The Island Puppets (CLOSED, GD only)

[Lamoni]

The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and do good service for his sovereign, is the jewel of the kingdom.

- Sun Tzu

***

Lamonian Presidential Palace

With the eyes of everyone in Greater Dienstad turned toward the coming fight in the area between Greal, Wanderjar, and Intelligent Neighbors... THIS was seen as the time to strike. The Lamonian political and military leadership had sensed a showdown coming with Mussleburgh for some time now. With rumors that Mussleburgh was a client of Doomingsland spreading, the fires of a quiet rivalry had sprung up in the minds of those who were paid to safeguard the nation. The fact that no one knew how accurate that those rumors were, did not stop them from making plans, and determining how best to defend Lamoni, and it's interests, from the Doomi alligned horde of brainwashed religious nuts.

So it was, that President Stinson was gathered with the Lamonian National Security Council, looking at a map of the island of Serif. The southern half of the island was colored green, while the northern half was colored yellow. If potentially hostile off-island troops had been sighted on that half of the island, it would have been colored red, indicative of a threat.

"Mr. President," this was the Lamonian Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff speaking, "Our first overflights of Serif have not uncovered hostile troops as yet, but we feel it likely that Mussleburgh, and possibly other nations, will be watching what we do with interest. Our overflights have been presented to the media as being humanitarian flights, specifically, to gain a picture of what humanitarian aid is needed on the ground by the native peoples in Southern Setif. When our troops land, it will be reported in the media as a humanitarian mission. While Lamonian and foreign media will be driven around, and shown our forces helping the natives, our more secretive activities will be able to proceed unhindered."

The head of the Lamonian Air Force chose this moment to but in. "The goodwill that our forces will build with the natives should be quite useful, should there be conflict. Publicly, we will be there to build, not to destroy. Intelligence suggests that Mussleburgh will not interfere in a nation building mission, but we will be keeping a watchful eye, all the same. In the meantime, i'd suggest letting the Lyrans know what we'll be doing. They'll not be a security risk, especially if we share our suspicions of Doomani influence taking root in Mussleburgh."

***

Meeting with Lyran Executive Command - Later

This was not the first time that Ambassador Raymond Osbourne had had a meeting with the full Lyran Executive Command, but these meetings had always made him slightly nervous. As the Lamonian ambassador to the only purely military state in Greater Dienstad, he had heard other diplomatic personnel say the same thing. As the ambassador approached the meeting room table used by the Executive Command, he saw faces that he knew. The easel that the ambassador was carrying had had to be passed through Lyran Security, and it was only when the Lyrans had been convinced that it was nothing more than wood products and ink, did they allow the equipment through.

There was Field Marshall Wallins, head of the Lyran Diplomatic Command. In his fifties, Wallins was graying, and was well liked, in the Lamonian diplomatic community. To the ambassador himself, it seemed like Wallins could be his grandfather. This was both a boon and a bane. If one did not watch themselves, they could easily find themselves telling this man more than they would wish to. Fortunately, the instructions passed down from President Stinson himself, stated that the ambassador was to be as honest as possible in this meeting, which experience had shown was the best way to discuss anything at all with Lyrans.

The next face that the ambassador saw, belonged to High Marshal Cassandra Atherton. Atherton was the head of Lyran Maritime Forces, and was seated next to the Commander of the Lyran Aerospace Forces, High Marshal Walter Gideonschild. Gideonschild was tall, lean, and craggy, which seemed to suit him well, in his present position. Knowing something about the Enforcer/Guardian split in Lyras, one had to wonder what side that these people were on. Knowing Lyrans, a hypothetical Enforcer/Guardian schism would likely make the Republican/Democrat split in America look like two children arguing, because one got candy, and the other did not. This was only the thoughts of the ambassador himself, but he would be surprised if he was far wrong.

