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Hands in the Night (IC)

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Cylarn
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Left-Leaning College State

Hands in the Night (IC)

Postby Cylarn » Sat Jan 25, 2020 8:24 am






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In the streets of the Free City, 7:50 PM.


A light snow trickled down upon Borsten, orange light from the setting sun casting off from the falling flakes. The beginnings of the first snowfall for the mountain city. Plumes of dark smoke rose into the otherwise white sky, creating a marked contrast. Fires, emanating from burning husks of vehicles and buildings in equal number, burned around the city, most notably around the massive walled airfield of Polkriz Air Base on the eastern end of the city. The sound of rifle fire was constant; a steady, automatic thumping resounded throughout the city, followed by the occasional explosion that rocked the streets of Borsten. Sometimes, the whooping sounds of rotors descending over the city from the west filled the ambiance. Fewer and fewer of these sounds could be heard with each passing day; helicopters taking off from Polkriz had to avoid both mortars and machine gun fire upon take-off, and helicopters coming into Polkriz had to pull evasive maneuvers against small arms fire coming from different parts of the city. Roads leading into and out of town were locked down with checkpoints, manned by rebels of many different stripes.

The city was at war, after all. Armed groups rallying under the banner of the Free Volkavian Forces were in the midst of their campaign to wrestle control of Borsten from the monarchists. In an odd combination, groups normally opposed to one another - notably the Borsten police services and the radical student groups that spearheaded the nearly two years of protests following the scandal of 2006 - were now openly seen together in the streets, seemingly coexisting in the face of an expected government counterattack. The city government building, the headquarters of the Royal Police, the Borsten Railway Depot, and the local RSS station were to be counted among the most valuable possessions seized by the rebels. Much of the government resistance had capitulated; government conscripts had little motivation to fight in many instances, and in the opening week of hostilities, had given up much in the way of territory and equipment. Aside from isolated pockets of holdouts, the Ground Forces were still holding Polkriz, reinforced by a battalion of Paracommandos and a few remaining helicopters.

In the areas of the city firmly under rebel control, much of the scene was jubilant. Civilians and armed fighters alike crowded many a city block, carrying weapons and posters and flags in equal volumes. Vendors pushed their carts around, selling trinkets and old military items that they had accumulated. The smell of cooked meats and confectionaries coming from food carts and the odd food truck did plenty to dampen the stench of stale explosives. People sang and danced openly around the husks of burned-out Ratels, while mourners paraded the bodies of fallen fighters to their final resting places. There were large bonfires in the many open-air markets of Borsten, upon which portraits of the royal family were being cast into for the flames to feast upon.

Despite the jubilation from civilians and fighters alike, there was concern within the command apparatus of the FVF in Borsten. It had been a week since the first shots broke out, and many people - especially the commanders of the FVF - expected a quick response from the military. Instead, well-motivated fighters, most of whom were local to the area, were engaging in urban combat with a cornucopia of different small arms and improvised equipment, against conventionally-armed government forces - and winning on most accounts. Indeed, a batch of two-thousand government conscripts had arrived to reinforce loyalist police units, RVAF security forces, and Paracommandos against the forces responsible for the uprising. Brash tactics on the part of the RVGF field commanders dictated a straight push by armor-supported infantry into the center of the city, to retake the local government annex as opposed to rallying at Polkriz to break the combat going on in its area. On the third day of the uprising, the reinforcements found themselves wrong-footed by multi-level ambushes, snipers, and other urban threats for which the conscripts were shocked and unprepared for.

Barely half of the force retreated to Polkriz after two days of fighting in the streets of Borsten. Conscripts deserted in many cases, with some switching sides to join the rebels. Some units had held on, but were growing isolated from movement or resupply. The days are growing in number, and soon, they would be expected to surrender for their own survival's sake. Lord Kotro expected more. There was fighting being reported all over Volkavia now, but Borsten was the only city in which government forces were at a severe disadvantage. For sure, in his mind, Velkan would not stop at trying to retake the city. His city was locked into a fight for its survival. If the government was to retake Borsten, it would mean the deaths of many who chose to represent a new path for their nation.




Polkriz Air Base, 7:50 PM.


While many celebrated in the streets below, the personnel sheltered by the concrete walls and outer perimeter of Polkriz were in more dire straits. The combat posts and defensive emplacements holding the perimeter outside of the walls were under constant engagement with FVF snipers and marksmen hiding in the rubble of the city. Officers had learned to stay within the walls and rely instead on their walkie-talkies to give orders, rather than risk identification and elimination by the sniper teams. They stayed mobile, against the government troops, who sought cover behind sandbags and armored vehicles. The rare missile would strike their position from time to time, usually aimed for the Ratels so as to keep them from hitting buildings with their 90mm cannons and machine guns. Inside, soldiers had to contend with the random mortar barrage.

The main headquarters building was a mess. A handful of mortars had failed to penetrate the metal and concrete structure, but the interior of the two-story building had certainly been shaken and not stirred. Many of the windows had been blown out by the blast, with the navy blue carpeting now covered in broken glass that coated most of the floor space. The lights were flickering as military personnel passed and rushed through the hallways, going about their business with a sense of urgency not seen on a typical basis. Clad in camouflage fatigues - or the civilian suits and black BDUs of the Security Service - that would normally inspire a sense of courage, everyone within the building was in a state of panic, more or less. Miraculously, the station still had a line to the outside world.

In the war room, Volkavian officers of the different branches congregated against a wall-mounted war map of Borsten. Magnetic pieces - labeled blue and red and arranged into different shapes of squares and circles and arrows to denote units and movements - crowded the layout of streets and blocks and important buildings. Major General Drago Drulovic, a tall and fat man clad in a set of camouflaged fatigues, stared with a pained expression at the board. His predecessor, Colonel-General Hrepka, had chosen to take his own life only the day before. Drulovic believed this to be a mercy, compared to taking on the ire of the new king. He had heard the rumors; that Velkan had drained his father of his blood, and sent his special forces troops upon the rest of his family to eliminate anyone in opposition to his rule. He wagered that dissent, at this point, would be treated with a similar courtesy.

Lost in his thoughts, General Drulovic was approached by a young Sergeant, who held in his hands a sat-phone. Drulovic turned his head to make eye contact with the man.

"General Drulovic, sir," the aide began. "You have a call from Shigal."

He did not immediately reply. Instead, he looked back towards the board. A pang of fear made a movement in his stomach.

"I see. Is it His Highness?"

"No sir. It is Director Malkovich."

Drulovic nodded, and looked again at the Sergeant. He held out his right hand, and he received the sat-phone. Drulovic brought the phone to his ear, and responded.

"This is Drulovic."

"General," a raspy voice called out on the other end. "We are still in connection to Polkriz, but I feel that this is the best way for us to communicate. How goes the defense?"

Drulovic's eyes went to the board once again.

"Same as it has been since yesterday. Any attempt at an assault of the perimeter is easily repulsed, but their snipers are keeping movement on our part to a minimum. We have tried dropping barrel bombs with the helicopt-"

"Good, the barrel bombs will work to dislodge them."

