The Second Tarao War [IC | GD]

[State of Ordena]

SHARTOURN SEA

The arrival of Marshite military assets in the direct vicinity of Ladero and Istoloa was a concern that the Ordenites could not afford to ignore especially with the future of the Istoloan regime that was to soon hang in the balance once it's leader inevitably passes on.

Therefore it was decided that a Krijgsmarine task force would be deployed to the Shartourn Sea which would consist of over 600 naval vessels. The task force once deployed would array it self in a way which they could observe and react if necessary to hostile naval movements into the Shartourn Sea whether it was from the Marshites or The Golden Throne. The opening of the strait between Istoloa and Asadabad and the strait near Southern Potthan would be patrolled by the Task force along with the Shartourn itself. The Task Force would also be the foundation if it became necessary for the beginning of a surge of the Ordenite Krijgsmacht into the area and into Istoloa.

[Istoloa]

ROSA; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

Leandro arrived in the capital six days after receiving orders to return, along with his expeditionary corps. The general and his army were airlifted by the Ordenites, who undoubtedly traded the logistical help in exchange for something. That 'something' was very likely the right to stage more troops in Istoloa. Though the airlift meant that Rosa was in the capital just as the domestic situation began unravelling, a growing Ordenite presence was frightening for several reasons. First, Leandro had seen firsthand what Ordenite influence meant politically and constitutionally in Fustera. Second, given the violent opposition to Ordenite influence in Magdaran, Barjaanistan, and elsewhere, the trade gambled a large and destructive war on Istoloan soil. For the general, avoiding this last possibility was his first and most important duty to the state.

Still, the withdrawal of II IEC from Fustera was bittersweet. More bitter than sweet. They were leaving in the aftermath of the Battle of Mocuba, and worse, the general hadn't had the opportunity to compensate with a victory. He knew that his opponents would use this to call him a failure. Fremonero would use it to control him. The only good news is that Fremonero had ordered II IEC to remain intact as an organization, still under the command of Tenente-General Leandro Rosa.

In fact, he'd soon learn of his promotion to Comandante-Geral for his service, and II IEC was renamed III Exército de Istoloa (III EI). The coming days came with other changes, as well. The Istoloan army was being reorganized into three principal home defense armies, including Leandro's. His was joined by I EI and II EI. What made matters most...interesting were the commands. I EI was under the command of El Marechalisimo directly, and was the largest. II EI was placed under the command of de Vega.

It was de Vega who visited Leandro at his rural estate first. The newly promoted Comandante-Geral was given leave of fourteen days to enjoy a rest before returning to duty. In truth, he got little rest. The political situation in the country was at a boiling point, as Marechal de Vega had come to make clear.

"Congratulations on your promotion, general," said the field marshal. "It is well deserved. We needed to show our loyalty to our brothers in Fustera. Though perhaps the outcome is not what he had totally hoped for, you nevertheless ultimately pacified your sector and served with distinction. You know, Fustera was Istoloan and should remain within our sphere of influence. The Ordenite influence there is overwhelming, but when the time comes to reassert ourselves, know that I will have you in mind for the command."

"The mind I care about is el Marechalisimo's," scoffed Rosa.

De Vega looked sad, almost for a moment, then said, "El Marechalisimo is living his last days."

Leandro stared back incredulously. "Is he ill?"

"Yes," answered de Vega. The marechal had been standing, and he now took a seat in one of the wingback leather chairs in Leandro's library room. Leandro was also sitting in one, sipping from a short glass what looked like a drink some might call an old fashioned. "He suffers an illness of both the body and the mind. Very unfortunate. And it is happening at a time when our country faces great challenges. That's why I'm here, in fact."

A pause followed, as Leandro drank from his glass. He wondered where the field marshal was going with this. Ultimately, he did not respond, so de Vega continued, "The Ordenites already here in large numbers and these numbers will only grow, unless they are given a reason to stop. While the Ordenite presence is a powerful security guarantee in face of Marshite pressure, you know as well as I that countries do not simply get Ordenite security guarantees. There are...ideological compromises that need to be made. Our relationship with them must be carefully managed, and we must balance their influence against that of the powers to protect our sovereignty. It goes without saying that the balance is in a state of continuous disruption. The regime's foreign policy is deeply unpopular, and dissent is bubbling. Our standing with the world, except for the Ordenites, is declining. The balance is in dire need of reset, wouldn't you agree?"

Leandro thought for a moment. Then, "What do you propose?"

"We must replace Fremonero. The sooner the better," replied the field marshal.

The general was about to take another sip, but his arm froze midair. "A coup? Is there even support from the other officers?"

"There is a significant cadre loyal to me," said de Vega, cooly. "There are also men loyal to you. Fremonero ordered the army's restructuring to divide us. He knows that this is his greatest moment of weakness, and he sees this coming. But if you can join me, we can rival his forces. There is also independent dissent among officers and enlisted cadres alike throughout the armed forces. Many of the young ones are idealists. Most in positions of command are realists. If they see the two army commanders as united, many will rally to us."

Nodding, Leandro said, "Fremonero would not only be counting on me; he's also relying on the Ordenites. That must have been the underlying theme at the negotiations, the ones leading to the air transport of II IEC back home."

De Vega waved that away. "I have contacts with the Ordenites. I have strong reassurances that Berlina will back me."

"Even if it's messy?" asked the general. "They would help us topple Fremonero?"

"I would rather them not," answered the marechal. "It's important that this be resolved internally, by internal factions. Involving the Ordenites may give raison d'etre to the other superpowers. Besides, the Ordenites might ask for additional compensation. No, Fremonero needs to be removed surgically via lightning strike. It must come from within." De Vega explained his plan to Leandro. The general listened intently.

After de Vega finished his exposition, Leandro said, "I am vital to your success, Roque. Why should I help to install you as leader?"

"Because, if you don't, I will ask the Ordenites to intervene directly," replied the field marshal, sharply. "With the military unified, I can guide this country through these challenging times and rebuild its status. Without a unified military, this country will descend into civil war. And if I catch a whiff of your betrayal, I will ensure your head is the first one to roll. Do you understand me?"

Leandro said nothing. De Vega added, "But if you help me, I promise you a seat at the table as a member of the new junta government."

Swallowing his spit, Leandro said, "I suppose you know where I stand, then."

"Good." The marechal, perhaps future marechalisimo, smiled. "Now, I think you owe me a tour of these vineyards of yours."

The field marshal stayed for the rest of the day, leaving only in the late evening. Leandro stayed up the rest of the night. He contemplated de Vega's words, thinking through his own options. Though he would not tell Fremonero of de Vega's plan, Leandro nevertheless felt compelled to confide in an associate whom he could trust to give him good advice. That associate was Brigadista-Geral Nuno Caldeira.


GANCHAS; LADERO, CSA TERRITORY

"Thank you, good friend," said Ganchas, through the secure line. He clicked it off. Brigadista-Geral Nuno Caldeira, an old and close friend, almost like a brother to Ganchas, from the academy days. Nobody knows, you're the only person I've told, Nuno had said.

Ganchas didn't plan to tell anybody, at least anybody that didn't need to know. Fremonero's fall was past due, in his opinion. All the same, a regime change could very well strand Ganchas in Camarzela forever, or even throw him to the dogs if necessary. He thus needed to use this strategic information to his advantage. That's why Nuno had called to tell him. The threat to any Istoloan fighting in eastern Ladero was obvious.

A lifeline for Ganchas may have materialized, though. Ladero was facing its own political instability. Bambaso, the prime minister, was out. Ganchas knew Bambaso had ambitions, ambitions that could allow such a political failure. Naturally, Ganchas appointed some of his intelligence assets to connect him with the disgraced prime minister. If Bambaso could bring a Marshite representative to the negotiating table, the commander of the CSA was willing to sign a peace settlement that Bambaso could have the rights of brokerage vis-a-vis his own government, thus giving voters a compelling reason to return him to power. But there was a catch. Ganchas wanted the Marshites to transfer his men and their equipment from Camarzela to Istoloa. In return, he'd give them de Vega and, if still alive, Fremonero, for trials related to the atrocities committed.

[Holy Marsh]

The initial air operation unfolded largely as anticipated. There had never been any expectation of a swift or effortless victory over the so-called “insurgency,” particularly given how dangerously overextended the Laderan military remained. While planners had hoped to inflict greater damage more rapidly, there was no urgency to force the pace. Time favored pressure, and the Mar’si could exert that in an ever increasing volume.

As additional air assets arrived in theater, the tempo and depth of operations expanded accordingly. Strike packages grew more frequent and more severe, rolling forward in deliberate waves. The increased presence also allowed a greater allocation of aircraft to close air support, attempting to stabilize friendly forces while maintaining constant pressure on the insurgency’s capacity for war. By this stage, the 215th and 578th Marine Divisions had committed the majority of their combat strength into the conflict zone. Their role, however, remained deliberately restrained. Rather than spearheading engagements, they increasingly provided artillery and drone support to Legião III, while focusing their own efforts on securing rear areas and stabilizing critical infrastructure.

Despite the growing weight of their support, direct combat operations were still withheld. Authorization from the Laderan government had not yet been granted, and Marshite doctrine held to that boundary with discipline. That changed, partially, at Arcos Reais. Two companies of Marines were deployed in response to an offer, one that they were eager to take up. Instead, the insurgents executed a calculated and brutal campaign of city-wide destructionl, leaving the city shattered behind them. When the smoke cleared, more than four dozen Mar’si Marines lay dead among the ruins.

The 312th Airborne Division, meanwhile, remained in a state of readiness. Preparations were underway for direct action against the so-called Mole Holes once their locations were confirmed. Their discovery was considered inevitable. As the blockade continued to perform as intended, confidence grew that the insurgency’s sustainment relied on alternative supply mechanisms. With maritime and aerial routes increasingly denied, only ground-based logistics remained viable. That, in turn, raised a more troubling possibility: Subterranean movement on a strategic scale.
In response, naval command began tasking Tel’Quessir units to survey the seafloor between Istoloa and Ladero. Still, it was assessed that decisive proof would emerge not from the water, but from the expansion of intelligence assets tasked with identifying sites of macrologistical significance in occupied Ladero, the hidden arteries that kept the insurgency alive.

The Mar’si maintained constant and deliberate contact with the Laderan leadership throughout. They offered no public comment on internal political developments, seeing no mandate to impose their will or arbitrate outcomes. That restraint, however, did not equate to distance. Any emerging authority was made to understand that the Theocracy stood present- as a friend, as an ally, as a shield, and as a spear.

To that end, Laderan command was kept fully informed of all intelligence developments, high-level force movements, and strategic intentions, alongside detailed operational reports flowing directly from the Marine divisions in theate, the blockade, intelligence assets, and any other crumb they could find. Under the table, offers were made to replace lost equipment and establish considerable financial resources earmarked for their use. Transparency was complete, and coordination continuous. Operation: Secure Hawk advanced without pause, its momentum building steadily as minutes slipped into hours, hours into days, and days into weeks, each passing moment adding weight to a campaign designed for the inevitability of Ladero’s final unmaking of the Istoloan leash and collar.

Meanwhile, the movements of the Ordenite navy, while unwelcome, were not wholly unexpected. In response, Operation: Sea Dragon was reconfigured to incorporate the 3-2 Tactical Fleet. Should Sea Dragon be activated, this adjustment would place three Tactical Fleets, along with numerous subordinate formations, in position to contest both Ordenite and Istoloan forces.
It was not the level of overwhelming force the planners would have preferred. But the calculus was clear, the risks understood. So be it.

[Volsku]

https://forum.nationstates.net/search.php?keywords=Sulla&t=577812&sf=msgonly

Marcella Sulla finished speaking with her ambassador to the GDRC. She was irritated that morning. She had other fish to fry, but had to touch base to see if there was a serious rift between the Havenic government and other powers in participation in central Greater Diendstad. Eitoan and The Haven were important trade partners, and were significant powers on continent, and Bill V'Drav was taking heat on the free trade pact rejection by Volsku's neutral neighbors. Anyway, she called the receptionist, and told her to send him in.

A few moments later the receptionist ushered in the tall, distinguished looking gentleman. Marcella met him at the door, greeting him warmly. She bade Caelus Processus to take a seat in front of the sprawling desk, strewn with a multitude of reports. Processus, the CEO of Volsku's fourth largest accounting firm was not unknown in Kramfors, wrapping up a four year term as Praetor of Saminita province.

She addressed Caelus "Honored Praetor, we are requesting a great service to the nation of you. We would be in your debt for this public service. As you are aware there is great instability to the south, both along the D'yk River and in the Tarao region. Of course the ministry has our diplomatic corps but with our limited budget we need a fresh set of eyes to assess the situation there. We want you to go to the region to meet with key players in several states down there and report back to us. Of course, the Ministry will make arrangements and cover expenses. Please consider our request to meet with top people in Potthan, Ladero and Madhah and report back on the current direction of those governments. We would greately appreciate this duty".

---

Ministry of Defense
Potthan

The ride from the embassy had been unremarkable. Processus had been here before, many years ago. Many years before the current situation. There was no Elokeum then. Potthan and The Bay of Chains, as it was called had always been a playground for foreign intrigue, always with Madhah and Barjaanistan, but with different power players. It was the Ammanites and Castillians and the Raskovs before, now the Ordenites, Macabbeans and Marshites. Anyways, aside from briefing at the Ministry in Kramfors, Processus was a novice. Accompanied by the Volskuan military attaché, he was whisked into a conference room and warmly greeted by a gruff looking, mustached Potthani general, Alireza Haddad, flanked by a colonel and major. After introductions, they got down to business.

Processus started. "On behalf of President V'drav I wish to thank the general and the Potthani government for this opportunity to exchange views. As you know, there has been a great deal of big power interest in the west lately. We've been mostly concerned with relations in the Great Inland Sea, as you can imagine but we would like to review the status of current frictions between our southern neighbors, and the role the major powers are playing so close to us. General Haddad, do you see any chance for a reduction of hostilities along the D'yk soon? Can you inform us which factions Potthan favors in Barjannaistan, and what is the disposition of Berlina and Mar'si in particular to the forces at play there?

[Ladero]

ARMADO & FONSECA

A long line of battle sliced Sorofi at its belly. Running from the coast to the western border, a drab collection of trenchlines, pillboxes, and strongholds criss-crossed through a visage of charred rubble. Shelled-out buildings, mostly collapsed and turned into rubble piles, marked the front lines in the cities, while in the countryside, it was the blackened earth and burnt, felled trees that gave away the field of battle. Along this line, the struggle for Sorofi — between Laderan "liberators" and southern Sorofian "patriots" — had stagnated into a stalemate for the past few weeks.

Despite sending its two best armies into the field, the southern Sorofian army had deployed surprisingly quickly and effectively. Their strength was growing by the day, as well. It was clear that they were being supplied and reinforced by men through the Irati border, suggesting that Istoloa had a hand in mobilizing the unexpected resistance. There was no hard evidence, not yet at least, of either Istoloan or Irati troops on the field.

The truth was that the lethargy inflicting Laderan troops was a product of the political instability back home. With Bambaso gone, the UCP's precarious position with respect to the coming elections translated into intransigence in Sorofi. Replacements for the losses sustained over the course of the campaign, including the last bloody offensive to dislodge enemy forces in Barbaro's southern suburbs, were insufficient. The two legions were barely maintaining strength, and they needed more men, especially as the Sorofian resistance hardened. The only major alteration to the strategy was the replacement of Iago Lancastre with General-Tenente Gil Fonseca. Lancastre's sacking was felt particularly among the rank-and-file, who felt they had led their commander down. Demoralized, they looked toward the dim prospect of making another push to capture the southern approaches to the capital city.

Jets screamed overhead. Ladero was still the only military with a modern air force, however. Sorofi's aircraft had almost all been destroyed in the opening stages of the invasion, and Irat's had not yet made its presence, though it was small and poorly equipped.

Striking some target over the horizon, likely a supply depot or a column of enemy vehicles, the fighters quickly swooped in an arc to turn around. In the low distance, a flash gave away a missile that zig-zagged through the air like a jumping serpent. Two more followed. With untiring speed they closed the gap between them and one of the aircraft, which deployed countermeasures and rapidly broke-off from the formation to conduct eratic evasive maneuvers. Exploding harmlessly, the first missile was nonetheless immediately superseded by the second and third. The second missed at first, but turned around with astonishing velocity to find its target once again. Shifting the weight of the jet this way and that, the pilot used all of his mental and physical might to throw them off. But when the second missile struck his wing, the pilot thumbed the eject button and managed to get launched out of the cockpit before the third missile turned his fighter jet into a fiery ball of scrap metal. Although the Laderan Air Force had ruled the skies up til now, small and medium SAM systems had made their entrance in the war, and the interdiction campaign against Sorofian supply lines was becoming more challenging and costly.

Unable to force the situation through the air war, the two Laderan legions in Sorofi resolved on a combined offensive to bulldoze through enemy lines and conquer the south. Armado and Fonseca launched their attacks simultaneously. Armado's focus remained the capital's southern suburbs, which he hoped to take through a frontal attack to pin the enemy down and a flanking maneuver to sever their lines of communication. Fonseca inherited Lancastre's objective of achieving a general breakthrough and exploiting it to pierce deep into the enemy rear, all the way south until reaching the Irati border.

In the early morning hours, a thunderous artillery bombardment awakened anybody within forty miles of the battleline. Hundreds of gun tubes rocked Sorofian defenses for twenty minutes of an intense rolling barrage. South of Barbaro, in the suburbs, the bulk of Legião I's offensive power trepidly advanced down shattered streets choked with debris. Spearheaded by armored infantry, these elements quickly rolled over trenches abandoned by their infantry defenders just minutes ago. Sorofians formed strongpoints here and there to slow the legion's movement, but Armado had instructed his commanders to bottle these points of resistance off, keep moving, and let the rear elements sweep up islands of enemy troops. However, most of Armado's best forces, including the largest part of his armor, were undertaking the flanking maneuver, leaving little of it for the infantry forming the anvil. Thus, the anvil made little headway through the thick defensive belt of the enemy while waiting for the hammer to take shape.

Further to the east, Fonseca's offensive was moving more quickly through open country against opposition that was less densely organized. His success was his unmaking, though. The further south Fonseca's spearhead galloped, the more difficult it was to keep those elements supplied with ammunition and food. As such, Fonseca's debut on the Sorofian front began to wane and slow. Finally, it ground to a stop while waiting for the army's main body to catchup. Legião II's attack had gained just about twenty-five kilometers' worth of depth before running out of steam.

On the coastal highway, vehicles burned where they had been knocked out in the fighting. The dead lay where they had been killed.

Armado's flanking maneuver suffered a similar struggle to that of Legião II, but without their success. Before him, the Sorofian Army had built an incredibly dense defensive belt that meant that his tanks had hardly advanced more than four kilometers before they had to stop due to insecure lines of communication. Fighting was fierce and often at close quarter, making the battle more personal, lethal, and difficult to control. Furthermore, without enough troops to hold down every bypassed stronghold securely, the spearheading armored columns could not guarantee the security of their lines of communication. Thus, the offensive slowed as the vehicles could not be guaranteed fuel, the troops food or water, and neither the requisite munitions for sustained combat. The hammer was soon blunted, hardly having more of an advance than the anvil.

Enemy artillery was hitting the invading armies particularly hard by this phase in their offensive, giving them an additional headache. Blasting the exposed tips of Fonseca's spears, the Sorofian guns kept the general's armor in check while pelting supply convoys attempting to use the convoys to deliver materiel. Counterbattery fire responded in kind, while the Sorofian defenders were no better off, themselves often the targets of a sudden artillery barrage.

Running out of fuel, Fonseca's armor ran the risk of being immobilized and potentially cut off in a counterattack. By the fifth day of the offensive, he recalled his armored spearheads to consolidate further to the rear. Thus, a 25-kilometer gain was turned into a 15-kilometer win, and that is where the eastern half of the frontlines settled. For his part, Armado called off any further attacks with virtually no gain to show for it. He was sacked the next day, replaced by General-Tenente António Rocha.



FUSTER

Fuster had barely survived Bambaso's fall. Nevertheless, despite being left licking his wounds after political setbacks and the losses suffered from the Arcos Reais bombing, the general felt good about what lay ahead of him. With Marshite troops taking up forward positions in the secured portions of western Camarzela, the wounded Legião III could continue pushing into the rest of the province without worry of losing ground.

