Taming the Wildlands (MT)

[Atlantian Dominions]

OOC Thread

The War Room hadn’t lived up to its name since the 1960s. The Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions was a nation unaccustomed to substantial or prolonged foreign interventions, a product of isolation both self-created and foreign-imposed. For all the talk in pulpits and campaign trails about spreading the salvation of Christ across Kayfabeland, almost every Atlantian government had preferred to do so through missionaries rather than the sword. The Confederacy kept its interactions with most of the wider world limited to the economic sphere, using its International Traders to do sell the agricultural products and manufactured goods it made and buy the many things it needed.

That was all about to change, however. For the first time in recent memory the War Room was on a war footing. Maps of the target country were displayed on large screens above the table where the top command personnel of the Atlantian military and the upper echelon of the Atlantian government sat. The war that was coming had swept everyone along in its wake, moving towards the inevitable conclusion with an inertia of its own. It had become clear that the best option was to start swimming with the current.

The assembled men rose in unison as President Jim Gilmore entered the War Room. He motioned for them to return to their seats and he took his own.

“Gentlemen, war is upon us,” he declared. “I intend to speak with Senator Charles after the conclusion of this meeting and request that he put forward a motion for a formal declaration of war against Honduragua.” This was not quite news, but it put a sort of finality on the issue which had been consuming Atlantian newspapers and politics for some time. “Secretary Hanson, please begin.”

The Secretary of War nodded and rose from his seat. “I’ll keep my remarks brief so the military men can provide the details, but here is our plan in essence: the terrain along the land border with Honduragua makes an overland invasion on any serious scale impossible. Instead we will send a task force of warships around the northern coast for an amphibious attack. Now I’ll hand it over to General Hightower to explain the rest.”

The head of the Combined General Staff rose as the Secretary of Defense sat back down. “Thank you. Mister President, the Combined General Staff has drawn up a plan of attack. If you’ll look at the board over there.” He indicated with a pointed finger at a map of Honduragua marked with a number of arrows. “A task force of warships and transports will sail around the northern coast, then land troops on the islands of San Lorenzo and San Marcos,” he explained. “Once captured we will have two unsinkable offshore bases, for use as airfields, hospitals, and prisoner camps.”

“After we have secured the islands, we will launch an invasion of the mainland and capture the port of Tijata. Then it’s an advance up the San Luis River to Chuparosa, and then the capital of Hidalgo. And of course this will be preceded by extensive battlefield preparation by the Air Force.”

It seemed easy enough when drawn out on a map. “What sort of resistance do we anticipate?”

General Hightower smirked. “The Honduraguan military is a bunch of peasants with guns we sold them years ago. We’ll be bringing in around twenty-five thousand men from the Marines and the National Guard. We should be able to brush them aside without much fuss.”

The President leaned forward. “Do we anticipate much in the way of foreign involvement? I don’t like the idea of getting into a real shooting war over some drug smugglers.”

The Secretary of State gestured to indicate he could answer that particular question. “We doubt that anyone will rise to President Monzano’s defense. He’s a two-bit banana republic dictator who’s in bed with a drug cartel. If anything, we might get some offers of support.”

---

Normally there was plenty of space in the galleries overlooking the Senate for the handful of journalists and intriguers who attended to spread out and get comfortable. Today, however, there was much less room to stretch. The word had gotten around that Senator Robert Charles was going to be giving the final speech in the debate over what to do about Honduragua. Journalists from other cities had shown up, and there was a TV and a radio crew in attendance to broadcast the message across the country.

The Senator was, like all of the members of the Dominion Senate, an old white man. He was a well-known ally of the current administration. Whatever he was about to say had been arranged beforehand with President Jim Gilmore and the rest of his political allies. The President’s support in the Senate was strong and no effective challenger for the presidency had yet raised their political standard in opposition. Whatever policies Senator Charles proposed in this speech were virtually guaranteed to be implemented.

The Senator stepped up to the speaker’s podium, his suit freshly pressed. The chatter quieted. Max Constance, a long time political reporter for the Cumberland Gazette, leaned on the ornate marble railing of the gallery and his notepad and pencil in hand.

“The question of the day is what to do about our troublesome neighbor. We have always known that someday our nation would be forced to confront the sins which found a home in Honduragua. In the past, we have satisfied ourselves with half-measures abroad and strength at home. We had hoped to batten down the hatches and wait for the storm to expend itself. This has become an inadequate policy.”

Above, Max nodded. So far it was the expected trajectory. The Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions had always been more concerned with putting its domestic affairs in order, rather than dealing with the outside world. Honduragua, the only nation sharing the Atlantian continent with the Confederacy, had been treated like someone with a bad facial wound or infection: you tried to avoid looking at them. The Immigration Authority had kept itself busy arresting and deporting the illegals who tried to make the overland crossing or sneak in via ship. When the drug cartel started using Honduragua as a base, Customs tried its best to keep their products from getting into the Dominions.

“President Monzano was once seen as a force for stability. We praised him for bringing order to Honduragua and ending the cycle of violence which had threatened to flood our land with the wretched refuse. But rather than embrace the path to righteousness, the government of Honduragua has made a deal with the devil, and allowed evil to take root. I speak of the gang which styles itself the El Patrón Cartel.”

“Papa” Monzano was, by all accounts, the usual kleptocrat dictator. He’d gotten enough of the army on his side to wipe out the opposition and set himself up as President, a title he apparently intended to hold onto until he went to meet the Lord. He’d gotten in bed with the El Patrón Cartel in the 90s. The deal they’d struck was clear: Monzano left the Cartel’s burgeoning operations in Honduragua alone, and in return Hector Lopez, El Patrón, put his own substantial weight on the scales on Monzano’s favor. Now the Cartel effectively ran their own state in Honduragua, growing and processing opium and cocaine in fields across the country and shipping it out to the entire region, and the wider world. They sold guns from Honduraguan government arsenals to other gangs or rebels, and sold people they kidnapped or tricked into forced labor or sex slavery.

“Now this cancer threatens to cross our borders and infect our nation! We have seen the warning signs: drug shipments seized in Hansport harbor. Atlantian women kidnapped and rescued at the last moment from a lifetime of degradation and suffering. More unwanted intruders on the border. All of this directed by the Cartel, and with the meek acquiescence of the Honduraguan government. And then, just last week, the ultimate insult. You all know of what I speak.”

Max knew what was coming. The incident had been all over the newspapers from the moment it had been reported. Two Atlantian sailors, on shore leave in the Honduraguan port of Tijata, had wound up in a bad neighborhood and gotten themselves killed. They were stupid for straying from the relative safety of the dockside district, where the Cartel and other criminals knew to give foreigners a wide berth. According to the accounts that hadn’t gotten published, they’d been killed in a dispute over payment for a pair of loose women. None of that mattered once they’d gotten stabbed in a Tijata alley. Their blood had washed them clean of sin.

“Not content with merely enabling death through their production of drugs, the Cartel chose to engage in the act of murder directly. These sailors, killed for no greater crime than being Atlantian! The crime, in the eyes of the lifetime sinner, of hailing from a land which strives to cleanse itself of sin. And then, upon the injury was heaped insult. The Honduraguan government chose to side with the criminal, with the sinner, rather than the side of justice and right.”

The Honduraguan government had indeed rejected an ultimatum from the Confederacy, which would have essentially placed the entire city of Tijata under Atlantian control and made Honduragua a puppet state. This was unsurprising: the ultimatum had been designed to be unacceptable. The Atlantian population had been crying for war, primed by lurid stories in the press and the nationalist anger whipped up by the murder of the sailors. The ultimatum was merely the pretext.

“It is clear that such a government, which chooses to protect a gang of murders and drug-making scum, cannot be allowed to continue. And so, my fellow Senators, I ask you today to join me in voting for war against the Republic of Honduragua! All in favor?”

The ayes had it.

[Bruzenland]

He was too along with the journalists. Being Bruzen was a plus for this kind of operation, for he, like many Atlantians was white and male, his blonde hair and fair complexion made the Bruzen indistinguishable from any Atlantian, plus his skill with Astorian was impecable, the agent who has been sent to missions in Astoria and Avon for more than seven years was now standing next to the many reporters of The Dominion. His name? Lucas Beck who was born and raised in Leinz, but from the moment he arrived, he was Oliver Norton an average Joe, a simple man who walked among the crowd in a busy day, born and raised in Bankston, a local of High Rock a nice little suburb in the outskirts of Bankston, he graduated as a Journalist at age 24, son of Thomas Norton and Sarah Norton, an electrician and a housewife.

Or at least, that was his current Dossier. He noticed a man, probably from the Gazette but he simply ignored him, as he took notes on his notepad while listening to the senator. He had a mission here, simple on paper but if he failed he would be forced to take other measures, he couldn't risk Bruzenland's involvement in this, for his government this was the most important and biggest spy operation that the Federal Intelligence Service has taken part in. Scores of spies had been planted in the continent, from tourists to technicians, the Bruzen government wanted ears and eyes in this entire place, for this information was vital to set demands and claim 'deals that cannot be rejected'.

His instruments were old but gold, while the FIS had a ship masquerading as a Atlantian fishing ship that controlled drones who would fly and send images of military bases in both the Dominion and Honduraga, useful to track military movements, but Lucas was stuck in the 1950's it was exciting, feeling like a spy from the movies of yore, but instead of thinking about those movie he quickly got to work.

The man casually left his post and left the building, making sure no one was looking; he found a service door that led back inside the building. Perfect, like a sneaky weasel, made sure to avoid the security cameras by staying under the blind spots as he planted the bugs under tables, chairs and every nook and cranny he could find. These bugs were connected to a recorder in the ship that would recieve any audio recorded by the bugs.

[Kandonica]

Brigadier General Rolf Gurnlin sat at his desk reading the most recent reports from his anti narcotics division. Drug crimes were up across Kandonica and much of the country did not understand how. They had a strong police force and very little crime until recently.

"So are you sure we know that this recent influx is coming from the El Patrón Cartel?" Said Grunlin looking up at his second in command Colonel Yeiv Krenrun. "We have every reason to believe that they have at-least infiltrated some of the costal cities and are using our ports to help spread their product throughout the country."

"Have we found any way to stop them or to somehow detect this at the boarder?" said Gurnlin. "As of right now we are doing our best, but it seems like they are either paying people off or are having small boats dropping off on the shore. The coast guard caught a boat three days ago and it was one of the biggest drug busts in their history" said Krenrun.

"I am going to have to talk to central command, but I saw in the news a couple of days ago that the country housing this cartel is possibly being invaded by their neighbor. We could see if we could use this to our advantage in stopping this issue." "I will radio central command and set up a meeting" said Krenrun.

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"Gentelmen I have an idea." Yelled Gurnlin as he walked into a joint branch meeting of the Kandonican Republican Army. "We have all seen on the news the most recent stories coming out of the area, war is inevitable." We have to move to use this to our advantages, drugs have recently become a scourge in our nation and they are coming from this area." "I vote to send an expeditionary force to help weed out this bastards and show that you do not mess with our people".

"Hold on Gurnlin are you suggesting that we got to war?" Said Brigadier General Turner Skivy the representative of the Navy. "We are not an old nation and we do not have much experience in war." "Why should we be rushing into this so quickly?"