"The barrel bombs mean that we are putting our remaining aerial assets at risk. We cannot use the fixed-wing aircraft, and if we need to evacuate, they will b-"

"Do not even mention a retreat, General! That is not what His Highness intends for his city. I have arranged for additional assets to change our odds."

"What are these 'assets?'"

"You may only concern yourself with their nature as special operators, at a platoon-level strength, and that while they will be independent of your command, will be directly affecting the fate of the rebel movements on your base. I am assured that they operate and affect to something disproportionate to their own number. Two battalions from the Airmobile Group will also deploy into the city, which aside from the operators, will be at your disposal."

"I see, and what time will they arrive?"

"Sundown."

"Uh-huh. More specifically?"

Drulovic could hear nothing but a dead dial tone. He brought the phone down by his side, and gave a long sigh before turning around, to stare out of the broken window that captured a rather panoramic view of Borsten. Assets. Drulovic, along with the rest of the Volkavian officer corps, knew greatly of the present King's involvement with the RVSOC. Since his ascension two months prior, there was talk of Velkan investing heavily upon the special forces, in terms of personnel and equipment, and funding. He feared their mandate; a single platoon operating without his direction.

He turned back to the map, staring on intently and contemplating his next move.




Royal Armory - Borsten, 8PM
Istvan Savic - Free Volkavian Forces


Leaned up against his black Caprice, Istvan smoked a cigarette and stared towards the throngs of people crowded around the main armory warehouse. Some were being handed guns from the backs of government trucks, while others ripped apart old crates of surplus arms they had pulled from the main warehouse. He had no need to join them; an M16 was leaned up against the door of his car. His window was rolled down, as to better hear the crackling sound of his police radio. His ears were open, but his mind pondered the anxiety of his present situation. Rosica is at the government building, firmly in our lines. It's her choice to be a technocrat, and I have no say. I want to be there, but I have an obligation here. I hope that we can maintain the city, at least until I can figure a way to get her out of here. His wife was pregnant, and the civil war had begun in their home city. It terrified him.

However, his obligations to the city remained standing. Indeed, as a participant in the city coup, he could not simply hide away with his wife in the basement of his ancestral home, and simply wait for the war to be over. Volkavia needed fighters; Istvan had fought before. He counted many high schoolers among the fighters gathered in the asphalt lot outside of the armory buildings, even some individuals who looked far too young to be without adult supervision. Sure, many conscripts had deserted to the FVF and the majority of adult fighters in Borsten had varying degrees of military experience, but the young men and women - armed with eighty-year-old weapons and molotov cocktails - were beginning to wear under the grind. Motivated assaults against the perimeter of Polkriz had seen close to a hundred FVF fighters - mostly students from Tuchansky College - fall prey to RVGF Ratels and machine gun posts.

His radio crackled once more, and Istvan turned his body somewhat, to the open window. He took one final drag of the cigarette and flicked it away.

"DC-Actual to HU-3, do you copy? Over."

It was the Detachment Commander, Colonel Florian Shodorow. Istvan reached into the car and grabbed the receiver. His thumb keyed the device.

"HU-3 here. Go ahead, DC-Actual. Over."

"Word from Government House is in, so you're a-go for deployment. We're tasking you with establishing a combat post within 125 meters of the main line at Polkriz. Over."

For a brief moment, Istvan paused. Sure, within 200 meters of the base were numerous buildings, many of which were already being utilized by the fighters. Within 100, there was a city block that was firmly in the firing zone of the main gate. The two concrete MG posts at the main gate, normally for show, were now supplemented by entrenched positions in the green in front of the base, as well as armored vehicles pulled up at the main gate. 125 was well within the range to be lit up at arrival. Fucking suicide.

"I see. What's being installed? Over."

"We're supplying you, and a team of mixed fighters that have been given their orders, with several vehicles, including a munitions truck carrying several machine guns and a MILAN system. I don't know what that is, but someone told me that it's a good-enough missile for knocking out armor. Over."

The MILAN made him feel a little better. Not by much. Still suicide.

"Copy that, DC. Where am I to find these vehicles? Over."

"Motor Pool. When you have arrived at the AO, report in. We will divert assets to take pressure off of your back. Over and out."

"Copy that."

Istvan dropped the receiver back into his seat, and looked towards the large concrete garage far to his right. An M35 truck sat parallel to the front of the garage, with a green Jeep Cherokee at the back of the M35, and an M2-equipped Land Rover Defender at the front. After placing his M16 in the passenger seat, he climbed into his Caprice and started her up, rolling slowly through the armory lot towards the garage. Istvan stayed mindful of the many people who crowded the area, his foot riding the break in anticipation for someone errantly walking in front of him. In no time at all, he parked some twenty feet from the M35, and climbed out, rifle grasped in his left hand as he approached the vehicles.

Shit...
Last edited by Cylarn on Sat Jan 25, 2020 8:26 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
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Democratic Socialists

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Sat Jan 25, 2020 11:21 am

Gendarmerie cantina
Polkriz Air Base
Borsten
2000 hours


Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock… Tick…

A PUGG wall clock. Made by Quartz, sold by Ikea, sold for 12 euros outside Vienna. Buy it in bulk, you get a nice discount. However, then you need to ship it in small batches to the border, hire some runners to get it across, pay them for their time, the risk, pay off some border guards not to patrol all the time, get time tables of the Volkavian gendarmerie. Of course, then you need to sell the goods, make sure the market is not saturated, weigh the risks against the possible gains, with every month waiting increases the chance some cog in the black market machine bust. Even in successful cases, and especially in successful cases, the money needs to be transferred back, which requires an entirely different corrupt system (and a mark-up) just to ensure enough money makes it back into your hands.

Anyway, to come to the point, me and a dozen or so men and women sitting in the otherwise empty cantina of the gendarmerie section of Polkriz air base. The cantina could house the fifty odd gendarmerie air staff that normally inhabited the base, but most of those had left on leave and just never came back. I am sure some of those were genuinely unable to arrive at the air base because of the rebel occupation of the city, and I even think there might have been one or two who were genuinely sorry about that. The only ones left here were those on crisis shift, necessary to man the base at all times in case of emergencies. Crisis duty lasted about two weeks, after which another batch of poor sods took over to be miserable in the hard, soggy, mouldy beds the air force had left us.

Animosity between Sky Pirates, our amicable nickname for the air force, and the gendarmerie had always existed. I knew it when I was still in the air force. We called the gendarmerie ‘publicans’, a biblical thing, which I must admit was a more clever nickname than I would have given those hairy-armed grunts at the air force credit for. See, you need to be a special kind of person to be an air force pilot in this country. You either love flying so much that you don’t care if you have to shoot a few people to get to do it (I am a proud member of this group) or you like shooting faceless people from a position of relative safety so much that you don’t care if you have to learn how to fly in order to do it. I fathom the split is about 50/50 in Volkavia.

