The Vinyan Escalation [Closed]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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The Vinyan Escalation [Closed]

Postby Jedoria » Sat Jul 28, 2018 1:08 pm

25 Kilometers from the Vyzvhan-Jedorian Border
Airspace above Tamar

The skies were remarkably clear. The only clouds visible hung to the horizon off in the distance, creating a great expanse of vast open blue skies. Perfect weather for flying. Even though it was the middle of summer, at 20,000 feet it was remarkably chilly. Inside his GuL-73 Senior Captain Rimantas Chlastauskas was comfortable in his flight suit, even as his worn out restraints pressed a bit too tightly into his torso and chest. He kept one hand on the joystick as he gazed out over the open skies. It was a wonderful sight. When he was younger he used to dream of flying, of being free of the constraints of the ground and the earth. Up here it was like a whole different world, quiet and peaceful. Even though he flew a machine built for war, Chlastauskas felt remarkably at home in the skies.

He banked his GuL-73 gently to the side, the creaks and groans of the over 40 year old airframe now a familiar chorus to the pilot. Chlastauskas was younger than the aircraft he flew, having served now for 8 years having earned the rank of Senior Captain the previous year. His GuL-73 had been built in in the 70s and would be considered outdated by nearly every other airforce in the world, but the Federated Combine Air Force was short of modern fighters, despite purchasing dozens of modern craft from the Siuexerrans. When the Civil War had ended 10 years ago the newly established Federated Combine of Jedoria had inherited thousands of pieces of military hardware from the Socialist Republic. They had been outdated then and were even more so today. The AVA had been pouring in billions to modernize the Federated Combine Mustered Soldiery, and even though considerable progress had been made, there were still three quarters of the FCMS relying on hardware and equipment designed, and often built, in the Socialist era. Chlastauskas’s squadron was no exception.

Another problem was that the much hyped Border Guards agency had never materialized. Ten years after the Civil War the military was still responsible for border protection and patrolling. It’s why Chlastauskas was in the air today, as he had been last week as well. At least he got to fly. Jedoria’s air force had on paper 2,000 aircraft. Half of that couldn’t fly, and of the half that could, only 20% were considered modern. Much of the FGAF remained in their hangers and airfields, grounded by a lack of proper maintenance or their aged airframes were no longer safe to fly. Starting next year they had been told they would start deactivating all the grounded regiments to slim down the service and improve readiness, but for now it was up to squadrons like those under the command of Senior Captain Chlastauskas to safeguard Jedoria’s borders. At least his own plane was working properly. Most of the time.

Chlastauskas keyed his microphone. “Watch Tower this is Jackal Lead. Passing Nav Point Epsilon.”

“Confirm Jackal Lead, continue on course.” The voice on the other end was quiet. The junior NCO manning the radar site was new to the duty station, but thus far he had done a fine job. Chlastauskas at least had no problems with him. “Aff, Watch Tower.” He replied, before flicking off his mic. He guided his jet into line so it would intersect Nav Point Zeta, the last point on his patrol. Once again he left his hand on the controls while his eyes drifted off towards the horizon as he flew south. A small part of him wish he never had to leave the skies, that he could spend the rest of his life amid the clouds and away from the troubles of the world. For a moment, he closed his eyes and left out a deep exhale.

The blaring alarm shook him out of his trance and he immediately stirred from his daydreaming. His eyes shot around the cockpit for a moment before he zeroed in on the source of the alarm. His dials were going crazy, attitude control was spinning as though he was in free fall. He glanced out the cockpit for a moment to confirm he hadn’t just lost all sense of balance. His jet continued to fly straight and true, seemingly no issue with it’s operations. But the alarms screaming in his face suggested otherwise. He shook his head. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced issues with aircraft. He flipped on the switch for the mic.

“Watch Tower be advised, I’ve experiencing technical issues with my monitors and controls. I’m gonna reboot the system and bring it back up. Let ground ops know I might need a technical crew when I land.”

“Uh, solid aff Jackal Lead. Let us know when you’re back up.”

Chlastauskas reached down next to his right leg. His GuL-73’s radar, radio, and monitoring system all relied on a single power supply located just in front of the cockpit between him and the nose mounted radar. He opened up the protective casing that held the main power switched, and flipped it off. He waited 30 seconds, and then flipped it back to the ‘’ON” position.

Nothing happened.

“Sir? I think we have a problem.”

Junior Sergeant Vitalijs Romanovskis had only been a radar operator in the Tikinov District for three weeks now, and thus far in his short career he had encountered no issues. It was almost with an air of reluctance did he hail down his Lieutenant, as though he was fearful of repercussion for something that was clearly not his fault. Romanovskis had gotten to know all the pilots of Jackal Flight by now, and Senior Captain Chlastauskas was as reliable as one could be. When he had informed Romanovskis that he was doing a system reset it had struck him as unusual but not unheard of. But that had been 7 minutes ago, and now the situation was growing concerning.

The Junior Lieutenant assigned to the radar section frowned as he walked over to Romanovskis’s station, coffee mug in hand. “Something the matter, Junior Sergeant?”

“Lead, we have a problem.” Romanovskis explained. “Jackal Lead experienced system issues 7 minutes ago and said he was going to do a reset, but I haven’t heard from him since. I’ve trying contacting him but got no answer. I’ve raised his other flight members with no problems, so it’s only him.”

“Can you still track him?” The officer asked.

“Yeah, but that’s the problem.” Romanovskis said, raising a finger to point towards the screen of his radar operating system. “He’s approaching the Vyzvhan border. He’ll cross in two minutes unless he changes course.”

The section leader stared at the screen for a few moments. Romanovskis couldn’t tell what the officer was thinking. The pat on the back and the “Keep trying to raise him” before the officer walked off to contact his own superior officer did little to calm Romanovskis, who turned back to the screen and could only watch and attempt to raise Jackal Leader in vain as his aircraft continued to veer towards Vyzvhan territory.

The comfort of his aircraft was now gone. No longer was his flight suit keeping him cool; sweat had broken out on his brow as he tried in vain to bring his systems back online. With no radar or communication he had no way of being sure exactly where he was. The sun was in the middle of the sky making it hard to tell with certainty which way was north, south, east or west. He had settled on what he thought was south, keeping in like with the border, but he wasn’t entirely sure. He had thrown himself off course while trying to adjust the switches for his system and had become disoriented in the process.

Senior Captain Chlastauskas was now very worried. It would be difficult to figure out where he was and how to get back to base at this point. He cursed himself for his laziness, so reliant on ground control and the radar operators to guide him. How many weeks had he flown this patrol, and yet still struggled to recognize landmarks and terrain features? It was almost disgraceful, for an officer of his rank to be so uninformed. When he got back to base, he swore he would memorize the entire damn map.

The first missile streaked past his aircraft so fast he almost didn’t notice it. It exploded somewhere off to his right, and his entire aircraft buffeted like it had been dropped kicked. Suddenly in a panic he squeezed the joystick hard and tried to reign it in. Once he finally brought it under control it struck him; someone had shot at him. He peered down over the cockpits frame just in time to see the second missile coming straight for him. The ensuing explosion tore the aircraft apart, one of the wings sheared right off and the tail disintegrated as bits of shrapnel tore into the dated and flimsy frame of the aircraft. Everything began rattling and shaking, and Chlastauskas realized his aircraft was falling apart all around him. A moment of panic overcame him before he had the common sense to eject.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Vyzhva » Tue Jul 31, 2018 10:13 am

    Vyzhvan-Jedorian Border

    The first missile left the launcher, which was mounted upon a KM-65 reconnaissance vehicle, with a crackling sound. Not too long after, the second missile went flying out of launcher. Kohyar tried to follow both missiles with his eyes, but their speed made it almost impossible. What he did see however, was that the first missile had missed its target, which was the Jedorian GuL-73 that had passed the border mere moments ago. The Jedorian jet aircraft went up in flames as the second missile successfully struck the hull of the jet, practically disintegrating it into innumerable pieces of shrapnel.

    Kohyar elevated his binoculars to his eyes and peered through them, the sun made it hard to see any deployed parachute. He slowly scanned the sky for any such things, until he saw a white sheet of cloth dropping from the sky, eagerly, yet slowly, pulled down by the forces of gravity. At the end there was a little man, patiently waiting to hit the ground. Pieces, of what once was the hull of the hostile aircraft, were still falling onto ground as Kohyar was headed back to his platoon.

    He didn't want to admit it himself, but he was becoming an old man, having served at the border for many decades. Kohyar hadn't faced much 'action' during his years in the People's Mobilisation, besides from some of the staged military exercises or wargames that were hosted once in a while. Now it seemed as if the action had come to him. He had just diverted an airspace violation and maybe even a possible diplomatic crisis, by ordering the shooting down of that jet, or so he thought at least. As he sat down inside the vehicle, he thought no further of it. They were going to capture that pilot no matter what.


    Ⰲ Ⱂ Ⰵ Ⱃ Ⰵ Ⰴ

    BREAKING NEWS | Jedorian Aircraft Shot Down At Border
Saman Palij
31/7/2018 - Melna, Vyzhvan Collectivist State

    WE HAVE JUST recieved news that a Jedorian aircraft (GuL-73) has been shot down at the Vyzhvan-Jedorian border. According to our sources, the aircraft entered Vyzhvan airspace, thereof violating it. The officer present at the site made a wise decision to order the anti-aircraft strike, and according to his accounts, the aircraft was on a reconnaissance mission to map out geographical landmarks for a coming Jedorian invasion. Fortunately, our troops have suffered zero casualties thus far. The Jedorian rat piloting the aircraft survived, unfortunately. What happenings that may follow are uncertain as of presently.

    Our military has yet again proven that the Vyzhvan people are to be reckoned with. We are patrolling our borders day and night, every day of the year, to ensure the upmost safety of our motherland. Our Paramount Leader, Vazyl Ruban has yet again guided us, the Vyzhvan people, onto the right path. If Jedoria wants to take our beautiful land from us, then let us happily wish the Jedorian cockroaches good luck. █

    More updates and information will be revealed as the event progresses.

Approved By The Ministry of Domestic Information
vyzhva // spread eagle cross the block

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Postby Jedoria » Tue Jul 31, 2018 1:08 pm

Station Nomad
49 Kilometers from the Jedorian-Vyzvhan Border, Territory of Tamar

Junior Sergeant Vitalijs Romanovskis drummed his fingers nervously on the desk of his station. He had bitten the fingernails down to the stub on both hands, and along with his restless leg, the constant fidgeting of his body was a clear indication of his discomfort. When he had first been ordered to report to the Tamar border radar watch station with his freshly sown stripes on his uniform, he had expected a relatively simple and uneventful posting. The Vyzvhan border had been quiet for decades, and although it was a remote station that offered little in the form of amenities, it was a pleasant break from the hectic day-to-day schedule of some of the postings further east. Here on the frontier things were simpler, or at least they were supposed to be.

“And when did you officially note that Jackal Lead was no longer on your scope?”

The Major who had been brought to the radar outpost with the section lieutenant wore a crisp and clean uniform, sharply pressed compared to the loosely fitting fatigues of Romanovskis. Something about the Major was off putting to the Junior Sergeant, but he couldn’t tell if it was the man’s beady eyes, intent stare, or the way he held his pen in hand while he jotted down every detail Romanovskis had given to him. Regardless of the exact reason why, Romanovskis forced himself to set aside his discomfort and address the Major’s question. Maybe if he answered it correctly enough the officer would leave him be.

“The timestamp was 1217, sir. The screen cycles every ten seconds, one moment he was there, and ten seconds later when the screen reset Jackal Lead was no longer on it.”

He was speaking honestly, but for some reason Romanovskis felt nervous telling the truth. He was afraid the Major would ask for some technicality, or cite some vague rule that nobody bothered to follow because it served no practical purpose, but would look bad if Romanovskis admitted he had ignored it. Romanovskis reasoned that he had done his job well, if unspectacular up until now. Even this event was not his fault, it’s not like the aircraft's system failure had been caused by him. Despite his reassurances that he was not in the wrong there was a sense of worry that nipped at him, like a bad stomach ache that refused to go away. He looked again at the Major who was writing more notes down on his paper pad. He stopped finally to look again at Romanovskis with another question on his lips.

“Where was Jackal Lead when he disappeared from your radar?”

It was a question that Romanovskis had been expecting, made even worse by the fact that he didn’t really have an accurate answer. The radar array that was used by the station was already an older model than the ones found further east near the capital. The delay between the radar array’s detection modules and the cables leading to the screen was noticeable its own right, and on top of that his screen refresh rate was several seconds behind as well. On average there was a 15-25 second delay between the real time action and what was shown on Romanovskis’s screen.

“The last known location was at the border.” Romanovskis answered carefully.

“Where exactly? Did he cross into Vyzvhan territory?”

Romanovskis cursed the Major in his mind. Everyone who worked at the radar station knew of the delay in data transit, but as far as their superiors were aware the system worked fine. Typical of officers in the 8th Order to accept whatever was on the label and never bothering to actually checking. Why did this have to happen to him?

“I can’t be entirely sure sir. The refresh rate of the array is several seconds. It may not seem like much but when he’s flying at several hundred miles per hour that can make a difference.” He hoped that the Major would finally accept he had nothing more to add and leave him be. The officer scribbled something else down on his pad of paper before nodding. “And you received no further contact with Jackal Lead at any point after he said he was going to perform a system resent?”

“Neg, sir.”

More scribbling with his infernal pen. The Major stopped and stared at Romanovskis for a moment before he nodded. “Very well then, that’s all the information I need. You may resume your duties, Junior Sergeant.”

“Aff, sir.” Romanovskis faked the politeness of the response, ready to return to what he was asked to do on a daily basis, and he personally felt he did a fine job of. It wasn’t his fault the equipment was old and sometimes unreliable, and so many aircraft being used were old and in constant need of repairs. The sound of the Major’s boots clicking on the tiled floor as he walked away served to remind Romanovskis of the world of difference between officers and sergeants. Officers, always so obsessed with presentation and appearance. NCO’s of the Jedorian Army were expected to perform their duties most effectively as possible. Everything else was secondary. And, Romanovskis reasoned, he was very good at his job.

He turned back to his station, running his eyes before he resumed staring at a screen for eight more hours.

8th Order Headquarters

Major General Andrijans Gibala held his pen steady, mere centimeters above the dotted line where his signature was expected. Despite being in position to do so, he found himself struggling somewhat to actually put pen to paper. The general officer held his pen there for a few more moments before he let his wrist slack and dropped his hand. Try as he might, he couldn’t just ignore the state of things. Gibala had never considered himself much of a disciplinarian, despite the call for it in his occupation, and even though it wouldn’t be the first time he had brought the hammer down, he felt a certain sense of discomfort as he did.

Two days prior a Jedorian soldier, a young conscript from Zavijava, had gotten into a fight at a bar while off duty. He hadn’t started the confrontation with the drunkard, but by brandishing and shortly thereafter making use of a knife had placed him in the local jail. There was a conflict in the law here; theoretically since the soldier was not on leave military law was supposed to be followed through, but since he had placed a civilian in the hospital, the local courts wanted to deal with it. The incident had of course been passed up the chain to his own desk, where he was expected to make the decision regarding the fate of the boy. It was an aspect of command Gibala hated, least of all because he didn’t really understand which route to take. The whole incident was nothing but a mess, something he preferred to avoid but that was a luxury he no longer possessed. He was required to make a decision here, and as he stared down at the paper, he couldn’t help but realize that although he would be expected to make vital decisions on the battlefield, here a piece of paper had stumped him.

The buzzing of his notification intercom was almost a blessing from God.


“Sir, it’s Zvaigzne and myself.” The voice on the other end, which Gibala recognized as belonging to his chief of staff Lieutenant General Kļaviņš, was faint amid the gentle cackle of the radio communication. Gibala buzzed them in, the door to his office creaking open as the two men entered. Both men took the necessary steps to stand in front of their commanding officers desk and rendered salutes. Gibala saluted back effort, his eyes taking in the details of both of his staff officers. Kļaviņš and Zviagzne had been on Gibala’s staff for over five years, long enough that he had long ago began trusting them and their capabilities to help the 8th Order run as smoothly as possible, in spite of all the hiccups and problems that developed along the way. Both men were professionals, highly skilled in their respective tasks. Gibala took pride in knowing how well his Chief of Staff and Intelligence Officer acted and operated, all the while acknowledging that neither men resembled soldiers in the slightest.

Kļaviņš always looked like an odd man out of the bunch, the runt of the litter. He was short in stature with a round face and beady eyes that almost looked comical whenever his face reddened, which was common for the diminutive officer. Kļaviņš’s almost childish looks betrayed a sharp mind that was easily one of the most capable organizers in the entire Jedorian Federal Forces. It was precisely because of his appearance that Kļaviņš was here, and not somewhere in a more strategic command. Zvaigzne was no different, except the man’s problem was that his lanky frame was topped by a set of eyes that drooped and made him appear constantly on the verge of passing out from exhaustion. His seemingly persistent tired expression concealed the mind of a man who was capable of deciphering not only the enemy’s objectives and strengths just by observing them, but also formulating the best response to their actions and movements. It almost hurt Gibala to realize that despite their incredible abilities they would likely spend their entire careers stuck in these frontier posts, waiting for a war that would never come, passed over by the chiseled jawed and steel eyed generals further east, who resembled real soldiers despite barely being able to command a platoon.

Some things never changed, Gibala reasoned. The enlisted and junior officers might think that once you reached the ranks of the Generals you were golden, untouchable by the nonsense of the rest of the army, but nothing really changed. The cliques still existed, so did the prejudices and ignorance. Being older didn’t always translate into being wiser.

Of course, if they were stuck here in the 8th Order, in the ass end of the Federated Combine, what did that say for the commanding officer? Gibala almost smiled to himself. He was old for sure, even if he still had plenty of years left on this earth the army had taken the best of them. The 8th Order was it seemed, the end of the life for just about everyone here. But even if they were nothing more than the left overs of the Jedorian Federal Guards, they were still a formation beholden to it’s mission and role in the overall defense of their homeland. And if both Zvaigzne and Kļaviņš were here, then something serious was happening.

“What news do you two bring?”

