The Second Tarao War [IC | GD]

[Istoloa]

OOC & SIGNUP THREAD

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DE VEGA

Fighting in eastern Ladero has intensified in recent days as separatists step up attacks against military and police installations. Rifle fire sounded in the distance, behind the reporter whose back faced some government building in some eastern Laderan city. Long lines of vehicles have jammed highways heading west, as thousands of civilians attempt to flee the region in anticipation of another flare-up between Ladero and Istoloa.

He flicked the television off. Marechal Roque Cipriano de Vega let out a deep, long sigh. The die had been cast.

A breeze ran through the window in the study, fluttering the curtains.

Change was coming to Istoloa. The country's destiny was about to reach a new inflection point. De Vega stared out the window with a solemn gaze, his mind fixed on the future. Fremonero was an old man, though these days he could live to 100 and still have years left. Still, el Marechalisimo was frail and weak, much like his government. The mismanaged first phase of the ongoing Ladero conflict was a wound hard enough to sustain for a nation already unhappy with the dictatorship. But the disaster of Mocuba, in Fustera, pushed anti-dictatorship sentiment to a boiling point. Already, thousands of young men were fleeing or otherwise disobeying mobilization orders, with the government expanding its recruitment to make good the heavy losses suffered against rebel PMLF forces in the one-time Istoloan colony. Change must come. The current state was unsustainable.

De Vega laced his fingers together as he placed his hands on his lap. His eyebrows were furrowed in thought. It was important that he be ready for the moment of change, that he be the man to end atop the inevitable competition for succession. It wasn't just important, it was crucial. Anybody else, anybody weaker, would only serve to drive Istoloa back into the hands of the communists. The Istoloan people needed a strong, good man in charge, a man with traditional values. They needed him.

In front of him were a stack of papers, piled atop each other on the small coffee table to the side. He took the folder on top and opened it. Inside were reports concerning recent Ordenite activity in the country. The Ordenites were now in Istoloa in great numbers, here by invitation, as a precaution against the growing involvement of other foreign powers in Ladero. Some Istoloans were too proud to welcome the Ordenites, but de Vega took on the opposite view. In fact, he planned to allow the Ordenites more access to the country, as under the government of el Marechalisimo Roque Cipriano de Vega Istoloa would finally graduate into the ranks of great powerhouse nationalist syndicalist states, alongside Ordena herself.

He allowed himself a wry smile, as he mused of what was to come.



ROSA

Five Istoloan military officers of important rank, given the insignia on their collars, sat around a table in a loud, bustling tavern. Here, on base (and outside of Mocuba), the men could drink, relax, and get their minds off how terrible the war in Fustera was going. As if to prove the challenge of distracting oneself from the loss of so many comrades, one of the officers buried his face in his hands.

"Why the long face, colonel?" asked another one.

The officer with the buried face looked up and answered, "Tired of this shit."

"What's your problem, Carvalhão?" asked a third, another colonel by his insignia. "Are you in a rush to see your wife back home? Last time I remember, you were sleeping on the couch, weren't you? Bah! This is where we were meant to be, lads. Right here, with each other, fighting wars. A toast to fighting wars with the boys!" He raised his beer stein, but there were no other takers. "Cunts, the lot of ya."

"Fighting wars would be fine," said Carvalhão, "if they gave us the resources needed to fight."

At that, there was grumbling around the team. Leandro Rosa put his stein down heavily, commanding the group to silence. "We have reached a difficult moment in our war here in Fustera. It's no use to ignore the reality. Nevertheless, our responsibility is to bring honor to our country and our people, and returning home with anything less would disgrace us, our ancestors, and our successors. Not to mention that any man here who seeks ongoing promotion within the armed forces will see those dreams shattered. Colonel Barrocas is right, now is not the time to go home. It is the time to do what we can to salvage our honor and leave only when we've brought justice to the slain."

Colonel Carvalhão threw his hands up. "With lackluster conscripts who would rather get shot in the back than face the enemy like men?"

Rosa stared back coldly for some time. But Carvalhão was right. Even if the losses suffered during the urban fighting at Mocuba were made good with fresh men, these would be just as fresh and green as those who now fertilized the Fusteran soil were. Rosa needed more and better resources. He had a plan for that, and it was already in action. Soon, his subordinates would see the results for themselves.

But Tenente General Rosa's mind was not just on Fustera. Fustera was just a stepping stone to something more. That something more was an opportunity to guide Istoloa to a new future, with a softer, kinder military dictatorship that could better guide the country toward a stable democracy. But to be a contender, he had to shore up his army and prepare it for the inevitable succession showdown.

"If we're going to bring about meaningful change to how our country does things," he said, "we'll need the leverage to demand it. We will have that leverage soon."

"C'mon, that must be something we can all toast to!" shouted Barrocas, excitedly. Raising his stein again, "To a better Istoloa!"

"To a better Istoloa!" they all shouted, clanking their glasses together as one.



SAMPÓN

Major Henrique Dourado Sampón was not the first man you expected to see leading an anti-government tirade at an underground assembly of disgruntled junior officers, being the son of a long line of famous commanders. But the young man, despite his call to other sorts of fame, had broken the mold. Sampón was the figurehead of a burgeoning movement among the younger officers in the army looking for something better than military dictatorship. They, and they knew the Istoloan people more generally, were ready to restore democracy.

"We are sent to die in faraway lands with leading untrained men who'd rather be home with their children than killing creolosos in the jungle!" he exclaimed. He raised a fist in the air. "After us, it will be our children exported to the slaughterhouse. Salvaging the future requires taking control of the present. Taking control of the present requires a change of the status quo. And change requires REVOLUTION!"

"REVOLUTION!" the crowd shouted back in its multitude.

He pushed forward. "We must prepare for the inevitable moment that we must seize the reins of the armed forces from the hands of the old, decrepit men who drive us to RUIN. We must organize, plan, and train for a purposeful revolution of love, peace, and prosperity. These are the virtues of a free Istoloa and are the values that guide the Red Tulip movement. Preparation means talking to your men and other subordinates, getting a feeling for where they stand, and gently nudging them toward our vision so that when the day comes all of the junior officers and enlisted personnel will rally to the banners of a democratic Istoloa. All of you are VITAL to the success of the Red Tulip Revolution, to a future we can be proud to hand to our children."

"We are headed to a moment where, as a people, we will be faced with a choice between slavery and freedom. You are the leaders of the resistance, you are the knights of freedom."

"Love live free Istoloa!"

"Love live free Istoloa!" the crowd chanted back. "Love live free Istoloa! Love live free Istoloa! Love live free Istoloa!"



FREMONERO

El Marechalisimo sat in his wheelchair, taking in the lush, multi-colored palace gardens that always beautifully bloomed in spring. A pretty little nurse pushed him on at a leisurely pace.

The truth was that Fremonero was not doing as well as he let on. The old dictator was losing his mind, one day at a time.

But he was digging in his heels nonetheless, pining to show strength through violence and control. As he serenely stimulated himself with the chirping birds and the sensation-elating smells of the flowers, his immediate subordinates were putting in motion the machinery of war. Hundreds of thousands of men were being called up for military service. Many of them would fly out to Fustera, but most would stay at home. Their recruitment into the armed forces spoke less of the wars of today and more of the wars of tomorrow.

Fremonero seemed unconcerned with the snakes in the grass, though he knew well they were there. Even the most loyal of his henchmen would turn on him if the circumstances were right. Marechal de Vega was first in line.

At this moment, nothing could cement Fremonero's hold on power more than a strong military victory. Who to go to war with? There were only three countries in Istoloa's colonial orbit left that had not yet been sucked into the sphere of some Greater Díenstadi superpower. These were the Tarao countries. These were the countries that Fremonero would bring to heel, thus securing his status as the preeminent ruler of Istoloa in its long, illustrious history.

"Take me back to the house," he said, his words slow, struggling, and deliberate.

The nurse looked down at the back of his head. "Okay, Your Excellency."

She wheeled him down the path back toward the countryside estate. They enjoyed the walk in silence for most of the way, but then suddenly he said, "Everyone wants me to die."

"No," she replied. "Nobody wants you to die. Everyone loves you."

He laughed at that. "That's a good one. No, they all want me to die. De Vega, Rosa, the other generals, all of them look forward to the day the Fremonero dictatorship is no more. They are all hungry for power. They sniff the opportunity for something more and they are all hovering around it waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I will not give it to them. They will all die before I do, I will be the last one to laugh."

[State of Ordena]

NORTHERN ISTOLOA

Generalfeldmarschall Walter Habicht stood in his command post in the quiet seaside town of Vila Amarante, a once-sleepy fishing hub perched on the rocky Istoloan coast where the narrow strait separated Istoloa from its restless neighbor, Ladero. Outside, the salt wind carried the distant rumble of engines and the low, rhythmic clatter of tracked vehicles — the unmistakable sound of an army massing for war.

Habicht had arrived in-country not long after the last shots echoed across the frontier during the first brutal round of clashes between Istoloa and Ladero. He had not come merely to police a fragile ceasefire, but to lay the foundations for what everyone knew was inevitable. Now, that long-expected moment had finally come.

Over half a million men — the entirety of Army Group Istoloa were now in theater, their presence straining every rail yard, clogging highways, and overflowing makeshift encampments that stretched from the misty high passes of the interior mountains to the salt-blasted coastal lowlands. Mechanized and armored columns waited like coiled serpents behind the frontier, their guns cleaned and crews restless for orders that would send them thundering back into Ladero to finish what had once been left incomplete.

The decision to move again had not been made lightly. The spark came in the form of the Marshite encroachment deep within Ladero’s heartland — newly constructed airstrips, hardened bunkers, and sprawling forward bases that would project Marshite power across the region. For Istoloa’s ruling government and their increasingly indispensable Ordenite patrons, this was a red line. Such a foothold would strangle Istoloan supply routes, embolden insurgents who lurked in the hills and cities, and choke off the flow of Ordenite influence that had begun to anchor itself in the Istoloan corridors of power.

Ever since the first Ordenite tanks rolled off the transports and rumbled through Istoloan streets, the alliance between Istoloa and the Ordenstaat had deepened steadily — forged by mutual suspicion of Marshite ambitions and the promise of a new regional balance of power carved by force. Now, under Habicht’s watchful eye, that bond would be tested in fire and iron once more.

Inside the dimly lit field HQ, maps of Ladero’s defenses lay unfurled across a broad wooden table, pinned at the corners with spent shell casings. Roads, bridges, rail spurs — each was marked for the armored spearheads that would soon plunge through them like daggers. Outside, endless columns of trucks ferried ammunition, fuel, and rations to forward supply dumps, while combat engineers prepared pontoon bridges and disguised fresh artillery batteries under the cloak of darkness.

Habicht, his face carved by years of campaigns and political intrigue, lit a cigarette and stepped to the narrow window that overlooked the slate-grey sea. Dawn was breaking on the far shore, painting the horizon in streaks of cold gold and bruised purple. Soon, that horizon would blaze with the thunder of guns and the roar of engines, as Army Group Istoloa half a million strong surged into Ladero to settle old scores and shape new realities.

Yet there was much left to secure before the order to advance could be given. In the hills and coastal plains, basing facilities and airfields were rising swiftly, contracted out through Organization Vogt, the Ordenite industrial consortium that now moved like a shadow alongside Istoloan logistics. Local laborers filled the ranks of construction crews, giving the fragile Istoloan economy a flicker of revival under the steady influx of Ordenite money and materiel.

Habicht knew the pattern well. He had seen it in the Magdaran conflict: escalation was a certainty, not a risk. As such, contingency plans for fresh Ordenite reinforcements and heavier formations were already being drawn up. If the Marshites wanted to test their reach, they would find the Istoloans and their Ordenite allies waiting in force.

He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling beams, and turned back to the waiting staff officers who stood in respectful silence by the table. There were offensive timetables to finalize, coordination drills with Istoloan field commands to review, and enough loose ends to choke a general twice over. But for Habicht, it was simple: the quiet before the storm was ending. The frontier would soon be crossed and when it was, there would be no turning back.

[Istoloa]

IRAT






MONTEIRIC

If anyone thought that the horror show of the Sorofi conflict was behind Irat, they would be sorely disappointed. The capital ran rampant with fear and anxiety that the war was about to renew. What's more, there were few people left who thought that President Junipero Lola was still worthy of the privilege of power. A growing chorus of voices joined in unison, calling for his resignation from public office.

While many in Irat were ready for something new, something different, there were strong entrenched interests that preferred replacing President Lola with another Istoloa-aligned strongman. Most of these interests came from across the strait, but alas they weighed heavily on the Irati destiny by virtue of the inequality of power between the two governments. Irat was a convenient proxy to have, the only Tarao country still relatively aligned with Loçelea and willing to fight with it in the perpetual struggle for who called the shots over the Tarao region. Natural, then, that a significant share of the Irati office cadre was making money on the side through direct payments from Istoloa, and that this share was now preparing to shore up Istoloa's indirect rule over the southern Tarao country.

Brigadeiro Rogeiro Monteiric was not the highest-ranking officer in the Irati military, but he must have been one of the most respected. His unit had been the only one to perform moderately well in the last invasion of Sorofi, which (again) was utterly disgraceful on the whole. Like most Irati officers, he blamed the government for their disastrous campaign. Like most Irati officers, he looked forward to replacing the feeble excuse for a democracy with a military dictatorship along nationalist syndicalist lines.

Leveraging his boundless charisma, Monteiric had spent the last few months influencing the cadre to his side. Rumors of war and strife abounded, and so it was not difficult to persuade most that now was the time for change and that waiting would only cause the military to lose the opportunity to take control. With most officers and their men on his side, Monteiric subsequently made the necessary requests to make sure the right units of the Irati army were rightly placed. The II Batedores was moved just outside of Teniza within two days of Monteiric's planned launch date. IV Ligeiros was positioned near Branquelic and IX Dragões near Cevadal, both with orders to immediately seal the Sorofi border. XII Ligeiros was moved to near Domaruška, and XIX Dragões to Novo Karvão. Thus the Irati army was well positioned to enter all the major Irati cities as soon as ordered by Brigadeiro Monteiric, who would soon be getting a self-promotion to El Marechalisimo of Irat, if all went according to plan.

Parts of the media apparatus were sympathetic. Of course, a far-right, pro-army, pro-dictatorship media had been cultivated over the decades, parts of it inherited from former Istoloan rule. In the days leading up to the launch of Monteiric's big plan, the media cycle more intensely covered topics sensitive to the Lola regime. It cited new investigations into the previous disaster in Sorofi, as it was called so routinely to reveal the orchestration behind the messaging. Watchers were also shown charts of declining wages, stagnating national income growth, and unemployment rates higher than any respectable nation could allow to go on for longer. Most curiously, however, the media called for immediate military action, showing "poll numbers" suggesting widespread popular approval for it.

It was early morning, while still dark and still hours away from sunrise, that II Batedores left its base to enter the capital city of Teniza with six columns. Parliament, the Ministry of Defense, and the Presidential Mansion were all seized and provided with hefty garrisons. One column drove directly to the international airport, which was taken and put on lockdown.

By the time most Irati were drinking coffee and watching the morning news, Monteiric was on state television in full military regalia. His many medals sat on his breast for display, just below the multiple rows of ribbons.

"Friends, Irati, countrymen, the moment has come to eradicate the corruption that threatens to take over our country and return us to the dark ages from where we came. We must not allow foreign forces of evil to ensnare us once again into a relationship of servitude. Irat is destined to be great. Irat is destined to be free. But it can only achieve this destiny under the vision of a strong leader, capable of defending our beautiful nation from alien aggression. From today on forward, the Irati armed forces work only for the protection, security, and honor of the Irati people, not for the financial and geopolitical machinations of foreign devils. Irat will have a democracy. Elections will be announced at the end of the current emergency period, pending the de-Lolafication of the country's political, economic, and cultural institutions. God bless, Irat."

As he spoke, IV Ligeiros was already securing Branquelic, an important Irati coastal city, on the border with Sorofi. It was a major entry point into the country, both over land and by water. IX Dragões did the same in Cevadal, sealing the last exit routes for Lola loyalists attempting to flee. XII Ligeiros, meanwhile, set up a dense network of checkpoints on the central highways and roads. Operating from Domaruška, which was occupied and put under martial law, XII Ligeiros closed the heart of the country to any resistance.

Only in Novo Karvão did the coupists experience any early resistance. XIX Dragões was met with closed doors at various administrative and security buildings in the town, requiring the use of more force than anticipated. Regardless, the recalcitrant administrators, policemen, and judges were summarily arrested, grouped together, and executed.

"Those guilty of selling our country out must be brought to justice. Immediately. Without remorse."

Whatever crimes of humanity occurred at Novo Karvão, they were dwarfed by what followed in the succeeding days. Senators, governors, mayors, regional representatives, judges, police leadership, and many more in a long list of "enemies of the state" were eliminated. Many were arrested and subjected to quick mock trials conducted by ad hoc troikas appointed by military commanders on the spot. But most were simply shot or otherwise killed where they were found, sometimes gruesomely. What followed was much more than just a massacre. It was a targeted political proscription of people who could potentially, whether they intended to or not, upset the stability of the new regime. Monteiric wanted to take no risks. The intelligence service was purged thoroughly thrice over, for good effect.

Despite the rhetoric, the new regime did not intend to sever its dependence on Istoloa. Istoloa was simply too important economically and politically to throw off. And, truth be told, Istoloa and its dictatorship would be crucial allies in his own stint as a Tarao caudillo. Indeed, Istoloa would begin shoring up Monteiric's position with physical troop deployments. More than one hundred thousand Istoloan conscripts would soon find themselves living in Irat and called "Irati People Defense Forces." Posing as locals, they would be concentrated along the Sorofi border.

"We live in extraordinary times. Our period of history will be studied for centuries to come. What role will they assign to Irat? While Samarasta, Tupenga, Fustera are carved up by foreign superpowers, what fate will befall the Tarao countries? Our destiny is in our hands only as long as we are disciplined in our commitments. The greatness of Irat demands sacrifice. Everyone will sacrifice. Men between the ages of 17 and 32 are subject to a national roll call for military service, subject immediately."



SALGUEIROVIĆ

"I can't believe we've given it all up," he said, as he continued feeding stacks of paper into the oven. They were burning as much of the evidence as possible before the parliamentary staff offices were overrun. It was an effort to limit exposure to being labeled a collaborator of the Lola regime. As a senator, Mário Salgueirović's fate was sealed regardless. But he would help the rest escape persecution while he could.

Six others were also throwing documents into the oven. Burning was opted over shredding for the permanency of the destruction.

He stopped to look out the window. They were on the third floor. Below, on the street, demonstrators were gathering to protest against both government ineptitude and the military coup. It was a generation ago now that Irat had first earned her independence, and since then she had grown quite a bit and done well for herself. But ever since the cyberattack in 2028, something had changed. Nothing was the same ever again since that election. The people knew the Junipero Lola was an Istoloan stooge, but military rule was worse.

Lola had been deviating from the Istoloan line, anyway. After the fiasco in Sorofi, it was obvious that the country had to break away from its much larger neighbor. Istoloa was an anchor. An anchor to an unwanted past. Salgueirović understood that Lola, and Irat, were being punished for thinking that their destiny was independent of the wants of Loçelea.

Outside, gunshots.

Military trucks arrived laden with troops. These opened fire immediately, dispersing the crowds, which left corpses behind as a testament to the cruelty of their treatment.

"You must go," said one of the women in the room, one of his aides.

He shook his head. "No, I can't leave you guys alone here."

Another one, a young man, said, "We'll be okay. We're young and just aides, we aren't important. They'll let us go. You they'll kill, so you must go. Please, sir. Go and continue the fight for Irati democracy from somewhere safe."

Salgueirović stood there for a moment, frozen, as he contemplated his options. His aides were right, the military would surely make him disappear. Survival required running. Nodding, finally, he left and made his way downstairs. The building was connected to an underground metro system used only by government personnel with the right authorization. This was usually reserved for people of Salgueirović's rank and their staff. He avoided that, as it would undoubtedly have been the first thing the military coupists had clamped down on.

He realized then that there was no obvious way out of the building. He should have left long ago. Others must have come to the same realization because the halls were a mess of people going this way or that, all trying to find somewhere safe as the army started pouring in. Just as he lost hope, someone grabbed his arm and yanked him into a room.

When Salgueirović looked up, he realized it was Senator Amarova. "Ligia, you must get out of here."

"What is that you think I'm doing, Mário?" she asked, pointedly.

He realized then that there were other senators in the room. "Where are we he asked?"

"There is a secret tunnel out of the building here," she said. Someone behind her pulled a bookcase over, revealing a hidden door. Opening it, there was a well-lit tunnel behind them that disappeared quickly into the distance. She added, "It will take us to the Palácio Mar Azul." The Mar Azul was a famous hotel in Teniza, with easy access to the port.

"There is a ship waiting for us at the harbor," said another man, Senator Tomás Silvarin. "It will take us to Lavença."

Just then, the room's door burst open and uniformed men bulldozed their way in. One of them, their commanding officer by looks of it, shouted, "All of you, put your hands up!"

Most did, but the soldiers started shooting them down anyway. Rifle butts to their shoulder, they gunned the representatives of Irati democracy down like rabid dogs. Blood splattered across the wall like some sort of modern art masterpiece, but more grotesque and arbitrary. For a moment, Salgueirović stood frozen in time, helplessly awaiting certain death.

Someone tugged harshly on his arm again, though, pulling him into the tunnel. It was Ligia. He followed her, as others too try cramming into the tunnel and away from death. But the soldiers continued firing into their bodies. Miraculously, Salgueirović was not hit as he and Senator Amarova sprinted as, quite literally, their lives depended on it. She slowed down to pull alongside him and then suddenly slammed her hand against a button on one of the walls. Behind them, a sliding door sliced the tunnel in half, separating them from their pursuers. They could hear gunfire riddle the door with bullets, though none could penetrate the thick metal. Salgueirović almost collapsed as he bent over to let out a great, big breath.

Standing upright again, he looked around. That's when he first realized that it was just he and Ligia. None of the others had made it.

She looked at him, likely realizing the same thing.

After a moment, they both solemnly made their way down the tunnel. They left behind them the soldiers clanking away at the door before they finally decided to place all of their attention on any of the survivors in the building. Salgueirović would never forget the butchery they had committed. He swore to himself that he'd return soon and dispense justice against the monsters who had ordered the pogrom.

By the time the tunnel door was opened, the two surviving senators were on their way to capital of Ladero, the magnificent Loçelea.



LOLA

Juniper Lola lay quietly in his warm bath, eyes closed as he hummed along with the stunningly ornate classical symphony playing from hidden speakers.

It was only nine in the morning, and the president of Irat had already had a very long day.

When the soldiers burst in, they found President Lola naked in a soapy bath. He was evidently enjoying some quiet time before going out for the day's business. They did not give him time to open his eyes and greet them. The president of Irat was executed in the bathtub.

[Eitoan]

Vladarsik, Eitoan
Foreign Affairs Main, North Ruzek Boulevard
3:39 PM

Simon Nasparatek was frazzled. It had been a busy day. bombarded by short term requests for assessments in that Commonwealth War quagmire. Still, he was glad no Eitoan lives were at stake in that mess. His cramped ninth floor office at Foreign Affairs Main was bursting at the seams with military intelligence reports and economic assessments from the troublesome Shartourn, as well as various problems in central Greater Dienstad going back as far as the initial moves in the Ice States conflict. As a Senior Analyst at the Office of Situation Assessment the rapid fire change of assignment had been a way of life for a long time. Too long for him. But, here he was and here he would stay, given last year's subpar performance review. Undersecretary Stegman was a harsh and unforgiving mistress. And seeing as how she was Falkowski's right hand, he had a lot to sweat about, that bitch. Anyways, it was time to have a look at the latest turd hunt down south. He did good work during the first Tarao War, helping iron out the intricacies of the "quiet arrangement" that backed Berlina away for adventures in restoring the Raskovs, but at the price of calling off intervention in Fustera. But Richtofen was gone, and things were different now.

Bill Macek, his assistant finished up his business, zipped up his trousers, scrubbed his hands, and bolted towards the bathroom door. He halted and doubled back. Standing in front of the mirror, he carefully combed his hair, then sped off to the meeting.

Simon looked up as his assistant barged through the door. He liked Bill, but his eagerness could sometimes get on his nerves. Looking sternly at Macek, Simon motioned him to sit down Macek pulled up a chair. Simon rifled through his papers, wrote a few notes, then spoke up. "Well, glad you could make it. I see that Crisofo is waiting. Let's see what Tony has to say." He turned his chair to the wall behind his desk,and flicked on the screen. He punched a few buttons on the remote.

The logo of the Eitoan embassy in Tupenga flashed on the display, briefly. A relaxed Anthony Lindawer, Eitoan Ambassador to Fustera appeared, in neat gray and white striped shirt, lightweight gray suit coat, and green tie. The perspiration on his balding dome glared onto the screen in the afternoon heat and humidity. He greeted Nasparatek, who intorduced Macek.

"Hi Bill", the ambassador said.

"Hello Mr. Ambassador", Macek responded politely.

Nasparatek started. "Tony, as part of the picture, what can you tell us about that dust up in Mocuba"

Lindawer smiled. Speaking slowly, deliberately, he delivered the news. "Simon, it was a debacle. Those Istos were humiliated. It was very ugly. The story is all over the Crisofo media. This has gotten a lot of attention here!"

Nasparatek nibbled on his pen. "Yes, but does this change anything on the ground?"

Lindawer shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I can't say that it has. This could up the volume of fighting on the ground, but I don't see the rebels gaining strategic advantage. They're too scattered. And let's not forget, these were the Isotoloeans. Not exactly fearsome warriors".

"I see", said Simon. "And the Ordenites?"

"Not good for them, but not decisive. People here are sure there's going to be reprisals. Too bad for the Creolosos, but that's the way it goes. Really, too bad."

Nasparatek nodded in agreement.

He turned to Macek. "Bill, are we still training Laderan airman".

"Yes sir. They've got a class for F-37 certification at Western Plains Airforce Base right now. The fourth to go through Western Plains, both pilots and support".

Nasparatek grunted.

The screen flashed momentarily. When it came back, it was split. Sergei Dragozov, the Ambassador to Istoloa appeared on the left, next to Lindawer.

"Good to see you Sergei" chirped Nasparatek

"Simon, Tony, good to see you there" said Dragozov.

"Sergei, we've got some reports from Loclea indicating a possible change at the top of the Istoloan junta. Can you fill us in, please"

"Glad to, Tony. The current head honcho is fading. This has been going on for some while, but it's been really noticeable lately. They've been hurting from that beating in Mocuba. We're trying to get closer to sources, but haven't gotten very far."

Macek spoke up. "Do you have any indication that a possible successor might change course down there?"

Dragozv thought for a moment. "Not really. But some of our people here have been noticing one man, a Tenente General Leandro Rosa. Some say he may soften the domestic policy in country. We don't know if he'd be up for culling back their foreign involvement."

"Good to know" said Nasparatek. "Keep me posted. Any change in the Ordenite presence?"

"There appears to be some movement in the west, Tony. The junta is pretty close mouthed about it. You might get better info from the Joint Military Intelligence service."

Simon shrugged. It was a rookie question. He turned again to Lindawer.

"Tony, any indication of changes coming from the Holy Matriarchy?

"None so far, Simon. Nothing obvious. If we hear anything, we'll keep you in the loop. Aren't these questions handled at the ambassadorial level?

"Um, yeah. My bad."

