The Conflict in Hutanjia [Closed]

[Falkasia]

Noritts AFB

Vadim sighed inwardly, realizing he had misspoken in his haste to beat the President in. Saying something more was out of the question, he concluding, and ran the risk of potentially suggesting something that lied between the lines. As if everything everyone said didn't already come with similar connotations. Instead, he reverted back to his old strategy, that of being the stone-faced Falkasian General staring down the monsters his men were doing battle with.

"Yes Mr. President," he spoke, softly at first but gaining in strength, "something needs to be done about Hespatu's address. While I have no doubt in the resolve of the Cardwithians and their desire to purge the occupying forces from the islands... the fact remains that the seed of doubt has been planted. And from experience, I know very well how even the smallest of cracks can grow into the most menacing of fissures."

He paused momentarily as the roar from a massive cargo plane caused the room to shake and lights to flicker.

"What I find most disconcerting is the fact he's playing on our weakest link..." Falkasian heads around the room were already nodding in acknowledgement, knowing full well what he was about to say. "The weakest link... is us. We're foreigners, and I realize we're fighting the same battle shoulder-to-shoulder... but I'm also sure that such creates some degree of animosity. We may not be seeing it outwardly, but I do not doubt it is there, in some form, some where."

The lights began to flicker again as another cargo aircraft tore past, its destination likely somewhere near the supply depots dotting southern Gragastavia which had sustained their involvement in the island chain thus far.

"I'm sure your associates have already told you the urgency of what is happening. Whether the enemy chooses to believe it or not, we've got them on the ropes..." He motioned to the VICE feed with an outstretched palm. "But the one thing we can't account for is what happens after. My recommendation Mr. President? Play things cool... Hespatu has already shown his hand as melodramatic and hotheaded. His aggression may be appealing to some, but I've found that coolness under fire if a far more desired quality especially for a leader. Be the bigger person, show strength, but be humble. Make him out to be less of a ruler, less of a man, and ultimately less mature. I have a feeling you'd be surprised the kind of reaction his own men would give."

There was a commotion outside, followed quickly by staccato bursts and muffled explosions. Vadim's face, which was already pale to begin with, became drained of whatever color was left.

"Fuck..." he mumbled under his breath, eyes wide as they darted rapidly trying to figure out what was going on. "Captain! Major! We need to get Nellis out! NOW!"

The General was already reaching for his sidearm, drawing it before quickly checking to make sure it was loaded. Several of the other officers were doing the same, pushing crates and equipment against the canvas walls to act as barriers. Two others, the Captain and Major, had seized AK-113s from a rack nearby and were already trying to shuffle the President out. Naturally, the old man was having nothing of it.

"President," Vadim conceded as he took up position behind a photocopier blocking the front entrance, "We are under attack... I have no idea how they got this far... or why our patrols weren't able to detect them... but the truth of the matter is, YOU are far more valuable than any of us. Captain Numminen and Major Sharonov are going to get you to the bunker, and they will seal it shut until we give the all-clear. You can make your address there in the Press Room, and we'll send it through the Schechtmann for broadcast across the island. If there's anything I need to know, now is the time!"

The gunshots grew to a fever pitch.

======

Mossview Park

He did not enjoy being back here. Not one bit. But there was something odd about the whole thing, approaching the old camp from the standpoint of a conqueror as compared to the conquered. From his post higher up along the hillside, he had watched as his FSIS friends cut through the garrison like hot knives... although with many of the older guards their surrendering on sight it was hard to call it such. Still, he assured himself, if any of the soldiers he faced looked familiar their time left on Earth would be cut abruptly short.

The barbarity of the camp still echoed off the walls. For what had been a place of amusement, an old sports complex, something far more vile had taken place. Like many children, he had been educated in the atrocities of previous empires, and was hard-pressed not to draw comparisons. There was something about Mossview though that led him to disregard his preconceived notions of posterity. They, he, needed to unearth the demons hidden within.

He checked his watch as he walked, his heavy boots sinking deep into the wet mud and making quiet slurping sounds with each step.

And they were right on schedule too. He, like his FSIS counterparts, knew that the recovery of material was essential for Nellis' speech. Or, the two were planned to conveniently coincide with one another and thusly provide yet another blow to the Hutanjians and their allies. Some of it would need to be fabricated to add extra emphasis, but for any onlooker that basic material would be both gut-wrenching and career-breaking.

Trucks tore past him as they ferried in the last of the assault group. They had offered him a ride, but inwardly he needed to make his way back under his own power. Once inside their job was to hold for as long as possible, under the assumption that the entire Hutanjian contingent on Nesselberg was bearing down on them. With Yuri's VICE down, there was no way to know if a transmission had been sent out or not, or even if the localized jammers they had been supplied with worked.

For Illyich, all he wanted to do was get the trip over with. His telltale smile was gone, replaced with a look not all to dissimilar from that of Vadim's. His combat tunic was pulled tight around his frame, as if it offered some defense against the abundance of ghosts which bared down on him like a caustic swarm of hornets. He approached the barracks, where most of the surviving camp guards were being held, and ducked inside without a flourish.

======

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

"GET IT SET UP PRIVATE!"

A hail of bullets whizzed overhead, slamming haphazardly into the jungle fauna. Bark and charred insects sprayed everywhere as the rounds found their mark. Small fires erupted all along the lip of the crater as tracer rounds made contact with dry grass. A thick haze of smoke hung low to the battlefield, acridly reeking of a mix of ash, hydraulic oil, and burnt flesh.

In the bowels of the crater, what remained of Beta Squad was busy preparing Firefly. Essentially, it looked like a mortar... and it was, at least in theory. The shaped charge it fired however, had a compound air-burst munition that would erupt several dozen feet above the ground. It wasn't that different from a man-portable cluster bomb, except for the fact it could be guided by laser input or remotely by a VICE operator. That, and it was also thermobaric, hence the overly pretty poetic name.

"NOW WOULD BE NICE PRIVATE!!" The sergeant screamed as he continued to lay down covering fire with his AK-113 from the lip, occassionally sliding back down to avoid return fire.

"ITS SET! ITS SET!" Came the earnest, frantic reply. "I'VE GOT THE FIRST ROUND IN THE TUBE! WORKING ON GETTING THE AUTO-LOADER SET UP!"

"FORGET IT PRIVATE!" The sergeant ordered, scooting down the embankment to help out. "IS VICE BACK ONLINE?"

The private shook his head, checking the micro-tablet attached to his wrist. "NEGATIVE SIR! ITS GOT TEN SECONDS UNTIL REBOOT!"

The sergeant nodded, reading lips at this point. The chaos of battle had rendered him temporarily deaf, and he suspected the Private was approaching that point too. A massive artillery round ripped into a tree above them, cutting it cleanly in two. On instinct, the Sergeant grabbed the Private by the britches and dropped him into the dirt. The trunk crashed harmlessly above them, balanced precariously on the edge of the craters. Its boughs were splayed out providing them with concealment, but also prevented them from firing at excessively low angles.

"NO BIG LOSS!" The sergeant reassured his few remaining men, despite the fact he knew that most of their shots were supposed to be from lower azimuths.

"VICE IS UP! VICE IS UP!" One of the privates screamed.

He wasn't heard as the round belched out of the tube, punching a hole clean through the tree and sending a cascade of broken twigs and leaves down below.

======

Kasyanov was in a flurry, trying to help in any way he could to get the Behemoth back online. It had suffered some glancing blows while the Data Ping came down, but most of the pressure had died once the Edomites found their systems inoperable. Despite the fact that the Falkasian vehicles were more or less unaffected, they had used to short period of uncertainty and brief calm to maneuver through cover and reposition. While ideally they should have continued firing, they were under strict orders not to reveal their immunity to it out of fear of the enemy finding an unforeseen crack in the operating software.

"Let's go... get this baby operational... we've got a small window to hit them where it hurts!"

The interior compartment was slowly coming alive as the sensitive systems rebooted. Meanwhile, outside, he could hear and feel the reverberations of the Dire Wolves as they sent shells down range at any exposed targets. Enough of a window had passed to emulate a forced reboot, so now they could start laying it back on them. A few Werewolves added to the fury, the sound of their massive guns much deeper in pitch than their counterparts. No doubt they were punching holes in the opposing line, but the real fear was the dismounted infantry. While weaker, once they managed to catch up to the armor, any corner could and likely would turn into ambush central.

As the Behemoth rumbled back to life, he began receiving positive connections through VICE. Firefly had been set up, and the computer systems were requesting fire-missions. Kasyanov checked his VICE console as the vehicle began to back up out of its protective layer wedged between the two tank hulks. The battleground was hazy, but upon switching to thermal, he was able to see a great deal of the damage his forces had wrought... and the damage that had been wrought on them by the Edomites.

"Ok.... let's get down to business," he mumbled, squatting awkward on the metal floor. The stool was lost, likely upside-down in some corner of the vehicle lodged in a position that the laws of physics and gravity would have otherwise prevented it from achieving had a war not been going on outside. "First things first... ok..."

He adjusted the controls, trying to stabilize himself as the driver seemingly drove reckless across the charred terrain.

Flipping through channels, targets were marked and delegated. In the same instant, he confirmed them and locked in the coordinates, before sending the fire order. Immediately his thermal feed erupted with flashes as the tubes fired remotely, coupled quickly by foot-mobiles scrambling for cover away from the crater amid the fear of expected counter-artillery fire.

"…oops I did it again...I played with your heart, got lost in the game..."

Kasyanov perked up. Where the fuck was he hearing music from? He turned, and saw his driver bobbing his head as he drove.

"NOT NOW!" Kasyanov screamed. Did this guy understand the gravity of the situation? "TURN THAT SHIT OFF!"

======

Panto Leto

Kuznetsov nodded to himself as they bumbled along in the tiny, late-model hatchback. ""We are about 80% secure, Comrade..."

Despite the good news, he was still determined to maintain radio control and replied only with a series of clicks and beeps similar to Morse Code. Not that he could have operated the bulky field telephone one of his troopers was wearing whilst driving. That, or the fact that behind him in the backseat four men were wedged into a space designed to hold only two. Getting in had been difficult, but getting out would probably destroy the car.

As far as the Major was concerned, the island was their's. Once he managed to get to the airfield, hopefully dodging stragglers and the like still trying to hold out, he would be able to assess the situation better. Casualty reports would be first, followed shortly there after by mop-up activities and reinforcing the island. Counter-attacks, regardless of how unlikely, were still possible. No doubt they had caught the attention of local forces who might not necessarily be predisposed to the notion of having one of Astyria's more silent powers running amok off their shores. If need be, he could play diplomat just as easily as soldier.

Driving through the town was eerie at best. As a young officer, Kuznetsov had experienced ghost towns before. In Gragastavia, the surest sign of an impending ambush was the sudden disappearance of everyone. No one on the streets, no one in the market, all doors and windows were shuttered and locked. It was the same feeling, one of approaching doom, that struck him. What was odd though, this time he felt it not in regards to himself but in regards to the forces they had just overtaken. Between tall apartment buildings, no doubt residences for the lower-ranking enlisted men, were the charred remains of armored vehicles juxtaposing harshly the otherwise provincial and suburban atmosphere. Here, there was no air of hatred, but one of panic and fear.

"Any idea where we are?" One of the Marines tentatively asked from the back, the car bouncing slightly as it hit a dislodged rock.

"I haven't a clue," Kuznetsov replied, turning the wheel to execute sharp and sudden 90-degree turn. "I'm following the signs... or at least I think I am..."

He pointed out the window to a panel which hung suspended from several poles. Despite everything being in Frandit, the word airport was at least remotely similar in both sound spelling to that of the German word Flugplatz.

"Guess we continue straight for two kilometers..."

"Or we need to U-Turn and go back for one and a half..." the front passenger suggested, noticing that the sign was hanging upside down.

A few dozen yards away, the smoldering fuselage of a fighter jet laid crumpled into a slight embankment.

"Guess he was looking for the airport too, but hit the sign instead?" A fourth Marine offered, trying to lighten the mood.

No one was having it, being both cramped in the rear and covered in both blood and dirt.

======

Task Force Khariton

"We're down another five," the Flight Chief reported. "Still above acceptable rates, but every time the flights return, there are fewer and fewer coming back."

"Any idea if there are survivors?" The Admiral asked.

"Well sir, SAR is conducting sweeps of the waters surrounding the island. We've got a few possible EPRB signals, but nothing concrete. We don't have air superiority yet, so any efforts run the risk of being intercepted... and last thing we want to do is sacrifice additional personnel for a single man."

Yashin nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "I understand Commander. Make sure our teams are available once we do secure control, so we can pluck as many of those men out of the water as possible."

The Commander nodded, turning and leaving. A loud crack reverberated off the walls as Slava himself turned, facing once more out over the flight deck. Launching and recovery operations had ceased temporarily while CASEVAC crews were being prepared to head inland. From below deck, an armada of transport helicopters were being brought up while the runs already fueled were beginning to spin-up and go through their pre-flight checks. At the far end of the deck, towards the stern, the ship's Chaplain was conducting burials at sea. A wave of red and blue adorned the otherwise gray surface as caskets draped in colors were rolled onto the deck from the morgue below, and in quick succession were catapulted over the side. He stared intently, wincing every time the rifles cracked in salute. It continued on and on for what seemed to be an eternity, until the train grew depleted and the small crowd which had gathered began to disperse. Outwardly, he knew it shouldn't affect him, but inwardly he took comfort in knowing that it did.

Whether or not there were actual casualties inside each casket remained to be seen once the casualty reports arrived, but at the very least, the symbolic gesture was well-received by the crew and would serve to memorialize those who had voluntarily committed themselves to the Sea.

"Admiral, we have a reply from the unmarked contact idling near the island," a voice announced from behind him.

"Really Lieutenant... you should know not to sneak up on an old man!" The Admiral half-chided.

"Sorry sir, but I figured it was urgent," the Lieutenant responded in suit, ignoring the feigned plight of his CO. "They're still squacking, but we have it on play back."

Slava followed him back inside the bridge. Sure enough, as his eyes adjusted to the electric lights and tinted windows, he could hear the playback with its distinctive accent.

"This is the Commanding Officer of Crossbow...Seven of the USG Command. We Copy, Battle Fleet Khariton. You are conducting an illegal raid and do not have permission to be in these waters. Aid is on the way from the GHawkinian and Gaulic mainland to drive you out..."

"Interesting..." he mumbled, scratching absently at hist stubble-encrusted cheek. "That sounds strangely familiar..."

"Sir, their channel is open. How do you want to play this?"

"Its surprising the accent is natural Frandit... Neu Engollian, or what have you..." Yashin began, inwardly to himself, "But most of the upper echelons of the Uli are not native speakers. The accent should be different... But its not..."

He nodded his head slightly as he came to a conclusion.

"Bullshit." He stated flatly. "Lieutenant, bring me my log book!"

"What is it, sir?" The operator asked.

"We may be looking at a bait-and-switch. I've heard plenty of Frandit-speakers between here and back in Ekaterine decoding both Hutanjian radio chatter and Yellosian transmissions. You may not be aware of it, but the Neu Engollians have a massive intelligence factor in the YSR to our North."

"Aren't the Uli-Schwyz the same as Neu Engollon?"

"No!" Slaval snapped harshly. "They are about the same as we are to the Gragastavians... or the Edomites to the Ralkovians. The USG is a mercenary outfit, independent from the Neu Engollian nation. Although much of their manpower does come from the ranks of said nation's military, the two military groups are distinct and different."

"Sir, your logbook!" The Lieutenant interrupted, shoving the tome into the Admiral's hands.

"Thank you," he offered, hastily flipping through the pages looking for something. "There we go!"

He traced the page for a moment.

"While this book is from the 1990's, ancient stuff for you kids... it does contain a list of suspected Uli-Schwyz members..."

"I don't think you can call five names a list..." the Lieutenant joked.

"No, but its this name... this name right here that matters." He pointed to the top-most one on the page, which itself was yellowing with age and tattered at the edges. "Nelson Tell, NEDM Alpen Regiment. Could be the guy we're talking too... and what's more, he's their Number One."

"Why not this guy?" The Lieutenant asked, pointing to the name below it. "Rene Welt? Is that how you pronounce it? He's a native Frandit-speaker too."

"We have reason to believe he's on the island, given chatter we've been able to intercept..." The Admiral slammed the book shut. "Anyone feel like gambling a bit?"

General Tell, it is nice to hear you! I am Admiral Yashin of Task Force Khariton. You may be curious as to how we were able to identify you, but let me assure you one old soldier to another, its really of no matter. What is is ensuring that you make it back to your men in one piece. As you say, we may have only hours before your local neighbors bail out the island from us, but I highly doubt once their own casualties begin to stack up that they will continue to be sympathetic to your plight. Now, as I don't really have any desire to delve into the supposed legality or illegality of our invasion, I will cut straight to the point. We are offering you, and all those onboard your aircraft safe haven aboard our ship until a ceasefire can be reached. We will not interrogate you, we will not harm you. You may move freely as our guest, but we need your help in stopping this endless slaughter... both in Hutanjia and here. As one veteran to another, I'm asking on my honor to trust me.

[New Edom]

EARLIER...
COMMAND BUNKER
CHASTILLE, NEVORN

General Augrim listened to the grim report and discussion between Hespatu and Fontona, and took a deep breath. "Amen," he said in response to Hespatu's last words.

"We have little choice but to retreat. Surrender at this stage of things is unthinkable. God will honour those who give their lives." Augrim did not say this lightly; he had faced death many times himself and had earned the right, in the eyes of his own troops, to if need be send them to their deaths.

"Anjoux it is." he turned to his aide. "Get me in contact with Admiral Galt."

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

By now, most of the APCs and lighter vehicles were burning wreckage, the ground looked as though it had been clawed by a gigantic lion, torn and with debris littered and smoking everywere.

In the midst of this, units like that led by Major Ben-Hadad lurked in the shell craters and behind smoking wreckage as the enemy steadily advanced under the cover of their smoke and artillery fire. "In God's name now," she snapped as anti-tank missiles howled towards enemy vehicles advancing; they aimed for treads with rounds designed to burn through skirting and punch past reactive armour; they aimed for turrets; they activated anti-tank mines at key moments.

"Let the sponge soak up their blood," was how Colonel Abed-Nego put it during training. The dismounted infantry would scatter and harass the enemy, like the predatory flightless birds of their homeland did. They would humble themselves, go from warriors in metal chariots to weasels prowling the shadows for prey, letting fear and yearning to kill guide their steps. Without large signatures, without much radio use, moving in small groups, firing and crawling, running, scurrying for cover into the smoke and dust, they would try to inflict as much harm as they could.

Still the cruise missile attack showered down spears of fire into enemy positions, though their targeting was spotty now with the signals vehicles taken out.

Colonel Abed-Nego, receiving orders from General Merari to retreat to Anjoux, was furious. "My Hussars are out there, damn you to hell!" he snapped, his ice breaking at last. "I cannot leave them like this!"

"Colonel, you are ordered to save as much of the heavy equipment as possible. If it makes you feel better, call it a forlorn hope. But you will carry out these orders. The lives of thousands of our Hutanjian allies as well depend upon this. The honour of your country depends on this. And you are to command the retreat personally and establish the embarkation zone. You have your orders, do your duty," said Merari between clenched teeth.

Abed-Nego was too old of a soldier to say more than "Yes, sir." However it was a kind of hell to have to pass the orders along. Because of the orders specifying him, he could not even sacrifice himself and order another officer to do it.

Tightening his jaw, he gave orders for the retreat; a Troop of Sorcha IFVs would be the last to depart--to hopefully give Ben-Hadad and the dismounted Hussars a chance to retreat as well. More than that he could not do for them. Belching smoke for cover to evade targeting systems, the tanks and the rest of the IFVs began to fall back.

Hesttens

The first embarkations began of the support units of the NEMACH forces on West Cardwith. The first to go were logistics, transport, administrative units, organizing trucks and land rovers to neatly move aboard the transport that had docked at the wharves. With the news of Anjoux as the disembarkation point for the retreating Hussars and Hutanjians however, the two amphibious ships were to be diverted there, where hopefully if need be LCACs could move units that were not able to get to the docks proper would be able to depart.

General Merari absently mindedly turned back to where his staff were hard at work shredding documents. There were empty nails on the walls where portraits of President Pahath-Moab and Queen Mara had hung.

[Neu Engollon]

OCTOBER 1988
INTERIOR OF MUBATA
NEAR THE BORDER

He had arrived in country for his first mission with the Uli-Schwyz three weeks previously. It was a heat like he'd never experienced, the closest being Panto Leto and the southern Neu Engollian coast, but that was temperate and nothing like this oven. There never seemed to be adequate fans to bring the boil down. He was always wet and swampy or it had dried and he was itchy and salt crusted. It effected his mood, along with never seeing true action. He was like a walking board, unable to relax. Whether it was at the government base where he'd first in-processed, or especially out in the bush at the various staging camps, he couldn't find comfort externally, or in his mind. They were currently in the forward base getting ready for the big strike that would take out the major infiltration base for the rebels.

He had made his fifth trip out to the dune they had designated the latrine, willing himself while squatting there...This is it, this has to be the last. There can't be any more. It is pure fire. His bowels would, of course, disagree.
He made his way back to the group, a circle of fellow Uli-Schwyz officer-advisers and the task group of the Mubatan Army special operations group known as the Hyena Pack. It was the Mubatan's best counter insurgency unit.

He poured sweat from the top of his cropped ginger furred head, cascading down his chest and his back as he slowly trotted back over the ridge into the camp.
The Hyenas shook their heads, trying to hide smiles as they saw the white man in such distress.

Captain Gerlecht pulled him aside away from the circle and back over another ridge, as the other Uli officers stared at the mock up of the rebel held village, determined to avoid his gaze and also that of their Mubatan Special ops counterparts, who they knew would be smiling at them and daring the Uli mercs to laugh at their fellow newbie officer.

"Nelson, maybe you should sit this one out. Guard the camp while we go in. No one will think any less of you. We all get these jitters our first mission, but this one is pretty major. We need you here on it fully, lad, and...This might be a big dive in for your first mission. Too big. There's no shame, lad."

The young fresh Lieutenant, not long separated from the NEDM's 34th Alpen Regiment, looked pained back at the mission commander, and it had little to do with his issues with his bowel.

"Sir, I can do this. I need a chance to prove myself. I have had all the training, both in the Militia and on the Island. We have done run throughs until it's ingrained in my head..."

"I get it. I get it, L-T. Listen...no one's disputing Alpen Regiments aren't strack and you've seen a lot of training...But...This is the real deal. Heads will roll. This is war. Friendlies may die..." He spoke lower on that last bit, conscious that they weren't that far out of earshot of their Mubatan allies.

Nelson nodded, but then shook his head again. Mortality was no stranger to him or his family.
He was well versed on the fact that men could die on simple missions more than most. They even died in training, in a neutral nation that had seldom seen combat in its history.

He had lost his only brother to a training accident. While he had gone into the 34th, his brother had been directed to the 36th Alpen Regiment. They were mock assaulting a ridge that spring of 1984, ziplining from their Hueys in the mountains of Valais. What had looked like solid ice had given way and 6 Alpen troopers, including Will, plummeted 185 meters to their deaths down an ice crevice when the deceptive top snow covered layer had split, dumping them into the void.

---

1987
NEU ENGOLLON

Will, his older brother. The sandy haired, young wiry whip that was too small to fill the legendary shoes set out for him. Wilhelm Tell XXVIII, the namesake of the original Wilhelm Tell that had shot that bolt through the apple on his son's head all those centuries ago. The most beloved first born son of the Twenty Seventh Wilhelm, their sometimes distant, but never harsh father, that had always doted on both Will and the sisters, but had fewer words of encouragement for Nelson.

Then the tragedy that had taken the chosen son.
Three long years of grief and the family still would never break through and be normal again, it seemed. They say it faded with time, but how much time did it take? Nelson didn't have a lifetime. He needed to escape the oppressive grief and live his life for himself. He couldn't be the consolation prize for the family. Although some part of him would always be trying to prove himself the worthy successor son that measured up every centimeter to Will. His time of compulsory service eventually ran its course. He looked to his future, and that didn't include wallowing in grief.
When he had broached the subject of heading to the Island that fateful summer evening, he had seen rage like never before out of the elder Tell.

"What!? How dare you? I have laid the path for your political career here. We need you here. The Confederacy needs you, and you would run off to become a mercenary? Give it a few months, you will want that military life done. I've seen it. We've all done our compulsory service."
Unsaid was that Nelson was the only son left to pick up the responsibilities of the Tell patriarchal mantle for the direct line. Sure, there were cousins, but as bloodlines went, he was the surviving true direct predecessor. One of the grand Neu Engollian families that had huge influence on policy, business and most other facets of life in the Confederacy.

"No Father! I'm going to do this. This is what I want. There's no advancement in the Militia..."

"You're a Tell, there's always advancemen-..."

"NO! I want a real military life, not this flower waving army! I want to put my training to real use. I sure as hell don't want to be a bloody pol!...I can't sit through a bunch of nauseating Assembly meetings. You all should just cut to the chase and head straight to the BreuPub..."

His Father had stormed to the door at the word 'nauseating'. The large oiled, ornately carved, oaken door that led to his office, where he conducted some of his business for his Assemblyman seat. He slammed it so hard a bottled old ship of the line started to roll off the shelf...Nelson reached out to catch the dusty bottle as it gave out a puff smacking into his strong pink hands. He looked down.

It was a model of the HMS Victory. Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson's ship and his namesake. The elder Tell was an enthusiast of military history and especially the great naval battles. Having gotten the naming of his first born out of the way, he wasn't content to give his second son one of the typical Gaulic or Teutonic names of most Neu Engollian boys, so he had, over the objections of his wife, named the red topped moppet after his favorite figure of history. While a name like Nelson wasn't too outrageous, it was still odd for a Neu Engollian kid, and garnered him some teasing during his formative years.

Before he had another second to react and knock on the study door, his Father opened it and slammed it again harder for good measure. They didn't speak again before Nelson left at the end of his R and R.

When he hit his time of service from the Militia, he had a few last hurrahs with friends and old flames, crashing on couches and warm beds around Burgunden and Schwartzgarten. He did not make it back to the homestead brownstone in Telleursville before getting ready to ship out to Gaul, where he would fly out to the Island via Touloux. One last wild night in the Gaulic port town left him wistful as he fought off sleep and the effects of the alcohol. He wandered his way back towards the hotel district, one of many young folk that had an adventure that night. The streets were lit in an eerie glow and wet. A breeze started to chill the town, blowing off the Mederano Sea. He made it back to his room, and placed a call through the operator. It was 5am local time, and the collect call was routed to Telleursville.

"Who is this? Is this a joke? Talk to me? Someone there? Nelson?...Nelson?...Nelson...I love you, son. You always make me proud, no matter what. Are you coming home? Come on home...All is forgiven, son...Nelson?"

Tears started to stream down his cheek, as his voice choked up. Nelson gently put the phone back in the cradle without saying a word into the receiver.

---

1988
MUBATA

They eyed each other as some blue, green and red bird alighted to the higher branches of the nearest baobab, ruffling its feathers, but staying silent as if to not interrupt the two Neu Engollian men so far from home. It cocked it's head at Nelson.
"Captain Gerlecht, I swear, I need this mo-..." Was as far as he could get before they both heard the distant THOOOMK!

A mortar was inbound. They sprinted for the sandbags as distinctive shots from Kalashnikovs kicked up rocks and fountains of dirt all around them. The Hyenas were returning fire with dusty FN-FALs, along with the other Uli-Schwyz officers who hammered on their SG 550s as he and the Captain crested the ridge.

Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Step. Boost. Kick and Slide.

As Nelson was hurdling the low sandbag wall, a mortar impacted among the Mubatan commandos and their mercenary advisers. They disintegrated before his eyes, tangible human shapes became an abstract painting then a familiar colored mist. Captain Gerlecht, his mentor, was a few steps ahead of him. As the round struck, The Captain absorbed much of the blast that would have cooked Nelson.

Suddenly, Lieutenant Tell was being propelled back the opposite direction that he had launched himself. His arms were in front of him, intense heat tickling his fingertips as he could look down and see his booted feet wiggle through the air.
It felt like several little animals gnawed at his skin across his torso. Like how it must feel that first moment as piranhas start to devour you, but in reality, it was little shrapnel bits just finding a home.

Then impact with terra firma. He felt the burn as his back became a high friction plane across the stretch of dirt several feet from where he was last in touch with reality. The Uli-Schwyz had not yet invested in body armor for all their mission crews, not seeing the need for what, in this case, had been considered a low level mission. His battle tunic top shredded, exposing his shoulder blades and upper back to absorb the gravelly strip that his torso burrowed. He finally skidded to a stop in his backwards head charge along the rocky soil. Black smoke plumed up and out in his view, obscuring the purer, whiter clouds of Africa. Everything burned or throbbed, and so he knew he was still alive.

Then the cries. The horrible cries as the Mubatan Marxist rebels swarmed, their Kalashnikovs slung as they swung machetes up, back, forth, down. He heard it more than saw the shadows, but could envision it in his mind. The Uli advisers had seen the after effects of the rebel handywork on villages that had made the wrong choice.
Now they were showing no mercy to his brothers and their Mubatan Army comrades. Snick! Snick! Wet sounds, murmurs, last gasps and groans.

He had a baobab tree in his way as he tried to raise his head...Wait...He had a trunk blocking his line of sight and also their chance of spotting him! Until they swept his way, anyway. Unfortunately, they might find him sooners as his bowels had betrayed him one last time at some point during being blasted back. They would certainly hone in on the smell and make him another pincushion. A fear like no other gripped him. A panic threatened to rip his heart out of his chest as his own sick smell washed over him. Worse than when his instructor turned him in for cheating. Worse than when he had to confess to his Father to beating down a neighborhood playmate. Worse than any lurch from air assualt dropping or clinging to a swinging narrow rope and plank bridge and imagining the pop of binding twine.

But they didn't seek him out, continuing to work on their closer prey. Then the glorious sounds of pops from FN-FALs. Friendlies. Working their way from what sounded like half a kilometer away. The rebels scampered. He would never forget the sound of their breath and the soft patter of their sandaled feet as they slunk over the obstacles of the former Spec Ops encampment, taking it in stride like animals of the land. It still took some minutes for them to reach him. As the adrenaline thinned, so did his grasp on consciousness, the pain receptors being overwhelmed.
Blackness started to overtake him just as a Mubatan soldier hovered over him.

"Fek! He a bloody, shitty un...But ah see nah splits tah his gut o chest! Waayt! Eh...Eh tink he breathe."

PRESENT DAY
CROSSBOW ONE
OVER THE MEDERANO SEA

So many years he had learned to suppress that fear as he led from the front. Countless contracts over 26 years had made him almost brazen and undaunted to his possible mortality, but never did he let it make him take unnecessary risks with the men under his command. Rising in the ranks to become one of the most decorated officers of the Uli-Schwyz, he had that green fear replaced with a deeper one. Letting his troops down. That was the fear that gnawed at him most was not being able to lead them during their greatest need, to survival and even possible victory over their foes. Now, he felt a tremble that he hoped he could hide, as that deeper fear fought to take over his mind. His reverie was broken by one of the junior officer.

"I...I don't get it. How did he know who you were, Sir?"

Nelson snapped to the present fully, replying calmly.
"He does his research, Captain. I think he took all the clues and made a good guess. They are some of the toughest adversaries we have faced. Which is why I have studied them, too, at length."

"Do you know this Admiral Yashin, Sir?"

Tell mused,
"No, not really. I never saw the need to study their naval personnel at depth. Considering our limitations in that field, I left that up to the Hutties and Edomites. I just analyzed what info we had on Falkasian intel, air and ground officers. I'm pretty sure he's one of their tops, though."

The Chief interrupted urgently,
"Sir, you need to get ready. We are running out of time. Are you going to answer the Falkie? Because we're..."

"Running out of time. Yes, I know. No..." He threw down the radio mike, "I don't think I'm going to give him that pleasure of confirming his lucky guess. It's of no benefit to us to talk to them. Besides, all the good retorts like "Nuts!" - have been taken. We will not surrender to the Falkasians...at least until given no other option."
Private military operators didn't fight fanatically to the death if they had some expectation of being kept alive in captivity and possibly ransoming out their freedom.
Every USG trooper had some POW survival training, with a knowledge of some torture they might face. A lot of it evolved from the days of GAW2 and Crescent Bay and tales of Uli prisoners then, but also more recently taking to heart the depravity USG operators had suffered at the hands of the Yellow Star Republic's state security, the RLO.

The Captain nodded,
"Let's hope the GHawks are as fast as I've heard their naval SAR is. It's gonna be a tight race."
As he spoke, the junior officer and the Chief were turning dials and pulling knobs that would set a destruct sequence into motion to internally fry the circuits of their commo gear. For good measure, the Chief was pulling out a bag of plastic charges and placing them in strategic spots along the console. He tucked the universal detonator they were all keyed to into a cargo pocket.

"Let's get out of here!"

The co-pilot came back, but they didn't see the pilot emerge.

"What about Lieutenant Wellesby?" General Tell demanded.

He had become very familiar with the young Woodsteasian pilot who was the regular pilot of Crossbow One. The Woodsteasian had flown several missions with his Republic before signing on with the USG, and was a top notch pilot.
General Tell attempted to keep his feet plodding in as straight a line as possible through the shuddering aircraft cabin as he made the hurried walk from the comms center to the cockpit. He had to hold on to various holds along the way as the plane was shaking more and more. He punched in the keycode to the door, and pushed it open, careful not to slam it into whoever may be on the other side of it.

He barked in to the cockpit angrily,
"What are you doing, Lieutenant? We need to get in the pods."
The pilot shook his head ever so slightly, but said nothing.

The answer came from behind the General,
"He has to stay at the controls, Sir. He's going to...guide it in."

"What?! No! He needs to come with us!" Tell snapped. He turned back from the Chief to the front of the cockpit,
"Put it on Autopilot, Lieutenant."

"Auto pilot won't hold through this. We could stall and plummet quickly, then we're all dead. This way..." Chief Shoemaker didn't finish.

Lieutenant Herbert Wellesby spared a few seconds to look back as he white knuckled the control yoke. His high Anglo accent was understated.
"I will say that it has been a bloody fine pleasure serving you, General Tell. Now get the bloody hell outta here before this is all for naught!"

General Tell paused for another
"I will honor you to my dying day, Lieutenant Wellesby." He spoke softly, almost unheard over the roaring engines.
Chief Shoemaker gently but firmly dragged the General back out of the cockpit.
Tell batted his hand away.
"I got it, Chief. Let's get to the pods."
They went down to the lower deck to the back door, where they would lower the stairs enough to shoot the pods out but try not to destabilize the altitude losing plane known as Crossbow One.

The other crew were preparing to scoot the pods as further towards the door.
The last crew had the most difficult job as they would slingshot their way out the door with nylon straps after kicking out the other pods.
General Tell insisted on being in the last pod.

