Chapter 1
October 2012
Viktor Koleno put his hands in between his jacket and his bulletproof vest in a vain effort to stave off the autumn chill. In the ruck march to this remote section of the Sylvan-Vlachavian border, he had at least been moving, and therefor warm - no such luck now. What made it even worse was looking at the light spilling out of the canvas tents in the valley below, and having to be up here, watching them.
Border incursions in the forested mountain foothills of Karpatya, a province which both sides of the border claimed full sovereignty, were common. Most were resolved peacefully, but the intensity, depth, and frequency of the raids, especially from the Vlachavian side, was concerning. Hence why he was here, in cold weather in the middle of the night, staring down at a temporary campsite made by Vlachavians on the Sylvan side of the border.
Viktor jumped up and down, then walked from side to side, trying to return feeling to his toes. It proved an exercise in futility. Bravely, he took the prone position, knowing full well the earth would seep away what little body heat remained. Behind him, he heard the soft crunch of brush underfoot as his team followed suit.
He wanted to smoke, but knew that if he did so, it would disclose their location. And stealth and surprise were paramount, as Viktor had learned and practiced so many times as a sergeant in the Sylvan Army.
His radio crackled to life on his back. It was his commanding officer, Lieutenant Nevsky. “Watchdog 1-3, Watchdog 1. What do you see?”
Viktor made a few mental notes and responded on the comm. “Watchdog 1, Watchdog 1-3. Vlachavians have two temporary structures, and some sort of communications array set up. I see four sentries on the south side, unarmed, about fifty meters down. Not sure how many are in the tents,”
Having unarmed patrols in this region was fairly common. Knowing the votalality of the border, there was a de-facto unspoken understanding between both that skirmishes were acceptable, but firearms were not. It was one of the quirks of international diplomacy that Viktor didn’t understand. Regardless, he wished he had his rifle.
“Roger that, Watchdog 1-3. Move in at your discretion. Let’s push these Vlachacks-“ he used the racist term for the Vlachavians - “back across the border.”
“With pleasure, sir!” Viktor replied, and drew an extendable nightstick from his belt. He motioned at his men, who armed themselves with a variety of blunt weapons as well. After conferring with the team behind him and those on his flanks, Viktor cautiously made his way down the hill. Moving down a slope in terrain like this, especially when trying to be quiet, was a hard job. At about halfway down, one of the sentries below noticed - something? Victor cursed under his breath, stood up, and charged the Vlachavian as he screamed “Up and at ‘em!”
The rest of the Sylvan patrol screamed expletives as they charged into the surprised Vlachavians. Victor whacked his nightstick into the sentry’s knee and was rewarded by a satisfying crackle as bone collapsed, the man groaned in pain, and collapsed to the ground. Just to be sure, and, because he could, Viktor smashed his other knee as well, before turning to tent.
He picked a flash bang grenade from his belt and tossed it into the open flap, where it went off a second later. It disoriented Viktor enough that he had to blink a few times to get the flash out of his eyes - but it must have been much worse for whoever was in the first tent.
The second tent, unaffected, began spilling out men in pairs. Some brandished knives, others having taken shovels and even large rocks to defend themselves. The battle disintegrated into a medieval melee, with men in bulletproof body armor whacking, hacking, and slashing in vicious close quarters combat.
Even without firearms, the battle was a mortal affair with life and limb on the line. Viktor watched a Sylvan’s head be crushed underneath a helmet, only a second later to have the man brandishing it be stabbed with a knife. A fire had started in the first tent, maybe from a cooking area inside, and the flames were spreading quickly.
Viktor saw a man with a radio box frantically changing channels near the big transmitter in the center of camp. He ran towards the man, nightstick at the ready. The man, an educated type with glasses seemed to be an officer of some kind. He stared up at Viktor in horror, and then brandished a pistol from his belt. He pulled it to waist height and fired twice, hitting Viktor once in the middle of his vest and knocking him flat.