[Arakhkhar]

[ S E K H A Y M - V - K A N O N / S E C R E T - I N - C A N O N ]

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T H E　G O O D　H U M A N I T A R I A N

ITs-100, Ristankhar Intendancy, the Lirvittian Empire
Four Weeks Ago

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The shuffling of black heels and the gentle creak of leather was all that had sounded in the room, echoing against the cavernous concrete and steel that had formed the great ribs that had supported so great of a complex. One by one, each black-adorned espion took her place at the head of each seat laid to the sides of that long table there before them. Shades of black and the occasional glint of silver had been painted in broad strokes across the room and upon the uniforms of those myriad intelligence officers, with only the fleck of white forming their smooth, porcelain masks alike and identical each. Whereupon, at the end of the hall, a set of engraved doors cast open, bringing with it the step of another. With practiced discipline, from each officer came the swift rush of a right fist pressed tight against her chest, followed by a bow each to a sharp angle. The newcomer took her place at the end of the round table, giving only a slight bow in answer, and with a collective effort, each took their seat.

The newcomer looked only in a slight variation to any of the other masked officers - a silver chain linked over her black leather tunic, holding in place a medallion of Imperial Glory upon it. Her mask was of a solid white, to a slight sheen - made perhaps of some form of resin, a little too soft, a little too glossy, almost organic, only with two hollow black dots in place of eyes. There was a sort of stillness thereafter, as no one in the room had dared to speak, and the air seemed to vacate and let the room grow cold as finally the newcomer spoke with a callous sort of candor. "It is with regret that I inform you that Vesper-228 will not be in attendance today."

"As you have together received in your brief prior to this meeting, and collected within the folder placed before you at each desk, is the information that you shall be required to possess to carry out and delegate your assigned tasks. I have been informed that there is a general hesitancy in the Imperial Senate and by Central Command towards the continued conduct of such operations in the region described. The recent debacle has demonstrated rather clearly that it is necessary, owing to the general conditions of that area, to conduct a different manner of approach to those that we are more accustomed towards elsewhere. Our enemies are myriad, intensely hostile and powerful, and if a successful execution of our tasks is to be completed, these facts should be given the most intense prioritization of importance."

"The analysis, however, as I am sure you have received from our colleagues in military intelligence, demonstrates that the operational region in question is at the brink of a far more general war that shall have far-reaching repercussions as it pertains to operations elsewhere. A war of great scale and scope, that will preclude in the immediate period the operations of the Dienstadi powers from interfering significantly in our operations elsewhere. The fact that this will occur is not in-question - the outcome, however, without our involvement by some means, has been calculated as not necessarily to the Empire's advantage. It is as such the course of our operations to be conducted in this area to maximize the destructive impulses of these powers against each other, and by all means to inflict attrition in myriad and new ways. The specifics of how you shall accomplish that task, in what will be a long endeavor, has been left to you - precisely because this is your station and your specialty. A matter of importance for the moment has presented itself - in the southwestern corner of the Dienstadi peripheral zone, there exists the state of Istaloa and it's former colonies. Political crisis in this region has been calculated as being a prelude to a general war in the region, with conflict between the most likely characters considered to be of high probability. This must be exploited. "

There came the general chorus of voices in unison; "Agreed."

The newcomer then stood from her seat, followed by each everyone else.
"So it has been said, then let it be done."

Eastern Ladoa, Southwestern Greater Dienstad
The Present

---

Giving Word was one of those relatively new and somewhat insecure humanitarian organizations - a new, perhaps, and rather confederate entity of a half-dozen international Protestant Church organizations that had each owed it it's funding. Founded a decade or so ago, it was one of those little humanitarian groups in the Badlands that had quite broadly sought to stem the tide of the unimaginable suffering that had been brought on so readily and rapidly throughout a wartorn land - Church Sponsorship programs, flamboyant, wealthy pastors with bright smiles who gave their full heartfelt sermons upon those carefully curated stages, preaching in each family the virtue of giving and of humanitarian service to some new victims of a catastrophe that had sprung up like weeds in disparate corners of a hellish and inhospitable earth. That was not to say, of course, that it had not done some good works - there were, of course, so many people in so many countries who could owe their education, their very lives to this organization.

But nothing ever changed.
The dead would still be dead, and despite the untold millions that flowed daily, the whistle of shellfire and the weeping of the orphans sounded still. Some, of course, could have attributed this to the mere nature of the world - some, the more cynical, could have simply observed and found in those Pastors and elderly Protestant moralists a massive and exorbitant wealth seemingly unbecoming of one meant to be humble. Yet, those men had dodged with exceptional finesse the scandalous claims of embezzlement of funds appropriated humanitarian aid, astounding journalists and anti-corruption agents with uncanny regularity in the perfection of their unassailable legal shield. No matter what suspicions had been cast upon them, they were almost always met with a great public outcry from those organized associations of those dependent on it for survival, and so it had most broadly survived whatever challenges came against it. Some, the ever-more cynical, simply claimed that nothing would or could ever change at the behest of but one ultimately well-meaning but flawed IGO - that there would always be corruption at the end and with their native affiliates, that there'd never be any fundamental change in the conditions or quality of life in those they tried to help. But written between the smiles and between the well-meaning intentions of those who did earnestly believe, there would be the flow and pulse of money, and the stories of those who wielded it.

A new series of requests and inquiries would be put through, following the chaotic news coming out of Istaloa and Ladero. Local Christian organizations in eastern Ladero would be contacted, lengthy emails and letter promising financial aid for the purchase of medicine, the donation of clothing, the providence of clothing and alms in the good name of the Lord. It was another senseless war, another senseless insurgency, and yet another suffering populace in need of aid. Also, to coincide, it would involve the establishment of a set of field hospitals established by missionaries arriving from the Badlands for the good of the local population, skilled and talented nurses and doctors who had sensed a place in need. And for most of them, that was their intention indeed - despite all allegations of Corruption, the vast majority of those who opted to travel were for the most part exactly those whom they had claimed to be - empathetic Christians seeking to help people, a noble task indeed. But a few, a darling few that had conspired and plotted in the dark with forces innoble, had gained something of an ulterior motive. An alternative funding source had been appropriated from without, a source which was both quite wealthy but also rather particular as to how it was spent - and money that came with it attached agents of an agenda that could hardly be considered noble.

So when they had arrived, they did so under rules of strict Christian neutrality. Soldiers of both sides, and especially civilians, would be treated equally. They'd even isolate the rebels from the government soldiers in separate camps, to prevent any incidents, though they certainly wouldn't refuse if anyone so decided to wander into one such aid station. They were kind, after all, and empathetic to the limits of their resources. It might, however, have happened that, occasionally, a contact would be established and an identity recorded, that which probably shouldn't be. And if it so happened that... here and then, a package of medicine or rations should vanish, or a few thousand in currency should go missing, there could be lamentations for the sick, but not ever quite an investigation into just where they happened to go.

[Istoloa]

LADERO






GANCHAS

Children kicked the ball on the hard surface court, the two goals netless, and all the boys were sporting well-worn shoes. While Ladero had come a long way since its independence, in these parts rebels made the delivery of basic luxuries like a new pair of boots increasingly difficult to make. It felt like a reversion to the old days. Weary parents were too busy anxiously wondering whether they'd have food for the table to be paying their kids much attention.

A convoy of vehicles whipped up a curtain of sand and dust behind it, trailing it as the convoy moved through the large port city of Porto Carmesim. Some boys stopped to look at it as it quickly passed by.

All of the armored trucks had the insignia of the Camarzela Separatist Army (CSA).

Even a few months ago, most still did not know the emblem of the CSA. Today, all knew Os Machadeiros.

The CSA may have called itself a local separatist army for the liberation of eastern Ladero, a region known as Camarzela, but in place of liberation, it practiced terror. Convoys like these swept through cities, towns, and hamlets alike, most often to hunt down people they called regime collaborationists. It was just the other day that the mayor of Porto Carmesim, one of the most important port towns of Ladero, had been viciously gunned down outside of his residence. Thousands of lawmen, including police, lawyers, and judges, had been assassinated. And it was not just the politicians and men of justice, Os Machadeiros came for the people too. Too often now one would make up in the middle of the night and in the distance see the flames of some village or town being burned down to a crisp.

For some time, the violence between armies had subsided. The uneasy truce between Ladero and Istoloa had meant that much of the organized fighting ended, but the CSA remained and grew stronger. Entrenching themselves into the very fabric of Camarzelan life, they shaked down businesses across the region and began charging what they called a security tax. Those who didn't pay were hung up from overpasses for all to see.

The convoy stopped in front of a rather tall building, which had seen better days. The wide fixed awning, made of wood and brick, was falling apart and looked as if ready to fall upon any unaware pedestrian below. It looked like some sort of hotel of old, still in business but only miraculously and not because of the class of its clientele. As the CSA men stepped out of their KMTPs and KMRPs, all they saw were druggies, prostitutes, and unfortunate souls at the doorstep of becoming one or the other. They were ignored as about twenty men quickly marched in, leaving around ten more behind to guard the vehicles. At least two drones buzzed overhead, assuredly keeping a watch over suspicious or threatening activity nearby.

As the building's graffiti-ridden elevator no longer worked, the guerrilheiros made their way up the stairs. Their boots crushed needles and pipes as they made their way through a graveyard of half-dead, drug-infused corpses. Screams and moans came out from some of the rooms, but mostly the grunting of old men. The CSA fighters ignored them too.

They stopped at the fifth floor, having rapidly trotted up all those flights of stairs, rifles at the ready. Waiting outside a door marked 506, they listened in on a conversation between a man and three women inside for a moment.

"We don't do that," said one of the female voices.

A sigh. "I thought you guys said you'd do anything."

"Everything but that."

Having heard enough, one of the guerrilheiros stepped up and kicked in the door. From behind him flooded a torrent of gunmen, wearing their drab gray-green uniforms displaying the machete and star of the CSA on their arms. "Arms up! Arms up! Arms up!" They shouted as they rushed in, pointing their weapons at the four fully naked persons in the little hotel room.

Bed cover on the floor, sheets to one side, the mattress was so thin you could see the springs inside. The room's walls had wallpaper that needed replacing two decades ago. It was now half-torn, with a pocked bare wall in full display. Some of the drywall looked as if it had been shot and then hastily cleaned. The men wondered if this hotel room had been used to murder someone before. Maybe many times before.

One of them said, "Joaquim Duarte Lacerda, you stand guilty of collaboration with the Lavença settler regime."

The naked man stared back at him, wide-eyed, mouth agape.

"Any last words?"

The naked man just stared back.

The twenty soldiers raised their rifles in unison and unleashed their full magazines on the man and the three prostitutes. When they finally ceased firing, the bodies were hardly recognizable. Bodies were checked, photos were taken, and very quickly the CSA fighters left the way they came. By then, only the most tranced addict was left in the halls, their eyes fluttering wildly as the men briskly made their way back down.

Outside, one of the CSA officers who had stayed outside was waiting at the door, just to the side of the decrepit awning.

The men who were coming out stopped. They did not salute or say rank, in case there were snipers or observers, but they were clearly deferential. One said, "The governor is dead, sir."

"Good," replied the officer. "Let's go."

Three men from those who went inside followed the officer to his vehicle, a KMRP-700/C2. The rest boarded a mix of two KMTP-220/Ms, one KMTP-220/T, and two KMRP-700/DOMs. In an instant they were on the move, one of the KMRPs pushing a civilian vehicle out of the way to make room for the convoy as it sped further into the city. In the distance, the rising glass towers of Porto Carmesim's financial district loomed over the slums of the inner city, casting a shadow on its sin and filth.

"Comandante-Geral, the attack is underway," said the guerrilheiros sitting to the general's right, as he held a hardened laptop with drone footage on the screen.

On the other side of the financial district were the port and harbor boroughs of the city. Porto Carmesim was a port city of some importance, especially for trade with Istoloa. Its harbor also gave the Laderan government convenient logistical access to the backdoor of the Camarzela region. The military port came into view as the drone panned out slightly. A street leading directly to the base could also be seen, and on it a KMRP-700/BVIED came into view, speeding directly in that very direction. The heavy armored truck zoomed past an intersection, bulldozing an unsuspecting sedan out of the way and sending it spinning into a building, while the truck pushed on. It headed straight for a line of cars slowly inching forward through an eight-post gate regulating traffic into the naval base.

The truck smashed into several vehicles, pushing forward with a ram attached to its front to more easily displace the cars in front. By the time the gate guards had their weapons up, ready to shoot, the vehicle exploded. A fireball rose up toward the drone camera, like a great gray mushroom of smoke, debris, and fire. The blast tore through glass, steel, and bodies alike, shattering bone and muscle.

Looking up from the screen, in his C2 vehicle, the Comandante-Geral said, "How far out is Grupo de Mendonça?"

"Two minutes, sir," said the soldier to his left, who was listening to communication channels through a headset.

Their convoy suddenly took a slight right prong of a fork in the road, veering into the path of a much larger armored convoy heading towards the naval base. They blended in seamlessly, coordinating perfectly with the larger group. This had been practiced and done before. The CSA was turning into a sharp-edged guerrilla army of almost two hundred thousand soldiers. Although by now most were conscripts, the harsh experience of nearly daily combat turned any man who did not die into a battle-tested warrior.

"Comandante-Geral Ganchas," said the co-pilot, turning. "Eight minutes to target."

Before the general could respond, the man to his left said, "The main assault has begun."

On his right, the drone footage was showing the breakthrough strike. Grupo de Mendonça (GDM) was a column of thirty-two armored trucks, including four KMRP-700/LTs, that hit the exploded base gate like a mailed fist. Survivors and arriving base security were caught in the open by the firepower of nonstop cannon, autocannon, and machinegun fire. Behind, a KMTP-220/L unloaded its twelve eighty millimeter rockets on a building identified as a barracks building for on-base naval infantry. As other structures were bombarded in turn, the main body of GDM vehicles sliced through the base along its primary avenue toward the dock facilities. The tank cannons were busily suppressing any resistance along the way, all the vehicles opening fire with all of their weapons as they continued their thunder run.

"Two minutes," said the co-pilot.

The larger convoy that the general's smaller force had dramatically rendezvoused with was Grupo Barreto, named after its commander, Capitão Rodrigo Salustiano Barreto. It escorted ten KMRP-700/BVIEDs. Looking up from the screen, the general said, "If we pull this off, the government in Lavença will lose their primary and most important supply route into the region. Our hold on Camarzela will be steel-strong."

"Thirty seconds."

Acrid smoke enshrouded the vehicles as they rolled through the blackened and charred remains of the gate. The men tried not to look at the dead. Bodies were here and there in bits and pieces, some still in their cars where they had been sitting when the VBIED went off. Behind the gate, the violence had left plenty of marks too. Grupo de Mendonça had done their job efficiently, although there were damaged and burning wrecks of CSA trucks mixed in with the general destruction. Buildings lay shot up, in ruins, smouldering, or a combination of two or all three.

"Resistance is tightening in the bachelors' barracks and along some of the outer installations, including the air strip," said the man on his left. "Unlikely that we'll be able to secure the whole base."

"That's quite alright," said the general, relaxed. "We won't need to."

Grupo de Mendonça had caught the port facilities largely unprotected. The unfortunate security personnel posted for watch had been easily overpowered and killed. Ships at port included three destroyers, five frigates, and three corvettes, all of them newly acquired. This was the nucleus of the new Laderan fleet, which was supposed to be able to proactively protect Laderan commercial interests in the nearby waterways leading out to central Greater Díenstad. And they had all fallen under the control of the CSA.

His C2 MRAP came to a stop in the port facilities, where an officer wearing the insignia of a CSA captain was waiting for him. "Comandante-Geral Ganchas, it is an honor."

"The honor is mine, Capitão Vicente Ríos de Mendonça," replied the general. "Congratulations on your victory."

With a beaming smile, de Mendonça answered, "Congratulations on yours."

"The job is far from done," said the general. "We can celebrate later. First, see the proper distribution of the explosives."

De Mendonça nodded. "Of course, sir. By the time we're done, there won't be anything left here."

"The ships, too," was all that Ganchas said to that.

The captain nodded again. "The ships, too, sir."

Confident that his commanders were capable of carrying out the operation as planned, the general left Capitãos de Mendonça and Barreto to their work. He, in his C2 vehicle, escorted by the same trucks that had come with him from the Lacerda hit, left the naval base to leave the city. Gunfire echoed all around, as fighting engulfed the city. It would soon be all over the news — the CSA had launched its biggest operation since the initial invasion.

It took just over an hour, but as they left the city behind them, the land turned into neatly parceled out plots of land, with endless rows of vineyards, olive groves, fruit trees, wheat and barley, and countless other crops. The land undulated with rolling hills, and Ganchas' convoy stopped on one height that overlooked the rest. Standing at the top, they could even see most of the town. From a distance, though small by comparison to other great cities, Porto Carmesim nevertheless beautifully glittered white in the sunlight. Ganchas stepped out of his vehicle to breathe in the fresh air and survey today's conquest. He looked intently toward the port, from where he had just come. Clasping his hands behind him and his back straight, the general patiently waited as he gazed out toward the naval base.

Despite the muffled gunfire and explosions coming from the city, on the tall hill from which they were observing the battle, it was almost peaceful.

Then, suddenly, a blinding flash preceded a massive rippling of explosions that created a giant mushroom cloud to rise into the air and engulf large swaths of the city where the naval base was. Black and dark gray clouds of smoke, soot, and debris followed a burning orange-red fireball that threatened to grow larger and larger until finally it climaxed.

Ganchas smiled.

One of his men brought him a device that looked something like a hardened mobile phone. He put it to his ear. "Governor Joaquim Duarte Lacerda is dead."

"Good," said the voice on the other side of the line.

The general continued, "Laderan military port facilities in Porto Carmesim have been neutralized, and I'll have forty thousand men in the city by the time the Lavença government reacts."

Neither said anything for a moment. Then, from the other side of the line, "El Marechalisimo is becoming more indisposed. The time for a new leader is coming. It's important for the stability of our country that you remember where your loyalties lie when the time comes for me to take Fremonero's place at the head of the state. I will bring you back to Istoloa. I will end your purgatory in Ladero."

Ganchas very much wanted to return home. He had never planned to deploy to Ladero indefinitely. If that meant keeping de Vega on his good side, so be it. "Of course, sir. My loyalties are with you," he said.

[Holy Marsh]

Alsertan Military Complex XA-I
Alsterta, Holy Marsh

Samara Jav'neka never tired of the smell of Alserta.
It wasn’t the smell most foreigners associated with cities- incense yes, but no pollution, no sterile chemical cleanliness. Alserta smelled of motion. It was a hot scent: molten composite filaments, polymerized steels, ion-smelted refractives, powder oils. A scent not of death but of readiness. She knew the numbers-1.2 billion Marshites lived and labored within the city’s semi-lattice boundaries, bound within the giant ziggurat-factories that produced endlessly for the Faith. Every citizen trained. Every neighborhood templated for conversion into barracks or factory space within thirty minutes of mobilization. Five hundred million active industrial workers, two hundred million auxiliary logistics personnel. The rest? Priests of the Forge and Doctrine, science and industry brought to new heights.

To Samara, Alserta was more than a city. It was living scripture.

The rail slid past kilometer-long factories with walls like armored cathedrals. Each line operated in praise-machines inscribed with the cants of Labor hummed liturgically as they stamped, shaped, and sanctified armored vehicle chassis. Drones skimmed the air, tagged with the marks of their Sardas. Not decorative, not symbolic-each glyph bore a purpose, each prayer code integrated into sensor behavior, targeting directives, or emotional state programming. Alserta didn't just build weapons. It believed them into being.

Samara, tall and soft-spoken, had learned long ago to mask her awe in public. But her eyes wandered the way a priestess gazes at a holy flame-never directly, but always hungrily. Lines of tanks being transported by rail lines whose wheels would crush her entire train were being sanctified in transport by clergy. She could see their heads tilt upward as one, saluting the railcar as it passed. She returned the gesture, placing one gloved hand over her heart and whispering a silent prayer to herself.

As the rail slowed, XA-I came into full view, a giant block of a structure built to withstand generational siege. The facility’s outer gates were ringed with defenses, yet its defenses were layered inward most notably, folded upon themselves in preparation for a war that had died off decades prior.

The doors to the rail hub opened without hiss or fanfare. A captain in ceremonial armor waited beside an escort of four Shrine Guards, faces hidden behind violet masks of the local Commune Sarda. Their weapons were inert-visibly so, in the Marshite way, to demonstrate trust through intentional disarmament. Samara bowed lightly, and the escort responded by flanking her in a silent diamond as they walked toward the briefing chamber’s internal elevators.

Ahead, the blast-sealed corridor began to narrow. Light filtered from radiant prayer-sigils carved into the hardened walls. Each symbol glowed with sacred intent, and Samara passed through them like one might walk through scripture. One sigil read: Sacrifice is sanctity. Another: Doctrine is love, and love is absolute.

She allowed herself a rare smile. It was good to be home. The war would begin soon. And the Karda, in its infinite wisdom, was already in motion. The interior of the briefing room was silent. The polished basalt floor drank sound, and the low red light from the ceiling illuminated the briefing tier in concentric circles, each more secure than the last.

Samara entered alone. The officers who had preceded her sat in the innermost ring-battle-scarred veterans in the lilac, indigo, or crimson insignia of Alserta’s own armies. Across the black walls, mirrored glass hid hundreds more-commanders from across the Matriarchy’s global footprint watching through secure relay. Behind each pane: a warfront. A sector. A people waiting for judgment. She pondered: How many wars was the Theocracy engaged in at any given time? The thought pleased her. Every moment a martyr, Marsh praise them. Every moment a tyrant slain, Marsh mock them. What glory could be greater than this?

Samara approached the podium-an altar of burnished steel and hand-carved scripture. She removed her gloves. She placed them, folded, to the right of the lectern. She touched the symbol of the Primitive Sarda embossed into the surface-a sunburst interwoven with an open eye, no doubt a gift from one of their artisans-and bowed her head, joined by dozens here and hundreds more across the linked net.

“In Her name, we submit the tyrant.”
The room responded in unison, hundreds of voices over hardlines and audio-links merging into one:
“It is our joy.”
“In Her name, we slay the slaver.”
“It is our joy.”
“In Her name, we silence the Vile.”
“It is our joy.”
“In Her name, we sacrifice ourselves.”
“It is our joy.”
“The Faith Triumphant.”
“The Faith Triumphant.”

Samara activated the podium. A pane of light slid upward in a semicircle, revealing topographic projections, real-time troop movement overlays, and satellite imagery of eastern Ladero. The system auto-marked Istoloan field units with burnished brown sigils-each one denoting a disguised, embedded presence. “Current analysis up to now has been this: Istoloa represents a significant threat to Laderan independence and the security of the sub-region. After the failure of its previous offensive, it left forces in Ladero to do what it has been doing-undermine Laderan sovereignty.”

“It represents the strongest threat to strategic interests in this operational theater.”
A swipe of her hand adjusted the display. New layers-sociopolitical unrest, regional migration flows, logistic strain within Istoloa’s interior. A flashing black column highlighted recent troop redeployments by the Ordenites within Istoloa.

“As internal issues mount, it is likely they will turn to military action. As such, M-SAD has worked on multiple operational plans that are going to be put into action.”

She paused, allowing the maps to reframe, now focusing on confirmed hotspots-eastern Ladero, international interdiction routes, naval chokepoints near the Strait of Asadabad, Irati’s borders.
“Each recommendation has been weighed against doctrinal imperatives. We do not provoke. We do not conquer. We prevent. We protect. We purify. Our objectives are limited at the moment, and they are sacred.”

The screens shifted again. The briefing had begun in earnest. “Forces currently deployed to Ladero,” Samara said, her tone sharp with precision, “include the 215th and 578th Marine Divisions, as well as several squadrons of the 1760th Air Crusade. Task Force 202 of the 3-6 Fleet is on station in the Khaldívico Sea.”

As she spoke, unit identifiers blossomed across the holomap, each one marked in Marshite sacred glyphs. The two Marine divisions flickered blue-white, icons pulsing with readiness. In the skies above, the air squadrons drifted in veiled orbit, haloed with data sigils representing sorties flown, targets reconnoitered, and hours under doctrinal clarity. Samara raised her right hand, index and middle finger extended, and the map reoriented. Ladero rotated downward, now seen from an orbital perspective. Ground force deployments snapped into new positions-lines of march, operational corridors, deployment zones.

“The primary agenda item is the security of Ladero. As such, two years ago we formed the Laderan Crusade under the command of Huntress Damana Javars. As of this morning, the Crusade has been activated operationally. Assigned to this Crusade will be, initially: three armored divisions, an airborne division, and six infantry divisions, routed from the north. These will reinforce the two Marine divisions already stationed in Ladero. Deployment of the entire 1760th is authorized.”
A new layer unfolded-airlift and attack vectors, fuel consumption corridors, aerial traffic lattices. The logistical spine of the coming fire and the hammer of Her Will.

“The entire 3-6 Fleet will be assigned to this Crusade, under the command of Maestro of the Waves Alibajer Cocana. The fleet is to be supplemented by task forces from auxiliary and support fleets across the region.”
Behind her, fleet groupings began to consolidate on the holomap. Carrier Strike groups. Amphibious contingents. Missile curtains. Long-range drone vectors. The display took nearly a third of the room’s visible surface-too large, too complex for mortal comprehension without the interface’s constant auto-curation.

And yet every officer in the room understood what they were seeing. It was the architecture of sacred violence. Not blitz. Not terror. Not conquest. Just... justice, prepared.
“The Laderan Crusade is not a war of occupation. It is not a war of pride. It is the sanctified defense of a sovereign nation whose independence is threatened by tyranny, and whose borders we are doctrinally bound to honor through action. Wherever tyranny exists, we fucking kill it.”

A murmur of laughter and some more sour expressions, but she enjoyed herself and moved on.
The holomap reoriented, panning outward into a more abstracted display-force flow predictions, escalation forecasts, reinforcement probabilities, doctrinal readiness indexes. Alongside it, the Operation Designation glyph appeared: SECURE HAWK, flanked in white, its Marshite sigil burning gently in place.

“In time, more significant forces will be assigned as needed, and we are currently looking at both an excess of possibility in growing and sustainment of the Crusade.”
She gestured, and new figures displayed below the main map-projected mobilization timelines, reserve division locations, industrial drawdown quotas. The Matriarchy had the ability to escalate a thousandfold, but that wasn’t the plan. Not yet. There were larger wars to fight, other obligations.

“However, as a reminder: the Crusade has been given a Doria-level priority. No Crusade Group,” she reiterated. “So there shall only be the one Crusade with a high reinforcement priority and growth potential. But only one Crusade.”
“The weight of Ladero’s security will fall on you.”
Her eyes swept the room. Officers nodded. It was not the most glorious of designations, but all wars were vital to the security of the Good and Righteous.

“This will be known as Operation: Secure Hawk.”
The name crystallized into every display. Logged. Sanctified. “Secure Hawk will see our ground forces working directly with the Laderan government to eliminate the threat posed to their independence by Istoloa through the destruction of its enemies and the securing of its land.”
She moved the map again, zooming in on Ladero’s eastern corridor-contested territory where the so-called Laderan separatists operated under Istoloan command. Brown flares marked fortified nodes. Civilian centers at risk. Known insurgent routes. They would be struck. Hard. Decisively.

“At sea, the 3-6 Fleet and associated task forces will form a naval security blanket for Ladero.”
New lines formed over the Khaldívico Sea-kill zones, naval picket grids, aerial denial corridors, through the waters closest to Ladero from border to border. “Their objective is to secure ground and air superiority by denying Istoloa and its allies in Ladero its lifelines. No oil. No shells. No food. No mercy for the tyrant’s will.”

