Tropical Rot (MT | IC)

by **Cossack Peoples** » Sat Feb 20, 2021 7:32 pm

OOC

New Dawn Fades
PIEDSG HQ, New Munich
17:36 hours
Under the Smog of the City

Beautiful day we had here, today. Rain didn’t come in as expected,
so we here at the studio had no difficulty going out to eat lunch--

You got that right, Frederick!

-- anyhow, with a new shipment expected to depart tomorrow,
expect air quality to drop a few degrees,
‘cause those boys at the refinery are going to be working overtime.

Yup! Remember to wear your oxygen
and keep your kids inside for a bit while that happens.
But if you ask me, nothing quite stirs the blood
like another successful shipment of petroleum!

Ah, Hans. Always the patriot.
I bet the Richting Republic is going
to give you a medal one day.

You flatter me--
but they’d give me two, not one.
Ho-ho! Now, onto the evening report--
with low-PH rain making an appearance,
what is being done for our architecture? Find out after th--

The radio switched off. Wisps of foul smoke trailed upwards from the end of a cheap cigarette, disappearing before visibly reaching the yellowed ceiling of the room. That ceiling was held up by a faux marble fireplace and mantle to one side of the room, with papery and peeling eggshell white walls. Within the room was clutter-- bookshelves with worn treatises and patched novels, curled and creased rugs to wipe down the feet of oil-slicked boots, cabinets with spotted mirrors and dog-eared documents, and in the midst of it all, a rosewood desk scratched with labor, dulled by dust, and obscured by legal papers and one’s crossed feet.

Orest Morshun sighed as only one who had fallen into the same rut of ennui for as many times as he had could sigh-- and with a light grunt, he dropped his feet from his desk and sat forward, picking up the papers there and examining them as if they were new.

Morshun had been in the business a while. Not just WURCo.-- that business-- but in this business: put on a smile, take advantage of their laxness, and ruthlessly teach them a lesson while making a profit along the way. He had learned this himself long ago, while he was in relative youth-- it might have happened 36 years ago if Morshun was 65. And every so often in that business, there would be instants like this: dim lights, the slow rises and falls of respiration simply for the sake of it, and probing thoughts that were allowed to reach into the dark of the mind in those quiet moments.

What he thought about was meaningless-- he drifted from fancy to fancy, reexamining figures from his past disappear through the tobacco smoke, remembering how he grasped another’s hand only for it to crumble into sand as he reached out, reviving ancient conflicts fought with mortar shell as well as pen and committee. After all, it didn’t matter. Every time Morshun was like this, it was always inevitably to escape.

And now he needed an escape more than ever.

The door cracked open, letting in a stream of fluorescent light and an executive assistant who, folder in hand, flipped on the lights.

“Mr. Morshun, you charged me with reminding you about your appointment?” She said, a look of concern over whether she interrupted something.

Orest pushed himself up, murmured in assent, and stated, “That’s right. Prepare a car for me.”

Minutes later, the man had pulled a thick overcoat over himself which was as hot and stuffy as it could be in the humid environment of the Richting Atoll. However, as he also donned his cap, it protected him from any reemerging disease that could come from mosquitos, as well as the scarring acidity of the rain. Stepping out onto the street, he saw it yet again to be one of the dirtiest streets he had ever seen; garbage, both from consumers and industries, filled the storm drains; a film of tar mixed in with brine covered the streets and sidewalks, which were also in a sorry state of disrepair; and both north and south from that avenue, one could only see plumes of smokestacks.

It was only a short drive away to the consulate-- there, he would meet a Cossack representative who had summoned him for reasons even he didn’t know; and knowing was part of his job. Orest Morshun was one of the few that held a chair on the advisory board to the Pacific Isle Economic Development and Security Group, the prevalent political power of the Richting and Kupferland Atolls, mainly due to his status in his constituent corporation of WURCo. Then, he had been personally selected by Kazakov to represent WURCo. as a prominent investor into the islands, serving alongside two native islanders, Tonino Bonaccorso of Dernel, and Carlos Serrano of Crysuko.

In his transit, they cruised past the numerous sorry souls of New Munich and the Richting Atoll; to his perspective through tinted windows, they were only raggedy factory workers, addicts, or dreary clerks with stale existences. They passed Sira Richka Ltd. Refinery A, a monolith of rusted steel sheet metal and dirty concrete that extended some twenty meters off the ground in a huge, trapezoidal prism shape. It was the first of its kind built in the islands, and indeed in the world, because of its complete disregard for safety regulations, environmental hazards, or aesthetic appeal. Orest would track the tall smokestacks along his journey for as long as his stiff neck would allow.

The consulate was not a very impressive building-- then again, neither was the PIEDSG headquarters, nor most of the former colonies. It was a single-story construction of imported brick shipped from processed clay straight from the mother country of the FRCP; from the exterior, it resembled a small affluent preschool than an embassy; and outside atop a flagpole limply hung the stained banner of the Federal Republic.

A patriotic display by their standards, to be sure.

Moving past the security (a euphemism to detract from the reality of heavily armed soldiers), Morshun found himself in a modest private board room equipped with a rustic bar and was surprised-- for awaiting him was not just the representative, Pavel Ilyin, but an array of some of his associates in PIEDSG, military officials (Morshun could recognize Admiral Petruk), notable figures in the police of the islands, and a handful Morshun had never seen before.

“Ah, Orest, please take a seat,” Ilyin said, lifting himself up with a certain grace. As Orest sat, Ilyin began to slowly meander towards the bar, pouring himself an amber-colored liquid. “I take it that not many of you know in detail what orders have been issued by the National Assembly in closed committee, so you had best listen up because I am only going to say this once.”

Morshun and many others shuffled in their seat. What orders? What could possibly cause so many high-value personnel to assemble and listen to this melodramatic fool?

Pavel went on. “First and foremost, the Pacific Isle organization has done an excellent job in establishing shared heavy industry as well as necessary military infrastructure for Federal troops and its allies. As well as that, it has ensured that the Federal Republic ultimately has a say in the application of this island’s resources, which has proven to be of significant value to consumers back in the mother country. However, there is still a way in which the value of these islands can be further advanced. This way has some inherent risk, but it has been analyzed by our experts and they say the proposal has merit.”

“Out with it,” Called Admiral Petruk, apparently irked by the ambassador’s show.

Pavel’s face suppressed the flash of a scowl, returning to his usual light-hearted expression, before responding, “The National Assembly has orders for the policy of the Pacific Isles Economic Development and Security Group to change to accommodate a 400% per barrel increase in oil prices. This ought to sweeten--” Ilyin glanced to the north wall as if he could see the muddle beyond the bricks, “--the proverbial pot for the Federal Republic and its allies.”

Again, Petruk, ever the pragmatist, grilled Ilyin. “Forgive me for the intrusion again, Ambassador, but this seems as if this is a purely economic matter.”

Ilyin’s eyes lit up. “Yes, Counter-Admiral, I was just about to review that subject.” He reset his posture. “As well as simply the enactment of this change, the National Assembly would like to see these things enforced-- in case there is any dissent, if you understand what that means.”

The room seemed to shuffle in its seat again.

Morshun cleared his throat. “Ambassador Ilyin, on the behest of the National Assembly, did the analysts also foresee any risk that could come to the islands because of their plan?”

‘Ah, Mr. Morshun. No, from what I gathered they deemed that the risk, if any, is within perfectly acceptable bounds and would never be a detriment to the running of Cossack operations here.”

Morshun pretended to be appeased-- but while nodding his head slowly in comprehension, his brows were knitted together. He knew that was Фігня-- and that others in the room either ate it up or were aware of it too but just did not care.

Ramping up the prices by 400%--which would increase the price per barrel from around the original price of B 40 Cossack bills per barrel to nearly 200-- and using force to collect dues was the closest thing to highway robbery that PIEDSG could come to; but still perfectly legal, as PIEDSG nor many nations of the world were held to any form of economic standard.

After the usual formalities that accompanied a diplomatic visit from someone so esteemed (particularly drinking) concluded and the meeting terminated, Morshun staggered from the embassy in a sleepy haze. His car, which he recognized after he had buckled himself in, was out front and the driver asked him his destination.

“Take me to--” Morshun stopped. Though he had never yet hazarded it himself, he had heard there was plenty of fun things to do around town if one had the coffers-- plenty of romantically lit dens of sweaty sheets and momentary pleasures; repurposed warehouses that now acted as a club where one could find drugs from all across the spectrum; and even in the darker areas of New Munich, there were supposedly three separate colosseums where one could watch and gamble on different animals viciously fighting. These flashed his thoughts for a moment before he finally decided.

“Just take back to the headquarters building. I’ve got work to sort out.”

Even as he said it, Morshun sighed, exasperated.

Oh, what a bore I am.

by **Crysuko** » Sat Feb 20, 2021 8:17 pm

The Delphi corporation. One of several Crysukon state owned enterprises which was actively partaking in the parasitism and subjugation which was currently taking place. Their distinctive logo of a red diamond surrounded by a double ouroborous seen on packets of easily acquired narcotics and psychadelics. In their headquarters, a clean and secure building, contrasting against the the dilapidation of the rest of the town. The main island of the Kupferlands had certainly seen better days. Four men lit their cigars, sitting around a dimly lit conference table.

Carlos Serrano. A tall, well spoken and well dressed man, never seen without his tailored suit and tightly slicked back hair. The other men, in the standard uniform of Crysukon business leaders. Largely the same as a black tie suit, save for the long tailed overcoat in jet black with gold edging, accompanied by a gold medalion adorned with a red star. "I must say, Salvador, Delphi have outdone themselves. I have smoked many a cigar in my time, and you always manage to do it perfectly". Salvador, a shorter and somewhat portly man grinned in return "we couldn't have done it without you to speak for us. But, as fun as it is to stroke our egos, I have invited you all here with a business proposition"

He turned on a projector, showing several graphs on the far wall, next to a bay window overlooking the rolling evening ocean. "As you can see,we're stepping things up a notch. Neon is flying off the shelves and the facility we have here can't keep up. We will be doubling the size of our operation. more to sell near and far, making sure of course our allies get their cut of course.". The next to speak up was Lillith, a thin and statuesque woman, and the head of SteelTech, handling the mining and refining operations.

"We too will be increasing our throughput". The slide changed, the mines would be expanded and deepened, more aggressively digging into several rich veins of copper and iron they had found. "More people down the mines, if we implement this into a four shift rotation and build additional worker barracks on site for the mines and refineries, then we can keep digging and production going 24/7. Of course, offering employee discounts on Delphi products". The SteelTech logo of a crossed shovel and pick encased in a cogwheel emblazoned on her arm.

