Pelasgia
Established Nation
Pelasgian-EF Isphilistines Mandate Border
17/09/2021
A sharp ray of light pierced Grigoris' eyes in between the thick branches of the pine trees lining the slope. Dawn broke on the Galantian Mountains, the ragged but not particularly tall mountain range separating Pelasgia and the EF Mandate of the Isphilistines--Philistaea, as the Pelasgians had known their province for centuries, and the Holy Land to Christians around Europe.
Grigoris covered his eyes and continued his patrol. Dispersed around him were half a dozen men, all dressed in the well-known "Lizard" camo of the Pelasgian Army--the Imperial Pelasgian Army, since it had recently regained the crown on its insignia. In truth, Pelasgia had an appetite for regaining a lot of lost things: traditions, laws, flags, nomenclature, a fleet with aircraft carriers in both major seas watering its shores. And, Grigoris thought, why not an old province or two? What had the Goths done with Philistaea--a mostly ethnically Pelasgian and Orthodox Christian land--anyway? Nothing. They had held onto the Holy Land, that blessed patch of terrain, for half a century and more, and they had naught to show for it. Philistaea was as the Pelasgians had left it.
A thunderous noise sounded overhead, overwhelming Grigoris' ears. He looked up and held onto his helmet as the thick pines around him shook like branches in the wind. A helicopter! It was far from an amazing sight, in truth; helicopters always circled over the Pelasgian-Philistaean border, mostly to check for smugglers and illegal immigrants from that stagnant and yet all too similar land. Yet this helicopter was remarkable: not only was it an attack helicopter (and not some surveillance chopper), but it was also armed. More importantly, Grigoris spotted three more such choppers in the vicinity.
"The First Army's flexing its muscle," he remarked out loud.
"I bet the Second Army's doing likewise south of the Mandate," responded Nikos, Grigoris' best friend in the unit, who also hailed from the outskirts of the city of Edessa.
The assembling Imperial host came to Grigoris mind: 149500 men arranged south and west of Philistaea, with thousands of cutting-edge tanks, IFVs, APCs, helicopters, jets, and just about any other kind of materiel supporting them. How many Marines awaited to brave Philistaea's shores? How many paratroopers to cloud its skies? How many submarines, and destroyers, and carrier-bourne aircraft to turn its meager, EF-funded defences to rubble?
The Pelasgians had held more and more large scale drills on the Mandate's border in recent years, as the nations of Europe forgot about the past and focused on real and present concerns: Pannonia, the Tarusan-Remion rivalry, the humanitarian catastrophe in Central Himyar and the border wars in southern Occidentia. And yet, what if this set of drills was different? Grigoris knew it had to be. He sensed it. He could feel it in the way the higher-ups gave orders, always speaking as if they knew more were to come, as they were not letting something on... He could sense in the way his comrades trained and carried out their duties, always on the edge and ready to strike or be struck at... He could even sense it in the way the nature around him felt empty and alert. No birds, he thought. No birds.
His mind instantly shifted to another kind of bird--a big, metal bird, bearing the emblems of the Imperial Pelasgian Air Force and carrying long-range weapons of mass destruction. Back in the barracks they had some nerd from Iolcus--Alexios was his name--who used to tune into the short-wave radio and listen to the
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by the IPAF's Strategic Command, those eerie and awe-inspriring relics of the previous century. They had gotten more and more recent these last few days. Last night, Alexios claimed he had heard a Titan Three. Titan Two was drills, Titan One was nothing, Titan Four was total war... Titan Three was not good news. Most dismissed it as Alexios' effort at getting a bit of attention; Grigoris wanted to believe them. He recalled Alexios' recounting the whole message by heart.Titan, Titan, Titan. Do not respond.
This is Mavri Petra Radio Station.
Titan Three, Titan Three, Titan Three.
Do not respond.
Nine (9), one (1), beta (β), one (1), eight (8), two (2), omega (ω), six (6), six(6), omicron (ο), pi (π), four (4), delta (δ).
Time: 0100 hours.
Authentication code: sigma five (σ 5).
Titan, Titan, Titan...
Grigoris wanted to brush it off, but he wasn't sure. Something in his gut told him that it was wrong. He shuddered and looked back down at the terrain, continuing his patrol. If anything was to happen, the grunts like him would only find out when it was practically already underway...
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