of the men exited the helicopter, a knife in a bloody hand and in the other…

Brona moved the scope away and bit down on her rage. Oh she wanted to kill them, but to fire now would be a slow suicide. It was best to bide her time and wait for them to leave. She simmered as she heard their talking and jubilations.

One of the things that was drilled into everyone during Rheidiwr training was the absence of the normal and the presence of the abnormal. Something had caught her eye but her mind was still playing catch up. She scanned for what had just triggered her instinct.

There it was. One of the men was not like the others. Not in appearance or dress, but behaviour. He was kneeling down, in silence, studying the ground between the outcrop and the helicopter. Another joined him by his side. He looked up and pointed up the path to the outcrop.

Brona remained motionless, her crosshairs trained on the man’s chest, waiting for him to identify her position. He didn’t and the moment passed. The talk died off slightly as the tracker and his friend turned to the growing crowd. The mob remained but the tracker began to climb towards the outcrop with a half dozen in tow.

Brona waited for an opportunity to look behind her. There was no sign of Ffion. Turning back she watched them come closer and closer. One-hundred metres wasn’t very far. As they got closer she took her head from the scope and looked out over the ironsights atop the scope.

Her finger curled on the trigger, taking it up to the safety. The first hint of recognition, the first flinch, she would fire. She began to hum and sing under her breath.

“Hullo, Hullo
We are the Rheidiwr Girls,”

The men came closer, more focused on the ground beneath them than the rocks upahead.

“Hullo, Hullo
We are the Rheidiwr Girls,”

They were now only thirty metres or so separating them.

“We’re up to our knees in jihadi blood,”

Now there were only fifteen metres, at ten she would fire regardless.

“Surrender or you’ll—”

The man froze and his eyes snapped, locking with hers for a split second.

“DIE! DIE! DIE!” The rifle cracked once for each word screamed. The silenced rounds hissed as they cut through the air and the rifles working parts barked and clacked. The tracker fell in a crumpled heap, dying before he hit the ground. Her second and third shot had found their mark in the two companions behind him who likewise folded. Before the remainder had even had time to react she had shot them too in quick, rapid succession. The last had only begun to bring his rifle up when she shot him in his mouth.

Teeth, grey matter, blood, bone and gristle was strewn out the back of his skull. He sprawled backwards, his face a fountain of blood.

Seven shots, seven down. She reclaimed the rifle down the slope to the helicopter. The rest of the men were in a bewildered state. Some had started grabbing the rifles. She scoped in on the man carrying the severed head and fired two rounds through his head in a double tap.

His head warped and deformed around his shattered skull, eyes bulged from their sockets. Leaving one in the chamber she rolled back out of sight as they began to fire back. Some must have seen her as the outcrop where she’d just been was hit several times, most went wide, up the slope.

She pulled the magazine free and swapped it for one in her webbing which she slotted into the magwell. With the gun in her hands and a hand on her fate she shifted to a different position. If they were going to push up to her position they would bring themselves into her new sight line.

She had five more magazines, including the one already in the gun. After that she was down to the magnum. The first appeared coming up the path. She fired a round that impacted his chest above his sternum, plunging through his torso. He fell out of sight, Brona was sure he was dead.

Another came up firing, rounds hit rock and stone kicking up fine pulverised dust with each shot. She silenced him with a shot through the nostril. Another appeared. She aimed and fired.

Ffion had almost made it to the top of the ridgeline when the shooting had started. Dropping behind a boulder she had turned to look down the slope. From her perch she could see Brona firing, the limp form of Glasten and the horde of Mujahideen coming up the slope. They were about two-hundred metres away, more than her SMGs effective range. Weighing up her options she decided to press onwards. There was only about one hundred metres to the top of the ridgeline. She began the last push to the top. Powering on with the last reserves of her strength she got closer and closer to her final destination. The firefight carried on behind her. At the top she could reestablish contact and speed up the arrival of aid, which would be vital if they were to live.

With only a few metres to go she locked in on the summit. Rounds pinged around her ankles, kicking up dust. She dived down and turned to see one of the fighters had noticed her. Firing his rifle up at her, there was no cover due to the slope. She took up the PPC-35 and fired on full auto, magdumping at the target and doing her best to account for the range.

As soon as it clicked empty she turned and began to push the last few metres, not checking to see whether she had found her mark. She reloaded as she ran. Just as she reached the top of the ridge and nearly into safety she felt a sharp pain erupt in her right shoulder blade. She arced up and twisted. A second shot came in, under her armpit. Breaking a rib it punctured her right lung before lodging itself in her chest cavity.

She stumbled forwards and fell onto her hands, sprawling on the rocks. Two more rounds whizzed past overhead. The pain was stunning, debilitating. Her breath rasped. Winded from the ascent she struggled to take in fresh air on one lung. Rolling she struggled at the radiopack’s straps. Looking behind her she couldn’t see down the slope. Confident that she was somewhat safe and not knowing the full extent of her injuries she was content to try and get the radio working.

With immense pain she shrugged off the pack and set it up. Her right side throbbed and she was still gasping for air. Sitting with the radio next to her and facing the enemy she adjusted the settings, back to the normal channel.

“This is Six-three-three…radio check…over.” She released the pressel. Each word a struggle, each word robbing her of oxygen.

“Hello Six-three-three, this is Cywiro Watch, send over.” Said one of Op Cywiro’s radio operators.

Her right arm was beginning to numb and she transferred the handset to her left.

“Three survivors at the crash site…two wounded…in contact…advise over.” She gasped.

As she waited for the response she felt her entire right side begin to numb. Sharp throbbing pain replaced by numbness. She dragged the gun closer to her and let it rest against her right leg, the pistol grip in hand.

“Hello Six-three-three, you’ve got a pair of fast movers heading to your location and two patrols are on route. The fast movers are on this channel, callsigns Romeo Foxtrot One-Two and One-Three, Over.” He replied.

Before she had a chance to acknowledge RF12 cut in.

“Hello Six-three-three we’re approaching your rough location, can you send up a flare and advise on the situation as we get closer, over.”

“Acknowledged.” was all she could manage.

With her left arm she reached for one of the paraillumination flares which she kept in her right side pocket. Planting it between her knees she did her best to hold it in place as she pulled the ring release. Tossing it aside she noticed her hand was soaked red with blood.