“Sir, we have a situation developing on the border.” Kļaviņš spoke in the same clipped, coherent tone that was heard regularly during every weekly briefing. It was the kind of voice they drilled into candidates at the general staff academy, and it was clear the lessons had stuck with Kļaviņš over all these years. “Less than an hour ago, we lost contact with one of our patrolling aircraft near the border. The aircraft was a GuL-73 piloted by Senior Captain Chlastauskas, call sign Jackal Lead. He reported mechanical problems about ten minutes before he disappeared from our scopes. The radar operator at Station Nomad was unable to make contact with him after he reported mechanical issues. As of right now, the current status of the aicraft, and Senior Captain Chlastauskas, is unknown.”

Gibala listened carefully to every word, mulling them over in his head. “Do we know what happened to the aircraft that caused it to disappear off our sensors?”

Zvaigzne shook his head. “Neg lead. As of right now we have a lack of solid intel in the air and on the ground. Jackal Lead was flying alone and none of our ground patrols reported seeing anything.”

“So, what are your theories then?”

Zvaigzne gathered his thoughts carefully but quickly before speaking. “Either Jackal Lead was brought down due to mechanical issues that caused him to crash, or he was shot down by the Vyzvhans.”
“Can we confirm either?”

“Neg, lead.”

Gibala scratched his chin idly as he pondered the available information. “Where exactly was the aircraft when it went down? On our side of the border, or theirs?”

“We don’t know for sure, sir.” Zvaigzne admitted. “Our radar array at Station Nomad wasn’t accurate enough to report anything other than the aircraft disappeared on the border. We aren’t sure if he crossed it or not.”

Gibala nodded. “If it did cross the border, it’s likely the Vyzvhans would have shot it down?”

“Almost certainly, lead.” Zvaigzne replied. “They have thus far reacted very negatively to every activity we have conducted on the border thus far.”

“But until we actually confirm that through debris or eyewitnesses, it’s still just a theory.” Gibala pointed out.

“Aff, lead. And given the mechanical issues that were reported, we can’t rule out that it was just an accident.”

Gibala furrowed his brow. “I’m assuming we can’t just call the Vyzvhans and ask them of they shot down our aircraft?”

Kļaviņš shook his head. “Neg, lead. I’m afraid the last time we had a direct line to the Vyzvhans was back when the-”

“Socialists.” Gibala grunted. His shoulders almost imperceptibly drooped. Since the civil war had ended over ten years ago Jedoria had repeatedly tried to stress that it’s neighbors no longer need fear expansionist efforts against their territory, that the years of outright invasion and border conflicts were a thing of the past, a facet that had died with the Socialist Republic. But mistrust took decades to heal, and despite their efforts the Jedorians had made only minor progress in that department. And in some cases they had dismantled the very thing they needed to solve problems like this, too strongly believing in the future with their boots still stuck in the mud

“Is there anyway to determine if the aircraft was shot down, for sure?”

“Our radar array at Station Nomad isn’t strong enough to detect something as small as a surface-to-air missile.” Kļaviņš explained.

“Very well then. Get in contact with Strana Mechty and see if the International Relations Bureau has any options of talking with the Vyzvhans. In the meantime, recall our patrols and send them to the border to search for any sign of either the pilot or the aircraft.”

“Sir,” Kļaviņš said in his respectful but serious tone, “If Jackal Lead did violate Vyzvhan airspace, and we followed that up by deploying forces to the border, it could very well be seen as an escalation.”

Gibala nodded. “And if they shot down our bird while it was still in our airspace, then they have committed an act of aggression against the Federated Combine.”

“Aff, lead.”

Somewhere in Tamar
12 Kilometers from the Vyzvhan Border

Tamar was not an official State, unlike most of the subdivisions of the Federated Combine. Officially it was a territory, unofficially it was a shithole. An undeveloped, lightly populated shithole full of rusted trucks, hicks and families that hadn’t moved in a thousand years. Being stationed in Tamar was drawing the short stick to pretty much everyone in the Jedorian Federal Forces, in no small part due to the fact that the much fabled Border Guards had never materialized, leaving protection of the border to the armed forces.

Corporal Tadeušs Krancis gazed out over the vast expanse of emptiness that dominated the area of operations for his patrol. Tamar was dissected by three rivers, but apart from the banks of said rivers the entire territory was a barren wasteland of scant villages, rolling hills and sparse forests of dead trees. It felt like standing at the edge of the earth. Considering whom they were bordering, it might as well be. Krancis knew the Vyzvhans were a dirty people, a race of mongoloid animals who’s only redeeming quality was that they kept to themselves and stayed within the confines of their god forsaken country. It was because of their bullshit he was forced to patrol the same dirt roads over and over again, week after week, conducting his rigid battle drills in his gas mask that cut his breath short and made it hard to belt out orders. The junior non-commissioned officer was tired of this shithole.

He leaned back in the passenger seat of his Swiftwind, staring out the windshield to where his two soldiers stood. Krancis wasn’t sure what to make of Private Dreimanis and Private First Class Kažoks, even though they had worked together for four months now. He supposed they weren’t too bad. They did what they were told and did so in a satisfactory manner. Their uniforms weren’t always the cleanest or the best kept, but no one really cared about that out here. Really, his only complaint was that they talked too much. At least now they were doing it outside where he didn’t have to hear them. Krancis shifted his head to rest it against the door.

The cackle of the radio surprised Krancis, unused to getting radio transmission in the middle of a patrol. After a moment of confusion he reached forward to take the hand set and listen in.
“All stations be advised, new op-order incoming.”

“All mobile elements, be advised: we a boomer down in sector GU-18745. All mobile elements are to move to sector and conduct search and rescue operations for downed boomer ASAP. Respond in sequence, over.”

“This is Bloodhound-2, solid aff.”

“This is Echo 5 Charlie, aff.”

Krancis keyed his mic. “This is Private-Eye 4-Niner, solid aff.”

“This is Sigma Lead, aff. Interrogative, will airwatch be in the A, over?”

“Sigma Lead, Air assets are en route, more to follow as details become available.”

“All stations, execute. Control out.”

Krancis placed the radio set back into it’s compartment, unsure of what to make of this development. He propped open the door to lean out of the vehicle. “Hey, get back in! We gotta roll out.”

Kažoks and Dreimanis exchanged curious glances, but made their way over to the Swiftwind and climbed in. Dreimanis hopped into the driver seat and started the engine, casting a look at his NCO. “What’s the news, Corporal?”

“Some air force fag crashed his million dollar flying machine somewhere on the border, and we have to go pick up the pieces.” Krancis explained, placing his rifle in his lap. Dreimanis’s expression morphed into confusion. “On the border? Was he shot down?”

Krancis opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly realized that he had never considered that possibility. They would’ve informed him of that if that had been the case, surely. Experience told him on the other hand that information was never timely. The more he thought of that the more it troubled him. Had the plane been shot down? What did that mean? Were they at risk of something happening?

“No, just an accident. Still, keep alert.” Krancis wasn't sure how much he was reassuring them or himself. Dreimanis just nodded, but Krancis could hear Kažoks cycle the bolt forward on the vehicle mounted machine gun he manned.

The Swiftwind kicked up dirt, and became part of a company sized element that was moving towards the site where Jackal Lead had crossed the border. Two more GuLs and a helicopter were also en route, surely something Vyzvhan early warning radar would detect.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Founded: Aug 31, 2017
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Vyzhva » Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:03 am

    Paramount Leader's Office, Melna

    Vazyl Ruban was a powerful man, yet despite this, he never felt like such at times. Serving for almost three decades as the most totalitarian leader of Septentrion sure had taken a toll on him as well. He was now sitting facing his desk, with his back against the large window. Accompanying him were ten guards, five positioned on either side of the large room. Each of them held their automatic rifles against their shoulder, gripping the bottom of their rifle stocks with their palms.

    The two large door about 20 meters in front of the desk, behind which Vazyl sat, swung up. Through them marched a man sporting a peaked cap, quickly followed by a pair of armed guards. As the three were within four meters of the desk, they stopped and performed the Zayetist salute*. As they ceased saluting, the man with the large peaked cap, General Kamyar, approached the desk. He carefully put formward a dossier, containing merely one piece of paper. Vazyl eyed through it swiftly. He nodded and the two guards who had followed the General quickly marched out of the room, closing the doors as they went.

      "You are late, comrade General", Vazyl said. "Why is this?", he continued.

      "The traffic was horrible, comrade Paramount Leader", the General replied.

      They both gave off a little chuckle, as they knew most of the Vyzhvan population couldn't afford, nor were allowed to drive, a car.

      "On a more serious note, comrade General, what do you propose we do to solve the situation at our northeastern border?", the Paramount Leader inquired.

      "I propose we wait for the Jedorians to make a move. If this is indeed an invasion, there's a high risk that they will send additional forces", Kamyar answered.

      "Noted. Put all units in the near vicinity of our nothern border with Jedoria at high alert.", Vazyl stated.

    The General nodded, performed yet another salute, turned on his heel and stormed out of the Paramount Leader's Office. As the doors were closed again by the guards, Vazyl Ruban spun 180 degrees on his chair, facing the large window. Maybe I am a powerful man after all, he thought. He crossed his legs.


    Toshat, 6 Kilometers from the Vyzhvan-Jedorian border

    Toshat was a village. Once it had held around 70 inhabitants, but these were forced to relocate during the early stages of 'the Grand Reconstruction' as the Vyzhvan historians had come to refer to it as. To the general populace however, the event has become known as the Perebudova. Toshat had been abandoned partly because of its close proximity to the Jedorian border, but also because the new high-rise concrete buildings in inner Vyzhva were in dire need of occupants.

    Since its desolation, the People's Mobilisation had established a monitoring station there, located upon a hill overlooking Toshat, which primary purpose was to oversee Jedorian movements, and transmit any noted activity to the commanding officers. There was rarely any action there. The early-warning radar itself, an R-59*, had been stationed there for nearly five decades, its crew however, were not as old. Inside the control cabin, there existed a state of high alertness and almost total silence, with the exception of the radar pings.

    Kuzma looked down on his display which showed zero activity. He looked around in the dimly lit control cabin, noted the expressions of his fellow radar-operators. He looked down again. Suddenly, it felt as if his heart jumped. On the display there were two green dots, situated almost parallelly to each other. Thoughts rushed through his head, such as: Could it have been a malfunction?, or Was this really a Jedorian invasion?. He decided that it was the latter. As he called out to his fellow radar-operators, the state of total silence was disrupted. Now there existed a state of frantic activity within the little control cabin attached to the radar unit overlooking Toshat.


    Vyzhvan-Jedorian border

    Kohyar carefully scanned the horizon, through his binoculars, for any aircraft, as his unit had recieved news that three unidentified aerial craft were headed towards his position mere moments ago. The rest of his unit was in the midst of readying for any possible 'encounters of the third kind'. Kohyar was interrupted by one of his men, who claimed he had spotted three distant dots close to the horizon. Very correct indeed, because as Kohyar swung his binoculars in the direction that the soldier pointed, he could see three dots, albeit larger. Two were moving faster than the last, hinting at the fact that the two swifter ones were jet aircraft, while the third was possibly a rotor-propelled craft, a helicopter.

    Since the missiles mounted upon the KM-65 were meant for close range only, Kohyar and his crew had to wait for the oncoming craft to get closer. As they did just that, he was given the information that the KM-65 attached to his air-defence battery was readied. Two rockets shot out of the launcher, one before the other, and began speeding towards one of the incoming jet aircraft. The first missile missed its target, however the latter missile exploded nearby the aircraft. It was hard to make any damage analysis at the moments.

    The trio flew past the air-defence unit, yet suddenly they all turned and flew back to Jedoria. The men on the ground cheered as they thought the Jedorian invaders had been defeated. This was but a mere temporary victory.
vyzhva // spread eagle cross the block

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Sun Aug 19, 2018 3:34 pm

6 Kilometers from the Vyzvhan Border

The Swiftwind bounced uncomfortably amid the rocky unpaved roads that were prominent in the largely undeveloped Tamar territory. The recon vehicle wasn’t built for comfort by any means. Between the bolted down, worn out seats and the groaning of the engine the Swiftwind seemed ready to break down with the slightest nudge in the wrong direction. Corporal Tadeušs Krancis knew from experience the robust machinery would hold it’s own, but that didn’t stop him from cursing as he smacked his head against the frame of the side door. Between the bouncing of the chassis and the shaking of his rifle between his legs Krancis was starting to think he couldn’t handle the growing discomfort any further. The featureless grasslands of Tamar offered little to distract from any of it.


Kažoks’s voice was suddenly strained and on alert. Krancis almost smacked his head against the frame. “What?”

“There, in the sky!” Krancis could practically feel Kažoks pointing with his arm at whatever it was in the sky.

“Stop!” Krancis shouted to be heard over the engine. Dreimanis slammed his foot on the brake harder than was necessary, and Krancis had to brace himself to prevent his head from slamming into the dash. With less grace than he would have preferred to display in front of his soldiers, Krancis clambered out of the Swiftwind and shot his eyes upward. The cloudless skies did nothing to conceal the long streaking exhaust of a surface-to-air missile that was skyrocketing upward towards some dot in the sky. Krancis craned his neck and squinted, trying to make out exactly what was happening. He looked back to ground level and suddenly realized that the origin of the missile streak was clearly far on the horizon. Which meant it had been fired from the other side of the border.

The distant muffled boom suddenly brought his eyes upward again, just in time to see the residue of an explosion and the sudden screaming of a jet engine. Krancis suddenly recalled that he had a pair of binoculars in his pack, and he scrambled to unholster the pack from his shoulders. He fumbled with the binoculars before finally bringing them up to his eyes, only to realize that he didn’t need him. Screaming down from up in the sky came a jet fighter, billowing smoke from the rear of it’s fuselage. Krancis stared in disbelief, momentarily fearing that jet was about to crash on top of his position.

Krancis nearly crouched and threw his arms up to protect himself, only to realize the jet was banking away, streaking up to avoid impacting into the ground, and screeching back deeper into Jedorian airspace. Krancis could follow the jet all the way back to the horizon by the streak of black smoke that followed in the wake of the jet’s engine. Suddenly he was bolting, racing for the Swiftwind. He clambered into the vehicle, hand outreaching before him. “Radio, I need the radio!”

Dreimanis awkwardly fumbled for the radio before handing it to Krancis, who grabbed hold the receiver and held it to his head while he thumbed the tuner and set the frequency to central. “Central this is Private Eye Four-Niner, I have viscon on friendly boomer hit by enemy airwatch in sector GU-18739, please advise.”

There was an almost painful delay between the transmission. “Private Eye Four-Niner, standby.”

“Private Eye Four-Niner, you are to proceed to sector GU-18743, link up with friendly forces in in the AO and await further instructions, Quiaff?”

Krancis swallowed, suddenly jolted by some uness forces of energy. “Aff, Central. Private Eye Four-Niner is en route.”

He hooked up the radio back into it’s set. “Let’s move, Dreimanis.”

It took only 10 minutes to reach 18743, the Swiftwind bouncing along the unpaved dirt roads. The chassis shook and vibrated with each swerve and turn, and despite occasional slips in the road Dreimanis managed to keep the vehicle from rolling over. Krancis could feel something gnawing at him, suddenly given new purpose beyond just simple patrols. He wasn’t even sure what exactly was going on, only that he had a new mission and orders and that someone had tried to shoot down one of his comrades in the sky.

There were two other groups already present, other sections called into the area. Krancis didn’t recognize any of them as he hopped out of the idled Swiftwind. He approached the clustered group of other soldiers, saluting when he realized one of them was a Junior Lieutenant. The junior grade officer, who’s name tape read “Pērkons” saluted back and then nodded.

“Sir, any idea what’s going on?”

Pērkons shook his head. “No idea Corporal. We’re about to find out I suppose.”

Krancis took a moment to take in who else had assembled here. An APC belonging to a unit that went by the call sign Sigma Lead (the Lieutenant), an armored utility vehicle belonging to Echo 5 Charlie, and another wheeled AFV known as Bloodhound-2. Essentially all the local patrols in the area had been recalled. They had what amounted roughly to a platoon of troops and armored vehicles, although with widely uneven levels of firepower and capabilities.

“Does anyone have a long range radio system?” Pērkons asked, snapping Krancis out of his momentary internal assessment. “I do, sir.” He said. His Swiftwind was equipped with a long range set designed for recon missions. They both returned to the Swiftwind, where Pērkons hopped on the set. Krancis was close enough to hear everything.

“Control, this is Sigma Lead. We have all local patrols at GU-18743, awaiting further instruction, over.”

“Sigma Lead, sitrep on local forces?” Control’s voice was oddly tense.

“We have one recon vehicle, and three armored vehicles. Heaviest weapon is the HMG on Bloodhoud-2. We can use Private Eye Four-Niner as a long range communication. Total personnel is 31, four victors, four machine guns, and one APG.”

“Sigma Lead, your orders are: Proceed into outbound space and eliminate enemy sky shield elements that have fired on our air patrols. We believe one of our pilots has ejected into hostile territory. Recovery one protocol is active. Do you understand, Sigma Lead?”

“Solid Aff, Control.” Pērkons said, with surprising clarity. Krancis’s eyes shot between the LT and the radio set. Suddenly a weight had been hoisted on his shoulders. “We’ll roll out in 5. Sigma Lead, out.”
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Fri Jan 25, 2019 10:19 pm

Western Jedoria

The Henrikas River was the largest river in Jedoria in terms of volume, even if the Khalkhin, Zemgus and Tukayyid were longer. Fed by frost from Mount Navickas, the Henrikas served as the border between the states of Denebola and Procyon and for much of Jedorian history was considered the western boundary of the Jedorian people and civilization. When Tamar had been absorbed into the Confederation the Jedorians soon found themselves with a far more arbitrary border that had played no small part in the conflicts between Jedoria and her western neighbors.

The fact that Tamar was so undeveloped did not help matters. Despite being fed by three rivers the soil was poor and difficult to farm. The long lasting residual ethnic conflict between the native Turkic peoples and Baltic Jedorians did little to improve the perception of Tamar. If there ever was a frontier for the Jedorians it was Tamar; but there existed no romanticism associated with it. Tamar was not an open land of opportunity, it was a backwater shell of a homeland that the Jedorians were honor bound by law and treaty to defend and occupy.