"We have to strike now or we might not get another opportunity" . Said Grunlin, who's face had turned a bright shade of pink in his fervor. "This would also allow for us to this new military might and show the world who we are."

" I am all in favor of this action and suggest that my Marines lead the the battle" said Major General Henren Webly who presided over this meeting as the top ranked officer. "I will now be putting this to a vote as we will not be fighting over it all day." "We will ask each branch to submit their votes."

"Army?"

" We vote in favor" said the Army representative.

"I vote for the Marines and we are always up for a scrap so we vote in favor" Said Webly

"Air Force?"

"Vote in Favor"

"National Police?'

"I submitted the bloody plan what do you think" Said Grunlin, now a new stage of red

"National Guard?"

"We vote yes"

"Coast Guard?"

"Yes"

"And finally as I know that they were against it, Navy?"

"We are out voted as is with this so we vote in favor" Said Skivy, seemingly dejected.

"The vote is unanimous and the decision carrys, we are going to war gentlemen" . Said Webly . "We will have the declaration drawn up today, prepare your soldiers gentlemen."

[Atlantian Dominions]

The docks of St. George were always bustling with activity – it was the most active port in the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions. Every day it was full of freight ships leaving with the products of Atlantian farms and factories and entering with the goods purchased from the outside world. But for the past few days, that traffic had been diverted or delayed. Instead, the threatening gray hulls of Atlantian warships occupied large portions of the dockside. These ships brought no goods into the harbor; they accepted a seemingly unending stream of men, vehicles, and supplies up their gangplanks and into their holds. The Confederate Navy did not have a massive amphibious assault capacity, but the few dedicated ships it had were being loaded up with Marines and the equipment they needed.

The warships of the Atlantian fleet had received their provisions and sat offshore, waiting for the transport and assault ships to finish loading up. The flotilla was centered on the aircraft carrier Redemption, which would be escorted and accompanied by a squadron of guided missile destroyers and their Aegis cruiser command ship. The Honduraguan Navy barely existed even on paper – this fleet would find its work as platforms for fire support for the soldiers on land, as well as attempting to block any foreign powers from sending aid to Honduragua.

On the pier, Sergeant Jacob Wheatley was embracing his wife one last time. It was just one of dozens of tearful farewells happening as the men of Bravo Company – First Battalion, Second Regiment, First Brigade, First Marine Division – prepared to walk up the ramp onto the amphibious cargo ship Magnificence.

“Write as often as you can,” Jacob’s wife Bethany asked of her husband. “We’ll pray for you every night.”

“I will,” the Marine sergeant promised. He didn’t say it for fear of jinxing it, but Jacob refused to believe that he would be gone for long. Surely the Hondies – the shortened name for Honduraguans had spread like wildfire through the ranks of the Atlantian soldiers being sent to fight them – wouldn’t be able to put up any kind of fight that the Marines would have trouble with.

---

The man known as El Patrón had been given the name Hector Lopez at birth. There were very few people left alive on the planet who could address him by that name. He had buried both of his parents long ago. He had one close confidant, a man who had been his friend since childhood. That was it. The rest of the world saw him not as a mere man, but as the embodiment of the drug cartel that bore his name. He was a man who spoke through an army of intermediaries and agents.

He had gathered the top level of that army at his villa in the backcountry of Honduragua. The majestic mountains of the Grand Ridge provided a breathtaking backdrop to the opulent colonial-style estate. Servants brought drinks on command as El Patrón and his inner circle discussed what to do about the coming storm.

“The Atlantians are merely looking for blood,” the man who ran the operations in Chuparosa proclaimed. “They will land and march around Tijata for a while and then they will declare victory and go home.”

“Their people are crying for more than a punitive expedition,” the commander of the Tijata operation replied. This was the new commander for Tijata – the old one had paid with his life for his negligence. Despite El Patrón’s instructions that foreigners be left alone, he had allowed two of his minions to murder a pair of Atlantian sailors, kicking off this entire debacle.

“I agree,” El Patrón’s second-in-command chimed in. “We should begin dispersing operations, to make sure as much as our operation as possible survives.” El Patrón nodded. He rarely spoke unless the solutions he had already decided on were not voiced by his subordinates. “And then we can discuss how to best make the Atlantian visit to Honduragua as uncomfortable as possible.”

[Bruzenland]

Undisclosed location, Honduragua
One agent died so she could get in, she had to make this count. Tamara Korsch was the most respected agent of the Federal Intelligence Service, she had seen and done things for her country that are better left buried six feet under. She has had many names, but her real name had always been a secret, a secret to all but the FIS. She managed to secure a job as a servant in the very state of El Patron, her dominion of Honduraguan was incredibly good, but her looks kind of gave her away, yet the FIS managed to slip a very convincing Dossier for her.

Conchita 'Bruzena' Steinberg Montenegro was her name, a funny one that's for sure, she lived in a humble 'barrio' not too far from her current location, a little place called 'Villa Esperanza' the sister of a loved and respected neighbor of the barrio, Don Mario Steinberg Montenegro. Once the identity of this man was replaced during the prior preparations for this mission, Tamara arrived from Bruzenland to the funeral of this man, who had no family, until she showed up. Sent to Bruzenland with her mother in the 60's Tamara spent all her life in the Andalasian country and there was no 'village elder' to recall such a girl, this piss-poor neighborhood was the perfect spot, when the news of her brother reached her, she had to come to Honduragua to say goodbye to him, she knew that El Patron had been gracious to offer him work with small carpentry tasks, and so she had to repay El Patron with her service, she would be in his state cleaning, doing chores and tending to his family as best as she could.

All while she earned this man's trust and sent the information to her superiors in Leinz.

She walked into the meeting with her maid uniform, a tiny pair of plastic earrings decorated her lobes, earings that were actually microphones, connected to a small device in her room which was recording every word. Hours upon hours of recordigs would be sent to the ship, then to Leinz for inspection.

"Con permiso Excuse me" her soft voice called in, the old maid entering with a motherly and shy smile while carrying a cart with cups and glasses of Avonian whiskey, she gave the men their drinks and like the other servants waited by the door with her arms behind her back in case she was needed again or dismissed.

---

Docks of St.George

The Atlantian Dominions! At last! Gretel and Paul Eichelbaum walked without a care in the world as they toured through the beautiful docks. He loved doing this character, the goofy and carefree tourist, while his partner hated it, but duty was duty. Their first mission was very easy, take photos of the military being supplied for general logistics and troop movements.

"Ah, Schau meine Liebe, Schiffe! Look my love, ships!" He approached a young soldier and asked him in a very broken Astorian "Excuse me Junge man, Kann I take picture with wife? Ja?" Not waiting for a reply. Gretel posed as Paul snapped several pictures. They could take his camera away, for the pictures were being sent already to the Fishing ship as soon as they snapped.

[United Avon]

1 Warburton Square - Royal East India Company Headquarters

The stern faces of three centuries of Company Presidents stared down from their official portraits, which filled two entire walls and a good portion of a third in the meeting room. The oil paintings, all done in similar style, were a contrast in style with the sleek, modern table and chairs in the center of the room and the other bits of cutting-edge business technology. The Company had been in existence since 1600, and it had prospered by maintaining traditions which served it well and discarding those that became outdated.

“This meeting is called to attention,” boomed the voice of the man at the head of the table. “We will first hear the report from Security.”

“The room has been swept, and no listening devices or surveillance mechanisms of any kind have been found,” another gentleman announced from midway down the table. “We may proceed in confidence.”

“Then this meeting is called to order.” Amherst Warburton, current Lord Vermillion and President of the Royal East India Company, had managed to age in a distinguished manner with the exception of a bit of a belly, which his custom-tailored suit obscured neatly. “Before we hear new business, we will proceed with the regular reports.”

The other old men in the room, and a few younger, chimed in at the appropriate moments with the reports from their divisions. The Company was doing well. It continued to bring in immense profits from its shipping and trading divisions, as it had since its founding. It had also expanded and diversified, and so it earned revenue from subsidiaries in retail, land development, and private security. On the battlefield of Avonian politics it occupied an untouchable high ground. The REIC dispensed money and favors to those who it deemed useful and deployed very means both above-board and nefarious to sink the careers of those it saw as a threat.

“With that concluded, we have one major new piece of business,” Warburton announced. “I hand the floor over to Charles Aristan, Lord Highcastle, from Strategic Planning.”

“Thank you.” Aristan was a slightly younger man, but still distinguished and gray in the hair. He held a tablet in his hand which connected to the main display screen at the other end of the table. “Gentlemen, as you likely know from the most recent news reports, the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions has declared war on Honduragua.”

This prompted some grumbling and muttering among the Board. The Atlantian Dominions were a former colony, one whose war of independence in the eighteenth century had not given way to the more amicable if spotty working relationship that Avon shared with its other former colony Astoria. The assembled men still thought of them as uppity colonials, strutting about on a world stage too big for them.

“This concerns the Company, because we have a great number of investments in Honduragua. Primarily in their agricultural sectors. They also serve as a market for many goods produced and sold by Company subsidiaries. This may be threatened by a change in government imposed by the Atlantians. Some portions of Atlantian political society are talking about annexation.”

That would throw the same wall that surrounded the Dominion’s markets up around the entire island-continent. Everyone in the room could understand why that was unacceptable.

“We’ve taken a look at some options,” Aristan continued. “And have come to the conclusion that we may be able to retain influence and prevent annexation through the judicious deployment of deniable force.”

“Mercenaries,” a board member spoke up. “You can speak plainly, Lord Highcastle. You’re talking about sending in mercenaries on the Company’s payroll to prop up a banna republic dictator.”

“You are correct,” Aristan replied. “We’ve already begun to draw up a list of possible officers and where we might recruit soldiers. The likely result will be a force of mainly Capronan soldiers commanded by retired Royal Army officers. For both financial and political reasons we will not be able to send an incredibly substantial force, but hopefully it will add some spine to the Honduraguan military.”

There were a few questions, but they were about details, not the proposal itself. Warburton put it to a vote and counted only a handful of hands raised in opposition, from the usual suspects among the more conservative and nervous Board members.

“We will begin making the necessary contacts at once,” Aristan said. “And we will pass word to the Honduraguan government through informal channels to offer our assistance.”

“Make sure whatever we sell them, we get a receipt,” Warburton joked. “We’ll expect payment for everything we send them…in some form or another.”

[Kandonica]

Preparing to depart from Rolfstein Military Port in the capital city of Icocester, Captain James Hertzl of the 4th Recon Company looked out over the fleet that had assembled in the harbor. Never before had such a force been assembled by the Kandonican military as it was the nations first time leaving for foreign shores. All battles before this had been to set up the nation and fight off local rivals.