Looking down and to the right she noticed she was sat in a growing pool of blood that seeped from under her armpit. Her stomach dropped and a growing feeling of dread set in. She stuck her hand in and for a second the numbness was replaced by deep searing pain as she found the bullet hole.

She began to realise that she was hurt, seriously hurt, more so than she’d previously believed. Her breaths were growing shorter and shallower. Fear and panic was growing. There was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t run and she didn’t have the strength to deal with the wound.

“Flare spotted, we’re enroute, we’ll be with you in five.” came back RF12.

Ffion didn’t think she had that long.

“Roger that…multiple mujahideen…our position…ridgeline and rocky outcrop…danger close…last transmission from this callsign…” she dropped the handset.

“Say again over…Six-three-three Say again over! Six-” She twisted one of the radio buttons, purging it of encryption and killing it dead. She slumped backwards, her legs felt numb now and her vision was beginning to narrow.

A new feeling began to creep in. Calm. The gunfire and shouting was still going on but that too was fading now. She felt like she was floating, rather than lying on hard rock. The pain ebbed away and a feeling of euphoria took over. She grinned and began to laugh between gasping shallow breaths. In the distance she could make out two black dots against the blue sky. She swore she could hear their rotor blades making that chopping noise. She was positively giddy. Her last breaths were spent laughing as she happily died on the mountain.

Brona had shifted positions several times now and was down to her last two magazines for the DMR. They were coming in ebbs and flows, in little packs of men. She’d begun missing more and more shots as they moved from cover to cover instead of the initial mass rush.

Another fighter rose and dashed. She’d been waiting for him and fired three rounds in quick succession. He fell but her rifle was empty again. She fell back and threw a grenade at where he’d come from.

As she fitted the last magazine it detonated. The low crump was followed by a howling, bloodcurdling scream.

“I like the way you die, Mochynci.” she muttered to herself.

This would be the last position she held with the rifle, after this magazine it would only be useful as a club. Where the hell was Ffion?

She returned to the last firing position. The pilot, Glasten was only a few metres behind her, still unconscious. As she rounded the rock a fighter sprang up, lunging at her with a banshees cry.

She fired and the men fell forward at her feet. Another fighter behind him was ready and waiting and also rushed. As she brought her weapon up another flanking fighter fired on her. The weapon buckled and flew from her grip in pieces. Unarmed, the second fighter rushed into her. Unable to bring her pistol up she reached and drew her karambit, a sickle shaped that fit neatly in her hand.

The two impacted one another. His butt hit her in the plate in her body armour and her knife cut into the side of his right leg. Stunned, she fell back, the fighter on top of her.

He was in her face, still holding his rifle he struggled, unable to use his right leg. His breath was rancid which she could smell from the shawl that covered his face. The two were intertwined and struggling.

The man shouted something with a hint of pain in his voice and Brona struggled to free the blade. Rolling to the left she yanked it free and he yelped. Freeing her right hand she grasped at his face. Yanking his face covering free she was almost stunned by the fighter's appearance.

This was no man. This was a boy of thirteen or fourteen. Karambit in her left hand, she drew it across his throat and closed her eyes as red arterial spray covered her face. Choking and gurgling the fighter went limp, a dead weight. Pushing his head as far aside as she could she opened her eyes and saw a fighter running towards her.

She fumbled for her .357. Drawing it from its holster with blood slicked hands she raised and fired it. The fighter's shawl was flung off as the magnum round ripped through his head and he fell.

She rose and pushed the body off her fully. Two more fighters appeared in the breach and halted and began to aim. She entered a low, wide squat and they all fired at each other.

Firing from the hip the fighter’s shots went wide, though two close for comfort. Brona hammered away with the revolver. The first shot of hers also went wide but the second and third found their mark in a fighters chest and the fourth hit the second fighter in the guts, dropping him to his knees.

Brona turned and fell back further into the outcrop, such that anyone who tried to rush her would have no cover and she would have as much as she could get.

She crouched and then lay next to the pilot who still seemed to be out cold. She opened the cylinder and began to reload, one round at a time. A grenade was flung towards her position but it fell short and into a crater.

She still covered her head with her arm. The grenade went off with a bang. Dust and stone rained down. There was a rush of footsteps. The rounds she had been unable to load had been strewn across the ground. She checked the cylinder and locked it shut with a click, rising to a crouch. Three rounds. She raised the revolver, sunlight glinted off the chrome bodywork.

The first over the top she shot in the centre of his chest. The second came up firing, she flinched in panic as she fired off the second round, taking off the fingers on his left hand off at the knuckles before it hit his magazine. His weapon drooped, still firing. Bullets spilled from his magazine and the gun finally clicked empty. The man dropped his gun and clutch at his ruined hand. Brona steadied her aim at the man and waited. He looked up at her before turning and running. Brona let him.

As he beat a hasty retreat the third fighter came up past him. Brona fired, hitting high on his left shoulder he fell flatly on his back with a groan. Empty.

She swore and opened the revolver, lowering it she smacked the cylinder and three rounds fell onto the rocks. She fumbled for the rounds on her bandolier. As she was doing this, the fourth came into full view. In full panic now she dropped some of the rounds attempting to get just one in.

He stood and watched her as she desperately attempted to reload. He didn’t let her finish. He hit her with a burst on full auto. The feeling of a half dozen burning needles tore through her legs. White hot, jagged and sudden. Her shattered knees had already buckled before she’d felt the pain. Falling backwards her arms flung to the sides, the revolver caught around her thumb. Her legs flopped uselessly beneath her, twitching in a spasmoidic pattern.

She tried to sit up. Instinctively she clutched at her legs and felt warm blood ooze through her fingers. She screamed through clenched teeth.

The man who’d shot her approached and stood over her. She remembered the revolver that was still looped around her thumb. She brought it up to her chest in a jerky, fatigued motion, pain robbing her of strength.

Before she had a chance to close the cylinder the fighter stamped down on her hand, pinning it to her chest. He leaned forwards and placed the rifle to her head.

"Da ka-FA-ro sa-FAR dal-TA khat-MAY-gee." he spat in his harsh guttural language.

Brona winced and closed her eyes.

BANG!

