This land is my land

[Rhodellia]

This land is my land

OOC: This is a thread dedicated to vignettes and short stories exploring Rhodellia's Native Aurelian insurgency. Anyone is welcome to join. If you would like to learn more about this conflict or get involved in some way, we're coordinating this RP project on the Eurth discord, mostly in the #wurldbuilding and #aurelia text channels.

Table of Contents

Chance Encounter
A squad of Rhodellian Army conscripts encounters and engages Native Aurelian insurgents in the hills of eastern Nordwalde Province. Authored by @Rhodellia
Chapter One - S.S.D.D
Chapter Two - The Observation Outpost and Chapter Three - Recon
Chapter Four - Approach

Double-Pay Men
A new generation of Verdense private military contractors from the Indiense Free Company LLC ship out to Nordwalde Province, aiding overstretched Rhodellian security forces in their counter-insurgency campaign. Authored by @Iverica
Rhodellia calls for aid (again)
The IFC answers
Part 1: Prologue
Part 2: Shafted

A Silent War: A "This Land is My Land" Episode
The Empire of Zaxar gets involved in the war between Rhodellia and the Native Aurelian Free State. Zaxar sends troops to observe Rhodellian military tactics. At the same time, the empire covertly sends troops to fight alongside the Native Aurelian Liberation Army and other Native Aurelian separatist organisations, seeking combat experience against peer opponents. Authored by @Zaxar
Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter 2: The Hobomock Regiment

In The Cold
Kirvina runs a historic Aroman-era embassy in Nordwalde Province, offering the only true 'neutral zone' between rebellious Native Aurelians and their hated colonisers. The Kirvinian embassy is conducting public relations efforts when tensions flare up between the politically divided local populace, threatening the peace, and putting the embassy staff's diplomatic skills to the test. Authored by @Kirvina
Chapter I

Chance Encounter

Chapter One - S.S.D.D 

It’s late in the afternoon when Sergeant Alarick Schäfer's and his squad of green 18 to 20 year-old conscripts reaches their next waypoint along ASR Blue Lagoon, Stone Arrow Campsite. As far as his exhausted band of green 18 to 20 year-old Rhodellian conscripts is concerned, they walked into a derelict campsite somewhere in the forested hills of northeastern Nordwalde Province. Part of their squad, Fire Team Alpha, already arrived ahead of them, having scouted it out and established a perimeter. Alpha's team leader confirmed zero signs of recent human presence, let alone enemy activity. Vines and leaves sprawled all over the campsite's rotting picnic benches, dirty public toilets, shuttered ice cream stall, and security barrier. Even the contents of its foul-smelling litter bins had practically turned into compost. It's clear that the campsite's former operators abandoned the grounds years before anyone in the squad was even born, and nobody's used it ever since. The site looked good enough for a quick rest stop.

At Schäfer's direction, the whole squad secures the campsite. They conduct a cyclical sweep of the campsite, clear rat trails through the undergrowth, and create light machine guns emplacements covering likely enemy angles of approach. They also set up a listening post near the campsite's former road entrance, giving them a good view overlooking the valley to the east, a farm to the southeast, and two important roads - MSR Spirytus and ASR Blue Lagoon. With all that finished, Schäfer beckons two-thirds of his team over to the least greenery-covered picnic bench in the campsite, the headquarters of their new patrol base.

“Rest up while you can on your turns, gents. We’ve got twenty mikes each. We’re Oscar Mike in thirty!” He folds up his map and turns first towards his team leaders. “Meier, your team’s on perimeter watch. If you see Jung, tell him to rotate with Collins' team in twenty. Collins, rotate with Meier's team in ten.” 

And then to the rest of the squad .“Have Doc check your feet for blisters and rashes. Check your weapons. Reapply any face paint you might’ve sweated or rubbed off. Also, the vegetation from here on out will be slightly different from the plants at our starting point. So replace what you've got on your helmet bands, helmet cover slits, and combat webbing with with some local greenery.”

The squad then breaks their patrol column formation to do whatever they have to do. While maintaining a reasonable level of noise discipline, they complain about the stones that somehow got into their boots, the dragging out of their mission, and how their mission may end up being yet another waste of their valuable time if they - once again - end up not killing anything. The one exception is Fire Team Bravo's automatic rifleman, who hounds everyone en-route to his assigned sector of responsibility for a spare sports drink bottle.

Schäfer is reading his map of the area of operations, updating his location on his tactical tablet, and finishing a SITREP to his platoon leader over the radio when he sees Alpha’s team leader, Corporal Rolt Jung, approaching. Schäfer ends his conversation right as Jung takes a seat opposite him.

“Schäfer, interrogative...”

“Yeah, Jung?”

“Why the f*ck are we here?”

“Now ain't that a million-thaler question? Can you expand on it?”

“Why are the fourteen of us out here in the middle of bumf*ck nowhere, spending our entire afternoon rucking up and down all these steep-ass hills in full battle rattle like it's The Crucible?”

“Well... That’s easy, Jung. Somewhere, in this…” Schäfer looks around to see that he is no longer surrounded by the beautiful vistas of Nordwalde’s hills, just an abandoned campsite and an ancient unnamed forest, “...beautiful expanse of Rhodellian countryside, a bunch of Native Aurelian Liberation Army assholes had the absolute f*cking audacity to set foot in our 'hood. Our job and patriotic duty as soldiers of the Rhodellian Army is simply to f*ck ‘em up and mount their heads on pikes. Ideally before they do something nasty.” 

“I know that’s our mission, man, but I mean... I was wondering about the reasons why we’re doing all this shit in the first place. Like, what’s the rationale behind this whole war anyway? Does it ever hit you sometimes that this whole thing’s been going on since way before any of us were born?”

“Did you fail history class, or is National Service the first time your troglodyte-lookin' ass crawled out from beneath your rock since the Cambrian period?”

“Naw, dude.” Jung chuckles. “It’s just that, I swear to God, my grandpa rucked through this exact same AO and took a piss in this exact same picnic area, hunting NALA insurgents in search-and-destroy missions all the way back in the Sixties. And maybe his grandpa before that too. I'm getting this weird sense of inter-generational de ja vu.”

“Well, Jung…” Schäfer rubs his mouth as he tries to think up a satisfactory answer. “This land of ours is a diverse and multicultural one. Since we lost Gold Valley, de facto Rhodellian territory’s shrunk to like what, eighty nine-thousand square kilometres? Yet, within these tiny-ass borders of ours hundreds of different peoples and cultures have been living in and dying over the same f*cking patch of dirt, for thousands upon thousands of years. There's not a single cave wall in this country that isn't defaced by paintings of war and violence. As for us Rhodellians and the d*ckheads in the Native Aurelian Free State... We just happen to be the latest generation of retards bleeding over who gets to call this land rightfully ‘theirs’. And for the NAFS, who are still autistically screeching over colonialism, sharing was never an option.”

“Which side do you think is in the right about all this, Schäfer?”

“In the opinion of this conscript, it really doesn’t matter who’s right or wrong. None of that shit’s worth caring about.” Schäfer shrugs his shoulders, removes his helmet to inspect the camouflage paint on his NVG plate, and pauses. “I live on this patch of dirt. I like living on this patch of dirt. And I can’t be arsed to move off of this patch of dirt. If anyone's got a problem with that, they can talk to the business end of my rifle. But anyway, here's my question:”

Jung nods and signals to Schäfer. “Hit me with it.”

“Why do you think this country is still called ‘Rhodellia’, after our Dolchic-descended royal family, rather than something more Indigenous-sounding?"

“Uh…” Jung scratches the top of his helmet, pondering on an articulate (or at least smart-sounding) answer. “Because of the rule of law? Legally speaking, our country pretty much own the rights to the land we're standing on right now, and a good chunk of the international community agrees with that claim..." He sweeps his finger across the surrounding. forest around him. "That the Rhodellian government in Friedrichstadt is the legitimate national government that exercises sovereignty over this territory.”

"Good..." Schäfer nods a few times.

"That, and because the NAFS is a violent-as-f*ck terrorist state that wants to genocide every white person the moment we let them in our government offices.”

Schäfer nods a few times. "You're getting there, Jung." He takes a deep breath as he collects his thoughts on Rhodellian 'Kriegpolitik'. “In the opinion of this conscript... Rhodellia can only exercise control of this land because we are capable of superior violence. It doesn’t matter what SJW bullshit some self-hating, guilt-tripping, latte-slurping liberal hippie ethnic minority cock-sucker publishes on their blog. Those self-righteous pseudo-intellectual assholes can screech into the void all they f*cking want about social justice, native land rights, and how our country’s entire existence is technically an illegal occupation of stolen land. None of that shit is worth a damn so long as the Rhodellian government has tanks, fighter jets, and the continued will to fight. If all losers can do is b*tch and complain about us being here, if they can't put their words into action, there's no way in hell we're budging off this land.”

“Can’t you come up with a better justification than ‘Right of conquest’ or ‘Might makes right’?”

