Ace Combat: Symphony of Sevres (IC)

[Rupudska]

Up, down, flying around
Looping the loop and defying the ground
They're all frightfully keen
Those magnificent men in their flying machines!

There is a statue in the the old airport of Constantinople, the one named for Justinian the Great, back before it was ultimately retired to serve as a cargo airport and museum. It depicts the aforementioned monarch of Byzantium, in the garb of a Marmaran general of the Second World War, mounted upon a horse and flanked on the left and right by footsoldiers from every nation of the Allies. Above him is a propeller-driven aircraft, which if you squint your eyes looks like anything from a Warhawk to a Spitfire, depending on who you ask - a statement taken from the artist in an interview decades ago says that he deliberately didn't want it to look like any one plane. Justinian bears a rifle like a spear, motioning his fellows onward.

The statue is the city's first and most famous memorial to the war, and is dedicated:

"TO THOSE WHO STAYED TO FIGHT
WITH A LOYALTY THAT WAS NOT OWED
FOR A LAND THAT WAS NOT THEIRS"

It sits in the gardens in front of the museum's main building, not quite centered and surrounded by a sea of poppies, cornflowers, and tulips.

The choice of a cargo airport for a war museum is odd, and the location of the statue odder still, to those who do not know the history of that land, that city, that airport. To those who do, it is the most obvious choice of all.

December 1, 1934
Bursa Airfield, Republic of the Marmara
6:58 AM

It was cold that day, unusually so even for December. The forecast called for snow, and with temperatures dropping throughout the way and a leaden, overcast sky? That was a distinct possibility.

Six planes - five biplanes and a parasol-winged monoplane - of a variety of colors and conditions sat huddled in a half-cylindrical corrugated steel building, one of five on the airfield in various states of rust and not-rust. All the buildings on the airfield but two - the administration building, and the control tower - were of the same sort of construction, with only size differentiating their purposes. The inside of this hangar in question was painted an off-white, with the words "27th (M)" painted in blue on both sides. Eight people - two women and six men - sat at a table by one of the radiators, far away from any fuel or oil tanks to discourage any uppity sparks or high-temperature bits of metal from getting any funny ideas.

These eight men and women were the aircrew for the 27th Hetairea (Mercenary) squadron, one of many mercenary forces hired by the Republic of the Marmara to bolster its small military. It had need of them, as Marmara was plagued by issues within and without - gangs, factionalism, and nationalistic neighbors all, not to mention the murky waters of international diplomacy for a small, young nation sitting atop the most strategic waterway in Eastern Europe. They came from all across the world, but mostly Europe, Africa, and America, as was the case in most mercenary squadrons, though there was even more variety in the ground crew of the base.

They, the 27th, however, were not here to deal with the factionalism that plagued the Republic of the Marmara. Not yet, anyway, and not today. They sat, by a table with a radio, waiting for two things. The first was for the commercials on the radio to end and for the morning news program to begin, which would come any second and tell of what new chaos the night had given birth to. The second was for the base's commanding officer to arrive with the details of their orders - their first new orders since they were brought here, to this cold mountain town, to form the 27th. They knew they were heading to Iraq to help the British crush the last of the Kurdish uprising in its north, and they knew they would no doubt have to stop in the French Loyalist city of Aleppo to get there so as to avoid passing through Kurdistan, but that was the extent of it.

Elaine Farris-Pike Oldershaw, call sign Magellan and pilot of the green and blue Hawker Fury, sat cradling a ceramic mug of tea in her hand, the nearest source of warmth to her besides the radiator and the others. She had a muddled expression on her face, and it wasn't due to the rather bad Turkish of the man speaking on the radio. This whole arrangement struck her as odd. In most hetairea squadrons, there would be a few days before any missions were assigned besides patrol, which didn't count. An informal means of getting the squadron members to trust each other, and it didn't always work, but reassigning mercenaries was easy by design.

But for the 27th, they had only formed officially last night, when all the pilots and co-flyers arrived at Bursa Airfield. Clearly, the Marmarans wanted this squadron out and about in a hurry, but why? Was the war in northern Iraq going that well, or that poorly?

She shook her head, turning towards the radio. Static began to overtake any other sound, so she set her mug down and gave it a solid thump. The static disappeared entirely for a moment, then returned to its rightful place as a mere nuisance.

[Reverend Norv]

Jean-Martin de Florac sat in his folding chair in the chilly hangar. His long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles; he leaned back and clasped his hands across his chest. He was unhurried, untroubled, gracefully indolent - relaxed as a cat on its perch. Jean-Martin had balanced a bowl of marinated Gemlik olives on the arm of the chair, and now and then he tossed one into his mouth.

The French spy had arrived in Bursa the previous evening, taking the train down from Constantinople. He had dined on Iskender kebab and a creditable bottle of Papaskara from Thrace, and then taken a room at a guest house a few streets away from the silk bazaar. Later that night, Jean-Martin had walked down to the airfield and met the other members of the squadron. Some he knew: Harris, the American, was a consummate professional; Blázques-Contador was a Red revolutionary, and she had almost killed Jean-Martin in Spain, but he could not suppress a private affection for her anyway. I have never believed that a soul can be reduced to an ideology. That kind of oversimplification made for bad judgment; bad judgment made for bad spies; bad spies did not live as long as Jean-Martin de Florac.

Now, Jean-Martin watched Eleanor struggle with the radio. He knew the Englishwoman, though only by reputation: a great adventurer, a great navigator, but not a spy or a soldier. Still: it was unlikely to prove a problem, at least against the Kurds. Jean-Martin was more worried about the Bosches: one of them outranked him, at least in theory, but the man barely looked older than the two children from Northern Ireland - with their loud voices and obviously stolen aircraft. There were few things more dangerous than green officers: that much Jean-Martin had learned at Verdun, when he was just twenty years old. Not so much younger, the Frenchman thought with grim amusement, than this Major Mueller.

Still: Jean-Martin had survived worse. He shifted in his chair, and reached into his tunic. Jean-Martin wore mustard-brown French Republican uniform, obviously hand-tailored: jodhpurs, riding boots, Sam Browne, leather gloves, polished bronze buttons. A splendid - if battered - leather barnstormer coat covered the uniform, and its fleece collar still smelled comfortingly of lanolin. His goggles hung around his neck, and - somewhat ridiculously - a beautiful Arab saif hung from his belt, its scabbard chased with silver arabesque in the Syrian style. It had been given to Jean-Martin by an Ismaili sheikh in '19, after the Frenchman had been shot down over very much the same desert where he would now be fighting once again.

From his tunic, Jean-Martin drew an envelope. He munched on another olive as he opened it - not much to this town, at the foot of Mysian Olympus, but it had excellent olives. The letter was from Aure, of course: like clockwork, she wrote twice a week. In the too-tidy handwriting of a precocious child, Aure informed Jean-Martin that the new press of olive oil was a touch bitter, and Hamid thought that it would need extra aging; that grandmama - Jean-Martin's mother - had gotten into a row with Aunt Lucille, but now they had patched things up; that the gendarmes had failed to catch a wolf that the Berber shepherds were complaining about, but Aure was pretty sure she could do it herself - would Papa please write Hamid to give her access to the gun cabinet? - and that she loved him very much, and he should send a postcard of the Hagia Sophia because all of her books only had pictures of it in black-and-white.

Eleanor thumped the radio. She was obviously impatient for the news. Jean-Martin had lived long enough to know that the news would come when it would come, and orders likewise. He studied Aure's firm signature, and saw just the hint of a child's enthusiastic flourish beneath the Huguenot discipline, and smiled.

Life was good. Jean-Martin could wait. In the meantime, he held Aure's letter in his hand, and treasured the softness of the paper. And ate another olive.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

"It was on that day, flying over Paris in the spring breeze of April ’19, seeing the smoke rise from the Champs Elysée and the Tuileries, that I realised fully the resilient strength of the German spirit unleashed. Below me was not the army of generals Ludendorff and Hindenburg, not a number on a map, but a million Teutons streaming forth under the black-white-red of the Emperor. The Knights that conquered the Poles and the Lithuanians reincarnated and inhabiting the bodies of these mortals, who for a moment became deathless warriors of vengeance. It was then that I realised that I too was one of these Teutons, and that through my veins flowed the same Germanic blood that flowed through all those soldiers, through all their officers and leaders, and through the Holy Majesty himself.

"On that day, a new world dawned on me. It was the start of a realisation that would eventually bring me to and from the steps of the Reichstag, over the fields and streets of Bavaria, and again to the Dark Continent. It would give me the drive to defeat the Bloodless, cowardly enemies of the Empire, to fight across the world against those who forgot their place. The enemies of monarchs and the noble born everywhere, who would live in an applaudocracy: a government of the loudest cheer. No, give me the government of the sabre, of the Mauser, of the roaring cylindrical engine, and the blood that flowed to capture Paris that day."
- From ‘The Last Knight’, autobiography of German fighter ace Marius Kürschner,

That final paragraph was just too much for Andrea to handle. She closed the book and tossed it into the table, next to the radio. The book had once had a cover of red, white and black, but the white had been grimed up by what looked like motor oil. The cover and the first pages curled up with memory, and revealed a message, followed by a signature.