She felt the foot lift from her arm. Opening her eyes in shock she saw the fighter jumping in shock, literally.

BANG!

He was hit a second time and jerked. His shawl dropped from his face as he howled, flinching he tried to turn away in shock.

Then there were several more gunshots in rapid succession, hitting his arms, legs, abdomen and groin. He danced like a man on fire before falling to the floor in a scream that cut off almost as soon as it started.

Brona looked over to her right. The pilot had propped himself up on one arm and his pistol was raised across his body. His face was pale and clammy, his eyes drooped.

He nodded at her, before lowering himself. He shook a smoking magazine free from the pistol and slammed another one in.

She could hear a high pitched whining noise as she went back to clutching her legs. After a few seconds she realised it was her whining and quickly did her best to quiet and calm herself.

She was still holding the revolver. Some of the dropped rounds caught her eye and she tried to reach for them but was immediately immobilised by the sharp pain in her legs. Huffing she placed the revolver on her chest and tried to instead get at her morphine, hoping it hadn’t been shot to bits. Mercifully one of the injectors was intact.

Pulling it free she screwed the cap off. Then she looked at both her legs properly for the first time. Both her knees were shot, both her thighs were shot, albeit to different degrees and there was no sign of arterial bleeding, her right calf was ruptured and flesh hung in strips from the torn fabric. The worst bleeding she could see was from her left ankle which had taken around too.

Injecting into her legs would be pointless.

“To hell with it!” she said as she plunged the injector into her left shoulder where her arm joined her chest.

After the sharp pain she felt the strange sensation of the cool liquid entering her blood stream. When it stopped she withdrew the needle and tossed it to the side. After a few seconds she felt the pain start to dull. Her heart that had been hammering away in her chest, slowed to a gentler pace.

Calm washed over her and she picked up the revolver and began the awkward task of reloading while lying on her back. After completing the reload she perched up. The pilot was still aiming at the approach.

She looked for a place to sit up properly behind her. There was a rock that would do, not thirty centimetres away.

Slowly and carefully she began to push backwards, dragging her legs behind her. She cried out in pain. The pilot turned to look at her for a second before returning his gaze. She made it to the rock and lowered herself.

“Are you alright?” he shouted to her.

“Yeah I’m still here…” she muttered, still in severe pain.

“Are you still with me?” he shouted again, not hearing her first remark.

“Yeah!” she said, seating herself better and pointing the revolver forwards.

“You got a plan?” he asked.

“I don’t think we're in much state to do anything even if I did have a plan?” she said, slurring the words slightly.

“Wasn’t there two of you?”

She thought for a moment. Where was Ffion? She’d probably seen this mess and hid herself and the radio. Brona didn’t blame her. She’d have done the same.

“I don’t know, calling for help.” She replied.

“Okay, okay.”

The Mujahideen were still there. Shouting insults at them from the other side of the rocks. Brona suspected they were probably going to wait till the evening before trying again. Brona didn’t like that idea. She’d probably be dead or close to dead by then, as for the pilot who knew what state he was in. He hadn’t looked healthy the last she’d seen. Either way they were gonna have to wait and hope help arrived soon.

Suddenly another grenade was flung up at them. It fell short again. The pilot lay flat and she did her best to cover her face. It exploded and debris rained down again. Stones and pebbles pattered down, chattering against the rocks. Patting herself down, she felt fine.

She began to laugh. The pilot heard her and joined her giggling with low throbbing laughter.

“You missed Mochynci!” and the pair laughed louder. There were shouts and Brona imagined swearing that followed this.

Another grenade was flung. Brona regretted making as much noise as she had, as the grenade landed right by her. Dropping the revolver she grabbed the grenade and threw it hard behind her and ducked in the opposite direction.

Feeling a sharp pain in her legs as she exerted herself she waited for the blast. The grenade skittered away and thankfully out of line of sight before it went off. A little too close for comfort, Brona could hear bells ringing in her ears.

“Two can play at that game soldier!” she shouted as she took her last grenade out.

Pulling the pin she tossed it and again there was a spike of pain in her leg as she threw it. She heard it clatter against rock. In the brief seconds before it blew up she heard shouting and foot fall as the Mujahideen scattered.

Blowing up, it too kicked up the accompanied amount of debris like the prior grenades. She picked the revolver out of her lap and listened.

There was shouting from the Mujahideen. Though this shouting sounded different. Less like the hard insults and more like a speech. When it ended it was followed by raucous laughter and hooping. Glasten and Brona glanced at each other before also bursting out in laughter.

As it died down the pair listened. The enemy was still there but was now talking and probably planning.

For whatever reason Brona took her eyes off the approach to their position. She looked to her right and up the mountain. The valley ended in a snow topped peak that reached towards the clouds. She looked to her left. The valley opened out into the lowland flats.

You could see for miles to the south and at night you could see the lights of Kapasia in the distance. The blue cloudless sky stretched endlessly. But that didn’t catch her eye. What did was the distinct shape of two black objects in the sky.

They were rapidly growing larger in size and as they entered the threshold of the valley Brona recognised what they were. The thudding whop-whop of rotor blades sang up the valley and echoed off its walls.

Below there were shouts. Panicky sounding. The two helicopters got closer and closer. Brona could make out the pilots in their black uniforms against the turquoise blue cockpit interior. Bulbous fly-like helmets that gave them an almost unhuman appearance.

At a few hundred metres distance they fired. Missiles ignited in an orange glow in their pods kicking out puffs of smoke and streaking white vapour behind them. As they closed there was a crack-pop and the air became a buzz of shrieking hisses, like a swarm of a thousand wasps.

Flechette darts filled the valley below. Whining, whistling, zipping, slicing and tearing. When they hit rock there were a hundred metallic pings. When they hit flesh there was wet slapping accompanied by a noise Brona could only liken to tearing canvas. She was amazed she could hear it in such detail.

Ricocheting darts began to rain down. Falling harmlessly on Brona like an impotent steel rain.
One of the gunships opened up with its autocannon in harsh barks. There was no answer from the enemy. Rounds exploded below the outcrop. Screams and whines filled the air. Grown men screeched in fear, others howled in pain.

“Shayāṭīn!” One of them screamed out.