As he was marveling at the sight a flight of A 15 Harrier planes fly overhead in a show of military might. All around him people were cheering as the men paraded to the ships. "We are local hero's, I can't imagine what it will be like when we come back" yelled First Lieutenant Renald Wolff over the noise of the crowed. "We have to win first and come back to have that" said Hertzl smiling at the man to his right. "They are just so backwoods hicks selling drugs this should be a walk in the park" said Wolff "They are barely armed and we have a full fleet". "We should just bomb them into submission" said Wolff as he took a rose handed to him by a women in the crowed. "This won't be as easy as you think, history has shown that these kind of wars can drag out in ways that conventional warfare does not" said Hertzl the smile on his face slowly disappearing. Soon the men arrived at their ship the KRS Deepwater. While not as grand as a aircraft carrier the men were still impressed at its size. "Mount up men" yelled Hertzl as the arrived "We will be arriving in country in two days. Currently it is not know to us how we are going to land on the shores or what the strategy is so I will be filling you in as I learn." Hertzl looked over his shoulder as he arrived on the boat, seeing one last glimpse of his homeland before he went below deck to his officers quarters.

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On board the KRS Perseus Brigadier General Warren Wentz stood on the deck looking out over the fleet. He had only been given command of this ship four month prior after serving as a second in command on a Barrakuda FS for 10 years. He had been in the Navy for 35 years now and was one of the very few remaining remnants of the Kandonican civil war 30 years before. Due to this many of the men under his command had never seen combat and had grandiose ideas of what this expedition would be like.

"Sir, We are preparing to depart" said his second in command Colonel Harrison Gunther. "Son have you ever been to war before?" asked Wentz of the man clearly 20 years or more his senior. "No I have not sir" said Gunther looking slightly wary of what the General was going to say next. "That is good son, hopefully you won't have to" said Wentz still looking over the fleet. "I have seen enough war for my lifetime and now I am sailing of to another place to fight their people" said Wentz "The only advice I really have for you is to keep your head down and don't try and be a hero, I know lots of hero's, but my list of living hero's is a lot shorter" . Said Wentz. Coming from the back of the deck a communication cam down to Wentz. "All ships prepare to embark" came the order from the Major General in charge of the operation. "And her we go off into the unknown" said Wentz walking back to the ships command station.

[The United Federation of Terrans]

Bastion, Federation Capital
Private Office of the Defense Executive

Defense Executive Elias Vance always found that it helped to chew on his cigar when he pondered his options. Lighting it was a distraction; and Vance had no need of distractions given the two men standing on the other side of his desk. Them standing was not a lack of respect on Vance's part but rather due to the lack of furniture within his office; save for his desk and chair. A scarcity that helped reduced the likelihood of bugs and ensured all but the utmost private when combined with the security officers roaming the area.

Secure in the knowledge he was safe; Vance once looked at both men individually before motioning to the left most man in the nondescript fatigues of the Federation External Services and the crimson collar slashes of a Colonel. "Summarize it for me Colonel Snyman."

"Executive" The colonel began as if apologetic. "The Atlantian government is looking for a fight. Their military finished its recent overhauls, the generals are itching to try them out and the politicians are looking for a common enemy for the populace. The only logical target is Honduragua. They're corrupt, weak military and right next door."

"So the Confederates are looking to expand Colonel; such is the way of the world. Why should the Federation get involved or even care about this conflict?" The colonel swallowed before he looked at the man beside him. Unlike the colonel, the other man was dressed in a black business suit that lacked ornamentation except for a simple lapel with the emblem of Pinnacle Security Services. The CEO Piet Zayden took his cue in stride as he retrieved a folder from the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.

"Pinnacle has done work with the El Patrón Cartel in the past. Mainly, we eliminated the competition or destabilized local governments starting to crack down on them. All of course sanctioned by you at the time." Zayden opened his folder as he spoke and dealt after action reports and financial data like a deck of cards across the Defense Executive's desk. "They rewarded us handsomely for our assistance in every single one of those matters. Access to their smuggling network for our agents being one of the most important. But, if we helped them here sir; in their darkest moment. They would hand us the keys to the kingdom; resources we could exploit for a favorable percentage, land for military installations to secure our blindspot. Perhaps, even Antlantian territory if we play our cards right."

There was a brief silence in the office as Vance chewed his cigar and looked over the papers before him. Then he glanced up at Zayden with a piercing gaze.

"You want me to declare war for resources and a handful of airbases? Wasting god knows how many Federation lives and resources in a shooting war that could follow us back home." Zayden didn't even blink as he removed a different folder from his case; this one sealed with red tape along its edges.

"My proposal sir; Operation: Final Odyssey. Pinnacle will be the only ones involved. With the Cartel having hired them on officially. " Vance looked inquisitively at the folder before making use of a letter opener to tear the tape and examine the details within. All the while Zayden kept talking. "We don't need to destroy the enemy sir. Just prolonged resistance by a single Detachment should have their populace beating down the Senate's doors for peace."

Then there was silence in the room as Vance looked between the folder, the colonel and Zayden. He sighed in seeming resignation before retrieving a pen from his desk drawer and signing the first page inside the recently unsealed folder. Zayden smiled in triumph as he collected the folder and made to leave the room.

"Zayden" The man stopped halfway put as he looked back at Vance and the colonel. Vance returned his stare and said with careful deliberation. "No connections. They win or they don't come home."

The Pinnacle man nodded in affirmation before leaving to begin the process of sending his men off to war.

***
Tijata, Honduragua
One week later
Detachment Commander Theodosius "Theo" Rautenbach gave another sigh of discomfort as he picked at the loose collar of his loud tropical shirt; the cheap shirt sticking to his chest in the humid heat of the customs line at the port. His passport said he was a tourist from Bruzenland; courtesy of the External Services. Of course, the cover had failed to account for number of tattoos covering his forearms or the shrapnel scars covering his throat; visible through the open collar of his provided shirt. The only thing helping his cover was the fact his light brown hair had grown into a ragged crew cut over the last deployment; and still had the deep sunbaked tan from the desert.

The line was stuck again for the third time in the past hour; has the customs official haggled over his "tip" with a young man missing a pinky.

Rolling his eyes, Theo took the time to look over his command team distributed throughout the line.

Detachment Coordinator Eliza Baatz, was the closest to Theo; standing only a few people behind him. She had recently cut her bright red hair to ear level before deploying and was currently dressed as the typical aid worker in cargo shorts and a tank top. Though the skull tattoo on her right shoulder took away from the image in addition to the permanent scowl she wore. Not that she needed to be nice; as few could muster the calculated necessity for effective scorch earth tactics like Baatz. A reason Theo had chosen her to be his second for this deployment.

The next two were Group Leaders Bruno Reid and Johan Van Britz. The two were polar opposites seemingly. Johan was blonde haired and fair skinned; while Bruno retained the look of his ancestors from Somalia. However, the two were like brothers to each other in all but blood. Both had shaved their hair into mohawks and sported the same burns on their faces; courtesy of an IED. They were also bodybuilders in their spare time and stuck out of the crowd quite literally. All of which did not blend with the white shirt and black pants of missionaries. Not that Theo picked them for bible-thumping but rather their stubborn nature; making them the perfect leaders for Asp and Badger respectively. A nature that would lend itself a great deal in the bitter war of attrition that lay ahead.

The last man in Theo's advance party was introduced simply as Weaver; and Theo had no idea as to who he was. The man was dressed in a simple set of jeans and a t-shirt and had no markings or scars that were visible. His dark hair was in a fresh high and tight, and his eyes were hidden behind dark shades. Zayden had simply introduced the man ten minutes before the advanced party had left; with only a name and the fact that he was a sniper of sorts. His cover was equally vague; being listed as an unspecified consultant. The man was an unknown factor Theo would have to figure out before the bullets started flying.

Then, the line moved and Theo was able to shuffle forward to the customs official and forget about his team for the minute. As Theo went through the process of proving he was here on Cartel business with the help of a pre-arranged signal; he only hoped that these thin covers didn't let out there were mercenaries in Honduragua.

His Detachment's only advantage right now was that no one knew they were in the game yet.

[Democratic Republic Of Unified States]

Arkhangelsk war room: Red October Plaza
The most influential men and women in the DRUS gathered around the table. Admiral Vlaine Kyrae and General Zoki Lexhaine were just some of the people gathered around the map. “We “must aid the Atlantians,” Yelled Admiral Kyrae “The Honduraustani are barbarians, who need to be educated. We could launch the JUGGERNAUT and 2,000 soldiers . We’ll teach them a lesson.

[United Avon]

Tijata

Since he had begun his military career, Vincent Saint-Claire had been shot at, wounded by shell fragments, and crawled through mud and muck on his belly. He’d killed people at ranges that went from centimeters away to beyond the horizon. And nothing felt worse than the wet heat of the Honduraguan noon he was sweating through at this moment. He’d done everything he could to prepare: he’d chosen clothing that breathed and felt light on his fit just-over-six-foot frame, he had been drinking plenty of water, and he was carrying a spare rag to wipe the sweat away as it constantly pooled on his brow. None of it did anything to give him respite from the sun and the humidity. His companion was in the same state, cursing under his breath every time he needed to clear the salty moisture from his eyes.

“If they don’t have air conditioning, I’m going to kill someone and jump the border,” Saint-Claire jokingly vowed to Bradford Alderney. The two Avonians, the leader and head of logistics respectively for the incoming mercenary force assembled by the Royal East India Company, were making their way down the streets of Tijata, walking to the hotel where they would be staying until it was time to meet with whoever President Monzano had sent to greet them. Officially, both men were employees of Castle Management Services, here on a contract to train Honduraguan business and government leaders on methods to better manage their workers. That cover extended only surface-deep and was more of a courtesy to the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions. The Company had no desire to provoke a shooting war between Avon and the Atlantians. The mercenaries it was sending would operate under total deniability.

Alderney laughed, but quickly changed the subject. “These other blokes, did they send us anything more about them?”

“No,” Saint-Claire answered. “Pinnacle something or other. Private contractors. But it sounds like they’re talking to the Cartel.” The Avonian mercenaries were here to work with the Monzano government, not the drug cartel, but the two were hard to separate and the distinction was blurry.

“Castle Management Services” would be the front for the top officers of the Company’s hired guns. The foot soldiers themselves – a collection of men, mostly former soldiers, recruited from former Avonian colonies like Kambezi and Lyrobia – were hired through other fronts and shell companies and would arrive under the guise of immigrant labor for Honduragua’s legitimate agricultural sector. The officers were hired from more respectable states like Astoria, Parina, and Avon. All in all, the Company had put up the money to hire, pay, arm, and equip 1,500 fighting men and the necessary rear echelon personnel to support them. The two Avonians now walking the streets of Tijata were the first to arrive, but the rest of the men and supplies were either on ships headed towards Honduragua or they would be very soon.

[The United Federation of Terrans]

Tijita, Honduragua
Unspecified Cartel Airstrip
Detachment Coordinator Baatz

'At least they know how to hide.' Baatz thought to herself as she stood in the shade of swaths of camo netting strung above the "waiting area". She stood directly across from a similarly camouflaged shack that was seemingly cut into the jungle and which held the radio that directed the aircraft in. The runway was just a simple dirt strip kept clear of vegetation and ended abruptly; meaning takeoffs and landings were hair raising moments of rapidly increasing and decreasing power.

As such, Baatz was worried as the drone of propellers grew closer and the so called "ground crew" began to scramble and take their places around the field; including lugging out a set of fire extinguishers. Clenching her teeth, Baatz ground her boot into the dirt with anticipation as the droning grew closer.