The last to speak was Alexander Rutte, representing Crossguard. The logo of a 5 black arrows crossed over a red background easily distinctive. "Crossguard can handle security, we have no shortage of local volunteers, but i'm hesitant to trust them with training and weapons. It'll take a great deal of vetting and psych eval to get the required amount of officers needed to keep security, but Major General de Graaf can spare the troops for guard duty in the mean time, but I would like to have CG security on sitr within at least three months, the presence of foreign troops is...unnerving, to my understanding"

All present came to the understanding, a few handshakes and promises. we support you to do this, if you support us to do this, and so on. An hour later, Carlos would leave the building to be chauffered back to his residence. Nothing short of a beachside mansion away from the polluted urban zones, and with an assault guard precinct a stone's throw away, he was easily one of the most hated men on the island, frequently giving long winded speeches about how this was all for the greater good, you're building a paradise and so on. But, he had enough wealth, connections and friends in high places to not care in the slightest.

by **Trenaka** » Sat Feb 20, 2021 9:13 pm

NEW MUNICH, RICHTING REPUBLIC

Gleaming steel would flash in the bright tropical sun as a small Trenakan naval escort plowed through the waves around the Richting Atoll. The naval escort slowed, and allowed three cargo ships within the group to enter the port of New Munich, in order to pick up a shipment of oil. The ships docked seamlessly, and workers hurried to get the barrels and barrels of oil loaded into the ship.

Aboard the bridge of the the lead vessel, a Hamburg-class destroyer known as the Augsburg, Admiral Lukas Flynn would watch, bored. His failure to secure the now-former colonies had gone awry due to supply issues, causing him to be demoted from Vice Admiral to Admiral, and given the slow task of escorting cargo from the Richting Atoll. It was a thankless, almost unnecessary job, as almost everyone in the Navy was certain that no harm would come to the shipments. The cargo ships, full of oil, exited the port, and rejoined the escort.

“Officer, set course for Kiel. Take the Atlantic route, so we have a lesser chance of running into pirates,” Flynn said to the navigation officer. The officer wordlessly mapped out the route, and the ship began to move once more. The rest of the fleet followed.

“Send a message to Munich that the first shipment of oil has been received and is in transit,” ordered the Admiral.

“Yes sir,” replied the comms officer, sending the message.

The fleet left the polluted air of the Atoll as they cruised along, into the seemingly endless Pacific Ocean.

EXECUTIVE MANSION
MUNICH, TRENAKA

4 men sat at the long, dark wooden table in the Executive Cabinet office. The President sat at the head of the table, to his right sat the Minister of Trade, Zeke Rothman, to his left the Minister of Commerce, John Gartner, and across from him the Foreign Minister, Otto Müller. Rothman received a message on his laptop from the escort fleet, confirming that the shipment had been received and that the oil would arrive in the port of Kiel is a few days.

“The shipment has been confirmed, and is on its way,” he stated.

“Excellent,” replied Müller. “Since that business is out of the way, we should discuss creating an embassy in the new republics, as I said when I asked for a meeting.”

“I think that is a good idea, we need to have some kind of ambassador there who can deal with local affairs, and can report to Munich if something goes wrong. We may even be able to try to hash out a proper trade deal over oil and copper, and not have to rely on the Munich Treaty’s resource provisions, if we can play our hand right,” said Gartner. “However, a trade deal may not be needed if we can focus on domestic production of oil. Plus, we could probably just buy copper elsewhere.”

“You are getting off track. What do you think about opening an embassy?” questioned Müller.

“I’m not sure that we should spend a lot on the embassy, seeing as the government isn’t making as much money due to our war debts,” Gartner suddenly looked like he had an idea. “What if we were to place tariffs on the oil and copper? That could provide a nice stream of government income, and it’s not like they can just stop sending it, because the Munich Treaty forces them to send us the resources. Is there any part of the treaty that specifically prohibits taxing the required exports?” asked the Minister of Commerce.

Müller would open his laptop and pull up an exact copy of the Treaty.

“I see no provision on us taxing the required exports. However, I don’t think that is a good idea. They could just cut us off and have the damned Cossacks and Crysukans and whoever else blockade the islands so we couldn’t invade them,” replied Müller.

“How would they receive our manufactured goods-“

“They are not reliant on our goods. I bet you anything WURCo. could supply them on their own,” The Minister of Trade would cut off the Minister of Commerce.

The President would speak up, “Stop arguing about this. I see no way to get them to increase shipments, especially not if we were to tariff the required exports. We will not tariff the required exports. However, I approve of the construction of an embassy. Müller, get your department to ask their government if they accept.”

The President would put a map on a projector screen, showing a map of the islands with red dots on it.

“These are the remaining Trenakan military bases in the islands. We will be sending some ships to get the bases to a good condition, as specified by the Treaty. Thank God our forebears had the foresight to not put nukes in the colonies. That would have been a disaster. This meeting is adjourned.”

by **Dernel** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 12:55 am

Brunetti was in his private jet, he was viewing the outside from one of his long windows, the air was clear enough to see the water horizon of the pacific. He looked back in his jet, it was a mixture of browns, beiges and, whites. Leather chairs, gold inlays, tables of white quartz with gold seams. He was a rich man, and soon he would stand to get even more rich. He picked up a fat blunt, probably around 25 millimeters wide, and around 100 long. He had a butler light it for him before he took an even bigger rip from it. He puffed the smoke out slowly enjoying every last bit that made him high.

He set the blunt down before gazing back out the window, it was considerably darker than before, he wondered if the blunt really had that much effect. He noticed the engines spinning considerably faster than before despite the fact he was getting closer to the islands. He began to see the smoke plumes of steel mills and copper refineries. He was able to see the airstrip hangars from his window now, he put out his blunt before tossing it in a garbage bin on his way to the door.

Before he exited a servant handed him a gasmask of which he put on as the door opened. Ironic. He thought to himself, he was guided to a building where upon entering he took off his mask. "Where is Panerelli, I need to give that man an award for the work he did." An aide informed him of Panerelli's whereabouts. Brunetti wandered towards the door as he put back on his gas mask to find the man.

A Couple Of Hours Later

Brunetti entered a dilapidated house, one that looked like it was falling apart as quickly as it was built. He found Panerelli passed out shirtless on a bed with a strange woman rifling through his wallet. "So this is what you've being doing, huh?"

Panerelli snapped up with a face of surprise before changing to a concerning level of what someone might've seen as indifference, Panerelli stood up slowly, rolling out of the low level bed before wobbling over to Brunetti and slinging his arm around his shoulder. "Come here, I need to show you something!" He guided Brunetti to an empty oil drum with an outline of Italy on it, Brunetti looked closer at the substance before he realized it was cocaine. "It's Italy! look, you can see it right? I did it all from memory!" Panerelli was shaking, while staring at Brunetti with all things considered, intense focus. He smashed his face into the image before taking a deep breath. Brunetti grabbed his hair and pulled his face off the white powder, and hoisting Panerelli on his shoulder, he carried him to his car before belting him in, and then getting in himself and driving off to the new DI plant.

A Good 40 Minutes And Some Dialogue I'm Not Writing Later

Brunetti was conversing with some Crysukans, "So you'll be able to get me the iron then?"
"Yes, and since your factory will be so close, transport costs will be incredibly low." the Crysukan responded
"Wonderful, start sending it over immediately, payments will arrive soon." Brunetti shook the Crysukans hand before turning away and waving onto some factory workers, one flipped a switch and a belt started moving bringing in some iron that began to be forged and cast into various parts. Soon enough, if there was a gun in a store, it'd have the Dernellian Industries logo, if was in someone's arms guarding a shipment of oil, it'd be Brunetti's. At least on these islands.

by **Spiritual Republic of Caryton** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 2:14 am

NUALOFA, CARYNESIA, THE SPIRITUAL REPUBLIC OF CARYTON

The simple and plain life of a Carytonic resident. Notice the plain dress, the clean lifestyle, and honest work.

"Brothers and sisters," A young and joy-infused voice greeted an office full of modestly dressed men and women, the island sunshine pouring in the pastel yellow walls, illumining everything from the organ to the row of Bibles and Books of Cary's Example laid on the pews. The speaking man was wearing an old but modest suit, a Christian flag pin over his heart. "The events on the Kupferland islands and the Richting Atoll have broken our hearts. Once again, we see the exploitation of human souls for little more than monetary gain. Nations revel in the exploitation of the commoner. My friends, these people live in literal trash and are turning to the morally indecent to cope with the fact that they have all been wronged."

Tearful eyes lined the congregation of regional higherups. Men and women alike cried in sympathy for the citizens, others looked determined to take action.

"My friends, we must act in the name of our savior, Jesus Christ- and his vessel, Cary the Golden Retriever. I turn you to Psalm 37:7, 10-17..." He read aloud:

"Be still before the Lord
and wait patiently for him;
do not fret when people succeed in their ways,
when they carry out their wicked schemes.
...
A little while, and the wicked will be no more;
though you look for them, they will not be found.
But the meek will inherit the land
and enjoy peace and prosperity.

The wicked plot against the righteous
and gnash their teeth at them;
but the Lord laughs at the wicked,
for he knows their day is coming.

The wicked draw the sword
and bend the bow to bring down the poor and needy,
to slay those whose ways are upright.
But their swords will pierce their own hearts,
and their bows will be broken.

Better the little that the righteous have
than the wealth of many wicked;
for the power of the wicked will be broken,
but the Lord upholds the righteous."

The crowd of higher ups read along, the verse ringing loud as the speaker closed the scripture.

"Friends, we've just received permission from the Church to intervene. The military is being prepared for deployment as we speak, and the public aid is already being sent. No other nation is standing up for the values of the people- no other nation is currently acting in the way that our Savior has, so the job is ours and ours alone. Better they live simple and plain lives than lives among the rats and maggots. We will occupy their islands after we've won the support of the people, and tear down those factories bit by bit. We will pick up every piece of trash, shut down every bar, and feed every poor person. We will make them happy among the farms- and most of all, we will permanently sanction the resources from those who exploited them. If the economies of foreign nations suffer, consider that the Lord's judgement."

-

A short but strongly-worded letter to the PIEDSG government would be wired from Georgine as follows:

"To whom it may concern,

Your exploitation of these poor souls ends today. Consider this your ultimatum. Either undo all of the destruction you've unleashed on this islands' people, or we will come over and do it ourselves. If we have to incorporate the islands into Caryton and our Church ourselves, your allies will never see another lick of resources from these islands again. Refer to Psalm 37:10-17, and consider repentance.

- Asst. Leading Reverend Kyle Johnson,
Vice-Leader of the Spiritual Republic of Caryton, Ecclesiastical Meritocracy
Vice-Leader of the Federal Gospel Authority of the Gospel Church of Caryton."