Nobody wanted to fight or die over Tamar. Had the Communists, at the end of the civil war, chosen to retreat to Tamar and establish a rump state they would probably still be around if for no other reason the rest of Jedoria wouldn’t feel it worth the cost to take it. The people who called Tamar home were themselves an oddity, the tanned and weathered facial features of Turkics mixed in with the blue-green eyes and fair hair of the Baltics. They were tolerated, rather than accepted, by the rest of Jedoria and it was a similar contempt that the Federated Combine directed its efforts towards the administered territory, which was denied even the validity of statehood.

It was therefore a great irony that one of the most significant events in modern Jedorian history would be based in Tamar.

The Henrikas normally froze in large stretches during the winter, and despite the rise in global temperatures this remained true as January was brought to an end. The ice that now covered the surface was nearly 2 feet thick and solid enough to drive a six-wheel vehicle over, but for practical purposes the trucks kept to the bridges and roads that spanned over the frozen waterway. Traffic control teams stood in the freezing temperatures around major junctions and bridges (which became increasingly infrequent the further west they went), waving forward vehicles both wheeled and tracked. To anyone who doubted the importance of planning and logistics to military operations, the Jedorian endeavors in on the Henrikas were proof their significance. There were only two bridges spanning the river that could support the weight of tanks, and even then, only by platoon. Moving each group across took nearly 20 minutes and an entire divisions compliment of tanks took nearly 8 hours, never mind the rest of the divisions armored vehicles and trucks.

At other river crossings the scene would’ve been similar. Tamar’s infrastructure was not at all designed to accommodate so many thousands of troops and their accompanying material and it showed plain as day. At major road junctions’ entire battalions were backed up as traffic controllers organized the right units into the appropriate place and destination. The stench of exhaust and fuel permeated the air, creating an ugly haze in the faint pre-dawn light mixed in with the wisps of breaths from shuddering lungs.

This was what war looked like to the Jedorians, columns of armored vehicles cluttered around roadways and small hamlets, men in white and gray uniforms clustering close together for warmth while officers and NCOs barked orders and commands. Everything seemed to move at an uneven pace, everyone would just be milling about trying to stay warm before someone suddenly yelled loudly and entire clusters would disperse to hop back into their vehicles. Doors would slam shut, hatches would be popped open and closed, lights would flick on and suddenly they were moving again. Entire units slowly creeping forward with creaking treads, spinning wheels, and whining engines. At irregular yet frequent intervals a vehicle would break down. The engine would sputter and fail to start, the tires would spin but the chassis wouldn’t move an inch. It was almost always the remnant vehicles, the ones built by the Socialists in the final years of their reign, when production was hampered by shortages of raw materials but driven by a desperate need for more equipment.

On the ground it looked like a mess. Nobody was exactly sure where their final destination was. Requests for time tables and points of arrival and departure were met with few actual answers. Soldiers and crew members seemed to mill around for either too long or too quickly before hopping back into their vehicles and driving to another checkpoint, upon arrival exiting their vehicles and resuming the cycle. The process of moving 250,000 soldiers and their necessary equipment and supplies into Tamar was an undertaking that to the average trooper resembled a colossal mess without any rhyme or reason.

But to Central Command hundreds of kilometers further east, everything was falling into order. From the view up top things were going good. Divisions were on schedule, traffic was mostly smooth, and most importantly the right people were in the right place at the right time. There were hiccups of course, some units were lagging behind others, there were countless breakdowns to deal with and more traffic accidents than people wanted to admit, but things were still moving, and in the end that’s what mattered right now. Secrecy, while completely impossible, was at least being hidden well behind stories of exercises and training.

The whole affair was an accomplishment that would go unsung. The glory of war went to the prominent, the generals, fighter pilots, special forces. Nobody asked for the memoirs of the man who had written the time tables for the division, or the logistician who had calculated how much fuel each brigade would need to be loaded up with prior to their initial movement. There would be no songs sung or movies made about the mechanics who in freezing weather hunched over hoods to remove bad batteries or replace filters and clean clogged transmissions. The foundation of any military operation, the logistics of it, would barely register as a footnote for most records on these events.

But if there was one facet of Jedorian military capabilities, it was this; the ability to muster, organize, and deploy large quantities of soldiers and equipment. Jedorian soldiers had never inspired awe in their opponents and contemporaries. The Celts never feared the retribution of the Jedorian soldier during the Vinyan War, nor had the AVA thought twice about intervention after the Jedorian People’s Army had invaded Mozria. Even after decades of propaganda and indoctrination the soldiers of the Jedorian Socialist Republic were not known for their fanaticism or devotion of their communist ideology.

Nobody feared the Jedorian armed forces. What would they be afraid of, of their cheap uniforms, worn rifles and artillery tubes, of their mix and match of various models and chassis? But if there was a single redeeming quality it was precisely this, the ability to go forward and plan and carry out such mass movements in spite of the various shortcomings. If the Federal Forces had inherited anything from the People’s Army it was the logistical ability to field and maintain such large formations. Timetables, troop control theory, automation, number crunching were all key items in the training and development of Jedoria’s military leadership and it showed. Because even as the Jedorians creaked forward in their decades old tank designs, they did so in a timely manner. Even as countless poorly made trucks broke down mechanics were there almost immediately to repair them. Entire divisions shuffled forward awkwardly and unevenly but by nightfall they would all be in their proper place.

The FedCom military machine was lacking in numerous fields, there was no denying that. Its soldiers were of lower quality than their allies, it’s funding was constantly on the verge of being slashed, it’s armaments were dated and it lacked cutting edge technology. What they did have above all was a very firm understanding of what they could do, and what they couldn’t do.

After all, wars aren’t won by the most competent. They’re won by the least incompetent.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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New York Times Democracy

Postby Nova Sylva » Thu Jan 31, 2019 5:37 pm

Sometimes, Coronato Scaletta thought, you just can't win. No matter what you do or what happens, you just can't win.

The Sylvan Ambassador to Jedoria twisted his face into a scowl as he watched the football game unfold on the small phone screen. Yes, Chandler FC was up by four, which was hardly to be a surprise, considering there opponents. Madrigal Real had never been a powerhouse on the field, though he rooted for his home team all the same. Coronato's frown grew even more sour as Chandler put another into the goal. Goddamn Chandlerites won every year - why did Coronato bother? Why did Madrigal bother? He was reflecting on the philosophical ruminations of the football match when the secreatery outside the office of the Jedorian foreign minister said in a pleasantly accented voice: "The Foreign Minister will see you now, Mr. Ambassador."

Coronato put away his phone in a coat pocket and allowed himself to be led into the Foreign Minister's office. Inside, a full length window allowed an impressive view of the courtyard below, while modern wood paneling lined the walls in an ornate, but fashionable, style. Behind a desk that looked to be at least a hundred years old sat a man who's expression was in stark contrast to Coronato's - lively, and energetic. He stood up and offered a hand. "Strana Mechty, International Relations Bureau."

Coronato shook the offered hand and took a seat across the desk. "I won't waste your time, Mr. Mechty," Coronato said, unbuttoning his jacket as he sat. "A war is the last thing Sylva wants. And we believe - we hope - its the last thing Jedoria wants. So how can we work together to prevent an escalation?"

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Aleckandor REDUX wrote: When it comes to RPing during the school year, believe me when I say I'm like a paraplegic without a wheel chair in a foot race with everybody being Usain Bolt clones.
Mozria wrote:I don't understand how he (Nova Sylva) does it. It's like he does nothing but play video games, get drunk and bang sorority girls. Where is the actual college education fitting in?

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Sat Feb 02, 2019 3:00 pm

Somewhere in Tikinov,
South Western Jedoria

“Christ, look at this shit.”

Senior Private Ezerskis folded the newspaper and handed it over to his comrade. Lance Corporal Kažoks read the headline and then dropped his eyes to read the text below, eyes scanning from left to right with increasing speed.

“Shit man, another attack?” He said after he concluded his read throw, throwing his head back slightly in surprise.

“What now?” Private First Class Bīriņš said in between drags of his cigarette.

“Another attack in Tir Glas. 70 people killed.”

“Oh shit, for real?” Preiksas, their recently promoted Lance Corporal, looked up from his canteen. “Didn’t they just get attacked in like, December?”

“Yep.” Ezerskis’s face was grim. “Somebody’s got it bad for the Celts. That’s close to 2,000 people dead total.”

Jotautas, another Senior Private who wore his faith on his sleeve as prominently as he did the flag of his homeland, said solemly, “We should pray for them.”

“Lotta good that’ll do.” Bīriņš snorted. “Five credits it’s the freakin’ turks.”

“Why would they do that?” Leonid, their youngest member, who’s wide eyes and small stature made him seem more like a child than a soldier, spoke up.

“Who knows? Maybe they just wanna piss off the Galenopact.” Kažoks said, folding the newspaper and handing it to Jotautas.

“Seem’s like a bad idea.” Private First Clas Cinsas chimed in.

“What do they have to fear? Not like anyone’s going to venture into that shithole.” Preiksas said dismissively. “You hear what the Archon said on the radio, all that shit about “We need to stand with our Galenic brothers and sisters”? Give me a break.”

“What did you expect him to say?” Ezerskis retorted. “The whole world is going to hell. Bombs in Tir Glas, GA’s coming undone, coup in Colombia, Medirida looks ready to implode. Somebody ordered front row tickets to the end of the earth.”

“Yeah, and now we’re stuck in the middle of it all.” Preiksas said. “The way I see it, after the communists surrendered we should’ve just said ‘thanks for the help, we’ll take it from here.’ Now we’re stuck between the AVA and the Celts, and you know when PSW II takes off the AVA’s just gonna use us as cannon fodder.”

Kažoks rolled his eyes. “Thank God we didn’t you in charge then. We’d still be clearing mines out of Dranga.”

“I’d rather be doing that than freezing my ass here in the middle of fuckin’ no where.” Bīriņš said with a hint of annoyance, waving his free hand around to remind them their entire battalion was currently in the middle of the open plains of the Katolaunian Fields, which stretched across the entirety of Tikinov and Arstitzka all the way to the Azuolas River further east. To the south was Tir Tairngire, and west was Vyzhva. The horizon was flat as the eye could see, the open fields slowly melting into the curvature of the earth.

They had been out here for two weeks already, and the monotony had set in. The entire brigade would move somewhere, set up shop, maintain that position for a few days, then pack up and move somewhere else. Whenever they moved they would awake early before morning and in the freezing cold of pre-dawn load their vehicles with fuel, warming up engines slowly and giving them plenty of time to double check the integrity of their ties, their headlights, fluids and transmission.

What was odd was the lack of activity in between. After setting up they would just sit there. Normally they’d run drills, dismounting and mounting their vehicles, sweeping and clearing objectives, simulating ambushes and advancements. But there was none of that this time. Instead they stood around, checking and rechecking their rifles, equipment, and vehicles. The physical exercise they did in the morning was light, just some stretches and a basic workout that got them to sweat a little but then they would stop abruptly. Some of the older vets like Kažoks, Jotautas, Ezerskis and Preiksas were beginning to get suspicious. Their chain of command was dropping in more and more frequently, but not to deliver spiels about integrity and development, but actually checking things; fuel consumption, inventories, readiness. They had suspended the normal training SOP in favor of constant checks and movements. At night some of the older soldiers gathered around a map in the back of one of their APCs and looked over a map to try to figure out where they were moving.

Every order thus far had been handed down over double encrypted channels, which were a bitch to decode and understand but were also frustratingly vague. Directions and distance were the only indications, no references to local landmarks or even the maps save for grid coordinates. They were moving north and south most of the time, but by now they were realizing they were also shifting further west, inching closer and closer to the border with Vyzhva.

At random intervals someone would appear on the radio, on unencrypted channels and spout random numbers and call signs for hours. No one in the squad or the company could make heads nor tails of it.

“Maybe we’re going to war.” Leonid said one day as they huddled around their vehicles and each other for warmth.

“No we’re not.”

“Get real.”

“Why else would we be out here?”

“We wouldn’t go to war alone.”

“Aren’t the Celts and their friends holding a major exercise too?”

“Yeah, but…”



“Ah, shit.”

The news from Waterford was bad. Real bad. But the Jedorians still needed time. That’s what the Archon to Emer Kobayashi, the Glasic foreign minister, when he arrived in Strana Mechty. It was surely frustrating for the Celts, to have their country bombed and their people killed, knowing that each day could bring more death and destruction. But they couldn’t strike, just yet.

Across the border the 4th and 8th Orders had assembled most their combined forces. It totaled eight armored divisions, nine mechanized infantry divisions, and four infantry divisions. It was a little misleading as Jedorian units were almost always smaller than their foreign counterparts, but it still added up to nearly 300,000 personnel, 1,575 tanks, 788 artillery pieces, and close to 2,500 IFVs and APCs. Even if they were largely armed with hand-me-downs and second rate armaments, it would be enough for Vyzhva.

When the Foreign Secretary returned home she would carry with her the final operational plans the Jedorians had concocted for their own forces. The Fourth Order would strike from the south in two main thrusts, one over the mountains that served as the border while a more conetrated thrust would occur closer to the bay of Vyzvhva. Two Corps would draw away the enemy’s tactical reserves and force the them back into a pocket in the space between the two sides of the Jedorian front. Another Corps would then head more or less straight west for Prognoi. From the north the Eighth Order would mount two drives, one west against Vyzhvan forces directly south of Kolodiya, another south. The southern advance would help encircle the bulk of Vyzhvan forces within a pocket between the highlands north of Prognoi and the Bay of Vzyvha, where they could be contained and annihilated.

Overall it was simple; force the enemy to commit all his available forces to what would appear to be the schwerpunkt, then encircle the entire force and dispatch follow up forces to push into the enemy’s strategic depth. The Jedorians would tell the Glasic government they needed just two more weeks. Two more weeks, and everything would be ready.
Last edited by Jedoria on Sun Feb 03, 2019 12:39 pm, edited 1 time in total.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Sat Feb 09, 2019 4:07 pm

North Western Jedoria

Some of the most important lessons to be learned were the most painful. In the Mozrian War the Jedorian People’s Army had fielded at one point a force composed of 650,000 men, 4,000 tanks, 8,000 IFVs and APCs, and more than 30,000 cargo trucks and utility vehicles. During the war the Jedorians had kept their front line forces supplied through a centralized supply system that ran all support services through the army level formation. Subordinate divisions (the JPA chain of organization ran straight from Army to Division, saving Corps for specialized formations and Operational Maneuver Groups) lacked much in the way of organic support units as did their own regiments. A Jedorian tank regiment of 3,000 men had less than 100 dedicated logistical staff and personnel. This wasn’t out of an ignorance of the necessity of supplying a modern mechanized formation, but a deliberate doctrinal decision. Based on their experiences in the Vinyan War and against the Soviets in Kolodiya the Jedorians had realized once the shooting started the lifespan of their forces, especially their tankers and mechanized infantry, could be measured in seconds. Attempting to keep all their tactical formations supplied equally just wasn’t possible since they would most likely be rendered combat ineffective within 24 hours, and burdening a division down with tons of organic support elements just slowed them down, also counter to a doctrine based on breakthroughs and pushing into the enemy’s rear echelon. The best way to go about it seemed to be to run a centralized logistical system that ensured that all forces had what they needed come zero hour, and just pick up the sundered remains of front line units as secondary and tertiary strategic echelons advanced.

But the Mozrian War had changed that mindset, at least on paper. Jedorian commanders had been perpetually frustrated by Sieuxerran, Sylvan, and Tyrannian aircraft strafing and pounding supply columns and convoys, wrecking the centrally focused supply system and depriving Jedorian forces of much needed supplies of ammunition, fuel, and food. In the end supply problems were just one problem in the avalanche of issues the Jedorian People’s Army had faced in Mozria, but the effects of the war had far reaching impact. In the Civil War the nature of the fighting largely negated such issues, but now that the Jedorian war machine was once more being mobilized issues like logistics, supplies, time tables, and systems of organization were once more at the epicenter of discussion.

When the Jedorian Federal Forces had been constituted to replace the Revolutionary Defense Forces how to organize the new Federal Guards had been a chief concern. In the end the large number of communist educated officers had won through and the Jedorians still ran an off shoot of the doctrine they had utilized for 50 years. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Jedorian divisions were still the tactical elements they had been decades earlier, never exceeding 12,000 men. They consisted of three maneuver brigades, an artillery brigade, and a support brigade of engineering, signals, maintenance, medical, and air defense elements. Logistics were still managed primarily at a higher level, but this time at the Corps level, where most heavy artillery and long range missiles were concentrated at.

One thing that had certainly not changed was the equipment and ordinance. For all intents and purposes the Jedorian soldiers that were gathering in huge numbers across western Jedoria seemed hardly any different from their fathers that had invaded Mozria over 30 years prior. The same cheap uniforms, worn rifles and hodge podge of tank variants now littered the flat fields of Tikinov and Tamar, sequestered away in back water villages that were the only defining aspect of this otherwise bland and flat landscape.
Major Helijs Balodis hated it. He hated waiting around more than anything. Sitting on the turret of his tank in the pre-dawn light he could see just the faint wisps of air escape his lips every time he breathed. Winter may be on the way out but it was still cold in Jedoria, the last snow fall expected to occur within the next few days. Balodis wouldn’t have minded the temperatures so much if was actually doing something, but the past few days had been spent doing nothing but repetitive checks and inventories. Three times in the past day he had been forced to order his battalion to lay out their on board inventories and run through maintenance checks with the entire battalion staff present.

Normally the Jedorian Federal Guards required a Lt. Colonel to be commanding a battalion, but the rapid call up of reserves in the past few weeks had eliminated such protocols quickly. Balodis had hoped that the rapid call up meant that he would be actively engaged in something within a few days, but to his mounting frustration he had spent last two weeks driving his tank battalion this way and back, chewing up mud and dirt along the largely unrefined roads of Tamar. Already three tanks had thrown their tracks, necessitating long hours of sitting on the side of the road, fuming in his cupola after being shouted off the road by a traffic control officer. Every time it happened he felt humiliated, forced to watch as columns of trucks, infantry, and armor drove past while he dallied on the side line, barking at his subordinates to get their asses moving faster.