"Relax Jefa. Manuel does this run every week. Your shipment's in good hands." Her cartel guide said in English as he stole drags of a cigar while he lounged on one of two plastic chairs beneath the netting. Baatz's hopes didn't increase as she took stock of the guide again. He wore a set of green fatigue bottoms that were threadbare and mangy; his chest was bare except for a surplus harness that held a loose collection of ammunition for a dirty Kalashnikov that lay propped against his chair. The guide had also donned a green patrol cover that was turned backwards.

"It had better be." Baatz replied in Afrikaans; knowing full well the guide wouldn't understand her. He seemed to take offense at this as he puffed on his cigar more before speaking again in English.

"Where did you say you were from again?" Across, the way a 4x4 with a tow hook rumbled out of a camouflaged shed and made it's way to the towards the strip.

"Didn't your bosses tell you?" Baatz asked rhetorically as the droning became deafening before the dual engines aircraft came into view suddenly over the 'beginning' of the strip. The plane in a seemingly defiant regard of physic, came almost straight down onto the strip; jostling as its landing gear made contact and the whine of the engine suddenly changed. The aircraft continued down the strip, slowing all the way before coming to a shuddering halt, a mere few meters from a dense group of trees at the runways end.

The plane was at least three decades old but was in surprisingly good condition. At least that's what Baatz thought as she made her way to the aircraft.

The ground crew had begun jogging towards the aircraft to help with the unloading as was the norm; but the rear hatch popped and a set of stairs descended to the dirt strip. They slowed as the figure that stepped from the hatch was not the pilot but rather a man in green jungle fatigues. His face was hard and craggy with a perpetual sunburn that was hidden slightly underneath the brim of his boonie hat. Baatz grinned as she recognized the man.

"Rudi you old goat. How was the trip?" The Afrikaans caused the man to snap his head suddenly to the source and grin; revealing two missing teeth.

"Luxurious and first class." Section Leader Rudi Becker replied as he moved away from the aircraft; hefting a massive duffle in one hand in addition to the large ruck strapped to his back. The response was a lie as the SL and his companions had been smuggled into the country in the south through a human trafficking route before boarding the cartel plane.

As the SL moved away from the opening, the ten other contractors within extracted themselves from their harnesses. Soon, the strip had a pile of duffels and packs in addition to a set of hardcases that had taken up most of the space and weight on the aircraft. However, the cases did not contain weapons but rather the tools needed to set up a command post; mainly communication gear. Though, the Cartel ground crew did not know that and skirted the pile cautiously. All the while eyeing the new arrivals clad in camouflage.

"Well don't worry. The Cartel arranged the same standard of transport inland." Baatz said as she gestured to her guide to bring out the transportation. The man was still lounging in the shade and grumbled slightly before gathering his weapon and jogging out of sight. Becker watched the man run off before turning to her with a frown on his face.

"Is he the standard around here?" The foreign language was catching the attention of the ground crew as they began the task of turning the plane around with the help of the 4x4. One man was actively staring with a confused wrinkle on his brow before his superior cuffed him on the back of his head and let off a string of Spanish.

"Above I think. He's the only one I've seen that has his safety on." A throaty growl came into being and both of the contractors turned as a pair of buses rumbled their way down the strip; windows covered in sheet metal; except for a viewport for the driver. Whether the coverings were there for protection or secrecy was never explained to Baatz; but Becker seemed to deflate visibly at the sight.

"Fantastic." Whether he was talking about the bus or the quality of the Cartel soldier was unknown to Baatz. But she reveled in the moment before moving to help load the kit onto the buses. With luck Johan and Bruno would have been shown the area the Cartel had set aside for them.

Tijita, Honduragua
Cartel Safe House
Detachment Coordinator "Theo" Rautenbach

"So you don't know when they'll show up for the meeting?" Theo asked his Cartel minder as observed the admittedly well appointed hotel he had been driven to after clearing customs. Spying his luggage on the bed, the contractor practically ripped it open as he scrounged for the bottom of the bag and found the clothing wrapped in a vacuum bag.

"Someone will be sent to collect you when the time comes." The minder replied in barely accented English. Theo gave a short bark of amusement as he opened the package and withdrew a set of tan cargo pants and a a long sleeved green utility top. The minder frowned as Theo swapped his tropical short and board shorts for the new clothes. "Wouldn't it be better to remain in your cover?"

"Cover...Ha" Theo scoffed in amusement as he pulled on a set of light socks and jungle boots. "As if a tourist gets picked up from Customs by a luxury SUV and escorted to their room. By Cartel enforcers no less"

The minder bit back a retort as he remembered the two escorts that stood in a silent vigil outside in the hallway. One of whom had visible tattoos on his neck and knuckles that marked him as part of the El Patron Cartel. So he instead he watched as the contractor folded the sleeves of his utility top back to his elbows and displayed his numerous tattoos; mainly stylized flags of nations he toured in and the various emblems and creeds of units from the Federation proper.

"You call my men overt; yet you flaunt those." Theo shrugged as he folded the sleeves back down. Truth be told he had done it more so out of habit; although the tropical shirt had shown them off anyways. No need to push his luck he supposed. "At least the others blended in better then yours."

That caused Theo to start as he looked at the minder with shock.

"Others?"

"Surely you did not think your people would be the only ones assisting us. Though I expect more from them." The minder reveled in Theo's shock as the contractor ground his jaw.

"How's that?"

"For one; you didn't even know they were here." The minder laughed as he left the room and left Theo to his thoughts.

A few more days and the Detachment will start unloading in the port. I just hope Baatz picked the support team up with no issues. Can't afford any delays with others already on the ground.

[Atlantian Dominions]

Docks of St.George

The Atlantian Dominions! At last! Gretel and Paul Eichelbaum walked without a care in the world as they toured through the beautiful docks. He loved doing this character, the goofy and carefree tourist, while his partner hated it, but duty was duty. Their first mission was very easy, take photos of the military being supplied for general logistics and troop movements.

"Ah, Schau meine Liebe, Schiffe! Look my love, ships!" He approached a young soldier and asked him in a very broken Astorian "Excuse me Junge man, Kann I take picture with wife? Ja?" Not waiting for a reply. Gretel posed as Paul snapped several pictures. They could take his camera away, for the pictures were being sent already to the Fishing ship as soon as they snapped.

Sergeant Jacob Wheatley thought nothing of posing for the pictures with the two tourists. As far as he was concerned they had every right to be impressed by the military power on display. He smiled with the confidence of a man thoroughly convinced that he knew exactly what he was doing. It was a confidence that was endemic in the ranks of the Atlantian marines and soldiers who made up the tip of the spear. As Jacob walked up the gangplank and onto the amphibious cargo ship Magnificence, he turned back to wave one last time at his family on the docks. They and the other military families waved back, smiling through tears as their husbands and sons and brothers disappeared into the gray hull of the ship. The ship soon began shrinking as well, its engines carrying it slowly away from the dock and out of the harbor.

On the open sea just outside St. George, the fleet was fully gathered. The aircraft carrier Redemption sat at anchor in the middle, with the Aegis cruiser just behind and to the right. The transport and assault ships formed a circle around them, and the escorting destroyers formed a larger circle of protection around them. On the bridge of the Redemption, Admiral John Thomas watched his crew make the final preparations for the journey. He would command this force for as long as it was at sea – once they approached land, he would have to share command with General Archer of the Marine Corps. Neither man was looking forward to that bit of inter-service cooperation, but they would get through it.

“When we are fully prepared,” John told the captain of the Redemption, “You may make steam for San Lorenzo.”

The captain saluted and replied in the affirmative. Moments later, the armada was under way. It would be a short voyage around the northern coast of the island-continent of Atlantia to the island of San Lorenzo. Once this first target was seized, it could serve as unsinkable aircraft carrier and hospital ship for the remainder of the campaign, and the Redemption and could be withdrawn. The destroyers and amphibious ships would remain to see out the other landings. Onboard those amphibious ships and the transports, soldiers played card games (when their NCOs were not looking) and passed the time with idle speculation about just how badly they would beat the Hondies.

The two Avonians, the leader and head of logistics respectively for the incoming mercenary force assembled by the Royal East India Company, were making their way down the streets of Tijata, walking to the hotel where they would be staying until it was time to meet with whoever President Monzano had sent to greet them.

President Ramon “Papa” Monzano trusted the El Patrón Cartel less than he could throw them, which was quite a small amount considering the old strongman was not quite so strong anymore. He could have relied on the Cartel to bring in foreign guns-for-hire to supplement the Guardia, the national military, but he wanted his own stiffener for the spines of his men. The offer from the Royal East India Company had been just what he’d been looking for. The Company and the Cartel were both monkeys on his back, but the Company was far away and merely desired the same kind of opportunities for corrupt profit as other corporations. They could not be trusted to be steadfast allies, but they could be trusted to be less of a problem for Monzano than whoever the Cartel was bringing it.

Someone would come along to meet Vincent Saint-Claire and Bradford Alderney at their hotel: one of Monzano’s trusted subordinates, who was officially the Minister of Justice but in reality was the aging president’s right-hand man. Carlos Maribelle arrived with a small entourage of bodyguards and assistants. He was a bookish-looking man who seemed more at home in an accounting firm than running the apparatus that kept Monzano in power.

“I am glad your journey was without hassle,” Carlos said to the two foreigners once he had settled into a seat in their hotel room. The room was luxurious, one of the penthouse suites at the top of the building. It was not rented out, but kept open to entertain whatever friends of the government arrived in the city. “We are preparing some barracks for your men, once they arrive. They have not been used in some time, but they will be suitable by the time they are needed.”

“The Cartel, as we told your employer, has brought in their own assistance from abroad,” the Minister of Justice said. “Their leadership has also arrived in the country. I suspect you will both be up to full strength around the same time.” He paused to sip from a glass of expensive wine. “Our people are talking to the Cartel’s people, to try and arrange a meeting between you and these other mercenaries.”

“We expect the Atlantians to seize the islands first, and then land here at Tijata,” Carlos revealed. “El Presidente has decided that it would easier to save our strength and meet the invaders here, rather than disperse our troops and your soldiers across islands only to be cut off by sea. Once they land on the mainland, they will discover that we are not so easy to defeat.”

"At least the others blended in better then yours."

That caused Theo to start as he looked at the minder with shock.

"Others?"

"Surely you did not think your people would be the only ones assisting us. Though I expect more from them." The minder reveled in Theo's shock as the contractor ground his jaw.

"How's that?"

"For one; you didn't even know they were here."

While the Honduraguan government laid its plans, the Cartel made its own preparations. It too had begun to prepare space for its mercenaries to stay. The officers would have a small villa outside the city to use as their command center and living space, while the soldiers would enjoy homes near the villa, taken from locals evicted at gunpoint. The average Cartel gunman or lieutenant was a local who had signed on for a chance at higher pay and the ability to exercise power of others. They appeared sloppy, untrained, and lacked any sense of discipline when not under the direct supervision of a higher-up. Those higher-ups were more competent, and included several foreigners from states like Brazuela and Nuevo Rico, recruited to the Cartel by others with an eye for the kinds of talent a criminal organization needed.