As you can see, I don’t care much for the air force anymore. Not that I care much for the gendarmerie, either. That old animosity never really left me. The Hillbilly Cops who pretend that, just because they were busting smuggler rings and Roma camps in the outback, they were not instrumental in the survival of the regime. Sure, black markets were illegal in every country, they would say. However, the German black market was AKs and North Korean crystal meth, and our black market was bread, tulip bulbs and books, all of which existed on a spectrum of what was considered food depending on the country’s current economic situation.

I digress. About twenty of us were all staring at this 35 euro black market Quartz clock that had somehow found its way onto the wall of our cafeteria, next to the mandatory painting of the new king. The painting was not especially big, and the clock was rather present, so the clock actually took up more space than the painting did at any given time. We were waiting for the clock to strike eight PM, which was the time that the rebels would stop shooting. Some genius in the city had calculated that, with their current munitions stocks, they could fight every day from 7 am till 8 pm, which was the time table many officers had just thoughtlessly copied. So, indeed, at the stroke of 8, the sound of rockets barraging the surrounding fields stopped.

“Do you think they hit us this time?” Polkov asked. He was the leader of the ground crew, and therefore in charge of sweeping up any shrapnel that by happy mistake of the rebels had landed onto their plot of dirt. He was also in charge of discussing terms with the air force on where exactly the delineation was between the air force plots and the gendarmerie plot, which in turn governed which shrapnel had to be picked up by which ground team. I had a bet with Yuri Kasanov, my co-pilot, with ten bucks riding on the idea that when the gates of the base were breached the ground teams would use the confusion to slit each other’s throat. It was a shame I would not be there to see that happen, mostly because I had no intention on being on the receiving side of victorious rebels. Militias on a winning streak always get very creative in their punishments and very murky about who their actual enemies are.

In the background, a simple radio set (regular market value 100 euros, black market price 350) was broadcasting state news. Why one would use a black market radio set to listen to the only channel you could listen to on a government-approved set was a mystery to me, but I guess blasting rebel waves when every 45 minutes a conscript lost his brains to an enemy sniper was considered bad taste. The well-known voice of the newsreader spoke in soothing tones that always sounded the most reassuring when something terrible had happened. Last time I heard him speak like that was when the whole FAP scheme collapsed.

“Brothers and sisters of Volkavia. Throughout the country, CIA and MI6 hideouts are being busted. Under the guise of perfectly-rehearsed Volkavian sentences, they are pretending true Volkavians would ever turn a gun on their fellow citizens…”

“Which is outrageous. A true Volkavian only kills darkies in Africa for money and sport” I interjected, earning at least three chuckles. Which was not bad, considering our situation.

“In the city of Borsten, where foreign troops have linked up with these operatives, the fighting is the fiercest. Joined by Roma and Jewish criminal elements, who seek to profit from anarchy, these foreign troops have used tactics inconsistent with the Geneva Conventions to seize government buildings. In a valiant effort, our commanders have struck a decisive blow against their lines, from which they will most likely never recover. Currently, our general staff is contemplating how best to take the city with minimal loss of life. The brave colonel-general Hrepka died fighting among his men, slain by treacherous foreign elements.”

“Well, if general Hrepka’s right hand was bought by the CIA, I don’t think anyone in Volkavia is safe” Polkov said, putting his mouth around his fingers and pretending to shoot the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t be so idiotic” detective Melanova said as she inhaled the smoke from her approved government cigarette. Those things gave you a buzz as well as a headache, which was nice if you wanted to be sick for the next working day. And trust me, everyone but me wanted to be sick for the next working day.

“Hrepka was left-handed” she just added cynically, flicking the cigarette through a window.

“Kasanov, could you translate?” she asked. Kasanov had worked for the state broadcast before he joined the gendarmerie, and he spoke the language of state media perfectly. There were writing conventions in the business he still knew by heart, and there was so much he could gather from a short piece that I was always wondering if he wasn’t bullshitting half of it.

“Well” he said, in that academic, serene, thoughtful mode of speaking that made him look like an archaeologist translating Egyptian hieroglyphs.

“The state is promising that the fighting will be over soon, which means the fighting is going really badly for us. They lauded a fallen hero, which means they expect the fighting to take some time yet, and they blame the CIA, the Jews and the gypsies, which means these are definitely Volkavians.”

“Do they just tell you the opposite of what really happens?” Melanova asked. Kasanov pulled up his shoulders.

“Only when what the opposite of what really happened is incredibly convenient. When you start distorting the facts, there is no use in doing a half-ass job. The more you tell the truth, the easier people can spot the lies”

At that moment, the radio fell dead and the fluorescent lighting went dark. Outside, the flood lights switched off, and the only audible sound was the rattle of gunfire outside intermixed with the occasional blast of a ranging mortar. After a few seconds, the lights came back on, but less radiant and with more flickering than before.

“I guess the rebels finally dug up the power cables” Polkov said.

“So we’re on emergency generators now?” I asked, but Polkov shook his head.

“There’s still some redundant underground lines coming in through other directions. Once they dig up those, though, we’re on the generators”

Nobody stood up when colonel-chief Vasiveric entered the cantina. Both we and him did not stand on ceremony, which was nice for the both of us, since it would have taken him a whole lot of effort to get us to stand up. The nice thing about the emergency shift was that all the normal ‘yes sir no sir’ of regular duty seemed to melt away, which almost made it weigh up against being under siege and bombardment.

“Right, lads, lasses…” he said in his Gromov drawl, which was very easy to imitate behind his back.

“Orders from the major-general. Apparently, the Director likes his barrel bombs, so we’re dropping more of them, and he wants our helos to participate as well”

“Aren’t you technically his superior, chief?” Malenova asked, lighting a new cigarette. Vasiveric shook his head.

“The man some 1000-ish airmobile baby crushers under his command. Unless you guys are going to get in your choppers to douse them all in kerosene, he’s my superior. So, any takers?”

It wasn’t a light ask, believe it or not. Of the twenty of us, there were about six helicopter pilots, in duos of a pilot and a co-pilot. Of those six, I was the only one with combat experience. The rest were used to doing patrol missions. Which was probably why we were being asked to participate in the first place. The militias took air force helicopters under fire as soon as they got lift-off, but the gendarmerie helos they generally left alone. We had a pretty good reputation for just doing our jobs, which was strange considering the circumstances. Of course, that unspoken truce will last for about three seconds once we started peppering them with barrel bombs, and they would not take kindly to any gendarmerie they captured after that. It was my only shot.

“Sure, chief, I’m in” I said. There was a silent sigh of relief among the rest, as they had probably hoped for me to volunteer. I turned to Kasanov, who was looking a bit pale.

“Hey man, I don’t think I need you along for the ride, I can handle it on my own if you don’t want to”

There was a moment of silence, but to the thrice-damned credit of the man, Kasanov was no coward. He was a loyal Volkavian, who was willing to do his part. He probably thought he was doing me a solid, too.

“Nah, I’m in, Solomon. Can’t have a Jew fly an expensive helicopter all by his own, can we now?” he said, jokingly, to the sound of laughter of our compatriots. I laughed too, through my gritted teeth, as I could probably crack his skull on my knee. I stood up, zipped up my fatigues, and dusted some of the dorito dust off my legs.