“There is none.” Schäfer exhales as he readjusts the camo netting and foliage secured by his helmet band. “Rhodellia is imperialist to the core. It's the Law of The Jungle out here, man.”

Jung shrugs. He shifts his attention to the squad medic, Corporal John Mark ‘Doc’ Garcia, who’s applying some kind of cream to the foot of someone from Fire Team Charlie. As physically fit as all able-bodied Rhodellians are legally mandated to be under the Spartan Protocol, not everyone is built like an avid mountain-hiker. It is plain that near-non-stop marching across several-dozen miles of hilly terrain while hauling over 100 lb of gear is taking its toll on some of his squadmates. He looks down at his own combat boots, and wriggles his toes to revive the blood flow to his feet.

“Okay… Next question: Why, in his infinite wisdom, is Goodsprings making us do this whole search-and-destroy mission on foot? Y'know, If I'm gonna be illegally occupying rightful Native Aurelian clay and shit, I'd at least like to oppress ethnic minority groups from inside an AFV with air conditioning.” Jung frowns, referring to his battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Emory Schreiber, whose callsign is ‘Goodsprings’.

“Now wouldn't that be the dream?”

“I mean, don't you wish that, just for f*cking once, man, that asshole would let do our job without some bullshit caveat that makes it a total chore? You saw the motorpool back at Bergenstein, right?”

“What about it?”

“Imagine spending billions of taxpayer thalers procuring and maintaining a shitload of perfectly good APCs, armoured utility vehicles, and f*cking helicopters... and then dropping us off outside the AO and telling us to f*cking hoof it for dozens of miles, in full f*cking battle rattle, without even assigning any f*cking Load-Bearing Combat Goats at the squad level to help carry our shit." Jung groans. "Has it ever occurred to his massive Military Academy-educated brain that we can cover a lot more ground if we actually had some transportation with high-tech thermal cameras and shit?”

“I can think of a few reasons why — in his infinite wisdom — he's making us do it this way.” Schäfer turns his map around and pushes it towards Jung. Schäfer plants his finger on a single carriageway roughly 600 metres to the east of their current position. On Rhodellian military maps of the AO, that specific road is called ‘MSR Spirytus’. It is the primary route for supply trucks shuttling supplies from rail depots in the city of Schwarzwald up north to Camp Bergenstein, a military installation near the contested border with the Native Aurelian Free State. 

“Whatcha got?” Jung leans closer.

“Ride in an APC, and our movement will stay restricted to the roads and our situational awareness will stay confined to what we can see from those roads. They can more easily anticipate our movements, hide from us, and — if they really wanted to — ambush us. Hiding from thermals is also piss-easy with how thick the local flora is. He probably thinks that we have far better odds of running into or detecting the enemy with our own eyes and ears, rather than over-relying on technology.”

“And the helicopters?” Jung looks up at the overcast sky, imagining himself manning a rotary machine gun, spraying streams of 7.62×51mm tracer rounds into the woods below as Ride of the Valkyries blares from the Bluetooth loudspeakers he recently ordered online. He looks ahead to see Schäfer staring blankly at the clouds as well.

“Well…” Schäfer shakes his head, as if snapping from his own daydream. “Helicopters aren't exactly the height of subtlety. This whole operation is supposed to be kinda secret… Only BCT headquarters, Intel, our battalion, and some Air Force drone operators know why we’re really out here. For all the rest of the Wurld knows, from the civvies at the nearby farm to the enemy we're hunting down, we could just on a regular training exercise. The enemy might not even necessarily know that we're on to them, because it's not unusual in the slightest for troops to be conducting training exercises out here. So that might reduce their alert levels."

"Right under our f*cking noses, man."

"Yeah." Schäfer nods. "So if they see random dismounts like us walking across the hills, they might just think I’m a random Butterbar failing spectacularly at basic LandNav. Maybe they'll let us pass out of pity, all without suspecting a damn thing.” He then points up at the sky “But if we ride in with helicopters, searchlights, and Wagner playing, that just screams that we’re on to them. They'll call off their mission, hide in a patch of forest we can't pierce with thermals, and f*ck off back across the Nordfluss before we can cap them. If we’re especially unlucky, they might even shoot us down for shits and giggles before scooting off. Goodsprings probably doesn't want to risk expensive military hardware when he can avoid it. At least I think that’s the CO logic this time around.“

“Fair enough.” Jung shrugs. “But y'know, speaking of Officer Logic, I get that Commissioned Officers tend to see things from a radically different perspective than the lower enlisted. Planners versus Executors and all that shit. But sometimes, the bars they graduate with at Officer school must be prime breeding grounds for dementia-inducing brain parasites.”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

“It's weird, man. To even become a Commissioned Officer in the first place, you need to be voted into NCO school at the end of boot camp like we did. And once that's over, you need to score enough marks and votes to enter Officer School. Both times, you need to secure votes, high grades, and written recommendations from your fellow recruits. And all of that shit takes real intelligence, leadership ability, and competence that can't be faked for five months straight. But as soon as some people get their commissions, somehow they turn into drooling retards or careerist pricks. Where else can they get their advanced terminal retardation from? Without fail, they'll always find a way to tack on layer after layer of bullshit onto missions just to f*ck with us.”

“Yeah..." Schäfer shrugs as Jung continues his rant.

"It's f*cking mental, dude. We're taught in NCO school to embody the doctrine of Auftragstaktik, of mission-type tactics. They teach us to be independent, to be flexible, to act decisively according to how we see the situation on the ground." Jung drops his head, and takes a deep breath. "Yet over here, in Nordwalde, the SOP's the complete f*cking opposite. They weigh us down with the dumbest ROEs imaginable, punish us for taking the initiative, and make us ask for permission before doing literally f*cking anything. Can't even take a shit in the woods with Goodsprings breathing down my neck."

"It's real f*cking retarded if you ask me." Schäfer shakes his head. "No wonder we ain't winning out here."

Jung throws his arms into the air. "It's like... the higher a CO's rank, the more they fear responsibility, the less they trust the dudes under their command to do their jobs. So they keep trying to f*cking micromanage everything because they're scared shitless that some E5 or OF1 will commit a war crime for shits and giggles. Shit happens in war, and they can't stay one-hundred-percent on top of the kind of chaos that breaks out around here in real-time. A rebel cell can run entire f*cking laps around us by the time the brass figures out what's happening from their office desks."

Jung sighs. "But yeah… You know, aside from all the stupid shit he does sometimes, Goodspring’s doesn't actually seem like all that much of an asshole. But where we see an objective, he sees another step in the career ladder. What turns a squared-away Rhodellian with a proven track record into a retarded opportunist anyway?”

“I dunno. Some ‘Sword of Damocles’ shit?”

“F*ckin’ Goodsprings, man.” Jung shakes his head.

“Alright…” Schäfer pats Jung on the shoulder before removing his rucksack. “You can go back to your team now. Tell them what's up. Meanwhile…” He exhales as he unzips a side pocket, retrieves a pack of baby wipes and a bottle of neutral-smelling hand sanitizer, and turns towards the campsite's public toilets. “I gotta go take a shit.”

“Aight.” Jung nods.

When Jung returns to his team, Fire Team Alpha is busy cutting out pieces of foliage with their bayonets, masking their sound with those of the wind and rustling leaves breezes of wind. 

“Yo. What it is, hoes?” Jung unstraps his helmet and comparing the shape and colour of the local plants with those already attached to his uniform. He opts to start swapping them out for fresher and greener ones.

Alpha’s automatic rifleman, Private Garrick Wolff, nods up at Jung. “Hey, Jung.”

"Sup Wolff?” 

“We’ve been rucking for like… almost five hours now. Where the f*ck even are those NALA infiltrators we’re supposed to be looking for?”

“F*ck if anyone knows, dude. Schäfer ain't heard nothing new on the net.”

“With four full-strength companies patrolling the AO on foot, you’d think at least one squad would’ve run into them by now. The AO ain’t even that big.”

“Think about it this way, Wolff: every square meter of ground we cover is one less they could be hiding in.”

Wolff shakes his head, feeling even more tired “That’s… still a lot of ground left that our squad needs to cover…” 

“Then what about it this way: every step we take is one step closer to us kicking the absolute shit of them for making us waste such a fine afternoon.”

“I guess...” Wolff shuts his eyes for a brief few moments, stewing in bitterness and rage, imagining all the creative ways he could take revenge on the NALA infiltrators for making him leave his room. “f*ck busting my spine and kneecaps on these f*cking hills.. I could be playing Warzone right now… I swear, I’m finna scalping each and every one of them NALA motherf*ckers the moment I find their sorry asses. No cap.”

“Good! Use your aggressive feelings, boy.” Jung smiles as he cuts some more leaves off a bush he knows is not poisonous. “Let the hate flow through you!”

“Goddamnit.” Wolff laughs. The thought of scalping fellow human beings brought another question to his mind, this time addressed to one of the two Native Aurelians in his squad. The Indigenous man in question also happens to be his squad's rifleman. “Yo, Wickwash.” 