“From Marius, to Andrea, who flew across the world to find me”

A few stains of red dotted the front and side of the book.

Andrea closed her winter coat around her, shifting somewhat to catch more of the heat she and her new comrades were sharing. She had known, on a rational level, that Constantinople was at roughly the same latitude as Barcelona was. Yet, from all the stories, she had always imagined it to be warmer there. She had not managed to banish the orientalist imagery from her mind, of palm trees and men with turbans, and barely-clad lady companions… Instead, she had found a grey city, cold and dark, with everyone stuck in winter clothing. Here, they wore the same business suit Europeans all over the world wore. Besides some of the buildings being made of ancient brick, and the distant Hagia Sophia looming over it all, the city had been just the same as any other. Well, half of them, anyway. The half that still allowed people to buy each other’s time, and to lord over their homes and livelihoods like raptors following a prey. At least the late ace Kürschner had the decency to paint his plane in recognisable white and black, even if he liked to drop with the sun in his back. Nothing Andrea hadn’t done to at least a dozen of his compatriots, though.

Having thrown the book aside, she now looked around for something else to occupy her time. Her Turkish was incredibly limited and not enough to follow what was going on in the broadcast, but judging from the looks of those who had mastered the language, it would not have been of any use to her. Andrea glanced at all the members of the group, doing a mental tally of all the names and what she already knew of them. And if she liked them, from what little information she had gathered.

Hermann Mueller, who was referred to as ‘the Major’. Andrea didn’t care much for rank, and besides resigning to the idea that the Marmarans still followed the capitalist military hierarchy, she wasn’t too keen on actually acknowledging their antiquated rank structure. Fritz knew how to make good decisions, so she wasn’t too fussed about following his suggestions, even if he himself referred to them as ‘orders’. His second, Andy, was a Muscovite who had gotten into scraps with the Bolsheviks. Something Andrea could certainly understand and even support, but the fact that he seemed to have dismissed the entire left wing on that account bugged her.

Harris was, as his name, appearance, loudness, brash behaviour, and gun-ho attitude betrayed, an American. In her head, Andrea referred to him as ‘gaucho’, cowboy. She did this so often that she was sure it was going to slip out any day now. Then again, Harris didn’t seem like the man who would mind. He seemed to have roughly the same attitude to command as Andrea had, although he didn’t seem to mind using the rank names as much. She had come across him a few times during evenings in Constantinople, drinking and gambling away what money he had. They did seem to like different types of women, and different taste in brothels, but not so different that they could not spot each other swiftly turning a corner from time to time.

Jean-Martin… Isodore… Florac… Many names for a man who was not that impressive. A nice uniform, plenty of medals to weigh it down, and a good bit of hair on his head, but apart from that… And running into his forties, which you could spot from the stray grey hair in his hairline. His French was unintelligible for Andrea; long-winded, archaic, flowery… A good thing was that José, has she had come to call him, liked to poeticise his prose, which meant saying the same thing in a lot of different ways, meaning that she could still get the gist of what he said even if she only understood a quarter. Above all, with his love for wine, poetry, music, he was unbearably French. His name seemed to command respect with Frenchmen and aviators alike. Andrea never spoke to him, or anyone, about the time she chased him to Gibraltar, but she was happy to let by-gones be by-gones. Perhaps he was unaware of that past entanglement, though she knew her plane was pretty recognisable. And proudly so.

Elaine. Now, there was a pilot. Seeing her natural aptitude for biology and naturalism, it was almost a shame that she had chosen the mercenary’s life. Then again, Andrea thought to herself, that was exactly the kind of thinking that had kept her down all these years. She was a polyglot as well, a skill she liked to whip out at the earliest convenience. She seemed to enjoy practicing her language skills. Behind her eyes, there was a certain… fear. Her eyes were distrustful, sometimes, and Andrea would sometimes spot her staring into the distance. She didn’t know much about Elaine yet, but she figured she would have to have a conversation someday. At that moment, she looked rather miffed about something, though Andrea had not paid much attention to base politics to know what that would be about. Apparently, one had to speak Turkish to get the best base gossip.

Finally, Bill and Doug, two Irishmen cousins of monarchist persuasion, intrigued and frightened Andrea in similar fashions. They were, of all the pilots, most clad in mystery. They would not look off in a bar brawl, which made them appear untrustworthy. Looking down at herself, though, Andrea realised that she too would fit neatly in that picture, a bar stool flung overhead as a weapon. Apart from some of the Portuguese militias fighting in Extremadura, she had never met people who weaved more swearwords into their regular speech than these two. Much like José’s French, their English was almost entirely foreign to Andrea, but where Florac was known to poetically say the same thing three times over, Bill and Doug had a habit of speaking in euphemisms. At least, that was what Andrea understood from the number of times they used the phrase “y’understand?”.

Sighing to herself, Andrea picked up the book again, forcing herself to wade through the thick, hyper nationalistic prose and self-congratulatory language of the work. Kürschner had a habit of mentioning his own natural awareness and a keen sense of danger. Andrea could not help but snigger at that, thinking back to a particularly hot summer in Angola, only a few years before.

[Bolslania]

Mueller took a swig from the cup of straight tea he held in his hands. He was what this mercenary band had for senior management, a position he had yet to grow accustomed to. He was in his thoughts at the moment, his eyes staring blankly at the table. In his mind he was processing the staticky Turkish crackling from the radio, he had been listening to this radio station for the past 4 years, and he knew when the announcements would come. He was thinking of Rostock, and the day his father and brother left to fight a senseless war started by an oaf of a leader. He was jarred out of his thoughts by Elaine banging on the radio. He had heard of her, a great aviatrix explorer of the Congo. Odd place for her to be. He would think that she would be working for a colonial authority or commercial enterprise doing cartographic or reconnaissance work, not in a war-torn Marmara.

He leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders back, loosening the accumulated tension from his shoulders. He had his flight jacket mostly buttoned, however his Marmaran Flight Officer's uniform was still visible, with the Star and Wreath of a Binbasi, or Major, on the epaulets. He didn't have his pistol on him, but in his plane was a Webley Mk. IV he had acquired in Constantinople. While he was indeed only in his early twenties, he was as mature as a man in his forties.

4 years of combat flying will make you grow up I suppose. He looked about the room, gauging who he was flying with. Blasquez-Contador he had flown with before and trusted as a capable pilot, even if she was a little willful on occasion. Andrea he found to be an oddity. She didn't act like a traditional female, but that wasn't a surprise to Mueller, a traditional female was unlikely to fly, and even less likely to fly in combat. More she didn't seem to have any interest in men, curious. It didn't bother him much, he trusted her as a pilot, and that was what mattered.

The Frenchman, Jean-Martin de Florac, seemed to be a traditional noble. Lazily eating olives and studying the other members of the unit, the two appraised each other. De Florac had the look of an experienced pilot, and maybe even something else. Mueller moved his gaze towards the two Irish kids.

Funny that I call them that, I'm not much their senior. But to him they seemed like it, Harris seemed a bit chaotic, but he wasn't childlike, for lack of a better word, these two still had a youthful energy to them, which the others had lost due to the march of time, like de Florac and Dmitrievich, or by experiences, like Blasques, Harris, and himself. Not to say that he thought Dmitrievich and de Florac were inexperienced, but they were the oldest members of the squadron. The Irishmen had come in with the Hawker Hind, which they had clearly stolen from the Irish Air Force, as he could see from the Irish roundel covered in loyalist slogans. He would have to keep a careful eye on them so they didn't get killed.

And he finally addressed his attention to the American. Clark Harris. Medical discharge from the Marine Corps after a crash landing in Nicaragua, wasn't it? Anyway, Harris seemed capable, if maybe a bit chaotic.
I'm guessing he didn't fully recover from his crash Mueller didn't know much about Harris, but he knew what happened to people if they survive a crash with injuries.

He looked down at his watch, the broadcast would be documenting the news shortly, until then, Mueller would sit back and enjoy his tea and the warmth of the radiator.

Dmitrievich for his part, sat reading a Moscow Daily newspaper. He wasn't bothered overly by the cold, but he still wore a coat over his clothing. Apparently the Soviets were beginning prototypes of a new tank, the T-34 they called it. There was nothing more on this.

A second try at the 5 year plan was also under way, it was anyone's best guess as to how that would go.

Probably poorly Dmitrievich thought. He folded up the paper. It was from ten days ago, but it took these things a while to get out here. He leaned back as Mueller and de Florac analyzed each other. De Florac eating olives in silent contemplation and Mueller sitting tensely as he usually did.

Mueller was an odd one, a man his age should be full of vigor and excitement, but Mueller had had that stripped away from him. The years of killing probably. Dmitrievich felt bad for Mueller

A man of his age is too young for this, mercenary work is one thing, but commanding mercenaries will only add to the strain Luckily for them all, Mueller was in no sense green. Maybe not the most veteran pilot in the hangar, but he knew what he was doing.

