Dolmotie Civil War (Primary IC- Signups Required)

[Dolmot]

Hello everyone! Making a primary IC thread for the DCW- this will mostly be for military actions.

OOC HERE

Location: Vanne, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

Rixende Lagarde. Quite possibly the most competent leader in all of Dolmot. But… unfortunately for her, her position had been declining in strength lately, as the monarchists in Dolmot had grown stronger and stronger and stronger, with foreign support pouring in seemingly endlessly. Her head hurt every time she tried to think about it too much. One late night, she found herself outdoors in a local park. She had always thought the nighttime lighting was a waste of power, but today, she found herself feeling glad it was there. The sound of crickets felt… so odd to her tired mind. There was something both soothing and maddening about it all. She sat there, trying to get in touch with herself in a way she hadn’t since the “war” had started- even though the serious fighting was only a recent addition to the whole thing. She found herself beginning to hate having to be the professional and competent “Lagarde” all the time- she just wanted to be Rixende again, if that makes any sense. She wanted to be less notable. She really did. But it was her duty to use her gifts for what was right, in her eyes. It hurt like hell, mentally. In moments like these, sometimes she thought about the things she had in common with the young Queen Catarinon. They both wanted to end the demarcy, for example. They also had their fair share of disdain for the minarchists, too. Maybe she should just… no. That was absurd. The anti-meritocratic nature of the monarchy was a step too far for compromise. She knew that. But sometimes she wished compromise was possible… oh well… the war would come for her soon- she knew that. And then… there would be no time for daydreaming like this.

This is just the libertarian plotline, which will feature Czaslyudia and Ardenia. Other plotlines will be posted here soon!

[Cossack Peoples]

VESOKEAN SEA, BADLANDS FRONTIER
_{September 2nd, 2034
Moonlight on the flight deck.
13th SAG}

He remembered the lake outside his home, just beyond the outhouse and the snow-frosted tree. He remembered, barely out of his pubescence, sneaking a sip of his parent’s brandy and creeping out to that lake, bundled in a coat to stave off the night air. He liked that lake– the way the edges froze to a thick plate, but the center remained untouched, like the Earth itself had an eye, just large enough to take in all the heavens above. The center shimmered in the still night, and he remembered, feeling the warmth of the brandy and the coat around him, sitting by the lake and watching the stars flutter through that eye. It hadn’t seemed like a Czaslyudian lake then, and it wasn't, nor had he seemed like anything other than a Raskovyan boy, but as the years came and passed him by the boy learned to ignore such illusions.

Vadim Misutin was an old biscuit, who, if he had taken up service in any other branch but the Sea Forces, would have been long retired by now, kept on retainer for passing the less-than-strenuous physical requirements of a Counter Admiral. The shoulder grills sat low on his shoulders, just as his spectacles (he refused to get corrective surgery) sat low on his narrow bridge of his nose. Misutin, for most of his career, was a cork– whenever the top brass needed a less-than-desirable position filled, Misutin got it. Vadya was used to it– he expected no favors for a lower-class Jewish naval officer. Raskovya was written all over his face– he had no shame about it, however. While they cast out the navy’s undesirables, him included, to his unglamorous former command out on the Great Inland Sea, Misutin looked after them. It was his job, after all, and for half-decent meals and a place to sleep, it wasn’t a bad deal.

But now they had come to him with their hands wringed. They needed more crew, more soldiers, more officers, more admirals, to fight their war. They needed Misutin, so they gave a green Czas boy his posting on the mundane career dead-end of the Great Inland Sea and sent the old Raskovyan away with a mission – defend his homeland and her interests. Fathers always beg their sons to look after them in the end.

The fighter with its afterburners, like hot coals, flung across the deck and scarcely managed to lift off at the end of the deck, beginning its climb towards the wedge of the moon in the sky. They were lonely out here. The Badlands Theater of Military Operations is an extremely top-level command; it had hardly the forces allocated to fill it to half-strength. The 167th Division was the sole land formation of the TVD. The 13th Surface Action Group was the sole naval task force of the TVD. In fact, it wasn’t a full SAG, as it was short two squadrons, which would normally be filled by prized missile ship squadrons. Mitusin was told to make do without them. Only a Czaslyudian would order a Raskovyan, their (federal) subject, to sail into a territory hostile to freedom and soon enough, to himself, and order his sword be taken away. He would have to make do. The 13th SAG twinkled before him on a navigational display, in subdued green and red tones, sailing east and rendezvousing with fuel and ammunition ships. At least the Badlands TVD was generous with their fuel oil.

The orders which would determine the fate of the ragtag units of Operation Khazar were rolled up in Misutin’s pocket. Thirty knots north-by-northwest, past the Janpian territory, taking up to three days of travel including the dog-legged course he set the Group on. Standard procedure, for nothing else had seemed more proper for sailing into the mouth of the enemy.

ASTURTOS, KINGDOM OF DOLMOT
_{Days after the war’s start…}

Andriy Vardanyan was an expat, and one far from home at that. WIth characteristic Czas black hair and the detachedness with which he looked at his surroundings, it was not hard to see that. Vardanyan was like many Czaslyudians after their own civil war, serving in the armed forces long enough to secure a passport and then emigrate to another country, escaping the economic catastrophe of their homeland and seeking opportunity. Why Vardanyan immigrated to Dolmot in the Badlands, without even his family, was a curiosity. Perhaps his military education in rudimentary Dolmotie and English was enough to sway his decision; perhaps it was that he was ordered to do so.

Unknown to those who looked at the wiry expat was that he was recruited during his military service by the Special Activities and Intelligence Directorate, the FRCP’s premier spy and, unofficially, state terror agency. There, he had secured a sizable stipend for him and his family, waiting for him on his return some tens of thousands of kilometers away, in return for taking ‘lucrative assignments’ – how lucrative being placed in the middle of nowhere for three years was, Vardanyan had only just begun to realize. Three years in Dolmot had treated him well, however – it wasn’t hard to see that his Dolmotie had improved, and he wasn’t starving in the restaurants and bistros that served such tasty foie gras and fish soup. Typically, he hadn’t been handcuffed and apprehended by militia groups, though sometimes his job as manager of a laundromat was a bit of a bore.

Andriy Vardanyan, expat and launderer, had received his first and only signal from SAID since he had been in Dolmot days after the Civil War had broken out. Flossing his teeth (a practice and an amenity he had never had in the FRCP) in the morning, an signal from faraway Czaslyudian evening crackled through the empty frequency he kept his radio set to– dropping his floss onto the dirty sink, and cursing, Vardanyan rushed to his bed with a screwdriver, gingerly feeling along the wooden frame for the slightest catch – finding it, he wedged open the wood to find a compartment with a slender, black antenna. His phone to home. Fumbling with a cigarette one-handed (a practice he had eliminated since being in Dolmot), Vardanyan pulled a chair to the window overlooking his apartment’s balcony and shut the curtains, retrieving also a matchbook he kept in a drawer – on the inside, his one-time encryption key. He squeezed his transmitter, reaching out to satellites far above. He could not see them, and he could not have anything but faith that they would receive his signal at that moment. After minutes, his radio crackled to life, and codename MORSHUN began to speak in their usual robotic tone. Andriy Vardanyan, soldier and spy, listened intently as he shakily smoked his cigarette.

FRONTIER OF VANNE-ROALIMAR PROVINCES
_{Quiet at last, save for the crickets}

At least he was a fairly comfortable prisoner.

They had confiscated his knife, which he supposed would not have helped him anyway in a shooting war, and his bug-out bag– another part of his escape gear, in case he needed to flee the country. Where he would actually go in such an event, however, was beyond him. Vardanyan was probably lucky to evade any bandits or Populist patrols, though activity had been low ever since the news reached him of Gonswanzans in Roalimar. He had hiked alongside the main road west, careful to hide himself in the brush at the first indication of incoming traffic. Andriy was surprised by how clear the skies were, despite the echoing thundering of artillery throughout the hills; the monarchy seemed content to let the continental territory sort itself out, at least for now.

He was twenty-eight, and was caught in his second civil war. He did not feel as excited as he did at the start of the first when he was fourteen– Andriy remembered the shouting, the noisy skies, the long lines for exile, for food, for refuge. He remembered people strewn and forgotten in the gutter like roadkill. There was so much death, and he was so young. He could only imagine what was in store if the blue-blooded imps won and began reprisals, struck up camps, and started to ‘re-educate’ those unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire. He thought of Dolmotie version of himself, not even fifteen, with scraped knees, broken shoes, and sitting in the threshold of a bombed-out building in Zarón. At least the lesser evil won in Czaslyudiya.

Soon, the border was reached. A rifle butt was the reception he received.

Vardanyan now sat in a truck on the Libertarian side of the border, handcuffed to the truck’s benches alongside some random refugees and Populist deserters– he presumed, seeing the latter’s particularly sullen expressions. His hands itched for a cigarette, but those had been taken too. He had managed – in spurts of fluent Dolmotie interchanged with English – to shout his purpose at what looked to be the most senior of the libertarians, but there was no way of telling from within the closed-top truck whether they took him seriously or not. In any case, Libertarian prisons were likely better than the open-air barbed-wire enclosures Gonswanzans were said to use, and most definitely better than the frontier justice of the Minarchists. There was certainly no recovery for him now, anyhow. Might as well accept the best option.

[Gonswanza]

South of Roalimar, Dolmot

Even with infantry broken free, even as Faust was spread thin, attempting to stamp out the last populist resistance, the war was ticking along smoothly. As a few Faust members enjoy a sweet thick port wine in a crater, picnic table and all, with the position reinforced as a sort of resting area, the conflict raged on. Gonswanzan naval efforts had begun in the south, war was declared, and yet the idea of the navy looming elsewhere, likely south, hung in the minds of Faust Security fodder, who were either busy with curb stomping populists who refuse to surrender or rounding up prisoners for transport elsewhere. It was a... Complex situation for them, really, with yet another attack failing to waver the mood as a pistol helped to silence the crazed yelling at the gate long before the poor bastard could explode. Such was life.


Southeast of Lirac, Dolmot

The bombardment continues. Aboard the ships, it was practically Margaritaville, yet they were still alert should enemy subs somehow awaken. Aboard a Chimera class, a singular helicopter armed with a deployable radar flies off the deck, while two others armed with rockets take off to possibly harass or attempt to harass any coastguard units that got too close. Being this far out, however, they were not likely to face resistance after the effective(?) slugfest of missiles and cannon fire upon the shores that surely drew some response from the remaining factions expecting a massive, sustained naval effort from the south. A protected strait with a narrow entrance was perfect, after all, and one could easily control it... But that was all theory. There was still the north, with a major airbase in range, yet, nothing seems to have come of that. How odd.


SIC:
Context
Northwest of Asturtos, northeast of Vanne

The fleet lies in wait, waiting for the signal. Parked off the coast, out of reach, they wanted to jump at a weakened defender, as captains and crews waited with almost scorching agony from impatience and stress. They were being worn down by their own desires, yet, one last recon flight from a blackbird should settle things before they react too harshly. Being parked there since, well, more or less the very beginning of Operation Sparkplug, things were tense. They already knew Dolmot inside and out from aerial photos and satellite coverage. Some parts of the map had to be redrawn due to the sheer damage from Faust. Yet, many other regions remained untouched, as their mission was much unlike Faust and had far less regard for infrastructure. They were going to use everything at their disposal, be it cratering munitions or steel darts dropped from above. Anything and everything to achieve their goals, so long as the monarchy survived.

So when the next intel report comes in, they might just snap up the chance and strike regardless, given several snapped toothpicks and far too many hours of card games and smoke breaks.

[Weltkria]

NLTA COMMAND CENTER, OSTRENIAN FEDERATION/NORTH OSTRENIA
Win the information war and you win the war. It was this saying - this rule, that informed hundreds of operations across the world over. Ardenia intended to win - and, with it, it would need information. Information to complete kill-chains, to cue fighters, to analyze. Information ranging from the triangulation of enemy command centers to concentrations, oh so generously provided by the ARO's signals, RADAR and space-based infrared satellites. They had to see all. Ardenia was not omnipotent - yes, but they damn well tried to be.

JSTARs had moved - the aircraft were long gone, shifted onto a network of geosynchronous satellites. From their positions - they could see all, from the slaver rats of Arakhkhar to the Gonswazans, slowly moving, to the chess-pieces played in Dolmot. The country pulsed with all sorts of emissions as a network of eight Kaltia satellites, launched by a ballistic missile from a SSGN; silently watched. They drunk all sorts of information on command centers; it was the major nexuses first, the secondary nexuses popping up as higher-res Trumpets flew overhead, all sorts of centers and air-defense sites found. A pair of blinking Harlot C-2 sattelites were next - transmitting terabytes of information home as they watched. High-Res imaging every five minutes. Constant RADAR overwatch provided by the Kaltias. Constant Signals overwatch provided by Trumpets and a trio of modified Kaltias.