-

RICHTING ATOLL, MAIN ISLAND

One of the many evangelical signs of the GCC which have begun to sprout up mysteriously.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dI5rPPW44QM

Overnight, 200 missionaries of the Gospel Church of Caryton had been sent, 100 to the Richting Atoll. Spiritual songs like this have been blasting on repeat. They had been going door to door in pairs, spreading the word. Their main target would be the poor and ill- those hit hardest by the events on the islands. Soup kitchens made by the church would be constructed almost instantaneously, serving sweet-tasting Carytonic oatmeal to the homeless, while also providing pamphlets and self-help resources. Caryton would have sent a total of over 3 billion dollars to both islands, but it would not be sent to their bank accounts. It would be sent to the GCC's organizations- to leave no doubt on who exactly was helping the needy of these islands.

What Caryton was doing was unlike the feeble attempts of evangelism that street preachers likely took to in the past. This time, the church had an entire nation at its disposal as essentially a theocracy. This time, the preachers had the resources to actually pull through on their promises. Clearly marked Carytonic volunteers would be seen happily singing hymns as they dutifully worked through the impossible heaps of trash. Even though they'd never get rid of all of it, the sight was certainly inspiring for others. Missionaries would place signs encouraging repentance on the street, would preach to ethnic minorities, the disabled, and all those hit hardest by the incessant industrialization. Caryton was essentially pouring tonnes of resources in helping the needy- on Caryton's terms. The clothes they gave the needy looked straight out of the 1800s, there would be scriptures with every backpack of school supplies, and the young kids who would be given free exchange programs and college scholarships would be sent to religious schools in Caryton.

To the PIEDSG's horror, Caryton was instigating a religious-based public dissatisfaction with the status quo. Beautiful pioneer hymns blasted through old car speakers, posters featuring a happy Christian-based agrarian life in Caryton were being laid on top of the ads for a 'good time' and graffiti. Portraits of Jesus Christ were being left on street corners in small shrines where prostitutes would usually work in an attempt to discourage such crime to further sabotage the black market economy.

Among the hordes of people inexplicably flying in from what was usually ignored as a religiously backwater great plains-type farming nation would be members of the Joyful Prophecy Temperance Union. Caryton was already instigating the war on occupation, the war on pollution, the war on poverty, the war on atheism, and now it was fighting the war on moral indecency. Women in amish-style clothing would flood the streets and would begin a call for total prohibition on all 'substances and sexacts'. The JPTU would call on local feminist groups and religious organizations as well as the poor and addicted to begin a grassroots JPTU branch, so even if the Carytonic women were expelled, the movement would continue. These women would publicly pray outside of red light districts, forming 'sit-outs' to block out potential buyers and preach to them. They would preach to those trying to enter bars, to those trying to shoot up, to those trying to push product. In due time, a prostitute surrounded by two bonnet-wearing psudeo-nuns wouldn't be uncommon.

At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before public support for these people would begin to grow. Missionaries were already scheduling baptisms.

by **Palmyrion** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 8:34 am

Palmyrion Presents...
THE NEW ORDER

Palmyrion shall fulfill her destiny not only on this earth, but also in the stars above.

Almost a full year had passed since Palmyrion started distributing the COVID-19 vaccine to its populace in a first doses first scheme, giving Palmyrion a fighting chance against the coronavirus that had forced it almost to its knees - but it proved only one thing and one thing only, and that was Palmyrion was an empire that survived, endured, and thrived. As herd immunity was established and COVID-19's virulence was being contained, establishments slowly but surely started opening at full capacity, with Palmyrion's "core twelve" industries taking first order of priority in the lockdown and community quarantine alleviations. By New Year 2022, Palmyrion reported no additional case for one month, eventually ceasing lockdowns wholesale a week before Valentine's, but still restricting international passenger travel.

She was now ready to reclaim her glory and destiny - and establish her order.

21 February 2022
Situation Room, Royal Citadel
Aragon, D.C., Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth
Region of Greater Dienstad
21 February 2022 1156H

A nation still in shock, awe, and celebration of the end of COVID-19 related lockdowns, the Royal Commonwealth welcomed her new order with confidence and caution, eager to rise anew from the ashes of a tumultuous era in its history. The ruling party coalition - comprised of the social democratic Social Democratic Party and the neoliberal Commonwealth Action Party - soon set their sights on a three-year revitalisation plan for the Royal Commonwealth, to be implemented starting 1 March 2022.

But nobody thought of including the expansion of Palmyrion's sphere of influence as part of her three-year revitalisation plan, and yet here was the Lakambini, the Chancellor, the Vice-Chancellor of State Affairs, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff convening in the Royal Citadel's Situation Room.

"Copper deposits and oil. And a vital post in the Pacific." remarked the Navy Chief of Staff, Supreme Admiral Victor Somera, as he showed and pointed to satellite photos of the islands and their associated resource output values and population sizes.

"Greater Dienstad has more than enough of both, and they can come from countries we know to be warm towards the Royal Commonwealth. What will we get from "liberating" islands far more distant from us than, what, Ralkovia?" the Army Chief of Staff retorted, looking at the Navy Chief of Staff.

"PR. Geopolitical positioning outside of the region." the Navy Chief of Staff said in reply to the Army CS's retort. "And, most of all, the expansion of the Greater Palmyrian Commonwealth." he added.

"The Greater Palmyrian Commonwealth is already big as it is. Supply lines to Frojo and Vekta are already long." the Air Force Chief of Staff said. "What more do we want?"

"We don't necessarily need to occupy them. Bringing them into our sphere of influence is what is necessary. In fact it's more preferable than outright occupation, and besides establishing such a distant post helps flatten our loss of strength gradient." the Navy CS answered.

"I hope you do realise we cannot commit yet to a full-scale invasion of the islands, post COVID and all." the Air Force CS noted, with Palmyrion just fresh out of the COVID-19 pandemic. "We're just out of the woods and even then we are full of bites, bruises, and scratches." he added.

"Our operations would be restricted mostly to intelligence gathering for now, but I can call for a battlegroup to level up to high alert status for any contingency regarding the matter." the Navy CS said. "If excrement hits the fan, they'll be deployed within 24 hours."

Naval Station Jaboneta, Zambales
Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth
Region of Greater Dienstad
22 February 2022 2334H

Leaving port was two entire Packs of submarines - one Strike Submarine Pack and one Guided Missile Submarine pack - headed for Richting Atoll and Kupferland Islands, going for the islands in a carefully-mapped path, staying below the thermocline to prevent detection by any unfriendly navy. They tried to make as few rest stops as possible, but inevitably given the long course of travel they would have to dock in friendly ports to help their crew refreshen themselves before any voyage in the claustrophobic vessels.

Their mission, aside from busting the front door if need be, was to conduct a reconnaissance mission in the waters surrounding the islands, particularly around Signals and Electronic Intelligence. The voyage would take upwards of two weeks to less than a month - but that didn't mean the Palmyrians would slack around during that time, for it would be a month of reconnaissance flights by R.109 supersonic high-altitude recon planes, insertion of intelligence assets, and Palmyrion's own constellation of reconnaissance satellites themselves. This "liberation" was a year in the making, one being planned at the lowest echelons of command, before being elevated to higher command echelons when the New Sandau situation, still a horrible war of attrition, cooled down.

Palmyrion would gladly take the distinction of firing the first shots if need be. She would bring the islands to her sphere of influence under the pretense of liberation...by force if necessary.

by **Crysuko** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 8:48 am

With the religious agitation underway, Carlos took it upon himself to address the issue. Taking a car to the TV station, he had a speech planned as well as several measures which would hopefully stymie this problem before it got out of hand.

He stood in front of the cameras, made sure his tie was straight, and began to speak. All listening to the TV and radio would hear him. “Friends and citizens of the Richting and Kupferlands, as much as it pains me to bring you this news, an insidious danger has come. Like a virus trying to undermine the utopia we are building, some of you have no doubt noticed religious messages. This is nothing more than a selfish power grab by a foreign entity. They want you to live in fear, they want you to adhere to their archaic, Bronze Age doctrines.”

“I ask you to stand up to them. Tell them no, I will not be intimidated, I will not be misled with lies and foreign propoganda. They claim to have a message of hope, but all they are doing is seeking to undermine all that we have built together. The industry, the infrastructure, the wealth that we share. They would steal all of it in the name of their backwards superstitions. Once again, be alert, be aware, and be safe. Thank you for listening”

A phone call to Crossguard and Assault Guard precincts would also ensure that the missionaries would be arrested and harried every step of the way, demanding an entry permit and other papers, and putting them in cuffs when they failed to produce it.

One group of civilians was shown the troubling sight of one such missionary, clearly beaten to within an inch of his life being hauled into the back of a police car. “What did he do to deserve that?” A young woman asked. The Assault Guardsman put his baton away and turned to answer. “He attempted to corner a group of children coming home from school, and became violent when we intervened. I didn’t want it to come to that,but these foreign agents are dangerous people. Report any sightings immediately!”

by **Trenaka** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 9:36 am

The bright white jet’s wheels touched down on the tarmac, eventually slowing to a halt. A man in a lavish suit exited the private jet, and upon breathing in the polluted air of the Kupferlands, began coughing profusely. The man’s name was Jack Gunther, CEO of Trenakan Metalworks, and one of the richest people in Trenaka. He put on a face mask, and walked down the runway and into the airport. After going through customs and security, he eventually found his way out of the airport, where a black BMW sedan sat idling in front of the airport. He entered, and was driven to the newest factory complex on the island, which had officially opened only a week before. The factory was made of concrete and steel, with long smokestacks belching out foul smoke. Gunther entered the factory, and went to the manage’s office inside, where the factory manager was typing on a computer.

“Good morning, Mr. Bauer,” he said to the manager.

“How was your flight?” Bauer asked.

“Uneventful. Anyway, I am here to discuss getting employees for this factory. Thankfully, the new government here is far more lenient on businesses than Trenaka ever was. We can pay them next to nothing, but the hard part is getting people to work here over other factories. Anti-Trenakan sentiment seems high, somehow, even though this place is far worse under the new government, so the citizens of this dreadful island will likely not want to work for a Trenakan company.”

“Well, we could always.... persuade the local government to help us and prioritize foreign companies’ development over local ones. Maybe we could get some Crysukan or Dernellian companies in on the deal as well.”

“That’s a good idea.... I am going to go meet with some local government officials in New Stuttgart.”

Gunther exited the factory, and directed his chauffeur to take him to the National Assembly building in New Stuttgart.

(OOC: I just put “National Assembly” in there as a placeholder, since I don’t know what the Kupferlands’ government would be called.)

by **Polslovakia** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 1:09 pm

5 Dassault Mirage 2000N bombers, 3 A-10 Thunderbolt II attack aircraft, 3 CH-53 helicopters carrying Nimrod missiles and 3 HF-23 bombers fly over the port on the eastern Kupferland island, escorted by 6 Eurofighter Typhoons.

The lead plane is a HF-23 bomber. Wing Captain Teodor Klecha and Chief Navigator Alan Zloty look nervously at the controls.

“There it is.” Zloty says, pointing below.

Klecha grabs the radio. “Reached target, drop load, commence, commence, commence!”