‘Wickwash’ is the nickname for Fire Team A’s half-Dolchic half-Native Aurelian rifleman, Private Puhihwikwasu'u Geldfeld. Similarly to a lot of Rhodellians with his racial background, he's proud of his mother’s native heritage but ashamed of his Dolchic surname. It's a sentiment owing to centuries of Dolchic colonial oppression over Aurelia's indigenous people. When Wickwash arrived at his first duty station, his first order of business was to ask his squadmates to use his forename instead. They all respected his wish without question. But there was a problem in that most of the squad kept mispronouncing and misspelling 'Puhihwikwasu'u'. So the squad eventually shortened his name to ‘Wickwash’ after watching him snuff out a row of lit candles with his rifle.

“Sup.” Wickwash nods up.

“Aside from being half-Dolchic, ironic as that is for you, you’re basically a Native Aurelian in every way, right?”

“Nʉmʉnʉʉ.” He corrects Jung. At least in Rhodellia, Native Aurelians prefer to be known by their specific tribal affiliation instead of a generic term. “And f*ckin’ A I am. What about it, you cream-faced, culture-destroying, genocide-happy coloniser?”

“So I’ve been wondering, bro… When you started your National Service, you signed up to be an infantryman, right?”

“Yeah, dude. What does that have to do with me being from one of The Tribes?”

“So when you wanted to become a rifleman, you knew full-well that you’d be sent up North to Nordwalde, where you'd be helping The White Man slaughter your fellow Native Aurelians, lay waste to their cities, and re-colonise your ancestral lands?”

“Man, I don’t get why all you white people keep lumping us all together like that.” Wickwash smiles as he inspects his newly re-camouflaged helmet, puts it back on, and examines his head's certainly-not-human outline with a hand-mirror.  “Not every shithead in the NAFS is from my tribe. So it ain’t like I’m specifically out to kill my own people. I just came out here to scalp some motherf*ckers, maybe earn an eagle feather or two, and go home to watch some anime. You feel me?”

“Yeah, I feel you, bro.”

“And just as we overheard Sarge saying 10 mikes ago: Native Aurelians have been smoking each other long before any of your pasty asses first set foot on this continent. Even after Dolchic settlers first showed, we still kept fighting each other. But this time, ya'll paid us in state-of-the-art muskets, carbon steels, and blood money for scalps claimed from other tribes.” Wickwash nods, grinning. "And damn, were my ancestors f*cking good at getting scalps!"

“That’s hardcore.”

“Hell yeah it was, dude! And three-hundred years later…” He flourishes his bayonet and taps on the tactical tomahawk on his belt, and smiles in reassurance to his Dolchic squadmate. “That time-honoured tradition ain’t dying with me, bro.”

Private John Adebayo, Alpha’s grenadier, budges closer to Jung, Wolff, and Wickwash. He’s a second-generation immigrant who has neither Dolchic nor Native Aurelian blood in him, somewhat sparing him from centuries of bad blood running between Dolchic Rhodellians and a significant number of Native Aurelians inside and out of Rhodellia. “And it’s all thanks to that tribalistic attitude that The Dolch managed to divide-and-conquer the shit out of your lands. I know how you feel, brother. That aside, don't you guys have any sense of Native Aurelian solidarity?”

Wickwash hands Adebayo some spare vegetation, which Adebayo heartily accepts and adds to his combat webbing. “I’m a Rhodellian first. Nʉmʉnʉʉ second. Native Aurelian third.” Wickwash shrugs.

“And that brings us to the wonderful f*cking SNAFU we have today...” Adebayo chuckles as he takes out his own hand-mirror, gauging the new changes to his equipment’s leafier, grassier, and increasingly inhuman outline.

"It really do be like that, dawg.”

Seeing the lull in the conversation, Wolff re-inserts himself into it. “So yeah, Wickwash, since you mentioned anime... What anime are you watching at the moment?”

“Right now, back at the base?”

 “Yeah.”

“So I’m watching this long-running Rhavan anime called ‘Now I’m here, now I’m gone.’ It’s just been rebooted by a different animation studio from the original. So I’m trying to get up to date with the eleven OG seasons that came before it. I want to compare the original anime with the new one.”

“Christ. Eleven f*cking seasons? Just how many episodes is that?”

“Around 270ish episodes, not counting filler episodes or the reboot. I’m binge-watching the original seasons while waiting for the next episode of the reboot to come out." Wickwash smacks his lips. "I just finished Episode 172 this morning after chow, and I’m telling you bro... This shit’s A-grade classic material.”

Taken aback by the episode count, a long (but still subdued) whistle filters through Wolff’s mouth. “What’s the anime about? I only see episode counts like that from long-running Shounen anime.”

“Well, allow me to subvert your f*cking expectations, my guy.” Wickwash chuckles as straps his helmet back on. “It’s actually not a Shounen. No power-ups, jutsus, bankais, stands, or anything like that. It’s a drama show with romance and stuff. Like a... live-action soap opera, but animated. We can watch the first episode when we get back to base.”

“Damn, bro. From all your talk about doing hardcore shit, like scalping motherf*ckers and keeping their heads as trophies and lawn ornaments, I’d never have thought you were into those kinds of plots.”

“Eh, they’re nice to watch once in a while.” Wickwash shrugs “Even for us Rhodellians, there’s gotta be more to life than just violence, right?”

“Wickwash, my friend… I can not believe that beneath that blood-crazed ice-cold warrior exterior of yours... you’re actually a massive f*cking faggot holy shit!” The whole team bursts into (subdued) laughter. Wolff continues once it dies down. “So should we start with the earlier seasons first, or do we start with the reboot?”

Wickwash pauses in thought before nodding a few times. “Yeah, we can start with the reboot. It basically follows the original story, but with nicer-looking visuals. You can watch the original in your own time.”

“Sounds cool to me, bro.” Wolff nods as he opens his camouflage kit's integrated mirror, noticing that perspiration washed off some of his camouflage face paint. “F*ck, man. I gotta redo my face again. My skin's shinier than f*cking silver.” Having already finished repainting his face, Wickwash tosses a pack of tissues and his own face paint kit to Wolff.

While Wolff's busy, Wickwash continues the conversation with Jung and Adebayo.  “How about you, Jung? You watching any good anime either?”

“Nah, dude.” Jung shakes his head as he very, very carefully takes a sip from his canteen. “I don't have the patience to sit all the way through a 24-minute episode nowadays. So I just read manga and webcomics whenever I feel like it.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, there’s this Kirvinian one I’m reading called ‘Like In Those Days’...”

Upon hearing Jung mention that last title, Adebayo perks his head up. “Hey, I’ve been reading that one too!”

“No shit.” Jung chuckles, “Your patrician taste never fails to impress me, bro.”

Adebayo and Jung bump fists and start talking about the latest chapter on the internet.

“Nice.” Wickwash nods, trying not to get left out of the conversation “So what’s it about?”

Adebayo takes it from there, raising his bayonet for a flashy performance. “It’s a story set in a fantasy version of 16th-century Aurelia…” He shuffles backwards, creating a safer distance between himself and his fellow teammates. With the grace of a professional fencer, he thrusts, swings, and flourishes his bayonet in all directions. Some squadmates from Bravo, returning from their watch, quietly applaud his knife-play. Adebayo is encouraged by this and continues doing knife tricks with growing vigour. “It’s about this guy named Constantine. He goes around hunting monsters in the woods, getting into sword fights with people, getting caught in political intrigue, and just being an overall cool guy. A guy from Haus Rödel is even one of the guy’s nakama! The art's great and the action is badass as f*ck. You gotta see it to believe it!”  Adebayo spins his bayonet one last time before sheathing it.

Wickwash nods as Adebayo speaks. He imagines his squad ganging up on a dragon with spears, swords, and magic missiles  “Damn, bro. That sounds so much cooler than whatever the f*ck we’re doing right now.”

“Yeah brother, the whole webcomic’s f*cking awesome.” Adebayo laughs quietly, more eager than ever to get back to base so he can show Wolff the webcomic's pilot chapter. “Whenever Constantine goes into a forest, he gets to duel spriggans, werewolves, and all kinds of other crazy shit with f*cking swords and magic. That’s badass. Meanwhile, if we go into a forest, we don’t even get to slay wolves or bears. Y’know, because we drove all the local ones extinct. Nah, dude. Instead, we just trip on landmines. Or get shot at.”

Wolff’s ears wriggle at the mention of landmines, and interjects. It appears that he just finished re-applying his face paint. “Speaking of landmines, y’know, I grew up near a Red Zone as a kid.”

In Rhodellia, a ‘Red Zone’ is an enclosed area of land so devastated by past conflicts (usually by the Second and Third Great Wars) that they’re no longer safe for human habitation. This is generally because they’re still littered with uncleared landmines and unexploded artillery shells. The most war-torn Red Zones are still heavily contaminated by the unrestricted use of chemical weapons. And so, to protect the general populace from the explosive remnants of war (ERW) inside them, the Red Zones are either fenced off or marked with warning signs.