“Right, you get the helo ready for take-off. Polkov, I could use your help”

“Sure thing, man” he answered.

Between the three of us, we managed to get the helicopter ready to move. Sarah, as she was nicknamed, was a blue-black soviet leftover, a Mil Mi-17 painted in the colours of the gendarmerie. It was decked out for gendarmerie service, which meant it had no of the machine guns and rocket pods I was used to from Afghanistan. They did not let us strafe gypsy camps, which I always thought was a shame, since it would have taken care of the competition quite nicely. It had an enormous carrying capacity, though, which is also something I remembered from Afghanistan. I had never seen so much opium in one place as when I flew in Swat.

With Polkov, I rigged up what I called ‘barrel bombs’. Polkov had been an electrician before joining the gendarmerie, so he assumed that what I was telling him was actually true. We filled up eight barrels: four with all kinds of munitions, from 9mm to some .50 we got from machine gun belts. The other four we filled up with gasoline. Getting them on board was back-breaking, but when it was done we had one decked-out helicopter ready to do some strafing. Just before take-off, I managed to get a little brown package, looking like something that came in by mail, and take it aboard. Kasanov looked at the package but didn’t say anything of it. We did final checks, saw that everything was in order, and with Polkov as a guidance we got a lift-off.

Never in my life was my heart rate as fast as when I took that bird to the sky.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

Lack of a real name means compensation through a real face. My debt is settled


Part-time Kebab tycoon in Glasgow.

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Theyra
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Posts: 5274
Founded: Aug 29, 2015
Democratic Socialists

Postby Theyra » Sat Jan 25, 2020 9:42 pm

Borsten
St. Ioana Chruch
Marc Lehmbruck
8:00 PM


A church would normally be the last place you would find Marc, more so during a time like this. When the righteous revolution against the corrupt Volkavian monarchy of House Marius. Sooner or later, the monarchy will fall, and a freer Volkavia will rise in its place. The question that lingered on his mind is who will survive the war. His thoughts were on his family, who was tucked away in Telemir was the last he heard, the fighting was close to the city's limits, and his family was safe, for now. This war will be bloody, Marc can feel it, and he had come to the church to pray that he and his family will weather the storm and survive the war. Though with Marc abandoning his role as a firefighter and has thrown his lot with the FVF. Him surviving will be more difficult than most seeing how he will be fighting the monarchists on the front lines. Which the skills he learned in Afghanistan will be helpful in the war. He is somewhat rusty with his rifle, but, at first, he was inaccurate but, after some practice, he quickly remembered the marksmanship he learned back in the army.

Marc was not the only one in the church that night, who was sitting in one of the pews. Others have come for their own reasons, praying silently like he is or seeking console with the church's pastor and nuns over the loss of their loved ones. This was not a Protestant church, and Marc did not care that he was praying in a Catholic church. His Protestant family may not be okay with that but, what they do not know will not hurt them. Frankly, Marc only cared that it was a quiet place where he will be able to pray peacefully despite the sounds of battle outside. He could hear the distant sounds of gunfire and mortars but, he tuned them out like turning it off like a switch. Focusing on his prayer with his eyes closed while he prayed.

The church itself was largely intact, it somehow had been spared from the fighting. That fact Marc was gratefully for, usually, places like this get destroyed during a battle. But, not St.Ioana Chruch for either luck or divine intervention had protected the church from harm. Marc had left his SKS and pistol at the door in a safe place. It did not feel not right for him to bring weapons into the church. Seeing how the fighting is over in this section of the city and was deemed safe. He would not need his weapons at the moment though some of the others in the church carried their weapons with them.

After he was done praying, Marc opened his eyes and looked down at his watch. Eight o'clock pm it read. Marc gave a small chuckle upon looking at it. This old all black analog watch was something he did not expect to have this long. For it has broken down over the years since he got it as a teenager. It was a cheap watch that was not expected to last this long. However, the watch was special to Marc, for it was a gift from his father whom he loved dearly. It was always a reminder of the good times he had with his father before that terrible fateful night when that fire consumed his father. Marc's right hand tingled with an itchy sensation. He scratched around the itchy burn scar as not to hurt it, and soon, the sensation faded. Having these scars on his hands and forearms would be a constant reminder of the day his father died, and it did not help that he had to get the scars looked at as the skin tightened enough where it was hard to move his fingers. With medical intervention, that is no longer the problem but, the scars remain.

With his praying was done, Marc has little reason to stay and with it being eight. There will places he needed to be at, and he slowly got up from the pew. Walking down the walkway while taking a look at the others that were in the church. He counted at least twenty people in the church, pastors and nuns not included. One thing he paid attention to while he neared the door was a sobbing older woman with what looked like her husband with a sad look on his face. Marc did not hear what they were speaking, but it was obvious why she was crying. Chances are it was during the fighting when she lost someone close to her, a son, a daughter, a grandchild, lost to the war. Unfortunately, there will be more like her, and Marc could only hope that his family will be spared.

Marc quietly collected his weapons, put the pistol in its holster, and carried his SKS in a relaxed state. Leaving the church and taking a deep breath of the cold air as he closed the door. Even though it is night, they are still a lot to do, and Marc intends to do his part. Sooner or later, there will be a government counterattack, and the FVF must be ready when that happens. Taking one last look at the church before walking away to his next destination.
Last edited by Theyra on Sun Jan 26, 2020 1:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Ihsalihna
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Founded: Mar 11, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Ihsalihna » Sat Jan 25, 2020 11:18 pm

Somewhere in Borsten.

Near the airport.

What's left of Rózsakert Klinika


"Kurva, kurva, kurva nyald ki a seggem... fucking- fuck! Fuck your mother and all her fucking relatives! "

Grit teeth, head ringing, colourful language, choking dust. Swearing loudly enough to nearly drown out the distant crack of sniper fire and the desperate shuffling of boots along the rubble and trash strewn streets, the wounded man seemed content to scream at the heavens as three tired men stumbled away from the truck towards the clinic. The fourth, a woman, clenched her fingers around the stretcher pole and helped them over the twisted remains of the outer wall to where, thanking God and all His Saints, they discovered Volkavia's shittiest little doctor's office.

At least that's what they thought. The woman would have thanked the Almighty for a pile of blankets. She'd worked with less. And it never hurt to be an optimist when your patient was losing blood at alarming rates despite your dressings.

A sob of pain as they did their best to ease him onto the examination couch was followed by the reaffirming declaration of fucking all your mother's gods — she met one of the rebel's eyes and nodded. "Screaming's good," she reassured him, "screaming means alive. But we're going to need a doctor."

"One's on her way, we radioed" the man said breathlessly, before he and the other man with a t-shirt wrapped around his face ran back to the truck that had started its new life as an ambulance less than an hour ago and already sported a bed streaked with blood, painting the grooves in the metal and mixing with the spilled, broken bottles of beer and the blankets.