Moving the main supply base to the large town of Susiega, his men spread out eastward along the major highways. This time, Susiega had been thoroughly checked for explosives and other traps left by the CSA. They found few. Luckily, the town didn't explode on them. Once it was clear Susiega wasn't rigged, Fuster moved his headquarters there, occupying an 18th-century hilltop palatial castle turned into a hotel in the late 20th century, and now converted into a military complex. His soldiers looked like ants below, as the general looked out at them from his private office window. What panged him were the soldiers he knew were not there. More than a thousand had perished as a result of the Arcos Reias fiasco, and none of them had been replaced with fresh recruits.

Legião III's losses were heavy, but they paled in comparison to the number of men dying in Sorofi. Though the government wanted to bolster both, between casualties on the ground and the loss of the eastern fleet, the war was becoming unbearably expensive. Fuster was told to crush the CSA with what he already had.

The general immediately set out to capture the towns, important highway intersections, and infrastructure ahead of his legion. They moved in columns of mostly wheeled light armored vehicles, with a few heavier tracked armored vehicles sporting heavier weaponry interspersed among them. Upon making contact, they fought running battles against CSA fighters until a requested Marshite air strike arrived.

At first, the enemy peeled away and disappeared. The towns they arrived at were empty. Laderan flags were draped down from windows and balconies by civilians happy to see the army's arrival. Their lives under CSA tyranny had not been easy. Most of these communities had lost dozens of people in a spree of targeted assassinations of local leadership, which continued unabated further to the east.

But most of the guerrillas could not be brought to justice. Not yet. They refused to fight.

Perplexed and cautious, Fuster ordered a halt to further offensive operations to allow his forces to consolidate their forces. He requested that the government invite the Marshites to also garrison the taken towns to secure them against a counterattack. But though the government conceded to his request concerning the Marshites, they also pressured him to keep the offensive moving forward. The war was going badly and the UCP needed a miracle before the upcoming elections, and so the caretaker administration ordered Legião III to push further east into Camarzela.

All of the Tarao countries share a common species of snake, known as the silvara. A type of python common in the western mountains and foothills, they are famous for their venom. A bite is nearly guaranteed death. They are known for hiding from their prey. Once they sense something nearby, silvaras quickly recede, slithering with surprising speed and agility, until coming to a point of stop. There, they lie in complete silence. With infinite patience, they wait out their opponent until finally the rodent, or rabbit, or whatever unfortunate creature has crossed paths with the silvara, moves to continue its journey. Cleverly, the silvaras position themselves further along their prey's route, from which they can spring a vicious ambush. The snake even killed men this way.

Like a silvara, the CSA receded until it came to a point of rest further along Legião III's path. When the two sides came together, Fuster was once again in for a nasty surprise. A spearhead column moving east toward the town of Boviego, composed of a company-sized armored formation, was brutishly ambushed by an unexpectedly large enemy force. Coming out from all sides, anti-tank rocket-wielding infantry pelted the column with a variety of missiles. One missile shot up into the sky only to come back down on one of the IFVs from the top, penetrating the armor and causing an explosion in the chassis which sent the turret flying.

A quick firefight ensued, but by the time Marshite aircraft could come to help, the enemy had already disengaged. At the cost of perhaps a dozen casualties, the CSA had imparted another embarrassing defeat on the Laderan army. Fuster was now down eight vehicles and sixty men. If this was the type of war he was going to fight, he was unsure if his forces could survive the attrition rate. Not without reinforcements.

The general ordered a halt to the offensive for a second time. If his lines of communication got any longer, those ambushes would only become worse. And more common. The politicians be damned.

In any case, a second front had stagnated for Ladero.



BAMBASO

Out of favor, Zé Bambaso hadn't even been invited to the closed-door talks with the Macabéan financiers. The war was getting expensive; a fleet had to be rebuilt, and three armies required significant materiel and manpower reinforcement to overcome stiff opposition. To pay for an accelerated mobilization program, Ladero needed a lot of money today. The only way to get that kind of money that quickly was by borrowing it, and the cheapest place a government could borrow vast sums of money was the Golden Throne. Specifically, DíenBank.

The current government, likely outgoing in less than a month, received the privilege of negotiating with the financiers only because the political situation in Ladero was likely virtually unknown in the Golden Throne. If they lost power, they'd saddle the next administration with an additional $180 (NSD) billion in debt. DíenBank would buy that much in the shape of Laderan public bonds at a rate of 2-percent, with a term of 15 years. While these bonds were in repayment, they'd have passed through DíenBank's assembly line. First chopped up, and then each piece was scattered into a separate collaterized assets where they were packaged with pieces of other countries' debts. Upon repackaging, they were sold to other banks and institutions, including governments. These assets undergirded regional repo markets.

Regardless, Zé stood outside of all of this and was stuck at home, depressed. Drinking a beer, he sat on his couch and watched the nightly news. The news anchor, a cute blonde woman wearing a wine-red dress, was covering the debacles in Sorofi and Camarzela. The disgraced former prime minister scoffed. See, it wasn't his fault. It was the president who had ordered the invasion of Sorofi amidst the Camarzela crisis at home. Bambaso had just been given an impossible task. And it was he whose head had rolled in shame.

"Bastards!" he yelled at the TV.

Just then, his phone rang. Reading the name on the screen, he accepted it. "Henrique."

"It's Ganchas," said the other man, Henrique Valente, Zé's former chief-of-staff. "He wants to talk to you."

"About what?" questioned Zé. "What could he possibly want with me?"

A pause. Then, "He wants to discuss a ceasefire agreement."

Zé scoffed. "Tell him to talk to the government."

"I did," said Valente. "He said that he'd only negotiate with you."

Zé, dumbfounded, thought about it for a moment. It was an opportunity given to him by God, that was for sure. Assuming Ganchas had realistic expectations, that he would only negotiate with Zé would give the former prime minister a sudden and unexpected boost in prestige. And with the looming elections, Ganchas' offer could not have come at a better time. "Did he offer a place to meet?" he asked.

"Vila dos Ventos," answered Valente.

"In the separatist zone?" Commercial flights out of Ladero to Camarzela airports had been restricted due to the ongoing Marshite airstrikes. It would be hard to get in, and Zé would certainly have to alert the government of his intentions. But the opportunity was too good to pass up. "Sure," he said, finally, "tell Ganchas that I'm in. I will meet with him in three days. In the meantime, let's bring in Paolo. He will need to know and greenlight this."

"Done." The phone clicked off. Suddenly, Zé's depression vanished and he felt reinvigorated.

[The Macabees]

The Asadabad Tangent
Shartoum Sea: Kríergrup 'Tongolosi'
________________________________

Grey skies portended a coming storm. Angry waves already slapped against the hull of the BIM 309966723 Jokartes, named after an 18th-century admiral. A modified utility helicopter was touching down on its deck just then, a small welcome party patiently waiting for it on foot. From the chopper, they could see the carrier's escorts increasingly on the horizon as it descended. Fighter aircraft swooped overhead on an air patrol. The flagship of Kríergrup Tongolosi, it sat nestled in a pocket within a vast, spread-out fleet group now approaching Istoloa's northeastern peninsular area.

"Your Highness," said the commanding officer, his uniform displaying the insignia of a stratadmiránt, "Welcome to the Jokartes."

Lato nervously adjusted his black leather gloves. He hated flying on helicopters. To boot, the flight had been rather unpleasant due to the worsening weather, even if still mild compared to what was coming. And that discounted the several day's journey by ship, leaving Samarasta to catch up to the kríergrup. But He had personally commanded the kríerlord to oversee upcoming operations directly. Though military matters would be left to the military, the situation surrounding the campaign was fraught with dangers and opportunities for escalation. He had made very clear that by no terms could the Imperial Bureaucracy allocate limikari and that the kríerlord and imperial commanders would have to make good with only the kríergrup's marines. These instructions were imprinted on the kríerlord's mind from a phone call as recent as this morning's. The emperor was especially excellent at communicating with those who extended His Will directly with powers of imperial command, corresponding directly almost daily, even if only for a few minutes, and demanding constant updates. Lato knew the emperor received information from other sources too. The Imperial Bureaucracy was a complex web of checks and balances, driven by inadvertent monitors installed in juxtaposing positions: commands and kríerlords, governors and kríerlords, commanders and governors. To the fleet group commander, Lato took his hand and replied, "Thank you, Stratadmiránt Mijorán. Shall we go inside?"

"Of course," answered Franc Mijorán. He motioned toward the carrier's island, toward which they started walking. Mijorán was old school and experienced, having previously commanded Kríergrup Indras. Involved both in the territory's pacification and the Battle of the Great Central Channel, against the Ordenites, the stratadmiránt held an impressive cachet. Tall and thin, he walked with a certain swagger. Though he showed the utmost respect toward the kríerlord, he was his equal in terms of man.

On his part, Lato's was no slouch in his repertoire either. Though he had served as an officer during the War of Golden Succession, his path toward membership in the Kuncil was earned on a bureaucratic path. Prior to his ascension to the emperor's advisorship, the kríerlord had served the diplopalatio for more than a decade. His last post was jogornos to Barjaanistan, head of the diplomatic mission in that country. But his promotion was fresh and came as a result of the unexpected unilateral expansion of the Elokeum base area to a much larger chunk of northern Potthan. The emperor had heard good things about Lato and wanted his expertise to manage the empire's foreign affairs on a wider scale in the area.

Though the northwesternmost elements of Kríergrup Tongolosi approached the northeasternmost points of Istoloa, it was not Istoloa to which the fleet group was headed. Though it was the conflict between Istoloa and Ladero that triggered this operation. Specifically, someone or some group must have gotten in Fedor's ear about freedom of navigation through the Strait of Asadabad. That Istoloa had aggressively mined it was not necessarily the cause for concern. For now, commercial liners flying the double-headed eagle of the Golden Throne were given freedom of passage through a system of electromagnetic codes. Although the system was not as robust as one for an imperial naval minefield, no accidents had happened yet. It was rather that some sort of Ordenite intervention in Istoloa seemed possible, which, along with the concurrent Ordenite military presence in Potthan threatened to cut the empire off from trade partners like Ladero, Sorofi, and Irat entirely. This gave the small shithole country of Asadabad a sudden strategic importance. It was to Asadabad that Mijorán's fleet group was headed.

"Preparations are apace, sir," the stratadmiránt was saying, once they were inside. "Operations will commence on schedule at the tail-end of the storm." D-day was in four days. "It should be pretty routine; we don't expect much resistance."

"And Admiral Burke?" asked the kríerlord.

Admiral Sir Stanley Earl Burke was the commander of Task Force Asadabad (TFA), a fleet much smaller than the empire's, but pivotal in the coming mission. TFA belonged to Lourens Consortium, which owed the empire some sort of success after its naval force's poor showing in Magdaran (though they were at a steep numerical disadvantage). The Imperial Bureaucracy thus earned a discounted rate for this contingent, which was composed of a small surface fleet of about 30 ships and a larger contingent of 18,000 marine mercenaries. Lourens called it the I Lourens Amphibious Assault. It would provide most of the combat power on the ground, with imperial marines moving in as a reserve force and, per the plan, only after the base sites had been secured.

"I have not yet personally consulted him," replied the stratadmiránt, curtly. "As my subordinate in command, he receives orders throughout the day. The mercenaries will be ready."

"Have him join us here," said Lato. "I want him to be with me when the operation begins."

"Yes, sir," answered Mijorán. He did not seem thrilled about it. Admiral Burke was Stevidian and also deeply experienced, having fought against the Golden Throne, Lyras, Imbrinumium, and others in his years with the Royal Navy. The Macabéan undoubtedly disdained giving the Stevidian any opportunity to offer his opinion about the upcoming fighting. To Tongolosi's commander, the mercenaries were merely resources, not equal allies.

The kríerlord nodded. "I will retire to my quarters for the time being. We will reconvene on your command deck when Admiral Burke has arrived. I'd like to discuss your operational plan."

"Of course, Your Excellency," replied Mijorán.

Dipping his head, Lato answered, "Thank you, Stratadmiránt."

He was a bit unsettled from the helicopter ride still and hoped to get some rest. He'd freshen up later and prepare for the discussion with the two commanders. Mijorán would want to dominate. That was okay. Lato was ready to cede the commander mastery over his domain. But as Burke would directly oversee the initial ground war, the kríerlord wanted to make sure the mercs were sold on the plan too.

There were other matters to attend to over the coming days, as well. The Mar'si were also present in these seas and were important allies. They had already been made aware of the kríergrup's deployment, though not necessarily yet to the full scope of its purpose. But Lato needed to maintain communication with their commanders and keep them as up to date as possible. There were also the Istoloans and their mines. Lato felt a pang in his gut, a little bit of sea sickness, and he hurried to his quarters. Though he likely wouldn't get much rest, those matters would nevertheless have to wait just a little before being attended to.

[Istoloa]

DE VEGA; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

Sunlight burst in through ancient stained glass windows, casting over Roque's back. He knelt on the hassock, praying to God with his head bowed and hands clasped. Besides the light and a few other souls in the nave with him, he was surrounded by absolute silence. Candles on votive racks against the walls flickered as breezes infiltrated through poorly sealed windows and doors let the cold evening air in.

I pray to you for success in the coming days, weeks, and months, he prayed. There will be difficult times ahead, and I could use your help, not just for my sake but for the future of Istoloa. I am your soldier. Under my oversight, Istoloa will continue to defend your scriptures wherever our influence goes. We will not be able to do that if our country succumbs to internal chaos or external occupation. I lean on you, Lord, to propel me to my rightful place as Istoloa's guardian and your unwavering knight. You will not be let down.

Gunshots rang out in the distance, muffled by the thick church's thick walls. De Vega paid them, and the screaming that followed, little mind as he containued to pray.

Even when the doors behind him flung open as a flood of people rushed in, the field marshal did not immediately stir. It was only when someone grabbed his shoulder that de Vega turned his full attention to events happening outside. The man with his hand on the marechal's shoulder was screaming, "They're killing people in the streets! The MPs! The MPs are attacking soldiers on the street!"

De Vega stood, a good shoulder and head taller than the man, and said, calmly, "Remain here, do not fret. It will all be over soon."

The figure of General Rosa appeared at the door then. The general was looking for de Vega, in fact. Rosa motioned at Roque with his head toward a study just to the side, through a small arched open door. The field marshal followed him there.

"Everything is going as planned, marechal," said the general, once they were out of earshot of everyone else who had sought refuge in that church. It was getting pretty full, and the nave was nearly overflowing. The two officers could not count on being alone for long.

"Shootings?" asked Roque. "In the public's view? That was not authorized."

Rosa shrugged. "Some of the targets resisted with armed force."

"I see," replied the field marshal, hesitantly. "Well, that must be kept to a minimum."

"I will do what I can," replied the general, "but what you have unleashed will be very difficult to control and rein in."

Roque did not waver. "What we are doing will be crucial for a successful and efficient transition of power in this country. We've already talked about it. You know this needs to happen. So don't doubt me now." He eyed some people trickling into their study in search of space. He said, "We will reconcile with most of the officers eventually; this is but a temporary expedient. Soon, things in this country will return to normal. I will make you field marshal of the ground forces for your service to me."

Rosa remained quiet. A moment passed, and the general said, "We should go. The men will be looking for our leadership."

"Of course," answered de Vega, pursing his lips. He followed the general out of the church, nonetheless.

Outside, he could see the MPs arresting several officers on the street and outside the nearby commissary. But it was evident that the MPs did not entirely have control of the situation. Corpses lay strewn out on the street, blood trickling out and onto the pavement. Officers being arrested were arguing back, in some cases pushing. One of the MPs struck a target in the head, butt meeting temple. One of the targets pulled out a pistol. Several rifle rounds later, the man was dead, along with the other four people in the group. The MPs looked around guiltily. Roque would be debriefed later on how the MPs slacked their searches, allowing many of the officers and NCO cadres suspected of loyalty to either the field marshal or General Rosa to survive the attempted purge.

The next morning, some units refused orders, took up arms, and barricaded themselves in their buildings. II and III Exércitos de Istoloa (EIs) had not just failed to cleanse pro-Fremonero leadership, but there were now small pockets of open resistance to the field marshal's command.



GANCHAS; LADERO, CSA TERRITORY

"Tea?" asked Ganchas. He served himself and the disgraced Laderan ex-prime minister cups of warm tea. "The leaf is local."

"Enjoy it while you can," said Bambaso, dismissively.

Ganchas laughed. "I've been here long enough."

"You will be defeated eventually." Bambaso stared at the general coldly. Ganchas was sure that the Laderan felt some element of hate toward him. He could not tell if there was any respect yet. Bambaso was rather bold for a man whose parliament had just sacked him for leading his country into not one, but two military quagmires. It was severe defeats inflicted by Ganchas, in fact, that served as the straw that broke the camel's back (as the Asadabadians tended to say).

But Ganchas did not test Bambaso's arrogance. Instead, he replied, "That could be sooner, rather than later."

Slowly raising the teacup to his lips, the infusion rippled as it trembled ever so lightly. Bambaso's fixed, icy gaze on Ganchas did not flicker or flinch, though. He said, finally, "Explain."

"Allow me and my army to withdraw back to the Istoloan mainland," the general said. The ex-prime minister froze before setting his cup down. It took him a moment to recover his senses. Ganchas continued, "Ask the Mar'si to transport my army and its equipment back to Istoloa. I will immediately declare a new government and remove Fremonero from power. My forces are well-honed, and I know there are many officers back home looking for an opportunity at revolution. We are just as tired of Fremonero as you. Empower us by redirecting my strength against your enemy. In return, I promise you both Fremonero and Roque de Vega, the man who ordered this war in Camarzela. I will give them to you for trial. And I will sign a peace agreement with your country, of course."

"Easy peasy, just like that," said Bambaso, snapping his fingers.

"You mock me?" questioned Ganchas.

Bambaso scoffed, "How can you think anyone in my government would agree to that? Even if I were stupid enough to tell you yes, parliament would never ratify that sort of agreement. You have committed great and costly injustices against my country and its people, and there needs to be legitimate justice if the relationship between Ladero and Istoloa is ever to return to normal. I can let you leave, perhaps. But your army, your army must surrender unconditionally."

The Istoloan remained silent. Then, "Without an army, I cannot dispute power. If I cannot dispute power, I cannot help you achieve a long-term peace."

Bambaso thought for a long moment. Ganchas poured them both some more tea. Finally, after a while, the Laderan said, "This is what I can offer you. Twenty-five percent of your army. Twenty-five percent. That is what you will get to 'dispute power,' as you put it. Three-quarters of your soldiers must surrender unconditionally. And this is only because nobody will ever know about the twenty-five percent that goes with you. Officially, it will be the entire CSA that surrenders. You must agree to keep the agreement secret between our governments. Upon landing in Istoloa, Ladero will immediately recognize you as the legitimate executive power in Istoloa. However, we will only recognize you as an interim executive. We demand that democratic elections be held. Finally, not only will you give Fremonero and de Vega to us, but you will also acknowledge the Camarzelan war as a foreign invasion, and Istoloa must end its meddling in both Sorofi and Irat."

Ganchas said nothing for a while, now that he was deep in thought. The Laderan's terms were not good. No legitimate government of Istoloa could humiliate itself by accepting those terms. Not from a former colonial possession. But, for now, Bambaso didn't need to know that Ganchas had disputes. He replied, "I agree to the spirit of your demands. We will hammer out the details once your government is on board. The Mar'si must be open to the arrangement, as well, as it will be their ships that will transport my men, I presume."

Bambaso sighed. "Those are the demands. I will go to my government, then to the Mar'si. If there is traction, I will summon you." The two of them went quiet, and it seemed the discussion was over. Suddenly, Bambasi added, "You have proven a talented adversary, General Ganchas. I respect your ingenuity and tenacity. Though you have cost me personally quite dearly, I recognize your genius. It's too bad that you were used to cause harm to my people, but perhaps you are right, and you can help make things right."

"You know," he answered, "the CSA is just a distraction."

The ex-prime minister laughed. "You are a more important piece of the puzzle than you think, general."

Ganchas shrugged. "It's time for a change." A moment, then, "You mentioned reconciliation. Do you think it's possible?"