They could see all. They saw the submarines leave port. They saw the tender moving to refuel them. They saw, from their sensors, all sorts of ant-like behaviors. They could see the pulses of air-defense sites, of command sites, of the drunken grapes of wrath. They saw the air-operations, the carriers moving, their active location. They watched and catalogued active emmisions as threats were categorized - first, the Gonswazans; then, the Arakhkharis - NO THREAT; said a analyst, out of position, the RuSG; to be ignored until necessary.

Silently, the hardest - and the most important part of the Ardenian Killchain, finding them, fell into place. The Czasluydians too, as more packets slammed into Seyvich - so much information, so much targets. Too much to do, too little munitions. So much to do.

So much to shape.

The most important 72 hours in Dolmot would be coming. Soon.

SEYVICH, ARDENIAN LIASON OFFICE, CSTA SUMMIT CENTER
The coffeehouses were filled. The offices were alight. The pizzas were delivered, with more coming throughout the night. Hundreds of different parlors recieved orders at different times, the overall amount of pizza orders in Seyvich increasing three-fold as hundreds of different vans converged on a non-descript compound; outside, labeled CHORYANA TREATY ON STRATEGIC ASSISTANCE. So long ago, Chief Minister Mcallan (Center, Technocrat); and the Principal Chairman lined up in front of flashing cameras to sign the charter. Years of diplomatic overtures paid off in one single moment.

The office would stay open throughout the night as nexuses in North Ostrenia called in; then, Ardenian Air Defense Command, hundreds of phones ringing at every second as the prelude was prepared. Sattelites passed overhead as all sorts of information was sent screaming down through gargantuan cables or SATLINK, computers whirring through the night as they identified tank after tank, combatant after combatant. Targeting lists were drafted in preparation for a very... kinetic engagement. More phones, more intelligence reports - SATSTARs overfights every second, imaging every minute, collated at record speed as a army of analysts across the world worked. Nexuses from Galen and Dienstad were burning bright with emissions as they sent message after message, beaming across entire continents as they communicated with each other.

SATCON - ORDERS! Someone yelled - Ardenian Strategic Air Command; as the blinking lights of bombers moved forward, airbases alight with the fury of engines; another one, STREKA - TASK FORCE! as the Ardenians and Czasludyians coordinated a gigantic operation.

The liaison would work through the night. There was more things to collate, more things to do - requisitioning different, non-standard ammunition for both powers (CSTANAG was still embryonic); coordinating a million different things to coordinate a million different hexcam and green men. Their equipment was different - their networking, different. Hackjobs from both sides of the aisle had given the PkVs and the MRFs a ability to datalink with each other - to decrypt each others datalinks, but there was so much to do. More and more flights of Czasludyian weapons offloading in Ardenian Ports. MV Hackawatha; Ostrenian Flagged, making a port-call to Czasluydia, filling its cargo bays with the unique ammunition that the Ardenians wouldn't be able to supply.

There was so little time. There was always more things to standardize.

So much more.

CHORNAYA GROUP

Meeting at full speed. Outrun the submarines. Cut through the water.

They expected to meet their allies in a mere day. That they would do.

Two carriers; a number of Sea-Control ships; watching with their RADARs and Gyrfalcon missiles. A hard nut to crack.

From there; it was in the air. The Federals had tried everything to tilt the balance in their favor. It was up to them now.

[Cossack Peoples]

VESOKEAN SEA, BADLANDS FRONTIER
_{September 4th, 2034
Chornaya Treaty on Strategic Assistance;
Finally, praxis.}

All history has been artificial since the dawn of man. History created the stars, the particles, the very interactions therein, and created the patterns of life to finally bind it into existence: to observe it. History, indeed, made man, for no universe would ever exist if no living thing observed it. But no other creature deviates so fiercely from genetic destiny and flagrantly defies History’s natural world. Eons of natural processes, environments carefully carved from primordial rock over millennium, only to be harvested in a rapid instant of history from its sequestration, the masterpiece of a habitat escaped in a day’s work. Great masses of biology and sociology, swept to action inconsiderate of biome, bound together with fictitious conceptions of ideology and community. A single piece of paper was signed, and now twenty-thousand free men and women were mustered to fight across the oceans never meant to be crossed by the creations of terrestrial evolution, sheathed in the plundered bounties of History. Now History was usurped by history. The artificial subplanting the Natural.

The Chornaya Task Group, first of its kind, came together two day’s distance from Dolmot. Hardly ever had the Federal Republic and Federal Kingdom worked together so brazenly – finally, both normally reticent governments could see that cooperation was in both their best interests. In any natural configuration the two nations would find themselves, they might have been enemies– both boasting learned, experienced militaries, and both aiming to rid foreign influence over themselves and instead project their own, all the while envying one another’s standards of living, internal security apparatuses, and claim of being a haven of liberty, whether newfound or long-established. However, distance prevented this. What brought the two together was a common enemy. Several, actually. Rather than an immediate, animal self-interest that brought the Ardenians and Czaslyudians together, it was their discovery that both had similar aims on the international stage, and cooperation allowed both to pursue this vision.

The Ardenians were many things to the Czaslyudians, but to their commanders, they were nothing less than respected. The 13th Surface Action Group had nearly as many vessels as the Ardenian Task Group 67.8, but with the number of flattops their allies had it was clear who held the lead in the naval sphere and an advantage in striking power. Czaslyudiya prided itself as a land power– recent developments in naval procurement aside, it remained so in its outlook. An alliance with the more seaworthy Ardenians thus was a natural conclusion. In total, the Chornaya Task Group (Badlands) now had 78 vessels, sailing together in an unfamiliar land.

Misutin, regardless of his situation, was glad to not be alone. The flight deck of the Olena Rigozhina was at a simmer of activity, dutifully launching and recovering Czaslyudian aircraft to add to the task force’s air patrol, from the rigid Primakov-Vier to the more fragile ”Uchen” AWACs. Misutin was old enough to see the irony of Czaslyudians, three decades prior so ideologically similar to their ally’s arch-nemesis, flying alongside Ardenians. Misutin was old enough to know before there was a true definition of “Czaslyudian” there was Czas hegemony over the various groups that had been long established before them. Then came the Commonwealth of Czaslyudian Peoples, a frail attempt to bolster nationhood, then there were the dark, early days of the First Federal Republic. Misutin didn’t mind. At any given time, on any point on Earth, there would be a people dominating another; it didn’t matter whether it was called “tyranny” or “majority rule”, Misutin knew that out of all the spectrum of human experience, the need for dominance and fear of domination was the most basic and natural to mankind. Together, the Federal Kingdom and Federal Republic had suddenly turned a page in the annals of history and signalled the start of a movement for liberation with the CTSA– but it was all the same story to the Counter-Admiral. Misutin was alive; he breathed, he sighed, he was dominated, he dominated. C’est la vie.

Knowing that aircraft four decks below his feet were being fueled and armed, Misutin knew that the people of Dolmot would be having much more company soon.

_{T-minus 20 hours…}

The flight deck was silent. All around the Olena Rigozhina, the only thing that could be heard was the whistle of the wind, signalling rainfall for later that day. The sea was like slate, undulating in harmonic chaos. Her escorts were dimly painted grey on the horizon, the 13th SAG’s terrestrial payload tucked in the rear of the force, while pickets dutifully filled in the gaps towards the heart of the Chornaya Task Group. They had dog-legged on their route into the Badlands, barely scraping the western reaches of the waters before breaking east, a correction calculated to be during a period of minimum adversarial orbital coverage. They were now one-thousand one-hundred and ten kilometers away from their area of operations, a milestone hardly noticed by the sailors in that fleet. Below decks, the usual hum-drum of maintenance and routine operation went on, even if the damage control teams underwent their equipment checks a little more twitchy. The focus of the fleet was not on itself, but that of an ally-turned-adversary.

Czaslyudiya’s own satellite reconnaissance provided the foundation of the strike. A number of recently launched miniature satellites, spread over the vast number of orbital patterns to fill in any blind spots, spotted with first ELINT, then triangulated with radar satellites. The repositioning was confirmed, change in position, null. Within hours of the Chornaya Task Group’s change of course, a pass with firmer resolution via Nehidnyk-97MSR was made, confirming the ship count, type, and distribution. This check complete, the strike package continued on its way.

The strike package was constituted by the 111th Carrier Aviation Group, under EMCON but still tearing loudly against the sound barrier. Three twelve-ship squadrons of PkV-17N naval fighters were fanned out in threes over about fifteen kilometers, supported by a flight of electronic warfare variants – quiet, for now – and a single Pr-143 “Uchen”, lingering around the carrier with its main array running passively, though on standby. One could never be too careful to not stick their neck out too far. With one fighter-bomber squadron emphasizing more medium-range air-to-air missiles, the rest sported loadouts of only two short-range AAMs combined with eight PRVD-810 “Marzanna” anti-ship missiles. The Marzanna’s original -808 version had seen a twelve-nation coalition threatened and repulsed. The -810 version, fundamentally superior, was a statement of the capabilities of a modern Czaslyudiya.

They did all they could to reduce their detection. Fly low. Don’t fly in the expected direction. Slip away bit by bit from the swelling BARCAP of Ardenian fighters, which gathered over the Chornaya Task Group like a dark cloud. EMCON. The enemy did not have naval AWACs; if they did, at the very minimum their electronic warfare squadron, trailing behind the main force, would detect the emissions. For now, it only provided accurate triangulations of the major naval radar emissions. They were 1000 kilometers away; with a fuel tank underneath the middle pylon of every “Shapoval”, surprise was not guaranteed but could be reasonably expected from an alpha strike.

To the pilots, the Ardenian way of war was a comfortable one. Massing readily available advanced technology was a much more surefire, less bloody way of achieving Czaslyudian objectives; one that did not require masses of bleeding men on the ground from both sides. It was humanitarian, and to the pilots prosecuting this mission, they might as well have been saints. The horrors of Kraven were far away– this was different, and they were glad to be put in the airspace here, and not over in that darker place. Cowardice did not fit the sentiment they felt, and relief was too mild a term. The thoughts of what they were doing were nearly left aside before they were jolted awake by a simple, high-frequency signal rippling through the wall of Czaslyudian aircraft as the launches began at the five-hundred kilometer mark. One-hundred ninety-two little goddesses of death rippled from their underwing mounts, each one possibly as expensive as training a Czaslyudian pilot, and thirty-six aircraft banked whichever direction as they turned to return to the safety of their SAM nets; electronic warfare from the squadron started over the horizon.

The Marzannas were smart missiles, first of a kind in the Czaslyudian arsenal– they streaked upwards, measuring the radioelectronic energy in the air and gauging it against what they perceived to be their perceived tolerance. Stealth shaped, stealth coating, and stealth(self)-aware– characteristics not even Czaslyudians fully knew how to counter. Perhaps the Ardenians did. The wide spacing of the CAG ensured semi-simultaneous time of impact; the sea-skimming behaviors, including the last forty kilometer Mach 2 sprint, reduced the time of reaction.

The arrows streaked through the air; back at the Olena Rigozhina, eyes apprehensively awaited battle damage assessments from Geronimo 1. Approximately ten surface combatants. Spaced responsibly, they would only have approximately half within relevant response time. Assume 100% effectiveness for missile detection, engagement, hit, and missile kill probabilities, less than 0.52% probability of target survival against 192 missile volley. Reaction time, missile ripple rate, and other variables unknown. Structural strengths and weaknesses of Republic Type 1 (designation unsure), their priority target, unknown. Probability of success; optimal.

450 KILOMETERS FROM DOLMOT
_{North. Periscope depth.
FRCPN Mykola Yanchuk}

The nuclear heart of the Mykola Yanchuk beat imperceptibly. The only indication that it did live was perhaps the slight, acrid breeze that circulated through the engineering compartment, or more plainly, the fact that the lights were still on. Captain 1st Rank Yuriy Dolgopolov went here to think more often since they had left the waters of Greater Dienstad. It was quiet, but the appreciable sort of quiet; not the clutter of the submarine’s command center and not the madness-inducing noiselessness of his quarters. Dolgopolov preferred to keep his head.

They were a long ways from the port call they were originally set to make at the Neinrichting Island; he Dolgopolov remembered when he was a lieutenant on a diesel fish, way back when the Czaslyudian Neinrichting acquisition had seemed like the edge of the world, so remote was that barren rock. Now, it was just another fueling station on the road to the other numerous corners of the world.

Being stuck in a submarine meant having a routine; a routine was encouraged, and if a crew member did not have one, it was mandated that they follow the ship’s regular programming – cinema rewatches, the ship’s library (a closet where bookshelves were crammed), and additional ‘supplementary’ tasks, from polishing pipes to collating maintenance logs. At top speed, the Yanchuk could return to its home port in Sladkoye within a month– instead, they were being sent to crawl through the unlit depths of seas foreign to them, avoiding detection from enemies they knew not were there and most probably knew not they were there, either.