“Oh shit. Really?” Wickwash gestures to Wolff that he has the whole team’s undivided attention. Wolff nods, pauses to gather his thoughts, and continues.

“My family never went camping in the woods behind my backyard because it’s sealed off behind three thick-ass rows of razor wire. But whenever I did sneak in there, say, because the other boys in the hood wanted to f*ck around in old trenches and ruins, we always, ALWAYS had to watch our step. Never knew when the rain would uncover an old landmine or cluster bomb. A few times every year, we'd hear kids getting blown up all the way from house. Did you know that, at one point in the Second Great War, both Rhodellia and the Grand Alliance fired like a million f*cking shells per day back there, just in that one sector? 

Wolff’s teammates gasp at the figure.

“That’s a f*ckload of ordnance, brother.” Adebayo whistles, mimicking the sound of a falling (subsonic) artillery shell.

“I wish I could drop that much shit on the NAFS Capitol.” Wickwash wishes out loud.

“How the hell does your Red Zone still have ruins left standing in it?” Jung raises an eyebrow.

“The wonders of Rhodellian engineering, I guess.” Wolff shrugs, unsure of the answer himself. His figure about artillery shells was probably just an exaggeration, unless a major battle actually was fought over his hometown. The team imagines just how much industry and logistics it would take for a group of artillery batteries to even sustain that rate of fire. It’s an amusing thought. Wolff continues.

“So yeah, back home, we still use discarded shell casings as house decorations. Flowerpots, fence posts, pencil-holders, you name it. And now, on top of unexploded ordnance potentially lying outside of the marked Red Zones, we gotta look out for signs of potential ambushes too. I’m always too busy staying frosty to feel like I’m going on some big adventure like the dudes in fantasy anime, manga, and webcomics. Ain’t no magic up in this b*tch. This sucks major ass, I tell you.”

Wickwash shrugs. “As long as we get to make motherf*ckers bleed by the end of the day, whether it be with tomahawks, bayonets, rifles, or magic spells, it’s still all good, right?” 

“Yeah, I guess so, man.”

Jung stands up, brushes the dirt off his knee pads, and looks around him. He pulls up his glove to look at his watch, checking how long it will be until his team is supposed to take over perimeter watch from Fire Team Charlie. It should be about time, but neither Charlie or its team leader, Corporal William Collins, have returned from perimeter watches.

“Well, look on the bright side, Wolff.” Jung pulls down his glove “If an unexploded mine gibs any of us before NALA does, at least we’ll get to become cyborgs.” He pats his right arm “Have you seen the Cyberpunk-looking shit the RHS is rolling out nowadays? A Military Police vet in my neighbourhood lost his right arm when the NALA raided Camp Kirstein a few years back. According to him, the f*ckers dropped a 155-mike-mike arty shell right on top of his mortar emplacement using a civilian drone.” He taps his right arm again, and swings his hand away while mimicking the sound of an explosion. “Shrapnel severed his arm. And now the RHS’s hooked him up with a cybernetic arm with five independent fingers and the capacity to feel. He ain’t exactly shouting ‘Hocus Pocus’ with a wand, but at least he can still say ‘Avada kedavra’ while pulling a trigger. That’s still pretty magical, ain’t it?”

“Rhodellian healthcare’s nice and all…” Wolff shrugs. “But imagine dedicating years of your life to getting swole... imagine building up the discipline to stick to a strict diet and workout routine, and suffering through extreme lactic acid build-up day after day to grow all this muscle mass and cultivate combat-ready arms and legs... just to get them ripped off and replaced with glorified slabs of plastic.”

He pauses. “And once you get past all those ‘initial reaction’ marketing stunt videos - 'Prostheses unboxings', I think they're called - that keep showing up on everyone’s Volkscast recommendation, you’ll see that the prostheses we have commercially available right now aren’t exactly at 'Sci-Fi' levels yet. They’re still nowhere near as good as the biological limbs we’re born with. And cycling through a shitload of different hand configurations can be real f*cking tedious to deal with. So losing a limb is still as much of a downer as it’s always been.”

“You seem pretty knowledgeable on prostheses.” Jung whistles.

“I’m actually not, but my older brother has one. He was a combat engineer back when he did National Service. Two years ago, he volunteered to help with EOD at the Westfalen Red Zone. Things were going okay over there until his group's demining robot broke down on ‘em. And… You know where I’m going with this?”

“Oh f*ck, dude.”

“Yup.” Wolff nods. “He and the other engineers had to go in themselves and do shit the old-fashioned way. My brother missed an unmarked plastic landmine he couldn’t catch with his detector. " He points towards the sky. "The mine literally sent my brother shooting for the moon. But by some f*cking miracle, he survived. He broke his ribcage on impact. As for the mine, it sent shrapnel flying in all directions.” He then taps his thigh to show where his older brother’s stump is. “The mine tore his right leg clean off."

“Jesus…” Adebayo exhales.

Wolff pauses to recall more of his memories regarding the event. “The Red Zone incident made the local headlines. Before we knew it, this low-cost prosthetics start-up came knocking on his hospital room door. They asked him if he’d like to take part in a PR stunt. If he agreed, he’d get a fancy new leg out of it. And that's how he got one of the most advanced prostheses commercially available at the time, free of charge.”

“Was it a bad leg?”

“By 2019 standards? Hell naw." Wolff shakes his head. "Nah, bro. It’s one of those state-of-the-art 3D-printed myoelectric legs that pick up muscle impulses, with electrodes, microprocessors, motors, and shit. It’s definitely a direct upgrade from the usual prostheses the RHS hands out to amputees. But it ain’t the cyberpunk techno-wizardry the advertisements hype them up to be. My brother was pretty very happy at first, ecstatic even. It was the shit disability porn is made of... But he’s moved past all that noise." Wolff sighs. "I mean, his f*cking leg’s still gone. He's left with a less-functional mockery of the biological human form. Poor guy still copes with phantom pains from losing a literal, tangible part of himself that's grown with him since birth.”

“Damn, man, I’m sorry to hear that.” Jung pats Wolff on the back.

“Sorry, bro, if I crushed your transhumanist fantasies.”

“Ah well... It's no biggie.” Jung shrugs as he tries to figure out where Charlie is; they’re running slightly late on their rotation. “Maybe we’ll get some really cool developments, like, five years from now, and another five years until they become affordable enough to be widespread. At least our kids or grandkids will be shooting lasers from their eyes!”

“Looking forward to it, man.”

Meanwhile, at a close-by picnic bench, the boys in Corporal Koen Meier’s Bravo team are talking about magic and slaying fantasy creatures because they overheard their buddies in Alpha talking about it.

Bravo's rifleman, Private Waltz Fischer, has scooped up a long stick from the ground and is switching between a series of longsword guard stances.  “You know, I went to Dolchic longsword fencing clubs back in primary school, secondary school, and sixth form college…” Fischer boasts at length about his swordsmanship prowess, backing it up with well-rehearsed footwork and a swift Zornhau cut “Hey Kowalski, think I can solo a dragon?” 

The team’s automatic rifleman, Private Jakub Kowalczyk, shakes his head “Your stupid ass would get eaten in three seconds. Tops.”

The team’s grenadier, Private Robert Powell, laughs with Kowalczyk as he inspects his weapons. “I can guarantee you that I wouldn’t.” He taps his rifle’s underbarrel grenade-launcher “If I had magic, I’d cast a spell to turn my 40-mike-mikes into Davy-f*cking-Crocketts. A dragon’s hot shit, alright, but I’d like to see just how well they’d do against seven tactical nukes-a-minute!”

“You’d still f*cking die before shooting your second shot, Powell.” Meier chuckles at the surreal thought of Powell running up to a dragon, screaming like a banshee, and unintentionally blowing up everything in a 630-metre radius - his team mates included.

“You shut your pussy lips, Meier! Kamikaze’ing a dragon with a nuke has still gotta be one of the most hardcore ways for a man to go out! That’s gotta be worth some award, right?”

“Yeah, a f*cking Darwin Award!”

The lads in Bravo laugh quietly until they notice Collins jogging back into the campsite, with an excited on his face.

“Oh shit! Look who’s finally back from his combat circle-jacks!” Meier calls out to Collins. With a wide grin, Collins flips the bird at him. Meier takes his fellow team leader's unusual happiness as a very, very good sign. “Look at him.” Meier slings his rifle “He looks like a kid wanting to show his mom and pops a cool toy he saw through a f*cking store window.”

“Think his team found those NALA pricks we’ve spent the past five hours looking for?” Powell checks the status of his face paint in the mirror, one last time, to ensure it properly blends with the local environment and masks the natural shine of the human skin. He seems proud of all the camouflage he's attached to himself throughout the day (without compromising his range of movement, ability to perspire, ability to move quietly, or turning his combat uniform into a full ghillie suit).