The map darkened again-colors fading to near-black before slowly reemerging with new emphasis: Istoloa itself now at the center. The Khaldívico Sea pulsed to the west. But now, attention shifted to the Eastern Istoloan seaboard, where new Marshite forces moved into silent, sovereign position.

“Let us be clear. These so-called separatists are not autonomous. They are simply soldiers of Istoloa, organized under disguise and backed by covert logistics. Alongside them are whatever local forces can be bribed, coerced, or indoctrinated. They have already struck a severe blow against Ladero. We believe it is only a matter of time before fighting reaches a pivotal threshold. When that threshold is crossed, and open war is declared, four additional operations will be undertaken.”

The screens brightened with a single, searing symbol: a coiled sea serpent, curled around a sunburst-Operation: Sea Dragon.
“The 3-5 Fleet under Grand Commodore Aytil Evaie will initiate Operation: Sea Dragon, the blockade of Istoloa from the East,” a digital cascade of assets unfolded on the map. Fleet formations, long-range naval drones, sub-surface hunter vessels. Around them, two curved lines appeared like concentric halos, stretching from the northeast to the southwest in two long lines.

Samara pointed to the outermost line.
“The Wyrm Line. This will serve as a no-go zone for any military vessel not aligned with or permitted by the Theocracy. Any breach of this line will be interpreted as an act of war. Forces allocated to the Wyrm Line are allowed to use whatever means considered necessary to secure the line.”

Then to the inner line.
“The Drake Line. This phase line will be a final boundary. No vessel-military or civilian-will pass without being searched and explicitly authorized by the Theocracy. The same orders exist as the Wyrm Line, but that now extends to civilian vessels. The goal of Sea Dragon is to isolate Istoloa. Economically. Militarily.”

She paused.
“The 3-5 and all subordinate task forces are hereby authorized to destroy any naval vessel belonging to any power not authorized. Let there be no misunderstanding. These orders are standing. This operation is not symbolic. The seas will run red and black for as long as necessary if Sea Dragon is authorized in full,” she said as she looked at the projection, which took a second to change.

A new symbol lit the command displays: a lion’s skull split at the jaw, crowned by a halo of flame and scripture. Operation: Snapping Lion. “This is the destruction of Istoloan strategic capability in the long term. It will involve all branches of the Theocratic Armed Forces.”
She motioned again, and the holomap expanded beyond the operational theater-zooming outward until all of Istoloa was in frame. The red overlay widened. Strategic targets flickered into view. Infrastructure. Industry. The arteries of a nation’s strength.

“Strategic bombing. Naval denial. Elimination of naval assets. Deep cyberstrike. Localized ground invasions. All calibrated to one purpose,” she looked up. “To eliminate-in total-Istoloa’s ability to project power.”
She began to list targets not like a tactician, but like a surgeon reading off infected organs before amputation: “International trade routes. Maritime commerce hubs. Naval dockyards. Shipyards-both military and civilian. All airports. All airfields. All airspace command. All long-range logistics.”

“Power grid. Fuel infrastructure. National defense architecture. Intelligence hubs. C4ISR command. Strategic reserves. Political centers of power. Roads. Rails. Signal towers. Storage and distribution.”
Every node glowed red as she spoke. The map responded to her voice. It obeyed the pattern of totality. This was not scorched earth. This was cutting the throat of a nation and letting Her Will wash the blood away. “Snapping Lion will continuously grow as needed. It is not limited by time or scale. It will end only in two outcomes: the permanent crippling of Istoloa’s strategic capability, or its submission to sanctified terms.” There was a pause, and then she added a final clause-less a warning, more a confirmation of what had already been decided behind closed doors.

“Notably, Snapping Lion VI includes a much larger escalation, should a full-blown ground invasion of Istoloa be deemed necessary.”
Samara allowed the lion skull to flicker a moment longer, then shifted the display back to theater scale.
“These are operations of refusal. We refuse to allow tyranny to survive unchallenged. We refuse to allow madmen, deceivers, and liars to poison our world unchecked. This region will be brought to heel by choice or force, but brought to heel it will be.”

The lion symbol faded from the display. In its place, a new sigil rotated silently in the air: a closed eye encased in a lattice of ruby shards, its pupil shaped like a burning rose. Around it bloomed a soft blue halo. A glyph of intelligence. Subversion. Seeds planted in shadow.

“Operation: Jeweled Eyes. Jeweled Eyes I will be the M-SAD effort to support the Red Tulip Revolutionaries in Istoloa,” she said as she started to list names and figures, money trails, ideologically appropriate members. M-SAD was determined to foster a better future for Istoloa. “Such efforts have been ongoing. But this represents an escalation-of funding, intent, and engagement.”

She let the image hang before shifting the map again.
“Jeweled Eyes II will be the operation to support the Partido dos Trabalhadores de Istoloa.”
Old communists. Broken in public. Alive in exile. Rebuilding in silence. Some agreeable, many who were not. M-SAD didn’t care. The Karda knew that they brought their own troubles, but they were more agreeable than not.

“One of our aims is to steer these two forces-the Revolutionaries and the Partido-into a working agreement. A coalition. A shared objective. A broader effort against the Fremonero regime,” the projection shifted to a graphic of social analysis, encrypted transmissions, philosophical overlaps and doctrinal conflicts. If doctrine could be bent without breaking, unity might follow. If not-divide and absorb. That was known, too.

“Jeweled Eyes III will support anti-Istoloan elements within the Irati military and society-those that will prove useful in final victory. The current regime cannot be trusted- it is known they have significant Istoloan assets in nation,” the image focused on Teniza, Irati’s capital. Key generals. Anti-Istoloan sympathizers. Groups suppressed by Monteiric’s new junta. The government in exile.
“We will work to amplify disorder-not to destabilize needlessly, but to ensure their instability bends toward righteous collapse. It is hoped that the Irati will handle the Irati, but other operations are planned.”

The final map projection pulled back to a wider regional view. A crimson arc stretched from Irati to the southern borders of Sorofi. “Jeweled Eyes IV will focus on ensuring Sorofi joins the broader anti-Istoloan campaign-by any means necessary.” She deactivated the display, letting the red-haloed eye fade into darkness.

“We have our duties. Get to work.”

******************

Operation: Secure Hawk, the principal effort of the Theocratic Matriarchyin defense of the sovereign nation of Ladero, commenced formal operations soon after the attack by the CSA. Initially structured around the defense of Laderan independence and regional stability, the 215th and 578th Marine Divisions, already stationed within Laderan territory, executed rapid position consolidation and perimeter security maneuvers along the eastern frontier. Marshite units integrated with coordinated with Laderan command structures at key junctions.

The 1760th Air Crusade started to airlifted forces to Ladero while positioning forward assets in friendly territories in the region. Increased communication and coordination between Marshite ground command and Laderan Defense Force High Command established. The 3-6 Fleet conducting combat patrols in the Khaldívico Sea; once they made operation contact with Ladero, they would move to establish the cordon. Arrival of forward-deployed armored, infantry, and airborne divisions continued, with the full Crusade strength expected within 72–96 hours.

Sea Dragon was not yet activated. However, the 3-5 Fleet was en route to the operational area. Phase line plotting completed. Wyrm and Drake Line beacon architecture under prepared. Joint surveillance ops with M-SAD naval analysts activated.

Snapping Lion was not yet authorized. Strategic bombing profiles were updated and queued for execution pending trigger authorization. Strategic warfare units moved into position across distributed launch and relay sites. Cyberwarfare agents and departments prepared. Potential amphibious operations were finalized.

Operation Jeweled Eyes was in full swing. Secure communications with Red Tulip Revolutionaries initiated in full. M-SAD communications were to estrablish firm contact with Partido dos Trabalhadores elements in exile and internal cells. Analysis cells assessing Irati junta vulnerabilities and mapping military dissent trends, while the Government-in-Exile was contacted to provide aid. Diplomatic efforts in Sorofi were launched to ascertain how to best ensure an anti-Istoloan support apparatus.

While military efforts were underway, diplomatic efforts were made to contact firm Marshite allies as well as allies of convenience. The Golden Throne, The Republic of Eitoan, Ladero, The Sublime Empire of Mahdah were contacted in full, with a full explanation of Marshite aims and a generic profile of operations. These communications asked for a meeting of the minds to coordinate military efforts. Grán Républica Revolucionaria del Refugio Seguro was contacted regarding their support of communists in Istoloa.
Norwaay-sweden-finland and Republic of Zenik were to be contacted, primarily to ensure their ability to aid in anti-Istoloan efforts in the Tarao countries.

[Eitoan]

Embassy of the Republic of Eitoan
Rua Des Flores, Lavenca

The air conditioning worked double overtime as the morning slipped into the typical sultry tropical afternoon. Staffers disappeared, one by one from their offices for their lunch hour. The pace, as ever was slow and relaxed. Lavenca was a good assignment, both for the younger junior analysts and foreign affairs officers. A few veterans remained from the First Tarao War, middle management by now. The square, squat concrete and tinted class structure, built in the early years of the 21st century was hardly a fixture in the capital. The suites, three stories above the parking garage had never been a particular hive of activity. Low level staffers, visiting businessmen and lawyers, and visa applicants inhabited the first floor. Above them were the staff that made thing happen, the senior analysts and area specialists. The second floor was also an outpost of the Department of Industry and Trade. Guiding the intricacies of Laderan contracts was the major business of the embassy, normally. Reigning above the underlings on the third floor were the spacious quarters of the attaches and their direct reports, presided over by the spacious apartment and business office of Ambassador Zach Allan.

Allen has senior among the Foreign Policy corp in the Tarao countries. Fluent in the language, well thought of by the diplomatic community in country, the bespectacled, somewhat stuffy 51 had represented Eitoan in Lavenca for eight years. His youngest daughter finished high school there. Allan was comfortable there, maybe more so than in the hustle and bustle of Vladarsik. The Shartourn was not exactly a backwater, but Allan was convinced that he would ride out his Foreign Affairs career in Lavenca.

After a morning of mundane review of contract negotiations and security reports, Allan poured himself a coffee, the strong local brew, and settled down to his lunch. He decided to browse his favorite news source, Analise Social. Satisfied with the progress of the capital's soccer team in league play, his attention tuned back to the news. He had been briefed about the recent activity in the east. He knew it wasn't good. The Analise Social's reports delved into the gory details. The human toll was sickening. The CSA slaughter had reached a new low. He was not surprised. He knew from friends with kids in the army the CSA were animals. But to this point he had thought the government had a grip on things. He read, in graphic detail, damage reports of the attack on the naval base. It was concerning. It appears that very serious casualties had been taken, with a great loss of tonnage upon the Laderan fleet in the straits. He switched the screen over to the latest report from the Naval Attache, delivered just minutes ago. The results were unconfirmed, but it was thought that several destroyers and the newest guided missile cruiser had been sunk or damaged beyond repair in port. He switched again, to official statements put out by the Laderan government. There were claims, as yet uncorroborated of Istoloan guidance and possibly direct involvemnt in the latest CSA actions.

An urgent request went out from Allan to his Military Attache, Colonel Robert Z'vag, Joint Military Intelligence Service. Rob and Zach were close, the Colonel eight years his junior, serving faithfully at the embassy for the last three years. Much better than that old crock predecessor, Zach mused. Twenty minutes later Z'vag rushed into his office, lunch with his subordinates having been cut short by the summons. Tall, tanned, sandy haired, Rob pulled up a chair and opened up to the Ambassador. "What's up today, chief?", he chirped.

Allan had never gotten used to Rob's informality. Unusual for a military man, maybe less unusual for the spy service. He leaned forward, intoning "Have you seen the latest from the east? It sounds pretty bad, from what I've read. Is it true the Istoloans are directly involved?"

"Well, we can assume they are. We always assume they are behind CSA activity. But directly? No. Nothing confirmed so far."

"And damage to the Laderan fleet?"

"Ah, that, I'm sorry to say is bad. Their navy has been abuzz all morning. Very sad. I'm afraid this leaves them vulnerable."

"What about other players."

"We have indications of Ordenite activity across the straits. It appears to be some sort of buildup. At this time we don't believe they have to transport to land here, but the naval wipeout changes things. I've been in touch with our men in Istoloa. They've indicated unusually high Ordentie activity in western Istoloa"

"Concerning", said Zach.

"Yes, concerning" agreed Rob.

Finishing up with Z'vag, Allan went back to a review of the local media. More and more reports of significant damage to the Laderan navy filtered in. Allan was disturbed. He retraced the Eitoan response during the Tarao War, and decided to follow through on current capabilities, both in training Laderan airmen, and shuttling supplies to the beleaguered republic. Military training for the Air Force appeared to be going well, on track, although at a slower pace than during the war. This was to be expected, but he made a note to inquire about stepping it up, in case their Air Force had similar losses. That done, he put in a confidential call to Alter Levin, Logistico's General Manager in Ladero.

Logisitico was the leading freight mover in Eitoan, as well as throughout the western continent. Growing from a negligible presence in Ladero, the company ramped up during the war, building facilities, upgrading port and warehousing facilities as was needed, and outfitting the dilapidated Laderan rail network as needed to supply the war effort. Logistico's presence continued after the war, as the economy recovered. Any Eitoan involvement, whether through supply or, ultimately militarily would be dependent on rapid deployment from suppliers in Eitoan, as well as Volsku and Federal Ralkovia. Levin and Allan chatted for over an hour. Although some of the Logisitco owned warehousing had been leased to local businesses, Leving assured Allan that space could be cleared rapidly, in the event the Laderan government approved returning it. Local trucking capacity was a concern, adequate during peacetime but in need of an upgrade in the event of direct Istoloan or worse, Ordenite attack. The two discussed it further for another half hour. Logistico warehousing facilities were adequate for receiving previous wartime quantities in Lavenca, Alefon and Sao Rafael. Levin told Allan that a more robust motor transport fleet would be necessary to move shipments from there eastward. In addition to an upgrade to outlying airport and warehousing, Levin requested that Allan consider upping the delivery of trucks and warehousing equipment from Eitoan suppliers, particularly from Nidrev Motors and Industrial Equipment. Allan said that he would discuss it with the commercial attaché, and include it to his report to Vladarsik.

After the call to Levin, Allan loosened his tie and paced the floor, two, three , four times. He sat down and turned to the lastest official Laderan communiques. The Laderans were close mouthed about naval damage. This was unsettling. Why would they hold back information if the CSA had only inflicted a pinprick? He briefly considered recalling Z'vag to his office, but reconsidered. The man had his hands full. Instead, he began composing a memo to Foreign Affairs Main in Vladarsik. He knew they'd be pounding him for news, and decided to relay his afternoon discussions before he retired to his quarters for the day. "Long days are ahead", he thought.

Two Days Later
Department of Foreign Affairs, Vladarsik, Eitoan.

Ambassador Allan's memo had arrived the previous day.

Embassy of the Republic of Eitoan
Lavenca, Ladero

To: Andrew Falkowski, Secretary of Foreign Affairs
From: Zachary Allan, Ambassador

This is an update on the situation in eastern Ladero, after recent activity by the Camarzela Separatist Army (CSA) against Laderan naval and civilian targets. The atrocities of the CSA against ordinary citizens and officials, including the mayor of Porto Carmesimhas now been confirmed by multiple sources. Damage to the Laderan fleet is still being assessed at this early date, but it appears several of it's warships have been heavily damaged or otherwise disabled. It now appears that Porto Carmesimhas has been entirely occupied bye the CSA. Scattered Laderan units may be operating in the vicinity of Porto Caremssimhas, along with police and milita stragglers, but Laderan military sources has not confirmed this, Embassy staff continues to work to verify rumors in our discussions with trusted sources here.

Foreign involvement has not been confirmed in rebel held areas, but it is common knowledge that elements of the Istoloan military havve been active in eastern Ladero since the end of the war. I have taken the liberty of discussing an acceleration of supplies to the government. The commercial attache here has been active in discussing this with the Eitoan business community in Lavenca. At this time we have no further evidence of off continent forces being present in the combat area.

Right now there doesn't seem to be a threat to the central government in general.

We will provide updates as the situation here unfolds.

At the time Foreign Affairs Main received the note, Secretary Falkowski was entertaining Agarese Foreign Minister Count Abravanel at his home. The two had enjoyed target shooting and Falkowski was grilling porterhouse steaks. They were chummy, as much as possible, and enjoying a slight buzz after a couple of martinis. The Foreign Affairs Secretary was looking forward to the upcoming Midsummer Festival, like almost all Eitoans, enjoyed with his family. After serving up the steaks, along with a salad and barley and onions, the two retired indoors, looking forward to a quiet evening of music. Around 8:30 Falkowski excused himself to peruse updates before continuing on with the Count.

Nothing else of importance showed up, so the Secretary read Allan's message. Writing a few comments, he forwarded it to Undersecretary Marylin Stegman. He was about to close business for the evening when another message, this one with a higher priority appeared. This was from the Embassy of Holy Marsh, Holy Marsh - Brother-Merchant Kaidan Reihjas, their ambassador in Eitoan. The ambassador provided a full explanation of Marshite aims and a generic profile of operations. The Marshites asked for a meeting of the minds to coordinate military efforts.

This was a shock. Eitoan intelligence gathering in Ladero had never been a high priority, but this certainly was! Unable to tear himself away from his guest, Falkowski sent a terse forwarding message to Stegman. "Marylin, this needs attention! I want you to corral an advisory group about this. Get the Office of Situation Assessment to head this up. Draft people as you need from other departments, and open a channel to Defense and External Security. We'll need to know what we can offer to the Marshites. I'll cover this with the President and Legislative leaders once I get your initial assessment. See you tomorrow afternoon."

Department of External Affairs, Vladarsik
Barrow Street Secure Annex A
Day After Falkowski Note to Stegman - 11AM

Simon Nasparatek dragged across the street to Annex A, Bill Macek in tow. They went empty handed. Tightly secure communication and computing devices would be provided in the situation room. They halted at the guard station window at the gate. Shortly, a sandy haired, young security guard asked for their identifcation. Nasparatek held his right eye close to the scanner. In a few seconds, the light underneath the camera on the device flashed green. He stepped aside. Macek followed suit. The heavy steel door slid open. Once cleared into the initial access portico they were greeted by four towering armed guards, in full body armor. The sergeant in charge curtly demanded their badges. His assistant took them. The other two guards flanked them, sidearms at the ready. Another scan of credentials. The door behind the guards slid open with a clank. "Follow me" the sergeant commanded, gruffly. There was nowhere else to go. The two functionaries followed along in single file, led by the sergeant and one of his reports, and followed by the other two, guns still drawn. At the end of a short hallway the sergeant raised his visor, and stared into a retina scanner. Another heavy steel door opened, this time swinging outward. Greeted by a detail of four uniformed security guards, this time without full body armor, Simon and Bill were welcomed into the annex. The door slammed shut behind the original detail. Following along with their security escort the two were hustled into a nearby elevator. The ride up to the fourth floor was brief. There were no other passengers. The gray carpeted, drab green walled corridor that greeted them on the fourth floor was devoid of traffic. The two, with escort leading walked to the right. Two doors down the security lead stopped before a windowless door. He punched a six byte code into his security communicator. The door opened and a 30ish woman, on the smaller side of average, slight, with her dark hair in short bangs, blue button down blouse and calf length black skirt motioned the two to enter. The door slammed shut behind them, locking loudly. The four guards remained as sentries outside the room.

Simon knew the lady. He worked with her on and off at Foreign Affairs, in Situation Assessent. Valentina Tenny, Foreign Affairs Situation Analyst II had made the rounds, working her way up the ladder, cutting her teeth on earlier Liberty Bay intrigue and more remotely journeyman work deciphering events in Wanderjar. That was before the the Shrudly shakeup, and subsequently all hands efforts early in the First Ralkovian War. She had done some work during the first Shartourn land grab, but this was a big step for her. Nasparatek wasn't especially happy to see her head up this team, but given his recent ratings from Undersecretary Stegman, he wasn't eager for the limelight. Tenny greeted them, and Nasparatek introduced Macek, who was politely deferential. Valentina led them to a spread on the side table with rye and wheat breads, sandwich meats and cheeses, condiments, and a selection of sausages. A large urn of coffed crowned the table, flanked by a cream dispenser and sugar bowl. Donuts were seen in the background. These were reinforced with a small cooler holding cans of popular soft drinks.

The door opened again. Valentina greeted, then escorted a tall, dapper man in blue pinstripe, white button down shirt and expensive wing tips. She introduced the newcomer to the other two.

"This is Vlaclav Stec. He'll be joining us from Industry and Trade, Stategic Commondities and Products. Grab some lunch. Let's get started."

The four arranged themselves around a round table in the middle of the room. Four tablet sized devices awaited them, along with a printed set of instructions for sign on and setup. All four signed on. Valentina started the meeting.

"As you are aware, Undersecretary Stegman has asked us to conduct initial planning for a response to the incipient turmoil in Ladero. Secretary Falkwoski has given us the mission of identifying an initial response to feelers from The Theocratic Matriarchy about participating in a solution in the Tarao states. I think it is most important to flesh out where we need to select the channels where Eitoan efforts can be most successful. Where can we best serve the needs of a coalition of friendly powers in effectively executing any potential conflict? In which order would these actions be best pursued? Where could we deploy to group our material and possibly troops for maximum impact at minimum risk? "

Stec spoke up. "What kind of joint action has been proposed? Have we heard from the Marshites, or other invitees directly? Should the Secretary broach the subject of joint ventures for resupply with them at this time, or do you want Industry and Trade to follow up separately afterward? Are the other participants sharing information about points of insertion for a surge of munitions into Ladero? Will Falkowski discuss it at this time?

Macek What do we know about Istoloan strength in Ladero? Has it been confirmed that the Istoloans are there in force? What updates have we gotten from Lavenca since the initial attack?

Nasparatek What's the strength of the CSA vis a vis the Laderan Army? Can we consider the Laderans as deleted entirely in the east?

Tenny Let's not get carried away yet. Information from Lavenca is still sketchy. I'd like to accentuate any positive contribution we can make in conjunction with the Marshites, who apparently are planning a strong move into the theater. What information do we have about their deployment in the Tarao? Can the Secretary come back with a clearer picture?

Nasparatek Yes, but let's get to the crux of the matter. Ordena is lurking over all of this. Nobody would be talking at this level about an ordinary coup or bush war in the Shartourn. We need to focus on eliminating the Ordenites. We knew it would come to this. What information do we have on their deployments? What can we get near term?

Macek Both are good points. We should identify and latch on to all affirmative allied actions in Ladero in the immediate future.

Stec Don't mess with halfway measures. Perception in Ladero is critical. Along with giving them maximum confidence in allied abilities, we must sustain their forces and their morale or pandemonium is liable to walk upon the scene.

They worked throughout the afternoon and into the night. Exhausted, the next morning at 9:59 Tenny shipped off a memo to Stegman. Three areas were emphasized:



Marilyn Stegman received the note. She revised it several times. Her recommendation was to include miltary planning staff in a delegation to Mar'si to respond to the Marshite overture, via a response to the Marshite ambassador. Finalizing her letter, she sent it off to the Secretary at 7:42 PM, then headed home.

Andy -

As requested, here's the recommendation of the Shartourn study group you requested.

We think the best approach to the Marshite request is to propose a delegation to Mar'si to further discuss coordination in Ladero, and think you should invite Brother-Merchant Kaidan Reihjas to meet with you at his convenience to transmit that their government. The delegation should be headed by an officer in the Office of Situation Assessment, and both Defense and External Security and Industry and Trade. At this time we need a great deal more information in terms of both troop deployment and defense supply needs. It is critical that The Theocratic Matriarchy provide this information so that we can further analyze the situation and make proposals to help Ladero:

1. What are the immediate needs of friendly forces in Ladero to staunch the CSA attack?
2. Define Istoloan and Ordenite strength likely to face any coalition in Ladero?
3. What forces are necessary, along with needed armament and timelines for defense of Lavenca and the Laderan industrial heart?

Please consult first with President Shrdlu. As you are aware, deployment of ground forces will be reviewed by the Ghastak. Of course, there are concerns that this could be the opening shots in a wider region wide war, given recent Ordenite exploitation of the the instability in the Commonwealth.

- Marylyn

[Novaris Union]

[CLASSIFIED – NOVARIS UNION NAVAL FORCES | INTELLIGENCE BRANCH | T.I.D. – TARAO DESK] Location: NUNF Intelligence Command, Sector 4B – Tarao Regional Analysis Cell Time: 0430 ZULU

The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above the sterile hum of monitors and data feeds. The Tarao Desk was quiet—too quiet for a region that had just re-entered the Union’s strategic radar. Petty Officer 1st Class Rena Malken leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed at the sparse satellite imagery of the northern choke point near Istoloa. The strait was narrow, flanked by jagged coastlines and dotted with civilian shipping lanes. But what concerned her wasn’t what she could see—it was what she couldn’t.

“Still no SIGINT from the Istoloan side?” she asked, not looking away from the screen.

Lieutenant Commander Jorin Vass, the desk’s lead intelligence officer, rubbed his temples. “Nothing actionable. Either they’re running dark or we’re blind. Neither option makes me feel good about sending a task group through there.”

Malken scoffed. “We’ve got more data on asteroid belts than we do on this region. Irat, Sorofi, Ladero—three ex-colonies with fractured maritime claims and no consistent naval doctrine. And Istoloa? They’ve been posturing for months, but we’ve got no hard read on their ROE.”

Vass tapped a few keys, pulling up a regional threat overlay. The map lit up with red and amber markers—suspected patrol routes, rumored missile sites, unconfirmed drone sightings. All of it stitched together with guesswork and outdated intel. “This strait,” he muttered, pointing to the wide blue expanse between Istoloa and the former colonies, “is a geopolitical minefield. No formal demarcation lines. No standing maritime agreements. Just a lot of history and a lot of guns.”

Malken leaned forward. “So we’re sending the fleet into a blind alley with a flashlight and a prayer.”

Vass gave a dry chuckle. “Trial by fire. First time the Novaris Union Navy’s operated in Tarao. If they make it through without sparking an incident, it’ll be a miracle.”

He paused, then added, “But if they don’t—we’ll be the first to know.”

The room fell silent again, save for the soft clicking of keys and the distant hum of the servers. Outside, the early morning sun began to rise over the Union’s eastern coast. In a few weeks, the patrol would begin. and the world would be watching.

[NOVARIS UNION NAVAL FORCES | FLEET COMMAND – T.I.D. TARAO PATROL GROUP] Location: Port Arkenhold, Eastern Naval Command HQ – Fleet Operations Briefing Room Date: One Month Later

The scent of salt and steel drifted in through the open windows of the command building, carried on the wind from the docks below. Outside, cranes moved with mechanical grace, loading pallets and munitions onto the decks of warships. Inside, the air was heavier—thick with anticipation. Vice Admiral Cael Thorne stood at the head of the long oak table, hands clasped behind his back. The room was filled with the senior leadership of the Tarao Patrol Group: captains, squadron commanders, and the brass from the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Detachment. A digital map of the Istoloan Strait flickered on the wall behind him.

“Let’s get to it,” Thorne said, voice clipped and calm. “We’ve reviewed the final intelligence assessment. The choke point to the north is narrow, under-monitored, and likely to be shadowed by Istoloan fast attack craft. The open strait to the south is a different beast—wide, politically volatile, and crawling with unaligned patrols.”

He tapped a control pad. The map zoomed in on the strait between Istoloa and the ex-colonies of Irat, Sorofi, and Ladero.

“Command wants presence. Visibility. But not provocation. We’re not here to rattle sabers—we’re here to assert freedom of movement and test our readiness in a contested zone.”

Brigadier General Elira Voss, commander of the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Detachment, leaned forward. “And if Istoloa decides to test us back?”