The gunshots startled all of the fighters. The officer screamed something in Vlachavian and the soldiers drew back into two groups. Viktor coughed and sputtered. His chest hurt like hell - maybe a broken rib - but the vest had absorbed most all of the impact. He was helped to his feet by a fellow soldier as Lieutenant Nevsky came forward. To Viktor’s surprise, he brandished a sub-machine gun. Maybe it had been his backpack the whole time?
“Aruncă arma!” Nevsky yelled, as the men on the other side screamed back in a flurry of Ackesian, Vlachavian, and Sylvan. Viktor recognized the words as calling for surrender. “Mâinile sus, nu te mișca!” Viktor didn’t understand that bit but assumed it was the same thing. But with both sides yelling, it was hard to understand.
There was another gunshot, followed by a flurry. Then another burst. Nevsky looked to have taken a round in the shoulder, and had opened fire into the crowd of Vlachavians in front of him. .45 caliber bullets ripped through the crowd of Vlachavian soldiers, tearing flesh and cloth from their bodies. Screams and cries for help filled the air as Nevsky unloaded his magazine. At least a dozen Vlachavians, including the officer, lay dead by the time he had finished.
“Fuck me.” Viktor said, looking at Nevsky. “Fuck indeed.”
The walk along Government Street was always a pretty one. The metro station stop was at the corner before, and the next right ran adjacent to the Ondava River. Despite the wind bringing the first signs of a chilly autumn, the sight of its gently flowing waters brought a certain warmth to Saviley Sedlacek. As he walked down the cobblestone path that lay adjacent to the road itself, the shadow of Kralovska Castle, for which the city of Kralovice was named, dominated the street and the river beyond from its rocky outcrop. Holding his briefcase close, Saviley thought about just how lucky he was to be here. No, not luck - he reminded himself - hard work and dedication. It took true grit for a Karpat, an ethnic and linguistic minority in Sylvakia, to rise to any government position. While nominally citizens of the Republic, Karpats were still treated as second-class and shunned by the Sylvan majority. Nevertheless, his charisma and hard work had carried him through the low rungs of the political machine until his endorsement by the SPSD, Social Democratic Party of Sylvakia.
But the place that Saviley found himself at today was not the headquarters of the SPSD. Rather, it was the party office of the strana kongresoví republikáni, or Congressional Republicans Party (SKR) He gripped his briefcase a little tighter. If it wasn’t the most important meeting of his tenure here in Kralovice, it certainly came close. Opening the door, he was greeted warmly by the secretary. “Ah, Mr. Sedlacek. Deputy Hornický is expecting you.” He smiled, ignoring what was likely a deliberate slight at ignoring his title. Even with a Karpat in the National Assembly, he thought, they still don’t see me as an equal. Nevertheless, he swallowed his pride and made his way up the stairs. A knock on Hornický‘s office door and he was led by another aide to the man’s office. When he entered, a bald, fat man with a warm smile stood. “Ah, Saviley. Good to see you.”
Saviley gave a polite, if cold, smile in return: “Konrad. It is good to see you. May I have a seat?”
“Please,” Hornický replied, and gestured to two sofas which sat equidistant from a coffee table. “Can I offer you some tea? Season is turning, it’s getting chilly out there.” Saviley accepted, and after some more tactful conversation of politics were exchanged, such as wives, children, and recent fundraisers, the two members of the National Assembly got down to business.
“Konrad. What do you think of this plan? Honestly.”
Hornický sighed. “Pleasantries are over, then, Saviley? Very well. I’ll be straight with you. I don’t like it - not one bit. But President Novez is insistent. Personally, I think it his way to play fiddle to the Conservative Bloc - make tough on foreign influence in Sylvakia and use the region as the centerpiece for his economic revival campaign. Two birds with one stone.”
“He’s biting off more than he can chew,” Sedlacek said, shaking his head. “I’m from Karpatya - and you may not be Karpat, but you are too. Doing this won’t create jobs in the short term - it will make it worse. If those assets are nationalized, that’s putting more people out of work until they are reorganized into a state company.”
“Look, you are preaching to the choir here, Saviley. I’ve voiced these concerns to the President and the Party, but they believe this is the way to move forward. They insist that kicking out foreign labor and nationalizing assets...that’s the 2012 platform. That’s what we were elected on.”