The Laderan took a breath, then replied, "The Macabéans were at each other's throats less than two decades ago, and now the empire is in harmony. Neighbors have fought each other for millennia. Fathers have killed sons, brothers have butchered brothers, and in some countries, children even murder their parents. But even afer all of this, life must go on. Mustn't it? Reconciliation is just a convenience. Sooner or later, it is inevitable."

Ganchas pushed the two teacups aside. Placing two squat glasses in their place, he poured a dark liquor into them. Handing one to Bambaso, he raised his cheered, "To reconciliation!"

Pushing his glass against the general's, Bambaso said, "To your success."

The ex-prime minister left later that night. Ganchas knew that Bambaso would have to sell his government on the plan. But maybe after the heavy casualties he had inflicted on the Laderan army, there was some incentive to cut a deal. Especially if the deal looked like the complete and unconditional surrender of the CSA. But the Laderan government also had time on its hands, perhaps. If so, maybe they would try to squeeze Ganchas into even more intolerable terms. The general didn't know; he could only wait.



FREMONERO; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

Fremonero's fist fell upon the thin fixed plywood tray over his lap, making it shake and sending his food flying. The nurse tisked and quickly bent down to pick it all up. He raged internally — it showed externally.

"You know you musn't let your blood pressure rise, Marechalisimo," said the nurse, gently. "It's not good for your heart."

"Fuck my heart!" burst the old man. "They are launching a coup against me before our very eyes, and you want me to worry about my heart? This time tomorrow, I might not have a head!"

She said nothing.

He said, "No, no, no, not like this. No, no, no. Not this easily!" He turned his neck to look at her, like a creepy bird with a wattle, and commanded, "Bring me my phone, woman!"

She did as told and then disappeared into another room, leaving the dictator alone to his business. He made a flurry of calls. Late that night, he made his way to a studio in his mansion, from where he made frequent addresses to the country. He gave an unexpected broadcast in the late hours of the Istoloan night, after most had had dinner and were ready to go to sleep. But he woke them with an alarm transmitted through cellular devices and had them all tune in to him. On their screens, he looked strong and even youthful. That was the magic of the camera. Istoloa's Marechalisimo declared a national security emergency, with the introduction of martial law and curfews with immediate effect. Fremonero also detailed a new treaty signed with the Ordenites, giving the superpower additional privileges in using Istoloan territory and giving them bases from which they could support their operations in Potthan. They were a vital security partner, he said. He meant that as much for his country as for himself, as in the Ordenites the dictator saw his permanence in power. He would give them the best terms, he assured them.

"Let it be known to all Istoloans of decency and honor, to all proud patriots of our beautiful country," he continued, "that Roque Cipriano de Vega is a traitor and has been stripped of his command. He is a national enemy. I have ordered his arrest, and he will be given a military trial."

As he spoke, I EI was already mobilizing and securing its base areas from possible subversive elements. He had general officers draw up lists of their juniors suspected of disloyalty to the regime or democratic leanings. He also attempted to contact General Leandro Rosa, commander of III EI. Rosa would be pivotal for decisively shifting the balance against de Vega. Fremonero wanted to make him his field marshal in return. But Rosa was not picking up. The old dictator wrinkled his nose, suspecting foul play.

[New Cassia]

The Carnation House, Broken Shield, Merchantist Republic of Cassia
Sunday, 5 PM Cassian Time; the Office of the Prolocutor of the Merchantist Republic, Callum Kreisle

The air was thick with tension at the Carnation House, a location Jordy Stonecypher had spent more time at recently than his own office at the Sarzynski Corporation’s headquarters. Riding in the elevator to the top floor of the building, he took pause to admire the meticulously detailed facility that the Merchantist Republic had built for its Prolocutor, the highest office in the land. Jordy was quite used to counseling the Prolocutor, Callum Kreisle in his office. As one of the heads of one of the largest corporations in Cassia, he was used to the privilege of having the Prolocutor’s ear. It was a privilege he did not take lightly, though really the power arrangement in Cassia was such that Stonecypher had more leverage to bring to bear against Kreisle than the other way around. Such was the nature of the beast in the Merchantist Republic, where the market was sacrosanct and consumption was the name of the game. If he could boost the fortunes of the Corporation, he would be doing well. This was a trick he had turned quite a number of times already.

What he was not used to was having competition in the room with him. Beside him in the elevator was another individual who was coming to offer counsel to Kreisle. John Windsor, the man in black in political circles, was riding in the elevator beside him, standing quietly and reverentially. The head of the state holding company, the Cassian Management Corporation, the Governor-General was quite influential in his own right, holding the reigns of power over one of the most important financial institutions in the whole of the Merchantist Republic. The man was in his early fifties, but you could not tell it from the shape he kept himself in. Peppery cropped hair sat atop his plain features; he was not handsome, but he was not ugly either. He was built like a brick shithouse as his mother used to say, a man that lived in the gym and worked out more than he fucked. That kind of man was a dangerous one in Jordy’s estimation, because they held nothing back for their attempts at changing situations. The two men were well acquainted with one another.

“Jordy.”

“John.”

The two men had nothing much to say to one another; they were corporate rivals, if not enemies exactly. Both were called for their expert counsel to the Prolocutor, and both would have to make the case that their advice was the superior form. If nothing else, it would be a chance for Jordy to exercise his debate skills somewhat against a man that was more than his equal. John Windsor was a shark in a sea full of them, but so too was Jordy Stonecypher, the head of the Sarzynski Corporation – that counted for something too, even if John Windsor held a government title as part of the Cassian Management Corporation. It was all he could do to keep his tongue from waggling as the two men neared their destination. The elevator let out a musical hum letting them know they had reached the top floor, straight to the Prolocutor’s office. The gold-plated elevator doors opened slowly, revealing a flood of natural light from the office’s study. Jordy and John both exited the elevator simultaneously, not bothering to let the other go first. This was a deep struggle.

Ahead of them at the center of the space was the Prolocutor of the Merchantist Republic, Callum Kreisle. Kreisle was a strong, wiry sort of fellow, fairly young to be holding the office. The people had overwhelmingly supported his mandate in the last election, and so Kreisle had quite a bit of political cache to spread around. He was sitting at his desk, observing some papers from a portfolio as the two men approached, getting a sense of the lay of the land. The air hung thick in the office, as if the tension could be cut with a knife. Callum paid them no mind at first, a political tic he had developed in an effort to keep from feeling like the junior partner in their counseling arrangement. Stonecypher granted him this measure, not wanting the kid to feel too badly about being outclassed in rhetoric and knowledge. John Windsor was another animal entirely; his beast of burden right now. Windsor had the knowledge and the debate skills to put anyone under the table if they were not careful. This would be a tall order for Jordy to keep his wits about him.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Carnation House,” the Prolocutor said amicably, rising from his desk to greet the two men. “I trust that your journey to Broken Shield was amenable?”

“Quite agreeable to be back in Broken Shield,” Stonecypher remarked, moving forward to shake the hand of Kreisle. “Always a pleasure to be of service, sir.”

“Indeed, well spoken,” Windsor replied after him, moving to greet the Prolocutor in the same vein after Stonecypher. The two men respectfully took a seat across the desk from Callum, who gingerly returned to his rolling office chair.

“I take it my secretary filled you in on the nature of our conversation here today?” The Prolocutor was amicable, soft-spoken, but also focused in a sense. There was a deceptively quiet charm in the man’s voice, though he could be cryptic in a heartbeat.

“Indeed, sir, your secretary filled us in quite fully,” John said respectfully, looking directly in the Prolocutor’s eyes in an almost-intimidating glance. “The situation in Istoloa and Ladero, in Fustera as well. The coming war and the intervention by our allies in the Federal Republic of the Czaslyudian Peoples.”

“Yes, the situation down south is precarious enough without the meddling of the central Dienstadi powers,” Stonecypher remarked coldly, looking at John as he spoke. “We have had concerns about our resources moving in and out of the Shartourn Sea region.”

“Precisely why I wanted your counsel today, gentlemen; you know that the Czaslyudian Peoples are moving to intervene in the developing situation down south. As allies of the Federal Republic, and under the provisions granted me by the Charter of Instrumentality, I have pondered a possible response to the situation by the Merchantist Republic.”

“What kind of response?” John said cooly, leaning forward in his chair expectantly, feeling a certain kind of concern for what Callum Kreisle was cooking up.

“A military one,” the Prolocutor replied, looking both men over carefully as he spoke. “Granted, we are not interested in prosecuting a full-blown war in the Shartourn region, but we have need to assist our allies in their preservation of the Istoloan government.”

Jordy was unconvinced. “I beg your forgiveness, Prolocutor, but how does our intervention in the coming conflict secure market variance for Cassia? A military intervention in the south would be costly, if not wholly amenable to the Republic’s ideal efforts to expand market access to Istoloa.”

“It is precisely that reason why we should act,” the Prolocutor reasoned, moving to hand Jordy a piece of parchment lying on the top of his desk. “This should be enlightening to you.”

Stonecypher gracefully took the paper from the Prolocutor, unrolling it to reveal a map of the Shartourn Sea and the relevant players involved in the growing tension. He studied the map carefully for a moment, noting the prospective appearance of Cassian military assets as an unknown variable to the mission field. After a beat, Jordy replied: “Tempting to the last.”

“The Cassian Management Corporation stands at the ready to assist however we can,” John spoke candidly, looking over at the map being held by Stonecypher. “However, I must caution you Prolocutor about getting Cassia in too deep in a conflict as unhinged as this. Lest we forget, the Ordenites are involved, and you know our hidden connectivity to Ordena.”

“We would never expose our connections to Ordena publicly,” the Prolocutor answered him forcefully, as if to reinforce the verisimilitude of his word. “Those ties will remain quietly buried under a mountain of disavowable knowledge.”

“Right, of course,” Windsor replied, feeling a bit more comfortable knowing that the great secret of the Cassian Republic was to be kept under wraps for a season longer. “Accepting military assistance from the Ordenites was a grave ploy, but one that seems to have paid off.”

“It was always a gambit,” Stonecypher retorted, “to accept the purchase of military armaments from the Ordenites. We were risking entanglement in the bogeyman of the south’s wars and military expeditions. Thankfully, our neutrality holds well enough.”

“The neutrality holds until it doesn’t,” the Prolocutor remarked, taking hold of a coffee mug and sipping at some of the elixir inside. “We cannot exist in permanent neutrality and expand our market access. The arithmetic simply does not check out.”

“So what exactly do you require of us, then?” Windsor was confused, uncertain. It seemed as though the Prolocutor had already made up his mind. “You seem quite convinced as it is.”

“Oh, no, not convinced, just reinforced in the belief that our military capacity could handle the job if called upon,” Callum responded respectfully. “I brought you two here today to hear counsel on the matter, for both of you have a vested interest in making the Shartourn Sea a safer access corridor for your business affairs.”

Jordy looked over at John after a pause, letting the map rest on his lap. “The Prolocutor speaks true, John. Our business interests have taken a hit in the Shartourn over this conflict. The Ordenites have kindly allowed our vessels to pass thus far, but insurance rates to insure our vessels have skyrocketed in the last few weeks.”

“Indeed, we need a resolution to this if we are to remain in the black,” Windsor replied. “Our vessels need safe passage through the Shartourn without the risk of being caught in a maelstrom. The Federal Republic of the Czaslyudian Peoples have the right of it, and as an avowed ally of the Republic, we are dutybound to assist them in their mission.”

“One thing remains hazy, though: the force that must be brought to bear in the coming conflict,” Callum spoke with a hint of concern in his voice. “We do not want to intrinsically conscript our forces into batshittery without cause. Our restraint is our greatest weapon brought to bear. If we get entangled too deeply, we may perish with the rest of them.”

“Ah, so now it makes sense, why you called us,” Jordy spoke candidly, looking back at the Prolocutor after exchanging a glance with Windsor. “You want us to counsel you on how deep down the rabbit hole to go.”

“Yes, it makes sense to be cautious,” John looked over at Stonecypher, then at Callum. “But the very nature of a military deployment to the Shartourn Sea invites a certain wanton lack of caution. Any military presence in the Shartourn becomes an automatic target.”

“And targets make for bad investments,” Kreisle added to the end of his statement. “When we paint a target on our backs, the markets respond unfavorably. The only saving grace is rhetoric; we can change the narrative surrounding our involvement, we can pump the market for more consumption.”

“By extending our market influence over Istoloa and Ladero,” Stonecypher concluded, catching on to the Prolocutor’s gambit. “You want market access in the region through strength of military arms. You want to forcibly extract concessions for access to our help.”

The Prolocutor was nonplussed about the situation. “Cassia is not immune to war profiteering, though I would be careful in speaking such truth publicly for fear of engendering a public backlash. The military has always been the red mark in the ledger, the cost that cannot be easily absorbed. Our war in Siax is righteous, and will continue to garner support. This conflict down south may be a different bird altogether.”

There was a decidedly long silence after Callum Kreisle concluded his final sentiments, as if waiting for the room to decompress before hearing any more testimony from Stonecypher and Windsor. The cautious nature of their meeting – neither men were on the books for an official sit-down with the Prolocutor – reflected the seriousness of the cause that was being discussed. There was a decided lack of vision on what to do in the Shartourn Sea, and that was bad for business. Stonecypher looked over at John with deep concern in his eyes, feigning a feeling of consternation that revealed the conflict within. Jordy knew that a military intervention would be costly but necessary in the Shartourn; the question remained what kind of force would be brought to bear, and how the Czaslyudian Peoples would react to it. Their involvement was a lynchpin to the whole miserable situation down south, even though it would possibly create conflicts of interest for Cassia with other pertinent trading partners. That was the price that had to be paid for this little endeavor.

When the silence was next broached, it was not Stonecypher that spoke, but John Windsor. “There is a contingency amongst the Cassian Management Corporation for this eventuality. We recently took delivery of an armada of aircraft, munitions and ships from Royal Marquesan Exports in Esvanovia. Our servicemembers have been training with the equipment for some time now, and have been brought up to speed on their functionality. We could deploy the armada down south, use this as a testing ground for its readiness in the conflict with Siax.”

“Whoa, now, let’s not be too hasty here,” Jordy remarked candidly, looking over at John as though he had insects crawling out of his head. “You’re talking about sending a carrier group down to the Shartourn? That’s a massive commitment of resources!”

“We have to be able to respond to this situation with force multipliers,” Windsor challenged him, turning to face Jordy directly. “The armada is ready for action, and unless we intend to deploy more forces to Siax right now, this is our best option to put them through their trials.”

“I will not willingly escalate to the level of full-scale war,” Callum shut him down temporarily, looking at John. “Sending a carrier group is not inherently off the table, but a show of force that size will raise eyebrows in the corridors of power in Broken Shield. We have to be careful not to mismanage the situation.”

Jordy was not liking where this conversation was going, but he felt trapped by the circumstances. John Windsor was a very persuasive individual with a talent for changing opinions on the fly. If he intended to save face here, he would need to subvert his own feelings for the good of the Sarzynski Corporation and its public interests. Cassia was not so complex as to warrant a philosopher to explain it away. It was simple arithmetic in the marketplace: whatever made the most money, won. A carrier group was a costly intervention in the Shartourn Sea, but it would express the purposes of the Merchantist Republic quite nicely. He had to give John his flowers, the man had done his homework. Now came the difficult task of transitioning Windsor’s idea over to Stonecypher’s acceptance of it. If he could make it seem like he was on board, he would have a cache to work with. If only the southern nations could keep their shit together, none of this would have been necessary. Alas, war was war was war at the end of the day, and he was stuck.

“A carrier group in the Shartourn would signal the other great Dienstadi powers that Cassia has completed its military buildup and will be heard as a fellow great power. I know the markets care little for political dominion, but having the wherewithal to influence market expansion would definitely be a number in the black for us.”

“Precisely that, yes,” Windsor said, immediately catching on to Stonecypher’s gambit – he was not stupid by any stretch of the imagination. “A carrier group in the Shartourn is the best ticket to expanding market influence in the region. We could use a boost in consumption with the war on in Siax, as well.”

“I see,” the Prolocutor said carefully, leaning back in his chair with his hand on his chin. “So we send a carrier group to the Shartourn Sea, see what becomes of the situation. We would need a detachment of troops for landing purposes if things escalated to a higher graduation.”

“That’s tricky, but not impossible,” John spoke clearly. “A brigade of troops, perhaps, maybe 10,000 total. Something of a force multiplier without putting a whole army corps in the field. We do not want to invite total war against us, just enough of a presence to keep people honest.”

Jordy jumped at the chance to interject; “ten thousand troops seems adequate for our purposes. Like Windsor said, we cannot counsel a full blown, total war in the Shartourn. Instead, having a military deterrent with so many powers circling would be adequate for our purposes.”

The Prolocutor was impressed with the counsel he was receiving, feeling it agreeable to his own instincts. “So be it, a ten thousand-man expeditionary force will be deployed to the Shartourn along with the Artemis carrier group. I assume our pilots will be establishing no-fly zones in the region?”

“That would be best,” Stonecypher cut in before Windsor could speak – this idea was his. “Establishing no-fly zones would be a boon towards improving our odds of success. Getting the central Dienstadi powers out of the Shartourn is the goal, here.”

“Yes, and supporting the Federal Republic with its own efforts to the same; at least, that is what we presume they are attempting to accomplish.” John added at the end.

“Well then,” the Prolocutor said finally, “let us send the word then.”

[Cossack Peoples]

LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA
_{Night watch.}

The mission was regime security. It looked more like walking around in the dark. The polkovnyk in the hexacam eisenhower jacket and with Special Security Service shoulderboards paced in the tropical night, each step north as measured as its counterpart towards the south. The polkovnyk did not speak the language they spoke here, in Istoloa, and every insect noise, every whir and hum of the compound's ventilation and plumbing was as alien as the tongue. Since their arrival in Istoloa, there had been a degree of separation between the Czaslyudians and their Isoloan counterparts-- no doubt each thought they were superior than the other, but it went further than that: neither trusted the other. The Marechalisimo was old, his successes and popularity fading into distant memory while the listlessness of the present state of affairs sunk in. The Marechalisimo was old-- and soon, anybody could tell, he was going to be gone.

The Polkovnyk had a name, but he kept it to himself. He stopped his patrol. Stretching, feeling his shoulders rise then relax, rolling back into their place, the polkovnyk sighed. It felt like walking around in the dark. The Czaslyudian detachment received periodic updates about the internal situation of Istoloa-- not from the Istoloans, but the FRCP's own observers. Not that it was entirely hard to tell. What conveniently fell outside of the morning briefings with his Istoloan counterpart was the increasing intensity of the anti-government protests, and the state security forces' increasingly intense reactions. Both Czaslyudian and Istoloan guards stood watch, silently, as sirens wailed and shots rang out in the streets of the Istoloan capital. Whatever was out there, apparently, was between the military police and officer cadres. It did not yet concern the ones who guarded the Marechalisimo.

The Polkovnyk checked his watch, stopping mid pace and bringing his feet together. The Czaslyudian did not mind being kept in the dark, that came with the occupation. He understood that the palace guard were professionals, and he hoped that they would understand. At a quarter after midnight, the Polkovnyk struck out amongst the silent procession that came with the change of the guard. In the dark, illuminated between the fluorescent lights of the palace's gardens and waning gibbous moon, he sought out his own men, patting them on the shoulder, shaking their hands firmly. Few would notice the slip of paper that was then secreted away by his men. The polkovnyk was kept in the dark about why, or how his superiors knew, but no Czaslyudian officer would be on guard on the east wing come tomorrow night.

The officer, his orders to those with relevant postings or the privilege of needing to know distributed, retired indoors. A cigarette found its way out of his pockets and to his lips as he passed by a member of the Marechalisimo's security detail, standing alert in the hall. Pausing, gesturing towards his tobacco and the emptiness of his pockets with a meek gesture, the polkovnyk successfully communicated his intent. The special agent, position unknown, name unknown, offered a flame with a seamless flick of the wrist. As he lit his cigarette the polkovnyk glanced at the cold expression on the guard's face. Satisfied, the Czaslyudian gave a nod and walked on. The colonel could not say he did not respect them, for truly neither of them chose the circumstances they found themselves in. They were, after all, professionals.