Andrea and Dmitrievich sometimes were at odds, the Spaniard being a communist and Dmitrievich's father having been killed by communists, Dmitrievich was less than full of goodwill towards reds. But Andrea was a capable pilot, and he was mature enough to know that he needed to at least be professional with her to have a chance at surviving. Harris was tormented by something, always intense and purposeful in his somewhat chaotic behavior.

De Florac was, curious. He was well spoken, educated in a gentleman's fashion, civil and charismatic. More than that, Dmitrievich could almost smell the nobility on him. He had lived for 17 years interacting with the Royal Family, and he knew a noble when he saw one. What was curious was why was de Florac in some backwater fighting for pay in a civil war?


Mueller, after enjoying the heat for a bit, decided he should probably try to interact with the pilots he would be leading. Luckily de Florac had provided an easy in.

"Family?" Mueller said in his accented english, nodding his head towards the letter de Florac held. He had been speaking english for long enough to which it sounded very correct, but his accent persisted.

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

William Pierce Buchanan & Douglas David Buchanan
Bursa Aerodrome, Bursa Province, the Republic of Marmara

As the sun came up from the east, young Douglas Buchanan took another drag of his cigarette. He could scant get a feel for its aromatic fumes, as the stench of “Greek Coffee”, as Douglas called it, was so intrusive and strong that he could hardly smell nor taste anything else, and American tobacco had always had a cheap, weak feel to it, but it was the only tobacco a lad could get his hands on at the gates to the Muslim world. A fifth unrefined ground coffee, four fifths ouzo, the most destructive cocktail since Molotov’s. The way that beverage reeked, one would suppose it to be fuel for one of the aeroplanes, but the truth was that a lukewarm brew like this one was the only thing that could wake up the young Buchanan properly.

His tired eyes ventured across the room, familiarizing themselves with the likes of his superiors within the squadron. Of the five strangers who had been given a commission by the Marmaran government, nearly half of them were female. These Turks had gotten really desperate to involve women in their great undertaking, so Douglas thought. Back home in Ulster, the lassies never made a fuss, and stayed at home as dutiful housewives. The same could hardly be said for their Free State counterparts, however: Fenian women were pioneers of chaos and decadence. The Sinn Feiners had even elected a woman just after Douglas was born, a crazy suffragette and socialist at that. Any man that saw fit to give his vote to a woman could hardly be called a man, and, in some way, the social instability that the War caused was the social instability that gave women the vote, that tore Ireland from the loving embrace of its mother country, and that allowed rogue states like Marmara to pay hordes of unwashed foreigners to do its dirty work, unwashed foreigners like himself.

Buchanan leant forward, shoving the snub of his fag into an ashtray on the table between him and the others. He then tightened the grip on his mug, downing a few good gulps of what one could hardly call coffee. And once he did so, his intoxication started to highlight how the faces that surrounded him were foreign and strange, each unlike the other.

Every officer was European, that much they had in common. So much for the progressive cries of racial equality, Douglas thought. He’d seen an African around the air base before, and there’s a chance a Chinaman worked with the ground crews in some capacity, but he felt as though those promises of equality were ultimately fruitless in a unit dominated by whites. Herr Major, the officer commanding this rag-tag squadron, was rumoured to be a Jew, so the Ulsterman supposed that made up for it a bit. Some hearsay had crossed his ears late last night, when the sergeant spent his time playing dice with other servicemen, who claimed his mother’s maiden name was 'Kleinman', a common name among the Ashkenazi people. It did make sense to Douglas, what sane German would rely upon a Ruskie to guard his rear in battle? Only one of the tribe of Judah could have such high hopes for a fossil as old as that Cossack over there. The fellow seemed to be twice as old as himself, and Douglas could only wonder how good grandpa’s reflexes would hold up in the sky, if Major Moses had to rely on the poor sod.

The American was still a bit of an enigma to Douglas. The lads across the sea had always been a distant breed, and though Harris’s behaviour seemed akin to his own, Buchanan expected the two of them to be carved out of different stone. Regardless, the Yank was his superior now, and though irreverence towards all formality and order was inherent in all the peoples of that country in the New World, even a tone-deaf Douglas knew it was best not to overstep his line.

The frog who sat opposite the lad could not be any more different from himself. The way he dressed, pranced and spoke simply shouted nobility and wealth, which starkly contrasted the Brit’s rough look and simple nature. Of all the people gathered in the cold, grey hangar, though, he estimated that this particular Frenchman likely had the biggest booze cabinet about, which either made the two of them the greatest of allies or the worst of rivals depending on monsieur le Capitaine’s munificence.

Regarding the lassies of the 27th, Douglas had fairly little to say. He felt that the skies were not a woman’s ideal place to be, but regardless of how naive the lad seemed at a glance, he knew better than to speak freely about a subject that could be as offensive as this one. They were his superiors, after all, and if the rigidly-enforced rank structure of the Ulster Volunteers had told him anything, it was that a lad should watch his mouth as best he could. Knowing himself, he would bet his remaining Free State pound that he’d be suspended on a trumped-up sexism charge within in a week or two, but that was alright, because this Londonderry lad chose to live life on the go, so he could not bear to mind standards and expectations.

Before he could waste any time thinking about that, the lad took another hit from his Greek coffee. As he did so, he could hear one of the lady-pilots savagely beating the radio. Just as he looked up, the sound that had previously been emitted from that wee metal box suddenly ceased, and dead silence reigned the hangar. It was but rather a short reign, however, as the static promptly returned, usurping the calm with white noise.

“Best leave it be, Cap’n. Turks don’t know how tae build proper radioes anyway.” Buchanan remarked nonchalantly. He found it strange to address the lassie by her rank, but if this was the first time he’d ever say anything to this woman who happened to be his senior in age, rank and experience, it should not be something that inspired any animosity.

Peering out the window at the back-end of the room was the boy’s brother, the newly-promoted First Lieutenant William Buchanan. He chose not to pretend to speak Turkish, and thus he stood farther away from the radio, physically alienating him from his peers in the centre of the room. He wasn’t sure whether one could even call them peers. As far as the boy was concerned, every single man and woman was leagues ahead of himself. They had actually performed combat missions. They’d flown under extreme conditions, whilst Billy had not even earnt his pilot wings yet. As a matter of fact, Buchanan suspected each and every one of them to have killed at least one man, and if they had not done that, they had likely shot an aeroplane down, and even if they hadn’t shot an aeroplane down, Lord knows they must have, at the very least, shot at one. William had yet to do any of these, marking him out as a distinct junior amongst aces and experts. Still, he was by no means lacking confidence in his cause, and strongly believed that his and his twin’s willingness to succeed would compensate for their lack of experience.

Only time would tell it the lieutenant’s expectations were at all accurate.

[Cylarn]

Through the lenses of his reading glasses, Clark studied the contents of the unfolded Asheville Correspondence newspaper and sat back in his beach chair, a lit cigarette clutched between his fingers on his left hand. In big black letters, the headline on the newspaper read KILLER CAT KILLED AT BILTMORE, and below was accompanied by a black-and-white photograph of four men holding rifles and posing in a half-pathetic, half-triumphant manner with a large black cat stretched out in front of them. Clark squinted his tired, his mouth contorting to indicate his displeasure at what he was reading. His right hand reached over to take hold of a steaming metal tin cup of coffee, sitting on a work cart devoid of everything except a coffee pot and a glass ashtray. For a moment, he stared silently at one particular passage.

"Goddamn crock of shit," he said, at a volume just slightly more audible than a whisper, before taking a sip of his coffee. Clark allowed the paper to drift down to his lap, no longer obscuring his profile from the other pilots. It had only been the night before, that the 27th had made the acquaintances of one another. And as the sun was just beginning to rise over the ancient city, the 27th was wide awake and awaiting their first assignment.

The night before. Clark shuddered in the cold and took a drag of his cigarette. A resonant pounding persisted in his head; a hangover, caused by excessive frolicking-about. The meeting between the 27th was less-than-remarkable; no mutual drinking or merriment, just a briefing and acknowledgement before they all parted ways. Florac was the only familiar face in the bunch; Clark recalled their previous mutual service together, flying out of Brazzaville against the Kongo-Wari and their Red allies. Clark looked over at the man, eating olives as he engrossed himself in a letter adorned with overly-neat, painstaking handwriting. Not my best chum, but I'd wager he's the accountable sort. Older than me, and certainly far older than he actually should be.

Cocaine. Clark's mind swiveled once more; he needed a pick-up, especially if they were going to fly off to Iraq at any moment. He took a final drag from the cigarette, and nonchalantly smashed it into the ashtray beside of him. He closed the paper and set it aside, standing to his feet and setting his mug down on the cart. Clark wrestled off the heavy leather coat he was wearing, revealing a blue-grey Marmaran officer-pilot's uniform; a simple cloth waistbelt held his holstered .45, and underneath a white collared shirt, Clark opted for a black wool turtleneck to better serve him in the cold than an undershirt and a tie. His accoutrements - the pair of US Naval Aviation wings, the three bronze stars on his epaulettes that denoted his rank, and the small rack of ribbons - rested prominently on his uniform.