"Oh hell nah, you don't. I'm going with you," Chief Shoemaker bit out giving the USG CO a light shove.
The rest of the crew lightly chortled before shoving the General in to the pod and Shoemaker climbed in after him. They would protect him to the end, even if they had to knock the old man out to do it.

General Nelson Tell had learned to control and vanquish fear when he was in charge and able to snap out commands. Now he would be helplessly hurtling several meters to the chop, bounced around like a ragdoll. Here it was full circle, the helpless wounded L-T at the mercy of forces out of his control on the arid dunes of Mubata. Or a rubber rock hitting the Mederano at high speed. Shoemaker was checking the straps to the gear in the walls of the pod, including the NEG SMG-9, which also had a nylon flap that would cover it so they didn't bash their heads on the barrel or receiver. Even the plastic first aid kit, if unsecured, could bash in someone's head like an egg if it bounced around the pod at high velocity.

The General felt rumblings down below as he cleared his throat,
"Chief, I just want to say now...Please excuse me, because I ma-..."

SHWWWWOOOOMMFF!!

And they were floating on air, strapped in to a grey rubber ball with another layered wall with shocks to absorb the impact. No windows. It was slightly ballasted so that a top portion could be unzipped to make it a proper open raft and also to escape unforeseen circumstances.

ANJOUX, WEST CARDWITH

Colonel Johann Moller was out on the edges of Anjoux, as defenses continued to be set up to defend what would be a huge evacuation just a few kilometers to the North, on the beaches.
They only awaited what boats could be assembled by Hutanjia and her ally, New Edom, in order to accomplish such an evacuation in two different ports simultaneously. It would be the equivalent of Dunkirk times two, as both Anjoux and Hesttens were evacuated of a mass amount of allied forces. Most importantly, they had to continue to fight to assure that most would be able to get away safely. Some would be paying the ultimate sacrifice in order to see that happen.

He wanted to welcome the retreating troops all in personally, and reassure them they would get to safety, but most likely...that just wouldn't happen. He knew they would get off to North Cardwith or Nesselberg alright, but he would be too busy with command duties, assuring they weren't overwhelmed and shot in the back, to wish them all bon voyage, personally.
The most ironic thing about the situation was that he was so far removed from his actual command, The Schwyz Regiment on its way to Panto Leto; sent by Piet, what he called his friend and somewhat superior, Colonel Van Aardel. He should by all accounts be outraged, but Piet had called him to consult before sending off their reserve regiment, which also happened to be Moller's troops.

Meanwhile, he was coordinating companies of the Uli and Galien Regiments, normally commanded by Van Aardel and Colonel Cogant, to aid their clients and allies in holding off the enemy onslaught. Cogant, meanwhile, was commanding the recruits on the Island to fight off the Falkasian raid there. It was a confusing shell game of command, for sure, and to top it all off, General Tell, the Commander of them all, might have been blasted out of the sky into the Mederano Sea, last anyone had heard. It had been a long time since the USG had been on the ropes under such duress, but both Colonel Moller and Colonel Van Aardel were determined to make the best out of a horrid situation.

THE ROAD TO ANJOUX

Sergeant Roberto Gonzalez rode exposed from the cupola in a M 12 Chronicle that had been loaned to their unit from Omega Company. He had control of the .50 MG and had put it to good use in their fighting retreat north, lashing out at Card regular and UFF guerrilla teams armed with AT that had slipped by the rotor support out on the hunt. Still, they lost a vehicle here and there, and men.

On the road in front of the Chronicle was a Hutanjian Army truck they had also borrowed. Stacked in the back were Uli troopers sealed in body bags, as if it was a cart loading up during the Black Death. It was a lousy way to treat their fallen brothers and sisters, but it couldn't be helped as they made the mad dash to get to Anjoux and not be closed in on by enemy forces. They would not leave them behind for the commie bastards to do as they would with the USG soldiers' bodies.
Gonzalez did his best to avoid looking at it any time he had to scan that direction. It wasn't so difficult anymore to physically avoid locking onto the back of the LMTV, but really again, the image of the plastic cocoons was ingrained in his brain, so there was little point to the exercise. He knew there were other, similar trucks further ahead and behind. Mostly USG, but some Hutanjian and Edomite comrades loaded in that they'd recovered along the way. With the controlled chaos of the retreat, lines and units were blurred as the 1st Battalion, Galien Regiment picked up allied stragglers from friendly units. Most likely, the Edomites and Hutanjian Regiments were doing the same for Uli and Galien troopers that had gotten separated.

Suddenly, there were flashes of heat on the IR sensor a few moments before his naked eye could catch them.
"We got Cards! Ten a Clock!"

They were quick. As he swiveled the mounted gun around, there was already a flash as the AT launcher they carried ignited and a missile jetted forward out of the tube. From Gonzalez' perspective, it was just a puff and bright orange spark, but with years of training, the former American Navy Seal knew exactly what he was on the receiving end of. He let off a burst, then ducked inside as the space where he'd been was penetrated by the missile not even a second later, skipping off the sloped armor to detonate a couple meters off and above.

OVER NORTHERN WEST CARDWITH

Black Arrow Squadron was down about a third of its strength, and the electromagnetic pulse from the Falkasians hadn't helped that situation a bit. As the Hutanjians and Edomites, along with the USG, had begun to turn the tide of air superiority, the pulse had struck. Two of their Shrikes had been downed, with only one pilot surviving and able to bail out. The other, flown by Tyson Kernau, had been low to the ground, rocketing a Card column at the time and plowed into the earth. Kernau had been the USG pilot held by the Falkasians during the first phase of the war so long ago.
The Shrikes and Warriors flown by Black Arrow were pretty sophisticated machines and pretty hardened to the possibility of a nearby EMP blast, or nuclear explosion. Odds dictated that they would lose those couple, though. Still, it helped that all the pilots were very experienced and capable of keeping their craft from stalling as they had to do mid-air resets of their systems.

Captain John Tucker was determined that Green Flight would help to swing back the balance. Like all the allied pilots, they had been working in constant shifts with the other flights to keep the pressure up on the Cards and Falkies. They took catnaps while their planes were refueled and rearmed at Vesselle or Anjoux, sometimes being grounded for a few hours in order to get closer to fully refreshed. They were exhausted, though, and such a pace would eventually grind them down.
Help was not expected now from Panto Leto, so they instead were awaiting the Edomite reinforcements that were just starting to touch down in Nevorn and North Cardwith. The First Airborne Division, naval bolstering and some accompanying air escort, that hopefully could be re-tasked to help hold off the enemy that was closing in on the disembarkation points for the evacuation.

Tucker flushed that all from his mind as he got on the hopefully still encrypted channel to his wingman, Greg Boustrus, a former Riysian AF fighter pilot.
"Green Two, I'm tracking four bogies 6 km south."

"I have them, Green Actual. Slower, possibly Card F-29s. I got yer back."

"Green Four and Five, watch the back fence."

"Copy that, Green Actual."
Green Three had been lost to a Falkie missile in an earlier engagement. The aircraft lost, but the pilot had made it out.

Tucker tweaked the throttle just a bit and felt the extra G's give him a gentle push back in his seat, as they angled to a direct intercept of the enemy fighters. F-29s were older Falkasian models, not to be confused with the Emmerian top of the line birds. The Falkasians themselves were flying Lyran 5th gen planes, but had licensed the Cards to manufacture the F-29s, as well as passing along much of their old stock to the fledgling People's Cardwithian AF. Tucker mused. It was a coin flip as likely that even with Card planes, they would be facing some other Marxist nation's pilots as they continued to pull in those ISVC recruits. All the more that they couldn't ever underestimate their opponents.

"Arrows hot."

"Copy, Green Actual."

Captain Tucker didn't need to tell them to go ahead with their first BVR launches as soon as they got locks. The Cards would be doing the same for them. Within a split second of that thought, his red indicator light flashed and he got a scree in his headphones that someone had a lock on him. Double checking that it wasn't a SAM, he confirmed that it was their prey turned predators ahead. He had a couple more beats, in which he took to fire off his own missile and then immediately he was going into defense mode, firing off chaff and then a couple flares for good measure. He repeated this as he dove and then corkscrewed to the side. He could see the trails of the other Green flight missiles fired, then watch as his men also took to evasive maneuvers from the first Card volley. They had beaten them to the punch on getting off the first arrows. He would put his money on ISVC, not native Cards.

PANTO LETO

Sergeant Major Terry McClanahan sat on a rise with a Stoner LMG snugged close. He and his group were one of the few left on the Island fighting off the Falkasian Marine and PASG raiders. They had lured some in to the sparse woods of Bugeber to take a toll on them. They led them into ambushes and set booby traps as much as they could with minutes to spare. McClanahan and his training cadre knew these woods back and forwards, having brought several classes of USG recruits through them over the years.

McClanahan had been an American Marine Drill instructor at Parris Island before finding his way to the USG after some years of ennui and near suicidal struggle with boring civilian life. He had seen action in the First Persian Gulf War, then moving up in the NCO ranks, he had trained young lads for Afghanistan, Iraq, Africa and other hotspots that the US committed their forces. Then Uncle Sam's Devil Dogs had blocked him from re-upping as they thinned back and cleaned house. He was given his early retirement and Honorable Discharge. Trying his hand at the family car dealership business had been nearly disastrous for his soul. Then, one fateful saving day in a Savannah bar, he'd been approached by the Intexa agent and propositioned over some sobering coffee. The USG desperately needed training cadre. It was a dream come true, as he came to find out there was no such thing as green recruits for the USG. These men and women came from all over the globe with elite special operations experience already under their belts. The only challenge was melding their training together into the USG strategy, and overcoming language and other cultural obstacles. Really, that was minor with most folks as the lingo and manner of special operators was pretty universal.
He'd gotten his cadre crew set and began to prepare USG recruits for the likes of Covington, Churdistan, Lorecia and Hutanjia.

They usually took one day of each cadre class schedule to rehearse the possibility that the Island itself may be assaulted, and what to do in such an eventuality. Now, he could see that some of that rehearsal had stuck, but unfortunately, not enough. He couldn't blame it all on weak prep as such a blitzkrieg strike as this was bound to succeed when the bulk of their forces were in Hutanjia. The best they could hope to do was forestall the worst until reinforcements could reach them.
Still despite the upper hand of being the defenders and knowing the terrain, they were whittled down quick, as the Card and Falkasian commandos fought back with everything they had to bring to bear. The invaders had time and overwhelming numbers on their side...for now.

Terry sighed as he sighted in on the Falkies low crawling through the bush down below. One of his drill instructor NCOs, part of this ragtag team of Instructors and recruits, had a Black Widow sniper rifle drawing a bead on the lead commando. The rest of the group lay spread out along the small rise. They would spring into action at the first shot boring into the skull of the Falkie raider. They could only hope to even the odds and hold out for reinforcements before succumbing, either with their lives or their freedom. One of those two fates was inevitable unless rescue was inbound.

---

Major René Ouelt ran out the door of the Command Center with a couple of other admin troopers that had managed to grab side arms. They were greeted on the parade field by a mixed group of USG recruits, security and service personnel, led by Sergeant Major Jason Gerry Galvin, a former Antremian Special Operations NCO and the USG's resident top amphibious operations expert...Not that those skills were currently being put to use.

"Major, care to join us?"

"If you're fighting, we're in."

"Excellent, Sir. I think we need to get to cover as th-"

At that moment, a heavy machine gun opened up from between two of the admin buildings on the other side of the parade field. Several of the USG troopers were spun around and bounced to the grass of the parade ground with big gaping holes. Ouelt and two survivors dashed back towards the Command Center as the rounds ripped up the ground around them. Major Ouelt was the first to the double doors and he felt the sprain in his hand as he wrenched the door violently open. A Sergeant, a young Mesolander that he recognized from his picture, and recalled from reviewing his file, took one of the large caliber rounds in the throat. Arterial blood sprayed Ouelt and Sergeant Major Galvin as they scrambled into the doors of the Center.

They were in, sliding and slipping with their blood coating, as they tried to rush further into the interior of the heart of operations for the USG around the globe. The building was partially dark now, and abandoned but for them as others had rushed to battle, rushed to destroy sensitive material and electronics, or rushed home to defend their families. Even the last, René couldn't blame those troopers that had abandoned their duty for familial calling, as he was fighting off that impulse every moment with every fiber of his being.

As a shadow came to the doors, Galvin dove onto his back, spraying a burst at the entrance to the parade field with the Galil he had managed to hang on to. The glass splintered, but held up, as it was bulletproof. Still, the rounds managed to keep the heads down of their pursuers and make them think twice before making the suicidal charge through the portal.

Thinking quickly while massaging his hand, Major Ouelt pointed,

"To the armory room, Sergeant Major. We can lock ourselves in there."

They got to their feet, taking advantage of the hesitation of their pursuers to run down the hall and make a right at the junction. It was with fortunate timing, as the doors were kicked open and a rocket propelled grenade funneled its way down the main hall of the Command Center to finally strike the far wall and detonate; slightly caving in the brick of the outer supporting wall, warping the surrounding office walls and shattering or splintering every window within that parallel space.
Galvin and Ouelt made it to the armory room down the wing. The Major was punching in the code as they heard a clattering of boot stomps through the main hallway.

[Falkasia]

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

"IR shows the Edomites are in full retreat!"

"Good, let's press'em then. Squeeze the life out of them like an orange!" Kasyanov replied, sporting a rare visible smile.

Despite the thick cloud of grey-black smoke which, like a funeral shroud, now clung ominously to the ground, white hot silhouettes glowed vibrantly on internal sensors. Exposed infantry, friend and foe, scattered like ambient fireflies on a dark sky background as the column of Falkasian armor began to advance.

"Take things slow..." Kasyanov advised over the comms, "and be sure to confirm targets before opening fire. Its a no-man's land out here now. I have no desire to substitute our dismounts for their's, ESPECIALLY through friendly fire."

One by one, distinctly off-white shapes emerged from the tree line, not unlike an army of demons gradually materializing out of thin air to bring death and destruction onto their enemies. Their treads and wheels dug deep into the shattered earth, spewing up mountainous plumes of thick black muck into the contaminated air. It was still too noxious to breath, at least for those who had spent the majority of the battle safely encased within their metal behemoths. The infantry on the ground, their lungs having been exposed to it since the fighting started, were less susceptible and thusly could endure it more.

Kasyanov, despite being confined to both a tiny viewing port and an electronic screen no larger than a hand tablet, dared not open the cupola hatch for a look. There was no telling how many snipers could be perched nearby, concealed amid the carnage and waiting patiently for someone like him to make their first and final mistake.

"Contact left! Stragglers in the trees! ENGAGING!" Kasyanov did not reply, instead using the information to formulate a mental picture of where the last vestiges of their enemy laid in wait.

Last thing he wanted was to completely bypass a sizeable unit, only to have it become a thorn in his side down the line. He had no idea what was going on outside his regional theater, having not had either the time nor the dedicated computer operating power to maintain a constant flow of intelligence. He assumed that things were going well given the immediate lack of reinforcements, but things would only become concrete once he and his unit had forced their way through the defensive line. No news was good news, he had to remind himself, regardless of the fact that silence summarily executed his nerves one-by-one with each passing second.

Kasyanov was jostled violent within the command pod of the Behemoth as a cruise missile detonated dangerously close. Even over the loud roar of its monstrous engine, he could hear the monotone whine of the point-defense vehicles nearby. On his scope, their rotary barrels glowed white hot, whiter than any other thing on screen. So hot it seemed, that they were hellbent on burning a hole through his display. He squinted. It even hurt to look at them. They were accomplishing their jobs though, knocking out incoming missiles before they could reach their targets, despite the losses they endured.

More explosions all around as the shelling intensified. He couldn't really be certain inside his hardened shelter, but it seemed the assault was more disparate than it had been. From his viewing port, he watched as a stack of hulks rolled past. Apparently, several different vehicles had attempted to cross each other during multiple assaults , and like the ones prior, had been eliminated at roughly the same point and time. He vaguely recognized a mish-mash of markings and symbols, both Falkasian and Edomite. There would be time to reclaim them later.

"Sir, we've got something incoming!" His driver announced over the comms, but was droned out almost immediately by VICE.

"INCOMING. INCOMING." it moaned in a single, uncompromising tone.

Kasyanov flailed around, trying to locate the source.

"I'm not seeing anything!" he screamed, panic begin to set in. "Anyone had eyes?"

"NO SIR!" His driver replied, jerking the steering rapidly to try and shake a track.

"VICE, WHAT'S OUR ATTACK VECTOR?"

"THREE-HUNDRED SIXTY DEGREES. TIME TO IMPACT, 4 SECONDS!"

'FUCK!!!!" Kasyanov dropped through the opening and into the back compartment.

On instinct he began flipping through his electronics, moving methodically by row trying to shut everything down.

"ITS NOT A MISSILE!" He announced, the desperation apparent within his voice, over a force-wide comm, "WE HAVE A CYBER ATTACK INCOMING! SHUT...."

The lights on the inside of his vehicle died abruptly, submerging both he and his crew into the same inky blackness that assaulted the exterior.

======

Noritts AFB

Things had gone south, really fast. What had been just another afternoon patrol around the perimeter of Noritts Air Force Base had devolved into a run-and-gun shootout along the exterior fence. They had no idea how many attackers there were, what unit composition they were facing, or really even which group had sent them. Hutanjians, Edomites, mercenaries, it all meant nothing. The fact that they were shooting at them was enough to warrant a response. Questions would be asked later. The task at hand was to safeguard the base, and nothing else.

The patrol had stumbled upon them innocently enough, but until one Falkasian soldier almost planted his boot in the face of an infiltrator, they hadn't even known they were there. Several quick shots later, and half of the twelve man patrol was laying either dead or wounded. The rest had dove for cover, setting up hasty fighting positions behind boulders, toppled logs, or even small embankments within the path they were following. Seconds later again, and the number was cut in half further to three. Calls had been sent and were received by Noritts, and the garrisons were scrambled to lock down the gates. In the same time, the three survivors had routed, losing one more to a shot from behind as they attempted to fall back. It was, suffice to say, hard to provide covering fire when no one knew where the enemy was hiding.

With no air support to speak of whatsoever, aside from aircraft which were either damaged beyond flight capability or were being rearmed for additional missions, there was no way to get an aerial eyes-on of the attackers. Their positions were assumed based off points of last contact, and reaction forces were scrambled to deal with the threat.

"For all we know," Vadim said under his breath whilst still holding his pistol steadily aimed at the canvas door, "They could be attacking en masse and have already over-run the garrison here."

He received silence in reply. Not unexpected, but at the same time, not necessarily welcomed either. Like good Falkasian officers, they were trained to know when it was appropriate to speak and when it was appropriate to remain silent. Unfortunately, no matter how much Vadim willed them to provide commentary, it was not a situation which warranted much talk. Their job was to defend, and if need be, sacrifice themselves to protect the operation.

There was another explosion outside, following by another round of staccato bursts. There were two distinct shrill sounds, evident enough to confirm to Vadim that his men were still holding out under opposition fire. The AK-113, with its unique bullpup design, had a more muffled sound than the standard modern assault rifle. As such, to the trained ear, they were painfully obvious.

"Nellis has been secured," a voice announced from behind him. "Numminen and Sharonov have locked the bunker down with a handful of men. No way they'll be getting in with anything short of a bunker-buster."

Vadim nodded, the sounds of battle growing closer. Outside, he could hear mad shuffling as additional forced charged past to reinforce the gate, or where the enemy had decided to breach. Overhead, the roar from aircraft was deafening.

What he didn't notice however, was that the flickering lights were not a result of ongoing battle outside...

=====

FNS Schechtmann

"Let them come," Ivanov challenged, standing on the bridge as he watched the onslaught of incoming aircraft approach.

"RADAR has more locks than it can handle. Captain! Some are going to get through!"

"I'd like to see what damage they can do," he mocked, stomping the reinforced metal plate beneath his plate. "This isn't a ship anymore, but a fortress. Hard to sink a ship in fifty feet of water..."

He was interrupted as the deck below him erupted like a hornets nest, filling the sky with white-hot streams of concentrated fire. They laced in and out, up and down, left and right, just like spotlights illuminating a Friday night event back home. Initial explosions dotted the horizon as their rounds made contact, spent shell casings flying like a rain of angry bees all across what used to be the flight deck. Seconds later, as the ship's advanced RADAR began detecting higher altitude targets, SAM missiles began to join the spray of bullets. Each lurched off their rails, spewing a plume of fire long enough to scorch the metal they had been tied to. As if in one last act of defiance, they jolted upwards and streaked towards their targets.

"Noritts is under attack Captain."

This was not news. He could see from his perch the explosions which were billowing up from its general direction. They were on their own.

"Very well then Lieutenant. I believe we can hold, but if not, we will fight them tooth and nail with every last weapon we have. Make sure all the ammunition is brought up from the bunker, but stored away from the bulkheads. I don't want a hole blown in the side from a errant sneeze."

"Yes sir!" The Lieutenant snapped, busying himself with the new directive.

From what he could tell, the bombers were still a ways off. The approaching cruise missiles were another matter entirely though, and would be presenting themselves very soon. For the time being, covering the exposed super-structure of the ship in a dome of hellfire was the best defense he had. At least until air support came around, at which point they could deal with the bombers and straggling missiles.

======

Mossview Park

Illyich was uncertain. Being back made him feel like he was on a tight rope, constantly having to reassess whether his next step might prove fatal or not. It was not a feeling he liked, but one he knew was required to finally close this chapter he had endured. The room he had entered, which before was an ordinary barracks, was not the holding area for the camp's prisoners. Still cloaked and not wanting to be discovered, he walked by without so much as making eye contact. He didn't have to though, as he recognized nearly everybody. His first instinct was to grab the first man, slit his throat, and make an example to the rest, but cool reason prevailed and he was able to restrain himself. For older men, they were often more sadistic than their younger counterparts... most of whom, he reasoned, were also probably dead by this point.

The fact they were now bound and secured was not the retribution he was looking for, but perhaps rummaging through the commandant's office... and eventually the commandant himself, would provide the evidence he needed to end the suffering once and all. No one seemed to pay him any attention as he walked, his muddy boots sticking only slightly to the poorly oiled wooden boards as he rounded a corner towards the compound where he knew the camp command resided. The halls as he remembered them were claustrophobic and equally caustic, where even unleavened glances would result in death or several reprisal. Instead, only a salty breeze and the sound of his bootfalls filled the empty space.

The Commandant's office was at the end of the hall. He knew the way well, having found himself there countless times for a combination of abuse, interrogation, and extra-judicial punishment. The blood stains were still evidence on the floor as he forced the door open, smashing the ornate glass front which bore the faint gilded words "Club Owner" on it. Illyich smirked. How ironic.

In the center was an oil drum, and contained within it was a stack of wood. Heating, no doubt, for those frigid tropical nights which often occurred even right at the equator. Ash at the bottom confirmed that he, the base commandant, had also been burning much of his records. A momentary pang of fear grew deep within his gut. What if he wasn't able to find what he was looking for? How then, would they proceed? Digging up the mass graves would take too long and destroy too much circumstantial evidence, that is if he and his men could even locate them. The base guards wouldn't tell, and stories like his were too few and far between to be taken seriously.

But one search of the filing cabinet quelled his nerves. Contained within the first file folder was enough damning evidence to convict dozens of men, and it was only the first of perhaps five of six dozen files just on that rack. The office itself contained perhaps seven or eight more cabinets, each possessing a virtual treasure trove of materials that would cripple the legitimacy of the Hutanjian cause. He smiled, truthfully, for the first time in a very long while.

He was going to have fun watching these men burn.

======

Panto Leto,
Approaching Airfield
Landing +122 Minutes

"Major..." one of the Marines began, "I think we have a problem..."

Kuznetsov was outside the car, pacing around the perimeter while his men tried to unload. The only problem, much as he had feared, is that the two in the back were stuck and could not get out.

"This is what you get for eating double rations this morning," one moaned as he attempted to yank the Marine out the back door by his outstretched legs.

"This car was not designed for combat transport."

"I don't even think this car was designed for human beings to begin with. Ok... here we go!"

Two men seized hold of the third's exposed legs, each holding on just below the knee.

"One.... two.... three!"

Both pulled as hard as they could, the muscles in their arms straining to remove the soldier from his upholstered tomb. With an audible pop he came flying out, the tunic of his uniform bundled up around his shoulders and exposing the bare flesh from his chest down. He impacted the concrete tarmac with a thud, and scrambled quickly to recover himself. The other Marines stood around laughing quietly, waiting for him to reattach both his shirt and backpack.

Kuznetsov, growing impatient, kicked the front end of the car as he continued pacing. Not much else was needed as the vehicle disintegrated, transforming into a pile of connectors and loose metal over the course of a few seconds.

The Marines stood wide-eyed in stunned silence, laughing no more.

"Well..." Kuznetsov shrugged, unslinging his rifle from around his shoulder, "glad that happened up here and not back in the city..."

He turned.

"Let's get moving. The airfield is just up ahead. We may be in captured territory, but there could still be scattered resistance around here. Keep to cover, and don't be careless. Last thing we need is to lose another man, especially with how difficult it was getting you guys out of the backseat."

======

Task Force Khariton

Yashin stared grimly at the RADAR screen, watching as the green blip that was his one-time confidant slowly disappeared from view. Inwardly, he knew there was little thought of surrender on their end, but his conscience would not have allowed him to forego making the offer he had. For him, even in surrender one could still play an impactful role in a war. Nowadays though, having seen many, many men return from prisons and camps, he knew that many did not share his idealized view of battle.

Fortunately for the mercenary forces on the island, they would be treated well. He could not speak for their Cardwithian auxiliaries, but those who fell under Falkasian control would be held comfortably until concessions were reached. Abuse would not be tolerated, not even with the best of intentions, as it reflect badly upon not only him, but the Falkasian people as a whole. In a world of sadism and barbarity, he felt it necessary to remain one of the few honorable military commanders left. Others disagreed, but he deduced this mindset was more a result of their generational prejudices than their experiences in war.

"Admiral, Crossbow Six has disappeared from the scope." The officer stated, glancing over his shoulder for a reaction.

The Admiral simply nodded, shrugging his shoulders as he turned. There was nothing more that could be done here.

"Mark their position and put SAR on standby."

The officer nodded, placing a beacon ping on the location while another officer began calling up the requisite flight crews for launch.

"Admiral?" His Lieutenant asked inquisitively, "Why aren't we going after them right now? They're basically dead in the water."

"Walk with me." He replied, bending over and stepping awkwardly over the bulkhead threshold which sealed in the CIC. In the hallway he continued.

"You ask me why? I doubt you'd be able to understand, but there is an old code of honor among soldiers of the past generation. This General Tell. whomever he is, took the only way out a warrior would. Whether he died on impact, or somehow survived is not my concern. The course of action he decided upon warrants a separate and distinct approach however. He acted bravely, courageous, and without concern for his own personal safety. That much warrants a respite, which is what I will be giving him. A chance for his own folks to pluck him from the water. It may seem counter-intuitive, treasonous maybe, but believe me Lieutenant, there is much more to be gained from mutual respect than from fear. Most nations, most of our counterparts, seem to shun and forget this..."

The two rounded a corner, surprising several sailors who quickly snapped into a salute as the two passed.

"You may be familiar with the old world war stories, two fighter pilots on opposite sides helping out one another for no apparent reason. Or be it as it may, becoming friends after the war despite the many millions of rounds they may have exchanged against one another. These mercenaries may be our enemies, but just because they are so at this point in time does not mean they will be tomorrow. Never should you sacrifice your humanity for victory, because without the former, the latter is only worth up to the lives extinguished to achieve it."

Again, the two men stepped through the bulkhead door and back onto the bridge.

"I think I understand now Admiral." The Lieutenant offered, moreso as a concession to try and shut the old man up than an actual acknowledgement of having learned something.

Slava nodded, himself knowing rather quickly his message was falling on deaf ears.

"I know you have work to do Lieutenant, so I will leave you with this. Respect your enemy, because one day, he may become your friend."

[New Edom]

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

"INCOMING ROUND!" screamed Major Jennifer Ben-Hadad through the muffled filter of her gas mask, flinging herself down into the filthy muck of the battlefield as did others; nevertheless a section of scattering troops were hit, torn up by the exploding tank round or by fragments of the nearby wreckage of an APC that was further flung about by the destruction. Charred and mutilated soldiers were dead or gurgling their last in the mud.

Ben-Hadad's instincts had kicked in; little of the rational woman remained at the moment; she was a creature of the battlefield, looking like an ape-bodied mud slick insectlike the rest, an alien creature without dignity or plans, hugging the ground. Their fighting retreat more a matter of the ape-senses of ancient ancestry against mighty metallic predators that ate up the ground in roaring clouds of smoke and dirt. Scrambling to her knees, readying an anti-tank rocket, aiming for the tank's skirt to hopefully strike the treads, "NOW!" her hoarse muffled voice screamed.

Elsewhere similar scenes were enacted; slowing the enemy advance, believing that they would die here and be in Heaven or survive by a miracle. This belief far from their minds as they fought, simply to kill or be killed, to strike at whatever vulnerable points the enemy presented. They were like moths beneath the radar of a bat, with the enemy IR active, but the smoke would hopefully veil them, and they added to it where possible.

In a ditch half full of corpses, an artillery officer, a Forward Observer, sans drones, sans aviations, sans everything but a radio contact, called in fire support towards the clouds and noise that presaged the enemy advance from his position. He called it in with shaking voice, aware intensely of his impending death. "Confirm...grid 1130..." he said carefully into his headset. As he heard the advancing titans, he realized his bowels and bladder were voiding with fear. He was 19.

Swiveling turrets and growling treads marked the retreat; Colonel Abed-Nego's rearguard exploded with smoke to obscure their signatures. Clearly their own missile support was not doing all that it could, but spotters were trying to target now for the SPH and MRLS batteries--hopefully that would buy more time. Abed-Nego could see as it were the enemy trying to flank him like a wolf's jaws closing over the throat of a goat. Falling back by stages, in staggered formations, one covering the other, the artillery covering them all--he must making to the staging area.

[Kenega]

KENEGA CITY, KENEGA

Hundreds, maybe thousands of Wishtonian and foreign corpses lay across West Cardwith, or floating in the waters off it. A scattering of more lie upon the fertile grounds of Nesselberg and Nevorn, due to guerrilla and terrorist actions. More were added by the second, minute and hour. The skies were black with explosions, smoke and angry aircraft seeking revenge. One might think that outsiders and the usual, typical tourist fare that flocked to the exotic tropical isles would be driven away, and to some degree, they would be right.

Yet, it didn't seem to stop the flow to the Commonwealth of Kenega. Westerners, Easterners, Whites, Asians and all manner of other cultures of humanity would fly into the airport in Kenega City; check into their hotels, resorts and villas, settle into their rooms; dig in to their sustenance, whether it be in the fine chain restaurants, local seafood shacks, or numerous street vendor carts; and finally, while a few ventured north to the wildlife preserves and parks, most would grab their spots on the southern beaches. Some would spread out beach towels, some would have elaborate set-ups of umbrellas and recliners, or provided 5 star hotel cabanas, and some would forego all that to make a mad dash for the salty waves, hurdling over half collapsed sand castles and piles of trashy novels, sun tan oil, dinged up water bottles and emptied cocktail glasses for the soothing waters that lapped upon Kenegan resort beachfront property. Like walruses they stumbled and tunneled into the crystalline icy blue waves, breaking up a picture of tranquility to surround themselves in holiday mirth.

One might think there was no such thing as war just a few hundred kilometers to the south and the Kenegan government did nothing to discourage that. Nothing to remind people that the Accords signed in their capital some months ago had failed horribly. Nothing to alarm happy, easily distracted visitors that a volatile, raging war was fully embroiled not far from their little temporarily claimed spit of paradise. Twice, bodies of Hutanjian sailors had washed up on the beaches, carried along the currents, past the channels of the lower Wishtonian isles. Quietly, with as little attention called as possible, the Kenegan Gendarmes surreptitiously collected the bodies and loaded them up to bring them to the Municipal morgue, for later shipment to Chastille. Questions were deferred, authorities played dumb, and life was kept as normal as possible.

The other Wishtonians knew. Hutanjians that had taken a permanent vacation from their homeland, putting down a large bit of their savings to rent a villa in the resorts and suburbs of Kenega City to wait out the war that tore apart the Republic and tore asunder any bit of life they might still have claim to back in their homeland. Even some Cardwithians, those who had come from a traditional position of prominence in the Hesttens or Anjoux of old, before the bombs, before the waves of foreign troops, whether they be New Edomite, Falkasian, Hutanjian or Neu Engollian mercenary, waited for it to all turn back to normal. If there were such a thing as normal again. Some were on assignment by PAST and the UFF leadership to spy on the prominent Hutanjian expatriates, but that had been an ongoing game for years on end now.

With this idyllic background, a man, like any other handsome Kenegan of mixed Polynesian-Caucasian descent, walked the halls of power, escorted by two fellow colleagues, all in smart tailored suits that were a good chunk of their salary. All the men's designer boutiques, from Brooks Brothers, Armani, Canali and Veneta could claim an outlet on the main strip of the City. They walked the halls of the KIS HQ, which had expanded to take over the shared space that had once belonged to the National Gendarmes since the Armistice talks. The Gendarmes had been given the boot to occupy a smaller space on the West side of the capital.

Several turns and elevators taken from one wing to another; a skywalk over the strip to the annex. Another elevator that brought the trio down more levels out of sight of the sunlight that was part of the appeal and lifeblood of the Commonwealth. More turns and several checkpoints where badges were scrutinized and run through scanners, eyes read by table and wall mounted lasers, fingerprints taken, and facial scans.

Then they were in the lower levels making progress by the secret rooms, the cells, the experimental labs and other hidden gems that didn't 'officially' exist in the organization that was the last safeguard of security in the last peaceful land in the Wishton Sea. Finally, the lead man punched in a code, as well as showing ID to the guard at a door and corridor that hadn't probably seen maintenance in decades. When waved through, the trio separated, with one man staying on the other side of the door while the remaining two made their way to the very last cell of the corridor, to punch a code in again. The lead man nodded and the other halted his progress, to stand guard outside the door.

The man entered and glanced down at the blanketed figure on the cot that barely stirred as he scooted to the wall, holding up his badge to the scanner next to a block in the wall. Then he tapped twice on a panel next to it and a soft fluorescent light sparkled and lit up, bathing them in a faintly blue glow. He turned, to see that the figure had raised to a sitting position quickly. It wasn't a surprise, considering who the ward was.

If it weren't for the broken, bent nose, the sagging skin under the fractured eye socket and large hideous scar earned some months back that furrowed its way up from the cheek to blossom into a mass of discolored tissue on the temple, then continued and faded across the right side of the skull; most residents of Wishton Polynesia would recognize him in an instant. A good part of the Multiverse, in fact, would be inclined to tag him correctly from notoriety of the media and Hutanjian wanted posters. The brown completely bald palate, and the spectacles, which were once round and metal, were now replaced by black plastic that he currently fit into place to rest behind the tops of his ears. For good reason, this decrepit figure had once been dubbed the 'Evil Gandhi' by many. He was one of the most wanted and notorious war criminals to ever walk the earth. Taking away that fearsome reputation, he wheezed, courtesy of broken ribs that hadn't healed right, and were he to bother to get up and walk, one would notice that he had a very noticeable limp, from where a certain Falkasian assassin's bullet had done its permanent work to his left leg. The KIS had spared some expense on the doctors given to his care.

