Official Missive of the Freehold Republic
From, the Freehold Department of StateTo:
- The elected government of Rhydorana, President Piripi Paora
- Independent militant forces, Colonel Kauri Nikora
From:
- Platzwächter Puldi Krüger
- The Freehold Department of State
- The Freehold Department of War
In recent days experts in military intelligence and other fields within the Ramancean government have been reviewing recent events of the civil war, and determined that neither major side in the engagement seem to carry regard for the livelihood and safety of those individuals who have been caught between them. They have shown a disregard for the sanctity of life and laws of war, and have repeatedly denied or ignored inquiry into the state of such persons or into organizing humanitarian aid and evacuation for such persons. This determination has been reinforced in its accuracy with repeated incidents of heavy collateral damage against the civilian population of Rhydorana, such as the most recent of several tragedies which saw the deaths of Ramancean nationals travelling abroad. The resultant losses of life have been deemed unacceptable.
Both rebelling military forces and loyalist government supporters have demonstrated this disregard and negligence in regards to unchecked collateral damage. In addition to this, neither suspected party in this latest incident has been able to provide evidence as to their innocence or to their alleged claims that their rivals were responsible. In light of all of this, the Freehold is holding that both parties are culpable in the deaths and injuries that occurred today. As of 1530 hours on 10th of February, both sides are to be issued with a 24-hour warning. Within these 24 hours they are expected to have negotiated a temporary cessation of hostilities to allow for an investigation into recent incidents, to enable foreign powers to evacuate their nationals if necessary, and for those responsible for the repeated violations of various accords and laws of war to be charged and sentenced for such.
If these demands are not met then we have no choice but to assume that the Rhydoranan government and those forces under the command of Colonel Kauri Nikora are complicit in these crimes.
There will then be no alternative but direct military intervention to ensure not only the safety of Ramanceans, but others within their borders to inclue Rhydoranan nationals.
As always: we hold freedom to be the greatest value, and we will not see it impinged upon by war criminals.
Gamilios, 4 Cereris 2024, 1545 RST | D -1 | 24 Hours Remaining
V-55 Jagoda DY-55105, "Lucky Lady" | 3nm east of Fairer Hafen, Angels 20
"We have you at 20 meters."
The voice had that grainy, pseudo-muffled quality that only a flight mask could give.
"15 meters. Come left. Left. Hold."
The flight crew steered their goliath with careful precision on the instructed maneuver.
"10 meters. Steady on."
They drifted closer. Closer still. For Oberleutnant Andreas Koertig, this was still a comparatively new procedure for him. He had only very recently come over to the flight side of things from supply, and he was still getting to master his work as a bomber pilot. As such the pilot for the flight, Hauptmann Annett Drescher had elected to have him take over for the approach. He had one hand on the flight-stick and the other on the throttle as he played at the controls to try and keep himself in line with the refueling probe - and keep it lined up with a target he couldn't even see over his head.
"5 meters. Steady on."
The younger aviator spared a glance to his superior. He couldn't see her eyes through the tinted visor, and the oxygen mask she wore blocked out the rest of her face so that he was left looking at her other body language. She seemed oddly - calm. A hand was near the flight stick because, of course, that was always the procedure just in case something catastrophic occurred or he had to pass off the controls for any reason. But she didn't seem to be looking at him and instead was slowly craning her neck so that she could follow the path of the probe first through their front windscreen and then through the glass of the escape hatch over her head. But he had to look away from her after those few seconds so that he could focus on what he was - there was a tone in his hear. A short, soft buzz.
"Contact. We have good feed." The technician who was controlling the fuel probe announced.
He breathed deep, taking in the scent of the recycled and canned air that was pumped to him through his mask. It felt like a weight off his shoulders.
He heard a chuckle from the fuel technician, "You doing okay down there, sir?"
The Oberleutnant blinked and looked up at the partly reflective window on the tail of the plane now over them, where he could see the young man grinning down at him. How had he - ? He turned to look to Annett and he could already tell she was grinning under her mask as she motioned wordlessly to the bottom of her own mask where the toggle for the VOX feature on their radios. Some part of him wanted to smack his own face in shame but he couldn't let go of the controls while they were refueling. He looked back up, out his windscreen to the young man above him, "Yeah, just getting used to stick-time on a refuel. Just trying not to slip up."