That left her standing alone with the third. An older, greying man, an ancient battered AKM slung by his side, who looked like he'd stumbled into the city from a shepherd's field. He could have been thirty-seven or sixty-five. The haggard look in her eyes seemed to carry a kind of fraternity with the lines on his face, lines she would one day earn for herself. But her eyes didn't linger long. She looked over the wound, pulling back the leather jacket and the shirt stained a deep, spreading red, ignoring the weathered hands gripping the strong, shaking fingers of the patient on the couch, the baking heat trapped against her skull from the headscarf around her hair, the weight of her medical bag and rifle, like a sack full of iron weights and matching rod of lead biting into her shoulder, and the silent screaming behind her eyes that begged for sleep—

"Will he make it?"

She ignored the man's soft question, guiding his hands instead to press against the bandages to stifle the blood flow. It had taken too long for her to get to him - she gave herself about thirty seconds of evaluation before setting to work. They didn't have time, and she was too tired to talk and work at the same time.

The older man looked far older, shaking his head softly as he spoke to the writhing casualty, looking over his bulging veins and grit teeth. The woman looked like she always did, but with a kind of anxious energy behind the flicking motions of her gaze and the careful, practiced speed of her hands. It was high, she had noted, before she guided the older man's shaking, soaked fingers away and began to apply stinging clotting powder and re-dress the entrance wound. High enough to have fucked with the chest. The abdomen was full of wonderfully snug organs, but the chest had nice big pockets of air that happily filled up with blood or collapsed into themselves. The doctor needed to get here quickly.

"He..." she paused as she finished with the dressings, crimson dripping off her dull blue latex gloves. "He's a fighter. I've heard this city has good doctors. Trauma centre. And the clinic was close."

But she hadn't found an exit wound, and bleeding in the abdomen... was nearly impossible to control. As she administered morphine to the man and laid a cold piece of wet cloth from the sink against his forehead, she motioned for him to help sit him up against the wall the examination couch was against.

"Shouldn't he be laying down?" He asked, concern and confusion writ across his face. She shook her head, easing the rebel's knees up to his chest. "No. This gives him compression, lets him breath easier..."

"What's your name?"

"Zsófia. You're his father." It wasn't a question. There was no other explanation for the look in the man's eyes as he comforted his son, bloodied hand held against his neck as he attempted a smile, quietly apologized for the foul language. The man nodded.

"He's all I have left."

"Te xav ka ta biav," she muttered to the son, and met the father's eyes. She smiled, just softly. Just enough to tell him there was hope. She could hear the gouging of tires through dirty gravel, doors swinging open and not bothered to be shut, shouting and pounding boots. "The doctor's here. Your son just needs to hang on a bit longer, they've been treating people all over. Stay here-"

She ran to meet the local trauma doctor, a woman who had been driving all across town since perhaps days ago. There was no sleep in those eyes, and Zsófia knew instantly that they'd been doing her job for years and wasn't going to let some gunfire get in the way of it. She exchanged notes, told her what she'd done so far, and led her to the little room where a man was holding his son and praying to whoever was listening. And maybe somebody was - she was far better equipped than Zsófia. The young woman looked on and peeled off her gloves, letting them drop into the mess on the floor as the doctors pulled out portable equipment - old, but good enough. Borsten was practically space age compared to what she was used to. She softly stepped out of the way, her role done, her patient passed on to more intensive care, pausing to help herself to some replacement medical supplies that seemed to be in enough abundance to spare before she made her way back out to the rubble-strewn hallway that led to the entrance. As she pulled a cigarette out of her pocket and watched her fingers shiver, the older man's boot slipped on a bundle of discarded, wet newspaper behind her. He paused in what was once a doorway, panting softly, steadying the strap of his swaying Kalashnikov with his free hand as he leaned against it. "Wait. Before you go - what was it you said to him?"

"Te xav ka ta biav," she replied, and looked down into the flame of a battered lighter that began to curl the end of the rolling paper into black, twisted shapes. "An old blessing. 'May I dine at your wedding'." Placing the cigarette between her lips, she glanced back towards the room where it seemed emergency surgery was beginning. "Something tells me he'll be okay."

"...Thank you. You're a gypsy?" The man shifted his weight and straightened a bit, croaking out a soft reply. "Nice... t... ookah." It was fumbled, but it was enough for her to blink in surprise.

"Nais tuke," he tried again, "from this old gadje. For what it's worth." The man nodded and slipped back inside. Zsófia looked back down to her cigarette, rolling between her dirty fingers, and thought of the look the first rebels she encountered had given her when she arrived. They had said gypsy in a different tone. She had been on her way to slip back into the countryside when she had heard the men yelling and running for a vehicle to go pick up casualties. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked out the broken windows, over the ruined hallways and cracked walls, at the shapes in the smoke curling past her face.

Nothing.

But as she lifted the cigarette back to her mouth, she caught a glimpse of the blood soaking her sleeve, already sunk into the drab fabric and painting it with rusty earthen colour. The muted sounds of the doctors echoing off the walls, and a single loud "KURVA" spiking out of the bustle of noise, followed by loud annoyed queries as to where in the hell the damned anesthesia was.

There, then. They had shed their blood with her. That was Saint Sarah's answer.

For better or for worse, then. Zsófia decided she wasn't going to leave just yet.
Islamic Visadahyum of Ihsalihna
ویسداهیوم اسلامی ایهسالیانا
Visadahyum-i Eslāmi-i Ehsālihnā
This nation does not accurately reflect my political views. It's not meant to be perfect. It's just another tribe among the human race, and bears all our flaws and dreams with it.

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Sudbrazil
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 368
Founded: Jan 14, 2018
Corporate Bordello

Postby Sudbrazil » Sun Jan 26, 2020 6:51 pm

R E N D E Z – V O U S
Free Borsten, FVF vehicle Depot
2000 hours ~ light snow



Gunfire rang in the distance, the montone chatter of machineguns and the enemy replies. He had a rendezvous with death, on some scarred slope of battered hillside. Brushing through the savannah, rushing against the tide. Fumes poured from the Ratel’s hatches, sitting in the bloody glade. Diesel, gunpowder and burnt flesh filled their nostrils, as their courage began to fade. And the bodies. Those twisted bodies. Those poor nobodies.
Andrey woke up, wrestling himself out of memory’s murky soup. Gunfire rang out in the distance – the monotonous chatter of machineguns and the report of replying rifles. But that fight was not his own. He had a rendezvous with death, at midnight in the flaming town.
He glanced through the garage doorway, smiling at all the new faces he had been assigned to. With a hearty grunt, twoscore pounds of ALICE pack pounded the floor, and he sat down in a corner to check the webbing under his poncho. He had wandered the city, helping firefights as he pleased. Fyodorov had fought with professionals, schoolboys, buffoons and skilled men, but he had picked his fights and how he fought them. Now, he had been officially recruited, and he worried whether this platoon would live up to his expectations, if they even would live through the next mission. And a foolish mission it was.

The word had come from high up. A hundred meters from the gates.