“But not you.”
Hornický threw up his hands. “There’s only a few representatives from Karpatya, Saviley. We’re not a majority, not even a minority caucus. We may not agree on much, but we agree on this. It’s going to hurt our constituents. But whichever way we vote, it’s not going to matter. My party - SKR - has a majority now that they’ve joined with the Conservative Bloc. And I won’t lose my party’s support on an important issue by siding against them here. I’m sorry.”
“Could I at least convince you to abstain, Konrad? This goes directly against what our districts want.” Saviley asked.
Hornický thought about it for a moment. “Let me get back to you on that.” With that, Hornický stood, buttoning his jacket. It was the courteous way of telling Saviley that the meeting was over. Saviley stood as well, and offered a hand. Konrad shook it.
Eva Rázusová tapped her foot impatiently as she waited in line for her morning coffee. She was punctual to a fault - something that had got her the job at Sankte Matoušek Memorial Hospital she was on her way too this morning. But she also knew that if her punctuality stopped for whatever reason, the hospital administration would just as gladly fire her and replace her with a man - and not be afraid to pay him more, either. The inequality there wasn’t lost on her, and made her blood boil when she thought about it.
She looked up at the TV to pass the time in the coffee line. It was playing a news channel, with a pretty looking Karpatyan woman speaking. The headline that ran like a scroll on the bottom of the screen read, in big, block letters:
PRESIDENT NOVEZ PASSES NATIONALIZATION LAW - FOREIGN ASSETS INSIDE OF SYLVAKIA SIEZED.
The screen switched to President Novez’s speech:
“We have taken a historic step today in seeing Sylvakia on the road to economic recovery. For years, the world powers have used our country and our resources without any compensation for the average Sylvan. And when their banks collapse, and send Lira into chaos, do they offer help to a place they have long considered nothing more than their economic sandbox? Of course not! But if the Great Powers would seek to exploit, rather than cooperate, than they have no place in our great nation. As of today, all foreign assets in the mining and mineral industries have been nationalized, and will be reorganized into state companies. In doing so, we will create tens of thousands of new jobs, and finally collect the revenues of our own soil and mineral wealth.
We are an honorable, and peaceful people. I promise that compensation will be provided to the companies in question, but it will be on our terms, rather than theirs. This is simply the first of many such steps that my Presidency will take to put Sylvakia on the way to greatness. As for the ongoing incidents on our eastern border near Karpatya province I say this...
The man behind Eva in line spoke up. Evidently he had been watching as well. “Novez is a true patriot. Showing the foreigners we aren’t their property!” The man behind him disagreed loudly. “You idiot! Novez is nothing but a bad poker player. Ackesia and Lund won’t take this lying down, and he’s done nothing but overplay his hand.” The two retreated into their own animated discussion behind her.
Finally it was her turn to get coffee. She ordered her usual, but was shocked when the bill came. “This can’t be right,” she said. “I came here yesterday and it was thirty-two koruna. Why is it now forty-five?”
“Sorry, lady. We get our coffee beans exported from Ackesia, as well as a lot of the sugar. With all this going on, we’re not sure how long our supply is going to last...so prices are up.”
She let out a frustrated sigh, but coughed up the money.
Colonel Vaclav Cernik chewed at the end of his pipe. It was a nervous habit - and why he would never smoke out of it, chewing at the treated wood calmed his nerves somewhat. And so he chewed. In front of him lay a map with scribbled indentations. On the left side of his desk, a chess board with an ongoing game, and on the right corner, his laptop, with numerous files pertaining to the organization and logistical support of his brigade.
Behind him, the clean-cut dress jacket to his uniform sat on a hangar attached to the bookshelf that dominated the rear of his office. All of it was immaculately clean and well organized - an extension of Cernik himself. Without taking his eyes off the map, he moved one of the white pieces a few spaces forward. Immediately, he grabbed for a black piece, stopped himself, and looked at the board before setting it back down. It would have gotten him expelled from any formal tournament, but in this case, Vaclav’s opponent was only himself.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said.
