Ground Zero: Bourgogne

[Kazansk]

the air above Pillau.

two squadrons of fighters were quickly scrambled to intercept the Cussian assault. They knew that most if not all of them might not make it back, but that was the choice they had made when they'd enlisted.

The first squadron fighters would intercept the Cussian's AWAC and destroy it. The second would go after the bombers and their escorts and intercept them before they could deliver their payload.

Another two squadrons were waiting, ready to scramble once the enemy had shown their hand, they would fly over at low altitude and attack the enemy's positions, and if possible their fleet laying off the coast.

" Enemy inbound"

it was time to go, what came next would be in Gods hands.


+++++

Citadelle de la porte, Ouistreham

The citadel still held, if only just. mounds of corpses both Engell and Burgundian lay throughout the complex. nearly all the Burgundians were wounded in some form or another and much of their ammunition had been expended. Colonel Loup walked through the wreckage, the fort would not sustain another attack. As much as it pained him to give up any ground there was no point throwing the lives of his men away, they'd rig the entire area with explosives then evacuate, the Engells could have the fort, but they'd need to put it back together again.

+++++++


Outside Ouistreham, contested Bourgogne.

The soldiers of the Armée Républicaine Nationale fighting in the city were being rotated out of the city, they had been resolutely holding back the tide of Engellkin from breaking out of the city even though now only the most eastern parts were parts now held by the People's Republic .Now fresh troops either freshly raised volunteer units or recently mobilized former Neustrian soldiers. Private Bernard Soult had seen over half his platoon killed or wounded and was glad to finally leave the city. He and what was left of his unit watched the fresh new faces march by, Bernard looked on with interest at the number of anti-tank and anti-air weapons these reinforcements were armed with. Maybe if he and his platoon had been armed like that there'd be more of them now.

Further down the road Bernard saw columns of tanks moving into place, maybe the Republic would finally be the one to go on the offensive in this fucking war.

 

[Beautancus]

Part One: Air Force

​

skies over Pillauist Burgundy

This is likely to be the highest number of air to air missiles in flight at once. There had to have been more warbirds in the air, simultaneously, but that would have been before the days of truly modern missiles, wouldn't it? Strange, the thoughts that raced through a man's mind, as he hurtled into an airborne hellscape at least partly of his own making. A man, in this case Captain Wash Hobbes of the Confederated Republic's Air Force, could even smile at his own intellectual distraction.

As Hobbes smiled, he pulled his Viper into a hard bank, bleeding some of the lightning-fast fighter's speed and preparing to juke further into yet more complex Anti-Combat Maneuvers at need. The approaching Burgundians defenders, scrambled hard and fast and coming into the air as mean as Hobbes had seen, were still several dozen miles ahead of him. Approaching fast, but not as fast as their air-to-air missiles would be - and soon.

Some dozen miles to his northwest, one of his comrades had already found one of those, an AA missile, "sent back to the taxpayers" as a smoking wreck spinning to the hard, hard ground several thousand feet below. Hobbes hadn't known the pilot, Deavers, very well at all, but the man's sudden and very obvious death was a worthy clarification all the same.

The rest of the 65th broadened the front they were approaching Pillau on in response, with Hobbes and the other Vipers slowly beginning to draw ahead of the rest of their formation. Most of the Starhawks, the formations electronic warfare muscle, were piling on speed to maintain pace with the sleek Vipers, or as near to it as they could. There would never be a situation where their unique skillset would be more critically vital than this engagement, almost like they'd been made for it. Which they had, as far as Hobbes could or cared to cipher.

Punctuating his assessment of the tactical situation before him, early warning lights and buzzers flashed to life on his instrument panel - radar was tracking seven Burgundian missiles inbound, screaming into the face of his formation at many times the speed of sound. Against that, there was only so much evasive maneuvers could do, but Hobbes piled the speed back on and broke hard again all the same.

His Vipers nose angled down sharply and the vibrant green of the Burgundian countryside below rushed up at him with sickening speed. Seconds before the descent would have become inescapable, Hobbes leveled back out and scanned as near fully 360 degrees as his somewhat limited line of vision would allow. No signs of the Burgundian missiles, or fighters. Miles to the north, there was a single flash, an expanded globe of fire, rapidly expanding gases and disintegrating airframe - a Viper had taken a hit head-on, missile to nose. No walking away from that either.

"Damn it Hobbes, peel your pussy ass back off the grass and get back into fucking formation, we are not flying this into a Charlie Foxtrot*." Hobbes had almost forgotten the radio existed, but Colonel Olson's voice was as much a welcomed break from his own overriding survival instincts as anything.

None of the rest of the Burgundian missiles seemed to have found a home inside Cussian steel, the Starhawks were doing their jobs after all. Miles had passed in the course of his fancy flying, precious miles burned between the 65th and Pillau. Hobbes had time to remember the "aluminum clouds," the Firehawk heavy bombers, they were escorting before his instrument panel flared to life again, the Viper's multi-million £ target acquisition system finally painting one of the approaching Burgundian fighters. Mechanically, Hobbes let his own missile fly, voice chiming it out over the 65th's radio channel just as automatically. The missile detached from the hardpoint beneath the wing of his fighter and raced away, completely out of sight in seconds. He didn't see the Burgundian fighter desperately maneuver, blow chaff and flares or try nosedive out of the path of his missile - and fail at all of it, but he did grin a snarling, dome-like smile when confirmation of the kill lit his panel.

Above and well behind Hobbes, one of the lumbering Firehawks had not been so lucky. The hit hadn't been direct, but it had been close enough to sheer most of the right wing from the enormous bomber, and send it into an uncontrollable spin to the ground. Somewhere along the way, someone must have armed the tons of munitions in the bay, judging from the explosion reaching up from the surface after impact.

The other five bombers stayed their course, escort fighters lancing fire ahead and below them to clear the way as best they could. A minute and a half from their target, a lucky burst of anti-air cannon fire plucked at the fuselage of another Firehawk, causing the crew to pull the wounded bird from formation immediately. They'd limp back to base as best they could, if they could.

The rest though - the rest stooped high above the blurry smudge of Pillau now, bomb bay doors swinging open above the city's suburbs. Seconds and miles passed, and another Firehawk took a direct hit - a burning torch plummeting into the city below hard and fast, exploding with the full force of aircraft and payload.

The final three bombers bobbed up fast, the tremendous weight of their cargo at last released to pound Pillau's city center.


Miles and miles away, the 5th was making their final approach as well. Far, far faster and more maneuverable, the Thunderbirds made the most of the distraction their larger siblings were providing nearer to and above Pillau.

Slamming through the much lighter defenses facing them with the loss of only a single escort, they lit three Burgundian facilities up in the country north of Ouistreham before turning their attentions to the final target of the day - what seemed more and more to be one of the Burgundian's primary air bases.

The Thunderbirds escorts pulled a bit ahead, the Vipers again breaking off to draw away some of the defense fighters the enemy was sure to scramble. The Thunderbirds maintained course at speed, the airbase approaching swiftly. Long before the Firehawks would have been able, the smaller Thunderbirds let the rest of their payloads fly.

Propelled at the head of missiles of their own, these bombs thundered ahead, straight for the Burgundian airbase. The Thunderbirds began their slow turns back to base, confident in the engineering the Air Force put into their munitions.









*Charlie Foxtrot = cluster-fuck

​

 

[Beautancus]

Part Two: Ouistreham
​

Citadel of the Gate
South/Southeast Ouistreham
Disputed Western Burgundy



At least three broken teeth and a hairline fracture to the jaw that would be abscessed by tomorrow, one eye starting to swell shut, left shoulder all but dislocated and two and a half fingers missing from his left hand - Captain Morton could not say exactly how much he'd had of the Citadel, but it was well more than enough.

There had been so many more of the damned Burgundians crammed into the 17th century fortification than there was supposed to be. A lot of those bastards were dead, but entirely too many good Cussians had been thrown into the meat grinder for no good reason. We aren't fucking West Engells, out to flagellate ourselves forthright before the whole Domain, Morton cursed to himself, venomously.

A significant portion of his command was dead inside the dank confines of the Citadel, as well as two of his fingers and a knuckle of another. Unable to retain his service rifle, he'd been forced to shoot his way back out with his 341, his sidearm, and into the relative safety of the overlapping fields of covering fire provided by the Vindicators back up the hill. No more than three dozen men had come back out with him, some before and not very many after.

Back up the hill they went, the fury of an atheist hell rising in the Captain as they went. Once back among the shadows of the IFVs, Morton leaned into the back hatch of one and exchanged a few simple words with the commander.

"Level that shitheap, fuck their landmarks. Sir, also, I no longer have enough forces combat effective to seize or maintain control of a significant number of prisoners."

The two Cussians exchanged hard stares for a long moment. Slowly, the Vindicator commander glanced down to the weeping, jaggedly torn stumps where Morton's fingers had been only a half hour before and nodded. "You got it Mortie."

The withering barrage of high explosive fire that the Vindicators poured down on the ruins of the Citadel was a thing of true fury, a thing to behold. When the armored fighting vehicles retired from the ridge some minutes later though, the apocalyptic vengeance unleashed by the artillery bombardment that followed put their barrage to shame. And it would continue like that for some minutes, in an ever expanding wedge on the far side of the Citadel.

Far from the only sector being targeted with such a bombardment, the rest of the artillery available on this side of the city seemed to be opening up as one, arcs of fire streaking up over the city and plunging down into parking lots, structures and streets marked as still being held by Burgundian forces.

Cluster munitions, fuel-air explosives, white phosphorus that would burn like the very fires of hell, high explosives that could - and did - lay whole apartment complexes flat, all hammered the Burgundian held portions of East Ouistreham for the next half hour.

Landing a bit farther to the east - mines, deployed by airbursting artillery shells. An assortment of anti-personnel and anti-armor, spread over a wide and circular field every few hundred yards here and there, along and around the main highway into and out of Ouistreham.



Timed to cook off immediately after the artillery barrage ceased, General Bridger's clever plan was finally coming to fruition.