Thorne didn’t blink. “Then we respond with discipline. We’re not here to start a war. But we won’t be caught flat-footed either.”

Colonel Rian Dovek, CO of the marine detachment, nodded. “We’ll have rapid response teams on standby aboard the LHD. If anything escalates, we’ll be ready to deploy within minutes.”

Thorne turned to the operations officer. “Let’s finalize the task group. I want a balanced force—air cover, amphibious capability, and enough teeth to make anyone think twice.”

Tarao Patrol Group – Order of Battle
Component Unit Name / Class Details
Flagship NUNS Vanguard (Aegis-class Aircraft Carrier) Carrier Air Wing 14 embarked (24 multirole fighters, 6 AEW&C, 8 ASW helos)
Amphibious Assault NUNS Resolute (Taranis-class LHD / Light Carrier) Embarked: 3rd Marine Expeditionary Detachment, 12 VTOLs, 6 LCACs
Destroyers 2x NUNS Halberd, Kestrel (Vireon-class) AAW and ASW capable, escort and screening roles
Frigates 3x NUNS Aegir, Solace, Rime (Kavari-class) Patrol, interdiction, and electronic warfare support
Submarine NUNS Silent Gale (Tide-class SSN) Stealth reconnaissance and undersea deterrence
Support NUNS Ardent (Fleet Replenishment Ship) Fuel, munitions, and logistics support

3rd Marine Expeditionary Detachment (3MED)
Unit Composition Role
Command Element HQ Company (45 personnel) Operational control and coordination
Infantry Battalion 3 Rifle Companies, 1 Weapons Company (approx. 600 marines) Amphibious assault, boarding, and security
Aviation Combat Element 12 VTOLs (strike & transport), 4 UAVs CAS, recon, and rapid deployment
Logistics Element Engineering, medical, and supply units (150 personnel) Sustainment and field operations
Special Response Team 1 Platoon (40 marines) Maritime interdiction, boarding ops, and crisis response


Thorne looked around the room, letting the weight of the moment settle.

“This is more than a patrol. It’s a message. To Istoloa, to the ex-colonies, and to every actor watching from the side lines. We’re not just passing through—we’re establishing presence.” He paused, then added, “And we do it by the book. No missteps. No misfires. Understood?”

A chorus of affirmatives echoed through the room. Outside, the fleet was already stirring. Engines rumbled to life. Deck crews moved with purpose. And in the distance, the horizon from the Novaris shoreline shimmered with the promise—and peril—of what lay ahead.

[NOVARIS UNION NAVAL FORCES | CARRIER & LANDING TASK FORCE “CLTF-105”] Location: CIC – NUNS Vanguard (Aegis-class Aircraft Carrier) Distance to Chokepoint: 250 Nautical Miles | Status: Full Operational Readiness

The Operations Room aboard the NUNS Vanguard was a cathedral of light and data. Screens lined the walls, each one pulsing with real-time feeds—radar sweeps, sonar returns, encrypted comms, and the ghostly silhouettes of aircraft in holding patterns. At the centre of it all, the Holo-Map glowed with layered complexity: surface contacts, air tracks, sonar pings, and the faint shimmer of the thermal layer beneath the waves. Vice Admiral Cael Thorne stood at the edge of the map, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the western coast of Istoloa now visible through the AEW&C forward air screen feed. The coastline was jagged and grey, shrouded in morning mist and political ambiguity.

“So that’s it,” he murmured. “The edge of the map.”

To his right, Commander Veyra Solen, the fleet’s Air Boss, adjusted her headset. “AEW&C has full coverage. CAPs are rotating every ninety minutes. No radar locks, but we’re being watched—drones, most likely. Passive IR signatures, low altitude.”

Across the table, Commander Halric Dorne, the Vanguard’s Executive Officer, nodded. “Bridge reports all ships holding formation. Resolute is maintaining optimal launch posture for VTOLs. Frigates are sweeping wide.”

The Holo Map pulsed. A new sonar contact shimmered into view—NUNS Silent Gale, the fleet’s nuclear attack sub, trailing just behind the lead frigate Aegir. Its signature was faint, a whisper beneath the waves.

“Ping her,” Thorne ordered. A moment later, Aegir’s sonar sent out a single, deliberate pulse. The contact brightened briefly—then vanished.

“She’s gone under the layer,” a sailor confirmed. “Silent running. She’s heading for the chokepoint.”

“Sanitize the corridor,” Thorne said quietly. “No surprises.”

The room fell into a focused silence. Officers moved with practiced efficiency, issuing readiness reports and confirming weapons status. On the Holo Map, the fleet’s formation tightened—an arrowhead of steel and resolve, cutting through contested waters.

“Set Condition One throughout the task force,” Thorne ordered. “I want every deck sealed and every eye forward.”

A chorus of acknowledgments followed. Across the fleet, klaxons sounded—low and steady. Below decks, marines locked down gear and pilots strapped into cockpits. On the Resolute, LCACs were powered up and VTOLs prepped for launch. The fleet was no longer preparing. It was ready. Thorne stepped back from the map, his voice steady but edged with steel.

“CLTF-105 is now within striking distance of the chokepoint. From here on, we move with purpose. No missteps. No hesitation.”

He looked to each officer in turn.

“We are the tip of the spear. Let’s make sure they remember that.”

Outside, the sea stretched wide and silent. But beneath its surface, the Silent Gale glided forward—alone, unseen, and hunting. The trial by fire had begun.

[Ladero]

NOGUEIRA

Head in his hands, the president of Ladero boiled at the news coming from the east. His advisors droned on about the attacks in Camarzela, including the routing or destruction of almost all loyalist internal security forces at city and rural stations alike. The naval base in Porto Carmesim was stormed and half of it demolished, and the rubble was thrown into the harbor. Almost a quarter of the warships stationed there were now part of the rubble blocking entry to the port. The rest of the fleet fled westward. In the south, the Irati military had overthrown the admittedly inept government of Junipero Lola. While the Marshites were assembling their soldiers in force, so were the Ordenites. At some point, Hélder stopped listening altogether, rubbing his temples as if that would make all of his problems go away.

"Mr. Nogueira, sir, are you okay?" asked the debriefing advisor, ex-chief of general staff and now the government's minister of defense, Bernardo Saldanha. He tugged at his collar. Even the veteran Saldanha's forehead sparkled with beads of sweat. The situation was quite dire.

Without looking up, he answered, "Yes, yes. Go on."

"I am finished, sir," replied.

"Oh," said Hélder. "Have you talked about the troops on the Sorofi border?"

"The troops on the Sorofi border?" inquired Saldanha.

"Operation Wall, Minister," he answered curtly.

"Our defensive forces along the Sorofi border are in place without recent change in their routine, sir," said the minister. "We have no intelligence of any threat along our the Sorofian border and we expect Sorofi to remain neutral in any conflict involving our country and Istoloa. The intelligence community also confirms their capacity to defend itself against renewed Irati aggression."

The president scoffed. "The Istoloans are playing a different sort of game this time. They call an invasion a war of independence, and a coup they call self-determination. Sorofi cannot remain neutral. Istoloa will not allow it. The Tarao countries must bend to Loçalea's will, or else. That is the way they think. So, I purport we rob them of the initiative by...preemptively 'shoring up' our position in Sorofi. Using the army marshalled in the south, carrying out Operation Wall, we occupy Barbaro, overthrow Tutto, and oversee democratic elections. We must teach our fellow Tarao countrymen how to be free and, by showing them a better path, we can turn Irat against Istoloa."

It was the prime minister, Caio Monteblanco, who asked, "And what of the separatists in the east?"

"Mobilize. We are in a military crisis, and this sort of crisis can only be solved with an army." Hélder would have to go to parliament to approve both the war against Sorofi and the mobilization. But the mood was already dark in Lavença, and few thought the right course to shirk from a fight. It was now over a year since the Istoloans had ensconced themselves in Camarzela and most Laderans wanted them out, including most Laderans in the putatively separatist heartland.

"Mobilize?" Monteblanco was incredulous.

"The Istoloans will find a way to swell their numbers in the east," said Hélder. "What will we do then? Call on the Marshites?"

"Their legions are many," retorted the prime minister. "And willing to die, it appears."

Quiet had befallen the room as the other ministers watched the two most powerful men in the government duel over the country's future. Hélder was not intimidated. "You've seen what has become of the Commonwealth. Foreign powers snap at each other's throats as they fight over the spoils. Do you want the same to become of us? Do you want the same to become of Istoloa? Mark my words, Prime Minister, should a Greater Díenstadi superpower entrench itself in or near the Tarao region, and should the Tarao countries fail to rally around a common banner, we will all lose our liberties to strangers from across the sea sooner or later. Therefore, it behooves us to rally our people and solve Laderan problems with Laderan resources, thereby asserting our determination to remain a strong, sovereign state, as well as a leader of other local democratic states and governments. We will need as many as ten million personnel in the near term to compete, maybe more."

Monteblanco stared at the president for a moment. Then, "We will need to haggle and plead with parliament. But, you can count on me to push your agenda through the parliament, meu presidente."



ARMADO & LENCASTRE

Two weeks later.

A low, multitudinous hum gave the early morning din an eerie orchestra. Although it was early enough that it was still dark, a line of cars had already formed at crossings across the international border. Millions of Sorofians crossed the border into Ladero every week for work, most crossing back and forth daily to earn a better living standard in the north. Today, something big was crossing the border in the other direction.

Thousands of small drones buzzed into Sorofi at low altitude, quickly skirting over the bumpy northern coastlands and into the broad plains below.

Like a swarm of locusts, they descended upon their prey like black clouds of flying plague, ravaging all before them. While Sorofi had expected an invasion, it had expected it to come from the south and at the hands of Irat. Their northern border was left relatively unprotected, under what had seemed a sane assumption that democratic Ladero would never invade its neighbor. Assumptions are quick to unravel. In flights ranging from dozens to hundreds, the small drones darted toward a diverse set of opening targets. Missile batteries and airfields were prioritized to neutralize the Sorofian air force and air defense systems, which would give the skies to the Laderans.

Some drones lingered and waited for their targets to emerge. Around the airfields, they'd loiter to kill the recovery and repair machinery and the operators, too. Soldiers emerging from their barracks in the early morning were chased down by devils with rotors, who died in a widespread effort to instill terror into the ranks of an unsuspecting Sorofian army. Vehicles in their depots and bases were set ablaze, armored or otherwise.

Manned Laderan aircraft did not dart about until well after the opening attack. Small, and still reeling from having been shattered by the Istoloan in the last crisis, much of the Laderan air force was tied up bombing the CSA. Neither did they have the munitions to expend. But what they could not afford to do the conventional way, the Laderans did with cheap suicide drones.



Green grass, short and sharp-edged like millions of small blades, glistened under the squelching sun. It was soon draped in red as hundreds of men butchered each other over its possession. What a beautiful sight it was to look upon the eastern fields of Sorofi from that hill, the tallest of its brethren that made up the foothills of the great Serra das Sete Garras. Alas, they were too busy killing each other.

Tenente-General Santori Armado's two HQ shock infantry battalions ultimately won the day, after the grueling work of overrunning an air defense battery. Their prize was a perch from which their commander could survey the battlefield below.

Three of his five mechanized infantry brigades cut through northern Sorofi like a knife through butter. Sorofian border units had fled at the appearance of the reconnaissance battalion, and any other military presence had so far failed to meaningfully materialize. Armado had two more infantry brigades and an armored one in reserve, the latter of which was about to storm down the central highway leading to Barbaro. He watched as a fighter jet, one of their own, swooped down from out of the clouds to drop a series of cluster munitions over a Sorofian infantry battalion attempting to hold a roadblock. Thousands of little bomblets flowered mid-air, dropping a mixture of anti-personnel and EFP warheads targeting soldiers and their vehicles alike. The wind must have carried their screams elsewhere, as Armado could not hear them as he gazed at the carnage through his binoculars. A well-trimmed moustache curled at either side, poking out from behind his leather-gloved hands. The general of Legião I was known for his exquisite moustache, though. He had made a name for himself in the skirmishes that led to his country's independence in [M.C.] 1991.

His counterpart overseeing Legião II, Iago Lancastre, was no less bold. Legião II had the more exciting task of breaking through the coastal highway to the Irati border. But their chance at glory was a challenge to Armado, and so from his acquired lookout among the hills straddling the great Sorofian plain, he ordered his forces to exploit the weakly guarded northern border. Hélder wanted to be first to Barbaro.

In battle, artillery is king, and logistics is god. It was with lip service paid to the latter that Armado's 14ª Brigada Blindada thundered down the open highway from across the borderline. AFVs bulldozed ahead on their fuel tanks alone without hope of resupply until later that night, at best. The general's reconnaissance squadron had zipped on ahead, scouting out roadblocks and outposts in advance of the exploitation forces. One of the brigade's armored battalions led the mechanized battalion directly toward Barbaro. His HQ logistics company went with them, laden with enough fuel and other supplies to last them the drive to the capital city.

Through his binoculars, the general watched as a Nakíl tank exploded a far-away machine gun nest with its 140mm gun. He licked his lips.

Here and there, there were breakdowns. He could see from his hilltop nest that some of the minor roads had been clogged, as struck or broken down vehicles blocked access until they could be removed. Tsk, tsk, he thought. These inconveniences would produce delays in the resupply of the advanced units, slowing them down. He made mental note of it as he continued, focusing on other details of the battle. All of these mental notes would later be processed into improvements.

Ladero was the Tarao success story par excellence, and its military reflected the great strides the country as a whole had made since its independence more than four decades ago. Scattered resistance aside, the occupation of the country continued like clockwork. Within hours, Armado ordered his men to decamp so that they could move southward, toward the capital. Barbaro's outskirts had already been reached by 31ª Brigada Mecanizada's cavalry scouts by the late afternoon. By the time the tenente-general's HQ unit repositioned itself at a new bivouac point just north of the capital's outskirts, President Marbalo Tutto was getting ready to sign resignation papers calling for an emergency election to vote into a power an interim government.

But no amount of military modernization and impressive combined arms displays could outdo the political maneuvers of Istoloa.

Riding in his command IFV, its thick black roof antennas giving it away, the general listened as 31ª Brigada Mecanizada's commander described thickening resistance in the capital's southern suburbs. "Enemy resistance south of Santo Moura stiffening. Local forces are being reinforced by Sorofian units previously guarding the Irati border. Mounting casualties. Requesting permission to temporarily halt the advance on a line intersecting Eixo Trans-Sorofi at Zambarra."

The men needed fuel and ammunition. They could also use a little rest. Armado gave the order, "Halt at the Zambarra Line. Offensive to resume at 0500 hours tomorrow morning, pending orders."

He would need to get more intel on the nature of the forming resistance in the southern suburbs. Mounting casualties, the brigade commander said. The Sorofian army must have been able to scramble some significant units to block Legião I, especially as he would learn that his counterpart had been stopped in its tracks further to the west. That meant that they had stripped the Irati border of equally important defensive elements.

That man must tell his army to surrender, thought the general. The surrender was being signed at the elegantly dressed presidential palace in Barbaro. Marbalo Tutto was the palace's first and only inhabitant, having ruled over his people via a perpetual mandate extended by the legislature under the 'One Man, One Vision Act of 2001.' The man's presidency had finally come to an end, and Armado wanted to see Tutto's arrest firsthand. By the time he arrived, the government's surrender was already signed, and the now ex-president was being led into an armored truck in handcuffs. The general would later learn that Tutto had not fled only because his own military had turned against him. They too thought the old man past his prime.

But replacing President Tutto with a democratically elected successor would be harder said than done. Despite the surrender, the resistance in the southern suburbs was toughening, not slackening.

Hélder did not sleep that night. He could not keep his mind off what was to come on the morrow.

Suddenly, it felt as if the capture of Barbaro and the government's surrender had come too easy.

[Istoloa]

"Sorofian military units mounted an unexpected counterattack against occupying Laderan forces early on the second day of the latter's 'special stabilization operation," rattled off the war correspondent, broadcasting from Barbaro. Explosions could be heard in the background. "Officers of Sorofi's southern military command rejected an order from deposed President Marbalo Tutto to give up arms and surrender to Ladero. Instead, they have launched a ferocious attack on Laderan forces just south of the capital city, Barbaro. Fighting has been particularly intense in the latest hours, as Ladero throws its reserves into the fight in a final bid to break Sorofian military resistance. However, reports suggest that the occupiers have suffered heavy casualties in the last day."

"For the government in Lavença, the resistance is an awkward affront to its claims of having preemptively invaded Sorofi to stop the formation of another Istoloan-backed dictatorship. It has thus naturally labeled the growing military resistance as an Istoloan conspiracy to prevent the rise of true democracy in one of the Tarao's richest agricultural lands."



GANCHAS; LADERO, CSA TERRITORY

Much to his consternation, Ganchas did not witness Ladero's prized Esquadra do Oriente sunk in its entirety at port. Only about a quarter of the fleet's tonnage was sunk; the rest managed to escape on skeleton crews. While killing a quarter of his enemy's most modern surface fleet group was a great victory for an irregular army, it did not taste as such for the comandante-geral of the CSA. He wanted to sink it all.

Waiting at his primary command post, between Monte Violeta and Porto Carmesim, he and his closest subordinates sat around a table with a built-in screen under an ultra-thin layer of glass as the top surface. His aviation specialist tapped his fingers in irritation as his field commander fed the headquarters group updates on Operation RED REAPER. RED REAPER called for the destruction of the Esquadra do Oriente via an elaborate and coordinated drone strike. It was an audacious plan that the CSA had been explicitly supplied for, although Ganchas had hoped to repurpose the drones after capturing the fleet's primary naval base. All the same, if he had not extinguished the jewel of Ladero's military already, he would soon.

They had been struggling to get a visual on the operation, but the operations officer finally said, "Pulling in feed from Forward Element Delta now." On the screen, several red icons suddenly appeared in a grid covering the glowing surface, each icon showing the position of the target task force. Different icon types illustrated different ship types. "Esquadra do Oriente is strung out along three vectors. The center element is moving slowly. Damage to at least two hulls confirmed." From the port attack.

The Esquadra do Oriente was traveling north, north-west, west to Alféon. From there, it would likely be moved even further west in the end. But even at Alfeón, attacking the fleet would prove exceptionally difficult. The deed of sinking it had to be done now.

"What about the drone packages?" asked Ganchas, impatiently.

Tens of thousands of drones had been smuggled into Ladero over intervening months between the invasion and the conflict's reignition. Two hundred of these were allocated toward phase I of RED REAPER. The range of drones available was impressive on its own. Three dozen targeting and reconnaissance drones joined another three dozen EW/decoy UAVs, along with twenty-four drones specialized specifically in anti-radiation capabilities. The rest, making up the bulk of the unmanned aerial flotilla, were kamikaze loitering drones. Fired out of mobile, containerized shore batteries, they needn't even be removed from the steel boxes in which they were shipped.

The operations officer answered, "Strike Group R3 is prepped. All birds are green. Awaiting your authorization for staggered launch. We recommend leading with ghosters and low-band jammers."

"No," said Ganchas, with a heavy tone. "I want the first wave to be deafening. Hit their eyes, then punch their throat."

Radar and GPS spoofing were confirmed, along with radio jamming in the VHF/UHF bands. SIGINT drones fed the data displayed on the table, smaller icons now popping into view by the dozens. The drones. They came in two different colors. Green, for true drones. Blue, for decoys. Four large waves of blue suddenly appeared form nowhere, as decoys simulated the sudden appearance of four large inbound missile strikes bounding against the task force at great speed. While they could not see the chaff and flares bursting brightly in the sky as the Laderan fleet engaged the attackers with a ferociously effective air defense system, Ganchas and the others knew it was there. They had wanted the enemy to react. They had planned for it.

Coming in staggered waves, the main body of kamikaze drones skimmed over the sea, closing the distance between them and their targets with an eager quickness. From their remote bunker, Ganchas and the command group could not quite live the terror of what their target lived through. Kamikaze drones struck CIC and bridge towers, slammed into radar domes, and ripped through VLS tubes and hangars. Others carried guide bombs that fell upon the decks of the most important ships, the cruisers and their escorts.

One by one, the red icons began to disappear.

But enemy air defenses must have been even more effective than anticipated, or at least not totally fooled by the decoy attack. Even after a long moment had passed, only about a quarter of the red dots on the screen had been removed. Five, to be exact. Five sunk ships, including one of the destroyers, two resupply ships, a tanker, and a corvette. The other eighteen ships were still sailing.

"Merda!" shouted Ganchas. "We had two hundred drones! For five ships?"

"Confirming that most surviving ships have been hit and that the remaining fleet is limping at a slow pace," said the operations officer who had shared the signal intelligence earlier.

Head in hand, he responded, "Ugh." Then, after a momentary pause, added, "Hurry, organize a follow-up strike. We must hit them north of Arcos Reias, before the task force can make it too far west."

Operation RED REAPER, now RED REAPER I, had been less effective than foreseen. It would take some time to organize RED REAPER II, but Ganchas hoped it was more effective. The crippled Esquadra do Oriente was now traveling more slowly than ever, as faster ships were slowed down by heavily damaged stragglers. The CSA would have one more chance of obliterating Ladero's most effective naval operations group.

That was assuming the Laderans didn't think of something clever to get the pressure off of them.



FREMONERO; ISTOLOA, SOMEWHERE ON THE WESTERN COAST

The old dictator had demanded to be brought here to see the christening of one of the greatest infrastructure projects in Istoloa's history. A shame that no one would know of it (hopefully).

Although he couldn't see very much sitting where he was, on his wheelchair staring out to sea, he knew that below the waves lurked a grand operation. Two kilometers due east was the small, quaint town of Morrinha. Its numbers had swelled in recent months as laborers accumulated in pop-up shanty-ridden suburbs servicing the big construction project happening below the dirt on which Fremonero sat now. A few hundred feet below him, hidden from aerial and satellite view, was one of the biggest supply depots in the country. It was a chain of several other depots, interconnected by tunnels, that had been set up for the express purpose of supplying covert Istoloan military units on the other side of the strait.

"You know how all of this works?" he asked.

His nurse, who had been gazing out at the beautiful seaside view, said, "No." She had been startled. "I'm not quite sure what this is."

He chuckled. How would his nurse know? She just faithfully followed him wherever he went. As was her job. "You are looking at an engineering marvel, my dear."

She looked confused as she stared at what looked like a grassy cliff leading out to the straits separating Istoloa from Ladero. She could not see the engineering within nature. He smiled. Below the waves, unmanned mini-submarines worked tirelessly to lay high-strength composite pipes across the seabed. A lock and seal mechanism on either end allowed each piece to connect. Atop each segment, other UUVs laid anti-sonar meshing to further disguise the tubing. With a diameter of about 1.5 meters, the pipes were designed to take torpedo-sized, electric canisters that could carry about 200 kilograms of supplies and munitions to CSA-controlled territory in Ladero. CSA forces had built several hidden exit terminals on the other end, from where they could distribute the supplies to their forces.

Several of these underwater tube resupply lines were being finalized simultaneously. Even if foreign powers continued to respond negatively to Istoloa asserting its rightful dominance over the Tarao region, Istoloa had the means to pursue its agenda indirectly and subvertly.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, eyes glistening with tears.

Wondering if he was talking about the same thing as her, she stared out across the strait to the distant lands of Ladero, and said, "It is."

Just then, a wave of fatigue rode over him. These bouts were becoming more common. Slumping his head, he said, "It's time to go."

[Holy Marsh]

The name of General Ganchas already circulated in Marshite intelligence briefings as a figure of growing consequence-once defined by ambition, now shaped by exposure. The coastal campaign designated Operation: Red Reaper, attributed to CSA-linked operators even if it was believed that the true hands were Istoloan, elevated his visibility further.

When Red Reaper struck, Marshite response mechanisms moved quickly. The operation had gone too far to be allowed recurrence. Though not fatal, the damage to the fleet was significant-ships lost, systems degraded, morale pierced. M-SAD reported with blunt confidence: another such strike could destabilize Ladero unless corrected.

The response came in three parts. The first arrived from the air.

M-SAD’s web of Signals Intelligence, combat telemetry, satellite intelligence, HUMINT, and predictive behavioral modeling generated a new series of targets: drone launch platforms, control nodes, remote piloting bays, leadership, support personnel, and suspected stockpile depots. M-SAD analysis packets flagged several key zones in CSA held areas and within semi-cloistered rearline staging grounds.

Assigned to this strike suite-coded Package RQ (Repeat-Quality)-were combat wings from multiple vectors. Carrier-based aircraft from TMN Adara and TMN Cantara, with attached naval support if needed. Squadrons from the 1760th Air Crusade, rerouted mid-deployment to enter the strike window. Many of them were the MAF-50S Stealth Pegasus, a proven tactical ghost carrying an array of missiles and, in many configurations, tremendous smart bomb ability. The MAF-52D Griffon Dodger, optimized for hostile air denial and close-range drone interdiction, finding new life where the airframe had proven to have issues elsewhere. These were supplemented by electronic warfare aircraft, armed escort units, and drone swarms drawn from carrier-deployed units. Naval support vessels in the surrounding task forces adjusted positioning to enable surface-to-air envelope overlap, force recon range, and search-and-rescue pre-positioning.

The second tip of the Marshite response was not hidden. Following the drone strike on the retreating Laderan fleet, the Theocracy initiated a multi-squadron aerial coverage operation, its intent threefold. They had to shield the remaining naval assets from renewed attack. Importantly, they needed to signal to the CSA and all observing actors that the window for uncontested strikes had closed. And finally, destroy any aggressor willing to test that claim.

No stealth operations were involved in this tier. The 1760th chose to deploy their non-stealtha ssets- first, so there would be no mistaking what was being down. Secondly, they stil chose to keep their full and growing capability in Ladero guarded to a degree. Multiple wings of MAF-50 standard air superiority fighters and other aircraft deployed in staggered defensive tiers-forming an aerial protection net across the fleet’s projected retreat corridor. Operating under a grid-based patrol pattern, each squadron maintained overlapping coverage intended to aid the Laderan fleet. Behind them, electronic warfare craft managed jamming envelopes, drone interference arrays, and anti-spoofing measures. Their task was to make incoming targeting solutions as unreliable as possible, while keeping Marshite assets fully networked and battle-ready.

Above and beyond this net, a single squadron of stand-off strategic bombers-bearing long-range payloads-remained on alert. Their mission was simple: Should any new drone or missile attack be launched, they would retaliate immediately, striking pre-designated assets associated with CSA operations-either confirmed or assumed. Their targets were not conditional on outcome. A launch alone would suffice.

The final point of the Theocracy’s trident response was forged not in the sky, but upon the sea.

Recognizing the vulnerability of the retreating Laderan fleet, a newly composed naval detachment was dispatched to provide persistent, physical coverage. This force, christened Task Force 17, was placed under direct maritime command and built around a hardened core of combat-capable vessels. Three destroyers, two cruisers, and three frigates, largelly configured for layered missile defense, anti-aircraft coverage, and close-in drone interdiction.

The TMN Darvjala a Pijl-class Arsenal Ship, was designated flagship of the formation. Designed for extended-range engagement and volumetric fire support, it possessed the firepower of a small fleet. It had been designated as one of the multi-mission Arsenal Ships of the fleet and as such was equally capable in defense as offense. The remainder of Task Force 17 included support and logistics craft, outfitted for emergency tow, medical recovery, and rearmament. These auxiliaries formed the rear line of the new defense corridor.

Though not yet fully integrated with the aerial protection umbrella and air patrol grid, coordination was underway. In time, once they were fully in position, the plan was to achieve complete air-sea integration, producing a multi-domain shield-an interlocking defense impossible to breach without commitment of overwhelming force. Task Force 17’s mission was direct. They were to escort and protect damaged Laderan vessels as they withdrew to safe harbor. They would provide layered missile and drone defense. If necessary, conduct immediate recovery of naval personnel, even in hostile waters.