Dolgopolov was not old enough to have real sea stories of his own; only in the Navy bars of Korf had he heard anything that would make the Sea Forces interesting, old officers– now demoted or reassigned from sea duty– regaling close-knit groups of officers with partly-true, partly-fictitious stories of maritime adventure. Hauling mysterious, unnamed spooks to ten miles of a foreign nation’s shores, only for them to scuba and swim the rest of the way themselves; mining the waters of nations they swore to their heart they would never say; prowling behind Ordenite Carrier Strike Groups, tapping Eitoan fiber optic cables, and being the only crew (many claimed this title) to have launched their full load of missiles in anger at an enemy. Holding onto the possibility of those adventures was what kept him in the service– but now, those memories faded, and he felt on some days the only thing keeping him in the service was the tens of thousands of kilometers between him and the nearest friendly port.

Another day of his command routine went by. Shaved. Washed his face. Attention on deck. Report of the night watch. Engine and weapon status. Carry on. Soduku over freeze-dried coffee. Lunch of chicken, black bread, and pickled cabbage, served at a body-heat temperature. Staff meeting. Nothing to report. The Lymannatrava Football Club lost, again. That was from last week, however. Want to guess how they’re doing now?

Suddenly, salience.

AIGYP QIDLT EKQNS VZDMP MAUGF ONCXK
=====
MISSION ORDERS, MYKOLA YANCHUK
September 4th, 21:00 hours Zulu
FROM: COMSUBEX
INFO: CINCEASTFLT

1. TACTICAL SITUATION: CZASLYUDIAN SEA FORCES CURRENTLY PROSECUTE TARGETS IN THEROND STRAIT. THREAT OF REINFORCEMENT AND DECONSOLIDATION OF GAINS POSSIBLE. MYKOLA YANCHUK TO PROCEED TO COORDINATES (ATTACHED) AT BEST POSSIBLE SPEED AND INTERCEPT AND DENY WATER ACCESS TO DOLMOT.

2. PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: DENY ACCESS TO GIVEN COORDINATES. WEAPONS FREE.

3. SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: REMAIN ON STATION AT GIVEN COORDINATES. RELIEF MAY BE AVAILABLE.

COMMUNICATION COMPLETE
=====

The ink was still hot on the print out. Dolgopolov was itching to move now! act now! but he decided it wiser to wait, to brood on his orders before bringing it to his subordinates, who would doubtlessly pounce on the opportunity as well. He read the orders; he reread them, even as the communications officer peeked around the corner from the bridge impatiently. Dolgopolov noticed something. There was no disposition of enemy forces given, not even a guess. Did they not have that intelligence? Did they have no idea what was coming their way? Or did they, and simply refrain from sharing their vision with a pawn in the game? The Captain gingerly felt the surface where the archaic-font obituary was printed. The ink had dried now.

Thirty hours to mission area.

[Gonswanza]

While most would wrongly assume the task force tp be sitting idly by, ears plugged, eyes shut, without a stroke of life until some obscure command floated in via a hentle breeze, this was further from the truth.

The task force was alert, logistics vessels departing northward to eat time, or likely out of navigational error, as the task force soon prepares to launch the attack, a mild hint of poor circumstance as the shelling begins.

Yet with the air now becoming a haze of targets, and AWACS patrolling, it only offered a subtle hint to what was to come.

As radars soon tick over, tracking vectors, a few did stand out as incoming, with systems soon reactibg in kind, though not enough to make a heavy difference as destroyers move to defend the carrier. USVs slaved to radars attempt to add to the defensive chaos, with cruise missiles being forced to rely on their own programming as air launched ballistic missiles race for the skies.

Even though most would, again, wrongly assume total destruction of all assets (regardless of whether or not said asset was hit) and total surrender (regardless of losses), the Gonswanzams were too determined to give up and too stubborn to die.

Though, the same cannot be said for their ships.

Even with a theoreticsl 80% intercept rate, a handful would still penetrate. That percentile dropped quickly as distance closed. Interceptors were launched against the barrage, as the fleet shuffled about.

From 192 to 180. A meager 12.

Then another attempt, further knocking it to 150.

By the time CIWS systems offered their might, the numbers had been cut down, thanks to USVs, to about 100, though the use of manuvering, positioning, and other means to defend did help reduce hits. Somewhat.

The destroyers were not at all lucky, each one torn asunder or crippled beyond repair, while the Kirovs fought valiantly to narrowly survive. The sole carrier however was lucky, though critical damage against the flight deck and fires below decks forced her to turn away from operating against the rebellion as the task force was forced into retreat away from the AO.

ISIC:
In the war room, generals and admirals resort to violence as they had severely underestimated the enemy. Rather than agreeing on strategic failures, their plans shift drastically.

ASAT weapons were to be deployed, using Iron Mill class, while a colossus could be used as a pseudo satellite to maintain encrypted communications.

The carrier borne aircraft would have to land in formerly populist territory, though their payloads have been delivered, as an early alpha strike against the beaches.

Strikes to the south will continue, though now there were considerations of increasing range by deploying missile sites to the south or even resorting to conventionally armed FOBS for use as a sort of "upgraded SCUD" given the existence of a terribly hazardous ballistic missile complex using liquid metal fuel.

And yet, there would be delays, with Foggycap being given the message to prepare, forcing the poor humanoids to scramble for unexpected arrivals.

[Weltkria]

ATTENTION ALL COMBATANTS:

ACTIVE AIR OPERATIONS OVER RIGAL. OPERATE AT YOUR OWN RISK.

END

Afterburners. Carriers alight - cruise missile launches cued, preparations started. SEAD campaigns were a scary, contradictory mess; sending fighters into the very thing meant to shoot them down was... crazy; irrational, contradictory. Standoff weapons; don't play chicken, let them emit; have their search RADARs light up, stitch them with a joint-attack; have the attack radar illuminate a cruise missile, kill them with a long-range AAM; slam down their aircraft with a trio of AM-330 "Tannaga" missiles, carve a hole in their defense and send the aircraft through.

Stage 1. D+1 objectives transmitted, strike packages planned, sattelites orbiting. Cubesats took most of the hits - HEO SBIRS sattelites and RADAR sattelites continued their operations with some losses, communications, unaffected, backups patched in. Too many targets for too many munitions. Time on target - 8:00, current time, 6:00. T+0. Execute the operation.

Act with violence, seize the initiative and hold it. Don't let go. Hold onto it like it's the only thing you know - operational surprise, maintained, keep the initiative, carve out deadly holdings. Force enemy forces into a deadly, no-win situation... and you win.

Launches. TARTAR missiles screamed out of their pods, masking terrain where they could. They would pop-up at the last second, slamming into monarchist command centers, air-defense sites and EW radars before they were seen; two aircraft, screaming overhead, release a quartet of LGVs - the glide vehicles screaming into the atmosphere as they shined red-hot. These were "true" hypersonic munitions - hard to shoot down, even with a bucket of Gyrfalcons. These would be gunning for the C4I installations in Rigal, hoping to cripple monarchist communications before the day ended.

Where there was a S-500 there would be a package of stealthy missiles, popping up at the last second. Where there was a S-400 there would be a pair, trio, then quartet of HGVs; slamming into each site as they came - hard to shoot down. Catch-22. AD operators, looking at their screens, could either emit and die; or watch their C2 nodes explode as cruise missiles fell on them.

Kill package was next... over four, five, squadrons of Ardenian aircraft, a deadly mixture of 5th gens and 4th gens; waiting for emitters. Waiting for their orders.

Once the AD sites emitted they would poke a hole in it. Once that hole was plugged, the squadrons would rush through and take their valuable time targeting whatever C2 nodes they could get their grubby hands on.

Or they could not play that game. They could hide, in hardened shelters, waiting for their death, as cruise missiles screamed overhead; as their C2 was destroyed, commands increasingly jumbled, as Czasluydian marines cleared room by room.

One way, the Ardenians would force the AD sites to emit.

---

CHORNAYA GROUP

DETACH 1 SCG AND ECG; MOVE TO SEIZE AND IMPLEMENT OPERATION GARSHK; HOLD AND OCCUPY TWO UNOCCUPIED, UNCLAIMED 
ISLANDS; SCG PROCEED AT FULL FLANK TO CHOKEPOINT NORTH OF DOLMOT AND START ASW OPS

SUBMARINE ACTIVITY NOT EXPECTED IN THE NEXT COUPLE WEEKS - HOWEVER, INDICATIONS OF RETURN POSSIBLE; 
PREPARE FOR POSSIBLE COMBAT

SSGN ATTACHED - GOOD HUNTING

END

The Pioneers were clamoring for action. Two flattops; one LHD, one LHA; state of the art weapons, mulberry harbors for all. Interdiction readied. Ships on the other side readied. Aircraft readied. IFVs readied.

They had a half-section of M6A7 Ulhans, 30 or so ACVs, 2 hovercraft. Recce overflights by VTOL aircraft showed no signs of military activity.

In approximately 2 hours, they would make landfall. In approximately two hours, the tourists would be rapidly interrupted by 500 or so booted men, setting up AsHM implements.

Their intent was clear - even if Choryana lost, they would have something in the region.

---

Three - four - five - seven - eight. Eight HGVs.

Ports were big targets. Very soft targets. Also very easy to find.

The HGVs soared through the air. Their target was obvious - the port that was the lifeline of intervention; the port that had to be rendered inoperable; to completely thrash the Arakhkaran attempt to secure KTO SLOCs by killing the very reason for that SLOC in the first place.

These were "true" hypersonic missiles. They were not ballistics - no; they didn't even have that trajectory. They hugged the atmosphere, red-hot, as they relied on their guidance to take them to their targets. Their objective was cranes, valuable cargo; the stacks of ISO containers that made immensely tempting targets.

For now, the Ardenians were gambling that the ports didn't have enough AD or the materials neccesary to shoot down incoming HGVs - a hard task, even for a picketed carrier group. The Ardenians were gambling that just eight would be enough to strike down the ports, leave nothing more than rubble and destroyed ships in their wake; and throw a massive wrench in the Monarchists supply lines.

It would have to work for now. It would have to - the strike packages couldn't operate yet - not with all their efforts being focused around Rigal, directly attacking the jugular.

24 hours complete. D+1 objectives met; BDAs would be run soon. Two more days to achieve objectives to make the rest of the intervention far easier.

[Dolmot]

(This is a co-written post with Cossack Peoples)

-Vadanyan snip-

Location: Border of Roalimar and Vanne provinces, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

The main recipients of his shouts were Lazarìo Bènezeto and Desirat Maysonet- two longtime libertarian voters- and both of them had actually managed to get a chance to vote in one of the Dolmotie pseudo-elections. It was about… 18 years ago, when that happened- and that had been Rixende Largarde’s first election win, at the young age of only 23. Both of them were a bit past their prime, with Bènezeto being 44 and Maysonet being 47, but they were practically inseparable after having met each other at Lagarde’s inauguration. Still, the couple put business first, but they were kept together for their loyalty to the party and just for the sake of morale- Maysonet and his patience contrasted well with Bènezeto and her passion. In other words, they made a wonderful team- and that eliminated the last potential reason to keep them separate, frankly.

Vardanyan caught a glimpse of them through the flap. His cause revitalized through the stench emanating from the front of the truck cabin, he called, “I am a representative of Czaslyudiya. I need to meet Lagarde– get me to Rixende Lagarde!”

When Maysonet heard this, he glanced over at his partner, confused. “What’s a ‘Czaslyudiya’? Is it some kind of fruit?” Bènezeto chuckled- she hadn’t heard Vardanyan, but she did actually know a thing or two about Czaslyudiya- first and foremost, she knew that it wasn’t anywhere particularly nearby. Tired and raw in the throat from reaming out other militia members, Andriy latched onto the comment. They were at least listening.


“You! I am Andriy Oleksandovych Vardanyan, I am here to represent my government, the Federal Republic! Czaslyudiya is here to help you! You need to get me the fuck out of these manacles and somewhere useful or you are fucked!” Vardanyan spat, enunciating his Dolmotie carefully.

Maysonet laughed, as if the idea was ridiculous. He spoke back tauntingly, as if he were some kind of antagonist who had just met the main character of a TV show. “You? Out of your restraints? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard this month!” He seemed like he would’ve said more, but suddenly, Bènezeto’s elbow sharply made contact with her partner’s side, knocking the wind out of him. She leaned slightly closer and downwards to the small flap they were taking through, revealing at least some of her face. She seemed… not entirely trusting, of course, but certainly not nearly as unserious or hostile as Maysonet. “We’ll get you out of there, but if you’re bullshitting us, we’ll make waterboarding look like a joke. Last chance to change your mind.”

Vardanyan exhaled. He was trained to resist torture up to a certain point, or at least for a time; waterboarding would probably be the most mild outcome here. He was a foreign national caught by rebel forces, and his fate was in their hands. If they did not get him to his objective and Czaslyudian intervention failed, he would be captured, likely compromised, and without means of escape. And if it were discovered he was an intelligence agent before the alliance with the libertarians was secured, or after the Libertarians lost, his death would be all but guaranteed. Grinding his teeth, Vardanyan replied, “I am Czaslyudian. I do not bullshit. I would not come to this godforsaken country if it was for a joke!”

