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Offline Dijel

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Dispatches from Merina
« on: April 18, 2019, 07:41:02 PM »
Table of Contents

Bambidela 'Bambi' Paquet

1) Meeting an Old Friend
2) The Winter of Discontent: First Frost

The Merinan War

1) The Siege of Qarkhoi Part I: The Daily Hate
2) FSS Hotspur v. MNS Chiwara: Tango in the Night

3) Generals Gathered in their Masses: the Despot's Legions
4) Generals Gathered in their Masses: Brothers Grim

5) The Merinan War Part III: Climb Mount Ngaliema
6) The Merinan War Part IV: The Makeni Incident

7) The Merinan War Part V: The Rogue Marshal's Men
8) The Merinan War Part VI: Appel aux Armes

9) The Merinan War Part VII: This Turbulent Priest

10) The Merinan War Part VIII: The View from the Front
11) The Merinan War Part IX: Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics




Bambidela Paquet; Katamba, Merina

The old man on the stage crooned down about some long-lost love, plucking away soulfully on an old guitar, while the cafe patrons sat at their cheap plastic tables drinking, smoking and gambling their troubles away. The little place was down on the old fish market, the gentle breeze blowing in off the river and the distant chirp of crickets rendering the scene peaceful, almost idyllic. The war seemed a million miles away.

Bambi - as his friends called him, though there were precious few of them left these days - was the wrong side of thirty, balding and out of shape; he fit right in amongst the press acolytes - cameramen, engineers and office workers - who frequented this establishment. In many ways, these were Merina's lucky few. They were still in jobs, and not half bad ones, all things considered. Foreign media weren't exactly clamoring for news from the warzone, though a few had taken enough interest to sniff around for a story. One of these, Kaedwen's Daily Sun, had taken Bambi on not long after he'd arrived in the capital, almost a year ago now.

Presently, two men approached, looming through the cigarette smoke. The first was an old college, as close as damned it to a friend as Bambi had in Katamba. Derek van der Merwe, the fat but surprisingly energetic Daily Sun reporter, was a Kaedweni, and by far the whitest man in the place. He was followed by a short, but powerfully built, Merinan with a shaven head and close-cropped beard.

"Bambi" Derek smiled, dropping a big plastic cup containing cheap beer on the table, pulling up a chair and gesturing for the third man to do the same "How doing in here, mate?"

"All good boss" Bambi lied, as Derek took a big swig of his own drink "To be totally honest, I'm curious to hear this proposition of yours is. Who's this other fella?"

"All in good time" Derek replied, still smiling "But yeah, introductions. Right. This fine gentleman here" A quick gesture to the man beside him, who smiled nervously, revealing a mouth full of broken teeth "Is Ade Ayodele. Recent recruit to the office, security expert"

"Its a pleasure" Bambi smiled at the new man, offering his hand.

"Likewise" Ade replied, in a surprisingly soft voice, offering a hand like a bear paw on the end of an arm criss-crossed with tattoos and scars.

"Which brings me neatly on to my proposition to you" Derek ginned devilishly "I've got a little project of mine cleared by the company. If we're gonna cover the war, we're not going to do it from Katamba. There are stories here, true enough, but they get here six months old and third hand from some truck driver who met a guy who might've heard something in a bar from some other fucking guy. No mate, if we're gonna get the real stories - honest to god, big money stories - and get them first, then we need to be in amongst it, out in the fucking sticks, we've gotta live this!" Another big drink punctuated his rising excitement "Okay, okay, I'll get to the point. I need a cameraman. And I want you, buddy. What do you say? Will you come with me?"

Bambi though about it for a second.

"I'm in" He nodded.
« Last Edit: November 10, 2020, 11:18:18 PM by Dijel »

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #1 on: January 18, 2020, 12:52:57 AM »
The Winter of Discontent
First Frost

Bambidela Paquet; Urhano Region, Merina

A frigid wind scoured the bleak hills straddling the centre of Merina's Urhano region; the summer's upland scrub turned to wilderness by unseasonable cold and the ravages of war. Their convoy picked a careful route across the desolate landscape, glimpses of the great grey ribbon of the river Rhonar, and the distant lowland plains of Biathala, occasionally visable away to the south, while the snowbound peaks of the Mitulli Mountains crowded the northern skyline. More ominously, the jagged shape of the Drakkenbjorg loomed large ahead of them - to the west - her massive granite sides marking the southern extent of the mountains and dominating the old highland road to Donze where it snaked through the Drakkenbjorg pass, above the freezing mountain waters of the Little Matadi river.

The Drakkenbjorg was the objective of their hosts - men of President Nguessa's Urhano Rangers - and the paramilitary frontiersmen gazed out at the surrounding landscape warily as they passed, their trio of little trucks loaded to the gunwales with armed men. Their commander, the usually lean and aggressive - though on this occasion his demeanor was rather more demure - Major Hakuni T'Lakka shared the journalists' jeep, sitting tensely in the back seat, across from the great bulk of Derek van der Merwe. Bambidela listened intently to their conversation, surreptitiously jotting down the juicer details while Ade drove in silence, his eyes as wide as those of the troops hanging off the back of the truck in front.

"The Drakkenbjorg" The major was saying, his words slurring a little as he took a neat sip of potent Kaedweni whiskey from the silver hip flask Derek proffered "Thank-you, Derek. Now, the Drakkenbjorg, she is the key to our fight here. He who controls the mountain controls the Donze road, and the Donze road beyond the pass will take us down from the hills and into their very homes, and there we shall slaughter them like the cattle they are! Oh, yes! But the mountain herself, she is a formidable obstacle and, if I am to be completely honest with you, the men that we have here are not sufficient to take her yet. So we must be ever vigilant, and patrol aggressively to keep the enemy in their holes! Else they will come down from the hills and bring fire and death to the folk here..."

"And it's the scene of one of these raids you're going to show us today?" Derek prompted, allowing a slight pause to confirm that the Major was beginning to run out of steam.

"Yes, yes" The Major nodded "A village, we thought it behind our lines. The mercenaries came in the night, day before last, and left not a soul alive in that place. A company from the Urhano Brigade was stationed nearby, and managed to drive the raiding party off, though it was too late to save the people there..."

"Do you know the name of this place?"

"They call it" Major T'Lakka screwed up his face in thought for a second, then clicked his fingers as it came to him "Badikaha" Bambi wrote that down "That is right, I think"

And, presently, they came to a place where a pall of smoke hung over a rough clearing cut into the bush. A handful of adobe compounds clustered around a rocky crag, maybe a dozen families had lived here, and a small chapel occupied the crest of the small ridge, alongside the spindly form of a radio tower. Or, rather, what remained of one. The Major halted the convoy in the bush beyond the village and sent men ahead on foot. These apparently made contact with more government soldiers guarding the ruins, and the vehicles were soon beckoned forward and parked in what amounted to the settlement's central square. Major T'Lakka intimated that the journalists were free to explore and - he rather made a point of this - document what they saw, before hurrying off to speak with the garrison commander.

Derek sauntered up the hill towards the little chapel, Bambi hurrying behind with his camera, while Ade remained obstinately with their jeep. A handful of mourners carried a small coffin out as they approached, progressing slowly and solemnly down the hill to where a similarly small grave had been eked out from the poor soil just beyond the last compound, while a dozen engineers in camouflage fatigues attempted to salvage what remained of the radio tower.

"What a terrible business this war is..." Derek began with an air of detachment, to no one in particular.

"Who could do a thing like this?" Bambi gaped, the sight of the little coffin conjuring uncomfortable images of his little niece "And why? There must be a thousand villages like this one in this country, these people had nothing worth taking, even..."