[Istoloa]

FREMONERO; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

Fremonero raged at the news out of Ladero. An "anonymous source" had leaked information about ongoing peace talks between representatives of the Lavença government and CSA leadership. Slamming his fist on the table, the old man shouted, "Damn Ganchas! That traitor! They are all traitors, every one last one of them!"

He was referring to, of course, his top military leadership. De Vega had already launched his coup, and it seemed as if Rosa was joining forces with the field marshal. "Idiot," el Marechalisimo had said when a loyal intelligence officer debriefed him on the unfolding internal security crisis. "Roque will turn on him as soon as they're done with me. Get me in contact with the general. We can, and must, turn him."

But Rosa was not picking up. Apparently, the general had already given Fremonero up as defeated. Fool.

"I still have many cards left in my hand," muttered the old dictator. He had mulled over using the "nuclear" option for many days now. That option was to give the Ordenites permission to clean house in Istoloa and shore up Fremonero's ailing government. But it would be a deal with the devil, and Istoloa would see its status fall to that of subordinate or, worse, vassal. But what other options were there? Better to rule as a vassal than not at all! he thought.

His nurse was in the kitchen making him tea. "Hurry up, woman!" he shouted.

He turned his attention back to the television. "The government is weighing amnesties for some of the CSA's general officers in exchange for the otherwise complete and unconditional surrender of CSA forces. Though the idea of giving any separatist amnesty is unpopular, there is a broad appeal to ending the conflict in the east as quickly as possible so that the country can focus entirely on the crisis in Sorofi. Furthermore, the interim government has reiterated that it will not allow the CSA to retain any shape or forces that would allow it to exist after concluding a peace agreement. Per the anonymous source, CSA leadership is keen on the opportunity, especially as ongoing support from Istoloa is at risk due to an evolving coup against dictator Rodrigo Fremonero."

"Cowards!" growled the old dictator. "Giving up when the fighting gets tough. Cowards, all of you!"

Hell. I'm going to do it. His mind was clear on the matter. I'll call in the Ordenites to squash this little rebellion. He'd sell his soul for power. His frail hand shook as he reached for a small cup of coffee on the side table. It accidentally spasmed just as he went to grab the handle, sending the cup flying over the edge and sending its contents all over the floor. "Woman! Come and clean this!"

The nurse came trotting out. "Don't you worry, sir. I'll clean it up." She went to her knees to splotch the stain out of the carpet.

His mind was still infested with a hate-driven lust. It's unfathomable. De Vega owes everything he has to ME. Rosa, pssh, Rosa is a cockroach who couldn't even beat a band of half-naked creolosos. Who do they think they are? And Ganchas? Could he truly be trying to negotiate with the enemy? I should have him killed. Yes. Fremonero reached for a device on the table where the cup was. His fingers shaking, the wheelchair-bound man prepared an order for the arrest and execution of Comandante-Geral Ganchas.

He set his phone aside for a moment as normal broadcasting was interrupted by breaking news.

"The Golden Throne has launched a sudden military operation against Asadabad. Missile strikes are being carried out throughout the country, with carrier-based fighter jets and ship-based cruise missiles targeting hundreds of military sites. The operation is being carried out by a fleet group, with almost 300 ships involved. The Fedala government has also unilaterally declared an exclusion zone along the Zone of Asadabad, exempting other military ships from using the passage, with the exception of the allied Mar'si fleet and, by extension, other members of the RMU. Neutral commercial shipping will also be allowed to navigate through the Strait of Asadabad, under the protection of the imperial fleet. Citing the rapidly expanding Ordenite military presence in Istoloa, the Golden Throne says that the operation is carried out to "ensure the means to enforce freedom of navigation through the strait." Critics say it's all about the oil. Also unclear is how the military operation will unfold, and whether this bombing campaign will become a land war."

The Ordenites would turn his country into a minefield in which to suck in the Golden Throne's forces. Fremonero understood that. Old though he was, his mind still had capacity for the strategic. But what was it to him? The rebels would kill him if. Or, he'd serve in prison for the rest of his life. It would certainly be a short life. And a better life is served from a position of the highest privilege. And, at the moment, only the Ordenites could offer him the necessary guarantees.

The Cassians and Czaslyudians were offering troops to defend his country, too. But would they be loyal to him? Or would they back de Vega? In Fremonero, the Ordenites had a man whom they could trust to toe the line.

His nurse emerged from the hall with a new small cup of coffee for him. She set it on the side table for him.

This time, as his quivering hand approached the cup, it did not hit the edge again. He grabbed it, bringing it toward him slowly and as steadily as he could. Though the liquid trembled, the coffee did not spill down the sides. Grunting in celebration, Fremonero brought the cup to his lips. The coffee was warm, as he liked it. The bitch had had to be scolded into bringing him warm, not hot, coffee. It was good, too.

She had left by then, leaving him in the room by himself again.

He remembered then about the execution order for Ganchas. He reached for his phone to send the message. It would go to General Marco Queiroz, 2IC of "west coast logistics systems maintenance." In reality, he was in charge of the day-to-day oversight of the resupply operations across the sea to Camarzela. As such, Queiroz also maintained contact with many CSA officers, including officers with known loyalties to Fremonero. There were men in Camarzela who'd carry out the marechalisimo's orders.

Fremonero also could not delay his communication with the Ordenites. Suddenly, an energy filled him that he hadn't felt in some years. It was the energy of youth. He felt hopeful for the future.

And then his right arm began tingling. Pressure built in his chest, and the old dictator's breathing slowed. His breaths were shallow, unsatisfying even.

"Wom—" he tried shouting, but his words came out as mumbles. He could feel his mouth drooping.

A sudden pain surged through his body. His eyes bulged with pressure, as if about to explode. And then his vision...collapsed. Before he knew it, Fremonero had fallen from his wheelchair and onto the floor. The nurse must not have heard, because she did not come. He writhed on the floor for a moment, and then went still, his body spasming until it no longer did. After a few last kicks, Fremonero lay entirely dead.

El Marechalismo de Istoloa was no more.

The device he had been holding on his lap now lay on the floor, face up. The order to kill Ganchas could be read with clarity. There was a message at the bottom regarding the message's send status, but before it could be read, the screen faded to black behind the lockscreen.

[Holy Marsh]

Stars in the Sky- CSA Airspace

By this stage, the primary bulk of the Mar’si air assets assigned to the campaign had fully arrived in theater. The result was a ceaseless presence, aircraft and drones forming an unbroken hum over CSA-controlled territory. Close air support no longer depended on reactive sortie launches. Instead, strike platforms maintained persistent station, eliminating response lag entirely.
The combined network of manned aircraft and drone systems provided the Mar’si with near-continuous situational awareness. Surveillance fed targeting; targeting fed bloodshed. Some sorties were dispatched against pre-identified objectives, as they sought to degrade and dismantle the CSA bit by bit. Others loitered in assigned mission spaces, holding their ordnance until relief aircraft arrived, then releasing it methodically against any validated target before rotating out.

The full mass of Mar’si air assets assigned to the campaign had settled into theater. What followed was a spike in violence. Aircraft and drones layered the sky in overlapping patterns until the airspace above CSA territory never truly cleared. There was no silence, only the low, constant vibration of engines and rotors, day bleeding into night without distinction.

Close air support ceased to be reactive. Strike platforms no longer launched in answer to calls for help; they were already there. They circled, waited, observed, struck when needed. The fusion of drone surveillance and manned aircraft created an awareness that felt total. Movement was tracked. Heat signatures were logged. Signals were mapped and remapped. Targets were not hunted in bursts, they were hunted instead rabidly. The attacks no longer came in bursts or waves, though against hardened targets they would be. Some sorties departed with specific objectives such as known depots, suspected command posts, hidden supply corridors. Others simply loitered, patient and unblinking, holding their ordnance until their relief aircraft crossed into position. Then, in the final minutes of their rotation, they would empty their payloads onto any validated target within reach before turning back to rearm. There were no grand offensives in the sky. There was only pressure, unyielding and unblinking as a blood red dawn broke over the land.

A Friend In Need, A Friend Indeed- Ladero

The 200th and 851st Armored Divisions entered the nation in strength, followed by the 525th, 190th, and 768th Infantry Divisions. Their arrival established depth across the eastern front and expanded operational capacity across Ladero. Mar’si Crusade Command directed their attention eastward as was their original remit, though high discussion regarding the Sorofi Debacle was had. Defensive lines were reinforced and Mar’si prepatory positions in the east were reinforced in preparation for combat operations. The message to Ladero was clear. The Theocracy had committed substantial force and intended to remain. Stability took form in armored columns, disciplined ranks, and convoys that moved without interruption. If the political situation was still uneven, the people and government of Ladero could breathe easy knowing they had a powerful and faithful friend.

This friendship took many forms. Knowing that the government needed resources, the Theocracy made it known to Dienbank that they were willing to help assume the risk of any loan given to the Laderan government, offering its own resources as collateral, effectively offering to underwrite the loan. The Theocracy would also speak to the government directly, offering material resources for military need swiftly. However the Theocracy could aid Ladero, it would.

The Theocracy had been made aware of the possibility of a ceasefire that would see some portion of the CSA transported on Mar’si ships back to their real home, Istoloa. Of course, that would not be what the public believed. As far as they were aware, the CSA would capitulate. The Theocracy was not wholly opposed to sending Istoloans back to Istoloa. If Istoloa simply minded its own business, then the Theocracy would have no need to concern itself with it. It was not that simple, however. Ganchas had proven a capable enough general in his engagements with Ladero. He would be a powerful tool in De Vega’s government.

Yet the Theocracy knew well how such governments functioned. Powerful personalities clashed, and Ganchas had growing influence. Loyalty from his soldiers, as well. Could de Vega handle a power struggle? Tenente General Leandro Rosa had thrown their hat in. But could an alliance be had with Ganchas, moving towards a less aggressive Istoloan posture? The Theocracy did not known, but it knew that providing options to the ambitious was beneficial to those with clearer vision.
The Theocracy made it known they would agree to the transfer of the quarter of forces, but only after a final agreement was signed. They were willing to fight this out, but if Ladero sought a ceasefire they would support it. Operation: Jeweled Eyes was given extra emphasis. M-SAD reached out to the Red Tulip, but the situation on the ground was such that they started putting out what feelers they could to secretly contact Rosa. A vital link in the chain Rosa was, and one the Theocracy had no intent on letting go unheard.

Whack a Mole- Ladero, CSA Controlled Territory

The discovery of the Mole Holes came in time, and without surprise. Mar’si intelligence had long assessed that the CSA’s sustainment depended on foreign supply, and that those channels would terminate in hardened passageways concealed beneath the surface. The first two sites were confirmed after sustained surveillance and pattern analysis. Their locations validated prior modeling. Air Crusade posture remained steady. There was no dramatic shift in tempo. Instead, flight rotations were subtly restructured to increase frequency in the surrounding sectors, maintaining pressure along the periphery while deliberately avoiding immediate direct engagement with the newly discovered sites above what had happened previously. Observation continued and targeting matured.

The 312th Airborne Division had prepared for this moment from the outset. Upon confirmation, the order was given and they launched without hesitation. Two battalions were assigned to each location. One would conduct the direct assault and secure the Hole and whatever settlement or ridgeline it was birthed from. The other would establish and hold the surrounding perimeter, sealing the site against reinforcement or escape. Both formations would deploy deep behind enemy lines. That reality was neither novel nor alarming. It was the work for which they existed. They went forward in exultation. Victory was theirs to claim. And if not victory, then martyrdom was theirs to receive. In either outcome, they believed themselves blessed. What greater fate could be asked for?

However, once airborne, the 312th received new orders. Officially, they were to reorient south in response to shifting operational priorities. Unofficially, the reasoning was understood. The Laderan government did not wish the decisive blow against the Mole Holes to be delivered by Mar’si hands,particularly as peace negotiations continued in parallel. Optics carried weight and ownership of victory mattered, both politically and at the table. The 312th adjusted with some protest. A Laderan special operations force would conduct the assault, supported by Mar’si advisors drawn from the division. It would suffice, and the disgruntled Mar’si did speak their prayers in the name of their Laderan comrade’s safety solemnly and sufficiently.

The assault was supported in full measure. Mar’si air assets already saturated much of the surrounding airspace, but dedicated escort and strike packages from the Air Crusade were assigned specifically to shield the Laderan forces. Artillery followed. Marine batteries opened first, delivering precise ranging fire, then sustained bombardment. They were soon reinforced by rapidly advancing divisional assets from two armored divisions, their guns adding deeper, heavier thunder to the perimeter. Impacts walked outward from the target zones, sealing avenues of escape and breaking defensive cohesion.

From the sea, the fleet committed its own weight. Two supercarriers and four escort carriers launched coordinated strike waves, while three dozen cruisers and destroyers added missile salvos to the barrage. Each Mole Hole site was further assigned a dedicated arsenal ship, ensuring that sustained firepower could be maintained without pause.
Air, land, and sea converged in deliberate synchronization. Glory to the martyr indeed.

Under the Sea- Blockade Sea Zone between Istoloa and Ladero

Beneath the surface of the ocean, developments began to turn in the Mar’si’s favor. The Tel’Quessir, working in coordination with significant naval reconnaissance and engineering assets, expanded their search across the seafloor between Istoloa and Ladero. What had begun as pattern anomalies such as subtle shifts in sediment density, irregular heat signatures, and faint acoustic distortions, gradually hardened into a working theory. Survey vessels deployed deep-scan sonar in layered passes, mapping the seabed down to minute variations in contour. Autonomous submersibles traced grid patterns across suspected corridors, relaying seismic readings and magnetic readings back to command. The Tel’Quessir followed, descending where machines faltered.

There, in the dark pressure of the deep, they used their art. Stone was coaxed aside by webbed hand like clay. Sediment was drawn back in careful spirals. Layers of compacted earth and reinforced plating were exposed piece by piece as one does moving cardboard. The work was patient, almost surgical.
What emerged was confirmation of the theory. Three tunnels had been driven beneath the sea itself, engineered to run from Istoloa to Ladero. They were not natural formations, nor temporary supply conduits. They were deliberate, permanent arteries, broad enough to sustain the macrologistical flow that had fed the insurgency from the beginning. They were not large, but enough of these working consistently would certainly feed the enemy well and true.

Once the tunnels were confirmed, the navy moved without delay. The Tel’Quessir descended again. Working in coordinated teams, they affixed shaped charges at multiple structural points along each tunnel, two primary collapse sections identified per conduit, selected for maximum structural compromise. When the time came, detonations rolled through the depths in layered succession. More than two dozen explosives struck each tunnel, intending to collapse reinforced corridors, rupture pressure seals, and hopefully allowing the sea to reclaim it all.

Nonetheless, the existence of these tunnels was communicated to Ladero and Eitoan, as well as the Golden Throne. Their operations in Asadabad brought them closer to Istoloa than Ladero, and if they could build such tunnels to Ladero they could do so elsewhere. Importantly, the navy redoubled efforts- where there were three, they believed there must be thirty.

[State of Ordena]

SHARTOURN SEA

Recent developments in Istoloa with news coming of El Marechalismo Fremonero announcing the passing of a new treaty which would allow the Ordenite Krijgsmacht additional privileges in basing it's forces in the Western Dienstadi country. Already present were what was known as Army Group Istoloa which consisted of 500,000 Ordenite troops and a certain amount of Ordenite warplanes which would operate from Istoloan air bases. The Krijgsmarine had also recently dispatched a small force of 600 naval vessels to the Shartourn Sea in order to safeguard Ordenite interests in the Istoloan sphere. The conflict concerning Ladero and the involvement of the Theocratic Matriarchy was a driving factor as to why more Ordenite military assets were starting to arrive. Now with a new ratified treaty with Istoloa the Krijgsmarine had been given the green light to deploy additional forces to the Shartourn which would see the already present Krijgsmarine force be soon reinforced by an additional 400 warships coming from Fustera. This would lead to the formation of the Shartourn Fleet operating under Naval Group Command West based in the former Istoloan colony now recently annexed by Ordena.

Once the fleet was whole it would begin patrols throughout the Shartourn Sea and when encountering the Marshite Navy or the Krierarmada, opted to shadow them when possible.

=======

Official Communiqué from the Ordenite Ministry of Foreign Affairs

On behalf of the Ordenite State and Nation the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would like to extend our deepest condolences to the Istoloan people and the family of El Marechalismo Fremonero. The Marechalismo lived a long and fulfilling life serving the people of Istoloa and being one of the most dearest friends of Ordena and it's people. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs would like to express the intent of the Ordenite national government as it concerns the presence of the Ordenite armed forces within Istoloa. Abiding by current treaties between Istoloa and Ordena the mission of the armed forces in Istoloa is mutual defense and the usage of Istoloan territory to conduct operations in Potthan and other neighboring countries. The Armed forces of Ordena do not and will not involve it self in the domestic matters of the Republic of Istoloa following the death of El Marechalismo Fremenoro. It is hoped that operations of the Ordenite armed forces present in Istoloa can continue without incident as the current rules of engagement are geared towards only self-defense.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs hopes that all parties involved in the succession of El Marechalismo of Istoloa can show restraint in beginning hostilities towards one another and instead work together to ensure a new leader is crowned and normalcy can return.

[Ladero]

BAMBASO

Snap elections were coming, and Zé Bambaso was desperate to rescue his political career before it died, and the best way to do that was by striking a peace deal with the CSA. He hurried from Vila dos Ventos to the capital, whereupon he immediately debriefed President Paolo Sequeira. With the president's backing, the disgraced former prime minister went to key members of parliament to reveal Ganchas' offer.

It didn't even reach deliberation. The CSA commander's officer was rebuffed on the simple grounds that the enemy could not dictate who'd represent Ladero in any peace talks.

Depressed, Zé retired to his ranch outside of the city. With no peace talks, he had nothing to build an electoral comeback with.

Then, political events took their course. First, the coup in Istoloa. Then, Fremonero's death. The old dictator had a "heart attack," though Zé doubted it had been naturally induced. Fremonero was the last of the "marechalisimos," but what would come next? Instability in such an important country for Ladero's economy, society, and heritage would have an uncertain impact.

Still, there were some who wanted to wait to see who came out on top. Many hoped that a democracy would sprout and that peace would come between the two states, at last. But anyone rational knew that was a fairy tale. Not to mention the elephant in the room: the Ordenites. Of course, the Marshites had proven generous benefactors, but everyone had seen what had happened to Magdaran and Krasnova. Nobody wanted to bring that here. Nonetheless, the legislature did not attend to Ganchas offers and the commander did not make a new one, and so the peace process was at a stalemate. Much like the war, in general — though, the Marshites had achieved a remarkable success in finding and destroying several Istoloan underwater tunnels.

The CSA responded by carrying out another round of proscriptions in the territory they still moved through relatively freedom. Marshite airpower was restricting their movements considerably, but the CSA regressed to assassinations of local notables, like judges, police, and mayors. The optics got worse for the government when the CSA successfully pulled off a series of bombings against forward military installations of Legião III. Though General Fuster was making good progress, the public was beginning to demand a faster conclusion.

At last, the legislature relented, and Zé was called to an informal meeting between several top politicians. President Sequeira was also present.

"Mr. Bambaso," assemblywoman Marta Diana Bettencourt was saying, "it pains me to concede that maybe your little arrangement with General Ganchas is our best option. But don't think this is an opportunity to weasel your way back in with the public." She was from the main opposition party, which at this rate looked likely to win the elections and build a ruling coalition. "You are strictly to arrange a peace on our terms, return, whereupon, assuming you did as instructed, the deal will be ratified by the two chambers. Understood?"

"Yes, madam assemblywoman," answered Zé.

It turned out that Zé was going with two other people. Liliana Barros, Sequiera's foreign affairs minister, gave Zé executive legitimacy. Maximiano Góes, general of the army, came representing his own. The three of them flew out to VIla dos Ventos, where Ganchas arrived soon after to meet with them. The "rebel" commander came in an all-terrain open-top scout vehicle, painted with a red cross on the hood, another one on the back, and two more on either side.

