Fun in the Sun

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Fun in the Sun

Post by Vipra » Sun Oct 30, 2011 11:53 am

OOC Note: Welcome to our thread, Fun in the Sun, where we will be exploring the cultural impacts of a 60s-style proxy war between two local powers, and the effects on such things as tourism, industry, and mental health. This means no gunboat 'big damn heroes' moments unless you have our permission, as that would turn the cold war between Tikult'Kal and Aatuylva hot. Plutonium hot, ya dig?
If you don't, I don't care.
No godmoding, whiny-bullshit, OOC-hate/Liberal emo whiny 'wry u so ebil' shit, or all around wankery will be tolerated. We will ignore you and ask a mod to remove your post, if we're in a good mood.
If we're not in a good mood we will ruthlessly attack every single one of your points and dissect your words for every single weakness and annihilate you verbally in ways that would make Genghis Khan both proud and forever shamed.
This means no pink-submarine-Teerie-supahspahs with AMAZING POWUH LIKE THE SPESHUL SNOWFLAKES THEY ARE *barf*, no glow-in-the-dark last-minute super-techs not found on the nation page or explained in length on the wiki/elsewhere on the forum just because 'waagh I started a nuclear war and don't into the consequences', no 'but that's badong and I won't let that happen to my char because SPESHUL SNOWFLAKE WITH A NAME' after they get captured and interrogated (all interrogations and captures of named characters will require a co-written post between capturer and capturee, makes it run smoother.), and most importantly, NO WHINING IF YOU HAPPEN TO LOSE ANYTHING.
Got it? Good.
IF you don't got it, GTFO!
~This message brought to you by the inside of the Aatuylva's demented and drama-hating brain.
It was a good day to be alive. Music was in the air, dancing filled the streets, and food was more than plentiful. Parades of makos, tiger-sharks, and crocodile women gallivanted down the streets wearing grass dresses, bright red dresses with long peacock styled feathers, or close to nothing at all. Floats followed between the dancing and laughing processions, more women and dancers atop them as they bellowed out local melodies, the elaborate and fantastically crafted floats glimmering emerald, ruby, and topaz in the warm embrace of the midday sun. Men and women crowded the sidewalks, drinking and laughing, dancing and embracing. The entire city was permeated with the mixed odours of mango, rum, and sex.

El Fiesta Ritani was in full swing, the populace lost in a display of carefree hedonism as they let their normal duties fall to the wayside and partied instead. The celebrations in this city, Faliva, the capital of Forraya, were perhaps the greatest and most potent example of the islanders’ holiday hedonism. Tourists from around the world were present, taking part in the events and most already in the arms of a shark girl, guy, or both as the good times rolled on. Even on the flat-roofed buildings people relaxed and drank, crocodiles sunning themselves as their lovers oiled them and cheering as one of the tiger-shark women below revealed to the crowd that she was, in fact, wearing no panties as she did an elaborate spin in her eye catching red dress.

It was a time of relaxation, to let the droll sterility of day to day affairs wash away in a wave of lethargy and visceral enjoyment as all became bright, flashy, and fun. Of course, even in the face of centuries of alterations and adjustments the day still held onto its traditional meaning. Down the main street of Faliva, passed the central park with its statues and wild bright flowers, the main parade float rolled. It was dressed to be a great galleon, large and clearly faux with false cannons sticking from its sides. This didn’t matter to the people; instead, they laughed and rejoiced, drinking an impromptu toast to the memory of that distant historical figure that made this day so damn enjoyable. The great white shark at the bow of the ship, dramatically dressed in an elaborate and boisterous pirate outfit with a hat that’s feather was a good three feet tall, waved to the crowds as a giggling mako girl in a revealing turquoise outfit clung to his side.

Then came a brief and shrill shriek, something utterly unnatural and alien, and the float exploded.

Instantly panic broke out, screams and shouts replacing cheers and laughter as shrapnel tore into flesh and brick, ripping through and shattering glass windows and wooden walls as flames poured out from the fake galleon, spilling into the streets as a great plume rose into the air even as smoke began to choke the ground and form a sickly black cloud. Men grabbed their wives or lovers, mothers their children, and friends clambered to one another. Shrieks of despair and groans of agony clouded the senses as the ichorous black smoke choked the lungs and stung the throat, making even those without wounds hack and cough. As the small groups and loners panicked, running from the devastation or towards those loved ones in the epicentre of it, they slipped and slid on the blood which ran in rivulets around and over the brick street.

And then the second wave began. The cries of panic and pleads for help were all but drowned out as that shrill scream from moments before, now embedded in the minds of everyone in the city, filled the sky a hundred times over. The sky, which only moments ago had been home to the friendly sun and his little white puffy friends, was now dominated by the angry streaks of white left behind by the flaming and screaming missiles that dove upon the city; each leaving its trail across the sky like a great talon that spilled forth the belly of the heavens. All at once those talons left the sky and touched the earth, explosions shattering ears and sending even those untouched by their flames and shrapnel reeling from the sheer volume of the detonations.

Of course, that wasn’t the end. There was a second wave. These were just as monstrously loud and dreadful, though they did not throw themselves at buildings. Instead they careened through the air in fluid motions, smaller missiles slipping from the side of one to collide with a technical and leave it a gutted and smouldering husk; the gunner left holding the stumps where his legs used to be and writhing on the pavement where he had been thrown by the detonation. Still, as they picked off the beginnings of resistance, the missiles continued onward with a seemingly intelligent intent. They flew lower and lower to the ground, aiming towards the mansion which overlooked the city. El Presidenta’s mansion.

Near moments before those fiery-plumed tubes of death collided with the earth a small puff tore from their tops, a figure jettisoning from each one as a small canopy flew off into the surrounding city or foliage against which the mansion sat. The missiles, Kalian natters, mostly impacted harmlessly with the surrounding gardens and pools. Mostly. One, sent off balance as the pilot and canopy forcefully parted ways with it, careened wildly into the side of the garage, ripping into the building before sending an explosion ripping inwards into the building and sending concrete, wood, and metal singing through the air.

In the air around the mansion the Shorn Ones began to drop low, deploying their parachutes and guiding themselves to clear landing areas as other natters covered them from fire of El Presidenta’s guards, missiles snagging small clusters and sending them sprinting for cover as more and more of the manned missiles collided with the gardens, trees, and statues that littered the place. It was only moments before the Shorn Ones landed, all except three inert forms shrugging off their parachute straps and rushing to the multitude entrances of this debased monument to decadence.

They advanced with a keen and eye watering brutality, large calibre rounds slamming into the walls and through windows as they covered the advance of their brethren. The snap and clang of battle rifles joined the tumult as they took up position farther away, picking off those foolish enough to poke their heads around corners or above windows. Grenades were flung through windows, shouts soon cut off as a spray of red and black splashed across the walls. It wasn’t long before the first Shorn One breached the sanctuary of the she-devil that called herself El Presidente, a small grimace of satisfaction upon the yellow and black face of the soldiers as his single long braid shook as he kicked down the door.

As the Shorn Ones stormed the mansion fire belched into the air from the city behind them, the Kalian invasion had begun. Many miles away dual beachheads were being fought over, hundreds of aircraft on a steady clip towards the city yet only the very first of their number quick moving specks on the horizon as they propelled their way towards the capital. Soon blood would mix with mud, bodies bloating bayous and bellies, and the land would forever be reshaped under the guidance of the glorious and only god, Tamolok.

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by Holmbergsvania-BFPE » Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:21 pm

MV Keynes
Holmbergsvanian Merchant Vessel
Kogoyo, Forraya

"Damn it Reyes, you had to talk to the Port Authority." Captain Martin Valentec scowled. The red fox looked down at his console. The Keynes was loaded with rum and exotic fruits from Forraya, stuff that the folks back at Holmbergsvania loved and adored.

"All hands, looks like we're spending another day in Forraya. If you're planning to go ashore, there's quite a massive festival going on. El Fiesta Rit-something. Do us a favor and don't get smashed while away, or get in trouble with the local folk." Valentec hit a button on the bridge that extended the gangway down to the pier.

"Damn it Reyes, can't you do ANYTHING right?" the fox thrust his clipboard into the human's hands.

"Deck to Bridge- Should look outside sir. This is kinda awesome" Valentec's security officer down on the deck called over the radio. "Parachutes and fireworks."

"Really? Parachutes and fireworks eh?" Valentec ventured outside. The old Captain had previously served with Holmbergsvania's Navy onboard the HNS Emperor- one of those jobs that made you proud to be a seaman in what had been billed as the world's best navy. He'd also served ashore, helping man an undermanned OP where criminal activity was sporadic. He'd even been shot at a few times. After about the fifth or so time of doing so, he hung up his dress blues in favor of joining the Merchant Marine instead.

The moment the fox's paws hit the Starboard Observation Deck, he snapped to attention. Black smoke. Fires. Parachutes falling from the sky... This wasn't a celebration.

This was an attack.

"Oh SHIT." Valentec ran inside. "All hands, all hands, secure the gangway, permission or not, we're getting the hell out of here." First instinct Valentec had was to reach for his nonexistent sidearm. Merchant vessel crewmen weren't allowed to be armed. The Holmbergsvanian Navy did a good job of clearing away pirates.

"Sir." The security officer who had been on the deck ran up to Captain Valentec. "I'm really starting to think these guys are pirates."

"Pirates don't attack settlements. No way, these can't be pirates- what pirates have their own aircraft? I'm used to pirates being those idiotic little bastards in pontoon boats, motorboats, and hell, even wooden sailing vessels. Those folks up there aren't pirates."

The ship's intercom screeched- "Engine room to bridge- Diesels warming- we can start the screws."