"We'll have to ask our security expert" Derek referred to Ade whom, they could see back down the hill, was busying himself with their jeep, and chatting away merrily to one of the watching militiamen "I'm sure he'll have something to say, we'll just need to tease it out of him"

So the pair - the fat Kaedweni journalist and the balding cameraman - wandered through the village called Badikaha as one moves through a dream, taking in the scene of death and destruction. Spent casings rolled underfoot in the compounds and alleyways, part of a sandbagged barrier hung limp and scorched from a rooftop and a half dozen small craters scarred the ground. Coming through to the other end of the village, the ground fell away sharply towards the Little Matadi, the fast-flowing river rushing through its narrow canyon far below. A few miles to the north, the Drakkenbjorg loomed at the head of the river. Bambi took a string of photographs, including one he felt very fetching of the far side of the river valley, with the Drakkenbjorg in the corner of the shot, just as the weak winter sun began to slip below the horizon. Before night had settled in completely, they were shepherded back into their vehicle by Major T'Lakki's men and escorted the short drive to their base.

The Major was nervous, and with good reason.

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #2 on: January 23, 2020, 11:08:23 PM »
The Siege of Qarkhoi: Part I
The Daily Hate

David Muamba; The Old Royal Palace, Old Quarter, Qarkhoi, Merina

The sprawling port city of Qarkhoi was the largest in Merina, before the war home to some twenty-million souls, now rendered a scene of apocalypse. The Peoples' Army of Merina (PAM, as the acronym was used with affection) had launched their revolution here eighteen months earlier, just as President Nguessa's regime were fleeting Katamba ahead of the apparently victorious allied armies. The revolutionary fervor of those heady days was long gone, with both the city and her people hollowed-out by the months of conflict. The centre of the vast megacity was dominated by a pair of high hills, forming a steep, rocky spine amidst the swampland upon which the rest of the city had been built on either side.

Whilst the high ground now held an advantage - of sorts - it was the lowland which had made Qarkhoi. The city was built between the mouths of Merina's two great arterial waterways: the mighty Rhoynar to the north, cutting a blue-grey swath across the north and west of Merina, and the wide, slow loops of the Kaegera to the south, meandering away through the south and east of the country. And it was these waterways that now threatened to destroy the city that they had helped create. The north bank of the Rhoynar was a no-mans-land, the scene of innumerable skirmishes between Peoples' Army patrols and their opposite numbers from the Free State Forces and Merinan National Army. Off to the south, meanwhile, beyond the Kaegera lay the regime stronghold of Kankato, home of the Merinan National Navy.

They were warships of the MNN which David - younger cousin to the communist leader Sony - was studying now. Qarkhoi's Old Royal Palace sat on the western end of the spur forming the city's spine, dominating the city's waterfront from the heights on which it sat. In days gone by, the view was famously delightful, and both the palace and the gardens on the slopes below had drawn many a family and courting couple. Now, of course, what greenery remained in the gardens concealed the communist guns - a handful of captured 122mm field pieces - and the palace complex their spotters.

The MNN's Captains knew this too. Steaming into view from the south, the destroyer Nyame led the sloop Ikenga, both with their forward gun turrets trained on their starboard quarter, directly up at the Palace on the hill. For now, the gunners on both sides held their nerves, they'd all done this before. The Hate, that's what David's comrades called it; a ritualized routine of violence borne of the frustration on both sides over the stalemate which had broken out across the Biathala front. A raid for a raid, barrage met with barrage. Supplies to the forward units on all sides regularly cut off, though almost always restored in time.

Nyame fired the first shots, her five-inch guns going long, the shells falling somewhere in the once-affluent upper city.

"Hold on" David warned his fire controllers, the little cluster of them occupied a cramped spot under the roof, tell-tale radio antennas poked through holes caused by previous shell splinters. Neither side could afford the ammunition for an extended action, but David's gunners could afford it even less.

Ikenga tried next, though her four-inch guns had little more success.

"Hold... hold..." David waited, watching the ships close in, both now firing freely, if inaccurately "Hold... now!"

The order went out. With a crash, the hidden guns on the shore opened up. Great plumes shot up seconds later, shells straddling the distant Nyame, though none seeming to strike true. Somewhat extraneously, a feeble siren droned somewhere in the city. A few more shots exchanged, then the raiders began to break off to the west, heading back out to sea. Ikenga began to make smoke, while both switched their fire to Qarkhoi's little harbor, where picturesque little fishing boats lay drawn up in the surf. This would be their real target; the sea was a vital source of food for the besieged city. David let his gunners loose a few more salvos, then sighed.

"Cease fire" He had to tap the fire control officer's shoulder to get his attention over the roar of the guns "They're leaving, nothing more we can do"

The officer, a grim-faced little man whose huge arms - something akin to pythons, if pythons got tattoos, or had the concept of mothers - betrayed his pedigree as the actual gunner on the team, simply nodded before growling a brusque command down the radio. Their guns fell silent almost at once, the raiders obligingly following suite shortly thereafter. The whole little action was over in a few minutes, but David was suddenly aware of the burning sensation in his legs where he'd been crouched under the roof. He shuffled back awkwardly from his little peephole, standing stiffly.

"I think" He said, to no one in particular "That means its time for breakfast"

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #3 on: April 12, 2020, 08:43:18 PM »
The War in the West
Tango in the Night

Vincent de Boer; FSS Hotspur, Strait of Shaw, 100km Northwest of Donze

The Hotspur sailed like what she was, a rolling, wallowing lump of a ship. Casting off from Seaforth and transiting the Illumic, Vincent had been certain that the old hulk was destined for the bottom, but she'd survived probably the longest voyage she'd ever make in one piece and, despite himself, he'd come to develop a certain fondness for the old girl. The same couldn't be said for all the ship's company, though. The Merinan mariners had taken fairly well to Hotspur, being rather more used to life aboard ships her age than de Boer's men, the two-dozen unwilling members of the Free States No. 1 Marine Commando.

Since setting sail, they'd called into a couple of ports, first in Kaedwen and then in Tamora, before turning south through the vastness of the Sea of Kyne carrying her precious cargo. They carried four launchers for the deadly Tamoran missiles, two fore'd and one each to port and starboard, plus one rather amateurishly fitted aboard the ship's helicopter, presently lashed to the quarterdeck. The shipboard launchers had been cunningly concealed within empty shipping containers out on deck - the ship was partially loaded, with some genuine cargo also stowed on deck in addition to the false launcher containers - the sides of which could be dropped to bring the weapons into action at almost a moment's notice. The helicopter's armament had been rather more difficult to hide, however, slung down the port side of the aircraft, though by turning her athwartship up against the superstructure, the weapon was more or less concealed.

Making full speed down the west coast of Albion, still flying her Kaedweni black-and-ochre, Hotspur's first contact with the Merinan Navy was made early in the morning.

It was still dark, with a thick morning mist lying over the sea. Hotspur was detected first, receiving a signal informing her that she was approaching an operational area, and demanding that she identify herself and disclose her intention. The signal was signed off by the Merinan National Navy destroyer MNS Chiwara. Vincent was awakened by one of the Merinan crewmen, and hurridly summoned to the bridge.

The slight, wiry - and probably piratical - Barkhad Awali was the officer of the watch that morning, peering into the fog from the dimly-lit bridge.

"Mister Vince" He smiled broadly but coldly, like a shark "I am happy you here. The big ships have find us"

The man was quite plainly scared, which Vincent knew from experience took quite some doing, especially out on the sea. Vincent couldn't help but sympathize, there was something a little unsettling about the fog.

"Did you tell them" Vincent queried, composing himself "The line we agreed on? Where's the Captain?"

"One thing at time" The mariner smiled again "I tell only what you say. They say will come aboard and see for theyselves" He smiled even wider at this point, clearly quite pleased with himself "And is night now, look at me, I is the Captain now" Both men chuckled.