Vila dos Ventos was a town of 36,000 people. A stunning, half-ruined, half-restored castle stood atop an acropolis, with a medieval cathedral rising beside it. Parts of the old walls still stood, a restoration project having been interrupted halfway by the war. The town was named after the strong spring and autumn winds that tended to return every year except for the odd outlier. It had suffered badly in recent months, scant the wall without bullet holes. Two of its mayors were now dead. They were joined by six judges, three police commissioners, and fity-two others persons, including a barber assassinated after being heard cursing the CSA while unknowingly cutting the hair of a civilian-clothed CSA officer. If a peace could be secured in a town like this, that would be miraculous to not just the people of Vila dos Ventos but to all those living in the hundreds of towns and cities tormented by the CSA guerrilheiros since the start of the fighting.

Though it was Zé officially leading the talks, it was Barros who actually did most of the talking at first. The assemblywoman wanted Ganchas to understand that the presence of the ex-prime minister was a concession, and a big one at that. And that there would be "no other concessions, other than those broadly outlined by Mr. Bambaso when bringing your offer to our attention. The Laderan people demand justice, and we will accept no other outcome."

"Of course," replied Ganchas, smiling. He tilted his head forward, in a small bowing motion.

"That includes your surrender," interjected Zé. "And that of your men. You will be extradicted to Istoloa, where you will join pro-democracy forces forming in opposition to commanders de Vega and Rosa. We believe that significant parts of the opposing armies will defect to your side once you make your candidacy as Fremonero's successor known. Upon achieving victory, you will call elections. Finally, you will turn over Marechal Roque Cipriano de Vega to the government of Ladero for formal trial and, if found guilty of crimes against the people of Ladero, sentenced."

Ganchas laughed, "Pro-democracy forces. What pro-democracy forces? You're talking about a club of lieutenants and captains, nothing more. They have no army. You will extradite me right into the hands of de Vega, who will find a way to get rid of me before I can cause him any trouble. I will turn over de Vega to your government, but I will need significant forces to dispute succession with the marechal and the general." He looked at Zé, and added, "You promised me 25 percent of my forces. Not even that is sufficient, but that's better than nothing."

"25 percent?" gawked Barros. She narrowed her eyes and bore holes into the back of Ze's head. "Under no circumstances."

"Then, no deal," said Ganchas, calmly.

The assemblywoman threw up her hands. Her, Zé, and Góes conferred privately for a moment. Then, turning, the ex-prime minister said, "25 percent. But you must tell us the locations of all your underwater supply tunnels."

"Sure," answered the CSA commander. Flippantly, "I'll tell you once we're on the ships taking us to Istoloa."

"And all CSA commanders must surrender," continued Zé, "without any promise of repatriation until a formal peace agreement between Ladero and Istoloa is signed."

Ganchas scoffed, "And who will help me command my army? A bunch of lieutenants and captains?"

The three Laderans conferred with each other in private, again. They spoke at some length, Ganchas not being able to hear even a squeak of it. Then, again, Zé suddenly turned and replied, "You will agree to sign a formal peace treaty between Istoloa and Ladero. This will also formally recognize you as the interim head of government and state, awaiting democratic elections. Upon ratification, most of your officers and the rest of your army will be released. We can let them all go. Some must pay for the crimes of your people."

While the offer was not entirely to Ganchas' liking, given his abdication of the lives of some of his men, it was probably the best offer he was going to get. His supply lines were withering after the Marshite air strikes on coastal collection points and some of the tunnels themselves. And reinforcements had been out of the picture for some time. Truth was, he had been sent on a suicide mission to distract Ladero while Istoloa flipped Irat and Sorofi. But events had moved past that, and now Ganchas needed to go back home. The Istoloan said, "You can draft this up here?"

"Yes," said Zé. He exchanged looks with the other two.

By that night, a formal document was drafted with all of the details satisfying all parties. Zé, Barros, Góes, and Ganchas signed. Returning to Lavença that same day, the three delegates presented the terms to the legislature. A few days later, the treaty detailing the surrender of the Camarzela Separatist Army was ratified by both chambers, and Legião III quickly began capturing, disarming, and processing surrendering CSA units. For his part, Ganchas turned himself in, along with his headquarters unit, hoping to accelerate his repatriation to Istoloa. The coup there was becoming messy, teetering on the edge of a civil war, and Ganchas hoped to tip the scales back by very quickly making his presence in the country known. If de Vega was given too much time to eliminate rivals and consolidate power, Ganchas would be able to do nothing about it.

[The Dutch Kingdom of The World]

In Amsterdam

Joseph: Officer James
James: It's time
Joseph: I agree!

[Istoloa]

ROSA; BIHUELA, ISTOLOA

Leandro, wearing the epaulettes of a field marshal of Istoloa now, gazed out the window of his corner office. As his III IEC headquarters building, the general — now field marshal — had chosen the 18th-century fortification of Bihuela, surrounded by a town, now city, of the same name. The old polygonal fort encompassed all of what in modern day was called the Old Town, with the Castle in the middle. The field marshal contemplated the slow-brewing civil war from his little island of solitude, looking out from the Castle at nothing in particular but the view of the town and city before him.

The prospect of subordination to de Vega had never been attractive. But Leandro commanded little influence outside of his army and, even there, his legitimacy teetered on a razor's edge that threatened to slice him up. The spectre of his defeats in Fuster certainly didn't contribute, not positively.

But the unfolding fiasco in Ladero was providing for an unexpected opportunity to chart his own path. The first days of de Vega's shaky, unrecognized dictatorship were already beset by disaster. General Antonio Ganchas, commander of the Camarzela Separatist Army, an informal formation of the Istoloan army, had surrendered, seemingly unconditionally. Already, de Vega's aptitude as a leader was being questioned. No greater opportunity for staking his own claim to power would ever come to Leandro. He knew that, but still he resisted the temptation. This clash of wills tore at his insides, despite his calm demeanor as he watched the sun rise serenely over Bihuela, bathing the city in its illustrious rays. But he could not ignore the fact that he was not certain of his army's loyalty.

A knock at the door startled him. "Enter," he said, not turning around.

A military officer came in, coming to attention on the opposite side of a desk separating the two men. "Marechal," said the officer, "el Marechalisimo commands you to call him now, to discuss the colonel's trial."

The colonel's trial. Colonel Ricardo Carvalhão, always bold and outspoken, likely had it coming to him, given the tense air in the country. De Vega had ordered his arrest and execution in the aftermath of Fremonero's death, as Carvalhão dared to call for democratic elections in statements to the public and press. His audacity was being repaid in the form of a show trial that would certainly end in the pronouncement of his guilt for treason. The verdict would trigger a broader purge of the combined armies of Istoloa, ridding it of not only "subversives and revolutionaries" but also of anyone showing even the most minuscule hints of disloyalty to the new regime. With Ganchas' betrayal already too far advanced to do anything about, the new marechalisimo was set on pruning any destabilizing elements to his nascent regime.

Yet Carvalhão was an officer in Leandro's army, and it was he who sat figuratively at the head of the investigation against the colonel. If he wanted to, Leandro could change Carvalhão's fate. Yes, thought the field marshal, perhaps this, in conjunction with events in Camarzela, was the opportunity he was waiting for. Maybe rather than cement his reputation as a lackey of de Vega, Carvalhão's trial could offer Leandro a way to put the taint of Fustera behind him, draping it behind a curtain of liberal reform. It was these thoughts that had been running through his head before the officer's arrival.

"Tell de Vega that I will call," he answered. "In the meantime, bring Maior Henrique Dourado Sampón here."

The young major was imprisoned in a cramped, dark, and humid cell in the depths of Fort Bihuela, awaiting a show trial of his own that would go the same way as Carvalhão's. Unless, that is, the three men could agree to form a coalition against the Marechalisimo. Sampón and Carvalhão were rising stars among the young, liberally-minded junior officer corps of the Istoloan army. With their popular legitimacy and Leandro's command of a significant portion of the Istoloan army, the field marshal could mount a successful bid for power.

Leandro continued to machinate, as he gazed out the window with renewed spirits, when the officer who had come in made his exit, the thick wooden door closing behind him with a thud.



GANCHAS; MARAGUSA, ISTOLOA

His prison guards wondered in awe how Ganchas slept in the conditions he was kept in. It was as if the musty mildew growing along the cracks in the cold concrete walls, emanating their nose-wrinkling perfume, didn't bug him at all. On top of that, the night was cold, and the slim barred window at the top of the cell's back wall let in a shiverous draft. Yet the humbled general slept through it with no blanket to offer him even a modicum of warmth. The Laderan guards were beginning to see why Ganchas' men had been so loyal in the face of the overwhelming odds against them.

What no one knew was that the door had been left unlocked. The previous guard on station had left it as such. It would go unexplained, like the money deposited in that man's bank the day after, until an investigation was made. That was a far way off when one of the other prisoners, whose cell door had also been left unlocked, crept out of his confines in the middle of the night. He closed the door behind him, the shadow making his bed impossible to see, and thus his absence was otherwise unnoticeable until the morning.

Keeping to the darkness, the escaped prisoner slowly tiptoed down the hall, around the corner, and then down a level. A guard walking his route passed the man unnoticed, as the prisoner halted and waited inside the laundry room. Poking his head out from the corner of the open doorway, the prisoner watched the guard disappear. He then proceeded with his task at hand.

Finally, he arrived at Ganchas' cell door. The unsuspecting general was sleeping inside, his light snore audible from where the other prisoner looked.

Slowly opening the door, he managed to do so in silence. Soon, he was looking down upon General Ganchas, raising a knife over his head to plunge it down on the sleeping man's face (r. 16/20).

Ganchas opened his eyes to his assassin's hot breath. "Very stinky," he said, as he threw his arms to grab the killer's wrists and push the knife's pointy edge away from his eyeballs (r. 8/20). His body twisted so that he could wriggle his way from under the weapon, twisting the man's wrists to force him to drop the knife. It fell to the frigid concrete floor with a clatter, now waking up the others in the neighboring cells.

The others must have gotten up to hear what the commotion was about, and upon realizing, they began to climb and shake their bars. Raising quite the rucus, shouts, chants, and insults were being hurled from across the open courtyard from which moonlight poured in.

It did not take long for the guards to arrive. While some went to enforce order in the building, others came to pull Ganchas to his feet while restraining the assassin. But the guard who arrived first, wrapping one arm around the killer's neck, used his free hand to pierce the prisoner's neck with a short blade. Blood erupted from the wound like a volcano, splattering across the gray wall. Here and there, the blood glistened under the sparse illumination of the moon.

"Why did you kill him?" asked one of the commanders when he walked in, suspiciously.

The guard who had done the deed shrugged, "He was resisting."

Ganchas said nothing. He was too busy reorienting himself after narrowly surviving an assassination attempt.



The former CSA general was swiftly moved to another location. A few days later, he was on a boat, headed to Istoloa.

Landing at Maragusa, a small coastal town facing Ladero across a narrow strait, Ganchas was put in command of 300 men. The Laderans promised 10,000 more by week's end, but Ganchas would have to trust them. At Maragusa, a small party of Laderan officers also landed with him. Ganchas and the Laderan officers carried out a prearranged ritual to put into place the Treaty of Maragusa, which Ganchas signed as the Laderan-recognized interim executive of the Istoloan state. The treaty established peace between the two states, while promising the cessation of all influence operations in Sorofi and Irat, and committing Istoloa to democratic elections. Some, but not all, of those things would be seen through. But Ganchas needed to trade temporary concessions for time.

In a broadcast transmitted by satellite and public airways, Ganchas declared his claim to power as legitimate Marechalisimo of Istoloa. The details of the treaty were publicized, as was the intention to hold elections. De Vega was denounced as a traitor, and though no olive branch was extended to Rosa, neither was he targeted. Ganchas left the field marshal maneuvering room to cover on his own.

Yet, though he paid lip service to Laderan demands for now, the young general knew he needed to hedge their support. Within days, his government would contact the Czaslyudian and Cassian officers in the country. His offer: for Istoloa to enter ISTRA as an observer.



CATANA; OBRIGO, ISTOLOA

"Lola," said the young man, no older than 30, "it's so good to see. I wasn't sure if you were alright. Nobody's heard from you."

"It was easy. No one even suspects," she replied, coolly.

"It's good you had lain low, nonetheless," said another person, a woman sitting a few chairs down.

Few in the group were older than 40; most looked like college students. On the wall behind Lola, the black and red flag of anarchism was draped down. Slogans of revolution were scribbled across the room. One said, "No god, no master." Another, "Property is theft!" A third, longer phrase read, "The rich will never defeat the poor, the only solution: class war!" And ominously, "No more petitions, kill the politicians."

"I'm sorry about Cario," said the young man.

Her gaze drifted toward the ground. "His death gave me the strength to start the revolution."

"Indeed," said a new, deeper voice. A man walked in through the door, bespectacled and completely gray from age. "Your actions have triggered the revolution, and it is time we act." He stepped forward to take his place among the others. Taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he unfolded it and started to pass it around the circle. "We must destroy the forces of imperialism that chain the Istoloan worker to the factory floor. The names on this list are those forces' primary exponents in our country. They must be eliminated."

The list came to Lola. She read the names of men like Roque Cipriano de Vega, Leandro Rosa, and Antonio Ganchas, among three dozen others. "All of them are military officers. What about the politicians, the judges, and the police?"

The older man, their leader, smiled, "All in due time, sweet Lola. They will get what is due to them. But political victory presupposes military victory. Only force can guarantee revolution along the correct line in the dialectical process of history. We must divide the working class foot soldier from the patrician officer, then take command of the armed forces of Istoloa for the revolutionary cause. If we kill their leaders, the younger officers will flock to our banner of change."

Her eyes settled on him, and as if he was asking for nothing particularly special, she nodded.

[Istoloa]

DE VEGA; LOÇELEA, ISTOLOA

CRACK. The floorboards opened beneath their feet, and six bodies swayed from ropes with snapped necks. Below the gallows, the crowd raised their fists into the air and cheered for more with unrepetant bloodlust on their lips. Behind them, some looked on disapprovingly, but El Marechalisimo had asked his men to make sure to select the onlookers for loyalty. Drones filmed the hangings from overhead, broadcasting the executions to the country and the world.

Roque looked down at his sons sitting on the dais beside him. "Diogo, open your eyes," he said, sternly, to the youngest.

"Yes, papá," said the boy, hesitantly opening them to witness another group of handcuffed rebels have nooses tied around their necks.

"How many more will die?" asked Paolo, the oldest. Santiago, the middle son, looked over at their father, too.

"As many as needed," he replied. Thousands had already been disposed of across the country. Hundreds of officers deemed disloyal to the government and even more civilians, all accused of sedition, were bound and marched to the hangman. Likely thousands more would die by the end. But what mattered most was that Roque Cipriano de Vega's ascension to the supreme leadership of the country was secured, no matter who needed to be removed or how many.

Not everyone on the proscription list that his staff had circulated had been arrested and turned over, though. Roque's blood boiled at that fact, and his rage was compounded by the lack of communication from the army's top-ranking commander. Indeed, if his eyes and ears were correct, Marechal Rosa had issued orders to block the arrests of hundreds of targeted officers under his command. And the only reason Rosa would do that was that he required those officers to contest Roque's claim to power. The nerve of that man, his mind raced. He couldn't even defeat sandal-wearing guerrillas in Fustera, how can he expect to lead this nation? That it had been Roque who had made him commander of the army was enough to send El Marechalisimo into a frenzy, if it was not for the satisfaction of watching traitors hang.

"The fool," he muttered.

Santiago, the middle son, must have heard him. Turning away from the gallows, the boy asked, "Is everything alright, papá?"

"Look forward," he replied. The question was ignored.

Again, the floorboards disappeared, and gravity pushed down six more victims to their deaths. Again, the crowd screamed for more. Again, Diogo looked away. His youngest boy was turning out to be a coward, Roque realized. He would have to get that beat out of him. Roque began to say as much, but just then his chief of security stepped up to the dais to whisper in El Marechalisimo's ear.

"Your men are waiting for you, sir," said the man. "The armored brigade, sir. All of it. As you had requested. And two infantry battalions."

He nodded. Rising, he addressed his three sons, "Remain here, boys, and watch as the people who wish death upon our family meet the sword of justice. Do not look away, be strong. You represent Istoloa now."

As he turned to walk away, his sons could hear him say, "We will move out today. Rosa must be brought to heel, and the sanitization of his army must begin immediately. There's no time to lose, not with that bastard Ganchas building strength."

"Ganchas," whispered Diogo, who watched his father as he disappeared. When he was younger, his father had been his hero. But now that was General Antonio Ganchas. Ganchas was everyone's hero these days. Every boy wanted to be Ganchas. The legend of his victories and exploits in Ladero had filled every screen in the country for months. They contrasted with Rosa's failures and his father's overwhelming dislike, and offered hope of a different, brighter, more meaningful future. Diogo felt ashamed, but he was rooting for the young general.



SAMPÓN; BIHUELA, ISTOLOA

They brought him in with the manacles on both his wrists and ankles. The metal clanked with every step he took, until they sat him down on a chair, heavy hands pushing him down hard. Across a cheap, drab, metallic table sat Marechal Leandro Rosa. With broad shoulders decorated by the epaulettes of his new rank, Rosa looked at him with...was that sympathy? Henrique had figured something was up when the guards had dragged him out of bed in the morning, and not for execution. Now he was sure of it.

"Congratulations on the promotion," he said, ironically. "It must have been for performance."

Rosa's mouth straightened, and his eyes narrowed. "You should be thanking me, you know."

"For what, exactly?" he asked.

"For your head," replied the field marshal, coolly.

Henrique smiled. "Knowing where this country is headed, I may have preferred death."

"It's not too late," said Rosa.

"For me, or the country?" he inquired.

"Either or," Rosa shrugged. "Maybe both go together."

For Henrique, the only future was a democratic one. But he wasn't convinced that the Istoloan elite had what it took to steer the country in the right direction. So far, the only thing they could do well was perpetuate the old, rotten system that benefited them, and only them. It was hard to escape the revolutionary conclusion that the only way to push Istoloa forward was to wipe away the old elites, or to allow them to kill each other off — and that they were doing now. Why stop them? Nevertheless, he humored his capturer. "What is it that you have in mind?"

"Good, good. I think you'll like what I have to say." The marechal paused to pour them both a glass of water. When Henrique tried to grab it with shackled hands, Rosa pointed and ordered one of the guards to remove the manacles. "It's clear that the time is now to bring about a radical change to the state's politics. The days of strongmen rulers are over. Istoloa needs rule by the people, for the people. And," a rare moment of the field marshal's honesty, "who better to help bring that about than the man least likely to be seen as strong?"

"I hear Ganchas has already declared a democracy," Henrique responded.

Rosa laughed. "With his few thousand men, if that? He will be crushed within a week."

"He has the backing of Ladero and, if he has the backing of Ladero, he must have that of Mar'si as well," said Henrique.

The field marshal shrugged again. "My intelligence officers suggest that the Mar'si are not as optimistic as the Laderans. Ganchas offered the ruling party a cheap win, and they took it to save themselves in their upcoming elections. Ganchas has lost his usefulness, and I'd wager to say that Ladero would rather see us in chaos than united under a strong government. In fact, if Ganchas were to win, what's to say he wouldn't go back on his promise of elections? He'll have complete military control with de Vega and me out of the way. Wouldn't he? Yes. Better to use me, I'd say, to balance against Ganchas, to divide and conquer the power of the armed forces to the benefit of an actual democratic government in Loçelea. Isn't that what you want?"

This time it was Henrique's turn to shrug. He said, "We have been promised this before by others. It never turns out as promised. Why should I trust you?"

"Because if you don't, our country will soon become just another Ordenite vassal," replied Rosa. "The world is becoming more and more dangerous. We saw what happened to Magdaran. The events we have embroiled ourselves in transcend the old colonial squabbles between Istoloa and her former possessions. And if we were to become the victims of others' wars, they'll leave nothing here but fire, ash, and ruins, littered with the bodies of the dead. Is that what you want?"

No, supposed the younger officer, it was not. "Where do I fit in this?"

"You," responded Rosa, "are a hero among the younger officers and people. You are unquestionably a symbol of our country's pro-democracy forces. Your support will undermine de Vega's legitimacy among the military and strengthen mine. And it will be enough, I think, to persuade the Mar'si to consider splitting their support away from Ganchas, providing balance to the pro-democracy army you will help me consolidate."

"Not everyone will go along," said Henrique. Many of the enlisted men had been radicalized. Many would have supported the Red Tulips if they were a stronger force.

Rosa nodded. "That is why we must take action now."