Fischer crouches next to Powell and checks the ammunition in his magazine. “After all the rucking those shitheads made Goodsprings put us through today? God, I f*cking hope so.”

Kowalczyk squats on the grass next to Fischer, eagerly waiting for Schäfer (who just returned from the biological weapon called the campsite’s ‘public toilets’) to announce a pre-combat inspection. “If we actually get some today bro…” He looks up at Fischer and clenches his fist around his squad automatic weapon’s pistol grip. “I swear to God, all of the bullshit we took today would’ve been f*cking worth it.” 

Meier nods, knocking on the side of his helmet. “Especially if we get eagle feathers out of this. They’d look so badass on my helmet band. B*tches love feathers.”

They see Collins briefing Schäfer on something urgent. Schäfer absorbs what information he can, and relays a SITREP to his platoon leader over the radio. Once that's done, Schäfer starts jogging between the different fire teams, flanked by Doc, grabbing their attention with kicks, nudges, and creatively verbose threats of grievous bodily harm. 

“Everyone in the squad who's not busy, form up around this table!” Schäfer beckons the squad to his picnic bench. Jung, Meier, and Collins take out their ballpoint pens and notepads as Schäfer plants his finger on his map of the AO. “al-Latif, who's manning the LP, has contact on a squad-size element of eleven unidentified foot mobiles setting up cammie nets 700 metres to the east of our pos. They’re at the edge of the forest on the western hillside between Hills 419 and 420, overlooking this bending 400-metre stretch of MSR Spirytus, between Arrow Creek Farm and T-Junction Checkpoint Niner-Bravo at Grid Bravo Sierra Four-Five-Niner-Five Four-Five-Three-Two. I'm also sending Zimmerman to join al-Latif at the LP, so I need one volunteer to take up his sentry position at our 4 o'clock position."

Schäfer shivers, barely able to contain his excitement or maintain a serious, stoic exterior. “Get ready for pre-combat inspections, we're going into REDCON-2! If Goodsprings doesn’t f*ck us in the ass by dropping a JDAM instead, we might actually get to smoke some motherf*ckers!”

And so, the boys all cheered for war.

[Rhodellia]

Chance Encounter

Recap

The Native Aurelian Liberation Army (NALA) is fighting to reclaim ancestral Native Aurelian land from Rhodellia. A group of possible NALA insurgents was sighted travelling through the hills of rural Nordwalde Province. The Rhodellian Armed Forces have hastily organised a large-scale operation to find and neutralise it. Sergeant Schäfer and his squad thinks they have found the NALA insurgents in question. Now they just have to see what they're actually up against before they can engage.

Chapter Two - The Observation Outpost

The forested hills of rural Nordwalde Province seem quiet. Private Ludwig Zimmerman and Private Abdul Hamid bin Faisal al-Latif of Fire Team Charlie sat in a bush, manning a listening post. They’ve camouflaged themselves in the cool shade of a densely forested and vegetated hillside, with wool and mylar blankets on immediate standby; they’ve taken as many precautions as they practically can to thwart detection by binoculars and thermal imaging devices. Their task is to monitor the approach to their squad’s patrol base, ambushing any enemies that might have been trailing them, and observing the valley and other nearby hills for signs of enemy activity.

For the past five hours, a group of suspected Native Aurelian Liberation Army (NALA) infiltrators evaded the watchful eyes of both the Rhodellian Army and Rhodellian Air Force at every turn. But thanks to two bored teenagers, who just happened to be in the right place, facing the right direction, at the right time, these insurgents' luck might have just run out.

The listening post first made visual contact with a squad-sized element of eleven heavily armed dismounts less than ten minutes ago at 1702 hours. al-Latif spotted unnatural movements roughly 400 metres away on the opposite side of the valley, in the treeline on the western hillside between Hills 419 and 420. al-Latif radio'd his squad's HQ while watching the suspicious group with binoculars. Zimmerman was soon sent to accompany al-Latif while the squad passed word up the chain of command.

The group of suspected infiltrators stopped to crouch behind some trees on the opposite hillside. By 1715 hours, al-Latif and Zimmerman managed to identify and write detailed notes on eleven unique individuals, down to their uniforms, camouflage pattern (TAZ 90), body armour (Soldier Plate Carrier System (SPCSs)), helmets (Integrated Head Protection System), night-vision devices (Ground Panoramic NightVision Goggles (GPNVGs)), weapons systems, and weapon accessories. But al-Latif and Zimmerman still had to be careful.

The group was as well-armed as any typical infantry squad in a first-rate state military. Ten had assault rifles (a mix of M16A4s and M4A1s), all with suppressors and a variety of optics. Two had M3E1 recoilless rifles. Another has an FIM-92J Stinger man-portable air-defense system. One had an M240L general-purpose machine gun. In short, they were as well-equipped as any infantry squad in a first-rate state military. In Rhodellia, in case of invasion, every good law-abiding citizen maintains their own private arsenal of military-grade weapons, and many larger citizen militias stockpiled an assortment of heavy weaponry. The NALA and many armed Separatist organisation did the same, albeit for fighting the Rhodellian government. Whether these were a friendly local militia on an exercise or actual hostiles, the weapons they carried were not reliable indicators of 'friend' or 'foe'. 

At the very least, uniform was a slightly more reliable indicator. Just like a proper conventional army, the NALA and different Separatist and Loyalist militias differentiated from each other using uniforms printed with particular camouflage patterns. The Rhodellian Armed Forced used Flectarn and the Nordwalde Provincial Police used Multicam. The local Loyalist militia, the Nordwalde Tigers, used Tigerstripe. al-Latif and Zimmerman suspected this particular group because they were wearing TAZ 90 woodland camouflage, the camouflage pattern adopted by NALA regulars since the early 2000s. But even then, this did not 100% confirm them to be hostiles.

al-Latif and Zimmerman glared at the (possible) enemy through their binoculars. Zimmerman nudged al-Latif with his elbow.

“Yo, you think these guys are actually NALA? The ones we're looking for?”

“Walk on down there and ask them yourself.”

“F*ck no, dude. I just got this gut feeling. As soon as they spot my Flecktarn-wearing ass walking up to them, demanding 'Show me your identification papers, please' like some goddamn Stasi agent, they’ll light me the f*ck up.”

“I got that hunch too, yeah.”

“But really, though. I sure do f*cking hope they’re NALA.”

“Insha'Allah, bro.” al-Latif nods “Okay, so for convenience's sake, let’s just say that they are NALA. Goodsprings made us overload our packs with three days'-worth of chow and water. If we hadn't found these guys now, he seriously would've had us combing these hills for days. It's been five hours and my knees are already falling apart..."

“Same. I can’t wait to smoke these motherf*ckers, man. They deserve to get capped for all the crap they’ve put us through today, making us ruck through all these steep-ass hills and shit.” 

“Word, dawg.”

“I’m deadass finna hanging their scalps on my front porch. No cap.”

“How many scalps do you think you’ll score today, dude?”

Zimmerman shrugs. “Realistically, bro?” He simulates a firefight between his squad and the (possible) NALA infiltrators in his head. “Maybe like… One or two. I know we've got like a year until our contracts are up, but really bro, how often do insurgents try to pick head-on fights with us?"

"Almost never?"

"Yeah, almost f*cking never." Zimmerman groans. "So even two years of National Service is barely enough time to rack up a good killcount. So I’m hoping to smoke at least one of these f*ckers while we’re still out here, you get me?"

“Yeah, I get you.” al-Latif nods.

“Well, that, and everyone back home will call me a b*tch-ass LARPer if I come back from two years on the frontlines empty-handed.”

“Hey, remember when we raided that Separatist IED maker a few months back?"

"I cut out exactly one guy's scalp." Zimmerman holds up one finger. “Just one f*cking guy. One year of National Service, and I only have one f*cking confirmed kill to show for it. By Infantry standards, coming home with just one dude’s scalp is basically nothing. If I come home without racking up a lot more than that, I am going to look like a pathetic little b*tch."

“That’s rough, buddy. Yeah, I'm pretty much on the same boat. I might not scalp people, because I think that’s disrespecting the dignity of the human body and all, but... when my contract ends, I at least don’t want to be the guy on the block with the least confirmed kills. That’d be embarrassing. And Iike you said, I wouldn't even have an excuse either."

“Yeah, nobody wants to be that guy." Zimmerman shakes his head, smiling. "To be the guy with least scalps on the block... You’d be the biggest f*ckin’ disgrace, dude. A laughing stock. A motherf*cking pariah.”

“Yeah." al-Latif chuckles. "It’d be really embarrassing.”

Speaking of records for confirmed kills, Zimmerman suddenly has an idea for their next conversation topic. “So, who on your block holds the record for ‘most confirmed kills’? Think you can beat it in one month?”

“I think the record still goes to this boomer who lives two doors down from me. His name’s Griswald. Served as a designated marksman from 94’ to 95’. 3rd Battalion, 7th Rabeswalde Landwehr Light Infantry. Fought in the 5th IBCT with the 2nd Infantry Division during Operation Highwayman.”