Here he was, finally given command of this battalion in the field and he spent practically the entire time doing jack shit. He forced himself to calm down, staring at the horizon as the first rays of sun light rose over the pre-dawn haze. Wisps of air from his lips were his only companion until he heard the sounds of boots crunching on rocks and patches of snow. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to hear the familiar grunts as his adjutant, Captain Kepalinskas, hoisted himself onto Balodis’s tank. “Good morning sir.”

Kepalinskas’s familiar greeting had been said every morning since they had been mobilized, and by now Balodis’s previous annoyance at it had faded. His emotions towards his men had become rather bland over the past few days, reserving his fury for the monotony of his situation.

Balodis didn’t reply. He had stopped doing say last week, and by now his subordinate had become accustomed to it, as well as dealing with the emotional attitude of his battalion commander. “I’ll rouse the company commanders in a few minutes and have them ready their troops for movement.” Kepalinskas continued. Balodis just nodded.

“Where do you think we’ll move today sir?”

He was looking for some kind of human connection. Balodis finally turned over his shoulder to appraise his adjutant. Kepalinskas had many qualities that served to make Balodis dislike him. He had the pudgy face and overreaching belly of a reservist not used to training or readiness. He was 38, older than Balodis by several years yet he was barely a captain, and had they not been mobilized he would’ve still been with Third Company as their CO. When he had been appointed as his second-in-command Balodis had gone over his records and had scarcely been impressed. Kepalinskas was a product of the Irmantas Armored School, notorious for it’s poor quality of graduates. His sparse fitness tests showed a man who barely passed the physical qualifications for soldiery. Nothing about the man inspired confidence in Balodis, but he was trying to make a conscious effort to look over that. For all he knew they would soon be in combat and then he would have to rely on Kepalinskas to be his reliable second officer. It’s not like he had done a bad job thus far, he had been largely reliable and what problems had arisen were largely beyond the control of either man. He had, at least so far, done what had been asked of him. Balodis wondered how long that would stay.

“I don’t know.” Balodis said honestly. “Hopefully somewhere warmer.”

It was a pitiful attempt at a joke, but Kepalinskas seized on it immediately. “I know right? I swear I couldn’t feel my fingers and toes last night.” He smiled, partially forcing it, hoping to keep the new found personal connection alive.

It was almost sad. Had the circumstances been different Balodis might’ve replied differently, but he forced himself to act more considerate. “Let them rest for a little while longer.” He said. “I doubt we’ll move for another hour.” He nodded towards the Captain’s tank. “You should get what rest you can too.”

Kepalinskas’s face seemed unable to settle into an emotion until he finally accepted that his commander was trying to be nice to him. “Yes sir.” He clambered down the tank, hopping back onto the ground and making his way back to his tank. Balodis waited until the sound of crunching rock and ice and faded before he lifted both hands to rub his eyes. It was possible that in a few days Kepalinskas would be dead. Maybe he would be too. Maybe his whole battalion would be wiped out. He wouldn’t know it for sure until his unit was locked in do-or-die combat.

And that was preferable to sitting around and doing nothing.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Wed Feb 13, 2019 5:43 pm

Somewhere in Tikinov,
South Western Jedoria

Normally Kažoks liked the night. It brought with it a stillness, a quiet recession against the hustle and bustle of the daily activities. In the past few weeks the night offered a brief reprieve for him to collect his thoughts and catch his breath. He needed that now more than ever.

Earlier in the evening his company commander and first sergeant had shown up, quite literally appearing out of nowhere to suddenly talk a lot about duty and sacrifice. Something was off the moment their lips parted, and Kažoks could tell just as good as anyone. Their normally distant and passive first sergeant was forcing too many smiles and nodding too much, and the captain was speaking too fast and trying to make eye contact far more than normal. After that painful session the duo hand wondered off to speak with the other platoons, and it hadn’t taken long for the squad to realize their fears had been founded.

As their leader Kažoks did his best for damage control, but in the end his only solution had been to force them to bunk earlier than normal. They were in the IFV now, the cold causing them to forget their feeling about personal space as they bundled together like kittens. It had been getting warmer over the past few weeks, but the nightfall had brought temperatures back down. Kažoks inhaled and his lungs stung with the cold air but it did the job of waking him up. He blinked a few times and surveyed his surroundings. Standing outside his IFV he could look around the battalion staging area. The moon wasn’t quite full but it was close, close enough that with the sky empty of clouds the moonlight illuminated the area well. Kažoks could see the outlines of vehicles and sentries, sketching from memory the perimeter around the AO. If he looked over his shoulder to the west, he could just barely make out the peaks of the Vastargyis Hills.

He adjusted his helmet and tugged on his trousers, trying to keep them bundled together for warmth. He had always taken the first shift, partially because it was the least taxing on his body, but also he felt it best that he took the lead. The company commander and first sergeant had harped on that repeatedly throughout their little pep talk. When Kažoks had first put the stripes of a Lance Corporal on he had never really considered the possibility of being in combat, much less leading men into it. “Men” seemed a generous term here. He was only 24, most of the other squad members were younger, Leonid wasn’t even 19. But soon they would be in combat, in life threatening situations. Kažoks felt an icy ball form in his stomach, colder than the air around him.

Would he step up to the task? Would he actually make a good leader when the time came? Or would he shirk away or cower in fear upon realizing he could be killed? He wanted to believe that when it went down he would step up. But there was no way of knowing until it actually happened. And in truth, he dreaded the approaching threat over the horizon. He ventured a glance over his shoulder. The snowcapped peaks scarcely discernible against the black night sky was the only natural barrier between himself and God knows what lay in Vyzvha.

He turned his head back around and stared up at the moon. It offered no solace.

It had taken several weeks, but at long last, everything was in position. It hadn’t been perfect, far from it; countless breakdowns, numerous accidents. Three Jedorians were already dead in traffic accidents due to faulty breaks or straight incompetence. Normally one death was enough to bring an entire exercise to an end, but this situation was anything but normal. Tomorrow there would be war.

Colonel General Aurels Runcis had set aside the food on his desk to take one more look at the map laid out before him. Red and blue markings denoted friendly and enemy forces, arrayed in patterns on each side of the border. A layman might be able to make out some generic points about the map, but a seasoned officer like Runcis could see further. The way the armored and mechanized forces were arrayed compared to the lighter infantry, why the artillery was positioned where it was. He knew the numbers even though they weren’t displayed on the map.

381,775 men. 2,700 tanks. 3,400 IFVs and APCs. 1,400 artillery pieces. 175 aircraft. Those numbers were misleading of course. The markers on the map gave overviews, not details. Nowhere on the strategic display was the mention of the quality of the numbers. Most of the Jedorian troops that would march west tomorrow were conscripts. Most the tanks and IFVs they would ride into battle had been designed almost 50 years ago. A tank was still a tank, but it was clear to anyone with a rudimentary understanding of the strategic situation that the Jedorian Federal Guard was going to rely on mass, not precision, to win this fight. Not all of them would go in of course, roughly a third of the entire force would remain on Jedorian soil, only moving in once they were needed.

When he had the time Runcis had glanced over the figures for the other members of the coalition that were also preparing for war. With a feeling that was not unlike envy he examined the details of their long ranged precision fires, their state-of-the-art missiles and fighter aircraft, the vast array of highly trained special forces. His 1st Western Front by comparison was a hodge podge of mixed and matched equipment and armaments from the Communist Era. The Socialist Republic of Jedoria had for the entirety of it’s existence favored quantity over quality, and Jedoria was still bound to that principle a decade later.

He had been assured for years now that once the borders were secure, once the strategic situation was settled, things would change. The countless mountains of hardware in storage would be dismantled, sold off or scrapped. Then they would finally acquire something new, something modern, something that didn’t break down or need to be built in the hundreds to be effective. Runcis had heard it before. But maybe this time would be different. If he was approaching a monumental moment in his life and the history of his country it didn’t feel like it. In fact he felt a strange sense of apathy as the minutes ticked by on the clock that hung over the door to his office. Zero hour was approaching, just 7 hours away. He knew he would get no sleep tonight so he made no effort to acquaint himself with his bed.

The whole day had passed by remarkably quietly. At noon a Glasic Colonel, a liaison from Jedoria’s new found partners, had arrived at his office, handed him a memo entitled “Eyes Only”, exchanged a few words, saluted, and then departed. Runcis had read over the contents before summoning his chief of staff and passing it off to him. By 1600 every officer between the rank of General and Lieutenant across the 1st Western Front had been notified of zero hour. 3 am local time.

At that point the artillery would open fire, the tanks would gun their engines, and a massive mass of flesh and steel would cross the border and move westward, engaging and destroying whatever they met in their way. At least that’s what the operational plan held. It was a little more details than that actually; the 4th Order would attack across a broad front from Tikinov with the main thrust coming north of the Vastargyis by the 15th Corps, while a division of light infantry crossed the mountains themselves. The 8th Order would attack in two directions, west and south out of Tamar, the 8th Corps punching west and the 11th Corps moving south. Upon reaching their designated phase lines the 11th and 15th Corps would encircle the enemy forces in the area of operations labeled “Verdict Zone”, the space between the highlands of Vzyvha and the coast of the bay. Once that was achieved the 6th Corps spearheaded by the 39th Guards Armored Division would push west further into the heart of Vyzvha towards Prognoi. If all went well the bulk of the enemy forces would be encircled and within three days the 1st Western Front would be deep within the enemy’s strategic rear, disrupting his efforts to mobilize his reserves.

The enemy of course, had a say in all this. The Zayetists had noticed, within the past 72 hours at least, that all the activity on their border was beyond the scope of normal intimidation. The radio traffic had first doubled, now tripled, and there was flurry of activity across the border. Jedorian intelligence assets were thin on the ground and Glasic satellite imagery could only tell too much, but it appeared that the enemy had begun mobilizing their reserves and preparing to defend their borders. On paper the People’s Mobilization boasted a million troops under arms, but how accurate that was would be anyone’s guess.

On paper the Jedorians wouldn’t be facing too difficult a situation, they faced two full strength divisions, supported by at least 4 regiments and brigades with another brigade in a deep reserve. But there was little data on the scale of their mobilization. If there reserves were fully mobilized than the Jedorians could find themselves facing another 4 divisions and half a dozen brigades and regiments. All together the Zayetists had between 120,000 - 200,000 men on the border. The only comfort for the Jedorians was that they were for once facing an opponent who’s technological capacity war on par with their own, and that the open steppes of Vyzvha did not favor the defender.

But how well prepared were they? Would the Front cross the border and find an enemy in disarray, struggling to mobilize reserves while their command and control was decimated by Glasic air strikes, or would they find dug in, freshly reinforced enemy army composed of screaming fanatics?

Runcis glanced at the clock. On the bright side, he would only need to wait seven more hours to find out.
Last edited by Jedoria on Wed Feb 13, 2019 10:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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West Atlantia
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Founded: Sep 13, 2009
Democratic Socialists

Air war over Vhyzhva continues

Postby West Atlantia » Thu Feb 14, 2019 3:41 pm



Undisclosed location, Tír an Crainn

Since Operation Geas began details have have been few and far between on the events unfolding in Vyzhva. This evening that changed slightly with a televised address to the world from Gen Sir Ardal Reid, MMG, OM, DSM, General Officer Commanding, Glasic Army of the Blackwater who although acknowledging what was happening in the broadest of terms did little to address the many questions surrounding the operation.

"In the early hours of February 14th 2019 a coalition of nations from as far away both geographically and politically as the Federation of Soviet Republics acted upon Security Council Resolution 01-19, initiating an armed intervention in the Vyzhvan Collectivist State with a view to dismantling its stockpile of chemical weapons and dismantling its ability to destabilise the region further than it already has."

"Immediately after midnight cruise missiles from coalition warships alongside air-strikes flown from both from the Sodor Firth and Tír an Crainn targeted and engaged military, command and control and transport infrastructure throughout the Vyzhvan interior. Whilst I cannot mention any specifics I can say that in excess of 800 missiles have been launched either by air or sea by into Vyzhva by first light".

Missiles were fired from the Sodor Firth throughout the night

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Fri Feb 15, 2019 12:31 am

Jedorian-Vyzhvan Border

The screaming jet engine announced itself long before it could be seen. In the early morning dark Lt. Colonel Audrius Krupavicius could scarcely make out anything against the black empty sky. The Moon was noticeably lower now, slowly receding against the approaching dawn which was now just scant hours away. He strained his eyes, trying to catch a glint of moonlight off the silver jet.

There. Barely noticeable, but just visible enough to the eye. It lasted only a few seconds; the fighter jet came roaring in fast and low. Krupavicius squinted to try to make out the details of the plane, but it was too dark and too small to notice. He didn’t know it, but it wasn’t a Jedorian plane. It was Sylvan, an ally of Jedoria come to aid her in her time of need. It soared swiftly above, flying low against the ground to avoid detection by radar. It swept over the battalion’s AO before moving further west. At it’s current speed it would cross the border at exactly 0300 local time.

It was fast approaching. Two days ago, Krupavicius had finally received the order to halt his movement and deploy his guns. 18 of them were now arrayed and spaced in typical doctrinal manner, their long sleek barrels like elephant trunks pointed towards the sky, almost blending in with the night were it not for the gentle reflection of moonlight off their worn steel surface. At 1700 hours he had been informed that at 0300 local time he would commence shelling of predesignated targets on the border and beyond. He had to reread those orders several times to ensure they were accurate, same for his grid locations that he was supposed to rain fire on. They were beyond the border, which meant that soon his batteries would be firing the opening shots of a war. Unless the flyboys beat him to it.

Krupavicius was old enough to be a veteran of the Jedorian Civil War, fought some 10 years prior. Though he had been an officer of the Socialist Republic he had been allowed to keep his commission and status, though it meant that ten years later Krupavicius was still the same rank he had been during the last war. The communists might have been officially “forgiven”, but Krupavicius knew he would never see the rank of colonel. That no longer bothered him. He had grown old and comfortable in his spot as battalion commander, and while he had a clear vision of what he wanted to do after the military he was in no rush to lead it.

He liked his position after all, artillery was a respectable field and he had grown to like his staff. He didn’t look like much of a soldier, with his extended belly and worn face, but his calloused hands and bad hearing had all the hallmarks of a long-standing member of the artillery corps. And after being in uniform for so long, and having served in essentially two different services, first the People’s Army now the Federal Guard, Krupavicius had also learned the ins and outs of it all, how to get things done and who to talk to when you wanted something. It wasn’t cheating the system, he explained, just finding the right wheels to grease. Bloated bureaucracy had its own advantages to someone who knew how to work the system to their advantage. Someone else might have manipulated things to their personal advantage, but Krupavicius’s main concern was making sure his battalion always had what it needed.

Krupavicius never understood the commanders who insisted on making their men’s lives as miserable as possible. To that effect he had tried to get them as much sleep as possible, rousing them only two hours prior in order to ensure that all things were ready.

The batteries were not waiting, loaded, their pre-designated targets already selected. The mathematical formulas that went into firing artillery shells hadn’t changed in a century. Somethings never did. As he set aside the rations had had cracked open during the hour, he concluded that something else that never changed was the awful quality of Jedorian military food.

The timer he had set up in his command tent went off behind him. He turned his gaze away from the open can to look back at his tent. Two minutes until zero hour. He made his way back into the tent, his staff familiar enough to know that he didn’t want them to go to attention every time he walked in. His XO nodded to him. “Two minutes, sir.”

“Everything prepared?” Krupavicius asked, already knowing the answer. He had drilled his men well.

“Yes sir.”

There was a tension in the air, mixed with ample levels of both anticipation and worry. They had performed their duties well enough thus far, but now that they were at the moment of truth there seemed to be some collective impulse of self-doubt. Would all the guns fire? Were all the crews properly prepared? Were their range finders accurate? Was their link to the counter battery radar reliable? So much uncertainty in a fleeting moment. Krupavicius rolled his shoulders, and with the act removed all doubt from his mind. It was too late now to fix any imaginary mistakes. They had set their course.

One minute left. Krupavicius found himself pondering what life would be like once they were at war. He remembered the civil war very clearly, but this felt different. During the last war there were always infiltrators, dud shells, and constant shortages of fuel. Every now and then a rebel strike team would slip through the lines and try to silence his guns. Sometimes they succeeded. Sometimes it was Krupavicius himself gunning the rebels down with his rifle as they tried to make a run for their lines. He felt no ill will towards them. The only thing he felt was pity, pity for the young rebels that threw themselves at their lines without pause, and pity for the young boys that increasingly served as replacements for his gun crews.

But today he could muster little pity for the people who were about to be on the receiving end of his battalion’s shells. He felt no ill will towards the Zayetists but he felt no pity either. As backwater as Jedoria was in many respects, it was at least a step above Vyzhva. Perhaps that was why no one else in the world seemed to have objected to the chain of events unfolding in Vinya. A destabilizing presence in an already unstable part of the world was being taken care of.

“30 seconds, sir.” His XO’s voice and tone was measured. Unlike his commander he had no combat experience. This was to be his first taste of war. Krupavicius resisted the urge to smile fatherly at his subordinate. He saw him in many ways as a father would view a son, not necessarily of parental love but of the next generation. He would make a fine colonel one day.

Krupavicius nodded. Soon the sky would be filled with shells. Across the border hundreds of guns across hundreds of batteries and battalions waited in position. He briefly tried to calculate how many shells were about to be fired but quickly abandoned it. There was no point wasting time on such trivialities. The only thing that mattered in the coming hours would be that his guns kept firing, and his men remained lively. He privately prayed that every soul under his command would emerge unscathed. He would try his best to make sure that when this war was over every one of them would return to their shops and farms, their homes and families.

“10 seconds.” Said the XO.

Somewhere off in the distant a canon fired. Another followed, then more, as entire batteries and battalions joined the growing chorus of shellfire. Either nerves or a bad timer had gotten to them. Krupavicius returned his attention to the clock that sat at the center of the table. His mind seemed to clear. His eyes twitched slightly as he watched the small hand tick steadily around until the clock read 0300. He cleared his throat.

“Give the order to open fire.”
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Democratic Socialists

Ground war in Vyzhva begins

Postby West Atlantia » Sat Feb 16, 2019 9:55 am



Tír an Crainn

With some media restrictions lifted RTG have been allowed to report on the ongoing operation against the Vyzhvan Collectivist State.