The commander of Cartel operations in Tijata came to see the Pinnacle team. Antonio de Carmen, above everything else, exuded a sort of frantic, nervous energy. He had only been in this position for a few weeks: his predecessor had been tortured and killed on El Patrón’s direct order after a group of Cartel muscle had stabbed two Atlantian sailors to death over a dispute about payment for a pair of prostitutes. The El Patrón Cartel had thrived by keeping a low profile until that moment. Antonio was possibly the most motivated Cartel lieutenant around now.

“Papa Monzano, he thinks he can ride this out,” he complained to the mercenaries. “Thinks that he can put on a bandolier and a beret and go off into the jungle like the Veranos.” The reference to a guerilla movement in Nuevo Rico was almost certainly lost on the foreigners from outside the Kayfabeland region. “The longer the Dominioners stay here, the less likely they are to leave. So we want to make them hurt when they show up.”

“Now the islands,” Antonio continued. “They’re a problem. Isla San Lorenzo is a lost cause. But Isla San Marcos, that might be worth fighting for. Only problem is, the Dominion is gonna bring a navy. Bigger than anything Monzano’s got or that we can get. So anything we send over there is gone, off the table.” Here the Cartel lieutenant got a wicked smile. “We’re working on a deal with some…associates, to try and have some surprises in store for that big navy of theirs. But when they hit the beach…we want you to hit them. Hit them hard.”

[The United Federation of Terrans]

Tijita,
Pinnacle Villa HQ
Detachment Commander"Theo" Rautenbach
The Cartel was to meet with Theo at contractor's new HQ a villa which had been "donated" to the Cartel; along with the surrounding homes. While Theo wasn't too fond of forcing locals out; he admired the fact that the Cartel had enough foresight to secure lodging and space for the incoming Detachment.

However, there were other requirements necessary for warfare besides housing and a command structure; so Bruno and Johan after having toured the villa and finding it satisfactory. Had taken to the surrounding neighborhood with a gang of hastily assembled Cartel bureaucrats and a few enforcers who had a decent degree of formal military training. They had marked three separate soccer pitches as future motor pools, and had designated the single school in the area as the logistics center for the incoming Detachment. The pair of Group Leaders were now ironing out the finer points of billeting units; with the markings of houses by units and labelling areas for special uses. Uses such as SAM sites, machine gun posts, checkpoints, spotting towers; all the needs of fighting force usually overlooked.

Trusting in his subordinates, Theo was currently visualizing the layout of his command center when two buses pulled up on the street outside the villa. The loose gaggle of Cartel muscle currently guarding the villa moved to intercept the buses when the door of the first bus opened and a pale skinned figure with short red hair, standing at chin height of the average sized Cartel enforcers, dismounted. The enforcers hesitated slightly as the figure let off a string of Afrikaans into the first bus and made a vague wave at the second.

The enforcers soon backed up as the camouflage clad headquarters team dismounted from the buses and began hauling the bags and cases off their buses. Theo allowed a scoffing smile as Baatz begun pressing the nearby enforcers into helping the process; shoving the bewildered men towards the buses with curses and threats given in accented English. Soon a mixed procession of Cartel and Pinnacle made its way down the well maintained path to the villa's front door; a scene not unlike that of a heavily militarized moving day.

Soon, the interior of the villa began to buzz with activity as press ganged enforcers helped contractors with setting up radios, computers, work stations and all the various workings of a command post. All helped by the presence of a stern faced El Patron lieutenant who prevented the more hot-headed members from taking offense at the menial labor.

Such was the scene that was playing out as the Cartel's regional commander paid the Pinnacle team a visit. Theo met the man in the dining room; the only room not receiving a conversion at the current moment. Baatz, now having donned jungle fatigues, stood off to his left while SL Becker checked over his kit on the table's far end; lending an ear to the conversation.

“Papa Monzano, he thinks he can ride this out, thinks that he can put on a bandolier and a beret and go off into the jungle like the Veranos. The longer the Dominioners stay here, the less likely they are to leave. So we want to make them hurt when they show up.”

“Now the islands, they’re a problem. Isla San Lorenzo is a lost cause. But Isla San Marcos, that might be worth fighting for. Only problem is, the Dominion is gonna bring a navy. Bigger than anything Monzano’s got or that we can get. So anything we send over there is gone, off the table. We’re working on a deal with some…associates, to try and have some surprises in store for that big navy of theirs. But when they hit the beach…we want you to hit them. Hit them hard.”

Theo exchanged a glance with Baatz, green meeting blue, and saw the same apprehension in them as he felt. Turning back to Antonio de Carmen; Theo spoke as diplomatically as he could.

"If you want them disoriented; such an assault is possible. If you find the landing site they'll be using, we can even prepare surprises to increase the damage. Bunkers, emplaced AT, maybe even some minefields. But we don't have the firepower or support to hold them indefinitely." Theo paused as he sought further explanations. "Our AA is limited and honestly, more a deterrent once they get over being cocky. Our artillery consists of a few sections of mortar; pitiful compared to what's coming our way. If they're smart they will spread out and we will have to... "

-CLACK-

Theo was cut off as Becker slid the bolt of his newly assembled rifle forward. The weathered NCO stood from his chair and sauntered up to the Cartel leader; an uneasy grin on his face as he leaned down. His Afrikaans accent was thick and was not helped by his grizzled voice.

"Alright maat, I'll make it simple for you. I know your boss wants a definitive victory, something he he can show off to the other boys and girls. It will not happen. What's coming is going to be dirty, long and very, very murky on who comes out on top. So you'll let us off the leash; because we know our trade more than those boot camp washouts you called lieutenants." Having made his point Becker stood and withdrew, fully aware of the glares and shifting weapons from Carmen's accompanying guards. Theo sighed as he glanced between his senior NCO and their indirect employer. A slight exhale from Baatz on his left spoke multitudes to Theo and he made his choice.

"We will hit them on the beach as you request. We will have full control of our units though; no micro-managing by you or your superiors." Theo said with palms held up in apology as he avoided the disapproving gaze of Becker. Having made his side in the matter clear; Theo made a final request of his own. "And I want to meet the others, the other mercenaries in country. I want us on the same page."

[Astoria]

Joint Base Stanchion
State of Delmarva
United States of Astoria

“Three weeks ago, we acquired intelligence that a major drug shipment was going to be crossing the Nuevo Rican border into Ambarino. We passed this along to the Border Patrol, who performed a stop-and-search on the vehicle we had been marked as the carrier. They found nothing - the intel was a bust.”

The assembled soldiers, men and women, looked at one another and shrugged. The intel shop was wrong; what else was new?

“Or that was what we wanted them to think. One day after we made that stop, we hit the real carrier: a cargo ship entering Grand Harbor. Customs Enforcement made the single biggest drug bust in modern history. Whole crew arrested. One week ago, we had enough from interrogations and intel gathering to pinpoint the El Patron Cartel as the source of the shipment.”

The briefing agent at the front of the room had a smile on her face. “Now I know you operator types don’t watch the news, but that story has been leading every talk show since it went public. People went from not knowing where Honduragua was on a map to having very firm opinions about What Should Be Done about Hector Lopez, aka El Patron, and his pet government down there.”

“Now officially we can’t do much. President Monzano, or ‘Papa’ as they call him down there, insists there’s no problem that requires outside intervention. So we can’t do anything above the radar - we’ve gotta fly low to the ground. That’s where you come in.”

The soldiers sitting and watching the presentation were known by their own individual callsigns, but together they were the precise surgical instrument known as Devil Team. They were a MARC team - Marine Advanced Reconnaissance Company. One of Astoria’s go-to special operations forces. Each member had their own individual skillset that formed one part of a well-oiled machine capable of doing damage far above what their numbers and relatively light armament would suggest to an uniformed observer. Devil Team had seen action in Nuevo Rico in the fight against the local drug cartels and gangs, and across the continent of Caprona as part of the shadow war against the terror group Ultra-Violet. They were trained and equipped to operate long-term with no return base and little outside support.

“As of...five minutes ago, when I started talking, you all became cleared to receive information on Special Assignment A-14-C, otherwise known as ‘Operation Shadow Paladin.’ Yeah, I know: what a name, right? Someone in planning had been hitting the sword-and-sandals the night before. You will be inserted into Honduragua and begin operations against the El Patron Cartel. You will attempt to dismantle their drug production chains, stop their shipments, and locate cartel leadership for extraction to the United States for trial. You will be operating without the knowledge of the Atlantians or the consent of the Hondruaguan government. A littoral combat ship and a destroyer will be stationed nearby. Officially they’ll be observing the Atlantian invasion, showing our displeasure at their ‘act of aggression.’ If you need emergency extraction or some real heavy firepower, they’ll be available. But once they act openly the secret will be out, so really think before you hit that call button.”

The MARC operators looked at one another again. Working by themselves, in a foreign and hostile country, with limited support? Just another day at the office.

“There’s one more thing,” the briefing agent said as things wrapped up. “We’re getting in touch with Bruzenland, purely intel-to-intel. We’ve got signals chatter that suggests they have agents in-country already. We’re going to ask if they feel like sharing what they brought with the rest of the class.”

PRIORITY MESSAGE - MAXIMUM SECURITY ENCRYPTION - EYES ONLY : Understand that Federal Intelligence Service has eyes/ears in Honduragua - Suggest intelligence sharing to coordinate actions - You set them up and we’ll knock them down.

[Kowani]

Nova Seviya, Andalucía Province
Diplomacy Room
Ijho D’Cadela was holding a meeting with several of his ministers. A small island, two nations. Corruption abounded in one, poverty and violence everywhere. But that wasn’t the problem. No, the fanatics next door, the Atlantians. They had gone ahead and begun a war. That wasn’t exactly unheard of, and, as the Minister of the Interior pointed out, nothing that affected them. Only Jhuan Gónzalez, the new Finance Minister has even thought this to be relevant. But no, here they were. Ijho D’Cadela looked Gónzalez in the eyes, his voice monotone. So, Minister. Explain why we should care? Dictators like this are a common breed. They last a few years, military coup, repeat ad infinitum. So what can this Monzano do for us that we actually need. Gónzalez, a small, ratlike man smiled. “Simple. He’s weak.” And? “A weak dictator is one in need of friends, no? So we become his friends. We sell him weapons. Nothing big enough to turn the tide of battle-but enough to drag these people into a quagmire. Hold out. When they inevitably sue for peace?” We come calling. D’Cadela nodded, his mind racing. This could work out. Very well. Draft a missive to the Honduragan government. I want to get a man on the inside-and weapons flowing after him. You’re all dismissed. Except for Gónzalez. We need to talk.
As the men filed out, Gónzalez stayed, confused. He had done well, right? The First Citizen didn’t have these conversations often-and they rarely ended well. D’Cadela looked at him, his glasses glinting with reflected light. Jhuan. You are aware of the second power on the island, the Patř? We will need him as well. A second letter. Secret. We cannot be seen doing business with drug lords. Use the back channels. But get him as well.

The Republic of Honduraga
We, the Allied States of Kowani, sympathize in full with your current situation. We recognize the difficulty inherent in fighting a war on two fronts, with your leg shackled as well. We too, have fought multiple times against those who would attempt to destroy our country over imaginary crimes. We too, know what it is like to be outmatched and with no friends in the world. As such, we would wish to offer our support in your valiant struggle, and outfit your army with weapons befitting their station. Additionally, we would be honored if you were to accept a military advisor of some renown, Comandate Alfredo Gayardo, who served with distinction in the Third Han-Kowani War, who, due to his familiarity with these weapons, can assist the development of tactics and doctrine.

