Cordon Sanitaire (Semi-Open)

[Malkyer]

Cordon Sanitaire
The following is an account of the 114th Colonial Service Regiment, “Jarnsveld’s Jagers,” in their campaign against insurrectionists in one of the far-flung provinces of the Empire.

Tarbes, Bellecôte Province
21 February 2010
15C/60F
1400H

François Duvalier sipped his coffee slowly, careful not to let the hot liquid burn his tongue; such would ruin the taste of the food he had just ordered, and that simply would not do. Duvalier was a citizen of Tarbes, in the northern Bellecôte Province, about fifty kilometers south of the Bichon Mountains. Like the slim majority of the province’s inhabitants, Duvalier was a French Catholic, and proud of his heritage. Also like many of his compatriots, Duvalier saw himself as an individual, and Bellecôte as a province, as being far more cultured than much of the rest of the Commonwealth. The art of the bistro was dying through much of the country; Duvalier sighed amusedly at the thought of getting a decent bowl of cassoulet in the choking urban crowd of Manetheren or Whitefall.

Clearing his head from daydreams, Duvalier focused on his newspaper; the Monde was a decent paper, a bastion of centrism against the wild tides of both right and left. He chuckled cynically at the front page—apparently the Mayor was at the center of an embarrassing incident involving a certain mistress. Duvalier finished his laugh, and for a moment pondered the absurdity of local politics. Why, it seemed that in a town as (relatively) small as Tarbes, even the—

Crump. Crump. Crump. Duvalier’s inner discourse was interrupted by the distant sound of artillery fire. It still caught him off guard, even if by this time it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Colonial Service troops had been operating out of Tabres and nearby towns for the past two months, attempting to hunt down and exterminate Saint Cyril’s Army, a motley collection of Greek Orthodox separatists who sought to leave the predominantly French Catholic province and establish their own republic. As if to punctuate the point, a military helicopter chose that moment to fly over the downtown section of Tabres where Duvalier sat. Shaking his head, his mood brightened a bit when the waitress brought a steaming bowl of stew to his table. Smiling, his spirits immediately dampened again when he saw three soldiers approach the bistro. In dress uniforms, they were clearly off-duty; they took a table and ordered a bottle of inexpensive wine.

Duvalier could determine their origins almost immediately; as multicultural as the Commonwealth was, it was hard not to have at least a passing familiarity with most of the ethnic groups that called it home. Two soldiers, both lieutenants, spoke a harsh, clipped language. Though he didn’t understand it, Duvalier recognized it as Afrikaans. The other, a captain by his uniform, responded in kind, but with an extremely peculiar accent. It was at once lilting and guttural, singsong and clipped; it marked him instantly as Hailene. Throughout the Commonwealth there was a universal cultural resistance to the Hailene, who formed a solid plurality of the Commonwealth’s population and arrogantly claimed to be the forerunners of mankind; even the name Hailene invoked this cultural arrogance. Translated from the language of the same name, “Hailene” meant quite literally “Forerunner.”

Breaking a crust of bread to dip into his stew, Duvalier paused to look up from his meal, to the north. The Bichon mountains were a stark grey-green against the blue sky; the local geology caused the mountains to rise up abruptly, with little in the way of foothills. Aside from the steady sound of distant artillery fire and the occasional cloud-like wisp of smoke from an exploding shell, it was impossible to tell from this side street in Tarbes that a war was occurring a mere fifty miles north…

20km North of Tarbes, Bellecôte Province
21 February 2010
15C/60F
1505H

…Corporal Pieter van der Merwe slammed another 155mm shell into the breach of the T6, and gave the command to fire. The howitzer, its venerable model in service for close to ten years now, roared as it hurled a shell forty kilometers into the rear echelons of the SCA guerrillas, dug into the Bichon Mountains. Six times a minute, every minute for the past hour, the four guns of this battery and a dozen others rained death and terror onto the rebels in the mountains. In half an hour the barrage was scheduled to end, as three rifle companies and support elements entered the Beaugac Forest at the base of the hills, to clear out remnants of the SCA and secure the densely wooded area against an enemy counter-attack, in preparation for the eventual assault into the mountains themselves; SAS and Manshima Scouts were already in the mountains, wreaking the special sort of havoc that was their profession.

Van der Merwe stepped back from the gun as his replacement came up. The artillerymen worked in ten minute intervals, in order to give each other a rest from lifting the heavy shells and prevent the simple mistakes so often caused by monotony. As he moved a few meters back to sit with his canteen in the shade of a maple tree, Van der Merwe offered up a small prayer of thanks that he wasn’t one of the infantrymen about to head into the Beaugac. He’d seen the aftermath of artillery work, when his battery moved forward into newly-secured territory, and the thought of actually having to fight through the blasted and hellish landscape truly terrified the large Afrikaner. Thinking further, he offered a somewhat more genuine prayer of thanks that he was not on the receiving end of the 114th’s artillery.

OOC: This is a semi-open counter-insurgency RP. By “semi-open” I mean that if you want to RP a journalist or tourist’s perspective, feel free to go ahead (imagine the fun possibilities of a foreign tourist getting taken hostage by guerrillas), but the actual war-aspect of the RP will be limited to my posting (at least for the time being).

For the record, the two combatant forces of this particular RP are the 114th Colonial Service Regiment, a predominantly Afrikaans-speaking unit of the Imperial Army, and Saint Cyril’s Army (SCA, or StAK in Greek), Greek Orthodox separatists seeking to leave the Commonwealth.

[Malkyer]

Beaugac Forest, Bellecôte Provinces
80km North of Tarbes
14C/57.2F
1648H

The Beaugac Forest had once been a densely wooded haven of green, site of more than one productive maple farm. The pristine natural environment had endured from the day man first arrived until this one. Blackened craters marred the forest floor, trenches rent asunder and trees collapsed. The air was thick with the foul cordite smokiness of military operations. Here and there evidence of human presence could be spotted; a rifle tossed into the branches of a tree by a shockwave, empty foxholes distinguishable by their comparative shallowness. A lone boot stood upright amidst a copse of fallen trees, the bloody smear around it a harsh reminder of the all-too-human nature of the conflict. The majority of the artillery barrage had been aimed further to the north and east, in the actual mountain range. The relatively light shelling of the forest had the simple purpose destroying both enemy morale and enemy traps.

The troopers of Dog Company were on the right flank of the line moving into the forest. About seven hundred men in total were moving into the Beaugac, three rifle companies and six mortar platoons. The soldiers were on a sweeping operation, moving up to the mountains and then driving the rebels west and south, towards the main body of the 114th. Dog was deepest in the woods and closest to the mountain, and expected to face the thickest of the fighting.

“Waar is hulles?” one of the troopers asked aloud. Where are they? The soldiers had been moving for close to an hour now, and hadn’t come across so much as a lone sniper. Soon it would be nightfall; the soldiers, with their light-amplifying and thermal equipment, would have a huge advantage over the rebels come darkness. “Miskien is die artillerie het hulle almal gemaak,” another riflement offered. Maybe the artillery got them all. His wry observation was followed by some nervous laughter from the men around. Minutes more passed, and the soldiers continued their slow progress forward; taking almost twenty minutes to cover the length of a rugby pitch. Countless counter-insurgency operations had taught the Commonwealth’s soldiers that thoroughness on patrol always paid off.

“Kontak vorentoe!” Contact forward!