Clark walked in the direction of the dormant aircraft. Slight pains coursed through his body; for all of the morphine he used, there was no way to completely zap the pain in his body without leaving himself gassed out. It was courtesy of the cold, creeping into his bones and exacerbating the spots where they had broken several times before. It was constant, but manageable; Clark kept up a practiced stride, a straight back, and a blank face. There was no need to show weakness, not to the rest of the squadron. They were all mercenaries; not a single son or daughter of Constantinople in the ranks, and mercenaries were prone to symbolic cannibalism. He didn't even turn around when he heard the sound of the radio being smacked.

It was a short stride to the olive-drab Fokker CV that served as Clark's platform. Interestingly enough, a black film camera had been fastened to the right wing, sitting just near the formidable M2 heavy machine gun. Clark rolled his eyes at the camera. I hope that Hughes fella pays big for as much game he talks. He climbed up to the cockpit, pulling from his seat a brown satchel. Wasting no time, Clark reached inside and, after a short period of feeling around blindly in the bag's contents, he drew out a diminutive brass vial and opened it. Holding it up under his left nostril and closing off his right with a finger, Clark gave three hard sniffs of the vial before closing the top back on and shoving it into his trouser pocket. As Clark walked back to the group, he could feel that fogginess of the hangover beginning to dissipate from his head. He plopped back down in his chair, and drew out a pack of Lucky Strikes from his right breast pocket, sliding one in between his teeth and lighting it with a small lighter. Letting out a puff of smoke, Clark leaned back in his chair, looking around the hangar and at the members of his squadron.

One of the Irish boys addressed the English aviatrix, telling her not to bother with the radio. The Buchanan Boys; stole a plane right off a runway and flew as far south as they could. Dig as many holes as you can, and hope one will get you out of trouble. Apparently, they had dug the right hole, and rather than sitting in the Maze, those boys were at the Bridge of the World with an expensive-ass plane they had no business flying. As for Captain Oldershaw, Clark heard the stories just as everyone else did. But while other people praised her for surviving the jungle inferno of the Congo, Clark hadn't formed much an opinion on her. I wonder if she can live up to the tales of her taking on King Kong.

Clark reached over and grabbed for his newspaper, opening it back up. His eyes however, drifted over to Major Mueller. Clark didn't much like the German commander of the squadron, despite having only flown with the man during some evaluation flights when Clark first arrived in the city. It bothered Clark that Mueller considered himself to be a mercenary. Flying in a mercenary squadron doesn't make you a mercenary, especially when you've consistently been serving the same nation for the entirety of your career. In the absence of any actual Marmarans, Mueller was the closest thing they had to a real Marmaran officer serving in their ranks.

Blazques-Contador. Hehe, accountant. In the previous days, he had seen her about the Red Light District near the Square. Like Clark, she had a taste in women. By sheer lack of happenstance, he was lucky enough to not have already propositioned her. Like Florac and Mueller, she had a combat record. Clark noticed the title of the book that Andrea was reading. The Last Knight. What a load of garbage. Clark gave a nod to Andrea, as if to get her attention.

"Hey chica, that is a horrible book you're reading," Clark said, holding up the front page of the Correspondence for her to see. "You'd be better off reading about the kid-eating panthers we have to deal with back home."

[Rupudska]

“Best leave it be, Cap’n. Turks don’t know how tae build proper radioes anyway.” Buchanan remarked nonchalantly. He found it strange to address the lassie by her rank, but if this was the first time he’d ever say anything to this woman who happened to be his senior in age, rank and experience, it should not be something that inspired any animosity.

Even as Douglas said this, the radio started to go on the fritz yet again. She raised her hand to give it another solid thump, then slowly lowered it in defeat. "You may be right," Elaine said. "But it's the only one small enough to fit on the table, and the Turks around here aren't any better at building those," she added, gesturing to the flimsy-looking thing they all sat around. She swallowed the last of her tea, then turned to the entrance, where the door had just opened. Seeing it was the lieutenant-colonel and de jure leader of the squadron, she shut the radio off and started to stand.

He, Lieutenant Colonel Mehmet Birkan, waved his hand dismissively as he lifted up the manila folder in the other. He was a man best described as "rectangular", with a square jaw, square moustache, square glasses, square torso, and square pants, with pleats so sharp they could be used for mathematical proofs. His uniform, like most officers in Marmara, bore few decorations. In most cases it was less out of a lack of distinction and more due to Marmara's awards system being in a state of flux with what nations it would recognize medals from, but he was just barely young enough that in his case, it was both.

"Orders?" Elaine asked. He nodded, setting the folder down, open, and standing aside it. He hadn't grabbed a chair, so whatever the orders were, they would be succinct.

"You'll be heading to northeastern Iraq for your first mission. You'll fly to Aleppo, then your planes will be disassembled and put on a train to Kirkuk. They'll be reassembled there, at which point you'll be tasked to assist in the destruction of an airfield the Kurdish rebels in the area have managed to build in the vicinity of Chamchamal. For now, that is your only mission in the area, but the Marmaran government has requested that you be assigned to any missions available that would require aircraft, and the British have agreed, so that is likely to change."

"Any questions? You take off at 0900."

[Bolslania]

“Best leave it be, Cap’n. Turks don’t know how tae build proper radioes anyway.” Buchanan remarked nonchalantly. He found it strange to address the lassie by her rank, but if this was the first time he’d ever say anything to this woman who happened to be his senior in age, rank and experience, it should not be something that inspired any animosity.

Even as Douglas said this, the radio started to go on the fritz yet again. She raised her hand to give it another solid thump, then slowly lowered it in defeat. "You may be right," Elaine said. "But it's the only one small enough to fit on the table, and the Turks around here aren't any better at building those," she added, gesturing to the flimsy-looking thing they all sat around. She swallowed the last of her tea, then turned to the entrance, where the door had just opened. Seeing it was the lieutenant-colonel and de jure leader of the squadron, she shut the radio off and started to stand.

He, Lieutenant Colonel Mehmet Birkan, waved his hand dismissively as he lifted up the manila folder in the other. He was a man best described as "rectangular", with a square jaw, square moustache, square glasses, square torso, and square pants, with pleats so sharp they could be used for mathematical proofs. His uniform, like most officers in Marmara, bore few decorations. In most cases it was less out of a lack of distinction and more due to Marmara's awards system being in a state of flux with what nations it would recognize medals from, but he was just barely young enough that in his case, it was both.

"Orders?" Elaine asked. He nodded, setting the folder down, open, and standing aside it. He hadn't grabbed a chair, so whatever the orders were, they would be succinct.

"You'll be heading to northeastern Iraq for your first mission. You'll fly to Aleppo, then your planes will be disassembled and put on a train to Kirkuk. They'll be reassembled there, at which point you'll be tasked to assist in the destruction of an airfield the Kurdish rebels in the area have managed to build in the vicinity of Chamchamal. For now, that is your only mission in the area, but the Marmaran government has requested that you be assigned to any missions available that would require aircraft, and the British have agreed, so that is likely to change."

"Any questions? You take off at 0900."

Mueller picked up the folder, flipping through the orders, the map inside detailed the exact route they'd be taking. He had been around this area before, so he was at little risk of getting lost along the way. He had met Lieutenant Colonel Birkan about a week ago, when he was told he was to be leading a new mercenary squadron. That was a strange day.

"One, has transportation been arranged for us or will we have to secure it at Aleppo?" Mueller asked. It wasn't assured that they would be travelling with their planes from Aleppo to Kirkuk, and Mueller had done this enough times to know to ask. If they hadn't been provided transport already, getting it would be a major pain in the ass. Often times the buses or passenger trains didn't work in tandem with freight, so their planes might be sitting in a box at some backwater trainstop for days before their crews were able to arrive.

[Rupudska]

Mueller picked up the folder, flipping through the orders, the map inside detailed the exact route they'd be taking. He had been around this area before, so he was at little risk of getting lost along the way. He had met Lieutenant Colonel Birkan about a week ago, when he was told he was to be leading a new mercenary squadron. That was a strange day.

"One, has transportation been arranged for us or will we have to secure it at Aleppo?" Mueller asked. It wasn't assured that they would be travelling with their planes from Aleppo to Kirkuk, and Mueller had done this enough times to know to ask. If they hadn't been provided transport already, getting it would be a major pain in the ass. Often times the buses or passenger trains didn't work in tandem with freight, so their planes might be sitting in a box at some backwater trainstop for days before their crews were able to arrive.

Birkan nodded. "You will be riding the same train as your aircraft. The local French government has stated that your planes will be disassembled in such a way that they can be re-assembled, "should the need arise", but I personally doubt there will be any trouble worth bringing out an aircraft until you reach Iraq at the absolute earliest, and more than likely not until you start approaching Mosul."

9 o'clock came and went, with the squadron taking off in a relatively good semblance of order. As they went off, crossing the breadth of Mysia Province and towards Lydia (and the Ottoman Border), they were largely the only military planes in the air - a squadron of PZL P.11s bearing the Marmaran roundel and typical brown-green-tan "leapordskin" camouflage of the Marmaran Air Force approached near Inegol, waggled their wings in salute, and returned towards Bursa. They kept their distance enough that it was hard to make out their squadron, but whoever they were, the simple camouflage made it clear that none of them were likely aces.