"Aye. Get some folks up there to cut the moorings. Knife them if you have to. Helmsman, ahead full. If we have to bring the entire damn pier with us all the way back to Port Penguin, I'll do it. You folks have two minutes. Cut the moorings. NOW"

Valentec shook his head. "Reyes. Take control. I'll be in my quarters." The human nodded and took Valentec's place at the intercom. "All crew, hurry up with those moorings!"

Valentec slammed the watertight door behind him, fastening it. The vulpine went over to his HAM Radio that he usually kept in his quarters as something to tinker with on long hauls. Now it would finally serve a useful purpose. He swung the dial to the Guard frequency.

"Calling anyone, I repeat. Calling anyone. This is the Merchant Vessel MV Keynes. We're evacuating the port at Kogoyo with all due speed. The city of Kogoyo is under attack by someone- something, I don't know. If you're in the port, Follow us. If you're planning to dock- change course and follow us out of the harbor."

Valentec reached down for his bible, opened it up, and began to pray. It brought him solace in this time of crisis. He prayed so that his crew could leave and go home safely, and prayed for others in the area to heed his warning and run for their lives.

The prayer and the message weren't being listened to by a deity. Rather an intrepid radio operator at a Holmbergsvania Intelligence Information Retrieval Center Operator onboard the HNS Humboldt further up the straits. This man in turn relayed the message to a ground station, where it was sent directly to the Mount Shezna compound of Holmbergsvania Intelligence. An analyst there copied down the contents of the message, and set it in the inbox of his superior. Maybe there the message would be further reviewed, and action would be taken.

One could hope, right?
Last edited by Holmbergsvania-BFPE on Sun Oct 30, 2011 11:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by Vipra » Sun Oct 30, 2011 11:30 pm

OOC: Mio, your post is pretty much entirely unreasonable. You are making broad, and very wrong, assumptions of what my soldiers in the city would be doing. Now, there aren't even any soldiers in the city yet for one thing (My soldiers that have landed, the Shorn Ones, are on the ground near El Presidenta's mansion, which is out of the way from the city), so either your people are tripping serious balls and killing eachother as they fight imaginary jaguars or you are RPing a separate and secondary attack force that is non-Kalian. For another, I never said my troops were slaughtering, butchering, or attacking civilians (mainly because they aren't in the city yet so I couldn't have given them any such orders yet) and even then, what would posses my officers to order an unaligned embassy to be assaulted and the staff killed? I have made it clear on the IRC that foreigners are being actively singled out and taken out of the fighting. Your post either needs to be deleted or go through a huge revision, as in its current state it is godmodding.

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by miokalia » Mon Oct 31, 2011 11:17 am

A short distance from the capitol city, an amber-eyed crocodile lived in a small bungalow on stilts in a marsh. He generally kept to himself and wasn't really particularly interested in the festivities scheduled that day.
Crowds of people weren't exactly his thing. Although his neighbors didn't mark him as antisocial, as he would go fishing with them from time to time and he kept buying them alcohol. His Spanish was uninflected and flat-sounding, so it was no secret that he was a foreigner. But what mattered was that Posole fished the same way they did. With his mouth.

Posole received two sets of orders. One was the set sent to him by his commanding officer instructing him to meet at a rendezvous point where he and a handful of other MRZF officers would be extracted from the embattled island. The other set was for the reason why he was actually stationed there, in a small, swamp-bound bungalow.
Originally, should the Lady Presidenta get out of hand or decide to do something that threatened certain interests, then his position was as a collector of intelligence, should it be something not entirely obvious to the Embassy.

However with the present situation, he received a different set of instructions.
"Lieutenant Posole, we are switching to extraction plan T. You will find your instructions in that envelope. See you soon, soldier.", was the simple message he received over teletext.

He grabbed some cans of tuna fish to put in his bag. With the current air activity it was not yet safe to bring a helicopter in, so chances are the extraction would involve him camping in the jungle until a lull or ceasefire occurred.

He opened envelope T and tuned the radio to the recommended frequency. Then read off the numbers.

After about 3 minutes of dead air, a response came over the air, "Extraction will happen at 0400, Travis."

Travis was the code word indicating he was now taking orders from a different command.

He started a fire in the wood burning stove of his bungalow and hesitantly tossed his MRZF uniform into it. Saluting it for a minute as it smoldered.

Inside envelope T was a black bandanna. He put that on and grabbed every small weapon he had on hand, then tossed the box of orders envelopes into the stove and let it burn for a while, poking it with a coal poker to ensure it broke apart and burned enough.

Then he departed for the rendezvous point, a delapidated warehouse further inland.


Secretary Pickford is a brown and white hamster, her office is considerably cleaner and more organized than those of the Secretary of the Interior, whom she shares the same building with.
She was reminded of this every single time she had to walk past Secretary Tycho's unkept office to go anywhere.

What she had was a handful of intelligence cables, and reports from two different bureaus which contradicted each other. As the secretary of foreign affairs, she didn't like having things belonging to two different agencies plopped on her desk while the two agencies do the bureaucratic equivalent of fighting over the front passenger seat of the family van. On one hand was Miokalia's oldest paramilitary intelligence and special operations bureau, dating back to the 1920's and formed during the Tyaniyu administration originally to protect (and originally also monitor) citizens abroad, the Reptilian Protection Agency (RPA). They wanted carte blanche to make decisions internally and formulate an operation independent of the Apparat of State or Executive discretion.
On the other hand was the Order of Astroiyka, long story about how they came about for somewhere else.
They answered directly to the Apparateur and were suggesting that with Tikult's move, it might be time to start making a move on Mina.

Pickford knew good and well why OOA would suggest moving on Mina.
Mina was a vexing situation. A country which The Tajirates had tried to culturally colonize unsuccessfully all through the 19th century. Finally culminating in a scornful Tajir Tyaniyu's active agit-prop campaign against the Empress, which resulted in a rancorous feud that lasted for 10 years. The only thing keeping it from escalating being the fact that the Empress and the Tajir both shared the same opinion of mammals. With the only difference being that Tyaniyu excluded any mammals that spoke his language from his prejudices and did not enact an apartheid system.
Prior to the escalation of their feud, there was a time when the two despots would have drawn up plans for an Axis, were it not for Tyaniyu's insistence on dominating it.
Tyaniyu wanted an Empire and saw Mina as the jewel in the crown of the Kohtohkhan Empire of his imagination. In much the same way as the British held on to India. Why Mina?
Because they're lizards.

Naturally this had resulted in Mina having a very complex and strange relationship with Miokalia which consisted of a combination of disdain for "Those other lizards" and their history of thinly-veiled attempts to change them, and their altercation with their Empress (arguably, it was mostly their altercation with the Empress which causes the disdain), and a weird infatuation driven entirely by species identity which only serves to round out the rough points enough to put them in the realm of "tense" instead of "absolutely despises" in terms of relations.

Thus, Pickford assumed that OOA, which was ideologically tied to the Apparateur, who previous to their position, had actually been in a combat scenario involving slave traffickers and purportedly shot them right in the face, was probably chomping at the bit to take advantage of the disruption caused by the activity in Forraya to begin an operation to overthrow Mina, with the end goal of paving the way to an eventual, ideally multilateral invasion of the Prize.

Pickford was familiar with the dogma of the Apparateur's political alignment:
There were pieces to this East Equatorial tableau which, it was believed (mostly by war hawks), that if all the nations could be turned the right way, it would be possible to bring down the regime in Salnai and with it, what is believed to be the largest international slave trafficking economy in the world.

Pickford was also familiar with the Malych tendency to fixate on an injustice and then indignantly try to bash it to death, regardless of how it effects anyone else.
There wasn't sufficient enough conclusive evidence that Salnai was the key to the slave trade economy. There were reports and cables which indicated it's likelihood, but the Salnese run tight ships and rarely does anyone get a glimpse inside the country.
Forraya, on the other hand, was an open book. The Presidenta turned a blind eye to black market activity and probably couldn't amass the bureaucratic aplomb to do anything to stop it. And since The Tajirates were paying for some of her public works, and Miokalian corporations had built a handful of attractive resorts, as well as buying her a brand new car every 3 months, it was probably fairly obvious that there were spooks recording everything they could get their claws on.

Pickford dropped the box on Sd. Andertol's desk. She didn't want to deal with this intelligence spat, so she was appealing to someone up the chain of command, and Andy was the next one up.

"Why does everyone do this to me", he asked.
This seemed to be how everyone brought something to his attention.

"Because if I don't either drop it on your desk right in front of you, or throw it at you, then you don't seem to care.", she said, "Your foreign-crap bureaus are fighting over a situation. Would you get the directors of them in here and give them a time-out or spank them. I don't care."

"Spank them?", Andy asked while opening the box, then he said, "This is a conflict of interest. I'm not a neutral party. You know who I'm going to stand behind here."

"Tajir Vuela wasn't available", Pickford said.

"Kimi, I have four eyes, my brain is in my chest, I'm covered in metal and I bleed oil. You know I'm going to tell the RPA to go to hell and give OOA carte blanche to start catapulting bundles of agit-propaganda and broadcasting punk rock into Mina while ignoring the deposition of The Good Lady Presidenta. I'm going to agree with the Apparateur's desire to try to turn the region against Salnai, and the first step is the disruption of the Slave Trade through Forraya. Which Tikult appears to have spear-headed."

"ALLEGED slave trade", Kimi corrected, "But you're not going to at all consider the RPA's recommendations? Just because of species?"