He wheezed again. Scrutinizing his jailor and the door, then the floor, then back up again. Finally he spoke.
"My daily visit, Rutledge? I am hono...*hooozzzaa*...honored that you continue to remember me."

"Deputy Director Rutledge, Milton."

"And I will remind you that I am a Director. Director Atave...to you."

"That's funny. You are Director of shit and nothing. You no longer hold that title. I did let you glance at a current periodical or two. I think that you are caught up on events enough."

Milton glanced at the floor again, then up,
"Yes. Speaking of Directors, I would like to...*hoooooozzzah*..." He held up a finger, wincing. "...finally see Director Hollander if you can arrange that. It's been some months now. His schedule must have freed up by now."

Rutledge smiled.
"I'm afraid not. He has no time and no wish to see you right now. You really seem to think you have some pull to make such demands."

There was some silence as Milton eyed Rutledge. Every day he was more convinced that Hollander had nothing to do with his continued existence, and in fact, had no knowledge of it. From his memory of KHS files, Milton knew that Rutledge was an up and comer in the KIS hierarchy at the start of the Hutanjian War. He was the only of Hollander's Deputies, one of half a dozen, to have made an appearance in all the months...how many was it now?...that Milton had been in captivity in this cell. This was a telling detail in itself.

His mind was hazy, and for a good portion of his early stint in KIS hands, he had been in a coma or too drugged to know what had been occurring around him. The bullet meant to end his life had almost done its job, but due to this man, Rutledge, the former KHS Director's life had been spared. He was brought back from the brink of death.

In that haze, he couldn't be certain that he had dreamed or it had unfolded - a scuffle after that shot into his head. Dark shapes battling it out and his captors wrestled to the ground. Circles of pain and light and blood engulfing him. Wishful thinking of a wounded mind that rescue was upon him, even as death pounded through his frail defenses?

Now, he was being pushed to certainty. Every day revealed more clues.
Milton had been kept alive in some kind of power play meant to embarrass Hollander and the Prime Minister and all the other plotters that had set the terrible events in motion in the Wishton archipelago. Or so he could suppose, but, really, all the signs pointed that way. One day, Rutledge had failed to keep his emotions in check and scowled at the mention of Hollander, giving away more information than any amount of words could. Milton Atave had filed it away, not drawing notice to the event, but storing it away like any other crucial information a veteran intelligence operative would. The best value of a pawn was that they were unwitting. He would continue to appear so.

Rutledge added on, unnecessarily,
"You do not have such pull, Milton."

"I am dead to the world, but yet...I...*hhzzzzahhh*...I must have some value, to be kept alive this long. Yes?"

Rutledge smiled.
"Yes. Are you mentally preparing yourself for your trial? Your value is towards healing, vengeance and redemption. For the whole region, we will bestow that gift. The Director and Prime Minister have decreed it, and so have the Wishtonian people."

Milton 'The Mongoose' Atave dropped his head in mock defeat. He knew, just as Rutledge did, that there would be no trial. It was a fallacy that he had continued to let be thrust upon him, if only for his ongoing survival. Other facts needed to be pried from Rutledge's subconscious. Meanwhile, other facts...other aces up his sleeve, needed to be safeguarded. One, that there was still a strong group out there that would make sure their icon was liberated if they were to ever learn of his earthly continuation. They had been known as the 'Inner Circle' of the KHS. With the dissolution of that organization, they had been hunted down and on the run. They had taken to calling themselves the Death Bringers or sometimes, as the press did, just the Mongeese. They were still plentiful, both within the region and without. The other card he held onto was the ultimate. A treasure trove of documents, drives and disks buried on a hill outside of Marousha, Kenega. An ironic location for sure, due to its being the birthplace and hometown of Charles Nellis. That was the best, most shocking, ammunition he had and it seemed that time was running low on just when to use it.

"Will I get a lawyer to confer with for this trial?"

"Of course. One is being selected for you. Not many volunteers are jumping forward, you know..." Another sneer from Rutledge.
The KIS man knocked softly on the light panel, then put his badge up to it and dialed off the light.
"Until we meet again, I leave you with your natural habitat. Darkness."
He sauntered out as the door was opened by his aide, the shutting off of the light being his signal.

He turned, having thought better of his parting words. Rutledge was nothing but a silhouette in the doorway.
"I'm tired of the same conversation every day, Milton. Maybe you can share something other than the same boring requests that you know I won't grant you. Perhaps a little more insight into your past operations and connections?...Tomorrow? Think about it.
Enjoy your gruel, or whatever it is they are serving down here these days. Adieu."

[The Cardwith Islands]

EAST CARDWITH

As military designs had been quickly licensed from the generous Falkasians, they were cranked out from CDI (Cardwithian Defense Industry) factories in the central plains of East Cardwith. The problem was that the DSR government had not had the time or resources to expand mining, collecting and/or buying of essential metals. They were much more preoccupied with the conduct of the war and survival of the Democratic Socialist Republic.

What existed for metals came from those mines and quarries which had been established under the previous Royal Hutanjian regime, supplemented by what could be obtained and smuggled through the blockades and brought in around boycotts put upon the Cardwiths by Hutanjia, New Edom and their allies. The price for such imports was high in such conditions, and the quality didn't match that price. To boot, precious resource metals were then extended and cheapened by such alloys that could be utilized to make the most of these on hand, tough to come by metals. Therefore, the arms and military goods that came from CDI were not quite up to par of their mentor nation, even if by sight alone the arms, vehicles and aircraft were near exact copies. The Cardwithian CF-29 multi-role fighters' thinner skin were more susceptible to enemy missiles than Falkasian F-29s. CT-11 Light tanks and CM3 Danes, currently seeing action with the CPA (Card People's Army) 25th Mechanized, were more liable to throw a tread than their Falkasian T-11 and M3 Dane counterparts. The machine guns and assault rifles, such as the CAK-113, were more liable to break down and jam than their Falkasian inspirations.

THE SECOND BATTLE OF PALEGATA,
WEST CARDWITH

To the discerning ear, the rattling and brittleness of the Cardwithian copies could be heard in the din of battle for Palegata, there being more of a lingering sickly echo as they spit out their magazine loads into the enemy. The weaker alloy metals felt the strain, while the better made Falkasian originals, scattered in amongst the copies, would hold up for much longer.
Hence, she treasured the AK-113 assault rifle that was part of the original batches of smuggled supplies from their benefactors at the beginning of the war. It was a true Falkasian original, and worked as advertised, always. You could put it through the ringer, stomp on it, dip it in a mud bath...Hell! Run it over with a MUV and still be able to feed in a mag and let it rip.

She snugged the AK-113 close as they crept up the stairs of the apartment building that had become an enemy holdout in the Financial District. Behind her were a motley assortment that represented the liberators of Palegata. Two farm boys recently turned guerrillas in their late teens that had been shockingly baptised in blood over the last few days, a regular soldier of the CPA separated from his unit, and three graying old timers, veterans of the old UFF PAST groups during the struggle against the Hutanjian monarchy. Were Director Kadapke to know that she was on point of their attack group, he would be livid. She was, while not officially on paper (she didn't even exist in official DSRC documents), in all likelihood, the second in command of the PAST organization. Leading a combat group was not in the list of missions that she should be volunteering for, but Leila had been swept up in the fervor of energy as the Battle of Palegata had been joined by the Hutanjians and their USG lackeys, opposed by the regular Falkasian and Cardwithian forces and UFF irregulars that had risen up under cadre direction in the surrounding area. As she took personal command of integrating the UFF partisans in the effort to overtake the eastern half of the Hutanjian garrisoned city, she had barely thought twice about taking command of one of the groups that advanced behind enemy lines. It was just the natural way that she would only keep the irregulars fighting, if she and fellow cadre led from the front.

As they eased up the stairwell, they came upon a body dangling from the railings. The right arm was tangled in between the top and second rails. Blood dripped from the left arm that dangled over the aperture. The uniform was the tiger striped camouflage of the Hutanjian Republican Army and a patch was clearly visible, as well as lapel flashes, of an embroidered spider. If there was any doubt, the features of the expired soldier were also more Afro-nesian than the Asian Polynesian features of the Nevornians. He was a traitor. One of a number of former UFF or regular CPA soldiers that had defected to the Hutanjian side to join the elite Spider Scouts. As they passed him, the men broke silence to hurl globs of spittle onto his body. They really despised the traitorous Spider Scouts.

In her peripheral vision, she saw a small black shape drop down from above. If the soldier above was experienced, they would have primed the grenade to explode as it fell among the approaching Card group. In such case, she was dead within a split second, no matter what. If he had panicked and thrown it down without letting the fuse burn down, they had precious seconds to scoop it or toss it away. All this flittered through her mind in the milliseconds that it took for her to flick her hand up and bat the grenade, sending it flying down the next flight. Her luck held. It hadn't been primed. She opened her mouth and prepared for the concussive force that would blast back up the encased stairwell as the rest of the men dashed behind her, spurred into action. There was no need for stealth as they were obviously expected.

KAROOOOOMMM!!!

The grenade echoed through the stairwell as they barreled up the last flight of stairs. One of the old timer UFF fighters fell back, not due to shrapnel, but stitched from above by rounds from a LAAR 5. The other two old vets roared, SCR 1.6 rifles in one hand and machetes being drawn by their other hands. It wasn't practical and economical movement in urban warfare, but it was ingrained in their tribal warrior mentality. Old habits died hard, usually with the corpses of the few grizzled and stubborn early war vets left that hadn't gone through Falkasian/ISVC combat training.

Leila felt the guttural utterance boil up from within herself and she joined her comrades in the ancient tribal war yell,

"AAAAAHHHGGAAAAAAAWWWAAAAAHHHH!!

It bellowed through the stairwell, becoming its own concussive force.
She was able to correct the rifle during the headlong charge and squeeze judicious shots up into the torsos of the Hutanjians that held the top of the stairwell. As well, she needed to avoid the swinging machete blades of her reckless wards behind her as they might just inadvertently cut through her to get to the enemy. If she lived past the next few minutes, Leila swore that she would re-evaluate the battle decisions she was making, possibly appointing a new point man.

---

Cardwithian and Falkasian forces were overwhelming the Palegata pocket and remaining defenders who were fighting a losing rear guard action while their comrades escaped. While one might assume that without the USG troopers of the Galien Regiment, and the Hutanjian Ranger units, the lines would have collapsed long ago, this would be giving little credit to the regular HRA soldiers of the 17th and 34th Regiments who fought just as bravely and fiercely in their isolated groups in the rubble. It did help that their backs were literally against the walls.
Only the northwestern section of C1 (the circuitous main coastal highway), and a few joining provincial side roads remained open for the retreating Hutanjians and USG troops, and they were struggling to keep that corridor open despite repeated attempts by Card air attacks, mechanized thrusts from the Southeast, naval shelling and seaborne missile strikes off the Western coast, and UFF partisans slipping in behind the lines.

Colonel Omuraga, friend and student of the Falkasian armor commander Kazyanov, and also CO of the 35th CPA armored, became victim to one of these barrages. One minute, he was directing an attack on the C1 highway corridor, the next, he and his crew were vaporized as a cruise missile from the HNS Vobatu struck near his C1A5 Archon command vehicle, also obliterating a nearby CM3 Dane and 2 BMPs. The remnants of the vehicles were turned into spinning, whipping bits of shrapnel from the blast. It scissored through the escorting CPA infantry, who had been on the hunt for enemy AT teams.

The attacks and counterattacks north of Palegata to cut off the city stalled as the 35th was temporarily and unwittingly leaderless and in transition to Omuraga's deputy commander. The loss of Omuraga wasn't just a blow to that sector of the campaign, but to the whole of the CPA. His star had been rising fast in the ranks and General Dweganu had been determined to promote him to Brigadier at the conclusion of the campaign to retake West Cardwith.

The central prong of attack on West Cardwith, meanwhile, was making progress up the central roads, the main highway M2, and surrounding plains to Anjoux. In their wake, they left a burnt out husk of what had once been the city of Jalakra. Another pocket was forming around the Edomite armor and light infantry as the Cornellians were pinned in on their Western flank by the Cardwithians, and to their front and Eastern flank by the Falkasian armor and mechanized combat teams. By air, one could see miles of burnt out hulks of both Edomite and Falkasian armor from the junction of M1 and M2 flowing all the way north. The battle still raged on, with less of each side to throw in that hadn't already been blooded.
Then the electronic barrage hit from the enemy's RCC planes, and their attempt to close in on the evacuation sites were put in check as they tried to bring radar, command and control and other systems back up. Some would never respond again.

THE SECOND BATTLE FOR HESTTENS
WEST CARDWITH

To the east, the forces moving on Hesttens also met stiff resistance. Reinforcements of the CPA 9th and 3rd Regiments were ground up at an alarming rate. The vaunted foreign volunteers of the ISVC, until this point in the war only crewing ships, piloting planes and doing other essential support and training, began to show ground units on the battlefield, to counter the possible collapse of the front, and also put more intense pressure on the Edomites trying to evacuate out of the Hesttens port facilities and beaches. The less that escaped, the less that could defend North Cardwith and Nesselberg later.

Colonel Gregori Mendelev, the imposing Strolingradi officer, directed the efforts of several loose, fast battalions of ISVC troops, mostly his own Strolingradis, but also Yiddish-Tuvans and Yellosians, with small groups of Cardwithian mechanized and armor from the CPA 33rd and 36th attached to each group. Falkasian air support, returned from their strikes on Vesselle, responded to as many requests as possible, while harried by the Edomite, USG and Hutanjian interceptors and air defenses. The southern suburbs of the once great provincial capital saw close face to face combat between the ISVC troops and Edomite rear guard.

Along the coast, General Hyman Echtenstein, another pivotal ISVC commander, led the vanguard of his 7th Yiddish Foot to capture the Hesttens industrial docks and close off the vital egress point from the Edomites and allies. They were bolstered by the Selkies contingent, and detached units of the CPA 6th Regiment, CPA 8th Artillery and 36th Mech. High explosives, rockets, mortars and shelling tore apart the warehouses and factories that harbored troops from both opposing forces along the dockside industrial district. The distinctive peyot, or Orthodox sideburn curls, were hard to miss, bobbing on heads of the charging Tuvan Yiddish as they braved enemy Edomite fire. They took and lost the district in turns, by small stretches of alleyways and collapsing buildings. They had garnered some mocking from the Cardwithians and other ISVC troops due to their alien appearance on first introduction into the Socialist forces of the isles, but after seeing them in action, they won instant admiration and undying respect from the natives ever after.

Just to the East of Kensington and south of M1, a tragedy unfolded. Captured Edomite NCOs and officers, a few Hutanjian officers, as well as a handful of USG pilots, were gathered in a barbed wire pen in order to ship south, by the Sornian ISVC troops that held that sector. When given orders by Colonel Vladimir Vyelnikov to get back in the fight and support their fellow ISVC and Card comrades attacking West Hesttens, the Lieutenant in charge of the soldiers-turned-guards took this to mean they must unburden their load and not wait for the trucks that would transport the POWs south. All 184 POWs (136 Edomite, 39 Hutanjian and 9 USG) were gunned down in cold blood, with their hands still bound behind them, by the Sornians. Time was not even taken to bury the murdered POWs and they were left to rot in the sun as the Sornians headed back into battle. It would later become known as the Kensington Massacre.

The Sornian armor units, equipped with T-90s, T-80s and BRDMs were crucial in the attempt to break through the Edomite lines that held the western edge of Hesttens. Most of them were unaware of what their comrades had done as they joined the fight against the capitalists and imperialists.

OVER HESTTENS

Colonel Jefferson Hoyapku, CO of the 50th Air Superiority Squadron of the CPAF didn't feel all that superior as he struggled to keep his F-29 aloft amidst constant pinging from enemy mobile air defense and marauding Edomite Sparrowhawks, USG Warriors, USG and HAF Shrike missile locks. His flight had been whittled down to he and his wingman, Captain Troktu, who had also had several near misses. Certainly, a good deal of that might have to do with the fact they had two of the few Falkasian loaned F-29s in CPAF service, rather than the inferior CF-29s. The only other survivors of the all native 50th of the CPAF were those that were currently grounded for repairs and rearming, unbeknownst to Hoyapku at the moment. That was not to say that there weren't other allied pilots still in the fight, but they were either Falkasian, ISVC, or Cardwithian rotor and CAS pilots.

It was during an attack run on an Edomite column heading towards Hesttens when Hoyapku lost two more of his flight. Everything seemed to be going well, then suddenly, the systems on his F-29 started to blink out and shut themselves off. He pulled out of the dive and fought for air as enemy AA zoomed all around him. His radar went black, then came on with an impossible array of hundreds of aircraft surrounding him in the air space. A quick second to check reaffirmed what he already knew. They were alone...relatively. There were some enemy planes harrasing, but not crowding out the sun, by any means.
They were obviously being jammed. The Colonel tapped up his radio on the side of his helmet and tried clicking over to Troktu or his other flight mates. No luck. All he got was static and white noise. Then all that was forgotten as he focused on controlling the plane and climbing, as well as barrel rolling and jinking to throw off enemy SAMs. Luckily, the F-29 had a quick reboot process, and he had initiated as soon as he knew what was happening. Troktu, he could see off his left wing, was doing the same.

Lieutenant Ampoga, however, in his CF-29, was clearly losing altitude, if it weren't for the enemy SAM that caught up with the fighter and tore it apart like a toy, he surely would have nose dived.
Flight Officer Cozrata as well seemed to have trouble controlling his bird. Another CF-29. Sparing a few seconds for a side thought, Hoyapku swore that if he made it back alive to Noritts, and found some CDI officials, he would let them know exactly what he felt about their F-29 copy's inferior electronics. His Falkasian model and Troktu's seemed to hit reboot mode and smooth out around the same time. He tried the radio again.

"Worker Two, you copy?"

"What the fuck, Worker Actual? What just happened? We lost Three and Five."

"RTB. I repeat RTB." Return to Base. They would talk on the ground. Whatever games those Hutanjian ponos were playing with the jamming and frequencies, he didn't want any more of their transmissions recorded. They should be encoded, but after that systems disaster and the halving of his flight due to bombarding hostile electronic attacks, he didn't trust that they were anymore.

"Copy that Worker One. On the way. Worker Actual, what d-"

"Radio silence. RTB. Essential comms only."

"Copy, Worker Actual."

PANTO LETO, MEDERANO SEA, ASTYRIA

As the ridiculously small civilian car, or was it a tricycle?...had disintegrated on Kuznetsov and his men and they hiked the rest of the way up to one of the approaches to the airfield, PASG black clad commandos ran out and trained their AK-113s at the new intruders. The Cards recognized the Falkasian Marine uniforms, and they lost interest, running on to continue checking and ransacking hangars. One man, a senior NCO stayed with another lower level Sergeant.
He saluted,
"Sarge First Class Rowotku at yeau sah-viss, surs! Dis be Sarjunt Yulute." He pointed over to his second, who also saluted quickly, his AK-113 pointed down.
"Are ye de croo fe de big gint plane in deh? Kernal Farapto say dat ya come ta fly it out, ya?" As the Falkasians struggled to understand the patois they all heard distant explosions and rapid heavy machine gun fire from the direction of Campobello.
Rather than duck and wince, the two Cardwithians shrugged and smiled, waiting for a response from Kuznetsov. The fire was obviously too far for them to be concerned, but there were still roving, surviving bands of USG security to deal with.

Meanwhile, Colonel Farapto, having told those NCOs and a couple officers that stayed behind at the airfield about the plan to have a trained Falkasian air crew check out the captured RCC plane, then fly it out; had proceeded with a group of men on into Campobello. Their mission was to capture as many high rankers, civilians, and indeed...anyone they could get their hands on. Farapto, though, had a specific target in mind for his team. The Command Center which held all the most important conference rooms and offices. If lucky, he would come across who he was looking for.
He took more reports through his headband strapped communication mike. From his patrols in the central woods, the USG training grounds, where holdouts were still giving the invading commandos trouble, sniping them and laying IEDs. He gave them orders to not make themselves targets and wait for the Falkasian reinforcements. He needed all the PASG men he could get for the next phase. Guard and corral hostages.

They neared the town center and engaged one patrol, eliminating them. He watched as they rolled to the pavement, their floppy slouch style hats falling off their heads. It certainly made it easy to tell the enemy apart. All the USG air crew had grey berets on, but all ground and most other troops had these weird boonie/slouch hats. He'd been aware of it before the landing, and seen some of the USG in action in Hutanjia, but it was still striking.

They worked their way to the side of a building and peeked around the corner to see a group of USG troop standing and gesticulating outside the Command Center, before he could stop the point men, they were on the ground with the MG spitting out rounds. He watched through the scope on his AK-113 as the survivors dashed for the CC doors, rushing inside.
One man caught his attention most.
"That was Major Ouelt. Their S-2. We want him alive, ponos!"

"Who?"

His team spread out and another PASG team closed in from another direction, staying away from open ground and to the sides of neighboring buildings, ducking as they passed windows that could be sniped out of.

"Their S-2. The USG main Intel man...that briefs them on missions. That knows everything and everybody and all about this place. We need him alive. Understand?"

"Yes, suh."

"Dey all look like a bunch a white ponos ta me."

"Just keep firing to keep their heads down, but let me try and coax him out."
Once again, he was too late to spread the word as the other team had closed with the Command Center. One of the men fired an RPG through the double doors. They heard it impact inside.

"DAMN!"

Farapto's team ran up fast, some heading around the side to cover the other doors.
"Stop firing in. Tear gas only!"

An NCO kicked the doors in and he followed close behind, assault rifle raised. The building was smoky and deserted looking, but they just had to keep looking and get within audio range.

NORITTS, EAST CARDWITH

While the Falkasian security snapped into action, the Cardwithians weren't far behind. As the firing din grew louder on the perimeter, teams were scrambled to aid their Falkasian brothers, while a special team, of PAST agents leading CPA troops dashed to secure and hide their leader, President Charles Nellis. Unfortunately, he was gone. Unbeknownst to them, the FSIS team had already whisked him and General Dweganu away. Panic set in for a moment until the FSIS team thought to radio them and update the situation. They were relieved, but went on to secure secondary VIPs. CPA and Falkasian Generals were sought out and rushed away from exterior walls and rooms towards the Command Center inner sanctum and stairwells that led to lower levels. Each flight of stairs was checked by scouts running ahead, in case they had been infiltrated. General Novagku and more CPA Command staff were in another wing, but similar mixed PAST/FSIS teams were securing them.

Meanwhile, a Card security team rushed to the action to help out the Falkasian patrol, only to come under fire themselves. They went to ground and returned fire with CAK-113s, using judicious bursts of fire as they tried to pinpoint exactly where the fire was coming from past the fenceline.

Nellis was compliant as he let the FSIS men escort him and his aides to safety.
"How did they get so close? Are we under invasion?"

General Dweganu, still with the party, responded,
"I don't think so, Mr. President. More than likely these are saboteurs. A small raid, air assault or amphibious perhaps? There's a lot of defenses to get through for a larger force to go unnoticed this close to the Command Center. We would have heard something long before now. I really think they'll have this situation in hand shortly. We just need to be calm and patient."

"Oh you know I can do that, General. No worries there." He nodded to one of the Slavic men of the FSIS security team as he leaned on his cane briefly. He mused for a moment on where his own PAST team were that should be doing this. Also, where was Director Kadapke, the PAST Chief?

"How ironic would it be if this was a USG team, while on the other side of the globe, our commandos are raiding their home base?"

WISHTON SEA
OFF THE WESTERN COAST OF WEST CARDWITH

Admiral Emptaka watched both on radar screens and from the bridge windows of the carrier Nellis as what had been the glorious Revolutionary Fleet of the CPN was whittled down to the Revolutionary Small Task Force. He had hoped to hang on to more submarines, but they were needed to harrass the enemy fleet. With the loss of those pickets, the more numerous Hutanjian and Edomite subs closed in and made life hell, meanwhile, they were still somewhat in range of Anti-ship missiles from the occupied part of West Cardwith as they edged further north. Eventually, the Nellis would come under attack as his screen boats disappeared and slipped beneath the waves. He had every intention of fighting to the death, and doing the most with the Cardwiths' only aircraft carrier that he could. Every plane possible was up, crewed by ISVC foreign volunteers. They aided in the seizure of Palegata and the northern stretch of the C1 Highway, pounding at holed up Hutanjians and some of the retreating forces trying to run for Anjoux.

"Sir, we're losing planes, but not just to enemy fire."

"To what then?"

"I...I don't know. The connection's dead. I'm getting weird warbling and white noise."

"Jamming. They have those airborne platforms. They're finally using them. That's okay. I was expecting that eventually. I want whatever we have left in the air to go for the...RCC planes, I believe they're called. Help the CPAF bring them down." He mused, more to himself, "You have to be prepared to lose your bishops if you play them, gents." Imagining he was talking to Augrim and Fotona in his mind, he reviewed his strategy. So far, what had gone from a shock and awe attack was now turning towards reactionary strikes. They were no longer making the Hutanjians and their allies react to them, but reacting to their moves. That didn't seem prudent, when so much was at stake.
Emptaka's job was to adhere to Dweganu's plan, though. He only had so much leeway, and as more of his vessels succumbed to enemy attack, he had less to command and have effect on the campaign with. The navy was a sideshow, instead of being the main instrument of attack. Same with the Air Force, which from what he could tell, was in the same situation as they were, as well as the Army. The only saving grace was the enemy was also in the same boat.

They were due to have more ships to add to the CPN, courtesy of Socialist allies and Falkasia. They would be on a generous loan, not due for several years. Many of the same nations that were contributing to the ISVC forces were sending ships they would have decommissioned otherwise. These ships would arrive much too late to effect the course of West Cardwiths, but hopefully in time to effect the outcome of the war.
What he truly hoped was that the Falkasian relief fleet would show up soon, before he had no ships left to command.

[The UFF of Hutanjia]

CHASTILLE, NEVORN, HUTANJIA

The PAST agent simply known as Banshee sat on the bluff that overlooked the stately villa. Inside was the Rangatar, or Senior Chief Tangatar, Marindo Yeglanka, and his family. The Tangata was the Hutanjian parliamentary body that ratified or vetoed the President's decisions, as well as legislating their own laws, which were also subject to vetoes by the President and the Nuta Marawa, or Supreme Court.

Yeglanka was the second most powerful politician in Hutanjia, next to President Hespatu. It was thanks to Marindo Yeglanka's eagerness to take bribes that the UFF was able to smuggle in so many operators to conduct the market shootings and bombing campaigns, and give them proper documentation. No matter how much Yeglanka had convinced himself it was for some trivial criminal enterprise, he certainly had to have known who he was aiding. Banshee had not been all that subtle in outlining his part and what was demanded of him, even if he hadn't actually come out and said he was a PAST operator in their dealings in shady alleyways and corners of warehouses in East Chastille.

Now, since the market attacks in Chastille and Molnitha, it seemed that Yeglanka, formerly Hespatu's biggest foe, was doing his best to rubber stamp every decision that the President made. He had gone from stonewalling every little detail that the President tried to get through the Tangata, to doing everything short of twisting the arm of his former political allied Tangatars in his opposition party. To Hutanjia, it was a huge display of his patriotism, that since the breakdown of the Armistice, he had been a big backer of the war effort. To PAST, it was clear that he had the biggest streak of guilt and was doing everything possible to balance out what he was responsible for and bury the past.

Banshee watched as he tucked his children and wife up to bed, then attempt to work hard on papers brought home from downtown. Or...usually failing that, he would do his best to drink himself to death with good scotch, rum or gin in his parlor.

One could not get within a mile of the Green Villa, the Presidential residence, without being frisked down by gendarmes or HSA agents. The Senior Chief Tangatar's villa, however, seemed to have been overlooked in national security matters, to Banshee's benefit.
He slipped his way down the hillside, scrambled over the road and slinked through the bushes, easily avoiding the range of the corner mounted cameras and was at the door, picking the lock within seconds. He was ready as the dog came trotting to the door with a meatball laced with a mild, but quick acting sedative to drop down in front of it. The dog snapped it up and as it grumbled and let out an inquisitive moan, it thought better of challenging the intruder and went to curl up on the floor in the kitchen. It would wake up in the morning a little sick, but none the worse for wear.

He waited, as he heard footsteps upstairs. If Yeglanka or his wife had heard the dog's mutterings, they hadn't thought too much of it. Banshee made his way to the parlor, to await the Hutanjian politician. He put a small valise on one chair, then sat in the other corner leather chair on the other end of the side table.
It didn't take long for the man to saunter in, his gut causing an almost imperceptible waddle. Yeglanka took some papers and tossed them on an ottoman with a sigh. He had a short glass of either rum or a dram of scotch in the other hand. He reached for the light to illuminate the study fully. Yeglanka turned around and yelped, coming close to dropping the glass, but only managing to lose an ice cube and a splash onto a decorative Costa Alurian rug, as the shock of an unwanted visitor set in.

"Now that's a man who treasures his drink. What has been poured for tonight?"

"It...It's Glen Roichmon. 30 year."

"A Scotch night, eh?"

"It's you but...but, you don't...your..."

"I don't have that patois accent? No. I'm not a filthy mobster, and I have beyond secondary education so that I can speak the King's English. I really had you fooled those times, huh?" Banshee smiled, rubbing his chin, then he continued,
"I think we both know who I represent, Marindo. Have a seat. It is your house, after all. SIT. Good. Very good. You are a better dog than your shitty guard. Maybe you'd do better in that job than as Rangatar"

"Is Dottie okay?" The dog in the kitchen.

"Dottie is fine. She's sleeping. Marindo, what are we going to do with you?"

"Wh...what do you mean?"

"Why are you such a warhawk all the sudden? Cuddly buddies with Roddy Hespatu now. We thought you despised him?"

"I'm doing my duty for the Republic."

"Pish posh. If you cared for the Republic, you never would have given me the blank identity papers. Sold out for a bunch of tupas."

"I care now. Now that we are under attack. I have seen the error of my ways."

"Who's under attack? Who's land is under occupation?"

"The Cardwiths belong to Hut-..."

"Stop. Don't even fucking finish that sentence or I may be forced to cut your tongue out. I didn't come to talk to you about what you believe, anyway, even if it is all shit. It's what you need to do, despite what you think you may believe."

"What is that?"

"Stop playing nice, dammit. Go back to the stubborn, cantankerous old bastard we love. Do better at backstabbing Roddy. Hell, there's more tupas in it for you. Right there." He pointed to the valise he'd left in the other chair.
"Looks small, but it's got account numbers, not bills in it. Or we can just deposit in the account we used before. Whatever...Point is, you belong to us. And you better go back to playing for us."

"And if I don't?" Yeglanka sat up.

Banshee looked up at the ceiling longingly.
"There's more at stake than money, Marindo. Much more."

"How dare you threaten my family." It wasn't a question.

"You're the one who put them in danger, Rangatar. You shouldn't play such dangerous games...but too late now."

Yeglanka stayed silent.
Banshee stood up, eyeing his entrance through the dining room to the back door.
"I'll be back to check on you and with more specific requests, and to visit the family, of course. Maybe here, maybe around town, or at your villa in Kenega. Doesn't matter, could be anywhere, so don't try to run...or open your mouth to the HSA or whoever you think will listen. I wouldn't be so sure they wouldn't string you up anyway for what you've done. There's probably not been a bigger traitor in Hutanjian history. Well...Besides Atave. Bad, bad boy. Man, sucks to be you to be compared to that animal. Well, I'll be off then. Don't get up. Ta!"
With that Banshee moved so quick that he proved why he was named such. He was out the door before Yeglanka was done letting out a long breath that was almost a sob.

UFF CENTRAL COMMAND

The UFF command was run by the Action Wing of the UFF Party, separately from the CPA and military command. General Romano Kamegu, Commander in Chief of UFF Revolutionary forces, reported directly to Nellis, not to General Dweganu, unless Nellis specifically asked him to do so.
While they did try to coordinate and the UFF irregular forces were generally there to support Cardwithian actions, the extra level in the chain did cause some difficulties and miss-communication. As well, much of the communication infrastructure had been updated for regular DSRC forces and command, courtesy of the Falkasians, and running off the VICE network. Not so the UFF Party Command, which was still running off older, less secure technology.

When the electronic counterattack was launched, it was much more devastating to the C and C links run from Noritts to Nesselberg than those their CPA counterparts were using to talk to West Cardwith. As the UFF guerrillas were pulled back from the FOB attacks on the middle island of the Wishton chain, they were suddenly in the dark as follow on orders from Noritts were not received, due to many of the ill secured comms lines being fried, scrambled and hopelessly crossed in an endless loop by the enemy RCC planes. Hence, as Edomite and Hutanjian local forces on Nesselberg prepared retaliatory strikes on the UFF forces, they were left in disarray, some back at their tunnel warrens, and some not dispersing for the follow on attacks that Noritts was ordering, but not getting. Only those directly controlled by Yuri and the FSIS 'Logging Camp' were receiving the orders they needed, and they were still engaged in the Mossview Park raid. A disaster could be in the making for the UFF guerrilla forces on Nesselberg.

MOSSVIEW PARK, NESSELBERG

Major Jorgazu, UFF group commander, had helped to round up the last of the HRA guards and put them in one of the empty pens that still smelled horrible. As the UFF commandos got in shots with rifle butts, he hollered at them to stop wasting time and focus. The Hutanjians really had done a bad job of cleaning up the place, as evidenced by FSIS men who pulled sheafs of documents and crates from buildings and loaded them up on trucks. Were they proud of the torturous work their KHS brethren had done?

They had found all the remaining prisoners that the HRA had kept after forcefully taking over the camp from the KHS. Most of them were probably former UFF, but a few seemed to be foreigners, white and Asian.
They had gotten them closer to the motor pool, but rather than load them up in the trucks now, they also put them in a pen, to their mounting frustration. Much as he sympathized with their former comrades in arms and would be sure to get them out, he didn't need them wandering around now to get lost again, or underfoot of the UFF and FSIS raiders as they went about further business. Almost half of them were in no shape to wander around anyway. Some sat, barely able to keep their heads up with their hands, others lay on stretchers. He'd expected rags of old uniforms, but surprisingly enough, they wore fairly newer yellow jumpsuits. Or what had once been yellow. Smeared with that red Nesselbergian dust, they kind of seemed orangey. Or brown.

His attention then went to one of the FSIS men who strolled in through the camp as if he was in a trance. Out of curiosity, Jorgazu followed him into the admin center, watching as he bored holes into the staff that they hadn't gotten around to rounding up yet. They were disarmed, so it hadn't been a high priority, and they were helping the UFF men haul documents out to the trucks. Illyich! That was his name. Rumor had it he'd been an actual prisoner of the KHS during the first phase of the war. It would explain the behavior now. Illyich kicked in the Camp Commandants' office door and bulled in. Jorgazu followed.