With regards, the Allied States of Kowani
-Minister of the Exterior, Elena Pirulera

Patrón. I shall be frank. If the Dominion takes Honduraga, all is lost. The Dominion is made up of religious fanatics, and fanatics cannot be bribed. They cannot be reasoned with. These are not your neighborhood cura, these are Crusaders. And to them, your work is heresy. If you expect to come out of this with your power intact, then you are sorely mistaken. I represent a group of interested parties, who would be somewhat miffed if you or your operation were to disintegrate. As such, I extend to you an offer-explosives and diplomatic protection-if your cartel works to make the Dominion invasion as difficult as possible. We shall remain in touch.

-JG

[Atlantian Dominions]

Patrón. I shall be frank. If the Dominion takes Honduraga, all is lost. The Dominion is made up of religious fanatics, and fanatics cannot be bribed. They cannot be reasoned with. These are not your neighborhood cura, these are Crusaders. And to them, your work is heresy. If you expect to come out of this with your power intact, then you are sorely mistaken. I represent a group of interested parties, who would be somewhat miffed if you or your operation were to disintegrate. As such, I extend to you an offer-explosives and diplomatic protection-if your cartel works to make the Dominion invasion as difficult as possible. We shall remain in touch.

-JG

This time the meeting was not being held out on the rooftop terrace of the villa, but in an office on the ground floor. The sun was high in the sky and beating down, and El Patrón had decided that he preferred to conduct his business in the cool climate-controlled environment of the villa’s interior. Fewer people were in attendance, as well – El Patrón sat behind an antique wooden desk, carved from the trunk of an exotic tree. His second, the man who had known him since childhood, sat in a plush chair on the other side of the desk. The only other person in the room was one of the maids, Conchita, who stood in the far corner as she had been instructed and approached only when commanded to fetch another bottle of wine from the cellar.

“This message, what more do we know about it?”

“We know that Monzano received a similar offer from the Allied States of Kowani, some foreign state looking to stick its nose in things here.” Carlos Remaro signaled for Conchita to refill his glass while he gathered his thoughts. “So it is likely this comes from them as well. As to the kind of aid they offer…it may be a trap. Or they may simply wish to ingratiate themselves to us, or cause trouble for the Dominioners.”

“I do not like the idea of becoming a charity case for the world,” El Patrón declared. “Bad enough to bring in those foreigner mercenaries. At least we have worked with them in the past, we know what they will want in return.”

“But it is as they say,” Carlos reminded his old friend. “If the Dominion takes this country, we will be back to hiding in the shadows. They will burn out the jungles to find us. Perhaps in this case we should put some of our honor aside, to live.”

“Once we do it once, we will have less reservations about doing it a second time, and then a third, and then we will have no honor left.” It was El Patrón’s turn to signal for a fresh glass of wine. “Sometimes I wish we had never been so successful, Carlos. Life was simpler when all we had to worry about was the police and the other small-time gangs.”

Carlos laughed. “The great El Patrón, wishing for simpler times.” He raised his glass in a salute. “Powerful men have powerful troubles to face. It is the curse of greatness.”

The two men drank in silence for a moment. Then El Patrón nodded slowly. “Send a reply. Accept their aid. Let us see what ‘JG’ has to offer us.”

"We will hit them on the beach as you request. We will have full control of our units though; no micro-managing by you or your superiors." Theo said with palms held up in apology as he avoided the disapproving gaze of Becker. Having made his side in the matter clear; Theo made a final request of his own. "And I want to meet the others, the other mercenaries in country. I want us on the same page."

Antonio de Carmen was a nervous man, but he was not a coward. He stood his ground against the mercenaries, though his eyes did widen in surprise as Becker closed the space between them. Antonio’s guards tensed up, but a slight gesture from their boss stood them down before the situation could get ugly. Antonio nodded in response to Theo’s words.

“Your men will be free to operate,” the cartel man reassured. “You are not the first foreigners to come here and do work for El Patrón. We understand that you are at your best when you are left to do your work in the ways you know. And we will make sure that President Monzano’s officers understand this as well.”

“As for meeting the others,” Antonio continued. “We are already working to make that happen. You will meet them soon.”

We, the Allied States of Kowani, sympathize in full with your current situation. We recognize the difficulty inherent in fighting a war on two fronts, with your leg shackled as well. We too, have fought multiple times against those who would attempt to destroy our country over imaginary crimes. We too, know what it is like to be outmatched and with no friends in the world. As such, we would wish to offer our support in your valiant struggle, and outfit your army with weapons befitting their station. Additionally, we would be honored if you were to accept a military advisor of some renown, Comandate Alfredo Gayardo, who served with distinction in the Third Han-Kowani War, who, due to his familiarity with these weapons, can assist the development of tactics and doctrine.

With regards, the Allied States of Kowani
-Minister of the Exterior, Elena Pirulera

To Your Excellency, Minister of the Exterior Elena Pirulera of the Allied States of Kowani

We accept your generous offer of aid. You are advised to send all materiel to the port of Tijata with all possible haste, as it is the only point of entry for heavy cargo and it may be closed by blockade soon. A representative of the Guardia, our national military, will greet your officer Alfredo Gayardo upon his arrival.

Yours,
Ramon Monzano, President of the Republic of Honduragua

[Bruzenland]

Undisclosed location, Honduragua
She pretend not to listen, she simply stood by the corner ready to pour wine to bring food or whatever these would want, Conchita had the perfect visage of the motherly senior maid of the compound. Whenever she passed through the hallways, El Patron's henchmen would treat her with the outmost respect.

"Buenos días Tía Conchita" good morning auntie Conchita his men would greet her. She even chased one of the estate's guards with a broom when she found him stealing a cupcake the staff made for a meeting of the boss, causing a small scene on the main yard, she gave this motherly and homey feeling around the place helping to ease the tension that you feel when working in a Drug Lord's estate. The younger maids looked up to her, asked for her advice. Tamara really felt sorry for the maids that bought her story, knowing that one day she will be gone from the compound with every document she could, and all the conversations that El Patron had 'In private'. But she had to focus, and here she was doing her job excellently.

International Waters, out of the Coast of The Atlantian Dominion
The leader of this whole operation was Christoph Holtz, the Deputy Chief of the Federal Intelligence Service, outside the ship was perfeclty normal fishing boat, with it's own crew and storage. But deep into the ship, there were always two armed guards on stand-by and inside, a whole operations center was set up.

Holtz was checking on the pictures from 'The Tourists', several divisions were being moved into Honduraga, nothing that would pique the attention back at Leinz, but then a technician reported something "Sir, we have an incoming signal from Honduraga, it's Mother Goose. Patching the audio in"

Holtz quickly put the pictures down on the table and approached the station, there he put on the headphones and started to listen to the conversation.

“We know that Monzano received a similar offer from the Allied States of Kowani, some foreign state looking to stick its nose in things here.” Carlos Remaro signaled for Conchita to refill his glass while he gathered his thoughts. “So it is likely this comes from them as well. As to the kind of aid they offer…it may be a trap. Or they may simply wish to ingratiate themselves to us, or cause trouble for the Dominioners.”

The rest of the conversation didn't give him anything useful. What he wanted was knowledge of resources, profits, all of that would work for his government to bring a long-term strategy, mostly for Bruzen corporate involvement in Honduragua. But then it hit him, he needed Astoria to pull this off, with the Help of the Astorians he could secure a safe network of information, and equipment to monitor the situation and be on the lookout for any slips they could make. So far, Holtz was at a dead end. He knew that his government wanted the oil and mining rights to prospect the Honduraguan mountainside. Having those rights would make The Dominion fight for nothing, for Bruzenland would have the rights to extract those resources.

He was sitting on his office, thinking how he could pull this off, he understood that Bruzenland couldn't remain in the shadows for much longer, but they needed a trump card to secure their participation in this conflict, something to force the Dominion to say 'Yes' to their unfair proposal. He had recieved a communique from a United States MARC team, he wasn't going to tell them their true purpose oh no, but he was going to ask for their help anyway.
---

Undisclosed Location, Jungles of Honduragua
Jutta Keppler was 29 years old, she was actually one of the first agents to set foot on Honduragua and she had already planted several caches for other field agents who could be doing any recon missions. Her current assignment was to meet with a group of Astorian Marines, she wore jungle gear, deciding to meet in a forsaken place of the Jungle, a kind of termporary safehouse for this brief meeting. She was no tourist, she was no ranger, she was geared with combat gear, camo and weapons, her mission wasn't espionage per se, she was the thread that connected every spy in borth Honduragua and The Dominion.

[United Avon]

OOC: portions of this post were written in consultation with approval from Atlantian Dominions

The mercenary force hired by the Royal East India Company began to arrive. First came the other officers. Most of these were former Avonian military men, or had plentiful experience as soldiers-for-hire or military contractors. A handful were non-Avonians, and most of those were ex-military from Parina. These men in particular were eager to frustrate the designs of the Atlantian Dominions, which had long been an adversary of the smaller Novaterran state. These officers trickled in in ones and twos, laying the groundwork for the arrival of the ground troops.

“As for meeting the others,” Antonio continued. “We are already working to make that happen. You will meet them soon.”

Tijata

An unmarked SUV arrived at the hotel to take Vincent Saint-Claire and Bradford Alderney to go meet with the leadership from Pinnacle. The driver was unmistakably a government lackey, but President Monzano apparently thought it was worthwhile maintaining the fiction that his government had no relationship with the cartel. The SUV went from the hotel to the outskirts of the city, where the villa sat surrounded by now-empty houses. The two Avonians looked out of the tinted windows as the car rolled past Cartel foot soldiers at work turning the neighborhood into a proper armed camp.

“It does seem like they got a better deal,” Alderney said to Saint-Claire, taking in the fancy villa and the large space around it. He suspected that the barracks set aside for their men would not be quite so luxurious.

“Helps when you don’t have to worry about pretending to be a government,” the commander of the Company mercenaries replied. “But these blokes seem to know what they’re doing. That’s good.”

The SUV dropped the Saint-Claire and Alderney off at the front of the villa before a waiting Antonio de Carmen, who greeted both men and led them inside.

“This is Vincent Saint-Claire and his number two,” de Carmen announced once the Pinnacle leadership team had been assembled.

“Officially here to train middle managers,” Saint-Claire said jokingly. Both Avonians were from higher-class families, the kinds of people with the social connections and wealth to get officers’ commissions and then land lucrative positions after military service. They were clean-looking and had a slight hint of an aristocratic bearing about them. The tattooed and colorful Pinnacle leadership team looked to them like a textbook case of undisciplined guns for hire, so expectations were low.

[The United Federation of Terrans]

All underlined conservations are in Afrikaans

Tijita
Pinnacle Villa HQ
Detachment Commander "Theo" Rautenbach

Carmen had left the room to greet the other mercenaries arriving any second. In the lull the Cartel commander left behind, Theo turned on Becker who was now lounging in a chair with his boots on the table.