"Uh. Yeah?", Andy said, "Because the RPA is just going to be all like "Oh no! Think of our fellow toothy-people! We have to prop up the ethically-impotent, laissez-faire regime by creating an insurgency armed with boomsticks and gree-nades.".
I'm looking at the big picture here, Kimi. That whole area, not just Forraya, but everyone will be better off when that slave trade, and the radical social conservatism which accommodates it, comes crashing the fuck down.
That's why we should take this opportunity to commence step 2: Overthrowing Mina.
Everyone around there hates the Dynasty and their regime. If we make a move on Mina, then we'll be rallying Yuna and Bulzia, who also hate Salnai and the Equatorial Slave Trade.
Guess who else is opposed to the Slave Trade?
I think, there is something to be had in an opportunity to actually forge an understanding with them though a common goal. I think if we do this, it puts us in a stronger position to negotiate de-escalation between them and Aatuylva. And that makes the world a much happier place now doesn't it?"

"Your head's in the clouds", Kimi said, "You're making a lot of assumptions about the way things will go and all this is based on a somewhat inherently limited scope of intelligence.
If you're just going to beat me over the head with Malych indignant justice ideology then I'm going to take this box back and have the Executive Guard go find Vuela and tell her it's an emergency and have them drag her back here away from her meeting with some tiger chick with a dreamy British accent."

"Oh yes. Ms. Vuela Konig and her flings", said Andy.

Kimi grabbed the box and said, "I'll tell her you ordered me to call her in. You clanky, species-traitor, motherless bastard son of a bitch."

As she walked out Andy called out in response,
"Hey HEY! You can't use racial slurs like 'clanky' in here! It's not Thursday.", she was already down the hall, but he finished, "Racial slurs are only allowed on Racist Thursday.

Mooning Monday, Sexist Tuesday, No-Pants Wednesday, Racist Thursday and Casual Friday.
That's how it's supposed to go.
My office rules are simple.

Why am I talking to myself?"

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by Holmbergsvania-BFPE » Sat Nov 05, 2011 12:13 am

Holmbergsvania Capitol Building
New Vancouver, Holmbergsvania

Alaric chugged his coffee. He had been woken up from his nap for a major crisis, his secretary told him. The vacation with him and Sitka had to be cut short. He'd left the malamute in good hands- er- paws.

"Prince Alaric, good to have you here." The new human Holmbergsvania Intelligence Director: Ryan Longren, smiled. It was his first time seeing the prince in a crisis setting, he'd been introduced to Alaric during his conformation as the new Director earlier on.

"Alright, can you give me a SITREP? I need to get myself another cup of coffee." Alaric began walking toward a coffee machine in an alcove.

"Yes sir. According to what our analysts were able to decipher, the merchant vessel MV Keynes was sitting in a Forrayan port when the city came under attack."

"Did they fire on the merchant vessel?" Alaric pressed a button as a hot, delicious latte began to flow into cup.

"No sir. Not that we know of. What happened though was that they're trying their hardest to escape. We got the message that they also are trying to help other ships escape."

"Someone get that man's phone number" Alaric chuckled.

"He's a vulpine, sir"

"Fine. Get me the fox's number when he gets into range to use his cell- if he has one."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Give me the radio frequency he's on." Alaric took the cup and began to sip from it. "Damn, bitter brew"

"Indeed- come- sir, they're meeting in the South Paw room."

"South Paw?" Alaric chuckled, walking with Ryan down the hallway. "Where do you come up with these names?"

"Not my fault, was the fault of whoever designed this place." The two humans stopped in front of the steel doors that were guarded by a wolf dressed in National Guard garb.

"Proceed sirs." He saluted, loosening the grip on his M8 Compact, the wolf hit a button and the doors slid open.

Holmbergsvanian Capitol
The South Paw Crisis Room
New Vancouver, Holmbergsvania

"This is absurd! Absolutely absurd!" The male crocodile dressed in Forrayan diplomatic garb roared in anger. "You're a major power, I'm not. I'm being invaded by one, you must do something!"

"Ambassador Adnoartina , we have no choice in this matter." Minister of Defense Aiden Schofield growled, the Arctic Wolf relaxing in his chair.

"Prince Alaric Holmberg, Ambassador Ioane Adnoartina" Schofield looked at the newcomers to the room. "Anyway, we can't do anything to help."

"Bullshit." Adnoartina slammed a fist onto the wooden table. "Is this because we're not important enough? Because we only export alcohol and fruit?"

"It isn't sir, it's a lot more complicated than that." Foreign Affairs Minister Alexander Reagan replied, the Snow Leopard waving his tail slightly. "You see, Tikult'Kal is a lot more difficult to deal with than a simple rebel group."

"I'm aware of that, no rebel organization can fell our government!" Adnoartina threw his hands up.

"So what's going on?" Alaric cut in, sitting next to Foreign Affairs Minister Reagan, lightly petting his tail.

"I've been trying to obtain your government's support in the matter of dealing with the invasion of my homeland. But no one seems to want to deal with this problem!"

"Ambassador Adnoartina, I need you to understand our position in this matter."

"As what? The colonial power that doesn't want to get its paws dirty? Not wanting to stop what could be seen as ethnic cleansing?"

"Hold on, ambassador." Alaric sat forward, that comment directed at him. "Sir, with all due respect, if this was anyone else but Tikult'Kal, we'd gladly help you out."

"Why all this fuss about Tikult'Kal?" the Ambassador growled deeper. "I don't understand the difference between them and Aatuylva and all these other nations!"

"They've got SCUD missiles pointed at our country, dumbass!" Schofield stood up and growled. Alaric put his hand on the wolf's shoulder. "Not only that, if you've seen the pictures we've seen- they're carrying out mock invasions of Holmbergsvania along their coastline! If we go in, even in your own country, it's an act of war!"

"Easy there." Alaric looked the lupine in the eyes

"I'll be outside." Schofield picked up his briefcase and waited for the door to slide open, when it did, he stepped outside. The room became a four-sided discussion between Ambassador Adnoartina, Alaric, Minister Reagan, and Director Longren.

"That was rude, undiplomatic of him" Ambassador Adnoartina scowled.

"Look. We're under a lot of pressure." Alaric looked the crocodile in the eyes. "One false move and the first thing every child in Port Penguin is getting for Christmas is a Geiger counter."

"I understand."

"Good. Now we can get down to business on finding a solution that doesn't involve needless loss of Holmbergsvanian lives." Alaric looked over at the door. "Schofield's a bit too out-of-it to plan something out right now."

"If I may ask, Ambassador, what's the current situation in your country?" Director Longren asked.

"The last wire we got from our head office was that El Presidenta was gone- Kalian airborne soldiers have effectively taken over the capital, and our military is in disarray."

"But you still have a military?"

"Not for long"

"Any chance your people would be willing to participate in an armed resistance?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Then we can work something out." Longren looked around the room. "This room has been checked for bugs, yes?"

"Yes." Alaric nodded.

"Good. Mr. Ambassador- we can send advisors, not Holmbergsvanian soldiers, but Holmbergsvania Intelligence trainers to Forraya. We will however not be willing to face the Kalians head on. That will be the responsibility of any resistance members we can train and equip."

"Hold on a second." Reagan raised a paw. "We are NOT giving them Holmbergsvanian weaponry. The moment a Kalian hoo-hah finds an M8 rifle with the name of a Holmbergsvanian arms manufacturer on it, any plausible deniability goes out the window."

"Which is why I'm thinking we can get weapons from somewhere else."

"Where else?"

"Black market, Foreign Minister Reagan." Longren chuckled. The ambassador smiled, something was finally being done.

"Also- we'll see if we can get some U-2 flyovers of the area. We assume your government wouldn't mind if we shared the pictures and intel with your remaining soldiers and quite possibly future resistance operatives?"

"Your spy aircraft don't violate our sovereignty." The ambassador chuckled. "I agree, but I must confer with the government-in-exile first." The crocodile stood up. "In order to do that, I think we should draw this meeting to a close."

"Good meeting you, Ambassador." Alaric extended his hand.

"Good meeting you too, Prince. Here's to a hopefully positive result from this." The door slid open, and the croc shook Alaric's extended hand. "Good day."

"Good day!" The door began shutting as the reptile wandered down the hall. Alaric turned over to Longren and Reagan.

"I want U2's airborne over Forraya, regardless of what that government-in-exile says." Alaric commanded. "What's the soonest we can get an advisory team out there?"

"There's a team on the HNS Humpback- fast attack submarine. They're sleeping on the floors since there aren't any additional beds."

"Good. I want that team on the island as soon as we can get them there. Every second we're talking, the Kalians are a step closer to dominating Forraya. Reagan- get your fluffy rump up out of your chair and tell Schofield that I request the HNS Humpback FAS to be deployed to the Forrayan area."

"Yes sir."

"Longren, can we get a U2 airborne?"

"We've got the 105th Recon squadron out of Rainier Wolfesberg AFB- four planes. We can fly one out every six hours."

"Do it. I want one airborne now."

"Will do."

Rainier Wolfesberg Air Force Base
Port Penguin, Holmbergsvania

Two minutes after the meeting in The South Paw was ended, an order was quickly typed up and sent to the 105th Reconnaissance Squadron's headquarters. Royal order- they needed a plane in the air ASAP. One pilot answered the call, finishing up a snack and suiting up. Within five minutes, his plane was prepared, and sitting on the flight line with the camera already being fitted. In five more minutes, the U2 was in a queue with a cargo 747 headed to Salnai.

Two minutes after the plane departed, the U-2 was given clearance to take off. A minute afterward, the plane began its ascent to its operational altitude of 60,000 feet.

Operation Observant Sparrow was now underway.
Last edited by Holmbergsvania-BFPE on Mon Nov 21, 2011 1:25 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by The_ASE » Sat Nov 05, 2011 6:10 am

NGS Annhilator, NGNDF First Fleet
The New Gracarian 1st Fleet, on cruise around the continent to make sure all of the ships - most of which being fresh out of drydock - are working properly, was just finishing up the more dangerous leg of the passage through the Forr Strait. That being the trip past Tikult'Kal and toward the waterway between Salnai's island and Forraya. Due to the inherent danger, the fleet was on alert for any attackers.