Bènezeto nodded, and walked away wordlessly. Meanwhile, Maysonet leaned towards the flap, and spoke somewhat softly. “You know we’re going to kill you, right?” The threat was empty, but this was his way of disagreeing with his partner’s decision. Unfortunately for him, his precious Lazarìo somehow managed to hear him, and she sounded agitated as she spoke in a slightly raised voice, a fair distance away. “No, we’re not! Ignore him!”

Maysonet groaned, and turned to face Bènezeto. “Fuck off!” All that could be heard from Bènezeto’s end were words in Anari- a minority language in Dolmot that the truck driver spoke, and while they did know Dolmotie, they were much more fluent in Anari- which Bènezeto happened to speak quite well. After a bit, the back of the truck opened, revealing Lazarìo’s rather unimpressive stature, standing at only 5 feet and 4 inches. Short enough that she didn’t have to crouch much at all as she walked in between the two rows of prisoners. Meanwhile, Maysonet was still guarding the exit to the truck- clutching his rifle tightly. Bènezeto eventually stopped when she reached Vardanyan, leaning down to undo his restraints with a key she had in her hands. Once this was done, she began walking away, while gesturing for the now-freed Vardanyan to follow her. As she turned around, something vaguely resembling an AKS-74U could be seen on her back- a reminder that while she was the “good cop” amongst the duo of the guards, she was far from a non-threat.

Rubbing his wrists, Vardanyan gave a somber nod to his captors. At least in this part of the world they still listened to reason. Glancing over to Maysonet, Andriy gave a crooked grin. “You were going to get me killed one way or another– but now I have a chance, my friend.” He shrugged. “Now who is your officer?”

Lazarìo’s response was quick, and her tone suddenly but briefly betrayed her “good cop” demeanor. “Only I get to taunt my husband. Remember that well.” As she spoke, she reached for her carbine, and took it into her hands as she stepped out of the truck. That being said, she remained… relatively docile. As for Desirat, he muttered a string of vulgar obscenities under his breath. After a moment, Bènezeto turned back to Vardanyan, still looking rather stern. “I’m not here to run this through a million fucking subordinates and middle-managers. I can get someone with direct contact to Lagarde- but it will take time. Now get the hell out of the truck before Daliso decides to drive off with you standing up in there.”

“Initiative. I like it!” Vardanyan remarked, hopping onto the soft earth. “I suppose I should have figured that you libertarians don’t respond well to a…” Vardanyan paused to find the word, “chain of command.”

Bènezeto shrugged, pulling out a radio as the truck drove off. Once the engine’s noise was no longer interfering with conversation, she spoke into it. “Enri, tell Anulika to head to Checkpoint V-R-7.” The voice on the other end of the radio sounded tired, and bothered by this request. “Don’t you have her damn number? Do it yourself, you lazy bastard.” In response to this, Lazarìo audibly spat onto the ground next to her, sounding agitated. “You think she’s checking her fucking cell right now? Get real. I can have her chew you out if you ignore me, and you know it.” The voice on the other end groaned, and sounded defeated. “Fine. Just give me a minute.”

Enjoying the fresh air and sneaking a wave to the other captives still in the truck, Vardanyan figured it right in his role as liaison to instill some Czaslyudian goodwill in the libertarian cause. “You folks are on the right side of history, you know.”

Bènezeto glanced over at Vardanyan, seeming “over it”, so to speak. “Don’t patronize me.” There was awkward silence for a while, before her radio crackled to life once more, with the same tired voice. “Ms. Darego will be with you in uh… she said 25 minutes, but you know her. Always early. I’d expect her in 20.” Bènezeto lifted her radio back up, speaking into it once more. “Affirmative. And I do know her better than you. Leagues better.” And with that, the three of them were left to wait. After a while, Lazarìo began fidgeting with the lid of an old-school lighter in one hand, while still holding her weapon in the other. Maysonet seemed… more suspicious of Vardanyan, and he kept his rifle in both hands, though it was lowered- for now.

Vardanyan sighed, scratching his stubble. “Let me tell you, it’s nice.” Lazarìo glanced back up at him, stopping her fidgeting for a moment. “What’s nice, hm?”

The dark-haired Czas man gestured loosely– to the trees, the hills around them. “When this is all over. When you’re free. You don’t need your rifle anymore. You don’t have to watch the hills for snipers.”

Lazarìo seemed to consider that, before sighing wistfully. “Maybe. I’m starting to think that no matter how much help we get, we’d be lucky to set up a breakaway state that keeps Vanne and Tenentera in its borders. Probably not even that.” After speaking, she frowned slightly, before swatting at something that had landed on the bun of her brown hair, turning around and managing to grab it out of the air at the cost of her lighter having to leave her hands- although, impressively, she managed to intercept it with her foot, deflecting it right at Desirat, who managed to catch it by removing a hand from his weapon.

Andriy nodded. “You are not alone, tovaryshi. Even if your movement stops at those borders, a free Dolmot will exist, soon enough. I do not doubt you will see it in your lifetime.” Lazarìo didn’t respond- not for a while, at least. She allowed Desirat to drop her lighter back into the palm of her extended hand as she turned back around, nodding weakly. After a few seconds, she managed to murmur out a response. “I hope you’re right.”

After that, it was mostly quiet, at least besides the sounds of Bènezeto’s lighter’s lid being clicked back and forth. About 15 minutes later, a police interceptor pulled up to the checkpoint, stopping rather suddenly and kicking up dirt in its wake. A rather diminutive Anari woman (only 4 feet and 10 inches) stepped out- it was rather easy to identify someone as Anari, due to their significantly darker skin that was more congruent with what you might expect from certain regions of the Arab world- as opposed to the typically fair-skinned Dolmoties. The Anari minority in Dolmot was significant- roughly 6.5% of the population, although most of them spoke Dolmotie quite well. It had been a long time since any kind of Anari-majority state existed. When Lazarìo caught sight of this new arrival, her expression brightened, and she switched over to speaking Anari in a rather friendly-sounding voice. Anulika responded in an equally sunny manner, but, once they were done, Darego’s gaze shifted to Vardanyan, and her expression became more stern. Almost entirely emotionless, frankly. Darego’s Dolmotie was nigh-flawless, and so she seamlessly switched to it, knowing that Maysonet didn’t speak Anari. “I assume this one is the reason you called me here?” After speaking- mind you, she didn’t know Vardanyan knew any Dolmotie, she switched languages once more, trying English this time. “You. Who are you? Identify yourself.”

Vardanyan adjusted himself, straightening his shirt and jacket. His English was a little rusty, betraying his accent; “I am Senior Lieutenant Vardanyan. I am a representative of the foreign services of the Federal Republic of Czaslyudian Peoples. I offer support of your movement on behalf of my government. I request to be in the presence of your superior.”

Darego remained silent for a moment, considering something. Before she could respond, though, Bènezeto muttered something that sounded like Anari to her, and she paused, seeming surprised. When she spoke up, she spoke in Dolmotie once more. “My apologies, I didn’t know you spoke Dolmotie. Er… how long have you been here?” The somewhat awkward nature of Darego’s question, as well as her diminutive stature, made it harder to detect that this question was actually quite important in deciding her next move…

Vardanyan sensed the gulf over which this question hinged as well. To admit he had been in Dolmot for a while, raising questions as to his cover, or to lie, raising questions as to how he got there in the middle of wartime. The casual talk had to go. “Long enough to know that the entirety of the region is intent on supporting the crown. Long enough to know that if you want to be free, you will need our help.”

Darego’s hand moved slowly to her gun. She didn’t like that answer, and it was real damn clear. “Give me a real answer- or I’ll be doing more than just reaching for my weapon.” Darego, while not wearing any kind of platformed footwear to try and compensate for her lack of height, did carry a large, steel-framed hand cannon of some sort. It vaguely resembled a Desert Eagle, but, obviously, it wasn’t one. This was how she compensated for her lack of an intimidating stature- with superior firepower.

Being threatened with execution put him on edge, try as he may to recall that his survival was anything but guaranteed. Grudgingly, Vardanyan shrugged. “Three years.” Upon hearing this, Darego didn’t budge. Her hand stayed close to her weapon, but she didn’t sound angry- just humorless and stern. “Then tell me… why shouldn’t I just put you back in cuffs, hm? You’re clearly more than just a messenger.”

Easing himself, Vardanyan pointed off to what he figured was the west. “Because my countrymen out there, they are not your enemy. And neither am I. We want nothing from you but your cooperation.” Darego took a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s pretend I believe you. What do you want from me?”

Vardanyan took a step forward, though careful not to threaten the small gunslinger. “I want to meet the face of a free Dolmot.” Darego scowled. “Enough of the fluffy, propaganda-esque talk. You want to talk to Lagarde- correct? Next time- if I let you live to see a next time, that is, just fucking say that.”

Vardanyan could not have been more relieved, but he didn’t show it. He cracked another smile. “Believe me, tovarysh, it will be a pleasure to see you alive and healthy again.” Eventually, Darego sighed, her expression softening ever so slightly as she moved her hand away from her weapon. She turned away, and spoke once more. “If you’ll excuse me… I believe I have a call to make.” And with that, Darego walked away, and once she was around a corner, she pulled out a flip phone, and dialed a very particular number. The conversation she had was entirely in Anari, as to keep some secrecy, since she was still in earshot. Lagarde’s Anari was… certainly suboptimal, but it was enough. Eventually, Darego came around a corner, still looking rather stern. “Come with me. You’re getting your chance.”

[The Kaisers Syndicates]

LOCATION: 50 MILES OUTSIDE DOLMONTIE WATERS
INFANTRTY RADIO:SABATON - Wolfpack
nside a Kraken MKII submarine, commotion begins and a radio crackles *BZZT*. "In Ordnung, Männer, letzter Aufruf, ein letztes Mal auftanken, dann kehrt unser U-Boot nach Hause zurück." (All right, men, last call, one last refueling, then our submarine returns home."

Two subs then surface a Kraken MKI Class submarine and a Kraken MKII. The Kraken MKI prepares refueling procedures for the Kraken MKII. After an hour, the submarine is refueled enough to reach Dolmont.

*BZZT* "Das war's mit dem Auftanken. Viel Glück dabei, den Kraken aus dem Gebiet zu bekommen." (That's it for refueling. Good luck Kraken is leaving the operation area.)

The subs now take off in opposite directions after submerging yet again inside the now-lone submarine. The crew stirs one of the special forces men onboard and asks the captain, "Wie weit sind wir?" (How far out are we?) The captain answers "etwa 80 kilometers" (about 80 kilometers). 

Little does this crew know what will await them. enemy boat patrols an unfriendly environment and active enemy forces in the area, and finally a massive minefield. This will be the toughest mission to complete in Kaiser's history yet. Phase one of Kraken begins as the submarine enters Dolmontie Waters.

The captain tells the crew, 'Verwenden Sie den Sonar-Störsender." (Deploy the sonar jammer.) and the submarine launches something from it, which is a sonar jammer disguised as a mine. The captain then remarks, "Jetzt haben wir nur noch so viel Zeit, bis sie das herausfinden, also müssen wir mit voller Kraft nach Minen Ausschau halten." (Now we only have so much time before they find out, so we have to be on the lookout for mines at full speed.) The Kraken MKII thrusts itself closer to the shore, infiltration almost complete almost.

[Weltkria]

"SIGNALs. MODULATION."

"Track; very loud; UUVs... can we get someone to dipit?"

"The hell is this signal? It's loud, doesn't seem to be modulating anything; what?"

The SR-90 "Seraphim" chopped through the skies, active sonobouy after sonobouy slamming into the water as it moved forward. They, and the rest of the 98th Squadron; ARS Erastaria, had received the unenviable and harrowing task of finding a verifable needle in the haystack. They had two UUVs converging on the area - pinging away with their active sonar, mantaining their low-frequency datalinks - little to no bandwidth, but hopefully enough to say "somethings here!" There were four or so helicopters on the search; a multimission combatant - the ARS Cardiff; was moving into their search area, towed array taut - they were listening.

They cut. Every single ship in Sea Control Group 9 started their 10 minute drift, listening for the distant corkscrew of a submarine. The annoying noisemaker at the bottom of the ocean had done absolutely nothing against the angry swarm of helicopters, looking for, studying, the telltale signs of submarines - PING!

Signal! UUV first; magnetic, passive - silent torch, sheer luck. Pinging active second; third; location triangulated on fourth. Fate sealed without them knowing about it. Last second MAD flyover from another SR-90 resulted in a clear targeting solution.

Target classified. No match against databanks of Ardenian; Czas; Weltkrian. Presumed hostile.

Burst. Last second communications. Last known location of FRCPN Mykola Yanchuk; 450 klicks away. Definitely not the Mykola Yanchuk; too loud, too unstealthly. Found with a quick overflight from helicopters, location revealed the second their decoy went live.

A Astrid rocket-propelled torpedo was the first. It climbed up and up from the cells of the Cardiff; the bastardized crew silently watching as the torpedo detached, parachute detached, whistling as last-second adjustments were made, plunging towards the last known location. Guidance handed off to UUVs the second it hit the water; second wave, two SARRAT fast torpedoes detached from their bays; wire-guidance going live as it plunged towards the submarine.