The helicopters passed overhead. Heavy brass cases fell from the sky as it went over their position. Brona craned her neck to the right as the duo flew up the valley. Swooping up they were chased by the cracks of rifles. The two choppers split and banked in opposite directions before gracefully falling back into position for a second pass.

They drew nearer again and the rifle cracks died off as the fighters fled. The choppers didn’t let up and unleashed another deadly volley of flechette and cannon fire on the helpless men below.

Brona hoped that they had seen them. They passed again and as they did so she reached for a flare or a smoke grenade. Finding a purple smoke grenade she pulled the pin and rolled it a few feet to her front.

Hissing, smoke wafted up into the air. She watched the helicopters. They banked around again and hovered. One fired at targets unseen further down the mountain. The second hovered its nose towards the outcrop.

Brona’s heart dropped for a moment, thinking that they were about to be blue-on-blue’d. The first two passes had been close enough. The moment passed. The pair kept firing down into the valley.

After about a minute they nosed forwards again and drew closer to the outcrop. One flew wide and the other made a quick pass. Brona stared up and met the gaze of the pilot as they passed before she was forced to shield her eyes from the dust and rocks that were thrown up by the back wash.

It turned and came back. This time for a closer inspection. As it closed dust and small stones were kicked up and pelted the two injured Brigantines. Brona and Glasten shielded their faces as best they could. Eventually every loose item had been blown clear and Brona was able to lower her arm slightly.

The At-77 was hovering just metres off the ground. The purple smoke was blown away and then up into the rotors wash. The pilot gestured to her. Come here they beckoned. Brona shook her head. They beckoned again. Brona shook her head again, rubbing a hand on her trousers, she raised a bloodied hand. The pilot stopped and turned. The co-pilot stood up and unclipped themselves from the seat.

A moment later the door opened and they jumped the metre or so to the rocky outcrop. Jogging a pace or two forwards they knelt, turned and gestured to the pilot who dusted off, gaining altitude and distance from the ground. Once clear the pilot jogged over.

Clad in a black flightsuit and holding a pistol she could see a man’s face jutting below the visor. In his right hand he held a 6.5mm pistol. Crouching next to her he placed a hand on her shoulder and looked her up and down.

“Yeah I see your problem, where are the others?”

Before she had a chance to speak, the injured pilot spoke up.

“Milo? Is that you?” he inquired.

Milo turned.

“Dain?” he asked and he ran over to the pilot “How are you?”

“My right leg’s broken.” Dain Glasten said.

“Oh, just the one leg?” Brona said in a dry rhetorical tone.

“Yeah I can’t move you guys, We can’t move you guys.” said the second pilot.

“Hold on a sec.” he lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

“Yeah Lerna, these two are going nowhere fast. We’re gonna have to wait for the medical chopper or something.” he paused and waited for a response.

Brona strained to listen to the response.

“Yeah ok I’ll ask.” he lowered it again “Where’s the third? Where’s your radio?”

Brona pointed up the slope to the ridge. Milo followed her arm.

“Ffion went to set up the radio on the ridgeline.”

“Ah.” he nodded and raised the radio again “Apparently they’re up on the ridge.”

The helicopter made another pass shortly thereafter before the radio crackled to life again. As Brona waited to hear the next relayed message she felt her legs starting to ache again. The excitement was wearing off and with it the pain was returning.

“You got any morphine?” She asked innocently.

The pilot reached into his pocket and handed her an injector which she quickly used. Milo returned his gaze to the ridge.

The radio crackled to life again.

“Ok, Roger that.”

He turned and looked at Brona. If not for the visor the look on his face might’ve given away what he’d just heard. He was gauging whether to tell her or not.

“Can you see her?” she asked.

He paused for a moment.

“Yeah yeah, they can see her. They’ll get her when the medevac arrives?” he said, not a lie he thought to himself. Captain Voskan had said she looked dead.

“How long is that going to be?” she asked, quickly moving on from the topic of Ffion, who in her mind was safe now.

“They’re about twenty minutes out. You hear that Dain?” he asked.

“Yeah I heard you.” he replied with a mumble.

They waited on the rocks. RF12 and RF13 made more passes as they chased the Mujahideen fighters deeper into the valley. Truth be told they had expended most of their ammo after the third pass.

Gotch and Meredydd had arrived just in time to see the helicopters begin their attack runs. Dutifully they had reported in to Lt Vaughn before guiding RF12 and RF13 on their followup attacks. They’d been able to scope in the two survivors on the rocky outcrop and spotted the purple smoke for the gunships. Unable to truly take stock of the situation through their binoculars and scopes they’d set up and waited patiently for the helicopters to have a closer look.

They’d waited further still while one of the pilots dismounted and took a closer look. They’d heard about the potential KIA on the ridgeline over the radio. The pair didn’t utter a word, not wanting to interrupt communications.

Gotch lowered the binoculars and fixed his gaze down the mountain slope in front of him. There was movement coming up one of the foot paths. He ducked down and dragged Meredydd with him.

“Kill the radio!” he spat under his breath.

“What?” Caddy asked.

“Just do it!” he spat again.

Switching the radio to standby mode its speakers died. The pair listened intently to the sounds around them. Shouldering his rifle, Gotch peered over the lip of the rocks they’d set up behind.

Coming up the mountain slope towards them was a trail of fighters that they must’ve missed. These men seemed exhausted. Plodding forward laboriously, some carried broken up parts of a heavy machinegun. These must be the ones from the ambush site. The ones that brought 332 down.

They were close. The mountain’s folds and crevices had obscured their approach. If they tried to call for help on the radio they’d give themselves away and then they’d be dead. Thinking quickly, Gotch leaned to Caddy and whispered his plan. Once he’d spoken his piece Cadfan nodded and unclipped a FG-67 grenade and Gotch fixed his bayonet.

Pulling the pin under tension he waited a moment before tossing it clear, in front of the rock. They didn’t get a chance to even scream as the grenade detonated on impact. Gotch, who’d been ready to push as soon as it went off, sprang up and charged. The nearest had been reduced to a red smear on the ground, through the whirling smoke he could see the second and third had been dashed bloodily against the rocks, pulverised by the blast and torn asunder by fragments of shrapnel.