Rear Admiral Cutrona, commander of the 1st Fleet and, still, captain of the Annihilator, walked down the port side deck, inspecting his smaller guns. On either side of his ship are 6, 5" guns. And by inspecting, he's just walking and looking like he's paying attention. Really he's just wanting to make sure that the fleet gets through this without a hitch, such as the Harbinger's sinking not too long ago as the fleet passed Miokalia. It of course was an accident, though there are plenty of conspiracy theorists that believe it was a Miokalian submarine that sank it.

Behind the Annihilator was New Gracaria's first Earth-built carrier; the Trotia. Due to heightened alert, the carrier has put up a one hundred mile radius CAP, centered on the carrier, to keep the fleet safe. It's been up since passing by Tikult'Kal, though the radius has gotten smaller when passing through other nation's waters. The guns on the ships are the only thing left untested, and the captains of the ships don't really want to be forced to test them on an enemy, preferring practice targets for the moment.

Running up the deck, an ensign finally caught up with Cutrona. Catching his breath, he said, "Sir... sir, I have something... something that will interest you."

"What is it ensign?" Cutrona said while lighting a cigar.

"The Trotia is withdrawing it's CAP. According to them, something is going on at Forraya. Something big. We know nothing else."

"Keep the fleet going on course. 'Big', in my experience, can be anything anymore. I've learned to ignore it unless it's something genuinely important. But, just to be safe, inform the Chancellor and see if he can get more information from people around here."

"Yes sir." With a salute, the ensign ran off toward the bridge.

Xaimoungkhoun Castle, Chancellor's Office
Soldavini was doing what IX always did while he worked. That being, taking a midday nap since nothing of interest is ever going on on this planet. Meanwhile, through a door linking the two offices, IX is managing the Empire. Soldavini tries not to bother him, but the office link makes for practical jokes. IX has also been slightly more annoyed with Soldavini, since Soldavini got IX's 'trash' office. When he moved in, it was full of papers and blueprints strewn about. It was organized chaos, but Soldavini cleaned it up and sorted it - he even found the unsigned NEDC charter in there and kept that in case he ever chooses to sign it and try to join. Now IX doesn't know where anything is and it amuses Soldavini.

The door to Soldavini's office opened and his aide walked in, waking Soldavini up. "Sir, Rear Admiral Cutrona wanted to know if anything was going on around Forraya. He says his planes saw something, but he got no more information than that."

"And that lack of information is going to cause me problems trying to figure out what that thing is." Soldavini said, not looking up. "I'll try to contact the only friendly people around there and see what's going on."

"Understood sir."

Once the aide walked out, a more annoying person walked in. From the door to Soldavini's right, IX entered the office. "What was that about?"

"Nothing Isaiah. I'll handle it."

"A war going on or something?"

"I said I would handle it."

"I know I want to fight some-"


IX closed the door and went back into his office, leaving Soldavini to contact the only person that has the range to know what might be going on, if anything, and is actually friendly. While Soldavini doesn't much like them, it's the only option currently. Holmbergsvania.

Soldavini spun his chair slightly, helping to take his legs off the desk, and then rolled forward to his desk. Pressing a button under said desk, the top opened up and his computer came up, the screen flipping up to show the screen. Once it booted up, which took a while since Soldavini changed over to Windows Vista so he can be compatible with Earth computers, he prepared to send an e-mail to Alaric. Despite him being an Anean prince, Soldavini still doesn't have much respect for him.
From: Chancellor Vincenzo Soldavini
To: Prince Alaric Holmberg

I hate to be contacting you, but I seem to be out of options. The Rear Admiral of one of my fleets informed me that something might be going on at Forraya, but had no more information than that. Since you're about the only friendly nation in that part of the world that actually has that kind of range, I wanted to know if there is actually anything going on. I expect nothing at all, and the Rear Admiral is just being paranoid, but it's a slow day today and I need something to do.

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by Aatuylva » Mon Nov 07, 2011 7:21 pm

"Hiyo and hello, welcome to Darkfur's Damnation Hour, Tropical Edition! I'm bringing in the radio waves from the lovely island of Forraya this morning, and what a wonderful morning it is! El Fiesta Rinati, for those uncultured bastards among you, is a celebration of a long-ago Aatuylvan sailor who helped them overthrow the Spanish from long ago, and boy is it a party! Who're the spanish? Fuck if I know, I can't tell which part of the map is Europe and which is Asia anymore, so who cares! We've got women, wine, rum, oh gods the rum, and more than enough music to deaden the ears to everything else! Now now, I know you're expecting me to say something horrid or mention the horrible rumors of what gets transported to and from here, but, you know what? I don't care! I've got six barrels of spiced rum and two of the loveliest denticle-covered ladies this side of the equator! As for you prudes back in Accallia, don't turn that dial, because you know Forraya buys more weapons from you death-dealing assholes than anyone else. You should really be ashamed of yourselves, what wi-the hell? They didn't say anything about fireworks, wh-Dear Sifus. Oh god. Oh god someone's firing rockets at the port city. Everyth-"

A gloved hand turned off the tape recorder as the lights were dialed back up.
The hand belonged to Yiri Shukhln, Kuunmiro in charge of Ryvuul's defense, and Chief of Naval Operations. His grey fur bristled and his tail twitched as his eyes scanned the room. Stidham had been given sick leave not six days prior when his...condition, acted up again. There were many in this room who thought he was on his deathbed, and at least one who wished for his guidance.

He's a pompous asshole but at least he knows what he's doing.

Yiri looked out across the room, at the most powerful military men and women in Aatuylva.
Each of the militia commandants from the city-states, the Aluezi liason, and every other Kuunmiro were seated around the table, along with several Centurions from the special divisions. The location of the room was known only to these people and the War Minister, and was hidden underground, with an extensive subway network connecting it to every major city-state in the country.
The overhead lights flickered as a the low frequency rumblings of an artillery test rolled over the complex.
The fox let out a long sigh before speaking.

"This transmission was received at 10:30 A.M., Accallian standard time. Six minutes afterwards, a transmission from a Holmbergsvanian merchant vessel was also reported. You can thank our friends in Holmbergsvanian Intelligence for that. InShtu states that there is a very distinct possibility of this being a Kalian incursion. This throws all normal responses out the window, ladies and gentlemen, so we've got to think of something, and quick. Holmbergsvanian flyovers aren't in range yet, and it's highly likely that anything we do send will take so long that the nation will already be within Kalian control. All attempts to contact the Presidenta have failed, so we must assume that she is either dead, missing, or attempting to martial a counter-attack outside of the capital. For our purposes we are going to assume that she is the former. Assets capable of reaching the area are currently holed up in Vampbrook and Port Kyaros in southern Izumo, and the only ones that can make it past a possible Kalian incursion are going to be our submarines. The only ones with the range are our supply submarines, the Broodmother class. We have, maybe, two in the area, capable of supplying four Zeehunds in patrol, or bringing two Zeehunds each with them for the trip to Forraya. We don't have to worry about our weapons tipping anyone off, since we, along with the Kalians and the Russians, have been selling weapons nonstop due to ridiculous surpluses. To help keep you all from exploding under pressure, I've already ordered these submarines to divert as much space as they can to storing small arms, ammunition, and rocket launchers. The problem I have come to discuss with you is what we do ne-."

The eastern door swung open on it's hinges, and harsh coughing interrupted the Ryvuuli.
Stidham was looking fairly healthy for a dying man.
His face was the color of the dead, save his eyes, which were bright and blue as ever. His clothes, which looked altogether regal and too small for him, were overlooked for the large metal braces encasing each of his legs, and one of his arms. His sword-cane, while exquisite, only added to the image as he leaned heavily on it, his body wracking with coughs and liquid rumbles.

"It will take me a while to think of what to do next, but I can tell you what to do first. I just got off the phone with a rather ditzy secretary in Tikult'Kal, belonging to the office of one Zapaya Mayazotlo. Tell your submariners to give a bit of advice to the Forrayans: High explosives are favorable to needlers, willy-pete or flamethrowers if they have them. The woman kills casualties that can't be fixed on the spot and sent back into battle within a couple of hours. Shoot to kill, ladies and gentlemen. Tell them that."


During the Kalian landfall
El Presidenta's Manor
Faliva, Forraya

El Presidenta Caraca Minguila's mouth stretched wide, tongue lolling briefly out across pearly white teeth as that most lackadaisical of yawns was expelled from her lungs. Her arm flailed about in odd directions as her half-sleeping form searched for the source of the sound that had waken her. She grimaced as the warm spots that had been her companions were gone, empty, and promptly got out of bed in as most an economic and efficient way possible.
By falling out of it.
After much cursing of the unsteadiness of the floor, she dragged herself up onto her feet, her thick tail swaying behind her.
She really shouldn't have celebrated El Fiesta Rinati early, her head felt like it was being hit by an artillery barrage.

Coffee. I need coffee. And rum. Coffee-flavored rum, that's it.

She shrugged into her bathrobe and walked into the small mini-kitchen built next to her bedroom on the third floor, and began pouring herself a cup of coffee into her favorite "#1 Dictator" mug. She vaguely wondered where everyone was, and why her hangover seemed worse than usual, but blinked it away, walking into the hallway and drinking from her mug.
She stopped for a moment, admiring her portrait on the wall. It was done by an Accallian painter, while she was still in her rebel 'uniform'. She still wore the red beret, although it was with her clothes at the moment.
Caraca grinned.
The stripes looked so dark in the painting, and that was before the tattoos. It certainly helped that her people aged very well compared to mammals, too. She absentmindedly rubbed the tip of her snout and ran it up to her ears, and down again, feeling the smoothness of it, flowing in the direction water would flow...and the roughness the other way.
Her once green eyes had long-since turned into a steely gray, although she could correct it with lenses if she wanted to.