Coalition armour on the western bank of the Blackwater

In what must be the largest military operation since the Great War coalition forces began in earnest their assault on Vyzhva. At exactly 12:00 UTC artillery and rockets began bombarding Vyzhvan positions on the far bank of the Blackwater in addition to laying smoke to cover crossing units. Armoured vehicles began to ford across, some with deep-wading equipment, others swimming across whilst transport helicopters, supported by gunships ferried troops over and beyond the Blackwater.
In Tír Tairngire much the same is happening with coalition forces crossing the River Feale simultaneously with those crossing the Blackwater whilst Jedoria has also launched attacks over its border with Vyzhva.

Coalition artillery shelling Vyzhva

To the north of Tír an Crainn, Glaso-Dayanese airborne and alpine forces have entered Vyzhva near the Kolodiyan border, conducting parachute and helicopter-borne landings whilst to the South a combined VDC force has launched an attack on the Vyzhvan enclave of Targan.

Coalition armour approaching Targan
Last edited by West Atlantia on Sat Feb 16, 2019 10:09 am, edited 3 times in total.

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New York Times Democracy

Postby New Hayabusa » Sat Feb 16, 2019 11:51 am

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Coalition of nations mounts MASSIVE assault on Vyzhvan Collectivist State
Reports reveal involvement of Dayashinese Air, Land, and Sea assets
Callum E Kawashima (@ck_rst)
16/02/2019 | Avallone, Tir Glas
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Cruises missile fired from the RDNS Yuzuruha coast into
Vyzhva, viewed from the Crainnic border
Reports flowing into the RST offices in Tir Glas have confirmed that a massive coalition of nations has finally begun launching an assault on the Vyzhvan Collectivist State in response to the series of terrorist attacks across Glasic cities, which caused thousands of deaths and equally as many injuries. It appears as if the entire Vinyan Defence Union, from Tir Glas to Tir Taingire, is throwing their weight in spearheading what has to be the largest military operation since the Pan Septentrion War. Participating alongside the Vinyan states are assets from Jedoria, Dayashina, and the Federation of Soviet Republics. Additionally, reports have alleged the involvement of troops and equipment from Casaterran nations, including Kerenevoi and Rajamaa. After a huge aerial denial and decapitation strike campaign on the state, it appears that coalition armour and infantry are starting to push in.

A Dayashinese and Glasic F-35 fly over Tir an Crainn
having delivered their payload in Vyzhva
Recent reports have confirmed the involvement of a large number of Dayashinese mountain troops in the initial ground assault on the north of Vyzhva. Simultaneously, anther assault on the Vyzhvan enclave of Targan is taking place right now; however, there have been no reports of involvement of Dayashinese personnel on that front.

Days ago, various Glasic news networks reported on a massive joint aerial assault taking place over Vyzhva; however, the reports were very lacking in detail and were rife with allegations. Recently, we have received some confirmation in regrards to Dayashina's role in that part of the operation. It is becoming increasingly clear that personnel from the Dayashinese Air Force and Navy have played a critical role in what can be assumed to be decapitation strikes on Vyzhvan command/communications, governmental, and infrastructural assets (still awaiting reports to confirm this). We have received confirmation that hypersonic cruise missiles fired from up to five Dayashinese DDGs struck targets across the Vyzhvan Collectivist State.

Additionally, photographs of fourth and fifth generation fighter aircraft from the Dayashinese Air Force flying alongside those of Tir Glas have surfaced online. Despite this, we have been denied any confirmations of what their objective was and/or their rate of effectiveness in completing this objective. Regardless, a number of commanding personnel within the Republic of Dayashina Armed Forces have stressed that operations are going "very smoothly" thus far. Casualties have yet to be reported.

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Image Comments 105K | Image E-mail

hojin32 · 47 minutes ago
it begins!! the new status quo starts today!!

41,362 likes · 8,443 dislikes

namae-nashi ✓ · 45 minutes ago

35,634 likes · 15,963 dislikes

ozumi-nkz · 31 minutes ago
Vyzhva is cancelled!

27,478 likes · 3,521 dislikes
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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Sat Feb 16, 2019 2:06 pm

Jedorian-Vyzhvan Border

Just as he had expected, Colonel General Aurels Runcis had gotten little sleep in the hours since the bombardments had started. It didn’t bother him, at least not now, too preoccupied by pouring over the available reports as they came in to worry about bodily functions like sleep. He stood in the center of his command post, pacing around a large table that held on top of it a map of Vyzvha and the forces allocated to each side. Every five minutes or so a junior officer or his chief of staff would approach him and offer a piece of paper or a few words relevant to the situation. Runcis by now had gotten to the habit of saying nothing in return, just nodding or expressing some other nonverbal indication that he acknowledged the news.

Thus far things seemed to be going well. The coalition’s massive air offensive combined with missiles strikes were thus far seemingly successful. Losses had been light, two Jedorian aircraft shot down and another two damaged, but managing to limp their way back home. The Vyzvhan response had been sporadic and seemingly uncoordinated. Though by now most of the Jedorian artillery had be reshuffled into different positions in most cases it had proven unnecessary. There was no major retribution bombardment coming in from across the border, and that counter shelling had occurred and been relatively light and overall not concerning. On the ground there had been little action. In a handful of sectors a few reports of scattered patrols exchanging fire, but nothing serious. Occasionally he was attempted to look into these reports with greater detail, to try to discern whether or not any of them could be interpreted or signal the mark of a counteroffensive, but nothing came of it.

He told himself he didn’t need to get bogged down in the minor details. His divisional and corps commanders could be trusted to handle their own sectors of the front. It was his job as Front Commander to maintain a view of the bigger picture after all. The master plan had to be adhered to. He unfolded his arms and rested his weight by leaning on the table. His eyes traced the border as his snaked down the map from north and south. Almost 400,000 Jedorians and 6,000 armored vehicles were poised along the border, a formation of that size Vinya hadn’t seen since the Mozrian War.

And soon it would be charging across the border. He thought briefly of the sub commanders that were spread across the 500 mile front. He tried to envision them as gung ho warriors, eager and ready to do battle with the enemy, tapping their feet inside their vehicles as they anxiously waited for the go ahead to unleash fire and steel. But Runcis knew the truth. His Front composed largely of conscripts and reservists were anxious alright, but also nervous and uncertain. Only a handful of them were veterans of the civil war now a decade old. Most would be experiencing their baptism of fire today. He wondered how they would perform. On paper they should be capable, having spent the last five years being trained by Sylvan, Sieuxerran, and Tyrannian rotational forces in additional to their own exercises, but how well that would actually work in the field had never been tested. Until today.

He though of the mass of soldiers sitting on the border, listening to the echoes of bombs and missiles striking targets within Vyzvha. To call them men was misleading, most of them were just boys, young 18-23 year olds who’s whole ‘adult’ life had been spent wearing a cheap uniform and carrying a worn rifle. For a brief moment he felt a pang of guilt in realizing the role he would play in some of these boys deaths. Because some would inevitably be killed, that much was unavoidable. And he as their commander bore responsibility for that. But he squashed such thoughts. This was war. Victory wasn’t going to be won by the faint hearted. And it couldn’t be achieved without sacrifice.

His Glasic liaison, a Colonel, walked over and exchanged a few words with Runcis. The Front Commander nodded. The Glasic forces and their Dayashinese allies were ready to begin the ground offensive. Originally they had wanted to wait, but Runcis and the Jedorian Defense Ministry had managed to convince the coalition’s leadership it was better to attack as soon as permissible. Runcis appreciated they had listened to Jedorian council and saw it fit to ensure the Jedorian ground offensive was carried out as effectively as possible. Of the three fronts that the invasion was to be carried out in, the Jedorians had the middle one in terms of frontage. That brought with it advantages and problems. The narrower front made it easier to concentrate forces, but the held true for the enemy as well. Unlike the other coalition partners the Jedorians would have to conduct their assault primarily through the strength of a ground combined arms offensive. The Federal Forces lacked the ranged precision fires and air support to decimate entire formations before contact was even made. The Sylvan air power had made a difference in this but in the end it would ultimately come down to Jedorian armor and mechanized forces to ensure the destruction of the enemy’s capacity for war. In this effort half-measures would not suffice.

He summoned his chief of staff to the map once more. They conferred for a few minutes to ensure that all the Front’s subordinates Corps were ready to go. Runcis glanced at the clock that oversaw the entire room. It was time.

“Order the Front to begin it’s offensive.”

A Slyvan fighter jet screamed through the air as it flew fast and low, engine burning as the pilot made slight adjustments here and there to maintain his course. As he approached his target he prepped his munitions, a bunker busting smart bomb, for usage. Seconds ticked by as his incredibly fast machine covered hundreds of meters in a faction of a second. Before he knew it was upon the target. With a click and a squeeze his fighter dislodged the smart bomb, which began flying through the air towards it’s intended target. The pilot banked his aircraft hard to the right and began coming about, heading back for the safety of Jedorian airspace. He was nearly 4 miles away when his munition hit it’s target, a suspected arms depot that exploded in a fireball.

The fence that hard served to mark the boundary between the territory of Vyzvha and Jedoria proved to be only a minor impediment to the Jedorians that were now crossing the border. In some cases infantry cut it open with wires, in other areas armored vehicles simply rolled over them, tearing apart the chain links with ease. What few roadways actually existed between the two states were seized by mechanized infantry, paving the way for heavier tanks to push through. Within the hour of the order being given eleven divisions were pouring over the border.

The shock and ferocity of the initial artillery barrages and the multitude of air and missile strikes being carried out across Vyzvha had apparently stunned the Zayetists, as the Jedorians found themselves facing only light resistance at first. For a little while there was hope among the front line forces that the bombardments had done their job and the People’s Mobilisation had been decimated as a fighting force. That was proven incorrect shortly later.

Captain General’s Andrs Dīriķis’s 8th Corps was the first to discover this as his formation found itself opposite of enemy’s 5th Mechanized Division, holding the northern valley near the Kolodiyan border. The Jedorians had attempted to decimate the division through the air since it would be almost entirely up to the Jedorians alone to deal with this far flung northern force, but as lead elements of the 171st Armored Division entered into the valley they found the Zayetists bloodied but still functional. The first shorts of the ground war for the Jedorians were fired between the two divisions.

The 8th Order’s southern push was conducted by the 11th Corps, which ran into two regiments of infantry and armor. They had been positioned close to the border and had received heavy doses of shelling and airstrikes, and by the time the Jedorians had crossed the border and engaged them the two regiments were in bad shape. The Zayetists however refused to simply give way and insisted on fighting amid the burned out wreckage of their less fortunate comrades. In their badly shattered state however they struggled to contain the Jedorian 197th Mechanized Infantry Division, and within an hour both regiments had been largely destroyed as a fighting force. What remained of the enemy pull back. While that was being done, the 210th Mechanized Infantry Division swung further west and south, forming the spearhead for one of the pincers.

The 4th Order’s offensive was underway as well, and had the fortunate of having received the majority of the allocated air power but the misfortune of facing the bulk of the enemy forces in the west. The 15th Corps, the largest formation besides the Orders, began it’s assault and soon found itself facing the bulk of the Zayetist 3rd Infantry Division and 17th Armored Brigade. Although they had been the primary targets of Jedorian air strikes, the frontage where the assault had taken place was one of the most built up defensive areas in Vyzvha, and as a result a significant portion of both formations had survived the air campaign. Now the 9th and 75th Armored Divisions met them in battle, while the 29th Mechanized Infantry Division attempted to swing farther south and form the southern end of the massive pincer.

The slowest progress was made where it had been expected, across the Vastargyis Hills where terrain played the biggest role. Here there would be no major armored thrust or advance, so it fell to the men of the 53rd Infantry Division to cross the mountains to engage and destroy the defending Zayetist infantry regiment. Artillery played the biggest role here as the Jedorians slowly made their way through the elevated landscape, occasionally deploying helicopters when and where the need arose, either to bombard enemy hard points to overcome natural obstacles.

Overall the Jedorian offensive was proceeding according to plan. Much of the enemy’s command and control functionality had been severely depleted by the air campaign and what fortifications they had in place had been wrecked by artillery and airstrikes. But here and there fanatical resistance from the Zayetists ensured that pitched battles were inevitable. Here and there tanks exchanged shells, infantry scrambled for cover, and aircraft soared and screamed over head, trying to sway the outcomes of battles.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Sun Feb 17, 2019 2:20 am

Area of Operations North

When he was just a boy, Andrs Dīriķis could recall visiting the State History Museum in Lothas. It was a marvelous building, part of the cultural programs instituted by the Socialist Republic during the reign of General Secretary Aleksis Kraulis. Though most of it was dedicated to the communist ideals of the Jedorian Revolution, there had been a small section dedicated to the period in Jedorian history where there had been no Jedoria; just a bunch of fragmented kingdoms and nations. Large canvas paintings were all the remained, dedicated to Kings of old. Why the communists had led this monarchist imagery survive Dīriķis wasn’t sure, but he could remember admiring them. Seeing the old Kings standing proudly on the battlefield, surrounded by loyal soldiers and faithful followers, while the heavens parted to reign sunlight down on their crowns to let everyone know of other divine right to rule.

Dīriķis, now Captain General and Commander of the 8th Corps, saw none of the same romanticism in front of him. The battlefield that lay before him and his entourage was pockmarked with burning metal husks, coughing out ugly black smoke into the sky. Flames flickered here and there where fuel and residue was still burning. The snow around the burning hulks had melted, which along with the metal corpses and shell craters did well to turn this normally natural looking steppe into someone from another world. Dīriķis couldn’t seem to find any pride in what he saw, even though he knew that his forces had won a major victory here. There seemed to be something raw and unrefined here, a testament to what war was really like. Not rays of sunlight and divine wills. Just burning fuel and scorched soil.

This wasn’t his first battlefield, but ten years removed from the civil war had done something to dull his senses. Now the sights and sounds before him brought back a wave of memories. Something stirred inside him, but he couldn’t really tell what it was. It defied a normal emotional definition. As his eyes surveyed the horizon and the carnage it became clearer; familiarity. And he found himself not happy with that.

He forced himself to step forward, the snow crunching underneath his boots. Behind him his staff and subordinates followed, some close with others keeping their distance. A security detail formed a rough perimeter around the group as it moved. The Divisional Commander, Lt. General Gentvilas, had earlier tried to narrate the situation before him, but Dīriķis had brushed it off. He would save the details for the official after action report. Right now he just wanted to see. It was too easy in this day and age for a general to never fully see the battlefield. He wanted to, to grasp exactly what was going on, what was happening to his men, and what he was truly asking them to do. Maybe that made him a good leader. Maybe it was just a morbid curiosity. That judgement of his character would ultimately be decided by someone else besides him.

There were few bodies. Despite the large number of men involved in the battle hardly any corpses were visible. Most it appeared had died in their tanks, succumbing to the explosions or burning as their vehicles did. Every here and there a limb or body part dangled out from the cupola or another part of a vehicle. Sometimes it was just shreds and fragments. Dīriķis found it hard to tear his eyes away from those ones. It was too easy in this day and age of mechanization and technology to forget that all these machines ultimately depended on human animals to make them work. And when they failed the people working on them usually died.

Some of the men who had died here for his own. He came across one in particular. A tank, no longer smoldering but almost beyond recognition save for the general outline of the chassis. The hastily thrown on reactive armor had been blown away, and a shell had penetrated the thin side armor, then exploded. The men inside had been eviscerated and the tank was beyond repair. An ugly crater showed where the round had impacted, the soot from the explosion covering up any blood and bits of bone fragments. Dīriķis wondered if it had been instaneous or nearly so, happening so fast that the crew hadn’t realized they had been killed. He preferred to think so.

Most of the remains on the battlefield however belonged to the enemy. In many ways their tanks and vehicles were very similar to the Jedorians but subtle differences that an experienced eye could catch helped distinguish them. Here and there Vyzhvan tanks lay destroyed, covered in scorch marks and in some cases missing their turret. Some of them were still burning, flames eating away at what was left of fuel tanks and lubricants. Tracing a path through the battlefield one could get a good picture of what had happened here, even without the commentary from the divisional commander.

The 171st Armored Division had advanced into the entrance of the valley and come across the forward elements of the enemy’s 5th Mechanized Division. A creeping barrage of artillery had begun as the 171st inched forward, bounding together by platoons to take advantage of what scant cover there was in the valley floor to push the Zayetists back. The Jedorian advance had succeeded, but the enemy would not give ground willingly. Scores of destroyed armored vehicles that now littered over the valley clearly indicated much of the enemy force had fought to the bitter end. Jedorian tanks had been forced to push forward carefully supported by companies of mechanized infantry, resulting in occasionally pitched and chaotic engagements between the two opposing forces amid what little elevated positions were present.

The 171st was a reserve division but overall it had given a good showing of itself. The divisional artillery brigade had kept pace with the forward elements and as a whole the division had executed a well-coordinated combined arms assault that had broken the enemy and sent what remained of them packing. This was clearly by any definition a success. And yet, as Dīriķis swept his eyes over the battlefield again, he was reminded that it had come at a cost. Victory could not be achieved without sacrifice. That was something every Jedorian who had fought in the civil war was familiar with. It didn’t remove the sting, however.

The battlefield had by now been secured by follow up forces from the rest of the 8th Corps, and currently other brigades were pursuing the remnants of the enemy force. Most of the Zayetists had fought to the end or fled, and there were few prisoners. An exception had occurred not too long ago, when one enemy soldier had, at the urging of several Jedorian troops, slowly crawled out of his burned out APC, arms raised above his head. He scarcely looked like a soldier; his uniform was worn and didn’t fit well, his cheeks were sunken and his body thing. He looked malnourished, hardly much of a threat, yet he was an enemy, which meant that he was led away by two armed guards to be processed with the handful of other prisoners the Jedorians had captured.

Dīriķis found it hard to feel any anger towards them. They were the enemy, yes, and they had killed his men, but their appearance hardly gave way towards malevolence. They looked disheveled, underfed, and scared. Their bedraggled state elicited pity, not anger.