The helicopters go first, dropping a dozen Nimrod missiles onto the port. Then more explosions from the other aircraft. Zloty looks out of the cockpit, towards the sea, where an aircraft carrier with more attack bombers was, escorted by a small squadron of destroyers, cruisers and auxillary ships. The naval bombardment begins.

by **The Polar Nation** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 1:18 pm

Yevgeniy Kovalov

A proverbial camera panned past the smokestacks and factories of Richting Atoll towards a clean, very clean luxury car driving in the dirty streets. The main occupant of that car, who sat in the passenger's seat, was Yevgeniy Kovalov, a very rich man, a Russian oligarch, and, secretly, a member of the Polar Nation. Oh, not a low-ranking terrorist involved in slinging bombs and gas attacks; the man had moved past that. Kovalov was a benefactor to the Polar Nation, giving the terrorist group millions in donations, and also operated... how do you say this kindly... unpaid, involuntary workers in Siberia, as per the ideology.

Yevgeniy Kovalov looked out the window at the grime and poverty of the Richting "Republic". It was those tropicals living there who were at fault, the Polar Nation had told him. The Polar Nation surmised that the tropicals were genetically inferior, snd thus predisposed to become poor. Kovalov had a lighter view on the subject: that these tropicals should pull themselves up by their bootstraps because the system was just. Well, it wasn't just tropicals. But it was.

Kovalov idly mused on whether his method of belief was similar to that of a cult member. No, this time this political viewpoint was right, unlike all the others, and besides, the pleasure Kovalov took in giving his inferiors the knowledge of their rightful place was worth everything else.

Yevgeniy wasn't going to invest. These islands were dying, and he didn't want to postpone the eventual realization of the other businesspeople that the tropics were overrated. Maybe he could set up an employment agency. No, these tropicals probably were already employed, just at low-pay, dangerous jobs.

So why was Kovalov here, then? Simple. He really liked what they were doing to the islands. It was a reason why colonialism, at least of tropical places, and big business corporatism should be here to stay. He had come to Richting Atoll to admire, and—damn it! When will heavily armed neocons learn that commerce is better than war?

Michael Masotsuki

In a small boat, docking off the coast of the Krupferland Islands, was an angry young man named Michael Masotsuki, who wore an anime t-shirt and explosives disguised as ornamental buttons on his belt. Michael was here to prove himself and show that he hated tropicals as much as any Polar Nation member.

Michael was going to massacre the inhabitants, and possibly to capture some of them and sell them to some other Polar Nation person. Masotsuki wasn't going to damage the actual infrastructure of the factories, refineries, or anything owned by the businesses however. That would be contrary to all the good things happening here, all the tropicals recognizing their own place. Hopefully, the big business men would turn a blind eye to some murders or explosions in townships and slums.

Michael walked over to a slum, whistling a jaunty tune. Miners with faces sooty from dust stared at Masotsuki. Michael Masotsuki was a Yonsei, born and raised in Seattle, but his great-grandparents came from Japan one hundred years ago. Michael swore revenge on the US government for sending his great-grandparents to internment camps, even though he never met them.

When he turned eighteen, Michael tried to move to Japan. Alas, he didn't know Japanese customs, and never really became fluent in the language, and became a laughingstock. All he got out of his experience was the Polar Nation. It was a big revelation. Masotsuki finally had something to direct his anger at. The tropicals in US government who interned his ancestors, and tropicals in general, especially on these islands.

Michael Masotsuki saw some signs with Bible verses on them, that some enterprising missionaries had put there to "uplift" the natives. "Ugh, Christians." There was a reason Michael had started worshipping at Shinto shrines instead of going to church. Michael kicked one of the Bible verse signs, causing it to fall over.

The Polar Nation man came to a street full of dingy, dilapidated shacks. Perfect. Michael Masotsuki turned each of his bombs on to explode in an hour. He threw what looked like buttons and badges near each of the houses. Maybe some kids will pick them up, play with them, and then die tragically. Even more perfect. Masotsuki walked out of the slum, having disposed of all the bomb buttons. He imagined the sounds of explosions and screams and laughed silently.

by **The Crowned Republic** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 1:32 pm

Some far distance away from the gradually developing affairs, a tired office clerk processed a digital update for the CR Navigational Oversight Office's meek website page and its "time-table" from the comfort of their home. Once completed, it would relay, as necessary, any directives to the on-duty Hydrographic Division based northerly in Crag. Receiving, and promptly ignoring, a system-bound notice for a software update, the worker retired for a snack as the government computer conducted itself in a most unusual way.

The impact of this sudden intrusion went largely unnoticed. Aboard the HMCRS Courtier, flagship of the nation's flotilla, the Second Mate promptly performed the necessary procedures to indicate a new entry from headquarters. The range included a general line of passage from which was given particular importance. Given that missions such as these were typically to keep the crew in check, it was elected independently that the Captain incorporate five prospective recruits from the nearby navy base. So soon as daylight broke, a three-ship armada of the aforementioned Courtier, her sister ship the Mischief, and the supply-ship Progress would depart. Upon Progress, a government liaison had arrived without warning or explanation and advised that they be made to oversee the operation. Being a bit magisterial, however, it was discussed among the three Captains between their quarters that they hold a strong yet supporting role in this; the Captain of the Progress would therefore lead internal communications, the Courtier's would govern the chartered coursing, and the Mischief's would perform the vast bulk of operational activities.

In commemoration, the Mischief's officer detachment pulled some strings through the chain of command to get a wintry image of their vessel's bow and a noted message for their friends and family on some social media platforms. Other than the now-updated time-table on the service's website, which seemed more notably vague than anything, little betrayed the eminent danger of their foray into waters uncharted.

by **Dernel** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 2:03 pm

[*]

Polslovakia wrote:5 Dassault Mirage 2000N bombers, 3 A-10 Thunderbolt II attack aircraft, 3 CH-53 helicopters carrying Nimrod missiles and 3 HF-23 bombers fly over the port on the eastern Kupferland island, escorted by 6 Eurofighter Typhoons.

The lead plane is a HF-23 bomber. Wing Captain Teodor Klecha and Chief Navigator Alan Zloty look nervously at the controls.

“There it is.” Zloty says, pointing below.

Klecha grabs the radio. “Reached target, drop load, commence, commence, commence!”

The helicopters go first, dropping a dozen Nimrod missiles onto the port. Then more explosions from the other aircraft. Zloty looks out of the cockpit, towards the sea, where an aircraft carrier with more attack bombers was, escorted by a small squadron of destroyers, cruisers and auxillary ships. The naval bombardment begins.

Two things, 1) As stated in the OOC, this is not really meant to be an all out war thread, if it was, we would have stayed in the old one. Shooting everything you see is not the goal here.
2) I don't think you realize how difficult it would be to get anything near, much less above the islands without anyone noticing until bombs are dropped.

Let me give you a quick rundown here, The islands, have cargo ships, surrounded by escorts, running back and forth, around and between. Chances of those spotting a battle group are pretty high. On top of the satellites that most of us have, I almost guarantee someone would have spotted you with said satellites. Then, compounded by the various aircraft traveling to and from airports, either doing patrols, or just simply practice. The various naval ships as well, which I mind you, would easily be able to spot you well before you get to the distance to actually be able to bombard the islands with artillery.

In reality what is more likely to happen is this, your vessels begin to approach islands from beyond horizon, spotted by one of numerous methods stated above, your vessels are hailed, you answer the reason for sending an entire battle group to a couple of atolls, or don't. Either way you're likely to be fired upon for aggression. The aircraft you launched would likely be shot down by the concerning amount of SAM towers, thanks to Cossack, well before you get close enough to drop bombs. If that didn't mulch all the jets, the various aircraft would have scrambled by then, and begin fighting. Then proceed to mulch said aircraft.

by **Crysuko** » Sun Feb 21, 2021 5:30 pm

The missionaries found themselves stymied at every corner, arrested by police and military, never to be seen again, attempting to catch workers coming out of mines and factories resulted in them being picked up by eagle eyed security officers in their fortified watchtowers, and even informed on by said workers and civilians looking for the handful of coin and fleeting respect they'd get in return for cooperating with the occupiers. you're creating a public nuisance. you need a lisence for that. these signs are considered littering, they were never given a spare moment.

Meanwhile, Lillith Adams stood in her office overlooking the evening shift of workers march in parallell file into the opening of one of several mineshafts, each one in a plain blue boiler suit, hardhat and respirator and equipped with their tools. At that moment, a pair of Crossguard officers came in, hauling a handcuffed missionary with them. "Excuse us ma'am, but as you requested, we've brought one of them for your personal questioning" They shoved the man forward, taking a step back themselves. She sat behind her desk, igniting a cigar with a distinctive green stamp.

"So, you're one of these faithful that i've been warned off" she spoke airily, blowing a plume of acrid smoke in his direction "My main question is this, why? all was peaceful until relatively recently, until you and your friends start causing trouble. If you tell us who sent you and why, you will be shown leniancy" she tapped some ash into a tray, taking another long drag, expecting a reply. The guards had closed and locked the door behind them, and were standing ready in case of any trouble.

by **Palmyrion** » Mon Feb 22, 2021 1:46 am

Antonio Cadiena Air Base, 21km NNE of Baguio City
Benguet, Cordilleran Federal Republic
Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth
22 February 2022 0350H Union Standard Time

Listen.

Control, this is Vandal 2-1, Banshee* and crew are on the apron, final mission preparations are done. Pilot and rezzo** boarding.

Vandal 2-1, this is Control, we confirm Banshee and crew on the apron, we say again, we confirm Banshee and crew on the apron. Awaiting ready from flight crew.

Major Hilado and Captain Martin, drab in orange high-altitude flight suits, walked side by side (Captain Cassandra Martin being a little forward of Major Hilado) to the Banshee, holding their helmets as they strode forward to a Banshee being attended to by ground maintenance crews. They ascended to the cockpit via a flight of boarding steps mounted on a small airport tractor, with a ground crew member responsible for shutting them in their cockpits once they are boarded saluting them as they settled into their cockpit seats. Once settled and sealed in the cockpit, Captain Martin radioed air traffic control for clearance to take-off.

Casual and Horus made final preparations for the flight, pushing the few buttons and flipping the few switches on the Banshee's glass cockpit to activate relevant flight systems before flight, ticking off a mental checklist of pre-flight preparations they had to do in the cockpit before takeoff. "Control, this is Casual, we are ready for takeoff, over." Casual radioed Antonio Cadena AB's ATC as she finished the pre-flight preparations in her cockpit, Horus doing the same for the reconnaissance systems on the aircraft.

"Casual, this is Control, proceed to Runway Zero Eight Two Six for takeoff." the ATC replied, at which point a plane tug positioned the aircraft to their assigned runway for takeoff.