The MILAN had a range of two kilometers, the Brownings were very effective at one, and the rifles up to three hundred meters. All could be hidden in the city buildings and all could reach the airstrip from there, but no, “yours is not to reason why, yours is but to do or die”. Let the bloody intelligentsia play armchair general. It was a rendezvous with death, at a disputed barricade. But to his pledged word he was true. He would not fall that rendezvous.
Damn, here I go again. Shut up,.you useless pile of neurons.
Andrey took a sip from one of his canteens, filled with tea and caffeine. He was tired. Too tired. He didn't like how he thought when he got tired. He got uppity, spewing purple prose which paved a way into the dark abyss of the unknown, forbidden libraries. Go away, you pile of grey paste. I told you to shut up. No, stop whining about the aristocrats. Now wasn't the time to break down. He turned to one of his comrades, and attempted to strike a conversation. Perhaps that would take his mind to more pressing matters than a conspiracy theory about blood rejuvenating the nobles.
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Theyra
Negotiator
 
Posts: 5274
Founded: Aug 29, 2015
Democratic Socialists

Postby Theyra » Wed Jan 29, 2020 9:28 pm

Borsten
Marc Lehmbruck


Marc's destination after the church was the armory, it did not take long for him to arrive. Passing fellow freedom fighters and other various personnel. When he arrived he found that the armory was live with activity as people with arming themselves with weapons, others transporting ammo and weapons and one taking stock with what the rebels had. After receiving permission from the guards to enter, Marc began the process of arming himself. Mainly, he collected ammo and some other gear that he would need on his mission. Once he was sure he got all the gear he needed, Marc left the armory and walked straight to the convoy.

His mission was that he was assigned to a convoy that would be starting up soon. This would the second mission he has been on since joining the FVF. Marc's first mission dealt with killing a pocket of loyalist resistance in a corner of Borsten that had been cut off from Polkriz Air Base. The mission itself was not hard and his team were able to eliminate the loyalists with little casualties. Still, he has not been on the frontline yet and based on what he has heard. It is not pleasant and will not be easy for him. Which is expected in times of war and he wondered as he reached the convoy of how some of his firefighter friends are doing. Marc knows that like him have pledged himself to the FVF cause. While others have stayed to their job, and Marc have seen them around putting out fires in the city. At least the ones in rebel hands and he hopes they whatever they are doing, they will be fine. For now, Marc had to focus on his mission and jumped into one of the vehicles and waited patiently for the convoy to start moving.

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Monfrox
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Posts: 33525
Founded: Mar 25, 2011
Father Knows Best State

Postby Monfrox » Thu Jan 30, 2020 4:28 am

The days had seemed to blend together as of late. Much like the gray skies of the fall which foretold that winter was on the way, the troop movements had told that something was happening. Mireli Ionesco, a meek girl barely 18 years of age, had been living out of the buildings surrounding the airbase for the better part of the month so far and last month as well. She had kept strict notes about troop behaviors and strength, patrol times, shift changes, smoke breaks, emplacement numbers, and the like. But, it was only what she could see on the outside. Lately, she had been doing the same thing, keeping an eye on the airbase from high-up and noticing that the soldiers today seemed more antsy than usual. She didn't know what, but they seemed to be more aware instead of the usual drudging around while trying not to catch a sniper's bullet. What could be happening?

Mireli didn't have time to make an educated guess before her radio crackled.

"Cinteză, come in. Make your report."

The girl sighed, happy to have been asked to come back. She knew the routes back and always changed them at random every time she headed back. With only a small handgun to protect her, she made herself appear as normal as possible. This time she took the scenic route to the HQ and made her way to one of the Commanding Officers. She let him see her notepad, allowing him to copy down the information as she pointed out to places he asked for on the map to correspond the data. When she was done, he handed the notepad back and pointed her off to the motor pool. Apparently she was getting another assignment. She didn't mind but she hoped she would be do for a break in the kitchen soon. She was hungry as she nibbled on some bread she saved while she walked over to the motor pool.
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Wolfenium
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 10538
Founded: Jan 17, 2010
Father Knows Best State

Postby Wolfenium » Thu Feb 13, 2020 11:17 pm

Motor Pool, Royal Armory

Twenty-seven years. That was the last time Artem had seen Volkavia. Old Brutalist architecture, older rustic buildings, same old stink... It was almost eerie how little had changed since he left. Of course, the ruinous landscape and burning stench was new, though his years in Bosnia had made his accustomed to it. Ultimately, it was almost a shame so little had changed, if not as a validation of his convictions towards ousting the Marians, but at least an exercise in spotting the difference.

Well, besides the ruins.

Glaring at the cheap excuse for an alcoholic beverage he had raided from a bombed-out brewery as he sat beside his motorcycle, Artem was hardly sure if he dared to down it. His years on the road made him a spirits connoisseur of sorts. He was sure at this point that his standards had gone up considerably. Regardless, he held his nerves as he took a swig, before hastily dumping the rest into a fuel canister. Cringing a bit at the sharp, bitter taste, he felt a bit ashamed at his lack of tolerance.

"Still tastes like an over cleaner," he grumbled, "strange, I used to be able to stomach this..."

Monfrox wrote:The girl sighed, happy to have been asked to come back. She knew the routes back and always changed them at random every time she headed back. With only a small handgun to protect her, she made herself appear as normal as possible. This time she took the scenic route to the HQ and made her way to one of the Commanding Officers. She let him see her notepad, allowing him to copy down the information as she pointed out to places he asked for on the map to correspond the data. When she was done, he handed the notepad back and pointed her off to the motor pool. Apparently she was getting another assignment. She didn't mind but she hoped she would be do for a break in the kitchen soon. She was hungry as she nibbled on some bread she saved while she walked over to the motor pool.


Glaring up as a diminutive Gypsy made her way across, Artem could not help but look down at his old worn hands. Perhaps, he felt, age was starting to get to him. He was already a fair bit past his prime, and he had been waiting a long time for this. There was not much he could say about the Gypsies, besides the usual tales of caravans filled with con-artists and thieves. There was certainly few nice things to say about them, but then again, there was not much he could say about them in general. He had hardly ever interacted with one.

"Oi," he called out to the girl, holding up his remaining bottle of vodka, "you want this? I don't want to drown myself before a mission, and I was going to throw it away anyway. Go ahead."

If his dwindled tolerance for bad alcohol had said anything about his advancing age, the young courier on the FVF payroll certainly confirmed it.
Last edited by Wolfenium on Thu Feb 13, 2020 11:22 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14691
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Mon Feb 17, 2020 10:17 am

Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States wrote:-snip-


The Mi-8 lifted itself into the sky, rapidly climbing in altitude and speed as it swept over the Borsten cityscape in a matter of seconds. At the high reaches he was at Solomon could see the aesthetic contrast; a grey sky of painted clouds, and a city with few lights and plenty of black smoke. It was surreal, in a manner of speaking. The city wasn't very large, certainly not a massive sprawl as Shigal was considered to be. The setting sun was becoming increasingly concealed by the clouds, and the environment was growing darker with every passing minute.