Following the shout, the soldiers’ training and instinct took over and they dropped as one, perfectly in sync with a grenade exploding in the distance and the loud chatter of a machine gun ahead of them. A voice from the left, shouting “Baijan sovya, another attack!” announced the presence of Second Platoon, a rare mostly-Hailene platoon in the largely Afrikaans-speaking 114th. “Duente, alantin! Hold, brother!” The cries indicated that the platoon was under significantly more pressure than the rest of the company. Amidst the gunfire, a mixture of weaponry interspersed with the distinctive ringing pop of the Commonwealth AH-24 assault rifle, Sergeant Wikus Geldenhuys shouted encouragement to men in his own platoon. Laying in a prone position and using a fallen tree as cover, he took careful, measured shots at the enemy; rather, the places he best assumed the enemy to be. Another burst from the rebel machine gun was answered with rifle fire from Geldenhuys and a dozen other soldiers, along with a liberal application of grenades. With the gun seemingly silenced for the time being, Geldenhuys raised himself to a crouch and began running forward to the next spot of cover, this time a wide gash in the earth left by an artillery shell earlier in the morning. While running, he barked commands to the men in his platoon:

“Vorentoe, peleton! Forward, platoon!” He added in Hailene, “Los, muad’drin. Los!” Forward, infantry! Forward! By now, the mortar platoons were laying down a merciless barrage on the rebels, and the counter-attack was gaining momentum. It was apparent by this point that what had appeared initially to be a well-placed ambush was in fact little more than a half-spirited attempt at a fighting retreat, as the guerrillas were steadily pushed back. Already in many places the hardened and professional soldiers of the Commonwealth were advancing under fire from their own mortars; an act which took much discipline. Pockets of resistance were cut off, and surrounded guerrillas quickly threw down their weapons as they realized that they were merely being contained for eventual elimination by mortar fire…

[Malkyer]

Beaugac Forest, Bellecôte Province
22 February 2010
4C/40F
1810H

…Captain Daneil Kalins, the intelligence officer of Second Battalion, 114CSR, looked with intent at his prisoner. Greasy, stringy hair and a dirty six-month beard framed a pale face and eyes alive with defiance. Dressed in generic camouflage fatigues, the guerrilla fighter looked every bit the part.

“Nosane iro gavane domorakoshi, alantin?” What language do we speak, brother? Kalins’ inquiry was met with a blank stare; he honestly couldn’t tell if it was from genuine ignorance of the Hailene language, or if the rebel captive really had that much control over his expressions. Kalins tried again, this time in French: “Vous ne parlez pas Ailenais? Qu’en est-il français?”

The captive nodded reluctantly. “Oui, j’ai française. Et en grec.”

Kalins smiled. “Now we can get to business,” he continued in French. “You know full well that the SCA has lost hold of the Beaugac by this point.” A staccato burst of automatic rifle fire in the distance punctuated the intelligence officer’s statement. “In a few day’s time, at the latest, troops will move into the mountains and hunt down the last of your compatriots like wolves. I’m not attempting to insult your intelligence, my old, but we both know this to be true. What’s your name?”

“Demetrios Kastos,” was the terse reply. Defiance still burned.

“Well, Demetrios…what I need from you is information. I need an accurate assessment of the SCA’s strength and deployments in the mountains, positions, redoubts, hold-outs, down to how much ammunition and food your men have up there. The more I know, the quicker this fighting will end. The quicker it ends, the more Commonwealth lives can be saved. And since we both know how this will end, that means that more of your friends and neighbors will be alive to see peace as well.”

Planes flew over the forest, on their way to deliver aerial ordinance in the most harsh of ways to the rebels still clinging to the mountains. Daylight faded, and a soft rain began; barely more than a cold mist. Bellecôte was too far south to get much in the way of snowfall in the lowlands outside of January, but for much of winter the province, especially in the northern mountain ranges, was soaked in a perpetual freezing rain. The SAS and Manshima teams in the Bichon would spend a miserable night, if they slept at all. But at least for them the unpleasantness was temporary; at the end of their rotation they would return home, or at least to their barracks, to warm cots and decent meals. For the SCA rebels they faced, the best that could be hoped for was an honorable surrender, a sentence of hard labor, and a military occupation of their towns and villages. For some, all that waited was a soldier’s bullet or a hangman’s noose.

The thunder of aerial bombing, echoing down the mountains and into the forest, signaled that at least a few more SCA fighters were no longer among the living. Unmanned drones in the sky were keeping track of enemy and friendly movement, painting targets for RCAF fighter-bombers to strike. Any SCA rebels foolish enough to leave their rocky hideaways or poke their head above the surface in what remained of the daylight for more than a few minutes would quickly find themselves on the receiving end of several hundred kilograms of the RCAF’s finest.

Kalins frowned at his still-silent captive, defiance shivering to a grimace as the rain turned his hair into a cold, oily slick. Kastos shifted uncomfortably on his knees, tested his bonds. They held firm. The skinny Greek sighed, and made eye contact with Kalins.

“Korporal Retief, ‘n sambreel, terwyl my vriend en ek klets, dankie.” Corporal Retief, an umbrella while my friend and I chat, thank you. The corporal ran up and opened the umbrella over Kastos’ head; Kalins was protected from the rain by his own great-cloak and slouch hat.

Nodding thanks, Kastos sighed again. He began to speak in French: “We have sixty men holding the Little River Pass. They’re entrenched deep into the mountain, with fireteams stationed at…”

[Malkyer]

Tarbes, Bellecôte Province
23 February 2010
7.2C/45F
1500H

…Matthias Henri turned his collar to the cold and damp of the February wind. The sky was an overcast steel-grey, but thankfully it hadn’t yet rained today. That didn’t stop Matthias from being quite uncomfortable as he was, however. However, as with most problems he’d dealt with in his young life, he felt secure in the belief that all could be fixed by a meal and a glass of wine.

Done with his classes for the day at Tarbes University’s urban campus, he ventured into to town to find a mid-afternoon snack before heading back to his apartment. He liked to wander about town every few days, to clear his mind from the monotony that was a university routine. If one was given to wander, as Matthias was, Tarbes was a fantastic city in which to do it. Reflecting the ancestry of its citizens, Tarbes was a place of beautifully Mediterranean architecture, with narrow streets and alleys occasionally opening to grand plazas and markets. Crossing the Rue des Artistes with its myriad shops and vendor stalls, Matthias turned the corner into the large Place du Soleil Levant, the Plaza of the Rising Sun. So called because of Bellecôte’s, and be extension Tarbes’ position in the far east of the Empire, the massize town square was full of fountains and statues, the white marble facades of the buildings lining it hundreds of years old in some cases.

On Saturdays, the Soleil Levant turned into a bustling marketplace, with hundreds of vendors hawking their wares, ranging from touristy garbage to beautiful crafts and jewelry, to food to tempt nearly any taste. Sundays, the Bishop of Tarbes celebrated the Mass in the square, and then directed the distribution of meals to the city’s poor and invalid.

As always when walking into the Soleil Levant, Matthias’ attention was drawn quickly to the Bureau de Poste Central, the Central Post Office. Its façade, rather than matching the milky agedness of the buildings to its right and left, stood out a stark white, seeming to be unnaturally clean compared to the rest of the square. It was so because the Bureau had been where Saint Cyril’s Army had drawn the attention of the Imperial government in Manetheren, and where their perennial insurrection against the provincial militia had become an out-right war against the Empire. On Christmas Eve of the past year, a bomb sent through the post exploded behind the main desk in the Bureau, killing a dozen people, among them a Commonwealth Army officer on leave, and wounding almost a hundred with fire and white-hot iron nails. Rebuilt as it was, it remained a clear reminder of what had happened.

That move had gotten the attention of the Government. Dissent was common throughout the Empire, and in some way or another nearly all of the Commonwealth’s teeming billions were dissatisfied with Government, and the powers that be tolerated their criticism, and sometimes even tried to fix the problems pointed out. But terrorism was a thing that no one in the Commonwealth’s vast and powerful establishment, and indeed few of the common folk of the Empire, had any tolerance for. And so it was that Tarbes had become home to thousands of soldiers from across the Empire, happily answering the Governor’s call to stamp the SCA into nothing.