"Right enough" Vincent smiled back now. He knew his men would be ready to meet any boarding action, with cold steel if it came to it, and were equipped to win if it came to that. The issue would be if the Merinan ship came close but not alongside; within 7,000m their missiles would be useless, and their pair of 20mm cannon were not likely to make much impression "Do we know where they're at?"

"We have two contact on radar 15km south and east" Barkhad grimaced, suddenly all business "I say them 'we come you' and they say that them, but we not know which one" At that range, the Chiwara would be able to hit them with its guns, though Hotspur's missiles would almost certainly be able to sink them in return. It was probably too late to launch their helicopter, not that the pilot would want to be flying in the dark, or the fog for that matter. The second radar contact was also concerning; two Merinan warships weren't too much of an issue, though with more ships there were more chances for something to go wrong, but there was no way Hotspur would be able to positively identify their targets before firing. If they left it long enough to be able to be sure they were firing at Chiwara, then it would be far too late to do so.

"Are there any other contacts on radar?" Vincent considered.

"No, sir" The sailor replied, matter of factually, evidently making a similar calculation "Just this two. Am sure one is big ship. They not say what is other"

"I think" Vincent decided, starting to get his blood up "I know what we must do. I'll speak with my launcher crews; hold course and speed until I order differently"

And Vincent did go down to the foredeck, where No. 1 Marine Commando had their own weapons radar set up. This set was more powerful, clearly indicating the two vessels, both of which were closing. And fast. It was now or never. Too late to turn away or hide. Far too late to run. Time to fight. The night lit up as the first missile launched, illuminating nothing but a thick bank of fog all about with a throaty roar that reverberated through the creaking steel hull. After a few moments to acquire the second target, another deadly Tamoran missile was away.

The first projectile crossed the gap in a hearbeat, and came screaming out of the fog bank to strike the leading vessel amidships before they even knew they were under attack. Striking just above the waterline, a huge rift opened in her side and the sea began to flood in. The second ship took their moment to register their peril, the quick-thinking helmsman bringing her hard to port, nosing in against the direction of the unseen threat, but the second missile was already upon them, striking the bows and piercing her thin armour plating with ease. Within seconds the second vessel was ablaze, hundreds of kilograms of unused rocket fuel flooding her fore'd compartments.

Vincent heard the first bang, echoing through the night clearer than any fog horn, though the lack of a second, as the seconds passed like lead, gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Mister Vince, call back Mister Vince" An electronic imitation of Barkhad's voice crackled at him over the walkie-talkie in his webbing, shaking him back to reality.

"Hear you mate" The pressel on his device seemed to weigh a million tonnes "Send, over"

"Mister Vince" The man said again "Chiwara say we under attack. They say submarine shoot kill at them. Want us run. What you want me do?"

"Fucking mega" Vincent couldn't quite believe it "Go with it. Get us out of here, full ahead!"




At dawn, a pair of Merinan Air Force jets swept in low, through leaden skies, to surveil the scene. It was one of devastation; a huge column of smoke plumed above the stricken Chiwara, burning from stem to stern, while a handful of forlorn looking yellow life rafts bobbed beside her in the swell. Nearby, the bow of another vessel could be seen, floating upside-down amidst a black slick on the ocean, her nameplate below the grey-green water.

Most disturbingly of all, of their assailant there was no sign.

From later in the morning, float planes from the nearby Aha Njoko began arriving to take off survivors. Diverted from a routine training flight, one aircraft carried a film crew from the Defence Ministry's media department, their camera's capturing the heroics of the airmen, putting their elderly craft down time and again in increasingly heavy seas, but also the terror in the eyes of the survivors, many of whom were brought aboard badly burned.

They also captured the moment that, hours after first being hit, the fires set off Chiwara's fore'd magazines.

A stunning explosion tore through the burning hulk, eviscerating the battered remnant of her bows. She sank in minutes.

The haunting final shot from the cameras is taken as the last float plane labours skywards; the abandoned life rafts float forlornly amidst the detritus of the twin sinkings, slowly receding from view.

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #4 on: April 17, 2020, 11:24:05 AM »
Generals Gathered In Their Masses...
The Despot's Legions

Marshal Alium Deumi; Presidential Command Post, Nigyia, Commonwealth of Merina

The briefing room at the Presidential Command Post lay below the Citadel itself, within the network of passages and great, vaulted storerooms below the fortress. The space was not overly large, with room enough for the senior officers of Nguessa's forces, illuminated under the baleful yellow glow of a row of dated electric lights, bulbs hanging unshielded from the stark brick ceiling. The walls, also of crumbling brickwork, were bedecked with maps and charts showing the progress of Merina's many battles. The smell, Alium considered, was a heady cocktail of sweat, damp and boot polish, accentuated by the occasional, and slightly troubling, whiff of diesel fumes from the complex's elderly diesel generators.

Two of the Presidential Headquarters Company men stood awkwardly in the doorway as the heads of Merina's armed services trooped in; Major General Mvondo Falemi, the Army's operations chief, with his impressive sideburns and impeccable fatigues, was followed by his counterpart from the Air Force, Air Marshal Nana Atananaga, while the Navy's Admiral Njondi Kwedi, in the traditional fashion of sailors everywhere, brought up the rear. The trio seated themselves uncomfortably on the front row of benches, almost on Alium's toes as he stood in front of the full-height map of Merina at the back of the space. A fifth man rounded out the company; Bertrand Tomou, the head of Merinan Intelligence. The spook always left Alium slightly unsettled. The man was perfectly pleasant, to be sure, and made a point of being so publicly. His reputation for private ruthlessness, and the matter-of-fact manner with which he spoke of the various tools of his trade, rather undermined this carefully-cultivated image however.

Operation Seism was the title of the slide deck being projected beside the map. This was the long-planned Spring Offensive which, it was hoped, would finally break the back of the rebel forces in the south. All present were quite well aware of the outline plan; it was a variation on the classic pincer maneuver, a twin-pronged attack along the Khunene* river valley from east and west aiming for Katamba.

"Gentlemen" Alium began, simply, suppressing a yawn "Do you have anything for me this morning? Is everything in place?"

"We're close, Marshal" Major-General Falemi nodded "I Corps are still disengaging from the Qarkhoi area, their last units should be in position within thirty-six hours. II Corps are on their start line and awaiting the order to advance"

"And the tank trials formation" Alium queried "Any trouble with the new machines?"

"Nothing catastrophic" Falemi grimaced slightly "Though the men have barely received these units, most of the crews have had only a few days on them. I've major misgivings about committing them to action, and have instructed II Corps headquarters not to commit them in the opening stages of the battle. I could say the same of this Tamoran equipment you've bought in" The best part of the body armour and night-vision equipment had been distributed to the officers and NCOs of the leading infantry units for the operation; there was neither enough to go all the way round, nor were many of the rank-and-file trusted with such luxury items "Some units have been issued with them within the last twenty-four hours, and some haven't received any at all yet! I'm all for pushing the night-fighting aspect, to be sure, but its not on to issue out brand-new sophisticated kit on the eve of battle!"

"I'm aware" Alium nodded, solemnly "But the political consideration is that this operation must go ahead without delay; if this new equipment proves to be a burden then it can be withdrawn and we shall continue without"

"Understood" Falemi huffed "But if it causes disaster, well... as you order, Marshal"

"It is" Alium responded softly, yet firmly, before turning to the spymaster "Have you any updates for us, Mister Tomou?"