While the Engellachians, Army and Airborne had pushed hard to back the Burgundians into a very specific cordon above, hemmed against two walls being formed on either side. The 121st and their impressively versatile IFVs on the one hand, and the other - larger - portion of Bridger's own Marines on the other.

Beneath the city though, Bridger had been working his Marine Sappers incredibly hard, and they had not disappointed him. Tracing their way carefully and quietly through Ouistreham's sewers and infrastructure maintenance tunnels, the Sappers had been preparing charges at key junctures and points beneath those locations the forces above had marked as hosting considerable concentrations of enemy forces.

Some, they set charges to completely implode. There wasn't nearly enough materiel or time available to do that sort of job for each of the locations they'd been provided, and what they had would have to do for a lot more besides.

Other locations were set with charges only large enough to create a suitably disorienting - and locally lethal - effect to collapse the floor in such a way as to create usable ramps for the "Meat Eaters" - Marine Raiders and Airborne Blue Stripes - that would begin to pour up and into the Burgundian positions.

As the moment approached, the aging Marine fought to contain an excitement that made him feel almost like a young rifleman again, but no, that time was passed. Consoling himself instead with a quick gulp from his flask, a swiftly hotboxed cigarette and a giddy smile - he called the time.

Across East Ouistreham, apartment and office buildings, police stations and fire departments - those sites unfortunate enough to host Burgundian forces over the past several hours - exploded. Some were entirely demolished, great columns of pulverized men and mortar sent skyward. Others, the floors merely seemed to collapse a bit.

As the defenders coughed and staggered within those structures that yet stood, the first withering hail of gunfire tore into them - from below...


[to be cont'd w/ Pt 3: Tanks]

 

[Thaumantica]

Penal Battalion Mining Patrol

It began as an itch that they were told to ignore. Soon the wound began to open, a tender non-threatening concern with so much else to worry about around them. Engellachians were being shot dead or exploded across the pavement hourly. And still this itch remains: where are the First Republic Engellexians. The suspicion and rumors were inflamed now, an infection in the mind about the old country they had been told time and time again to ignore.

“They are keeping their powder dry,” General Kentigern Hayes would tell subordinates when asked, “the First Republic will arrive at the precise moment and location that the Domain intends!”

“Roger sir, as the Domain intends,” some might pretend, but the skepticism born from that small itch was a pustule now, mushrooming with every day is sustained losses in the city and suburbs of Ouistreham. “Why it’s so close, I took a flight from Vesper to Eisgart to Hammersmith to Ouistreham. . But they could take a bloody ferry from Engellex to Ouistreham round trip in a matter of hours!” One of many soldiers on the ground began to piece together. Operations were running around the clock to place people and hardware in country, and most were Cussian.

“Listen, I know Engellpox was a false flag”
that same soldier, a Specialist Hook, told his comrades in the Penal Battalion. “But Ilchester and Co.’s criticism of the Northern and Southern Presidents, where was the lie there?I’d love for that dead sicko to be wrong, may no one remember his ashes, but ‘Engellex is no longer Great’, again: where’s the lie?”

Lieutenant Renquist, another battlefield promotion to fill ranks upward, shook his head at Hook angrily. “Whining isn’t the way, we must compel them to rise as they summoned us thousands of moons ago!”

“Ooo spooky Kinist spells again, eh Renquist?” Hook asked with a sideways smirk. Hook had entered Ouistreham the same evening as him but not caught the same positive attention from on high, rather relegation to a Penal Battalion combing the city’s edge for mines and firefights that could draw in the Cussian quick reaction force by land or sky.

“Call it what you want you soulless miscreant,” Renquist replied, “but there is something to stir within all of us yet, we simply need someone to take up the task.”

“Heydendahl?” Hook offered up, but Renquist waived the name down immediately. “Orton has it, and he knows it, but Underwood has the right stuff too. I hear some speculating that she’s devilish enough to let Orton and Heydendahl exert themselves here and then swoop in after to seize the mantle.”

“That or she’s too busy watching people shag on Circle?” Hook joked, to which everyone but Renquist erupted into laughter.

Across the Engellsea
Domain Military Hospital

Reaching desperately for a rifle that was no longer there Barnes was startled awake by the sound of a lighter clinking back into place. Through his one open eye he could see the shapes of Engellachian blue dress uniforms and the Cussian variant of green or tan - he could not be certain.

“This is a hospital, you can’t smoke here it’s 2019!” Barnes blabbered with a cough through his raw dry throat.

“We also can’t put troops in Gallia allegedly earlier, you know, because it’s 2019.” A Captain Deerwin rebuked through a puff of Cussian tobacco smoke. “It could also be against the rules to pump the medicine we are about to put into you as well, but you want to keep fighting don’t you?”

Barnes gave a nod in the affirmative, “My war isn’t over yet, sir!”. Captain Deerwin sat down in a rolling chair and gave a mighty push from the desk until running right into Barnes’ bed with a thump of chair on bed, he then indicated to his Cussian counterpart that the man’s IV line was open and ready.

“Let’s start with framing, who blew you up like this and how did you get here?” Deerwin nearly whispered while the Cussian readied his injections.

“Our rockets were spent, I was separated from my unit in the chaos and things went dark suddenly. I think a Cussian medic told me it was their artillery fire?”

Deerwin sighed and gave the Cussian the go ahead. The cocktail slipped Barnes into a euphoric stupor, comforting even, and through a kaleidoscope of sparks and flashing lights through his eyes he felt his body vibrating until terror began to set in.

“You’re home in Vestefjor now, a holiday on the lake - Blossom Lake, you go there every summer - all Vesplanders do.” Deerwin guided, and indeed somehow Barnes saw and felt himself along the shores of the idyllic childhood destination surrounded by people laughing, grilling, and canoeing just off the shore. “You’re alone on the beach, and you walk to the water’s edge” Deerwin guided, and so it was in Barnes’ vision - the people disappeared and he was walking to the edge.

“You take one step in and feel the cold water on your feet, a second and it’s on your ankles, with every step deeper you feel it covering your body. Three, four, five, six, seven, it’s at your heart now, on the tenth step you will be submerged and returned to the battlefront. Eight, nine . . Ten, you and your platoon are patrolling 30th street when your battle buddy Private Sandusky points out a dead civilian man - a local national, do you see him?”

Barnes could and affirmed so, “Yes, I smell him too and it’s turning my stomach!”

“Sandusky wants to pick him up and take him to a morgue, he turns the body over but there is an explosive device rigged to the man’s body. Sandusky is killed instantly and you are caught with shrapnel and the shockwave. Are you remembering what happened to you now?”

“Yes, it was an insurgent IED, but how did I get here?”

“When you wake up again after the blast you see a First Republic helicopter overhead, your own medic is pressing his knee to your groin as he applies a tourniquet. The First Republic Medevac lands and flight medics rush to pick you, and what remains of the other two corpses up and into the helicopter. So how did you get here?”

“First Republic Engellexians saved me and now I’m healing in their hospital!” Barnes affirmed, certain of it now.

“You can sleep now, I’m sure you’re tired, and when you wake up we will have you up on your one good foot for service to the Domain!” Captain Deerwin said before standing and turning his back on the drooling shell of a young man he would continue to fill to fit his needs.

 

[Clarenthia]

Outskirts of Ouistreham
Disputed Bourgogne

“Will he be okay?” she muttered as she stroked the hair of the sleeping soldier.

“Qui vivra verra,” the doctor clasped her hands “He has and forever will receive the best care I can provide.”

“Merci,” she wiped a tear with her free hand as the doctor patted her shoulder.

As talented as Nathanaël Lefèvre is in medicine, the best care he could provide was dubious at best. A sympathizer to the People’s Republic, Lefèvre came to Ouistreham to offer his medical services to his country’s liberation. That changed when the Domain’s forces roared overhead from the Engellsea. Now, the man could hardly remember when he last slept as his makeshift clinic had become overrun with hopeful revolutionaries and the common people who had been captured in the crossfire.

The doctor lifted his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, but he had noticed droplets of blood. Examining his hand further to notice crusted and dried blood, he sighed and went to the corner of the room to the washing station. Courteous to the running water he was using, he made every attempt to conserve what he had. The low moaning and groaning of the injured soldiers, in a twisted way, had grown to be a comforting white noise. Just loud enough to quiet his internal thoughts, but not deafeningly.

Suddenly, a loud bang was heard upstairs and dust from the ceiling fell. The unconscious patients immediately came to and began tearful screams. Doctor Lefèvre quieted them to the best of his abilities and drew his pistol, which was fixed on the door. Then, he heard a knock…after a few moments of silence another.

“Hey now, it ain’t my business to impose but I did hear y’all and would appreciate an answer,” the voice called.

Lefèvre, who spoke only the basics of Engelsh, was understandably confused “What is it you want?”

“Oh good, they ain’t dead,” the voice answered “I was just hoping to talk is all, may I enter?”

“Please, this is a clinic, there are sick people here,” Lefèvre.

“Well I should imagine so,” the soldier answered “Our intelligence is the best in the world my friend and I take it you’re a doctor – and one of good reputation – so I should very much so imagine you have sick folk in there and that’s all fine I’m up to date on my shots.”

“Please leave,” Lefèvre called back.

“Well now that I simply cannot do,” the soldier huffed “May I please now enter?”

“You can talk from behind the door,” Lefèvre was motioning for people to get out of the direct line of sight between him and the door. The entire room was hushed, except for the occasional whimper.

“That ain’t no way to have a conversation doctor,” the soldier knocked on the door again “Now I hate to get any sort of way on ya, but I’m going to go ahead and open this door and I suspect no trouble from it. In return you won’t get no trouble from us.”

Lefèvre didn’t answer and after a brief silence, the knob on the door turned slowly and the door creaked open. In walked Sergeant Brant Harrington, with his hands raised and he was unarmed.

“Now doctor,” he immediately threw his hands down and had a look of complete displeasure “That gun there ain’t at all necessary unless you’re fixin’ for this day to be your last. That would be a damned shame too so why don’t we all just take a minute to relax.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me the moment I put the gun down?” the doctor asked.