It's really hard to swim with those though, I'd have to buy goggles or something silly like th-

Her thought was interrupted by a loud crash, and the feeling of hot coffee all over her front. Her ears were ringing as she stared at the remains of her mug. The bottom appeared to have vaporized. She stared at it, befuddled for a moment, as her head swung around, searching for that thing that broke her favorite mug.
Her eyes focused on the short form coming up the stairs.
A feline thing, with spots, holding a gun.
How odd.



Her hangover and drowsiness disappeared in a flash with that single realization, as all of the sounds, the unsteadiness, and every other nagging thought in the back of her mind came to the forefront in a single second.
In a single, fluid motion, the remains of her mug were thrown at the intruder. She did not wait to see if it connected, running back to her bedroom as the man grunted, slamming his clawed hands into his rifle to clear the jam as blood streamed down his face from the gash on his forehead. Bullets sang past Caraca, slamming into the floor and the bronze busts of her smiling form.
She now heard the explosions of rocket hits, shaking the foundation of the manor, and saw her 'favorites' huddled into a corner. She heard gunbattles and scattered shots ringing out as someone was assaulting the barracks next to her manor.

And they're just as drug-addled as I am.

A single, half-dressed guard, a crocodile, stumbled into her way as she bolted through. A quick push sent him into the hallway. She ignored the cursing from the guard and the invader, tearing her covers off of her bed and pushing the mattress to the side, yanking out a large chest from underneath containing several prized possessions.
A swift kick and the lock was busted away, the lid thrown open. Her hands dove in, throwing clothes, jewelry, and trinkets aside as she pulled out a large, two-barreled Aatuylvan 'howdah' pistol, custom made. It's ivory handles and intricate bronze etchings went unappreciated as she quickly shoved two large, .65 caliber shells into it and turned, firing both barrels through the door while screaming.

"Poshel na khui, suka, blyad!"

The large rounds punched through the mahogany like so much tissue paper, and passed through the crocodile wrestling with the braided jaguar, and while the kick of the pistol sent one round high, the second, much lower, was finally stopped by the invader's head.

"Engkori! Jeto pizdec! Joder! This is fucking bullshit! Me cago en todo lo que se menea! When I find the bastard responsible for this I'm going to feed his balls to a barracuda while they're still attached! Mierda! Hijo de puta! Everyone up and out grab everything and head to the chute we're getting the fuck out of here! Pizda!"

Someone had found her beret for her, and pulled it onto her head as she reloaded the pistol and shoved it into a holster, throwing it over her shoulder as she yanked weapons off of the walls and threw everything she (and her group of courtiers) could carry into trunks and cases. Gold-plated Kalishnikovs, rocket launchers, uniforms, plush dolls, ribbons, all were thrown into a large opening. It was like a laundry chute, but big enough for quite a few people. The El Presidenta continued cursing all the way down, staggering a bit as she arrived on top of a few ringtails and vulpines who were loading all of her things into three BMP-2s.

"Dammit move faster faster! They'll find the garage soon enough everyone MOVE!"

Mechanics, oshienki, and guards were shoved into the vehicles as the sounds of gunfire traveled down into the underground motorcade.

Sounds like the guards are finally up.

A large explosion shattered her thoughts as the ceiling, and a few floors above it, collapsed, the entire southern section of the motorcade. A fourth BMP and a T-26 were covered in the rubble, along with a 1932 Mercedes-Benz 770.
The one that nice financial adviser she appointed six years ago found for her.
Probably smashed, covered in concrete and supports.
It's gold Presidenta figurehead smashed.

She did not really feel anything as she was thrown into the lead BMP, the hatch closing as the three surviving vehicles made their way out of the motorcade, the ramp leading to doors set into a hill several hundred yards away from the main compound, outside of the walls. Her nation had fallen, so quickly, and she was now forced to run, hide, in the swamps.

Fickle fate has struck me down, but I will strike her back.
An armed society is a polite society. Manners are good when one may have to back up his acts with his life.—Robert A. Heinlein

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by Vipra » Tue Nov 08, 2011 7:57 pm

Kogoyo, Forraya

Before the fighting had started the freighters had been in port a fair while, unloading containers to the shore. Then once the signal of impacting missiles had come, they unloaded their cargo in a stream. The 13th Amphibious Shorn Ones had taken to the streets and air in near an instant, infantry and fighting vehicles storming from the containers as Seahawk and attack helicopters took to the air. The scream, flash, and rumble of incoming missiles were accented by the whir of rotors and grind of treads as the soldiers poured into the city. Over the water the Seahawks screamed out after vessels.

As the doors burst open on his container, his fellow Shorn Ones thronging out, Ur’aktlo, or just Ur, couldn’t say he was nervous. This wasn’t his first assault, the border conflicts with Mina had blossomed into brief coastal raids in the past and he already has his fair share of gutting lizards. It was because of this though that he religiously checked his equipment. He felt the sharp edges of the carbon-steel maquahuitl cinched to his belt and the pistol lower down on his thigh with soft furred hands before jumping down from the stacked container to roll with his battle-rifle in hand. For a brief moment, as his fellows rushed around him, the light made him blink and tilt his head before joining the charge.

The Shorn Ones around Ur were shorter than him by a margin of one foot to one and a half, the tall ai’lupan standing out from among his jaguar fellows. They ducked and weaved around other containers, out of some of which burst forth more soldiers. Ur lashed out with a few choice words as one rolled into his flank as he ducked passed a container, shooting the Shorn One a glare before bounding off as only digitigrades legs could allow. He surged through the fellow soldiers of the regiment as yet more missiles impacted into the city, the concussive waves making him cringe as his ears went flat. It seemed for all too long they were storming up from the docks themselves, simply running and charging as the mechanized component of their regiment blared ahead as their diesel engines grinded and groaned. Then all at once he was out of those infernal gray docks and met with colour.

“By Ta, who poured cans of paint over this place?” Ur’s voice was light, with a quick and jester-like lilt, and met similar grunts from his fellows as they broke into the more colourful part of the city. Flowers violet, scarlet, and daisy worked with bright green palm fronds and rainbow houses to make the eyes water. The glow of the midday sun made it worse, glancing off of leafs and freshly painted houses. Thankfully the rising soot from the missile impacts and their trails provided some reprieve from the cheeriness. The gunfire from a balcony was also distracting from the scenery.

He, like the others, simply charged faster as the fifty cals on the fighting vehicles belted into the buildings. Two of his fellows shouted out as the zinging rounds struck them to close to home, tearing chunks of flesh and fur from their bodies and sending them reeling or to the ground. Ur simply continued moving on, kicking in the door of a souvenir shop and charging in. Beads, crimson fabric, and a poster of a sensually reclining mako were all shredded as the roar of a shotgun tore out the moment the door had been flung open. Pain seared through Ur’s chest and brow, and he saw everything in red. Suddenly he far preferred the bright and cheerful colours from a second before.

As he stumbled forward, pellets embedded in his flak vest and two in his brow, only alive thanks to all the crap that had been between him and the angry female tigershark holding the sawnoff, Ur threw himself over the counter which the sharkwoman had quickly ducked behind. Fur scratched roughly across denticles as Ur tackled the woman from behind, coming down from above and behind her. Clumps of black fur was caught in the snap of jaws and in frenzied clawing as they struggled, Ur snapping the sawnoff from her hands and throwing it aside just as she managed to flick the firing clip back into position, a shot going wild as it scattered birdshot across numerous posters and t-shirts. In the moment of the gun going off the sharkwoman flinched and Ur had his opening, slamming a fist into the meat under her jaw. As she reeled back he snapped several more quick punches across her body, punching straight fingers into her armpits and with a quick twist popping her shoulder out and dislocating it. She screamed, but as blood dribbled down from his muzzle and the many gashes on his arms Ur was less than sympathetic.

He rose, a light grunt escaping his lips, “Sorry babe,” He eyed her writhing form, a tinge of sadness niggling at him as she shot out Spanish curses in fully automatic, “Under other circumstance I think we would have gotten along real well,” He laughed and coughed as he stumbled away, catching his breath, “Oh Ta, my ribs.” Ur clutched his ribs, leaning against the counter, and took several deep breathes until the pain began to subside just that little bit. Then he continued on to what had been his initial objective in coming into this little pawnshop in the first place.

The ai’lupan Shorn One picked his battle-rifle up from the ground from where it had gotten loose from his grip and began stalking towards the stairs, shoving aside clothes stands and sending loosened dust flying as he made his way. Along the way he, like all proper soldiers, had all his functioning senses going over every small detail that could hide a combatant. That was why he noticed the knock-off Jungle Jack hat on one of the racks. As he passed it tweaked something inside him, something primal and childish, something he could not deny. With a cocky smile he grabbed the hat as he passed and put it on, his long single braid hanging out and over the left side of his head under the hat as he began to ascend the stairs.

Behind him he could hear his fellows rushing in, having caught up to his blitzing, and they surged behind him in a fireteam of ten. However as they cleared the ground floor, distinctly hearing one give quite the shout about evil shark she-devils and something about his toes, he continued onwards in the upper floor. He was disappointed. The windows had already been blown out, probably from infantry passing below, and two shark men lay groaning along with a crocodile lass that was in the corner with her eyes closed cooing to herself something in their native tongue. The temptation to tuck his braid under his hat and play the hero passed through the ai’lupan’s pheromone and blood addled mind for a brief second, but another Shorn One, an impatient little bastard had already leapt up the stairs by the time he had thought up a really good line.

“Aw well, I’ll think up something good next time...”

The little jaguar Shorn One glanced at him, seemingly stopping mid-step, “Sergeant?”