Eventually, though, they began to approach Eskisehir, just over the border, and were met by a squadron of Avia B-534s in grey-and-green spotted camo with black squares on the wings. These were Ottoman fighters, and while they kept their distance, they made it clear that they were being followed. Just because the Ottomans weren't enemies of the Republic of the Marmara didn't make them friends.

<<Marmaran mercenary fighters, this is the 113th Squadron of the Royal Ottoman Air Force. We will escort you to Konya, where you will be allowed to rest and refuel before continuing on to Aleppo.>>

[Bolslania]

Mueller, in the air over Eskisehir,

He had spotted the Ottoman fighters coming in, and had Dmitrievich ready on his gun station, when he received the radio transmission from the Ottomans, he relaxed, no fighting yet.

He picked up his radio, clicking the transmit.

"Solid copy 113th, wilco" He replied in fluent Turkish, it always helped to speak in Turkish with the locals out here. During the flight he had been keeping an eye on the Buchanan's, being the least experienced pilots he wanted to see how they flew so he knew what to expect from them. He transmitted again to relay the Turkish fighter's message to his squadron, not knowing if any of them spoke Turkish, he wanted to be safe.

"Stand down, they're our escort."

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

The flight from Constantinople to Aleppo had been bearable - weater conditions had favoured the squadron of airmen for hire, and the skies were clearer than they would ever be on the rainy British Isles.

He hadn’t picked up on any irregularitoes yet. Their journey was expected to be a calm one, without any direct combat, and thus Buchanan’s flying didn’t really stand out from that of those around him. With the newest plane, the glorious Hawker Hind, he flew at a higher altitude than the outdated fighters below. He’d flown a mighty Vickers Virginia over the hills of Ulster, and a Hind from Dublin to Constantinople. No, if he was going to have trouble flying, it’d be in combat, not in a routine transport job.

When the elder Buchanan did receive major Mueller’s transmission over the wireless, he flipped the switch on his set, hoping to turn it off so that he could talk to his brother without any interruptions.

“Fritz is telling us those Turks behind us are an escort.” he spoke, calmly.

Though Douglas sat back-to-back with his brother, the stench of alcohol and anise meandered over to the cockpit, much to William’s dismay. Due to the lack of whisky distilleries down in Marmara, the Ulsterman had gotten fond of the ouzo, which he regarded as his fuel for journeys like this one. William didn’t expect too much from his twin, having given up on trying to teach him the tricks the pilots of No. 502 had taught him in basic training. The only thing that mattered to him was that his brother didn’t shoot the bleeding rudder off, and though that was the only interest he had in his brother’s job as a rear gunner, he repeated the instruction whenever he could.

“Kebabs acting as a fucking escort? Has he gone mad? Those camel-riding fucks will shoot us out the sky any moment they get. I didn’t come here to have some bastard Turkman sniffing my fucking arse, downing me on the first day of the job. Couldn’t we fly up above those tall clouds to steer clear of them Turkic cunts?”
Just as he finished his rant, he took up a bottle with the clear liquid within, taking another good swig as his eyes fell upon the fighters behind them. Before a single drop could land in Douglas’ throat, however, William Buchanan remembered that the radio had two different functions: one could either receive information or transmit it, and instead of turning off any chatter to speak with his brother uninterrupted, he foolishly transmitted Douglas’ racist rant over comms. When that shock befell him and adrenaline rushed through his body, he instinctively cut off the transmission immediately, failing to utter a single word. Terrified, he looked at his device, unsure of what would await him now.

[Bolslania]

Mueller sighed as one of the Buchanan's rattled something off that sounded offensive. He looked around, seeing Buchanan flying above the formation.

"Buchanan get back in formation, leave protective positions to the fighters." He said simply. The Turks hadn't reacted to the Buchanan's comments, Mueller hadn't heard it very clearly either, and his English was much better than the English of the Turks.

He was nervous about the Buchanan's the kid couldn't even operate a radio, and didn't stay in formation. When they touched down Mueller planned to have a talk with the Buchanan brothers.

[Rupudska]

December 3, 1934
Near Mount Abdulaziz, French Syria
11:30 AM

Despite the inflammatory rant of the pilot of the stolen Irish Hind, the Ottoman fighters escorted them on to Konya with little trouble or incident - Elaine could swear, looking over at one of the Avias, that one of the Ottoman pilots was laughing about the whole affair. They landed at the airbase in Konya, which was full of even more B-534s, even a few aces by the color - while mercenaries were free to paint their craft as they pleased, in proper militaries it was considered something of a tradition for only aces to be allowed to choose their own paint scheme.

The 27th was escorted to the border by another squadron of Ottoman B-534s all the way to the border, where they were met by French NiD-62s - a colonial squadron, no doubt, as it was known that the new Dewoitine factory in Oran was producing a cantilever-winged monoplane for the French Air Force. The NiDs escorted them all the way to Aleppo, where they landed with only a small amount of fanfare as the pilots were given a few hours to their own devices while their planes were packed onto a train. Elaine herself managed to find a relatively sequestered jazz club to whittle the night away in before turning in for the night.

The ride out was equally quiet, for the most part. While a military train, the cars they rode in were fairly comfortable, the locomotive was fast, and the scenery was at least tolerable. The steppe of northwestern Syria gave way to the... different steppe of northeastern Syria, and soon there began to appear low hills, then small mountains.

And it was near one ridge of small mountains that the train suddenly began to slow down, far from any real signs of civilization. Elaine, engrossed as she was in reading her newspaper, only noticed when the train came to a complete stop. Not terribly unusual, but looking out the window either direction didn't reveal a water or a coaling tower, and that was unusual.

A French colonel in an Army uniform burst into the car, looking like he'd run all the way from the conductor car.

"Get to your planes. We have a problem."

[Bolslania]

Mueller sat quietly in his chair, he was reading a copy of Red Badge of Courage by Stephan Crane. Ground combat was something he was entirely unfamiliar with, but it was a good read no less. He was at the part of the book where the protagonist runs into the swamp, when the Colonial Officer came in.

Get to your planes, we have a problem

Mueller stood up from his seat, pulling on his flight jacket as he spoke

"What is it?" He asked, clearing the aisle for the other pilots to get out. Dmitriviech joined him. It would be a disaster if they were under attack, because refueling the planes, and reconstructing them, and then taking off, would make them sitting ducks for any attackers.

[Cylarn]

Clark Harris loathed travel by train, for a variety of reasons. In his home tracts of western North Carolina and indeed true for the rest of the state, the derailment of a train was tantamount to disaster. Boy-howdy, don't they love to pop off those rails. His father had been present in the railroad town of Salisbury when Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show came to an abrupt end with a literal train wreck. Even more, accidents on the rails kept goods from flowing to the small towns and businesses that needed them. Such disasters obliged the men and boys of the Appalachian Mountains to leave their homes and head into the night, to offer what help can be offered when a several-ton locomotive and its cars are strewn down a mountain ridge.

Clark rustled in his seat, taking a sip of his brandy from a tin cup as he gazed out the window at the passing landscape. Particularly, he focused on the sky. For a ground attack pilot, a train was a particularly prime target to destroy. Trains moved troops and supplies upon a fixed line. Some hauled artillery; a few even emulated buffalo hunters of the American West - rolling, armored death squads with enough firepower to decimate a company in short moments. However, the fatal flaw was the fixed path of travel that fated trains to meet their destinations. A good attacker isn't stopped by locomotion. Clark felt vulnerable at best. Another long sip, and he reached into the satchel sitting next to him, pulling out a metal canteen.

Clark poured himself another drink, and contemplated on the questionable investment that he now considered in peril from either a random derailment or an attack from the air - or from the ground, for that matter. His aircraft - an investment of over $44,000 - sat defenseless in what amounted to a coffin. That is a ton of money. Why did I not duck and run with it?

Clark sipped his drink, just as his gut trembled. We're stopping. The relative "buzz" of inebriated did not help his anxiety, as he felt his heart drop. Clark gripped the cup tightly, and finished his drink. The land around them was not their destination. Damn, we're in a tight spot.

"Damn, we're in a tight spot," Clark blurted aloud, albeit in a calm, yet concerned tone. He looked up ahead in the car, and locked onto the officer entering the car with haste. Damn, we're in a tight spot.

"Get to your planes. We have a problem."

"Oh, gladly," Clark declared as he rose to his feet, tossing his canteen and cup into the satchel and throwing it over his shoulder. His right hand picked up his cap and jacket, conveniently resting next to the wall of the passenger car, atop the seat. Clark looked to Mueller, and then back to the officer, awaiting a response.

Better than nothing. At least I am off of this deathtrap.

[Reverend Norv]

It was strange to be back.