“Vaclav - what did I tell you about working late?” It was his commanding officer, Brigadier General Kohout. He was dressed in his finest uniform, beret tucked in one hand. His medals and ribbons gleamed in the fluorescent light of Vaclav’s office. “Sir,” Vaclav replied. “Something isn’t right here. I’ve been looking over the tables all day, and we aren’t getting everything that we’re allocated. Close to five hundred cases of meals are missing. Fuel. Tires. Spare parts. It’s not right.”
“Vaclav - it’s a three day weekend. Stop working. Go to the Foundation Day gala. Find a girl. Enjoy yourself. All you do is work!”
Vaclav smiled at his senior officer. “Sir, someone needs to look into this. I’m your XO. It’s my job to do the dirty work like this so you can make your presentable like that. Besides, your a better dancer that I could ever be.”
To that, his general let out a belly-filled heartfelt laugh. “I will admit that your dexterity on the dance floor pales in comparison to your skill on the chessboard. But it’s important that the people here see you as well. You will have a command of your own one day, Vaclav. And like it or not, this will be part of that responsibility. So get your coat, and come with me! That’s an order!”
Vaclav smiled, and complied.
The Foundation Day gala celebrated the establishment of Sylvakia as an independent kingdom all the way back in 1100. It was one of two patriotic holidays celebrated in the country, with the other being Republic Day in February. But Foundation Day was by far the larger celebration, and especially on five-year anniversaries where it coincided with the inauguration of new presidents. Walking into the assembly area, Vaclav marveled a moment on how a battalion’s mustering area had been transformed into a ballroom setting. Ladies in floor-length gowns, men in perfectly pressed uniforms, as well as champagne and other beverages flowing freely.
Vaclav watched in some jealousy as the commander immediately began a conversation with another group of officers. He was a natural with his charisma, and Vaclav wished he could say the same. In truth, the large gatherings like this made him nervous - too many people in one place. Too many variables. Too much disorganization. Mostly, though, it was because Cernik found that his own thoughts were far more interesting than anything anyone else had to say.
“Colonel Cernik,” a voice said from behind him. “Your reputation precedes you. Come out of your office, for once?”
He turned to see a woman in a uniform much like own, save that a skirt and heels replaced the shoes and slacks. He quickly glanced at her rank, name badge, and unit identification, before politely averting his gaze from her chest. Brown hair was tied in a perfect ponytail behind her head, while a few stray locks placed themself on one side of her face. Her makeup, while not extensive, brought out the best of what she had to offer. Not beautiful in the traditional sense of the word, but pretty, homely, and most striking of all, devious.
“Captain...Kubátová,” Cernik said. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Believe me, the pleasure is mine, Colonel Cernik.” She offered a hand, and Vaclav shook it. He stood for a moment - a quick moment - in an awkward silence before remembering his manners. “May I - get you a drink, Captain?”
“Please, call me Teresa. And that would be lovely.”
Vaclav picked up to glasses of champagne on the table and offered one to her. She accepted. “What shall we drink too?” He asked.
“To filled inventories.” She said, and her face changed. The warm smile was gone, replaced by stern, piercing eyes. She downed her glass, and Valcav followed suit. “Cap - Tereza. Might I ask you to dance?” His gaze relaxed into a neutral, business expression.
“Of course, Colonel.”
The two began at a slow waltz, which was perfect. Despite the movement of their feet, the pair was there to talk. Though Vaclav struggled with the movements, she took the lead role and guided him as they spoke.
“Captain,” he said, uncomfortable with the familiarity of a first name basis, “your patch. Your of Fourth brigade - my brigade. But your battalion chords are white, and you lack any combat proficiency badges. But you do have a Quartermaster’s Excellence Ribbon in your rack. I take it you are in a supply company? Which one?”
“Good observations, Colonel. Yes. I’m of the 125th supply battalion, E company. And if your eyes are as proficient in noticing all that from my uniform, I’m sure you’ve also noticed that a quantity of promised supplies is missing.”
“I have. Do you know something about them? And if so, shouldn’t we be speaking in a more...professional setting?”