"RAAAAAAGHHH!" he screamed in anger as he charged the stunned and dazed Mujahideen. The man to his front was still trying to shift a tripod off his shoulders when Gotch crashed into him, steel first. Running his bayonet through the man’s sternum, the momentum pushed him sprawling off.

Another stunned fighter stood behind him still bringing his rifle to bear. Gotch charged on and slashed with an upward swipe through the man’s neck, laying him low.

One of the ones near the rear of the column who’d had more time to react had gotten to a vantage point to take a shot at Gotch. Before he had a chance to shoot, Cadfan cut him down with a burst from his YaC-72 and the fighter collapsed on the rock.

Pressing onwards Gotch plunged again driving the bayonet into another's gut, lifting it upwards it cut into the man’s ribcage before it got lodged. Yanking his rifle free, the tip of the bayonet snapped off and the fighter doubled over as his innards slipped from the gash.

The Mujahideen were still in a state of disarray as Gotch leveled his rifle. Trapped on the narrow rocky path, they were kettled in, the only way out was either back down or climbing over the rocks to either side, all while being exposed to fire. Many were still weighed down by HMG parts, others had dropped the tins of the ammo they were carrying.

Gotch fired rapid, successive bursts on full-auto. Three more were cut down and a fine red mist was sprayed up in the thin air. Now began part two. Cadfan clambered onto the rock they’d been behind and fired a grenade from his UBGL. Aiming further to the rear of the column it detonated. Gotch felt the warmth come off the blast and the shockwave travelled up his legs.

Those that weren’t dead began to scramble like rats. Dropping everything that weighed them down they turned and fled. Some back down the mountain slope and others over the rocks. Gotch hurriedly reloaded while Cadfan shot at those taking off over the rocks.

In the few seconds it took him to reload the fighters had scrambled out of sight. He aimed his rifle down the path and waited for targets to appear. None did, although he could hear their shouts and foot fall as they fled.

“CADDY!” he shouted.

“YEAH!” came the reply.

“HA HA, JUST MAKING SURE YOU’RE STILL ALIVE!” he said laughing “Cover me! I’m coming back up!”

He turned and made his way past their handy work. Blood flowed over the rocks, thick and sticky. The man he’d gutted was still alive and clutching his hands to his stomach, murmuring something. Without a word he raised his rifle in one hand as he passed and fired a final shot into the man’s head, ending his woes.

Once up behind cover, Cadfan stepped back down and went back to the radioset. Switching it on he reported the contact to Lt Vaughn. As it turned out Vaughn’s patrol had already heard the gunfire and tried raising them on radio. Vaughn was only about twenty minutes behind them now, a little further down the slope and practically within shouting range. They were then advised again to wait for the rest to catch up.

Gotch’s adrenaline was wearing off. The numbness was fading and it was being replaced by a feeling of hyper sensitivity. A sheen of sweat was forming over his back and shoulders, his breathing was heavy and his arms ached at the joints.

The gravity of the situation was slowly catching up to him. These were the first men he’d killed. Properly killed. Not a potshot at range with a probable splash, not a fire mission from afar. Up close and personnel. Point blank. Some had even been close enough to blow their last breaths in his face.

Adrenaline withdrawal was making his hands shake a little and he steadied the rifle more on the rock edge. He was feeling something, something different, something almost wrong. It wasn’t regret, these men had killed his friends, they deserved to die a thousand deaths.

One of the dead, a man killed by a grenade, rested against a rock and stared at him. His dead glassy eyes locked on Gotch. The unnerving image seared its way into Gotch’s mind, forever.

Gotch felt stuffy, he occasionally tugged at his collar. His breathing was becoming more difficult, shallower. It wasn’t from the exertion or the altitude, not a fit acclimatised man like Gotch. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell. He wanted to go over to the dead man and cave his face in with his boots and rifle butt. His eyes blinked rapidly, fluttering almost.

He looked down, taking his eyes away. He reached for his cigarettes. Red Strikes the carton said. He drew one with his teeth and returned the packet. He looked up again, not at the mountain slope or the dead. He purposefully looked over it to the horizon.

“Caddy, can you light me?” he asked.

“Yeah bud.” Cadfan took a moment to find his lighter but eventually pulled it out and lit Gotch’s cigarettes.

“Got one for me?” Cadfan asked.

Gotch sighed slightly, not at Cadfan’s question but instead at the world. He fished them out and tossed them over. There were only two left.

“Keep them.” He said as he drew from the cigarette.

They’d both finished their cigarettes by the time that Lt Vaughn arrived. Cadfan greeted the arriving patrol, Gotch didn’t. Nor did he talk to Lt Vaughn, he felt there was nothing for him to say.

A few of the patrol went out to confirm and search the dead in front of their position. Vaughn stayed at the summit with Gotch and Cadfan. The trio watched as the medevac helicopter arrived. Touching its rear wheels down on the rocky outcrop they watched as the ant-size figures ran out the back. A few ran out with stretchers. They watched as Brona and Glasten were loaded on. With all the personnel onboard they lifted off and began, what for the helicopter, was a short trip to the ridge where Ffion lay slumped.

They were much more brief, simply loading her onto a stretcher before dusting off. Gotch watched the helicopters disappear into the distance. The patrol was starting to come back up the slope.

“We count eleven sir!” said the patrol leader as he climbed, a discarded rifle in his left hand.

The word ‘Eleven’ stuck with Gotch for a moment. Cadfan seemed nonplussed.

“There’s most of the parts of a heavy machinegun and discarded kit and equipment everywhere.” he kept on speaking as he passed by Gotch’s position.

They stayed for about an hour, looking for more enemy movement before Vaughn decided it was time to head back in. On the trek back there was a mixture of chatter between the members of the patrol. Gotch was however silent for the duration.

Aftermath

The 332 Shootdown incident had on the surface all the hallmarks of an unnoteworthy incident. Taking place on a day of many battles the incident wasn’t particularly casualty heavy, nor did it play a huge or decisive role in the fate of the future. But what it did show was a lesson of perseverance and valiance.