As a commander in the middle of war however Dīriķis could not spend a long time surveying the battlefield. Before long he had returned to his command vehicle, and spent the next several hours updating his own superiors of the situation while keeping himself in contact with his divisions. The 189th Armored Division was pursuing what was left of the enemy’s fighting force, pushing further west almost parallel to the Kolodiyan Border. It was a possibility that their drive would draw in one of the enemy’s regiments that had been stationed on the border with Kolodiya, assuming the Galenic invasion force further west didn’t catch their attention first.

While the 171st Armored absorbed it’s losses, Dīriķis ordered his third division, the 64th Infantry, to push further directly south in the highlands that were the only major geographical feature of north-eastern Vyzvha. While he expected the elevated area to offer a good natural barrier for his corps boundary he also wanted to ensure that his southern flank wouldn’t be exposed to any potential counterattacks. The intention and capability of the enemy’s reserves was still largely unknown, and his corps was relying heavily on allied intelligence to determine the location and strength of the still mustering reserve forces. 
Thus far things had gone fairly well in the north, all things considered. Dīriķis hoped the same could be said for the rest of the 1st Western Front, and the Coalition at large.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Democratic Socialists

Postby The Soodean Imperium » Sun Feb 17, 2019 2:31 pm

中央日報 중앙일보
Jung'ang Ilbo

Look to the facts when seeking the truth

Vice-Chairman Kim Pyŏng-so Reaffirms Menghean Support for Tir Glas

Ro Gyŏng-min; 2019 / 02 / 17

Donggyŏng -- At a press conference hosted this morning, Kim Pyŏng-so, Vice Chairman of the Supreme Council and acting chief executive, reaffirmed Menghe's official stance on the recently launched collective military intervention in Vyzha. Security against state-sponsored terrorism, he argued, is a fundamental right of all peoples, and the military operations against Vyzha are no less justified than Menghe's intervention in Innominada four years prior. He also spoke more openly against the Vyzhan government, calling it a "criminal regime" which threatens both its own people and those of neighboring countries.

Questions from the press audience centered on comments by Kang Yong-nam, Marshal of the Menghean Army, who yesterday told reporters in an interview that Tir Glas's invasion was an unfounded intrusion on Vyzhan sovereignty and suggested that Menghe should threaten to back out of Tripartite negotiations. Vice-Chairman Kim responded by stating that the Marshal was only reflecting on personal viewpoints, and that his remarks do not reflect the stance of the Menghean Socialist Party. The Marshal, he reported, has "privately recanted his statement" and is currently "reflecting on the importance of a unified Party Line."

When asked about whether Menghe would send military forces in support of the Allied coalition, Vice-Chairman Kim answered that he would not rule it out as a possibility, but that in light of the superiority of Dayashinese and Glasic forces in the area, there were no plans to dispatch military forces as of this time. He did, however, affirm that Menghe was willing to provide non-combat and humanitarian support for the operation, and that the Menghean Red Manja Organization was in the process of organizing an airlifted relief shipment. The primary orientation of this operation will be medical assistance and temporary housing for Vyzhan civilians displaced by the conflict, including those suffering from malnourishment-related illnesses.

Meanwhile, Deputy Chairman Mun Chang-ho has departed for Avallone to take part in high-level talks regarding the goals and measures involved in the operation. Mun was also among the first foreign representatives to telephone the Prime Minister and express his sympathy and solidarity after the recent bombings in Waterford, and he has played an active role in economic negotiations with Dayashina and Tir Glas in the past. Choe Sŭng-min, who is still recovering from a surgery conducted last month, has been alerted to the situation, and has commended Kim Pyŏng-so and Mun Chang-ho for their well-thought-out response.

Though the main battles in the conflict are being waged 10,000 kilometers away, evidence of the hostilities were visible outside the Vyzhan embassy, where armed guards in the blue uniforms of the Internal Security Forces were seen manning a barricade across the gate. The personnel refused to answer questions from media and onlookers, stating that their orders were to protect the diplomatic staff inside. Their automatic weapons and heavy barricades, however, have fed speculation that their main mission is to keep Vyzhan embassy staff confined within the building.

Fortunately, there is no equivalent situation in Melna; the last Menghean nationals evacuated the embassy three days before the commencement of hostilities. Travel warnings with regard to Vyzha have been in place for several years, and both embassy staff and other nationals were ordered to leave the country if possible after the attacks in Waterford. At today's press conference, Kim Pyŏng-so denied rumors that the Menghean government had received covert warning of the coming invasion, instead attributing the successful evacuations to improved intelligence and risk management procedures put in place after the death of three staff members during the evacuation of the embassy in Saintonge last year.

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Mon Feb 18, 2019 3:05 pm


The horizon gave the impression that Armageddon was imminent. Thick columns of ugly black smoke rose into the sky, dissipating into the general dark gray of the winter overcast. If one listened closely they could make out the distant booms of man-made thunder, as artillery and airstrikes found their marks somewhere off in the distant. It was a distant symphony that, when combined with the pillars of smoke, made it easy to believe that the end of the world was rapidly approaching. For some, it would be the end of the line.

Major Balodis could feel anxiety gnawing at the inside of his stomach. He had purposely not eaten anything in anticipation for combat and now his stomach acid was feasting on itself. He forced himself to ignore it, to out all his focus on the approaching battle. Earlier in the morning his battalion had been roused and had begun moving west, under the airwatch of several passing jets. The Brigade Commander and briefed them all in a quick meeting a few hours prior; the brigade was swinging south parallel their sister brigade’s advance further north. They were both supposed to meet by crashing into the flanks of the enemy tank regiment before them. Balodis wished he had more time to prepare, but it was a luxury he had little of.

He stood up in his cupola, violating SOP that held that tank commanders buttoned down right before combat, but Balodis appreciated the view too much. Once the fighting started, the confines of his steel coffin would be his entire world. He reached up to pull his headset’s mic closer to his lips. He had in his hip pocket signal flags that he was also prepared to use if need be, but the radio was too convenient.

“Drever elements, this is Drever Prime, go sharp, I say again go sharp.”

Familiar voices answered back in an uneven chorus.

“This is Drever 1 Main, solid aff.”

“Drever 2 Main, aff Lead.”

“Drever 3 Main, aff.”

Balodis swallowed. His four companies were spread out in standard formation, followed by a mechanized infantry company with the call sign Setter Lead. It was a sizeable force, but this would be the first time he had tasted combat. He doubted his hodge podge of conscripts and reservists had much combat experience between them, but there was nothing he could for them now. They would either fight together and hold, or this was about to be a bloody affair. A thousand things he could have done better ran through his mind, but it was too late now.

Balodis sunk back into the recess of his tank, closing the hatch above him and sealing himself and his crew inside. He sat down in his commander’s chair, ignoring the discomfort of the seat as he pressed his eye up against his scope. The narrow and confined point of view of the tank’s optics were a significant downgrade from standing in his cupola, but it was preferable than getting his head blown off by an errant shell or sniper.

Balodis’s Battalion was spread out across a broad front, advancing almost directly west towards a large elevated plateau. The gradual slope that led up the side of the plateau was a perfect angle for tanks, but waiting at the top was, according to all available intelligence, a company of hostile armor. Balodis had no complex tactical plan in mind, he simply would farthest companies around to outflank the enemy on each side of the plateau. He would have to expose his own company to danger as it crested the ridge, but ideally the strikes of his flanking force would make short work of the enemy armor. As most plans, it didn’t survive first contact with the enemy.

“Viscon! Viscon! Range 700, straight ahead!”

Something jolted in Balodis, and suddenly he was pressing his eye socket up to the optical sight as hard as he could, as though his physical effort would be rewarded with clearer vision. For a moment he struggled to understand what 2-1 was talking about, but then he saw it. Barely noticeable on the ridge, but present nonetheless, the dome shaped turret and elongated barrel of an enemy tank stood, its dark green hue silhouetted against the dark gray sky. “Contact! Enemy contact!”

More turrets began to appear on the ridge, followed by their hulls as the enemy tanks started to line up on the ridge. Balodis wasn’t sure why they were exposing themselves to fire like this, but as he watched he noticed their gun barrels start to depress. The slope was gradual enough they could fire on the advancing Jedorian tanks easily. The next command came out sharply and quickly.

”Engage! Engage!”

Balodis hoped his crews were smart enough to line up targets within their own avenue of attack to avoid overlapping targets. “Keep moving forward!” He ordered over the battalion net, at the same time ordering his driver to start evasive maneuvers. He was confident the elevation range of his tanks outstripped the depression range of the enemy. If they could close in they would be shielded from enemy fire while his own force could continue to pound the enemy. For the next 90 seconds though, they were equal.

Balodis settled on a tank that had popped over the ridgeline and was swerving it’s turret from left to right, trying to pick a target. Elsewhere the line of Zayetist tanks opened fire in a staggered volley reminiscent of old blocks of line infantry wielding muskets. Shells that missed the Jedorians impacted and threw up pillars of dirt and smoke higher than any tank on the field. Not all of them missed.

“2-2’s hit! Keskkula’s down!”

Balodis ignored the frantic scream on the net. He had his eyes set on one the enemy tank who’s turret had finally settled on some target to Balodis’s right. “Gunner, target: 11 on our radial!”

There was a moment before the answer came back. “Target acquired!”


The entire chassis of the tank shook as the gun belched and fired, filling the interior of the tank with the smell of breach and gunpowder. Balodis hardly noticed it, too focused on watching the sudden flash of orange streak though the air until it hit the enemy tank on the hull, right on top of it’s right armored skirt. A shower of sparks flew through the air, but almost immediately afterwards the tank fired, and it’s turret began traversing left.

“Gunner, same target!”

The autoloader clunked and whirred as another round was loaded into firing position.



This time, the shot went straight through the glacial plate, tearing a hole through the hull and turret that was immediately covered up with a blossoming of fire and smoke. The enemy tank was down for the count. There was no time to take satisfaction in the kill however, even through the sheet of metal around him and the roar of the engine he could hear the distant sounds of main cannon fire. Every now and then a distinct explosion that could only come from a catastrophic kill could be heard.

Balodis went back to hunting. “Gunner, target: 2 on our radial!”

The turret swiveled and came to a stop as the reply was yelled back: “Target acquired!”


The deafening boom was followed by the shell screaming over the ground and slamming into the side of another enemy tank. The explosion that followed was massive, made even more stunning by the turret popping off into the air like a corkscrew, supported underneath by a column of fire.

His gunner couldn’t help himself. “Dead and done!”

Balodis shared the elation, but for a brief moment there were no more targets in his immediate field of view. Something in the back of his mind reminded him there was an entire battalion with him, and he needed to check back on them. He pulled his head seat closer to his ear. As he had feared, what radio discipline he had instilled had broken amid his force of conscripts and reservists.

”Target, fire, fire!”

“They got Pretkalniņš!”

“Back up back up back up! Back the fuck u-“

The last one was punctuated by a burst of static and suddenly a whiny, screaming voice dominated the airwaves.

“I’ve lost an entire platoon! We’re being wasted out here!”

It was 2 Main. Balodis couldn’t contain his anger as he yelled back over the net. “Stay off the net you sonofabitch or I’ll shoot you myself!”

He switched to the direct link on his radio to the company on his left. “3 Main, status!”

“Engaging three treads, lead.”

“Take ‘em out and then flank left, 500 marks, 9 on my radials. Go up the south slope and hit them while we crest the ridge.”

“Aff, lead.”

Balodis switched back his focus to his periscope and found his vision cloudy. No, it wasn’t his vision, it was smoke; the enemy tanks and dispersed smoke and were pulling back. Six of their burning hulks remained on the ridge, immobile. Balodis was tempted to order a halt and reorganize his force, but he squashed that idea. The enemy was on the back foot, and he had another company read to flank them. He would push now, and finish this. He didn’t like the idea of letting their momentum slip away.
“Drever 1, 2, form up and push ahead. All Drever elements advance up that slope and engage.”

The replies that came were noticeably less enthused, but they obeyed.


“Uh, Aff Lead.”

“Driver, ahead standard speed.” Balodis ordered, readjusting his position. His steel stallion lurched forward and began moving closer and closer to the gradual slope. Drever 3 reported back he had reached the edge of the southern slope and was readying to push up over it. Balodis acknowledged just as his own tank reached the foot of the plateau. The tank groaned for a second as it adjusted to the elevation, and Balodis felt the familiar tug of gravity as the metal beast began moving uphill. As he drew closer and closer to the crest he suddenly began feeling doubt. Should he halt, get a solid number on how many tanks he actually had at his disposal? What if his entire battalion had been decimated and he didn’t even know it? Balodis suddenly felt sick, realizing he had failed in one of his most basic responsibilities, accountability.

He forced it down. There was no time for that now. He would advance, meet the enemy, and destroy them. Now was not the time for doubt or self-pity. “All elements, advance.” He said, hoping the impending crestline wasn’t filling his subordinates with doubt.
His tank crested the hilltop, all tread links returning to terra firma with a clunk as the suspension adjusted. He returned his attention to his optics and his jaw nearly hit the floor.

An enemy tank stood 10 meters away, barrel leveled at him.

“Target!” He practically screamed. “Dead ahead!”

The enemy tank fired.

Balodis’s head slammed against the back of his seat as the entire chassis shook like God had given it a kick. The suspension struggled to stabilize the tank as the engine whined and groaned. It took a second for Balodis to realize, however, that he was not dead. He could scarcely believe it. He looked through the scope again. His view was partially obscured by smoke, but he could still see the enemy tank.


His main cannon burst and unloaded another shell, dead center on the enemy tank. It exploded in a fireball. Balodis could hardly believe the chain of events that had just occurred. His tank should’ve been torn apart, but either the enemy shell had been defective or the hastily thrown on reactive armor had saved his 40 year old tank. He knew he couldn’t squander precious seconds on further pondering it. He returned to his optics and spotted another target.

“Gunner, target: 10 on our radial!”

“Target acquired!”


Another shuddering chassis and the tank fired, slamming a round into the enemy armor. It unleashed a torrent of sparks, stopped, and then the crew bailed out. Without thinking, Balodis gunned them down with his machine gun. He was too thankful for his own survival to worry about the enemy.

The radio sparked to life with the familiar voice of Zālītis, Third Company’s commander. “This is 3 Main, we’re on them.”

Balodis could see through the optics Third Company cresting the southern slope. Most of the enemy armor was facing where Balodis has come from. Their weak side armor was fully exposed, and Drever 3 made short work of them. Within 5 minutes the entire enemy force, which had turned out to be two companies, had been annihilated. Balodis called up the unscathed mechanized infantry company behind them to clear the area while his tanks formed a perimeter. When the all clear was given, he popped out of his hatch to survey the damage.

His own tank bore an ugly scar where the enemy shell had landed dead center. The only reason he was still alive was because it had hit the block dead on. His turret was nevertheless covered in soot and explosive residue, and his coaxial had been torn off. His battalion had lost six tanks completely destroyed, another four heavily damaged. In exchange they had wiped out 19 enemy tanks. He radioed in that they had secured the area, which seemed to please brigade headquarters very well. Balodis figured he should probably take pride in achieving victory in his first battle, but as he sat on the turret of his vehicle he could only stare blankly at the shattered remains of one of the Jedorian tanks, its discarded turret lying a few meters away from the still burning hull.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Father Knows Best State

Postby Roskian Federation » Tue Feb 19, 2019 12:39 am

Federal Soviet Republics of Yugoslovenski
House of the Prime Minister of the Federal Soviet Republics
Operation Blackout
23 October 2018

Lights out at target

Yugoslovenski had been through a bit of turmoil in recent weeks. Anton Milic had attempted to violate the nation by performing a sham election in the face of heavy opposition, and now his reckoning was coming. Milic had fled to his personal mansion, guarded by a section of the armed forces, in order to prevent being in Pancevo during increasingly violent protests to his leadership. But now, the military had other plans.

President Naum Valentinov, currently just a figurehead, offered a way out. A military coup. Anton Milic would be arrested, Parliament would be disbanded, and there would be de facto martial law until the beginning of the year. There seemed to be irony in completely disbanding the democracy for to remove someone who abused it, but this seemed to be the way forward.

Captain Mishka Serghev of Yugoslovenski's elite 2nd Special Guards Weapon Company, the name of a shock special forces unit, personally led a platoon of the company to capture Anton Milic, using 36 men in two Mi-17 helicopters, flying in from Pancevo. He personally had no interest in this, in his mind, petty squabble between politicians. However, with such a high level target, there could be no mistakes. The Prime Minister must be captured alive, no excuses.

With lights out at the target compound, the helicopters closed in, one landing in the spacious courtyard, one landing directly in the street in front of the house. The 36 soldiers, armed with Zastava M21 rifles, quickly closed in on the front door. Before Serghev could kick in the front door, a soldier of the Parliamentary Guard opened the door.

"Hello Captain. The Prime Minister is asleep. Come with me," said the Guard. Serghev merely nodded. It would appear that the President warned the Parliamentary Guard that his unit was coming. He pointed at four others to come with him. They walked, not very quietly, at the concern of Serghev, to the Prime Minister's room. When they reached his door, the Guard opened the door, looked at Serghev, and muttered "just arrest the bastard and be done with it."

Serghev entered the room, and walked up to the Prime Minister, before yanking him out of the bed and slamming the butt of his rifle into his chest. Milic was unable to speak, but still attempted too. Serghev placed his boot on the Prime Minister's arm, then stated, "Prime Minister Anton Milic, you are under arrest for treason against the Federal Soviet Republics of Yugoslovenski." Two of the Parliamentary Guard rushed forward, prompting Serghev to raise his rifle defensively. They grabbed the Prime Minister by his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. They attempted to pull his hands together to cuff them, but he was able to initially overpower them. A member of the guard responded by taking a shocking stick, and zapped the Prime Minister in his arm. However, Milic still resisted, so the guard broke his left arm.

"Unless you want to have more pain you treasonous piece of shit, I would suggest you stop resisting," stated one of the guards.

Serghev shook his head. They finally were able to get the cuffs on Milic. Milic was then walked to the closest helicopter and thrown onto the floor of it.

What an uneventful arrest thought Serghev as the two helicopters returned to Pancevo.