“Sir,” she said, “I have reason to believe that someone is siphoning off, or stealing the supplies before they reach the 125th. D company’s inventories do not match the delivery quotas. Somewhere between the trainyard and my company, supplies go missing. I have tried speaking with my chain of command about it, and was shot down with the usual ‘thank you for the report, it will be looked into.’”
The orchestra switched to a more vibrant dance. As the Hills of Manchuria played through the assorted instruments, Vaclav took Tereza’s hand and walked her outside. Startled, she accepted the gesture and followed closely.
“I have noticed more or less the same things,” he said, when they were out of earshot of anyone else. The cold autumn air blew around them, as the full moon lit the courtyard below. Music drifted from inside the hall as the two spoke. “But it’s not just that. Manifests of the railway deliveries have been edited as well - which means that this isn’t some sergeant or private snagging a box for themselves many times over. It’s a replicated pattern, and the manifest edits suggest that it’s a concerted effort, rather than random chances.”
She shivered as she thought about what he said. “Here,” he said, and offered his jacket. “Thank you,” she replied. “If someone’s editing manifests, that has to be for you to find out. I don’t have that sort of clearance...but I’ll see what I can do about the railhead itself. Do you know when the next delivery is?”
“Six days. Should arrive at 0100.”
“That’s convenient - the train arrives after standard working hours, and sits in the yard for seven hours until the day shift wakes up. That’s plenty of time to unload something.”
“We can’t immediately assume it’s the night shift,” Cernik replied. “I have a feeling that by the time this is over, everyone will be a suspect.”
Konstantin Hamerling could have been anything he wanted. A gifted student, he had studied and worked hard, and had been afforded the privileges of an aristocratic birth. He could have stayed on his family’s estate, riding horses or growing wine, or maybe studied music and composed; or, if he really wanted to work, a nice, cushy job in the government sector with good pay and a nice pension.
But instead of that, the top of his class graduate at Hergozoburg Royal Academy was shivering in an autumn rainstorm twenty miles from the nearest bit of civilization in the middle of the Sylvan wilderness, working for Grenzarian Intelligence.
The Karpatyan province had always been underdeveloped. The Sylvans preferred to develop their heartlands near Karlovice, and the Vlachavians to focus their efforts along the coast. After all, why develop a province full of a minority which spoke a different language, followed different customs, and generally wanted nothing to do with your rule?
That last part was something that Hamerling was exploiting. In this part of the wilderness, him and his team huddled under ponchos and shivered, waiting. Finally, seemingly after forever, the sounds of a truck grinding through the gravel road - if it could really be called a road - picked their way through the falling rain. Headlights blazed through the trees, illuminating the dense forest of volcanic rock and hardy vegetation. It pulled to a stop in front of Hamerling’s procession, and a man got out of the lead vehicle’s passenger seat.
“I got what ya asked for,” the Sylvan officer said. “Straight from the trains, like you asked. You have what I want?”
Hamerling tapped the breifcase by his side. The man moved for it, but the Grenzarian raised his hand. “Not so fast. Lets see this goods, first.” The Sylvan cursed under his breath and waved for Hamerling to follow. The pair walked behind the truck where the Sylvan threw open the rear canvas flap. “I told you, it’s all here,” he said, but Hamerling ignored him, climbing into the back.
Taking a knife, he cut away the modest closure that help one of the wooden boxes together. Throwing open the latch, he shifted around the bed of straw before pulling out a Sylvan-made disposable rocket launcher, made for destroying armored vehicles. “It seems you do, indeed,” Hamerling said, placing the RPG back into its straw cradle and climbing out the back.
He handed the man the briefcase, and he opened it. The officer practically salivated over the currency laid inside. “As always, it is a pleasure doing business with you.” The officer tipped his soft cap. The driver from the front vehicle dismounted, and the pair walked to the rear vehicle, where they made a u-turn and disappeared in the direction whence they came.
Hamerling motioned his men, and, as they had before, climbed into the truck and began driving east. Towards Vlachavia.