“A good inquiry,” Harrington answered “This is war you can’t trust nobody, ‘pecially not the enemy I suppose. But now let’s have logic prevail – if I wanted you dead you would be and you’d have never seen my pretty face I assure you that much sir.”

“And If I just put a bullet in your pretty face?”

“Well now that would be fixin for this day to be your last,” Harrington shrugged “And we already talked about what a shame that would be.”

“Why are you here?”

“The gun, doctor,” Harrington persisted. The doctor slowly lowered his gun.

“Well now that’s much better,” Harrington asked “Now doctor, I, along with damn near one hundred thousand of my Domain brethren are here for no reason other than to build better worlds and I’ll tell you what our efficiency is only matched by our resolve and both are mighty unbreakable.”

The doctor was silent.

“Now there ain’t much a point to buildin’ that world if there ain’t any frogs left to live in it,” Harrington pulled out a cigarette and lit it “So I am here to recruit you into the business of buildin’ better worlds. We setting up a clinic in Ousitreham, recently liberated and finally free. The Treatyfolk want only the best to work there and I hear you’re the best.”

“This is a clinic, sir,” the Doctor said “Could you please not smoke?”

“From the looks of it half these folk gonna die anyway,” Harrington said – to the horrified reactions of the people in the room “But you’re right, that was a moment of indiscretion deeply regretted.”

He put the cigarette out.

“I am not leaving unless I know these people will be cared for,” the doctor delivered his ultimatum.

“Well doctor, you see you’re gonna be coming regardless of these folks I am afraid to say,” Harrington sighed “But I do suppose there’s a code. We’ll get these men to the liberated zone in Ouistreham. You have my word and we don’t go back on such things.”

“Very well,” the doctor set his pistol down “when we do we leave?”

“Oh, now that’s great news,” Harrington threw his hands up “Right now. Come along, damn what a great day it is to be a free frog!”

 

[Clarenthia]

Liberated Zone
City of Ouistreham

The sun had turned the sky to a golden orange. “Golden hour,” Harrington called to his men as though neither of them knew what this time of day was called. Ouistreham, at least the liberated zone of it, slowly started to resemble a passable inhabitance. The fires were quelled, people were being relocated to more suitable conditions and even some businesses were being propped up by the Domain Forces to give a degree of normalcy as the front lines extended further into the Burgundian Mainland.

The presence of the Domain’s Forces had shifted from a primarily Cussian one to Treatyfolk as they were in charge of policing the liberated zone as the Cussians continued on to expand the zone to the country at large. Harrington, like many of his brothers, were reassigned to a newly minted “Civilian Recovery Unit” designed to care for and protect the displaced Burgundians currently in limbo while the liberation went on. Unlike many of his brothers, though, Harrington had received a promotion to Lieutenant with the gig.

The three of them were patrolling, the last night that any of them would be assigned to such a menial affair. By the sun’s next rise, Harrington would lead a new team of ORCAS on a new mission of which only he had been briefed. He even had a hand in selecting who would be going with him – a high honor.

While they were walking, they came across a circle of Domain soldiers chatting and drinking, clearly at ease. Their accent, and colors, would suggest they were Cussian. The sight was completely inconspicuous until a rather tall man rose from the circle and shushed the rest.

“A woman stands up on an airplane about to crash,” the Cussian said “She yells ‘if I’m about to die, I will die feeling like a woman’ and so she rips off her clothes and throws them to the side and yells ‘who here will make me feel like a woman.’ A man on the plane stood and threw his shirt at her ‘here, iron this!’”

The Cussians laughed at the joke.

“Adigne Tayte?” one of them chuckled.

“It would be my honor to serve the country,” the standing Cussian bowed, to more laughter.

“President Seraphina Underwood!” another called.

“She’d make me feel like a woman!”

“The Clarenthian Bitch, that Governor-General!”

“Oh fuck no, have you seen how unfuckable her face is? Imagine what’s down south!” the whole group erupted into laughter.

“What unsavory men,” Harrington’s fists clenched.

“Fuck them,” one of the Clarenthian soldiers advised.

“Not at all to worry, I intend to,” Harrington broke rank and approached the Cussians gathered in the circle.

“Why hello there gents,” Harrington took his place around the Cussians “I beg y’all pardon my intrusion. Isn’t every day you get to talk to a Cussian and I certainly can’t handle these regal frogs. Cigarettes?”

Harrington handed a few of the men a cigarette as they welcomed him to the group.

“What’s your name?” the Cussian called.

“Name’s Brant Harrington, from the Picano Mountains in the Great State of Nonsuch. Lieutenant Brant Harrington as of but a few days ago,” he answered, cigarette between his teeth.

“Congratulations,” one of the seated men raised a glass to him.

“Thank you kindly,” Harrington nodded in return.

“Arthur Bostic,” the standing Cussian said “Lieutenant Arthur Bostic, Cussian Army. You can call me Artie.”

“Much obliged, Artie,” Harrington grinned “Hey there – that joke about the Clarenthian bitches, that there gave me one mighty cach·in·nate.” He deliberately pronounced each syllable.

“There sure are a hella lot of em, stories right themselves,” Artie answered.

“And a cunt every one,” Harrington agreed “I was a little confused though, likely mistaken…looking for a bit of clarity.”

“Go head,” Artie’s tone turned mildly suspicious of the Clarenthian.

“I know many a Clarenthian bitches, let me tell you. But, I only know of one Governor-General, the Governor-General of Clarenthia, my Governor-General, the Honorable Eleanor Sinclair – second most powerful in Europe behind the Excellent Seraphina Underwood,” Harrington threw his cigarette to the ground and moved closer to the Cussian’s face “So I must be dumb or lackin’ abitta culture cause I sure am confident as this natural earth is beautiful that you ain’t talkin’ about Eleanor Sinclair.”

Harrington’s face turned from amiable to deadly serious as she stared the Cussian in the eyes. The Cussian’s demeanor changed to match as he shifted his body to gain an easy five inches on Harrington. His cold, steely eyes peered down in Harrington as whatever space between their faces was closed as they stared one another down.

“And what if I were, whale fucker?” the Cussian’s voice was deep and commanding.

“Well I am just tickled to hear you say that,” Harrington grinned “I ain’t never tasted Cussian blood before, I bet its sweet like a Derokesley Red.*”

The official reports failed to identify the man who threw the first punch. Wasn’t entirely clear if it was their men covering for them or a genuine lack of knowledge of who threw the punch. All they did know is it took eight men to pry the two off each other.

*Derokesley Reds are a type of red wine known for their excessive sweetness and objective bad quality, nevertheless - Harrington is a patriot.

 

[Beautancus]

Part Three: Heavy Armor

​

East-Southeast of Ouistreham
Disputed Western Burgundy



While the 121st Armored Cavalry had been tapped to provide direct support for the Domain forces hammering the stubborn pockets of Burgundian resistance in Ouistreham's eastern arrondissements, the "Black Knights" of the 1st Armored Brigade had been called upon to perform a somewhat more complex maneuver.

Pushing directly out of the city, just beyond sight of the First Republic-held airport, the 1st plunged into the suburbs and countryside beyond. The first Cussian force of such obvious power and size to move this far outside of the city, a sudden change in the precarious wartime balance that held sway over the lives of so many.

Those Neustrians that had been brave enough to venture out of doors before - peering warily in the direction of the thunderous combat some miles to their north - fled inward for the relative safety of their homes before the Black Knights passing. The noise was tremendous, even for those some miles removed and locked inside and within their cellars it seemed as if a thundering herd of jet engines were passing directly over their homes.

So far so good, Captain Sigismund Clayton muttered to himself. The Engells and Cussian Marines had swept these sectors thoroughly, finding them bereft of the scattered but often determined Burgundian resistance so apparent to the north. Command theorized that those Neustrians that hadn't outright abandoned their posts with the government's abandonment of the nation had mostly pulled out, meaning to link up with the Pillauists.

Captain Clayton, known to his intimates as "Sig," commanding a platoon of Conqueror 2 main battle tanks from one of his own, was charged with overseeing the leading tip of the thrust the 1st was making into the countryside. An effort to outmaneuver the Burgundians as they were engaged - and partly pinned in place - by forces from the opposite direction and from within Ouistreham itself.

Broken from the knife's edge of his focus for a moment, Clayton was slightly jolted by a tap at the shoulder. A gloved hand, holding a cold Dynamo Gray (a formula produced and distributed solely to the Cussian Armed Forces) - and holding it out to Clayton. That would be Mobley, Corporal Lester Mobley, the crew's operator (loader) and most recent addition. "Sir, figured you could use a little refreshment."

Clayton nodded his thanks to the wiry, hopelessly ginger Wrennsman, pressing the ice-crusted can to his face. The Conqueror 2 had a pretty serviceable environmental control system, but the heat of anticipation and pre-combat nerves was more than enough to have his coveralls sticking tight with sweat.

The shell-jerker disappeared wordlessly, cradling two more cans, one each for the other crewmen. First Sgt. Tagajuté "Tag" Cornplanter, their gunner, had served with Clayton the longest. They'd become fast friends long ago, the irreverently stubborn tenacity of the Néusioke winning the more straight laced officer over long ago. The tank's driver, Sgt. Fred Sehoca, had been with them for just a short while less, but was no less solid in the crew's estimation. The Croatoan was no doubt as razor-focused on steering their great behemoth was Clayton was with where they were headed.

The Neustrian landscape slid by swiftly, sweltering in the heat of summer and almost as ferociously green as what would have been found back in Beautancus. Good fighting country, Clayton forced himself to remain solemn before the danger they faced, but could not dismiss how well the operation was unfolding.

As if on cue, the blinding fast motion of a rocket propelled grenade snatched the Captain's attention, rising up from the distance and slicing beyond the periphery of his cameras vision. The concussions of the blast came from near enough to rock the tank, but wasn't a hit. Even as the information was registering, instinct and muscle memory drove him to magnify the image before him and switch over to thermals.

There, nearly a kilometer to their front and slightly to the left, a formation of infantry darting through the trees. "Operator, Beehive! Gunner, bearing 358, range 850 yards!"