"Are you going to be a problem again? We actually need to listen to our allies here." The NCO just gave a nonchalant wave in response before pushing the brim of his boonie down and crossing his hands across his chest. A few seconds passed. "Well?"

"You can listen to them all you like. I'm here to follow you." Theo glanced at Baatz. She just gave a brief shrug of her shoulders as one of the doors opened. Theo turned to greet the new arrivals; only to be greeted by the sight Johan and Bruno returning from their rounds. Technical Specialist Ella Green followed behind them; her dirty blond hair pulled into a ponytail and a well used red shemagh wrapped around her neck. Though new to the Detachment's command team, Theo had found Green to be competent so far; as evident by the apparently already functional communication room.

"Commander," Green stepped around the pair of Group Leader and presented a short message scrawled on a small notebook. "Asp's advanced ship transmitted their new ETA."

Theo glanced at the note before dismissing Green and turning to Becker. The NCO, omnipotent as always, lifted up the brim of his cover and met his commander's gaze.

"Asp's first ship is making landfall sometime tomorrow. Get down to the docks and make sure everything is in order. Take Piet with you." Becker gave a grin as he rose and collected his rifle. Johan and Bruno in the meantime took a sit at the table; each with a plate of some meat and vegetables mixed with a yellowish rice.

"Don't trust me boss?" The question was rhetorical as the Section Leader left the room in search of Piet and a ride to the port. Not a moment to soon, the other door opened and admitted Carmen with two men who were definitely not local.

“This is Vincent Saint-Claire and his number two,”

“Officially here to train middle managers,”

Theo forced a smile on his face as he rose from the table and approached the two with a hand outstretched. As he approached he took stock of the two men and didn't like what he found. They had the look of men who had gone to so called "war" colleges, played war games of tactics and talked about the what-ifs of campaigns long gone. In short, the pair looked like they used four different forks to eat field rations with.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, Theo and his team were used to holding their tongues. Courtesy of growing up with heavy internal police services.

"Theodosius Rautenbach; here to see the sights if you can believe that." He said while doing a perfunctory shake of Saint Claire's hand. Releasing the hand he motioned to the three senior members of his command team present. "This is my command team. The beauty there is Eliza Baatz, my second. The two brutes stuffing their faces are my field commanders; Johan Van Britz and Bruno Reid."

"Pleasure" Baatz was the only one to speak and somehow made the one word seem like an insult. Johan and Bruno simply nodded while continuing to eat, using their fingers all the while. Theo winced internally, but he couldn't blame them for their behavior; after all he had picked them to fight a war. Then there was the fact every one of them, Theo included, had grown up in the slums surrounding the capital.

Such surroundings didn't teach niceties; and Theo could sense Bruno and Johan's dislike of the two newcomers already. So he took action and motioned Carmen and the two other mercs to sit down.

"Quit it!! Time to work." The pair huffed in unison before pushing their plates away and wiping their hands on their pants. Satisfied, Theo moved to take his seat as he barked another command. "Baatz, map!"

The redhead gave a brief nod before moving to the door and calling out in Afrikaans. Soon, a topographical map of Tijita and the surrounding area was placed on the table alongside that of a series of satellite photos. With the map and photos in place, Theo gave a brief summary of the situation and the Cartel's request.

"... and so we will commit around a quarter of our forces to hitting their beachhead, where ever that might be, so call it around a thousand troopers. Though how we will accomplish this we have yet to decide. Do you have anything to add?"

Theo said it with all seriousness; but had a feeling this was going to go poorly. After all, his Detachment wasn't nicknamed "Die Wildehonde" for their excellent social skills.

[Atlantian Dominions]

The night sky was clear, revealing a slender crescent moon shining over the Atlantian air base. The base was an oasis of light, bright illumination covering the runways and the hanagrs where mobs of technicians hurried to finish their final checks on the fleet of warplanes that would soon take off into the darkness. The opening blow of this war would come from the sky, delivered from the weapons pylons of squadrons of strike fighters and attack aircraft. Here at this base, two squadrons of attack planes were being readied, along with another squadron of fighters. The fighters would fly escort for their larger, slower brothers – this was the boring job of the campaign, protecting bombers from an enemy that would, in all likelihood, be destroyed on the ground in the first wave of attacks.

Charlie Westerman climbed into the cockpit of Lightning 2-1, returning the well wishes of his crew with a nod and a wave from where he sat. The cockpit slid over him and sealed while he put on the last bits of his gear and adjusted the strap under his chin. He looked over the displays and found nothing out of the ordinary, and settled in to wait his turn to take off. When the signal came from the air controllers, he slowly pushed life into the engines and began to guide the warplane forward towards the takeoff position on the runway.

“Citizens of the Confederacy, my fellow Atlantians, this morning I address you, to inform you that last night that hostilities between our great nation and the Republic of Honduragua officially commenced.”

In the air Charlie took up his position, riding herd on a flight of strike bombers bound for a Honduraguan military airfield outside Hidalgo. The way was supposed to have been cleared by a flight of stealth bombers, who had been tasked with destroying the air defenses around the capital and other cities. The stealthy planes could slip past the paltry Honduraguan radar network and deliver missiles and guided bombs onto their targets before the Hondies could even warm up their SAM and AAA batteries. As the planes began to approach the enemy capital, Westerman could see a handful of fires already burning where the ordnance had struck home.

“We are a nation of peace. We seek a future when all men, united in Christ’s love, beat their swords into plowshares and study war no more. But before the Kingdom on Earth can come about, we must face those who would keep men in blindness. Last night, our valiant Air Force opened the campaign against the dictator President Monzano and his ally, the drug lord known as El Patrón.”

The air defense network around Hidalgo had been battered but not totally destroyed. Dotted lines began to etch themselves into the sky as anti-aircraft guns opened fire, some of them firing blindly into the sky in the hopes of hitting something, anything. Fewer of the SAM sites had survived, and the moment their radars turned on and began to acquire targets they became targets themselves. Charlie listened to the radio chatter of a flight of attack planes as they released their bombs on a radar station. Three new fires burst into life in the corner of the pilot’s field of view. The airfield was coming up.

“Our quarrel is not with the people of Honduragua. We merely wish to extend to our neighbors on this continent the same benefits of civilized society that we enjoy here in the Dominions. Our purpose in this war is to end a tyranny, not establish one of our own.”

A warning flashed urgently on Charlie’s console. A few enemy pilots had succeeded to getting into their planes and taking off. He spoke on the squadron channel, reporting the contacts and requesting orders. The instructions came back: pursue and destroy. Lightning 2-1 and Lightning 2-2, Charlie’s wingman Peter Tanks, banked away from their escort charges and turned to face the enemy fighters. Other fighters readjusted, the formation shifting to ensure continued protection of the bomber flight.

The Hondies were flying old Rusanyian planes, a generation behind the fighter Charlie was piloting. The contest was short and one-sided; the Hondie pilots were easy prey for the two Atlantian airmen. Charlie and Peter both scored one kill, and no further interceptors rose to challenge the Atlantian formation. The bombers dropped their ordnance, cratering the runway and turning hangars into twisted piles of metal and burning liquids. Elsewhere across the city other aircraft were demolishing Hidalgo’s power stations, government buildings, and army barracks. Many of the weapons dropped were unguided bombs – but civilian casualties weren’t a concern of the planners back in Cumberland. If some Hondie civilians got caught in the crossfire, that was on the conscience of the people who had gotten in bed with the drug lord.

“I ask that all citizens join me in praying for the swift and successful end to this war. God willing, we shall defeat our enemies, and take one step closer to the return of Jesus Christ and the establishment of God’s Kingdom on Earth. God bless the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions, and her brave men in uniform.”

---

“Turn that off!”

Sergeant Jacob Wheatley turned and glared at the Marine who had objected to the president’s address playing out of the small radio. The Confederate Marine Corps attracted the best and the worst of Atlantian society – men who were either unwilling to take a cushy posting in the National Guard or who weren’t given that option. You could tell who was who by two things, age and rank. The brave ones rose in the service and became officers. The ones who were serving in the military as alternatives to serving prison sentences for things like theft or attending an Unregistered Church remained simple grunts.

Onboard the assault transport Magnificence, the two halves of the Corps were mingling with some tension. Being stuck on a cramped ship for any amount of time, even with good friends, would cause nerves to fray. Stratton had been on Jacob’s nerves since he had first opened his mouth.

“You show some respect,” he barked at the private. “That’s your president too, Stratton.”

The other Marine rolled his eyes, but he stopped complaining. He was on thin ice already, with a number of citations for blasphemy and other poor conduct. He knew how far he could push his luck before it landed him in front of a tribunal, and then off to a labor unit building runways and digging latrines for the rest of his term of service and then some. Meawhile, President Gilmore had apparently wrapped up.

“That was President Jim Gilmore, addressing the beginning of military action against Honduragua,” the radio announcer reminded listeners. “And our thoughts and prayers, of course, go out to the men aboard those ships heading into the jaws of death. We hope for their swift, and victorious, return.”

Jacob turned the radio off. They didn’t need to hear any more of that. The men got enough of it from the chaplains and the officers. Thankfully they were close to Isla San Lorenzo, their first target. The sooner they all got off this ship, even if it was to storm a defended beach, the better.

[United Avon]

Tijata

The team commanding the Cartel’s foreign mercenaries of choice certainly fit the idea that had been forming in Vincent Saint-Claire’s head. He’d tried to imagine the kind of PMC that would sign on to work with a drug lord – not some political leader who happened to make money from drugs, but the leader of a full-fledged criminal syndicate – on the way over to the villa. The idea he’d begun to form in his mind’s eye hadn’t quite survived contact with the enemy. The setup outside the villa was professional, and looked like some of the camps that Saint-Claire had helped establish and operate from in his time with the Royal East India Company’s pet military corporation. But this collection of ragtag goons, this matched his mental picture a lot better.

He wasn’t some scion of a rich family – he’d risen in the ranks of the Royal Army as far as merit alone could take someone, and then he’d jumped ship for the private sector when his lack of connections, familial or otherwise, had finally snapped the leash taut. But his time in the Royal Army had taught him that warfare was something ugly, and it was a commander’s job to minimize that ugliness where possible. The sort of troops he would be commanding here, washouts and defectors from the armies of some of the poorest countries in Kayfabeland, needed a firm, disciplined hand to manage them. If the rest of these Pinnacle troops matched their commanders, or followed their lead in terms of appearance, then he was already worried about how the two forces would interact, especially in the times when there wasn’t an enemy in front of them to focus on.

"... and so we will commit around a quarter of our forces to hitting their beachhead, where ever that might be, so call it around a thousand troopers. Though how we will accomplish this we have yet to decide. Do you have anything to add?"

“Our friends here have expressed a similar desire to see the Atlantians stopped as soon as possible,” Saint-Claire said. “We will commit an equal force to defense at the beachhead, with reserves in place around the city to bolster the local defenders.”

That would be crucial. The local Guardia could probably put up a good fight, especially in the cities where they could turn all the nasty tricks of urban fighting against the Atlantians, but it was like a sandcastle just at the edge of the high water mark. As the Atlantians continued to lash them with air strikes and firepower, their will would slowly diminish. Men would want to return to their families, to protect them from the ravaging invaders. Leadership would fail as pompous officers rushed to get themselves, their mistresses, and as much wealth as they could to safety. Saint-Claire and his officers could provide the soldiers with a stable rallying point.