“Oh, Anatoli!” The woman said, seductively. The bed shook. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Anatoli Istrati grunted in unison with his exertions. The king size bed in the Presidential Palace shook with the pair’s congress - as the thrusts grew faster and the woman’s speech higher-pitched, and as Anatoli neared the climax of the effort, there was a knock on the door. He attempted to ignore the knocks in favor of the woman below him, but as they grew louder and more incessant, he cursed loudly in Vlachavian. “Dracu 'asta!”
“Sorry, girl,” he said, as he threw on his robe and stepped over the variety of female undergarments scattered across the floor. “There is money on the table.” Anatoli tied the robe’s mid waist and walked to the door, preparing to punch whoever was on the other side. He opened it, and stood into the eyes of Miron Filipescu, his aide-de-camp and personal secretary.
“Moron,” Anatoli said, combining an insult with the aide’s name in a way that he found hilarious, “if you could not hear through that deft head of yours, I was busy satisfying the needs of a citizen of our great Republic.”
Morin’s face remained as impassive as ever. “Of course, Colonel. The President requires your presence in the drawing room. He stresses the importance of punctuality.”
Anatoli had been a member of the Vlachavian aristocracy since his conception. As the son of his father the President, he had spent the last nineteen years of his life enjoying the high life and becoming accustomed to the privileges that his father’s position afforded him. But he knew enough about the syntax and diction of a statement such as the one Miron had issued to read between the lines. Since it was ‘The President’ giving the orders to retrieve him, and not ‘his father,’ this would not be a social call or another one of his damn lectures on “responsibility.” ‘Requires your presence,’ instead of, say, ‘Requests your attendance,’ meant that Anatoli didn’t have a choice in coming or not. And “stressing the importance of punctuality,” was telling him in no uncertain terms to hurry the fuck up.
Colonel was a rank afforded to Anatoli despite his lack of any formal military education. He had (a plethora) of uniforms to match the title, and it was perhaps the only thing he took seriously in life. When he wasn’t drinking or fucking, Anatoli enjoyed attending the maneuvers of his personal regiment of mechanized troops. They always looked so perfect in their shiny boots and dress uniforms, and he would get to match them to and fro on the parade ground, admiring their in-step unison and perfect, concise turns. He had never taken his regiment into the field for training, but he knew that any army that could march as perfectly as his could would steamroll any opponent in its path.
As he donned a personally tailored military uniform and followed Miron out the hardwood door and into the marble hallway of the Presidential Palace, he asked, “Do you have any idea what this meeting is about, Miron?”
“Sir, I do not. However, as the President has called the Defense Ministry to the meeting, one could make the assumption it is regarding the armed forces.” Miron made a right-face that impressed even Anatoli, and then opened a door. Light from open windows lit the room, which looked out on the palace gardens. Anatoli entered the room, and the assorted military officers stood in respect. “At ease, gentlemen.” He turned to his father. “Dad.”
“So you’ll put them at ease when they respect you, but won’t even so much as go to attention for me? Hmmph,” President Istrati said. “Come here, Anatoli. I want you to see this.”
Anatoli approached the central table, which had a map of the Sylvan-Vlachavian border on top of it. Set on the map were wax pencil inscriptions depicting formations, lines of advance, and divisional fire plans. All of the arrows of advance pointed into Sylvakia.
“Mr. President,” one of the generals said, “as I was saying, the First Division will lead the assault, alongside the the Fifth and Thirty-Seventh Motor Rifle Brigade. Each of those formations will be reinforced with an extra tank battalion. They will push against the Karpat positions here, here, and here...”
Anatoli imagined pinning the girl he had gotten last night over this table and mounting her. He thought about holding her curved hips, of her silk-smooth flesh, and...
“What do you think, son? Are you ready for a field command of your own?” Anatoli snapped out of his daydream. Everyone at the table was staring at him, as if he was to deliver the verdict on their survival. He looked to President Istrati. “I’m sorry...what did you ask?”
His father looked down at the table in disappointment. Forming a fist, he hit it on the mahogany and, before looking up, muttered a single word: “Out. All of you.”
Anatoly turned to leave. “Not - not you, Anatoly Istrati.”
As soon as the door closed behind the last officer, His father walked around the table, raised his arm, and backhanded Anatoly across the face. Anatoly cried out in pain and almost doubled over. “What the hell?”