"I do, Marshal" Bertrand smiled pleasantly, giving Alium a deferential look before continuing "The traitor's forces are generally aware of our troops being concentrated in the II Corps area, though we don't believe they understand the full magnitude of the impending operation. The Communist insurgents in the Qarkhoi will undoubtedly be aware of our draw-down in their sector, though we understand that they are far too weak to pose much of a threat to the containment units. They have communicated such to their compatriots operating in the Makeni area, who have requested reinforcement. Thus, one can only conclude that they too will be prepared"

"Troubling" Alium mused "Have you had any luck locating the Frog?"

The Frog in question was the disgraced Marseillese scientist Joseph Eclair, a chemical and biological warfare specialist on the run from the long arm of international justice. Following the war in his homeland five years earlier, Eclair and many of his surviving compatriots had fled across the border into Merina and thrown themselves at the feet of President Nguessa. Widely despised, though apparently considered useful, Eclair had been brought into Nguessa's service to work on his Chemical weapons programme, which he had done with gusto up until his capture by the Communist insurgents who had caught him visiting a mistress in Makeni in the early days of the war. The first suggestion was that he'd been executed, shot out of hand as a government agent, but more recent reports were that he had not only survived, but had once again changed sides.

"Indeed" Bertrand smiled again; a wide, terrifying, predatory smile "We believe he is working with the insurgents' Chemical Warfare cell, at the former Makleni University laboratories. This is a recent development; one of our informers chanced to catch a glimpse of him entering the building, and has just this week provided us with photographic evidence of this. He can be dead within seventy-two hours, Marshal, you need only ask"

"My commendation" Alium considered for a moment "Ensure your man on the ground is rewarded appropriately. Hold off on the kill team, for now. The troops will be arriving shortly. Keep tabs on him if you can, though I doubt a white man should be too hard to follow in a pack of refugees. If he escapes you will bring him to me... alive. And if this cannot be done, and only if, then you may eliminate him as a last resort. Do you understand?"

"Certainly, Marshal" The spook looked almost gleeful at the proposition "Nothing escapes from my sights. I shall bring him to you, alive, or dead"


Spoiler: Operation Seism Order of Battle • show

Spoiler: I Corps Area (West) • show
20th (Reserve) Division
201 Brigade
202 Brigade
203 Brigade

Brigade Group West
110 Brigade
Naval Demi-Brigade

Armoured Battle Group Qarkhoi
112 Brigade
Independent Armoured Battalion Qarkhoi

Reserve Armoured Battle Group Kholda
206 Brigade
Independent Armoured Battalion Kholda

Air Group II (Fighter)
1/2 Squadron
2/2 Squadron

Air Group VI (Attack)
1/6 Squadron
2/6 Squadron
3/6 Squadron

Rotary Aviation Command
2/R Squadron (Mi-8)
7/R Squadron (Mi-24)

Spoiler: II Corps Area (East) • show
3rd Division
103 Brigade
104 Brigade
105 Brigade

Armoured Battle Group Katamba
111 Brigade
Independent Armoured Battalion Katamba

Reserve Mountain Command Qast
204 (Mountain) Brigade
205 (Mountain) Brigade

Reserve Armoured Battle Group Makasa
207 Brigade
Independent Armoured Battalion Makasa

Presidential Strike Unit de Vries
Independent Armoured Regiment de Vries (1x T-90 Squadron, 2x Leopard 1A5 Squadrons)

Air Group VII (Attack)
1/7 Squadron
2/7 Squadron
3/7 Squadron

Rotary Aviation Command
3/R Squadron (Mi-8)
4/R Squadron (UH-1)


*The major river running through the south of the country

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #5 on: April 22, 2020, 11:01:44 PM »
Generals Gathered In Their Masses...
Brothers Grim

Daniel van Irwen; Free State Forces General Headquarters, Donze, Merinan Free State

A fresh spring rain was falling on Donze as Daniel made his way to the FSF Headquarters on the edge of town. A Mallee boy through and through, some days the humidity of Merina felt oppressive, like working knee-deep in treacle, but today was very pleasant. The sun, where it shone through gaps in the light gray clouds, was in his eyes as he drove.

Donze was a strange place, even by Merinan standards. It even felt like a different country, a different world, from the rest sometimes. Sometimes.

Downtown was built right on the seafront; the forest of great glass towers ran right up to the wide band of golden sand. There was money here, and lots of it, and it was here that the concept of the Free State had been born. Away from the centre, Donze was a patchwork of neighborhoods built in the images of other places, raised up over the years by various companies seeking to house their workers. The slums that characteristic of the outskirts of many other Merinan cities - ever moreso now with the war on - didn't really exist here, though the tented refugee camp a few miles inland had as much to do with this as the aggression with which the city authorities cleared unlicensed developments of this sort.

The neighborhood home to the FSF headquarters was a fair way out from the centre, an estate of fairly luxurious villas interspersed with three-story blocks of high-end flats. It was in one of these blocks that FSFHQ was hidden. Well, mostly within it, partially beneath and partially spread throughout a number of outbuildings and earthen bunkers dug into the ornamental garden. The location was not exactly secretive - armed troopers ran two echelons of roadblocks around the location, after all - though neither was it widely advertised. Particularly from the air, for the risks of air attack weighed heavily on the minds of the FSF commanders.

The air war above the Free State was a sporadic one, with government aircraft making occasional small-scale raids, and the Free State Air Force's helicopters dodging between these to fly support and logistics missions for their own side. If the MNAF found something they really wanted to hit, and came after it hard, there would be little the FSF could do to stop them, though.

Daniel's companion on this drive was his brother, and co-owner of van Irwens' Free Company, Jason. Daniel was the elder of the pair, and while his younger brother shared his fair hair and startling green eyes, the two were quite different in character. Where Daniel was something of a natural fly-half, be Free Company being his brainchild, Jason was every inch - and there were rather a lot of these on Jason, though perhaps not quite so many as he was known to boast - the hairy-arsed, beer-swilling carnivorous prop of legend. They were two years apart, and Dan hadn't been the bigger brother since he was thirteen.

"You've done alright for yourself, eh Dan" Jason was saying, smiling, as they drove "Big Andy's took quite the like to you"

"Can you blame him?" Daniel joked back, not taking his eyes of the road as Jason gave him a gentle dig in the ribs with the huge tattooed ham that passed as his elbow "Nah, look, we've worked hard all these years. 'Bout time we got out of the muck every now 'n then. Anyway, gotta keep it up now, I'm getting a taste for caviar and proper whiskey"

"Not a bad way to live" Jason waved cheerfully to the guard as they were waved through a checkpoint "No complaints from me. He give any hints what today was about?"

"Nothing explicit" Daniel furrowed his brow in concentration, trying to pick out a parking spot. The car park wasn't usually so full "Sounds like a fairly big deal. Don't think its related to Yapok. Something to do with our new friends maybe?"

Operation Yapok was the planned next operation against the Merinan Navy, following the successful arrival of FSS Hotspur in Donze earlier in the month. The new friends, meanwhile, were Polakis' Tamoran 'volunteers', who'd begun arriving about the same time. Daniel, privately, felt a little uneasy around them. Maybe it was because they liked to talk in their own language, maybe it was just that they didn't play rugby. Not yet, he reminded himself with a quiet smirk.

"Maybe" Jason mused "Maybe not. Personally, I'm holding out for a pay rise"

Inside, Free State Forces Headquarters was abuzz. The van Irwens were ushered through crowded corridors and past busy offices, up to the top floor where the First Minister's modern glass-walled corner office was crowded with the great and the good of the FSF. Kaedweni mercenaries, Merinan officers and even a few Tamoran volunteers were packed cheek-by-jowl in what had been a pretty spacious office. Dan squeezed in between two old friends - the sangfroid Edward 'Ed' Kelley and Hotspur's vaunted commander, 'Big Gay' Vince de Boer - while the crowd retreated without fuss to make room for Jason. After what must've been a good ten minutes of small talk, Sir Andrew Carmichael-Smyth - the First Minister of the Merinan Free State (the first First Minister, in fact) - arrived with a stranger in tow.