By this time, security in the Soleil Levant was much tighter; soldiers patrolled with dogs, police were a much more common sight than before, helicopters and military jets were a common sight in the sky, and as always, the steady crump, crump, crump of artillery could be heard in the north, though somewhat more faint as of late, as the offensive into the Beaugac two days prior had pushed the front nearly ten kilometers further north.

Matthias, naturally, was unaware of the technical details of the counter-insurgency, and for the moment was more concerned with whether he wanted shwarma or falafel from Assad on the street corner...

[Malkyer]

Noveau Cherbourg
Bellecôte Province
1 March 2010
13C/56F
0815H

Pierre Etienne rolled his eyes at his year-old daughter as she splashed milk from her cereal bowl on to the kitchen table. His wife, Marie, scolded Laura and wiped away the milk with a rag. Smiling, Pierre took another bite of his bagel and washed it down with strong black coffee. He was early today; normally he’d be rushing out of the flat, food in hand, in order to make it to the office by nine, but today for whatever reason his morning had simply gone faster. He appreciated it, appreciated the opportunity to spend some time relaxing with his family before leaving for the day.

There was a small television set on the kitchen counter, tuned to the local news channel, an affiliate of the Royal Broadcasting Corporation. A report on the weather was just finishing; it seemed that the winter rains would continue well into the week. Pierre took another sip of coffee and opened his mouth to ask Marie a question, only to have his attention quickly drawn back to the television.

“A bomb exploded today at a school in the town of Aurillac in eastern Bellecôte. The armed secessionist group Saint Cyril’s Army claimed responsibility for the attack, citing as provocation the occupation by Army units last week of the majority-Greek village of Edessa...”

The image on the screen shifted from the attractive blonde anchorwoman in a sleek and modern studio to a shaky amateur video from Aurillac. The quality of the image was hardly professional, but it was striking enough. An ugly black hole marred an otherwise picturesque school; a chunk taken right out of the side of the building. A fallen tree lay across playground equipment and shattered glass glittered on the ground. A crowd of concerned passersby stood awkwardly as police roped off the area with yellow plastic tape and the flashing of red emergency services lights danced around ambulance workers carrying small stretchers to their vehicles. Somewhere off camera, a woman, or maybe several, cried.

“The attack comes a mere two days after the Provincial Governor and Imperial Consulate issued a joint statement that a ‘cordon sanitaire,’ or quarantine line, had been established along the Bichon Mountains, to prevent violence from spilling over into the ethnic French portions of the province. The establishment of such a line is part of the government’s overall strategy to confine the rebels to a small area where they can be concentrated and wiped out; a strategy that is taking much longer to show effect than many critics of the war are willing to tolerate.”

The screen cut to a demonstration from late February, right here in Noveau Cherbourg, the provincial capital. A crowd of protestors, maybe a thousand strong, stood chanting and waving placards in front of a police line at the base of the steps of Government House. Written primarily in French and Hailene, with a small dose of Greek, the hand-made signs called on the government to back down in its campaigns against the separatists, and to bring the soldiers home. A few of the more bold ones demanded that the Army be disbanded and the leaders of Government arrested for warmongering and treason.

“Hippies,” muttered Pierre, under his breath. He’d done five years the Commonwealth Army, and had little patience for college kids who saw the military as a dumb and aggressive tool for corrupt politicians.

The image and commentary changed again, this time to stock footage of a press conference by David Walls, Minister of War. A tall man, he wore a suit well and the frameless glasses he wore, along with his more-than-graying hair, gave him a friendly grandfather-like quality.

“The Imperial Government issued a statement immediately after the attack was reported, reaffirming the previous doctrine of refusing to grant combatant status to the SCA. War Minister Walls was quoted as saying ‘the Imperial Commonwealth has always been willing to treat with those who respect the laws of war and the sanctity of civilians. Terrorists who murder children, on the other hand, shall be cast out and dealt with as wolves are.’

“The Provincial Government has stated, with Imperial approval, that it remains willing to negotiate a political solution provided the SCA lay down its arms and renounce violence. A responding statement from the SCA leadership has not yet been issued, though analysts and experts have stated expectations that the SCA will reject this latest offer, as it has several previous ones.

“In other related news, fighting continues in the Bichon Mountains, as Army special forces and colonial service units continue to clash with the remnants of SCA cadres there…”

Pierre sighed, and looked at his daughter. Maybe her generation would have peace.

[Malkyer]

Nouveau Cherbourg
Bellecôte Province
12 March 2010
16C/61F
1030H

The sun, just now peaking above the skyline of Bellecôte’s capital city, did little to lessen the chill of the March wind down the Promenade de gouvernement. Colonel Frederik van Jarnsveld stretched his arms and arched his spine to crack his back as he rose from the sleek government car that had driven him from the airport; in his dress uniform the colonel was the consummate image of both a soldier and a burly Afrikaner. Waiting for his aide to follow him out of the car, Jarnsveld straightened his beret and checked his cuffs; it would do no good to appear sloppy before the good Governor, worthless politician that he was. Hearing the door slam behind him, he began walking up toward Government House, the large marble and granite building that housed the Governor’s office and served as the nerve center of the provincial government. Across the kingdom there were over a hundred and thirty similar buildings and throughout the empire hundreds more. It served well as an architectural reminder of the Imperial Commonwealth’s power and hegemony, metastasized through an unstoppable internal logic.

“Is ons gereed vir die inligting, Kaptein van Zyl?” Are we ready for the briefing, Captain van Zyl?

“Ja, Kolonel. Waarheid word gesê, sal ek jou graag na huis kry nadat dit is al gedoen, meneer. Hierdie winter is 'n absolute kak.” Yes, Colonel. Truth be told, I’ll be glad to get home when all this is done, sir. The winter here is absolute shit.

Jarnsveld was amused, but he didn’t show it. His adjutant was a good administrator, and well-organized, but he had a tendency to prattle. Frankly, though, he had to agree with the captain; as mild as winter was in Bellecôte, it was still frigid compared to the eternal swelter of both men’s native Vrystaat, in the equatorial region. “Ja, goed, moenie toelaat dat die Goewerneur hoor jy praat soos wat nie. Pragtige kus inderdaad ...” Yes, well, don’t let the Governor hear you talk like that. Beautiful coast, indeed...

As the soldiers discussed the weather, a man in a suit met them on the stairs leading up to the glass doors of Government House. Shaking the Colonel’s hand, he introduced himself in English, with a thick French accent. “Mynheers, my name is Julian Clerque. I appreciate your promptness, and if you will follow me I shall take you right on to the Governor’s office.”

Entering the lobby of Government House, Jarnsveld and van Zyl were greeted with a lavishly-decorated scene that struck both men as rather gaudy. Rich marble floors were covered with luxurious patterned rugs, and framed by exotic potted plants. Circular in nature, the walls of the entire lobby save those that opened to the outside were painted with an immense mural, depicting the history of the conquest and settlement of the province. The progression of scenes was as from a storybook, with the Northeast Frontier Company’s scouts crossing the Seine River giving way to the Battle of Waybrook and the Stand of Charles Alexandre. The latter in turn faded into the Compact of Nouveau Cherbourg and still into the sailing of the first ships from the east coast of Malkyer into La Mer Loin. It was clear these Frenchmen of the Kingdom’s eastern backwaters took their history seriously; a fact both Jarnsveld and van Zyl could well appreciate.

Unable to give the mural more than a cursory appraisal, the two officers were led into an elevator which proceeded to take them to the sixth floor, and the Governor’s offices.

OOC: A short post to keep things moving. I’ll have more later.