[Falkasia]

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

"The fuck just happened?" a voice asked from somewhere nearby

Kasyanov, for what he could tell, was splayed out on his back somewhere within the compartment of his vehicle. The cold metal floor pressed against him, threatening to envelope his being in the cold bleakness of it all if he didn't move. His right leg didn't feel right. Not so much a hurt but an ambient discomfort, as if a charlie horse was slowly developing within his hamstring. He stared quizzically into the darkness, struggling to find a grip or footing to heft himself up with. Extending his hands both directions, he quickly came into contact with a bank of computers on one side and the crew bench on the other, an anachronistic hold-over from which his vehicle had been an ordinary troop carrier. Taking hold, in one enormous show of strength he heaved his body up and back onto his feet taking caution not to hit his head against the low compartment ceiling.

"Captain, where are you?" a voice emerged from the dark.

"Over here," he replied in kind, moaning as he rubbed his back.

"What do we do?" came another question, this time with a hint of subdued panic in his voice. "The entire brigade is reporting catastrophic outages."

"We get the Behemoth up and running, and then cast a safety net while everyone else tries to diagnose the problem. Where's Evgeniy?"

"Really Captain? I've been talking to you the whole fucking time!" the same voice answered in annoyance.

Kasyanov paused, attempting to shake the cobwebs from his mind as he slowly walked between the computer banks and the bench towards the Commander's Compartment, using the dials and displays as hand holds to support him. The Behemoth was at a sort of awkward angle, evidence by the way his ankles contorted on the otherwise flat surface of the base plate. There was no scent of smoke or ash, so they hadn't been hit, which was fortunately, but equally fortunate was that no one had died.

His hand caught an outstretched metal object, a handle. The handle he was looking for, he could tell, by the textured underside. Wrenching it open and casting the breakaway panel aside, he quickly began fumbling around blindly inside. Had the compartment been lit, it would have looked like a menagerie of jumbled fiber-optic cables with no rhyme or reason to them. But Kasyanov knew them by heart, even in the dark. He had drilled himself, and the Cardwithians he had trained, countless times in the event of a systems blackout or EMP attack. All he needed was the emergency lights.

"There we go!" he mumbled, taking firm hold of a bundle of cables.

Giving them a good tug, they fell away with a cascade of sparks. The compartment filled with a low droning whizzing sound as the backup batteries began to recharge. One by one, the interior lights blinked on in a staggered pattern as the circuits restarted themselves.

"Evgeniy, get in here!" Kasyanov called. "I'm gonna need another set of hands to reboot the system. We have to hard reset."

He turned to see his driver, visibly shaken but none-the-worse in the health department, attempt to climb over the driver seat and into the back compartment. He was a larger man, but not too large to where he was deemed ineligible to serve in the armed forces. Still, the exertion he required to try and squeeze through the gap was enormous, and equally hilarious. Kasyanov however, had more important things to worry about aside from momentarily lapses in composure.

"Over there is another breaker box. I need you to open it and tell me what you see inside."

Evgeniy nodded, sliding past his commander towards the opposite end of the compartment. He twisted the handle and removed the panel, placing it aside.

"I see a switchboard..."

"Do you see any visible damage or burns?"

"Only a few near the top."

Kasyanov nodded, attempting to recall a picture of the panel in his mind. Most essential systems were at the top.

"Fuck..." he moaned. "Ok, we're gonna need to go plan B here..."

Evgeniy nodded slowly, not exactly understanding what "Plan B" entailed.

"Evgeniy, I hate to ask this of you, but there is a box of spare parts underneath the steering column in the front. I need you to go there and get it for me. We're going to have to replace the circuits which got fried."

"I have to go... back?"

"Yes, you have to go back."

The pudgy man nodded, sliding his way back towards the driver's compartment. He used the back of the chair as a lever and lifted himself through the small confine. Kasyanov, for good measure, gave him a solid shove so he wouldn't get stuck. Seconds later, a small plastic container came flying through the opening and bounced off the rear compartment door. It skittered on the floor, landing a stone's throw from where they were needed.

"You're on your own Captain. I don't think I can fit through it again." Came a voice from the other side. "I'll try diagnosing the engine."

Kasyanov played his poker face. He could understand why Evgeniy didn't want to return, but at the same time, the task at hand wasn't exactly a one-man job. Oh well, he thought, I'll make this work.

He sighed, shimming once again along the computer banks towards the rear compartment. He could see the scorch marks even in the dim light, as well as dripping capacity acid from the internal wiring. He accidentally kicked the box of spares as he approached, sending the container flying against the panel.

He bit his tongue, not wanting to make the tense situation any worse. From a preliminary standpoint, the main power breaker was fried. Everything else would be diagnosed once the main problem was fixed. The benefit of Falkasian engineering, he concluded, was their standardization. The front panel was easy to remove, held in by simple jump clips that could be operated easily under fire... or in case of fire. It tore away easily, clattering to the floor with a loud metallic bang.

"This isn't too bad," he assessed, taking note that the cables were still more or less intact.

While most vehicles were EMP and DDoS-hardened, the systems themselves were designed to fail at pre-determined locations if they became overwhelmed. "Suicide switches," they had been dubbed by the Engineering Corps back in Falkasia. Sacrifice themselves to save the system. He grabbed the box and pulled off the lid, being careful to remove only the pieces he needed. It was a quick fix, once he found them. A simple pop-pop-go maneuver.

"Evgeniy, spin the ignition!"

A split second later, he could hear the engine roaring to life. The internal lights flickered as the emergency batteries kicked off, replaced by more solid and stable alternator power.

Kasyanov smiled, one of the few times he would permit himself to do so. The rest, he knew, was simple a matter of restarting the computer systems and re-assessing the situation.

======

Mossview Park

As he searched through the material however, it slowly dawned on him that he was only seeing an illusion. They were predominately personnel files, but also a collection of intelligence briefings and inmate death notices. One check of the date marks proved to Illyich that the information in his hands was recent, most likely untouched by the former KHS thugs who had run the camp. Whether the documents would prove useful other than accounting for the dead remained to be seen. Anything which might pertain to the horrors endured here had probably been removed when control of the camp had been turned over, and the KHS had been ousted.

It was a hard thing to accept, but the more he acknowledged it, the better he felt. It was a strange thing, one he had greatly anticipated but never really felt ready to accept. Some might call it having a weight lifted off their shoulders, but Illyich didn't feel any lighter. In fact, the notion that any evidence of what he and his comrades had endured might be sealed away in some dusty archive in the basement of some minor government facility in Chastille sickened him. It made him feel even gloomier than he had before, as if the cold chill of death which hung so tightly to the former soccer stadium was finally closing in on him.

He shivered, a violent and soulful one, finally acknowledging that the dead lingered around him. He was possibly the last man alive to have survived the camp. Everyone else could be dead, either from the ongoing conflict or in the interim between. It was never a certain thing, when one would die, except that, at the ultimate end, it would happen. There was something about this place that made him question his mortality. As and FSIS Operative, impending death was a part of the job. Never before had he considered the idea that it could possibly happen to him, just as easily and coldly as it had happened to every single other individual who had perished at the Camp. He wasn't different than the rest, not stronger or smarter. No, just lucky. A simple flip of the coin, an errant breeze, and he might have been the one face-down in a mass grave. instead of the guy next to him.

He sighed, casting the documents into the long-since-extinguished oil drum pyre at the center of the room. There wasn't much left to do except to leave. But leaving, he knew, would mean shutting the door on his past. It was something he would have to do, but still couldn't bring himself to accept. Acceptance, he also knew, was the only way to free himself and his mind.

"Here it began, and here it shall end," he mumbled, turning towards the door.

There was a glint. A tiny, silver, metallic glint that illuminated the corner of his eye.

"Odd..." he whispered to himself, turning to face it.

Half-buried underneath a pile of assorted trash and discarded manila file folders, was the front of what appeared to be a tiny lockbox. The fact that it was hidden was enough to raise alarms in his mind, but also that it was shiny and clean compared to the dirty, red-tinted metal file folders.

He approached, kneeling down carefully as he shifted the refuse on top to reveal the box itself. It was clasped, only with a simple lever, which he quickly opened. The lid popped up from its frame, and as he moved to open it, a tiny voice in the back of his mind stopped him.

"You can never go back," it said. "If you open this case, you will never be at peace."

======

Panto Leto

Kuznetsov nodded, absentmindedly hiking up his backpack straps higher on his shoulders.

"We weren't aware you had captured any equipment," he stated, pausing momentarily as he sized up the burning airfield. "However, I can have a crew here within the hour assuming the skies are clear. Can you take us to them?"

The Cardwithians nodded, exchanging a glance with each other before continuing.

"Yezzah!" they both said nearly in unison, moving to the side to allow the Marines to pass.

It was a small hike up from their defensive position to the actual airfield, but with all the wreckage and rubble, it was all-the-same highly treacherous. Smoking hulks of vehicles were littered among the bodies of island defenders, and on occasion pieces of aircraft parts were seen impeded into concrete walls or the earth itself. It wasn't the Major's first rodeo, but every time the scope and ability of human destruction amazed and terrified him. It was one of the main reasons he had decided to become a soldier in the first place, to satiate his childlike wonder with the military. Only after he had seen his first combat had he realized that playing with cool machines was only a consequence of the career he chose. Contrary to how they were depicted on TV, not even the biggest tank was indestructible.

The Control Tower, which stood like a beacon amid the low-lying airfield buildings, was in ruins. While it still stood upright, a huge cloud of thick black smoke was billowing out from the now windowless panes. The connected lower part of the Tower, possibly a lobby or ready-room, wasn't much more than a landfill now. Walls on three of the four sides had caved in, as had the roof. Only a few table legs and what was at one point a wheel-mounted whiteboard remained to be seen over top of the rubble.

Yet, up ahead in between the craters of two collapsed hangars, was the beautiful black aircraft the Cardwithians had apparently captured from the mercenary forces on the island. The commandos slowed to a halt as the group approached, motioning for the Falkasians to head inside.

"In ya goh ponos! Go cheek out da plane! We'll keep watch uht heer."

The Major nodded and smiled polite, still not completely understanding what they were saying. He got the gist, but as far as he or his men were concerned, they had just been told off without realizing it.

"That is one big plane," Kuznetsov mumbled as he entered, taking in the enormous superstructure.

At the far end, the few commandos still inside were hauling off the bodies of defenders and friendlies alike into a corner room offshoot from the main hangar. There were blood stains on the otherwise pristine concrete floor, as were there signs of conflict all around. Yet, somehow the plane had remained intact.

"Simply remarkable," he started, running his hand alongside the fuselage as he approached. "They sure didn't have things like this when I was a kid."

The remark earned snickers from his squad, which was mostly comprised of men in their late teens or early twenties. Kuznetsov was well into his thirties, and outranked in age nearly every man under his command. Yashin was the exception, but the old Admiral was his commander and not the other way around.

"Speaking of Yashin... Private! Radio! Now!" He barked.

The radioman ran up, quickly turning around so that the Major could gain access to his gear.

"You're tapped in Major!"

"Thank you," he replied, turning his attention to the headset. "Admiral, apparently the Cardwithians captured us a plane. I haven't been able to do much of an assessment on it, but from the outside it looks intact. Its too big to land on the carrier, and I don't know if it has a long enough range to fly to Gragastavia."

There was no reply at the other end.

"Admiral?" Kuznetsov asked, slight panic encroaching on his voice. "The radio is tuned to our hidden frequency, right?"

"Yes sir. All codes are up-to-date, and the ping is receiving on both ends. He can hear you. The line is open."

"Admiral? Are you there?" Kuznetsov asked again.

"Yes, yes... sorry my boy. Its just that... that... uh... well... there's been a bit of a development, or so I've been told. I'm still confirming reports with both my pilots and the FSIS, but your directives might be changing here shortly. I'll scramble a relief crew to get both you and the plane off the island. They're thirty minutes out, just make sure the skies are clear. I'll keep you advised of the situation."

Kuznetsov nodded in agreement. "Kuznetsov out."

"All right men!" he said, hanging the headset back to his operator. "Let's set up defensive positions with the Cardwithians and wait for extraction! I'm gonna get inside this plane and snoop around."

There was a chorus of acknowledgements as his squad broke, moving in different directions to find out where they could be most useful. As for Kuznetsov, he approached the cockpit and began feeling around, looking for a manual release handle. He found one, something, which he quickly grabbed and extended. Immediately a door panel emerged from the streamlined fuselage, folding to the side as a roll-away stairway emerged from a compartment underneath. A blast of coolant-rich air hit him as he reached for his sidearm. The cabin of an aircraft was no place to be using an assault rifle.

Carefully he ascended, taking each step slowly in case someone or something jumped out at him. Ducking through the portal, he threw himself into a defensive roll as he cleared the aisle and pressed himself up against the bulkhead. Extending his arm and hand forward he proceeded slowly through what appeared to be a command and control center, taking great pains to check both his corners and rear. One missed door or compartment, and you could end up shot in the back.

As he cleared the rooms methodically, one-by-one, confirming they were empty, he began to review the equipment on display. Not that it was like a museum, but he didn't want to risk damaging something before the engineers could take a look at it. One station in particular, likely a lower warrant or technical officer's, was arranged much like a cubicle in an office. He smiled inwardly as he saw a picture of the man's family, with his wife and kids posing on a beach. That smile quickly turned into a frown however, as it began to dawn on him that the beach itself looked familiar. Perplexed, he moved closer. Resting his pistol squarely on the console, he reached for the frame and drew it closer, attempting to figure out why it looked so familiar. It was knawing at him now, securely firmly in both hands. Something wasn't right, he knew it. The beaches weren't Falkasian. No, the color palette was off. Gragastavia was also ruled out because there weren't any camels. It wasn't Hutanjia either, because the climate wasn't right.

Then it dawned on him. Looking over the shoulder of the man's beautiful, raven-haired wife were a plethora of cliff-side bunkers overlooking the sea. Above their children, a gravel parking lot granting access to the beach.

"Oh shit..." Kuznetsov his voice shaking with the sudden shock of realization. "Oh shit..."

He turned, reaching for his pistol as he took off back down the aircraft's center aisle.

"WE HAVE A PROBLEM!" He shouted the entire way. "WE HAVE A PROBLEM! SOMEONE GET ME A RADIO!"

======

Task Force Khariton

"What do you mean they're civilians on the island?" Yashin asked incredulously.

"Well Admiral, a lot of my pilots have reported seeing children on the island. That, and we've received reports of what looks like family housing structures near the port facilities."

"But I thought intelligence concluded those were barracks for the soldiers?"

"Well sir, technically they are barracks... just, they're a lot more spacious. Originally we thought they were officer's quarters... but now we think they're multi-room condominiums for the troops and their families."

"So you're telling me that for the past two-and-a-half hours, we've been running unrestricted military operations in a theater which was not, in fact, clear of civilians?"

"No sir. We had reports that there would be no civilians on the island. Intel has since changed, and since then so has our assessment of the situation."

Yashin sighed in frustration. Talking to his FSIS attache was like talking to an automated phone system. Sometimes he wished he could just press NINE to talk to the operator, who would invariably be more helpful than the worthless individual in front of him.

"All right... look," the Admiral said, rubbing his wrinkled forehead vigorously with his palm. "Here's what we're going to do. You need to return to the Ops Center, and continue doing whatever piss-poor job it is you've been half-trained to do. Then, when you have some actionable intel to give me, send it up the chain and then we can see about meeting face-to-face again."

The FSIS Attache simply turned and left without a word. Slava didn't like being too hard on his men, but sometimes stupidity had to be called out. Bad intelligence as one thing, but lacking common sense was something not even he could be understanding of. The revelation didn't come as a surprise though. In the back of his mind, he had always thought there was something unusual about the layout of the island. What did it matter that housing was a distance away from the main facilities? Except, on any military base he had ever been to, barracks were as close as possible to the duty posts or battle stations. Things hadn't added up since the beginning, he soon realized, especially amid the insistence on part of the Cardwithians. While he wasn't about to lay blame or even accuse them of something he lacked the proper evidence for, the more he thought about it, the more their narrative began to fall apart.

"Hitting the island was only the first stage of their plan..." he mumbled out loud, the realization hitting him like a brick directly to the face, shot from a cannon from five feet away. "SOMEONE GET FARAPTO ON THE LINE!"

"No can do sir," a Bridge Officer conceded. "They've been comms-silent since the beginning of combat operations..."

Yashin frowned, contorting his face in the most inhuman of ways possible. He hated being played.

[New Edom]

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

"Colonel, ETA to Green Zone, ten minutes," Captain Zacharias Zorth, the commander of the remaining Armoured Recon troopers, informed Colonel Abed-Nego over the radio.

"Understood,” said Colonel Abed-Nego in his cold, dry voice.

As they had paused a moment behind a low tree lined rise with a shattered house on top, Abed=Nego loaded his submachinegun. Slapping the magazine into place he quickly cocked his weapon ready to fire at a moment's notice. The rest of the crew silently did this as well, the only noises in the compartment breathing and the clicking and snapping noises.

"Major enemy contacts seem to be falling off, sir, they’re now another 2.5 KM behind us estimate,” Zorth’s voice crackled in Abed-Nego’s ear.

At the same moment 155mm cannon shells hurled towards the Falkasians’position, explosions rocked the landscape as high explosive and anti-armor rounds detonated with pin point precision. However the enemy vehicles were somewhat on the move—so that was a relative term. It provided some psychological comfort though, Abed-Nego was grimly aware.

They had taken heavy casualties, had to sacrifice one entire squadron to an intense bombardment, another unit, the Mounted Infantry, had been crippled by the EMP pulse and Abed-Nego had been forced to leave many of them behind. It had been a bloodbath. Now they had a line of sight to the Green Zone—to get towards the safe zone where they would be entirely covered by the guns and missiles of the fleet, and where the air parity would become their advantage. This to save the main body of the New Edomite and Hutanjian forces, and enable them to evacuate safely to the evacuation zones.

Meanwhile, Major Jennifer Ben-Hadad, seeing the disaster that had befallen some of the enemy, took advantage of it, and using battlefield smoke, the ruined ground and the hulks of her own infantry's vehicles, began to move hussars and accompanying specialists to safety. The most badly wounded had to be left behind. Pulling a weeping young hussar away from a mutilated comrade, feeling yet another cold stone go into her belly to drag down her soul, she and a handful of remaining officers and NCOs began quietly moving their troops away, to try to hopefully catch up to the last convoys leaving.

Filthy with muck, blood and in some cases their own wastes, they almost worshipped the earth, crawling where they had, fearful of the metallic monsters of the enemy, the probing eyes. Jennifer Ben-Hadad had an unbidden thought of a science fiction novel she'd read in school, about an alien invasion, where people were completely humbled by the aliens, reduced to mouse like status among thunderous invincible giants. They were out of anti-tank missiles and rockets, low on other ammo, and were forced to scurry...hopefully to safety. Checking a map the old fashioned way with the compass in her webbing, Ben-Hadad confirmed the direction they had chosen in whispered tones like frightened children with a Recon Staff Sergeant, a lean scarred Elwe veteran, who nodded, staring at her with eyes honed to cold determination. He reeked of blood and vomit.

"We go," she muttered. "Alright, I'll lead the first leg, cover us."

"Go with God," he murmured, keeping his head low in case the slightest noise carried. They had to cross a deadly arc of their own artillery fire and it halted them; they had to wait, hunched and shuddering, and not rush to the aid of a squad that got blown to bits by their own shells before they could move on in the shroud of smoke and ashes and death towards their own lines...

I'm alive she thought. The blood on her face from her own dying people--the sweat plastering her head inside her helmet, the hot scorching foul air that would probably kill her one day if this battle didn't--it all meant that for now she was alive. She motioned and advanced into the unknown.

[Hutanjia]

NORRITS JOINT FORCES BASE
EAST CARDWITH
DEMOCRATIC SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF THE CARDWITH ISLANDS

That was it. The mission was over. There really was no question in Chief Agent Rauzinta's mind as soon as that Falkasian trooper's boot pressed down upon the Ranger's arm. The gig was up and they needed to withdraw as soon as possible, fighting rear guard action and trying to keep casualties to a minimum as much as possible.

It had all gone down in a matter of seconds when the Falkie patrol stumbled upon them. They had covered up with their ghillie top, heat absorbent blankets, as well as all manner of natural camouflage, but it had done no good when the patrol had unwittingly stumbled right into the middle of the Hutanjian special operations group. Luckily, the surprise had been almost complete as the Falkasians had been lulled by a false sense of security into believing that the enemy could never penetrate so far into their territory. This was despite the fact that their current duties were based on the premise of that exact scenario possibly unfolding.

It was like pins magically appearing out of the ground as shortened AKS-74us sprung up and pointed at the Falkasian base guards that were right up upon them. The AKS-74's were meant for close quarters combat, and were normally issued to the Hutanjian monarchist forces before the dawn of the Republic, and also in heavy use by the Cardwithians. Since the armaments change, they had mostly been phased out of the Hutanjian arsenal as the SAR 6 UC SMG fit that role, and also, the Hutanjians tried to distance themselves from anything that was identified as Marxist in nature. However, SAR 6's would have immediately given away the group as Hutanjian military, and so, along with their drab uniforms and lack of identification, the AKS-74Us were issued for this particular mission to the Rangers and HSA agents.
So, it was Kalashnikov bullets that entered the Falkasian guards in upwards, angled trajectories and slaughtered the patrol. One casualty was suffered by the group as one of the HSA agents had a guard's round enter his back, right below the shoulder blade, puncturing through the body armor due to near point blank range.

In the shocked seconds after surviving the brief firefight, the Hutanjians started to fast crawl backwards while one or two of the team hung back to cover and trade fire with other guards, Cardwithian and Falkasian, that were responding from a distance. Rauzinta and the Ranger who had once been under the Atave family helped to drag back the wounded HSA agent.
As they were doing so, Ranger Atave spit out between hurried breaths,
"We need to fall back to cover and try another route in."

Rauzinta shook his head.
"Maybe you're not taking all this in, but the mission is over. The base is now alerted. Alarms are going off everywhere. Can't you hear them?! Besides that, any target of value will have been squirreled away by now, especially Nellis and the top Falkasian command staff."

"We could still catch some moderate ranking officer out in the open."

"I am not leading what is now definitely a suicide mission in to that hell's mouth for one 'moderate ranking' officer. We need to get out of here...NOW!"
They continued to drag the man back in spurts, as most of the team was grouping behind a cropping of rocks a few meters back.

"How could we possibly even get an evac at this point? We're doomed no matter what. Might as well make our mission and sacrifice worth something."

"Air evac was never a good option and a last resort if command even chose it." They were deep in the heart of enemy territory, their planned evac by river, then sea was even in doubt at this point.
"We need to get to the rendezvous and fend them off as much as possible. I really think this is not a great time to be debating all this anyway."

"This fallback is going to be hit by air support or mortars any minute, anyway. We will regroup and find another entry point."

"One more time. We are not continuing the misson. But we do agree on this...We can't scatter to the winds. I need the group to stay together as it's our only chance of surviving."

"We need the group to stay together to reform a plan of attack."

"Let's just fall back for now and continue this argument in a few..."
They could go on like this for a while, redundantly mocking each other's words while having cross purposes, ultimately.

"Agreed."

The HSA operators and Rangers leapfrogged in reverse, covering each other as the enemy tried to pursue.
The Ranger Sergeant that had accompanied Atave/Gozamta made it to the fallback and unlimbered his Dragunov sniper rifle. He started to pick off enemy guards that were closing in. Revving motors could be heard as base vehicles were started in order to pursue.

Meanwhile, Agent Kojemke's team tried to link back up with Rauzinta before they became blocked by the responding patrols of the base. It was with their team that Operation Bastille lost the second casualty for the group and the first fatality. An HSA agent that had a round take him right through the eye. Unable to haul him with them, he was left behind, but stripped of provisions and weapons. A grenade was planted underneath him, with the safety lever held in with the pressure of the body.

MOSSVIEW PARK
LIBERATED DETENTION CENTER
NESSELBERG

Bound and sitting, with Falkasians and rebels...Cards or UFF local unit? Or did it matter anymore?...With them leveling their snub commando rifles and SMGs at them, a collection of AK-74us and SAC 6 SMGs and a few other choice close range weapons. This is what it had come down to for the detention camp staff and William Suvarkla, otherwise known as the Mossview Park Camp Commandant, and commanding officer of the 146th MP Battalion.

Colonel Suvarkla watched from his seat on the grass off the main camp road as the camp raiders poured over documents and filled bins with disks and flash drives, bringing out crates and boxes to load on to trucks. It paled in comparison to the actual lives of his men lost as his guards had unsuccessfully attempted to fight off the raiders. Those men had died in the face of his unpreparedness, which translated to incompetence. Still, it rankled him almost more that he would be incriminated in silent collusion with the past corrupt Monarchist regime. He had beseeched the command at Vesselle, and then, going over their head, Chastille, to allow him to destroy the sensitive and incriminating documents. Many of the files predated the 146th Battalion's takeover of the camp to when the KHS had run it. Now, by association, with a papertrail, his unit was implicated in the horrific war crimes that had taken place here over the last couple years, even though their tenure was only half that time. It really wasn't even close to fair.

Really, it shouldn't be his primary focus. Lives had been lost. Prisoners and now guards. Still, it rubbed salt into the wound. He had done his best to improve conditions, with what limited resources HRA VESCOM via CENTCOM would send him. Anything not on the standard prison camp provisions list was ignored, especially anything that was deemed 'frivolous'. So, they had to be resourceful, crafty, and trade locally for what they couldn't get officially. In the end, it seemed it didn't matter now, but in his heart, as a Christian, it still did. He had tried to right the balance of all the wrongs visited upon unfortunates, and so he felt prepared to soon meet his maker.

22km E OF JALAKRA
OCCUPIED WEST CARDWITH

Captain Percival Bundavka had watched as the artillery had rained down on his men. They had held together for the most part, but there had been some mild panic. Then the Cards had begun their assault, hitting companies to their left, and a few to their right. As the blitz moved in towards them, the men, and he thought of that term loosely, of Romeo Company of the 2nd Bn/16th HRA Regiment had let him know that they had no intention of being stationary targets.

"Dis a' suicide. We a'nt doin' it."

"You will hold your positions or face the consequences."

The NCO impromptu committee that had approached him eyed one another, then drew back for a secret conference. In any other unit in the Hutanjian Republican Army, this treasonous, insubordinate behavior wouldn't be tolerated. As the Captain had soon learned upon taking command of Romeo, he didn't have such a luxury. The 16th, throughout the war had gotten the dregs of the Army, that should have been up for court martials, mustered out, or even executed for crimes. They were former deserters, thieves, involuntary objectors, and some at their worst were murderers, rapists, torturers and beyond. He knew that some of the men in his very own company had had their way with West Cardwithian women and children in previous posts, dragging them off to never be seen again. Restrained by stop-loss and desperate manpower shortages, and with a counter-invasion no doubt looming, their commanders had shipped them off to the 16th, which had been designated the hold all for the miscreants of the Army. It also relieved them of having to deal with the time consuming punitive measures that most officers had to deal with at one point or another in their careers.

The results were now becoming catastrophic as the morale of the 16th broke upon the face of the charging enemy. The whole regiment was meant to be a stop gap on the front until reserve forces could be rushed to plug the breaches. The problem being that there weren't enough reserve forces to go around.

Judgement Day was now upon them. Or the lesser of two, anyway.

The sounds of detonations and impacts grew closer. The sky buzzed with enemy craft. Meanwhile, rather than hunker down, the platoon NCOs had informed their commander that they would not be sticking around.

"Where do you have to go? You think there's planes waiting for you at Hesttens...to take you back to Nevorn? You think the Card civies will welcome you with open arms? You're delusional...Fideh!"

"Nah, it be ya who be deloo-shunal, Cap'n Bootlickah."

"muhah! Eedoh-miht bootlickah!"

The three traitorous NCOs smiled at him from a couple meters away.
Then he felt the impacts. The first two didn't penetrate, hitting the ceramic body armor. One hit his lower right lumbar area while the other punched towards the bottom of his left shoulder blade. He was bowled forward, his hands automatically shooting out for purchase in the rocky soil before his face smacked. His breath was forced from his body. Then whichever compadre of the traitorous NCOs that had ambushed him from behind, walked forward. He felt a round enter his thigh, just below his buttocks. Then, the finishing round was not felt, as it was fired point blank into the base of his neck, severing his spinal column and the bulk of the nervous system it protected. He was blissfully unaware of the final shot to the back of the head, below the brim of his helmet, as his pain receptors had already been overwhelmed, and such a shot was instantaneous death, anyway.

With their Company commander fragged, the rest of the Company withdrew. Any soldiers with romantic notions of redemption from past wrongs that chose to stay were left behind, but without the supplies and extra ammo they might desire and need to survive the onslaught.

Romeo Company was not the first Company of the 16th to bug out, nor would they be the last. All along the front, the regiment broke as the enemy assault hit, both by ground and air. Not to say that the whole front collapsed, as the 17th and 34th Regiments held further to the West, and the Edomite units to the East held their ground, but that buckle in the middle was enough to cause a troubling rupture and problems that would come to haunt the Hutanjian/Allied forces in the subsequent days. Also, credit must be given to some of the scattered pockets of the 16th HRA, as some platoons and a handful of Companies fought on without breaking, despite being rapidly overwhelmed.

With the death of their commander and most of the command staff in the destruction of the HQ in Jalakra by a PAST planted bomb, though, the 16th was almost doomed from the start, along with the poor overall quality of soldiers and the flagging morale. General Wakala, the Hutanjian commander in West Cardwith, scrambled to plug the gap in his lines as the enemy poured in.

UNDERGROUND COMMAND BUNKER
CHASTILLE

President Hespatu reeled as he received reports on the massive attack across the fronts from General Fotona and Minister Mazaga. The attack on Vesselle was unexpected, but ill advised. The attack on Vesselle was doomed from the start, with overwhelming allied forces able to swamp the Cardwithian commando attack before they can even leave their landing zones, and the combined Card/Falkasian air support bugging out to superior numbers. On West Cardwith, however, the story was far different as the Cardwithians and their Astyrian mentors were able to match, and even overpower Hutanjian and Edomite numbers.

Hespatu was constantly on the phone or transmitting orders, or releasing communiques for that first critical day. HSA Director Gotamko was conspicuously absent from the bunker, at least for the first day, as he tried to gather the intel belatedly that should have revealed the attack beforehand.

There was not much that any of them could do, as most of it fell to General Wakala in West Cardwith, and Admiral Chamrapga at sea at this point to contain the damage.

OVER THE CARDWITHS

The Hutanjian air patrols, along with Edomite and USG fighters, struggled to throw back the enemy air assault. The HRAF was able to scramble most of their reserve squadrons in response, thereby forestalling a full, rapid collapse of West Cardwith.
They gave as good as they got and after repelling the attack on Vesselle, sorties began on the enemy naval ports and military bases on northern East Cardwith, around Tarpon Bay and down to East Kenton.

On North Cardwith, transports continued to ferry in more troops, Edomite and Hutanjian, to bolster the garrison there that was abandoned by a cowardly, former ally who need not be named.

The AH-90 gunships, LIRCAS Sergeants and Super Etendard multi role fighters that weren't engaged by enemy air, did their best to blunt the attack and take out the CGKT IFVs and CT-11 of the Cards and the Falkasian armor, as well as using mass anti-personnel munitions on any formations of troops out in the open.

Although rare, duels between opposing CAS aircraft happened on both sides of the DMZ.

They suffered casualties too, as the enemy fought back, both from the air and the ground. Unexpectedly, they began to take hits from MANPADs well behind the lines as UFF guerrilla teams went into action. USG troops bound to reinforce the front were diverted to take care of the partisans, as counter insurgency was a role that the PMC soldiers relished and excelled at.

EASTERN MARKET PLACE
CHASTILLE, NEVORN

Rangatar Marindo Yeglanka could hardly breathe as he surveyed the wreckage of the market stalls and the debris. While the bodies had been cleared, large blood pools still remained on the concrete, where Hutanjians had been felled by the UFF terrorist bullets and bombs. He knew that children had died.

He was responsible for all of it. He knew that in some part of the back of his mind, but he fought it down, rationalized it. They would have done this anyway, with or without the ill gotten identity papers that had given them free movement past the checkpoints. They would have found a way. How did he really know that the people who had done this were the ones who actually received the forged papers, made from the blanks he'd supplied? It was a stretch, really. Wasn't it? Who was to say what purpose those papers had been for. Obviously, they had been put towards some criminal enterprise...not this. Please God...not this.

His throat continued to tighten, and so he was forced to signal his driver to start the car, as words failed him. Other citizens out to mourn observed the man who represented the main political opposition to Hespatu on Nevorn. Seeing him so choked up, but brave enough to be with them, out in the open on this day, renewed their faith that he was the man that would change it all. The man that truly was in touch with the Hutanjian people. Little did they know the true anguish that bubbled beneath that surface.

TOYUFKA, NESSELBERG

Deep in the heart of the Eastern Nesselbergian jungle in one of the out of the way villages that never seemed to make it on to most maps, eight people stood after hours of talking throughout the night and into the morning, shaking hands. Three of them were former UFF officers, having disappeared weeks ago from their units. They were a rarity among the UFF ranks, being native Nesselbergians rather than Nevornian or Cardwithian. Nesselbergians were usually apathetic and apolitical, finding themselves forever in the middle of the longstanding ethnic disputes between the neighboring islands.

It was assumed by their commanders that the UFF officers had deserted to join the ranks of the enemy and become Spider Scouts to fight against their former comrades, but they could have just as easily slipped back to home to resume their former lives. They had avoided HRA and Edomite patrols just as much as they had searching UFF patrols. The other five men and women were elders from the surrounding villages, representing what amounted to the Provincial Council.

Unaware of the commencement of major hostilities to the north and the other islands just hours previously, the Nesselbergians went about their serious planning. Even if they had been aware, it would not have changed their resolve. This would be a fateful day for them as much as it was for many Wishtonians. A declaration would soon follow, but for now, verbal agreement sufficed. They would throw out all interlopers, to the East or West. They were tired of the wars that turned them into the natural central battleground. They were sick of the oppression and economic slavery. They were fed up with the bullying. This was the start of the Free Nesselberg Movement.

[The Cardwith Islands]

GAUMAIN, WEST CARDWITH
THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE ATTACK

The men and women entered the room in the bunker. They were all scaled down in dress, most wearing the typical peasant raggedy shorts and loose fitting buttoned shirts that were common in many parts of Hutanjia, Kenega, and the Cardwiths, in the villages that were off the beaten path from the tourist coastal areas. The difference was that these people would be just as comfortable in balaclavas and black skintight suits, or dingy fatigues. They were the last of the best operators that the UFF and the Cardwiths had to rely on that weren’t currently deployed elsewhere.