Jean-Martin had last been in Syria the better part of twenty years earlier: a few months after the Armistice, when the Republic was still in Paris and the Alawites had rebelled. He had flown reconnaissance, been shot down, been rescued by an Ismaili tribe, and learned a great deal from them about the desert. Jean-Martin had been shattered, in those days: Verdun was with him every night when he closed his eyes. And in the desert, the clean bare wind had scoured the nightmares away. Not for good; not forever. But enough to see some beauty in the sunset again, instead of fear of the dreams to come.

Now, on a train through the badlands that fringed that same desert, Jean-Martin drank strong Turkish coffee out of a silver cup and thought about beauty: Amira's lips, Aure's voice, vineyards at Mont-Olivet, desert sunsets. There was a beauty, he supposed, in just having lived long enough and richly enough to have seen so much beauty; which meant that there was a beauty in getting older, too. Jean-Martin found that a comforting thought.

The flight from Bursa had been smooth; as Jean-Martin had expected, the squadron had picked up an Ottoman fighter escort over Eskisehir. Jean-Martin was not troubled by that. True, he had killed an Ottoman intelligence officer in Adana, in a duel over the affections of a White Russian countess. But that had been way back in '22; and a few years later Jean-Martin had accidentally destroyed a cutting-edge Greek battlecruiser while escaping from interrogation in the Sparta dockyards, which put him more or less back in the Sublime Porte's good graces. Or close enough, at least, that the Ottomans would not provoke a diplomatic incident with Marmara by shooting Jean-Martin down while he was flying under Marmaran colors.

No, it was the Irish brothers who dared the Sultan's wrath: one of them evidently felt that "those camel-riding fucks will shoot us out the sky any moment they get." For whatever reason, Jean-Martin noticed, the only part of Buchanan's rant that caused him any annoyance was its ignorance: as every Arab from Marrakesh to Muscat would indignantly agree, Turks did not know the first thing about riding camels. Mueller chided the brothers to stay in formation - which was odd, since notwithstanding Douglas Buchanan's appeal, the Hind had never actually broken formation. And the Ottomans had showed not the slightest inclination to respond: they escorted the squadron with perfect courtesy to the Cilician border, where a group of French colonial biplanes had taken over. One of these, spotting the Republic's coat of arms within the Marmara roundel on Jean-Martin's aircraft, had dipped its wing in collegial salute.

Yes, all things considered, the flight from Bursa had been smooth. It was in Aleppo that Jean-Marin first was struck by the strangeness of being back in Syria, though. With a pang, he had left his Dewoitine to be disassembled and loaded onto the train to Kirkuk - solemnly enjoining the aircrew to be gentle with it, for it was dear to him - and then he had wandered the streets that he remembered so well from back in '19. Aleppo had changed so little: France had been undone, driven into exile, and the whole world had gone mad, but here the silversmiths still worked their trade in the same alley of the souk where Jean-Martin had watched them almost twenty years before. He ate kibbeh with sumac, and played chess with an old Arab man in the park, and talked with him for a while about the lifetimes of cities and of men.

And so Jean-Martin's reflective mood, on that long train ride across Syria, was well-earned. He drank his coffee, and gazed out the window, and kept an eye on his comrades: Elaine, buried in her newspaper; Mueller, reading an American novel; Harris, steadily making his way through a canteen full of liquor with an expression of mute, pained endurance. Jean-Martin didn't ask. Outside his window, low mountains climbed the horizon and gradually faded away again.

Until they didn't. These mountains did not grow larger or smaller; the train was not getting closer to them or further away. Instead, quite gradually, it was slowing down.

Jean-Martin took a deep breath in, and then slowly out, through his nose. He felt the familiar heat move in his limbs; heard his pulse increase - not racing, but speeding up to a steady quick-march. Action.

Clark Harris abruptly looked up from his cup, stared out the window, and announced: "Damn, we're in a tight spot."

Jean-Martin smiled broadly. "Well observed," he agreed. The Frenchman stood, and loosened his Syrian scimitar in its silver-chased scabbard. When trains stopped in the middle of the Syrian wilderness, it was safe to assume that an attempted boarding by bandits was soon to follow.

Sure enough, the door burst open. A French Army officer skidded on his heels to a halt, and looked down at the glimmering point of Jean-Martin's Damascus steel blade, leveled almost apologetically at his chest. Then the man cried: "Get to your planes. We have a problem."

Harris seemed willing to do exactly that without further ado; Mueller, understandably, asked for clarification. Jean-Martin sheathed his sword. "We need to start getting the planes fit to fly," the spy told Mueller. "You can brief us in the air, Monsieur le major. No time to waste." Jean-Martin nodded to Harris. "Let's get going."

[Bolslania]

Mueller looked back at de Florac and Harris, who were the only ones to have left their seats when the colonial officer had come in. De Florac suggested alacrity as he sheathed a sword that Mueller hadn't even noticed had been drawn, it was strange. An expensive sword in the hands of a mercenary was a strange sight to see.

"Right, explain it on the way." Mueller said shortly, grabbing the colonial officer by the arm and moving him out of the train, Mueller stepping off behind him, casting an eye about the sky to check for an enemy air attack. Nothing at the moment, he didn't hear any engines either. If we're not under attack, then what is going on?

"de Florac, you're in charge until I figure out what's going on, get to the planes and standby for further instruction." He said, turning to de Florac, rattling off orders quickly yet calmly.

"Dmitri, get the plane ready." Dmitriviech nodded and briskly strided to where the aircraft were.

"Now, what's going on." He said sharply the French officer.

Dmitriviech reached the Aero A.32, climbing up on the wing and picking up his flight helmet and jacket, which he put on. He went around the aircraft, checking to make sure everything had been put together properly, he was almost silent in his work, the occasional grunt of thought escaping his lips.

[Rupudska]

Elaine stood up with a start, as if startled, when the French officer (and Mueller) finally left the car. She looked up at Dmitri as he was leaving, then wordlessly followed her to her own plane.

She stepped out of the train only as she reached the last of the passenger-carrying cars. Though it was close to noon, even here in Syria the December air was a chilly ten or so degrees Celsius. Not as bad as Bursa, of course, but she still felt it would be some time before she was used to the cold again, after so long living in Africa.

Like the other aircraft, the French crew were hastily putting her Fury together, with the airplane cars near the back of the train. They worked fast, but not so much as to skip any steps - to lose a plane out here due to mechanic error would be devastating to the pilot, and humiliating for the crew, and so to do anything that would encourage that was unthinkable.

She turned to one of the men standing off to the side, occasionally giving orders like the conductor of an orchestra.

"How long will you need?"

He turned to her in surprise, which wore off in an instant, and shrugged. "A few minutes, mademoiselle, not long. We planned in case something like this -" he gesticulated towards the front of the train "- would happen, so there is little to do but put the wings and wheels on, and make sure nothing was rattled loose."

She nodded, accepting the answer. A few minutes wasn't bad at all, even counting the time between whenever the crew chief was given the order and however long it took for an officer to reach the pilot's car and for her to jog back to the planes. "Do you know what's going on, at least?"

He shook his head.

BRIEFING
OST: Disc 1 Track 3: Briefing I

The officer wiped his brow as he turned to Mueller, then de Florac and Harris, and back to Mueller. Even in the chill, he was sweating.

"Damned rebels over in Iraq just couldn't stay there," he said bitterly.

"We knew the fortress up there-" he pointed at the mountain "-was inhabited, but it didn't have anything able or anyone willing to even think of trying something like this. Even when they moved in artillery, we didn't think they had anything other than field guns and old machine guns, to discourage the Kurdish rebels over in Iraq from coming here. We didn't expect them to join them."

He sighed, gathering his wits (and composure) before continuing.

"Apart from in front of us, and on the mountain itself, all they have is infantry and cavalry, maybe a few machine guns. Any one of them would be little threat even with what ancient guns and swords they may have, but there's enough of them that the engineers are concerned they could simply overrun the train with numbers, and they've convinced my superiors, who've convinced me. They have three cars blocking the rail up front, one of which has some kind of steel plating attached to it, and a few field guns, along with a Maxim gun on a cart. The fortress has even more field guns and machine guns, and they've apparently added a proper artillery cannon and a light anti-air gun."

"We have someone up front talking to them to buy time, but it's clear they don't intend to let us simply leave with everything we currently have, and they likely know we know it. Once you're in the air, you're all free to get them to disperse as you see fit, then head straight on to Mosul, refuel, and fly the rest of the way to Kirkuk. And while it would be appreciated if you take out the fortress, once we drive them away from the railway it shouldn't be a substantial threat to the train."

[Bolslania]

Mueller looked up towards where the French Officer pointed, there it was. A large fortress probably built during the Great War, or maybe a bit earlier, sat atop the mountain, looking down at the train.

"We'll take care of it." Mueller said to the Officer, striding off towards his aircraft, he saw Dmitri inspecting their aircraft as Elaine waited for hers to be assembled. Mueller figured it would only take 15, maybe 20, minutes for the planes to be assembled and armed for their mission. From where Mueller was he couldn't see the Kurdish rebels, either at the front of the train or on the mountain. In his head, he was thinking through a plan. The Hind on its own could probably deal with the cars out front, but were the Buchanan's experienced enough for a danger-close mission? Wouldn't rely on it. Harris could maybe do it with the fighters as support, that would leave Mueller and the Buchanan's available to attack the fortress. He wanted as little time being shot at as possible, which is why he was considering splitting the squadron. But did he want to take Buchanan up on the mountain? It wouldn't be danger close, but there was a small AA gun up there. Then again, would the ordnance that Mueller and Buchanan would be carrying do any damage to the fortress or just chip away some dirt?