[Malkyer]

Nouveau Cherbourg
Bellecôte Province
12 March 2010
16C/61F
1036H

Grand mahogany doors separated the antechamber from the Governor’s office. Jarnsveld, and van Zyl by consequence, had elected to stand rather than sit in the opulently-cushioned benches along the perimeter of the waiting area; they were ready when the attendant opened the entrance to the office. The Governor’s office was similarly lavish in its decoration to the rest of the publically-funded building, though Jarnsveld was glad to see that the gaudy touches seemed to be primarily inherited with the office; the Governor’s desk, itself a lovely hand-carved piece over a century old, was adorned with little, and the man’s personal decorations were rather spartan, implying a nature more similar to the Hailene or the Colonel’s own Afrikaanses, rather than the comparatively flamboyant French for which Bellecôte was known.

The Governor himself was an older man, in his late sixties if Jarnsveld recalled correctly. Wearing a fashionable grey suit and a blue-gold checked tie, the man exuded confidence and calm. It was easy to see what made him popular in the province; his horn-rimmed glasses made his eyes seem large and friendly, and a beard that had more white than grey created a dignified and paternal countenance. As the soldiers entered, the Governor stood to offer his hand, and the four men standing by his desk looked to follow his example.

Instead of shaking it, Jarnsveld placed his right fist over his heart, the traditional Imperial salute, and bowing slightly, greeted the politician in Hailene. “Hael, dyu ninte concion ca’lyet.” Governor, by your summons do I come. As polite as it was, the greeting and the language in which it was given were a subtle and unmistakable reminder of the source of Jarnsveld’s authority as a commissioned officer of the Royal and Imperial Armed Forces. The Colonel had little time to waste with politicians while there was a war to fight, and he did not intend to allow the politician, friendly and well-meaning though he appeared, to drag the 114th down in a bureaucratic morass of red tape.

Governor Eduard Etienne paused for a bare second before returning the salute and bow. “Merci, mon colonel. I thank you for your time, and for leaving your regiment on such short notice. If I may quickly introduce the gentlemen with me, we shall move on to the briefing and you and your adjutant shall be back to your troops by lunchtime. This,” he said, gesturing to the man farthest to his right, “is Monsieur François Duvalier, our Shambayan, our Chamberlain. He is responsible for the Province’s finances. To his left is Monsieur Maxime Gratien, the Provincial Minister of Defense. To my immediate right is General Xavier Donat, commandant-general of the Provincial Militia. And finally, this is Mr. Gordon Bayle, of the Imperial Political Service, which of course needs no introduction. And gentlemen, allow me to introduce Colonel Frederik Jarnsveld of the One-Hundred and Fourteenth Colonial Service Regiment.”

Jarnsveld nodded calmly to each man in turn, though he had to fight the urge to raise an eyebrow at the presence of an officer of the Political Service. The IPS was a domestic intelligence agency, dedicated to discovering and eliminating internal threats to Imperial security. While the interest of the Politicals in Bellecôte was not in itself suspicious, Jarnsveld could not help but wonder why, with the dozens of insurgencies, revolutionary movements, and terrorist groups active in the Commonwealth, the insurgent Saint Cyril’s Army of Bellecôte Province stood out as singular.

“Mon Colonel, I called this briefing today that you may elucidate to us simple civilians the progress of your campaign against the rebels in this Province. Specifically, I would like to know why it has taken one of the allegedly-best units in the Colonial Service almost three months to make significant progress in clearing the north-central and north-eastern portions of the insurgents, and in that same token, why you seem to refuse to take advantage of the Provincial Militia. General Donat informs that you have been reluctant to use Provincial troops in combat situations. I mean no offense, Colonel, but I must have answers. S’il vous plait?”

“Mynheer Governor, I understand your concern. If I may take advantage of your display equipment?” With a nod from the Governor, Captain van Zyl approached and set his briefcase on the desk and opened to reveal a military-issue laptop computer. Connecting it to a discrete jack on the side of the desk, he tapped at the keys while the Colonel continued.

“Mynheer Governor, allow me to address the issue of the Provincial Militia first. I appreciate General Donat’s generous offering of his troops, but unfortunately the insurgency we face in the east of this Province is not a problem that can solved by throwing divisions at a few guerrilla fighters. Such a strategy is ineffective in these sort of campaigns unless one is willing to resort to the totalitarian alternative of heavy-handed genocide; something neither you nor myself, nor I dare say the Imperial Government, is prepared or willing to attempt.

“Counter-insurgency campaigns of this kind,” the colonel continued as a blank wall to the right of the Governor’s desk was suddenly covered in a map of the Bellecôte Province, “demand a special sort of strategy.” The province was divided into swathes of blue and orange, showing territory occupied by government forces and the insurgents, respectively. Imperial troop deployments were shown in dark green, or light green in the case of special operations teams with whom regular contact was not maintain. Known deployments of rebel troops were shown in dark red, with suspected concentrations in a lighter shade.

“The most effective military answer for us is to use small, mobile forces of highly-trained professionals, capable of rapid insertion and exfiltration, in order to allow us to disrupt enemy movements at will, and prevent them from being to consolidate to the point of denying territory to the Army. I mean no offense, General Donat, but your Provincial Militia simply are not up to that task.” Donat nodded curtly; he didn’t like the statement, but there was no way he could disagree with it.

“Your Provincial troops are decent enough for reservists, and given ground to hold they can give a good account of them, to be sure. But sending them into the dense Beaugac or the high passes of the Bichon would have been to put them up as fodder for the rebels, who know those lands far better than your soldiers, and whose experience more than makes up for their lack of formal training. Although, Mynheer Governor, perhaps the good General has in fact neglected to inform you that I have been making significant use of his soldiers, albeit in a garrison role.” A quick glance from the Governor to the General told Jarnsveld that while such information had not necessarily been left out of previous briefings, it certainly had not been phrased in such a way.

“Indeed, Mynheer Governor, I’m sure you have noticed that public support for the war remains quite high? A goodly portion of that is due to the garrison situation. In the parts of the Province I must occupy for security reasons, I use your own reservists; it makes to do so. They understand your language, your culture; in many cases they may even know the townspeople themselves. Having their towns and cities occupied by soldiers who talk and act like them, and live just down the road from them, makes the war seem much less threatening to their way of life than if I had Vrystaaters, Hailene, and dark natives from the colonies patrolling the streets and enforcing curfews. That would cease to be a protective measure for your citizens, and would become a true foreign occupation. You would have riots within a week.”

“That, Mynheer Governor, is why I have refused to use Provincial troops in the offensive campaign. Now, as to why it has taken three months to come as far as we have, let us consider the scale of operations…”

[Malkyer]

114th CSR Regimental Headquarters
Stellenbosch, Vrystaat Province
27 December 2009
25C/77F
2130H

The ceiling fan turned lazily, its wooden blades not cooling the air so much as simply stirring it about, creating a thick, tepid, and slow breeze marginally more tolerable than the stagnant air outside. The humidity was near unbearable for someone not used to it; the climate and the jungle outside gave outsiders the impression of being in some remote backwater rather than a wealthy province along the Bay of Hattem. Air conditioning was available, but by tradition it wasn’t turned on. The men in the field, with the exception of those in the field hospital or command center, where it was crucial to make decisions with as few distractions as possible, would not have access to such a luxury, and so it was a thing lived without off-duty as well. What the men of the regiment supposedly gained in endurance from the lack, they traded in aesthetics; mold could be seen growing behind shelves and in corners. Eventually some poor sod on a punishment detailed would be tasked with cleaning it away.