During the incident the Brigantines lost four personnel killed and two injured. The Mujahideen lost around 11-50+ with 11 confirmed killed and another 50-90 estimated to have been killed.
Trooper Ffion Trevelyan was posthumously awarded the title ‘Hero of the Republics’ and the ‘Order of the Serpent’ Decoration. An excerpt from her citation reads “Despite sustaining mortal wounds, Trooper Trevelyan maintained composure and presence of mind sufficient to establish communications with friendly elements, directly enabling the arrival of air support. Her final transmission, delivered through worsening respiratory trauma, ensured the survival of two fellow soldiers and the recovery of the fallen.”

In memoriam her name was carved onto the Wall of the Fallen in her hometown of Llyncadarn, where she was born and buried. The Rheidiwr Signals School also holds her name on its memorial stone under the section for those killed in Galatoria.

Trooper Brona Kaern was transported via air to Camp Vardanyan. Being placed in immediate intensive care, she underwent multiple surgeries. Once stable she was airlifted back to the Brigantine SSR. Her injuries included a shattered ankle, a ruptured right calf, two shattered patella and two gunshot wounds to her thighs as well as a cracked rib. Both her kneecaps were replaced under surgery and metal work was fitted to her left tibia and fibula. Unable to walk for six months she was able to return to walking unassisted after a year. Once considered fully rehabilitated she was medically discharged and returned to civilian life. For her actions she was awarded the ‘The Order of Will’ courageous actions in the face of the enemy and the ‘Wounded Service Medal’ for those injured in combat. An excerpt from her citation for ‘The Order of Will” reads as follows;

“During the engagement at Cywiro Ridge, Trooper Kaern defended a compromised helicopter crash site……she continued to engage the enemy at close quarters, killing multiple fighters in defense of her wounded pilot.

Her resistance delayed enemy movement, enabling the arrival of friendly air support and the survival of all remaining Brigantine personnel on site.”

Flight Officer Dain Glasten was also transported to Camp Vardanyan where he underwent surgery on his leg. ORIF Metalwork was used to plate his right femur in place. He was able to walk again in three months and returned to flying duties in six. He did not receive any decorations for his involvement but was mentioned in dispatches.

Sergeant Rhisiart Gotch and Cadfan Meredydd were both recognised for their role in the incident and were both mentioned together in dispatches. Theirs reads as follows,

“…the pair conducted a rapid advance toward the crash site ahead of the main response force. En route, they encountered and engaged a retreating enemy element, believed responsible for the downing.

Isolated without support, they executed a highly successful ambush at close range, inflicting heavy casualties and forcing the collapse of an enemy force.”

by **Asukalia 2000** » Thu Sep 10, 2026 6:58 pm

Qarazan-Galatocria Border.

The buildings of the border outpost were long since abandoned by the Galatocrian government, smashed in windows half boarded while the boom gate sat high in the sky stuck in an open position, a strange smell drifted from its cracks and crevices at virtually all times. Opposite to it, around 100 metres down the track was another small building, along with plenty of sandbags and an intact boom. The checkpoint was manned by several men in drab khaki uniforms well worn by the wind, each of them wore the steel oval dome, the standard, with a faded red band of border troops painted around its base, the khaki paint chipped from continual dropping. Each of them had a chest-rig filled with magazines. Two men sat around a small wooden atable playing cards, another leant on the wall of the small building keeping his body in the shade of the overhanging roof a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth. Two more sat inside, underneath the squeaking fan, one lay on his bunk, sprawled out onto a thin mattress, the other ticked off items on an inventory sheet, he wore a plain sand coloured patrol-cap.

In the distance a large cloud of dust rose into the sky, then the loud drone of truck engines. One of the men playing cards narrowed his eyes and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed up the cards scattered on the table and shoved them into one of the pouches on chest-rig. The other man let out a cry of protestation before also turning to see the approaching column. He too scrambled to his feet, grabbing up his bolt-action Arakawa and throwing it around his shoulder.

"At ready, vehicles!" One of them yelled, causing the other two to quickly enter, weapons in hand.

The man with a patrol cap held an Asukalian made M-14 assault rifle, a remanent of an earlier deal made in return for extensive oil supplies. The five men of the outpost stood around the boom gate, two next to the sandbags, three against the building. The man with a patrol cap looked to one of the enlisted troopers.

"Get that out of your mouth. I don't want them seeing your haram death stick." He said.

The smoker let the cigarette drop from his mouth and stomped it repeatedly into the dirt. The column of vehicles causing the dust clouds stopped as they reached the checkpoint, several jeeps dispersed among larger trucks. The uniforms of the men inside of them were familiar to him but they bore no markings, so to did the enormous crates in the back of each. The sergeants eyes narrowed as he gained a better angle on the rest of the column. Pieces of light artillery, 105mm mountain guns.

The sergeant made his way to the front jeep, in it a few men, each with a khaki uniform, no markings, tied around his head was a traditional turban.

"Do you have a manifest for what you are transporting? Uh, or a licence, or a slip or something?" He said to the man who he guessed to be the most high-ranking.

"We are clear to pass. Open the gate." The man responded.

"I can't let you through unless you're able to produce some form of documentation." The sergeant said back.

"Do you want me to call Captain Mostofi?" The man in the turban responded.

"I uh..." The sergeant stammered over his words.

"I'm sure he'd be upset to hear about his men smoking." The officer responded looking down at the small line of smoke trailing from beneath one of the soldier's boot.

The sergeant waved his hand and looked to the soldiers of the checkpoint.

"Open the gate." He yelled over the whine of engines.

The boom gate swung open and the officer waved, the trucks slowly accelerated and made their way through the checkpoint. As they passed the opposing, abandoned border checkpoint the sergeant heard them yell.

"ALLAHU AKBAR! MASHALLAH QARAZAN!"

One of them took aim and sent a volley of rounds into a sign saying 'Sapharna 100 kilometres'.

Qarazan, Airbase 401.

The searing heat of the sun fought fiercely with the cool breeze slowly flowing in from the mountain tops. The long concrete runway of Airbase 401 was relatively new and was still extremely clean. Lining the runways were 24 A-1 Raiders, older Asukalian aircraft. They were bulky, long with an abundance of hardpoints lining their huge thick wings, each of them had no QIAF markings, instead each was inscribed with verses from the Quran, or the Shahada. Each of them was part of the original batch in 1969, but had been refitted last year with brand new avionics and equipment. A team of Asukalian engineers were performing final checks on these aircraft, ensuring their airworthiness following their refit.