“What kind of stuff did Griswald do?”

al-Latif takes the opportunity to rest his eyes a bit. He points to the targets of their observation in the valley below on the opposite hillside, hiding behind tree trunks at the edge of a forest.  “Pretty much exactly what these probable NALA guys are doing down there.” He continues peering through his binoculars. "Griswald still visits my old primary school every year to get kids hyped up at school assemblies with war stories about the stuff he did during Highwayman. He’s a cool guy. And a wurld-class champion at hide-and-seek.” He rubs the back of his helmet, trying to recall specific details from Griswald's stories.

“Basically, he told us about how his battalion infiltrated behind NALA lines to conduct interdiction missions. As retarded as it might sound, they spread out across the woods and hills of their AO to basically fight a protracted guerilla campaign in enemy territory. They ambushed truck convoys, raided supply depots, and did all sorts of other stuff to mess with enemy logistics.”

“Sounds like a badass. How many kills did the madlad get?”

“With the help of his spotter, Griswald got, uh..." al-Latif pauses to think. "24 confirmed kills in four months. That, and a whole bunch of other probable kills. At the rate we're going at, there's no way am I getting 22 more in one year. The only way that's gonna happen is if the NALA throws their usual caution out the window, and straight-up bumrushes the Nordfluss with everything they've got."

"If only, bro."

"I'm hoping that it'll be Allahs will that they do that. ”

“Same." Zimmerman nods. "But 24? Hey, that's pretty good."

“Yup. They could’ve gotten more, but they both got wounded in action. Real badly too.”

“Shit, bro. Without the Hardline perk, he was only 1 kill away from a tactical nuke. What happened?”

“Basically, The N-A-L-A got tired of his marksman shenanigans. His battalion evidently had night-fighting capabilities, since they did all their missions at night. And so, the N-A-L-A started redirecting NVGs meant for the frontlines so they could equip their rear echelon logistics troops with the means to retaliate. One night, while Griswald was providing overwatch for his company during a raid on a supply depot, a guy with NVGs must’ve spotted him. A mortar strike got called on his pos. The first shell basically landed right on top them.”

“Such is life in The Zone, man.”

“Griswald survived, of course. And so did his spotter. Alhamdulillah. But they both took a lot of shrapnel to… pretty much everywhere not covered by their SAPI plates or kevlars. They had to get MEDEVACed by helicopter to a hospital in Schwarzwald. They spent the rest of their National Service there. At least Griswald and his spotter both got three eagle feathers each for some of the stuff they pulled.”

“Landwehr conscripts like us getting three eagle feathers in a single tour? That's pretty f*ckin’ poggers, dude.” Zimmerman nods a few times. His imagination goes into overdrive. “Man, I'd love it if at least one of the people digging in down was at least half the badass motherf*cker Griswald is. I’m telling you, bro, we’d have the duel of the motherf*cking century. People will make movies about us!”

“But then Goodsprings calls in an airstrike instead.” al-Latif chuckles.

Zimmerman frowns. “Yo, when they’re needed, I love Arty and CAS as much as the next guy, but…” He lowers his voice, not amused in the slightest. “Don’t you even f*cking talk about that right now.”

While he and his battle buddy are observing the (possible) NALA infiltrators, Zimmerman can’t help but think out loud about all the skill and effort it must have taken for a squad-sized enemy force to penetrate this deep into Rhodellian territory without getting intercepted. The so-called Native Aurelian Free State and de facto Rhodellian soil are separated by a major river, the Nordfluss, which is 20 miles to the north. This raises a few concerning implications about the heavily-armed gunmen under observation.

“You know, if these dudes really are the crazy sons-of-b*tches we’ve been hunting for the whole day, you gotta hand it to 'em...”

al-Latif, who is similarly impressed, nods in agreement. “Gotta give credit where credit’s due, bro.”

“Imagine crossing one of the most heavily patrolled and monitored borders in the entire f*cking continent and then hoofing it another 30 klicks behind enemy lines on foot…”

“Uh huh.”

“...all while dodging foot patrols and UAVs for six straight hours.” Zimmerman nods a few times in approval. “Shit, bro. You gotta admit that’s pretty f*cking ninja.”

“Art of the Shinobi, right there, man.” al-Latif nods a few more times. “Think these guys are legit SF that made it all the way through SERE school, or whatever the NALA has?”

“I’ll admit these guys are pretty f*cking good to have gotten this far, okay, I’m saying that much.”

“Dude, you know you can praise them without getting down on your knee pads and sucking them off, right?”

“I’m just saying, man, they’re good. Just not that good.” Zimmerman recounts all of the death, destruction, and chaos the Rhodellian News Network has attributed to NALA special operations forces in recent years. “I mean... if they were real NALA spec ops operators, there's no f*ckin' way we'll know that they’ve been through here until they’ve already blown up another government office, assassinated another militia leader, sabotaged another railway construction site, or trained another terrorist cell to do all that shit for them.”

“I get your point, dawg. We’re probably up against NALA regulars who just paid attention in Stealth 101. I bet we even we could pull off what these guys did if we were serious about it.” al-Latif looks up from the woodlands on the other hill to the white-and-grey overcast sky above, trying to spot the silhouettes of Rhodellian Air Force aerial reconnaissance drones “But yeah, are we the luckiest guys in the  whole Rhodellian military or what? Thanks to these clouds and a bunch of trees, all the high-tech stuff we’ve got in the air couldn’t track down these guys... and in the end, all it took to pinpoint these guys was two dudes with a pair of binoculars. Go figure.”

“Yeah, and pure motherf*cking chance.” Zimmerman nods a few times as he increases the magnification on his binoculars. He tries to more closely observe what tasks individual (possible) NALA infiltrators are busying themselves with. They still appear to be sitting in place, in tactical-looking positions overlooking the MSR, as if waiting for something to drive down the MSR. “It's pretty wild, bro. I mean, we just happened to be in the right place at the right f*cking time. Just as our squad stopped over here to re-apply and upgrade our camouflage, these guys stopped to dig up ranger graves. And we just happened to be facing in their exact direction when they did. What were the odds?"

"I dunno, man." al-Latif shrugs. "But this is some insane RNG if you ask me."

"It's wild to think about it. I mean, if only they'd have just moved on from here, or took a slightly different route, they’d have slipped right past an entire f*cking battalion's worth of Army dudes and a small fleet of Air Force drones specifically looking for them. And we’d be none the f*cking wiser.”

"If that ain't proof of divine intervention, I don't know what is."

Even with spy planes, spy satellites, and reconnaissance drones, the fog of war still exists. A variety of factors such as cloud coverage, foliage, buildings, shadows, and background IR can interfere with the abilities of airborne and spaceborne assets to gather useful intelligence on terrain and enemy forces. Unfortunately for the Rhodellian military, the Native Aurelian Liberation Army watches the weather forecast.

The NALA insurgents picked a convenient time to infiltrate behind Rhodellian lines; the skies across most of the AO were overcast for most of the day, with the clouds in some areas floating low enough to brush the local hilltops. Air Force drones have been circling above the AO for hours, conducting TI scans wherever large-enough gaps in the clouds presented themselves, always to no avail. In the cloudier areas, drone operators wanted to fly below cloud level where the views were clearer, but despite their extensive skills, knowledge, and training, their COs forbade them from doing so.

Military drones are extremely expensive equipment, and Rhodellia isn’t rich enough to replace frequent losses. The brass didn’t want to risk losing such valuable assets in collisions with trees, hills, or power lines. At times like this, the wurld is blank until you put boots on the ground. But even then, success isn’t always guaranteed; chance encounters can still happen.

al-Latif yawns, and continues the conversation to help keep himself awake. He’s already regretting handing over his last can of Blitz energy drink to Private Jakub Kowalczyk from Fire Team Bravo.

“Hey, Zim.”

“Yeah?”

“What if these guys really are SOF operators, but just got really unlucky? What if they just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Then they’d f*ck us in the ass as soon our squad moves to engage them. NALA spec ops are no joke.”

“With how much you were drooling over them a minute ago... Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

Zimmerman struggles to think up a retort. “Bro, when we get back to Bergenstein, I swear to God... I’m gonna sneak pork in your chow; hijack the mosque’s minaret to blast death metal in the middle of Friday Prayers; and draw an image of the Prophet Muhammad, in the dirt outside, with my own piss, you twat.”

al-Latif goes radio-silent, and takes a deep breath. Zimmerman smiles, thinking that something he said finally got to him. But just as Zimmerman’s about to bask in the glow of his victory, al-Latif opens his mouth: he barrages his Dolchic battle buddy with a river of words the man can not comprehend; he monologues an entire paragraph in Arabic at a pace that’d make any rapper hang their hat in shame, without so much as pausing for thought or breath.