“What?” Ur was brought back from his brief mental image involving a tank converted into a hot-tub and a grateful set of squid-girl octuplets,” Oh, yeah carry on and restrain ‘em as command ordered,” He stalked towards the edge of the floor, towards the broken and shattered walls that were crumbling as he stepped forward, the reverberating footsteps of the rest of the fireteam shaking the bullet-riddled wood free as they clambered into the upper floor, “The rest of you advance with me, we are going on the roof to provide covering fire for the advance.”

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder before shooting them a brief smile he half leapt from the window, flipping around to catch the edge of the roof with his sore hands. He dragged himself up, feeling splinters and glass get caught in his fur as he did so, and the others followed behind him without issue. He got to his feet and near immediately threw himself to a prone position.

“These tigersharks really need to learn better aim,” a round zinged passed his ear, making his crimson eye twitch, “but not much.”

He sighted down his rifle’s scope as further rounds slapped into the tin, wood, and brick around him and the rest of the fireteam. In his crosshairs he could make out a distant shark, using his own battle-rifle, a Kalian one at that. Ur placed his finger on the trigger and gently breathed out. With a gentle pull he released the bullet. Then, before he could even see what was happening, a loud squeal and roar passed overhead forcing him to cover his ears. In front of him the building he had been targeting was sundered, wood and concrete exploding down onto the street below and slamming into a parade float, “That killstealing bastard!” his squadmates snickered as they began selecting targets and firing their own shots.

The parade float that had been struck by the debris began moving though, fire licking into the air from it like an infernal crown. It began rolling down the main street, towards the advancing infantry, picking up speed and momentum. Only Ur seemed to notice this at first, “Oh, oh shit,” his subordinates noticed too, and panicked radio contact began belting out from some of them as the forces in the street began to hastily take cover. That wouldn’t be enough though, there were too many of them and the vehicle, while piddly, could start a fire on the dock. Taking stock of the situation, Ur gauged its speed, number of wheels, and the long ropes hanging from the masts of the boat-shaped float. A plan was created in that moment, one that was probably insane, suicidal, and stupid. But it was a plan none the less.

Ur took off on a sprint, leaving his rifle behind as he leapt from the roof of the souvenir shop to the house next door and keeping going without skipping a beat as his comrades shouted at him with confusion and frustration. He continued on heedless of them, his legs aching more and more as they withstood the pound of leaping down from roofs, clawing up walls, and scrambling for grip against tin and wood. Likewise splinters and shards cut into his hands, a trail of red left wherever he stumbled and had to grip for support. Bullets flung around him, one piercing through the hat on his head and another tearing a chunk of fur from his tail. Yet soon the float was within range.

He leapt, landing upon the busty mermaid figurehead, and scrambled to his feet. Not a moment too soon Ur ran into the crackling and burning deck of the faux vessel, a rifle round snapping into the figurehead and taking off one of its breasts; that had been where Ur had clung. The smoke choked his lungs though and stung at his already sore eyes. Flames licked out, setting his hair aflame and making his footpads crack and bleed. Yet he grabbed one of the longest lines he could, never stopping running, and built up as much momentum as he could before reaching the end of the deck, leaping onto the back rail, and then jumping towards the first window that came into view.

With a crash of glass and tumble he rolled into a private Jacuzzi. One that had occupants. Instantly his hair hissed and was put out, a hat gently plopping atop the water as five mako women screamed and huddled in the far corner of the tub. Without time to spare he rose from the water, his head feeling somehow lighter, and tied the thick rope to one several handles and racks within the place as he splashed water everywhere. As he was tying the last knot though, a loud pin and crack shocked his ears as the rope came taught. Praying to Kjolan, Tamolok, and just about every deity he knew Ur threw himself back into the tub and dragged the squealing girls under the water just as the rope began to snap about.

Then the snarl and whip of the rope silenced and Ur rose above the water, cautiously peering at the taut rope as it stretched from a sturdy door handle to out the window. Breathing a sigh of relief Ur ran a hand through his hair and-

And his braid was gone.

A small part inside Ur cried as he noticed the braided length of cindered hair laying in a soppy mess on the floor. Then, as he was contemplating just how badly his father would berate him, the woman rose up from the water. They were still afraid, terrified even, only one brave enough to speak, “What do you want!?!”

Ur was broken from the spell, his attention turning to the nude form of the women before him and immediately finding his worries took a back seat to other thoughts, “Well madam,” he put on his best Aatuylvan accent as he spoke what little Forrayan he knew, “I am a deep insertion agent in the Kalian Army, as you can see I have just stopped one of their suicide bombing crafts and removed my braid to show my true standing. And what I could really use now after all that is to lie low for a while and recuperate, think you can help me with that?”

“But you don’t seem like the other Aatuylvans I have met...”

“Oh?” he picked up the hat and put it on, adjusting it just so, “But I have the hat and everything.” He gave them a wink and smile.


Faliva, Forraya

The old C-130 was clunky, loose equipment rattling along the roof as the soldiers lined up at the ready to jump. Makit could feel that familiar bile rise in his throat from not having drank water since changing pressure, it was thick like molasses and as foul as he imagined river water to be. He screwed his yellow and black face up as he swallowed down the lump, noticing others around him making a similar face as they shuffled to the door and kept in line. Among them he saw Timik, his brother, as the cocky youth shot him a smile and gave him the thumbs up. Makit didn’t smile back, it was a frivolous display.

Then the paratroop doors opened, air whipping into the craft, and Makit jumped. His parachute whipped open, caught the wind, and billowed into a great tan blanket far above him. He barely noticed the others that quickly flowed from the back of the same craft, but he could see the specks flowing from the hundred other craft in the air, two others already having completed their run and turning around for the trip back to the homeland. Still more were coming though, a second wave on the horizon, and it gave Makit at least some mild confidence. At least until the roar of a ground based flak cannon ripped into the air.

The puff of black was distant, yet entirely too close. Makit swallowed hard as several chutes were torn and the specks they had held up plummeted to the earth where they lay still. His bright yellow eyes scanned the ground, looking for the sign of that weapon, and then he caught sight of the cannon in the rocky outcropping in the central park it called home. The bastards had hidden an active flak cannon as a historical piece. A snarl crossed his face as he tugged upon the strings of his chute, swinging closer towards the smoking barrel that had launched the round.

But before he could reach the ground another shot rang out, and another, and another. The cannon was smoking, the crew working overtime as they crammed further shells into the breech loading beast and rotated it to take advantage of the nakedness of the falling troopers. Makit couldn’t say he blamed them, they were as good as dead now, might as well put up a good fight before they were felled. Hell, at least this wasn’t just going to be an occupation. That would have been boring.

Just as his thoughts moved to what he was going to do to those manning the gun, he noticed them swivelling the cannon. Swivelling it towards him. Makit held no shame in admitting to himself that he was afraid, tugging on his chute strings as hard as he could. But still that wasn’t enough, the round ripping out of the barrel and streaming just passed him. Makit squeezed his eyes shut As he waited for pain to envelope him. But as the clamorous bang of the flak rang over him, pain did not follow, and he opened his eyes instantly as he could feel himself picking up speed.

His chute was ruined, rips and tears in the fabric growing wider with every passing second as he attempted to steer into the park and the grass therein. It drew closer faster than he was comfortable with, and as he lost control of his shredding parachute Makit did his best to control his breathing and manage his adrenalin. It still fucking hurt as he rolled with the landing, his shoulder slamming into the ground and his jaw jarred so harshly his fangs slashed into his lower gums. His helmet was a godsend, and for the first time he was glad of the thing despite the discomfort of wearing it with the braid.

He rushed to unclip himself from his parachute as the flak continued to pound into the sky, stumbling to his feet and checking his rifle for jams and other mishaps. Once that was done he could not help but look up into the sky. Up there it was chaos, the paratroopers caught with their pants down thanks to military intelligence being an oxymoron. Another three fell, one of which Makit recognized. He gazed as his brother Timik fell to earth faster and faster, losing control of his parachute. Makit watched unblinking as his sibling slammed into the side of a building, his parachute making his descent a slow red smear until it hooked on a vent. He hung there, gently tapping against the wall as blood dripped down his boots and tail.

Makit blinked, took a stick grenade out of his combat webbing, and went low to the ground as he stalked towards the flak cannon. Others were landing all around him now, others on top of buildings or in other parks, and all in sight were advancing towards the cannon. The rat-a-tat-tat of assault rifle fire clanged out as the first of the Paratroopers met the Forrayan defences, distinctive bangs snapping into the air from those using battle rifles. Makit could see some of these soldiers, six men taking cover behind trees or prone as they fired upon the enemy position. Then there was another group of ten soldiers advancing, then a team of nine, and finally twenty soldiers freshly released from their chutes charging. Then the ear-shattering rattle of a heavy machinegun bolted out, and six of those twenty were cut down before they could find cover.

Suddenly more cautious, Makit advanced slowly until he could properly see the enemy fortification. They were a pillbox that had acted as a fake stand for an integrated flak cannon. Now though portholes in the stand had been knocked open from within and the cannon rotated on its stand as it was reloaded from the safety within the pillbox thanks to a rather odd and convoluted breech system. Makit gritted his teeth as they poked two more machineguns out of the portholes, pinning down the other Shorn Ones. One group saw him, the sergeant of that group waving him to advance with a simple motion of his head.

Makit made a quick prayer to Tamolok before doing his duty and advancing. As he broke from the safety of being hidden behind shrubbery rounds instantly exploded into the ground around Makit, sending clumps of dirt into the air as he sprinted low to the ground. As he got closer he fired his assault rifle from the hip, almost all his shots flying wild but the defenders cursing loudly and giving him a small reprieve from their deadly attentions. A reprieve that only lasted a few moments. As he pulled the pin on his grenade and swung his arm back to throw it, they brought one of their light machibeguns to bear upon him and opened the trigger.