"All Raptor Callsigns, check in and begin staging loop over the city at eight-hundred meters. Over."

Some tracers struck up towards the Gendarme helicopter, careening at high velocity past the chopper. Small bursts, to say the least. Inaccurate, something that the crew could probably place blame at firmly in the hands of the more untrained rebel elements that had happened upon machine guns. As his bird circled over the city, Solomon could see the tracer bursts beginning to arc behind his helicopter. Another Mi-8, accompanied by 2 Bell UH-1s and a CH-47 Chinook, soon joined into the circle. The tracers continued to fire at the circle, fruitlessly attempting to bring down a helicopter.

"Everyone has their target. Begin splashdown. Over."

Specifically, Ludo Solomon and his crew were given the order to bombard the rebel positions closest to the airbase. It was a danger-close fire mission, as one should consider it to be. Way in the sky, Solomon would see the smoke and ground fire in greater intensity closest to his target. The other helicopters broke off from the circle, and soared above to other points over the city.

From the ground, Ludo could see tracers streaking towards his helicopter. A few cracking sounds enlightened the crew to the presence of fighters none too happy to see a Gend helicopter making a bombing run.

BWOOP-BWOOP-BWOOP

The radar system began to let out a warning sound; looking down at their monitor, Ludo was alerted to the presence of four rapidly-approaching heat signatures. Bright lights suddenly erupted around the helicopter, streaks of blue and red and green exploding in the air. The rebels were shooting fireworks at the helicopter. The streaking sounds of bottle rockets and mortar shells could be heard by the crew, which blended with the clangs of bullets to create a truly frightening experience. With the sun rapidly falling out of the horizon, the crew was likely having to utilize night-vision optics. In the presence of bright flashes, the crew was going blind.




Royal Armory
Istvan Savic


His eyes focused in on the cargo truck, and he hastened his stride over to the vehicle, giving a momentary nod to a younger man who was checking his equipment. He has a vest. I doubt he is much of a conscript with gear like that. Istvan placed his rifle up against the left rear wheel of the truck and grabbed onto the tailgate to lift himself up into the bed. He stuck his head through the opening in the dark-green canvas cover. The entirety of the bed was populated with green crates, all with yellow lettering that listed their contents. Istvan could make out some of the French written on a particularly large, square crate. Several other similarly-French crates sat by it, stacked into two stacks of four rectangular crates. The MILAN.

It had been years since Istvan had encountered the anti-armor weapon. The RVGF had ordered less than forty units prior to the FAP in the Balkans, and although the missiles were not a problem to obtain, the military was forced to cannibalize many of its MILANs in order to maintain a serviceable number in spite of a lack of replacement systems. As a Para, Istvan had been familiarized with the weapon. He was barely nineteen; at his present age, a plethora of investigations, interviews, and facts - coupled with a two-year cocaine binge - had robbed him of much of his familiarity.

Istvan climbed back down from the truck and retrieved his weapon, his legs taking him towards his car. More fighters were approaching; a bearded man with an SKS climbed into the Land Rover's passenger seat, and sat patiently and expectantly for the convoy to begin rolling. A diminutive girl in green fatigues - a face that Istvan had seen before, in the impromptu recon office operating at Government House - sauntered over to the convoy. A weathered gent had also joined the group, toting a Vektor R4 and complaining about the quality of his drink. Istvan, setting his rifle on the hood of the Caprice, took a moment to stare at the fellow. A Croatian flag...a Catholic. Volkavian troops had engaged Croat forces in several occasions during the war in Bosnia, and certain nobles in the military apparatus had prioritized the capture of Volkavian Catholic soldiers. Over ten years had passed since his time in Sarajevo, but Istvan still felt a pang of offense at seeing the flag.

He tried to pass off some vodka to the younger girl. Istvan frowned at the man. Another realization was setting in; he was intended to lead the convoy. In that case, having his only apparent scout intoxicated was a threat to the convoy that had to be shut down before the wheels started rolling. He opened the car door, and paused to address them. At least for the time being, Volkavian vodka had a much better purpose.

"On second thought," he said, loud enough for both of them to hear. "Go ahead and shove a rag into that bottle, then stow it for later. I'm sure that the Ustashe versed you well in such ordnance."

He shot a smirk at the Tikhon. It was a jab, for sure. I could call him much worse. The guy looked experienced, for sure; Istvan wanted to see how thick his skin was. Without waiting for a reply, he looked over at Ionescu.

"You. You're a scout, are you not?"

He reached into his car, right hand retrieving a map of the city from his car and laying it out on the hood. He cast another glance at the fighters who had congregated around the convoy. The reality had set in for Istvan; his superiors had intended, without as much as actually telling, that he lead the convoy.

"Everyone, rally around," he said in a raised voice. His finger touched the map, resting atop Polkriz. He looked to the young woman in the green fatigues.

"Have you been to Polkriz?"




Ihsalihna wrote:Somewhere in Borsten.

Near the airport.

What's left of Rózsakert Klinika


The street was going hot outside of the clinic, with the presence of government helicopters particularly inciting reports of gunfire, and fireworks. The rapid chatter of machine guns could be heard clearly even within the brick walls of the clinic, and blasts of red and blue lights flashed through the windows. Distantly, the rumbles of explosions rocked the floors and flickered the lights.

Zsofia, from the blown-out windows of the clinic's entrance, had a clear line of sight to Polkriz, with only a dead sidewalk garden and six lanes of asphalt and abandoned cars between them. Even in the fading light, the figures of soldiers could be seen moving amongst the dug-in defensive line. There was something going on.

A column of soldiers moved down the road at a snail's pace. By their use of cover between the abandoned cars and their accompanying Ratel, and the way that they consciously fired their weapons and shifted positions, one could guess that these soldiers aren't necessarily conscripts. Their black fatigues and rare Kevlar betrayed them as members of the 'Special Anti-Terror Unit,' an elite special forces unit of the Royal Security Service. According to rebel reports, the unit had already been operating out of Polkriz, but doing not much else than supporting the defense. From the adjoining and connected streets, they traded fire with rebel fighters as they continued down the road. With a 90mm cannon, the Ratel reported loudly at the small arms fire. Perhaps not so strange, anti-tank weapons were still in a dire supply for the rebels.

For Zsofia, it would appear as though the movements of this unit would bring them very close to the clinic. As if the situation couldn't develop more, she would hear the sounds of a door opening, and men with boots stomping inside. In the same room as Zsofia, a sleeping conscript was jolted awake by the sound, almost falling out of his metal chair while fumbling for his assault rifle.

"Vasar, what the fuck are you doing here? We have wounded! Read the goddamn sign, you fuck! a voice yelled in the distance.

"I am here for the Ratel," a gruffer voice responded with far less alarm.

A trio of men passed into the entrance. Dressed in a hodge-podge of tracksuit items and military fatigues, their eclectic dress could be excused by the quality of their weapons. American-made M16s, and two RPGs, with two AP rockets apiece. They kept back from the windows, hugging the walls. Their eyes, from beneath black balaclavas kept looking to the doorway from which they had entered.