"Harris! Do you reckon that you could take out some light cars and infantry with de Florac and Oldershaw?" Mueller said over his shoulder, looking thoughtfully up at the fortress.

Wait, here's an idea "With just your .50?" He added. His prototype plan involved the squadron, with Harris in lead, making a strafing run on the Kurds in front of the train, and then peeling away, Harris still having explosives mounted, so that all three attackers could make a bomb run on the fortress.

[Cylarn]

"No time to waste. Let's get going," Jean-Martin declared, his head nodding towards Clark as Elaine and Dmitri preceded Mueller and the French officer in leaving the car.

The two had known one another for less than a year; yet, Clark recognized the comparisons of trust between the two men, and the rest of the squadron. The nod, as Clark interpreted it, was a request if anything. A request for mutual support in overcoming the present obstacle. He reciprocated with a nod of his own, and followed behind Mueller to exit the car. Clark reached down to the holstered pistol on his belt and undid the widow flap, gripping hold of his 45 as he stepped down onto the ground.

The exterior of the stalled train was abuzz with activity. Soldiers - French regulars and colonial askari alike - strode up and down the line, with some stopping at various positions and training their rifles off into the distance. No gunfire. Yet. Clark relinquished the grip he had on his handgun, instead taking the opportunity to gaze out upon the wilderness surroundings and look for any impending threats. From left to right, he saw no movement in the distance. A burly French sergeant major passed by Clark, a Chamelot pistol clutched in his right hand. The mustachioed man hollered and gestured up towards the engine at what Clark surmised were the infantry protecting the front of the vehicle. A team of four men pushed a field gun past the NCO.

"Encircle the engine, watch the flanks and the blockage!" he shouted.

Ah, so the tracks are blocked? Clark looked to the rear of the train, where he knew the aircraft to be. A sigh of relief was released, when Clark noticed his Fokker was being rebuilt by the air crew, who moved in such a way as to suggest that there was anticipation of this such predicament. Clark turned to face their liason, a man made sweaty from stress.

A fortress, infantry formations, artillery batteries, cavalry troops, and a stationary fighting position centered around old railcars. The proverbial light in the eyes of Clark Harris flashed with martial delight while the officer delivered his impromptu briefing. The targets were legitimate; the French were not asking for the 27th to commit a war crime. They were instead needed to ensure the passage of the train. Clark shot his eyes over to the near-ancient stone fortress sitting in the distance, and his mind steadily contemplated the complexities of a ground attack that could immobilize the fortress. The Paraguayan forces in the Chaco typically reinforced their fortresses with enough machine guns placed to cover the air surrounding their perimeter, and it was a tactic sound enough that Clark would assume to be universal for anyone holding a fort. Quite possibly out of reach and capability for the French pieces to shell, it would require two aircraft at the very least to strafe and bomb. As for the latter type of attack, it would take a plane diving a bomb into each specific target, from the turret positions to the presumably large-caliber gun mentioned by the officer. That big gun will pose the biggest risk to a stationary train. I don't think this contingent would totally fail to clear the blockade up ahead on the tracks all by their lonesome, but that big gun alone will blow these cars right off the track, not to mention coupled with the field guns. We will need to hit them fast, in concert, before they can get fire on the train.

Mueller spoke up next, formulating a plan with the consideration of the squadron. Clark turned his attention to his commanding officer, silently appreciating the open attitude of the briefing. The young German Major called on Harris, inquiring specifically if he could take on the front cars with a fighter escort. He mentioned the .50s, to boot. He isn't a fucking idiot, thank God. Maybe a bit stick-up-the-ass, but smarter than a lot of the guys I served with back in the Corps. However, Clark had his disagreements with the overall plan, but thankfully, it seemed that Mueller was welcome to alterations. With the floor open, Clark decided to lay out his cards.

"Seems a bit overkill, three planes and possibly our ground assets all hitting that blockade," he started. "I can unclog the cars myself, provided I have our ground forces hitting them with direct fire. See, these are infantry cats; hit 'em shockingly enough with force and speed from forward and above, and studies show they'll bend knee and run off if they are too busy taking cover to return fire."

Clark reached into his pocket, drawing out a pack of Lucky Strikes. In the short seconds of his pause, he proceeded to fire up one of his cigarettes, and then continued on with hashing out his views on their mission.

"Now Major, that fortress and any reaction movements by their infantry and cavalry will pose a serious threat, but like I said, I can clear up the track positions without need of a fighter escort as long as the brunt of the French troops and light guns are backing me up. At the very least, give me someone like Contador to provide overwatch and to spot any movements on our positions here. That leaves us four planes to hit the fortress and to turn back any counterattacks."

He paused again, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Worst-case, that big gun in the fortress starts firing. Anyone hitting the fortress is going cock-first into a hornet's nest made of lead, but that gun needs to be silenced before it zeroes in on the train. If we get the train moving before the fortress is shut down, we'll be letting that train get shelled. That big gun, and this AA piece the officer here brought up, should be the first things that you and the Boys drop bombs on. I trust Jean-Martin can take Oldershaw to back him up in giving a strafe cover."

With one more drag, Clark made a gesture with his right hand, holding the cigarette between his fingers. He looked around at the faces of the entourage.

"That's my take on it, so let's hear more."

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

William Pierce Buchanan | Douglas David Buchanan
Mt Abdulaziz, Hasakah Province, French Mandate of Syria

The Buchanan’s flight to their Hind was a sorry affair. As eerily reflective of their journey to Constantinople as could be, a winded Douglas, dry on booze and cigarettes, had to be physically dragged through the train’s narrow corridors. William, who had been lost in his thoughts after the scolding he received earlier, found it utterly stressful to adapt to these frightening new circumstances. A bunch of Kurds had set up a barricade, having sallied forth from their medieval castle. The Hind, as the only proper bomber aircraft of the squadron, would no doubt have to risk itself to knock it all down. William was fond of his odds; the primitive Kurdish hordes likely lacked training and materiel, and this could prove to be a quick struggle in which he would distinguish himself, possibly earning him some respect amongst his more experienced colleagues.

Still, lads like William oft found themselves with nothing but their arrogance and luck when cornered, and the nineteen-year-old’s shallow courage could soon prove to be his ultimate downfall. A single Kurdish bullet was all it took, and any snobbish remark, any underestimation of his foe, would be little more but a sarcastic sneer at his funeral.

The Buchanan twins, for their sluggish and unprofessional behaviour, were amongst the last to get their bums off the train. The howling wind that scourged these Syrian plains was a positive surprise; if anything, at least the squadron got some fresh air now, instead of wailing about in some dusty train car.

There was a boy who did not take well to the breath of fresh air, though. Poor Douglas hadn’t had a drink or a smoke in four hours. The drop that had strengthened him, that made him feel alive, had abandoned him beyond the gates of Constantinople. In this barren wasteland, inhabited only by camels and the Arabs that fucked them, a man could scant get his hands on a bottle of good Scotch. Hell, Douglas would even take the bad Scotch. He’d even pay a fortune for some moonshine made and bottled in an old Turk’s outhouse. Worse yet, his other vice, cigarettes, hadn’t been exactly easy to come by. He’d thought about stealing some from the officers, but Douglas was in Allah’s country now, and his general ignorance of the land told him that you could lose a hand for such crimes. Thus when the American took out his packet of fags, Douglas could not help but stare. His damning pathos drove him mad, and if the good stuff was as rare in Aleppo as it was here, Douglas pondered whether he wouldn’t just take the Hind back to Europe, to some place that had plenty of booze and cigarettes to go about. He could not keep his eyes of the cigarette, and faced the American with a blank expression, concentrating merely on the fag between his fingers. That was until the man referred to the twins as “boys”. Doug’s humour changed instantly, showing his bitterness with a mean frown.

The younger twin’s resolute stare and eery stillness starkly differed from his brother’s behaviour. The elder Buchanan had listened to the Major’s orders, and though he refrained from speaking his mind at first, the Yankee captain swiftly replied. Where Douglas had found fault with the man’s words, William had not. He could hardly get used to the American accent. Whenever Harris spoke, he could not help but remember the days of yore, when he traveled to Londonderry town on the weekends, so that he could hit the cinemas with his mates. Something about the captain made William compare him to Tex Ritter, that infamous cowboy legend that he’d seen in films like The Utah Trail or Rollin’ Plains. When that cowboy had ceased talking, Will felt happy to chime in himself.