Corporal Mobley responded as admirably as Clayton could have asked for, three components of the murderous shot slammed home and ready in record breaking time. Sgt. Cornplanter sent it downrange immediately, blotting a section of the distant treeline out. Another RPG whistled in, passing close enough to the Conqueror's external camera to make her commander duck away to one side.

None of the rest needed prompting to do their parts, Sehoca brought the tank forward just enough to throw their attackers aim off, and Cornplanter sent another round downrange. The swarm of lethal anti-personnel munitions scything through the trees seemed to have done the trick this time.

"Forward, get us out of this fucking pasture ASAP!"

The tank lurched forward again and built speed fast, Sehoca angling towards the nearest defile that he could find. They were only 6 miles from their objective now, a position overlooking the site where intelligence reports indicated that the Burgundians were massing armor of their own. Last minute radio chatter occupied Clayton for the rest of it, confirmation that forces in the city were "blowing the floor out from under the Burgies," and that the supporting artillery barrage seemed to have spurred the armored formation into motion.

"Operator, load HEAT." Mobley had it done fast, for which they were all immediately very grateful. The Burgundian armor had indeed shifted from their positions, away and out from under the merciless hail of massed Cussian artillery. The bastards had even seen them first - the Conqueror shook violently as an enemy round glanced across its hull. The angle had been off a bit, hadn't engaged the reactive armor. They never stopped moving, piling speed for a nearby rise in the land - an almost perfect berm.

As soon as they halted, the tank's systems were painting the nearest available target. Clayton fired himself this time, the non-line of sight missile the Conqueror boasted as a secondary armament roaring off and to the foe with blinding speed. The enemy tank disappeared in a column of smoke and fire as the missile rose and then slammed back down at the turret from above. "Hit it again!" He bellowed, the gunner responding before he'd even finished. Another hit, and this time the Burgundian tank was down for a certainty.

Others were not, firing back at the Black Knights as they were taking fire - the reactive armor of the tank nearest in formation exploding with the full force of its reason for being. Somehow, another two rounds followed directly behind - the Cussian tank shuddered once and the turret's primary hatch exploded skywards, followed by an obscenely bright jet of flame...that continued to burn with undimmed fury for several more seconds.

And so passed the first minute and fifteen seconds of one of the largest armored engagements in modern military history.



[to be cont'd. in Part 4, Engellex Rules the Waves]

 

[Kazansk]

Contested Bourgogne.

A new defensive line had been established in the countryside outside Ouistreham, the high command of the Insurrectionary Army of Western Bourgogne had decided to pull out of the city proper, let the Engells have what was left of the city, the country still remained in Burgundian hands and would continue to do so.

The IAWB had opted for a more elastic defense, with a few fortified strongpoints placed along the side to delay the enemies advances. The Engells had launched an armoured assault to try and encircle those Republican forces still in Ouistreham. Republican forces had been mobilized to halt the advance, armoured and motorized units were heading into the front, The very best that the Grand Duchies military industrial complex had to offer was now firmly in the hands of the Republicans, no longer were they a ragged band of militia, now they were a modern army.

+++++++

Captain Jules Bouchard looked out of the cupola of his tank, it wasn't recommended of course, but he needed to feel the fresh air on his face. The smell of burning petrol hit him at once, the fields all him around him were filled with the wreckage of dozens of vehicles both Engell and Burgundian. The Burgundians had one the day but this was only a small skirmish in a much larger battle. He ducked back down into his tank, its Neustrian markings painted over with the colours of the People's Republic. Bouchard's regiment had formerly been the 4th Hussars however the powers that be deemed the name " a relic of Bourgognes feudal past not in keeping with the values of the new Bourgogne" and as such they were to be renamed simply the 4th Cavalry. Jules cared nothing for the politics,as long as the politicians left him be he was happy to keep on fighting the nations enemies.

" Come on lets move out, we've got more work to do".

what was left of his section advanced, hopefully the rest of the army was faring as well if not better then them.

++++++++

Bernard Soult was enjoying his time away from the front, he had plenty of food in his stomach, a roof over his head and perhaps most importantly no one was shooting at him. alas soon it'd be over and he would be back at the front. Until then however he would eat, drink and be merry. He and some other men from his regiment had set themselves up in a little restaurant in the sleepy village of La Chapelle-de-Bragny and were determined to drain the place dry of food and drink.

 

[Thaumantica]

Engellachian CAF CP,
Former Burgundian Revenue Office

“You could put me in the Domain’s most expensive jet motherfuckin’ aeroplane,” General Hayes gestured with his hand theatrically, “or lock me in a big ol’Conqueror battle tank. But it’s not gonna do this operation any good - because you know what?” Hayes’ command group kept getting younger and younger he noticed then, pointing at an up jumped Officer he had not seen at the previous brief.

“You’re not a tank driver or a pilot, sir.”

Hayes wagged his finger in the affirmative at the man, “Exactly that. What a few days ago was a ground and pound militia, I’m not judging or anything because that’s what we are in essence, portends now to be masters of a modern military arsenal?”

The infantry officers began to laugh with Kentigern, who could not stop smiling as he walked back before a map of the country side. “No, we charge the bastards and make them regret surrounding themselves with hardware that can’t protect them from the good ol’ rifle bands and saboteurs that nearly let them take the whole damn country.”

+++

The First Revolutionary Army Division was the only Engellachian military component close to achieving something near full deployment in-country. With this privilege they had also incurred the most losses, nearly a fifth of troops had been marked injured, dead, or missing in the start of this conflict. Rumors had once again turned out to be rumors, that they might garrison in Ouistreham for the remainder of the conflict. Clarenthians instead had been tasked with minding the rear.

While the combined combat arms of Beautancus began its armored maneuvers and placement General Hayes ordered a stand down evening, morning, and afternoon of rest and recreation in cantonments still be refitted for Domain utilization. Thus, depending on temperament, the Revolutionary 1st bunked in and slept, or proceeded to party in place on the ground they had fought for and lost comrades on.

+++

By the next evening most were either partially recovered by rest, or mostly rejuvenated by veteran’s tier recreation. Troops were rousted and accounted for and painstakingly organized into proper platoons elements, restored companies, battalions and upward with a basic Domain radio reporting hierarchy to call back to for aerial, naval, or artillery bombardment.

For a few hours the enlisted troops were ordered to rest again, this time in confinement, while officers and NCOs hammered out their movement plans and secondary plans on both paper and digital maps where it would allow. The Clarenthians had arrived at an ideal time to resupply the Engellachians with ammunition in standard rifle and small arms rocket, grenade and diesel for a small and nimble but poorly armored fleet of truck and troop carriers.

General Kentigern Hayes was about to stake his career, his life, and the lives of several thousand men on the hunch that his adversaries were not as organized or well trained as they wanted everyone to believe. If they could indeed break a line of the defense, the Thaumantic Civil Service was preparing agents on motorcycles to rush gap openings with looted Neustrian small arms and explosives. Their mission also demanded Hayes theory be correct, because it required a faith in chaos in the east that may allow them to ride to their targets.

At 0300 the Engellachians pressed their attack on foot and by truck directly at enemy tank emplacements. Was the enemy actually trained in night maneuvers with heavy armor? They would soon find out. The West Engell CAF could not and would not take to higher technology in this war, that is what the other Engells were for. Engellachians wanted to skirmish, to this end they whistled and flashed lights instead of using their radios unless only to call for Cussian aerial abuse. If the Burgundian P.R. truly had mastered their technology, then the Engellachian radios were surely vulnerable to interception. Runners were also sent as if from a bygone war, either on foot or on motorcycles that the Cussians had supplied in great excess of expectations.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Southern Burgundy

The planes in front of Major General Parker had crossed half the globe only to be hidden away at some minor military airport in the south of the Burgundian People's Republic. Those large, bulky, military transports were suspicious enough, but their contents could cause a severe diplomatic crisis between the World Republic and the Thaumantic Domain and while Deliverance was eager to stick a thorn into the side of what it felt was its biggest threat, it was less eager to openly antagonize them.

So the planes had crossed the Thaumantic on routes that would lead them around the warzone and into a part of Burgundy far away from the frontlines. Clearly identifiable as planes from the World Republic, they would have to steer clear of the conflict as much as they could, but for their contents, this was less of a concern. Somewhere in southern Burgundy, on a small military airport far away from prying eyes, missiles were unloaded to aid in the defense of Burgundy.

Sure, the domain would easily identify the surface-to-air missiles that were to soon threaten the lives of their pilots above Ouistreham as a design from the Socialist World Republic were they to get their hands on one, but the Implarians had sold these before, so there would be enough plausible deniability. On the other hand, the launchbases, mobile radars and the missiles themselves would provide a valuable asset to the Burgundians, bolstering their A2-AD capabilities and maybe not negate, but severely weaken the impact of Thaumantic air power in the region.

Of course, the goals of the World Republic were different than those of the Burgundians. The latter wanted to defend their country and achieve victory over the Domain as quick and as bloodless as possible. Meanwhile Parker had been sent with the mission to maximise Domain losses in the region, a mission that conflicted with the role of the SWR mission as military advisors to the Burgundians - and with Sarah Parkers personal pride. Major General Parker had any intention of providing the Burgundians with honest and valuable advice and to help them to her fullest capabilities in winning this war. She didn't want to be known within the General Staff as a commander of attritional warfare, she wanted to be known for swift and decisive victories.

But the World Republic hadn't really given her much to work with. While there were a fair number of officers like her, eager to take a risk to further their own careers and prove to themselves the military of the World Republic is not just a glorified guns stockpile, there was no way they could find enough volunteer troopers to form expeditionary units of any sorts. Furthermore, with the single most important port of Burgundy in the hands of the domain, there was only so much supplies the World Republic could ferry to the heartland of Gallia, restricting its materiel deliverments to what they felt were really important, mostly missiles. The heart and soul of Sarah Parkers military mission was to provide advisors on the strategic level, to train new recruits and to provide leadership to newly organized volunteer formations.