Though the operations comprising the three-pronged military response were initiated independently by the Theocracy, they were promptly communicated in full to the Laderan military and political command structure through secured back channels. The communication was clear, candid, and delivered in the cadence of a friend who shared objectives, if not always methods.

Holy Marsh had been notified of the Laderan invasion of Sorofi before its launch, but not consulted. The Theocracy’s strategic vision had leaned toward political destabilization and covert pressure, designed to entice Sorofi into fracture or anti-Istoloan realignment-without drawing Ladero into a two-front campaign. The decision to launch a full-scale invasion disrupted those plans. Internally, it was received with unease. M-SAD reports indicated concern about overextension, premature escalation, and the undermining of diplomatic leverage. Nonetheless, once the decision was made, the Theocracy honored its previous agreement in full.

As part of the communication package to Ladero, the Theocracy outlined the scope and objectives of, Package RQ, Retreat Coverage Operations, and Task Force 17. In addition to these updates, the Theocracy extended a new offer to the Laderan command: To expand the naval blockade to include Sorofi. This would include the tasking of additional naval resources, a prospect that had been planned for operationally but not put into action yet.

Meanwhile, the rest of the blockade force already assigned to Secure Hawk moved through the sea, closing in on the strait separating Istoloa from Ladero. They had prepared for any response- diplomatic complaints, military operations, anything and everything. There was tension, yes, but no fear. Death held hope, and they were ready to bring hope to billions.

********************************

The first state to formally respond to the Theocracy’s standing invitation for coordination and consultation was the Republic of Eitoan.

Long respected for its strategic steadiness and support for regional integration, Eitoan’s decision to engage was received by the Theocracy not merely as acknowledgment-but as affirmation. When they arrived, their representatives were given open access to the operational plans of Secure Hawk, Sea Dragon, Snapping Lion, as well as aspects of Jeweled Eyes. Other, deeper plans were hinted at. The real takeaway however was that the Marshite commitment was large and would grow as needed, yet their objective would remain the same- ensure the freedom and prosperity of the Tarao countries and the removal of Istoloa as a strategic threat ever again. In this, they hoped Eitoan would join them, as the Marshites sought from the Eitoans information regarding their own agendas and plans, all the better to coordinate.

[Eitoan]

Alsertan Military Complex XA-I
Alsterta, Holy Marsh

The flight from Rodney Airbase to Mar’si had been as comfortable as possible. Landing at a heavily guarded airfield on the far outskirts of the capital, the three were ushered under heavy security to the Eitoan embassy. After resting for the day, they were presented at a lunch in the embassy’s grand dining hall to their escorting Marshite counterparts, their credentials presented by ambassador Denise Privek.

Under heavy guard, the Marshite plane made the swift trip to Alsertan. Of the three officers chosen from the High Command staff, only General Michael Weaver had been in Holy Marsh, during the height of the First Ralkovian War. Joining him were colonels Jonothan Svoboda and Evean Hursey, all three in the Active Army (Eitarska Landskreit). The security clearance was an ordeal, but necessary. Once ushered into the briefing area, they were greeted by a tall woman general, brimming with confidence, Samara Jav'neka. She bade them to take their seats at a long table, flanked with senior officers on both sides. General Weaver chatted with her for a while. Colonel Svoboda set up device in front of him and signed in. Colonel Hursey reviewed his notes.

“At this time I am pleased to introduce the three contacts from the Eitoan High Command, who have graciously been sent to discuss their perspective on the conflict in the Shartourn Sea. I look forward to understand the Eitoan perspective on the situation in Laero, and appreciate any information they can provide regarding overall strategy and short term objectives.

Western Consolidation

General Weaver took a drink of water. He stood up, and activated the large screen display facing him. The seal of the Eitarska Landskriet displayed. Colonel Svoboda handled the diplay controls. Briefly, a map of the big western continent appeared. Eitoan was in green. Members of The Northwest Mutual Assistance Agreement (NMAA) were also green filled, in a lighter shade. Volsku was hatched, green and white. Tupenga, Samarasta and Ladero were cross hatched, green and white. The Kriemada bases in Eitoan, Potthan, and Samarasta were represented by bright green anchors. Fustera was in red, Istoloa in lighter red. Weaver, tall and distinguished in dress uniform began.

Thank you General Jav’neka. I want to outline for you current developments in the northern cap of the continent, or the Eitosphere as some say. We have indications that things will move fast soon in Batumi, under the invisible hand of fate. And that hand is attached to the adroit and powerful hand of The Golden Throne. Why is that important, you may ask. These developments should consolidate positive conditions in the northern cap. Our sources indicate that King Menassah will soon act to install a more favorable government in Fedravka. He has carefully waited since coronation two months ago and now appears ready to announce several key cabinet appointments that are very sympathetic to Macabbean interests. There may be a new Prime Minister. The Royal Treasury is said to be likely headed by Miss Tamari Skharulidze, of their Tax Office. Miss Shharulidze is close to the major domo of Dienbank in Batumi. King Menassah is known to be impatient with the Treasury’s progress in restoring the Lev, and may even go so far as to order acceptance of the Rikomark as legal tender. Also close to Dienbank is their ambassador to Fedala, Tiemuraz Jibuti. Although his diplomatic experience consists of only two months in Fedala, he’s known as the point man for Macabbean efforts in the selection of Menassah. It is thought that he will be slated as Foreign Minister by the king.

What does this have to do with the Shartourn situation one may ask. This will quell a potential flashpoint in the Eitosphere, bringing Fedravka closer to it’s neighbors. Talks between Fedravka and Volsku in Branv, Federal Ralkovia have bogged down due to the coup against Menassah’s predecessor, King Simon. Now that that’s been resolved we are prepared to make generous offers to ease the cost of reparations by Fedravka for damages inflicted to Volsku during the Ralkovian War. Once that’s cleared up we expect smooth sailing for Volskuan accession to the NMAA. This will give us a better position in the interior north, as well as on the Great Inland Sea.”

Volsku turned light green on the map. Fedravka hatched green and white.

“Colonel Svoboda will brief you on plans for resupply for Laderan forces”

Enhanced Resupply

Svodoba clicked on the device. The screen refocused southward.

“I am not Captain Freedom. I was Captain Freedom. Now I am Colonel Freedom” quipped Svoboda.

The Marshites seemed puzzled.

“Too dry?”, he thought. He recovered and continued.

“We have already approved extension of export licensing for the Laderan fleet of F-36 fighters, both the F-36a Interdiction and F-36c short term attack models. These will include recently upgraded avionics. Laderan graduates of our training on both models are being provided with coursework for the avionics and also have been briefed on updates to the M-11 Flying Viper long range air to surface missile array. We have received a request from the Laderan Air Force for an additional class of mechanics and guidance engineers for the F-36, and also the C-25-a air transports, and this is being processed by the Eitarska Lotecto. We are also processing an urgent request for additional engines for Bull Elephant 6 Armored Multipurpose Vehicle.

The question then becomes sourcing.”

The display focused in on two panels, The Dikk River and the Great Inland Sea west to Tupenga, and southward to the Tarao countries.

“Here are our options.
- Production in homeland Eitoan. This provides us with the greatest manufacturing capacity, and the most modern shipping facilities. The tradeoff here is exposure to Ordenite naval action. We aren’t shrinking from the Krijgsmarine. Next month’s Kinght’s Gambit excersized east of th Jesheoda Channel will continue as planned. Joint Military Intelligence Service has indicated an Ordenite buildup in the Northern Vanguat, likely related to resupply in The Commonwealth, and shuttling forces from Fustera to occupied Commonwealth territory. They are facing a significan force from the Royal Imbrinian Navy, hewing closer to the continent, also guarding supply lines to The Commonwealth.

- Shifting transportation to Agar-Na is possible. Traffic to Agar and Dolezal from Eitoan would be covered easily. Manufacturing capacity in Agar is limited, so traffic embarking from their ports would be the poorest choice. There is a medium level threat to shipping from the Great Inland Sea. The navy is building the Liberty Bay fleet at an accelerated schedule, but skirting Istoloan waters would present a challenge.

- Recent gains in Federal Ralkovia have presented a good opportunity for supplying Ladero. Manufacturing capacity in Balkovia has taken a sharp uptick lately, and licensing agreements are largely covered under the NMAA. Orav has a large airport capacity available, and several leading Eitoan firms have contracts with Ralkovian counterparts. We are also in the initial stages of renovating facilities at the large complex of air bases at Point N, close to Urav for additional airlift capacity.

The Dikk provides the safest resupply route, both in terms of airlift and sealift. Right now we’re looking at skirting the volatile conditions in the lower Dikk through a route branching on the West Dikk to Ladero. Although restricting shipments to smaller vessels, the West Dikk completely avoids both Istoloan waters and entanglement between Potthan and Zihadi forces.

Colonel Hursey will cover discussions for direct involvement.”

Contingent Expedtionary Force

Hursey stood up now, after shaking hands with Svoboda.

“Thank you Jon. Right now we consider the need for intervention to be remote. From the information you have graciously provided we feel confident that direct involvement is a ways off. Foreign Affairs has many concerns with a direct involvement. Eitoan has traditionally avoided involvement in the Shartourn. Of course, this has changed since the First Tarao War and it is our policy, even if understated that democracy should be supported on the continent, north to south. Of course, no single power can gird the western continent, but we do have strategic interests in staunching Ordenite adventurism. As a lesson from The Commonwealth War, it is best to nip political, ethnic and religious strife in the bud, as much as possible. It is best to bring the Tarao conflicts to an end before these tensions get out of hand. Now, Potthani - Zihadi tensions are a sticky situation and any overt moves against the Ordenites there may have a backlash in Fedravka, Agar-Na and Federal Ralkovia, and even in Eitoan public opinion if we are seen as too close to militants. But given Golden Throne influence in Potthan, or at least it’s large naval presence there we are hoping to insulate ourselves there. Of course, we understand that The Sublime Empire of Madhah also has an interest in supporting Ladero. We maintain a proper relationship with The Sublime Empire. If intervention is necessary we would be looking to the good offices of the Ar’si Elkon to hold a coalition together in fighting in Ladero.

The composition of any expeditionary force is in very preliminary stages. There would need to be a large effort in training units assigned in jungle warfare. We are hoping to open discussions with you about this. We have some previous exprerience in planning this, in Situarion Fustera during the earlier instability in the Shartourn. At the time we had started work in preparation for an invasion of Fustera with a spearhead of this composition:

5th Infantry Division
62nd Mechanized Infantry Division
Special Operations Forces Group 101: {classified}
1st Regiment Medical Support and Evacuation Corps
13th Logistic Support Supply Battalion.

I was with the 62nd at the time.

We’re thinking this would be the starting point for planning a Ladero intervention. But before that we need to identify amber lines and red lines, both in terms of tactical threat to the Laderan heartland and degradation of Laderan forces facing the Istolaoans. And if we're going in, our objective is victory, to preserve Ladero. Nothing more, nothing less.

[Cossack Peoples]

BOPU, SHEKANA
_{Plaza Siavish}

"Here I was under the impression our benefactor did not have any vested interest in the region."

"They don't, and they never have."

Orest Morshun's wan, distorted face peered through the plastic mug, tinted with the dredges of cheap drip. His baggy skin, worn like it had gone through periods of being overweight and deathly starved, was worn as loosely as his name. Everything about Morshun seemed like misdirection, a facade to cover up an un-truth; from the way his glassy eyes surveiled but remained unfocused, to the way his jaw sat, appearing gritted but yielding to absent yawns easily. His was a face to which instant recognition was yielded on sight but giving any kind of description short of a direct photograph would yield only the most general features, other than having given a vague sense of unease. Morshun's figure was wrapped tightly behind a black wool-blend coat, betraying neither frailness nor bloatedness, only his slumped posture against a wire chair pulled beside the table.

"Then why all the games?" Morshun's companion asked, folding a newspaper over their knee. The pair looked out from their streetside cafeteria to the cobbled streets beyond, taking in the city sounds as the sun began to peer over the nearest multi-story building. Compared to Morshun, the second figure was sat squarely on their chair, their shoulders set back, their jaw cleanly shaven, and their otherwise casual business clothing betraying no deceit-- cleanly and bottom-line-up-front, like any good officer.

"Because, Ihor Tarasovych, cultivating something worth anything takes time." Morshun placed the mug down with a clink. "Think of our relations to our neighbors to our south. Placid waters, yes?"

The companion, squinting, responded, "I would say, yes."

"Despite, politically, the two being at loggerheads, no?"

"Czaslyudiya is at peace with its neighbors, despite our history." The companion shifted in their seat.

"Despite our history-- interesting that you should use that phrase, my friend." Morshun tutted, remarking, "You would think that due to our governments' fundamental disagreement, combined with the threat they pose to our nation, our countries would be in conflict, yes? But why not? Use that Chevray Military Academy education of yours."

Ihor sighed. "Opposing them would bring complications. Namely, their allies would balance against us while we have a weak alliance system at best-- non-defensive."

"So, the allies would ultimately bring any direct competition to a standstill at best, a losing game at worst."

"Yes, that is the common conclusion, now what's your point?"

"Direct competition. The FRCP would lose in a direct competition. As of now, we are not competing. That is the objective. Any single one of the FRCP's interests, when revealed, will always be opposed and it has not the might and influence to achieve them alone. So, we put our adversaries at ease and they do not compete with us, their alliance remains uninvoked, and we continue to build up under the pretense of--" Morshun dropped to almost a whisper, "-- Varathron or what have you."

Ihor nodded, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. "And so, this is a sideshow."

Morshun nodded. "With considerable ramifications geopolitically, yes, but a sideshow." The bony fingers of the contradictorily corpulent arm tapped the table. "Which is why you will go there." The necessary already stated, the two men looked out onto the foreign streets silently.

---

SEVYICH, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF CZASLYUDIYA
_{Northern Wing, Department of War Headquarters and Administration Building}

With a clink of another empty glass in the trash, Stepan Oleksiyovych Chornovil said goodbye to another fifth of Ozhdukh. He breathed, forcibly, through his congested nose and wiped his bleary eyes weakly. The man then stumbled over to his desk, yanked down the blinds at the window, and collapsed into his office’s chair, letting himself be swallowed up into it like a prehistoric animal in a tar pit. What a life. The crusty old creature, soon to be fossil, had been in his post, as Chief Director of the Special Activities and Intelligence Directorate, for the better part of eight years. He had worked hard to get there. The regimes came and went, and Chornovil had seen them all. He had been an artilleryman before they had plucked him out from an unremarkable career with the Land Forces and filled him with suspicion, a thirst for information, and an appreciation for self-preservation only to find, as he had told them before they began, it was already there. Chornovil was stationed in Eitoan, Ralkovia, and Krasnova, and had too much death happen around him. Leadership then found him, and Chornovil could now inflict it on his inferiors with a half-sober scrawl of a pen.

But not even the Chief Director of a military intelligence organ is immune to that penmanship. The new Pelsh administration came, and suddenly SAID– Chornovil’s organization– was to be reorganized. New oversights, new priorities, new money. Rather than be a good intelligence organ the SAID was to be a much larger beast, unwieldy. Doubtless, if something were to go wrong it would be Chornovil’s head. With the new orders from the Federal Administrative Zone, the liberal pricks seemed to want something to go wrong.

Chornovil sighed, unbuttoning the top of his uniform while picking through printouts on his desk– operational plans, reports, and analyses from too many places to count, too many theaters, and too many vulnerabilities. Sources that came from Varathron, the Badlands, Levanora and the rim of the Great Inland Sea; reports of crop yields of some backwater, configurations of satellite constellations, and hazy pictures extrapolated from a nighttime pass of a radarsat showing a surfaced Macabean submarine approaching an Eitoan port. How could Czaslyudiya hope to control, to contain, all this?

The clock on the corner of the desk read 02:53. Olena wanted him home by 23:00. Chornovil picked himself back up. Perhaps there was a way.

The night had begun to die, yet the fossil remained at his desk. The Istoloa quagmire was to be conquered and Chornovil had the plans to do so. A night of strained interpersonal relationships and rude wake-up calls had yielded to the Chief Director’s desk Operation FAVONIUS, a plan for Czaslyudian intelligence involvement. Of course, many of these would have to be run past the Deparment of War– and doubtless they would draw their more kinetic plans should Chornovil’s plan fail and Czaslyudiya be drawn to war– as well as the sitting Principle Chairman, but this was a plan Chornovil would stand behind, especially if his career depended on it.

---

Once upon a time, the Czaslyudian Directorate of Intelligence had been used to subvert the very government it had worked for, surveil the civilian population, and bust down their doors. Now, it was pruned to military intelligence and foreign affairs, with all of their operations domestically managed closely by their sister organization, the Department of Internal Security. It meant though, oversight or not, that the Principle Chairman and the SAID had free rein the very centimeter their operation crossed national boundaries. With the budget of the Department of Defense behind them, they could now bust down the doors of the world.

In Eitoan and Istoloa, the Czaslyudian diplomatic missions there would be most active. Certain members of the embassy staff– by that it is meant the SAID agents placed there as operatives under the guise of being legitimate diplomatic agents– would begin their briefings in their respective ‘Black Box’, poring over details, contingencies, and codes. Everything known about the Istoloan regime, its vulnerabilities, its major players and factions, that, while unofficial, were obvious to outside observers and no doubt to el Marechalisimo. The FRCP needed to keep out the Central Dienstadi interlopers– that meant a strong Istoloan regime, which meant a well-informed, well-armed one. In Eitoan, for the handful of individuals in the room, they prepared for something far less kinetic. They needed contacts, information on the Eitoan security or intelligence apparatus for their task. They would get it. Meanwhile, stocks meant for Varathron were waylaid. Logisticians ask questions, and their bosses erase the discrepancies as a glitch. It is not the time for asking questions, it is the time for motion.

A drunkard wanders home on the yard between his staff car and his front porch, rocking when he stands still, wiping his mouth from his own sick, and collapses on the couch as the sun peaks distantly in the sky. The plans were already in motion, the organization churning through its orders, and the ink on the page already dried. And he, the fossil, had signed it knowing all that it entailed.

---

LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

Ihor Vodopyanov, an Agarese and Czaslyudian passport holder, must have been the most overqualified junior network security consultant on this side of the Vanguat Sea. For starters, he was forty-two years of age with nearly nineteen years of experience. He had diplomas and certifications from technical academies he attended during his mandatory military service in Czaslyudiya, and later went to apply them and study network architecture with a postgraduate degree at a private Agarese university. He worked with several information technology firms on both sides of the border, including the FRCP's prolific Sukosyan System Technologies, coordinating teams, developing code, and managing projects. By the time that Ihor Vodopyanov arrived in Istoloa in May, it would have seemed that his job would have been more of a career advancement.

Instead, it was a slight oversight in the elaborate fabrication crafted by his current employers that made it seem that the zealous coder Vodpyanov was on the way out. Many of 'facts' in the curriculum vitae of this man were fabricated, elaborately and inventively in the cellar of some repurposed officer's club, made by the pale, emaciated hands of political dissidents captured during the last Czaslyudian regime and not seen since. The IT Specialist Ihor Vodopyanov was a Major in the Special Activities and Intelligence Directorate, the FRCP's foreign and military intelligence apparatus, and he did have the academic qualifications his cover stipulated-- experiences funded by SAID alongside critical language skills-- but he was not in-country for network security. The Major was one of several resident spies proliferated undercover along the western Dienstadi sphere to report back to the burgeoning intelligence machine, feeding the growing beast contacts, intents, as well as a fair amount of rumors and outright lies. The Czaslyudian resident spy in Istoloa had been a quiet job-- after all, SAID did not press him for answers to their questions and, frankly, did not ask him many questions at all.

Until the summer months hit and blood and seas began to boil.

Vodpyanov had been very busy. The official embassy staff of the Czaslyudian mission here were all liable to be monitored by what-have-you, and this was far too close to the action for any kind of exchange. The enemy would be looking for any deviation from standard operating behavior as a war raged– and a sit down with el Marechalisimo while the embassy ought to mind the possible evacuation of its firms and citizens abroad stuck out. So, Major Vodpyanov was the liaison, SAID’s insurance policy or their Hail Mary, selected to make the contact. To reach out, it was an elaborate game through the Marathon app on a burner phone, introducing himself as a friend of a friend with his Agar-accented voice, crackling over the voice message. Vodpyanov had nearly gone through the entire list of contacts; clearly, they were duds or too suspicious of the outsider. Then, a major of the internal intelligence organ of Istoloa returned his call.

The budget Czaslyudiya did not officially have for Istoloa was as follows; access to Czaslyudian satellite constellations, handoff of any relevant information the Czaslyudian intelligence apparatus discovered related to their military situation, as well as some ‘tiger teams’-- Special Purpose Forces operatives, the SAID’s direct action arm. All, nominally, listed as having been formerly in Czaslyudian service. Within a week, the FRCP could have a battalion’s worth of an SSP Detachment in country, stationed in the capital ready to dissuade any attempt at regime change. El Marechialisimo would be pleased with that, Vodpyanov thought. Additionally, the FRCP would rid some of its excess stock– that is, area denial weapons and air defenses. Some advisors as part of the tiger teams would see to the adaptation to Istoloan equipment of Czaslyudian PRVD-808 stealth subsonic anti-ship missiles, PHO-953AV surface-to-air missiles, and manportable as wellas vehicle-mounted systems. The only takeaway was a no-interest debt– with payments paused, of course.

Now the real question of whether the FRCP would commit troops was left unsaid– the FRCP itself knew not whether to throw itself fully into the conflict. Troops meant caskets, and caskets meant votes. Did Pelsh have them? The question of neutrality was already tenuous enough; playing between Ordena and the Golden Throne, it was not clear how the FRCP could move forward. Sides had to be picked, blood needed to be committed, and a stand had to be made. Whether the FRCP would be complacent with its standing or rise to seize its former glory depended on how it went forward, with arms and men, attrition and glory. The post-Ralkovian order in Western Greater Dienstad could not stand, and something had to give.

---

MISTASTEPEKH, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF CZASLYUDIYA
_{Cold sunrise.}

Mistastepekh, lying 130 kilometers south of the Czaslyudian maritime gateway of Korf, was not a very busy port in comparison with its neighbor. Its berths, developed but providing only the most basic services, were an auxiliary to the operations in its sister port, taking the runoff that failed to gain access to the vital rail lines that sewed the country's trade together. Korf was rough, but the city of Mistastepekh was rougher still. Its buildings were greyed and had taken on a tinge from the slight acidity of Czaslyudian rainfall, and outside of the main artery of transportation between the port and the rail terminal the city of Mistastepekh was in disrepair. Posters supporting the incumbent All-People's Union, the VSSR, had been vandalized with spraypainted scrawls of thieves and Bastards!

The infrequent activity of the port did little for the prospects of its citizens. The original town of Mistastepekh, known for its shipbuilding (when the ships had masts, and the territory had been entirely subjugated by the Ralkovians) and the Ralkovian Golden Era estates that dotted the shore-- the last time the name Mistastepekh had a good connotation-- was later demolished in its entirety during the First Czaslyudian Federal Republic and replaced in its entirety with city squares, apartment blocks, and port facilities, pouring concrete over the traditional and the historical alike. Now, it was a graveyard. The state-planned approach to Mistastepekh, called "New" Mistastepekh by a bygone mayor, gutted the city when the free market of the nation and the international market did not align with the city's primary purpose and anchored in the larger and more interconnected facilities of Korf instead.

The newest headstones in the graveyard were laid beside the long shipping containers of only a fraction of the nation's total soybean imports just one or two boxes high. They were not marked for any particular destination, yet had recently arrived from inland a day ago; the security of the port facility, contracted to a local private company, had also increased their presence with a new team from Sevyich. The residents of Mistastepekh had long known to keep their heads down and not ask questions-- the sitting mayor had long outlived the second Federal Republic, and their relationship with the police force, as well as the federal government,

The low traffic of the port made it vital for things to slip through the cracks. A Dienstadmax container ship, which every so often during Czaslyudian deficit periods graced the quiet port, offloaded whatever cargo it had (parts for rocket motors and other engineering goods) and exchanged them for the new headstones; this Tangatarehuan-flagged transport would be one of many to discreetly approach the Istoloan shores. It did not come alone, either, with the first instance bringing along a nuclear-powered Valentyn Kysil-Class attack submarine, tailing and minding the safety of the transport, as well as masking itself in the cavitation noise of the tens of thousands-ton cargo ship. Soon, the Czaslyudian Sea Forces’ Southern Fleet Command would fulfill its WESTDEP commitments, sending an additional complement of the Southern Fleet Command to ensure the safety of the waters for the flow of trade.

[Eitoan]

Orav
Balkovia
Federaton of Ralkovian States

The industrial parks in the Kfar Saba exurb hummed with activity. Traffric, although congested was at an elevated volume, mostly big rig semis. Flight patterns at Orav International Airport altered slightly. Incoming and outgoing cargo flights, mostly medium and large supercarriers from Balkovian Airlines and the Eitoan giant Logistico hogged runway 6 night and day. Business at Kfar Saba hadn’t seen such an increase since the city’s capture by Eitoan forces in the First Ralkovian War. Formerly the forge of the Imperial Ralkovian military industrial complex in the south, orders there had languished ever since. But the large cargo capacity at Orav International and the long dormant fabrication capabilities at Kfar Saba brought new life to those businesses.

One such business was RalkTag Containers, converted to specialized general air freight containers since the war. But the veteran engineering staff remained after the war, along with most of the trained and experienced line operators. Orders came in, first at a trickle, ramping up to a three week delay for new orders from a variety of Laderan, Eitoan and Federal companies.

RalkTag engineers and manufactures explosives storage magazines for military and commercial applications, custom built in sizes from 8 to 5,000 square feet. Most production goes to the Federal Ralkovian Self Defense Force, with some business going to Arcanean, Marshite and Eitoan customers. The company has over 55 years of experience innovating explosives storage magazines.

Military magazine offerings recently made available for shipment to Lardero include portable magazines built to NMAA specification SSWC 3055, air transportable magazines, reduced arc magazines, pre-engineered earth covered magazines (ECMs), and other containers built to custom requirements. All military magazines are constructed to adhere to stringent Federal Ralkovian military regulations for physical security and safety. Other contracts included magazines for Type 3 explosives storage and Type 2 day boxes. Before the upsurge in orders most of the demand was for commercial magazines used by law enforcement, mining, construction, demolition, pyrotechnic and industrial explosives industries.

Another company, Solovena Equipment sprang to new life nearby. Solovena ownership had recently passed from a shell corporation belonging to the Traskov family to M. Alford Defense Industries, Eitoan’s leading defense and aerospace conglomerate. Under contract to the Eitoan Department of Defense and External Security, retooling was underway for production of the M-32s, a highly mobile, full-tracked, air transportable armored earthmover. It represents a significant enhancement to the combat engineers' capability to support both land based and amphibious tasks. The M-32s can be employed in a host of engineer tasks, such as clearing obstacles, preparing defilade and survivability positions, and a myriad of eneering construction tasks including dozing, scraping, grading, hauling, towing, and winching. It’s capable of supporting forces in both offensive and defensive operations. It performs critical combat engineer tasks such as digging hull defilade fighting positions for guns, tanks and other battlefield systems to increase their survivability. It breaches berms, prepares anti-tank ditches, prepares combat roads, removes roadblocks and prepares access routes at water obstacles. With the combination of its cross-country mobility and armored protection, the M32-s is capable of both offensive and defensive operations in the forwarded battle area. Additionally, with a cruising range of 200 miles, air transportability, and the ability to swim, the M-32-s can maintain the momentum of the maneuvering forces.