Kolodiyan/Tír an Crainn Border
Unidentified security checkpoint
Beginning of Operation Jerovit
11 February 2019

The rather long convoy of 9 white full-length busses came to the border security checkpoint between the Commonwealth of Northern Casaterran States-aligned Kolodiya and Vinyan Defence Union, or Tir Glas, aligned Tir an Crainn. Here, three companys of Yugoslovenski troops would cross into VDU territory, to back the invasion of Vyzhva in the coming days. They had taken a rather scenic route, which was to keep the Vyzvhans from knowing that Yugo troops were going to be involved at all. On the main front, the public front, Yugoslovenski troops prepared to move into FSR and Kolodiya, bringing medical personnel and military security in what would likely prove to be a flood of sudden refugees.

Yugoslovenski had privately offered to take refugees, as long as they were previously detained in FSR and transferred to Yugoslovenski in the custody of the FSR. It also was preparing to stage large amounts of medical supplies in Novokiriya, far enough away from the fighting that a sudden surge of Vyzvhan troops wouldn't allow them to obtain precious medical supplies that could allow them to last longer in what the President assumed would be a drawn out war between the VDU and Vyzvha.

The first bus rolled up to the security check point.

In a Tyrannian accent, the soldier said to the border guard, "Ello lad, I'm here to discuss some business with your Minister of Defence. Do you thing you could ring 'im for me?" before winking at the border guard.
Last edited by Roskian Federation on Tue Feb 19, 2019 12:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Tue Feb 19, 2019 7:24 pm


What was overwhelming to the Jedorians was how utterly flat and devoid of features Vyzvha was. Jedoria had plenty of plains and fields, Katolaunian, Rabaciauskas, Cesloavs, all were flat lands, but in Jedoria they were ringed by mountains, valleys and rivers, dotted with forests and bushes. Vyzvha was just flat, and it went on forever. The steppe truly was lifeless, save for the scant village and dirt roads that hadn’t seen an ounce of mechanization in the past 70 years. Most of eastern Vyzvhan, at least the areas near the Jedorian border were depopulated. Officially it was in response to the border conflicts that had waxed and waned in the latter half of the 20th century, but in fact a major part of it was the need to fill the state constructed apartment blocks in major Vyzhvan cities. For the Jedorians it meant that when not engaging Vyzhvan military forces, they found the interior of the country largely devoid of life and signs of human habitation, save for long abandoned villages.

But every now and then Vyzvhan forces would coalesce around some small town or village and they would have to be dislodged. Wary of inflicting unnecessary civilian casualties the Jedorians would have to dismount and clear the enemy from the villages directly. It was to this measure that Lance Corporal Kažoks gripped his rifle tightly as their IFV approaching the small town slowly. Above the dim roar of the engine he could hear the rattling of automatic weaponry and the distant boom of artillery. Somewhere to the north a major armored battle was erupting. Kažoks was only somewhat aware he was part of a grand operation, just one cog in a machine that was sprawled out over a five hundred mile front. He was doing his best to focus what lay before him.

When he had stepped into however was something completely out of this world. The town was burning, the decades old wooden buildings lit up by tracers and sparks, the sun bleached wood catching fire quickly. Ugly black smoke rose from a hundred different fires. To Kažoks it seemed almost apocalyptical. The only major population center between the Jedorian border and Prognoi was a battleground, and the 29th Mechanized Infantry Division was stuck right in the middle of it.

Kažoks crouched behind a collection of steel barrels, doubtful of the usefulness of this cover but not willing to expose himself any further. He saw something move maybe 150 meters away, down the main road his lance had gotten stuck on, and fired off a panicked burst from his rifle. Leonid was close to him as usual, but too close. “Spread out!” He yelled, trying to be heard above the hammering of their IFV’s autocannon. Preikas was trying to keep the enemy suppressed, but the smoke and fire from the surrounding buildings made it almost impossible to be sure whether he was actually hitting anything.

Leonid didn’t budge, too frightened by the hellscape around him and the sporadic volume of enemy fire to risk exposing himself. Kažoks partially couldn’t blame him, in fact right now more than anything he wanted the comfort of another human being near him to remind him that despite the chaotic scene unfolding around him, he was still alive and still on this earth. But survival trumped comfort. He grabbed Leonid by the back of his body armor and practically flung him towards another piece of cover behind a nearby building. “Get to cover!” He practically screamed, before turning back to fire off another burst.

Once he was satisfied that he was clear, at least temporarily, he made a mad dash towards where Bīriņš posted up with his machine gun. Kažoks took a moment to share the volume of fire as he squeezed off a few more bursts before he slapped another magazine into his rifle. Bīriņš was firing off short bursts, working in tandem with their IFV to try to keep the enemy suppressed. Kažoks had to yell to be heart above the gun fire. “I’m taking half the Lance and flanking through the right pass.”

“We don’t know how many there are!” Was the protest, but Kažoks ignored it. “I’m not going to just sit here till we run out of ammo! We’re moving, keep them suppressed!”

“Leonid, Cinsas, Znotiņš, Mannik, you’re with me!” He ran forward, bounding with Cinsas while Bīriņš unleashed another torrent of bullets. Soon the five of them were moving down what was allegedly a road but resembled more of an alleyway. On each side was a small fence that looked barely capable of keeping out dogs, while numerous houses and yurts in each side burned. The heat had melted all the snow around here and there were puddles everywhere, a seemingly odd contrast between water and fire. It seemed impossible in the middle of February this far north, but Kažoks was sweating.

He suddenly gave the halt order with his free left arm. The fence on the left opened up into a clearing that apart from a rusted car was devoid of any signs of usage. “Spread out and follow me.” Kažoks said as he moved forward with his rifle raised. Leonid followed too closely before he remembered to take a step back. The clearing emptied out into a path that fed right into the main road. Kažoks tried to see past the smoke and fire, and suddenly his eyes could make out figures in the distance. The enemy.

Kažoks resisted the urge to raise his rifle and immediately fire. He was still a good distance away, too far for him to reliably hit anything and even if he did he’d be unlikely to be able to switch targets before they either ducked for cover or returned fire. He signaled his team to follow him, and they bounded across another puddle filled alleyway. The cover they had available was poor, rotting wooden crates and rusting metal and tin barrels. Kažoks doubted any of these could really stop bullets, but had few other options other than laying down on the ground and hoping the enemy wasn’t very accurate with their small arms.

The fire team moved forward again, taking advantage of what sparse cover there was to try to avoid being seen. Kažoks couldn’t shake the feeling like we was running on borrowed time. Not necessarily that if he didn’t accomplish this as soon as possible the enemy would kill, but rather that the flames around him would cut him off. The burning buildings and structures that seemed to encompass their entire world, and the longer he stayed here the more he felt like he could never leave. This battle was a preview of hell it seemed, and if he didn’t finish his business and withdraw soon he felt like he would never be able to. It was an odd feeling, something primal like the fear of burning, that now fed into his conscious. It was a natural instinct his years of training and experience couldn’t quite put a clamp on.

Again his arm shot up, the signal to halt. They weren’t far away now. Kažoks could make out the distinct figures with alarming clarity despite the flames. They were using rifles and weapons not unsimilar to the ones Kažoks and his lance mates were carrying (which had made estimating their position based on the reports of gunfire even harder). They were still preoccupied suppressing the rest of the lance further down the main road. Good. Kažoks raised his rifle, taking aim at one of the enemy soldiers. He stole a quick glance out of each corner of his eyes to verify that his comrades had done the same. His finger lightly touched the trigger.

“Open fire!”

He squeezed the trigger and his rifle hammered out a short burst, followed thereafter by the rest of his team. Bursts of gunfire cut down some of the figures. The one Kažoks had aimed for spun around though he had been slapped, jerked awkwardly to the left before collapsing onto the dirt below. One of the other figures that had been standing atop a pile of some sort of debris simply dropped his RPG and fell forward face flat. Kažoks immediate thought was one of elation that they had all landed their shots, only to be replaced by terror as one of yet unseen enemy soldiers swung his machine gun around and began hosing down their position with suppressing fire.

“Fuck!” Kažoks choked out as he cowered behind his cover, shuddering as he felt the bullets tear apart his flimsy protection. The machine gun began to arc this way and back, pelting the area with bullets, throwing up sparks and dirt as it impacted the ground and the objects around them. Kažoks tried to raise his rifle and fire back, but the scant few seconds he had to fire weren’t enough to get a good sight picture before he was forced to retreat back down. He was pinned.

“Shit!” Someone screamed.

“Mannik’s hit!”

Kažoks felt a lump form in his throat. Now he had taken a casualty and was pinned down. He fumbled for his radio, trying to stop his hand from shaking as he thumbed the device and hoped his voice could be heard above the sound of the pounding gunfire. “Preikas, we’re pinned down by an MG! We need support!”

“Is it clear?” The voice on the other end was practically impossible to hear above the roar of the fire both natural and manmade. “Damn it, we need support! Move up and take out that fucking MG!”


One word wasn’t enough to ease Kažoks’s worry. He ducked his head as another set of rounds impacted his increasingly porous cover. He tried to fire off a few more rounds, but his gun clicked dry. He scrambled to reload it, but his trembling fingers struggled to load another magazine. When he finally did so and pulled back the bolt the round refused to chamber. Jammed. Kažoks’s heart sank. Everything had gone to shit. He looked up and could see Leonid ducking underneath a badly rusted car, practically cowering with his hands over his head. He wanted so desperately just to stand up, run over, pick up Leonid and then the two could just run away. Away from the fire and the fighting that surrounded them.

The sound of machine gun fire was suddenly drowned out by the thundering of an autocannon. Kažoks braved another look over his cover, just in time to see what was left of the enemy force bolting like rabbits, frightened of the approaching IFV and now without an RPG to defend them. Kažoks suddenly felt a surge of energy inside of him. He looked down at his rifle. Moving quickly and with none of the same hesitation as before, he stripped out the magazine, and jammed his finger into the receive well until the loose round came free. Satisfied, he inserted the magazine again and rose up, taking aim at one of the fleeing enemy soldiers. A short burst cut him down.

“Get Mannik!” Kažoks yelled, before moving out into the street to take aim at more of the fleeing enemy. He wasn’t trying to kill them at this point, just reminding them that they should keep running away. Under his cover Leonid and Znotiņš grabbed Mannik and successfully moved him to behind their vehicle. Satisfied the enemy had been driven off, Kažoks rallied with the rest of the lance around their IFV, taking a moment to inspect Mannik’s injury. He had been hit in the left forearm. It was an ugly would, tearing out a good chunk of his arm, enough that the bone was visible. But it was ultimately a forearm wound that properly treated could be dealt with. Kažoks watched as Cinsas tied a tourniquet a hand length above the wound, using a method a Sieuxerrian medic had once taught them.

Kažoks wiped the sweat from his brow as he lance gathered themselves. He reached for his radio and switched it to his platoon frequency. “2-1 this is 2-3, our AO is secure, over.”
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Nova Sylva
Posts: 1370
Founded: Nov 11, 2013
New York Times Democracy

Postby Nova Sylva » Wed Feb 20, 2019 9:26 pm

Suarez could not help but let out a playful giggle, and he straight away regretted it. It was impossible not to, in the circumstances. The man and the manlike woman sitting next to him in the gate had been there for thirty minutes, and the man had not once stopped talking about 'them poofs'. He caught the man looking over to him, his mouth opening. Suarez put the Foreign Ministry briefcase on his lap and yawned. The man withdrew, silently, and then returned to his rant.

But it wasn't long before the attendant called them to board the Aero Esylvana flight from Paris to Chandler. It was only two and a half hours, much shorter than the thirteen hour flights Suarez had been used to from Fariford. Oh, how he missed those calming American voices! Yet, the homefront was a much more intense station, and he was glad that his innate and powerful capacity for his work had been recognized.

Suarez sat down. He had flown a thousand hours in airliners and it was second nature to him not to buckle his belt, recline his seat, or bother listening to the safety demonstration. He closed his eyes and thought about white wine on the promenade.

'Sorry', she said, and he looked up. The woman must have been at least five-ten – and she was by any standard shockingly beautiful. Not that Suarez was one to judge. He stood up and let her into the window seat. 'I do love the window seats', she said, flashing her teeth at him, and the conversation didn't stop until they came into a bumpy landing and she let out a quiet yelp and grabbed his thigh.

They kept talking as they went through customs. There was someone waiting for Suarez. A fat major with a belly leaking out of his belt and a dirty mustache. Suarez licked his lips in delight. 'Excuse me', he said to the major, 'I have some urgent business to attend. I shall see you tomorrow', and he put his hand on the small of the woman's back and walked straight past the major. The look on the man's face was worth its weight in gold.

'Fucking Forces types', he said to nobody in particular, and the woman smiled back at him.

'Such a bore, aren't they?'

They kept talking on the train. Suarez had always been suspicious: suspicious that somebody knew. He remembered a story. A prominent young diplomat, and a bachelor, who had also batted for the other team. He had been talking to a very pretty young woman who propositioned him, and he declined. A week later his apartment was raided, witnesses were found, and he was drummed out of the service with no reason given.

He put two and two together more quickly than most. So they did suspect him, after all! This was a ploy! He forgot all about the briefcase and what it might contain. He had a wider duty to do now, a duty to his privacy and his great and heavy secret. She was staying in the Commonwealth Hotel. A five star hotel reserved for diplomats and foreign businessmen. And she worked in the Department of International Development. Only in Chandler for one day. She had been to the Organized States too, and had some beautiful pictures to show him in her camera. Perhaps they could go back to the hotel to take a look?

Amateurs, Suarez sneered to himself. As if they thought old Miguel Suarez would fall for that one. Only when they got off the train and went to the taxi rank and he told the taxi driver to go to the Commonwealth Hotel and she didn't even bat an eyelid did he realize how close he had come to being found out. He could not decide if it was intelligence or intuition that saved him. In a sideways thought, he wondered if there was actually a camera.

In the room there were imported truffles on the bed and a bottle of real Carmisian champagne in an ice bucket. I rather suppose this is their way of saying sorry for misjudging me, he thought. He looked at the woman undoing her bun and letting her long brown hair down. And what an apology it would have been had I wanted it, he added, smiling. He ran his finger over the bottle and let the water soak into his finger. A close call.

'Do you like champagne?' he asked.

'Oh, terribly', she replied, not looking back.

Suarez had never opened a champagne bottle. He had no idea how. He became slightly angry that he felt embarrassed about it. Who cares what this woman thinks about me? Then he remembered there would be another judgment. Suarez had been with a woman before, once, at university. Part of his initiation for the Diplomatic Society had been to go with a prostitute in the university's fountain without being caught, so it was not an entirely new experience. And it had been worth it, since it had ultimately secured him the job he had today.

In any event, he got the bottle open. The liquid inside burst out, and it was a perfect simulacrum.

Afterwards, in the morning, he remembered what the Ambassador had told him: hand over the contents of this briefcase to Major Navarro at the Defense Ministry and do not tell a single person about it. He locked himself in the bathroom and opened the briefcase. There was a single piece of paper, a letter. He let out a quick squeal as he read it, and then everything became very serious. When he left the bathroom she was just finishing getting dressed.

One has to play the part. 'Can I see you again?' he asked.

'I don't think my husband would like that', she said, putting her shoes on and smiling at him, the teeth still showing.

'If you've a husband, then where's your ring?' he asked, refraining from adding you silly bitch at the end. She looked down and blinked, and then looked back at him with a drained face. He immediately regretted the mean streak. 'Sorry', he said, and she left wordlessly.

Suarez opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of beer, and lay down on the bed. He read the letter from the Jedorian government again, twice, and thought about what he was going to do.

He read the first line aloud: 'To the First Minister and members of her Cabinet, regarding your proposition of intervention.'

He repeated the ambassador's words: 'Hand over the contents of this briefcase to Major Navarro at the Defense Ministry'.

He took another slug of beer and folded the paper up, putting it into his pocket and muttering fucking forces types. Then the dogs hair hit him and he suddenly felt very, very sad.

Suarez crossed his legs and folded his arms. The man opposite stared at him. 'If what you're saying is true, Mr. Suarez, this is of overwhelming importance. Your story checks out, but...'

Suarez frowned. He lifted the tone of his voice. 'Sir. I have the letter here. It's in my pocket.'

'Get on with it,' the Secretary said. 'I don't have all day.' Suarez tossed the letter on to the table. The Secretary flushed red and could hardly restrain his fists from balling. Suarez wanted oh-so badly to pout, to provoke the man into a fantastic anger, but held himself back. Just.

The Secretary ignored him and read the letter, and his face changed to a swirl of many different emotions. For a moment Suarez thought he was going to stick with bullish rage, but he settled on evident concern. Suarez tapped his foot. 'I say, call your boy in would you, I'm pretty thirsty'. The Secretary simply tapped a bell and the boy came in. Three piece suit but hardly looked eighteen. Suarez ran him up and down with his eyes and the servant looked away. 'Pink gin', Suarez said. 'Please.'

'I shall forward this letter to the Minister immediately', the Secretary said. 'I don't know that I like you, Suarez, but you have done a service to your country today by giving this to us. Of course, you shan't be able to return to the Foreign Office'.

Suarez just said: 'What'. His shoulders fell and his eyes lifted. He repeated the word again. He had done everything he had needed to get, and indeed stay, in the Foreign Ministry. Some of it shameful, some of it downright difficult. He could feel his pride leaving him and clenched his body to try to stop it going out but it was still going. He ground his teeth for two and a half seconds and then leaned in to the oak table and met the Secretary, the civil servant responsible to the First Minister, in the eye. He slipped the letter quickly from one side of the table to his own. 'I want my fucking job', he said and kept staring at the Secretary.

'Don't speak to me in that tone', the Secretary said. 'Another foul word out of your mouth and I'll have you thrown in a Ward. By giving this directly to the First Minister’s office, you’ve disobeyed a direct order to deliver this package to a...Major Navarro? The Ambassador will want your head for this. But we'll put you on the Civil List -- for now.' Suarez tried to pull some emotion out of somewhere but failed totally. 'It's not a bad life being on the Civil List. And anyway,' the Secretary yawned, taking back the letter from Suarez's limp fingers, 'I think you'd do rather well in the Cabinet Office, don't you?'

'The Cabinet Office?'