The Hauptmann spoke up in that cool, calm, airline pilot-voice that Andreas still enviously sought to emulate and perfect, "He's being too hard on himself. Our young man did just fine on the approach."
There was another chuckle at the far end that sounded like somebody else on the tanker's crew listening on, "Just fine, ma'am. Textbook approach if I ever saw one."
What followed next was several minutes of the tried and true Luftwaffe profession of shooting the shit during down-time. They'd been fortunate to catch the tanker on one of the long legs of its orbit so there wasn't much to do in terms of flight control. Andreas kept an eye on the flight speed and angle, made those minor adjustments as he needed. And as he did, the crew of their bomber and the tanker exchanged those beloved idle pleasantries. They wondered what the Rhydorana government was going to do over the next twenty four hours, and Hauptmann Drescher groused that it'd likely be another crew getting to drop those first few bombs and missiles unless the Rhydoranans did hostile before then.
It was fairly amicable and meandering for wartime talk, all things considered.
Then there was an audible pop and Andreas looked up to see the fuel probe now over his head with a faint mist of jet fuel that quickly disappeared in the wind.
He looked down to their fuel gauge. They were completely full and the pressure safety had automatically disconnected them.
"Well. That looks like all we needed, Nester."
"Goooood copy, sir. Probe is clear, you're good to maneuver."
"Copy, good to maneuver. Show us right out your corridor."
"Right out the corridor. Fly safe, sir."
He canted them to the left and then committed more heavily right. As the bomber banked in a lazy right turn, he punched the flare dispenser to leave a trail of cautionary chaff and flares in their wake. Behind them by several hundred meters another of their Wing's bombers slowly worked its way into the tanker Nester's corridor.
"You want the stick, ma'am?" He asked, looking to the senior aviator.
She shook her head, "Nein, you go ahead and keep this leg, Oberleutnant. Take us to Angels 35 and get us back in the circuit."
He nodded in response, "Copy on Angels 35."
As he turned, she keyed the radio to the Wing to let them know their status. It was a long flight ahead of them. Longer than either of them realized.
The voice had that grainy, pseudo-muffled quality that only a flight mask could give.
"15 meters. Come left. Left. Hold."
The flight crew steered their goliath with careful precision on the instructed maneuver.
"10 meters. Steady on."
They drifted closer. Closer still. For Oberleutnant Andreas Koertig, this was still a comparatively new procedure for him. He had only very recently come over to the flight side of things from supply, and he was still getting to master his work as a bomber pilot. As such the pilot for the flight, Hauptmann Annett Drescher had elected to have him take over for the approach. He had one hand on the flight-stick and the other on the throttle as he played at the controls to try and keep himself in line with the refueling probe - and keep it lined up with a target he couldn't even see over his head.
"5 meters. Steady on."
The younger aviator spared a glance to his superior. He couldn't see her eyes through the tinted visor, and the oxygen mask she wore blocked out the rest of her face so that he was left looking at her other body language. She seemed oddly - calm. A hand was near the flight stick because, of course, that was always the procedure just in case something catastrophic occurred or he had to pass off the controls for any reason. But she didn't seem to be looking at him and instead was slowly craning her neck so that she could follow the path of the probe first through their front windscreen and then through the glass of the escape hatch over her head. But he had to look away from her after those few seconds so that he could focus on what he was - there was a tone in his hear. A short, soft buzz.
"Contact. We have good feed." The technician who was controlling the fuel probe announced.
He breathed deep, taking in the scent of the recycled and canned air that was pumped to him through his mask. It felt like a weight off his shoulders.
He heard a chuckle from the fuel technician, "You doing okay down there, sir?"
The Oberleutnant blinked and looked up at the partly reflective window on the tail of the plane now over them, where he could see the young man grinning down at him. How had he - ? He turned to look to Annett and he could already tell she was grinning under her mask as she motioned wordlessly to the bottom of her own mask where the toggle for the VOX feature on their radios. Some part of him wanted to smack his own face in shame but he couldn't let go of the controls while they were refueling. He looked back up, out his windscreen to the young man above him, "Yeah, just getting used to stick-time on a refuel. Just trying not to slip up."