The basic structure of the is welded aluminum. The engine, drive train and operator's compartment are laid out in the rear of the vehicle, while the front features an 8.7 cubic yard bowl, apron and dozer blade. Armor consists of welded aluminum with selected steel and aramid-laminated plates. An armored cupola containing eight vision blocks covers the driver's compartment.

It was one sweet ride!

Orders also arrived at Solovena for the several of the Light Tactical Vehicle (LTV) Family of Vehicles. The LTV program of the Eitoan Army vehicles, along with companion trailers, capable of performing multiple mission roles while providing protected, sustained, and networked mobility for personnel and payloads across the full spectrum of military operations. LTV features a design that supports mobility, reliability and maintainability within weight limits to ensure tactical transport to and from the battlefield. LTV uses scalable armor solutions to meet requirements for added protection while maintaining load carrying capacity. Commonality of components, maintenance procedures, and training between all variants minimize total ownership costs, an important factor in the demands of the Laderan customers. The LTV family balances critical weight and transportability constraints within performance, protection, and payload requirements - all while ensuring an affordable solution for both Eitoan and Laderan militaries.

The LTV family successfully accomplished the Eitoan Army’s 24-month TD phase five months ago, completing rigorous test and evaluation efforts at Aberdeen Test Center, and the Glasgew Proving Grounds in Eitoan. The prototypes underwent ballistic protection, system performance, and reliability and maintainability tests to gauge technical potential against LTV requirements, with an emphasis on identifying potential trade-offs to reduce system weight. The Activve Army and National Guard completed all planned performance and durability testing; however, because of the increased requirement in under-body survivability more challenging ballistic testing was conducted to help inform the EMD phase requirements.
* The two-seat variant has one base vehicle platform: the Utility. The two-seat variant hase a greater payload capacity of 5,100 lbs. (versus 3,500 lbs. for the four-seat variant).
* The four-seat variant has two base vehicle platforms: the Close Combat Weapons Carrier and the General Purpose.
* Each base vehicle platform will be configured as a mission package configuration through the installation of mission packages. Mission packages include the General Purpose, Heavy Guns Carrier (HGC), and Mountain Terrain sets.

Most of the production for the new orders was destined for Ladero, mainly to facilities at Valmoura and Alfeon. Passing clearance from Federal Ralkovian and Eitoan security, classes were set up for new line employees at Solovena, mostly former slaves and Balkovian trade school graduates, many from Kravak, recently annexed to Federal Ralkovia in the wake of the Second Ralkovian War. With the influx of the new workers at Kfar Saba schools and recreational facilities also saw growth, both from the recent arrival of Eitoan mangement and engineering staff and the influx from Kravak.

Point N
Granats’k Air Base
Southwest Federal Ralkovia

Point N. The massive, sprawling complex of air bases and maintenance facilities captured by the Eitoan surge toward the Dikk in the closing days of the Second Ralkovian War. Evacuated by the Regime air force , many of the runways, hangars and facilities intact, but lying fallow since conclusion of hostilities in the south, now hosting a nominal contingent of fighters and supply aircraft of the Eitarska Lotecto, along with a training squadron of the Federal Ralkovian Self Defense Force, was about to see a change. The Eitoan fighter squadrons already present had a busier schedule since increasing patrols over the Dikk since the terrorist bombing in The Commonwealth were about to get new neighbors. Along the dusty road to Granats’k A, Lieutennant Colonel Angus Sheftel’s jeep sped along, stopping at a knot of shift leads and engineers commanding the work crew, busy clearing roadbeds and pouring concrete. The stocky, red faced Sheftel ran up to a tall man in a red hard hat, in his late 20s or early 30s who was arguing vigorously with a whimpering subordinate.

“You there - Ionescu - get over here, NOW!” commanded Sheftel

The young Balkovian supervisor, brow furrowed excused himself to his underlings and ran over to Sheftel.
Sheftel laid into him. “What’s the holdup on the rebuild of the main entrance roadway? I see the bulldozers. I see your boys lolligaging in the shade over there. I see the gravel has been delivered. It’s right over there, in nice, tidy little piles. What’s the delay, damnit?”

Ionescu sputtered. “But Colonel, it’s their break time, you see. Excuse me sir. These locals - too many years under the Regime. You can’t blame them…”

“Blame them for what?” Sheftel exploded. “There’s gotta be at least 20, 30 right here, right now. What bullshit are you feeding me. It’s 10 AM. These loafers can take their spa time in shifts. You’re two days behind schedule. I fucking need progress now! You get back there and tell them to haul ass, or they’ll wish Raskov was back. Now move it.”

Ionescu whimpered back to his men, pleading with them to get back to work.

Sheftel shook his head, and spat. “Balkovians. I’m surprised they haven’t looted the entire site. I’ve got to order a daily inventory on this site.” He pullout out his phone. He called his assistant project manager for monitoring. “Thompson - get a supervisor down here pronto! I need someone to ride herd on the Granas’k A road crews”

Point N was not the only hive of activities in the newly acquired Ralkovian territory.

Further west in the port of Urav on the Dikk similar construction on the piers and facilities damaged in battle was underway. Increased orders for ammunition for the Laderan Army were filtering through the Eitoan supply chain, and the safest maritime route for the orders was down the Dikk, veering off to the West Dikk branch, free from hostile fire from the Istoloans and their sponsors, and away from the conflicts brewing in Potthan and the territories further along the Bay of Liberty where Zenith Jihad was stirring.

[Istoloa]

GANCHAS; LADERO, CSA TERRITORY

Blue water sparkled north of the highway that ran parallel to the northern Laderan coast. Cars and trucks sped along in both directions, innocent to the low-intensity war rapidly heating up around them. White clouds above were sparse and thin, such that the sun shone brightly onto the earth below. Today is a good day, thought Ganchas, as he peered over and across the highway from his hidden, temporary command post on a hill that overlooked the coastal plain.

He caught a dot, then two, then three, and then more, deep in the sky. He held his breath as it dawned on him what they were. Aircraft. But whose? And for what purpose?

The answer came quickly. From their weapon bays and wing-based pylons, the jets dropped their munitions. These tumbled down through the air and toward the ground, until their engines fired up and accelerated them horizontally toward their targets. Ganchas followed them as the missiles shrieked over land and slammed into a group of three tractor-trailers traveling westward toward Arcos Reais. They weren't the only targets, either. Other aircraft came into view and fired their loadouts on various other of Ganchas' men's positions, wreaking havoc on his careful preparations for a second round of drone strikes on the retreating Laderan Esquadra do Oriente. One jet screamed over the narrow beach, separating the highway from the water, and Ganchas growled as he clearly saw the insignia painted on the aircraft's tail. The Marshites.

It was a setback. A serious one. He would soon learn that the air strikes had wiped out a tenth of his attacking force. But it could have been worse. Much worse.

As it stood, RED REAPER II continued as planned, despite the disruption.

Ganchas could not help but feel anxious. Though the war was going well, given his army's success in dislodging the naval garrison out of Porto Carmesim and in securing the Camarzelan countryside, he could not count as a complete victory unless the eastern Laderan fleet was sunk in its totality. First, the fleet was by now a symbol of both hope and defeat. What the current battle would determine is which side would get what outcome. Second, should he bring glory to Istoloa, his star would rise.

The minutes toward RED REAPER II felt like an eternity. A pit formed in his stomach as Ganchas looked toward the horizon with his binoculars. He could just make out the struggling Ladern task force slowly limping west. Pillars of black and gray smoke emptied into the sky, turning blue to dark and obscuring even the clouds. Easy prey, he hoped.

Just as with the inaugural strike, dozens of drones rose, lifted, and fired through the air, depending on what they were launched from. They revealed themselves from shipping containers, truck beds, and from the back of box vans. Others were towed into fields, from where they were launched more conventionally. From countless locations and multiple directions, hundreds of UAVs once again swarmed toward the slow, damaged ships making up the remnants of that cursed enemy task force. Allied aircraft, likely Marshite like those which had conducted the preceding air strikes, swatted large swaths of drones into the sea, but they could not destroy them all. Ganchas smiled smugly from his perch.

This time, the attack was more successful. Like suicide dive bombers, dozens of "bugs" — as they were being called — slammed into the already damaged hulls of Laderan warships, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of smoke and debris, as fires raged where the drones had penetrated. One of the two surviving destroyers was the first ship to sink. It was already clearly in need of immediate repairs and the second attack was apparently enough already. She slipped beneath the waves quickly, most of her crew going down with her. Two frigates were also confirmed to be killed, and the count would rise to six.

Still, twelve Laderan warships, including the last destroyer, defiantly sailed on. Ganchas cursed.

Making matters worse, the Laderans would have the last laugh. Likely having monitored the unfolding strike against the task force, Marshite aircraft angrily replied to it by waging a savage war of aerial suppression. Ganchas did not wait to see the results. He, along with the rest of his headquarters staff, evacuated back into the interior. He'd learn that a full third of his remaining offensive forces along the coast had been wiped out.

Despite the bitter taste of a half-victory, Ganchas and the CSA received lavish praise from back home. "Nineteen ships sunk, my boy," said de Vega, over a short encrypted call once Ganchas was settled into a new HQ outside of Monte Violeta. "That's over sixty percent of their eastern fleet's strength now sitting at the bottom of the strait. The rest of that fleet won't be leaving port anytime soon, either. The marechalisimo is extremely pleased, general. Keep it up."

To Ganchas, the praise was empty. He had wanted more.

But as he wallowed in frustration over having won a lesser victory than was hoped, the commander of the CSA had failed to perceive the rapid build-up of Laderan forces along the western edge of the tentative border separating the breakaway Camarzelan state from the rest of Ladero.


While the CSA commander planned his next big move, he received a curious communiqué from a foreign and extra-regional NGO. "Giving Word" was still a small player in the intricate, complex, and decentralized web of humanitarian aid organizations in Greater Díenstad. Ganchas wondered if this one was as politically motivated as the rest. Someone always had an agenda, even if it was several layers removed from the aid.

Still, it would be good to claim that NGOs were validating Camarzela's independence movement — a small step toward perhaps alleviating the international isolation that the CSA was suddenly feeling.

Ganchas returned a quick message to the group's leadership. They were invited to set up a local headquarters in Monte Violeta, from where they could spread their aid to the rest of the zone.



MAXIMO; SOUTHERN SUBURBS OF BARBARO, SOROFI

Gundeiro Maximo was a man destined to fulfill the promise of his name. So he thought, at least.

That's why when the Istoloans had come to him with an offer, he did not hesitate to offer his services as the commander of Sorofi's southern divisions. They would back him to succeed the Marbalo Tutto regime, not just with money and arms, but with the Irati army as well. Swollen with ambition, Maximo ordered his forces to counterattack the Laderan spearheads immediately. This, his army did in the southern suburbs of the capital.

After slowing the enemy's advance southward, Maximo's legions violently threw themselves against Laderan forces groggy from early success. Their lightning, and largely unopposed, advance into the expanding Sorofian plain had stretched their lines and supplies thin. When the Sorofian resistance counterattacked, these precarious vanguards could have very easily been swept aside.

Yet, despite the ferociousness of the attack, the Laderans conducted an orderly tactical withdrawal back into the capital. They established a new line about a dozen kilometers north.

Frustrated, but not defeated, Maximo settled to prepare his forces for another drive. His Irati allies were filtering across the southern border in the meantime, and their weight would add to his numbers. It vexed him that the enemy had not been punished more by his surprise resistance and the daunting task of retaking the capital from an almost entirely intact Laderan army threatened to overwhelm him. But with steel resolve, Gundeiro Maximo gritted his teeth and carried on with organizing his men for a second counterattack.



FREMONERO & DE VEGA; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

El Marechalisimo watched de Vega like he would a tiger in the wild. Holding back a cough, he tapped his nurse on the arm. She brought a straw to his lips and he took some sips of water.

The military commander walked up to his leader's wheelchair and snapped a stiff arm salute. Fremonero returned it and said, "Marechal, it's good to see you. I hear that the war in Ladero is going well."

It was all de Vega could do not to smile. Of all of Fremonero's generals, it was unquestionable that Roque Cipriano de Vega was the best and most laureated. His victories and the failures of his peers marked him as standing above the rest. But all he said was, "There are still trials to come. Trials much more difficult than the ones already surmounted."

"Indeed," said Fremonero. "But that is why I trust in you, and in you only, to bring our conflict with Ladero to a successful close."

De Vega arched an eyebrow. "Of course, meu marechalisimo. I will need more resources, though."

"Yes, yes," the wheelchair-bound Istoloan leader said. "I have accounted for that. I have arranged for crates full of man-portable air defense systems, along with anti-armor missiles, launchers, and other heavy infantry weapons, to be sent to southern CSA-held territory via the aqueduct system. Even with the growing danger at sea, I have ensured that your man Ganchas will be properly equipped for the fight he is expected to win."

"Thank you, meu marechalisimo," replied de Vega, bending his head down in gratitude.

The nurse brought the straw back to Fremonero's mouth, and he took some more sips. "I trust that you did not arrange this meeting just to ask for supplies."

De Vega was silent for a moment. He had been waiting for this, building himself up to it. For days, he had practiced what he'd say in the mirror. Finally, he answered, "You have done so much for our country, sir. You have restored Istoloa to greatness. That is undeniable. And you know that I have been your right-hand man all the way. I have never failed you. Not like others." It went unsaid that he was referring to Rosa, whose Fusteran odyssey was faltering. "And, while I hope that your stewardship continues for many years, decades even, and that you live for another hundred years, we know that all mortal men are bound to pass. I believe it is time for you to name a successor."

Fremonero said nothing as he pierced de Vega's eyes with his own, though the marechal thought he saw the marechalisimo's lips tighten. "You think you can replace me, do you?" he accused.

"N-n-no, meu marechalisimo," stammered de Vega. "Not like that. But, surely, you realize that your health is failing, sir. Why not guarantee a peaceful transition of power?"

"You must think me dull," replied Fremonero, his angry voice punishing the other man like a whip. "You must have thought I would happily crown you as my heir, and then no doubt you planned to spring your trap. Have me quietly disposed of, now that I have legitimized your rule. Well, that will not happen! You will not be my successor! Not after such insolent treason as that you've displayed today."

De Vega was at a loss for words. He said nothing for some time, as he felt the cold stare of his leader on him. Then, feebly, he answered, "Meu marechalismo, I would never think of betraying you. Please, show mercy and forgive me for my trespassing. This topic shall never be brought up by me again. My focus is solely on my duties as your foremost military commander and I will bring you victory in Ladero. All of Tarao shall soon bend to you."

"Good," said Fremonero, who waved the general away. "Go now. You've bothered me enough. And be content that you leave with your head still on your shoulders. Remember the clemency Fremonero has shown you today. I will not be so merciful the next time."

[Ladero]

Various international governments, including the Golden Throne, have vigorously protested the use of naval mines by both sides. Commercial shipping through both the strait between Istoloa and Asadabad and that between Istoloa and the Tarao countries has not just more dangerous, but increasingly impossible. Although both sides claim to use mines capable of IFF identification, putitatively allowing neutral parties to continue sailing through these waters, these IFF codes are frequently not shared on a consistent enough basis when changed — and they are changed often, per the Macabéan Institute for Free Trade, which recently published a recent statistical study on shipping losses over the area before and after the commencement of hostilities.



ARMADO & LENCASTRE

A dim sunlight reached through an early morning fog that rolled in from the coast over the broad Sorofian plain. Birds chirped while squirrels scrambled up trees in search of food. It could have been a beautiful morning if it were not for the putrid stench of burning metal and flesh, carried forth by battlefield smoke so thick that it blocked the light even as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky.

Across a line running roughly just south of Barbaro, from mountains to beaches, Sorofi was on fire.

A deep rumble across the front threatened worse to come. Indeed, at exactly 0630, the guns of Legiãos I and II opened in concert to pepper Sorofian defenders dug in on the other side. They belched violence, as thousands of shells fell upon soldiers in trenches, foxholes, and blockhouses. As rounds dropped from the sky, bulbs of fire illuminated fountains of dirt and debris launched toward the heavens. Watching from his perch, Tenente-General Santori Armado felt confident that today would be the beginning of the end for this unexpected Sorofian resistance. By tomorrow, the two Laderan armies would be marching toward the southern border with Irat. Then, the liberation of the southermost Tarao country could begin.

Thirty long minutes passed before the bombardment subsided, allowing Laderan mechanized units to launch their attack. Raising the binoculars to his eyes, Armado looked pleased. He watched as infantrymen covered by AFVs, including tanks and fighting vehicles, uncoiled down highways and roads in an attempt to pierce through the Sorofian defenses. Behind them, armored brigades were impatiently waiting for their opportunity to exploit the breakthrough. But Armado's smile quickly turned into a frown.

As impressive as the artillery bombardment may have been, it quickly became obvious that it had done little or insignificant damage. The enemy's lines were intact, and their defense was ferocious. Their guns now opened up with a blistering wave of suppressing fire, as cluster munitions wreaked havoc on now-exposed Laderan units. Carnage ensued as vehicles opened up in flames and men were turned into unrecognizable heaps of severed body parts.

It took all their efforts for the Laderan army to pull back to its original lines, having made virtually no gains at all. Any win could be measured only in meters. And for those meters, the two armies paid dearly.

What had started as a grand and almost unopposed stroll through their southern neighbor was turning into a catastrophe for the government in Lavença.



FUSTER

Tenente-General Pedro Fuster was known as a rogue. That's probably why he was selected to lead the newly organized Legião III, scraped together from various internal security units and elevated to an offensive force. With this ragtag army, Fustera was ordered to take back control over the CSA-held cities in the east. For any other commander, the task may have been overwhelming. Fuster, though, relished the opportunity to fight a dirty war against a dirty enemy.

As the Laderan fiasco unfolded in Sorofi, Fuster's men crossed into CSA territory in small columns made up of a motley assortment of armored vehicles. Mostly MRAPs and other light-skinned armored cars, the not-so-mighty Legião III caught guerrilla forces holding strongholds along the frontier by surprise. These positions were rapidly overrun and, by midday, Laderan armed forces had penetrated over a dozen kilometers across a broad front. Behind them, they left the bodies of killed insurgents. The wounded, if not already dead, were left to rot beneath the intense heat of the sun. Prisoners were not taken; they were simply shot on sight. This was the sort of war Fuster would wage with the CSA.

By day's end, the general was confident enough to report back to his superiors that their initial primary target had been taken. Arcos Reais was, once again, in the hands of the central government. Haphazard enemy attempts to re-infiltrate and eject two battalions worth of Laderan security forces were repulsed, and it seemed that the young commander's star was rising while those of his compatriots to the south were waning.

Fuster was quick to issue reports of thousands of enemy deaths and countless stunning victories from northern to southern coasts. The reality was a bit more muted. Although CSA forces had indeed suffered, Ganchas was able to withdraw at least ninety percent of his strength from the affected territories, regrouping them further east. The loss of Arcos Reais was indeed significant, but to the south, his men still held Brigalhão. By the time Legião III reached it, they'd find a well-entrenched and prepared insurgent force goading them into a prolonged house-to-house battle. But, these were matters for another day. For now, Fuster and his men celebrated a much-needed victory that would help to raise morale among a nation reeling from ego-shattering defeats.

The general himself moved across the frontier to set up his headquarters in Arcos Reais, from where he could more closely direct follow-up operations.

He was welcomed by a throng of civilians forming long queues to access water and food, as well as medical supplies and even clothing, being trucked over from the west. Long convoys of military trucks bringing in civilian aid cluttered and choked the roads, virtually closing them to civilian traffic and making even the resupply of Fuster's forces all the more difficult. As much as he complained to the higher-ups, though, the government saw its citizens as the most pressing priority over the needs of the army.

All the same, Fuster prepared his men to push on. Their next objectives: Brigalhão and Monte Violeta.

[Cossack Peoples]

SHARTOURN SEA
_{Sprawling readouts, sprawling distances.}

Operation ASSURANCE. Large, type-writer font characters, the hint of printing errors on its periphery. Black letters on waxy, nearly transparent printing paper. Its fragility was unimportant, the mission orders were never to leave the room. When the last block of inky text and exhausting details had been left on the paper and the machine ground to a halt, it was plucked from its maker, examined silently, and, like most documents worth anyone's time, burned immediately. Memos, however useless, were kept in stacks on the corners of everybody's desk, but this one, this actually important one, was burned. The hierarchy of the Special Activities and Intelligence Directorate flexed and heaved. Activity in the Intelligence Division ramped up just as the Operations Division, in particular its Counterintelligence Service, quietly reallocated its resources. All this paperwork for an intelligence connection, between the state security service of Czaslyudiya to that of Istoloa.

One hundred miles northeast of their SAID headquarters in the capital city of Czaslyudiya, a 200-ton TSZ-1551 rocket plunged its way through the atmosphere, leaving a hazy toxic chemical plume in its wake. The Czaslyudian CEKSUR -- Center of Intelligence, Space Surveillance, and Satellite Reconnaissance -- had prioritized another mission to deploy another constellation of satellites, this time a cluster of MSNOSR-type imaging, signals, and radar satellites. These would fly in a low circuit around the Earth, but noticeably passing over the Central Vanguat region, from the southern tip of the Shartourn to the River Dikk. Every ounce of data, after it had been pored over by its minders at CEKSUR, would then be passed along to every other intelligence agency that depended on it; SAID, the Sea Forces' COMNETCOM, and now the secret service of el Marechalisimo were first in line.

Operation BROKER. Another printout, and another winding and elaborate institutional and organizational set of machinery inexplicably set in motion. Timetables, and schedules to keep, categorization and organization of the actors, ledgers of equipment listed in quantity and factory designation. The first wave had left harbor; a trickle, nothing more, of a handful of neutral-flagged shipping surreptitiously manned by agents on the payroll or contract of the Special Activities and Intelligence Directorate and loaded with weapons. Weapons to deter, weapons to prevent. Missiles. Missiles. And missiles. Material support, to shore up el Marechalisimo. Material support to shore up Istoloa, even if el Marechalisimo was no more.

Those weapons needed trainers. SAID also needed a foothold in Istoloa, something to demonstrate resolve to their counterparts. That is where Operation CASSIO steps in. CASSIO was not BROKER, although the two were linked. CASSIO was on the same ships, strutting above deck when the sun went down and sharing a cigarette and even a bottle with the official ship's crew, only to scurry to hiding when the sun melted back into the sky, or the thunders of an aircraft engine echoed into earshot. CASSIO was a detachment of SAID direct action operatives, a battalion of special forces, hitching a ride on the same neutral vessels in nothing more than dungarees, false papers, and the boxes on which they sat.

CASSIO was a faithful lieutenant of a plan, and a faithful lieutenant to el Marechalisimo it would be. As soon as the docks, as of yet blockaded by Marshite marauders, greeted these neutral ships and gestures of goodwill, faithful lieutenants of flesh and machine el Marechalisimo would have.

MOUTH OF THE SHARTOURN SEA
_{FRCPN Vitaly Kiryukhin
Off the eastern shores of Istoloa.}

Povh couldn't help but feel a need to smoke. It was what folks in foreign media did when they were stressed, was it not? Povh saw cigarettes on his own street corners as people relished the minute spare time they had, or coped with the stress of menial labor, or family, or the pain of not drinking. It was also an act, sometimes a shared act, of a to-hell-with-it attitude for one's own health, taking on the secret chemical that made the sinews of the flesh less tense, and life more bearable. It was something conceptual, but not real.

To Povh's dismay, it could not be real four-hundred meters under seawater with a thin supply of air filters and a brand-new ship. It didn't particularly matter-- Povh did not smoke. The Captain, 1st Rank did not eat meat aside from seafood with scales and fins, nor did he drink, but despite his minding of his own health Povh felt terrible. Restless. Agitated. A forty-day mission in the Northern Vanguat changed halfway to a new mission reaching the submarine's theoretical voyage limit. A rendezvous in the Bay of Chains (in some maps as the Bay of Liberty) and the submarine loaded on ample Pshenytsiak rations for the crew that drank (sixty-five) and updated mission orders for the one who didn't (the Captain 1st Rank Anton Povh). A routine mission, one succeeding a shakedown cruise, turned to a possible combat mission. With real stakes. God, he could use a smoke.

The Vitaly Kiryukhin was a Proekt 1630 nuclear attack submarine, which had left Czaslyudian waters to escort the Lamonian Spirit and Crown Duke Aruch, two cargo vessels which had been stated by name in the warning order. After an interception passing by the Jesheoda Channel, Povh VID'd their marks, and continued the rest of the mission submerged, cruising slowly under them, popping occassionally above the thermocline to re-establish contact.

Povh imagined the Spirit and Aruch had no idea the Kiryukhin was there, but in the same way Povh could not say what, or who, these ships were carrying. Povh knew his orders and his area of responsibility, and that was it. The mystery remained unbroken for the entire mission, when the Kiryukhin veered away from Istoloan shores as the cargo vessels made their final approaches to safe harbor.

Not long after, the CIC became a whispering cacophony as the crew received their new OPORD.

Operation DESDEMONA. A cold, clear directive. Friendly forces: the Kiryukhin and two more submarines on their way to the area of operations. This set of sonar signatures, notably Ordenite. Enemy forces: Most probably the Marshites. Commander's intent; to prevent a total blockade of the Istoloan mainland.

So many orders, so many plans, cold, direct, orders that never left a room or were buried under thousands of tons of seawater. Povh did not know what to do with himself; as soon as he was off duty, he collapsed into his stiff, cramped bed and drifted off into the dark.

[Holy Marsh]

Battle Damage and Continued Aerial Pressure

Battle damage assessments for the three operations happened at a brisk pace. Package RQ disappointed the air force, with BDA detailing that while the strikes themselves were carried out successfully, only four to five percent of the attack wave was destroyed based on high-end M-SAD estimates of pre-war opposition stockpiles. While not a bad outcome for initial strikes against a decentralized force, there had been hope to double it. Retreat Coverage Operations had mixed results. Combined with Task Force 17, the aerial defense portion had downed significant aerial assets but had not managed to fully protect the Laderan fleet. The reasons were multi-faceted. Task Force 17 simply arrived too late on station to meaningfully aid in its defense. The Task Force now positioned itself between the world an the limping survivors of the fleet, capable of defending itself in ways the Laderans could not. The attacks into separatist territory were more successful. Attacks resulted in an estimated fifteen to eighteen percent of the opposition drone force dedicated to aggression being destroyed.

Mixed results were fine enough considering that the engagement had not been on Marshite terms or timing. Now their air operations would move into a more aggressive posture. Package RQ-2 involved significantly more aircraft utilizing a growing stream of satellite intelligence as well as on the ground electronic and human intelligence. They were target any signs of command and control as well as logistics centers, hubs, and supply lines. Of special import was finding what was termed in MSAD as the "Mole Holes", the centers for logistics operations and transport. With the skies and seas about to be cut off, it would be easier to find and eliminate these centers. Beyond that, military targets of opportunity would be struck at the leisure of the air force. RQ-2 was not designed as a specific movement but as a continued operation that would only change once the demands on the ground changed. Leading RQ-2 when it came to targeting and destroying targets of priority were stealth aircraft, with the MAF-50S being joined now by the heavy strategic stealth bomber, the MISB-03 Stalker. Non-stealth aircraft followed, usually at standoff range but as the skies became friendlier they would venture closer. The goal was to continually and relentlessly apply pressure.