The last of the Field Marshalls to enter the room was Senior Marshal Karl von Helmgart, the Director of Lyran Intelligence. Of the truth that the ambassador had come to tell these men, it was likely that von Helmgart would be either the easiest, or the toughest, sell on the information. EVERYONE payed their respects when Warmarshall Krell entered the room. The ambassador didn't know how the man did it, but the Warmarshall always seemed to be the last man to attend any meeting of the Lyran Executive Command that he'd been a part of. Even at Krell's age, he still possessed a sharp mind, which one needed to have, when one was essentially running a military, which is what Lyras resembled, more than a nation state.

When everyone was seated, Ambassador Osbourne waited for Warmarshall Krell to start the meeting.

[Lyras]

Warmarshal Krell's voice was gravelly and sombre, but not entirely without warmth. Or the faint chesty rumble that suggested that breathing wasn't entirely clear.

'Ambassador Osbourne, it is always, bar none, a pleasure to have contact with you, or indeed anyone from the Free Republic. You always conduct yourselves with honour, and that, if I may be so bold, is refreshing in these times.'

He moved around to his chair, at the head of the oval-shaped dark wooden table, and sat down.

'So tell us, Mr Osbourne. What can we do for you? How can we be of service?'

[Lamoni]

"Certainly, Warmarshall. If you would please direct your attention to the easel here, we can get started." The Ambassador made a snapping motion with his right wrist, and the cloth that covered the easel came off. The ambassador set the cloth on the table, and began.

"As you can see, this is Serif. This island is strategically south of the nation of Mussleburgh. As of late, Lamoni has had unconfirmed reports of Doomani influence at work in Mussleburgh. If the reports are true, then this could represent a worrying attempt for an extra-regional nation to gain a further foothold in the active affairs of Greater Dienstad. The fact that Mussleburgh has chilled their relations with the Free Republic to almost a cold war, is a worrying trend, especially if coupled with Doomani influence on the part of Mussleburgh.

Our forces are currently preparing for humanitarian missions in the southern half of Serif. While these quite legitimate humanitarian operations are being conducted, we would like to ask for a small Lyran detachment, no more than a platoon, to scout Northern Serif, and look for signs of influence by the Mussleburghian government or military. Also, if possible, we would like the platoon to be alert for signs of Doomani influence. The platoon in question would be wearing Lamonian uniforms, and would be paid their normal salaries by Lamoni. They'd have Lamonian rations, and for all intents and purposes, would look like Lamonian soldiers. Where possible, the platoon should also help the natives on Serif, assuming that it does not overtly distract from their main mission.

We will also allow Lyran forces to assist Lamonian forces in attempting to establish a viable state in Southern Serif. We would like to be able to assist everyone on that may live on that island, but we can only support half of the island at the present time. However, we estimate that Mussleburgh will see a golden opportunity to upstage us, and might conduct their own "humanitarian" mission on the northern half of Setif. With Mussleburgh being run by the Mussleburghian Church, this is not the good thing that it sounds like it would be. We do know that the Church of Mussleburgh acts more like the Doomani Catholic Church; and that is not something that sits well with us.

As you have probably figured out for yourselves by now, Southern Setif would also be a very strategic location for Lamonian and allied forces to use should war ever be declared against Mussleburgh. We plan to open up all Lamonian military bases established on Southern Serif for use by Bredubar Covenant forces. Our number of bases on the island will be limited until we can the trust and permission of the natives, as always."

Our own forces will be either watching the northern-southern Serif line, or helping with the humanitarian mission. If it comes to a fight, we would like to know as soon as possible, what we are up against."

[Mussleburgh]

Lovad vare herren, min klippa, som tränar mina händer för krig, och mina fingrar för strid.- Псалом 144:1

---

Bulawayo was a stinking city. The oppressive heat drove the smells up from the gutter and left a foul, sweet taste in your mouth. The rains had started and the humidity in the air told of a on coming storm that would drive the people in front of it. Like Noah's flood the land would be cleaned and baptised. At least for a day. And then the cleanliness would be forgotten, smeared over by the smell of the shit in the streets and corruption in government.

Mursal Vottënbeck was a black.