“We’ll be operating under hostile skies,” Bradford Alderney interjected. “I don’t know what you’ve seen so far, but the local air force doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

[The United Federation of Terrans]

Tijata
Pinnacle HQ

“Our friends here have expressed a similar desire to see the Atlantians stopped as soon as possible,” Saint-Claire said. “We will commit an equal force to defense at the beachhead, with reserves in place around the city to bolster the local defenders.”

Theo let out an internal sigh of relief. So far the two command teams were taking this situation seriously; leaving their personal opinions quiet. Though Theo admitted his team's silence was more due to his presence and their respect for him than niceties. But any truce, no matter how thin, was still a truce of a sort.

Then the Avonian's second spoke up and raised Theo's respect for the man.

“We’ll be operating under hostile skies,” Bradford Alderney interjected. “I don’t know what you’ve seen so far, but the local air force doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

Few people from established armies thought about the question of hostile air power and the effects they had on campaigns. Theo had learned that lesson the hard way in his first deployment as a Detachment Commander to help overthrow a dictator on the oil rich island of Panau. He had neglected to bring any AA weapon systems and had paid for it in blood when the nation's air force had arrived in Harriers and Cobra gunships. The detachment had been crippled, the operation aborted and Theo bore the scars of twenty lashes on his back as a constant reminder.

"I've seen nothing yet but I have a pretty good idea of what to expect from this lot. That's why we bringing in some toys from home." Theo motioned to Johan who in turn dug through a nearby duffel before withdrawing a thick,worn binder with numbered tabs interspersed throughout.

Johan glazed over the tabs before finding the right number and opening the binder; the man then presented it to the two Avonians. The presented binder showed a schematic of a Stingray APC, except its roof mount was replaced with a rack of four missiles and a radar dish mounted towards the rear of the vehicle. Technical specifications were scrawled to the side in sloppy but readable handwriting; more than fine for a man illiterate until his early twenties. The Group Leader then began speaking for the benefit of the two men.

"This is the schematic for our standard Stingray APC with it's 20mm cannon replaced with a SAM mount. We stuff the troop bay with a stripped down fire control station that allows engagements up to eight kilometers; not the best range but we figured it would be smart to utilize the same Rattler missiles as our MANPADS to decrease logistical strain. The missiles however are current generation and better than anything the local guard will have in their armory."

Johan paused to consult the binder and turned to the next tab; another schematic except this time with a Gatling mount.

"This is the same concept as the SAM's except we have a 30mm gun this time. Useless against fast movers, but enough to make them nervous and more than enough to stop any helicopters from dropping off troops." Johan then allowed for a beat of silence before adding his final words. "They also make a mess of infantry."

The Group Leader had a wicked grin at the last part and Theo sighed before motioning towards the door.

"That will due Johan; go find Matthys and send him in. Make sure he's in his full kit." The officer gave a click of his heels and pounded his fist to his chest, a mocking, over exaggerated salute; and left the room. Theo left the Avonians to browse the binder of Pinnacle's vehicles and weapons at their digression before Johan returned with Matthys in tow.

Matthys was Theo's personal security for the last two tours and was a fine representation of the common detachment trooper. He was in his mid twenties and sported a light dusting of red stubble. His fatigues, while wrinkled, were clean and well used. His dark colored body armor bore some scratches and tears out of usage but were obviously well maintained. Matthys' rifle was obviously of the AK family, but was of the modern make of polymer and composite, with a sturdy red dot and a grip mounted on the weapon's rails.

"Matthys here is in compliance with my Detachment's standard for combat readiness. If I may inquire; how do your troops compare?"

1.) Just Cause reference for those interested.

2.) I'm done on my portion Avon unless you need to continue anything.

3.) Sorry for another Wall o' text.

[Astoria]

Undisclosed Location, Jungles of Honduragua
Jutta Keppler was 29 years old, she was actually one of the first agents to set foot on Honduragua and she had already planted several caches for other field agents who could be doing any recon missions. Her current assignment was to meet with a group of Astorian Marines, she wore jungle gear, deciding to meet in a forsaken place of the Jungle, a kind of termporary safehouse for this brief meeting. She was no tourist, she was no ranger, she was geared with combat gear, camo and weapons, her mission wasn't espionage per se, she was the thread that connected every spy in borth Honduragua and The Dominion.

Rendezvous Point
Republic of Honduragua

The MARC team had deployed to Honduragua via stealth helicopter – somewhat of an unnecessary precaution, given the sorry state of the Honduraguan air defense network even before the Atlantians had turned most of it into rubble. The specially modified Osprey was designed to register as a barely-there blip on radar screens, something that could be chalked up to a bird or glitch or something else not worth investigating further. The bigger concern was not the Honduraguans spotting the transport, but the Atlantian Dominions. While the theocratic state was technically fighting the same enemies as Astoria in this situation, everyone in Special Forces Command agreed it would be better if the Confederacy was unaware of the team’s entry into the banana republic.

First Lieutenant Archibald Baker, “Archie” to friends and family and a few fellow soldiers, had led his nineteen men from the landing zone deep into the jungle, with Chief Warrant Officer and second-in-command Samuel Karlson navigating by topographic map towards the rendezvous point. They expected to meet a Bruzenlander intelligence officer there and collect some on-the-ground intelligence about the state of things in the country. Once they had the lay of the land, they would establish an operating base and begin planning their first strikes against the El Patron Cartel. The team was well-armed and well-equipped; they carried cut-down carbine versions of the standard assault rifle, except for the marksmen and snipers who carried rifles with better accuracy at longer ranges. The sniper team had, currently disassembled for easier movement, a .50-caliber sniper rifle that could destroy a vehicle’s engine or penetrate a concrete bunker at incredibly long range. If there were even harder targets, one man in each of the two squads that made up Devil Team carried a portable guided rocket launcher.

The team advanced through the jungle with weapons up, scanning the tree line around them for any threats. The Marine special forces operators wore camouflage designed to make them blend into the terrain, breaking up the shape of the body and tricking the eye into unseeing the muscular men who wore the fatigues. Instead of bulky helmets, they wore floppy jungle hats that gave them cover from the sun and felt lighter on the head. Belts and bandoliers, all covered in camouflage canvas to maintain concealment, were filled with grenades and gear that ranged from medical supplies to night-vision goggles. The members of Devil Team could communicate with each other using small throat microphones, and if they needed to contact the guided missile destroyer that sat off the coast there were two men with high-powered long range radio sets.

“Coming up on the RV point,” the point man announced. “That clearing up ahead.”

Baker nodded. “Spread out,” he commanded. “Standard approach formation. Stay frosty – we don’t know if they even made it out here.”

The MARC team spread into a crescent moon formation, unfurling like wings to become a thin line that put all twenty guns pointed towards the clearing with clear fields of fire. If the Bruzenlander had been compromised, or followed, or any other possible scenario, the men of Devil Team waited in crouched anticipation while Baker and Karlson stepped towards the clearing and their meeting with Jutta Keppler.

[Bruzenland]

Jutta looked at them through the thick jungle, she knew this area like the palm of her hand and after climbing a tree, she watched them for a few seconds until she spoke with her thick Bruzen accent "So, the Astorians show up in my Jungle. Vhat a pleasant surprise. Jutta Keppler, Federal Intelligence Service." she dropped down from the tree like a monkey and stood up again, looking at the marines.

"I vas told that a MARC team vas going to show up, good. I have some goodies for you that you might like. Come" She had networks to prepare, drops to make with equipment, and she wasn't in the mood to deal with a new task right now. She took the team into a Cave and since they were 'Allies' now she took the risk of taking them to her hideout. Of course not without preparing first, covering any and all equipment that the Astorians didn't need to see, like poison and other 'problem solvers'.

She deployed a map marked with several icons, circles marked in red, places with crosses, some points of the map had a star drawn on it. "Our agents report zat ze Dominion is already on ze move, as you know already ze state of ze Honduraguan Air Force is just trash-tier to say ze least. zeir army, as any banana republic is disorganized. I've heard rumors of foreign mercenaries bolstering zeir numbers, ve have yet to have confirmation of them instructing Honduraguan soldiers but zat is to be expected. Proceed to zis location, Area 5-E, I've left a drop zat might be handy, supplies mainly, ammunition, explosives, you vat you like vit zem. Expect Honduraguan patrols, here, here and here. Questions?"

[United Avon]

OOC: just a quick follow-up to close out the conversation

This is the schematic for our standard Stingray APC with it's 20mm cannon replaced with a SAM mount. We stuff the troop bay with a stripped down fire control station that allows engagements up to eight kilometers; not the best range but we figured it would be smart to utilize the same Rattler missiles as our MANPADS to decrease logistical strain. The missiles however are current generation and better than anything the local guard will have in their armory."

Johan paused to consult the binder and turned to the next tab; another schematic except this time with a Gatling mount.

"This is the same concept as the SAM's except we have a 30mm gun this time. Useless against fast movers, but enough to make them nervous and more than enough to stop any helicopters from dropping off troops."

Tijata

The Cartel’s mercenaries continued to surprise Vincent Saint-Claire and Bradford Alderney. They were clearly high-end operators, or at least whoever was outfitting them had considerable money to spend. Saint-Claire began to feel jealous – his detachment had its share of anti-aircraft weaponry, but much of it was older and fixed-position, or lighter and man-portable. The former Royal Army officer began to feel a pit in his stomach as he realized that he would likely end up relying on these people for anti-air cover. Coming to this shabby-looking rabble with hat in hand to ask for help would be galling, but Saint-Claire decided to hold off on crossing that bridge until he came to it. For now, he had to keep up appearances.

Matthys was Theo's personal security for the last two tours and was a fine representation of the common detachment trooper. He was in his mid twenties and sported a light dusting of red stubble. His fatigues, while wrinkled, were clean and well used. His dark colored body armor bore some scratches and tears out of usage but were obviously well maintained. Matthys' rifle was obviously of the AK family, but was of the modern make of polymer and composite, with a sturdy red dot and a grip mounted on the weapon's rails.

"Matthys here is in compliance with my Detachment's standard for combat readiness. If I may inquire; how do your troops compare?"

In this theater, at least, the two Avonians could answer without undue falsehood. “Our troops may have slightly less…adorned weapons,” Bradford Alderney replied. “But otherwise, I would say they compare evenly.” In terms of gear, this statement was true. The majority of the troops that Saint-Claire and Alderney would be commanding were coming from poorer nations, and so their weapons would tend towards the simpler – and older. But a Kalishnikov clone was fairly deadly and effective in the hands of a half-decent soldier without any of the sights or grips that this man’s weapon sported.

The key would be in the realm of discipline. The Avonian mercenary unit would be comprised of soldiers from developing nations, men who had either been discharged from armies trying to downsize to more fiscally manageable sizes or men who had fought for the wrong side in a civil war and left their homelands with nothing but the basic skills of a soldier. This man Matthys looked to be a grade above that. But Saint-Claire imagined that the quality of his officers – former commanders in some of the finest armies in Kayfabeland – would more than make up for the lackluster raw material that made up their commands.