The warm air moved by the ceiling fan condensed as it came in contact with a cold glass, forming a thin sheen of water on the outside of the lowball. Ice clinked as Colonel Frederik Jarnsveld brought the glass to his mouth, sipped, and savored the juniper notes of the gin mingled with the bitterness of tonic. The coldness of the drink was welcome refreshment in the heat of the equatorial summer, warm even long after the setting of the sun. Jarnsveld’s tie was loosened and his collar undone, but other than that his uniform was impeccable, down to the crease in his pants and the utter lack of lint on his jacket, both in the soft shade of khaki adopted a century and half ago by Imperial regiments raised in the tropics; the light brown was ideal for masking sweat stains on dress uniforms.

At the table with Jarnsveld sat his adjutant, Captain Jan van Zyl, and Colonel Peter Wallander, an officer from the National Defense Center in Blackwell. The city, located an hour by rail from the capital Manetheren, was the military hub of the Commonwealth, with the Army, Imperial Navy, Royal Air Force, Colonial Service, and Special Operations Command all having their unofficial headquarters there, away from the cramped and distracting metropolis of the capital. Jarnsveld had been there once before, when he had been officially given command of his regiment some twenty years ago. He remembered little beyond the parade ground and the din of ceremony and celebration; it could have taken place in any city, as far as he was concerned.

Wallander himself was a highly-placed functionary within the Colonial Service Headquarters, and was in Stellenbosch on official business. In front of him, a thick manila folder sat on the table. It contained the details of the regiment’s deployment orders. Jarnsveld had already been over them, and was fairly sure his adjutant had already committed every detail to memory. Van Zyl could be absentminded at times, but when it came to his job there was none better.

Putting down his drink, Jarnsveld spoke for the first time in several moments: “We’ll be unsupported by other CSRs, then?”

“Yes, unfortunately. There are a great many brushfires across the Empire in this year of Grace, and while the Colonial Service can attend to them all, we have neither the resources nor the regiments to do so under ideal conditions,” Wallander replied. He was a tall man, with sand-colored hair and clean-shaven face that stood in sharp contrast to his colleague’s dark mustachios. Wallander was Hailene, Jarnsveld an Afrikaner; both men spoke English, a language native to neither.

“Ag, man, the Army has plenty of regiments. Have them send a few.”

Wallander smiled. “Colonel, you know as well as I do that this isn’t a job for the Army. Operations of this variety required finesse; a surgeon’s scalpel rather than a woodsman's hatchet. The army would burn half the province with their methods…attrition is to warfare what a paint-by-numbers kit is to the Mona Lisa, after all.”

The Afrikaner colonel nodded. “My concern is for my lads. I have a regiment, not a banner. Our casualties are expenditures from capital, not income. It takes a year to train a recruit and integrate him into a unit. It takes a couple of weeks to hand an insurgent a rifle and teach him to take potshots at convoys.”

“You’ll have the support of the province’s militia, Mynheer Kolonel.”

“Please. We both know that the Bellecôte Defense Forces are more interested in eating cheese and womanizing than they are in drilling, much less actually fighting. There’s a reason there isn’t a single Colonial Service Regiment raised there.” The predominantly French-speaking province did have something of a reputation for military ineptitude, at least among the inhabitants of the so-called “Martial Provinces.”

“Be that as it may,” Wallander nodded, “you still may need them for occupations if nothing else. You can’t win this sort of conflict by throwing ten divisions at some guerrillas in the hills, but using local troops will make the Governor’s life a lot easier.”

“Ag, man, has everything become so politicized? We’re losing our blood, Colonel.”

Wallander raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do you mean?”

“The guns are clean. The troops are ready to fight. Everything else is bullshit.”

[Malkyer]

Bellecôte Province
80km east of Tarbes
20 March 2010
18C/65F
1100H

Efstathios Silas kicked dirt over the campfire to smother the hot coals. His platoon had been tasked with this operation; setting up false campsites in a pattern extending away from the main body of the 14th Battalion of Saint Cyril’s Army, nicknamed the “Spartiates.” The maneuver was an effort to throw off Imperial trackers, who’d made a painfully successful habit of following and even predicting the path of the rebels in eastern Bellecôte, resulting in multiple ambushes by Imperial flying columns and airmobile troops, and huge casualty figures among the rebels. There were millions of Greeks in the province, but each rebel lost to the SAS or Manshima was one fewer of the dedicated cadre that was actually willing to take up arms in the name of Orthodox independence.

The Spartiates were hardly an elite fighting force by Imperial standards, but they were a veteran body and Silas was confident that against the Bellecôte Provincial Militia they would perform admirably. Hell, he thought, we could probably take on a battalion of Imperial troops and do fine, especially on our home ground. Of course, that was the problem. The Empire’s (the political leadership of Saint Cyril’s refused to use the term “Commonwealth;” they felt it glossed over the government’s more oppressive qualities) forces never fought in battalions. Manpower and supplies were never something Imperial forces lacked on the field; a full three Banners, almost three million men, had put down the Hattem Mutiny thirty-seven years ago, before Silas had even learned to speak. No, the Imperials in Manetheren understood the use of overkill.

Overkill did not just mean numbers, Silas had come to learn. Even the most idealistic of the separatists in Bellecôte knew that the SCA posed almost no military threat to the Empire as a whole; that fact hadn’t stopped the NDC from sending one of the most decorated, and most notorious, of the Colonial Service Regiments to spearhead the Governor’s campaign to put down the rebellion in the province. The One-Fourteenth had seen fighting during the Hattem campaign, and had been in the thick of the fighting around the city of Granville; the single regiment had reported held the harbor district for six weeks armed only with light weapons and a few batteries of artillery. The One-Fourteenth had had a different epithet in those days, but remained in many ways the same unit. Some of the older generation among Silas’ neighbors back home had fought alongside the Jaegers for the Empire in that war, ironically enough.

“Archomá! Archomá!” One of the troopers in Silas’ platoon ran through the woods shouting for him—the address was a contraction of Archígós tis Omádas, or Group Leader, and was Silas’ rank in the SCA, roughly equivalent to a senior lieutenant or junior captain. His reverie broken, Silas shifted his weight and responded.

“Demetrios, what is it? Ídia skatá?”

“Sir, it’s helicopters.” The young guerrilla’s face was pale and nervous, a thin sheen of sweat making him seem far younger than he probably was.

“Bajad drovja,” Silas swore in Hailene, and then again in Greek after he realized he’d just partaken in his enemies’ cultural hegemony. Helicopters meant one thing: airmobile troops.

Silas cursed again, this time at his subordinate, for not setting a picket far enough out from the platoon. It had been barely ten seconds since the alert, and the steady thunk-thunk-thunk of rotor blades was already audible.

OOC: gone for the weekend, so I put up a quick post to keep things moving. Comments on the RP, whether IC or OOC, are welcome.

[Malkyer]

Bellecôte Province
80km east of Tarbes
20 March 2010
18C/65F
1103H

We rode in the morning,
Casablanca to the west.
On the Atlas mountain foothills, leading down to Marakesh.
For Mohammed and Morocco
We had taken up our guns
For the ashes of our fathers and the children of our sons.
For the ashes of our fathers and the children of our sons.

“Skatá! Skatá!” Group Leader Silas swore repeatedly as he heard the helicopters approach ever closer. They were clearly visible through the trees now; black shapes flicking through the green leaves against the clear blue of the spring sky. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on Silas’ face; it had nothing to do with the temperature. Fucking Manshima must be watching us. How long? How can they be everywhere at once? Chambering a round in his assault rifle, he began to shout out orders. The platoon’s anti-air ordinance was limited to a handful of RPGs; having the Imperials drop in right on top of them hadn’t been expected by the Spartiate leadership.

“Platoon, disperse! Fall back into the woods, we’ll lose them in the trees where the helis can’t follow. Aniketos! Iosif! Paraskevas! On the RPGS! I want those choppers down now!”