Marshite Ground Forces In Ladero

The 215th and 578th Marine divisions prepared for combat. Currently, they were not assigned to frontline duty unless requested by the Laderan military. They were prepared to do so, but for now prepared to provide support. And more importantly, COIN. While they were more readily excited by the prospect of Martyrdom in a grand battle, all recognized the messiness of a civil war. If needs be, they were ready to do the nasty work to the rebels that Ladero may not. Forces were arrayed to support Ladero, even as communications between the militaries were kept basic. Preparing also were their dedicated drone battalions, eager to showcase the newest in AI Citizen Cluster Warfare.

When Ladero made their move on the CSA, the Marines moved in behind Legião III. M-SAD did not rate it very highly and believed that if the war turned into a higher grade affair it would prove unable to fully handle matters, but until or unless they were given rights and permission by the Laderan government to engage in direct offensive operations, the Marshite forces on the mainland would not take the lead. As such, they supported Legião III as they could. The Marines fell back behind to create a steel wall to their rear, taking part in security operations to free their minds up for the necessities of offensive conflict. Their artillery barked when needed, both gun and missile alike.

RQ-2, while taking care of its already laid out duties, took special pleasure in bombing the retreat of the CSA where possible. Where they did so in relative mass RQ-2 deployed a terrifying array of their strategic assets. The TMAF was extensively tasked, squadrons of aircraft screaming across the skies and unleashing ordnance at a consistent and frightening pace.

When Brigalhão became the notable as a fortified location, TMAF dedicated multiple squadrons solely to hammering it, an entrenched opponent infinitely easier for the Marshites to strike than a nebulous insurgent foe. The Marines dedicated their drone battalions, which came in a variety of forms. Small and medium reconnaissance drones were flown in their hundreds, many of them personally launched by tradition by the Marines. Nearly fifteen hundred light combat drones were kept in the air against the target zone at all times. They could surge tremendously more if they wanted to deliver a single strike, but Marshite doctrine preferred consistent and awful pressure. These light drones came in a few flavors.

The MQA-12 Anguli carried one 35mm, 21-inch rocket mounted beneath its frame, launched it at short to medium range, and returned once it had done so. A small drone with the mini-rocket already larger than it, the drone was nearly silent. Hundreds were in the air at any given time. A hundred or so were kept up at any time.
The MQA-17 Vajra was a compact quadcopter engineered to deliver concentrated firepower into confined or fortified environments utilizing specialized deployment racks of grenades. By standard, it carried ten LY1002 thermobaric grenades in two racks of five on top of one another. Total payload mass, including the racks, was 4.5 kg. The Marine’s personal favorite was the MQA-21 Shakti, a high-speed suicide drone designed for dual-mode lethality. It combined rotary micro-blades for maximum kinetic penetration with a 2.1kg high-explosive charge that detonated milliseconds after impact. This created a twofold kill effect: catastrophic damage on contact, followed by a localized blast that shreds remaining defenses or personnel. A few hundred were kept at any time.
MIP even had a drone in the light combat wave. The MQA-19 Asi was designed to provide sustained small-arms support fire. Armed with a single MIP Advanced Battle Carbine chambered in 5.56 Marshite Caseless, the Asi carried a 240-round magazine feed system, integrated recoil compensation mount, and precision gyro-stabilization. Around two hundred were assigned to support Laderan forces at the front, to provide firepower support but also to dislodge the enemy and sacrifice itself to draw them out for friendly forces.

Heavier drones came in many types- larger suicide drones, multi-missile attack drones, and drtones of even larger scale. While around fifteen hundred light drones were kept at flight at any given time by the battalion for operations against Brigalhão, a few hundred of the heavier ones also kept up their own pressured, aided by the mass of intelligence being gathered at any given moment.

The operation required little human input. The battalion was mostly a maintenance and logistics force educated in Artificial Intelligence Support Operations, as it was an AI Citizen Cluster that ran the drones themselves. Catacin IL was in charge of the battalion’s active drones, operating the swarm with a singular, massive will and awareness, human input neither required nor desired. Traditional jamming was ineffective. While the drones were the product of extensive electronic warfare defensive work, Catacin IL knew some drones would likely be lost. He knew this because he had experienced it, though his consciousness persisted even in cut off drones. In this way, the battalion’s drones operated with the utmost lethal efficiency, run by a remorseless killer that saw its every action as another step towards the Divine Singularity, one ruined fleshform at a time. “Praise be the God in This Machine,” it would say after a successful batch of kills, “for another heretic has been deleted.”

While the Marines did what they could, other ground forces started to arrive. The 312th Airborne Division finally arrived in full combat order, while initial combat elements of multiple armored and infantry divisions continued to roll in. Full ground deployment of the forward deployed forces would take another two to three days.

Khaldívico Sea and Strait

At sea, the 3-6 finally arrived in force. The main combat force- the 3-6 Main Tactical- was the main driver of the blockade that would stretch across much of Ladero. Two Longsword-class vessels led the 3-6, positioned in the northern quadrant. Ten Pijl-class arsenal ships and five Anubis-class heavy arsenal ships were arrayed, often as leaders of their small task forces. Six Luna-class supercarriers and nine Pushania-class escort carriers provided tremendous airpower, much of it arranged in the north. Fifty Lacto-class Cruisers and forty-five Lamia-class Destroyers made up the meat of the Fleet’s moment to moment enforcement and presence. This fleet was enhanced by thirty Libertas-class frigates. Thirty LA-601 Xiphos class SSNs and fifteen LA-602 Kukri class AIP SSK prowled under the seas. These weren’t the only vessels, as elements of the 3-8 Tactical Submarine Group, the 3-1 Tactical Submarine Hunting Group, 8-2 Tactical Coastal Defense Group, and two Tactical Mine Laying and Countermeasure Groups. Supported by Logistic Command and intelligence vessels, it was a deployment of the 3rd Strategic Fleet that was tracked with interest by the leaders of the 3rd at large. Not all vessels had arrived, of course, as only partial task forces had been in the sea to begin.

The blockade was arrayed from west-central Ladero to Khaldívico Island and from Khaldívico Island to the strait separating Istoloa from Ladero, terminating at the Sorofi nautical zone with internal control stretching further in. As they took up positions, they sent a single notice:

Dictated From Maestro of the Waves Alibajer Cocana
To All Parties Concerned RE: Ladero

In order to prevent the unnecessary spread of hostilities in these troubled times, the Theocracy is initiating a blockade of Eastern Ladero to prevent the provision of material aid and foreign mercenary support to insurgent forces in Eastern Ladero. Any and all vessels attempting to move through this blockade will be boarded or destroyed if they do not obey orders to turn back. Only vessels with express permission from the Laderan government will be allowed through.

Taming the Waves in Her Name,
Maestro of the Waves Alibajer Cocana

Eitoan Response - Western Consolidation

General Jav’neka inclined her head, fingers brushing the seal of the Karda on her chest before she spoke. “Your analysis is precise, General Weaver, and your nation’s attention to the mechanics of stability is a strength we have long admired. Such qualities are no less vital than ships or divisions, for without foresight, strength is squandered.”

Her hand moved across the map projection, highlighting the northern arc of the continent.

“These matters lie firmly in what you call the Eitosphere. The hand of the Throne presses there, and you have measured its weight wisely. For our part, the Theocracy does not seek to intrude where the balance is sound. Unless the inviolable principles of Mar’si Basic Rights are brought under assault- which is not the case here- we see no cause to project ourselves northward. Your management of the Fedravka–Volsku–Batumi complex is both competent and sufficient, and it is proper that responsibility remains in your hands.”

Her voice softened, though no less firm. “In this, you may count on us not to overstep. Providence assigns each realm its burdens, and this one belongs to you. And in truth, we are glad to see it so well tended.”

Eitoan Response – Enhanced Resupply

Jav’neka leaned forward as Colonel Svoboda’s map dimmed, her words measured but edged with conviction. “Your assessment of supply lines is sound, Colonel. And while Agar-Na and Federal Ralkovia offer certain conveniences, it is plain that the homeland of Eitoan provides the greatest strength: depth of industry, capacity for modern refit, and proven logistical networks. The benefits you outline are exact, and we concur with your judgment.”

Her tone sharpened slightly. “As for the specter of Ordenite interference, it is well to consider, but not to overvalue. So long as our efforts are to secure Ladero rather than to strike directly into Istoloa, the Ordenites have little pretext to hazard interdiction of shipments nearer your homeland. Should they overreach, it is not merely an affront to the Eitosphere or the Tarao- it is an act that risks the larger conflagration, one in which their survival itself would be wagered. It would be folly for Ordena to stake existence upon Istoloa, and though we do not doubt their arrogance, we believe they retain sense enough to balk at that.”

A faint smile crossed her face.
“Thus, let us build upon what is most reliable- your own industry. If Istoloa is to be broken, then its back will bend under the weight of Ladero well-armed, and that arming flows most surely from your hands.”

Eitoan Response - Contingent Expedtionary Force

Her eyes narrowed slightly as Colonel Hursey concluded, her voice carrying the calm finality of one accustomed to long wars. “To prepare for the possibility of deployment even while judging it remote is the mark of seriousness. We would rather drill for wars that never come than stumble unready into those that do. In this, your foresight mirrors proper providence.”

She gestured, and the Dikk River corridor flared on the map. “You may rely on the Dikk. From its mouth at the Bay to its passage into the Khaldívico Sea, it is secure. The arteries are clear, and they will remain so. This line is your guarantee that should the need for your expeditionary force arise, it will not founder for want of a way forward.”

Her gaze settled firmly on the Eitoan officers.
“To ease your decision, we will open to you the movements of the Laderan Crusade. You will see where its weight falls, how its structure is arranged, and where your divisions may lock into its frame. In this way, when and if you choose to commit, the foundations for cooperation are already laid. And let it be known: the Faith will ensure that, should you march, you march with every assurance of support. That choice will never be yours alone to bear.”

[Arakhkhar]

[ S E K H A Y M　V　K A N O N　/　S E C R E T　I N　C A N O N ]

---

T H E　F A I T H F U L　O F　M O N T E　V I O L E T A

---

Monte Violeta, Eastern Ladero, Greater Dienstad
1400 Hours, the present

Giving word was yet a young organization, from a region that was more rife with every manner of barbarism that had yet been imagined and in some ways impossible to describe those not acquainted with the Badlands. Thirty-thousand years of brutality had endured in a continuing bloody cycle, churning out and producing suffering for such a broad mass of people, in that this had been accepted, to some extent, and had become normal, had come to the most outright rightful detestation by the empathetic - empathy being a trait which, arguably, separates beasts and men. There had been some attempts at humanitarian aid in the past - though, for the most part, these would always inevitably return to the application of violence in subduing some tyranny and producing in no small amount a great degree of suffering that they had attempted yet to prevent in the past. It would have been impossible to understand, and remains yet impossible to understand to many outside the region why the Badlanders should submit to totalitarianism. It is perhaps impossible for an outsider to understand why someone do as the Pastor John Edwin Swanson as he did in his fifty-three years of age, had they known the depths of his dealings with forces like that of the Lirvittian Empire.

"We've got everything moved in, pastor."
The aging clergyman looked up from his newly-placed desk, taking eyes on his assistant - a young volunteer. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Without interference from the war, and without delay. I can see those prayers of ours have been answered." He stood up in a slow manner, and gestured to a hastily set up map of eastern Ladero - with allotted front-lines and cities denoted in clear lines, not unlike that which might have been found in some military command center. "The war in eastern Ladero is already escalating - warships have yet been struck, the armies of the CSA and the Laderan government are already clashing. Men are being shot like dogs on the roadside, left unburied and rotting under the sun. Children so thin that a light breeze might very well break their bones, or where so much as a cough might kill a village. Word of a blockade may... make the situation considerably worse." - the pastor gave a sigh. "I have provided a list, on the desk, locations and sites where it will be necessary to establish aid-stations - treat everyone who should come your way, but ensure first the safety of those who are most at risk of death. It will be necessary to establish regular lines of supply to keep these sites functioning, and regular communications between sites." - he looked outside the window, across the rough hill that had been called Monte Violeta. Odd trees popped up in a few places, and bush broke from between craggy sun-baked rock, rolling down to the far more dense vegetation below. "There will be many suffering from heat-stroke, malnutrition, and I would not be surprised if Malaria had become common with the destruction of whatever local medical complex. You can be assured that there will likely be resistance by militant elements - even if governments have agreed, there are those men down there who have been taught to hate, and to hate completely. They will not be discriminate in a firefight. You, the... volunteers here, are doing the work of God. Do not forget that."

The assistant gave a short nod, taking from the desk the sheet of paper containing all those necessary orders for the establishment of aid-stations. Of course, that they should happen to be located along some strategic roadways was natural, and quite necessary indeed in order to tend to the mass of civilians and wounded who might come from battle. That regular communication between posts was necessary, that could be quite assured - Ham Radio amateurs, recruited by the organization to transmit over single-sideband on high-frequency bands let out constant reports on statuses, updates, and regular updates in what each post required. Such had become a well established protocol, by then. If it should have happened that they might observe troop movements and should one overhear conversation, it wouldn't be particularly difficult to relay such rumors as needed to that headquarters at Monte Violeta - it was necessary, of course, that in order to anticipate humanitarian needs of a populace, one might have to anticipate where the fighting would be - and where it might be expected in the future. With each CW transmission, each encrypted to a degree - after all, if outside forces might tap into such communication, they might use it for nefarious deeds and exploit goodwill, as governments had been assured - they had no intention of becoming partial to the conflict. It was a sort of rudimentary network of intelligence gathering that, ostensibly, had only the best of intentions - and where they could, humanitarian aid would indeed be distributed, triage administered as much as possible, and the most immediate aid applied to those affected in battle.

Pastor Swanson was a man who had known war. In fifty-three years of age, he had seen a dozen wars. He had walked, once, on earth that had been scorched by the fires of an atomic bomb, had seen the shadows of those who had been vaporized in fire. He asked, each and every time - and it was always that he had felt in his mind, echoing from his education - a Psalm - "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O, my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, I feel no rest."

It was when he watched a mother's bones stretched out over her broken child's form that he began to feel in this life that God did forsake him, this place, this Earth. When one has been a humanitarian, one has been to and seen war over, and over again - repeated in a thousand ways, most intense and with the most savage cruelty that can be imposed. Sneering Marshites with their zealotry in persecuting whom they deemed oppressors, the Imperious and arrogant of a dozen Empires who had wrought destruction in their wake, the genuinely cruel and oppressive who had turned out in droves as dictators and princes of the Earth who wore upon themselves golden crowns, those who wore the skin of faith and turned it for their ends. And so he prayed, so he prayed every day and night in fifty-three years that it might end, that Christ might come again and the ruination of such evil be made complete - it was that hope, perhaps, that kept him alive. Chaos reigned with a masquerade of civilization and humanitarian wars of intervention, and barbarism had been inflicted by the evil and those resisting them alike in so many uncountable ways that he could not name a single state yet in existence that could be dignified.

In time, he came to hate them.

Order, he felt. Order was what humanity needed. Order, alone, that could create and had created for a peaceful existence. God would not bring it just yet - that he felt, and humanity had seen fit to remain steeped in petty conflicts for petty reasons, uncaring of the suffering they themselves wrought. So, when, not long ago, he received instruction and aid from a most unlikely source - an Empire of the Lirvittians that had seen fit to simply keep humanity as their custodians - he accepted. Order could be instituted alone by a strong force, and by a force that had the will to impose it. He had no taste for subjugation in the most complete sense, nor for the Lirvittian faith itself - but, just maybe, the ends might justify the means. He had cultivated a network of intelligence gathering, a system of roadside points that could simultaneously give aid whilst also keeping his organization well and rapidly informed. He didn't know, exactly, every Lirvittian agent that he had allowed to penetrate his organization - only the one whom he was meant to confer with.

He paused, and closed the door.

How could he be sure? He thought to himself, in every rumor, and in every savage dealing that his employers had done - the cruelties imposed on others for the sake of that task. He shut his eyes.

His hand reached around a bottle, and he brought it to his mouth. Liquid fire warmed his blood and rushed down his throat. With a brief hesitation, and a look up - he let an prayer pass his lips.

"Please. Tell me now if I am right."

"Please."

---

ITs-100, Ristankhar Intendancy, the Lirvittian Empire
15:30 Hours, The Present

"An operation of secret service, like a child, is always most vulnerable at its inception."

The officer spoke with an uncanny calm about her. The Imperial Service of Intelligence regarded it's manifold subjects as a scientist studies and catalogues the tiniest bacteria that endure their whole existences in a Petri dish, each conversation held with a distinct lack of passion or fervor for anything except service to an Imperial whim. There had been so much that they had surrendered in the interest of that service - names, faces, identities of their own beyond codenames and covers. It had always presented something of a black shadow, a formless thing that had known so well by their deeds.

"Like a child, a conspiracy must be given time to be nurtured, helped along, developed - and eventually, to come to fruition and provide rewards for itself. It must be guided, helped - and protected. The Marshites, evidently, would seek the destruction of this little cohort of rebels in eastern Ladero - and at such distance from the Empire itself, we cannot yet rely on the definitive support of the military in contesting such a military effort conducted by this force within a region that it inhabits. However, our involvement is not likely yet to be known - nor will it be known, so for the time being, this organization as it has presented itself is exactly as it should appear to be - a group of good humanitarians. Blockade, search, and attack of shipping, neutral or not - such are the tactics that our enemies will employ in seeking the vigorous destruction of their enemies."

The officer leaned back, her mask clinging closely to her face.
"They've overstepped. A counterinsurgency program has been conducted with exceptional force, chasing enemies imagined and real. A conventional war is being done, and it remains to be seen how even they will be considered in Ladero. Hostility is inevitable, and their intervention as it stands will bring in far more opposition than would have transpired should a simple intervention be sent. Moreso, it provides opportunities for entryway into the region. The door is opened, the pieces set - now all that we should require is an invitation. The operation is not yet mature, the task is not yet done nor has it even begun beyond the very foundations."

She paused, only a moment, and considered for a moment. The Ordenite ambassador should have been asleep at this hour, of course. Perhaps it was time for a visitation in the night.

[Istoloa]

GANCHAS; LADERO, CSA TERRITORY

"Teniente de Moura. Teniente Tenreiro. Subteniente Cruz. Capitan Brandão..." the list went on for some time. "All dead from Marshite air- and drone strikes.

Ganchas stared toward an endless unseen distance past the walls of the armored car he had called HQ for the past two days. Too many had died in recent days, and many more would sacrifice their lives in the days, weeks, and months to come.

The Marshites were doing more than just chipping away at the CSA's military strength. Their ships were also now blockading the Laderan coastline, making it much more difficult to reinforce Ganchas' army with mainland forces. On the bright side, supplies were still being delivered in large quantities, including plentiful anti-aircraft and anti-tank weapons. Still, the strategic situation was bleak. And to make matters worse, rumor on the grapevine was that Holy Marsh was even offering to directly intervene militarily. Ladero would surely accept if the conflict's conditions worsened significantly for it. For the "separatist" general, that meant that even if he did pull off a stunning victory, the foreign interventionists triggered into the war would surely serve him defeat.

"Brigadista," said Ganchas, "what of our counterattacks around Arcos Reias?"

The officer reviewed the notes he had taken while monitoring the radio chatter. Then he looked up and answered, "Excellent news from forces around Arcos Reias, general. The newly supplied anti-tank and anti-air weapons had come in great service. There are multiple reports of enemy patrols and probing forces being decimated, and several Laderan aircraft have been shot down in recent days. Our units have re-entered the city."

Ganchas raised an eyebrow at that. He had hoped to stymie the Laderan offensive and punish the enemy with heavy casualties in exchange for further withdrawals. Instead, his counterattacks were seemingly throwing what SIGINT unveiled as Legião III into utter disarray. It was a completely unexpected outcome, and a sudden pang shot through the general's stomach, given what the intelligence officers were saying about the Marshites.

But if he could not attain a decisive victory because of foreign politics, then what was he fighting for? It was this question that echoed in his brain as his XO read off the names of dead officers.

The situation in Istoloa was not good, the general gathered. If the regime was agitating for victories in Ladero, it was shoring itself up. Fremonero was getting old, and succession would be a heated affair. Ganchas rubbed his chin. Where did he stand in that? De Vega thought Ganchas his dog, but Ganchas was a slave to no man. And he was becoming popular back home, with the news cycle dominated by his 'great victory' over the 'prized fleet' of Ladero, the Esquadra do Oriente, and the quick consolidation of power over Camarzela. There was room for Ganchas in the title fight, especially if the general could transfer his seasoned army to the mainland. Of course, the Marshite blockade made such a scheme virtually impossible and undoubtedly suicidal.

For the time being, he settled his uneasiness by issuing orders to his XO, who relayed them over the radio. "Order our forces in Arcos Reias to clear it of the enemy and prepare its infrastructure for demolition. All administrative buildings, including government offices, police garrisons, energy stations, bridges, museums, and all public buildings rigged with booby traps and explosives. This must be done overnight. All units are commanded to withdraw from the city before sunrise tomorrow."

As his XO issued successive orders to individual commanders in the field, the general's mind wandered back to the problem of succession.



FREMONERO; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

The dictator stared impassively as a crowd of protestors with no head and no tail, just a thick body stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction of the grand boulevard. Perched upon a balcony facing the promenade from an outer wall of the palace, Fremonero felt contempt for all those people chanting against him. He thought them all cowards.

"Down with Fremonero! Bring democracy to Istoloa! Down with Fremonero! Bring democracy to Istoloa!"

His nurse brought the straw to his mouth, and the Marechalisimo took a sip. He looked up at her for a moment, as she looked without expression toward the throng below. "You are a commoner like them. Do you sympathize with their cause?"

She was silent for a moment. Then, "No, Your Excellency."

"Liar," he said. "Of course you do."

"End the wars! Bring our troops home! End the wars! Bring our troops home!"

The sound of trucks and treads coming to a halt could be heard, and a string of vehicles soon came into view. It bore the markings of IV Couraceiros, a mechanized infantry brigade posted outside the capital city. Soldiers formed a perimeter down the length of the protestors' marching column on both sides, shouting orders for the crowd to disperse through controlled passages through military lines.

Some of the protestors screamed and yelled back. The sound of shattering glass resounded.

Fremonero smiled.

A bullet cracked, the sound of the gunshot splitting through the cacophony of the tug-of-war between soldier and protestor. Then, there came shrill screams and more gunfire. The crowd stampeded as soldiers opened fire in a crescendo of salvoes that sent scores of citizens tumbling to the ground. Hundreds lay lifeless on the cobblestones and garden-bound walkways, hundreds more uttered stranged and desperate noises as they clutched at wounds or were otherwise mortified.

The Marechalisimo could feel the nurse's hand clench on his shoulder. "It will be over soon," he said.

Picking up the cellphone sitting on the table next to him, he made a call. After a moment, someone picked up, and Fremonero said, "Ceasefire."

The sound of gunfire came to a halt below as ceasefire orders were repeated down the line. A few shots here and there still rang out for a minute, but soon enough, an eerie silence befell the boulevard in front of the presidential palace. Thousands of people were still streaming through the streets that branched out from the grand boulevard, disappearing to return home or go somewhere, anywhere but from where they had come. Behind them, they left the bodies of the dead and the droves of wounded. The former were collected up. Of the latter, those in extreme condition were allowed to live their last breaths, but soon joined the other bodies. Those who survived their wounds, the lucky ones, were dumped at city hospitals for treatment.

But what mattered to Fremonero the most is that the chanting had stopped.



MAXIMO; SOUTHERN SUBURBS OF BARBARO, SOROFI

Thin drops of water splashed against their faces as the men of LV Assaltantes struck Laderan positions along a narrow sector south of Barbaro. They were supported by II Exploradores, a seasoned cavalry force that had honed its talent in the last war against Irat. Armored infantry from VI Korazniki, an Irati unit, assisted in the assault, as well. The moon still reflected the sun's light above, its silver face looming boldly in the cloudless night sky.

No artillery bombardment had awoken or prepared the defenders. The attack was a complete surprise. And the Laderans were thrown into disorder accordingly.

Heavy defending could not forestall the inevitable and, by the sun's rise, LV Assaltantes and II Exploradores had broken into the Laderan rear. Headed up the highway into the Sorofi capital, behind them VI Korazniki formed up to join in the exploitation.

Gundeiro Maximo was happy with the progress. His best military dress uniform was pressed and ready to wear whenever the southern Sorofi army confirmed the capital's seizure. Only then would he declare the establishment of a temporary military administration until the present crisis, the country's invasion by Ladero, had been resolved. What would happen after was left ambiguous. There would be elections eventually, of course. Elections were easy to rig.

In his way stood Ladero's Legião I, which was suddenly left reeling from the morning's offensive.

[Ladero]

Beautiful Vila Serrada, a quaint small town typical of eastern Ladero, was rocked this week by a series of targeted assassinations carried out by the Camarzela Separatist Army. Located approximately twenty kilometers east of the line typically considered the border between Ladero and its breakaway province, the town has largely remained unaffected by the war. That is, until this week.

In a series of raids, CSA militants have murdered at least 26 civilians who are accused of "collaborating with the oppressor." Meaning that they were alleged informants for the Laderan army, which has been continuing to build up its military response to the sudden insurgency.

In one such raid, on Tuesday morning, a column of four armored vehicles carved its path through Vila Serrada's central market. Several videos taken by CCTV and private citizens show a hectic crowd at the market, as it usually is, making way for large mine-resistance armored vehicles mounting heavy machine guns and cannons overhead. In one shot with sound, the vehicles are shown stopping. From the passenger's side of the lead vehicle, a soldier asks a woman for her name. She answers and is summarily executed, after which the column continues forward. Her name was Inês Duarte, mother of three small children. In three silent videos, the armored cars are seen stopping three more times, murdering three more victims.

Henrique Sousa, who locals say was having trouble make ends meet in the current climate, was executed by vehicle-bound CSA militants on Thursday afternoon. Neighbors say that masked men arrived and abducted Henrique. His body was later found in a nearby forest by a hunter.



FUSTER

Despite the admittedly unexpected setback of having his positions in western Camarzela rolled back, Fuster felt good. True, his losses had been quite heavy. A third of his men defending that ground were turned into casualties. An expensive setback, but one that would harden the survivors. He needed this force of policemen-turned-soldiers to become an aggressive, efficient, and effective fighting force if the Istoloan-backed separatist army was to be defeated.

Although fresh recruits were already replacing the bodies, and while many wounded were returned to their units quickly, the general was intent on counterattacking immediately. He could not let them get away with their nose-blooding without a rebuttal.

Informants who had been found, vetted, and placed on military payrolls were tapped into, even after Legião III's withdrawal. Their reports helped paint a very comprehensive picture of CSA positions and strengths. It was exploiting the weak points in this revealed system that Fuster's men intended to do as Ladero's third legion launched a ferocious offensive in the early afternoon, five days after they had been initially pushed out. Six so-called mechanized infantry battalions, which were outfitted with a hodge-podge of armored vehicles, composed the core of the assault group. The general had three more battalions in reserve, with four more in formation. These latter units would not be available for this battle. HUMINT data was passed to the Marshites in the days leading up to the offensive, thus helping to direct the Marshite air strike campaign. Fuster hoped this would help soften his targets up in anticipation of a rough gunfight, otherwise.

A cool breeze swept through northwestern Carmazela on the afternoon of the attack. The men were fed well before H-Hour and had been allowed to rest well the previous night. Fuster wanted them in the best shape for the coming fight, which could very well drag into the night and into the next day. The men were outfitted with some additional supplies for several days of fighting. Otherwise, Legião III's lines of communication would be necessarily precipitous, as Fuster didn't yet have the resources to completely secure supply routes in insurgent territory. The counterattack had to be intense, but it would be short.