This stranger was a Merinan, tall, slight and grey-haired, dressed smartly in a shirt and tie, he cut a strangely fatherly figure, though the expression on his face was perfectly affable, if unassuming. Dan thought he vaguely recognized him from a charity advert back home, though couldn't be sure. Sir Andrew ushered him in and shut the door gently, but firmly, behind. The group formed into a huddle around the two; Sir Andrew didn't even try to reach his desk.

"Gentlemen" The First Minister began simply, rarely one to waste words "Allow me to introduce Mister Jacob Adelkune, an old colleague of mine who'll be taking a more substantial role in the Free State project very shortly. He's to be, very soon, the first elected President of the Merinan Free State, in fact" Sir Andrew broke off briefly to quell the murmur from the assembly "Which, gentlemen, is what I've called you all here to discuss. This will be a significant move for us, and I'll need us all to be singing from the same hymn sheet, so to speak"

"The wider situation" He continued, in an explanatory tone "Is changing. There are forces at play far greater than you or I, far greater than any power in Merina, and to survive - nay, perhaps even thrive - we shall need to adapt to them. It is not enough merely to control the physical battlefield, no, we shall need to step up our fight on the battlefield of international opinion if we're to win this war"

"With this in mind" He gestured to Jacob at this point "The Merinan Free State is to hold free and fair democratic elections to provide us with the legitimacy to channel the international support we need. Mr Adelkune, naturally, is to win these elections and take overall leadership of the Free State experiment. Rest assured that you'll be in safe hands; I've worked with Jacob for many years, he's a shrewd operator and all-round top bloke. More importantly, for this exercise, he's also a local lad of humble origins, has an impeccable CV including, among other things, extensive work with the Red Cross, and, if that wasn't enough, is an eminent son of Merina's Jewish community. Have I missed anything, Jacob?"

"I've never" The stranger chuckled "I think, had my arse kissed quite so thoroughly before!"

"Now" Sir Andrew resumed "This is where you gentlemen come in. For this veritable Adonis to assume his rightful position, he must first win an election. An election which, for this to work, must be seen to be free and fair in all respects. There are three candidates for the position of President, all, though no one's ever to know, put forward by us. So long as there's no outside interference, our man Jacob will win by a comfortable margin. I'm expecting a maximal effort from all of you in ensuring the security of this election against outside meddling, though I emphasis that this process absolutely must look the part. I'll have no government agents, armed lunatics or petty despots trying to influence this vote" He paused for a theatrical moment, before adding, with a smirk "That's my job"

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #6 on: April 26, 2020, 09:54:42 PM »
The Merinan War Part III
Climb Mount Ngaliema

Bambidela Paquet; Kholda Armoured Battalion 'A' Squadron Forward Assembly Area, Southwest of Makeni, Merina

The soldiers smiled and waved as Bambi passed, shooting rolling footage of the column as their car passed. He was shocked how young most of them looked, underneath their camouflage smocks and blackened faces. These men were a rare breed in Merina these days - fresh blood. Nguessa's reservists, called up from the relatively untroubled north to bolster his drive for victory, part of Bambi envied them for their innocence, as they smiled and waved and posed for the camera, in the way that young soldiers everywhere are hard-wired to do. The rest of him pitied them, these boys of summer, for the innocence they were about to lose.

Their column was parked down a side road, just off the main east-west highway running around the south side of Makeni, about as close to the front as it was possible for an armoured squadron to get without being seen by the enemy. The leading infantry were maybe three-hundred metres further up the road, little more than a screening force in the woodline running along the crest of the low ridge ahead, and already the snap-crackle-pop of spasmodic gunfire echoed over the landscape. Ade brought their truck to a gentle stop beside the lead tank, where their boss, Derek van der Merwe, was chatting amicably with a Merinan officer.

"Hey, Bambi" The Kaedweni called, gesturing expansively for him to come closer "Still got that GoPro in the ute?"

"Yeah" Bambi replied, quizzically "How come?"

"I've made a deal with the Major here" Derek smiled theatrically "So grab the scotch while you're there. The good scotch, in the glove box"

And quite a deal it was. For the low, low price of a bottle of vintage scotch with dubious origins, Derek's crew would be able to get footage from the very forefront of the battle. The point tank of the battalion's attack, in fact, which they quickly set about wiring up with recording equipment. This was entirely unofficial, of course, though with the squadron commander on board not a man present could object. They'd scarcely finished rigging up when a signal came through to the squadron. Climb Mount Ngaliema, it said. The time had come to attack. The small film crew got clear of the road as the tanks revved up their engines and rumbled off towards the ridge up ahead, Bambi filming the squadron depart from the back of the truck while Derek and Ade got the feed from their camera up on Derek's laptop in the front.

The feed came online just as their tank, as they quickly came to think of it, broke clear of the trees on top of the ridge and into the open country beyond. From their vantage just above the gunsight, they could see the gun scanning left and right, like a great steel beast sniffing the morning air, as the machine slowed to allow the rest of the squadron to fan out behind. They'd be advancing as a great steel wedge; 1 troop up front, with 2 and 3 troops on the left and right of axis, respectively.

Off to their left, the Makeni highway ran down towards the river, maybe a dozen miles distant, beyond which lay the heart of the occupied city. The ground here was open, though, with the wide open pastures interspersed with copses of thorny vegetation and the occasional herdsman's hut. The fighting here had not been so fierce, so far, at least, and while the herdsmen were long gone, their huts and pastures had been spared much of the destruction which had ravaged other parts of the country.

Of their foe - the vile communists of the Merinan People's Army - there was at first no sign. The tanks trundled forward, throwing up a cloud of dust behind them.

Though they couldn't see their enemy, unfriendly eyes most certainly did watch. From a nearby copse, men crouching in a dugout amidst the thorns weighed up their odds. A hurried conversation was had, and shadowy figures passed through the shadows, resolution in their dark eyes.

The first the tankmen knew of their foe was the fiery streak of a rocket motor igniting. With a roar of smoke and flame the projectile came hurtling out from the bushes at a range of no more than a hundred metres, leaping towards the leading tank, which hastily slammed on its breaks. This was a Ruchnoy Protivotankoviy Granatomyot - a rocket propelled grenade, in common parlance - a weapon as ubiquitous as it was deadly. Deadly, at least, in skilled hands. And hands not shaking with a sudden adrenaline rush helped no end. The round went high and wide to the right, the blast sending clods of earth cartwheeling through the air.

After scant seconds of deliberation, the squadron's guns replied in kind. With a thunderous roar, their tank fired its main gun. The 100mm weapon was not exactly cutting edge, but in the decades since its production it had lost none of its destructive potential. The gunsmoke had scarcely cleared when the beast opened up with its twin machine-guns, tracer arcing through the air before striking with copse with an audible crack. A second RPG came back in reply, though this went even wider than the first. Their own infantry were close to hand, closing in as the tanks began to maneuver around the flanks, before storming the scanty trenches with bayonets fixed.

And, just as soon as it had begun, the little action was over.

Operation Seism had started well.




Unbeknownst to any save the most observant - or distracted - men on their little battlefield that day, an altogether more significant action was about to begin a little over twelve miles to their northwest. Merinan Army signals intelligence, as ineffectual as they usually were, flagged up an ominous transmission from an MPA commander. A pair of ground-attack Super Tucanos were scrambled to intercept.