As a child he had been picked up in a refugee boat attempting to enter Muss waters. Normally the boat would have been blown right out of the water and Mursal's soul with it, but this time the Cleric aboard the destroyer had decided to search the boat first. They found Mursal covered in flea bitten, savage rags and the Cleric had made a personal plea to his superiors. He had seen the light of gods wisdom in Mursal's face and it touched him. He was not to let Mursal be thrown over board. He saved Mursal, but it cost him his job. Mursal had grown up poor, bullied, alienated and lonely but he had grown up Muss. Unlike the undesirable races he was clean in the eyes of god and was worth the effort to save. He had joined the ranks of the Inquisitor school at the age of 10. He had been educated to never let Mussleburgh down, it was his adopted home country and the only thing he loved more than Muss was the almighty himself.

There was no Muss military attachment in Sud Sèrif. There was undoubtedly a Lamonian one however and Muss citizens always had to on their guard. The Lams called the Muss people Doomani. They were uneducated, republican scum. There were rumours that the Lamonians were moving in on Sèrif. They wanted a glorified missile base so they could fry the Muss without any of gods retribution reaching them. The idea made Mursal's blood boil.

He had written to the Pope about the matter when acting as security for some Muss nuclear physicists on a academic trip to the north. As one of the popes favourites, and being one of only 200,000 blacks in Mussleburgh, he was sent to the Southern state to stop the Lamoni's succeeding in their work. Currently he was on route to the shipping container where the Lamoni had been caught. The man had been found in one of the many bars in the city. A prostitute had told Mursal that he was flying planes over the Northern airspace. As a national of a friendly nation to the North Mursal would be obliged to hand over any intelligence he may gain to the North. But not until he'd had a few words with Sam Taylor.

The shipping container was kept separate from the rest in the work yard. It was cool, for the contents were often live and it would be foolish to spoil the meat. Mursal was not in his uniform, the black suit marked him too distinctly. Instead he was in a black shirt with white chinos. He had a one of the bleck scum open it for him. He steped inside. The air was cool and moist, the smell of unwashed body's and blood long dried lingered. As if trying to infect the nostrils and brain with the dark futures they bode. He was in the corner. Trusted up like a animal. He was blindfolded and there was a little blood on the floor where the knots had rubbed away the flesh as the man squirmed. A chair was brought so Mursal could sit. It was a flimsy plastic thing. Supposed to be white but, as in such a city as Bulawayo it had been dyed the same colour as everything else by the smog. A dirty, sickly yellow.

The man's ties were loosened. He was proped up against the side of the container, the noises echoing as the man's back hit the metal. The light was dim and Mursal needed to see Sam's face.

Slowly Mursal reached out a hand and pulled at the knot that held a piece of cloth over the man's eyes. The Lamonian winced. As if expecting a ringing blown, but instead the cloth slipped away. Sam slowly opened his eyes and looked into the face before him. There was silence for a while. A terrible silence that only the mad can truly gasp as the men read each other. Mursal spoke first:.

“Do you believe in god Taylor?”
Another small pause followed as Taylor digested this.
“I am a commercial pilot and a Lamoni citizen” He finally said,”I have no right to be here.”
“I am a angel. I have gods fury in my hands and he has given me a charmed life. I hear him in my head. He whispers such beautiful words to me Sam. He tells me he loves me. I can save you Sam, I can really save you but you must repent and tell me your sins. You must tell me what you have been doing flying missions for the Lamonian government.”
“I am a Lamo...”
The fist came hard and fast. It caught Sam in the nose and sent a screech of pain up his body. A second later another on came to his ear making his head ring. He couldn't hear or see the pain was blinding. Numbing. He waited for the ringing to stop. He seemed to be on the floor, having slid down where Mursal hit him. Again Mursal spoke,
“There can be salvation if only you repent.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Then Mursal took out the knife. It went long into the night. Around four Sam Taylor saw the light of god and Mursal heard the words he needed to hear.

Institutionen för underrättelse och Inkvisitionen, Burgh, Röramark

Father Octavian was a bishop, second class. He'd served in wars, like real men, before he was deemed vauble to the Church and put behind a desk. Now he had to decide the fate of the country. In front of him was the evidence, not only a full report from Mursal Vottënbeck a favourite of the Pope, a fanatical man who could be trusted to protect Muss with all he held dear, but also photos taken by Nord Sèri troops. The Lamonians were trying to invade Sèrif. If they held Sèrif, they would use it to undermine, subvert and invade Mussleburgh. It could not be allowed.