The Hauptmann spoke up in that cool, calm, airline pilot-voice that Andreas still enviously sought to emulate and perfect, "He's being too hard on himself. Our young man did just fine on the approach."
There was another chuckle at the far end that sounded like somebody else on the tanker's crew listening on, "Just fine, ma'am. Textbook approach if I ever saw one."
What followed next was several minutes of the tried and true Luftwaffe profession of shooting the shit during down-time. They'd been fortunate to catch the tanker on one of the long legs of its orbit so there wasn't much to do in terms of flight control. Andreas kept an eye on the flight speed and angle, made those minor adjustments as he needed. And as he did, the crew of their bomber and the tanker exchanged those beloved idle pleasantries. They wondered what the Rhydorana government was going to do over the next twenty four hours, and Hauptmann Drescher groused that it'd likely be another crew getting to drop those first few bombs and missiles unless the Rhydoranans did hostile before then.
It was fairly amicable and meandering for wartime talk, all things considered.
Then there was an audible pop and Andreas looked up to see the fuel probe now over his head with a faint mist of jet fuel that quickly disappeared in the wind.
He looked down to their fuel gauge. They were completely full and the pressure safety had automatically disconnected them.
"Well. That looks like all we needed, Nester."
"Goooood copy, sir. Probe is clear, you're good to maneuver."
"Copy, good to maneuver. Show us right out your corridor."
"Right out the corridor. Fly safe, sir."
He canted them to the left and then committed more heavily right. As the bomber banked in a lazy right turn, he punched the flare dispenser to leave a trail of cautionary chaff and flares in their wake. Behind them by several hundred meters another of their Wing's bombers slowly worked its way into the tanker Nester's corridor.
"You want the stick, ma'am?" He asked, looking to the senior aviator.
She shook her head, "Nein, you go ahead and keep this leg, Oberleutnant. Take us to Angels 35 and get us back in the circuit."
He nodded in response, "Copy on Angels 35."
As he turned, she keyed the radio to the Wing to let them know their status. It was a long flight ahead of them. Longer than either of them realized.
Gamilios, 4 Cereris 2024, 1545 RST | D -1 | 24 Hours Remaining
FNV Eric Eberhardt, Narvik-class destroyer | 30.5nm west of Rhydorana, Glasplatte Strait
Storms out at sea had an odd tranquility to them when seen from afar. From the bridge of his destroyer, Fregattenkapitän Dirk Ackerman could watch through binoculars as fat, low-hanging gray clouds rolled in the distance and drug a sheet of rain along with them. Radar had already pinged to see its distance and estimates said that the waves were going to get nasty - likely throwing them about for the next day as they tried to weather it out and keep sailing on their current course. Lowering his binoculars the destroyer commander looked toward the stern, off the starboard side, where their twin the Torsten Roth sailed in formation. He could watch one of her helicopters returning to the flight-deck from a standard ASW-screening patrol.
He didn't need to walk across the weather-deck to know that the Katharina Kirsch was in a similar position off the port side.
"Its quiet." He frowned slightly, pensive.
"Is something wrong, Herr Kapitän?" Stabskapitänleutnant Alexander Frueh had stepped out from the entrance to the bridge, to join him on the weather deck. He shivered reflexively even underneath his all-weather jacket before fishing a thin packet of Glückstreffer cigarettes. One was tapped out and he offered another, filter poking out from the top of the pack, with a raised brow.
With a nod of appreciation he plucked it from the pack and retrieved his own lighter from his pack.
"No, Herr Kaleu. It is just - quiet. Very quiet." He knit his brow.
"Nerves?" The younger officer asked.
It was something of divine providence to have the Kapitän's concerns suddenly made real in that moment. Behind them, they could hear the dogging on the hatchway open and a young sailor came up those few more steps to see them both turning to him, "Sir. It's Task Group. They're on the chatter, say its urgent."
The two men exchanged glances before heading back onto the bridge.