Without artillery or aerial preparation, aside from the ongoing airstrikes, Fuster's men struck known CSA outposts, stronghouses, and bases north, south, and east of Arcos Reais. The city itself was occupied by four full battalions, two-thirds of his offensive forces. By the onset of evening, one of the battalions in reserve was thrown into combat to bolster capabilities outside the city.

Resistance was fierce, and it appeared the airstrikes, at least in the sectors relevant to this unfolding offensive, had been ineffective. Yet, the HUMINT was good enough to give Fuster's men a strong element of surprise. In Santa Marinha, a large town thirty-two kilometers down the road from Arcos Reais, IV Trilhadores radioed in that it had secured a camp held by more than 100 enemy fighters. About a third of them were dead, the rest were wounded or captured. In Arcos Reais itself, the intel was good enough to allow Legião III to predict and avoid ambushes. Instead, enemy combatants lying in wait were sprung upon from unexpected directions, eliminating otherwise dangerous forces that put Fuster's hold on the city at risk.

Fighting was more intense than the general had anticipated. He had hoped that the CSA had overextended itself in its previous attack. But the enemy held out tenaciously. Fuster found it quite admirable, as much as it irked him. They were also rather skillful at disappearing upon contact, denying his men clear victories more often than not. The CSA apparently was not interested in indefinitely holding its new possessions. Instead, it peeled back just out of the reach of Fuster's spearheading forces.

Still, despite the frustrations, by the next morning, Laderan forces in the east proudly reported the death or capture of more than three thousand enemy forces. Fuster had lost perhaps two-tenths of that, most of which were wounded and, of which, a subset would return to combat duties within days. The counterattack had been successful.

As the sun climbed back upwards into the sky, the city of Arcos Reais spread resplendent. Despite the fighting, the damage had been contained enough to allow the town to escape significantly unscathed.

To keep it that way and guarantee the central government's foothold in CSA territory, Fuster invited Marshite forces based further west to help him secure it. With the defense of liberated territory guaranteed, Fuster could then focus entirely on the offensive.



BAMBASO

Parliament had been in upheaval for the past week. Though the arrival of Marshite forces provided important security guarantees, the Laderan war effort was otherwise stalling. In the east, hastily organized forces were fighting a see-saw battle whose dramatic swings in territorial changes disguised stagnation. In the south, in Sorofi, what was meant to be a rapid stroll and coup was turning into a quagmire. It was this inability to quickly suppress Istoloan-backed anti-Laderan military movements that caused the passionate debate between parliamentary members in the Palácio do Horizonte.

Crowning the coastal heights, the parliamentary palace overlooked the bay with its massive, broad marble stairs flowing down toward the water. It was topped by a single regal bronze dome which shone beneath the sun's bright rays. A stunning colonnade made of imported purple and red marble separated the wide bronze doors from the stairs. Built in the aftermath of the Peace of Tiribao, the incredible Palácio do Horizonte was the nation's single greatest testament to its independence. Scenes of victory gave definition to the figures that decorated the pediment. It was flanked in the east by lavish public terraced gardens, beyond which were the Arquivo da República and the Tribunal Supremo. To the west was the Palácio do Sol, the historical residence of the Istoloan governor of Ladero, now turned home of the country's elected president. Behind it, and behind a layer of other public buildings, including museums and opulent monuments, was the Casa das Fontes. There, the prime minister resided. The entirety of this civic acropolis had been roiled by ongoing events.

Parliamentarians shouted and yelled over each other in turn. Some favored inviting the Marshites into the war. They could end it in weeks, it was said. But a large group, even those in principle in favor of a quick conclusion to the conflict, stood opposed to this measure. They were nervous that such a drastic action would not just invite Holy Marsh into potentialy vassalizing the Tarao area. After events in Fustera, Tupenga, and Samarasta, these fears were not farfetched.

Bambaso wanted something more...significant. Prime Minister Zé Bambaso wanted his countrymen to grow a spine, declare an emergency, and defeat Istoloa in an old-fashioned pound-for-pound war.

"Only by defeating Istoloa in a conventional war will we gain that country's everlasting respect, only then will we find long-lasting peace from the machinations of our neighbor," he bellowed to the parliament, standing on the dais. "Our defeats to date should not dishearten us from the war. A few battles will not determine the outcome of this conflict. We can win this and thereby secure the respect of the governments around us. And it's not just Istoloa that has loomed as a threat over our great nation. Mahdah grows to our north, already acting to topple governments in Barjaanistan and Potthan. Ladero must rise, and it must prove its mettle on the world stage. I can think of no better way of doing that than by delivering our old imperial masters in Loçelea a walloping."

"To accomplish that," the prime minister continued, "I call on this parliament to pass an emergency conscription bill allowing the Laderan military to mobilize quickly. With additional forces, we can rout the separatist army out of Camarzela and liberate our Tarao brethren, Irat and Sorofi. It is imperative that we do this now. We have allies willing to arm and support us. And we have the moral highground, giving our country a purpose, a dream, to fight for. The spectre of Istoloan oppression can be forever eliminated! What better prize to fight for!?"

Both cheers and concerned shouts followed. Not all agreed. There were many doves, some of them undoubtedly on Istoloan payroll. No matter, the prime minister already knew he had just enough support to push the bill through. By the following week, two new legions would already be on their way to being raised. It would take several more weeks for them to be fully equipped and manned, and some additional weeks before they were battle-ready. Soon, nevertheless, they'd be on the frontlines, while several additional legions would be forming behind them.

[Istoloa]

GANCHAS; LADERO, CSA TERRITORY

Ignoring the pair of Marshite fighter jets that screamed overhead, Ganchas peered at Arcos Reais through his sleek dark green binoculars. He observed from a hillside perch, occupied by him, an aide, and two guards. Thick foliage that sprawled down the hillside covered them so that they were very nearly invisible to the naked eye. A small vehicle waited for them at the bottom of the slope behind them, ready for his inevitable need to change positions.

Not yet, though. He lay completely still, except for his eyes. They watched as the Laderan army marched into the city.

Many hours passed, and Ganchas remained patient. Time flowed, yet he remained frozen as he continued to register the enemy's build-up.

The general curled his lips into a smile as he saw the number of Laderan men move in. Four battalions. That represented the majority of the enemy's strength on the field. Ganchas had expected a savory outcome, but not one quite as juicy as this. His heart panged ever more acutely as his victims multiplied, deploying across Arcos Reais without any suspicion of foul play in the CSA withdrawal. Yet, he remained cool, steady in his hidden position until the right moment. Explosions sounded in the distance as the Marshite planes found their targets. Something hissed, and a tail of smoke zig-zagged across the sky, following a surface-to-air missile closing in on one of the enemy fighters. Bright colors sprinkled against the heavens as the fighter released countermeasures, and after a few bouts, during which the missile missed, but turned to re-engage, then missed again, the jet survived unscathed. Ganchas paid it no mind, though. His focus was on the four battalions of enemy soldiers entering the city.

Nearer to him, Laderan artillery began peppering CSA positions in the countryside. Ganchas could not worry about that now, but he hoped that the enemy was just guessing at what to hit. He'd learn later that the enemy artillery had been quite effective, with zeroes on key ambush positions that the CSA had taken up on the roads leading into the Camarzela interior. The general intuited that the Laderans had good intelligence, but he did not know if it was fueled by informants, signal intel, or possibly Marshite satellite data.

In that moment, Ganchas could not be distracted. Behind him, the sun was setting, as the sky turned a beautiful orange and purple.

He and the three men with him slept there that night. When they woke, they waited some more.

Ganchas had a lot of time to think. He thought of his wife, Inês. Of his two sons, Rui and Vasco, and his daughter, Ana Luísa. Rui, the eldest, was also a soldier, deployed to Fustera under the command of Tenente-General Rosa. Stranded in Camarzela, Ganchas had heard almost nothing about the war, except for rumors of grave defeats against the creoloso insurgents. I cannot afford to worry about him now, he silently said to himself. He also continued to think about Fremonero and, more specifically, what would come after Fremonero. The old dictator would surely die soon or be deposed. Where was Ganchas' place post-Fremonero? Would it be as a war hero? Or as a villain? And what of his men? Would they be abandoned? Ganchas gritted his teeth.

By midday on the second day, the general had waited enough.

Through a satellite radio in his helmet, he ordered, "Command to all stations. Conditions are met. Execute the denial authorization. Acknowledge."

After a brief moment, someone replied, "Authority confirmed. Execution acknowledged."

A minute passed. Ganchas felt as if his heart had stopped and time had frozen. Another minute. What was taking so long? Another minute. Nothing. Was something wrong with the remote demolition equipment? Had the enemy discovered the ruse?

About to radio back, he was suddenly interrupted by a ripple of explosions that thundered across Arcos Reais. The city disappeared behind bursts of orange and red, shooting dark black columns of smoke and debris up to the clouds, like bloodstreaked mushrooms. A curtain of thick, dirty haze descended upon it, hiding the town behind it. More explosions followed, rhythmically churning the city from one side to the other and then back. Ganchas had had his men prepare almost every building for demolition as the hour of withdrawal approached. Now he was enjoying the fruits of his men's work.

High winds raised small fires into furnaces, as the flames swept Arcos Reais block by block. Sirens wailed, the winds carrying the noise all the way to him. It also carried deathly screams as people were blown apart or burned alive. Through his binoculars, he could see mostly only the devastation, but at times, he looked on as emergency and military vehicles darted through swirling walls of debris. Soon, helicopters arrived to help transport the wounded to hospitals further to the west. It was quite honestly astonishing the extent to which the Laderan government responded to the attack with such a sense of urgency, as civilian services and military medical units cooperated to deal with the wounded and injured. Many of these responders would fall victim to the secondary explosions that'd carry on into the next day.

Remaining in his position into the night, the general continued to observe the city as the dust from the demolitions slowly settled. It was impossible to know the damage he had done, but Ganchas was sure that he had exacted an incredible toll.

By the next morning, though, he was gone.

In front of his position, the city of Arcos Reais was in ruins. Smoke still rose in the form of a thousand narrow pillars scattered across the rubble. Residential neighborhoods were like islands of life surrounded by scarred ruins, but although residences had not been boobytrapped, they were often next to a police station, courthouse, checkpoint, energy substation, or any other myriad of public and infrastructural structures that were heavily rigged with explosives.

The bombings of Arcos Reais exacted a heavy toll on Ladero. But they would be remembered in infamy.



FREMONERO; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

Arcos Reais erupted in flames midday yesterday after bombs left in place by the Camarzela Separatist Army detonated, catching as many as three thousand Laderan soldiers unaware, as well as tens of thousands of civilians. Fortunately, civilian casualties remained relatively low as most of the explosives were concentrated around government, administrative, and security structures and outposts. Furthermore, most civilians have either been evacuated or have fled by this stage of the conflict. Although bodies are still being found and missing persons are still being searched for, estimates suggest up to two thousand civilian casualties, including at least four hundred dead. Though the Laderan government has not yet released military casualties, third-party estimates range between eight hundred and two thousand. More than seventy percent of casualties are said to be deaths, a particularly gruesome outcome to the latest trap the CSA has laid for government forces. Nevertheless, the Laderan army has successfully pushed CSA back deeper into Camarzela and has invited Marshite forces to occupy rear positions. It is expected that the CSA will refrain from attacking Marshite troops, as the Marshites would surely respond to any attack by directly intervening in the fighting.

The Marechalisimo turned off the screen. He had to hand it to General Ganchas; the man could pack quite a punch. Already, he had done incredible damage to the Laderan military, sinking much of its prized eastern fleet and now killing significant amounts of the army sent to subdue him. It was a shame that the old dictator would have to throw the CSA commander to the dogs. So it seemed, at least. Fremonero's options were dwindling as the Marshite intervention escalated.

Threats closer to home still haunted him. Fremonero's mind turned upon the De Vega Question. Was the field marshal loyal?

Many rumors made their rounds suggesting that the field marshal was not. They had picked up in the aftermath of the violent suppression of the demonstrations across Istoloan cities. Though he thought that the suppression would end the matter, the press had only grown bolder in attacking him. Someone was goading them, paying them to close the walls on the dictator. At this rate, surely a coup was only a decision away.

Chewing on a cigar, Fremonero considered his choices. He stared at the blank screen.

Finally, he yelled, "Woman! Bring me my phone and get de Vega on the line!"

His nurse came scuttling in, phone in hand. "Of course, Marechalisimo. At once, Marechalisimo. With pleasure, Marechalisimo." Her responses to his abuse were always the same. The poor girl had grown used to it.

The field marshal picked up and said, "Marechalisimo, at your service."

"De Vega," said Fremonero, "give your man Ganchas the Order of San Lorenz, for his bravery and cunning on the field of battle. Truly astonishing what that boy has accomplished. It's too bad we don't have him here at home, I would have already had him replace you." Silence from the other end. The old man bulldozed on. "Also, recall Rosa and II IEC back. I will have Foreign Affairs communicate our intention to end our combat aid mission in Fustera, as our men are needed to defend the homeland."

To that, the field marshal replied, "At your command."

"Good." Fremonero hung up the phone.

"Take this." He handed the cell back to the nurse. "Leave me be. I want dinner by five, do you understand?"

She nodded and answered, meekly, "With pleasure, Marechalisimo."

But the dictator's mind was already on other things, so he ignored her as she quietly left for another room. He was thinking about de Vega. If one commander's ego was getting too large for his position, then another commander had to be brought back to balance the scales. Unfortunately, Rosa's performance in Fustera had been thoroughly substandard, and his II IEC had been badly beaten several times in rebel attacks. Still, Fremonero needed him. So Rosa's battle record would be whitewashed. It was thanks to him that the Istoloan sector of the Fusteran battlefield had been secured in time for the handover of duties to Ordenite soldiers.

Of course, the Ordenites had practically all but annexed Fustera. It was a puppet of the central Greater Dienstadi superpower, and another part of the old Istoloan empire had been carved off by one of the great imperialists of the region's middle sector. Yet another bullet de Vega surely had ready to fire at the Marechalisimo; yet another reason to recall Rosa and his army.

[Stralkovia]

LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

Touching down in Loçelea early morning, a small group of military officials waited for Dimitr at the airport to greet him. "Mr. Volensk, welcome to Istoloa," said the one who appeared to be the highest-ranking. He introduced himself as General Gonçalo Duarte Almeida. They escorted him through the terminal, then out to a small secluded parking area, probably for VIPs. Vehicles were waiting for them and Dimitr followed Almeida into one of them.

"It's an honor to host a member of President Marković's cabinet," the general was saying. "Especially the economic minister. We look forward to doing business with your country."

"Likewise," said Dimitr, brusquely.

It seemed as if the general at first decided to hold his question back, but then he asked, "Is Mr. Sarenko ill?"

"No," replied Dmitr. "Because the interests of our two countries are for now strictly economic, the president thought it best for me to attend in Mr. Sarenko's stead."

"I see," murmured the general. They spoke of other matters during the drive.

That Mr. Sarenko, Nikola had been sidelined in the past days, was the truth. Nikola was a good man, but he stood in Dimitr's way. Dimitr wanted the foreign affairs ministry for himself. In a poor country like Stralkovia, foreign money was the key to everything. The face that foreigners put to Stralkovia controlled the ebb and flow of their money. Nikola did a fine job, but Dimitr had a different sort of ambition. Why should Milan be president? Why not Dimitir Volensk, CEO of the industrial giant Volnitsky Zavodi?

Driving through sprawling gardens of green, red, purple, orange, blue, and just about every other color under the sun, they entered an enormous palatial villa complex. Located inside the capital, it was well hidden by tall tenements and terraces in which the city's people lived, but when you saw it, you wondered how you had missed it. Combining romanticist, baroque, and neoclassical features, the palace was truly exquisite; nicer than the presidential mansion in Stralkovia, for sure. Dimitr's mind immediately trailed off into thoughts of a palace of his own he could build once he gained power. He knew that Istoloa paid for its opulence with the blood and sweat of its old colonies, but there was no reason why Stralkovia couldn't pay for similar tastes on the back of its industry.

A servant of creoloso descent opened his car door and bowed as they stepped out. The general paid the servant no mind. Dimitr dipped his head in gratitude, but the servant did not react at all. The Stralkovian followed the general into the palace, going through a small door in the side rather than up the main stairwell. Dmitr could see locals and tourists sitting on the stairs, taking photos of the public areas of the villa and the other surrounding historic buildings.

Inside, they made their way to a large conference room. Field Marshal Roque Cipriano de Vega was waiting for him. De Vega stood to take Dimitr's hand with a strong grip. The two said niceties to each other, and then all parties sat down around a large black table. Despite the elegance and elaborate beauty of the palace outside, the inside of this particular room was surprisingly minimalist. Hidden vents provided air conditioning silently, and recessed lights illuminated the room with light that was almost natural despite the total lack of windows.

"This room is bug-free," said de Vega.

"We are deep inside el Marechalisimo's palace. Why should we be concerned with bugs?" asked Dimitr.

De Vega shrugged. "You can never be too careful," he replied.

Servants entered through seamless panels along the walls that opened to reveal a kitchen next door. The panels closed again behind them. Dimitr could not tell that there were doors there at all. They brought water to the tables and poured each person present a glass, then left a pitcher nearby. The men waited for the servants to all leave before resuming the discussion. There is no trust between Istoloans, it seems, mused the Stralkovian.

"El Marechalisimo is excited for your visit, Mr. Volensk. He very much looks forward to a closer relationship with Stralkovia." He added, "And not just him, either. All of the military's leadership very much would like our talks today to succeed. Our two governments have common ground and no disputes."

"Indeed," replied Dimitr. "We Stralkovians are also very excited about strengthening our economic ties with Istoloa."

Taking a sip of water from his glass, de Vega studied Dimitr carefully. After a moment, the field marshal said, "How can Istoloa help Stralkovia?"

"We can help each other, Marechal," answered Dimitir. He unfurled his hand, revealing gold rings on three of his five fingers, to look at his palm, as if in thought. Then, he looked up and directly at his counterpart. "Stralkovia has recently agreed to build a natural gas pipeline to buy more natural gas from Czaslyudia. The pipeline will help us push down energy prices, which is hugely important to the welfare of our people. I also negotiated a deal with Mahdah to buy more of their crude oil, to that same end. In my short tenure in the government, I have already made great strides in resolving the energy crisis, fulfilling one of the core tenets of our party's Three E's economic policy. I have learned a lot along the way, including a better understanding of how the money is made in the energy industry." De Vega listened intently. The Stralkovian went on, "Istoloa also imports a significant share of its energy. It, like Stralkovia, has to spend money to buy oil and gas. But what if we could both buy oil and gas, and make money on it? I can do that for us. There is an opportunity to connect Mahdah, as well as Asadabad, and Istoloa with two pipelines. Those governments will earn huge profits from this deal. Especially because we will also pay for the rights to further distribute the natural gas to the Tarao countries and elsewhere south of your country. We buy the gas cheap, then sell it high. We make additional money from all the transactional fees along the way."

"How so?" asked the Istoloan field marshal. " What fees would be collected in this...scenario of yours?"

The Volnitsky Zavodi CEO smiled. "Your country is in dire straits. Though you hold the initiative in Sorofi, for now, the arrival of the Marshites in strength severely binds you. It also raises the stakes of your actions. It will be costly for Istoloa to fund and build the pipeline on its own. Banks won't want to loan to you, except at high prices. You're a risky bet, right now. The pipelines would also be at risk of damage from attack, and you may not be able to build them at all for the foreseeable future. But if you went through me, through Stralkovia, your risk can be laundered away. And the pipeline will not be at risk because it is the property of a foreign company headquartered in a neutral state. Of course, the Istoloan government will only at least thirty percent of the company's share."

"Only thirty?" questioned de Vega.

Dimitr eyed some of the other generals and officers in the room with them. De Vega, sensing the Stralkovian's point, motioned them to leave. Hesitating at first, at first the lesser-ranked men left first, and then the generals. Almeida left last, peering at the two negotiators suspiciously. What were they going to talk about that they didn't want others to hear? De Vega would debrief them all later, but would he tell it to the letter? Almeida was not naive.

"Fremonero is old," said Dimitr, when the panels silently closed behind the evacuating officers.

De Vega said nothing at first. His face betrayed no emotion. Then, finally, "Modern medicine can do wonders."

The Stralkovian bellowed a laugh. "There are some ways of dying that even modern medicine can't fix."

The field marshal's tone became terse. "What are you suggesting?"

"I was told that you are Fremonero's successor," said Dimitr. "Was I told wrong?"

It was de Vega who smiled then. He said nothing at first, reaching over to grab his glass and take another drink of water. Dimitr was treading dangerously seditious waters. Finally, the Istoloan replied, "You heard correctly. And know that as el Marechalisimo's successor, I hold the utmost loyalty to him and the Istoloan state. Everything I do is for the glory of Fremonero and Istoloa. But el Marechalisimo will not live forever, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately," repeated the Stralkovian. "Because of that reality, I offer you twenty percent of the shares."

The field marshal pondered the offer. "I suppose another twenty goes to you and thirty to Stralkovia?"

"Precisely," answered Dimitr. "Of course, all of this would be de facto. De jure, the shares will be owned by four separate investment firms. De jure, there is no public involvement in the project; it is completely private."

"Which firms?" asked de Vega.

The Stralkovian shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We'll make them up when the time comes. They are just shells of shell companies, through which we will move the money to the four parties. The organization overseeing the construction, management, and access to the pipelines will be the Tarao Gas Company. Neither government owns sufficient shares to make unilateral decisions. Us two can swing decisions by combining our votes, if necessary. Our countries benefit, the people benefit, and we benefit."

"And you're just in it for the money?" wondered de Vega.

Dimitr shook his head. "There are elections in three years."

"So you need the money to campaign?"

Dimitr shrugged again. "In my country, we know the outcome of the elections before people vote. Wheels need to be greased in preparation."

"Fremonero will need to approve the deal," said de Vega. Dimitr, of course, did not know about the field marshal's recent run-ins with el Marechalisimo. De Vega's status as number two was at risk. But the subtleties of Istoloan politics were not known to the Stralkovian. De Vega said, simply, "Anything that requires the government of Istoloa to spend money needs his sign-off."

The Stralkovian looked at Almeida intently. "You are the judge of the time available to you."

"I will let you know of our government's decision within seven days." De Vega stared back, confidently.

The Istoloan did something to alert the others to return to the room. Soon, the officers who had left them to themselves returned, taking their seats. De Vega said, "Mr. Volensk wanted to discuss the terms of the pipeline deal discretely, although in my opinion, for no reason. Mr. Volensk has made me aware of certain...gaps in the Stralkovian economy, and he was hesitant to share that information with anybody who might let the knowledge slip from their tongues. I have reassured him that we are all to trust. That being said, Mr. Volensk has communicated to me the details of his offer, and I will be taking it directly to el Marechalisimo. As our main business has concluded, we can adjourn this meeting. Mr. Volensk," he finished, reaching out to shake Dimitr's hand, "it was a pleasure. Have a pleasant flight back home."

[Ladero]

BAMBASO

The massacre of Arcos Reais sent shockwaves through Laderan society and the political establishment. The people were angry. Their anger was directed at Zé Bambaso and the government, whom they recognized as having failed to defend the Laderan homeland. In turn, the government was in a state of chaos, with fracture lines forming between the parties in Zé's coalition and more widely, even within the parties themselves. As the prime minister learned through his advisors, a growing discussion on his future was being held. Members of parliament, following the same political trend, split into those who supported long-term stability in power and those who demanded Barbaso's head.

"They are going to hold a vote of no confidence," said Henrique Valente, Zé long-time chief of staff. They were all sitting in the prime minister's principal working office in the parliament building.

"I should survive," said the prime minister, confidently.

Valente shook his head. "Not this time. A lot of your allies seem to see the writing on the wall."

Another advisor, Martin Cunha, followed with, "Some believe you should resign before the vote is held, so they cannot say that you were ousted by force."

Zé scoffed, but said nothing for quite some time. The prime minister thought to himself for some time. The two men looked at each other gravely. Of course, their political futures were tied to Zé's, and the mounting pressure to use him as a scapegoat also affected them. If the Bambaso government fell to a vote of no confidence, then Zé's career would probably be forever dead. And who would hire advisors who had led a man to his political death?

Still, the prime minister looked defiantly and said, "I will do no such thing."

"But, Prime Minister," stammered Cunha. "The numbers at vote are against you."

Zé turned to the advisor and, sternly, replied, "I will not resign. You would have me branded a coward to save your hide! Do you have so little faith in me?"

"Sir," said Valente, attempting to put himself between the prime minister and his colleague, "It's not you who's a coward, but the MPs of your own party. The party seeks to save its image by tossing you out. They hope to retain the largest share of the votes in the inevitable elections that will follow your ousting. Martin is fundamentally correct; the odds are against you. But we believe that if you resign and lay low for just a little bit of time, you can make a comeback.

"A little bit of time turns into a retirement very quickly, once no one has an incentive to help drag me out," muttered Zé. He saw their point, though. He just didn't like it. But what could he do? The obvious answer may have been to use Tenente-General Pedro Fuster as the scapegoat. Legião III's commander was the one ultimately responsible for the dead and wounded at Arcos Reais. But Zé knew that bringing Pedro down was not enough, though he would do so anyway. Legião III's defeat was not the only one of Zé's government. Not only had the "rebellion" started under his stewardship, but much of Ladero's highly esteemed Esquadra do Oriente had also been sunk since the conflict began. Furthermore, his bold offensive in Sorofi was stagnating, and there was widespread anxiety spreading throughout the Laderan capital that forces under de facto Istoloan control would soon come up against their southern border. The general situation was not very poor and the blame lay squarely at Zé's feet. Still, he had no intention of resigning. With the Marshites now helping to secure the rear, Laderan forces were making steady headway into Camarzela. The province would inevitably be liberated, and Zé could not bear to hand that victory to someone else.

"So what do we do?" asked the chief of staff.

Smiling, Zé answered, "Get me on the phone with Arton Nogueira."



A vote of no confidence was held by the Côrtes Gerais de Ladero. The first vote, held by the Assembleia Popular, ended with sixty-four percent in favor of new elections. Having found success in the lower chamber, the vote went to the Conselho Superior da República. There, Zé lost with a vote of sixty-eight percent against him. Most of his party remained loyal, but those votes required significant defections. The prime minister's advisors were right. Of course, Zé had known that.

He, per expectation, was now ousted.

The Bambaso government fell with a whimper. Elections were organized for the following month.

Contrary to expectations, though, Zé was not totally purged from the party. President Nogueira had intervened at the midnight hour to save Zé by helping Paolo Sequeira gain the party leader position within União Conservadora Popular (UCP). Paolo was a long-time ally of Zé and allowed the disgraced prime minister to remain an active party member. Nevertheless, though the window for a political return was not completely closed to him, Zé was quietly refrigerated for the time being. Depressed, he left the capital for the coastal city of Alféon, for a long "vacation."

Zé had, of course, stripped Pedro Fuster of his command in Camarzela. But after the vote the general appealed the decision, arguing that his lack of care in the Arcos Reais situation was the product of unrealistic expectations and pressures placed upon him by the "desperate" Bambaso government. In favor of stability in command of the fresh forces that composed Legião III, it was decided to reinstate Fuster as its commanding officer.

One commander who did not survive, though, was General-Tenente Iago Lancastre. Commanding Legião II, in Sorofi, Lancastre's offensive down the coastal highways had stalled about level with Legião I's position. Legião I was stuck in a stalemate over Barbaro's southern suburbs, and Lancastre had failed to break out on the wing to threaten the enemy's rear. Thus Lancastre was replaced with General-Tenente Gil Fonseca.

With this spectacular and sudden change of fates throughout Laderan military and political institutions, the country hoped for a bit of luck to start turning the tide against mounting Istoloan pressure.