“We must take action on the Lamonians. They can not be allowed to hold land so close to ours and within our sphere of influence. Sèrif is cuatrally and historically Muss land.”
“Agreed we must take action”This was Father Gypen, admiral of the Southern naval sector.”But to what extent, do we want to provoke the situation?”
“We do not want to start a war, but if the Lamonians make in roads we must stop them. We cannot allow such a insult to our pride.”
“If there is any move by the Lamonians other then there usual bribery of the blecks in the South then we must view this as a immediate threat to Nord Sèrif and respond accordingly.”
“Do we all agree?”

There was a a hail of ayes from around the table. This group would soon be making the decisions that affected the lives of billions.

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Word Count: 1271

[Lamoni]

The art of war is of vital importance to the State. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.

- Sun Tzu, the Art of War

***

Lyran Executive Command

The ambassador went on detailing the reasons why the Lyrans should get involved in the Serif "problem." Eventually, he came to the point of the pilot who had seemingly fallen off of the face of the Earth. "One of our pilots, name of Sam Taylor, has also gone missing in South Serif. While we would not put it past the Muss to have kidnapped and/or killed him, we lack proof. Therefore, we are going to place security forces on South Serif, with the stated objective of protecting our personnel."

South Serif

The humanitarian efforts had already begun in South Serif. Eight man Lamonian Berserker teams were landed in South Serif via the same aircraft that had been doing the aerial overflights originally. Now that the basic needs were identified, local leaders were contacted, and ideas for projects were being written up, so that they could be completed. The Lamonian economy had been growing, and this humanitarian mission was projected to give the economy another upward boost. This area of Greater Dienstad had been neglected for too long, and now it was time to bring these people a better standard of living. They might or might not be able to get a unified government working in South Serif, but the least that the Lamonians could do would be to give these people what all men deserved. Food, clean water, functioning health care, and an education.

The fact that these eight man teams were from the Lamonian Special Forces Berserker Battalion, and were armed with LAAR-5 assault rifles, Sh04 SMGs, Sh88 Pistols, as well as ARGES 84-P2A1 Anti-Personnel grenades, didn't matter to their mission. Their ROE were to shoot only to defend themselves, and to help the natives however they could. There were fifty 8 man groups, for a total of four hundred Berserkers. The Berserker Battalion was the oldest Special Forces formation in the Lamonian military. These were the men who would go where no-one else would dare, do the things that never made the history books, and like the Berserkers of Norse legend, they were rumored to fight with reckless abandon, and disregard to even their own life. Whether they fought with such unmatched rage and fighting spirit was open to debate... unless you had seen them in action. It was publicly known that the Berserkers had never once retreated from a fight, even when ordered to do so. They simply called it a "tactical withdrawal." Use of the word "retreat" by someone of the unit (in reference to the unit itself), was grounds for being ejected from the unit. The Berserker Battalion regularly trained with military personnel from allied nations, acquitting themselves well. Needless to say, these were not men that one would wish to meet in some dark alley at night.

When the trust between the Lamonian Berserkers, and the locals had been assured, more Lamonian troops could move in, and begin bigger humanitarian projects. To say that this was a response to the missing pilot, would not be correct. This had been planned, and the plan had just moved to the next stage. The family of the missing pilot had been notified, but there had still been no word on the location of the missing pilot, or his body. In any event, the meetings between the Lamonian troops, and the local population were partially smoothed over by the fact that the Berserkers had been given LY83 "Fox" Light Multirole 4 x 4 Utility Vehicles, with which they could carry plenty of Lamonian Military Ration, Standard (LMR) packs. The troops distributed these packs to the local families, the wide variety of foods contained therein allowing them to observe any dietary restrictions that they might come across. They had also not forgotten to include candies for the children, bringing plenty of soft Butterscotch, Vanilla, and Chocolate candy for the purpose.