Three torpedoes, one very high-resolution track.

10 seconds old. Position update.

Impact in a minute.

---

[Gonswanza]

Even with hostile activity, and in the face of adversity, the naval landing force that had pushed out under the cover of heavy cruise missile and "hypersonic" missile fire cruises for hostile libertarian shores just west of Roalimar, near the populist border, with the mob of infantry and armored assets scrambling after the missiles hit in hopes if establishing a beachhead, with near immediate engagement of armored units against hostile defenders assuming any did survive the initial yet short burst of missiles.

In the rush, it was quickly realized that air assets would be needed, but the gamble did offer limited support from helicopters and drones, the latter either flying in from the south or cruising in from Populist airbases.

At the same time, ADC-160s finally see use in the south, supposedly, with reports of the aircraft being used against the Minarchists.

The claims, however, are dubious at best given blurry images of TU-22Ms taking off from airfields rather than the fabled, modified TU-160 gunship.

SIC: In all reality, logistics wre getting difficult to push the gunships to the front, as it was noted that the friendly island was under attack, meaning that any military aircraft attempting to land or take off would come under fire.

ISIC: But there was an idea pitched around to use the FY-80Cs against hostile shipping, combined with drone decoys to confuse the enemy and later wage a war on information, with no real consequence to Gonswanza beyond a few downed pilots and a few dozen dead drones.

[Cossack Peoples]

VESOKEAN SEA, BADLANDS FRONTIER
_{September 5th, 2034}

The hornet’s nest had been stirred.

The 111th Carrier Aviation Group was not in contact with aerial combatants. The air-to-air-armed 137th Fighter-Bomber Squadron sortied closer to lob their Zoryas at the circling Wedgetail, but well beyond the missile’s maximum range, it only served to keep the Wedgetail 100 kilometers further back and away from detecting the bulk of the aviation group before the fighters turned back. The datalinks of the wave of Marzanna’s reported many successful detonations; whether it was a success, however, remained to be seen.

Before they had even managed to sortie back for refuels and more ordnance, the Ardenians had already flown by them, undaunted by the radar horizon like the cautious Czaslyudians. They were on the prowl for air defenses.

The Czaslyudians, however, had different objectives, as outlined by the joint Chornaya Treaty on Strategic Assistance’s supreme command. Ardenian commander was to handle the sector to the north, denying and contesting control of the air and seas in and out of Dolmot. Czaslyudian commander Vadim Misutin was to assert the CTSA’s objectives over the continent and whoever stood in the way. Misutin watched the aircrews swap out on the deck after their multi-hour missions, hurried fresh pilots barely having time to adjust themselves in their barely topped-off aircraft before they launched away yet again, replaced by another one or two aircraft. The Uchen made a pass eastward, confirming what a brief satellite pass had already detected; there were eight less monarchist ships, and three smoking heaps of resistance, making less than twenty knots eastbound.

The 111th CAG celebrated briefly, and only mildly at that. Pilots that rotated out of the skies needed to get rest and chow. Pilots that flew out needed their attention on the task at hand. There was still much to be done. With their first objective completed, the Czaslyudians turned their gaze ever eastward. The Gonswanzans were not out of the fight; if Libertarian sources were to be believed, they had thousands of fighters and armor combing the former populist territories and salvaged a significant portion of their carrier aviation, albeit divorced from the ordnance stores of their crippled mothership. Even now, their naval defeat leaving them isolated, they pressed themselves into an offensive against the Libertarians, who unlike the populists, knew their way around a gun. And like all good sovereign citizens, an illicitly-obtained rocket launcher as well.

The 111th split into two groups: BITUM and CHLIB. Two squadrons were devoted to air superiority and strike operations in the Vanne-Roalimar sector, supported by a flight of the electronic warfare squadron; meanwhile, the remaining fighter-bomber squadron was sent through the Therond Strait, accompanied by the remaining half of the electronic warfare squadron, respectively. BITUM approached from the west, loaded with anti-radiation missiles, dual-purpose standoff bombs, and air-to-air missiles; to give them time on station, they discarded their fuel tanks just as they passed over the shores of Dolmot. They were now invading sovereign royal airspace. CHLIB’s trajectory was more subdued. Like earlier, they hugged the sea; they did not want to be found. The enemy AWACs were still a threat– hopefully, the aggressive action of BITUM would alleviate it. CHLIB would trail along the Therond Strait, before turning inland towards Roalimar and the string of workable airstrips.

First, however, the 13th Surface Action Group. The fleet was shrouded in smoke as the escorts of the group launched volley after volley of heavy missiles; the propellant smoke was thick enough that aircraft could not be safely launched until the westerly winds carried it away. A package of sixty-four Sokyra-S land-attack cruise missiles were launched, constituting the first time the missiles were used on enemy territory. Larger, heavier, and with a thousand-kilometer range, these were used to pack a punch when the far leaner Marzanna would not do the job. Five-hundred twenty kilograms of cluster, bunker-busting, and blast-frag warhead, lofted like a kite twenty meters above the water, the barely subsonic Sokyra variant effectively traced out the course the cruising CHLIB force would take, if only two steps ahead; approach by sea, using the isolation and radar horizon to hide. Then, turn into Dolmot airspace from the north, and strike. This force, unnamed, would be the vanguard for CHLIB’s mission– disabling and routing the remaining Gonswanzan air assets on the runways.

Meanwhile, BITUM would fill a double role; brazenly pressure existing air assets in the vicinity of Vanne, and put a halt to the Gonswanzan assault. Without forward air control, it would be difficult to coordinate; however, there was always a fuzzy idea of the front lines, periodically splashed across the displays of the group’s WSO’s by their Uchen, the linchpin of the operation. That, and any of the libertarian’s tanks would not be moving westward in combat formation.

In the open, in broad daylight, tanks were easy to see with the Shapoval’s IRST system (and failing that, the Mk1 Eyeball system), then strike pods would illuminate the target, and then the vehicle would be no more. BITUM was distributed to the north and south of Vanne; an SAM or SPAAG ambush would be returned in kind. They had the seas, and now the skies cleared over Rigal. Whether they cleared over Vanne and Roalimar, too, would remain to be seen.

ST. ADJUTOR STRAIT, VESOKEAN SEA
_{East of Dolmot
FRCPN Mykola Yanchuk}

Dolgopolov eased as the final payload was loosed from his ship’s tubes. Technically, if he wanted to think about it, mining highly strategic maritime passages, even with due warning, was illegal and would have earned his nation condemnation from all her peers; however, this was not Greater Dienstad. International law was only applicable to those who held it sacrosanct. Different principles had to be applied to the Badlands. Grace was not appropriate to all states.

The Yanchuk had the ability to carry up to thirty-five Kultrop influence mines; the Yanchuk only carried ten, the rest of the space designated for dual-purpose torpedoes and heavyweights. For the task, it seemed fitting for the narrower southern strait to earn just three mines, which they had placed hours ago, in order to cover the entirety of the passage; meanwhile, the remaining seven were distributed, in a pattern of five and two, for the northern St. Julian Strait. They had just returned, after a meandering path at just five knots, from the northern passage, where the mines would have to do at deterring and punishing movement. The St. Adjutor Strait needed the personal attention of the Yanchuk-- with its bottleneck, it would funnel targets into a predictable zone where Dolgopolov would hunt them.

[The Kaisers Syndicates]

LOCATION: 5 MILES FROM INFILTRATION POINT INTO DOLMONT
INFANTRY RADIO:Elena Siegman · Kevin Sherwood - Beauty of Annihilation
An alarm blasts in the submarine. 
Crew members panic as a scream rips through the sub: "VERDAMMT, WIR HABEN EINEN TORPEDO IM ANFLUG!" (FUCK, WE GOT A TORPEDO INCOMING!) 
The captain tries to remain cool and asks, 'Wie viele und wie nah?"
A crewman answers him, "Drei Sir, die Torpedoausbuchtung kann es nur mit einem aufnehmen und sie sind etwa dreißig Sekunden entfernt." (Three sir, the torpedo bulge can only take on one, and they are about thirty seconds away.)
The captain nods and replies, "Ausweichmanöver, dann schalten wir die Elektronik aus, damit sie uns nicht wieder orten können, verdammt, wir sind acht Kilometer entfernt!" (Evasive maneuvers, then we turn off the electronics so they can't locate us again; damn it, we're eight kilometers away!)
The submarine barely manages to perform the maneuver, taking a hit from a torpedo. In the process, time was running short for the crew, but they only needed a bit of a stall to infiltrate now.

[Dolmot]

Location: Near the border of Maulimar and Lirac provinces, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

“It’s time.”

Those were the words that echoed through the young soldier’s head as she fiddled with her rifle. It wasn’t an optimal situation- but the enemy was distracted, and the monarchists needed a win. Peyronne knew this, and she knew it well, but she was still nervous. She didn’t want to die- but at the same time, idealism was practically coursing through her. In her eyes, if they lost this war, it was over for her. She would have to leave Dolmot if hope of serving the crown once more was gone. What an ideal subject…

“PRIVATE FAURE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GET THE FUCK OVER HERE BEFORE I LEAVE YOU BEHIND, SOLDIER!”

Right. The time was now. She jogged over to the vehicle her sergeant and the rest of her team were in- which was flanked by the rest of the platoon’s vehicles. The rifle that was slung over her shoulder felt heavier than usual as she opened the door and seated herself. The engine roared to life, and they were off. This was it. Without communications from Rigal, and by extension, Commander-Marshal Estragón Delmas, Marshal Ortènsi Soler had taken over, ordering an southward blitz to Zarón while the Gonswanzan strikes further south had the demarcho-socialists watching their other flank. Of course, it was a gamble- they may run into enemies before they reach Zarón, or perhaps Zarón was actually well-defended. They didn’t know anything for sure- this was just their best guess. The monarchists needed a win for morale purposes- and that was the reason for such a bold and brash strike. Still, it wasn’t as if it was a bad idea, there was merit to the thought that the southbound strikes by the Gonswanzans might have the enemy distracted. After all… Pèrés was no military genius. Even though she had been reassured of these things, Peyronne was nervous. She was only 22… what a waste it would be to die now. She just had to make it through this- that’s what she told herself. Yes. She could do it. …right?

The 10,000-strong division barreled down towards Zarón in the night, and so far, there was nothing. Time would tell if they would be able to reach their destination without being seriously contested or not…

[Cossack Peoples]

. . .

VESOKEAN SEA, BADLANDS FRONTIER
_{September 6th, 2034
167th Provisional Division
The Reservist Dreams.}

Hours earlier, the hornet’s nest had been stirred – no one answered. A sigh of relief. The first trial to Kruglova’s command had been resolved without a whimper. The reservist had a chance to prepare herself.

Galina Kruglova was a thin-lipped figure with her golden-brown hair wrapped into a tight bun. Her battle dress uniform was wrinkled about her body, culminating in worn army-issue boots below her. Kruglova was the very image of a woman in the Czaslyudian Armed Forces – subdued, uptight, and with very little patience for the barracks shenanigans of her male comrades. Her eyes, beginning to form wrinkle-lines around the corners, flashed with fierce intelligence when she spoke. Still, sometimes this was not enough to convince her subordinates that she was in charge here – she was thankful that the FRCPN Denys Doroshenko had a permanent brig. It is easier that they act up now than in the field. The Brigadier General had never yet been in the field; she, and her 167th were mopped together by the low-water mark of fortune, destined to test the interoperability between Czaslyudian Land Forces, Naval Infantry, and surprisingly, Special Purpose Forces. It was a division in name only– a battalion, regiment, and brigade from different services had never been heaped together in the holds of amphibious vessels before now, and neither had any of those services expected to work together so closely. The SSP were especially not happy with Kruglova, a ground-pounder reservist, being their commander. Some who expressed this were already getting acquainted with the brig. She needed discipline and morale at the moment– when she needed them to give lip, she’d order it.

The Brigadier General had expected casualties after the strikes on the Gonswanzans had gone through– none had happened, to her own incredulity. Now, Kruglova’s direct correspondence with the mission commander, Misutin, was over. The old Raskovyan wanted her on the beaches. Receiving a final briefing from the spook to be attached to her, the reservist absently thought of the forests of Dolmot after being at sea for so long.

DOLMOT, 33 KILOMETERS WEST OF VANNE
_{167th Provisional Division
43rd Naval Infantry Regiment
Surf Medley}

Grigoriy Tedeyev figured he was at the high-water mark of his life’s fortunes. Not only had he passed through TImlandia months prior unscathed, but now he stood on the beaches of another foreign land, his rifle readied but never used. Tedeyev was a sharp, young NCO; he had only just graduated from his secondary education when Pelsh urged every man and woman to enlist, and so he did. The Naval Infantry was a culture of its own. During basic, he found himself thrust into a division between the fucker or the fucked– and with gritted teeth, Tedeyev chose the former and made something of himself. Now, he and his brothers were the top dogs, and they knew it. A brigade of Naval Infantry routed half a million imperialists without firing a shot (often repeated over the last few weeks), and now here they were in Dolmot, looking for trouble.