Control, this is Vandal 2-2, we're tugging Casual into position. We have Vandals 2-3 and 2-4 standing by to provide a kickstart at your authorisation.

Roger, Vandal 2-2. Casual will inform us when they're in position. Cadiena Alpha Bravo out.

Casual, this is Vandal 2-2, you're in position for takeoff.

"Control, this is Casual, we are positioned for takeoff." Casual radioed ATC as they awaited further orders, which was promptly replied by ATC with a notice that they'll be started by two starter trucks. "Casual, this is Control, Vandals 2-3 and 2-4 will spin you up for takeoff. Notify us when your engines are up to speed, over." ATC replied, as two starter trucks went under the Banshee's engines, one per engine, and spun it up to 3,600RPM.

"Roger, Control. We'll notify you when we're spun up."

"Control copies all. Out."

Casual, this is Vandal 2-0, 2-3 will be spinning up Engine One, 2-4 will be spinning up Engine Two.

Copy, Vandal.

Casual and Horus can feel the engine spinning up to speed, the engine's mechanical vibration and high-pitched howl stirring up their spirits as the engine roared to life. Once the engines arrived and were maintained at the appropriate RPM figure, Casual radioed Control for clearance to take off.

"Control, this is Casual, we are spun up and ready for takeoff."

"Casual, this is Control, you are cleared for takeoff. KC.104 is in sector for for refuel. You have the sky."

"Copy, control, my sky."

The Banshee immediately started powering its already spun-up engines, with an initial spray of JP-7 injected into the engine being ignited afterwards by triethylborane in millisecond-precise timing. As the engines raged into motion, Casual and Horus can feel the power of the engines accelerating them and their beastly aircraft into take-off speeds at ground level.

"Control, we are rolling."

"Copy, Casual."

"V-1, check." Major Hilado radioed over the in-flight intercom to Captain Martin.

"V-1, rotate. And...we have velocity. Gear away." Martin replied.

"Gear away, check." Major Hilado confirmed.

"Control, this is Casual, we are away."

24,000 MASL, 200km NNE of Kupferland Islands
22 February 2022 0600H Union Standard Time

The flight took nearly two hours from Palmyrion to Kupferland Islands, which housed the territories' copper mines. Below them, nearly at 2,000 MASL, was a verdant stretch of blue interspersed with toppings of cloud cover. The Banshee cruised at 1,100 metres per second (Mach 3.2), which meant they only had at most two to three minutes before they reached Kupferland Islands proper, and from there it was to travel an east-southeast course from Kupferland Islands to Richting Atoll, snapping pictures of important locations on the islands and conducting SIGINT and ELINT operations as part of its flight course.

"Alright, let's snap some photos. Hopefully they'll be IG-worthy." Horus remarked as he started up the IMINT, ELINT, and SIGINT equipment. The various SIGINT and ELINT equipment were stored at the various mission bays around the aircraft, which would conduct communications eavesdropping on the islands. IMINT equipment consisted of a high-resolution electro-optical/infrared camera coupled with a side-looking synthetic aperture radar, both of which would provide detailed intel on ground assets on the islands.

It was all going well for the reconnaissance mission, until they were hailed by the islands' air defence control. Flying at a high altitude of about 24,000 meters above sea level for a good portion of the flight meant local air defence had a large radar horizon with which to detect them, but the Banshee, like the A-12 and the SR-71 upon which it was based, not only had speed on its side but also, for an aircraft its size, a relatively small radar cross-section of 10 square metres. Even then for modern air defence systems it was still a large radar cross section, leading to its inevitable detection and acquisition by ground-based radar, and while speed was certainly on its side it had at best dubious agility.

Was there no turning back by now?

*Banshee - the name of the SR.109 Supersonic High-Altitude Reconnaissance Aircraft
**Rezzo - RSO, which stands for reconnaissance systems officer

by **Bolslania** » Mon Feb 22, 2021 10:19 am

An Airbus A500 touched down on Richtig Atoll. On its wings and fuselage were the White stars on the Blue circle, the insignia of the Bolslanian Foreign Legion. As the aircraft was taxied, under the supervision of other Legionnaires, the nose to the cargo bay opened, revealing 25 tons of medical supplies, including vaccines, blood, and other hospital supplies. As well as construction materials and food. A cordon was formed around the aircraft, the Legionnaires keeping civilians from rushing the aircraft for the supplies. The atmosphere was calm, the civilians apparently had no interest in causing issues with the armed Legionnaires. The Airbus was unloaded, the medical supplies being distributed to various hospitals, and the food was delivered to depots scattered throughout the island. The construction supplies were picked up by islanders, and they were taken to fix houses and business. A shipment would be arriving to the Kupferland Islands later that day. But for now, Legionnaires would be making patrols, ships keeping tradeways open, soldiers protecting civilians, and aircraft patrolling the skies, in conjunction with local forces.

3 days later,

BNS Conqueror, near Richtig Atoll

The Conqueror, a modern Kingfisher class destroyer, powered through the waves of the Pacific. She was one of the most advanced vessels currently sailing, able to find all but the best submarines or naval vessels. She was patrolling near the harbor, observing the merchant convoy making its way into the harbor.

Sonar Room, 2nd deck

Hans Gruber sat at his station, casually listening to the sonar. They were running passive at the moment. So far their had been no need to run active sonar. He swirled his coffee around in his cup, taking a sip every so often. He paused. He adjusted his sonar headset to fit snuggly on both ears, the men near him shut up, they had seen him tense up, and knew he was listening to something. A man opened a bulkhead door, and was about to speak, but he was hushed before he could say anything.

What is that? He heard something that sounded like a dishwasher. Pump jet? his finger rested on the intercom, he depressed the button.

"Sonar to bridge, pump jet sounds, slow speed. Class of vessel is TBD, over." He said. A moment later, a reply came.

"Copy that sonar. Let us know when you figure out what the vessel is, over.". He listened. It was definitely a submarine, could be a Lobanov or a Rigel class attack submarine. He spoke again into the PA

"Sonar to bridge, the vessel is either a Cossack Lobanov-Class attack submarine, or a Palmyrionian Rigel-Class attack submarine. Over."

"Copy that sonar. One moment." Came the reply.

On the bridge, a message was shot to the Cossack station on the islands, asking if they had any submarines operating in the area. It was possible that it was just standard water noises, thats what made pump jets so damn difficult to detect.

by **Cossack Peoples** » Mon Feb 22, 2021 3:45 pm

(Reserving for big post, have a lot of stuff to cover) (Nevermind I forgot about this)

by **Trenaka** » Mon Feb 22, 2021 6:20 pm

A plane’s wheels would touch down on the rough tarmac, and a man in a business suit with a blue tie would exit the plane. He would put on a face mask to be able to bear the polluted air of the Richting Atoll. The man was Jonas Meyer, a middle-level Trenakan government official in the Ministry of Trade. He was there to observe the construction of an oil refinery and drilling complex, owned by the company Tropical Petroleum. This company was secretly owned by the Trenakan government, and that detail was thankfully unknown to the local government. The reason for this secrecy was to get around the Richting Republic’s high export tariffs on non-treaty oil to Trenaka.

Meyer got into a light grey car, which sped off towards the oil complex. Upon arrival, he was greeted by Tom Haagen, the supervisor of the construction crew.

“Mr. Meyer. I see you are here for the latest report?”

“Yes. How far along is the construction? When will it be done?”

“I estimate in about two weeks. We have all of the major oil drilling and refining equipment set up, the only thing left is to finish the actual building and clear the rubble. The first shipment to Trenaka will happen in around a month, and will happen on a weekly basis.”

“Are you thinking of sending the oil from a public port?”

“Yes, where else would we send it?”

“Well, we don’t want to make the local government suspicious if too much oil starts going to Trenaka. They will probably up the tariffs, meaning this venture will be pointless.”

“We could always sneak it in with the treaty oil. Once the oil is on the cargo ships, the local government can’t do anything to those ships without provoking the naval escort fleet.”

“I suppose that could work. After all, why would their government check the amount of oil at the docks? Even if they do, we could trick them by making them think that the oil is going somewhere else, but it is really sent to Trenaka.”

“That would work. I will inform the people who deliver the oil of the plan.”

“Excellent.”

At that, Meyer would leave, and would return to the airport to go to the Kupferlands, to oversee a mine in the new country.

by **Dernel** » Mon Feb 22, 2021 7:21 pm

The Polar Nation wrote:Yevgeniy Kovalov

A proverbial camera panned past the smokestacks and factories of Richting Atoll towards a clean, very clean luxury car driving in the dirty streets. The main occupant of that car, who sat in the passenger's seat, was Yevgeniy Kovalov, a very rich man, a Russian oligarch, and, secretly, a member of the Polar Nation. Oh, not a low-ranking terrorist involved in slinging bombs and gas attacks; the man had moved past that. Kovalov was a benefactor to the Polar Nation, giving the terrorist group millions in donations, and also operated... how do you say this kindly... unpaid, involuntary workers in Siberia, as per the ideology.

Yevgeniy Kovalov looked out the window at the grime and poverty of the Richting "Republic". It was those tropicals living there who were at fault, the Polar Nation had told him. The Polar Nation surmised that the tropicals were genetically inferior, snd thus predisposed to become poor. Kovalov had a lighter view on the subject: that these tropicals should pull themselves up by their bootstraps because the system was just. Well, it wasn't just tropicals. But it was.

Kovalov idly mused on whether his method of belief was similar to that of a cult member. No, this time this political viewpoint was right, unlike all the others, and besides, the pleasure Kovalov took in giving his inferiors the knowledge of their rightful place was worth everything else.

Yevgeniy wasn't going to invest. These islands were dying, and he didn't want to postpone the eventual realization of the other businesspeople that the tropics were overrated. Maybe he could set up an employment agency. No, these tropicals probably were already employed, just at low-pay, dangerous jobs.

So why was Kovalov here, then? Simple. He really liked what they were doing to the islands. It was a reason why colonialism, at least of tropical places, and big business corporatism should be here to stay. He had come to Richting Atoll to admire, and—damn it! When will heavily armed neocons learn that commerce is better than war?

Michael Masotsuki

In a small boat, docking off the coast of the Krupferland Islands, was an angry young man named Michael Masotsuki, who wore an anime t-shirt and explosives disguised as ornamental buttons on his belt. Michael was here to prove himself and show that he hated tropicals as much as any Polar Nation member.

Michael was going to massacre the inhabitants, and possibly to capture some of them and sell them to some other Polar Nation person. Masotsuki wasn't going to damage the actual infrastructure of the factories, refineries, or anything owned by the businesses however. That would be contrary to all the good things happening here, all the tropicals recognizing their own place. Hopefully, the big business men would turn a blind eye to some murders or explosions in townships and slums.

Michael walked over to a slum, whistling a jaunty tune. Miners with faces sooty from dust stared at Masotsuki. Michael Masotsuki was a Yonsei, born and raised in Seattle, but his great-grandparents came from Japan one hundred years ago. Michael swore revenge on the US government for sending his great-grandparents to internment camps, even though he never met them.