Ironically, this may just have been the single thing the Burgundian People's Republic was most in need of. With Burgundy splitting apart, the left-wing populists of the People's Republic may have had some success motivating militiamen and servicemen to join the battle and they had access to the sizeable military stockpiles of the old Burgundy, but there was no way the aristocratic and anti-communist officer corps of Burgundy was to fight for the People's Republic. Untrained volunteers, left-wing militias and reservists of the old guard of Burgundy alike were in dire need of professional leadership. Major General Sarah Parker was eager to fill that gap.

 

[Clarenthia]

Caona International Airport
Caona, La Savana

Joaquín was staring out the window of the terminal as a RRF Albatros lined up with the jet bridge. It was a sleek white plane with black wing tips, black engines, a black ribbon running down the tail and underbody with the AirClarenthia Orca emblem on the tail fin – typical livery of the company’s planes.

AirClarenthia had won, with what was likely limited to no competition, a contract from the Commission for National Defense to lease its pilots and planes to the CDF to ferry troops to NoCRER. Now, with Ouistreham and the airspace surrounding it firmly within the Domain’s hands, the flights would be landing directly in the airport – cutting back significantly on costs for the CDF. Joaquín was to be on board the first flight to land in the war-torn country. Caona, as the closest and biggest international airport in the country to NoCRER was being used as a staging fround for troop transport.

“Juaco,” he heard a voice call from behind him. Joaquín turned, but he immediately recognized the voice.

“Carlos!” he exclaimed, as the two embraced “I didn’t know you were to deploy already.”

“Neither did I,” he shook his head “Seems they had a change of heart. Pendejos.”

The two now stood looking out the window at the plane, which was now being loaded with its cargo.

“I can never get over how big these things are,” Carlos crossed his arms and continued watching “400 boots, on this flight alone.”

“You’re in the military and a civilian plane impresses you,” Juaco mocked as Carlos pushed him in the elbow.

“Look at this,” Carlos turned around to see that the entire terminal was full of rows of troops sitting and waiting for their flight to board “All these young people, flying to their first war. Fuck, our first war. Who would have thought – Bourgogne, the titan of Gallia.”

“Yeah, it’s something,” Juaco continued to stare at the plane “You know the funniest thing, I was supposed to go on a school trip to Bourgogne, few years back. Came down with a serious case of the flu couldn’t go.”

“Funny,” Carlos sighed “how that happens. You can thank First Citizen Orton though, you get to go fight his war. Oh, I almost forgot.”

Carlos fuddled around in his pockets, opening each one of the seemingly thousands on the army uniform of the Clarenthians, before giving an excited exclamation when he found it. Cupping the item in his hands, he looked around before moving closer to Juaco. “I want you to have this.”

Carlos handed Juaco a small gold rosary on a chain. It genuinely surprised Juaco, who stood there, cupping it in his hands.

“I gotta admit man,” Carlos sighed “I don’t know what to believe but this isn’t any time to tempt fate, ya know?”

“Thank you, Carlos,” Juaco answered, putting it in his pocket.

The two men, just barely more than boys, stood in silence as the plane continued to load.

Le Chesney
Outside Ouistreham, Disputed Bourgogne

The morning sun glistened against the dew on the blades of grass flanking the dirt path under a stone bridge that nine men stood parallel, in formation to. The wind rustling through the trees could barely be heard over the deafening sons of the cicadas. All of that, however, was a welcome sound from the terror that the Domain had laid upon Ouistreham.

“Gentlemen,” Lieutenant Harrington pushed himself off from leaning on the stone bridge and stood face-to-face with the men in front of him “My name is Lieutenant Brant Harrington and I’m looking to put together a team, this team here. You see now, welcome each and erry one of you to the Civilian Recovery Unit.”

Harrington began pacing up and down the line, looking at each one of his men in the eyes as he lit himself a cigarette. Not a one changed their graze – they all watched directly in front.

“You see, we here have the most important job of all the Thaumantic Domain. The Cussians, they’re out there miles from here blowing every imbecilic fictional noble crouton that have the misfortune of being seen. That makes quite the mess, you can imagine.”

Harrington stopped and stared directly into the eyes of one of his men “Now I don’t much care for messes, ‘pecially not in a country as beautiful as this, do you?”

“No sir.”

“Good man,” Harrington continued pacing.

“That’s why we’re here to clean it up all up. Well not us exactly, to be fair, but the collective we – the Treatyfolk. But now you see we can’t quite rightly rebuild this country to its fullest potential while the croutons that made it that way still continue to pollute it. That’s why we – Alpha Squad, Civilian Recovery Unit – well we have a specific task at hand.”

Harrington stood, at stiff attending in the direct center of his men, looking at each of them.

“Let me tell you one thing and let me very, crystal clear. There is only one thing on this beau-ti-ful green natural earth that I want more than immediate and effective legislation to prevent our impending climate apocalypse and that is: to kill every piece of shit human being that thinks themselves better and destin’ to rule over the common man for no other reason than the luck of the cunt they happened to pop out of. That I simply cannot abide.”

Harrington threw his cigarette to the ground and promptly lit a second one, talking with it between his lips.

“Our mission is very simple. Bourgogne can never be free and true if these fucks walk its earth. Our job is, well, to make sure they don’t. We will be cruel to these cunty croutons and through our cruelty they will know who we are and never again will the good people of this country fear their power. And when we’re done, I’ll tell you what for: we’ll sit atop their freshly slain bodies and look upon the sun rise on a beautiful new, free country….sound good?”

“Yes Sir!”

 

[Beautancus]

Part 4, The Domain Rules the Waves

​

CRNV Grim Tidings (SCG 87)
Eastern Thaumantic Expeditionary Command (ETEXCOM), Cussian 1st Fleet
North Thaumantic
No.C.R.E.R.'s territorial waters



These were moments that Heracles Speier had yearned for the entirety of his adult, professional, life. The roiling waves of the North Thaumantic beneath the hull of his mighty ship, and that ship beneath his feet - united in the sublime excellence of purpose that was borne from being at sea at war.

The journey from the 1st Fleet's primary operational deployment, linking up with pieces of other forces and formations from all around Westernesse as they went, had presented some of the most rewarding administrative challenges Speier had ever encountered.

That such exertion and stress of this sort, and at these stakes could be considered and received as a reward at all was a large part of why the Chief of Naval Operations had selected Admiral Speier to lead this Expeditionary Armada. He was a man bred for war, in a fashion that few of the current generation of the Domain's rising warlords could boast of - even among his countrymen. Where it might have taken any number of other Admirals from any of the Westernessian or Thaumantican states the better part of a month to marshal the totality of the force at Speier's command, it had taken him only slightly more than a fortnight.

Grim Tidings and the varied force of escort and support ships acting as her martial entourage - ETEXCOM - were pulling back from the main advance of the Expeditionary Armada slowly but pronouncedly. The lead elements of the ETEX had split to enter to the Engelsea via the channels to the north and south of No.C.R.E.R.'s larger, northern island. Submarines formed a large portion of this vanguard, hunting enemy submarines and foolhardy smugglers alike.

They were joined by a variety of surface squadrons, some focusing on aerial denial and denial of access operations in support of the new TEZ, others engaged in their own forms of Anti-Submarine and Anti-Mine warfare. Others lent their own not at all inconsiderable weight of expertise and resources into the struggle to maintain dominance in the realm of electronic warfare over the battlespace.

Others yet still, far larger and more carefully attended and escorted, had come to the Engelsea for altogether less subtle operations. Three "arsenal ships," the gargantuan upsized siblings of missile cruisers fashioned from the retrofitted enormity of aged mid-20th century battleships. Spread over a front nearly 75 miles from north to south, flanked by missile cruisers and air warfare-interdicton vessels and screens of unseen Prowler subs, these behemoths bore upon their assigned positions with furious tenacity. Finally satisfied with their placement and spacing the order went out, a nearly palpable wave of thrilling anticipation traveling with it. Coordinates were finalized and locked in, flight paths were double checked against other Domain forces active in-theater, local weather conditions observed or checked against most recent observations - on and on. The process took mere minutes to reach completion, when as one the entire force opened up.

Each of the hulking arsenal ships bore 462 vertical launch tubes, normally secured beneath recessed and armored launch bays, but for this initial salvo a mere fraction of that number would be used, 150 in total (itself an incredible figure). Among the three arsenal ships, seven tubes suffered a non-critical malfunction and failure to launch, but otherwise 143 Gungnir Air-to-Land (cruise) Missiles - typically abbreviated to and referenced as ALMs - screeched into the air above the Engelsea. The smaller missile cruisers - 6 in total in this force - joined in this enormous bombardment, lofting 15 of their own 154 available ALMs apiece, for a staggering total of 233 airborne simultaneously.

Of this number Gungnir cruise missiles, 82 targeted critical sites in and around the enemy capital of Pillau. Government buildings, military facilities of all types - with a heavy preference upon AA/AAA installations - radio stations, cellular and radio towers, both civilian and military radar sites and airfields/ports, factories (prioritizing arms production), holding yards and warehouses for industrial equipment, petrol holding tanks and transportation pipelines - and fire departments, all were targeted. Some with multiple missiles.

The remaining 154 missiles were keyed to a variety of targets throughout the rest of Northern and Western Burgundy. Any and all military airfields identified by previous recon or longstanding public information received multiple strikes, up to a dozen for the largest such. The rest focused on the defensive positions the Burgundian People's Republic's forces were setting up outside of and around Ouistreham. Those locations boasting the largest concentrations of fortifications and hardware received the most withering attention.

Cutting through the high waves not more than a hundred nautical miles from the mouth of the vital strait separating the two great isles of Engellex Proper, Herself Herself, Admiral Speier raised a solemn toast. Rocking the smooth clarentine back with practiced ease, the Cussian sailor could not help but feel some of the exhilaration those missile jockeys were no doubt now feeling.

These Fictional savages must ever have it the hard way, Speier did not voice the sneer. He had never had a high opinion of the peoples or traditions of the Old World, and was now presented with carte blanche to act upon it. What a time to be alive...

Dinner with General Preston and the North Engell President later this evening would no doubt prove to be one of the most savory meals he could ever hope to enjoy. Refilling the crystalline shotglass before him once more, he raised the drink and declared aloud, "To War!" immediately joined in smooth chorus by the rest of the CDC.