After Timlandia, he had applied to transfer to a new Naval Infantry unit and landed in the 43rd; which was not new by any means. It was formed years back, but until recently had lacked any nucleus of non-commissioned officers, no officers, no old guard to tie the unit together. During wartime, asking questions when official answers weren’t ready was discouraged with reprimand and demotion; but those that had been the first replacements were the sources of rumors that the original unit had been obliterated by Kraven, wiped clean during an ill-fated assault on the port city of Polzeh. Superstitious NCOs ran with this incendiary tidbit and were prognosticating a coming disaster to the 43rd based on it now serving with the 13th SAG; Tedeyev hardly believed them. He looked down on the superstitious types – they were the type to never take a risk, to put up no fight when things got tough, and though Tedeyev would rather not have to serve in the same rank-and-file as them, those ranks had to be filled somehow.

The landings pushed his prejudices out of his mind. There was no time for that.

The 43rd Regiment waited on their LCMs and LCACs for hours before the green light was given. Being stuck in the interior of an amphibious assault ship, sloshing around in the well dock, was claustrophobic. It wasn’t just the darkness, it was also the soundscape of grumbles and curses, the separation between their boats and the more sturdy mothership, and the fear of the secured equipment, from AFVs to palletized cargo, slipping loose of their ratchet straps and crushing LT. Soon, the grumbles turned to energized hollers as a green light began to flash above the gate out to the open sea, and Tedeyev’s craft slipped into the surf.

Thankfully for the uryadnik, the LK-240 was an air-cushioned landing craft, which made the 70-kilometer trek to shore relatively smooth; one could hardly feel the chop of the waves pass below them at forty-seven knots. The stout Timofeyevich IFVs rattled in the center of the interior bay as their crews performed last checks on engines and electronics; above the landing craft, hidden by the wash of noise produced by the LK-240, helicopters swept overhead at four times their speed, taking the SSP Detachment to their landing zones. Pretentious pricks. As if the 43rd needed a vanguard.

A change of the lights, and Tedeyev and other officers shot up. “Weapons checks! Last chance!” Every soldier had to be ready to run off that ramp at a seven-minute mile pace– once they stopped on that beach, no matter the resistance, they were supremely vulnerable. There was no time to waste. The lights flashed again, and Tedeyev strapped himself back in. He kept his hand on the release. The turbines increased the pitch of their whine, working like an overburdened mule, and Grigoriy could feel the craft decelerate.

A lurch. They were stopped.

The ramp hadn’t been fully lowered and Tedeyev shouted at his squad to their feet, rifles loaded, gear secured, and safeties off. The sand hissed as the ramp opened; the dawn bled into the compartment; vehicles growled forward, men surged onto the beaches, rushing toward the foliage, the fifty or so meters of coast standing between them and relative safety.

Before the 38th Brigade, came the 43rd. The 43rd were Naval Infantry – the 43rd were the vanguard. The 43rd had made landfall.

[Gonswanza]

Where the Gobswanzans had landed differed vividly from what was left on the ground. One eould have expected the carrier aircraft to land at any nearby airport, but near conatant combat on the ground sweeping up resistance did mildly damage facilities, with circumstances warranring the use of prepared roadways instead, though to call a dirt strip a runway is being rather liberal with the definition.

Still, the strike would go unopposed, hitting an already mildly inconvenienced airport and reducing it to ashes, along with two helicopters that were refueling and rearming. Thanks to how spread out the populists were, along with their ineffective pockets, the greater strategy to handle such internal threats shifted to staying mobile and staying independent, even if it brought up risks of supply lines being cut off.

To the south, strikes continue, though at a more frenzied pace now. Anything and everything was a target, spare none. Until the hostile forces start fighting back, the strikes will continue until a second wave could arrive, though at this point ot was questionable just where they could possibly land.

[Dolmot]

-snip-

Location: Outskirts of Vanne, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier.

Peyronne felt the the truck she was in hit a bump- probably an overgrown root- as it sped through the forests and towards the cleared areas that were the outskirts of Zarón. It was time. Time for battle. This was it. There would be no avoiding it anymore, she figured. She couldn’t keep dodging the call of duty forever. Even when her battalion was one of many that got holed up in the mountains south of Roalimar, she had managed to worm her way out of combat. She found herself staring at the trigger of her rifle. She knew she’d have to pull it soon. She dreaded it- she dreaded the first drop of blood she would shed- and she dreaded the thought of taking a life. This was not her calling in life, not by any means. But it was her fate. In her eyes, it was a sacrifice that she needed to carry out- that’s why she volunteered. And now, the legitimate crown needed her- how could she back out when she was needed? So, with that, a shaky resolve to push through the fight was born. She looked around the truck at the 4-man fireteam she was a part of, and it settled in that just about none of them would care if she died. After all, none of them were more than colleagues to her. She’d be stunned if any of them so much as knew her favorite color or anything of that nature. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), she didn’t get the opportunity to brood forever. In about 1 minute, they would be at their target. It was in plain view at this point, the lights of the city of about 525,000. Peyronne was too busy getting in her own head to take in the sights, but their truck was far from the only one- still, she was part of the first battalion to enter the city, sent to rush as far forward as possible before maintaining moderate-intensity contact with the enemy as the rest of the division trickled in through the surrounding woods, slowly beginning to outflank the enemy and relieve pressure from the first wave of forces. As they entered the outskirts and suburbs of the city, they began to slow down, but surprisingly there was no resistance. The rest of the battalion trickled in and began to creep somewhat slowly to the city center. Eventually, as they neared city limits, there were shots fired. This was it- the Battle of Zarón.

Location: Zarón, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

Peyronne’s platoon had found themselves pinned down on one side of a bridge that crossed a major “ring road” that roughly followed the city limits of Zarón. The vast, cleared indentation that had been made in the land to allow the highway to be built effectively served as a no-man’s land, as a false forest of coniferous frees flanked the open road on both sides to dampen the sound and beautify the scenery. Peyronne clutched her native-made Dolmotie assault rifle in her hands, shaking slightly. Bullets whizzed by the tree she had taken cover behind- suppressive fire. She knew if she popped her head out, she was dead. It wasn’t a comforting thought, especially for her first firefight ever. She hadn’t fired a single round yet- she was too scared to even try to get a shot on the enemy, even just to return the suppresive fire. Eventually, the bullets stopped coming by her tree, as the enemy autorifleman had to reload. The autorifleman in question was Andeòl Falba, who had served in the Dolmotie Army for 7 years prior to the civil war. For all his training, he hadn’t seen much actual combat- but he was ready. Still, he was beginning to doubt if the figure that he had seen was really behind the tree that a shaking Peyronne was using as cover. Unbeknownst to him, he decided to move on- unintentionally sparing Peyronne’s life. But someone else wouldn’t be so lucky. 2 trees over, Peyronne would watch as one of her comrades who was returning fire dilligently was suddenly struck between the eyes by a speeding bullet. He collapsed instantly, expiring in under a second. Peyronne let out an audible gasp, shaking even more intensely as gunfire continued to be heard from both sides. Still, there was a small part of her nagging this mess of a woman to get over herself and return fire. A voice screamed in her head, and it got louder as an LMG operator on her side of the fight began reloading, and the sound of their weapon went quiet for the duration of this process. She suddenly found herself acting without thinking, shouldering her rifle and peeking her head out. Rather than just unloading suppressive fire, she had actually acquired a target with her sharp eye. She adjusted slightly upwards, and fired a short burst, just like how she had been trained. The individual in her sights collapsed, and they didn’t get back up. Her worst nightmare had just come true- she had just taken a life. Despite this, the fight went on. Eventually, it would be won for the monarchists as an IFV came barreling down the road, engaging the enemy platoon and felling the trees they were using as cover with its 30mm autocannon. While most of her compatriots were celebrating, Peyronne felt like she was going to vomit- and she felt as if after she vomited, her vomit would expel its own puddle of vomit out of disgust. She viciously struggled to come to terms with the fact that she had just killed someone. She never wanted this. Did it need to happen? Had she saved one of her comrades’ lives by taking one of the enemies’? That was the only way she could justify it to herself- so for that moment, that’s what she chose to believe.

Elsewhere...

Initially, the fight was rather even- 1,000 attackers getting the drop on about 1,250 defenders. But as monarchist forces both reinforced the initial battalion and outflanked the defenders, the city center quickly fell, as there was little in the way of socialist forces that had been left to guard the rear- they were already being attacked by a similar-sized force from one direction! Most of the interior of the city fell without fighting, and the socialist resistance was outnumbered by about 8 to 1. The pocket quickly collapsed, as fighting 1,000 enemies on one front was already enough for the defenders- they had no hope when they were fully surrounded by 10,000 enemies. And with that, the battle was over during the same night it had started.

[Gonswanza]

Mobilization was... Rapid, yet ironically slow. While promises of glory were strung up, other conflicts soon entered the picture to strain the numbers. A nation at eternal war, and only now was it slowing. As the military scrambles to activate reserves, the "doomed fleet" has yet to return, down for repairs after a jump across the sea to Minstekko, beyond the AO far to the northeast, before the sea could freeze over.

ISIC:
Yet plans were being set in motion as reports trickle in of a possible second wind to the south being planned internally. With conflict in the north confirmed and aircraft moving about in jagged patterns, retreating southward with infantry, it was inevitable that the now isolated forces would be coming to strike against more southerly forces.

IC:
Granted, the conflict was not entirely just running. SCUD-Ms and Iskanders would occasionally stop, though the rapid pace of the seeming retreat was justified despite these odd pit stops. No more than mere minutes at a time too, though some could claim it was due to technical difficulties and communications errors given the rest of the forces had spread out and were now outrunning the longer ranged ballistic missiles.

[Hecashovda]

Location: Šaliamūsų Strait, Badlands Frontier

The water seemed clear. For all Rizvadi Lors knew, he was past the real danger. Of course, he was wrong about this- but it wasn’t as if precautions hadn’t been taken. Normally, the standard route for civilian shipping would’ve been through the Strait of Thèmond, and then straight to the more southern Tolinuomūsų Strait, but this particular shipment had taken the long route, going far north of the island of Thèmond and passing through the more northern Šaliamūsu Strait rather than going all the way south to pass through Tolinuomūsų for no good reason. Still- this would not be enough. One moment, Rizvadi was lighting a cigarette, and watching land pass by in the distance. Then, there was a terribly loud noise. From there, everything was a panicked blur- his vantage point over the water shook and sank lower and lower, and he remembered being soaking wet, and swimming frantically until he passed out. And then everything went black.

Location: near Ariodas, Badlands Frontier

Rizvadi woke up on… land? He expected to be dead- but he was waking up! After all, there was no afterlife- he was sure of that. His shirt was a sopping wet disaster- as were his pants, but he considered himself too civilized to shed those. Still, he got rid of his shirt- it had never fit him well, and he wanted to feel the sun’s warmth rather than that sopping wet piece of crap. He milled about aimlessly, walking inland. And that’s when he realized where he was- he saw something unmistakable- a Salosvyrai shrine- carved out of wood, and adorned with small decorations made out of hand-woven cloth. So he had washed up on the southern bank- being greeted by Salosvyrai religious sites rather than a Dimoran city. He stood there, looking at the huge wooden shrine that looked as if it had been carved out of a tree itself. For all of their primitiveness, the Salosvyrai certainly had craftsmanship, especially considering they were likely doing this with chisels and knives. Of course, Rizvadi was a big believer in the current Hecashovdan regime, so he took… pity on whoever built this. It was a pointless testament to stupidity, in his eyes- even if it was well-built. Unfortunately for him, the supposedly “stupid” people who made this were still intending to use this thing they had spent so much effort on- and the time they had chosen was, well, now. A group of girls wandered out of the forest, and into the clearing where the shrine stood. None of them looked to be older than 15, and they were all dressed in somewhat androgynous-looking dresses, without much shape to them besides a slight flare to the lower half. It looked as if they had been made by hand- not a hard assumption to reach, considering Salosvyrai culture revolved around hand-woven fabrics to a degree. One of them, the tallest and presumably the eldest of the group had a… was that a… WAS THAT A SWORD? He took a slow, stalking step backwards- right onto a twig. Shit. One of the younger ones immediately turned, and noticed him. There were about 5 seconds of awkward eye contact, in which Rizvadi tried to reassure the girl with an awkward smile, but she immediately identified him as a foreigner- and not the Dolmotie kind, who had historically been kind to the Salosvyrai. Suddenly, there was chattering in a language that Rizvadi didn’t understand, and the tall one suddenly unsheathed her sword, and pointed it straight at him. She approached, and he didn’t know what to do- but when she got close, she swung rather wildly, merely grazing Rizvadi as some quick thinking managed to avoid the worst of the potential blow. If only he had kept his shirt on, maybe he wouldn’t have been cut at all. But there was no time for “what-ifs”- the sailor had to get the hell out of there! He turned, and tried to run- but as his feet hit the ground, one patch of earth was much softer than he expected- and his foot sank into the ground a bit too much- causing him to stumble, landing with a thump and a groan. As he turned around, he found himself witnessing his assailant standing over him- her sword held at her side, with its tip dangling less than an inch away from the ground. She seemingly sized him up, examining his panicked expression as he tried to crawl away. Suddenly, her stern expression softened slightly as she determined he was, in all likelihood, a non-threat. She put out her left hand, the one that was no longer on her sword, and apparenty seemed to be offering to help him to his feet. Was this real? Rizvadi stared for the better part of a minute, before finally accepting the gesture. He was out of immediate danger for now, it seemed.