When he turned eighteen, Michael tried to move to Japan. Alas, he didn't know Japanese customs, and never really became fluent in the language, and became a laughingstock. All he got out of his experience was the Polar Nation. It was a big revelation. Masotsuki finally had something to direct his anger at. The tropicals in US government who interned his ancestors, and tropicals in general, especially on these islands.

Michael Masotsuki saw some signs with Bible verses on them, that some enterprising missionaries had put there to "uplift" the natives. "Ugh, Christians." There was a reason Michael had started worshipping at Shinto shrines instead of going to church. Michael kicked one of the Bible verse signs, causing it to fall over.

The Polar Nation man came to a street full of dingy, dilapidated shacks. Perfect. Michael Masotsuki turned each of his bombs on to explode in an hour. He threw what looked like buttons and badges near each of the houses. Maybe some kids will pick them up, play with them, and then die tragically. Even more perfect. Masotsuki walked out of the slum, having disposed of all the bomb buttons. He imagined the sounds of explosions and screams and laughed silently.

The state surveillance had their eyes on suspicious individuals, well, those beyond the norm of suspicion. Michael was one of such, the state pinged him as a potential threat to the chaos it was using. Cameras watched him intently everywhere he went that there were cameras to watch him. They saw him kick Christian signs, the very ones posing a threat to the state, they saw him spread numerous strange objects, of which exploded an hour later. The state knew he was a terrorist, and needed him for that.

Brunetti was busy, a threat to his business had shown up, and he needed to deal with it. A group of Christians, with a strange obsession over a dog had begun to attempt to convert the population. In Dernel, religion is banned, and enforced by death. Brunetti needed to get a similar message across to the dog people. He was contemplating in his office when his line back to Dernel rang. He picked it up, and with a pompous tone,
"This is Brunetti."
"And this is Zubeknakov." Brunetti sobered immediately,
"Yes sir, what have you called for?"
"The dog f*ckers, I have a solution."
"ehem, and what would that solution be?"
"Do you have any level 5 rated armor, as well as a D1AMR and I1SMG on hand there?"
"I'm not quite sure we do..." Brunetti lied, he knew they did, but if Zubeknakov wanted to know about it, he wanted to use it, Brunetti didn't want that.
"You do, it was in the cargo manifests for the last freighter and you're manufacturing the damned guns. Either way, I need you to track down a man named Michael Masotsuki, and give it to him. After that set him onto the dog problem. Make sure some over-watch is on him, if he gets too happy, put him down. Make sure he knows about it too. If the people live like savages, put them down like savages." Brunetti swallowed hard,
"y-yes sir." Zubeknakov hung up. Brunetti set the phone back down on its stand. He sighed a long sigh, took a drag of his cigar, put it out, and went to find someone to do the dirty work.

A few hours later some poor Dernellian Industries worker caught up with Michael, after almost being stabbed he guided Michael to his truck where they unloaded an unmarked box, and carried it into an alley before popping it open for Michael to see the thick plate carrier with steel inserts, as well as a fairly thick helmet, all laid on top of a D1AMR with an I1SMG and some ammo for both. Michael was elated, but was then warned that he could only kill the Dog Christians, and those around them. After that he would have to be a sleeper cell else he be put down like the dogs he was going to kill. He was told that from then on, he'd be the first one they told if they needed some people dead, and that was going to be more often than not soon enough. The man left Michael, and Michael grabbed a dolly and picked up the box before going deeper into the alley.

by **Cossack Peoples** » Mon Feb 22, 2021 8:01 pm

Mr. Blue Sky
Fort Rubizh
10:06 hours
New Munich, Richting Atoll

Well, we’ve seen everything now, haven’t we, Hans?

I never thought I’d live to see it myself, Fred.

That’s right, for those just tuning in,
Hundreds of arrests have occurred on behalf
of the Richting Republic, mainly targeting
suspected criminals and troublemakers--
the recent influx of religious proselytizers being
one of those groups.

Yeah, I had one of them visit my place the other day.

Yeah? How was that?

Two old dudes sat in my flat for twenty minutes
going on and on about how the stuff
I do are sins--

Really?

Really. Eventually I just showed
them the door and said, “Listen fellas,
I’ll live my life how I want
to live, so let’s just
leave it at that.”
Closed the door right in their faces.

Well, that’s certainly one way to treat them!

What can I say? Not even religious zealots get
between me and our generous sponsor this morning:
Natsyunyaty Light Ale, straight from--

For such a small island, there could not have been a single indication that his job would have been so busy. Mladshy Uryadnik Kazymyr Sych, in command of six other men who rushed behind his trail, were sweating profusely as they worked to haul their equipment at a brisk jog through the unpaved roads of a village to the east of the main municipal island. Clad in kevlar with ceramic armor inserts and gadgets of all kinds covering everything from their rifles to their helmets, the soldiers were on a routine mission; after all, police work and military forces were often intertwined back in the FRCP.

Forcing his hand to steady, Sych checked his digital watch, just another piece of the advanced system he wore: they were behind.

“Pick up the pace!” He roared, much to the displeasure of his comrades. But in reality, they hadn’t expected to have to do this-- it was commonplace to think that any normal infantry unit attached to an air defense plastun would have a leisurely time, sitting around under the guise of protecting the large missile systems. However, the overseas forces had a very different job experience than the ones on home soil; because while Fort Rayevsky might have been surrounded by friendly territory, Fort Rubizh; effectively a barracks and SAM site on an island detached from the airfield of Fort Sriblo; was an enclave amongst an uncertain populace. As such, the infantry units on that island were routinely tasked with menial chores to ensure the solidarity of the locals.

Arresting missionaries was one of them.

As they came to a corner of the road, Sych could see through the dense foliage and make out white plaster buildings with a halo of palm trees. These buildings were old, probably erected in the first stages of Trenakan colonization so long ago; it had hosted extended families in their losses and their successes; and now, in its kind generosity, hosted criminals of the state.

“Vidkryvayte, mudaky!” Shouted their squad machinegunner as they stomped on the door, buckling it around the handle, and leaving their pointman with their brows knitted. They broke down the door, and in the shouting rounded up the dozen or so inhabitants of that building. Sych yanked the collar of one old woman, screaming a language he didn’t understand, out from a corner and hauled her outside, then throwing her to the ground alongside the others. The fire team brandished their weapons and they stayed put; from there, all the ones that weren’t speaking German and were decidedly foreigners were thrusted onto the back of a 5-ton truck.

Municipal Court Records
21 of February, 2021
Case: Criminal
Presiding: Honorable Judge Allan Philip

Fran Ellington, citizen of Caryton, has been sentenced to twenty years imprisonment from a felonious charge without bail or parole. Her charge included Disorderly Conduct, Obstruction of Traffic, Money Laundering through the use of soup kitchens, Failure to Provide License for Business Activities, Disturbing the Peace, and One Count of Failing to Appear Before the Court.

PIEDSG HQ, New Munich
13:19 hours
Executive Conference Suite

“I don’t give a damn, tighten security!”

Morshun wanted him out of his office. It was easy to see why, with his fingers pressed into the side of his head and dark circles under his eyes, it looked as if he were suffering from the world’s largest migraine.

The harrowed police commissioner shifted in his seat. “Sir, I know the threats posed to us by these terrorist attacks, but I hardly think throwing more Cossack infantry into the fray in lieu of my trained officers will solve the problem. My men have experience and--”

“With all due respect, your counterparts on the Kupferlands hardly noticed such a greivous act in the process of occurring, so what makes you think that you will have much better luck?” Orest interrupted in a slow, nearly patronizing voice. The police commissioner only sat in awkward silence. “You see, Mr. Holder, if you have any serious concerns about the competence of Cossack soldiers who have been generously offered from the FRCP, I suggest you voice your concerns to the Presiding Officer of the Richting Republic.”

“Bull-shit!” The commissioner shouted suddenly, shooting upright from his chair. “I’ve been here long enough and worked with both of you to know that he’s in kahoots with you bastards! Every time a narcotic shipment slips past our nets and some of my officers become wealthier, I know where that cash comes from! Every time one of your dirty employees is charged with a felony, I know who chooses the right judge to exonerate them! The government is a farce, and this organization is a facade for drug peddlers and pimps!”

This time, Morshun shot up from his seat, with energy he didn’t know he had. But instead of shouting, he merely uttered in a low, harsh voice, “Get out of my office.” The commissioner wavered, his hands clenched into fists, before Morshun roared, “Go!”

The commissioner swung about in a military-like manner and slammed the door behind him. Morshun slumped as the anger subsided and fell into his chair. He took several deep breaths before putting the incident out of his mind.

Minutes later, a secretary opened the door, ushering in a formal-looking man he recognized as an economic advisor, before squeaking, “Your 1:30, sir.”

The man smiled genuinely, apparently unconcerned about the reddened face of Orest or the shouting match he may or may not have overheard. Walking up to the desk, he extended his hand. “Fedir Horban, I believe we’ve worked together back in Maksima on an advisory board.”

“Ah, Mr. Horban, of course. What brings you here?”

“Well, good news, I suppose. The prices have been confirmed by the entire board, and their enactment has not caused the global economy to crash. However, there are a few upsets, particularly in Trenaka.”

Morshun nodded. “That’s to be expected,”

“But other than that there has yet to be any formal protest against our price goug-- price increase.”

“Is that all?”

“No, unfortunately. As we will likely be taking this policy onto other products of the islands, we should prepare to receive some ramifications, if minor. Particularly that of supplanting the products produced by other foreign nations.”

Morshun nodded again, but said nothing. The islands were simply not suited for economic independence; they had to import most of the food they ate, their economy relied heavily on the global prices of their products, and had little to no legal service economy to speak of. That’s why PIEDSG was established in the first place; to coordinate and protect the interests of the fragile economies and the precious resources they contained. A tariff on one of their products would be harmful, but not nearly a disaster. In fact, it would probably harm foreign consumers as much as it did the industries here, should those consumers make up most of the exports-- which Trenaka certainly didn’t. About half of the crude oil was shipped East, to travel around the world until ending in the Mediterranean, reaching Dernel before heading into the Black Sea to the FRCP and Crysuko.

“Try and get in touch with WURCo., the DI, or something Crysukon. See if they’d be willing to market their products more heavily than the foreign crap.” Morshun said, pausing. “The other foreign crap.” Morshun corrected.

“Will do. Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Always a pleasure,” Morshun called, as Horban turned his back.

Highway Star
Flight Viktor-Pik
06:30 hours
Over western island, Kupferlands

In the crack of dawn, early-warning radars attached to RtfPR-400 air defense systems detected a high-supersonic target at high altitude. Aircraft were scrambled from the airbase at Fort Sriblo, namely two ItP-1a interceptors, which because of their fickle engines and long startup time benefited from the heads-up. By the time they were in the air, a VI-144 sector tracking radar was set onto the contact, supplying the missile system as well as the interceptors through datalinks the vector, altitude, and distance of the intruding aircraft.
-
“Viktor-Pik on course, Shashka. Airspeed M-3.1, over.”