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #7 on: May 21, 2020, 09:30:14 PM »
The Merinan War Part IV
The Makeni Incident

Bambidela Paquet; Kholda Armoured Battalion 'A' Squadron Forward Assembly Area, Southwest of Makeni, Merina

As the tankmen paused, Bambi - still watching the camera feed from 'A' Squadron - caught sight of two aircraft in the distance, sweeping in from the west at low altitude. Their tankers saw them too, and shouted and waved. Air attacks could make for some decent theater. These were the prop-driven Super Turcanos, slow but deadly ground attackers. The pair came in low towards the city, before climbing to make a leisurely pass over the city centre. A few bursts of desultory tracer rose to meet them, but all were well wide of the mark, and at any rate the Peoples' Army lacked any serious anti-aircraft capability.

At length, and seemingly satisfied, first one Turcano and then the other banked sharply before reversing into a steep dive. Bambi could just about make out the bombs falling on the feed, before the airmen pulled out of the dive at low level, hammering open the throttle to clear the target area before the bombs' delayed-action fuses went off. From their vantage point, the first weapon seemed to throw up a small puff a fraction before the second blasted a greater cloud of detritus skywards, the great column obscuring the aircraft from view as they retreated to the north.

The boom of the blast came moments later, audible through a lull in the closer battle.

Still watching the skyline, the dirt thrown up by the bomb blasts seemed to hang in the air unnaturally, almost like a dirty brown stain on the air. In fact, it almost seemed to grow, long after the raiders had disappeared from view, broiling and rolling like some evil sea fog to cover the greater part of the centre of Makeni.

"We'll get a still of that one" Derek commented, appearing at Bambi's shoulder to peek at the monitor, heavily spiced sandwich in hand.

"Already done" Bambi smiled in reply.

Though few would be smiling for long. Even as the pressmen ate their lunches, death stalked down in the valley below. Unbeknownst to Bambi, or the troops at the front, or the rest of Mundus for that matter, the strike had unleashed a chemical disaster of unprecedented scale upon the unsuspecting people of Makeni. The dirty cloud which hung in the air so ominously was, down in the streets below, quickly settling to choke the life out of the war-weary Merinans below. Soldiers and civilians, young and old, sick and healthy alike. Perhaps they would never know how many would die that morning, choking pitifully on their own blood and gore, or how many would endure hours or days of agony, only to die later despite the best efforts of the overstretched Peoples' Army medics.

Unknowingly, the image of that fell mist was already on its way to the Daily Sun's newsroom in Kaedwen. And, soon, it would find its way all around the world.

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #8 on: May 21, 2020, 09:31:35 PM »
The Merinan War Part V
The Rogue Marshal's Men

Major Keith Saunders; Kululu, Eastern Bataar, Merina

The township of Kululu lay astride the Katamba-N'gal Tsata road, on the north bank of the Khunene river, a dozen miles west of its confluence with the White Qast. A week earlier, it had lain well behind the National Liberation Army's lines in a quiet sector. Now, they were occupied by the enemy, and Keith could make out the shapes of several Merinan National Army tanks parked between the distant buildings. Unbeknownst to the men in the town, in the dark of the night two Dijelis were peering down at them from a low ridge to the west. Though the Federation had long closed its borders, many Dijelis had fled abroad, and more than a few of these had found their way to distant Kaedwen. And now these two were back in Albion.

It was all very strange.

These two were with the Kaedweni Office of Defence Intelligence's Group K. Krithia-99, to be specific, which had been in-country for a couple of weeks, having been issued a warning order in the wake of the Kaedo-Albion Raid. With the decision having been made to quietly undermine Nguessa's regime, Group K-99 had been introduced to the National Liberation Army through a contact within Marshal Bemba's officer corps. Their twenty men, split amongst five sections of four men apiece, had busied themselves raising a mixed force of local fighters paid and equipped through a front company abroad.

And now, for one section, it was time for their Kandak to see action.

Off to Keith's left, another Dijeli leered into the darkness. Sergeant-Major Blackwell was an old comrade, and the years since their adventures in Safrean and Seaforth had done little to dull his edge. Off to his right was a Merinan Major, commanding the company of regular troops from the NLA's 16th Airborne Brigade who would form their reserve for this attack. This officer, who's name Keith had already forgotten, was in nominal command of the operation, though in reality another Dijeli was pulling the strings in the dark. Colonel Kai al-Quirm commanded the Kandak, and was making his way forward through the dead ground with two of their companies and his adjutant - the Kaedweni Captain Guy Wiley - while Saunders and Blackwell had the remaining two companies and Merinan paratroopers dug in on the heights. This area was heavily agricultural, criss-crossed with irrigation ditches and dotted about with imposing adobe compounds in between thick fields of tall crops. With this close country, and in the dark before the dawn, the attackers would be able to close in to almost grenade-throwing range before their foe knew they were there.

That was the plan, at least. The Colonel had been hesitant to throw their raw Kandak into the maelstrom of a night attack, so had arranged to make the actual assault at first light. Their handful of mortars, stationed with Keith up on the ridge, to fire a short barrage just as the sun came up, which the infantry would then follow-up against a hopefully shaken foe. Keith glanced backwards to his gun pits, where their four 81mm pieces were dug in in defilade, high-explosive and phosphorus shells at the ready. A gaggle of their native troopers had gathered around the guns, eager for the best view of the fireworks when they started. Blackwell hissed at them angrily to get back in position, and most slunk away back into the darkness.

Suddenly, a distant crackle cut through the still of the night. Then another. Then the throaty bark of a machine-gun. But it was still dark. Something was wrong.

A para-flare went up with a whoosh, casting an unsteady orange glow over the area. Another burst on the machine-gun, then an RPG went off with a bang against one of the buildings in the town.

"Minor, this is Sunray" Colonel al-Quirm's voice on the radio was surprisingly calm, though nonetheless urgent for it "Come in, over"

"Sunray, this is Minor" Keith responded horsely, fumbling for the pressel in the dark "Send traffic, over"

"Minor, Bravo Company engaged to immediate south of Church. Attack is now commencing, put the fire plan in now and bring Delta Company round to hit the Western Roadblock from the north. Confirm you understand, over?"

"Sunray, can confirm understood. Fire plan commencing and Delta moving against Roadblock. Minor out"

The Colonel had decided to go for it. They needed to, really. Bringing trained men back from a serious contact in the dark was bad enough, but with these Merinans it wasn't really much of an option. They were vicious enough fighters, to be sure, and quite bold in attack, but their Kandak lacked the order or cohesion to extricate itself from this fight in good order. So they'd have to make a fight of it, then run like hell once they'd bought themselves a little breathing space.

"B" Keith called out to the Sergeant-Major, though he already had Blackwell's attention "Can you tell the gunners to have at it? And find me Delta's Subedar? Quickly, please mate"

"Sir" The Sergeant-Major growled curtly, before hurrying off. The mortars opened up seconds later, their gunners clearly expecting the order. This was good. Keith pushed himself to his feet, hefting his rifle - a long, heavy Kaedweni SLR, not an uncommon sight on Merina's battlefields - and casting about for D Company men. These were the Colonel's Pindaris, recruited from the refugee camps around Farsiboka. Their Subedar, a short, wiry and weasel-faced man with an unfortunate pencil mustache, presented himself quickly and seemed to grasp the situation even moreso, assembling his Company in fighting order on the top of the ridge.

Unable to resist the temptation, Keith led them into battle himself. Buoyed by adrenaline, he led them down the hill through the cool night air at a steady trot. Whereas the initial attack had gone in down the right, looping around to attack the southern side of the town, he took Delta Company around to the left, cutting through a culvert under the highway where two NLA pickets stood guard, and pushing into the low ground to the north of the town. Here, the company's three platoons were marshaled: one pushed up into a cluster of two-story buildings on the left flank, the second held as a reserve in the low ground, while Keith led the first in amongst the buildings on the western end of the town where the government troops had established their checkpoint.