Lelah looked them over, not discouraged, but not entirely enthused either. Many of those that she relied on for the most difficult missions were either currently behind enemy lines up north, in action in Nesselberg, or on boats somewhere in Astyria, awaiting the assault on the ‘mercenary island’. These folks weren’t exactly scraping the bottom of the barrel, but they weren’t the first she would call on for such a crucial mission. They were decent field agents for PAST, good at gathering intel, but they weren’t combat operatives like the PASG commandos. She would have to take what she could get.

“Take ya seats...Take ‘em.”

When they were all settled, she started her brief.
“Ya all know dat we got a lot a plans ta hit de enemy. Ya will take ya place in de mos’ impo’tant mishun.”
She began to pull out files and pass them out to the assembled PAST agents. “T’ree men dat we need ta take out fo’ sock-sess in de upcumin’ cam-payen. First be General Prozago Wakala. He be de leader of HUTCARD West. A very compee-tunt Gen-ahral, he de next in line ta take ovah Fotona’s job.”

Most looked up at her as if she was trying to re-teach them the ABC’s. Everyone knew who Wakala was, the Huttie Tyrant of West Cardwith. Even if he didn’t condone most of the actions that had happened during the occupation, they felt he was complicit; being the top man in charge.

She didn’t wait for everyone’s affirmation that they were ready to move on.
“General Johann Merari be de head of the New Edomite Expeditionary Forces on West Cardwith, subordinate to NEMACH. He be one a dey top pepuls. Jus’ under Augrim.”

“Ain’t he got de name Wah-keem?”

“Huh?”

The UFF operative pushed and turned over the manila file.
“De file say Joachim.”

“Ah, yeh. Mah ‘pologee. Johann be next. Ahl dese German-uhk names.” She really was tired.
She tossed out the final file,
“Colonel Johann Moller, a Neh Engawluhn merseh-nah-ree. Commandah o’ de Schwyz Regiment fo’ de USG Security Corporation, owuhr de ‘Regiments’ as dey call demselves.
Oddleh enuff, he unit, de Schwyz Regiment be on Nevorn, where Ker-nehl Van Ar-dahl be in charge. Johann heah be in charge a sum o’ de Uli and Galien Regiments pepuls. whack stuff, dem Neh Enawluhn troopahs. Anyway, we ginna git em.”

“Ahl o’ dem?” One of the PAST operators, by the name of Pasganka, asked incredulously.

“We hope ta, yeh. Least one, but hope ta be ahl.”

Pasganka laughed,
“Ya know dat dey took a lot o’ owa top peeps sum-wayeh, we don’ even knows. De Director took em from us. Staht trainin’ dem up. Ginna be hard ta do de mishuns widout ‘em.”

She sighed. She couldn’t get into it all as it was compartmentalized at the highest level. Those men and women were part of People’s Action Strike Groups One and Two. They were on their way right now to Astyria, and the mercenary island of Panto Leto. The cream of the crop, and she was left with these other operators. Not that they were the bottom of the barrel, but they wouldn’t have been the first group she picked for these missions. She had to work with what she had available. They would serve the cause willingly, and that was what mattered.
“Dey be on impo’tant mishun. Classified. Don’ worreh ‘bout eht.”

“I worreh ‘bout us. We don’ have ‘nuff of us ta do de mishuns. Not ahl dem.”

“Dat why we ginna go fo’ de best target. Whicheveh one preh-zenz ohppa-toon-eh-tee...ya know? Ya ginna be like dem Rahpeed Reesponz Fahzuz. Now shud up. So, yeh, we ginna train fo’ de nex’ toouh weeks. We ginna have multah-puhl opshuns ta git dem. Choppah fahz, light vee-hekuhlz, boatz fo’ a coast-ahl raid. We ginna try eht ahl. Ya’ll bin picked cuz ya know ya stuff, ya flex-ah-buhl, as dey say. Ya kin do dis, but still, we train...When ohppa -toon-ah-teh be dehr...We strike!”
She looked around at the expectant, some of them hesitant, faces. She didn’t have time to rally them round to the idea any more than she had, so she plowed on,
“Now! We don’ got de time ta train fuhst, and yaz don’ need eht…but we ginna work on de sig-nuhls, an’ de landuhns, cuz we gotta hit dem hahd de fuhst time, yeh?”

They all nodded around the table and spoke in unison,
"Yeh!"

---

GAUMAIN, WEST CARDWITH
ONE WEEK BEFORE THE ATTACK

She had sat as the old man circled her, his cane thudding the old creaking floor.

“You have been a hard woman to get a hold of, Lelah. I really do get the feeling that you are avoiding me. How can you help me with major matters of the state if you avoid me like this?”

She had been his right hand helper for so long. Papa Charles Nellis had been a surrogate Father to her, but now...she didn’t...couldn’t trust him. All that she had learned. All the turned over stones that had revealed nothing good. The mysteries and layer upon layer of subterfuge made her question everything about the man that she had known since childhood and should have been her closest confident. Their time in Kenega City, with the events surrounding Atave’s reappearance and quick disappearance again... It had turned her head around.

Through the trial of the episode, she had felt ultimate solidarity with her savior, Ilyich, a FSIS operative, along with a sense of raw honesty that she had never touched upon with Charles. The FSIS were the main intelligence apparatus of Falkasia, the benefactor and main supporter of the Cardwith Islands and the UFF. Even Ilyich had expressed his doubts about the iconic Nellis to her in candid moments as they hid out in the hills above Kenega City from the rampaging security forces of many nations that sought to maintain the safety of the Armistice conference.

“I been buseh. Jes gittin’ ready fo’ de attacks. De big ahsahlts ya knah…”

“Is that a joke? I raised you better than to talk to me in that fucking country bumpkin speak. I don’t appreciate it at all.” The old man had stopped in place to chide her.

She was so taken aback, that she was speechless. She had heard him show some veiled derision before towards the lower classes that she worked so hard to cultivate, but to be so blatantly told that she couldn’t speak the patois of the lower classes...The speech of those that formed the backbone of both the UFF and the Cardwithian military, was too much. She had to physically restrain her jaw from flapping open.
That he was considered a populist and man of the common people was almost absurd when he was experienced in his true element, unguarded.

“I slipped. I’m so tired that it sometimes is difficult to transition back from all the time I spend out there. Forgive me.”

Nellis smiled.
“Of course. Forgive me. I wanted to let you know of a major organizational change that you will be a part of. I’m not feeling up to the dramatic flare, so forgive me. I have been talking with the Council and we want you to head up PAST from now on. Your work has been irreplaceable and we need you to continue with it, with less bosses to report to.”

“What...What about Director Kadapke?”

“Oh, he’ll still be around, but you’ll be working with him as equals. He will now be head of the Cardwithian Intelligence Directorate...the C.I.D. Sorry to say that you won’t have all the people you’ll want or need, as he gets to pick those that branch off to the CID with him.”

“So, then, PAST will no longer be performing intelligence operations?”

“Not as much, no. PAST’s focus will be back to what they do best. Agitation and Action. Back to their inception for the Revolution, as a behind the scenes force. Or covert force, I guess. That’s all modern and such, these days, isn’t it? But you’ll still work hand in hand with CID on some missions. It’s just going to run as more of a traditional intelligence service should, focusing on the real spy work.”

She made the next leap in logic.
“So then...most of my people are going to be on Panto Leto? About to be wiped out in that suicidal raid?”

“That’s a bleak way to look at it, but...Yes. You may have to start from scratch depending on how that mission goes. I have confidence in you, Lelah. You can do this. Congratulations, Director Marousha on your new appointment to head of the People’s Action Strike Teams.”

Nellis stuck his hand out to Lelah. For a few long moments, she stared at it then finally took it gingerly. President Charles Nellis did his best to ignore the slight and smiled, stumping his way out of the room on his cane.

---

PALEGATA-JALAKRA-HESTTENS
THE WEST CARDWITH PLAINS

One of the largest armor battles in recent modern history raged on the plains and slopes of the center of West Cardwith as Falkasian and New Edomite armored vehicles and tanks battled it out for survival, as well as fighting off constant air attacks from both sides. One might compare it to something along the lines of Kursk, the Arab-Israeli wars or North Africa, but there wasn’t quite the numbers to compare it to that scale, although it was no less devastating to the two forces.

As the two main powers battled it out, their proxies, the Hutanjians and Cardwithians were making their presence known and felt, as well. Hutanjian armored and mobile forces fought to hold the western flank near Palegata while the Edomites held the line in the East.

For their part, the Cardwithians and the UFF irregulars were mixed all along the front. The Cardwithian armor followed up to plug the gaps to reinforce their Falkasian allies, while their CAS Silenkov and Kamov gunships relentlessly, and at great cost, did continual runs against the enemy armor, artillery and ground forces. AIr battles raged as well as both sides’ multirole fighters battled to take out the others air to ground support capability, and ultimately the others’ protection of their CAS, ultimately pitting the fighters against each other in desperate close in battles that were almost unnecessary considering the distances that modern technology allowed for engagement.

One of the most crucial forces though that might swing the tide were not on wheels or in the skies, but on foot. Teams of UFF and CPA men armed with AT, RPGs and even at times satchel charges rushed about, hitting where they could behind the enemy lines, and lighting up tanks, IFVs and APCs of the enemy. While many fell, or were vaporized, sometimes by their own ordnance, there were many more to take their place.

Not just on foot, but many were riding in all types of technicals. Trucks, all terrain vehicles, 4x4s, even hackjob sedans with raised axles and a couple slapped on armor plates could be seen darting about on the backroads, attacking supply lines and logistics of the enemy. They had awaited this moment for a long time. For months these vehicles had been undergoing adjustments in barns and under other cover, until they could be ready to play their part in the liberation of West Cardwith from the oppressors. AT and heavy machine guns with armor piercing rounds were mounted on the roll bars of the vehicles. Most ironically, Edomite footballs, coloring books, Hutanjian propaganda posters and other attempts to influence the Cardwithian population were tacked on or taped to the vehicles in the ultimate sign of defiance to the occupiers.
A big final "Fuck You!" to the Allied 'Hearts and Minds' campaign.

The irregular ground and mobile groups were a force multiplier that the Hutanjians and Edomites couldn’t count on for themselves, but could count on to be a constant thorn in their side for the long raging battle ahead.

---

CAMPOBELLO, PANTO LETO
THE MEDERANO SEA, ASTYRIA

The PASG commandos, those that weren’t hunting down the last of the USG defenders along with their FSIS and Falkasian Raider counterparts, were rounding up the civilians and quietly loading them on to the commandeered trucks from the enemy’s motor pool. They were bused to a few seized buildings, three schools to be exact. They loaded civilian women and children into the auditoriums of the high school and the elementary school, while any staffers, off duty personnel, including women, and some newly captured higher ranking USG troopers were loaded into the junior high gymnasium.

Then, a good force of them secured all extra access doors to the areas. Sometimes chains were used, or even in some cases rope was bound around push bars, so that those pushing from the outside couldn’t open the barred doors. The few access doors left unsecured had a heavy guard on them, while the other secured doors still had patrolling guards.

Steadily, the Cardwithians rounded up their hostages for the big negotiations to come.

---

AIRSTRIP
PANTO LETO

The Cardwithians looked on amused as the Falkasians poured over the captured RCC Baron in the hangar. All they knew was that it was a damn big plane with lots of sensitive electronics on board. With only a couple left to chat with the Falkasians outside the body of the giant AWACs on steroids, the rest had scattered to continue with mop up duties.

The last resistance on or around the air strip had been extinguished a few hours previously, but to the PASG commandos, they were not cognizant of that fact and so they followed their tactics to the letter, clearing hangars and buildings as best they could, skirting around the facilities that were in full blown inferno, and when possible, trying to douse the flames that crept closer to jet fuel reserves in containers around the air base.

---

OPERATIONS CENTER
CAMPOBELLO, PANTO LETO

Colonel Farapto and the other PASG raiders with him advanced carefully, but at a brisk clip, as they pursued the hold outs in the USG Operations Center.
They had climbed over several bodies at the entrance that they had gunned down from afar. As they had tried to enter, the glass had splintered on the doors and little puffs mushroomed out in the metal bases of the doors. The Cardwithians had ducked at the cacophony and startling evidence that they were being shot at, even though the doors were designed to not give to even high caliber rounds, either from within or without. The Cards felt foolish as they regathered in front of the double locked, reinforced doors.

Farapto motioned and one of the men slapped a charge on the door as they all hopped away around the corner. Then, as it detonated, he was already shouting into the ear of one of his men who had a RPG in hand. When the doors blew open, the RPG fired in and through, travelling down the long hallway of the Ops Center. They followed down the hall, letting out short bursts at knee, head and chest height as they advanced in leapfrogging fashion down the corridors.

Had they known they were in pursuit of the legendary USG S2 himself, Major René Ouelt, it really wouldn’t have changed their attitudes, other than maybe make them a little more determined to bring him down.

---

MOSSVIEW DETENTION CENTER
MOSSVIEW PARK, NESSELBERG

The UFF guerrillas and FSIS special operations commandos continued to mop up the last of the Hutanjian Army resistance as they got them behind concertina wire and prepared their comrades, former prisoners of the camp, to board trucks to be exfiltrated out and to the south of the island.

The Falkasians continued to root through the camp, loading up other commandeered trucks with hard drives, files and data that would implicate the Hutanjian Republican government in some of the greatest coverups of the horrific crimes that had happened within the confines of this camp.

It was then that the reinforcements of the enemy finally arrived to correct the situation. Edomite and Hutanjian gunships hovered and began to pepper any of the UFF and Falkasians that were out in the open and obviously identified as enemy combatants. Other transport choppers hovered as they dislodged Hutanjian Rangers, who dropped down from dangling lines onto the road outside the camp, the only nearby open space that wasn’t held by the enemy and could accomodate them.

Trucks filled with Edomite Lancers and Hutanjian Rangers were also on their way from Vesselle to close the net around the rebel encroachment on the base, but the UFF/FSIS raiders hoped to be long gone by the time they arrived.

---

NORRITTS JOINT BASE
NORRITTS, EAST CARDWITH

Cardwithian guard units snapped into action as alarms and klaxons went off all over the base. Several guards were downed by the Hutanjian covert unit's fire, but dozens more were ready to take their place. Helicopters at the nearby tarmac were firing up in order to aid in the repulsion of the failed attempt to breech the grounds and hunt down the perpetrators that had already killed so many of the Falkasian and Cardwithian defenders.

Thanks to the efforts of both the Falkasians and Cardwithian garrison troops and base command, President Nellis and the top CPA and Falkasian high command were safely ensconced in a deep bunker on the base, safe from everything but a sustained nuclear attack.

---

NORTH CARDWITH

The UFF cells on the north island sprung into action as word went out that this was the big show. Several of the cells and agents had been eradicated during the time of the ceasefire and before, but there was always a never-ending line of Cardwithian patriots to take their place. The first stop was to attack the ports and seal them off from the inbound New Edomite and Hutanjian reinforcements.

From promontories above the ports, UFF mortar teams began to rain down rounds on to the docks and facilities of Abamete and Marksville. The Hutanjians had expected something along those lines and put guard patrols on the high ground in case such an attempt was made, but they hadn't been able to stand up to the numbers that the Cards were willing to throw at them in order to take the hills. The overwhelmed guards, along with several UFF attackers, lay sprawled across the backsides of those hills.

Backup teams stood by with Falkasian supplied MANPADs to take on the responding gunships they expected. Others had restocked on ammunition for their heavy machine guns, and were digging in for a protracted fight.

[Falkasia]

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

Kasyanov once again hoisted himself into his cupola. With internal systems restored and the Behemoth's transmission humming along smoothly, he knew he needed to get his offensive back in gear.

"It's go time," he exhaled heavily, replacing his discarded headset back atop the crown of his head. With his spare hand, he forced open the command hatch and propelled himself through.

The blinding late afternoon light caught him off guard, covering him and a good portion of the vehicle's innards in the warm yellow-orange glow of a waning sun. The heavy smoke which hung around him and his vehicle however only seemed to offset the atmosphere, as despite the carnage of burning vehicles and lifeless corpses on the ground around him, it was an otherwise lovely afternoon.

He smirked rather sardonically at that conclusion, physically shaking the thoughts from his head as he began to survey what he could see of the battlefield. To his left and right, tree trunks were in various states of explosion. To his rear, a burning armored carrier burned a hole through the gunpowder smog. Its nationality was indiscernable, as was the vehicle make. All that mattered for the time being were that rolling sheets of toxic orange flame which spewed forth from the rear compartment, signifying absolutely its fate.

"VICE is back up. The Brig is demanding an update." Evgeniy declared over the vehicle's net.

"Tell him he's gonna have to wait. I'm still clueless. Do we have eyes yet?"

"Partially, yea..."

"How do things look? Kasyanov requested, not letting his driver finish.

"Don't know... looks like all squads are down at least one roller... but most are a little worse off than that."

Kasyanov sighed. He could always tell when anyone; his mother, his commanding officer, his driver, was sugarcoating something. "How bad is 'a little worse off?'"

"Several squads are reporting complete annihilation according to VICE. SATCOM is still filtering reports. I can siphon them direct to you."

The commander nodded grimly, images of his men flashing through his mind in quick succession. "No need. We'll count and reclaim the dead after we've taken the field. For now, all ahead full. Best way to get things back on track is to lead the charge forward. Old school cavalry style. If my gut holds, the Edomites are already routing."

The Behemoth rocketed forward. Kasyanov's hands instinctively flew to his sides, grappling with the exposed metal hatch opening in an effort to support himself.

"Here's hoping they're the ones routing and not us..." he mumbled, reaching underneath his chin to make sure his combat helmet was strapped snugly.

======

Panto Leto,
Airfield
Landing +251 Minutes

"Yes sir. We'll see what we can do here." Kuznetsov stated flatly into the radio. "No sir. We haven't seen any yet sir. No sir. No reports of casualties on that end either. SAR is still looking for our missing airmen, but they've also be made aware of the situation."

The Major's men stood nearby, no so close as to crowd their commander but close enough to be able to listen in. What had initially been mission accomplished, and with shiny booty to boot, had transformed on a dime. Their victorious leader, who once paraded through the captured airplane triumphantly, had now been on the radio with Task Force Khariton for close to two hours attempting to coordinate what they assumed to be a bad situation.

Kuznetsov had been careful not to disclose any information or name-drop, and kept to generalities and code inherent to the Officers' Corps. It was frustrating, but the uncertain and flustered look on his face was not something anyone was used to seeing. Whatever it was, this was a matter best left up to their commander to handle.

Behind them, a contingent of Marine Engineers had begun dissecting the captured aircraft. Despite the fact it had been rigged to detonate, things had apparently not gone off smoothly. By not smoothly, it meant not at all. The systems were intact, but what any of them actually did remained floating in the air. That task was for individuals much smarter than the average Marine Raider, and rather less preferred than the well-deserved R&R which would come shortly once the island was deemed secure.

======

"FSIS is working with Baseplate right now to figure out just how many we're looking at," Yashin mumbled, scratching the base of his neck as he attempted to multi-task talking and reading new intelligence reports. "We believe there to be as many as 1000 civilians on the island, probably much more. We don't have much to go off of, so if you can find anything it might prove helpful in figuring out just how far up the creek we are."

"Yes sir. What am I looking for?" Kuznetsov replied, pressing the receiver close to his ear.

"Anything really," the Admiral suggested. "Lists of drivers' licenses, school attendance records, sports rosters, anything with names that can be cross-referenced with either an address or some kind of identifying feature."

"So... you want me to ransack all of the buildings on the island for paper lists? I'm sorry Admiral... I understand the gravity of the situation but that's ludicrous. I don't have anywhere close to the manpower to do that, especially with a small opposing force still controlling the tip of the island."

"I know the difficulty of the situation Major, but believe me, the pressure we're feeling right now is nothing compared to what will happen when the international community is breathing down our neck for taking civilians hostage. It doesn't matter if we participated knowingly or not... we're invested now."

Kuznetsov paused, letting the words sink in. So it was true. Up until this moment he had considered it, but hadn't really grasped the true gravity of the situation. Now, things were probably perched on the edge of a cliff with three wheels dangling over the side. One push, and the whole operation became a crime against humanity. As a soldier civilian casualties and collateral damage were an inherent problem with warfare, but they happened and were regrettable at the least when they did. This, knowingly taking hostages of the enemy, their family of all people, was something so vile that it struck a chord deep within his hardened conscience. It was something he himself could not participate it and continue to sleep at night.

======

Panto Leto,
Nearby

Josef gradually came too. He had a splitting headache, and the smell of vomit nearby told him he had probably evacuated his breakfast. The grass beneath him was cool though, or as cool as it could be in the Mediterranean sun. The only problem, he couldn't see. Rather, he could see, but there was a piece of rough fabric stretched over him.

He blinked rather quizzically, and with one arm, rapidly threw the piece of canvas off him. The sudden blast of light blinded him as he sat up, but as his eyes adjusted, he was presented with an unsettling sight. To his left, half-embedded into the ground itself was an aircraft; his aircraft, most likely. Aside from the cockpit being mostly intact save for a shattered canopy, the rest of the flying machine was shredded. Both wings had been clipped just before they met the fuselage. About twenty feet away, the tail section was partially buried in fill-dirt and turned around the complete opposite direction. Between them, a ravenous oil fire burned wildly as it consumed what was left of the aircraft's leaking fuel.

Josef struggled to stand. His legs weren't having it and his head was making him severely nauseous. The horizon wobbled erratically as he forced himself up. His left hand shot to his face as a pain struck him. The feeling was akin to having one's eye gouged out and almost dropped the man once more. As he wobbled, the sounds of war silently snuck up on him. A loud explosion to his rear was unexpected, and caused him to whirl around on his heel.

Near shore, a small Falkasian vessel had run aground. By the looks of it, an unmarked sand bar or rock outcropping had been concealed by the high tide, and as the water had flowed back out to sea, the vessel had crashed into it. A small oil slick was beginning to taint the sea black as tiny figures ran helter-skelter on its deck. A small armada of yellow inflatable escape rafts floated in and out of view with the swells, looking to Josef more like an army of angry wasps swarming a dying animal than life-saving instruments from the distance he was at. The frontal part of the ship was enveloped into a plume of thick black smoke, with small flicks of flame briefly shooting out as rounds contained within the frontal magazine cooked off.

The injured pilot took note but simply shrugged before turning. His brain had been through too much, and the magnitude of what he saw simply did not process. He had one singular purpose though... one specific goal which somehow kept playing over and over. He had to find those kids he had met when he first crash-landed. He couldn't recall why, but the fact some young impressionable kid had mistaken for a space alien was something he couldn't live with. No greater wrong had ever been inflicted upon boy-kind by his understanding, and he would have to fix it or suffer eternally for his sin.

======

Mossview Park

"Its time to go!" The Senior Operative screamed, motioning for everyone to get down.

He immediately dropped into a crouch, raising his AK-113 and firing at the approaching helicopters. His position was hasty at best, but the hard cover offered by the discarded oil drums and refuse lumber would stop most bullets. His men, on instinct, had dove for cover and began to rapidly return fire. All around him men were screaming. Several FSIS Operatives had been ripped apart, caught off-guard by the sudden arrival of enemy forces. Entrails and gore were sprayed everywhere as they were vaporized by helicopter chain guns.

An errant Cardwithian ran behind him, spraying blindly over his shoulder as he tore back towards the chainlink fence. The Operative intentionally tripped him, pulling the man into cover just as the pile of shipping pallets directly in front of him exploded into a hailstorm of splinters. No words were exchanged as the CO abandoned him and continued down the line, checking on his men from cover to cover.

======

Illyich stared at the box, completely oblivious to the sounds of war erupting all around him. In his zone, he did not take notice as the building was slowly ripped apart by helicopter chain guns or rockets.

He studied the clasp and locking mechanism as the roof was torn off by a dub rocket.

Each of the rusting rivets went under close inspection as the cinder block walls were slowly chipped away by a cacophony of armor-piercing rounds, quickly transforming the sturdy building material into swiss cheese.

A hand on his back brought him immediately to reality. It was the strike team's senior operative.

"Its time to go Voronshev! WE ARE LEAVING!" He screamed, although to Illyich it sounds like just above a whisper.

His daze prevented him from moving at an appropriate speed, so the CO had to drag the frazzled FSIS by his collar. Underneath one arm he held firmly the small box. All around them, flames licked at the roof and exposed wood. Embers fell on them like rain as mounds of junk piled into the recesses of every room self-immolated.

The old locker room had caught fire, Illyich noted. Perhaps that was the only way it could be cleansed of what had happened there.

======

Noritts Air Force Base

Vadim gloomily studied the battlefield. The raid had been distracting but not upsetting. His men and the local garrison had acted as a well-oiled machine should and repelled the invaders. Whether they were ten or one hundred, he cared little. The task at hand required his immediate attention.

Despite his career choice, he had no love of war. Oftentimes this is what separated him from his subordinates, or so he felt. Many were gung-ho idealists, ready to throw their energies where ever and however they were told. He on the other hand had seen enough of war to know that it was a self-recycling system. War led to more war, and while it kept men like him employed, it also created demons no man should have to face. The developing situation in Panto Leto, which he had only heard snippets through back channels from his friend Admiral Yashin, had forced him rather uncomfortably to assess his position in life. Philosophical crises were not uncommon, but the older he got the more frequently he seemed to have them.

The battle over on West Cardwith was going well. The only caveat was the equal meeting of forces and subsequent casualties incurred. Search and Rescue hadn't even begun and estimations were already obscenely high. They were horrifically outside the acceptable range laid out in the initial operations briefings, which once again reaffirmed the lack of value associated with predicting outcomes. From the picture he was gathering, several platoons had been wiped out completely and only existed in strength on paper. The loss in materiel could be replaced in short-order, but manpower was another thing entirely. While VICE had declared the operation a decisive victory, he couldn't help but feel as though it was pyrrhic in some capacity. Decisive in the sense they won the field completely, but at a cost he deemed far too great.

He smiled slightly, taking amusement in his own vacillations. In other spheres of military thought, he would be congratulated for his unit's masterful use of armored and electronic warfare. Yet, he felt as though he let his men down. Nothing more and nothing less. Thoughts drifted to the 1st Strike Wing. He had heard nothing from them since the start of offensive operations many hours prior. Quickly in, VICE had simply lost track of them over the sea as they co-mingled with all of the other fighters in the region. Even their lifesaving super-technology had its limits. Still, his thoughts unnaturally drifted to them.

The computers whirled around him, mingling with the sounds of his own mind as it worked trying to process the battles displayed on the VICE table in front of him.

What he needed was air.

[USG Security Corporation]

SWWOOOMMMFFF!

They floated down for what seemed like forever from their launching out of the back of Crossbow One, the RCC Baron (AWACs/C&C/EW) aircraft. Then skidding impact. The double walled rubber life pod ball caromed off the water once, twice, then settled on the third, glancing impact. Despite all the protection and straps, both men felt their teeth rattle in their head on the first impact, which must be what if felt like if one was trapped in a rubber ball when it hit concrete at high impact.

On the second smacking into the sea, General Tell’s safety strap broke loose. Next he knew, he was bouncing free and around the pod as Shoemaker tried to grab out for him. He tumbled around and then felt his left leg get jammed up on a lower, bulging compartment of the life pod. His weight came down on it funny and he could feel the popping and tearing all the way up to his hip and shooting upwards to all his pain receptors.
“Aaagghh!”

“You alright, Sir?”

“Aggh...Naaahh. My leg and hip. I think I tore or broke something.”

“Aw crap! Well, hang tight.” Chief Shoemaker unbuckled as the pod finally started to settle into the waves. It was about then that they both looked at each other, hearing the huge GA9 belly smack the surf off in the distance. It was a distinctive chopping noise and that first flop was like a thunder crack. Then, the charges on Crossbow One went off and they heard ripping and more thunder as the plane was blasted apart from the inside. All the sensitive electronics gear...and Lieutenant Wellesby, the pilot were vaporized in multiple blasts. Shoemaker didn’t even need to whip out his detonator to ensure the job was done with the extra charges, as they could tell what was happening out there.

“Wellesby was a good man.” Tell said solemnly.

“Yes, he was, Sir.”

“What a horrible way to die.”

“He was doing his duty, Sir. He saved us all.”

“I guess...I hope I’m worthy enough.”

Chief Shoemaker didn’t know how to reply to that other than a simple affirmation.
“Of course you are, sir.”

He resumed crawling over to General Tell to inspect his leg. He gently turned the leg around, watching the General’s wincing, then fished a lock blade out of a zippered cargo pocket. He carefully, especially with the bobbing motion, began to slice up the effected leg. He held back a whistle as he looked down at the leg. Nothing was breaking the skin, but the red marks and instant discoloration was alarming and all across the leg. Even more alarming was the bulge where bone was pushing at the skin in the wrong area, a part of the General’s fibula seemed to want to burst through.
“Just hang in there, General, sir. I’m going to grab the first aid kit.”
He took just a second to read the side inner pockets of the life pod, then locked on to the one for the first aid kit.
“Ah, yeah! Here we go. At the very least we can numb you out a bit…”

“No drugs! I need to be lucid. I don’t want any drugs.”
Through the waves of pain, Nelson could imagine himself being captured by the Falkies in a cloudy, drugged up state. That wouldn’t do at all.

“I...uh...General, you have to be in severe pain. You might need something to just help you function.”
Shoemaker held up a syringe.

“Fine, just, don’t dope me up to the gills.”

“No sir, never.”
The Chief then proceeded to do exactly that, injecting the heavy pain killer into the USG commanding officer. After a few minutes, he heard a sigh.
“Now I am going to make a splint, you just sit tight.”

Eventually, the USG Warrant Officer had done about all he could. Tell slipped off into a heavy doze, starting to snore as the waves lapped up at the reinforced walls of their inflated pod. They were in no danger of being swamped or capsized as the sea was a little rough, but not stormy, so...
The Chief zipped back the top of the pod, hoping to get some light and better air flow into the life pod. The salty air hit them. Tell didn’t wake but he did grunt and make a few odd sounds, then he went comfortably back into his deep slumber.
Chief Shoemaker sighed. There wasn’t much left to do but wait and hope. And pray.

---

Command Center, Campobello, Panto Leto

They ran. Ran deeper into the recesses of the large building, putting distance between them and the invaders breaching the Command Center. Outside, gunfire. Yelling. Explosions. Muted, clipped utterings in that peculiar distinct Anglo-Gaulic patois mix from the Wishtonian area. They were marshalling their forces for the final push to capture the last defenders around the admin infrastructure of Campobello.

There were a few others left in the Command Center, as there always were. They stood around, uncertain. A couple even still sat at their computers, trying to get last updates and bits of info through the system.
Major Ouelt and Master Sergeant Galvin hollered at them to get them out of their shock,
“Come on! Move! We’re under attack. Get to the armory, now! Let’s go!” Shouted in English.
As with the combat personnel of the USG, the administrators were also a multi-national, mixed ethnic and racial lot. English or Common was a unifying tongue around the multiverse, as well as the USG.

Many of the admin staff snapped out of it, with their training taking over. Whatever slim training that was. While some wore uniforms and had gone through the rigorous advanced training of the Uli Schwyz Galien Regiments, keeping fresh in their preparedness, others were forever desk bound, never having need to travel out of the office. They were REMF chair-squatters. Now they were helpless and being shepherded by their more capable co-workers towards areas of safety.

The USG had rarely, if almost never, practiced for a raid on the home island. It just wasn’t fathomable to any from the higher command on down to the rank and file, although it had always been theoretically possible. Western Teremara was a very placid, peaceful place, especially in the center of the Sea, as well, the location of Panto Leto wasn’t exactly advertised. Quite the opposite in fact, and the Intexa, the intel support arm of the USG went to great lengths to keep mention of the island out of the media and not printed on maps. Vendors most often dropped shipments off to the docks at Touloux, Gaul, where special contractors, sworn to secrecy, then shipped it on to the Island.

At the urging of several officers and NCOS, some of the Command Center staff followed the two, others undid the safeties on their sidearms and got low. The raiders were in the building now. Rounds were shattering glass and puncturing walls. They watched one staffer take a round in the upper chest, flying back to take out the LED screen on his desk. Blood sprayed, then bubbled out from the large wound. He sprawled off the edge, collapsing over the side. The Cards were not hammering at them with some light machine gun. They meant business and they weren’t concerned about taking prisoners. Master Sergeant Galvin reached for the stricken CC staffer as they crouched, but the man’s eyes were already glazed.
Major Ouelt urged them on,
“He’s gone. Come on, let’s keep moving.”

Galvin dropped the arm of the staffer, and followed, as did a trio of other USG admin staffers pulling rear guard. Gunfire was fierce as the intruders penetrated the building and poured fire into any resistance. The death toll mounted for the USG CC staff.

Suddenly, another barrage of RPGs came streaking down the hallway. Ouelt’s party was lifted off their feet as the concussive force was bounced around the corner of the hallway. They tumbled forward, along with bits of cubicle, wall and large shards of glass.

---

The Sea off Panto Leto

Finally, after some time had passed with the reinforced rubber life pod bobbing on the waves, Nelson woke up to see the Chief watching him.
“Sorry, Sir. Not trying to be creepy. Just bored and thinking.”

“I understand, Chief.” General Tell managed to get out. He was very groggy and felt the haze around him. The Chief had doped him up good, but he managed to grasp on to some normalcy, to remember how to function not just as an adult human, but as a superior military officer.

After a little bit of time bobbing in the waves in silence, they were startled as a shape hit the outer wall of the pod. It’s shadow lingered, and both men could plainly see the second time it pushed into the upper lighter, semi-translucent material of the life pod that it was the shape of a head and upper torso.
“Can you get him in here, Chief? I wish I could help, but it hurts to move right now.”

“I understand. I’d rather you stay put, Sir. I can try and haul him in.” Shoemaker started to bring down the part of one wall of the pod. As he did so, he became thoroughly soaked and some of the sea splashed into the pod. He struggled and locked around the figure’s arms. He pulled with all his might up and over, bringing the body of a pilot into the life pod. The dark grey flight suit was charred in many spots and the seawater that was puddling around him was tinting pink quickly from wounds that were bleeding from somewhere on his body. It was one of theirs.

Chief Shoemaker searched for a pulse and checked for other vitals, lifting up the eyelids of the pilot.
“He’s still with us. Barely.”
Shoemaker searched for the wounds and pulled bandages out from the kit. He tried to patch up the USG pilot as best he could in a controlled panic.

General Tell had scooched himself over to where the Chief worked on the pilot, wincing all the way. Nelson gently pulled the shoulders and head of the pilot who had served his organization onto his lap. He felt for a pulse, even though the Chief had done it just minutes ago, then looked closer at the pilot’s graying face.
“I’m sorry, Chief. He’s gone. I’ve seen it often enough.”

All the Chief could do was puff out air deeply. He leaned back against the wall of the life pod/raft, defeated. Bandage wrappers and gauze fell from his hands.

“Williams.” He read off the nametape on the flight suit. “He was one of the Shalumites.”

“Hunh?”
Shoemaker grunted out the inquiry.