'You'd never go far in the Foreign Office, Miguel Stefan Suarez. Let me break it to you. I've got your file up on the computer here. Do you know you've been investigated by the Foreign Ministry, the Marshalcy, and Counterintelligence? That's quite a record. You drank plenty of champagne in Fairford, didn't you, Peter Stepan?' Suarez's eyes went wide. It wasn't just the rare use of a person's pseudonym. He could feel the emotion coming out again, seeping out of his eyeballs. But he couldn't close them. 'On the Government's expenses account, hm? Mean to drink us into recession, do you?' The Secretary glanced at the screen again. 'Here's the one from the Marshalcy. Not enough evidence to charge, possession of class A drugs, sodomy. And Counterintelligence—another interesting accusation. I won't read this one. Drive down the one-way street, do you, Suarez?'

'I'm not a fucking queer, if that's what you're suggesting', Suarez replied, with just a hint of an accent seeping through. He corrected it quickly, but the Secretary had already noticed it. He tried to work out when they had caught him. Was it that time in the car park?

'Twenty-seven and unmarried. Well. I won't say anything. We'll find you a job in the Cabinet Office soon enough. I expect you to resign your place in the Diplomatic Service tomorrow. But you're not to tell a soul, not about this Cabinet Office thing, not about the Civil List. I have much more exciting work for you, Suarez. In fact, you know what this Counter-intelligence report says? Pathological and unpatriotic dislike of the military. We need people like you in the Cabinet Office more than anywhere else. But listen to me. If you embarrass me,' he said, raising his eyebrows, 'I shall have you thrown into a Ward. And I'll have them recommend electric therapy on top of that. Now drink your pink gin. You've hardly touched it. That's 20 year old liquor at least, I don't want you wasting it. Cigarette?'

Suarez took the cigarette. He found his finger trembling around the lighter. 'Actually, I have a favour to ask.'

'Go on?'

'I want the passenger manifest for my flight to Chandler. Please don't ask why'.

'A little please and thank you gets you places,' the Secretary smiled. 'I'll have it sent to you. And Suarez—stay in Chandler. We may need you sooner than you think'.
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West Atlantia
Posts: 12
Founded: Sep 13, 2009
Democratic Socialists

Targan Falls

Postby West Atlantia » Thu Feb 21, 2019 12:27 pm



Seltso, outskirts of Targan

Tonight, the joint VDC force tasked with attacking the Vyzhvan exclave of Targan has reported that a ceasefire is in effect throughout the city. The ceasefire, which has been brokered between Targan's local government and VDC forces came into effect at 18:00 UTC today.

Reports from Targan suggest that the sustained bombardment prior to and during the operation to take the city both crippled the ability for forces stationed in Targan to effectively fight but also comprehensively crippled the city which is currently without power. Materiel losses from both the initial bombardment and following ground attack have been high with swathes of tanks and armoured vehicles strewn along the roads into Targan many missing turrets, some blown apart like tin cans.

Abandoned Vyzhvan vehicles litter the approach to Targan

The entire district of Targan is home to some seven hundred and forty thousand people, most of whom live in the city proper. Unlike the Vyzhvan homeland decades of exposure to western culture from the very public border with Tír an Crainn appears to have had a profound albeit unseen effect on the population. Initial casualty estimates for the operation to take the city were in the thousands in an operation lasting weeks or months, instead the city has surrendered relatively intact within a week. The VDC have confirmed that whilst casualties were nowhere near as high as foreseen were still substantial with 131 personnel being killed and 378 wounded over the week long operation.

Abandoned vehicles also litter the city proper

With efforts being made to restore power to parts of the city this evening it is expected that humanitarian personnel from the wider international community will begin to be escorted over the border to provide much needed aid the civilian population of Targan who have suffered so greatly over the previous week of operations.

The surrender of Targan will likely be a rarity of this campaign with the main Vyzhvan strongholds of Ivot and Prognoi still looming large on the horizon not to mention the capital Melna.

Although still standing much of Targan is scarred by the events of the past week

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Founded: Aug 23, 2011
Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Thu Feb 21, 2019 2:28 pm

1st Western Front Heaquarters

Colonel General Aurels Runcis didn’t show his limp easily. It only became readily apparent went walking up steps, where he was forced to swing his left leg out a big in order to compensate for the lack of movement in his knee. By now he had lived with it for over 30 years and had gotten used to it, so much so that normal walking was no obstacle for him. Normally an injury like the one he had sustained, courtesy of a well placed Tyrannian shell, would have drummed him out of the service, but Runcis had fought tooth and nail to stay in uniform. In the end of the decline of the Jedorian People’s Army had allowed him to slip through the cracks, and as his country stagnated and crumbled around him he was able to slowly work his way up the ranks.

When the civil war broke out he had sided with the only army he knew, the JPA, against the rebels. He had no disdain for the rebels and their desires, nor any particular love for the communists. It was largely because of that political apathy that he had been allowed to retain his commission and continue his service in the Federal Guard. Runcis had assumed that he would end his career shortly afterwards, retiring to a quiet life somewhere down south, unsure of what he had actually accomplished. His performance in the Mozrian war had ended with his leg nearly torn out from underneath him. His duty in the civil war was average by most standards, undercut by increasingly poor quality of forces underneath his command. In the decade following the end of hostilities he wondered to himself whether it had all been worth it, all the struggles he endured to remain in the armed forces, all for the army he served to disintegrate before his very eyes.

But then he had ordered to assume this command, to take charge of the largest collection of Jedorian military forces since the Civil War. And suddenly he had purpose again. If he could just do this right, secure victory and peace on the western border, bring about the Jedorian fantasy of uniting their northern and southern territories in the west, then he could retire happily. All he needed was victory.
It seemed to be going well thus far.

The Zayetists forces in the north-east were largely encircled in what the Jedorians were calling Area of Operations Verdict. Some 55,000 – 75,000 Zayetists were in the pocket, surrounded by Jedorian armored and mechanized forces. Verdict was surrounded by the 11th Corps in the north and the 15th Corps in the south, with their lead divisions linking up in the south. With the encirclement complete, Runcis had ordered for the reserve corps to be deployed, bypassing the encircled enemy and their captors in Verdict and pushing on towards the main Jedorian objective, Prognoi.

In the south 6th Corps, composed of three divisions (39th Guards Armored Division, 78th Mechanized Infantry Division, 105th Mechanized Infantry Division) would begin moving west towards Prognoi, supported on an almost parallel axis of advance by the 25th Corps (201st Armored Division, 213th Armored Division, 191st Mechanized Infantry Division). The goal was for the two corps to converge on Prognoi in a similar pincer strike that had enveloped Zayetist forces in Verdict.

Runcis was aware from this point on there was only estimates and educated guesses to how the offensive would go. Most of what the Front had encountered thus far were abandoned villages and towns, depleted of their population by the enemy’s desire to fill the state constructed apartment complexes in their inner cities. The forces they had faced had been subject to immense levels of artillery and aerial bombardment. In theory the Coalitions air campaign had devastated the enemy’s interior lines of communication and transportation, but there would be no way of knowing that for sure until they were actually encountered.

The status of the enemy reserves were still unknown. The ability of the enemy to mobilize his reserves and field them had been a direct target of the air campaign but how effective that was had yet to be seen. Thus far what reserves the Jedorians had encountered had been deployed piecemeal and dealth with appropriately and quickly, but there was less certainty as to how that would continue the further they pushed in Vyzhva.

When he had been a junior cadet at the training academy Runcis had been taught the importance of recognizing the culmination point, the point in an operation or campaign when the balance of power had tipped towards the enemy, where at that point you no longer had the advantages of initiative or momentum. It was the focal point of understanding for all military operations but especially so for invasions where you had to constantly weight the current status of your forces, their advances, and their capability for further thrusts against an enemy that would be dealing with increasingly shortening supply lines and increasing levels of desperation.

Runcis had tried to apply all his accumulated knowledge to the situation at hand but it has thus far provided him with mixed results. The problem was a chronic lack of intelligence on the enemy, his dispositions and his capacity to resist. The rogue state had not been one for sharing its defense secrets and as a result the Coalition had gone in with only a vague understanding of the arsenal and ability. Thus far it seemed that the conventional superiority of the allied forces was so immense the ignorance wasn’t an issue. How long that would remain so was another question entirely.

Either way, it was undeniable that up until this point the 1st Western Front had encountered success on all levels. The enemy was being pushed back in all sectors, and in the Verdict pocket they had isolated what the Jedorians considered to be their biggest worries on the battlefield. Even now as he looked at the map and digested the patterns of symbols and notes he could see that the 1st Western Front was making good progress. Long armored columns and thrusts were pushing deeply into the Vyzhvan interior, what resistance they had encountered thus far spirited but disorganized.

Runcis drummed his fingers along the edges of the map. Good progress, but so much more lay ahead. He was aware that the depopulated eastern borders of Vyzhva were just temporary. Soon they would approaching the one of the main population centers, harder to deal with, easier to defend than the open steppe, and filled with whatever fanatics had thus far survived the ordeal. If Runcis had been the enemy commander, he would have concentrated his available reserves in the city. Force the enemy to come dig them out. He wasn’t sure if that’s what the enemy had in mind but if they were worth their weight they would.

He folded his arms and couldn’t suppress a grimace. The true test was fast approaching.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

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Posts: 1288
Founded: Aug 23, 2011
Capitalist Paradise

Postby Jedoria » Mon Feb 25, 2019 12:58 am

Strana Mechty,

The capital of the Federated Combine of Jedoria would never be counted among the great cities of Septentrion. It lacked the towers of steel and glass that defined a modern city, it wasn’t the cultural hub like Paris or a financial epicenter like Chandler or Fairford. It lacked the ancient mysticism of Kienk’ang, or the immense political importance of Turov. But Strana Mechty had a quality all of it’s own. The signs of communist rule were fading, the old Soviet-style block apartments covered in murals and paintings. The buildings were spaced out and broken up by countless squares and shops. A thousand cafes and coffee shops were snugly fit in underneath apartment buildings. The architecture was practically in a state of flux, transforming from the brutalist status of communist rule to the postmodern styles more commonly found elsewhere. Socialist Era monuments and landmarks were replaced by trees.

Standing on the nearby hills one could see the city followed a fairly normal layout, the historical but versatile gridiron plane broken up by a select few diagonal avenues. The built environment consisting of wall-to-wall buildings organized around courtyards, mid-rise housing units, a relatively rich network of squares, and several specialized district including the port and industrial areas. The shores and inner canals combined to form a major harbor and port facility that led many container ships to the Jedorian capital. When night fell the city was illuminated in an almost gentle way, not filled with the hustle of bustle of night shift taking over, but friends and families staying up late for fairs and festivals.
Strana Mechty was cozy. Strana Mechty was safe.

News from the west had reached the capital quickly. War was something most Jedorian people were terribly familiar with, and practically everyone over the age of 15 had vivid memories of the last time their homeland was engulfed in conflict. Had it been against any other state, even Kolodiya, there would have been a much stronger response. But the Glasic led intervention against the much despised Vyzhva lessened the blow. There was still much to be said. But now it was said more quietly and in more hushed tones.

The Director of International Relations, Verner Kuusik, could feel the quiet tension beneath the surface. As he toyed with his cup of tea and poured over another report that had been placed on the table in the cabinet office, he could sense the questions being asked outside. How was the war going? Were they winning? What were the casualties like? Inside the halls of government questions were also being asked. But some of these questions had little to do with the war and more to do with the greater problems posed before the Federated Combine. Questions about the future, and where Jedoria stood in the world.

Kuusik had his own theories of course, but he was ultimately not the final word on policy, even as the Foreign Minister. As he sat the office of the Archon, idly sipping at his tea while he waited for the leader of his country to finish reading, he concluded that someone would eventually have to make that decision.

The Archon, Jaan Kask, concluded his reading of the report in his hands and placed it back down. Even though he was only 57 he looked closer to 75. The war had done that to him, to everyone it seemed. There was a wariness that bit at everyone’s bones these days. Kuusik avoided that be not looking in mirrors very often. The Foreigner Minister waited for a few moments, knowing Kask was taking his time digesting the information he had just received from the report. After a moment he said simply “The war goes well.”
Kuusik nodded. “The military as done well. I admit I had my reservations, but the Central Command has demonstrated an impressive aptitude for making the best out of what they have.”

“I lied you know.” Kask said suddenly. “Ten years ago we said never again. Never again would we force the specter of war upon our people. But look where we are now. Our boys are fighting and dying again, against another foreign neighbor.”

Kuusik gently set his tea cup down on the saucer and folded his hands atop one another on his lap. “Perhaps. But you could very easily argue that we did not force this war, it was forced on us. What happened in Tir Glas could not go unpunished.”

Kask said and did nothing for a few moments before slowly nodding. “Perhaps indeed. Perhaps one day we won’t have to worry about wars on our doorstep.”

“One can hope.” Kuusik said. He waited for the Archon to say something else, but when he remained silent, Kuusik cleared his throat. “If all goes well the fighting will be over soon. And then we have more issues that will need to be addressed.”

“The annexation.” Kask said absentmindedly.

“Well, yes. But that’s only one, and not all that significant to be honest. I’ve received assurance from our Glasic friends that they won’t protest Jedoria assuming control of the disputed territories. And given their sparse population I don’t envision many major issues with administrating those lands.”

He met the Archons gaze. “I was speaking morose of the issue of where we stand after all this.”

“With our friends, of course.”

Kussik suppressed a stronger emotional reaction. “Come now Jaan, you know what I mean. Do we remain associated with the AVA or fold neatly into the VDC.”

Kask breathed deeply, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes I know. It’s a decision I’d rather not have to make.”

“But we have to. At least in some capacity. You’ve seen the reports from the Economic Bureau. Within this year we can expect to see steady gains in employment levels and growth across all major sectors. We are in a recovery, my Archon, and therefore soon we will no longer be dependent on foreign aid to sustain ourselves. And when we are ready to stand on two feet there will be those who had helped us waiting, expecting our assistance as a form of payment.”

“We have to choose Jaan. Reconstruction will end sooner rather than later.”

The Archon was quiet for a few moments, letting out a sight and leaning back in his chair. “You know, sometimes I feel like things were easier during the war.”

Kussik smiled. “In a way they were. But we can’t stay at war forever, and right now we’re at war with ourselves, over our future. We need to decide.”

“Neither of them seem particularly appealing. There’s a paranoia in Tir Glas, I can just sense it.” Kask said bluntly. “They’re growing close with the Dayashina and Menghe. Who knows what trouble they might cook up over there? And the AVA, we owe them a debt of gratitude, but how can we be sure they won’t lead us down a questionable path as well?”

“We won’t know until it happens.” Kussik said. “We can guess and make estimates but in the end it’s just that; guesses.”

Kask nodded. “Why do I have a feeling that regardless of what we do, it’ll come back to bite us somehow?”

Kussik almost grinned. “That’s politics. The best you can do is the least worst.”

Kask fell silent again for some time. When he finally spoke, there was a distance in his voice, as though he was speaking purely from memory. “The AVA bombers saved my life you know. We were in Satalice, the socialists were overrunning us. The entire brigade was about to be crushed between the river and their tanks. Our radio man, Mransik, was practically screaming into his headset. I thought for sure this was the end. But then the planes came, faster than I could see, and suddenly the whole area was choked with smoke and fire. I never forgot that.”

“How could we turn our backs on the Tyrannians, the Sieuxcerrians, the Sylvans? After all the bloodshed? All the violence and loss?” Kask pondered, asking a question that Kussik didn’t, or couldn’t, answer. “Perhaps we shouldn’t, then.”


The Jedorians were closing in on Prognoi. The main highway, the only major paved road between Prognoi and eastern Vyzhva, was largely undefended. 6th and 25th Corps were leapfrogging west, long columns of tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, armored personnel carriers, artillery pieces, and utility vehicles made belching exhaust and creaking treads. What forces the Vyzhvans still possessed had fallen back across the entire front, and what reserve elements still existed had fallen back to defend the city.
“We were all of us cogs in a great machine which sometimes rolled forward, nobody knew where, sometimes backwards, nobody knew why.”
― Ernst Toller

User avatar
West Atlantia
Posts: 12
Founded: Sep 13, 2009
Democratic Socialists

Kupka Falls

Postby West Atlantia » Wed Mar 13, 2019 5:14 pm



Kupka, Vuzhva

Tonight, the city of Kupka is under coalition control having finally surrendered after over a fortnight of bitter fighting. Much of the city lies in ruins, the garrison having refused to accept terms of surrender.

Kukpa had been expected to be a relatively easy victory on paper with Vyzhvan forces relocating closer to the capital prior to the invasion, this turned out not to be the case as civilians-turned militia ferociously and at times fanatically fought to defend their city from the multi-national force trying to take it. After the first week Kupka was unrecognisable as a city, much of it was in ruins, burning or both yet still the occupants of the city fought on.

Fighting has been intense with house-house and room to room fighting for over a week after entering the city, many buildings being fought over have been brought down on top of these fanatical defenders, usually by tank or artillery, the occupants of Kupka simply refused to surrender.

By the start of the third week frozen corpses of the dead were littering the streets, many in unnaturally contorted positions, some missing limbs. After over two weeks of bitter, ferocious fighting the morale of the city had broken, resistance became hit and miss, those who didn't surrender to coalition forces either committed suicide or died in suicidal attacks on now-reinforced coalition positions.

GOC of Crainnic III Corps - Lt. Gen. Liam Moore, speaking to a sea of faces from four different nations this evening paid tribute to the 397 coalition soldiers who had paid the ultimate price in assaulting the city over the past days and weeks.

Kupka lies in ruins

Whilst the siege of Kupka in and of itself is a terrible human disaster, the forced labour camps dotted in the landscape approaching it are another thing entirely. Reminiscent of the forced labour camps of the Casaterran War some 75 years ago emaciated, sometimes skeletal prisoners locked in cells two-metres square were found in their hundreds, if not thousands on the approach to Kupka, abandoned by their guards. These facilities had been rumoured by defectors to Tír an Crainn and Tír Glas but had never been truly substantiated. Political prisoners, critics of the regime and generally anyone that the regime wanted out of the way appear to have ended up in these camps with inmate registers also containing some missing citizens from abroad.

Much of Kupka not outright destroyed lies scarred

The surrender of Kupka will surely be a turning point of the campaign against Vyzhva. The discovery of the forced labour camps and the fanatical resolve with which the occupants fought will likely impact how the strongholds of Ivot and Prognoi still looming large on the horizon are dealt with.

Abandoned and destroyed military materiel litters the city



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