It was a desperate, hopeless measure, he knew. He counted eight helicopters, four Black Hawks and four Little Birds. Eighty troops, Silas figured after some quick mental calculations. We’re dead.

In the dry winds of summer
We were sharpening the blades.
We were riding to act upon the promise we had made.
With the fist and the dagger,
With the rifle and the lance,
We will suffer no intrusion from the infidels of France.
We will suffer no intrusion from the infidels of France.

“Weapons free. Pick your targets and go.” Warrant Officer Mitchell Fuller heard the SAS captain’s command over the radio, but tuned it out as it did not apply to him. The next one, however, did.

“Keep it steady, if you will, Mr. Fuller.” Captain Eli Brand, Special Air Service, did not look towards the helicopter’s pilot even as he shouted to be heard over the rotors. His full focus was being given to scanning the ground below from his seat on the side of MH-6. Using the TGTM-4 Multi-function Battle Sight on his AY144L rifle to get a more detailed picture of the forest floor beneath, he barked further commands. “Thomas, I have an RPG at your Two.”

The stop’s sniper raised his rifle, and fired two shots in rapid succession. A puff of pink mist accompanied the target’s tumble backwards as the grenade launcher clattered to the ground. Congratulations were in order, but at that moment Warrant Officer Fuller was obliged to jerk the helicopter rapidly to the left, to evade the plume of white smoke that announced another RPG. The miss would be the guerrilla’s last, as fire from another chopper tore up the ground around him, and reduced the insurgent himself to a horrible jelly.

Brand keyed his mike. “All Stops, this is Stop 1-1 Actual. Insertion is go. On my mark.”

With the cue from Brand, Fuller brought the chopper as far down as he could without hitting the trees below. Brand nodded, and the pilot head the aircraft in a steady hover. “Mark.”

Within three seconds of the command, two dozen SAS operators fast-roped to the ground and immediately began firing on scattering guerrillas. Once the initial landing zone had been cleared, the rifle platoon of CSR troopers would follow and mop up the area.

We could wait no more,
In the burning sands on the ride to Agadir.
Like the dogs of war,
For the future of this land on the ride to Agadir.

Despite the encouragement he continued to shout to his men, Silas knew full well that the only reason they’d survived this long was that the trees prevented the Imperial helicopters from landing, and so the incoming troops had been forced to make adjustments to abseil down. The forest was hardly dense, but the trees were thick enough to prevent the big Black Hawks from being able to land.

The shouting of his own men combined with the noise of the helicopters prevented him from hearing the pop-pop of small arms fire from above, but the muzzle flashes above and the falling men below served to demonstrate quite effectively the Imperials’ marksmanship. Less than a minute after they’d been spotted the helicopters had been on top of them, and his RPGs, his only real way of hitting back, had all been taken out within thirty seconds of the first grenade fired. His men were falling back—in theory, at least—but Group Leader Efstathios Silas knew his command was dissolving before his eyes.

He fired another burst at a chopper above, more out of frustration than a hope to do any harm. He then grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, and fell to the ground. Dazed, he felt as though someone had struck him in the solar plexus. Trying to get up, his arms felt exceedingly weak, and he was surprised to see a growing spot of dark red on his fatigues, just to the right of his sternum.

Though they were waiting,
And they were fifty to our ten,
They were easily outnumbered by a smaller force of men.
As the darkness was falling
They were soon to realize,
We were going to relive upon their godforsaken lives.
We were going to relive upon their godforsaken lives.

Brand was at the head of his six-man stop, sweeping the wooded area ahead with his rifle before squeezing off two rounds at an SCA insurgent making a run for cover behind a tree. The guerrilla fighter fell without a sound. Behind the SAS captain his leapfrogged to catch up to his position, while Henry Burrows, Stop 1-6, laid down suppression fire with the team’s Squad Automatic Weapon. Already the operators had advanced well into the forest beyond their drop zone, though they could still hear shouted commands in Afrikaans and Hailene, as the Colonial Service troops behind them rounded up captives and finished off a few pockets of resistance.

The Commonwealth’s Special Air Service tended to look down on the regulars, as did most of the units under Special Operations Command. However, even Brand had to admit that in the past three months in Bellecôte he’d been thoroughly impressed with these Colonial Service chaps; they seemed to bridge the gap between the Army’s regulars and the proverbial snake-eaters of the SOCOM.

However, the fact of the matter remained that airmobile operations of this type, dubbed “Deep Strike Operations” by NDC brass, mandated a quality of soldier for the initial strike that was above and beyond even the Colonial Service. As with most of the successful counter-insurgency doctrines developed by various nations, whether it were the “flying columns” of the British in Kenya and Malaya, the “Fire Force” of the Rhodesians, or the “Flechas” of the Portuguese in Angola and Mozambique, Malkyer’s own Deep Strike was built around small and flexible units of airborne troops, working in close concert with trackers and scouts on the ground. Once trackers located an enemy body, they would radio in the location, strength, and kit of the enemy observed, at which point Special Forces operators and light infantry, organized into six-man teams called “stops,” would be deployed via helicopter to engage and neutralize the enemy. Such actions typically resulted in disproportionately high casualties for the insurgents, and were an excellent way to keep them off balance and prevent them from being able to maintain solid lines of supply or secure rear areas.

We could wait no more,
In the burning sands on the ride to Agadir.
Like the dogs of war,
For the future of this land on the ride to Agadir.

We rode in the morning,
Casablanca to the west.
On the Atlas mountain foothills, leading down to Marakesh.
For Mohammed and Marocco
We had taken up our guns,
For the ashes of our fathers and the children of our sons.
For the ashes of our fathers and the children of our sons.

The cordite-copper-shit smell of battlefield death mingled oddly with the faint green scent of the woodlands, it was a contrast that Lieutenant Geldenhuys found at once familiar and repulsive. The helicopters above remained on station, but high enough so that their rotors provided mere ambient noise, rather than a drowning din. With the exception of an occasional pop-pop of rifle fire or a rare staccato burst from a machine gun, the sounds of combat had largely died down as well, leaving the rustling of the wind in the leaves and the moans of the dead and dying as the only significant sounds in the area.

Mistaking his superior’s calm detachment for a moment of recollection, a young corporal walked up and spoke. “Remind you of the Beaugac, Lieutenant?”

Geldenhuys arched an eyebrow. He remembered the fighting in the Beaugac Forest at the foot of the Bichon Mountains, almost a month ago. Snow, blood, artillery raining down in front, the wounded being dragged to aid stations behind…this fight had been far too quick and clean. It hadn’t even occurred to him to compare the two until Corporal Ulrich mentioned it. “You weren’t with us then, were you, Korporal?”

Ulrich shook his head. Geldenhuys smiled. “Then don’t invite comparisons. Not every time are things this easy.”

OOC: Spent the weekend in the bush, so here's my effort to catch up.

[Malkyer]

2 Bn 114CSR HQ
Lamía, Bellecôte Province
11 May 2010
28C/82F
1620H

It had started innocuously enough; a few dozen SCA sympathizers gathered in front of City Hall in the central square of Lamía to protest the arrival of Colonial Service troops in their village. Like many towns of its size in the north of the province, Lamía had an ethnic-Greek majority, and its citizens, if not active supporters of the rebel Saint Cyril’s Army, were certainly opposed to the occupation of their town by one of the Colonial Service’s more infamous regiments. Gathered as they were in the hot sun of the mid-afternoon, signs and placards waving, they seemed the manifestation of irony to Major Adam Pekeur. The Second Battalion had temporarily requisitioned the second floor of City Hall as its headquarters, while two of its rifle companies conducted combat operations against SCA guerrillas in the hills nearby, and the third patrolled the perimeter of the town in order to prevent rebels from entering the town to gain supplies.