A gray man in a Russian "gorka" suit entered the room, toting an AK-74 as he casually walked up to the exit. He opened the door and peered out, watching for a moment before stepping back inside. He turned to give the room a look-around.

"It's one Ratel," he said. "Definitely a platoon. Can't see the uniforms too well."

"One Ratel?" a young fighter called out, with a hint of enthusiasm in his voice.

"That's our Ratel, boys."
Last edited by Cylarn on Thu Feb 20, 2020 8:49 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Theyra
Negotiator
 
Posts: 5274
Founded: Aug 29, 2015
Democratic Socialists

Postby Theyra » Fri Feb 21, 2020 6:53 pm

Borsten
Marc Lehmbruck


Marc thought about taking a quick nap while he waited for the convoy to get going. He certainly would help get some sleep in since he has not slept well since the rebellion started. Worrying about his family and the conflict robbed him of his normal sleeping hours. So he tilted his head down, leaned back and place his SKS beside him and tried to sleep. This would not be the first time he had tried sneak in a few more hours. If he gets to fall asleep that is. Normally, he just gets to the edge of conscious and unconscious. Barely awake and bearly asleep, it would stay like this for who knows how long until he roused himself from this state.

This time instead of Marc getting himself up, a passing rebel noticed him looking like he was asleep and knocked him awake. "Hey, we got to rally up and get moving", the rebel said.

Marc quickly snapped out of it, shaking his head slightly and looked around. Everyone was walking around a man with what looked like a map with him. He must be the commander of this convoy and Marc got out of the vehicle, grabbing his SKS and carried it in a relaxed stance. Now Marc would learn about where this convoy is going and what the objective of this mission. So he walked over to the growing crowd around Istvan and waited for Istvan to speak.

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Wolfenium
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 10538
Founded: Jan 17, 2010
Father Knows Best State

Postby Wolfenium » Sun Feb 23, 2020 5:33 am

Cylarn wrote:
Royal Armory
Istvan Savic


His eyes focused in on the cargo truck, and he hastened his stride over to the vehicle, giving a momentary nod to a younger man who was checking his equipment. He has a vest. I doubt he is much of a conscript with gear like that. Istvan placed his rifle up against the left rear wheel of the truck and grabbed onto the tailgate to lift himself up into the bed. He stuck his head through the opening in the dark-green canvas cover. The entirety of the bed was populated with green crates, all with yellow lettering that listed their contents. Istvan could make out some of the French written on a particularly large, square crate. Several other similarly-French crates sat by it, stacked into two stacks of four rectangular crates. The MILAN.

It had been years since Istvan had encountered the anti-armor weapon. The RVGF had ordered less than forty units prior to the FAP in the Balkans, and although the missiles were not a problem to obtain, the military was forced to cannibalize many of its MILANs in order to maintain a serviceable number in spite of a lack of replacement systems. As a Para, Istvan had been familiarized with the weapon. He was barely nineteen; at his present age, a plethora of investigations, interviews, and facts - coupled with a two-year cocaine binge - had robbed him of much of his familiarity.

Istvan climbed back down from the truck and retrieved his weapon, his legs taking him towards his car. More fighters were approaching; a bearded man with an SKS climbed into the Land Rover's passenger seat, and sat patiently and expectantly for the convoy to begin rolling. A diminutive girl in green fatigues - a face that Istvan had seen before, in the impromptu recon office operating at Government House - sauntered over to the convoy. A weathered gent had also joined the group, toting a Vektor R4 and complaining about the quality of his drink. Istvan, setting his rifle on the hood of the Caprice, took a moment to stare at the fellow. A Croatian flag...a Catholic. Volkavian troops had engaged Croat forces in several occasions during the war in Bosnia, and certain nobles in the military apparatus had prioritized the capture of Volkavian Catholic soldiers. Over ten years had passed since his time in Sarajevo, but Istvan still felt a pang of offense at seeing the flag.

He tried to pass off some vodka to the younger girl. Istvan frowned at the man. Another realization was setting in; he was intended to lead the convoy. In that case, having his only apparent scout intoxicated was a threat to the convoy that had to be shut down before the wheels started rolling. He opened the car door, and paused to address them. At least for the time being, Volkavian vodka had a much better purpose.

"On second thought," he said, loud enough for both of them to hear. "Go ahead and shove a rag into that bottle, then stow it for later. I'm sure that the Ustashe versed you well in such ordnance."

He shot a smirk at the Tikhon. It was a jab, for sure. I could call him much worse. The guy looked experienced, for sure; Istvan wanted to see how thick his skin was. Without waiting for a reply, he looked over at Ionescu.

"You. You're a scout, are you not?"

He reached into his car, right hand retrieving a map of the city from his car and laying it out on the hood. He cast another glance at the fighters who had congregated around the convoy. The reality had set in for Istvan; his superiors had intended, without as much as actually telling, that he lead the convoy.

"Everyone, rally around," he said in a raised voice. His finger touched the map, resting atop Polkriz. He looked to the young woman in the green fatigues.

"Have you been to Polkriz?"


For a moment, the Catholic had fallen silent, as the newcomer told him off over his attempt to inebriate their guide. Istvan did not appear the part at first sight, but his hidden build hinted at a man who once played a grovelling lackey to the monarchy, though in his fairness, so did everyone else. His jab at his 'Ustashe' status only confirmed his suspicions. A few years younger, Artem felt, and he might have shanked the former toadie on the spot.

Fortunately, age managed to beat some humour into him.

Chucking with a tinge of forced amusement as he withdrew the bottle, he remarked, "not how I usually treat booze, to be honest. But if you insist, Chetnik."

Gathering with the other fighters around the former paracommando, the rebel kept quiet as the lad continued on. Despite his lax personality, the bearded lad knew when to get serious. Hearing him speak to the girl, he silently noted his rather huge folly. If he had known the girl would be their guide, he would have never offered that bottle.

For now, all he could do was listen and ponder.
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Monfrox
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Founded: Mar 25, 2011
Father Knows Best State

Postby Monfrox » Thu Feb 27, 2020 3:04 am

Mireli wasn't so sure of what to do. She hadn't been called out before, but the man offered her vodka and she didn't want it, so she shyly walked on towards the motor pool. One of the men got out and she presumed it was someone she was being tasked to. He asked if she was a scout, to which she merely nodded. He took her over to the map and asked her if she had ever been to Polkriz. She had, only a few times to contact other scouts. She dug in her breadbag for her notepad and pulled it out. Flipping through the pages, she came upon one she wrote down for Polkriz with information given to her by someone else and what she had seen on the way in and out. She pointed to it and tried to orient herself around the group as she threw a compass onto the paper. She checked her notes a few times over and over, committing the positions to memory and finding the paths laid out. Luckily, the scouts had always convened a few times in the days with each other to make sure that if anyone perished, the intel wouldn't be totally lost.

"We can get through." Mireli said to Istvan after a short period of formulation.
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