[Hecashovda]

-snip-

Location: near Ariodas, Badlands Frontier

Kordelija stared as she saw her sister do the unthinkable- her idol, her protector, her role model… was sparing a foreigner?!? She had been taught to show no mercy to those who came to these shores uninvited- this should’ve been no exception, in her eyes. But Indraja was the one with the sword, and, frankly, the one with the last word amongst the band of sisters. Truth be told, it was more of a “found family” arrangment, with the young girls having found solace in one another after a brief feud with a rival tribe saw their parents die. There were five of them- there was Indraja, the leader of the group, who was 18. Then there was Kordelija, who was 16- and a blood sister of Indraja’s. Then there was Norvydė- the coward of the bunch, despite being 15- on the relatively old side for this group. Finally, there was Ainė and Gitana- another pair of blood-related sisters, and they were 11 and 10 respectively.

Meanwhile, Indraja was helping Rizvadi to his feet. He was terrified- she could sense that much. Once he was standing again, he was taller than Indraja- and she didn’t like that at all. She pointed her sword at him, backing off slowly- but this time, she held it so the edges were facing opposite horizontal directions, rather than vertical ones. She was genuinely confused when Rizvadi started backing away- and she began barking orders at him in Salosvyrai- which only confused him further, causing him to nearly turn and run before he noticed the gestures Indraja was making with her sword. She pointed it at him, and then made a swooping, downwards motion as she started to back away. Was she… gesturing for him to follow her? He decided to approach very slowly, not trusting the sword-wielding girl one bit.

Indraja nodded as he started to come closer, and she stopped making the swooping motion- but kept backing away with her sword raised, which, in Salosvyrai culture, meant “follow me, but keep your distance”. Of course, Rizvadi didn’t know that- and so he stopped, unsure insofaras what he was expected to do. Indraja groaned, shaking her head and beginning that same downwards swooping gesture. The two of them never dared to turn their backs on one another, but they were beginning to make some progress towards Indraja’s sisters. Norvydė seemed to be trembling slightly- she was the one Rizvadi had made eye contact with initially. Kordelija seemed mostly busy keeping Norvydė calm- and keeping herself docile- because the only thing separating her from attacking Rizvadi with her knife was Indraja and her judgement. Eventually, the two of them reached the others- prompting Indraja to look over her shoulder at her sisters- both of blood and of circumstance.

“Ainė, Gitana- go home, and stay inside. Norvydė- get me some fabric. Kordelija- make an extra helping of food tonight. I am going to try to reason with the nevietoje.”

Ainė, Gitana, and Norvydė all made their way back to the home the 5 of them shared- it was actually quite nice, thanks to Indraja and Kordelija’s family having been relatively wealthy before the feud, well… killed them off. Kordelija stayed behind- placing her hands on her hips. Just because she listened to Indraja’s judgement didn’t mean she didn’t question it sometimes…

“Indraja, what are you doing? He is a nevietoje. He cannot be trusted, with or without a weapon! This is madness!”

“Kordelija, my lovely sister, you don’t understand. He is alone. Get Mother’s shortsword if you don’t feel safe- but I want to at least try to not kill people for washing up here.”

Kordelija groaned, but jogged to catch up with the others. This left only Indraja and Rizvadi in the clearing. Indraja faced the young Heca once more, re-sizing him up. She was confident she could force him back again if she needed to. All of that chatter had been in Salosvyrai, so he was still clueless. She raised her sword once more- the edges facing opposite horizontal directions. At this point, Rizvadi had figured out that that meant he was allowed to follow her- and so he did.

Location: Ariodas, Badlands Frontier

Eventually, the sword-wielding girl hand managed to lead Rizvadi back to… oh, that’s better than he was expecting. A full brick house- admittedly, lacking some of the- oh. She slammed the door on him. Well, what did he expect? These people didn’t exactly seem kind to outsiders. He hadn’t really retained much of the knowledge that he had been taught about the Salosvyrai in school, so he was hopelessly clueless. He meandered away, not sure what to do with himself. He found himself sitting on a stump, staring at the house- he was secretly hopeful that the sword girl might return with something for him, but his doubts were beginning to become apparent. This was… quite the predicament. He regretted shedding his shirt, that was for sure. And then, she came into sight again. The sword girl, holding a sheet of some kind of fabric, she approached him, and as soon as he saw the scowl on her face, he was suddenly struck with the very fabric she had been carrying. He scrambled to get it out of his face as it smothered him. Suprisingly enough, his sword-wielding counterpart hadn’t attacked him while he was blinded, but she was pointing her sword at his exposed upper half. She started gesturing back and forth from the fabric that was now in his lap to his bare torso, trying to tell him to cover himself up. He obliged after looking confused for about 10 or 15 seconds, and once he was covered up, she lowered her sword. She went back to the house, and, after another minute or so, she returned with a bowl and a spoon. When she handed it to him, he took it, and immediately raised an eyebrow at its contents. Inside was some kind of soup… but why was it so… pink? Rizvadi looked at it as if it were glowing, before suddenly noticing the tip of Indraja’s sword moving up and down- pointing at his face, and then at the bowl. Not wanting to offend his host, Rizvadi took the spoon, and had a tiny sip of the soup. It tasted like… beetroot, and something else. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But it wasn’t bad, even if it was a very strange color! He gave a thumbs up to Indraja, who seemed satisfied, slowly sheathing her sword once more. There was awkward silence between the two of them as he continued to eat, before Indraja tried to speak up, half-heartedly hoping he knew at least some Salosvyrai.

“Kaip tu čia atsidūrei?”

He looked at her very confusedly. He had no clue what any of that mean- all he knew is that it was a question, and that was only an inference in reality. He shook his head, shrugging. Indraja nodded, as if she understood that he couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. She sighed, crouching down to his eye level, since he was seated. She had no clue how this would work. How would she deal with this situation?

[Cossack Peoples]

VESOKEAN SEA, BADLANDS FRONTIER
_{September 6th, 2034
167th Provisional Division
The Reservist Moves.}

The transition had been swift. In the span of two hours, the front end of the 167th’s column had been deployed; it would be several more hours before, upwards of days, before they were up to full strength. Onboard the Denys Doroshenko with her headquarters unit, Kruglova could feel the anxieties of the 167th around her not yet deployed; both a mixture of unease within the suffocating musty decks of a Czaslyudian warship and a formidable anticipation of what lay ahead in the heart of Dolmot. Their demise? Their glory, but for how many liters of their blood? Kruglova wished that her age and veterancy put her above such feelings. It did not. Even though the thoughts of frontline combat were superseded by thoughts of tactics, strategy, and clever maneuvering, Galya could not help but empathize with the members of the 38th Brigade; they were reservists, just like her. They were both simply trying to make it through the war.

After her SAID attache made contact with Libertarian commanders, their SSP escort waited around their new landing zones for another operational redeployment. Feeling the helicopters touch off three decks above her head, Kruglova thought how little she empathized with the special forces. It was an issue beyond interservice rivalry and the SSP’s little forgivable mutinies against her command on the voyage– Kruglova knew that the machismo of the SSP didn’t respond well to female leadership. That was to be expected. However, Kruglova, so reserved a personality, would never put the mantle of all of Czaslyudiya’s problems on the shoulders of her present subordinates. Kruglova never intended to be a career officer. But for a woman from rural Lymanya, whose early education and test scores were neither above par nor on par with the more urban members of her sex, what other option did one have? In between unit readiness checks and weapons maintenance, Kruglova studied in the dark of the barracks. In between dealing with overconfident cadets and mysogynist men, Kruglova attended the Land Forces’ Chevray Military Institute. And all the while Galina was seizing the things she was never equipped to achieve – what was rightfully hers; what was owed to her – her contract with the Czaslyudian Armed Forces increased. In Czaslyudiya, where farmers struggle because food is imported to save the industry, where revolution and civil war pass on by but the government and politics stays the same, where the state is the military, the military is the civil society, and the civil society includes but relegates women to cogs in the machine, where else was she to go? The SSP were some who thrived in this system. Kruglova knew that they would go on to dazzle constituents with their meritorious service and land political office. Kruglova knew that they would go on, time after time, and continue to uphold the laws that prevent life in Czaslyudiya’s civil society without military service. And others would have the same choices she had, to engage with and be drawn into the militarized cult or withdraw completely, being the spinster her superiors and subordinates alike thought she was.

A knock at the door. The map was changing again; 43rd Naval Infantry to the Libertarian’s front line, the 12th SSP Detachment to their staging areas towards Asturtos, the 8th Amphibious Squadron northeast toward the Therónd Strait, and the 38th Mechanized HQ to Dolmotie shore. They were given the choice to engage or withdraw; the decision had been made for her. They would engage.

70 KILOMETERS SOUTHWEST OF ASTURTOS
_{12th SSP Detachment
In the dark and in the bush…}

Zaza was the cream of the crop. Or, at least that’s what he thought. The officer certainly was a shrewd individual– sharp eyes did the analyzing for a mind that had no time to deliberate, other than doggedly pursue brutality and excessively acquiring muscle mass, fueled by Czaslyudian beef and Eitoan barley. Brain foods. Zaza loved to eat what he liberally labelled brain foods– sirloin was the most accurate, with his categorizations and culinary proclivities dropping off significantly; blanched potatoes, sesame seeds, and the synergistic elements of an imported spice mix named Maráque, which was taken from the Colonel’s personal locker and scattered on nearly every meal he took. While the actual medical viability of his dogma may have held little salt, none of his peers would say that Zaza was not as strong and as cunning as he said he was.

Zaza Ayvazyan had just finished a tour of duty in Varathron, location unknown, “policing the rural areas of Czaslyudian allies against insurgent activity”, read the meritorious service medal. In actuality, he and his comrades combed the arid savannas of Ordenite Dietsland searching for Kravenite infiltrators. It was hard to tell if there were really many replicants in the batch of unaccounted-for Dietslander nationals and Jackburgian refugees with incongruous stories they sent to the beyond with armor-piercing rounds; it was hard to tell good human from bad human, anyhow. However, working side by side with the Ordenite fascists was an intriguing opportunity; Zaza saw a sense of professionalism and national pride Czaslyudiya could aspire to, rather than its traditionally undisciplined, scrappy, and technologically garish state. Even though the Raskovyan-controlled media in Korf loved to play up the terror of the looming Kraven menace, Ayvazyan quite enjoyed his time so near the front line.

Being assigned to the Badlands was not a ruin for Zaza; but being assigned as a subordinate to some inexperienced hag and ferried to the AO by a wrinkled, dimwitted Raskovyan was an insult to his service record and skill set. Colonel Ayvazyan understood the chain of command, though. Working with his lieutenants, he attempted to challenge the authority of his superior; never directly. Mladshy Uryadnik Braslavets volunteered for the task. He spoke out against the over-cautious, obviously ill-conceived plans of the woman, expecting them to struggle to maintain control over the assembly of Czaslyudian forces; but Kruglova held fast, imprisoned the dissenter, and Ayvazyan’s report and recommendation to Czaslyudiya on the matter was ignored.

Left with no choice, the Colonel was now in his headquarters– that is, a series of topographic maps and tables strewn over the open deck of a landed Valkiriya with a tall radio transmitter the customary one hundred meters away, connected to their appropriated HQ helicopter only by the long cable, about the diameter of one’s wrist, trailing along the shrubs and tree droppings.

The 12th SSP Detachment was a battalion-sized unit, made up of three companies of so-called ‘airborne’ soldiers– a misnomer, as they were comfortable in any style of warfare, from amphibious to mountain warfare– as well as a special weapons company and support elements. But they would not fight like a simple conglomeration of companies; they were better trained than that. They were the Czaslyudian Special Purpose Forces, the only ‘special forces’ body to supersede conventional military authority and go straight to the Special Activities and Intelligence Directorate, an integral part of the Department of War– they fought like the wind. Each company was made of numerous more flexible teams, which would be their basic fighting unit; Ayvazyan formed clusters of these teams around elements of the special weapons company, including their mortar, AT, and UAV teams, then shored up with soldiers from the support companies.

Ayvazyan’s mind was to the city to the east. Asturtos. Though it was just a stepping stone on the way to the far more valuable port of Roalimar, Asturtos still stood in the way, as well as its capture putting a significant amount of pressure on the Monarchy’s hold of its southern reaches. The Libertarians were appraised of their operation; whether it meshed with their operational aims or not was irrelevant. The Czaslyudians were prosecuting the war now. Maybe as they watched, some Ordenite pragmatism would rub off on them.