Zimmerman looks away from his binoculars to stare at al-Latif in confusion. “The f*ck does that all mean?”

al-Latif smiles like a child petting a puppy. “By Allah, behave yourself. I will give you a taste of my shoe.” 

Zimmerman shakes his head, breaking into a smile as he turns back towards the (possible) enemy. Both the boys chuckle. “God damnit...” He struggles to think of how to respond to al-Latif in the wittiest way possible. He gives up less than a minute in, deciding that he should just shut up, take the L, and maintain full focus on the mission.

The pair are unable to spot any more individuals than the thirteen foot mobiles he and al-Latif originally reported to their team leader. Zimmerman once again increases the magnification on his binoculars in another attempt to figure out what exactly the suspected infiltrators are or waiting for.

“The f*ck are they even doing down there anyway?”

“They're overlooking a bend and long, straight stretch in the MSR. They're clearly setting up a deliberate L-shaped point ambush for logistics vehicles rolling up and down the MSR."

“Yeah, that makes the most sense." Zimmerman nods.

“The question is, dawg, why would they go through all the effort to infiltrate this deep into our territory? Of all the places they could throw a surprise party for us, why here?”

”My guess? It’s because we're all the way out in the boonies out here, bro. We’re miles away from Bergenstein and Schwarzwald. And there's a shitload of old forest to slip away into and hide out in. If a convoy got jumped out here by insurgents, it’d take 30 mikes minimum for a QRF to fly their asses here in helos. By the time the QRF arrives to f*ck ‘em up, all the Vics would be up in flames with all their cargo missing. Meanwhile, these guys may as well be sipping f*cking tequilas in San Castellino."

Speaking of San Castellino, while he's still observing the (possible) NALA insurgents, Zimmerman goes off on a tangent about a gap year vacation he took to the country with some school friends. “Man, I wish I could go back there. San Castellino has some top-tier hotels and beaches. Shit’s criminally underrated. I swear to God, my buddies and I took so many f*cking photos from our hotel balcony because the view was just that good. It was the shit postcards are made of!”

“Show some pictures on your phone when we get back to base. I might consider going with my family once I'm out.”

“You definitely should. Oh yeah, and down at the beach, my buddies and I pissed off a lifeguard by digging foxholes in the sand. Guy was f*cking fuming!"

"Fuming?"

"Yeah!" Zimmerman chuckles. "The f*cker deadass climbed down from his life guard tower, stormed towards us, blew whistles, threw up his f*cking arms and shit, shout at us that kids will fall down our holes and hurt themselves. Well, it’s the kids' fault for being dumbf*cks who never learned basic caution and situational awareness.”

“He must’ve never felt the simple pleasure of digging trenches in his backyard, at school, or on the beach as a kid. Poor guy.” al-Latif shakes his head in pity for the San Castellinoan life guard in Zimmerman's story. "Allah bless him, for he knows not the joy of a simple entrenching tool."

“Mhm. Oh, and if you took a short commute to the less 'touristy' areas, the drugs and hookers are way cheaper there than they are here. But I gotta say, though, the biggest f*cking highlight of the trip was when my buddies and I got to beat the ever-loving shit out of this gang of crack junkies who tried to mug us at knifepoint, just down the street from this brothel."

"And they didn't back off as soon as they heard you guys speaking Rhodellian Dolchic?"

"Nah." Zimmerman shakes his head, smiling. "But I'm telling you, man, shit’s pretty f*cking cray the moment you leave the beaches. 10/10 would recommend.”

“Yeah...” al-Latif puts down his binoculars. “You know what, dawg? I can't see anything else down there. Get Sarge on the net.”

“Way ahead of you, dude.” Zimmerman is already working the observation post’s radio, trying to contact their squad leader, Sergeant Alarick Schäfer. Considering the terrain and the possible enemy’s lack of motor transportation, the (possible) NALA insurgents likely wouldn’t be carrying the specialist equipment needed to actually listen into their radio transmissions. But what concerns Zimmerman is that they might still be able detect radio signals and use them to triangulate their observation post’s exact position. As a precaution, he set the radio to its lowest power setting so its transmission range only reaches as far away as his squad’s HQ 100 metres to the west in Stone Arrow Campsite, but not the unidentified gunmen 400 metres roughly to the east. 

“Tempest Three-One, Tempest Three-One, this is LP. How copy?”

‘Tempest Three-One’ is Schäfer’s callsign as squad leader of 1st Squad, 3rd Platoon of Charlie Company, of 3rd Battalion of the 4th Friedrichstadt Infantry Regiment. The battalion is currently assigned to the 1st Infantry Division's 2nd Infantry Brigade Combat Team, and is stationed in Camp Bergenstein, Nordwalde. Charlie Company's callsign is the Anglish word 'Tempest'. The company commander said that the word reflected Rhodellian belief in the violence of action, but everyone suspects that he actually picked it just because it sounded cool to him. Schäfer responds a few seconds later.

“LP, this is Three-One Actual. Solid copy, over.”

“Three-One, this is LP. Standby for SitRep, over.”

“Roger, LP. Send traffic.”

Zimmerman takes one last peek through his binoculars. “Three-One, LP. Wait one...“

Chapter Three: Recon
3.1 - The Dragonfly

Meanwhile, back at the squad’s patrol base at Stone Arrow Campsite, Schäfer gathered everyone available for a meeting. He already radio'd his platoon leader about their possible contact with enemy forces. He also updated the rest of the battalion by marking possible enemy positions on his tactical tablet. The other squads in 3rd platoon are already en-route to new tentative positions somewhere to the northeast and east. Now, Schäfer just needs to send up more detailed information. He looks to his team leaders and other squad members (who aren’t currently on sentry duty) joining him around the rotting picnic table he adopted as his HQ. 

Schäfer rummages through his rucksack, retrieving a camouflage-painted tablet and a small box containing a miniature unmanned reconnaissance drone. “We’ll be using the Dragonfly MUAV from this point onwards.”

He turns to Private Waltz Fischer from Fire Team Bravo. “Hey, killer. Swap with Catawnee at our cordon’s 2 o’clock position. He wants to be a drone operator, so he needs more hands-on experience."

“On it.” Fischer nods before vanishing into the undergrowth to fetch his squadmate from Fire Team Charlie, Private Danuwoa Catawnee. Fischer makes no audible sound because of the ratlines his squad cleared through the undergrowth. By clearing forest debris from their pathways between different points of the patrol base, Rhodellian troops can clandestinely move around without alerting nearby enemies. Enemies can't hear them making snapping sounds if there are no dry leaves and twig for their boots to step on. 

When Catawnee returns from the bushes, Schäfer’s already laid out the drone and its tablet on the picnic table. Schäfer hands over the drone's tablet, and briefs him on what they know so far about the suspected enemies on the hillside to their direct east, how he suspects there may be more enemies in hiding, and what exactly needs to be done to develop the battlefield.

Catawnee nods, smiling in understanding of his squad leader's intent. “At long f*cking last. And here I thought my tax thalers were being wasted!”

He removes and plants his rucksack on a free space on the picnic table, next to Schäfer's map. “Today’s a real special day, Sarge, so I’ll break out the pro controller for this one.” He unzips one of his rucksack's front pockets, retrieving a USB game controller. The controller is painted in the style of Native Aurelian war paint

Schäfer chuckles. “You f*cking madlad. You actually brought your controller with you on patrol?”

“F*ckin’ A I did." He holds up and unwinds the controller's tangled cord. "It’s the same controller I break out for Fighting game tournaments. This thing gives me hella luck so it's well worth the extra eight ounces on my back.”

Catawnee’s team leader and fellow gamer, Corporal William Collins, chips into the conversation.

“All that effort and a pro controller, and you still suck ass."

“Cry some more, you sore f*cking loser.”

“Just don’t f*ck this up like you keep f*cking up your combos, you salty-ass, button-mashing, cry-baby b*tch-boy.”

Catawnee chuckles. “With all due respect, f*ck you, man.”

The Rhodellian Armed Forces fields a broad variety of unmanned drones in its conflicts against guerillas and peer conventional enemies. This drone in particular is a micro unmanned aerial reconnaissance vehicle called the ‘UA-25 Libelle’, or ‘Dragonfly’ in Anglish. Lightweight, quiet, maneuverable, easy-to-use, and small enough to fit in a person’s palm, Rhodellian ground troops use it to enhance their local situational awareness. Most of these drones are also keyboard and controller-friendly to make them more intuitive for gamers.

Video gaming is one of the most popular hobbies in Rhodellia alongside shooting, martial arts, working out, airsoft, paintball, camping, and reading; a large percentage of new draftees and volunteers in the Rhodellian Army are avid gamers. Because of this, the Department of Defense saw it as intuitive to ensure that most unmanned aerial and ground vehicles developed for the military have built-in compatibility with mice, QWERTY keyboards, and most popular video game controllers. They even have reconfigurable controls in the tablet’s ‘Option’ menu.