“Pardon me, major” the Ulsterman barked, in an accent as thick as the coat he’d slung over his shoulder. “I’m unsure whether these French reports are reliable. We’re talking about some brigand Kurds in a ruin here.” His gaze briefly jumped over to the Hind, which was just going through a period of assembly to get her up and ready for the flight. He stretched out his arm, pointing at one of the men who had started to affirm bombs to the plane’s wings. “Our load’s twice as heavy as yours, sir, and I strongly doubt that that Ack-Ack cannon is as lethal as these Frogs claim it is.”
His eyes then wandered over to the French aristocrat, and when they did, William let out a quiet: “no offence.” He took a quick breath of fresh air, and finished his remark, stating: “What I suppose I’m trying to say is that these 500 pounds of dynamite beneath our wings will most probably deal with these thugs and the heap of scrap they call a triple-A gun just fine. Besides, you, as squadron commander, could keep a closer proximity to the rest of the group.”

Perhaps the boy’s arrogance spoke louder than his mind could, and though Buchanan’s confidence and spirit could very well be interpreted as little more than a little bootcamp bragging, William was certain that he could make it come to fruition. He eagerly awaited his superior’s reply.

[Cylarn]

From Clark's understanding of the Ottoman Empire during the Great War, the Kurds made up a major portion of the fighting force. William questioned the competency of the bandits, and the French intelligence. His twin brother on the other hand, alternated between staring at Clark's cigarette and scowling at him. Clark's response to Young Doug was a wry smirk. No, he ain't questioning them. He's denying that they will be a threat. Putting his hopes into his bomb load. Clark took a puff of his cigarette, narrowing his eyes somewhat before opening them up at the end of William's statement.

"Yeah, you could argue that those chumps are nothing, " Clark said, pausing to cop another drag. "But Buchanan, I will go ahead and say this now: assume that these guys are every bit as competent as we are. No stops, no chances; you won't know how much of that gun is 'scrap,' until it gets a bead on you. And those big guns? Assume they know how to sight and zero in on a target. Don't forget their machine guns either."

Clark paused, removing the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. With an outstretched right hand, he held out the pack with a firm hand to Douglas. A solitary cigarette stuck out from the soft pack. Clark's eyes, remained on William.

"I never spent any time out in these parts, but the reading I've done makes me think that a lot of those Kurds marauding out there used to cut their teeth with the Ottomans, doing a little dance of Cedin Deddening about during The War. When they see us closing in, lead will be flying all over the goddamn place. Every machine gun they can spare will be looking to bring us to the ground."

Irregulars could never be discounted. To a degree, Clark still held an ounce of respect for the Sandinista rebels he fought in Nicaragua. Peasants and learned men, harnessing guerrilla warfare in such a way as to make even the US Marines - the hellhounds of Belleau Wood and the Argonne - work for their objectives. The last thing that the squadron needed, was for a single plane to be lost on some pop-up engagement.

[Bolslania]

Mueller raised an amused eyebrow at the Buchanan's statements. He let Harris educate the two on the realities of the situation.

"Very correct, another important factor is that your bombs, while they will take out the Kurds, will also destroy the tracks, where Harris' machine gun will not." Mueller said, rounding off Harris' statement to the Ulsterman. "So here's my idea at the moment. Harris makes a strafing run on the armored cars in front of the train, Contador goes in for those machine gun nests on the north. Buchanan, you and I are going to bomb that central wall there." Mueller indicated where the artillery piece was stationed atop the fortress. He could sense William's desire to show what he was made of and prove himself to the members of the squadron. 4 years ago Mueller had been the same, a cocky, young pilot who yearned for nothing more than to prove himself; and his superiors had done to Mueller what Harris and Mueller were doing to William. Mueller had just refrained from calling William a fucking idiot or dumb Kraut bastard.

"Those field guns are the primary objectives for our hit, the train can take the machine guns but a field piece will blow the cars of the track. De Florac, Oldershaw, do you think you could distract that AA gun for Buchanan and I to make the run?" Mueller asked of the other two fighter pilots. Based on de Florac's age, Mueller could have a fair chance at assuming he was an experienced pilot, and Oldershaw was a famed pilot. But to intentionally take flak was like bullfighting. It was a damn difficult thing every time, even for a good pilot.

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

Douglas scrambled forth and drew the cigarette from the carton. Not a moment went by, and the Ulsterman had stuffed the Strike in his mouth. Instinctively, he slid his hand into his uniform’s breast pocket. Where the fuck had it gone? Where the fuck had his matchbox gone? Cigarette-in-mouth, the Buchanan tapped the sides of his uniform, hoping to find any lump that might contain anything flammable enough to burn the ciggy pursed between his lips. Before he could do so, his brother unexpectedly snatched yet another cigarette from the American’s packet, clumsily screwing around with it so that his stubby fingers could take a hold of one of the fags.

William didn’t smoke. He was raised in a strict household that levied a no-tolerance ban on tobacco, a ban that had fallen on deaf ears as far as his brother was concerned. In that aspect, the brothers differed greatly: Douglas was hooked on the stuff, and that addiction sickened William so that he couldn’t manage to swallow a drop of liquor or a puff of tobacco.

In truth, the elder twin had stolen his brother’s matches. It pained him to see his brother go through withdrawal like this, and he strongly hoped that, if he just kept the matches around for long enough, his brother would finally see that he doesn’t need any of this, that he could leave it behind and live a more purposeful life.

The current situation had changed things. Though he felt himself too proud to admit it, he knew Harris’ and Mueller’s words rung true. That alleged heap of scrap could prove to be quite a nuisance. So much so that they could get both William and his brother killed. If he wanted to survive, he needed a competent rear-gunner, not a junky with withdrawal symptoms. Besides, if the brothers were to die, what point was there in having him go through torture now? Better die happy than sick, the Ulsterman supposed.

Now, he worried about his brother’s image. He’d had to rely on a stranger for a fag, and if William was going to let anyone light his twin’s cigarette for him, he would do it himself. Thus, he drew a match from out the box, running it alongside the rough edge of the carton, and lighting his own cigarette, before eventually doing the same with his brother’s. He brought the lit fag up to his mouth, and took in those toxic smoky fumes, trying to relax and not think about the Kurds too much.

That Yankee tobacco was so strong and alien to him that he couldn’t help but cough. Knowing that he was making a fool of himself, the bomber pilot tried to hide it as best he could, which only exacerbated his cough. It took him a short while to recover from that single puff of a Lucky Strike cigarette, and when he did, he brushed off a wee tear from under his left eye, and said:
“Thank you for the advice, cap’n. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”

When Mueller indicated that he hadn’t been so content with the Buchanan’s plan, the latter didn’t look as amused as his superior did. He wanted to get some independence, show that he could work without others on his back. Instead, he got his very own squadron commander breathing down his neck, watching his every move, and, if he’d learnt anything of this officer, commenting on it too. When the major had stopped addressing him, William sighed a short: “As you wish, sir.”, clearly voicing his dissatisfaction with the plan, but submitting to his superior’s will anyway.

[Rupudska]

Mueller raised an amused eyebrow at the Buchanan's statements. He let Harris educate the two on the realities of the situation.

"Very correct, another important factor is that your bombs, while they will take out the Kurds, will also destroy the tracks, where Harris' machine gun will not." Mueller said, rounding off Harris' statement to the Ulsterman. "So here's my idea at the moment. Harris makes a strafe and bomb run on the armored cars in front of the train, Contador goes in for those machine gun nests on the north. Buchanan, you and I are going to bomb that central wall there." Mueller indicated where the artillery piece was stationed atop the fortress. He could sense William's desire to show what he was made of and prove himself to the members of the squadron. 4 years ago Mueller had been the same, a cocky, young pilot who yearned for nothing more than to prove himself; and his superiors had done to Mueller what Harris and Mueller were doing to William. Mueller had just refrained from calling William a fucking idiot or dumb Kraut bastard.

"Those field guns are the primary objectives for our hit, the train can take the machine guns but a field piece will blow the cars of the track. De Florac, Oldershaw, do you think you could distract that AA gun for Buchanan and I to make the run?" Mueller asked of the other two fighter pilots. Based on de Florac's age, Mueller could have a fair chance at assuming he was an experienced pilot, and Oldershaw was a famed pilot. But to intentionally take flak was like bullfighting. It was a damn difficult thing every time, even for a good pilot.

Elaine pinched her chin, looking on towards the front of the train as she thought. For what little she knew of assaulting fortresses - and most of that was just hanging back and observing the bombers do their job back in her recon squadron days - it was a fairly sound plan. Her and de Florac's planes were more than nimble enough to provide a decent distraction to the singular anti-air cannon, so long as its range wasn't too high. They just had to keep right at that range, diving in just enough for these Kurds to think they had a chance. And, hell, as inexperienced as they were, the Ulstermen's plane had been deemed agile enough by the RAF to serve as a fighter with some modifications, so in all likelihood, it wouldn't be long in the arena.

Even so...

"While I would prefer to go after the infantry and cavalry around the train first, I suppose taking out the fortress might be enough of a blow to morale that they may just abandon the blockade altogether, allowing you, Harris, and Buchanan to take out the vehicles at your leisure should the first pass fail to dislodge them. Being a distraction should be simple for a plane as new as my Fury, but it doesn't have the armor to be one long."