 

[Thaumantica]

1st Revolutionary Division Rear Operations

Mortuary Affairs Officer Willard Schenect was responsible for the grim yet essential job of cremating or otherwise packaging deceased Engellachian soldiers and directing those remains precisely where the soldier had requested. The most common of these orders, a near majority of them, requested cremation and that their ashes be scattered in the Thaumantic. Simpler still many soldiers had left the field blank on their form or selected ‘no preference’, these ashes were being concentrated into larger tubs after bone pulverization to be sent in bulk to Hammersmith, then back to Vesper from there.

“Our protocol has been to send all unassigned remains back to the W.E.R.,” Schenect told a Captain Deerwin who was wearing an unusual uniform of which he had never seen. Relaxed grey tactical cargo pants, an Engellachian blue combat shirt with zipping pockets for things a CAF soldier would never be issued, a grey armored vest to protect the essential organs, and a tactical baseball hat if one could call it tactical bearing a flag patch at the top for which Deerwin had chosen an old naval flag with the writing ‘the beatings will continue until morale improves’.

“Typically they are chalked into a statue or monument, I know, but we have a different mission for these ashy remains!” Deerwin said with a ghoulish grin. “Every Engellexian in the Northern Constituent Republic of fighting age, over and under by a few years as well, will get a vile of these soldiers’ ashes in the mail asking them to rise and avenge Engellkind beside their Thaumantic Allies in the coming clash of civilizations!”

Lieutenant Schenect furrowed his eyebrows skeptically, “Why not SoCon? And won’t that creep most of the NoCR’s out, even atheists can be squeamish about human remains?”

“There will be enough ashes to go around for the whole Domain believe you me,” Deerwin said with an inferno growing in his sharp eyes. The Engellachians were risking running afoul of the old country’s pride again, this both men and the Dictator who had ordered this propaganda operation knew, but something had to be done to muster the spirit of Engellexians in the North again. Having been there before stepping out and jumping to Ouistreham, Schenect noted the progenitor islanders as lukewarm and unremarkable in contrast of the Cussian coalition of Engellachians and Treatyfolk.

“We will get to work immediately then, sir!” Schenect acknowledged, pulling the superior’s paperwork on to his clipboard to target and sign the release forms without reading its contents. So it was that hundreds and soon thousands of soldiers and unidentifiable remains of Burgundian were shipped rapidly to Hammersmith in the form of ash to be re-packaged and mailed across the island.

 

[Kazansk]

Cafe Azure, Pillau.

The cafe was officially closed, unofficially it was the headquarters of a growing conspiracy within the heart of the People's Republic. Currently the conspiracy was small, Bernard Murat the Provisional Foreign Minister Aerlene Busch Provisional Interior Minister and Provisional Police Minister Vincent Gault.

Murat was the first to speak, he had been the one to set up the cabal and as such has assumed the position of its leader.

" The question remains gentlemen, how best to neuter von Goltz's influence. He is already Provisonal chairman and commander in chief of the ARN, we simply cannot allow that much power over the Republic to remain in the hands of an aristocrat it makes a mockery of the very credentials of the People's Republic ". Now Goltz is popular with the army and certain conservative elements...we need to sideline him politically while still maintaining his support, or at least his public support".

Vincent Gault was the first to answer back. Gault was something of an outsider in the National Congress, his position owed in large part to Murat's influence then anything else. He had previously served under the last Provisonal Police Minister DeSalle before his untimely passing courtesy of a cruise missile, now he was Murat's man through and through.

" Well von Goltz is often at the front, his family however is not, and given the Baron's position as Provisional Chairman perhaps they should be moved to a more secure location under Police protection....for their own security of course. We'd have to arrange for others to be taken into protective custody to course for the sake of legitimacy.


+++++++
Headquarters, Volunteer Army of Northern Bourgogne.

Gustav von Goltz was unable to contact his family. It was one of weekly rituals, a video call with his wife and son, however this week nothing, no explanation just nothing. He was beside himself with worry, no one he asked knew anything. It was only several hours later when a man in a nondescript suit came to his door.

" Bon jour Baron von Goltz, I'm Inspector Gamelin, of the Ministère de la sécurité de l'État. Now I'm here to assure you that your wife and child are indeed safe and sound in a secure location.... for their protection naturally given your position in the People's Republic we feel that they could be targeted by certain elements."

" What the fuck is the Ministère de la sécurité de l'État! Where have you bastards taken my family!"

Gustav watched as the detective calmly pulled out a cigarette from his coat and lit it purposely blewing smoke into towards his face and spoke with a voice laced with contempt.
" Well now Sir one of those questions I can answer, the Ministère de la sécurité de l'État is a relatively new organisation the result of greater cooperation and understanding between the Interior and Police ministries designed to better protect the Burgundian people from harm. As to the location of your family that is privileged information that I cannot disclose ".


" What do you mean you can't tell me I'm the fucking Provisional Chairman of the fucking Republic! I am ordering you to release my family you little piece of shit I'll have you fucking fired!". Goltz watched as the detective simply took another drag on his cigarette.

" Ah yes, well actually I was just going to mention that, just wait" at this Gamelin made a great show of searching his pockets and patting himself before pulling out with a flourish a folded piece of paper"E voila here are the papers detailing your resignation from the office of the Provisional Chairmanship, all that is required is your signature. Now your family are being held in protective custody as a result of your political office ergo once you resign, your family need not be protected by us. Understood?

" So that's what you want then? Me out of the way, this has Murat's stench all over it fine give me back my family".

 

[Thaumantica]

PsyOps Skiff (Abandoned Antique Store), Ouistreham

The next pennypaper leaflet of ‘Loyalty & Truth’ was ready for print, Vesper need only give the word, but a gag order had been relayed back instead. Cloning aspects of the original B. People’s Republic platform, L&T had been an effort to cut the People’s Republic off at the knees by pumping an alternative brand throughout Neustria. It was radically populist and could be maligned by the opposition as fascist, but the writers at the skiff fully intended it this way in spite even of Domain allies who certainly saw the future landscape of the continent differently.

The Skiff wanted to force Pilau ideologues farther and farther to the left towards unpalatable Marxism for a moderate majority. Whether this tactic was successful or not would never be found out, for the morning after their more heavily armed comrades pushed out of the city with orders on high to vacate - they too were told to abandon all operations in Ouistreham, which would duly be handed over to the Treatyfolk of Clarenthia.

With the snap of a finger their operations were mothballed as they packed binders of reports, whiteboards, and pin boards cleared of the operational picture they were setting out for the city. Although there was the temptation to comply as the early Christians might maliciously to Tiburan orders, the Engellachians graciously left contact information for the Treatyfolk of police and local leaders that had proven malleable or approachable.

Many on the skiff were relieved even, for they saw the coming question of reconciling religious differences as a particularly difficult nut to crack. Not long after the influx of capitalist goods and ‘mercantile culture’ would also contradict the cloned message they hoped to prop up in Ouistreham, their own knees cut off by a mad rush of sex work, drugs, and inevitably Human Commodity.

Kings and Commissars could conscript entire populations for war, imprison citizens for life without parole, or outright execute or exile people under Post-Delegationism. Yet somehow this concept of Human Commodity, where a jury of peers condemns criminals to work and learn a trade skill under the eye of other citizens, had long ago been lost in the mind of mainland Europeans on the battlefield of ideas.

That the battle belonged now to the Treatyfolk was a relief indeed to many, because despite professional candor towards Domain brethren - Engellachians too despised what they called the “Polite Fiction of Human Commodity”.

Since the early twentieth century “Mutual Benefit Societies” had protected skilled labor fields in the West Engell Republic, much like unions yet even more deeply integrated in civic life as if to fill the social needs of communities that lacked churches or a central state. There were flaws of course, open positions in a factory or community leadership positions were first filled by sons or daughters of those already in the given “Benefit Society”, for political reasons, or by outright bribes. Institutions of higher learning also operated this way, down to dynastic old boys and girls clubs, to a known culture of near open bribery to make up for a few points at the end of a semester.

The Engellachians did not see their allies as inhumane or evil for their system, they simply preferred a system where skill and learning preferences were passed down through kin first and foremost. Being left out of such a family or society could be harsh and dreadful, and the Cussian system operated in benefit more towards these people that fell through the cracks than a criminal reform system as practiced elsewhere about the Thaumantic.

Perhaps through misconception, the Engellachians also believed in varying statistical majorities of “HCS Recidivism” depending on who you asked. Passed down tales since the time of the Sylvanian and West Engell Revolution told stories of “criminals and street urchins conspiring in the cornfields” to refine criminal enterprise after completing their contract, or there were tales of individuals tricked into the commodity pipeline through dubious tricks by contractors tasked with filling billet rosters by any means; or that once within a contract, charged rents or wrongfully accused of additional crimes while serving a contract.

Whether any of these things were true, once again, the PsyOps skiff were relieved to juke away from answering this question from the Burgundians who were already asking day in and day out what all of it meant for them. Instead now they chased the tail of the 1st Revolutionary Army Rifle Division eastward for more rural digs, each of them now internally hoping that their next assignment would not take them south to be in the crosshairs of the sly and snakelike Serazine.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Engelsea

The long list of positioning data, encrypted and sent across half the globe, would soon cease. The Eureka was likely to be one of the last freighters from the SWR to cross the Engelsea, despite the insistence of its government to reject and ignore the imposition of an exclusive zone by the Domain forces. They were still civilian ships and their captains as well as the large shipping companies operating them would want to avoid any confrontation. Neither were obligated to be a tool in Trumms foreign policy.

Not that they hadn't been exactly that for a while now, unbeknownst to them. When rather dubious reports had come of piracy in the Engelsea - likely a fabrication by the powers involved - Trumm had seized upon this to order detachments of marines to protect civilian shipping in the area. The decree had been buried by the hustle and bustle of a world in conflict and even domestic news made only brief mention of it, focusing instead on the many, very intentional blunders during Trumms global tour. But ever since then, groups of marines had travelled with the civilian shipping of the SWR in the region.