Oleksandr Melnyk kept his gloved hand firmly on the throttle as with his other hand he fiddled with the head covering between his flight helmet and skin. The man was covered in layers of fleece and wool, extending from his socks to his ears; but while rushing to prepare his aircraft, Melnyk accidentally exposed his ears. While this would be a trivial discomfort on other aircraft, it could be injurious in the cockpit of the ItP-1; because other aircraft’s cockpits were environmentally controlled, while the Cossack interceptor had none. It was not the only thing the craft was lacking-- it had no radar warning receiver, no autocannon, and no countermeasures system as sophisticated as its contemporaries. There was a joke with some truth in it among operators of the ItP-1: that their interceptor was meant to get where it needed to go, with or without the pilot. Despite its serious shortcomings, the aircraft was fast.

If his flight helmet hadn’t muffled out some of the howl of wind and the roar of afterburners, Oleksandr would not have heard a request for his status. Pushing past the force on his chest to speak, he got out, “Viktor-Pik, on course. Airspeed M-3.5.”

“Begin transfer of engine control, Viktor-Pik.”

“Transfer complete.”

Finally, the force of acceleration left his chest as the afterburners stopped and were replaced by the low hiss of the scramjet engine. The ItP-1, in order to get to its high speeds, needed to accelerate constantly using its afterburners before the scramjet could kick in for more efficient flight. From there, the interceptor was home free, so long as they managed their fuel stores.

Flicking his eyes to the corner of his helmet-mounted display, Oleksandr whistled. He was already at half-fuel, even with the two fuel tanks; perhaps there was a joke regarding its gluttony for gas.

“Viktor-Pik, reporting flight altitude 30,000 meters, airspeed M-4.4. On target-- distance to target, 300 kilometers. Intercept within 3.3 minutes.”

“Acknowledged, Viktor-Pik. Be advised; hostile not identified. Initiate contact when ready.”

“Acknowledged, Shashka. Viktor-Pik out.”

Melnyk toggled off the helmet-mounted radio with his chin and focused his attention to the electronic overlay of his visor; the REF-745 AESA and its processing system had marked a red box to indicate the enemy, while the blue triangles and green squares he passed over were dragged to the periphery. He shivered-- the limited insulation of the cockpit had run out now that he was truly at altitude.

The red box now indicated 200 kilometers and an indicator beeped within the helmet that he had a target lock and was no longer relying on ground-based radar systems for tracking. Oleksandr jerked his head to the right and a sidebar opened that showed the readiness of his armament; two Dyskusiya were shown in the weapons bay and two Zorya missiles on available wing pylons; he readied one Dyskusiya, just in case.

Then, he finallly toggled his radio and aimed the electronically-steered and modulated antennas straight at the bogey.

“Unidentified aircraft, you are in restricted airspace. Identify yourself and allow yourself to be escorted out or risk being shot down. Please respond.”

FRCPN Natalia Denisov
13:30 hours
35 kilometers SE of Richting Atoll

Fort Sriblo got a message from the Bolslanian government;
their task force got sonar contact.
They say they recognized it as either a
Lobanov-Class or some Palmyrion sub.
What do you think?

”That’s simple enough. We don’t have any
Lobanov-Class subs operating anywhere, at this rate.
Tell them that if it’s within 25 kilometers of the islands,
to do us a favor and plink it.”

Yes, sir. As well as that,
sat imagery shows a few congregations of fleets;
one that has been positively ID’d as Trenakan,
escorting a shipment of oil out of the islands. Two others are unknown.
One looks to be an entire carrier group; but the closer one is only a few ships.

”Understood. We’ll move to interdict the latter;
inform the Fort that the Natalia Denisov, Sevyich,
and Chornaya will be moving out within the hour.”

Acknowledged, Admiral. Good luck and good hunting.

The radio was terminated with a click. Aboard the command center of the Natalia Denisov, a Tsvetkov-Class destroyer, Admiral Artem Petruk stood just as he had one year ago-- and during that time, he had managed only one week of shore leave to alleviate the dullness of the idle naval forces that stood guard beside the Richting Atoll. They had arrived as supposed neutral forces, then reappeared as peacekeepers, and now they stood as allies and personal guardsmen to the waters outside that horrible island.

The small squadron of three ships left their position with other Cossack naval forces and headed to intercept the three unidentified vessels approaching the islands; once within suitable range, the trio initiated radio communications to the vessels.

As they did so, Petruk pulled a printout of the satellite images and held it against a ceiling light in awe; he had never seen such a vessel before. Where exactly were they from?

“This is the FRCPN Natalia Denisov of the 1st Indo-Pacific Task Force. Please identify yourselves.” The ships of The Crowned Republic received.

Money
New Krasnoyarsk, FRCP
20:27 hours, New Krasnoyarsk time
WURCo. International Business Park

Licking his lips after the sumptuous meal he had enjoyed an hour back, Wassily Kazakov, Chief Executive of WURCo. and presumably always the wealthiest man in the room, set himself back to work at his expensive handcrafted work desk. On it, he had cleared off most of the personal belongings to make room for an ocean of neatly-stacked papers-- financial documents, economic analyses, and portfolios from the personal to national level. He could have greatly simplified his task by simply switching over to an electronic device, but at the risk of being called old-fashioned, the 51-year-old simply preferred tangible documents when thinking about business. That, and he could afford to do so in more ways than one.

That evening’s business was his favorite; expansion. This time, the subject fell onto more acquisitions in the raw resource market; Kazakov had his eyes on a potential competitor under the innocuous name of Tropical Petroleum. Sifting through some papers, licking the corners as he went along, he found that it was not related to any Dernellian or Crysukon firms, negating their involvement: so it was fair game. Wassily called in interns, with their disguised upset countenance at being tasked to work so late, to retrieve more detailed information about that niche business’ financials. Examining his gifts under the warm glow of the LED ceiling lights, he was shocked to find that there were no shares able to be purchased. Which was impossible, of course, if the company was public. But that was of no hindrance to him-- he called in interns again to fetch more information; this time, of leadership that he could discuss amicably with in terms of bills. But to no avail, as that information was nowhere to be found. Sitting down with a sigh, he worked the problem over in his head in silence. Finally, he decided there was no point getting his knickers in a twist over so little. Kazakov would just send a rather large sum of money in order to convince them to cooperate and if things came to an impasse, he would just allow his lovely puppets in the Richting Atoll’s government and PIEDSG deal with it. The problem didn’t worry him at all-- after all, with the newfound opulence of WURCo. because of the Richting Atoll, he could afford it.

by **New Mordka** » Mon Feb 22, 2021 11:49 pm

As the clock strikes six, missiles storing [url=en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phosgene]phosgene[/url] gas canisters were launched from two squadrons of MiG-27s, one going to the Kupferlands wile the other squadron going to the Richting Atoll, The squadrons headed back before they were shot down by the blockades. The missiles hit the ground and brought down some building but not before launching the canisters and releasing the gas, people panic from destruction but began to suffocate from the toxic gas, millions die as the people try to flee but cannot breve. New Mordka will show no mercy to anyone and will attack again to show that.

by **Palmyrion** » Tue Feb 23, 2021 9:44 am

24,000 MASL over Western Kupferland Island
22 February 2022 0601H Union Standard Time

"Control, this is Casual, we got company." Casual radioed to HQ via a satellite link, the message bouncing between Union satellites before finally reaching mission control back in Antonio Cadena, some distance from the AO. The mission just took a turn for the worse as they were hailed by two interceptors that had the ability to fly higher than them. If they abort the mission and turn around, they'd get a smoking by command back home. If they continued on with the mission, they would get shot down - and a shoot-down of a Palmyrian high-altitude high-supersonic reconnaissance plane would injure the Royal Commonwealth's PR.

They were already in the process of snapping some photos and SAR of the Western Kupferland Island, providing vital imagery and SAR data on areas of interest determined days prior by intelligence analysts meticulously combing through satellite photos of the islands. I guess this will do, thought Horus, who skimmed through the imagery and SAR data they took of the Western Kupferland Island. Horus immediately established a satellite uplink with a Union satellite, transmitting a portion of the data they gathered back home - and a note to command. The rest can wait until they get back to Antonio Cadiena - or, considering their distance from the nearest Palmyrian airbase, a nearby allied airbase.

"Unknown aircraft, this is Casual, we're pulling out." was all that Casual said before she pulled a rather sharp turn for an aircraft their size and speed. The only identification she gave was her callsign; the markings on their aircraft would tell them the rest of the story.

100km SE of Richting Atoll
22 February 2022 13:30H
Leviathan

Order of Battle - Battlefleet "SILAKBO"

Battlefleet SILAKBO sailed on one of the few known merchant fleets that passed through the archipelago - and for a reason that many would probably see as bullshit.

Officially, they - with the Buendia-class supercarrier PWS Zambales at the helm - were here for merchant escort operations. This far out in some fringe corner of the world, Palmyrian merchant marine vessels sailed extra-regional cargo routes, and there was only a few of them that sailed so, making them relatively isolated and fairly easy pickings for any hostile force. Unofficially, however, they were here to pre-position themselves for a "liberation" of the islands, which in reality was just an invasion to kick out the islands' current masters and bring the islands to the Royal Commonwealth's sphere of influence.

So when the escorts at the 107th Naval Squadron were hailed by the naval forces of the local military force, Commodore Albert Cabalfin, the COIC of the 107th Naval Squadron, only had two choices between what they could pass off as an excuse for them being here, so close to what is essentially a heavily militarised island. It was true that Palmyrion did have trade routes in the locale, utilising the major trade routes in the area, but Palmyrian trade volume with the locality in terms of tonnage was, compared to trade with neighbours in Greater Dienstad and next-door region Gholgoth, minuscule. It would still pass off as an excuse, however - an excuse is an excuse.

Commodore Cabalfin immediately ordered the Comm-O to respond to the Natalia Denisov's hailing, providing him the reason why the Palmyrian Navy had a carrier strike group this far out of the region.

"FRCPN Natalia Denisov, this is the PRW Lucena of the 107th Naval Squadron, Battlefleet Silakbo, Palmyrian Navy." the Comm-O began. "We are here to conduct commerce escort operations for local Palmyrian merchant marine vessels. How copy, over?" he added.

Not once did the Comm-O ever make such a bullshit excuse in his entire life - not even towards his family, his friends, even to his enemies. And especially not to his spouse back home, a cold realisation for which he let out a sigh of exasperation.

by **Bolslania** » Tue Feb 23, 2021 10:37 am

BNS Conqueror, near Richtig Atoll
3 days after the High Speed recon aircraft incident.

