Near Nketa, Noks Free State
Once again, Le Coq was rising. Soon, all of the real Gothic would join together to upend the world dominated by the ineptness of the self-righteous. General Charles Francois Luckner wiped his brow. It was hot. Not just hot. It was like standing in a bakery in hell. 'Imperialism is a tiring business' he said, drinking deeply from his canteen. He looked up at the aircraft as the snowflakes became saucers- the paratroopers dropping onto the savannah. It was too hot for this, thought Luckner. But wheels were in motion. On Thursday, he had received a one word message "Poulailler". Part of the Frankish fleet had set sail. Over the last few days, two squadrons of Frankish aircraft began to arrive in Nketa.
Luckner went back to his command post, little more than a tin shack. Sitting back and putting his feet up. 'Who dreamed up this operation?' he wondered. It was questionable at best. At its worst, a disaster. He had too few troops and the orders were ridiculous. It was all drawn up by some bureaucrat who didn't know the first thing. He sneezed, his allergies reacting harshly to the savannah flora. A few hours passed before colonels, majors, and a handful of captains gathered in front of him. It was time for the briefing to begin. It was going to be a flash operation. Quick. Hopefully decisive. Thousands would follow on. But it would rely on only a few hundred for hours. The men would be the best of the best. Not special forces but professional contract soldiers. Highly equipped and trained. The follow on forces would build the foundation for the entire operation. Even on a shoestring and with Tarusan support, the operation would be a tremendous strain on Frankish logistics. Only Le Coq could ram the operation through.
Once again, Le Coq was rising. Soon, all of the real Gothic would join together to upend the world dominated by the ineptness of the self-righteous. General Charles Francois Luckner wiped his brow. It was hot. Not just hot. It was like standing in a bakery in hell. 'Imperialism is a tiring business' he said, drinking deeply from his canteen. He looked up at the aircraft as the snowflakes became saucers- the paratroopers dropping onto the savannah. It was too hot for this, thought Luckner. But wheels were in motion. On Thursday, he had received a one word message "Poulailler". Part of the Frankish fleet had set sail. Over the last few days, two squadrons of Frankish aircraft began to arrive in Nketa.
Luckner went back to his command post, little more than a tin shack. Sitting back and putting his feet up. 'Who dreamed up this operation?' he wondered. It was questionable at best. At its worst, a disaster. He had too few troops and the orders were ridiculous. It was all drawn up by some bureaucrat who didn't know the first thing. He sneezed, his allergies reacting harshly to the savannah flora. A few hours passed before colonels, majors, and a handful of captains gathered in front of him. It was time for the briefing to begin. It was going to be a flash operation. Quick. Hopefully decisive. Thousands would follow on. But it would rely on only a few hundred for hours. The men would be the best of the best. Not special forces but professional contract soldiers. Highly equipped and trained. The follow on forces would build the foundation for the entire operation. Even on a shoestring and with Tarusan support, the operation would be a tremendous strain on Frankish logistics. Only Le Coq could ram the operation through.