With the exclusion of humanitarian relief organizations, of course, who had been insistent to reject the militarization of their relief missions. A refusal the government had to accept, to not draw undue attention to its operation.

For the protection from pirates Trumms government didn't even believe existed was, of course, a farce. What the marines had instead been doing was to monitor traffic in the Engelsea and, in particular, note the presence, location and composition of military forces in the region. In particular, of the Domain Navy. Every SWR freighter that had passed the Engelsea, be it to deliver corn exports from Arvum to Gunnland or to import electronics from Pohjanmaa, had in secret also been a listening post dutifully observing the locations of Domain ships.

Serenierre

The byzantine power structures of the isolated Gallian country of Serenierre were difficult enough to navigate when there wasn't a regional crisis. Now, with the war in the Burgundian People's Republic, the deployment of Domain forces and the plans of Germanian powers and Kadikistan to send peacekeepers to contain them, the job of ambassador to Serenierre had become more than just a little difficult.

Still, Tom Waters had been ordered by his government to secure Serenierren support for the Burgundian People's Republic in whatever shape they could give. So, throughout the last days, he had been singing the same old song, like a broken record, to a myriad of people with influence in the government of Serenierre.

Of course, outright intervention against the Domain would be the preferable option, but everyone knew this was least likely to happen. Still, there was much Serenierre could do and Waters kept on harping about those avenues of support. "Send volunteers!" he would implore military officials. "Supply weapons," he would ask ministers.

But what had the largest chances of success, he felt, was actually the most useful and important way Serenierre could help stabilize the People's Republic against the onslaught of the Domain. Ouistreham had been the single biggest port in Burgundy. War in Neustria and finally the battle of Ouistreham had cut off the country from much of its foreign trade. It was reasonable to expect all kinds of shortages at some point in the near future if this wasn't adressed.

So Waters, above all, kept asking for Sereniere to open its borders, to organize shipments by land, to allow Burgundian trade to flow through Serenierre and humanitarian aid as well as volunteers from across the world to flow into Burgundy from its territory.

Again and again, he asked for this.

South-Eastern BPR

The SWR had set up camp as far away from the frontline as possible, close to the border to Serenierre in fact. Its small detachment of ambitious officers had swapped the stars and bars for the flag of the Burgundian Peoples Republic, but they had insisted on nicknaming their base Camp Liberty. A small concession made to the pride of the Westernesseans that would do little to compromise the secretive nature of their deployment.

Soon, men and women would arrive at Camp Liberty to receive training. First Burgundian soldiers, who would learn to operate the missile systems the SWR had gifted the Burgundians. Their deployment to the front would come soon, where they would probably not defeat the air superiority of the Domain, but at the very least put a considerable stepping stone into their path and inflict costly losses upon their airforces.

Then the volunteers would arrive. A call was to be made to the world to defend Burgundy from the Domain and international volunteers who made it to the country would be formed into units trained and commanded by the officers of Major General Parker. The Major General was hoping for highly motivated forces to be gained that way and commanded by capable, well trained officers from the SWR they would be a force to be reckoned with.

Alas, their deployment would still take time. Time that would have to be won on the current frontline. Major General Parker had by now established contact with the Burgundian command and was, besides her mission to train new forces for the Burgundians, serving as a military advisor. She had found the Burgundians to be rather forthcoming with strategic and tactical information and to be genuinely thankful for her input, but found the precedence of political considerations over military ones she often encountered in the Burgundian ranks to be rather frustrating.

"The Domain made a rather forceful push that took the world by complete surprise," she observed after the fall of Ouistreham. "It's a small wonder your forces held out as long as they could. A testament to tenacity and maybe a warning sign for the Domain of what's to come. Yet your retreat was inevitable and the right call."

There had been objections to this assesment, of course. Pride and stupdity, she thought. Political creatures who see only their own propaganda and the role of Ouistreham in it, not the potential this whole situation has opened up.

"The Engellkin seem to be committing to a full invasion of this country," the Major General continued. "And they wish to push this entire invasion force of what will probably be several million men in total through the needles ear of Ouistreham. I say, let them try this and let us help them make this a logistical nightmare par excellence. A cursory overlook of the situation gives me the following information. That Ouistreham suffered extensive damage during the fighting. Many buildings are destroyed and the streets will likely not be cleared from rubble for weeks. Furthermore that your military possesses extensive stockpiles of ammunition seized from the previous Burgundian and Neustrian military. Artillery shells of all kinds, from convential to napalm and white phosphorous."

"What are you proposing?"

"I propose we burn Ouistreham."

 

[Beautancus]

Operation: Blackout

​

FOB "Col. Kong," Cussian Frontlines,
East-Southeast of Ouistreham
Disputed Western Burgundy


"Terror weapons," Sgt. Redwald Hines nodded to the distant explosions, rising in greasy black and red columns. Like broccoli, Hines smiled at his shitty joke, but didn't like it enough to share it aloud.

"They look like they're busting somebody a brand new asshole Sarge." Pvt Lee Buck was as earnest as he could be in the assessment, no hint of "lip" in his affect. Sgt Hines chuckled aloud this time.

"They sure do look good Buck, but they're for busting bricks and radar sites, catching vicks in motorpool or birds on the tarmac." Hines hooked the wad of spent snuff from his lip and spit the rest before continuing. "That might as well be our green light though, so take a piss, smoke a stogie and make sure you buttoned up tight."

A chorus of "Sir, Yessir!" swept back as the response from Buck and the rest of the squad. The shatter-patterned camo of their combat fatigues, Army standard for the theater, blended together in a miniature hurricane of intensity and motion. They didn't know much about the operation ahead of them, and neither did Hines when it came down to it, but they all knew the Army was taking the lead.

The Airborne and Marines had done a big share of the fighting throughout Ouistreham for most of the early actions, being more ideally deployed and suited for rapid actions of that type. They'd done a fine job of it too, especially coming into the thing half blind and staying that way most of the whole way. The Army had supported those actions with armored and mechanized formations, as and where they could, but had mostly not yet had the time to fully cycle in-country.

They'd had plenty of time now.

From what Hines understood from this morning's staff meeting, the Navy's Eastern Thaumantic Expeditionary Command had arrived in force now as well, and would be adding their weight of firepower to the already impressive levels their flyboys and Air Force rivals had already leveled at Burgundy.

Their missiles this time too, Hines reminded himself. It would be their planes too, in part, and soon. Operation Blackout was the largest combined arms maneuver Cussian planners had tried to execute thus far, incorporating twice the weight of any previous operation.

Aimed at isolating and annihilating one of the concentrations of Burgundian forces marked as most formidable, using the Engellachian assault that was already underway both as diversion and pincer. That much depended on the West Engells.

The crushing weight of the assault was likely to win through, with few ways Hines could see that this could go tits up. He'd never have spoken a word of that aloud either though, soldiers superstitions disregarded atheism as easily as any other barrier.

Captain Pound ducked his head into their makeshift dugout barracks, his face a mask of concentration warring with anticipation. Before he spoke, another chain of ear-splitting explosions clapped in the near distance, albeit with a slightly different quality than before.

Pound's eyes smiled, where the rest of his face didn't. "And that would be our own firepower. Artie opening up, we're on."

"Sir," Hines swung his helmet back on and fixed it tight. "Alright boys, cycle out!"


Three of the many brigades at this section of the front included artillery formations as fire support, one more particularly and heavily than the others. Included in these formations were towed artillery of several caliberd, self propelled guns and howitzers, MLRS tracks and AA tanks.

All save the latter were turning their attentions to the selected Burgundian concentration, preparing for the next portion of the hammer blow of Operation Blackout. Waves of overlapping fields of fire, composed of high explosives, incendiary, anti-personnel cluster and dumb "Lazy Dog" munitions tracked back and forth over a field extending for several square kilometers, for several minutes.

By the time they were done, the next phase was cooking off.


[to be cont'd shortly, will include map and OOB for Blackout in OOC thread later.]

 

[Beautancus]

Operation: Blackout .1

​

Brigade Combat Team (BCT) "Blizzard"
East-Southeast of Ouistreham
Disputed Western Burgundy



Dismounting from their transports some distance from the bracketed hellscape the "curtain of fire" provided by the artillery was masking of the dead ground ahead of them, Sgt. Hines and the rest of BCT Blizzard were forming up for the coming push.

Blizzard was one of the four BCTs attached to the 49th Inf. Division, all of which were being thrown into Blackout. The 22nd ID would be punching in with their three BCTs some miles to the north and west, while the 93rd & 121st Army Armored Cavalry Brigades formed the leading edge of the assault to the south and east.

"The action to the south is liable to be nasty," Capt. Pound had admitted before, that focused - almost solemn - expression creeping back over his face. The Black Knights of 1st Armored had taken some losses in their last tangle with the Burgundians, but were supposed to be cutting into this pocket somehow as well, no doubt spoiling for a bit of a rematch.

The portion of the "concentration of forces" that Sgt Hines and the rest of Blizzard were slowly advancing upon was anchored on an old Burgundian Army depot, that had apparently been serving the Neustrians as a redistribution center before their government had given up and collapsed on them.

The North Burgundians had poured forces into the area for days, and since their flight from the eastern edge of Ouistreham reports indicated they had been scrambling to incorporate the site into an ad hoc defensive line.

From the perspective of Cussian military doctrine, this amounted to nothing so much as the formation of several dozen locally contained target rich environments.

Hines' squad was within no more than a few hundred meters of the bracketed zone taken under fire by the artillery, driven low to the ground by the rippling waves of over pressure and deafening roar of heavy ordnance fulfilling it's short life's purpose.

Within thirty seconds, the shells began to creep farther from their positions, noticeably concentrated on the far side of the bracket. Hines dared peak around the house-sized boulder he and his squad had taken cover behind, conveniently deposited for (much) later use by some primordial Ice Age megaflood. The distant bloom of the shelling was slacking off even more now, and was then suddenly done.

The ground ahead of him had been heavily wooded until moments before. Stumps, partially overturned root systems, steaming and smoking craters and sink holes, small brush fires guttering out or taking off in the unnatural thermal windstorm and constant rain of blasted earth and timber.