An Asukalian engineer made his way over to the airbases headquarters building. The the base commander turned to see the Asukalian, he was stubby with thick brimmed glasses and combed black hair, hanging from his neck was a lose black tie, and a white shirt.

"We've finished the inspections and checks, she should be airworthy, well all of them should be." He placed a clipboard completely checked off onto the desk.

"Thank you for your work, if it were not ramadan I would offer you a feast for your work." The Commander Akkar responded with a frown.

"We appreciate the gesture anyway, our flight from Koghdad leaves later today so we better be going." The Asukalian bowed to him as a twin-prop aircraft was pulled from the hangar and began to start.

As the small passenger plane slowly made its way into the sky the Akkar assembled his pilots and groundcrew in the briefing room. Overhead the fans relentlessly spun bathing the room in a cool wind as the merciless heat was drawn into the roof. Akkar stood at the front, a thin man with a kind face and thick, but short brown beard. He wore one of the new camoflague beige-green uniforms that Qarazan had just introduced. Once his men had filtered in, he looked over them and began to speak.

"The kafir have invaded the land of brave Muslims. For this they must pay." He began. "Already they feel the jihad through the brave Mujahadeen fighters, fighting in Galatocria against the marxist and christian kafir. However their idol worship has not been purged from our sacred soils."

The room began to murmur, but quieted once he spoke again.

"We will be fighting the kafir, not as Qarazan, but as members of the holy jihad. For this you must understand the most vital assignment. You must not be captured alive, and your aircraft must be obliterated if you are shot down. This is the way that prevents the kafir from attacking our peaceful lands. To die for Allah is a most beautiful thing."

He continued on, telling them the intricacies of the operations that were planned for them, and giving them detailed instructions on what to do in a worst case scenario, once they had concluded each pilot had pledged themselves and their aircraft to the holy jihad, and to kill as many kafir as they could, whether they be from the Marx Shaytan worshippers of Brigantine, or the idol worshippers of Verdalien. The meeting ended with a cry from the base staff.

"MASHALLAH QARAZAN!"

by **Asukalia 2000** » Sat Sep 19, 2026 7:19 pm

Zarvandar Airbase.

While the Mujahadeen had seriously threatened the Verdalian position at Zarvandar, and despite failing to take the base, and incurring heavy casualties in the endeavor, they had cut it off from ground re-supply, now logistics were being handled by a stream of helicopters. The airbase itself was surrounded by flat dusty ground with occasional grass tufts, however further away there was thicker vegetation, trees and bushes. Winding between the tree trunks and shrubs a shallow trench, reinforced by branches, sandbags and sheets of metal were filled with the soft-green tunics and green-sand fabric wrapped eggshell helmets of Qarazan Light Infantry. Some held Arakawa rifles, but most held some variation of Asukalian rifle, and at the squad level they held machineguns. More importantly concealed behind large shrubs, tree branches and camo nets were twin barrel 35mm anti-aircraft guns on ground mounts. Additionally some crude gunpits were scattered around just behind the initial treeline, only around a third held anything at all, allowing the mortar crews to quickly switch between as to avoid counter-battery fire.

Just in peeking over the top of the trench two Qarazan infantry looked over into the afternoon sky. On the right stood Hossein, his height was perfectly average, skinny, but with well-built legs. His face was smooth, and young, with wavy black hair, over his shoulder he had an M-14 rifle. Amir stood on the right, a stubbier man but of very similar height, a broad nose and face covered in stubble. Around one of his shoulders was an Arakawa, on the other a Nifonese Type 1947 Recoilless.

Overhead the thwacking of helicopter blades came closer and closer as the Verdalians prepared for resupply, it was approaching from directly behind Amir and Hossein. Hossein looked at Amir.

"I bet you can't hit that." Hossein spoke dismissively.

"I bet I can you little shit." Amir retorted.

"Nope. Not happenin'." Hossein said back.

Amir turned to the Lieutenant who was attempting to put himself in a comfortable position on the ground. His face was concealed by a camoflagued patrol cap.

"Can I try shoot it down?" Amir said to the Lieutenant.

"Go ahead, we were meant to start shootdowns on the next flight over but we're ahead of schedule. I'll report it in as a target of opportunity." The lieutenant responded.

Amir took his anti-tank rocket launcher, closed his left eye and aligned it just in front as the helicopter slowed down to prepare for landing. Just as it was directly over them he pulled the trigger. The launcher kicked back and an enormous plume of smoke and steam seared Amir's legs. The small round arced into the helicopter and smacked into its tail, causing it to shake and swerve, crucially it didn't explode. Amir threw the launcher at the ground.

"Piece of Nifonese SHIT!" He yelled, frustrated.

"Does that count as a hit?" Hossein said, rubbing his chin.

by **Stalwart Socialist Republics of Briganti** » Thu Oct 01, 2026 11:17 am

Kapasia International Airport
Galatoria
10th June 1980

A large transport jet loomed low over the runway. Its gear down and flaps deployed, it had the appearance of a pelican or another large bird. It lacked the predatory appearance of a true fighter, and its white livery clearly marked it as a non-combat aircraft.

A shimmering mirage rose above the tarmac as it swooped in, the tyres screeching as they made contact. The crew quickly deployed the thrust reversers and the lumbering beast slowed, coasting down the runway. As it neared the end, it taxied off and joined the others of its kind by the passenger complex.

In the week following the Offensive, the Galatocrian Government had given Kapasia International Airport over to the military, after which military air traffic became the priority. Among the first arrivals was a wing of Brigantine YR-72 fighter-bombers, which had quickly been set to work smashing insurgent groups from above.

The days following saw a much more expansive buildup of forces and equipment. Operation Stacked Pack had seen Brigantine officials release a slew of older and outdated equipment to Galatoria for use by the Republikanos Stratos. While certainly obsolete in a peer-to-peer fight, it was more than enough for use against insurgents. Mass was of supreme importance to counter the insurgents and prevent further exploitation.

At the same time, new Brigantine formations began arriving. The 1st Airmobile Division and 4th Marine Airmobile Brigade had arrived within a week, along with their APCs, helicopters and other equipment. The first elements of the 7th Airmobile Division had also begun to arrive.