He was still not fully bought in. "You will need a stronger signal than just my support. People will think I've been bought."

The field marshal thought about that for a long moment, taking some sips of water in the meantime. "Then, I will announce my retirement from the military upon de Vega's capture, surrender, or death. And I will make it so that the old guard follows suit, opening the armed forces to new, younger leadership more attuned with what the new generations of Istoloans want for the people."

"That easily?" asked Henrique, incredulous.

"No," answered Rosa, smiling. "I just think soon enough the world of politics will be more profitable for me than that of war. But that is for a later time. For now, you have a video broadcast scheduled for this evening, where you will announce our pact for democracy. After, you will contact Mar'si and return with one of their representatives. I intend to talk business with them."

At that moment, a small group of senior officers stormed in. "Marechal," one said, "urgent news." He eyed Henrique, as if to usher the field marshal out of the room and out of the prisoner's earshot.

Rosa looked over and said, "He's with us. What is it?"

"De Vega, sir," replied the senior officer. "He's on his way. With armor."

[Eitoan]

A Curious Neutrality

Vladarsik, Eitoan
Executive Residence
1:15 PM Local Time

The Carnation House, Broken Shield, Merchantist Republic of Cassia
Sunday, 5 PM Cassian Time; the Office of the Prolocutor of the Merchantist Republic, Callum Kreisle

The air was thick with tension at the Carnation House, a location Jordy Stonecypher had spent more time at recently than his own office at the Sarzynski Corporation’s headquarters. Riding in the elevator to the top floor of the building, he took pause to admire the meticulously detailed facility that the Merchantist Republic had built for its Prolocutor, the highest office in the land. Jordy was quite used to counseling the Prolocutor, Callum Kreisle in his office. As one of the heads of one of the largest corporations in Cassia, he was used to the privilege of having the Prolocutor’s ear. It was a privilege he did not take lightly, though really the power arrangement in Cassia was such that Stonecypher had more leverage to bring to bear against Kreisle than the other way around. Such was the nature of the beast in the Merchantist Republic, where the market was sacrosanct and consumption was the name of the game. If he could boost the fortunes of the Corporation, he would be doing well. This was a trick he had turned quite a number of times already.

What he was not used to was having competition in the room with him. Beside him in the elevator was another individual who was coming to offer counsel to Kreisle. John Windsor, the man in black in political circles, was riding in the elevator beside him, standing quietly and reverentially. The head of the state holding company, the Cassian Management Corporation, the Governor-General was quite influential in his own right, holding the reigns of power over one of the most important financial institutions in the whole of the Merchantist Republic. The man was in his early fifties, but you could not tell it from the shape he kept himself in. Peppery cropped hair sat atop his plain features; he was not handsome, but he was not ugly either. He was built like a brick shithouse as his mother used to say, a man that lived in the gym and worked out more than he fucked. That kind of man was a dangerous one in Jordy’s estimation, because they held nothing back for their attempts at changing situations. The two men were well acquainted with one another.

“Jordy.”

“John.”

The two men had nothing much to say to one another; they were corporate rivals, if not enemies exactly. Both were called for their expert counsel to the Prolocutor, and both would have to make the case that their advice was the superior form. If nothing else, it would be a chance for Jordy to exercise his debate skills somewhat against a man that was more than his equal. John Windsor was a shark in a sea full of them, but so too was Jordy Stonecypher, the head of the Sarzynski Corporation – that counted for something too, even if John Windsor held a government title as part of the Cassian Management Corporation. It was all he could do to keep his tongue from waggling as the two men neared their destination. The elevator let out a musical hum letting them know they had reached the top floor, straight to the Prolocutor’s office. The gold-plated elevator doors opened slowly, revealing a flood of natural light from the office’s study. Jordy and John both exited the elevator simultaneously, not bothering to let the other go first. This was a deep struggle.

Ahead of them at the center of the space was the Prolocutor of the Merchantist Republic, Callum Kreisle. Kreisle was a strong, wiry sort of fellow, fairly young to be holding the office. The people had overwhelmingly supported his mandate in the last election, and so Kreisle had quite a bit of political cache to spread around. He was sitting at his desk, observing some papers from a portfolio as the two men approached, getting a sense of the lay of the land. The air hung thick in the office, as if the tension could be cut with a knife. Callum paid them no mind at first, a political tic he had developed in an effort to keep from feeling like the junior partner in their counseling arrangement. Stonecypher granted him this measure, not wanting the kid to feel too badly about being outclassed in rhetoric and knowledge. John Windsor was another animal entirely; his beast of burden right now. Windsor had the knowledge and the debate skills to put anyone under the table if they were not careful. This would be a tall order for Jordy to keep his wits about him.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Carnation House,” the Prolocutor said amicably, rising from his desk to greet the two men. “I trust that your journey to Broken Shield was amenable?”

“Quite agreeable to be back in Broken Shield,” Stonecypher remarked, moving forward to shake the hand of Kreisle. “Always a pleasure to be of service, sir.”

“Indeed, well spoken,” Windsor replied after him, moving to greet the Prolocutor in the same vein after Stonecypher. The two men respectfully took a seat across the desk from Callum, who gingerly returned to his rolling office chair.

“I take it my secretary filled you in on the nature of our conversation here today?” The Prolocutor was amicable, soft-spoken, but also focused in a sense. There was a deceptively quiet charm in the man’s voice, though he could be cryptic in a heartbeat.

“Indeed, sir, your secretary filled us in quite fully,” John said respectfully, looking directly in the Prolocutor’s eyes in an almost-intimidating glance. “The situation in Istoloa and Ladero, in Fustera as well. The coming war and the intervention by our allies in the Federal Republic of the Czaslyudian Peoples.”

“Yes, the situation down south is precarious enough without the meddling of the central Dienstadi powers,” Stonecypher remarked coldly, looking at John as he spoke. “We have had concerns about our resources moving in and out of the Shartourn Sea region.”

“Precisely why I wanted your counsel today, gentlemen; you know that the Czaslyudian Peoples are moving to intervene in the developing situation down south. As allies of the Federal Republic, and under the provisions granted me by the Charter of Instrumentality, I have pondered a possible response to the situation by the Merchantist Republic.”

“What kind of response?” John said cooly, leaning forward in his chair expectantly, feeling a certain kind of concern for what Callum Kreisle was cooking up.

“A military one,” the Prolocutor replied, looking both men over carefully as he spoke. “Granted, we are not interested in prosecuting a full-blown war in the Shartourn region, but we have need to assist our allies in their preservation of the Istoloan government.”

Jordy was unconvinced. “I beg your forgiveness, Prolocutor, but how does our intervention in the coming conflict secure market variance for Cassia? A military intervention in the south would be costly, if not wholly amenable to the Republic’s ideal efforts to expand market access to Istoloa.”

“It is precisely that reason why we should act,” the Prolocutor reasoned, moving to hand Jordy a piece of parchment lying on the top of his desk. “This should be enlightening to you.”

Stonecypher gracefully took the paper from the Prolocutor, unrolling it to reveal a map of the Shartourn Sea and the relevant players involved in the growing tension. He studied the map carefully for a moment, noting the prospective appearance of Cassian military assets as an unknown variable to the mission field. After a beat, Jordy replied: “Tempting to the last.”

“The Cassian Management Corporation stands at the ready to assist however we can,” John spoke candidly, looking over at the map being held by Stonecypher. “However, I must caution you Prolocutor about getting Cassia in too deep in a conflict as unhinged as this. Lest we forget, the Ordenites are involved, and you know our hidden connectivity to Ordena.”

“We would never expose our connections to Ordena publicly,” the Prolocutor answered him forcefully, as if to reinforce the verisimilitude of his word. “Those ties will remain quietly buried under a mountain of disavowable knowledge.”

“Right, of course,” Windsor replied, feeling a bit more comfortable knowing that the great secret of the Cassian Republic was to be kept under wraps for a season longer. “Accepting military assistance from the Ordenites was a grave ploy, but one that seems to have paid off.”

“It was always a gambit,” Stonecypher retorted, “to accept the purchase of military armaments from the Ordenites. We were risking entanglement in the bogeyman of the south’s wars and military expeditions. Thankfully, our neutrality holds well enough.”

“The neutrality holds until it doesn’t,” the Prolocutor remarked, taking hold of a coffee mug and sipping at some of the elixir inside. “We cannot exist in permanent neutrality and expand our market access. The arithmetic simply does not check out.”

“So what exactly do you require of us, then?” Windsor was confused, uncertain. It seemed as though the Prolocutor had already made up his mind. “You seem quite convinced as it is.”

“Oh, no, not convinced, just reinforced in the belief that our military capacity could handle the job if called upon,” Callum responded respectfully. “I brought you two here today to hear counsel on the matter, for both of you have a vested interest in making the Shartourn Sea a safer access corridor for your business affairs.”

Jordy looked over at John after a pause, letting the map rest on his lap. “The Prolocutor speaks true, John. Our business interests have taken a hit in the Shartourn over this conflict. The Ordenites have kindly allowed our vessels to pass thus far, but insurance rates to insure our vessels have skyrocketed in the last few weeks.”

“Indeed, we need a resolution to this if we are to remain in the black,” Windsor replied. “Our vessels need safe passage through the Shartourn without the risk of being caught in a maelstrom. The Federal Republic of the Czaslyudian Peoples have the right of it, and as an avowed ally of the Republic, we are dutybound to assist them in their mission.”

“One thing remains hazy, though: the force that must be brought to bear in the coming conflict,” Callum spoke with a hint of concern in his voice. “We do not want to intrinsically conscript our forces into batshittery without cause. Our restraint is our greatest weapon brought to bear. If we get entangled too deeply, we may perish with the rest of them.”

“Ah, so now it makes sense, why you called us,” Jordy spoke candidly, looking back at the Prolocutor after exchanging a glance with Windsor. “You want us to counsel you on how deep down the rabbit hole to go.”

“Yes, it makes sense to be cautious,” John looked over at Stonecypher, then at Callum. “But the very nature of a military deployment to the Shartourn Sea invites a certain wanton lack of caution. Any military presence in the Shartourn becomes an automatic target.”

“And targets make for bad investments,” Kreisle added to the end of his statement. “When we paint a target on our backs, the markets respond unfavorably. The only saving grace is rhetoric; we can change the narrative surrounding our involvement, we can pump the market for more consumption.”

“By extending our market influence over Istoloa and Ladero,” Stonecypher concluded, catching on to the Prolocutor’s gambit. “You want market access in the region through strength of military arms. You want to forcibly extract concessions for access to our help.”

The Prolocutor was nonplussed about the situation. “Cassia is not immune to war profiteering, though I would be careful in speaking such truth publicly for fear of engendering a public backlash. The military has always been the red mark in the ledger, the cost that cannot be easily absorbed. Our war in Siax is righteous, and will continue to garner support. This conflict down south may be a different bird altogether.”

There was a decidedly long silence after Callum Kreisle concluded his final sentiments, as if waiting for the room to decompress before hearing any more testimony from Stonecypher and Windsor. The cautious nature of their meeting – neither men were on the books for an official sit-down with the Prolocutor – reflected the seriousness of the cause that was being discussed. There was a decided lack of vision on what to do in the Shartourn Sea, and that was bad for business. Stonecypher looked over at John with deep concern in his eyes, feigning a feeling of consternation that revealed the conflict within. Jordy knew that a military intervention would be costly but necessary in the Shartourn; the question remained what kind of force would be brought to bear, and how the Czaslyudian Peoples would react to it. Their involvement was a lynchpin to the whole miserable situation down south, even though it would possibly create conflicts of interest for Cassia with other pertinent trading partners. That was the price that had to be paid for this little endeavor.

When the silence was next broached, it was not Stonecypher that spoke, but John Windsor. “There is a contingency amongst the Cassian Management Corporation for this eventuality. We recently took delivery of an armada of aircraft, munitions and ships from Royal Marquesan Exports in Esvanovia. Our servicemembers have been training with the equipment for some time now, and have been brought up to speed on their functionality. We could deploy the armada down south, use this as a testing ground for its readiness in the conflict with Siax.”

“Whoa, now, let’s not be too hasty here,” Jordy remarked candidly, looking over at John as though he had insects crawling out of his head. “You’re talking about sending a carrier group down to the Shartourn? That’s a massive commitment of resources!”

“We have to be able to respond to this situation with force multipliers,” Windsor challenged him, turning to face Jordy directly. “The armada is ready for action, and unless we intend to deploy more forces to Siax right now, this is our best option to put them through their trials.”

“I will not willingly escalate to the level of full-scale war,” Callum shut him down temporarily, looking at John. “Sending a carrier group is not inherently off the table, but a show of force that size will raise eyebrows in the corridors of power in Broken Shield. We have to be careful not to mismanage the situation.”

Jordy was not liking where this conversation was going, but he felt trapped by the circumstances. John Windsor was a very persuasive individual with a talent for changing opinions on the fly. If he intended to save face here, he would need to subvert his own feelings for the good of the Sarzynski Corporation and its public interests. Cassia was not so complex as to warrant a philosopher to explain it away. It was simple arithmetic in the marketplace: whatever made the most money, won. A carrier group was a costly intervention in the Shartourn Sea, but it would express the purposes of the Merchantist Republic quite nicely. He had to give John his flowers, the man had done his homework. Now came the difficult task of transitioning Windsor’s idea over to Stonecypher’s acceptance of it. If he could make it seem like he was on board, he would have a cache to work with. If only the southern nations could keep their shit together, none of this would have been necessary. Alas, war was war was war at the end of the day, and he was stuck.

“A carrier group in the Shartourn would signal the other great Dienstadi powers that Cassia has completed its military buildup and will be heard as a fellow great power. I know the markets care little for political dominion, but having the wherewithal to influence market expansion would definitely be a number in the black for us.”

“Precisely that, yes,” Windsor said, immediately catching on to Stonecypher’s gambit – he was not stupid by any stretch of the imagination. “A carrier group in the Shartourn is the best ticket to expanding market influence in the region. We could use a boost in consumption with the war on in Siax, as well.”

“I see,” the Prolocutor said carefully, leaning back in his chair with his hand on his chin. “So we send a carrier group to the Shartourn Sea, see what becomes of the situation. We would need a detachment of troops for landing purposes if things escalated to a higher graduation.”

“That’s tricky, but not impossible,” John spoke clearly. “A brigade of troops, perhaps, maybe 10,000 total. Something of a force multiplier without putting a whole army corps in the field. We do not want to invite total war against us, just enough of a presence to keep people honest.”

Jordy jumped at the chance to interject; “ten thousand troops seems adequate for our purposes. Like Windsor said, we cannot counsel a full blown, total war in the Shartourn. Instead, having a military deterrent with so many powers circling would be adequate for our purposes.”

The Prolocutor was impressed with the counsel he was receiving, feeling it agreeable to his own instincts. “So be it, a ten thousand-man expeditionary force will be deployed to the Shartourn along with the Artemis carrier group. I assume our pilots will be establishing no-fly zones in the region?”

“That would be best,” Stonecypher cut in before Windsor could speak – this idea was his. “Establishing no-fly zones would be a boon towards improving our odds of success. Getting the central Dienstadi powers out of the Shartourn is the goal, here.”

“Yes, and supporting the Federal Republic with its own efforts to the same; at least, that is what we presume they are attempting to accomplish.” John added at the end.

“Well then,” the Prolocutor said finally, “let us send the word then.”

President Shrdlu returned to his study after lunch. A long lunch, listening to the concerns of Dashez committee chairmen arguing petty concerns about the small budget details was not his favorite way to blow away the late morning, but it was part of the job, unhappily. It had been a long morning with the members of the lower house, starting off with a breakfast for freshman Dashezniks, discussing the merits of his nominee for the Blue Island District Court with local legislators, taking a break to greet a visiting delegation from the National Plastics Manufacturers Association and a phone call with the Dashez chairman of the Territorial and Local Affairs committee regarding extension of speed limit jurisdiction over Primary Territorial Routes before the lunch. This was quite a bit to digest.

Settling in at his desk, the President took off his suit jacket and hung it carefully on the eagle headed coatrack by the door and prepared for a short review of messages. As he reached over for his tablet, a red envelope on the upper left of his desk caught his eye. Marked "For Your Eyes Only", addressed from the Attorney General, Shrdlu was annoyed. "What is it now?" he muttered.

He opened the envelope. The letter was short and succinct, forwarded by the Attorney General from the Director of the Office of the National Intelligence Organization, General Weissman. This was not an ordinary message, and so the letter captured his rapt attention. He read on.

ONIO reports from sources in Agar, Agar-Na that tomorrow the Agar Star-Reporter will make public details of an arms agreement between New Cassia and Ordena. GameeneAI has identified this as unusual behavior in Cassian diplomacy, and a review by ONIO hunint concurs with this assessment. Department of Foreign Affairs counterparts have been notified per protocol. We are bringing this to your attention because in addition to this unexpected departure from allegedly neutral behavior there are these possible impacts:

1. Increased distrust in the Great Inland Sea area. At this time there is some ill feeling between Volsku and members of ISTRA based on ISTRA rejection of the Volskuan application for membership. Tensions betwddn Kramfors and the ISTRA alliance have been heightened recently as Kramfors has initiated convoy of shipping in the Great Inland Sea following detection of Ordenite submarine activity off the Stralkovian coast.

2. Possible increased scrutiny by The Golden Throne if this is perceived as a security risk by Fedala.

3. Possible increased scrutiny by Holy Marsh for similar reasons.

The President reread the note. He tapped his nose three times with his left pointer finger, his tell of deep thought. He regarded the news.

This did not seem to demand immediate precipitate action. Indeed, a rash response could upset the apple cart. He didn't have a beef with Cassia. indeed, he favored greater participation with the northern rim developed economies. And, after all, it was their business regarding their trade partners. Still, this was unexpected, and something to be observed. He knew of Cassian and Czaslyudian support for Istoloa, but as events down south evolved there was thought, backed by many at Foreign Affairs that their influence might replace Ordenite invluence there. He could live with that. Czaslyudia was a different case. Democracy there was fragile. The Pelsh initiatives were welcome, but one always had to be watchful of the old guard windbags across the border. They always had way too much ambition for such a basket case economy. He didn't know what impact the announcement may have in the Great Inland Sea states. Maybe a big deal, or maybe nothing. Anyway, the story was coming out tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do about that.

Still, there needed to be some response, likely an asymmetrical one. Ordenites in the west were always unwelcome. Cooler heads prevailed during the big Shartourn land grab, and instead to going into Fustera he had bargained succesfully with Richtofen to back off any move to restore the Raskovs. Richtofen was gone, and with tensions ramping up all over Greater Dienstad there was growing resentment in the cabinet over that compromise. But there were other ways, subtle ways to send a message. There were many options to show displeasure, diplomatically, economically, and militarily.

A thought entered his head - the Fedravka Canal was the newly important inland waterway. Eitoan had strong forces in neighboring Volsku and Federal Ralkovia, but no formal agreement with King Menassah to defend the canal. Perhaps it was time for some friendly persuasion. There were rumbling in Fedala about the Golden Throne going it alone in the west. Perhaps Fedor was looking for reassurance of Eitoan resolve. Perhaps ISTRA was questioning the same. He would be out of office by the end of next year, and Ephraim Shrdlu was damned if he was going to hand off an Ordenite challenge to Eitoan to his successor, be it Socialist, Free Democrat or Civic Platform.

He picked up his phone. He called Andrew Falkowski at Foreign Affairs.

"Hello, Andy, come by my office after 6:30"

[Holy Marsh]

Jeweled Eyes was an operation centered on the belief that Istoloa was a powder keg and as such the aims and operations therein would need to adapt. Initially, the Partido dos Trabalhadores de Istoloa had been a major goal, and indeed operatives were still arranging support. Money and information was the most they could provide, but communists could be a creative lot and the Mar’si were sure they could handle matters on their own. What they did not deliver on was pertinent information on Rosa and Ganchas. Indeed, M-SAD had come to the conclusion that in the long run it was some form of alliance between the two that could steer Istoloa out of the fire that threatened to erase it in the near future.

Ganchas was easy enough to reach. The Mar’si had helped get a portion of his men out, and among his officer corp certain contacts had been made. These contacts would soon reach to Ganchas himself, offering support as a counterpoint to De Vega. All they wanted was an Istoloa free of Ordenite influence in the long run, something that would surely benefit Ganchas in the long run. It took no genius to understand what the future would look like, and just how deadly being in bed with Ordena could swiftly become.