Their helicopter escorts returning to the coasts to refuel, the 12th melted into the forests, plunging north-east towards Asturtos.

SKIES ABOVE ROALIMAR PROVINCE
_{BITUM and CHLIB Forces, 111th CAG}

They knocked on the hornet’s nest once again. In spite of their record thus far, they were still surprised. Almost like a badge of dishonor, elements rotated off of their twin missions (taskwords BITUM and CHLIB) landed harshly against the deck of the Olena Rigozhina with their underwing pylons still half-stocked. No matter. The mission must continue.

CHLIB had struck from an unexpected direction, receiving only sparse resistance, amounting to no more than truck-mounted anti-air and small arms fire, and completed their mission; striking more than twelve potential aircraft staging and launch sites, ranging from the municipal airport south of Roalimar to civilian airstrips– nothing could be discounted. But now, they were back, refueling and restocking while the two squadrons BITUM (no more than two halves of squadrons on station at any given time now) continued to scour the northern continent for targets. It seemed almost as if the surge could end, the pilots could go to rest, and the airframes could finally undergo their much-needed maintenance– but a damned signal from the heavens prevented that.

AIROWNEMRO \\\ 
SCIOD UPDATE: 
SATCOM INTELLIGENCE CONFIRMS LANDING FORCE 150 KLICKS NORTH OF ASTURTOS NOT HUMANITARIAN 
- PROBABLE HOSTILE - 
PROBABLE GONSWANZAN MATCH. 
ESTIMATE CORPS-SIZED FORMATION, 
IN MARCH FORMATION, SOUTHBOUND.

INTELLIGENCE TRUSTWORTHY.

HEAVY CONVENTIONAL ARMS PROBABLE (READ: TBMs AND SAMs)
RECOMMEND PROSECUTION.
\\\AIROWNEMRO

CHLIB’s mission had shifted. They were no longer bombing airfields (correction from mission command, a two-ship flight would be set aside for that). They were now enforcing a no-drive zone.

---

Czaslyudian FM-500-4-24, Joint Operations and Tactics, states that the average pace on the march of a mechanized column to be 30-40 kilometers per hour, during daytime, on paved roads. It states 20-30 kilometers per hour at night, and it states 5-20 kilometers per hour cross country. The alert was raised two hours ago; an hour ago, a single two-ship flight lifted from the deck of the FRCPN Rigozhina, equipped with a reconnaissance payload. While the bulk of the groupings of CHLIB and BITUM were readying on the deck, the recce flight had made contact with the mechanized force, presumable ownership of Republic of Gonswanza. With the sea-side elements of the BITUM and CHLIB sections of the 111st Carrier Aviation Group taking off as a new designation, DOVH. While the now half-squadron of BITUM already in orbit around northern Dolmot continued its SEAD and air superiority missions, DOVH would set out for a distinct purpose– the enemy had been found, and now it would be fixed.

It took thirty-eight minutes at cruise speed to be on target. The recce flight had already marked probable axes of advance based on the satellite intelligence; they stayed out of sight, repositioning their orbits to keep just ahead of the Gonswanzans. BITUM provided SEAD and escort. DOVH would now go in for the kill; Recce gave them the bead on potential targets (missiles launchers, anti-air and surface-to-surface, they did not discriminate) heading down roads and clearings, and elements of DOVH would then break from their orbit on the libertarian side of the border, deploying their payloads at maximum possible distance before returning to safety of the newly-established SAM-air superiority zone towards Vanne.

The Shapoval had no challenger in the sky. While the Land Forces it had been assigned to support and protect trailed slowly closer towards the enemy, it was up to the fighter’s operator to see that the enemy was brought down to parity.

150 KILOMETERS WEST OF ASTURTOS
_{September 7th, 2034
The Reservist Plans.}

Kruglova monitored the theater much like a sports broadcast– there was only so much the map before her in her command tent, eternally in transition from setup to takedown to follow the advance of the 38th Brigade, could tell her other than geography. War was more than geography. National fate was more than geography. The trickle of information was rarely from her main forces; more than not, they were signals, military intelligence people picking apart what they thought they were going against over encrypted lines. Emitting a response on the march, other than the most necessary, binary signal, was strictly prohibited by practice. So, her headquarters listened to the most conservative estimate and the wildest approximation weighed against each other. The enemy was attempting to redeploy rapidly, that much was known– after the gaffe with confusing Gonswanzan landing ships with humanitarian aid (or pirates sent to recover the wrecks Admiral Misutin had left on the ocean floor), her headquarters was scrambling to define exactly what had landed opposite to them in former Populist territory.

Bryhadyr Galina Kruglova was a rational tactician– though she would not call herself a stellar one, she would find it hard to deny being sensible in her calculations. Things were done by the book, because war is not the realm of divine intervention or moral superiority, it was simply making fewer errors than one’s opponent. On a one-to-one basis, that is how most war is decided. That is how it is taught in the Chevray Military Academy.

Taking initiative in her situation was more than natural– it was by reflex. A good tactician does not accept the best kind of position with large risk, a good tactician seeks out a relatively advantageous position with little to no risk. Kruglova’s 167th was a month or more away from home or any additional help. They were sticking their hand in the maw of a fanged beast. They were not going to sit around waiting for the tiger to bite.

The initiative they took was to set their eyes beyond the secured frontiers of Vanne province; just beyond, some fifty kilometers away, lay a gem – Asturtos. Its position was advantageous. Its position against the midsection of the territory of the Dolmotie Libertarian Party was also threatening. And, it was not going to capture itself.

Kruglova was too busy to think of home. Galina was no longer Galya, only the Bryhadyr. Her headquarters was the cave she chose for herself, and her signals and command section was the projections of the world she took as reality. The tight-lipped woman was no longer an identity, only a mask for a decision-maker. Lives hinged on her orders. Reservists were not weekend warriors any more, they were now very much a soldier as any other. They had a job to do, a mission to accomplish, and they were no longer people, they were tools to achieve the aim given to them. A bullet fired from a rifle-carbine had more independence than they.

Kruglova’s eyes drooped. They were in the middle of taking the maps and table out from under her and her staff, packing it onto 5-ton trucks to hit the road, while the command staff of the Czaslyudian 167th Provisional Division discussed the wisdom of the quick strike onto the Monarchist jewel island, Therond. The 167th, with proper air support, could manage itself on its own towards Asturtos if the 43rd Naval Infantry were to be reduced for the duration of the operation. But there was risk, and she risked being cut off, and there was risk of missiles and chemical weapons, and Kruglova risked collapsing on the tarpaulin floor with the way her legs had ached from standing all this time. As a small relief, her staff risked tabling the decision for a few hours, and the headquarters got on its way. To no-one in particular, as she stumbled into a staff car, she said, “I’ll try catching some sleep.”

[Dolmot]

Location: Tenècete, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

Colau spun in his chair idly, without a significant thought on his mind. Life as a Capità for the Dolmotie Gray Army was rather easy for him- his company of about 175 men had been stationed in Tenècete- which was notably not on the frontlines of the fight. Tenècete was a town of about 15,000, but, more importantly, it was home to a major communications hub for the minarchist effort. Naturally… they saw little need to defend it with more than a token force, considering the frontline was well-staffed. And then, the impossible happened. Colau’s peaceful day was interrupted by the sounds of gunfire. What the hell was happening? He had no idea…

Location: Border of Vanne and Maulimar Provinces, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

For the past few days the occasional burst of gunfire erupted on the border between the minarchist and libertarian-controlled parts of Dolmot. But today was different- there were IFVs and even a few MBTs involved on the minarchist side of things- and the libertarian defenders of the border quickly fell back to the nearest defensible settlements. Of course, the minarchists were in for a nasty surprise, but for now, it seemed like their 20,000 men might have a real chance at taking Tenentera from the libertarians. As for the libertarians, they were quickly focusing on converting Tenentera into the lynchpin of a hastily-constructed defensive line- they had expected the minarchists to commit against the monarchists as opposed to… well, this…

[The Astovia]

Location: Tenècete, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

Indeed, the Dolmotie had not imagined things the gunshots were very real, Tenècete was under raid by an unknown force. Just as the defenders were likely put into confusion, the attackers were themselves in a state of confusion trying and failing to get into communication with friendly forces. Regardless of what was going on, the Astovian Forces would have to secure their position if they wanted to figure out what was going on. Reports from one of the Recon units sent out the moment they had for lack of better words, arrived, claimed that there was a town not far from their position, and so the Astovians set out. From the gunshots that the Dolmotie now heard, it could be presumed that neither force was exactly ecstatic of the other's existence, though whoever had fired the first shot was far out of the question.

In hastily established tents not far outside the town, Battalion Command would try to draw up plans using the extremely limited information they had, relying on poorly drawn maps that had been made with assistance from the Scout Company, marking out a decent few locations around that they could spot from their rough position and estimated distances. Of course once proper information could be gathered from looted maps, the Astovians would probably have a better idea of wherever the hell they were.

With a small garrison up against them, the Astovians would seek to use both their numbers and the surprise on the defenders to both force them to focus on many different positions at once. With the battalion artillery unprepared and likely only going to setup once the town was secured already, the only fire support the Astovian Forces on the ground were getting was the occasional mortar fire to provide just enough assistance in breaking any position considered a stronghold by the Royal Marines on the ground. Orders were issued to the Royal Marines to focus on securing anything that seemed to be of importance, radio centers, government buildings, military posts, and really anything that could be of vague use.

Short thing, will probably write longer for posts to follow. (Hopefully)

[Dolmot]

-snip-

Location: Tenècete, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier.

And so the battle begun. The Dolmoties had the technological advantage, yes, but this wasn’t enough for them. They quickly lost any hope of pushing back the enemy quickly, instead resolving to hold out against the superior numbers from more defensible positions inside the city. Even the Captain himself joined the fight, opening fire with his officer’s pistol. Things were getting desperate. Colau found himself unable to take the time to think straight, to aim with any degree of precision, to fight effectively. The stress was getting back to the under-experienced officer, that’s for sure. Still, his men fought on, even if their CO was desperately fumbling with a pistol to little avail. After about an hour of fighting, the losses on the minarchist side were beginning to pile up, forcing a fighting retreat to the vital central regions of the town- where the town hall was- and this meant abandoning their radio centers, and some valuable fortifications. Things were beginning to get extreme for the defenders.

On the ground, this was made readily apparent to Colau, as his emotions began to swirl after ordering the retreat. He took some time to catch his breath as he ducked behind a building, gasping to catch his breath. Damn, he was out of shape. Still, he had to keep going- especially since he still had a whole platoon following him. But he couldn’t find a place on his face for the metaphorical mask of strength that his rank gave him. He shouted, commanding his men to retreat further, and they followed him, but he could only go so far. He slowed down, and eventually, by some streak of bad luck, a stray bullet grazed his shoulder, causing him to let out a grunt of pain. The adrenaline restored him to a degree, allowing the retreat to pick up insofaras pacing goes.

Once the defenders got to their makeshift positions in the center of the town, civilians began fleeing into their homes, as the town effectively went on full lockdown. Colau’s men fought hard, but even at their new positions, their grip was weak. Bodies continued to pile up, and, frankly, it wouldn’t be long before their numbers dipped under 100 at this rate…

[The Astovia]

Location: Tenècete, Dolmot, Badlands Frontier

As the Astovians took more of the town, an order would slowly make its way through the ranks, pressing the proper defenses would be costly, and in order to provide minimal friendly losses mortars were to be prepared. Heavy artillery would be held on standby, only if the mortars were ineffective would they be used, with the Astovians focusing on taking out troops who tried to leave their defenses until the mortar barrage ended. Marksmen, or really anyone who wanted to provide some form of overwatch on the Dolmoties would take up positions in buildings considered outside of the room for error of the mortars. If the unknown forces were smart, they would surrender to the Astovians after the mortars landed, however few of the forces on the ground outwardly hoped for their surrender. If all went well, the Astovians would take the town by the end of the day, and if it did not, a handful of the Recon Company's SV.4s could be brought out to provide whatever limited fire support they were capable of.

Within the Astovian Command, plans would be established for how to handle other forces, or if there could possibly be any form of a reaction force sent to retake the town. Many of the officers would draw up plans to set up defensive positions and ambushes for any reinforcements, though these plans could only be put to action when the town is brought under the banner of the Royal Marines. Obviously the Astovians hoped that everything would go in their favor, however there could be no foolishness in ensuring that the worst was accounted for. With a handful of borrowed maps from the town, the officers could get a far better idea of the area around them and possible routes of attack on small town.

With the fighting on the ground seemingly nearing the end, the Astovians finally managed to get their artillery liaison aircraft into the air, with orders to scout the general area while picking up any possible threat for the artillery to target. If anything, the aircraft could be confused for some old cropduster or small civilian aircraft, but that would be until the roundels are spotted. Eitherway, as long as they were still able to get into the air, the gap of intelligence could be filled in faster than if they were only using their SV.4s.