The Kapitän barely broke his stride to snatch the presented telephone as he circled the bridge's miniature map table, "This is Eberhardt, Kapitän speaking."
The voice on the other end was grainy over the constant tone of the encryption key, "Kaptän, this is Vizeadmiral Hartmann. What's the status of your group?" Vizeadmirla Franziska Hartmann served as commanding officer for his Task Group, and was his immediate superior as he was in charge of one of its subordinate squadrons.
"My ships are upright and ready. What do you need, ma'am?"
"Go to alert. I don't know if you've managed to check your text-comm, but we've been posted on a 24-hour stand-by against Rhydorana. Emergency posture for potential combat operations put you at the spearhead of any surface action that comes their way."
He squinted anew, looking down at the map table as he manipulated it to zoom in, "Aye, ma'am. Where do you want us?"
"Word on the channels is that the Bereians have a ship heading to posture against the Rhydoranans. They're calling it an investigation. But that might not be enough to sway the bastards. Keep north of the Bereians and burn for Rhydoranan waters - but don't cross the line. Have your squadron ready for surface action and give me updates on your status every three hours. Am I understood?"
"Aye aye, ma'am. Crystal clear."
"Good to hear. 1, out."
There was a click on that end of the line and immediately he was in action, "Number 2, get us moving on course for 170°, speed of 35 knots. Elevate to Alert Level 3. Relay orders to the squadron."
A resultant cascade of orders through the bridge came from that as the ship started to move to action, and almost immediately after its twins followed suit, cutting through the water and building speed with blue waves churning behind each of them.
He didn't need to walk across the weather-deck to know that the Katharina Kirsch was in a similar position off the port side.
"Its quiet." He frowned slightly, pensive.
"Is something wrong, Herr Kapitän?" Stabskapitänleutnant Alexander Frueh had stepped out from the entrance to the bridge, to join him on the weather deck. He shivered reflexively even underneath his all-weather jacket before fishing a thin packet of Glückstreffer cigarettes. One was tapped out and he offered another, filter poking out from the top of the pack, with a raised brow.
With a nod of appreciation he plucked it from the pack and retrieved his own lighter from his pack.
"No, Herr Kaleu. It is just - quiet. Very quiet." He knit his brow.
"Nerves?" The younger officer asked.
It was something of divine providence to have the Kapitän's concerns suddenly made real in that moment. Behind them, they could hear the dogging on the hatchway open and a young sailor came up those few more steps to see them both turning to him, "Sir. It's Task Group. They're on the chatter, say its urgent."
The two men exchanged glances before heading back onto the bridge.
The Kapitän barely broke his stride to snatch the presented telephone as he circled the bridge's miniature map table, "This is Eberhardt, Kapitän speaking."
The voice on the other end was grainy over the constant tone of the encryption key, "Kaptän, this is Vizeadmiral Hartmann. What's the status of your group?" Vizeadmirla Franziska Hartmann served as commanding officer for his Task Group, and was his immediate superior as he was in charge of one of its subordinate squadrons.
"My ships are upright and ready. What do you need, ma'am?"
"Go to alert. I don't know if you've managed to check your text-comm, but we've been posted on a 24-hour stand-by against Rhydorana. Emergency posture for potential combat operations put you at the spearhead of any surface action that comes their way."
He squinted anew, looking down at the map table as he manipulated it to zoom in, "Aye, ma'am. Where do you want us?"
"Word on the channels is that the Bereians have a ship heading to posture against the Rhydoranans. They're calling it an investigation. But that might not be enough to sway the bastards. Keep north of the Bereians and burn for Rhydoranan waters - but don't cross the line. Have your squadron ready for surface action and give me updates on your status every three hours. Am I understood?"
"Aye aye, ma'am. Crystal clear."
"Good to hear. 1, out."
There was a click on that end of the line and immediately he was in action, "Number 2, get us moving on course for 170°, speed of 35 knots. Elevate to Alert Level 3. Relay orders to the squadron."
A resultant cascade of orders through the bridge came from that as the ship started to move to action, and almost immediately after its twins followed suit, cutting through the water and building speed with blue waves churning behind each of them.