In the meantime, a list of embedded reporters was being drawn up, in order to give live regional coverage of the Lamonian humanitarian effort. Even if the Muss objected, they would not be able to stop the Lamonians from helping the natives.

[Morrdh]

Southern Serif

As the Avro York transport plane touched down, Squadron Leader Arthur Wilson gathered his things as the plane taxied to a halt. He had a briefing with the local Morridane Intelligence Operative before a meeting with the local Lamonian commander. The government had deemed that the Unified Commonwealth needed to expand its influence in the East, an outpost to supplement the airbases that already existed in Greal and Lamoni was viewed as the best option to do so. With a hasty briefing and shoved onto the first available transport, Artie (as he was more commonly known) was sent north from RMAF Westernburg in Lamoni to liaison with the Lamonian forces already on the ground in Serif.

[Lamoni]

"If, however, there is to be a war of nerves, let us make sure our nerves are strong and are fortified by the deepest convictions of our hearts."

-Winston Churchill

***

Southern Serif Governmental Chambers

The Souther Serif Council of Chieftains was unusually busy, for a ceremonial governing body. With the arrival of the Lamonian troops on Serif, it seemed like the Council was becoming less ceremonial, and more like an actual government. The council was made up of the most important chiefs present on the southern half of the island of Serif. Today however, the council would be meeting someone from another land. They would be meeting the Commander Allied Forces Southern Serif (CAFSS); who happened to be a Lamonian Brigadier General.

For her part, Brigadier General Annita Kali was presently in one of the chairs of the waiting room, just outside of the chamber. This was Kali's first experience as the commanding officer of an entire theater of operations, but she would carry out the tasks assigned to her. It was known that the five members of the council had not taken well to the deployment of armed Lamonian troops on their half of the island, but Kali believed that they would be even less pleased if the Doomani-toady Muss were to expand their rule in this direction. It was as simple as that, and infinitely more complex, at the same time.

For example, Kali had to turn this so-called ceremonial council, into an effective governmental unit, if there was to be any hope of repelling any potential moves by the Muss into the southern half of the island. Yes, there were plans to turn the whole southern half of the island into a Lamonian colony, if need be, but the Lamonian government would much prefer to have the co-operation of the locals, before having to resort to force.

After being summoned into the council chambers, Kali looked competent and professional, in her Lamonian Desert Uniform, or LDU. The local security force had confiscated her sidearm for the duration of her meeting with the council, and they looked sharp enough, for a security force armed with AK-74M assault rifles and attached GP-30 40mm grenade launchers. Her own troops would overwhelm the security force, in a fight, but she hoped that it would not come to that.

Just a few steps, and she was through the double oak doors that were being held open for her. As a sign of respect, Kali snapped off a crisp salute to the council, and sat down only when one of the Chieftains motioned for her to do so. It turned out that Chieftain Morinth would be the first one to speak.

"Brigadier General Kali, we thank you for coming here today. We have several important matters to discuss, so let us get started. The first thing that we would like to know is, why has your government landed troops on our half of the island, without so much as the slightest request for approval, on our part? The only reason that our forces have not attacked you so far, is that we requested this meeting. We do not take well to this sort of thing, General."

***

OOC:

LDU Jacket: http://i131.photobucket.com/albums/p281/matt518672/danish_army_desert_issue.jpg

AK-74M : http://world.guns.ru/assault/as02-e.htm

[Mussleburgh]

Herren Gud, deras förfäder sände upprepade gånger sin profeter för att varna dem, ty han hade medlidande med hans folk och hans tempel. Men folket hånade dessa Guds budbärare och föraktade deras ord. De hånade profeterna tills Herrens vrede kunde inte längre hållas tillbaka och det fanns ingen bot. Men Herren förde konung RÖramark mot dem.- (2 Паралипоменон 36:15-21 NLT)

---
One single lamp lit the room powered from a generator in the basement of the house. It gave out a soft warm glow that twinkled, like fire light mixing with the fading yellow of the walls.