Pain seared up his leg as Makit let go of the stick grenade, watching it tumble through the air as he fell to the ground. It clattered against the sloped pillbox portholes, and for a moment frustration gripped Makit’s mind as it seemed he had failed. Then it did an untimely flip and rolled into the pillbox. The sharks and crocs shouted, yelled, one croc running from the hatch to the place only for the grenade to go off behind him. The croc bellowed as shrapnel cut into him, a cry that was cut short by the mercy of a nearby Shorn One.

Makit groaned and rolled over, grabbing his lower leg and feeling the sizeable chunk taken out by the round. It would take time to heal, but it would. He sighed as he applied pressure to the wound, holding a chunk of cloth that had come from his pants’ leg to it as he stared into the sky. The second wave had arrived, and now the flak cannon was silenced the paratroopers landed with ease. The city was Kalian, El Presidenta was probably a captive by now, and he would return home a hero. Of course, he would return without his brother. Makit glowered at the sky, sat up, and waved over his fellows. He had to get back on his feet and kill some Forrayan soldiers for his brother.


Manoan Village, Northern Shore, Forraya

Laka’s boots were drenched, the clear salty water of the beach soaking his pants and everything below as thousands of other Shorn Ones sloshed through the water. Amphibious APCs and fighting vehicles joined them, creating small wakes as they pushed through the water with minimal effort and belted out ahead of the infantry. Laka squinted as salty water was splashed into his amber eyes, growling as he swiped the sticky water off of the scaly green crest that grew from the brow and cheekbones furred face with his free hand and bared his teeth. Despite his best efforts to slog through the water at an appreciable rate it took all too long to clear the shallow, crisp, water and be upon what was solid ground and not slipping sand.

But something was either critically right, or critically wrong; no-one had been shooting that them this entire time. There was a village in sight, not even eighty meters away, and though the inhabitants were panicking they did not rush out with rifles and small arms to meet their assailants. It irked Laka, it was as though they did not see him worthy of opposition. He had been expecting the pirate-folk to be cowardly, but not even firing a single round took it to a new level. Of course they could be laying a trap, that he could warrant would be a superior strategy,

As the first of the vehicles breached the perimeter of the villages he fully expected them to blanket the troop carriers with fire, to see the flashes and explosion, to hear the clang and boom. But as the vehicles stormed into the villages, crushing lawn chairs, plants, and stands under their treads, nothing happened. At least not until Laka was close enough to see the Shorn Ones piling out of the vehicles. Then, then, the locals opened up. From inside their huts their old AKs and mosin nagants banged and rattled as they fired through the doors and windows of their little bamboo and wood hovels.

Laka didn’t bother counting how many good men were cut down as the sharks surged forward, only a few of the pirate scum taken down by the gunners on the vehicles before the sheer volume of fire took them apart. Blood was sprayed everywhere, running in rivers from the vehicles.

The islanders’ victory was short lived though, Laka throwing himself prone along with his fellow frontliners as those behind him stopped and shouldered their rifles. They took only a moment to sight their targets, and then opened with a hail of their own rounds as the coastal sharks began to bring themselves to bear towards the advancing infantry. Laka simply aimed into the central mass of the Forrayans and held his trigger down as he swing the barrel side to side. Screams, shouts, and bellows filled the air as all his fellows did the same, a rocket singing over and passed him before it slammed into the crowd.

As shrapnel, gore, and the concussive wave rippled through the air none of the Shorn Ones blinked, their fire tearing out as more distant battle-rifle equipped soldiers began selectively picking off fleeing men. Laka only stopped holding the trigger down as the clicking of his weapon became annoying. Instinctually he ejected the clip and slapped a new one in, pulling back the catch and loading a new round before looking down his ironsights once more.

He glared with a sort of grim satisfaction. Where before there had been a small pool of blood there was now a veritable lake. Sharks groaned and clutched at their spilt organs, others dragging themselves away, and the vast majority laying silent and splayed around the crater left behind by the missile. Women rushed out, children close behind them as they grabbed their husbands and sons, weeping and screaming as they attempted to drag them out of the fray, close their wounds, or simply hold onto their limp bodies. Laka rose with his fellows and continued the charge as the second line of infantry joined the first in rushing the village, stomping passed the dead and dragging the weeping from their loved ones.

Some women attempted to grab guns, to fight off these invaders out of desperation or blind rage, others tried to grab their young ones and flee to the jungle. Most fell as rifle butts slammed against flesh, others caught in the lower leg by a well place round and slapping against the ground as their balance was lost to pain. Only one or two managed to fight back, their shots going wild as Shorn Ones swarmed them and pinned them against the ground, and a fair deal managed to reach the edge of the jungle and disappear into the bogs within. The Kalians would have given chase, hunting after the bubbles and fleeing females, but their orders still stood. Instead they pulled back to the village, tying up the women, men, and children with industrial strength twist ties before separating them and throwing them into huts. The dead were piled high, and the wounded given emergency treatment before being lumped together in the center of the village.

Laka took part in this, the process quick due to clinical efficiency and practice, blood quickly drenching over his shoulder and arms as he threw more corpses into a pile. He groaned under the burden of a large mako man, blood dribbling out of several holes in the terribly large man’s chest and down Laka’s back. It was warm and stricky, and he could feel it soaking into his tail’s fur. He grunted as he threw the corpse onto the large pile, the muscular body slipping and sliding down the sloped mound of fleshy remains. Panting, Laka kneeled down before the stack, making a small prayer to Tamolok as he felt a familiar pang in his stomach.

He didn’t bother peering around, he knew the others were partaking as well, and took his maquahuitl from his belt and sliced a long strip of flesh from the fallen man’s corpse. With small effort he stripped the skin from the meat, the denticle-laden skin hardly palatable unless thoroughly cooked, and tossed the light grey skin aside as popped the raw and slippery strip of red meat into his mouth. It was only a few bites worth, and he cut further strips from the corpse’s arm as he took what he needed. Blood dribbled down his chin and saturated the fur of his lips, cheeks, and even nose in a thick oozing layer.

After a small belch he rose, eyes squinting as he watched his fellows go about their business. He could hear a woman crying, a man grunting, and got the same idea. Laka rose, overlooking the corpse mound, and gave the mako a kick before turning and walking into a hut. The young woman within whimpered and then cried as he took his toll.


Ocean, between Kalia and Forraya

The splatter of vomit hitting the rim of the toilet was becoming a familiar sound, one not enjoyed by Horde Mistress Zapaya Mayazotlo as she heaved dryly into the tin bowl. She lurched forward, back arching as she coughed and retched out a thin mouthful of sour mucus. A light groan left her as she let her head hang there for a moment, only grabbing a nearby towel once her stomach stopped feeling like it was rolling back and forth inside her. She wiped around her mouth, snarling as the loose ends of the towels caught upon the sharp and pointy scale crest across her brow and cheekbones. Such was one of the downsides of being a Cro’Kala, a jaguar descended from crocodiles taken by Kalians.

Finishing wiping around her mouth and sending a final shot of spittle into the toilet, Zapaya stood. She was short, only four feet tall, and slinked from the bathroom and back through the halls cramped with officers back to the bridge as her tail twitched with frustration. Wide hips, a full bosom, and a full womanly figure that melded perfectly with her sturdy frame did not go unnoticed by the male officers on the bridge as she entered. Thankfully her fatigues hid her from most ogling, and they had long learned not to stare too long or lustily though as her smile, that maw filled with jagged teeth stretched wide, mixed with her bright yellow eyes and crest to create an appearance that made men mostly whimper.

“Admiral, I want a status report,” Zapaya spoke with a voice riddled with bile that only seasickness can bring up as she slipped back into the chair she had occupied not twenty minutes earlier, before the waves had sent her running for the bathroom.

Admiral Azam’aya Yutuka, a five and a half foot tall human-blooded jaguar, or Acca’Kala, with his smaller ears lower down upon his head, stood swaying with the waves as he peered out the windows at the grey sky and frothy waves, “We are heading into a bad storm. It is only going to get worse, the radar does not lie, we should head north towards the coast below the Izumans’ claims and wait it out as best we can,” He spoke calmly, hands folded behind his green uniform-clad back, “Our craft are shoddy civilian vessels converted for military use, so I don’t want to take any chances.”

“How far behind schedule will that put us?” Zapaya stared intently at the horizon, the fact that lightning was striking there simply adding to her stress as she tried to keep what little stomach acid she had left down.

“Depends,” Azam’aya spoke in the same chilly tone, “Could hold us back an hour, or we could have to wait the entire thing out and be held up until tomorrow,” he glanced back at his superior and noticed her grimace, “The weather is a fickle mistress, and this storm brewed up out of nowhere. But if we try and tough it out I am not sure how many vessels will make it, our ships are not graded to survive what it looks like this tempest is going to throw at us.”

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Zapaya let the word string out, slapping a hand against her scaly brow and feeling a sting as her scales poked her palm, “Just do it, we can’t risk losing this wave and I don’t fancy having to wait in the ocean for a rescue heli that might never arrive.”

He nodded, “Your will.”

Azam’aya stepped forward, speaking commands to the helmsman, navigator, and radio operator as the vessel began to turn and the other vessels, mostly converted bulk carriers and river monitors upgraded for blue water duty. All bobbed atop the quickly growing waves as they rose and fell among the irregular and dangerous waters, their screws spinning as they powered towards the shore beyond the horizon to the north. It would take them a few hours to reach waters shallow enough to throw down the storm anchors and get out of the way of the eye of this storm.

As this thought entered Zapaya’s mind she went green again and flung herself from her chair, sprinting down the halls once more.

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by miokalia » Mon Nov 14, 2011 2:58 am

Andy had a tee-time at 6 am.
He thought for about 4 seconds about something he saw on a news article about some island somewhere.
Then he forgot about it and wafted onto the green and started digging a hole around the golf ball for 20 minutes before throwing the club at a tree, picking up the ball and throwing it in the general direction of the flag.