Their primary hope hung on with Leandro Rosa. He had enough force to oppose De Vega, enough pull with the soldierly to act against the newly born dictator. With Rosa, Ganchas, and Sampón working together, there could be a coalition of sorts that could work at this critical moment to save Istoloa from the fire that would soon threaten the region. Or they could do little more than pour gasoline on their own people; human beings were fickle and strange beasts at heart.

BIHUELA, ISTOLOA

Dhavir En’chakra drew slowly on the cigarette they had been nursing for what felt like the better part of an hour, the ember at its tip flaring briefly before settling back into a dull, patient glow. Time had stretched in that way it often did when one was waiting-compressed and elongated in equal measure-though they knew with quiet certainty that it had not been nearly as long as it felt. Their back rested against the coarse brick of the alley wall, posture loose and unbothered, their head tilted at an idle angle toward the street beyond. Out there, the world was painted in harsh oranges and deep, intrusive reds, the kind of light that swallowed detail. The ground itself seemed unable to remain still under the constant passage of military vehicles, a low, ceaseless rumble that traveled up through stone and bone alike, punctuated by the occasional crack or grind of stressed pavement.

Anyone riding within the convoy of De Vega who happened to glance in their direction would see only what they expected to see. Dhavir’s presentation ensured that. The attire, the posture, the studied indifference; it all aligned neatly with the image of a street-level distraction, someone to be dismissed as quickly as they were noticed. A prostitute, nothing more, nothing worth a second look or a lingering thought. The illusion held because it was easy to accept, because it required no effort to understand. That anonymity, that quiet dismissal, suited Dhavir perfectly for the moment. To be seen and not considered was, in many ways, the safest place to be.
This guise was only one among many they had adopted since arriving in Istoloa, another layer in a growing collection of borrowed identities. With each passing day, with each adjustment and recalibration, they found it easier to inhabit these roles, easier to move within the strange, dissonant rhythms of this misbegotten land. Istoloa carried with it a kind of ambient heresy, a pervasive wrongness that would have unsettled others more deeply, yet Dhavir found themselves adapting with a practiced ease. The Experience Sarda, with its unusually broad allowances, had long served as fertile ground for agents of M-SAD, producing operatives who could navigate theological contradiction. Dhavir was one of many shaped by that doctrine, and here, in this fractured place, those allowances proved invaluable.

They were content to work within it, to ply their trade with quiet precision, even if their current task lacked the immediacy of more direct operations. Observation, patience, the careful tracing of patterns; these were their responsibilities now. Their attention remained fixed on De Vega’s military apparatus, on its movements, its rhythms, its weaknesses. Somewhere within that machinery, there would be an officer worth knowing, worth watching, worth eventually approaching or undermining. There had been those before; there would be again. The question of who that would be surfaced briefly in their thoughts, a flicker of curiosity, before they allowed it to dissipate along with the curling smoke drifting from their lips.

Then, with a casual shift of weight and a fluid push away from the wall, Dhavir began to move into the machinery of the city’s underbelly. Beneath the surface of ordinary noise, another signal made itself known, a faint, persistent hum at the edge of hearing, carried through the discreet receiver at their ear. The broadcast resolved itself in fragments at first, then in clearer form. The ‘democrats’ were moving. Their broadcast were ongoing. The moment of decision was approaching, if it had not already arrived. Dhavir had already established their presence among the outer layers of Rosa and Sampón’s networks, threads of contact that connected without fully entangling. It had been enough to remain informed, enough to ensure that when movement began, they would not be caught unaware. Until now, restraint had been the correct posture. M-SAD’s support was readied yet had not been unleashed because premature involvement would have achieved little beyond exposure.

That calculation was shifting. If Rosa or Sampón had chosen to act, then the conditions had changed, and with them, the acceptable level of risk. M-SAD would not remain at the periphery for long under those circumstances. Its hand would become more visible, more assertive, more direct. Dhavir felt that shift as one might experience a light gust of wind, almost without sensation. They continued forward at an unhurried pace, the last remnants of smoke trailing behind them and dissolving into the heavy air.

[State of Ordena]

COITIMA, ISTOLOA

Walter Habicht had been posted in Istoloa for months now as the Oberarmeegeneral of Ordenite Army Istoloa. Originally having been intended to cross over into Southern Ladero to support CSA forces in overthrowing the government. Now Habicht felt that they had become more so a garrison like force in the country with all the developments going on internally and externally. He was briefed daily on the developing factionalism following the death of El Marechalisimo along with other intelligence gathered through more subtle means by the Military Intelligence Directorate. Despite everything, the Ordenite Army in Istoloa would remain largely passive as Berlina had publicly stated. The newly ratified treaty which was made before the Marechalisimo's untimely death had granted the Krijgsmacht expanded access to Istoloa especially where the port of Coitima was located. This not only allowed the Krijgsmacht to support its operations in Potthan from not just Fustera but also solidified its position at the mouth of the strait that separated Istoloa and Asadabad.

Naval Station Coitima stood as a joint Ordenite-Istoloan naval base in which was where Habicht's own headquarters was located. Construction was already underway to further expand the base and its facilities as it was now a strategic location for the Krijgsmacht. Additional military assets and forces had been arriving since the ratified treaty which were mostly being utilized for operations to support the Potthan theater offensively and logistically. An unintended consequence of which Habicht knew would be coming was the increased influence of the OSUP Military Directorate as the Krijgsmacht footprint in the country began to grow.

Konrad Busch was the OSUP Military Directorate representative and was the highest authority of the Military Directorate in Istoloa. As an instrument of the Ordenite Socialist Unity Party his duties primarily revolved around ensuring ideological compliance among the officers and enlisted. Since arriving in Istoloa the vast differences in living and other lifestyle choices between Istoloans and Ordenites were apparent. While the Army was not in any sort of active combat in the country the soldiers had been given time during the day to have some leisure in Coitima as a whole.

So far numerous enlisted men were detained by State Secret Police units for pending investigations due to conduct observed outside of the Naval Station. One enlisted man had been accused by his fellow soldiers of having engaged in degenerative conduct with civilians. Most of the accused would face tribunals organized by the Military Directorate which would review the cases and hand out punishments. Most cases would see tried individuals be subjected to public denunciation sessions by their peers but those deemed guilty of far serious crimes were typically stripped of rank and or even transferred to penal units. What made things more complicated was the arrival of actual Hurtenwehr combat units into Istoloa. Troops whose loyalties lied solely to the Ordenite Socialist Unity Party and were some of the most fanatical and ideologically pure.

The 607th Black Guard division had arrived from Fustera and had taken part in large scale anti-partisan operations there. They were temporarily moved to Istoloa and would eventually find themselves sent off to Potthan. Until then the regular Army would have to tread carefully unless they wished to draw the political ire of the Military Directorate.

[Eitoan]

Vladarsik, Eitoan
Executive Residence
Office of President Ephriam Shrdlu
7:06 PM Local Time

Ephriam Shrdlu waited patiently behind his desk, occasionally getting up to stretch, pace, or stare out the window. It had been a long day. The sun was starting to set gently over the capital, a light breeze rustled the trees across the street in Anjek Park. Government offices had largely emptied out, families were sitting down to dinner, lovers strolled along the banks of the Ruzek. He had briefly reviewed reports about the proposed Free Democrat lineup for the Ghastak ticket that fall. That bored him. Politics bored him. His term was ending next year, and his attention focused on bigger issues. Eitoan foreign policy was pretty well set since the First Ralkovian War. There was not much need for adjustment during his two terms. But the world was expanding, and Eitoan was being drawn closer to the Shartourn, first informally through bilateral support of Ladero and later Tupenga, now linked to the two southern neighbors through a free trade agreement. The recent missive from ONIO bothered him.

Andy Falkoski knocked on the office door, and Shrdlu bade him to come in. He strode over to the tall, graying eminence of the Foreign Affairs Secretary, greeting him warmly and ushering him over to his desk.

“Thanks for coming here on such short notice, Andy. Hope I didn’t rush you too much. Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Something stronger?” Shrdlu gestured toward the small bar on the far wall to his right.”

“Um, no thank you Mr. President. Sorry about being a little late. Crosstown traffic, rush hour.”

The president nodded to Falkowski, walked over to the bar and fixed himself a martini, light on the vermouth, twist of lemon, on the rocks.”

Taking the first sip, Shrdlu got right to the subject.

“Andy, like we discussed, we can expect some concern about the Star-Reporter article coming out. I don’t think this is such a big deal on the face of it, but how is this going to be received in Agar? In Kramfors? And what’s your take on reassurance in the Great Inland Sea?”

The Secretary thought for a moment, then commented. “Right off the bat I don’t see a lot of response. Prince Harold seems content with us, and, of course, he’s friendly with the Czays too. Volsku, well, less so. They’re a lot more sensitive to these kinds of things. But I don’t think they’re going to go public with any declaration. They are looking at more business from that Cassian canal, you know”.

“Yes, well, I would agree that the revelations don’t require a big public response. After all, our friends to the north can run their own affairs. But we should look at our overall response, now that we’ve got more of an interest in the south. There should be a way to shore up our profile in the northern cap, and also give notice that we are looking at the developments in the Shartourn.”

“Yes, well, I see. I agree that a subtle approach is called for. Above all we should work in concert with friendlies where we can. I think we can do that. Let’s see what the best approach overall would be.”

“The strongest force in the west is The Golden Throne. They’ve made major moves to secure the Asadabad Straits, as well as inland waterways. We’ve been patrolling the D’yk and West D’yk.”

“Yes, that’s true. The Marshites also have considerable assets in the Shartourn Mr. President, and we did work in concert with them in Ladero”.

Shrdlu considered the point. “Hmm, what do you know about Czaslyudian intentions in Istoloa? How close are they to Berlina there?”.

“That’s going to require a lot more intelligence and analysis to answer with any certainty, Mr. President. Trade deals don’t necessarily telegraph into military alliances, and the situation in Istoloa is very fluid.”

The president replied “I think our best bet is to coordinate with Fedala. They’re the strong horse, and our treaty ally.”

“I could have my staff draw up a proposal…”

Falkowski was cut off by the president. “I want to contact Fedor myself, to clear up our stand and see what we can work out. And I want to make sure he knows that we will defend the Fedravka canal. That’s a major part of the Fuermak ability to maneuver in the west. Hav e your people work something up and get it back to me for transmission to the Emperor. I’m thinking to give it a couple of weeks, less of a knee jerk reaction to tomorrow’s news”.

---

Joint Base Novum Jerico
Elokeum

The sun beat down on the reviewing stand as the honor guard of the 93rd Amphibious Assault Division marched by, playing “Cast Off for The Vanguat”. Commander Anna Bray saluted as the blue banner passed by. To her right the Eitoan consul, a retired Army Colonel hastily installed after the Golden Throne expansion in the territory, blinked, then covered his heart with his right hand. The ceremony continued. Bray formally assumed command of elements of the 93rd bound for service in the Shartourn. She had received orders four days ago: assemble a strike group in support of Kriergrup Tongolosi in the Asadabad Straits. Bray was one of the first officers to staff the Eitarska Yamskriet’s new Liberty Bay Fleet. She was familiar with her Macabbean counterparts based in Elokeum, and was a natural choice for the job. Before assignment to Liberty Bay she had served in the Home Waters fleet based in Blue Island. The next day she boarded the command ship Kiolgour. The Kilgour, flanked by the destroyers Corydon and Wiota put out to see to rendezvous with Kriergrup Tongolosi.

---

Asadabad Straits
Bridge, Mineweeper ES Azoy
0302 Local Time

Zach Thruston took a long gulp of his coffee, his second since midnight. Operations for the straits had been spelled out, but his ship was the first to make contact with the Kriermada. Although it had been confirmed from Commander Bray that permission to proceed had been acknowledged, this was his first experience in joint operations with The Golden Throne, and he proceeded with caution. The Identify Friend or Foe signal had been sent continuously for the past five hours, and he halted the Azoy pending Kriermada confirmation to his communications officer. Thruston tapped his fingers on the table in front of him. Time passed. He chatted briefly with his XO, Lieutenant Joe Briggs. Briggs chatted a bit about baseball, to pass the time.

“Les, any word from Tongolosi?” Thruston said.

“None yet, Captain” replied Communications Officer Leslie Hornik. A green flash appeared on Hornik’s panel. “Oh, wait. There it is. Acknowledgement and permission to proceed granted”.

“Very well, thank you Mr. Hornik. Mr. Briggs, half speed, on course for point of rendezvous.”

Les Hornik send notification to the Kilgour. Yamskreit operations in the Asadabad Strait were underway.

[Istoloa]

ROSA; BIHUELA, ISTOLOA

(r. 20/20)

An infantry battalion cut the main road to Bihuela in an attempt to stop de Vega's mechanized column. Commanding the column to halt and discuss its intentions, de Vega's forces refused and pushed through. Not knowing what to do about it, the sole infantry battalion decided to do nothing. It was promptly neutered from its headquarters in the city by one of the Marechalisimo's own battalions, which followed the armored brigade's rapid advance.

Sitting in his office, privy to the news, Rosa was exasperated. If de Vega had come all of this way, it was because he suspected his newly anointed field marshal was not entirely loyal. And Rosa was not, but he had thought he had more time.

He pushed the big button on his table-top phone. It buzzed. "Where is Commander Ribeiro?" he barked.

"He has not yet responded to your request," replied a nervous soldier on the other side of the line.

"My request?" asked Rosa, angrily. "It wasn't a goddamn request, it was an order!"

His officers were melting away from him, he realized. They were leaving the sinking ship. His mind struggled to assemble some sort of plan. I could order my own armor to engage. How? Your brigade commanders aren't responding. Rosa let out a long, grave sigh. You could run, he thought. Where? To whom? Who would help the man who lost his army? He looked down at the top drawer to his right, resisting his desire to open it.

There were gunshots in the distance. Apparently, some of his men were fighting back. At least some of them have guts. But that the fighting was so close to the city meant that de Vega's armor was almost upon Bihuela proper.

"Sir," the soldier buzzed over the phone. "It's Commander Ribeiro. He wants to see you in your office."

Rosa raised an eyebrow. "Let him in."

The door to the office opened to let the short and round brigade general in. Eugênio Ribeiro was a pompous asshole, but also one of the army's finest tankers. If there was anyone who could save Rosa's situation, it was Commander Ribeiro. But the general dispelled any misplaced certainty about his loyalties very quickly. He said, upon entering, "Field marshal, el Marechalisimo is with his men coming up the road. I have acknowledged their arrival and have guaranteed that we will not resist. El Marechalisimo has demanded your arrest. I beseech you not to resist, Leandro. You and I have known each other for a long time, and you know I would never deliver you into harm's way. All the opposite, de Vega wants to offer you a second chance. You'll just need to prove your loyalty to him, fly under the radar for a little while, and he'll let you retire."

"Retire?" asked Rosa, incredulously. He had been thinking about it. He had been thinking about politics. But de Vega wanted an end to politics. Retirement beneath the auspices of el Marechalisimo meant something entirely different from what the field marshal had envisioned. It meant a quiet sidelining, where Rosa would live secluded from the rest of Istoloa so as not to threaten de Vega's tightening grip on the country.

Ribeiro nodded. "It's what's best."

The field marshal murmured something, but when the commander leaned over to ask the marechal to repeat himself, Rosa waved him away. "Give me a few minutes to collect myself. I'll meet you outside."

"As you wish," said the brigadeir, who promptly turned about face and headed out.

When the door shut behind the petite, overweight tank commander, Rosa let out another long sigh. He looked down at the top right drawer again. This time, he opened it.

Inside, a handgun of the old kind, beautifully decorated with gold-lined wood panels. His hand reached to grab it.

Bringing it to his head, he said, "If I retire, it will be on my own terms."

Outside his office, the soldier on guard jumped when a shot rang out. Commander Ribeiro was with him, standing while waiting for Rosa to come with him to meet with de Vega. "I guess he's not coming, after all," said the general, laconically...



SAMPÓN; BIHUELA, ISTOLOA

...Sampón had taken the news of de Vega's imminent arrival with alarm. El Marechalisimo was surely here to see the young major dead. Or, that would certainly be Sampón's fate if Rosa failed to resist de Vega's column. And when the first tank engines could be heard over the frantic shouting of officers and their men on the streets of Bihuela, the major knew that the respite he had found in his political alliance with the field marshal was short-lived.

With very few belongings to take with him, Sampón opted to leave right away, while he still could. He left the room in the bachelor's barracks that the field marshal had given him. Walking to the middle of the road, with an outstretched hand, he stopped a single light-skinned vehicle approaching from the north side of town. The driver, wearing the insignia of a mere private, stepped out visibly irritated. But when he saw the epaulettes of a major on Sampón's uniform, he quickly shut his mouth before uttering whatever it was that he was going to say.

"Cabo," started Sampón, "I require your vehicle."

"Uhh," stammered the soldier, "I have orders to return myself and the vehicle to my unit, sir."

"What I need it for is much more important than that," replied the major.

"Uh, okay?" The soldier seemed at a loss for words at that point.

Sampón put the boy out of his misery by plucking the keys from his hands and jumping into the driver's seat, shutting the door behind him before driving off and leaving the poor private standing in his dust to think about what the hell had just happened. The major's mind was already beyond the soldier, though, and on to his next move, which was to turn down the next street, then right again, until he was headed in the opposite direction — north, far away from Bihuela, and far away from el Marechalisimo's men.

But just as he thought the coast was clear, a prostitute walked into the middle of the road. He was about to drive around her when the woman lifted some sort of badge in the air. He couldn't quite make it out, except that it was like none of the badges he had ever seen before. This woman was neither with Rosa nor with de Vega, and it seemed she wasn't a prostitute. He stopped.

"Major Sampón," she said. "I'm with M-SAD. I am here for you."

"You found me at the wrong time," he responded. "I'm out of here."

"Good," she answered back. "I'm going with you."

He didn't say no as she climbed into the passenger's seat. "How did you find me?" he asked.

"Marechal Leandro Rosa's agents left me your information," she replied. "I was headed to your room when I saw you leave. I've been sent as part of a mission to connect the field marshal's army with Ganchas in the west. Bold move, taking this truck, by the way. But you'll need more than bold moves to get out of this country alive. You need connections. Especially since Rosa is dead and his agents will give you up to de Vega as surely as the sun will rise in the east tomorrow morning."

"And I suppose you are those connections," he said back. "Did you say Rosa is dead?"

Nodding, all she replied with was, "Drive north, to Luzia."

Sampón knew Luzia. It was a small, local beach town with several marinas filled with private boats. He supposed that by connection, the woman meant she was his connection to asylum with the Mar'si forces off the coast. Admittedly, that was looking to be a better escape plan than whatever he had in mind.



DE VEGA; BIHUELA, ISTOLOA

El Marechalisimo Roque Cipriano de Vega walked into Leandro Rosa's office flanked by four high-ranking officers. The field marshal was slumped over his desk with a hole in the head, his brains splattered across the wooden tabletop.

"A shame," said one of the officers, who wore the epaulettes of a Tenente-Geral. The name of his uniform read Guimarães.

De Vega sneered. "It was a shame I gave this excuse of a man command of an army."

"What now?" asked another, Alcantara by the tag across his left breast.

"Where is Henrique Sampón?" asked el Marechalisimo.

For a moment, the officers were silent. Then, the first one, Guimarães, replied, "Gone, sir. The men found his room in the barracks empty except for a few of his belongings."

"No matter," he replied with a barely retrained scowl. He turned to his commanders. "We have won an important victory today. II EI is firmly under our control, and our main adversary is dead." That left one adversary unaccounted for: Ganchas. But now he could focus on that disloyal piece of merda without having to worry about parts of his army defecting to the liberals' side. He smiled.

The smile had been meant for himself, but Alcantara saw it and knew what el Marechalisimo was thinking. "We should hurry and purge these forces before Ganchas is reinforced."

"No need to hurry," replied de Vega. "The purge must be thorough if we are not to suffer betrayal twice over. We have the army to put down Ganchas as it stands, anyway."