They stormed into the town firing and throwing grenades almost at random. It was unplanned and unorganized, though so too was the defence. Some of the government troops were still in their billets, while others seemed to be wandering about in search of their officers and NCOs who, in turn, were desperately trying to round up their men in the darkness. Their all-round defence had been poor, the handful of sentries rapidly overwhelmed in a succession of small and heavily unequal gunfights, before the NLA fighters began pushing into the buildings with wanton abandon. All cohesion seemed to have been lost as the men ran left and right, tossing grenades through windows before rushing inside with murderous intent. Most of the buildings here were little more than huts, of either wooden or blockwork construction, and few with more than one floor. Few with more than one room, come to think of it.

A government soldier blundered from a hut right in front of Keith, brandishing his rifle. Not breaking step, Keith bore down on him quickly, firing once with his SLR, and missing, before reflexively driving his bayonet into the man's gut. The trooper fell back against the rough blockwork wall, scrabbling uselessly at his attacker, his own firearm dropped to the floor. Keith put a boot to his victim's thigh, wrenching the bayonet free in a welter of gore, before driving the wicked point into the unfortunate trooper's throat with a vengeance. One of his havildars grinned appreciatively at the Major's antics, yelling something unintelligible before posting a grenade through the door from which the MNA solider had emerged. Right on the heels of the blast, the man ducked inside, firing a few rounds before reappearing, clearly quite pleased with himself.

Out on the highway, were the checkpoint itself was established, the roar of a big diesel engine indicated that the defenders were beginning to get their bearings in the fight. A BMP nosed around the corner into the side-street where Keith's men were rampaging, headlights suddenly casting a painful brigtness in the pre-dawn murk. The men scattered as the great steel beast opened fire with its machine guns, Keith pushing past the havildar, still stood in the doorway. With another roar from the engine, the BMP trundled forward into the alleyway, blasting a chunk from one of the huts as more government troops pressed in behind it. The fight had rapidly turned.

Fortunately, this counter-attack was stopped in its tracks by Delta Company's Subedar, who emerged from the darkness with their reserve platoon. A smart RPG shot smashed into the BMP with a bang, the machine quickly beginning to burn as the crew scrambled from its hatches, the hapless gunner cut down by a burst of automatic fire as he was momentarily skylined atop the turret. A little more firing, and then the government soldiers turned back, the rebels once again surged forward, scenting victory. Keith followed on behind, pausing behind the now merrily burning BMP to stoop beside a fallen enemy officer. His uniform was clearly new and, unusually for a Merinan, he worse a set of body armour - Tamoran, though Keith was ignorant of this - which had done nothing for the poor bugger when a hot fragment of something had torn half his throat away. Keith thought briefly of taking the set, then thought better of it. Bravado counted for much with these men, he'd learned, and wearing armour himself without providing it for his men would not go down well. He did help himself to the fallen officer's night-vision goggles, however; these would make a good reward for Delta's quick-thinking Subedar. Pocketing these, Keith also noted that the dead man's sleeve bore the insignia of the MNA's 207 Brigade, a mechanised unit. Useful to know.

The firing died down for a moment, and his radio chirped again.

"Minor, this is Sunray" It was the Colonel again, puffing this time, though nonetheless still quite composed "Come in, over"

"This is Minor" Keith croaked. Their last conversation seemed a lifetime ago, though the little action had only lasted a few minutes "Receiving you Sunray. Send traffic, over"

"Minor, provide sitrep on Delta, over"

"Sunray, Delta currently engaged around Checkpoint. Initial positions have been cleared, continuing to fight through in depth, over"

"Understood Minor... Alpha and Bravo now withdrawing to FRV, bring Delta back also. Leave the depth positions. Confirm understood, over?"

"Understood Sunray, Delta will withdraw to FRV. Out"

Rounding up his rampaging troops was almost as fraught as the initial attack. The Subedar had led his men across the highway and into the buildings beyond, where they were now fighting a merciless and confused little action with the survivors from the checkpoint in what was quickly becoming the grey light of dawn. Keith waded through this, gathering up what men he could until he found the Subedar, bleeding profusely from his leg but still commanding his men with an undimmed fury. His reluctance to withdraw only dissipated once tanks and reinforcements were spotted moving on the checkpoint from the town centre, though he couldn't be dissuaded from taking a parting shot at the leading tank with an RPG. After a quick head-count, they made good their escape under the cover of a second mortar barrage.

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #9 on: May 24, 2020, 09:14:56 PM »
The Merinan War Part VI
Appel aux Armes

Colonel Valentin Bemba; Consulate District, Farsiboka, Merina

The border city of Farsiboka was an unusual place, even by the loose standards of Merina. Sitting in the bottom of the Farsi valley, the settlement had long guarded the best crossing from neighboring Aosta - a direct route to Katamba, no less - as well as marking a kind of no-man's land between the Odinists of Pindar on the one side, and francophone Mbuni on the other. Nordic, Aostan, French, Pindari and the local Farsa (a dialect of the mostly extinct native Mbuni language) were all widely spoken alongside English. And, so far, the city had been spared the ravages of war.

It was also home to the better part of the National Liberation Army's rear-echelon and administrative units, Katamba having come under threat with the advance of government troops in their most recent offensive. Colonel Valentine Bemba was part of one of these, a staff officer and nephew of the NLA's Marshal of the same name. Like his uncle, Valentin was a French-speaking Merinan from Mbuni, though he'd been quietly packed off to the rear areas, lest the younger Bemba make too much of a name for himself.

But this morning, at least, he did have a useful purpose as he hurried through the narrow streets of the busy Castle Quarter. He carried with him an appeal for support from their nearest useful cultural cousins, Fleur. Admittedly, Marseilles and Aquitaine were similarly Francophone, though neither was in such a position, nor of such a bearing, to support the National Liberation Army in its struggle. And with the conflict becoming increasingly international in nature, it was becoming clear that friends abroad was exactly what the NLA were going to be needing in the very near future.

Valentin checked his watch. Quarter to nine, still plenty of time. He'd arranged a meeting with Fleur's Consul in Farsiboka through an old friend, where he would present his uncle's note and make their case, stressing the linguistic and cultural bonds between his people and theirs, as well as the republican credentials of their movement. Well, the second point was stretching things a bit, but not entirely untrue; while plenty of the NLA's officers did hold genuinely republican ideals, few doubted the older Bemba's aspiration to personal power. In either case, the NLA didn't have a formal platform on the shape of post-war Merina to work with, so a degree of artistic licence was entirely justified, in Valentin's opinion.

And so, armed with his official paperwork and best winning smile, and girded in his best pressed dress uniform, Valentin made his way inside the Consulate shortly before 9am.




((OOC: I know this reads a little bit like the establishing shot for a meeting thread (and that's basically what this is. It both establishes that the NLA are talking to Fleur, why they're doing it, and goes a little way to fleshing them out a tad. Stay tuned to Nova's Press Office for the results   :) ))

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #10 on: June 04, 2020, 12:29:30 PM »
The Merinan War Part VII
This Turbulent Priest

Father Anthony Okogie; Nigyia Cathedral, Nigyia, Merina

The antechamber was lit by a pair of flickering candles on the small alter, throwing a jumble of shadows across the faces of the two men kneeling before it. Both were dressed in the robes of the priesthood: one, tall and severe, was the Bishop of Nigyia, Anasi Loge, while his companion, shorter, but no less lean for it, was Father Okogie. The hour was late, and night had long since fallen across the city beyond the small room, not that daylight would ever reach the windowless cell. Other than the alter, the space was sparsely furnished, with a hard stone floor, plain walls, and a blank door of solid hardwood.

"Tell me" The Bishop intoned, at length, evidently finished with his prayers "What heresy has been spread in our streets this day?"