Back in ZCFD:
Vuela, likewise, took the box of information pertaining to Forraya that Pickford had put on her desk before and stuck it somewhere unmemorable amongst a wall of similar boxes of files in her office.


Pickford was in one of the old slant-roof buildings on the Universitat Dorigan campus, most overtly as an outlet for students to bring out protest signs in an organized place and feel like they're being heard since an actual government apparachik (or more accurately in this case, apparatchka, since Pickford is female), would be in the area. She would then give a speech full of canned political sweet nothings and then continue on to the actual reasons why she was there.
The Deparment of Political Science, contrary to the put-downs often issued upon it by engineering and business students, actually did play an important role in national security. For based in this department was a prestigious crisis-mapping institution with academic connections throughout the free world.
The Universitat Dorigan Humanitarian Logistical Center. A Crisis-Mapping institution of cross disciplinary constitution. Computer scientists building the software to analyze both mainstream and citizen media, including SMS and MMS chatter from mobile devices, and political scientists working with this information to derive meaning from it. The advantageous side effect of this was that it permitted new intelligence perspectives which were previously prohibitive. Which is why the Federal Government funded it so generously.
It could be construed that this type of institution was the seed of Orwellian surveillance, but it could be argued that this surveillance was at the discretion of those posting the information to public space. After all, if you really don't want the world to know something, wouldn't you just refrain from Tweeting or Texting it?
It was this kind of justification which made the country tick.

Concerns aside, the unfolding situation in Forraya was the latest news and was quickly beginning to churn out analysis.
Pickford looked at the big board and asked the obvious question,
"So what's going on. Seeing as you all know more than I do."

Project director, Cromwell, then began listing off the key points,
"Kogoyo was attacked amid festivities for Ritani Day.
Kalian troops are capturing armed civilians and militia alike.
La Presidenta is nowhere to be found.
Kalian troops appeared on land seemingly out of nowhere.
Kalian troops were first seen at the docks
Chatter depressions detected at outlying villas, it is suspected that they're either hunkered-down or they've been ransacked.
Notable Chatter depression at docks, Dock facilities are likely occupied.
Kalian troops were first seen departing from freight ships."

"Do we have visual confirmation of that?", asked Pickford.

"Yes we do. There are 38 MMS photos and 10 videos connecting Kalian deployment to non-military-marked freighters in the docks. There are a couple of major businesses right on the dock and some over-looking residences.", said Cromwell, "It is of note that the area is also now a Notable Chatter Depression. Which means the docks are likely under total Kalian control, and/or everyone has gotten the hell out of there."

"Sampson", Pickford summoned her aide, "Get the analysis of those ships. I want any and all identifiers of those ships and I want to know who owns them and who operates them and if they were written off as pirated.

And also get the Apparateur on the line. He needs to make sure there's some naval assets in the area and that they are aware of everything."


Sweizalthorpe stared at a few of his cabinet members for about 2 minutes.
Then after making Pickford visibly uncomfortable, he began.

"We have made a deal to have merchant vessel Tyvek SeaLion pulled out of dock in Port Penguine to serve as a temporary station in the likely inevitable event that the Kalian occupying force begins attempting to surpress civilian communications. Those civilian communications are very important to us, as Pickford knows. It gives the satellite pictures meaning. Not only that but it is the only thing which keeps that island from vanishing under this act of Kalian aggression.

As I'm sure you're well aware, I do not intend to deploy MRZF in defense of the island.
As I'm sure you're not aware, I do not intend to deploy OOA either.

That's because OOA would be roughly the same as deploying MRZF in this case.
It would be like sending a bunch of camoflauged MRZF units up there with bad fake accents to directly combat Tikult.
Sending OOA anywhere is not particularly subtle, it tends to be pretty obvious.
So this is presently an operation exclusively conducted by the RPA.

The goal of the operation is not the defense of the island."

Secretary Tycho apparently took issue with hearing this and replied, "Well what the fuck is it then? Standing around watching the Tikult burn down hovels and rape people for sport?"

"Obviously not", Sweizalthorpe said, "It is to prevent the formation of a stable Kalian occupation government by compromising it's security.

There are two elements to RPA operations which are in effect. Just so that you are not alarmed by them."

"So you've given RPA carte blanche.", asked Pickford.

"Unless you're suggesting we actually send MRZF up there and secure the island the old fashioned way.

The only reason why I haven't ordered anything like that is because intelligence reports say that Tikult has their nuclear arsenal on a hair-trigger and may attempt to end organic life on this planet if we actually bring a big fight to them. Nobody really knows what they might do."

"So they can just roll up and take anything they want because nobody will do anything about it?", asked Tycho, visibly angry about the whole thing out of reptilian solidarity, even though he's not a crocodile but actually a raptor.

"Yes. It does appear so.", said Sweizalthorpe, "Of course, it depends on who they roll up and take things from. If it's some inadaquately-defended laissez-faire bumhole like Forraya, then there isn't much stopping them.
Really it's kinda what they get for including a slave trade in their economy by implicit approval, by not doing anything about it.
I will tell you this though: through the combination of Kalian invasion and RPA insurgency, that island will never be a hub of slave trading again."

"So you don't care then. That's what this is about", said Tycho.

"I care. I'm also chagrined by the fact that the Kalians have ruined a fantastic source of intelligence on slave-trade operations in the region by going on a holy war against it.", said Sweizalthorpe.

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Re: Fun in the Sun

Post by Holmbergsvania-BFPE » Mon Nov 21, 2011 1:24 am

Holmbergsvanian Capitol Building
"The South Paw" Crisis Room
New Vancouver, Holmbergsvania

"MMmmmf." Alaric growled as he sat back in his chair. The ambassador had already walked out of the room, and now Aiden Schofield, the new Defense Minister, was drawing up worst-case plans.

"Operation Cobra?" Alaric looked at the plans. "Can't you think of a better name than that?"

"I'm not into names, sir." Schofield went back to drawing.

"Mind if I inquire?" Alaric stood up, looking at the map.

"Operation Cobra is an amphibious invasion of Forraya involving two Marine Expeditionary Forces. One will deploy from the HNS Humboldt, another from the HNS New Stavanger Task Force. Force A from the Humboldt will go in by a combination VC-24-LCAC landing at their southernmost port, with tilt-rotor gunships and UH-66 Seneca transport choppers. LCACs will land the Abrams tanks, infantry will try to fight through the town. New Stavanger's task force is going to do the same, but from the east. Infantry will take any settlements from the air first, then in will roll the armored columns."

"Final objective?"

"Both sides taking the capital after the Air Force and Naval Air Groups obtain air supremacy."

"And if the Kalians go nuclear?"

"Then we've got no choice." Schofield finished drawing up the plans and rolled them into a tube. "Hopefully the Holmbergsvania Intelligence team we have will be able to carry out their objective."

"You hope?" Alaric growled. "You better pray that they succeed and don't get caught."

"I'm doing so already... you already provide for your son?"

"He's with a friend of mine- Agatha... her and I were roommates in college. Smart, strong, motherly... husky" Alaric blushed. Some experiences he wouldn't want to forget- what with some stress, cuddles...

"Alaric, snap out of it." Schofield poked the dreamy-eyed prince.

"He's safe. She's taking care of a little colt and a little lion at the same time- she's a foster parent and a councilor, used to dealing with any stresses in case Sitka... well, has a crisis"

"Okay then." Schofield chuckled. "I really don't want to use this plan, Alaric. But if the shit hits the fan, our LCACs hit the beach"

"It's up to us to ensure that doesn't happen"

"Otherwise you're getting husky-snuggles in nuclear fire." the wolf chuckled. "Let's get this going."

HNS Humpback
Fast Attack Submarine, Holmbergsvanian Navy
Port of Port Penguin, Naval Mooring A-C

"Take in the lines, Deckhands!" A tall lynx looked over the deck of the Humpback, a Barbel-class submarine that was arguably seen as one of the oldest classes still in service in the Holmbergsvanian Navy. However, these diesel-electric subs hadn't failed the Holmbergsvanians since. Of course the Virginia-class submarines were taking over, but the fast-attack subs were awesome for special forces insertions and espionage missions. They hadn't really been used for convoy interdiction, but the Humpback was armed for it. 24 21-inch torpedoes, and a team of eight Holmbergsvania Intelligence Military Advisors, people sent in usually to train militias, which the situation in Forraya would require.

"Hurry it up!" The lynx growled, looking at his watch. The two humans and cheetah in charge of un-docking operations looked at the feline, who wore the clothing of a captain. Captains of submarines were some of the best qualified out of the Naval Academy, the others ended up on board aircraft carriers, destroyers, frigates, or hell, even those three supercarriers. One of which was supposed to be in the area.

"Conn, Captain Sevastian. We're ready down here." The earpiece in the feline's ear rang. Captain Khariton Sevastian smirked. "We're almost finished up here." He chuckled as he watched the mooring ropes slip back into the ship. The gangway was retracted back to the dock, and the submarine was ready to go.

"You folks were slow. Five minutes? You can do better" Sevastian spoke, his Russian accent showing. "Until then, return to your normal posts." The humans and the cheetah sighed before climbing back up the conning tower, allowing the Captain to go first before sealing the hatch behind him. "Thank you very much." He replied.

"No problem sir" The human who closed the hatch nodded. Sevastian walked past the officer's quarters, his paws lightly tapping on the deck. Useful practice should a ship spot them with sonar. He continued further below, heading to the small bridge below.

"Set course 180 to head out of the port. 10 knots."

"Set course 1-8-0, 1-0 knots, Helm aye." The helmsman, a young timber wolf called out, beginning to make the required adjustments.

"Humpback's underway" Sevastian smiled.

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