It had started innocuously enough; armed with nothing more than home-made signs, the protestors were well within their legal rights, for a state of emergency had not yet been declared in Bellecôte, as both the Governor was politically unwilling, and the military situation did not demand it. When they’d begun to gather a couple of hours ago, Major Pekeur had felt more sorry for them than anything else. It was hot outside, though the humidity was merciful compared to Pekeur’s home province of Vrystaat, where the air was often akin to breathing soup. More than the temperature, Pekeur pitied the protestors because of the futility of their actions. This wasn’t some tax law or social policy that could be changed through the democratic process, or through collective demonstrations of displeasure. The Empire tolerated no terrorism, and as long as Saint Cyril’s Army and their supporters continued to bomb schools and fire on civilian road traffic, Manetheren’s soldiers would stay and hunt them down.

It had started innocuously enough; but the start had been several hours ago, and by four o’clock the crowd of demonstrators had swollen to several hundred, easily outnumbering the local police keeping them back from the steps of City Hall, and the Headquarters Guard Platoon directly under Pekeur’s command—some forty-odd soldiers, riflemen all.

As such things are wont to do, the crowd of protestors reached a critical mass and began to grow more aggressive and disorganized. Where once the air had been filled with chanted slogans and cogent demands, it was now a morass of noise, more vocalized anger than coherent speech.

And then it happened. From somewhere, a rock struck a police officer in the head, sending him down with crimson across his face. Helped back by a brother officer, he clutched his temple, clearly in pain but also dazed. The police commander, a middle-aged man with a more than ample gut, looked up from the line at Pekeur, lines of worry clear on his face even from a few meters away. Without looking, Pekeur spoke in Afrikaans to his orderly; the young soldier rushed inside to the lobby of City Hall.

With dark aviator sunglasses covering his eyes, maroon beret of the Colonial Service on his head, and the sleeves of his tiger-stripe fatigues rolled the regulation two inches above his elbow, Major Adam Pekeur looked every inch the soldier. Despite beads of sweat on his forehead, and more rolling down his back, his face was utterly impassive, as if carved from stone. Behind him, the doors to City Hall opened wide, and the forty soldiers of the Headquarters Platoon filed out, forming two ranks directly behind their commander. Returning with them, the orderly handed a bullhorn to the Major, who proceeded to address the crowd in Hailene. As an officer in the Colonial Service, Pekeur was well-versed in the various legal codes dictating exactly what constituted a threat to government agents; in this case, law enforcement and military personnel.

“You are in violation of the Riotous Assemblies Act Number Twenty-Nine of 1945. You are hereby ordered to immediately disperse to your homes or lawful places of business; failure to do so will result in action by the State. God Save the King!”

The crowd jeered, and more rocks flew. As per the law, Pekeur followed his declaration by unholstering his pistol and firing a single shot above the crowd as a warning. More jeers, and more rocks. Smoke was becoming visible from several places in the crowd; a sign of torches and Molotovs. By this time, the protest was becoming a fully fledged riot, and the situation was spiraling rapidly out of control. The police, who had been issued batons and riot shields half an hour ago when things began to get bad, were being hard-pressed by the protestors seeking to break their line. They finally broke as a Molotov cocktail was smashed against a riot shield, glass exploding as fire engulfed the shield and the police were forced back. There was a brief moment of silence, almost surreal in its totality, as the rioters realized fully that they had crossed a deep line. The police, realizing their vulnerability, began to fall back to the steps of City Hall, dragging their wounded comrade with them. Pekeur sighed, and muttered calmly under his breath. “Misain ye a’ drin d’Maelkare. Mordero daghain pas duente cuebiyari.” I am a soldier of Malkyer. No fear of death holds my heart.

Speaking in Afrikaans to his men, he continued. “Maak gereed! Vuur, vooraf, vuur. Gee hulle tyd om te hardloop. Ophou skiet as jy die vierkant. Wapens verloor.” As one behind him, the soldiers raised their rifles, and the police commander called for his men to take cover.

“Vuur!”

Forty rifles cracked in unison, and dozens of rioters fell. The shouts of anger became cries of anguish, coupled with screams of fear and through it all could be heard sobbing, as people in the crowd bent to cradle their fallen friends.

Not realizing what had happened, those at the rear of the mob continued to push forward as those at the front tried to run back. The confusion prevented the mob from dispersing; the soldiers descended a step, raised their rifles, and fired again. More screams, more sobs.

By the third volley the entire mob had descended into madness, cries echoing through the town square as people slipped and fell in the blood pooling on the street. The wail of ambulances could be heard, but the medical responders would not enter the square while shooting continued. Knowing this, Pekeur called out to his men.

“Ophou vuur!” The command was obeyed instantly.

The town square was a scene from hell. Blood pooled in the streets, and villagers held fallen friends in their arms and cried out to the unhearing heavens. The rebels would undoubtedly use this day as propaganda; whether the public outcry would be strong enough to stay Manetheren’s hand in this province yet remained to be seen. Behind his dark glasses, Major Adam Pekeur sighed once more. Civilians always complicated matters.

It had started innocuously enough.

[Malkyer]

Patrai
Bellecôte Province
23 May 2010
29C/84C
1815H

“Tell me Desmond, what do you plan to say to the frog government and their Imperial masters?”

Desmond Stamatis rolled his eyes at his friend’s question. Ioannis meant well, but the local police chief often got ahead of himself in times of stress.

“Peace, Ioannis. I’ll have to think of something to placate them soon enough, but can’t I enjoy an afternoon barbecue with my family and friends, and leave the Assemblyman’s work until morning?”

Ioannis smiled, and sipped his beer in a vain attempt to assuage the evening’s summer heat. “Fair enough, my friend. Fair enough.”

Desmond laughed, and walked to where his wife stood preparing a table of side dishes. Grabbing a beer from the cooler, he popped the cap from the bottle and slid an arm around her waist. Even with the added heat, he breathed deep and enjoyed the scene of the fading sunlight. Ten or twelve of his good friends mingled in the back yard of his modest house, gathered for the first party of the summer. The smell of roasting lamb, mingled with lemon and rosemary, permeated the air as Desmond’s sons Panos and Demetrios tended the animal carcass turning on a spit over an open fire, in much the same way as Desmond’s grandparents would have done when this part of Bellecôte was still wild frontier. Nearby, Helena’s brother Yorgos manned the charcoal grill, watching like a loving father over hamburgers and spicy sausages. A few ears of corn and some other roughage were on the grill as well, to placate the womenfolk, but Yorgos clearly treated such things as an afterthought, when he paid them attention at all.

Unfortunately for Desmond, his professional mind did not let him focus his full attention on the festivities at hand. Silently, and only half-jokingly, he cursed his friend Ioannis for bringing up what he’d managed to put out of his mind. The Lamía incident, almost two weeks ago now—Can it really have been that long? It still seems like just a few minutes ago I turned on the news and saw those horrible images, the Dimokratikós Sýndesmos Assemblyman thought—had increased tensions immensely in a province where blood was already being shed on a weekly basis. The DS—the Greek name for the Republican League—had originally been founded in the middle of the last century as a broad-based republican party presenting itself as a moderate yet stalwart opponent to Imperial rule in Bellecôte. However, the party had radicalized during the 1990s, a period of time which saw an increase in nationalist feelings amongst the province’s ethnic Greek community, occurring simultaneously with an unprecedented spike in Imperial approval ratings among the French-speaking majority. The result had been the reformation of the DS as a Greek ethno-centric separatist party that had, since the turn of the century, become more and more identified with the rebel Saint Cyril’s Army—an identification that was more accurate that Desmond Stamatis liked to admit.