The room, despite being luxurious compared to how most Seri's lived, was rather bare. A wooden cot with course white sheets, a wicker chair, a small hand made table, rough in its design. On the table was a pen, to sheets of crisp white paper, a red telephone and a small plastic fan creating a breeze which shifted over the room, threatening to throw the paper to the floor. In the cot Mursal Vottënbeck lay. His hands behind his head. He was waiting for a call. Time passed. Hours and minutes melded and formed merely time immeasurable in its length. Mursal daydreamed, it was hot outside but the room was cool. It was easy to sleep.

Finally the paper fell to the floor. Mursal woke with a start. He looked around, confused, as if he had in his dreams escaped from his post. He had seen a red sky with no sound but one. His breathing. Heavy and slow above a impossible landscape of colour. The phone rang. Sharp, uncompromising and unexpected. It made no time for reflection and required Mursal's attention. He pulled himself from his semi-slumbering state and answered it. When the line was secure the voice spoke in the mother tongue.

“Vottënbeck.”
The voice was unfamiliar.
“Speaking.”
“This is Bishop Skalag.”
Mursal had heard of Skalag. There was something wrong with the man they said. He had been born broken. No love. No soul. He did not feel. He served and acted, deploring those who didn't. If his chest had been a cannon, he would have shot his heart upon the world.
“As you know no doubt South Serif is increasingly a irksome problem. The Lamonians cannot be allowed to dominate affairs in the country as we do in the North. The Church has seen fit to send a detachment of fifty to one hundred Clerics to the capital. Some will be engaged in more pedestrian tasks of helping the Seri's build a sewer system and making donations into the government ministers bank accounts but twenty to fifty will be the security escort in place should the South Seri government or our clerics need any assistance. I will be leading these men and I will require you to be present and offer us your expertise and intelligence. You will be supplied with underlings should you need them. A compound has been bought in the centre of the city, I will be flying out in 72 minutes and once I have briefed you I require you to sit in on a meeting between the Lamonians and the Seri government tomorrow. They should have been notified as of your presence.”
There was a pause as Skalag licked his lips.
“I am to make it known to you that you have received a new title Vottënbeck. You are to be raised to the level of Inquisitor Second Class. This makes us equals, I hope you shall find working with me pleasing. I have heard only good things of yourself. Until we speak again.”
There was a click. Mursal had a lot to do. He was to be a busy, busy man.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The testosterone could be smelt in the air, it was thick with it. Sweat dripped and oozed out of every pore. A fan was brought and the talking started. The Bumra Bois of Bulawayo were the real power of the country. Without them nothing could be done. They ran the taxi's and buses, the prostitution, the drug trade. Even the fast food stalls, musicians and trade unions were owned by the Bumra Bois. If it was on the streets it was theirs and it was taxed. They had power. They had guns. They were not happy.

The white man had come. Just like in the past and he was trying to take away the power the Bumra boys had. The Lambs (Lamonians) were trying to put the council of ragmen in their place. They were trying to break the back of the people and the Bumra Bois were not happy. There would be trouble.

Word was out on the street. A white man's skin was worth coin. The youths who had nothing better to do hunted for the white flesh.

------------------------------------------------------

Before the general could answer there was a crisp, sharp knock at the oak door. A gap opened and a small women, a sectary stuck her shoulders and head through.

“Inquisitor Vottënbeck is here sir. Would you like me to show him in?”

Outside in a uniform so black it soaked up the light stood Mursal. He had a present for the Lamonian, it consisted of a smile. A smile so smug as to make the blood boil for Mussleburgh had put a check in the plans. There would be no Lamonian domination of Serif and even if they tried, rebuking Muss's helping hand, then Mussleburgh would be within its right to launch a insurgency. The Lamonians would accept Muss help or they would bleed.

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Word count: 961
OOC. Hope thats OK. I have one hell of a hangover so if its not or I've been a arse with something let me know and I'll change it.

[Morrdh]

After clearing what stood for customs and airport security, Artie sought out the nearest Lamonian looking transport he could find and presented his papers to the driver. "RMAF Squadron Leader Wilson, I'm here as the Morridane liaison to Brigadier General Kali."

As the soldiers checked his papers and gave him a lingering glance over, noting the insignia on his blue RMAF uniform Artie thought to himself. Good god, what have I let myself in for?