Sergeant Stranos watched from the outer perimeter watchtowers as the latest arrivals began to disembark. More baby-faced Brigantines, all uniformed and uniform in nature; with them they took their rifles and bags containing their possessions. They were an odd bunch, he thought to himself. Polite until drunk and calm until excited, they had a fiery spirit but did their best to hide it behind a mask of manners.

Turning back outwards, he scanned the fence line and the surrounding barbed wire. He cast the binoculars over to where the insurgents had breached days before. A newly fabricated portion of the fence stood out, its condition pristine. A few metres further inside lay the bodies of the insurgents who’d made it through. In the first few days, birds had pecked at the corpses, one of them tangled upright in a section of the wire. After the birds had pecked away what they could, the flies arrived.

Everyone had been too busy to remove the bodies or deal with them, so they’d been left to rot and bloat.

Served them right.

Brigantine Army Headquarters, Galatoria Command
Kapasia
Galatoria
10th June 1980

The mood in Lt Gen Thomas’s offices had been relatively dour for the past few days. The 2nd June Offensive had come as a surprise to all, but their forces had soundly defeated the enemy and had spent the following days routing the larger insurgent formations, driving them back into hiding with minimal losses. The next major priority, from both his point of view and that of his staff, had been retaking the Central Highway and linking up with the forces in the east of the country.

The Galatocrian forces there were cut off and isolated. The next step would be to link up with them and foil the enemy’s plans before they overran the defenders.

However, before planning and preparation had gotten underway for this new operation, a phone call from Brigantia had shattered the illusion of relief. The President himself, McVenner, had apprised him of the reality of the situation.

From the outside, it looked bad. It looked like a defeat. When Thomas had interjected about their success, and that of the Marines especially, he was told, ‘No one cares about the shootout at the AK Corral, we want something big.’ That avenue was shut down quickly.

He had essentially been told that nothing so far was good enough and that a bigger victory was required to restore confidence and image. When he’d talked about restoring the Highway connection and the required timetables, he was told it’d take too long and that something would have to be won sooner, and it would have to be big.

For the past few days, he’d been trying to formulate something of this sort. He’d tried to corral and encircle the insurgents, but between new tasks and the vast frontage he didn’t have the manpower to ever truly complete a full encirclement, even as reinforcements trickled in. They’d always disperse or escape before a huge score could be inflicted. They were inflicting casualties at a disproportionate rate, but nothing like what had been demanded.

He knew that if he failed, his job would be on the line at the very least, but more importantly he knew the state of Galatoria would be in question. The prospect of defeat was real, and if Brigantia and the other allies withdrew now, it could only be a matter of time before they were overrun.

That hung most heavily over his shoulders, his own Sword of Damocles. He knew it and his staff knew it. In a way, they all felt personally responsible for Galatoria’s continued existence and the right of its people to exist.

He had already dispatched a number of available forces to prepare for the advance down the Highway. Whether he kept his role or not, at least the forces in theatre would be able to act swiftly upon preordained plans.

Brooding over maps and charts, Thomas was stirred from his thoughts by the sound of running footsteps approaching down the corridor.

Anxiety rose.

The last time someone had approached with such haste, it’d been a Muji infiltrator, a suicide bomber who’d killed the guard at the door and injured others inside.

Thomas’s hand went to his pistol, the web of his hand settling around the grip. Others in the room jolted and either prepared or braced. There was a shout from the guard outside. The runner was ordered to halt.

Words were exchanged beyond the door. A silence followed before the footsteps approached at a calmer, more reasonable pace.

There was a knock.

Major Emrys approached and opened the door. Thomas couldn’t make out the figure on the other side of the frame, but he saw him and Emrys exchange a salute. The newcomer was then ushered in.

A sweaty and youthful-looking man entered.

“Sir, I’ve been ordered to deliver these maps to you and explain what we’ve found.”

Thomas looked him over. He had a slightly slender stature compared to the Brigantine average. Thomas then spotted his Second Lieutenant’s rank slide and immediately assumed intelligence; he was quickly proved right.

“Show them, boy,” he barked.

The Lieutenant spread the folded map out on the table.

“This is based on aerial reconnaissance conducted 14 km north-east of Maiwand. It shows the largest Mujahideen fortress so far discovered,” he said quickly and breathlessly.

Thomas went over it in his mind. Normally, these types of positions were defended in the hundreds. Even if this was a big one, he only expected a thousand or two to be found defending it.

“Well, how big is it?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Well, nominally it only has 3,000 defenders…”

Thomas inhaled sharply.

“We believe it has swelled to at least 7,000 as routed forces have fallen back on it, if not more like 10,000.”

The number lit up in his head. Thomas wanted to do backflips. He wanted to hug this young officer. He wanted to party.

For now, though, it was just excitement. Jubilation could come later.

He smiled at him.

“Thank you. We’ll take it from here.”

The Lieutenant saluted him and Thomas returned it before the young officer turned and left the room.

Once the door shut, he looked up and saw a field of eyes watching him. His smile remained and he began to laugh. It was a laugh that quickly spread throughout the room.

He beckoned to several of the field commanders to join him around the table. They did so, approaching eagerly.

He opened the envelope attached to the top half of the map and skimmed it briefly before handing it to Major General Ferchad, commander of the 1st Airmobile Division.

“This looks like a job for your boys,” Thomas said, handing the contents to him.

After a moment absorbing the information and reflecting, the moustachioed man spoke up.

“Can I ask for Rheidiwr support?” he pondered.

“You can. I’m sure Fflur won’t mind…” Thomas gestured to Colonel Fflur, the man in charge of the two Rheidiwr detachments, who hadn’t moved from his chair.

“What do you need? Recon?” Fflur asked.

“Yes,” replied Ferchad.

“Sure.” Fflur rose and made to join the table.

“I am quite sure you can organise this without me. I want a plan of action within twenty-four hours,” Thomas stated, starting towards the door.

“However, I don’t imagine this battle should take too long, though its start should coincide with the advance of the Marines. Inform me when you’re ready so I can coordinate the dual strike.”

With that, he left for his quarters and bunk, which were just next to his office.

Operation Hearthlight 1980 [IC, PT-MT, Open]

Operation Hearthlight 1980 [IC, PT-MT, Open]

Part 1

Part 2

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