The fact had been part of Ioannis’ question. Following the Lamía incident, tensions had exploded into riots across the northeast of the province, where the Greek population was largely concentrated. Fearing more civilian casualties, the Governor had ordered the Provincial Militia mobilized, with the ostensible purpose of supporting Imperial troops already combating the insurgents. More of those are on their way by now, I guarantee, Desmond thought. As if Jarnsveld’s dogs aren’t enough of a pox. More than that, however, Desmond was willing to put money on the fact that the Governor intended to raise as many Greek regiments of the Militia as possible and subsequently send them away to distant parts of the province, in order to deprive the SCA of military-age men. A decent plan, if one lacking in subtlety.

“Hey, Des, my mobile’s not getting service and I need to call Annie. Can I use your landline?”

Distracted from his inner consternations, Desmond nodded to Ioannis, and took a swig of his slowly-warming beer. Chastising himself for not paying sufficient attention to his beverage, the Assemblyman took a another sip and kissed Helena on the cheek before moving on to shoot the breeze with a couple of friends waiting in line for the fruit of Yorgos’ labors. As it always had of late, talk soon turned to the war.

“Des, you think the fighting will interfere with the Province Cup?”

“Nah, no way. And just you wait—Kastos United will have Noveau Cherbourg for breakfast. Though I hear Tabres has been doing pretty well this year so far. Maybe it’ll be an actual—“

“Desmond! A minute, please!” Ioannis called from the sliding glass door that led into the house from the yard. What now? I swear, that man can’t be alone for more than two minutes without finding some problem. Outside, a diesel engine could be heard—the yard’s two-meter walls, installed for the Assemblyman’s privacy, prevented anything from being seen, but it wasn’t unheard of for delivery trucks to make rounds at this hour. A little unusual, but not unheard of.

The chief of police pulled the politician inside and slid the door closed. “Your landline’s down. I checked the television, and the cable’s out. Something is happening, Des.”

Before the politician could respond, he heard the front door of his home slam open, and a second later the garden gate outside followed suit. Soldiers in the camouflage of the Colonial Service stormed inside, an officer shouting in a language Stamatis didn’t understand, but that he assumed was Afrikaans. In one of those odd moments when time itself seemed to slow, the politican found himself contemplating in a rather academic fashion how well the harsh Germanic language seemed to compliment the image of soldiers with rifles raised.

“Snel, opskud! Ek wil dit lekker en vinnig!”

Before Stamatis could react, he found himself forced to the ground and his hands flex-cuffed. From the corner of his eye he saw Ioannis, who’d attempted to reach his pistol, brought down by the butt of a rifle. Outside, he could hear shouting as the rest of the guests were detained. Finally finding his voice, Stamatis began to shout.

“I am an elected Member of the Bellecôte Provincial Assembly! By the authority of the Emperor I demand you stand down and release us! I demand to speak to your commander!”

“Die Keiser sal jy nie help nie, jy vokken verraaier,” soldier standing over Stamatis sneered. An officer, a captain appeared and cut him short.

“Maak jou vokken mond, deWalt. My apologies, Assemblyman,” he said, switching to Hailene. “We needed to secure the area quickly, and there was no time for proper identification. I take it the overzealous gentleman with you is Mynheer Daxos?” With a nod from Stamatis, the captain called for a medic to attend to the police officer’s cranium.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Ben Marinus, One-Fourteenth CSR.”

“Would you mind releasing me and my friends, Captain? That is, before I speak with the Governor and have you all court-martialled for this?”

Marinus smiled widely, revealing straight and white teeth. There was no mirth in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Assemblyman, but I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. You see, some diligent work on the part of the Imperial Political Service has revealed Patrai to be quite the hub of rebel logistical activity. By order of His Excellency the Governor, martial law has been declared over Patrai and the surrounding area, until such time as the rebel presence has been driven out.”

Stamatis sputtered in outrage for nearly a minute before regaining his composure. “There are thirty thousand people in this town! Your one damned regiment can’t hold it, and the Governor knows that! There will be riots in the streets once people realize what’s going on here…you people can’t possibly want another Lamía?”

“Of course not, Mynheer Stamatis. Now, if you’ll come outside with me to the APC. I assure you, it will be much easier if you cooperate.”

“And you’ll shoot me if I refuse, I suppose.”

“I hope not, Mynheer Stamatis. You’re far more useful as a hostage than as a corpse.”

[Malkyer]

114.CSR HQ
6km West of Tarbes, Bellecôte Province
22 September 2010
14C/58F
0215H

“Pipe Major! Give us another song!” The command rang sharp over the din of music and clamor of voices. Pipers skirled a new tune, one of hundreds that had sent men into battle for a thousand years, and called them home at the end.

“Mr. President!” The call when largely unheeded amongst the noise of celebration.

“Mr. President!” The call repeated, this time far louder, gaining the attention of those in the Mess Hall of the One-Fourteenth Colonial Service Regiment.

“Mr. President, I have an accusation against one Major Adam Pekeur!” The caller, a lieutenant by the name of Hartz, beamed widely, his cheeks red and the thick accent of his native Vrystaat making his slurred speech difficult to understand for some.

“Mr. President, Adam Pekeur has committed the heinous offense of finishing his drink ahead of his comrades!”

The Mess President, Captain James Kelly, looked solemnly at the officer in question. In the Regimental CP, or on the battlefield, Adam Pekeur was Kelly’s superior. Tonight, in the Regiment’s Mess, however, James Kelly was the unquestioned ruler of all he surveyed. Such was the rotational nature of the tradition.

“Adam Pekeur, this is a very serious accusation Dannie Hartz has levied against you. What have you to say in your defense, sir?”

“Previous drink was a very good drink, sir!”

At a signal from Captain Kelly, two orderlies brought a small, steaming cauldron over to the table where Major Pekeur was seated. Donning thick gloves and picking up a pair of steel tongs, one of the waiters reached into the cauldron and withdrew a stainless steel cup overflowing with fog from dry ice. Handing the cup to the accused officer, the waiter was silent as the entire Mess watched the decades-old tradition. Major Pekeur tossed back the steaming cup in one shot, and blinked hard.

“Well, Adam? What have you to say on your sentencing?”

“Sir! Previous drink was a very good drink, sir!”

Helen Gerard yawned. The tear stains on her cheeks had long since dried, and she now looked sleepily at her table companions. A glass of gin and tonic sat untouched in front of her; the ice long since melted and the coaster soaked with perspiration. Ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, but they did little to alleviate the heat of hundreds of bodies, or the smell of same, especially when many of those bodies had been out fighting in the bush for over a year.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I really must be getting to bed. Thank you so much for your kindness and support, but I’m exhausted. I need to sleep more than anything else, now. Honestly, I—“

She was interrupted by Captain Kelly, who slammed a bottle of whiskey onto the table in front of her. The brown liquid sloshed in the bottle, significantly emptier than when the Captain had brought it from his quarters earlier in the evening. His presence at the Colonel’s table, the place of premiere honor, was somewhat unorthodox given his present assigned role as Mess President. His eyes were extreme focused, though on what Helen couldn’t exactly say. He looked supremely excited, and she was quite sure the man was drunk.

“Nonsense, m’lady. ‘Tis only nine o’clock,” the Captain explained with a wink to the Colonel and a not-very-subtle look at the clock on the nearby wall. The chronometer read six past nine, just as it had for the past four hours. More of Kelly’s shenanigans, no doubt. “You mustn’t end the night early. Stephanus would hate that. ‘Tis how we show him our honor and our pride.”

Colonel Jarnsveld watched Kelly closely as the Captain poured whiskey into glasses for Helen and the others at the table. The bagpipes continued their song; building a wall of glory for the men and women in their blue and white Colonial Service uniforms, a wall to shut out the horrors of war and the cries of fallen comrades.