Tell held up the arm of the pilot he was still cradling in his lap. On the sleeve of the flight suit, there was an unofficial patch displaying the stylized letters S.F.C. and a small Shalumite flag. It was under the official skull and arrows crest patch of the USGSC.
“The Shalumite Flying Club. Part of Gold Arrow Squadron. Obviously flying one of the Shrikes.”

“Ah, yeah. I see it now.”

“Chief, can you do the...crossy thing? The rights of the last? Is that what it’s called? I don’t know his religion, but something along those lines would seem appropriate.”
The General pulled the pilot’s head closer so he could look at him. His hands were reverently on the deceased fighters’ shoulders. It was as if he was saying goodbye to a son. Tears flowed down his cheeks, but he didn’t let out a sob.

“Oh… uh, you mean the stations of the cross. The Last Rights, Sir?”

“Yes, and say a few words.”

“Well, I’m no priest, General, so I can’t do proper Last Rights, but I think I could manage to do a ‘few words’. I did grow up a Catholic in Bahs-stun, Mass in good ol’ America, fer chrissakes.”

“Ah, well, good thing. I grew up in Neu Engollon, of course. Most of us aren’t very religious or spiritual there. It’s times like these, though, I wish I had a little foundation in faith.”

Shoemaker nodded. He did a decent mini eulogy for the pilot, genuflecting as he did. Then he sat back.
“I know you’re trying to be respectful, General, but you should probably move to the other side of the pod again, for balancing. One good solid wave and we might upend.”

“Oh, right! Right. Sorry.” He started to try to scooch but the Chief shook his head.

“Nevermind. You stay put and I'll go to the other side. Actually, I will try to see if I can find a body bag in one of these pod cargo pockets...or at least something close.” He began to rummage, but staying to the other side as much as possible.

“Maybe a blanket, at least?”

“Yes, I think these things usually have supplies for at least four, so we should be able to spare a thermal blanket.”
Finally, the Chief found a fire blanket and wrapped the pilot up in it, covering his head, but removing the helmet first. Then the body of the fallen Gold Arrow Squadron pilot lay there between them. Nelson Tell sighed, then spoke.
“God bless, Lieutenant Williams. You made the ultimate sacrifice for your brethren. You are a hero among heroes. I will never forget you, or the other men who have paid the price today to defend our island.”
While some may scoff at the fact they were still considered mercenaries, many that day knew they were not just serving out another contract, but defending the families of USG troops and support personnel that lived on the island. Williams head lying on his lap very much reminded General Tell of this fact.

They bobbed for a while in silence, listening to the waves hit the sides of the life pod and contemplating life and death.
Chief Shoemaker rousted himself, checking his watch, then crawled over to the General, lifting up the torn pants to check on the legendary leader’s leg.
“Not swollen any bigger, that’s good...Holdin’ steady there, Sir. How does it feel?”

“Oh...about the same. Pounding.”

They sat for more in silence for a while, hoping for rescue. Shoemaker had scrounged up some energy bars from one of the pod zipper pockets and forced General Tell to eat one. Who knew how long they’d been in there, but they did the trick.

---

Bugeber, Panto Leto

They sat on one of the low hills in the central training grounds of Bugeber, in the middle of the island. Command Sergeant Major Terry McClanahan and his dwindling crew of recruits and cadre continued to hold out against the invaders. They were all veterans of wars, contracts and episodes that one didn’t repeat in polite company. Terry had been a Marine in a former life. He had grown to love life among the Neu Engollians, embracing their camaraderie and their outlook on all things from business to recreation to war. Of the current group, only one was Neu Engollian, who was also the only commissioned officer, a lieutenant. Lt. Groenweld, despite being the highest ranking, deferred to the CSM, as did everyone in the group. This was about experience, not official rank.

The rest of the team was filled out by a Radictistani, Shalumite, Prut, Nifonese, Edomite, Ecossian, Glisandian, Gaul and three Catalans. Their nationality didn’t matter though, as they were all USG warriors today. All were fighting for their survival against the invaders that were storming the island, who wouldn’t discriminate who was which nationality when it came to eradicating the defenders. While new recruits to the USG, all of them were hardened veterans from their own national military forces and had served in various conflicts across the globe.

However combat hardened they were, most had fallen under the spell that they were on a safe haven and that idea had been supported by the cadre on the island. The notion that nothing bad could ever happen on Panto Leto had been shattered permanently. Here, it had always been a game until they left the confines of the cozy island. The barrage of Falkasian missiles and screaming Cardwithian commandos had dissuaded them from that illusion of safety.
To be fair, there were defenses around the island, with gun pits, rocket pods and radar sites spread out throughout to thwart such an invasion. New recruits even had to take patrol duties at certain times during their training. None of that had prepared them for the reality of a full assault of the scope that the Falkasian//Cardwithian task force had unleashed on them all.

Now they fought for their lives and those of their new comrades as the invaders pushed inland from the beaches. They had split up into separate teams in order to engage the Falkasian and Card commandos, but the groups had been whittled down slowly, while also taking a toll on the enemy. They had tried all the ambushes they could, luring the Cards and Falkasian raiders into quickly made, makeshift traps. It worked sometimes. Other times, the enemy was not drawn in.

Their enemy didn’t know the terrain as intimately, but they were not exactly greenies or regular front line troops, either. These were the top echelon that the enemy could throw at the USG home base, and the USG training cadre and recruits were realizing that quickly as the firefights raged in small engagements throughout the wooded area.

Top McClanahan knew it was only a matter of time that they could hold out. Relief wasn’t coming. What would have been their relief were duking it out on the Hutanjian islands, tens of thousands of kilometers away. This was the bulk of the resistance force on the island, right here, and they hadn’t been able to get their hands on much live ammo. There’d been a couple caches for such emergencies in Bugeber, as there was in Campobello and at the air field. They’d also been able to arm some of their impromptu guerrilla groups with captured arms from the invaders. Still, there seemed to be a fair amount of commando troops that the Cards and Falkies could throw at them, plus they could call in support. Rockets, missiles, air strikes.

Friendly air support had dried up over the island. It seemed that not enough of Gold Arrow Squadron had been able to get airborne in time, and Terry couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one of their own aircraft race across the island. He knew they wouldn’t just abandon their comrades on the ground, so that meant…

The stark reality was there for all to see. They were done and the battle was all but lost. Still, not one of these brave men and women declined to fight. No one was ready to throw in the towel yet. Not in the ‘Bug’. The enemy would pay dearly for every centimeter of ground they took here in the Bugeber Field Training Grounds.

---

Campobello, Panto Leto

Island support personnel, families of USG soldier/contractors, and a few other workers were still being rounded up. The Cardwithian PASG commandos had trucked in many at gunpoint Some had surrendered after the Khaddiuggia Airfield fight, some came from the facilities further south, there were the captured recruits fighting in the Bugeber, all of them to join the Campobello base denizens in two spots, the secondary school gymnasium, and in the small sports arena, which was usually used for rugby matches. The invaders had put concertina wire up around the blocks surrounding, and were also systematically searching for any civilians still in hiding, sweeping all the buildings, housing and facilities across the northern parts of the Island.

Any time any of the USG soldiers tried to communicate with each other, they were punched, slapped, prodded, and even clubbed with rifle butts. The PASG fighters made it known that they would keep a tight lid on any attempted breakout of the prisoners. They weren’t as harsh with the civilian women and children among the prisoners, but they still kept a sharp eye.

The children of the Campobello school began to act as a clandestine network, carrying verbal messages from one group of USG soldiers to another. The message was clear: “Hold tight unless they begin to shoot. We won’t risk our families if they aren’t threatened.”

Meanwhile, the roads to Kamma were sealed and roadblocked by a smaller force of PASG commandos. Kamma was the small town at the southern tip of Panto Leto which was home to the workers and families that were integral to the function of the USG home base island. Mess cooks, housekeepers, maintenance personnel, restaurant staff, sanitation and utility workers...Any staff that weren’t combat trained contractors, pilots or the administrative or Intexa (Intelligence/support) personnel were Kamma residents, bussed to the north and central parts of the island every day. The Cards seemed to have no desire to go in and directly take the families of Kamma hostage, but in effect they were sealing up the whole town and taking it hostage. Their intel was solid that there were little to no arms to be had in Kamma, and so Kamma couldn’t possibly mount a counter attack to free their masters to the North.

Moreso, the Cardwithians and their Falkasian allies were worried about the nearby enlisted and NCO barracks than they were Kamma residents. Whatever recruits weren’t fighting in Bugeber, or patrolling the shores or Scauri docks were likely to be back at the barracks West of Kamma. Hence the cordon set up around the barracks and sealing off the town.

---

The Chief tried to think of more things to talk about to take General Tell’s mind off his throbbing leg.
Suddenly, he blurted out.
“Do you ever have any regrets?”

Tell looked at him strangely for a minute.
Chief Shoemaker wavered, trying to backtrack,
“I’m sorry. I...don’t…”

“No that’s okay. I understand why you said it. I suppose I have some, Chief.”

“Did you ever want to get married? Have a family? I know that’s my big one.”

“It’s an understandable wish. Common for most men I suppose.”

“So, um...Did you ever wish for a family, sir?”

“I do have a family, Chief.”

Shoemaker almost choked.
“Wait...What?”
No one was ever able to get many details about their legendary leader’s private home life. Most men thought he was just married to his job, and only a few select officers and command NCOs had ever been to his villa on the Island, where he supposedly lived in solitude.
Tell smirked briefly, knowing he was cracking a mystery.
“I know I don’t talk about it much...at all, really, with the men. Perhaps I should open more. If we do get back...”

“When we get back!?”

“Yes. When we do. Anyway, I have two boys. Kodran and Sefu. They live with their mother in a villa just west of Panoli. They’re getting up there in age now. Fine young men. Sefu’s the older one. He’s in college now...Burgunden University. I see them for 3 weeks every year. We sail, fish, picnic on the beach, play touch rugby, watch the sun set on the water...”

“That sounds nice, but...they only see you for 3 weeks a year? How come your wife, at least, doesn’t want to live on the island?”

“She did live on the island briefly, back when I was a mid-level officer. And she’s not my wife…”

“Uh...partner…?”

“Ex-wife.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re still very good friends. I met her on my first contract with the Uli-Schwyz back in the late 80’s.” Nelson Tell ran his fingers through his silvery reddish hair.
“I was hit bad in a RPG blast. She was my nurse. Got me back to health. We fell in love. I thought I’d convinced her that all soldiers aren’t bad. Growing up in Mubata like she did, that’s not an apparent fact, you see...That soldiers don’t all rape and pillage and such.”

“Oh...I’m sure.” Chief Shoemaker still was trying to wrap his head round it all. The General, a family man, in an interracial marriage, no less. These days it wasn’t so risque, but back then...

“We had the boys a few years later. We made a go of it as a young family. It was never that there wasn’t enough love there. It was that she couldn’t reconcile being a soldier’s wife, especially supportive of soldiers of our particular caliber. I enjoy spending time with her as much as the boys when I go back to visit now. We’ve put it all in the past. We are good friends that share children, if that makes sense?”

“Yes I think so. How does she like Neu Engollon?”

“Living in my villa?” Tell smiled at the Chief’s raised eyebrow, “Nah, I think she likes it well enough. Panoli is a big cosmopolitan port city with a big influx from around the world. She works in an advocacy center for immigrants. They’ve made quite a life for themselves there. So, regrets...maybe. Maybe that I didn’t retire sooner, but I’m afraid that civilian life might not hold much for me. I enjoy it for a time, but it loses its luster after a few weeks for me. Someday, I’ll have to get used to it.”

“To civilian life?”

“Yes. Retirement. No one seems to want to let me go out in a blaze of glory ‘round here. Case in point our interrupted flight...Although…” He looked around, not speaking the rest of his thoughts that they might not be rescued, or worse, recovered by the wrong people. “So...You grew up in Boston?”

“Yes, sir. Dorchester. Some good days spent there. I need to make my way back one of these days.”

“It’s a long way back to that part of the world, but I know you’ll make it back.”

“That it is, sir. I…” He stopped. Then squinted. “Do you hear that? Sort of a buzz?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think...wait! Yes! Yes, I do. What is that?”

“A better question would be who is that? Is it the good guys or the bad guys?”

---

Frontlines of West Cardwith

USG units on West Cardwith were scattered among their Hutanjian client regiments. They fought the best they could, after recovering from the initial barrages and assaults. While UFF and Card irregulars, along with some Falkasian and ISVC allied commando ops units, tried to cut off supply lines to the Edomites and Hutanjians and attack isolated units far behind the lines, several USG platoons set about to hunt down the enemy commandos. It was some of the most vicious fighting to be seen on the island that day as both sides fought tooth and nail to eradicate the others, while the major conventional forces were also slugging at each other.

Attempts to call in air support on the infiltrating UFF groups were to no avail as almost all the Allied air support was tied up fighting their counterparts in the air or engaging enemy armored columns. Priority wise, a handful of raggedy guerrillas were not enough to draw them away from the life and death struggle they were engaged in with far deadlier armed prey.

So, the heaviest that could be brought to bear on the insurgents were heavy mortars, rocket launchers, barrages of grenades and the occasional mobile rocket artillery unit. They got quite a bit back in kind as the UFF fighters had their own mortars and rocket launchers.

The USG men worked to corral their prey by using their scouts riding in the light patrol vehicles with mounted heavy MGs, and in some cases even on motor bikes, with one trooper hanging off the back firing off a grenade launcher.

It quickly became apparent though as the day wore on that they were losing, as Palegata began to fall to enemy forces and Jalakra was completely engulfed in flames. Allied forces began a fighting retreat to the north of the island and the next urban strongholds leaving behind mounds of their dead, smoking metal carcasses and smashed up fuselages of downed aircraft that littered the hilly landscape and some cut off holdouts that would eventually become enemy prisoners.

The Cards and Falkies were throwing all they could muster into this fight and the center would not hold.

[Hutanjia]

The Hutanjians fought as hard as their allies, in most cases, on West Cardwith. The 16th Regiment, as mentioned before, was an anomaly of misfits in an otherwise very toughened army that had already slugged it out with irregular UFF and regular Cardwithian forces for two solid years, not to mention previous scattered guerrilla actions. The problem was that while they had often trained to fight such a massive conventional battlefront and had once before, during the invasion to take this very same island, been utilized in such a manner, the Hutanjian Republican Army was simply better suited to take on their enemy in small unit, unconventional tactics. That was how most of the war had been fought up to this point.

The bulk of the New Edomite and Falkasian armored and mechanized units were fiercely engaging each other to the East of Palegata, with some support from each of their native allied sister units.
Jalakra was burning and gone, the 16th HRA regiment that had been defending it mostly wiped out and the survivors in tatters and in full retreat. However, it was not passable at this time by the Card and Falkasian units assaulting it, so encompassing was the raging inferno in Jalakra and its environs.

To the East, near the old capital of Hesttens, Edomite units were fighting off Cardwithian and ISVC troops that were pouring in, some by land and some by boat that attempted to go around the temporary DMZ fortifications that had been built via the Grand Cardwith Channel between East and West Cardwith.
Some Card and Falkasian missile batteries from the Western coast of East Cardwith had the range to rain down destruction on the defending Edomite units surrounding Hesttens. Many were taken out by Edomite land and ship based counterbatteries, but not before firing off a couple good salvos.

Then there was the West - Palegata. Hutanjian forces attempted to hold but were losing their supply lines and support to UFF guerrilla attacks behind the lines. The urban warfare was bloody and uncompromising. Machete charges over the rubble from both sides were not common, but not quite as scarce as one might believe. The Hutanjians were losing the city and being overwhelmed, but they weren’t going quietly.

---

North of Palegata, West Cardwith

General Wakala looked over the reports and did what he could to see the bigger picture. Yes, the enemy obviously were blitzkrieging in the hopes of overwhelming the Allied forces in his sector. From other reports coming in, he knew that diversionary attacks had occurred on both North Cardwith and at Vesselle, and even on Nevorn, the home island itself by enemy infiltrators.
He felt that the other shoe hadn’t fallen yet, and that bothered him greatly.

Generals Fotona, Unwerth and Merari continually tried to get updates from him, but there wasn’t much to tell them other than they were continuing to try to hold and incurring severe losses in the process. On the plus side, from what they could gather, they were also inflicting heavy losses on the enemy both at land and at sea. However, this didn’t seem to be deterring the Cards in the slightest. They were throwing a lot of their chips on the table in order to take back West Cardwith. The only Allied commander he hadn’t talked to much was Colonel Moeller, head of the USG troops on West Cardwith, other than getting affirmatives to his requests or snippets of information from the USG command.

He looked over the map with his junior staff officers while West Card command staff ran reports, or changed the screens on some of the computer monitors to reflect new developments on the battlefield.
“I feel like I should be there, maybe in a forward position near Palegata.”

Colonel Tomenga shook his head.
“I don’t see what good that would do, Sir. It would only put you in danger. Palegata is not holding. We’ve lost Jalakra already and Hesttens is in jeopardy. The whole line is falling back. As your security officer, I will have to insist that we stay put right now.”

Actually, the Colonel was making arrangements to pack up the command group and get them the opposite direction towards Anjoux to ensure they made evacuation. Yes, that contingency had been planned and as things got even more bleak, it seemed more viable by the hour.

“I need to be more active in leading the troops here. They need to see me and have more confidence that we’re doing all we can. I need to meet with our battlefront commanders.”

“They’re busy, Sir. Staying alive at this point, really. This isn’t like the old days where leading from the front made a difference. All that would do is put you in harms way for no good purpose. You can video conference with any of your commanders you feel like. The situation is just too chaotic out there.”

“Yes, but none of them have responded to hails to get on their vid screen.”

“Again. They’re very busy right now, Sir. You know that. They haven’t even had a breather in the last few hours to do anything other than direct the defense. We’re lucky to get the occasional text on the secure command net.”

“I know. I just feel like communication is breaking down...”
Neither of them continued that line of thought. Not only was communication breaking down, but the actual front lines were breaking down with them. The enemy’s attempts to encircle and cut off the Hutanjian units were so far more successful than previous defense plans had accounted for. He hoped that the Edomites were doing better than his forces.

Then rockets and artillery began to strike. The walls shook and dust showered them from the rattling ceilings.

“It’s time to go, sir.”

“But…”

“NOW, Sir. Boginda! Start burning documents! Get as many men as you can on that. I want the rest to beef up security. Do it, NOW!”

The Colonel grabbed General Wakala out of his chair and began to push him towards the door.
“We’re done here, Sir.”

“I need to call General Fotona...The President…”

“From the road, Sir.”

---

Vesselle JFB, Nesselberg

The Western end of the military district of Vesselle was burning wreckage, bodies and scurrying personnel. Many of the CV-25s, the Cardwithian version of the Falkasian VTOLs, lay demolished across the tarmac and surrounding fields of Vesselle air base. It had been a diversionary attack without much chance of success, but the enemy hadn’t seemed to feel it was a suicidal attack until most of their transport was blasted out and they were forced to fight to the death or surrender.

The air defense had been more dedicated and integrated than Card and Falkasian intel had predicted and had managed to knock out most of the Card transport helicopters, gunships and VTOLs before they could escape, and in many cases before they could even disgorge their troops. It had been a major slaughter for the Cards and probably the worst defeat of the campaign for them, where they were defeating the Hutanjians and allies on West Cardwith and North Cardwith, plus blows struck on Nevorn and central and southern Nesselberg. The supporting air escort had been beaten and chased off by the allied squadrons and now all that was left was patching up the defenders and rounding up the surviving Card commandos. Bodies still littered the tarmac and the surrounding fields, most of them belonged to the enemy.

---

Near Norritts Major Operations Base, East Cardwith

They fell back as well as they could, but they were taking fire beyond anything any small force could withstand. Mortars were beginning to land among them and grenade launchers were also bracketing them. The mission was most definitely off. Not only would they not be able to take out Nellis, but they’d be lucky to hit any Card or Falkasian commissioned officer at this point.

The security forces continued to edge forward, flanking the combined HAR/HSA force. The Rangers and HSA agents backed each other up, unloading their rifles and sub machine guns furiously as they gave their comrades a chance to reload and do the same. For every one that fell, they took out 5 to 6 of the enemy, but it still wouldn’t matter towards saving the mission or saving their own hides. They knew they were dead men running.

Chief Agent Rauzinta grabbed the man closest to him, who happened to be Ranger Atave, the nephew of the infamous KHS Chief.
“Fall back to that hill!”

They did, as other rangers and HSA agents covered and were splattered by answering gunfire that only increased with every second. Soon it was just the two of them left, picking off enemy soldiers that jogged up the hill. The small artillery fire slacked off, not wanting to hit their own people who had closed the noose tight now. The Falkasian security force took one side of the hill and the Cardwithians took the other.
When they ran out of cover, they buckled down and waited out the return fire from whatever defenders were left.

Rauzinta and Atave shot sparingly, but finally, their last magazines ran dry.
“I’m out.”

The young Ranger fired his AKS-74, then was squeezing the trigger to no effect.
“So am I. That was my last round. What do we do now?”

“There’s no poison pills.”

“...Huh?”

“We surrender. That’s it.”

“I’d rather die.”

“With what?”

The ranger brought out his field knife. Rauzinta immediately slapped it away. It spun to the ground and banged off a rock to land a few feet away.
“That’s it. We’re done. Throw down your weapons, ranger. We’ll live to fight another day.”

Atave nodded, as if to comply, then dashed up from the boulder he was hiding, raising up his empty rifle as if to fire upon their pursuers just meters away. He was cut down by a fusilade.
He slumped back onto the rock, leaving a blood smear as he collapsed to the side.

Rauzinta sighed, upending his rifle into the dirt in front of him and watching it tilt away and fall in a cloud of dirt. He sat quietly as the enemy surrounded their last redoubt.

“Stahn up ye. Han up o we blast ya pono off ya!”

A white man in fatigues stepped forward. He spoke in perfect, if Slavic accented, English.
“Valiant effort, man, but it’s over now. Time to call it a day.”

Rauzinta was pushed to his stomach and his wrists were ziptied behind him. With that, Operation Bastille ended in a whimper. Rauzinta knew that once they found out his true status, he would be mercilessly tortured by Card intel and the FSIS. He winced internally, lamenting a bad decision. Atave had taken the best way out after all.

---

Green Villa, Chastille, Nevorn

President Hespatu had insisted on leaving the bunker, and there was no more holding him back. Truth be told, as the HSA and local authorities poured over Eastern Chastille, it became evident that all the UFF infiltrators that had been throwing grenades or spraying sub machine gun fire had all either gone to ground or been eliminated. There were no prisoners to be had from the Market attacks in the area.

Now Hespatu sat in a fairly isolated inner room of the Green Villa, the presidential residence that he had established after officially taking office after the collapse of the monarchy. A few advisers were there, as well as Brigadier Loputka , the close aide of General Fotona. A full battalion from the 3rd Rangers guarded the whole area and were aggressively patrolling. A cordon of HSA agents were inside, coordinating with the outer security and tensely awaiting anything that was out of the ordinary.
One of them brought sandwiches from the kitchen for the President and the commanders. They tore into them, not sure when they’d again have a chance to eat.

“I really need to talk to Fotona.”

“He’s in the air up above Vesselle, Sir. Monitoring the situation. We’ll get him to a line when we can.”

“Then let me talk to Wakala. I really need to speak with General Wakala.”

“He’s on the run right now, Sir. We don’t know when he’ll reach the next Command Post sight. They have had to fall back from Palegata.”

“Nonsense. They can’t fall back. We have superior firepower. Besides, the New Edomites and Ulis would never give an inch.”

“Mr. President, I don’t exactly know the situation at this moment, but from what we can gather, the whole front is collapsing. There’s nothing we can do until it stabilizes.”

“What are they throwing at us, then?”

“Our fleets are evenly matched and duking it out with the Cards and the ISVC ships. Massive air power, probably all they have, is what’s overwhelming us. Plus, a lot of armor, to the West between Jalakra and Palegata, from what our aerial recon shows and on the ground reports. The New Edomites are stopping them cold so far, but it’s a large, costly battle. We’ve been able to divert some of our armor to help from Palegata. There’s a lot of partisan/insurgent attacks all behind the lines and it’s messing up coordination and supply.”

“What’s the good news?”

“I have none at the moment, Mr. President. Well, that’s not totally true...We’re alive. That’s something. No tactical use of nuclear weapons, as the worst case scenarios might have predicted.”

“On the battlefront, man. We winning anywhere?”

“We repulsed an attack on Vesselle and really swatted their air support there. We are experiencing insurgent attacks on North Cardwith, but so far its holding. There was some report out of Molnitha about terrorist attacks, but nothing substantiated. So, looks like the market attacks here in the capital were the only ones.”

“Still horrible.”

“Without a doubt, Sir.”

“I should address the nation.”

“I’m sure they’re aware that you’re pretty busy, Sir.”

---

Eastern Chastille, Nevorn

One of the detectives came into the office section that the HSA had taken over in his precinct in the wake of the Market attacks. One of the agents waved him away.
“We’ve got this covered now. Unless you have specific information, which we’ll ask for, we don’t need your help.”

The detective waved a paper back and forth.
“I do have info, asshole. Let me through.”

The agent reluctantly backed up and the detective shoved past him. The Chief Agent in charge had overheard and nodded, not as willing to piss all over the local law and storing up a reprimand for his agents that did.
“Okay, I’m all ears.”

The detective thrust the paper into his hands.
“It’s a travel visa from Nesselberg. We got it off one of the dead Oofers (UFF fighters)”

“I see that.”

“Yeah, but it’s not legit.”

“It looks legit.”

“It’s official, but the request is bogus. There’s no matching copy in the Registrar’s office. Not with that serial number.”

“And…?”

“The ones in that serial number range were released to someone high up.”

“And…? Can we get to the point?”

“Aide to the Rangatar.”

“The Rangatar? Marindo Yeglanka?!”

“That’s the one, tough guy.”

“Well, what…”

“That’s all we got. I’ll get back to you when we have ‘more specific information’. Thanks, Chief Agent.”
With that the Detective strutted out, but a lot slower than the way he’d come in to his former office.

[New Edom]

GHQ NEMACH, CHASTILLE, NEVORN

New Edomite officers stood around a table looking at a spread out tactical map. General Augrim, General Hermengild and other members of the senior staff of NEMACh stood with folded arms, or smoking cigarettes or making notes. Brigadier-General Hermengild was pointing to figures on a map designating units on air, land and sea.

"Right now, Excellency, we see efforts to enclose our and allied forces on West Cardwith. While we are holding them off, it is clear that the 15th Hussars and the 9th Marines are taking heavy casualties, including in vehicles. We estimate at this point 325 KIA, 350 WIA, and 150 MIA. Nearly an entire squadron of the 15th wiped out, vehicles rendered unusable by what appears to have been EMP. Colonel Abed-Nego has scraped together enough vehicles and support to fall back. They are laying down anti-vehicle mines in their path to try to slow down the advance.

"The Fleet has had its hands full preventing missile and rocket attacks on our supply lines and staging areas. The enemy have enough fighters and attack helicopters that we have our hands full entirely fending them off. We have taken losses there too, but mostly it is this," he said gravely, not able to control his expression entirely but maintaining a professional tone. "Excellency: we cannot keep resupplying ourselves and our allies at this rate. It will come to attrition, I fear, if this continues."

"Is there any possibility of reinforcements from home arriving soon?" asked Colonel Ruthan Demetrios.

"The First Airborne will begin to arrive on Nevorn in...five hours now," reported General Hermengild.

"Do we have five hours on West Cardwith?" asked Demetrios, raising her eyebrows.

General Augrim rubbed his chin. "That shall be as God wills. I think, ladies and gentlemen...we must considere ordering General Merari to pull back entirely on Hesttens, where he can concentrate his defense."

Hermengild took a deep breath. "Are you giving us an order, Sir?"

Augrim folded his arms across his chest. "I should not do so without informing the President of the Council."

A few minutes later, he was talking with General Perrin Pahath-Moab, President of the Council of Ministers.

"General," said the President, who sounded his usual charming self, though Augrim knew the iciness int eh ehart of the man across the oceans in Fineberg, "How likely is it that Merari's forces are going to be enveloped."

"Your Excellency, I regret to say that their complete encirclement is entirely likely. I do not believe that our Airborne Division will be able to even engage due to the...complete engagement of our Air Force and Navy in the area. They would have to divert considerable resources just to defend landing zones. About all the Airborne will be able to accomplish will be to protect Nevorn from further insurgency. But...I fear that we are hopelessly outnumbered on West Cardwith."

"What about Prince Elijah's expeditionary force?" said the President coolly.

"Excellency, with the greatest respect, that will still not arrive for anything faster than three days...if they hurry and have no difficulties with any roving Falkasian patrols. That force will make sure that we do not lose Nesselberg and guarantee resupply for Nevorn. I do not believe that it will be capable of more." Augrim said.

Pahath-Moab replied, "Hold for a moment, General."

Augrim could see it all in his head. The President turns to Minister of Police Sidney Harcourt for confirmation of the intelligence. Admirals and Generals whispered their concerns. The President, cool and confident, nodding to them, making them all look like errand boys. He had never favoured this committement, especially since it had been a committment originally made by King James II.

"General," said Pahath-Moab, "I approve the retreat. We will fight at Hesttens, and then we shall hopefully relieve our forces there by means of Prince Elijah's expedition. Carry on."

Augrim replied, "May God bless Your Excellency."

"God bless you, General, and all whom you command."

Augrim hung up and turned to his staff. "Let us begin planning that withdrawal, and coordinating with Galt. And...we must inform the President. Our positions are being overrun and we must retreat in the best order possible."

This was a bitter, bitter pill, but God was God...

Vesselle JFB, Nesselberg

Colonel Count Adam Jepthah had begun to rotate rest and resupply for his squadrons and Troops as others began to sweep through the security zones around the JFB. The reports from West Cardwith, General Hermengild had warned him, had begun with a series of diversionary attacks followed by an avalanche of Falkasian and West Cardiwth socialist savages. The diversions clearly included false signals from their fleet and air forces.

(Historian's note: at this time, New Edom was extremely light on recon drones. Most of the ones possessed during the time of the Pahath-Moab government were still in the home country, being used for training while maintenance and operations units got used to using them. Most had been purchased through Crookfur Arms or through Wolf Armaments and were not considered sufficiently trained in for active service.)

There were helicopters to be refueled, maintained and re armed. Jepthah's officers and NCOs organized scavenging of ammunition, water and medical supplies and quickly got patrols moving out on foot around the JFB, moving through the fields, farmland and forests, cautiously but steadily sweeping through the area for more insurgents and attackers.

Jepthah also ordered half of his field hospital battalion to move onto the base proper and help the Hutanjians, triaging the worst of the wounded and moving them to areas where they could be helped best.

No one wanted to be taken by the insurgents, Cardies or any of the other communist swine who had been attacking the island. They were known to carry machetes and use them well. Horror stories had circulated around the barracks and ambush sites at night of maimed sentries and scouts being found, the grim reprisals that were visited upon hapless civilians who dared support the Republic and her allies.

As the foot patrols went up, the 24th's own attack and recon helicopters went out in shifts by flights, to overlap with their Hutanjian allies. Coordination of intel through the E-15 bird also tried to anticipate any enemy signals or attempts at encryption of them.

Battleground Between Jalakra and Palegata

A huge lumbering armoured recovery vehicle dug into the side of a badly damaged tank and began to push it out of the way as Colonel Abed-Nego and a Troop of tanks and infantry fighting vehicles took up the tail end charlie position for the retreating armoured squadron. To the rear, many klicks behind them, artillery were firing towards the enemy--this time less intending to hit them than to lay down a minefield to try to slow them down.

One of the convoys was struck by enemy ground attack aircraft, a fierce battle going on as anti-aircraft-artillery began flashing autocannon fire in the air guided by ground radar, anti-air rockets howling into the sky to try to drive them off. Abed-Nego took this all in grimly over the radio in his vehicle.

Things were getting brutal. Without the facility to take prisoners, the few (much fewer than the enemy had taken) that were found were simply shot on the spot. A soldier, moved to compassion by a Falkasian dying near an infantry fighting vehicle that had finally been brought down after taking out an APC and its crew, was roughly shoved aside by a sergeant who shot the wounded man with his sidearm and snapped, "Let's go, you idiot. He's a godless Red, doesn't deserve God's grace except that."

Combat engineers were also doing their best to destroy whatever infrastructure lay in the way as they fell back, chewing up roads, throwing junk and other obstacles to at least require a lot of maneuvering and delay for the enemy. Of course, there were a lot more of them, and they could funnel troops increasingly in a whole 180 curve to the south of them. There were reports that the Marine Infantry were fighting of amphibious assaults near Hessttens.

Major Ben-Hadad, now in contact with the Regiment again, had a different set of orders. With what vehicles had been scraped together along with mortars and anti-aircraft, she was to hold a corridor long enough for their Hutanjian and Uli-Schwyz allies to fall back through. What artillery could be spared would be lent to her. A minefield would be laid down by artillery fire, and what air support could be spared provided. Miraculously, three TH-300 Lakotas had managed to get through with more ammunition, batteries, medical supplies, water and enough MREs for a day at least. Beyond that they would just have to tough it out.

General Merari had passed down these orders crisply, but he felt a moment of sorrow at them. He had little doubt that he was condemning the Mounted Infantry Squadron of the 15th to be overwhelemed and slaughtered, but honour required him to do this thing. They could not abandon their allies without a fight. It went against everything in his character, and he had besides been ordered to by his commanding officer, General Augrim.

9th Marine Infantry Regiment
Hesttens

The once vibrant if poor outskirts of the city were rubble or burning wreckage, a vision of hell. The Marine Infantry were a mechanized unit and so they largely used their infantry fighting vehicles, APCs and specialty vehicles as support as they tried to make every beach and every road a battleground for the enemy, who seemed to keep pouring in at them every hour or so. The zeal of the Cardiwithian socialists was appalling; even if they seemed more inexperienced at war in general, they were determined, had been armed and trained by the Falkasians, and so increasingly the Marine Infantry were taking casualties of the body and of the mind.

However, they were up against a tough unit as well. The 9th Marine Infantry were veteran troops, had a strong esprit de corps and comradeship, were superbly equipped and well led. Colonel de Haren hunkered down with half the regimental command staff in an improvised bunker, while his adjutant was in a camouflaged Hamsher Command Vehicle. He had ordered in gunships to do attack runs against the boats trying to outflank him, and had ordered that combat engineers prepare traps so that enemy units funneled in by feints would get chewed up by mines or collapsing infrastructure.

Thousands of civilians were crowding into what seemed to be safer areas of the city. Stadiums and parks were starting to be overwhelmed by these people, since the genuinely fortified areas and main thoroughfares had to be kept clear. Military Police units had to keep these areas clear for military transport and communications.

Camouflaged and dug in artillery and AAA had their hands full as well. Merari had ordered that artillery avoid firing unless there were absolutely certain targets. Some of the Marine Infantry cursed his name for this order, but de Haren understood: there was, at this time, no guarantee of resupply of heavy munitions unless the Navy won the air battle.