As if on cue, a heavy rumble shook the floorboards beneath their feet. The officers stepped to the office window to look out at the street just as a company of tanks came to a halt. These were not the second-hand Nakíls of the Istoloan army. They were Ordenite tanks. "Ordenites?" asked one of them. The general looked at de Vega questioningly. "You've brought the Ordenites in on this?"

"Their involvement was inevitable," he dismissed. "With Rosa subdued, Ganchas would need to seek reinforcement elsewhere. Whatever men the Laderans are willing to give him wouldn't be enough to fight the combined I and II IE, and so he will invite the Mar'si to intervene in our conflict directly. I am simply getting ahead of the inescapable. Besides, there are more than half a million Ordenites in this country. Why not put them to use?"

Mouth agape, the general responded, "Put the Ordenite to use? They will must assuredly put us to use for them!"

"Commandante-Geral Lima," said de Vega, calmly, "no need to exaggerate."

"Exaggerate?" retorted the general incredulously. "You know what the Ordenites did to Magdaran. They brought the whole world upon that damned country and left it a smoking husk. Is that what you want for Istoloa? To lord over the dead as a puppet?"

El Marechalisimo tisked. "Now, now, Álvaro. You shouldn't speak about our friends that way."

"Sir," intervened the officer by the name of Álcantara, "I think what Álvaro is saying is that you should think about what's best for you. How many puppets have the Ordenites discarded elsewhere? Those who give them an inch end up giving away much, much more than that."

"And what would you have me do?" growled de Vega, "give my country up to the liberals? They will sell us out to the capitalists, who will hold us down in the name of 'peace.' Istoloa, a name synonymous with power and empire, will become second-rate to its former colonies! Think about that. Is that something you want? An Istoloa subdued, chained down, and ordered to take the table scraps? I will have none of that. The Ordenites offer us a path forward toward something greater."

Álvaro Lima shook his head disappointedly and muttered, "Insanity."

At that point, the fourth officer, who had not yet said anything, cleared his throat. The rest of them looked over at him and toward the door, where a black-uniformed Ordenite officer stood. "Am I interrupting?" he asked in a heavy accent as he stepped in.

"No, General Ueberroth, not at all," greeted el Marechalisimo. "In fact, you've arrived just in time. I was just updating my staff on the...change in situation. Gentlemen, this is our liaison with the Ordenite armed forces. You and he will be working closely together in the coming weeks and months, as our relationship with Ordena further solidifies. Now, show some Istoloan hospitality and escort General Ueberroth to the parade grounds. I have asked him to advise on the purging of Rosa's forces."

With that, de Vega abruptly left. He wouldn't stay for the executions. He had a rendezvous to the west, where his forces were gathering for a sudden attack on Ganchas in Maragusa.

[State of Ordena]

UEBERROTH; BIHUELA, ISTOLA

General Ueberroth walked to the parade grounds flanked by de Vega's officers. Assembled on the parade grounds were twelve other Istoloan officers and non-commissioned officers whose hands were bound together. A pair of armed soldiers stood behind them in the slim chance they decided to resist or flee from their fate. Additional soldiers and officers stood off to the side, a mixture of Istoloans and Ordenites. When they saw General Ueberroth and the Istoloan Officers they stopped their side conversations and saluted them.

"Herr Generaloberst Ueberroth!" exclaimed one of the Ordenite officers who stepped forward wearing the shoulder straps that identified him as a Captain in the Ordensheer. "The convicted have been assembled on the parade grounds."

Ueberroth gave a subtle nod. "Good. Let's get this mess cleaned up so we can focus on what it is to come."

De Vega's generals who were now standing together spoke among themselves in hushed tones. Then came another Ordenite also dressed in black but different from the others. The generals stopped speaking once they realized he was standing before him carrying a tablet in his hand. Front Political Commissioner Adler who represented the OSUP Military Directorate within Ueberroth's field army bore down his eyes on them.

"Istoloa's finest stand here now before me" he remarked, giving them a short salute. "It is of our understanding that the men brought before us behind me are traitors."

The generals looked among themselves in silence at first. While Adler was correct in his assumption, they we're still in disbelief that de Vega had actually fully involved the Ordenites. It was here they knew that they'd have to tread very carefully.

"Yes, that is correct. They were among Field Marshal Rosa's inner circle and would likely given the chance defect to the liberals and the Mar'si." Alcantara said. The bound men were now being positioned on the parade grounds with their backs against a wall. Of the 12 officers only 8 so far were lined up with the rest being kept to the side.

"General Alcantara is it?" Adler asked while taking a glimpse at his tablet manufactured by Seherin which had formerly been the Ordenite subsidary of Pythia.

Another group of Istoloan officers appear with rifles in hand as they line up across from those condemned for execution. General Ueberroth soon joined Adler and the other generals as they were to witness the first round of executions. The firing squad when given the order raised their rifles aiming down range at the condemned officers.

"Fire!" exclaimed an officer as the firing squad in unison fired a single round which pierced the hearts of the men assembled before them. As their corpses were dragged away the final 4 condemned were escorted to where the others had been made to stand now in a pool of blood. Several Istoloan soldiers approached the generals giving their rifles to them as they were given confused looks.

"Your loyalty to Istoloa and the Marechalisimo have been called into question. Here is the chance to dispel your detractors." said Ueberroth who didn't even spare them a glance.

"Our loyalty? We have faithfully served our countrymen for our entire lives. This is ridiculous" Commandante-Geral Lima responded. The four men now with their backs against the wall had been recognized by some of the other generals as they began protesting.

"Those men are not traitors."

"Those men conspired against your fellow countrymen and Istoloa as a whole. Put your personal feelings aside and carry out your duty." Adler said as the generals were urged forward to the firing line. Still, they protested as Adler focused on his tablet, pressing buttons and swiping the screen.

" Álvaro." Adler called out. "You have a wife, 15 years of marriage; her name is Lorena. You bore two children together, Sonia and António." The generals looked on in shock as names of their own family members were being listed off by Adler. Neither said anything after that all that followed was silence.

"Fulfill the Marechalisimo's orders and your families will remain intact." Adler said as the order to ready their rifles sounded. The four generals obeyed and readied their rifles now trained on the remaining 4 officers.

General Ueberroth looked on as another round of shots rang out and the last 4 men slumped to the ground.

FORWARD ASSEMBLY POINT, 20KM FROM MARAGUSA

Following de Vega's army westward toward Maragusa was Generaloberst Hans Dieter's Army who had like much of Army Group Istoloa bypassed the city of Bihuela and pressed on. Unlike the other components of the Army Group, Hans Dieter commanded an entire Panzer Army and were the armored fist of the Ordensheer in country so far.

It had been made clear to them that conflict within Istoloa following the death of the former Marechalisimo was unavoidable and that getting ahead of the curve and solidifying de Vega's rule was paramount. The steady hum of tanks and armored vehicles of Istoloan and Ordenite origins permeated the forward assembly point situated some 20 kilometers from the city.

Generaloberst Hans Dieter stood in his command post with a tablet on a table in front of him. With the press of a button a hologram was projected from the tablet which showed Generalfeldmarschall Habricht in Coitima. A brief salute was given as part of formalities between the two Ordensheer officers.

"Generaloberst Hans Dieter. How is the progress in the west?" Habricht asked. He had been made aware beforehand on de Vega's plans to move on Ganchas in Maragusa and had greenlit the involvement of Army Group Istoloa to back them up.

"All is well here, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. We are twenty kilometers away from Maragusa in a forward staging area."

Habricht leaned back in his chair. "Good. More of our forces should be arriving in the area shortly, and soon enough the balance in the region will tip in our favor."

"Is it true that we should expect war to break out here with the Mar'si?" Hans Dieter asked. Habricht clasped his hands together before sitting up straight in his chair.

"The Mar'si are savages and will likely jump at the thought of bringing their wickedness into Istoloa as they have elsewhere. We all have heard the stories from Ralkovia."

The Ordenstaat had drilled into them that a confrontation with the Mar'si was destined to occur and would determine the future of their people and Greater Dienstad as a whole. It was why a major contingency plan concerning Istoloa was now underway. The buildup of the Krijgsmacht in the area had brought with it additional troops rotated from United Gordonopia. A recently occupied nation still ripe with strife and conflict.

These troops would eventually make landfall from the East or in the South from the Shartourn Sea. Over time it was intended for the Krijgsmacht to develop a deep foothold within the country in anticipation for a potential confrontation with the Mar'si who were positioned by the neighboring Tarao countries.

[Solisian Union]

Starlight Chambers – Private Annex, La Victoria Palace
Midday, Late July 2048 (Year of the Yellow Star)

---

Queen Wessa I was curled in the wide window seat of her private solar, legs tucked beneath her, one hand idly turning the page of a new Solisian novel. The story was a lush, slow-burn romance between four women — a battle-scarred veteran, a fiery Azenian artist, a quiet Rasurrian farmer, and a bold Elizarinian ship captain. Their love unfolded very nicely. It was full of tender intimacy, heated arguments, and the kind of healing that made Wessa’s chest tighten with quiet longing.

She smiled faintly, one hand resting on the soft curve of her belly where her twins used to be when she was pregnant with them. A soft chime from the secure tablet beside her broke the peaceful moment. She glanced down.

*Urgent Strategy Meeting – 2nd Tarao War Update – Starlight Chambers Annex – 30 minutes.*

Wessa exhaled, closed the book with gentle care, and marked her page. She stood, smoothed her olive-green tunic, and made her way toward the meeting room.

When she arrived, the heavy doors were already closed. Inside, the voices of her senior military and government leaders rose and fell in serious discussion. She paused just outside the doorway, listening unseen.

Her Prime Minister, Elena, was speaking.

“…and the latest intelligence confirms that large segments of the Tupengan population have turned against their Mar’si liberators. After decades of insurgency and centuries of slavery, they want true independence — not new overlords. This creates a rare and valuable opening for us.”

Field Marshal Esstez Carmona leaned forward. “An opportunity to step in as their preferred partner?”

“Precisely,” Elena replied. “We should send a high-level diplomatic team immediately, supported by a small but capable military liaison delegation. Offer them a genuine alliance. Naval and air basing rights in exchange for mutual security guarantees. They want allies, not masters. We can be that ally — and in doing so, we replace Mar’si influence with Solisian partnership.”

Wessa waited a few heartbeats longer, then stepped quietly into the room. Conversations faltered. Chairs scraped as everyone rose.

“Your Majesty,” Elena said warmly, a small smile touching her lips. “We were just reaching the heart of it.”

Wessa waved them down and took her seat at the head of the long obsidian table.

“Continue,” she said. “And begin making preparations for that. I want a diplomatic and military outreach to Tupenga as soon as possible. We will offer them partnership and protection. Naval and air bases only — with emergency activation clauses for ground forces if Fustera or Ordena threaten them… or us.”

One of the senior generals cleared his throat. “Your Majesty… Fustera currently hosts a very large Ordenite garrison. Intelligence estimates put their combined ground forces there at around forty million, with a major Kriegsmarine hub and significant air power as well.”

Wessa’s gaze sharpened, but she did not flinch.

“I am aware,” she said evenly. “That is precisely why we must act. Fustera has become an Ordenite forward base. It threatens our northern territories, our northern waters, and the secure movement of Solisian and Nannasian forces. Preventing enemy forces from coming any closer to our core territories is not aggression — it is necessary defense of the Union.”

Another military leader, a veteran of the Magdaran War, nodded firmly. “I agree, Your Majesty. Fustera is a clear Ordenite ally. Preparing to neutralize that threat is not only strategic — it is a long-overdue way to settle accounts for Magdaran.”

The room fell into a brief, heavy silence as the weight of the situation settled. Wessa let it linger for a moment, then spoke again.

“We will proceed. Strengthen ties with Tupenga. Prepare for the possibility of operations against Fustera if they threaten us or our new allies. And begin planning Operation Gold Bayonet immediately. We must secure the sea and air lanes north and south of Solisia. Aggressively, if necessary. Even if it means temporary occupation of neutral or allied territories. Even if it means difficult actions. We will ensure that no enemy can ever again threaten our heartland from those directions.”

The meeting continued with focused intensity, plans beginning to take shape on the table. After the main group filed out, Wessa remained seated with her innermost circle — Elena, Carmona, Takeshi, Amina, and a handful of others she trusted with her life. She leaned forward, voice low and deadly serious.

“Move fast. Be faster than anyone expects. Secure the alliance with Tupenga. Get the bases in place. Get the delegation working immediately. Begin the preparations.”

She took a deep breath, one hand briefly covering the other to still a faint tremble. Then she looked up, eyes steady and clear.

“While you do that, I want you to begin serious work on long-term reforms to prepare Solisia for whatever future comes — war or peace. And I want quiet studies on westward expansion across our own continent. We need buffer territories. More space between our core lands and any threat coming from the northwest.”

She paused, then added with quiet steel:

“Additionally… begin secret contingency planning for Operation Red West. Prepare for the possible occupation and securing of Samarasta. In case the Golden Throne turns against us… or in case they lose it to the Ordenites. We cannot allow that strategic position to become a threat.”

Wessa leaned back slightly, the weight of command settling on her shoulders once more.

“The Yellow Star must be protected. By any means necessary.”

[The Dutch Kingdom of The World]

The Dutch Soldiers soon captured the Pirate Capital and attempted to sell it.

[Holy Marsh]

Suicide would always confuse Dhavir. The act itself felt alien enough to the average Mar'si, but what unsettled them more was the reasoning behind it. Rosa had still possessed power enough to make bold choices. He had enemies he could fight, a weapon with which to do so, a cause he could kill and die for. He had an opportunity to resist, even if that resistance only ensured death. There was dignity in that manner of death, with the roar of combat in your throat and hot steel blazing in your hands. You would make them earn their victory over your physical shell while denying them victory over your soul forevermore. Even capture could have its purpose, for how better to showcase the strength of your character than under torture? Pain was not failure, for instead pain was liberation and gospel. Yielding to your own despair before the enemy could close their hand around your throat, however, felt wholly incompatible with the philosophy of a true soldier.

The more Dhavir considered it, the more they were infuriated by the waste it displayed. How dare Rosa feel so cornered! Could he not suffer to live under another man's authority if he could not instead have died in resistance? The indignity of such a fate was why one fought, and if one did not choose to fight then they would have to form another path of resistance. Yet Rosa's cowardice and arrogance would not allow it. The weakness of so many foreign elites laid bare. To them, relevance was life itself, the cornerstone of their sense of self. Rosa was too cowardly to fight a losing battle but he was even more terrified of being stripped of his influence. Rosa had a lifetime of service to his name but in his final moments revealed that his love of country and its people paled in comparison to his own vanity, paled in comparison to his own rank cowardice, paled in comparison to his own absurd selfishness.
The Mar'si would never understand this. They served something greater than themselves. Rosa, it turned out, could only have ever served himself. Perhaps it was best that this innate truth be revealed now rather than later, lest good Mar'si resources be spent after bad Istoloan programs. M-SAD had not invested heavily into him, but there had been preparations nonetheless. Channels had been opened even if they were currently light and barren, easy enough to cut of as news of his death spread. His cowardice had not been considered but his failure certainly had been; there were other options in play, options that would now be settled on most rapidly.

Still, Istoloa balanced closer to the precipice than before. De Vega was tightening his grip on power and that was the headline, but the greater concern was Ordena. The global parasite was at it again and Istoloa faced existential destruction if they allowed it to go on fot too long without resistance. They hollowed themselves out under ineffective or cruel leadership, using fear and purges until one man or strata was secured and all others teetered. Ordena would provide the strength necessary to ensure this was stabilized. This influence became a dependency and in time even a strong man would prove a subservient puppet. Advisors, economic partnerships, security guarantees- these things from Ordena were all traps. A nation became a colony. That would be their first death. The second death would be when they became a meastshield for Ordena, crushed under hundreds of millions of foreign boots while their masters grew fat from their death. A replacement for Rosa would need to be found, and found quickly at that. Competence and ambition, necessary traits indeed, needed to be tempered by desperation or humility to accept the help of someone they would likely have considered an enemy. Sampón was still alive, which at least preserved one viable thread. Ganchas brought difficulties, but Dhavir allowed that matter to settle as he focused on what needed to be done. The dead were dead. The living still had work to do.

Dhavir rested their arm against the edge of the window as the vehicle continued northward, fleeting through the darkened roads beyond Bihuela. The city felt distant behind them even as the last gunshots and echoed in the distance. Their expression remained calm and detached while the scenery rolled by in uneven streaks of dim lamps and heavy shadows.
"M-SAD has little interest in seeing Istoloa become a shield for Ordena," they said evenly. "That is your fate under de Vega, whether that man in his arrogance understands that. Frail men like him always they are preserving their nation's sovereign glory as they prostitute themselves to other powers piece by piece. He will become dependent and so will Istoloa until her sons are dying for Ordena's interests, until a hundred million boots trample Istoloa from history," Dhavir glanced briefly toward Sampón before continuing. “Ordena will happily let Istoloa bleed itself dry if it keeps its own nation safe.”

Their eyes drifted back toward the road ahead. "Rosa's cowardice has complicated matters gravely. M-SAD was prepared to assist his resistance against the cruelty of de Vega. Instead, he has abandoned hi sacred oaths to his people and left the future of the country to those who may more faithfully carry out those oaths,” There was no great anger in Dhavir’s tone, though disappointment lingered beneath the surface. "Her fate now rests with soldiers like you, Major. Like Ganchas. Those who still have the opportunity and will to fight for Istoloa," they allowed a brief silence to settle after that. “But discussions of the future can wait. First we must ensure you see a new dawn."

As they drove, Dhavir studied the major from the corner of their eye. Sampón did not fit the mold of a hero, he so far had the temperament of a man ruled by his fear. That was not necessarily disqualifying, as fear could be a useful emotion when you came to understand what it could do for you. There was tension in him, an urgency, no doubt born of the situation. How would that tension be used by the Major? That would determine his future. Dhavir weighed him carefully. Istoloa needed heroes.

Several minutes passed before Dhavir reached into their purse. Out came a small phone with cheap looking casing and minor scratches, the sort of low-rent phone that fit in with their cover story. It was an M-SAD made device that wouldn't ping off any towers in Istoloa and had some advanced encryption features, plus a small sliver of an AI Citizen Cluster. Otherwise, it was a normal phone. Dhavir dialed a number and immediately seemed to relax. Voice softened and conversational, with a local accent that betrayed nothing of their real origin, carrying the lazy rhythm of a late-night call between friends with too much time on their hands.

“Shut up! I don't believe that. You're still seeing that loser of a mechanic?” they asked with immediate disbelief. “Nah, I refuse to hear another excuse for him.”
A muffled voice answered, too faint to have cany clarity though the cadence sounded relaxed- if a little defensive. Dhavir sighed.
“I'm serious. Blue collar is out, girl. There's big suits and bigger men in town than some loser who breaks down like that,” they paused, listening. “No, you always say that. You said the exact same thing after last time. Find yourself someone with some balls for once.”

The conversation meandered after that, drifting between mundane topics so easily that it bordered on exhausting. Dhavir needed to size something up for her newest boytoy, their friend was looking to test the wheels on their new car. How was traffic in town? Did you see what Empalina wore? Cheap imported shoes and fuel prices. Dhavir even spent nearly a full minute discussing whether a white jacket or a black one would be more appropriate for an upcoming evening gathering. It was a painfully ordinary phone call by any stretch of the imagination. Two friends gossiping about relationships, appearances, and inconvenient life details. Boring enough that most listeners would tune out instinctively after thirty seconds.
Eventually they smiled faintly and leaned back into the seat. “Well, I gotta get back to work. Yeah, uggh. A bunch of uglies out here tonight,” another pause followed as the voice on the other end replied. “Good. I’ll see you soon. Maybe some drinks?”
The call ended with a soft click.
Dhavir pressed some buttons and erased the phone in total, the final act of the Citizen Cluster before it said its own digital prayer of martyrdom and fulfilled its task. Dhavir adjusted a strand of hair and put the phone away Finally, they looked toward Sampón.

"Everything is prepared," Dhavir said. "There are people waiting in Luzia. Clothing, papers, and a boat prepared to depart immediately. We will get you to a more superior position with which to resist the encroaching serfdom that threatens you. We will be in contact with Ganchas," they closed their eyes and thought on it, "now, I believe. Are you prepared to be what Istoloa needs of you, Major?"