"The heretic" Okogie replied, his tone somber, his words echoing softly from the bare walls. He was referring to the Tamoran Manist preacher who had been regularly proselytising from the steps of the Citadel, under the watchful eyes of Nguessa's guards "Spoke of the primacy of his apostate supreme leader. He chided the faithful for their devotion to the mother Church, and prattled about his sinful polygamy"

"Grave" The Bishop responded after a moment, in a leaden voice, adding, after another moment's contemplation "And what of the faithful? I trust they continue to reject this satanic nonsense?"

"They do, your excellency" Okogie wheedled, before adding, proudly "A mighty cheer they gave when Fathers Tundi and Zhur pelted the heathen with dung. Alas, the guardsmen are ever watchful"

"Give the Fathers my commendation for their... resolution" The Bishop smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes "But soon providence shall provide you your opportunity, and the Order shall not flinch when the time comes"

"We shall not, your excellency" Okogie agreed, quietly "We shall not"

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #11 on: November 03, 2020, 10:29:42 PM »
The Merinan War Part VIII
The View from the Front

Marshal Alium Deumi; 109 Light Brigade Headquarters, Northwestern Pindar, Merina

November had brought the first winds of winter to Pindar; the weather, it seemed, was cooling just as the war was beginning to hot up once again. The Brigade's headquarters were nestled amongst a stand of scrubby trees on the reverse slope of a line of low hills, and the whistle of the icy winds were punctuated all too frequently by the distant boom of heavy guns at the front. Little clusters of Merinan army officers dashed hither and thither between the clusters of tents, clutching wads of papers and cups of hot coffee against the wind.

The commanding officer, the one-eyed and one-armed Brigadier Yaya Musa, strode purposefully through the little camp beside Alium, the thumb of his remaining hand tucked behind the holster of his sidearm. Both men had donned their seldom-seen MNAF-issue overcoats, as well as cam-netted steel helmets, as they walked up the hill towards the small observation post dug in at the top. Between bouts of small-talk and logistical discussions, the Brigadier suddenly changed tack.

"Do you ever get tired of this, Al?" Yaya said, gazing out over the bleak Pindari landscape. The two men had served together as younger officers, and the tone was casual "I mean, all this? What are we doing out here, Al?"

"Is that an existential question, or a practical one?" Alium responded, the smile waning from his lips as he sensed his friend's gloom.

"A little of one, the rest the other" Yaya shrugged "Thing is, however many of these buggers we kill off, the more seem to crawl out of the earth to replace them. Folks don't want us here, it's like we're destroying the country to save it, ya'know?"

"I do, I do" Alium sighed, casting a furtive look around, continuing after a moment when he was confident they were out of earshot of their own sentries "Between you and me... I'd been hoping for more from the Gaia talks... it's almost worse, how close we got, but at least there's peace in the south, for now"

"Praise god for small mercies" Yaya nodded "Though how long it'll last... I try to have hope, but I do wonder how long we can go on like this, Al. I mean, have you seen some of the new draftees today? We've a replacement in camp can't be a day over fourteen, and this is the bastard light brigade. The auxiliaries are a shambles, I could swear some units I see are half kids and the rest their granddaddies. Makes a man wonder what it is in these hills that's worth all this"

"It's a feeling I know well" Alium sighed, taking a look up towards the sky as a helicopter gunship clattered overhead. With aircraft flying again, an airborne QRF could be dispatched to a threatened sector at very short notice, capable of wreaking absolute havoc on the lightly-equipped Fedayeen infantry with their rockets and guns "But the political options, I'm afraid, do seem to have been exhausted. So it falls to us to continue with other means. It's not a good time but, god being good, we'll be through this soon"

"Have you spoken to Olumbe about this?" Yaya pressed, barely registering the low-flying aircraft "Does he know how things are here?"

"He does, he does" Alium responded compassionately "He's sympathetic, you know him, always was a solider's solider. He'll not see his boys suffer unnecessarily. If there was another way, he'd take it. Bertie Tomou's gang wouldn't let us concede at any rate; always was a ruthless bastard that one"

"So he was" Yaya grimaced, the intelligence chief's reputation was well know, if seldom voiced within his earshot "So he was" With a little chuckle, he suddenly perked up and tried to change the tone "So a wee jaunt to Qandaris it is, then home for tea and medals?"

"That's the plan" Alium chucked along, looking up at the now nearby observation post "Now, lets have a look at this front of yours..."

Offline Dijel

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Re: Dispatches from Merina
« Reply #12 on: November 10, 2020, 11:17:29 PM »
The Merinan War Part IX
Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Daniel van Irwen; Liberation Plaza, Donze, Merinan Free State

The mood in the plaza was febrile. The space was fairly large, probably the largest open space in downtown Donze, in between the little cluster of government buildings around the Old Market Square and the upmarket 'golden mile' along the seafront, and an even bigger crowd had gathered to watch the big screen and the stage set up around the back of the fledgling Foreign Ministry building. Well, some of them had gathered, some had been gathered with bribes and promises, and the rest were drifting through trying to see what all the fuss had been about. The TV cameras were rolling as Jacob Adelkune, the elected President of the Free State, took to the stage, and a sudden hush descended over the plaza.

"Fellow citizens" He began, simply, stretching a pause as long as he dared. He knew what they wanted to know, and they knew he knew "The question has been asked and you, the people, have spoken... I am most honoured today to announce to you, and to all people elsewhere on Mundus, that as of midnight tonight... the Free State shall be a free and independent sovereign nation! God bless you all!"

And, right on cue, a huge Free State tricolour was unfurled behind the stage, great showers of confetti were hurled into the air and, somewhere unseen, a band struck up with some vaguely patriotic music. And the crowd cheered, mostly, to Daniel's continuing disbelief, as real and as genuine a cheer as ever he'd seen from a crowd that wasn't in any way related to rugby. The President started speaking again as the crowd quietened down a bit, though not much else he could say would be remembered by anyone. Not by a long shot. It was the right kind of stuff, to be sure, all freedom and equality and very forward-thinking - the man was, to Daniel's mind - a born speaker, but it just wasn't that important.

All the while the peace talks had struggled on in Lodja, the Free State had quietly been working on a project of their own, an independence referendum for their little slice of the failing Merinan Commonwealth. The best part was they'd not even needed to cheat, not this time. Donze, and the rest of the Free State enclave in western Urhano, was such a world away from the death and destruction which plagued most of the surrounding areas that there'd simply been no need. It was no paradise, but the people had power, running water and mostly enough to eat. While children elsewhere in Merina carried guns and ammunition into battle, theirs carried books to school. To put it one way, Nguessa had rigged the vote for them.

Sir Andrew appeared at his shoulder, leaning on the balustrade of the Foreign Ministry balcony. They'd got the best views in the house, and it never hurt to check in on the close protection team.

"Alea iacta est" Sir Andrew said, thoughtfully.

"Sorry?" Daniel queried, raising an eyebrow but not looking round "I never did learn Morlandish"

"It's latin" Sir Andrew explained, calmly "Means 'the die is cast'"

"It's cast alright" Daniel smiled softly "That and all the rest. Crowd seem to be eating it up, though?"

"Are you really so surprised?"

"To be honest... a little. We've not even paid most of those to cheer, look at them"

"Don't doubt me Dan, it's uncouth. We've won a legitimate, free and transparent referendum this week, and that's something to be proud of. It's not something our man Nguessa can say, thats for sure, nor any of the other gun-toting strongmen out there. Only question now is... will the Council buy it?"

"You think they might not?"

"Maybe they will, maybe they won't" Sir Andrew mulled "If they do, fantastic, if they don't, well, we've still cards enough left in our hand. At the very least, if Nguessa ever gets his armies back from Pindar, he'd be a fool to send them against us now"