[Falkasia]

The Madurin Sea
The Mi-2 helicopter hovered gently overhead the escape pod, bobbling like a rubber ducky in a sea of bath water. It was a somewhat idyllic sight, almost ironic given how much carnage and chaos was ongoing only a few miles away. Admiral Yashin’s orders had been very specific. If the occupants did not come willingly, the search and rescue crew was to mark their position and then leave them for pickup once the island had been cleared of stragglers.

Having already made the rounds numerous times plucking downed airmen from both sides out of the water surrounding Panto Leto, the waning day was starting to take its toll on crew performance. The pilot himself had been on rotation for nearly 24 hours now, and being the only one with combat experience, was likely to endure another full day or so despite crew rest regulations. The remaining crew, a rescue swimmer and corpsman, had also been up and down more times than they could care to count.

Suffice to say, as the helicopter dropped in altitude to 30 feet, the crew was the least bit excited about the supplemental care instructions assigned to this particular retrieval. In a well-trained maneuver, this time stemming less from adrenaline and more from the muscle-memory associated solely with rigorous repetitions and exhaustion, the rescue swimmer dropped feet first into the drink with a splash and resurfaced again several yards closer to the floating ball.

There was little chop, so the swim was of short duration. The next step would prove much trickier. Grasping the side of the escape pod securely, the man tethered himself to a securing mount and pounded firmly on what appeared to be the exit hatch. His fist, concealed in a neoprene wetsuit, squelched against the hard, cold surface with each hit.

“This is FNS Kazyenko SAR… “ He cleared his throat, “Admiral Yashin requests your presence onboard the ship as guests. He wishes to inform you that there has been a grave mistake. If you have a working radio, you can reach him on broadband channel 7.”

Then words were relayed exactly as he had been ordered to give them. It mattered little whether or not his voice could be heard, between the helicopter thundering overhead and the steel walls themselves. He had followed through with his end of the bargain, regardless of what the “grave mistake” might have actually been. Anything after this was fair game, even if that meant abandoning them at sea.

======

FNS Kazyenko
Yashin paced back and forth across the bridge, ducking into his ready room from time to time to check the progress of battle against his charts. He was old-fashioned, and hadn’t taken to the new VICE technology like many of the younger officers had. In his mind, nothing necessitated the replacement of old-fashioned paper maps. No enemy could eliminate them, unlike a computer system.

That was perhaps why Naval Command in Volsk had seen fit to usher in his early retirement. Well, early was a bit of a far cry seeing as he now stood on the precipice of becoming the oldest Falkasian military officer in history. At the ripe old age of 69, he was almost triple the average age of an active-duty officer in any branch, and unlike all the others he served with, remembered life prior to the Soviet Falkasian State in 1950. This alone set him apart, both as a relic and has a hallmark of what it meant to be uniquely Falkasian. His accolades had him serving under five or so different flags, all of which had taught him the necessity of humility and patience. And overwhelming force.

It was the former he was choosing to apply here. Given the fact the mercenaries believed their home island to be impenetrable, and suddenly and inexplicably have everything they knew shattered by guns and hellfire, a bit of mercy and understanding would go a long way. Personally, Yashin didn’t necessarily care what that they were attacking an island chalk full of civilians. Rather, he was more disturbed by how the Cardwithians had not only played them, but also were intending to use the families of soldiers as bartering chips. As the saying went, all is fair in love and war. But even in war, there were things you simply did not do. And that was to involve the families of participants.

It seemed oddly Soviet to him, something his country’s former oppressors likely would have engaged in as a coercive tactic to get him or anyone in his similar position to capitulate. As a man of principle and measured decency, it was unpalatable at best and detestable at worst. Regardless, it stopped here.

“Sir, SAR has confirmed contact with the RADAR ping. We believe we have General Tell, sir.” A voice stated from around the bulkhead, out of sight.

“Excellent.” Slava replied without much enthusiasm. “Go ahead and turn the wireless to channel 7. I’ll await their reply.”

A quickly subdued chuckle was all he needed to know he had somehow upset the status quo with his younger crew. No one called a ship’s radio “The Wireless” anymore. Mentally, he chided himself. Best to use more modern lingo to relate better to the crew. I’m their CO, not their grandfather. Even if he was everyone’s grandfather in some capacity.

His thoughts drifted to Semyon and his Marines currently clearing Panto Leto of resistance. The man himself, a bit of an enigma, had become Slava’s adopted son of sorts. Having never been blessed with children, the old Admiral had resigned himself to the fact after his wife had died years ago. But the young Marine, uppity and eager to please as most were, had captured his attention immediately before the Falkasians had first invaded Gragastavia in the 1990’s. He was a younger man then, although in the scheme of things even then he was old by everyone’s standards.

“Admiral, we have contact.” A voice, garbled by the electronic sounds of the sea, stated through the radio.

Slava reached for the microphone and placed it squarely to his lips.

“This is Admiral Slava Yashin of Task Force Khariton. My deepest condolences General Tell for the loss of your crew, given the recent unfortunate hostilities which have occurred. However, as I’m sure you well aware, we have both been duped. Normally I do not extend an olive branch until the fighting has ceased, but extenuating circumstances such as these warrant extraordinary measures to be taken. The crew is not here to take you prisoner…” He paused, trying to think of the most appropriate way to end his monologue. “Rather, I would like to bring you onboard as guests, so that we may solve the enormous problem before us together.”

======

Panto Leto
It was settled then. Kuznetsov knew the correct course of action to take, but his duty as a soldier and to his comrades, bet they Falkasian or otherwise, had forced him to take uncharacteristic pause. However, in light of the directive assigned to him by the Admiral, such misgivings had vaporized.

“Kuznetsov to all forces. Cease fire and disengage when possible. Plan Zvezda has been activated.” He declared over a closed-band, directed only to those units previously equipped with VICE.

Although several of the commando units had been given under-powered knock-off versions of the system direct from surplus, the top-tier versions had been reserved for Falkasian units only. It was these platforms, unique in their individual encryption keys, which he transmitted to. Granted, there was a risk in any transmission via a proprietary communications network, what with the enemy scavenging for parts, but it was one which proved necessary to take.

A series of tonal chirps filtered back in slowly, confirming via an auditory Morse Code that the units had received updated orders. As was the requirement with Plan Zvezda, radio traffic would be reduced to one-way transmissions from command unless a situation warranted breaking protocol. It would help keep the Cardwithians off-guard. The Major had been through enough rodeos to know how this one was likely to end.

Plan Zvezda, as it was known, serves as the final solution for any Falkasian military units in the event of unforeseen circumstances arising. “Unforeseen circumstances” being the exact terminology used by command staff in their offices in Ekaterine, when in reality they clearly meant “whenever something goes wrong that we did not plan for in the slightest.” In Hutanjia, this meant a double-cross. No one had even considered the possibility that the other actors at play, namely those from the small island nation, had an agenda of their own other than to capture the island. Never had it occurred in the operation planners back in Falkasia that maybe the island was also home to many of the mercenaries’ families as well. This lack of foresight was now biting them in the collective ass, and warranted a complete stop to all ongoing combat operations and subsequent entrenchment while a solution was determined.

The Cardwithians would continue to fight, as ordered by their own command structures, but the Falkasian Marine Raiders would hunker down and reinforce their positions as soon as they possibly could. There were no limiting procedures for retreating or returning fire, allowing the soldiers themselves to continue to defend their positions against counter-attacks. However, the momentum of battle would invariably shift back to the defenders. Where things stood now, this was a very small challenge to overcome compared to being branded as a nation of terrorists and barbarians. Kuznetsov greatly preferred this course of action. He would prefer to go home a hero, and not as a war criminal.

======

Battleground between Jalakra and Palegata

Raining artillery was easy enough to contend with in armored vehicles. Short of taking a direct or glancing hit, the crew was protected. The infantry, when unbuttoned, took the worse of it while trying to traverse the burning hulks of the Edomite's battleground. Artillery mines however, proved to be a much greater risk to the unit than any conventional shell. Silent killers they were, embedded into the ground like snakes and striking at the worst moments.

The advance had ground to a halt, less due to the mines and more due to the sheer carnage caused in the opening moments of the battle. Between the smoke, aerosolized dirt, and spent powder, visibility was terrible. Most scanning was done via IR or Thermal, and the dismounted troopers had donned their standard-issue half-face respirators in an attempt to avoid inhaling hazardous contaminants. The flashlights from the AK-113s reflected passively off opaque walls of smoke, preventing even a glimpse of what may be around the corner.

Casualties were rounded up and rushed to the rear as best they could. To the Falkasian soldiers, allegiance was unimportant when compared to saving lives. No expense was spared, and Edomites were lopped into the same U-2 medical vehicles as their Falkasian counterparts. There was always the risk of rescuing a fanatic, one of those soldiers hellbent on dying for their country, who might smuggle in a hand grenade and detonate it in a hospital. Pragmatically though, there was little to gain from such an action aside from a few moments of self-satisfaction on account of the suicide bomber. Both options, be it suicide bombing or providing medical care to the enemy's soldiers, would guarantee victory on the psychological and social battlefield. Better to look like the good guy, regardless of whether its saving lives or being the victim of a callous attack on incapacitated soldiers.

A quick glance on VICE told Kasyanov all he needed to know. The Edomites were quickly falling off the scope in their theater, likely retreating northwesterly towards the coast and Hutanjian strongholds to regroup. Pursuing them could do some good, but equally it would only serve to draw the already dispersed elements of his mechanized brigade thinner. It was a gambit he was not willing to take. They had already dealt a significant blow on the current field of battle, evidenced by the slog pace and slag hulks surrounding him on all sides. The proximity and strength of the troopers made it very clear that a close assault on his mobile rollers was a suicide mission, easily detering any surviving Edomite infantry from even attempting such ambush tactics.

In short, he was satisfied. His small role in the grander plan had been fulfilled. The Edomite Army had been pushed into retreat, and with the momentum swung, it was up to the politicians to make the next move. Once regrouped, Kasyanov would advance and continue to press the advantage as best he could. Reinforcements were likely a few hours out from their reserve positions south. Once the highway was clear and air superiority established, the steamroller could be set loose.

[USG Security Corporation]

The Madurin Sea

The two occupants of the inflatable life pod looked up as the buzzing got louder. Then the source was overhead and visible where Chief Shoemaker had unfastened the top hatch. It was in fact a helicopter. A crewman was lowered down and managed to anchor to one side of the pod and crawl up towards the top.

His fist, concealed in a neoprene wetsuit, squelched against the hard, cold surface with each hit. His voice was a bit muffled, but they could make it out:
“This is FNS Kazyenko SAR… “ He cleared his throat, “Admiral Yashin requests your presence onboard the ship as guests. He wishes to inform you that there has been a grave mistake. If you have a working radio, you can reach him on broadband channel 7.”

Although the hatch was open, the Falkasian crewman had wisely decided to knock and get their attention first before sticking his head in and possibly get it shot off.
Chief Shoemaker sat with SMG in hand and pointed at the hatch to do just that.

General Tell shifted, then winced as pain shot up his body. He waved down the Chief, motioning him to hold off on the hair trigger. Fighting would be futile at this point, and they both knew it. He didn’t want the Chief to throw his life away defending him. Alternately, the Chief knew that he might only be putting the General’s life in further danger, as there was no way they could hold out against the Falkasians. He lowered the SMG to his lap.

Tell looked around at the compartments.
“Do we actually have a working radio, Chief?”

“No, sir. I looked around earlier when you were...napping. There’s a small one that comes with the pod, but it was shattered on impact with the sea…”

“Like my leg...”

“Yes, sir. I would have liked to have hailed any friendly units in the vicinity, had we a working radio, so we didn’t have to deal with…this. I suppose if they weren’t answering the beacon signal, then that should have been an indication...”

“Yes, of course. Silly of me, Chief, to think you didn’t already try that avenue. It is unfortunate that we have not had any response to the beacon, either.”
That was as far as he would acknowledge that the USG cause on the Island was near to hopeless. He angled his head back to the pod hatch to address the Falkasian.
“Um...Sailor? Do you think you could supply us with a radio? Perhaps drop one in?”

---

Command Center, Campobello, Panto Leto

Debris was everywhere, along with the carnage of broken bodies, the majority of them USG troopers that had been manning the Command Center for the USG organization. A few wore civilian clothes, being Intexa personnel, but they had their own facilities further in town. While being administrative and support personnel, all had superior battle training as well as a supreme sense of loyalty to their fellows and the residents of the Island. They had died defending those ideals.
Then there were the scattered corpses of Melanesian men and women with distinctive camouflage - the PASG commandos from the Cardwiths. Many more of them, though, were alive and rooting through the building.

Colonel Farapto, their leader had personally led the charge into the heart of the mercenary command center. Now he moved to the most interior of the rooms. He stopped just before entering a shattered doorway.

“I want as much data as can be collected. Hard drives, flash drives, paperwork. We will want it all, so tell the men to be careful...at least from here on out.”
A good amount had already been damaged in the firefight.
“Our Falkasian allies will want it, but if they don’t, I think that CID would like a crack at it.”

Finally, he entered the room. It was filled with servers on racks for networking computers. Wires ran everywhere, but some of the servers had been completely knocked from their shelving, some were in pieces or scored with fire. They had been ripped apart by the RPGs that they’d used to crack the room, which was in effect a secure vault with steel, polymer and ceramic reinforced walls and a heavy vault door.

Farapto had known by sight as they closed in on the Center that they were hunting one of the VIPs that they intended to capture, but it had also been apparent as the fight wore on that this man and his entourage would not give up. So, the next best thing was to have his head, rather than his direction continuing to bolster the resistance to the invasion. They definitely wanted General Tell alive, but they had firm intel that the General hadn’t arrived back from his visit to Hutanjia, so they were safe in knowing that any collateral damage would not accidentally take out the top prize.

There their target lay, heaped over another USG soldier that it appeared he had been trying to protect. Both their bodies still wore shreds of uniform, but they were baked a bit by the blasts. Farapto couldn’t possibly know or care about the Antremian NCO, Master Sergeant Galvin, but he knew the face of the officer sprawled over him.

Major René Ouelt, whose lower officer rank was deceptive, was the S2, or intelligence officer for the whole operational side of the USG. While not one of the regimental colonels, he was as, if not more, important to the organization and a good friend of General Nelson Tell. Now, he was just a shattered shell that was formerly human, with shrapnel wounds having torn at him in more than a dozen places that had bled out, and scorch marks on his face, he almost wasn’t recognizable.

Farapto shook his head. They were hoping to bring Ouelt back alive, but dead was better than out on the loose, causing more mayhem and directing the action against the raiders of Panto Leto.

One of his lieutenants ran up, obviously making the trek deep through the debris into the center to find him.
“Colonel, sumtin ya shud know. Da Falkies dey stop talking to us. Going to ground, actin’ all fideh strange like.”

Farapto nodded. It was somewhat expected and when command had put their extra secret mission onto his lap, they had warned him he might get an adverse reaction from their Falkasian allies when they started to round up the civilians. It was something that was regrettable, but command, and even President Nellis were confident that it would be temporary and they could smooth over what would amount to a minor difference. The cost was worth it to take thousands of mercenary soldiers off the battlefield.

The PASG Colonel began his journey out of the command center and to the radio that would reach all his men and women. They needed to be reassured.

---

Elsewhere in Campobello

The actual highest ranking USG officer, Colonel Laurent Cogant, was being delivered to warehouse where the rest of the USG surviving cadre of officers were being held at gunpoint by the PASG commandos.

A delay in getting him to his final destination for the day had been caused while their medics patched him up at one of their makeshift aid stations. He’d been found unconscious in a ditch on the road near the Armory, near a smashed up light utility vehicle that had been his transport. His driver and another escort soldier had been shredded, fatal victims to the same Falkasian naval missile strike that had taken out the vehicle.

They dragged him into the warehouse, under the watchful eyes of the other officers, and dumped him unceremoniously on a table. While the Cardwithians stomped back out, a knot of officers rushed forward to keep the Colonel from tumbling off the table.

---

South of Anjoux, West of Lake Chahaka

Colonel Johann Moller, Commander of all USG units on West Cardwith, reviewed the reports as he forced himself not to duck every time a round hit the bunker. He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t some brazen idiot either that acted immortal. There would be time enough to be a hero when things devolved into further madness as they were forced back towards the shores of Anjoux.

Not all of his units would actually be able to make it all the way north to Anjoux. The enemy was doing a good job of cutting off units, supply routes and pulling off ambushes. Their main drive of conventional forces was right up the middle, between Palegata and Jalakra. Edomite and Hutanjian armor had held them there, clashing with the Falkasian and Card armor. Both sides were taking heavy losses, apparently on the level of some battle of old tank lore like the Golan Heights or Kursk. They wouldn’t hold for too much longer and would need to keep fighting rearguard actions to allow the bulk of troops to escape.

He was directing many of the unit commanders who found themselves East of that battle to withdraw towards Hesttens, to evacuate with the Edomite and some Hutanjian forces. The Edomites were doing a good job of holding the former Cardwithian capital against ISVC forces assaulting it. He was sure they would start an orderly withdrawal soon.

Palegata was a nightmare from what he could gather and was falling in an epic, bloody manner. The Hutties were not giving up easily there. There would be no vessels off the shore of that city to evacuate allied troops. Their best bet was to head north at this point.
What other USG and allied Hutanjian units were within distance would fight their way to Anjoux

Currently, Moller’s CP was about 45km south of the outskirts of Anjoux. It had been well safe behind friendly lines, but now, with the frequency of irregular UFF and Card commando attacks, that was in doubt. They were also having trouble keeping in touch with Generals Wakala and Merari, as the UFF saboteurs continued to cut landlines, and the Falkasians used jamming and electronic measures to block radio and other frequencies. The same amount of jamming and cyber measures were being directed at the enemy by the allies, creating a whole other layer of the war beyond the brute kinetically physical.

Another round hit nearby, possibly a heavy mortar.

“Can we get some damn counter-battery fire on that?!” He managed to bark out as he spit out dust.

“Of ours, sir?”

“Ours! Huttie! Edomite! I don’t fuckin’ care!”

“We’re chasing them down now, sir. They should be out of action soon.”

“Good. Get it done. Goddammit, these fuckers are everywhere!”

---

Panto Leto

The number of holdout USG groups in Bugeber was dwindling to just a handful as the enemy was rounding them up, having secured most of the other areas, including a resupply depot in the training area and the armory. Ammunition would run out, hence capture, or they would be wiped out. Simple as that.

Still, they did their best to make it count and snipe at the Card and Falkasian commando patrols when they could get the upper hand on them.
Another wave of trucks filled with prisoners headed out of Bugeber. As this convoy was being driven by Falkasian Marine Raiders, they weren’t escorting the USG combatants to where the Cardwithians were holding the other USG personnel and families hostage in Campobello, but to a makeshift EPW camp north of the airstrip.

While the Falkasians had the best intentions, for all the Uli troopers, recruits and vets alike, knew, they were about to be evacuated out to one of the Falkasian ships to become long term prisoners back in the hinterlands of the Eastern Tavlyrian nation. It was not an attractive prospect.

Meanwhile, the USG prisoners being held in Campobello by the Cardwithian PASG commandos were beginning to agitate as more were herded into the school gymnasium and stadium. There were a few other scattered holding areas, but they were slowly consolidating most of them into those two places for ease of handling, but for the warehouse where the officers were being held. Already, they had a network in place, using children to pass along verbal messages as any time they tried to congregate, they were broken up and beaten by the Cardwithian guards. A plan to break out was being formulated.

---

[OOC: Parts co-RP'd with The Cardwith Islands]

[Falkasia]

Aboard the Falkasian Carrier

“Yes, of course. Silly of me, Chief, to think you didn’t already try that avenue. It is unfortunate that we have not had any response to the beacon, either.”
That was as far as he would acknowledge that the USG cause on the Island was probably near to hopeless and they wouldn’t be getting help from friendly corners. General Tell angled his head back to the pod hatch to address the Falkasian.

“Um...Sailor? Do you think you could supply us with a radio? Perhaps drop one in?...Ours is broken, you see...”

Without so much as a pause, a ziploc bag came rocketing through the door hatch like a hand grenade. It ricocheted off the top-most portion of the escape capsule, hitting the top with a springy, echoing sound before dropping like a dead bird onto the soft, semi-rigid floor below. It came to rest with an equally unimpressive thud at their feet. Protected from the elements inside was a closed-band transceiver, not too dissimilar from what one might find strapped and duct-taped to the dashboard of a logistics freight driver.

“Sorry about that!” Came a muffled shout from outside. “I didn’t time the throw right with the swells!”

There was another brief pause as the sea gently rolled the capsule up and down.

“Everything you need should be inside… You’ll have to tune it yourself. I’m going to swim around back and secure the pod…”

Shadows could be seen and the ‘zwick!’ sounds of nylon friction were heard as the diver began to circle outside and slap on the soft hull of the life pod.

“And just….uh… let me know if you need anything?” He slapped again on the hull to reinforce his point, even though the soft nylon didn’t conduct as much sound as one would hope.

Chief Shoemaker slowly shuddered. He’d been ready to throw himself on the radio, thinking it was, in fact, a grenade. He blew out a breath, trying to ride out the sudden adrenaline rush, then fetched the radio from the center of the life pod. He crawled over to General Tell and handed him the device.

Tell also tried to process what had just happened. The amount of surreality was increasing by the minute. He wasn’t quite sure that the pain and trauma wasn’t warping his mind a bit as to all that was going on. He didn’t have the energy to shake his head to clear up the figurative cobwebs.

He studied the radio he pulled out of the baggie and then began to dial in the frequency that the diver had told them.

“This is General Nelson Tell, commanding officer of the Uli-Schwyz-Galien Regiments. I repeat, this is General Tell. Are you receiving our signal?”

There was static on the other end at first, with faint voices occasionally filtering through from across the region.

Admiral Yashin paced slightly, forcing himself to stop as he chided himself inwardly. There would be no nervousness here.

“Please clean up the signal,” he commanded.

Several of his bridgecrew simply nodded and began tinkering with a series of knobs and dials. Closed-band transmissions were by no means complex nor antiquated, but in a region as densely populated as the Madurin, the real feat was being capable of isolating a single feed in between countless others.

It only took a few moments, but the lack of static feedback was evident. He grabbed the microphone from his unit.

“General Tell, this is Admiral Slava Yashin of the Falkasian Navy. Flag Officer of Task Force Khariton. I do sincerely apologize for the… current state of things.” He paused briefly, unsure whether to mention the developing situation with the Cardwithian commandos. “Granted, being at war does lead to a variety of unpleasant circumstances. But rest assured, we are going to get you and your crew out of there safely. Ingmar tells me you’ve been injured?”

There was another series of dull thuds from the outside of the escape capsule as the rescue swimmers continued circling.

There were little bits of static through the radio, but for the most part, just a few syllables were cut off here and there of Yashin’s reply.

Nelson looked down at his leg that was obviously still quite a bit swollen despite the Chief’s best efforts, evident even through the flapping, cut fabric of his pants.
He thought he’d been ready for this moment, knowing when they had jettisoned into the water initially that they had more than a fair chance of falling into enemy hands, and having that solidified from the view of the hovering Falkasian copter just a little bit ago.

Still, he needed another minute to compose himself. Finally...

“Er...Yes. Copy that. I seem to have injured my leg, Admiral Yashin. It’s just myself and Warrant Officer Shoemaker for crew...Oh, and uh, Lieutenant Williams...” His gaze lingered on the blanket wrapped body of the deceased pilot. “...Who, like myself, will need help being moved. We...surrender.”

“Ah yes…” Yashin replied. Understanding what had been left unstated. “Deeply sorry about that. We should be getting you hooked up any minute now.. It’d be best if you don’t try to vacate the capsule. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Tell frowned and motioned to Shoemaker to toss the SMG away to the empty side of the raft. Reluctantly, the Chief clicked the safety on and complied. He then crossed his arms and glowered like a petulant child.

The General clicked off the send button. Then he pounded on the side of the life pod, which alternately tried to suck his hand in and bounce and repel it off the nylon coated rubber side.

“DID YOU HEAR OUT THERE? We surrender! WE SURRENDER!”

Shoemaker looked around sullenly, not appreciating his new status as a prisoner, even though he wasn’t even physically in chains yet.

“I think they get it, Sir.”

The General lowered his voice back down, starting to show some annoyance.

“I just don’t want us to be shot by some nervous sailor crawling in the pod, Chief.”

It pained the Chief to say it, “I think they’re pretty professional enough to make sure that doesn’t happen. Now beating us accidentally to death during our interrogations, I can’t say...”

“Nonsense! I take the Admiral at his word that we will be given proper treatment as accorded by the WA for EPW’s.”

“I will be sure to remind you of that later, Sir.”

“I don’t like your tone, Chief.”

Shoemaker didn’t have anything further to say.

“Are you gentlemen buckled in?” Came a muffled voice from outside the capsule. “I’ve got the sling rigged up. Just need to hook it to the winch then we’re off.”

A swell outside rose the diver’s neoprene-capped head above the lip of the door. Beads of saltwater trickled down the surface of his mask like tears, pooling in the deep recesses at the bottom.

“Uh… permission to come aboard?” He asked before disappearing beneath the lip again.

Shoemaker broke the silence again, unable to hold back.

“Buckled in to what?! The fuck is going on? Can we take our surrender back now, sir? This is completely ass-fu-...”

Tell cut him off with a hushed, urgent tone: “Quiet!”

Then he continued to direct a subservient, pleasing tone towards the open hatch of the pod, “YES! Yes, come in! We’re ready for...whatever’s next…Were we supposed to have some kind of harness? You better come in here and bring whatever sling or harness you’re talking about...unless it is hooked up to the whole pod…?”

The head crested the lip of the door again.

“Sling’s already around the pod. We’re going to lift you out of the water by helicopter. It’s only a 15 minute flight to the carrier group…”

He paused as the ocean gently dropped him below the hatch once more. A second later he was back, one hand on top of the other as he lifted himself through the door and onto the rubberized floor.

Eyeing the crew cautiously, he rolled and tugged at the top of his head. The scuba mask fell away, suspended helter-skelter by its connected hose. His cheeks were rosy red despite the water’s relative warmth.

“I apologize gentlemen,” he offered, seated trying to pull his fins off. “But I need a ride too… and I’m supposed to look after you. Chief Petty Officer Ingmar Siskanen…”

His swim fin came off with a rather abrupt jerk upwards, releasing an unappealing squelch.

“Helicopter should be lifting us up any second now…” He paused, glancing behind him in anticipation.

The two men from the USG waited to feel the tension as the pod raised up. Shoemaker sat, still surly, with his arms crossed. The General was ernest and anxious. The body of Lt. Williams slid across the floor and next to General Tell. He winced a bit as his hip spasmed from the bump. Then he reached out and put a gentle hand on the chest of the Shalumite USG pilot who had given his life for his fellow contractors.

“Hang on…” Ingmar mumbled solemnly as he scooted his way across the nylon floor. “I hate to do this, but I’d much prefer not to… uh… displace… him more than we already have.”

From a seal pocket in his wetsuit, he withdrew a roll of duct tape. For a moment he fought with the tab but was able to get it started. A second later, he had peeled off a large segment which he quickly ripped and wrapped around the chest of the deceased lieutenant. General Tell had hesitantly loosened his grip on the dead pilot so that Siskanen could secure him.

He sighed despondent. “That should keep him from moving until we can get him back to the ship and properly taken care over. I’m sorry again… none of us really wanted this.”

Shoemaker frowned further than he had been before at that statement, which seemed so at odds with the willful destruction of the Island by Falkasian and Cardwithian forces they knew was taking place at this very moment.

The capsule suddenly lurched, sending Siskanen sliding back towards the door. A sinking feel manifested itself in all of them.

“Guess we’re going up now…” he declared, stopping himself with the friction of both outstretched hands.

Outside the door, the sea gradually fell away as it was replaced with the mostly clear blue-gray sky of the Madurin Sea. There wasn’t a lot of chop out, which was good, but they still had a ways to fly and the risk of a roving mercenary air patrol wasn’t out of the question.

“Gentlemen… Not that it means much from me, but you have nothing to worry about. The Admiral is an older sort and a man of extreme honor. Some might say outdated, but we are all proud to serve under him. He’s been doing this longer than probably most of us have even been alive. You’re not going to be our prisoners… or so that’s what he’s told me. There’s been a grave misunderstanding about this entire operation, and we need your help as much as you need ours. I can’t go into detail, because I don’t really know many of those details, but from what I can tell we may have a new common enemy. The Admiral can brief you more when we arrive.”

Both the General and the Chief Warrant Officer puzzled at that statement. Again, it was at odds with the fact that the Falkasians had brought this destruction down upon Panto Leto to begin with. Also, for a common ship crewman, Siskanen seemed surprisingly well informed on the current situation even though he admitted to not ‘knowing many of the details’.

Shoemaker smirked sarcastically, in full on doubt about anything coming out of a Falkie’s mouth,“We’re not prisoners? So you will let us go then, maybe provide us a boat or a chopper ride back to the Island?”

Tell continued to keep silent, not willing to be drawn out further as his mind made rapid calculations. A common enemy? What exactly would warrant that type of response from an enemy that was currently in the process of invading their home island base? He would keep silent until he could talk directly to this Admiral Yashin and suss him out.

The helicopter made rapid time.

“I’d guess we’re here,” Siskanen announced as their forward momentum suddenly and abruptly ceased. He didn’t bother to reply back to Shoemaker, preferring to let the Admiral takeover.

They were too high up to see the fleet, but they could hear the commotion below and roar of engines above and all around. Slowly, the capsule began to descend as the superstructure and command island of the FNS Kazyenko came into view. It crept up like inching ivy until it dominated the the exit hatch. With a thud and slight wobble the escape pod came into contact with the asphalt deck of the carrier. A second later, crewmen swarmed from all sides to detach the sling and secure it to the deck.

Siskanen stood as best he could in the confirmed space, turning to chat in Falkasian with someone outside. A brief moment later he turned back to Tell and Shoemaker.

“The Admiral is waiting for you gentlemen. We’ll make sure the body of your friend is taken care of and repatriated with you once you head for shore. This way please…” he paused, motioning to the door. “General… do you require assistance?”

Outside, a medical team of corpsmen were rolling up a stretcher and wheelchair. No doubt they had been informed of injuries.

Tell nodded reluctantly. It pained him to not be in full control of all his faculties.

“Uh...ye...yes. Yes, I th-...”

Shoemaker spotted the wheelchair and assumed the stretcher was for Lt. Williams. He cut off the General.

“I got this!”

He took the elbow of the General and led him to the wheelchair, easing him into it. Tell winced in agony as the pain rippled through his body. The painkillers that the Chief had given him earlier had fully worn off.

“He’s going to need more painkillers and probably an exam. He’s probably gonna need surgery soon.”

Tell shook his head.

“You’re not a doctor, Chief. Let them do what they’re going to do. I think I have to go to the med center…? Sick bay? Isn’t that what they call it on a ship? But first...I’d like to talk to the Admiral.”

“And so you shall,” Yashin stated, slowly ambling up the deck. “Thank you Chief.”

He was tall, well over six and a half feet, but extremely thin and almost sickly frail. The sailors immediately halted what they were doing and snapped into a salute, save for one of the corpsmen who had helped Shoemaker assist Tell into the wheelchair. Ingmar, having extricated himself from the escape pod and in partial undress, saluted briskly and excused himself from the deck.

“General, not that you had much choice, but thank you for coming.” He offered a brief smile, leaning heavily on his walking cane as the carrier gently swayed to and fro. “We’ll get you to the sickbay and have the ship’s doctor look at you. In the meantime, we must talk.”

He motioned with his cane to Shoemaker who stood very close to the wheelchair “If the General would have you, I’d much appreciate it if you’d join us as well. Please, this way.”

The corpsman began to push the wheelchair towards the command island, being careful to avoid ruts and make the ride as smooth as possible. They made it through the external bulkhead and into an internal corridor. It was uncharacteristically void of other personnel.

Shoemaker was irritated that he had been pushed aside from guiding the General’s wheelchair, but he had no choice but to acquiesce. He didn’t quite stomp along with the party, but his demeanor would suggest, if not a petulant child, a very frustrated man.

“General, as I mentioned, we have a situation. I’m going to be very blunt with you, so that you know my intentions are genuine. Our allies, the Cardwithians, have resorted to underhanded tactics. They’ve taken your families… well, maybe not your family, but the families of those on the island hostage.”

The reached another bulkhead. Tell was quickly spirited through and placed back onto the ground. It helped to distract the General and the Chief from verbally lashing out as they processed what the Admiral was saying. Whatever doubt and frustration was on their faces before was replaced by steaming determination and a dark boiling anger.

“This is unacceptable. In fact, it’s downright vile. I don’t care what is considered appropriate by today’s standards, but involving non-combatants, children especially, is a flagrant violation of every moral code held sacred to warriors such as us. Several of my command staff have called me unorthodox. I hold no animosity towards my enemy. The wars we fight should never be personal, especially as professional soldiers.”

They paused once more in front of a final large bulkhead, the door painted white with a red cross.

The Admiral continued, “This is why you’re both here as my guests. I do not care about my nation’s past dealings or support of the Cardwithian regime. They’ve revealed themselves to be brutes, and like brutes they must be shown their place. We… Falkasians… all of us… we despise socialists. It was a pragmatic decision on part of the Falkasian government. Not ideological.”

The ship’s doctor quickly opened the hatch door and helped the group inside. With a great deal of effort they were able to lift Tell up onto an examination table. An IV was quickly prepared and offered to Shoemaker for inspection. He shrugged, unable to read the Falkasian printing on the bag, but sure they wouldn’t have gone to these lengths only to turn around and poison them.

“Just saline and a painkiller. Nothing too strong.” Yashin conceded. “In any case General, I need your help. I’ve ordered my entire detachment of Marine Raiders to stand-down on the island. Intelligence is currently trying to isolate where the Cardwithians are holding your families hostage, and once we do, believe me… we’ll rain hellfire down upon them. This is no longer a military operation as far as I’m concerned.”

Shoemaker kept his mouth shut, knowing that this was far above his head, but also trusting that the General well knew what he and every other USG service person that had friends and family on the Island would be thinking at this moment.

Nelson Tell was gripping the handles of the wheelchair tight, his knuckles turning a blinding white. He paused for a few more beats, mentally editing his first impulses of aborted outbursts. When he spoke, it was a seething, deep angry tone,
“First of all, these platitudes and excuses mean nothing to me. You want us to believe that you have no responsibility in the actions that have taken place...You are fully responsible, Admiral! You and your ilk...You brought these ‘brutes’ as you call them, right to our doorstep. You attacked an island well away from the war zone, expanding the war well beyond what many nations would deem politically acceptable. The very contemplation of this raid was underhanded, and probably irresponsible and illogical as you could very well have dragged into the conflict Gaul, Neu Engollon, the Roman states, or any number of Madurin coastal nations nearby, but let’s get to that later...

