Tyvia
Establishing Nation
Tierra de Silencio
The heavy grind of the treads upon the soil was loud, the gentle rocking of the machine underneath him not a new sensation to the young man. The mud had dried days ago, and the pleasant morning sun was out in full regalia, shining lazily over the mass of machinery and men. Each had a Roman numeral etched onto it's side, the same one in fact – regardless of whether it was a truck, a car, a tank, or some other metallic construct. It was transcendent, the crimson red of the paint gleaming off the originally gray-steel hull in the sunlight.
'CXVI' they displayed, superimposed directly below them was a small drawing, either in a small detailed paint brush or simple chalk inscription, of a griffon. The wind brushed up against the machines as they rolled at their leisurely pace, providing the men inside some respite from the normal heat of the tank's interior. The young Lieutenant smiled, pushing the side of the handle of the hatch aside – giving a small nod of courtesy to his lessers. Emerging from the tank into the full bloom of the sun, his smile only grew, wind blowing through his black hair. Even at this speed, a meager fifty kilometer's per hour, the winds in the Coronadic east hills blew strong. Only another kilometer's to the north were the start of the mountains del Ramira themselves, a natural wall against what lay to the east of Coronado's borders. This far south though, no such defenses beyond those man-made existed.
It was no secret that the regime was paranoid. It prided itself on such, and it continued to exercise this paranoia through the use of the Army. Ever since the establishment of the Commonwealth in it's current stage, after the wars for revisionism – the Army had fortified the border. It didn't differentiate between enemies, on the continent, Coronado was alone. There were no permanent allies, none that could be depended upon. Coronado was sadly on it's own in a land of enemies and untrustworthiness. All borders were in some way fortified, minefields and barbed wire seemingly being the least that the Army managed to come up with. In this case, the natural terrain served as an adequate barrier from the Egalitarian menace, and the Army stood in reserve farther to the south and west of the actual border to receive any visitors. Yet, this was different.
This was a muster. The reserves from within central Coronado were being moved to the north-east, rapidly, either by train, plane, or under their own power. Those reserves in kind were being replaced with similar units from farther south or west, usually Ferezannic in origin. The weapons reserves that had been built-up throughout the decade found themselves being tapped into, equipping newly commissioned reservists with more modern weaponry – accompanied by more modern training to keep them at their best. Those battalions that had been understaffed or lacked in equipment suddenly found themselves becoming full divisions, with their commanders promoted a notch or two to accompany the transition. It was not entirely efficient, there were many logistical difficulties, but it was rapidly sorted out. It wasn't a mobilization by a long-shot, but it was close enough to it.
Vanguardia de la Libertad
Organized chaos. It had happened rather quickly, if not unexpectedly. Hundreds upon hundreds of planes flew into the sky every day, and it had been going on since the second of January, ever since the release of the news articles of Meribian nuclear detonation somewhere. The chill wind bit deeply into the exposed flesh of the grounds crews, who clustered around those planes which had just set down or those which were preparing to fly. The loud roar of the jet engines was resonant every few seconds, with the distinct sound of overflying fighters ringing serene in the distance. The radar-jockeys and other men critical to the defense and maintenance of the base were working round the clock – alternating in varying shifts, all according to the whims of the Commanders.
It was a frustrating ordeal for paper-pushers, fly-boys, and jarheads alike. All were affected by this bustle, which was kept going by the swivel-chairs down at Tempestad. It was a simple policy, a show of force, some sabre rattling. Not many of the pilots or even officers on hand believed it was an actual operation, a demonstration of the power that the Commonwealth could quickly bring to bear. Despite that, they did their jobs as best they could. The Aeronautica of the Commonwealth was a volunteer service, just as the Army and Naval forces were. Though, unlike either of the two, the Aeronautica had no reserve branch. All within it were active duty, and were obligated to serve the full term of their contract, and possibly even past that time.
In the startling roar of it all was Major-Commandante Teo Satalde, his mahogany coloured uniform being easily swept in the wind, a grimace upon his plain brown face. It had been half a day now, and the rotating schedule was hard on the men, as well it should be. Glancing down at the gold-plated watch upon his wrist, Satalde grunted softly to himself, his eyes drifting to observe a fighter drift down to land upon the tar. It's wheels touched down seemingly gently, yet a screech accompanied the descent. It veered at high speeds down the runway, easing off ever so slowly until it finally slew to a halt near the hangers. Ground crews in their orange jumpsuits bustled around the fighter, refueling it and doing a check on all the weapons and assorted systems. The pilot could be seen jumping from his plane, stretching some.
“Governaci Commandante!” A voice called out, muffled yet resolute – forcing Satalde's attention away from the scene. A younger man approached him, an officer's cap perched atop his head. He bore patrician features, a strong and gaunt jaw, with the blonde hair that was peculiarly rare for those of the Commonwealth. He stood straight up, bringing his right hand up to his temple in a salute, dauntingly fast. Satalde responded in kind, offering a momentary nod to the man, “Si, Major?” Satalde inquired, head dipping slightly to observe the lapels upon the man's chest briefly.
Raising a hand to his mouth to clear his breath, he spoke, his Conarron very concise and aristocratic. “Governaci, Tempestad has sent a communique, specifying operational parameters and orders.”
Sataldi's brow dipped a centimeter, folding sternly over his brown eyes. He turned away from the Major, glancing back over his shoulder at the flight of his jets, “Have they specified an object, or is it discretionary?” He inquired, the terms holding both an important significance. The former generally indicated that most of the sorties based from this air base, the Hernando Alberiti Air Field would be against a few specific targets. Otherwise, it would be at the Wing Commanders' discretion. His discretion. The Major gave away his answer through a flicker of a grin, “Discretionary support, governaci.”
His own mouth creasing in a similar shape, Sataldi nodded his head. “And the parameters, codici?”
“Simply support the hundred and sixteenth, governaci.” The man responded, shifting his weight from foot to foot absently, his gaze slowly drifting away from the Commandante.
“Deadline?”
“Uh, Command hasn't specified, governaci.” The Major stated, rubbing his palm against the radio at his belt, flicking the volume switch to a lower dial. “They say simply to be at hundred percent around the clock, the order'll go out simultaneously when Command is ready.”
Sataldi grunted derisively.