“You dare make me look like a fool? Make this family look like fools?” His father screamed. “Is it too much to ask that you carry on the legacy I have built? Why do you insist on being a failure?!”
Anatoly recovered his composure, but he couldn’t manage to form the right words. His father continued his tirade. “At near enough your age, I commanded a battalion in the Civil War. By the time I was thirty, I was the youngest general this country had ever seen. What are you? By comparison, an uneducated,” he hit Anatoly again. “Spoiled,” another strike. Anatoly whimpered. “Playboy!” The last hit didn’t come, though Anatoly had recoiled in expectation. Blood ran down his cheek.
“Someday, Anatoly, this nation will rest on your shoulders. At that time you must be ready. As such, you will be attached to General Romanescu’s division in the upcoming invasion. You will be sober. You will be respectful. Most of all, you will be presidential. You will show these army men which you scorn - you will show me - that you will be ready to lead when the time comes.”
Denis Cojocarri tried to lean his head against the back of the APC and catch some sleep. It was to no avail. They were crammed in like sardines, and with his helmet on and rifle between his legs, it was impossible to get comfortable. To make matters worse, the officer was blaring his speech through the speaker in the back. It was meant to be inspiring - to Cojocarri, and indeed, most all of the other men in the cramped APC - it was just annoying.
The Karpats have tested our rule one too many times! These rebels wish for nothing but the collapse of our great Vlachavian state, and the dissent of our country into anarchy. They are bandits, rapists, and murderers and do not understand even the least bit of common decency which distinguishes a Vlachavian from the subhuman swine which surround us.
Cojocarri tried bashing his head into the back of the APC to get the voice to shut off. No avail, as he thought, but the pain allowed him to focus on something other than the voice of the officer with a compensation issue.
As such, President Istrati has authorized us to descend into the hive of the insect, and crush him where he sleeps! We shall obliterate him as he seeks to obliterate us. Soldiers of the Republic - there is to be no quarter. No man, woman, or child is innocent of subversion against the state! With Beo as our witness, we shall purge our holy lands of the filth and swine which inhabit it! For Vlachavia!
It would have been better, Cojocarri thought, if he had delivered that last line as they had dismounted. As it stood, it was another ten minutes before they arrived at their destination. When the side ramps opened and the motorized riflemen piled out of the vehicles, the bright sun momentarily blinded him. When his eyes came into focus, he saw they were inside of a poor, decrepit farming village.
“Squad! On me!” Cojocarri yelled. His conscripts followed his lead as he emplaced them all in a security posture around the vehicle. “Sergeant!” One of his privates yelled. “What do we shoot?”
“Anything with a weapon,” Denis replied, as he walked over to where Captain Presecan was having a heated conversation with what must have been the village head. “Speak Vlachavian, you dumb mutt,” the Captain cursed, and struck the man in the face with the butt of his pistol. Denis sighed to himself. Officers really did have a compensation issue.
“I’ll ask you one last time, you dirty Karpat dog,” Presecan snarled. “Where is the weapons cache? Where did you hide it?”
The elder dropped to his knees, as if begging. “Please, sir, officer, sir, we have no weapons. This farming village. Farming village. Peace!”
“Maybe you hid it in your daughter’s skirts,” Presecan growled menacingly. “Cojocarri! Perhaps you would be so kind as to look under the daughter’s skirts? Do a very thorough investigation, yes?”
Cojocarri glanced at the woman - if she could even be called that. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. “Sir, with all do respect, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Denis wasn’t a Karpat. He didn’t really give a fuck about what happened to them, but there was a difference between turning your back and pulling the trigger yourself. And killing innocents wasn’t what he had been conscripted into the army for - or so he thought, anyway.
“Fine, suit yourself. Cojocarri, guard the vehicles with your squad. The rest of you - put it to the torch!”
Cojocarri did his best to ignore the screams and the smell as his squad stood by the vehicles. He did his best to reassure his men that everything was alright. Most of them looked seriously off-put - although one or two looked as if they would have rather joined the orgy of rape, slaughter, loot, and murder being carried out against the Karpats in Vlachavia.