“So suddenly you decide you can wash your hands of it because you didn’t think that the Cards would do something so vile, when they have done the very same to their own people and their neighbors in their own backyard...done anything and everything to achieve their political goals, no matter what the rest of the world considers war crimes and beyond the pale of civilized human morals…Don’t even try to pretend that your FSIS doesn’t have a hand in PAST operations across Wishtonia. Operations that have definitely ended the lives of several non-combatants to terrorize their own people and the Hutanjians into submission or turn them against the rightful Republican government…”

He waved a hand out to punctuate his words,

“Now, you drop them on our Island and didn’t consider that they might run amok and exact no holds barred revenge on the allies of their enemy? You expect me to consider you innocent of all that has and is currently taking place? But, you’re going to come to our rescue by dropping an indiscriminate hammer of justice down upon them as they are intermingled with hostages?!”

He took a breath, “Really, I’m loathe to do it, but let’s take the Cardwithians out of the equation for just a moment, shall we? Really, tell me really now...Did you honestly not give one thought that there might be a single civilian on our home island that is the base of all support, where all the administration and training and resupply is based and quartered...Even, putting aside the families of USG and Intexa personnel...the amount of local support staff that would have to normally run any type of military base this size? Your task force rained down missiles, artillery and air strikes onto the base before the boots of even one ‘brute’ set foot on our soil, did they not? And so, even if you didn’t personally round them up, they were at risk of massive collateral damage from this barrage anyway, as any officer with any strategic sense would know...And yet you try to feed me this horseshit cupcake with pink frosting on it?!”

Yashin leaned heavily on his cane as he listened. The doctor went about his inspection of Tell as if nothing was going on. Eventually, the Admiral smiled paternally. He cared little if it was out of place, given the circumstances. The outburst had been expected, if not required.

“You’re correct,” he offered, nodding in their direction in a conciliatory nature. “We are complicit in this. I won’t deny that. Nor will I defend the actions undertaken by the Cardwithians and the FSIS in Hutanjia. Nor will I make the excuse of poor intelligence on our part, regardless of how valid it may be. Nor will I levy blame on short-sightedness and a lack of asking the right questions. In summation General, this whole operation from the get-go should have raised a variety of concerns which it didn’t. Never did we suspect our opponent to be so complacent as to also house their families within reach of an international military base, let alone not anticipate an eventual attack. Nothing is secret anymore gentlemen. But, as we stand here now, I guess we were wrong. I won’t lecture you on the morality of it. We all know neither you nor me… especially me and us… have a ground to stand on for that.”

He paused, loosening his grip. He hated negotiations.

“There are no innocent parties here; Falkasia, The Cardwiths, your mercenary organization. I am not asking for forgiveness. I am requesting you allow me and my troops to turn this clusterfuck of a sideways mission back around and make things as right as we realistically can. Maybe not right by you or the population, but right by us knowing we did what we could to fix the situation. Too many failures have happened, and I’m not about to stand idly by while we deal with the potential of genocide as well. We don’t want your island, we don’t want your people, and we sure don’t want your stuff. Our mission is finished. We disrupted your chain of command and relieved pressure back in Hutanjia for the assault occurring as we speak. As soon as we get your people back, we’ll be leaving as quickly as we came. Even if that means we have to liquidate the Cardwithian commandos who came with us. But I cannot do it without your approval and help.”

Nelson bowed his head, emotions were warring. He was not ready to give up on his point and accept that he had any complicity in putting his people’s families in danger. He was still bitterly angry that this man, the officer in charge of enemy offensive operations was trying to paint himself as sympathetic to Tell and the USG on the Island, when he had brought this upon them.
He sighed. Truth was usually the best path forward.

“I admit that...the situation on Panto Leto is not, um...easily understandable from a national military standpoint. It’s a base. It’s a training area and it’s a business...But it’s also a home. It’s a group of people, interspersed through those security and operational facilities across the Island, that hold an identity that reaches across national borders...Every man, woman and child there is family. It’s something difficult to fully understand for outsiders...but we make it work.

Now you want to claim that you in fact had no claims to begin with on the Island? Fine...that’s fine, but you brought people here that certainly do. Now after everything...You expect me to believe that suddenly you’re just going to drop everything and become our buddies now? That’s fucking rich. You waltz in here with a task force and blast everything willy nilly then suddenly get concerned about innocents? Also, you tell me that you had no intention of cleaning up and alleviating the collateral damage afterwards...You are an occupying force, no matter how temporarily...Meanwhile, remember, about those Madurin basin coastal nations I mentioned earlier and your plotters seemed to conveniently forget? What do you do when they finally decide to act on a Tavlyrian fleet in their midst? Even if not one of them lifts a finger today in military reaction...If no one sends fighters, ships, anti-ship missiles or subs...how long before you think Falkasia feels the pinch of economic sanctions? Of political isolation and ostracization? This aggression on Madurinite soil won’t stand for long. Maybe for today, but tomorrow…?”

General Tell knew he was giving the Admiral hell, but he didn’t care. He knew that nothing said on the bridge of this carrier was going to solve anything that had already happened to that point, but he would be damned if he let the Falkasians start sliding now on their complicitness on the tragic events of the day. He just couldn’t let it go until they came clean, then he might listen as to how to go about solving the current dilemma. He was also fed up with the sentiment that ‘mercenaries’ and anyone associated with them somehow deserved less decency than other military or paramilitary personnel. As the founder and driving proponent of the PMC Guild, he had lobbied in several forums and conferences how wrong it was for nations to be more inhumane towards those they saw as outside their legal margins, especially when the world was increasingly turning to those same PMCs to fight their wars.

Yashin ignored most what Tell had said. Their differing views on things didn’t matter. Either Tell assisted him, or he would pull all his soldiers off the island and be done with it. It was not necessarily what he wanted to do, but want and necessity are two very distinct things. Especially when it came to war. Despite his threats, the basinal nations posed no risk to the fleet.

“General,” he began, quietly. “I understand your anger. However, you and I debating back and forth does not solve the problem at hand. It only gives the Cardwithians more time to reinforce their positions. The Madurinite nations won’t save you. If they had any intention of doing so, we would be having a very different conversation right now.”

A staff officer entered the room and silently passed off a small scrap of paper, before leaving without a word. The Admiral took it and read over it briefly.

“And there will be no fallout from this operation either, General,” he stated matter-of-factly, looking him straight in the eyes. “You know that. Don’t be delusional.”

He paused once more, sizing both Tell and Shoemaker up. The ship’s doctor began to finish up.

Shoemaker remained like stone, his arms crossed and a deep angry frown on his face. General Tell vehemently shook his head, disagreeing with most everything that the Admiral had just said. He wasn’t going to rant and protest anymore, though, as the Falkasian wasn’t hearing it and he was, after all, the one with all the power in the current situation.

“Here is your decision. You either help us deal with the Cardwithians and resolve this the correct way, or I’ll evacuate all of my forces from the island and leave you to deal with them yourself. Now, I would prefer the first course of action but if you’d like, we can do the second. I just cannot guarantee the Cardwithians won’t get desperate when they realize we won’t have any space left to return them home. Who knows… maybe it’ll actually make them easier to deal with?” He laid out the options straight, no matter how repulsive he found the tone and nature of them, hoping that his gambit would pay off.

Nelson slapped the wheelchair arms, wincing as the vibration jolted down the rest of his body.

“What do you expect me to do? I don’t have any contact with my people on the Island. Seems to me that you don’t either anymore, and the Cards hold all the...cards.” His brows furrowed as he momentarily hesitated in speaking the unintentional pun.
“...It’s so considerate that you deign to make me believe I have any power or say in this, but I honestly can’t fathom how? What do you want me to do? Snap my fingers and make the Cards go away? By the way...out of curiosity, are they PAST? CID? Regular Card army?..” He paused, but it didn’t seem like the Admiral would be forthcoming on that. “...In any case, again...You brought them here. You know who they are. You should have known their plans. You must still be in contact with them now as we speak. Also, ‘desperate’? Haven’t they already demonstrated their desperation by kidnapping innocent civilians behind your back? You talk about the ‘correct way’, Admiral. None of this has been the ‘correct way’ from the get go. Help me out, Admiral Yashin, because we’re still far from being on the same page here and I need a lot more information from you before we can see eye to eye.”

The Admiral shrugged. The ship’s doctor, understanding a change in tides, excused himself without a word.

“What do you need, then?” He asked, relaxing his posture and leaning against a nearby examination table to let Tell know he was trying to be transparent.

General Tell paused, not having had a follow up answer ready to such a question after his tirade. He was generally taken aback.

“Well...um…I don’t...um...” He looked around at the Admiral and the surrounding personnel. “...I’d like to speak to my men, whatever officers are left on the island. I’d also, if possible, like to talk to our command left back on Hutanjia.”

Shoemaker winced inwardly. He wasn’t entirely convinced that General Tell telling all of his command that he was a prisoner of the Falkasians was a good idea. It might distract them from the goal of either defending the island, or...holding off the enemy from the Hutanjian territory they were tasked with defending. Neither he nor General Tell were yet aware that the Island was a lost cause.

Yashin nodded. “Very well then.”

As if on cue, the Ship’s Doctor returned with an older-style HAM radio attached to a push cart. It was archaic, but it would serve their purpose. He rolled it forward, within reach of the wheelchair-bound General.

“It’s old, I know, but its what we have. Right now, it’s tuned to a general civilian frequency but I trust you know how and where to reach your own men. I cannot, unfortunately, provide you with a means to contact your forces in Hutanjia, so the island here will have to suffice. You may re-adjust the frequency as is necessary… we have nothing to worry about being bothered by any of the regional neighbors.”

The Doctor finished making his rounds, ensuring that everything was either sufficiently stowed or locked away and out of reach, before evacuating the sickbay once more.

“Now… for obvious reasons I cannot leave you unattended… but I can excuse myself if you’d prefer to conduct this call in somewhat private?”

Tell shrugged noncommittally. As for talking to his command in Hutanjia, he knew the Falkasians had some kind of networking system that would reach that far, if he didn’t quite know the name of it (VICE) or how exactly it worked.
As for short wave radio, the USG had certain codes for when they knew their airwaves were being monitored. He would likely put that into effect now.

He ran his hands over the radio, remembering the days of when he first became a soldier and such models were more frequent in use. He then began to turn the knobs and dials, turning to a frequency for such emergencies on the Island.
“Papa to kin. Papa to kin. All units copy?”

Silence. He waited another minute then tried again. Then again.

There was more silence for a time, then finally, a response. A rich baritone voice with the lilt of the Wishtonian islands.

“This is an officer of the...raiding force. Who is broadcasting over this frequency? Identify yourself.”

While Tell and Shoemaker knew it was the enemy, they didn’t know him by name or face. Only Yashin or any other Falkasians on the ship listening would know it was Colonel Farapto himself answering the call.
While the General had expected this might happen, it was still demoralizing to not connect with his own men. They might still be listening in, though, unable to transmit safely.

The same voice, tired of waiting, transmitted again, giving up somewhat on speaking Common English as the Wishtonian accent seeped in more.

“Whoever you aarh. Ya time is done. We have control of de Island. Surrender now and make it eesy on yaself.”

Tell dropped the mic, waves of defeat washing over him. He was suddenly very angry. At Yashin. At Falkasia, at the Cardwiths, but most of all...at himself for not seeing this possibility of an attack on Panto Leto. They’d played with fire and lost. Now he was sure he was talking to the man who had ensured the collapse of the Island.

He looked up at Yashin, who had re-entered the area, with an almost pleading look.

“It’s done. I don’t know what you expected, but I think you knew this would be the result.”

He didn’t even know how to express his disgust, self-hatred and venom for the enemy. He put his head in his hands.

The Admiral remained silent. It was the simplest and most effective way for him to handle the situation. There wasn’t anything he could say to help Tell understand, nor did he anticipate there being anything worth saying that might create some actionable solution. He simply stood there, leaning awkwardly against his cane as he watched Tell and, out of his periphery, Shoemaker. Behind, the bulkhead door opened as two marines stepped inside. They were armed, but they made no effort to brandish the weapons in a menacing way. If anything, their posture was conciliatory and they disappeared into the poorly-lit sickbay as quickly as they entered.

“What if we could reach your men another way? I was not expecting the Cardwithians to have such a close bead on the communication network.” He offered sincerely. He genuinely had no idea Farapto was monitoring the channel like he had. No doubt the sudden disappearance of their Falkasian friends had raised suspicion.

Tell lifted his face from his hands, determined not to shed a tear in front of the enemy. He decided to forego needling the Admiral that he didn’t have a good handle on his own allies. Now was not the time. Now was the time for Nelson to get a handle on his own troops and the enemy simultaneously.

“I am all ears, as they say, Admiral. I don’t know what else to do in order to get word to my troops. I think that we are at a crossroads, as none of my troops seem to be answering and that could only mean there is either no more resistance on the Island to your forces, or your people...Or the Cards...have a good block on my forces trying to transmit from the Island. The Cardwithians, in either case, seem to have the upper hand.”

Yashin quietly thumped his cane as he thought, the soft resin tip bouncing off the metal bulkhead floor like a dodgeball off an unlucky victim.

“What if we used VICE?” he offered abruptly.

They weren’t going to use the complete VICE system of course. No matter how generous he was feeling, it was better that Tell remained in the dark how advanced their battlefield management software was. Such was a closely guarded secret, and the most powerful arrays like he had were reserved only for higher-level commanders and civilian leaders. What technology which ran the risk of being captured was under strict destruction orders, and even then would be protected by a rotating 128-bit cipher as a failsafe.

“We can get something rigged up. It can punch through to your forces… but we will need the frequencies. You don’t have to give them to me, but you can punch them in. We can encrypt the channel in a way to bypass the Cardwithians. They aren’t as familiar with the system as we are... you follow?”

RP written jointly by Falkasia and Neu Engollon.

[Hutanjia]

This is a long delayed post that needed to happen a while ago. It was contributed to by someone who is no longer present on NS, but whose presence is still felt. They contributed on a doc before leaving NS in the belief that this would be posted sooner, but I was delinquent for reasons that don't matter now. Their contribution needs to be seen. Credit needs to be given where credit is due towards something that we had every expectation of being posted some time ago, so thanks to the Allied States of New Edom.

This is the essential wrap up to the Hutanjian War aka the Wishtonian War aka the Cardwithian Struggle for Independence (2010-2015). Crucial canon for several nations and organizations. Thank you for your support.

West Cardwith

The Hutanjian front, despite countless drilling and preparation for this moment, could not help but be driven back. It was not so much what was battering them at their front, or from above, as what was hitting them in their rear. The Cardwithians had set up numerous guerrilla groups under the UFF active partisan front to operate behind enemy lines. As word was received through various covert channels, they went into action. The Hutanjian and allied logistics lines, despite some security, still were vulnerable to these rear attacks as the Cards were not afraid to take mass casualties to pinch off Hutanjian and allied units. They had a large local population to tap into for keeping them supplied and informed.

In some areas, where it seemed like everything was on the line, boys, old men and women did enter the conflict as combatants, strapped with explosives or firing or swinging any weapon possible against the Hutanjian occupiers. Again, the casualties were astronomical, but the shock value helped to tip the balance. This was what the forces holding Palegata on the Western side of the island experienced as they tried to fall back in orderly fashion. The Cardwithian attackers had reserved a mass amount of explosives to throw at the armored vehicles trapped in the streets. Tanks were blockaded in, then bathed in fire, and eventually, as they were struggling to free themselves, heavier ordnance was brought to bear to breach their armor.

In the center of the island, The Falkasian and Card armored drive continued to move forward, battling it out with their New Edomite and Hutanjian opponents in one of the largest armor engagements seen in recent history. In the skies, some parity was reached as both sides had taken losses and the air wasn’t as thick with duels as it was in the first few hours. The new Cardwithian air force had leaned heavily on ground attack aircraft and that was now apparent as they also hit behind the lines where partisan forces weren’t able to reach.

Jalakra burned. Both sides could not breach past the north central town whose walls of flames engulfed everything in its path. Hundreds would die, if they hadn’t already perished from the fledgling stages of the HXIB plague that had been released in the town. Quarantine was now unnecessary as the raging fires cleansed it all.

In the east, predominantly New Edomite forces with some Hutanjian and USG backing elements held the Hesttens area. The New Edomites had had better success in suppressing the guerrilla elements, but besides rocket, artillery and air assaults, they were still being relentlessly assaulted from trained foreign troops from the ISVC. Dozens of nations had contributed leftist volunteers to the ISVC force, at the behest of President Nellis, and now they were given a chance to find glory against hated imperialists in a far away land. They also took steep casualties, but slowly but surely, the southern suburbs fell. Encirclement began as they took advantage of gaps punched through by Falkasian armor to scale up between the Hutanjian and New Edomite sectors to the West of the Western suburbs of Hesttens.

Admiral Galt had expended much ordnance. Cruise missiles did not grow on trees, but the enemy seemed to have an infinity of landing zones and supply bases. It was shocking, the degree to which they were intensely prepared. What he was forced to rely upon now were careful attack runs to simply defend the withdrawal. The notion of seizing the initiative appeared to be over. All he could do was order his combat air units to try to ambush enemy ground attack fighters when they were detected, and keep up his ruthless defense against any missile or air attacks that strayed within the 75km zone protecting the immediate vicinity of the fleet as the transports began to move in to the friendly port.

It was in this atmosphere that the command staff for General Wakala, Hutanjian commander of the Western Cardwithian front, realized that their HQ would be quickly compromised if they didn’t begin to evacuate.

Wakala’s security staff rushed him to pack as they took measures to ensure his safety. The rest of the staff were largely left to their own devices, but for some of the top officers directly under the General. A small squad of Hutanjian rangers were tasked with that security, but the outer ring were regular troops. Two patrols providing the outer rim of security had already disappeared, falling victim to the guerrilla fighters marauding the Hutanian back lines.The gaps were growing.

“I need to make calls to Colonel Moller, General Merari and General Fotona back at Vesselle.”

“Make them from the road, Sir. We need to go...Now.”

“Where are we going? We can’t make it across to Hesttens.” They were all aware how badly the tactical situation in the middle sectors were collapsing.

“Of course not, sir. We need to make it straight up to Anjoux. We still hold the Northwest coast.”

“Oh, no, no, no. That is admitting defeat.” It was the last spot left before falling into the sea. The most northern point of West Cardwith island. He did have crews on standby, waiting to ferry him across to North Cardwith. Enemy air was still very effective at this time, so that was a dubious proposition.

“We have a closer fall back point, at Tarbaga, halfway to Anjoux.” It had been the planned fall back point, anyway. There was no way the Hutanjian forces in the NW quadrant would be able to pack into Anjoux in one day.

“There, then. Quickly. We need to set back up to direct the fight.”

Finally, they hustled him into a utility vehicle, to be escorted by anti-air mobile platforms, trucks of supplies, other light MUVs manned by Rangers, APCs filled with HQ staff, a couple of the Riysian made mobile mortar batteries, and a handful of IFVs and light wheeled tanks that could be considered recon vehicles for armored columns when put to proper purpose.

On the road, his radio officer handed back a handset after rattling off codes to the officer on the other end of the line. “I have Merari’s command on the line, sir.”
Wakala snatched the handset.
“This is General Wakala. I need to speak to General Merari right now.”

“Just a moment sir, just a moment,” said a terse sounding young voice on the other end.

For General Merari, it was like juggling a dozen different kitchen implements at once. Staff officers for administration, personnel, intelligence, logistics, signals, were trying to coordinate a disaster. It required a nearly crazy level of calm and fortitude, and a callous willingness to accept that it was all in the hands of God.

“General Wakala,” said Merari’s measured, Baran accented tone. “How is it with you?”

Wakala sighed a small bit of relief at having finally reached an ally.
“General, it is not good. We’re falling back from Palegata. Many pockets of our defenses have been overwhelmed. It’s getting harder to effect a proper retreat, but we are doing our best to keep order. The goddamn guerrillas! It’s as if they armed every last fideh grandma and child around here.”

It was as if, but not entirely. When all was said and done, there would be atrocities to answer for from the Hutanjian troops who were panicking as if the very trees were attacking them. In many cases, they were.

“I have also had trouble reaching our air support and also Vice Admiral Oklumza. Our Southern fleet is supposed to be in close to the coast to guard that flank. They are nowhere to be seen. We’ve had blackouts from jamming, so I can’t be sure of their location. Much of the armor we hoped to send to help your forces on the central plains against the Falkasians has been wiped out around Palegata by enemy AT teams, traps and tank hunting aircraft. We have lost all contact with the 16th Regiment and Jalakra is in full conflagration, from reports. That is...what I do know.” His voice had wavered a bit, then recovered towards the end.
“How is it with you?”

“General, an order to withdraw was agreed to by Presidents Pahath-Moab and Hespatu. I had hoped you were aware. It would be best if you pulled back. According to our calculations…” he paused. “Just a moment, General.” his voice became muffled, other voices joined in with his. “You will be encircled and wiped out.” he said bluntly. “I believe I can order a sortie to help you, to provide you with cover. I can send...a squadron from the 15th Hussars. Right now our Marines are falling back to the port and covering support units and casualties. I can also promise a flight of Terriers for air support, and when you are closer to the coast, fire support from a destroyer. I’m afraid that is what can be spared for now.”

What Merari did not tell him was that it would be likely that any forces sent to their allies might simply perish with them. But there was nothing else to be done. He realized in a flash of cold clarity that the confusion spread along the front of the Hussars’ retreat coupled with a renewed attack might...just might...distract the enemy. Thus far they had ferociously attacked with the purpose of destruction rather than trying to outflank them and make their retreat to the sea hopeless. It did not seem, on analysis from Augrim’s NEMACH HQ, that the enemy wanted them to surrender or to keep them as a negotiating point. They wanted their destruction.

Wakala was stubborn, but not prideful.
“I did know of the withdrawal, but I was hoping that we could make our retreat a little more orderly and put the hurt on the Cards to buy us more time. That didn’t...quite work out. My error has cost many lives. Whatever help you can send is appreciated. If you have contact with Vesselle, please let them know that we need more forces to ensure the evacuation and stave off complete collapse.”

To be fair, it was difficult to disentangle from Palegata, and it would have required abandoning many smaller units, who were mixed in with the enemy, to their fate. The irregular Card forces were not taking many prisoners, if any. It was just hard for General Wakala to doom so many men to their fate of rearguard so that others could live, but the danger in giving in to that was losing them all and leaving the home islands open to follow on attacks.

Merari considered, closing his eyes for a long moment. “How long, at your present strength, do you think you can keep things together for? To be specific, can you do so for five hours?”

Wakala muffled the mouthpiece as he conferred with one of his staff. It took a minute, then he was back on,

“Yes, I believe we can. We certainly could use some countermeasures from your people and the USG. Our communications are completely unreliable due to the enemy jamming. If we had better communications, I think that we could coordinate better. However, my troops will still hold, whether they can reach us or not. I am worried that our smaller pockets of defense in the city will be picked off easier, but it can’t be helped. We will resort to runners if we have to in order to restore communications.”

General Merari snapped his fingers, and his Fleet liaison staff officer approached him. Merari muttered to him in Baran, and the officer showed him a page on a clipboard. He nodded curtly and said, “General, we will devote electronic warfare from the fleet to your purpose. As for your holding out: I understand. I would not want to abandon my people either. The First and Second Parachute Regiments are on their way, but are estimated to be arriving on West Cardwith within 3 hours, but it would be unwise to expect their actual deployment to take place sooner than five.

“What is your situation with regard to fuel, ammunition and other materiel?”

“Well, last I checked, fuel and rations for the troops are high overall....Outside Palegata, that is. It’s been difficult for us to get resupply into the city. Ammo is low, but resupply was on its way from the back line depots further north. All that’s going to be in disarray as we retreat. I’m afraid some units will probably need to destroy supplies in place, if we don’t have enough vehicles to truck them out. Their ground attack aircraft have been targeting our convoys and laagerred vehicles with shocking regularity, mobile AA first, of course.”

“We can attach a flight of multi-role fighters to counter this along with a flight of attack helicopters round the clock,” replied Merari. “Will that be satisfactory?”

“It should be, yes.” Wakala was trying to tap deep into the reservoir of hope. He might have found some.

“Excellent. Then we will attach four Terrier VTOL fighters to your formation. I will send you the contact information. As I said, in addition to this we will send the squadron to hold the line open, and the brigade will be on its way in an estimated 5 hours.” he paused. “Go with God, General.”

“Thank you, General. May you and your warriors stand strong, as well. Until we talk again.” Wakala cut the connection.

---

After briefly consulting with General Fotona and Colonel Moller, Wakala was again on the road, heading north. Everything they passed along the way was controlled chaos. It was a mass of soldiers, civilian administrators, and collaborators trying to get any transportation they could to get north and away from the encroaching Cardwithian and Falkasian forces.

There was little way for them to head east to the closer evacuation port, Hesttens, controlled by New Edomite forces. It was cut off by the spearhead of Falkasian/Card forces and the conflagration that was the Jalakra valley. A rift of those that were able to make their way North to Anjoux, and those that were East of the enemy front up the center of West Cardwith. Most of those that made it to Hesttens were Edomite forces, with a handful of USGSC and Hutanjian troops, while conversely, those in Anjoux were the majority of surviving Hutanjian troops on West Cardwith, with more USGSC auxiliary contractor forces and a tiny trickle of Edomite allied forces cut off from their main units in the East.

The air superiority issue was still to be determined. Falkasian, Cardwithian and ISVC manned F-29s, MiGs, Sukhois, and other socialist fighters continued to duel with Hutanjian, Edomite and USGSC aircraft for the skies over West Cardwith. At times, that battle left holes open for each sides’ ground attack craft to pounce upon the others’ troops and armored columns. V-25 VTOLs, MiLs and SL-14 ground attack aircraft hit the Hutanjians, mercenaries, and allies as they were still reeling from the guerrilla attacks.

Likewise, anti-air mobile platforms and ground teams equipped with handheld launchers went into action. The survivability of pilots for both sides, on that day over the Island, was such a low percentage, that those who did survive were guaranteed some type of medal or award afterwards. Just climbing into a cockpit that day to fly over West Cardwith was an act of courage that few would surpass in the coming decades. The situation in the air corridors over the rest of the Cardwiths and Nesselberg wasn’t much better.

On the very Western front, Hutanjians took a bad beating in Palegata, and those units were in full retreat with no hope of linking up with the remnants in the center. They tucked their tails between their legs and raced for Anjoux. They continued to fall back, hoping to stabilize a line that never seemed to develop any solidity.

Hesttens became a pocket surrounded by Cardwithian and ISVC troops.
An orderly retreat for these stalwart allies to Anjoux was now out of the question. They would have to secure the seas and air around the old Cardwithian capital, as well as make it through the channel that separated West and East Cardwith, surrounded by hostile land rocket and missile batteries on both islands.

While credit also goes to The Cardwith Islands, I cannot stress enough the input from the Allied States towards this post.

[The UFF of Hutanjia]

Tragedy Strikes
Across West Cardwith

It was actually Colonel Moller’s command group that was hit first by the PASD commandos, on the outskirts of Anjoux. They had landed in a field in order to set up and ambush the USGSC mercenaries on the road into the city, but they were quickly swooped in on by USG security forces. Their helo rides in were destroyed before they could escape.

Realizing that they would not be able to get in close range to the Colonel’s command car, they fell back on a planned contingency - mortars and RPGs. Several USG troopers were killed and injured, and Colonel Moller himself suffered shrapnel wounds, but would eventually pull through. Artillery and air strikes ended this PAST (People’s Action Strike Team) before they could succeed in their mission or escape.

General Wakala’s convoy was also attacked. It was on the Western Coastal Road where the trap was set before General Merari’s promised air escort could break through the enemy anti-air net. Another PAST cell had been dropped ahead in place, blocking the road and wiping out the handful of Hutanjian security forces in the immediate vicinity. As they held the block and Wakala’s convoy attempted to turn around and re-route, V-25s flown by Cardwithian and Falkasian pilots dove on and decimated it. The survivors were mopped up by the PAST, who then extracted by the same V-25s as retaliatory Hutanjian platoons rushed too late to save their beloved General.

General Wakala’s remains, along with dozens of other Hutanjian soldiers and pilots, were eventually returned to the Republic by the DSRC two years later, during a thaw in their normally hostile relations.

The third and final assassin squad made up of 4 PAST’s, never made it close to their target, General Merari. They were destroyed in the air by AA and enemy aircraft, along with their escort.
They were unfortunate enough to strike just as the promised reinforcements of the 1st and 2nd Parachute Regiments of the Allied States arrived on West Cardwith to further reinforce the pocket around Hesttens. The regiments arrived with heavy air and naval escort, driving off enemy forces in the area.

One V-25 was able to make it to the ground relatively intact, yet unable to take off again. In the ensuing firefight within a field in the Allied perimeter, the PAST was decimated, but 2 prisoners were taken. Later, they would go through a very thorough Council Police interrogation that would be invaluable to later operations against PASD personnel in the ongoing UFF insurgency on Nesselberg.

[Hutanjia]

Anjoux and Hesttens

Other than the Cardwithian black ops raids to try to take out the allied commanders, the rest of the battle for West Cardwith was a grinding, attritional fighting retreat into the perimeters around the northern and central-eastern cities still firmly held by Hutanjian and allied forces. The skies continued to be fought over, but there were noticeably less aircraft operating than earlier on in the battle.

Brigadier-General Reshef, a thin, wizened, dark olive tanned man, was the force commander of the Allied States 1st and 2nd Para Regiments that had arrived just in time to be withdrawn. Before that happened, they had work to do. A highly trained light infantry that packed light artillery, machine guns, rocket launchers, shoulder mounted anti-air and tripod mounted AA, along with anti-armour; they helped pull off the Hesttens Miracle and get their fellow soldiers off the West Cardwith beaches while fighting off determined attacks by the Cardwithian and ISVC units that continued to pour in from the South and get air assault dropped in on the NE of West Cardwith from across the channel. Despite their very shortened time in battle in comparison to other loyalist and allied units, they probably earned more accolades than many units who had been deployed the whole war, due to their fierce defense as the rear guard force.

Evacuation was more secure as the Cardwithian/ISVC fleet was beat off by the allied ships and subs, along with devastating anti-ship missile attacks. Transports were filled, then ships, and even Hutanjian trawlers, cargo ships, and a handful of pleasure yachts were loaded up with evacuating troops in both harbors.
Some were sunk, but many troops were recovered from the drink. North Cardwith became the new last loyalist bastion in the breakaway islands. Hutanjian counter battery fire in the form of rockets and cruise missiles were fired from mobile launchers that were intent to never fire from the same location twice. They were determined to fire off every last round to deter the socialists, and then get resupplied with more ordnance from Vesselle.

As the hours turned to twilight, most of the Hutanjian and allied troops were extracted to the North Island. The last evacuations were airborne. The last units to leave West Cardwith were the ships offshore and their air cover. The cost in men and materials was incredible and it would take many months to come up with a definitive end tally.

A Struggle For Peace

While the Cardwithians and Falkasians continued to hurl munitions at North Cardwith in the days ahead, any attempt to wipe out this last stronghold was defeated by allied counter attacks. Fresh troops arrived on every air transport from Vesselle. Each left with beat down, walking wounded, and demoralized troops that had been evacuated. They would be bolstered and serve as a temporary home guard for Nevorn, the home island of Hutanjia, and also be deployed to Northern Nesselberg.

Meanwhile, talks were resumed between the two warring sides, at the urgent behest of both Falkasia and the Allied States. Again, Kenega, although a suspect participant itself, served as the neutral ground where they met.

War weary Presidents Nellis and Hespatu were in a much more conciliatory mood than the last time they had met in person. Nellis was pleased that they had achieved and firmed up their goal, if but for the small North Cardwith Island. Hespatu and his top military command were no longer willing to sacrifice to retain the Cardwiths within the Republic. There was no fight left in the Hutanjian military or civilian population, other than wanting to continue defending the home territories.

In a controversial decision, Hespatu gave up the remaining Cardwith Island, the North, without a fight in the ensuing Treaty, in return for the guarantee that all Falkasian, Cardwithian/UFF and allied socialist forces would be withdrawn from Nesselberg. Of course, we would learn later that almost all those guerrilla forces were re-inserted later to continue the insurgency against Hutanjia. The Cardwithian government would claim that the insurgents still on the island were not from the UFF, but the FNM (Free Nesselberg Movement), an indigenous insurgency dedicated to throwing out both Cardwithian and Hutanjian influence. Later intelligence gathered proved that statement false.

The Kenega Peace Treaty was signed on April 25th, 2016. Hutanjian and allied forces were given 3 months to fully withdraw from North Cardwith, and the same timeframe was given to the Falkasians and Cardwithians to pull out all covert forces from Nesselberg.

The Hutanjians dismantled and destroyed their remaining facilities on North Cardwith rather than hand it over to the hated Cardwithians. While they did their best to lay waste to Marksville, the naval port and air base, the Cardwithians managed to rebuild it less than a year later. It is now a major ISVC staging base in Wishtonia.

Some considerable civilian loss of life occurred in Torusogu and Abamete when native North Cardwithians tried to interfere to stop the Hutanjians from destroying major civilian and government infrastructure. They were in panic that the Cardwithian government would not be able to arrive in time to stop major catastrophic collapse due to sabotaged infrastructure. While the Hutanjians dismissed internal criminal charges against the responsible officers, the case is still pending in International Court to this day.

Goes to The Allied States, The Cardwith Islands, Falkasia, and USG Security Corporation

[USG Security Corporation]

Forgotten Front

Panto Leto, the home island of the USG Security Corporation, was still under foreign occupation as operations on West Cardwith came to a close. Many agree that if USG troops, the Schwyz Regiment specifically, hadn’t been withdrawn to come to rescue of the home Island, the allies might have held out at least a bit longer on West Cardwith until reinforcements arrived.

The diversionary commando raid by Falkasian Marine Raiders and Cardwithian special forces and PASG troops had repercussions far beyond the Wishtonian war. It proved to the USG that their home base was not invulnerable to attack, and security protocols were changed.

It was condemned in Teremaran international courts as a huge provocation on the part of Falkasia, even though it was Falkasia who ultimately turned on their allies, the Cardwithians, when it was learned they had taken civilian hostages. The Falkasians actually pursued a truce and aided the USG in taking back the island from the PASG commandos and freeing the civilian hostages which were detained in a few buildings in Campobello. A lot of this was through the coordination of Admrial Yashin and General Tell, who was a ‘guest’ of the Falkasians aboard their flagship after his command aircraft crashed into the Southern Madurin Sea.

Because of this, a rift was driven into relations between Falkasia and the Cardwiths and for a time that year, there were siege conditions around the few Falkasian held facilities around the Cardwiths as Nellis contemplated ejecting them for good from the islands. Ultimately, a lot of diplomacy smoothed over the rift. For a time, anyway.

Also, the fact that Nellis agreed to abandon the PASG commandos captured on Panto Leto to their fate helped repair the relationship with their Falkasian benefactors.

Credit to Falkasia and The Cardwith Islands