Ugly, but we'll have some good cover to pick our way into these bastards faces, Hines observed, admiringly. There was no doubting the shelling would have softened the North Burgundians defenses, maybe even killed a lot of them - but there were bound to be more than a few left, no matter how hard they were shelled...and those that had survived this were apt to be mad as hell.

Hines glanced over the canal Capt. Pound and the other squad were occupying, finding his superior waiting to exchange the nod. "Heads up Squad Kilo, time to kick in and really earn our HDI* pay! Advance in pairs by fireteam, keep your fucking heads down. If something shoots at you, kill the shit out of it. Hooah?"

"HOOAH!"

"Almost sounded like a damn meeting choir, but it will have to do. Get on it."


There had been no resistance waiting, not in the smoking remains of the woods. In point of fact, they'd only found the bodies of five North Burgundians in the whole of nearly a kilometer of smashed forest, dead from a half a hundred splintered shards of timber turned to organic shrapnel in the bombardment. One of them was young enough that it had given Hines pause, obviously a teenager.

"No way to know how young he is, you know these Gallian Fictionals don't eat like we do. Might be a man grown for all we know. He made his pick, bought his ticket all the same - just dumb luck he got it punched here, today. Lot more to come." The rictus of hopeless terror the boy had frozen over his features left them all with doubts. A half dozen daggers of some kind of Old World maple, one of them half the length of Hines' arm, were buried deep in the North Burgundian kid's gut. At least the poor bugger died fast, if fucking hard.

They pushed their way through the tangle of earth for a few hundred meters more, the ground beneath them going from battered woodland to open if deeply cratered grassy soil. The outer fence of their targeted site appeared not long after, dozens of clumps of twisted wire and rapidly cooling molten metal.

Private Buck was the first of their number to take and return fire. The North Burgundian who taken the shot had been short by just a few feet, a double tap of rifle fire smacking deep into the ground before him. Pvt Buck, being the autorifleman for his fireteam, was able to level significantly heavier fire at the enemy in return, though it was entirely unclear if the foe was dead or merely suppressed.

The squad rushed forward now, their pairs covered by an unbroken ripple of covering fire from their autorifles and MMG. They were well within the old depot itself before Hines caught sight of the enemy himself.

The ruins of the brick structure across the yard from him had the look of a civilian bus garage more than anything else, blasted mostly apart. The highest wall left crept up no more than half its original height, but provided more than enough cover for a group of bold North Burgundians. Two of them were pouring automatic fire of their own back at the Cussian soldiers, the glimpses of their faces that Hines could grab telling a tale of the most bitter hatred.

"Corporal Turnage, bring that MMG to bear on that wall!" Hines knifed two gloved fingers towards the Burgundians cover, with a hateful snarl of his own. The machine gunner nodded, hauling the heavy MMG 05 up and over the hasty firing position his squadmates were preparing. Seconds later, the pounding automatic fire smashed into the brick, the heavy powderload of the .338 rounds driving them through the ruined brick - and into the valiant men on the other side.

One of the Burgundians began to scream, sharp and high, with no apparent end in sight. After fifteen seconds, he was still screaming. Hines plucked a grenade from the webbing of his harness, glancing over and around his cover towards the screaming man's wall as much as he dared. "Frag out!"

The arch of the grenade was as near perfect as the Cussian sergeant had ever thrown, the tiny ceramic-metallic sounding clatter of the tiny fragmentation charge against brick signalling his success as much as anything. Though muffled by the brick wall and his own cover, the explosion was still close enough to be incredibly loud.

The screaming had ceased, and a large portion of the wall had either been blown apart of collapsed. Hines motioned for two of the men to slide around to the side, see if the Burgundians were actually dead. A single gunshot, followed by a nod from the Cussian soldier who'd squeezed it off were their answer.

Hines raised an eyebrow to the shooter in interrogative, the young soldier shook his head and mimed the frantic, seizure-like convulsions of a man dying in shock. A mercy then, that he'd delivered to the Burgundian.

To Hines' left, posted up with the optic of his autorifle-configured ASR's optic up and to his eye, Pvt. Buck called out quietly by clearly. "Eyes on enemy infantry Sarge, 150 yards, bearing one-three-five." The Cussian Sergeant hugged close to his own cover but snapped his gaze to the direction the Private had indicated. Sure enough, enemy infantry were dashing into positions across the far side of the yard. Their numbers were unclear, but they appeared to be in good order, and preparing to counter...

Hines ducked and dropped fast, the sharp spray of concrete burning the side of his neck as a bullet clipped far too close. His own squad were returning fire immediately, a deafening harmony raking the direction the enemy was engaging them from. Buck was chuckling, squeezing over short bursts of automatic fire, the combat drum magazine of his ASR juddering slightly with the expenditure.

Hines steeled himself and rolled to the side a bit, able now to see enough of the enemy's position to level his own rifle and let fly a few aimed shots. Though his weren't the only ones to strike the Burgundian he'd aimed for, the man still dropped his assault rifle and slid motionless to the ground.

"Pour it on boys, these bastards are only just getting their first taste of what the Army is bringing down!" Off to his other side, one of his soldiers shrieked and toppled back - his rifle clattering to the pavement, half his jaw gone and what was left no more than a mass of glistening red and exposed bone - dead before he hit the ground. Hines roared, seeking out and firing at a new target.

"Hooah!" and an increasing volume of fire from his squad were the response, and more than enough this time.




OOC: Hazardous Duty Incentive* pay, i.e. "military hazard pay"

 

[Serenierre]

Conference Room A
Commissariat of People's Deputies - Villesen

"The 10th Parallel Policy has attracted considerable international support, Madam Premier," one of the deputies came up to her and smiled. "I am sure the Dominion must be quivering."

Her smile quickly faded. "Leopold, must you also make such snide comments?"

"Why aren't we doing more?" He was brusque, something which Elisabeth had become unused to in the settings of these party meetings.

"Deputy Moulierre, need I remind you that I am still Premier and General Secretary of the Party?" her tone remained calm and she kept her cool, though her blood was boiling, "The policy we have adopted is robust in its defense of our country. We cannot jump the gun again as we did in Occitania."

"Will you only care after that horde of demons is on our border and threatening us? As it is their aerial exclusion zone runs up to our borders. How can Serenien prestige allow that?"

She nodded. "Sometimes prestige requires letting things develop. Let's see what the Kadikistanis do."

"That is another mess."

"Please Leopold, I am not in the mood for all this."

Politburo Chamber - Villesen
Elisabeth remembered well the words of Leopold Moulierre from the meeting earlier that morning. In light of which she had decided to issue a confidential statement to the highest members of the Party. In this statement she would outline the defensive preparedness of the country and lay out the options and eventualities for which the military was prepared for. To think that Serenierre's public silence was akin to inaction was a grave mistake.

Since the invasion of the Occidental forces in Burgundy, the Serenien Military had been on the highest level of preparedness short of war, with its defenses and missiles ready to counter anything which endangered the country. The various Commands of the military were mindful of how dynamic the situation could be. She also further said that despite appearances sake, Serenierre had strong and robust allies in the nations of Auraria and Pelasgia, which were committed to the same ideals and values with respect to freedom of the seas. On the Marxist side of the equation, Kadikistan too, could be managed and ideological disagreements could be left aside - at least for now.

Even the 10th Parallel Policy allowed a wider periphery of defensive alert for the military, with the swarms of Serenien submarines and agile missile destroyers on the prowl. Naval Aviation, too, was ensuring that no corner of the identified zone would be left un-monitored.

For decades, Serenierre had known it was surrounded by hostile forces, its primacy in Gallia was a new invention, and it knew if it came to it, the country was merely, as they say, "a screwdriver's turn away" from enhancing its presence in the mess. Although restraint remained the primary approach.

 

[Thaumantica]

Operation Scatterbrain

With General Kentigern Hayes’ offensive gamble still on the table, all chips pushed in for supreme victory or embarrassment, the remainder of the Engellachian Combined Armed Forces attempted to assemble an area of operations south of Ouistreham. While safe as compared to the front, careless exploration or poor perimeter presence had already taken lives in the form of rigged explosives or one off snipers and insurgent attacks from the Burgundian nationals.

AO Packer was aptly named for the area of operations that every non-combat or engineer asset not being used for replenishing the 1st Revolutionary Infantry Division was packed into with little or no explanation. Their mission would be to establish and embolden southern defense lines along the Serazine border, a tasking many were glad to be informed of until the specifics were laid out.

Utilizing Domain funds, the Engellachian engineers would supply immense labor and time into creating lots and infrastructure for armored Cussian units, cleared forest locations for potential missile placements, and specified airfields for Domain operations independent from destroyed Burgundian lanes of air travel.

All of this took a significant amount of staging of troops, equipment, supplies, and after a realization of the brevity of this endeavor: the hiring of private contracting companies capable and willing to take high sums of Thaumantic Pounds for crossing the Thaumantic itself to do their work at high risk.

Their expressed orders were to patrol and detain civilians roaming without direction, though a second round of orders was raining down from the Dictator back home to detain and offer them up to his controversial “Civilian Safety Coalition” comprised allegedly of the world’s most respected aid organizations. A great deal of effort and trust from all sides would be essential for any of it to actually benefit the civilian population in a meaningful way.

The true terror of Operation Scatterbrain was that intended to train and employ thousands of soldiers in the act of minelaying along the southern border at presumed choke points or alternative lines of travel. There was an emphasis on secrecy, but the inevitability that these mines would start to effect the locals was not lost on operations leaders. Publicly they would declare certain areas unsafe for civilian travel with the dubious claim that the former Kingdom of Burgundy had likewise secretly begun a mining operation during the seven days war.

From the front down to the southern occupied zones the mood was growing darker. Talks of what each man was capable of or what horrors their Grandfathers has committed in the Great Northern Wars could be a common conversation found around water buffaloes. This war was not ending quickly nor decisively, and the darkness of this growing feeling within Engellachian troops might begin to spill over into outbursts of terror.