Communication room, 1st deck

"Comms to con, Cossacks gave us the go ahead to engage the sub if its within 25 km of the islands, over."

"Copy that Comms. Over and out." Captain Louis Weatherman said, he clasped his hands behind his back as he did some quick calculations. By his estimate they were about 26 km from the islands. So he would give this Palmyrionian vessel a chance to leave. He depressed the trigger on the PA.

"Con to Depth Charge, ready charges, 500 meter depth, over." A moment later the reply came

"Depth Charge to Con, ready charges 500 meter depth aye, over." He flicked the switch to speak to the comms room

"Comms, get me communication with that submarine. Over."

"One moment Con." A few moments later comms followed up.

"Comms to Con, speaker in the water, ready to broadcast, over." Weatherman picked up the mouth peice that connected to the large speaker that was trailing alongside the destroyer. A primitive method, but it was the best way to try and communicate with the suspected submarine.

"Unidentified vessel, this is the BNS Conqueror please adjust course to direct west or you will be fired upon. Over." He said, best to not drag it out with pleasantry. This submarine needed to get out of this island's area. There were only two things submarines do, sink ships, or do reconnaissance for a larger attack, neither of which would be tolerated

by **Dernel** » Tue Feb 23, 2021 12:03 pm

Palmyrion wrote:24,000 MASL over Western Kupferland Island
22 February 2022 0601H Union Standard Time

1 - SR.109 "Banshee" Supersonic High-Altitude Reconnaissance Aircraft
Pilot: CPT Cassandra Martin PAF (Callsign CASUAL)
Reconnaissance Systems Officer: MAJ Xavier Hilado PAF (Callsign HORUS)

"Control, this is Casual, we got company." Casual radioed to HQ via a satellite link, the message bouncing between Union satellites before finally reaching mission control back in Antonio Cadena, some distance from the AO. The mission just took a turn for the worse as they were hailed by two interceptors that had the ability to fly higher than them. If they abort the mission and turn around, they'd get a smoking by command back home. If they continued on with the mission, they would get shot down - and a shoot-down of a Palmyrian high-altitude high-supersonic reconnaissance plane would injure the Royal Commonwealth's PR.

They were already in the process of snapping some photos and SAR of the Western Kupferland Island, providing vital imagery and SAR data on areas of interest determined days prior by intelligence analysts meticulously combing through satellite photos of the islands. I guess this will do, thought Horus, who skimmed through the imagery and SAR data they took of the Western Kupferland Island. Horus immediately established a satellite uplink with a Union satellite, transmitting a portion of the data they gathered back home - and a note to command. The rest can wait until they get back to Antonio Cadiena - or, considering their distance from the nearest Palmyrian airbase, a nearby allied airbase.

"Unknown aircraft, this is Casual, we're pulling out." was all that Casual said before she pulled a rather sharp turn for an aircraft their size and speed. The only identification she gave was her callsign; the markings on their aircraft would tell them the rest of the story.

100km SE of Richting Atoll
22 February 2022 13:30H
Leviathan

Order of Battle - Battlefleet "SILAKBO"

Battlefleet SILAKBO sailed on one of the few known merchant fleets that passed through the archipelago - and for a reason that many would probably see as bullshit.

Officially, they - with the Buendia-class supercarrier PWS Zambales at the helm - were here for merchant escort operations. This far out in some fringe corner of the world, Palmyrian merchant marine vessels sailed extra-regional cargo routes, and there was only a few of them that sailed so, making them relatively isolated and fairly easy pickings for any hostile force. Unofficially, however, they were here to pre-position themselves for a "liberation" of the islands, which in reality was just an invasion to kick out the islands' current masters and bring the islands to the Royal Commonwealth's sphere of influence.

So when the escorts at the 107th Naval Squadron were hailed by the naval forces of the local military force, Commodore Albert Cabalfin, the COIC of the 107th Naval Squadron, only had two choices between what they could pass off as an excuse for them being here, so close to what is essentially a heavily militarised island. It was true that Palmyrion did have trade routes in the locale, utilising the major trade routes in the area, but Palmyrian trade volume with the locality in terms of tonnage was, compared to trade with neighbours in Greater Dienstad and next-door region Gholgoth, minuscule. It would still pass off as an excuse, however - an excuse is an excuse.

Commodore Cabalfin immediately ordered the Comm-O to respond to the Natalia Denisov's hailing, providing him the reason why the Palmyrian Navy had a carrier strike group this far out of the region.

"FRCPN Natalia Denisov, this is the PRW Lucena of the 107th Naval Squadron, Battlefleet Silakbo, Palmyrian Navy." the Comm-O began. "We are here to conduct commerce escort operations for local Palmyrian merchant marine vessels. How copy, over?" he added.

Not once did the Comm-O ever make such a bullshit excuse in his entire life - not even towards his family, his friends, even to his enemies. And especially not to his spouse back home, a cold realisation for which he let out a sigh of exasperation.

With Panerelli in the equivalence of a comatose state, Bertrando S. Salucci took the role of acting Admiral. As a result he was busy on the bridge of The Nomen, patrolling waters near the Natalia Denisov. Salucci was listening intently as the radio from the Lucena was broadcasted, and heard their hail. He had an officer check the composition of Silakbo to find it was of a considerable size and includes an equally considerably sized carrier. Still a good 210km out from The Nomen's position, Silakbo battlegroup didn't pose too much of a threat, but their course was still heading to the islands, a discrepancy in the cargo ships initial plotted course. He hailed them,
"PRW Lucena, this is FDN Nomen, you are off course and heading towards land. Please follow new course, sending now. Repeat, you are off course and heading towards land. Please follow new course, sending now. Copy? Over."

The new course would guide them around the two islands in the quickest way possible while keeping their current distance of 210km. If they didn't follow that course which was fairly close to their original course, they would be redirected again, but if they continued towards the island, they would be warned for agression, much more and it begins to reach the point of having to preemptively strike the vessels. Salucci wanted to avoid war, but if it came to it, they'd defend the islands they had worked so hard to take, and make. He was sure the Cossacks and Crysukans would too.

He typed out his thoughts and relayed it to the Natalia Denisov, he hoped they would agree.

by **South Americanastan** » Tue Feb 23, 2021 2:02 pm

5 DAYS AGO

Portland, Maine, South Americanastan
Task Force Green sat in port, loading cargo onto the ships, along with infantry and aircraft. Rear Admiral Nicholas Jackson sat in the Central Control Room of the SANS New Brunswick, watching another batch of TRR-A1s being loaded onto the ship. He had been to the Kupferlands before, but had never actually had the chance to enjoy the climate. Below deck, the members of the 2nd Air Cavalry played poker and griped about their mission.

"I can't believe we're going back to that colonial shithole. It's like they want us to die! All in."

"Hey! I've heard they've freshened up since then, maybe we can enjoy a vacation. War ain't started yet!"

"Alright Mick, you're optimism is great but are you gonna call or fold?"

"I'll raise"

"Look, with how the first one went, this'll be target practice. I fold"

"Will you guys calm down, there's no war, just keeping an eye on the situation while
Halifax handles the political side of things"

Suddenly, a loudspeaker blared "Alright, since your families are here, I've decided to give you some time to say goodbye, Everybody on the deck to wave one last goodbye." Soon after, Task Force Green would depart from the port, speeding into the ocean.

by **The Polar Nation** » Tue Feb 23, 2021 2:12 pm

Dernel wrote:The state surveillance had their eyes on suspicious individuals, well, those beyond the norm of suspicion. Michael was one of such, the state pinged him as a potential threat to the chaos it was using. Cameras watched him intently everywhere he went that there were cameras to watch him. They saw him kick Christian signs, the very ones posing a threat to the state, they saw him spread numerous strange objects, of which exploded an hour later. The state knew he was a terrorist, and needed him for that.

Brunetti was busy, a threat to his business had shown up, and he needed to deal with it. A group of Christians, with a strange obsession over a dog had begun to attempt to convert the population. In Dernel, religion is banned, and enforced by death. Brunetti needed to get a similar message across to the dog people. He was contemplating in his office when his line back to Dernel rang. He picked it up, and with a pompous tone,
"This is Brunetti."
"And this is Zubeknakov." Brunetti sobered immediately,
"Yes sir, what have you called for?"
"The dog f*ckers, I have a solution."
"ehem, and what would that solution be?"
"Do you have any level 5 rated armor, as well as a D1AMR and I1SMG on hand there?"
"I'm not quite sure we do..." Brunetti lied, he knew they did, but if Zubeknakov wanted to know about it, he wanted to use it, Brunetti didn't want that.
"You do, it was in the cargo manifests for the last freighter and you're manufacturing the damned guns. Either way, I need you to track down a man named Michael Masotsuki, and give it to him. After that set him onto the dog problem. Make sure some over-watch is on him, if he gets too happy, put him down. Make sure he knows about it too. If the people live like savages, put them down like savages." Brunetti swallowed hard,
"y-yes sir." Zubeknakov hung up. Brunetti set the phone back down on its stand. He sighed a long sigh, took a drag of his cigar, put it out, and went to find someone to do the dirty work.

A few hours later some poor Dernellian Industries worker caught up with Michael, after almost being stabbed he guided Michael to his truck where they unloaded an unmarked box, and carried it into an alley before popping it open for Michael to see the thick plate carrier with steel inserts, as well as a fairly thick helmet, all laid on top of a D1AMR with an I1SMG and some ammo for both. Michael was elated, but was then warned that he could only kill the Dog Christians, and those around them. After that he would have to be a sleeper cell else he be put down like the dogs he was going to kill. He was told that from then on, he'd be the first one they told if they needed some people dead, and that was going to be more often than not soon enough. The man left Michael, and Michael grabbed a dolly and picked up the box before going deeper into the alley.

Michael Masotsuki did not know how to feel about this. On one hand, he got sick gear, but on the other hand, he was now killing for someone else. Michael didn't know if he could kill one of the missionaries now, or wait for a signal, but other than that, this situation served his goals. The missionaries, or the "dog Christians" as the Dernellian called them, were meant to uplift the tropicals, which shouldn't be done. The Polar Nation would approve! Surely it would.

Michael walked to a point in the dark alley where he knew no one would see him. He put on the plate carrier and the helmet. Michael liked this new equipment. He imagined he was wearing power armor, but he didn't know if anyone had developed power armor yet. He thought that since he was carrying weapons already, he should go kill some missionaries, and maybe wait for a signal to murder anyone else.

But then Masotsuki felt it. There was going to be war. He giggled. War would demoralize the people on this island better than one lone terrorist ever could. Especially war to "liberate" the islands, Michael knew how tropicals thought, and he knew that liberation allow them the chance to ruin things. Michael Masotsuki slunk off, looking for a dog boy to kill and trying not to get caught up in war.

Tropical Rot (MT | IC)

Tropical Rot (MT | IC)

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