So when Rhodellian children watch uncensored footage depicting unmanned combat aerial and ground vehicles graphically and violently terminating enemies of the state on Volkscast (A Rhodellian online video sharing, live streaming, and social media platform), they can point at the screen and say “It’s just like Battlespace!", and still be mostly right. For Generation Z-aged Rhodellian gamers like Catawnee, video games transformed ‘Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Operator’ and ‘Unmanned Ground Vehicle Operator’ from ‘an MOS for pussies’ to one of the most competitive Military Occupational Specialties in the entire Rhodellian military.

Catawnee plugs the controller into the tablet’s USB port. Meanwhile, Schäfer switches on the drone. The drone floats off Schäfer's hand as Catawnee checks for technical issues. He wriggles his controller's joysticks around, watching the footage on the tablet change in real time according to his inputs. The drone yaws left and right, ascend and descend, and move back and forth and side to side.

“Movement controls look good. Can't feel any input lag.” He cycles through the different camera modes . “The RGB, Night Vision, and FLIR modes all look good too.” He then turns to Schäfer “Do these things have airborne optical sectioning yet?”

“ARDI’s (The Agency for Research, Development, and Innovation) working on it.” Schäfer opts to talk about the Dragonfly’s development while Catawnee refreshes his drone operating skills with practice maneuvers through the forest undergrowth and tree canopies. “Right now they’re in the middle of training the AI to identify soldiers riding in open-top vehicles, soldiers sticking out of tanks’ hatches, soldiers in various combat poses, under cammie nets, in fighting positions, all that shit, through thick foliage and tree cover. They’re doing everything they can to expand the dataset to make AOS reliable in warfighting applications. Give ‘em a year or two and we’ll have something perfect for more than just Search & Rescue and bird nest observation.”

“A year? We'll be done with National Service by then. Now ain’t that a f*ckin’ shame.” Catawnee sighs. “Oh well...”

“So, we good to go?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Catawnee props the drone's tablet against the side of his rucksack, takes a seat, and hunches forward in the classic ‘serious gamer mode’ position. Checking Schäfer's map of the AO, he flies the Dragonfly east out of Stone Arrow Campsite and then south along ASR Blue Lagoon.

The ASR is a paved country lane roughly following the contours of a large hill. It is flanked by a dense forests to the west and a 4-foot-high dry masonry wall to the east. Beyond the low wall directly east of Stone Arrow Campsite is a somewhat steep downslope used as a grazing area for alpacas. The owners of those alpacas are presumably the farmers in Arrow Creek Farm, about 300 metres to the southeast. At the very bottom of the valley, an average of 400 metres east of the ASR, is MSR Spirytus. And to the east of the MSR, where the suspected enemy is digging in, is another large and heavily forested hill. 350 metres south of the Campsite is the Powanak River, a tributary of the Nordfluss river that flows east to west.

Schäfer breathes a sigh of relief that his squad, which entered the area from the north, stuck to the west side of the ASR to avoid skylining themselves for everyone in the valley below to see. “Thank f*cking God they didn’t see us as we got here.”

Catawnee drops the drone’s altitude so that the dry-stone wall obscures it from potential enemy observers on the opposite hill. He moves southwards along the ASR until he reaches a T-Junction (labelled ‘Checkpoint Eight-Bravo’ on the map), near the northwestern corner of Arrow Creek Farm. Catawnee opts to continue concealing the drone from observation by flying it behind the farm's giant barns, and then heading further south towards the Powanak River.

Catawnee checks Schäfer's map again. There should be a wildlife underpass running below the ASR, the exit of which should be about 40 metres to the west of Arrow Creek Farmer's southwest corner. And indeed, it's exactly where it's supposed to be.

Since the 1980s, the Department of Environmental Affairs and Department of Transport cooperated to build a series of wildlife crossings along all major rural roads and even many minor country lanes. The primary intent was to reduce the frequency of roadkill incidents. And it worked rather well; to joy of all drivers, accidents like deer-vehicle collisions plummeted year after year.

Wildlife underpasses are the most common type of wildlife crossing in Rhodellia. By regulation, all of them are, at the very least, big enough for large deer to pass through. This also means an adult man can stand up straight inside them. Upon realising this, rural Rhodellian militia started incorporating wildlife underpasses in their guerilla warfare tactics and strategies. Wildlife underpasses offer viable routes for both Loyalist militia and Separatist fighters to clandestinely move around the countryside should their counties turn into battlefields.

3.2 - Claymores

Catawnee moves to inspect the densely forested strip of land between ASR Blue Lagoon, Arrow Creek Farm, MSR Spirytus, and the Powanak River. He sees no signs of enemy activity in and around the wildlife tunnel beneath the ASR. He moves east towards the MSR, where there's the entrance to another wildlife tunnel, this time leading towards the southwestern side of 'Hill 420' on Schäfer's map.

But before Catawnee inspects that other wildlife tunnel, he opts to see if there's any activity on the MSR itself. Hiding behind the thick trunk of a towering redwood tree, the Dragonfly ascends into the canopy layer, where it can directly observe the MSR from the concealment of heavy leaf cover. MSR Spirytus is a single carriageway flanked by bicycle lanes, paved footpaths, drainage ditches (both of which are currently dry from lack of recent rainfall), and 1-metre tall hedgerows with barbed wire fences running down the middle.

Catawnee zooms in and points to the screen. “Enemy spotted.”

On the RGB camera, he spots a gunman with a large rifle slung on his back, lying stomach-down in the left drainage ditch. Schäfer immediately identifies the rifle as a HK417A2 - 20″ battle rifle with an ACOG sight mounted on its Picatinny rail. The gunman appears to be aiming an M18 Claymore mine down the straightest section of the ditch before camouflaging it with foliage.

Catawnee zooms in on the mine and points at the screen. "Yeah, they're definitely setting up an ambush.”

Schäfer also points at the screen, frowning at the insurgent's rifle. “Gents, double-check your notes. Have we ever seen this guy before?”

The team leaders flip through their notepads, comparing the man’s clothing and weapon with the thirteen individuals that Zimmerman and al-Latif reported in their earlier SitRep. Corporal Rolt Jung, Fire Team Alpha’s team leader, flips to a brand new page on his notepad.

“He’s got the same camo pattern, PPE, and NVGs as all the other guys… But Zimmerman never mentioned a dude with a HK417 or any kind of battle rifle…” He starts scribbling down a new data entry, and shakes his head. “We've never f*ckin’ seen this guy before."

Corporal Koen Meier nods as he jots down the new information. “That brings the total up to… twelve guys, now. Just how many more are infesting this hill? Is it a squad, a section, or a full platoon squatting in that treeline?”

Collins speaks up as well. “Beyond reasonable doubt, these guys are either NALA regulars or Nordwalde Separatist Movement-affiliated insurgents.” He points his ballpoint pen at the screen. "They're not local militia, so it should be fine and within the ROE to shoot them."

Schäfer nods, beckoning Collins to explain further. “The floor’s all yours, Collins.”

“They’re doing some highly illegal shit that no law-abiding Rhodellian would do. You can't set up potent explosive devices - even toys and replicas - on, over, below, or this close to a public roadway. It's national law.” He flourishes his pen. “The only time when that's permitted is when Rhodellia’s at DEFCON 3 and below. And right now, we’re at DEFCON 4.”

“So what does that say about these guys?”

“Any member of a Rhodellian citizen militia would know and abide by this laws, and consider them in their SOP. We even learn that shit in secondary-school War Studies class. But these guys?" Collins shakes his head. "Naw, man. These motherf*ckers got no shits to give. They can't be local Loyalists or LARPing teenagers that somehow forgot what should've been a highlight of their school years.” He continues shaking his head. “Again, they're either NALA or NSM. I'm sure of it."

The rest of Collin's squad mates at the table nod in agreement with his insight.

Schäfer congratulates the team leader with a firm pat on the back. “Well-observed, Collins. All that’s left for us to do after we finish conducting recon on this position is to send a proper SALUTE report up to Goodsprings. That, and hope we get cleared to engage these bastards.”

“Fingers crossed, man. Fingers f*cking crossed.”

While the others were talking, Catawnee was busy scanning the area on the other side of the MSR, directly east of Arrow Creek Farm. And indeed, he saw two heat signatures in the treeline, presumably watching over the exit and western approach to that second wildlife tunnel running below the MSR.

Catawnee lowered the Dragonfly to inspect the tunnel's entrance. "Hey Schäfer, since they've got a guy setting up a bunch of Claymores in the drainage ditch, reckon they've also rigged some around this tunnel to protect their flank? That's what I'd do."

Schäfer nodded. “If they picked out this location and planned out their ambush beforehand, they'd be retarded if they didn't. See if you can find any Claymores hidden in the grass."

Catawnee nods. And indeed, he spots one Claymore mine hidden in a pile of dry leaves, its electric firing wire buried beneath a trail of disturbed eurth that'd be easy to miss if you weren't specifically looking for it. He follows the trail into the wildlife underpass. The underpass is dark, but a quick scan with the drone’s Night Vision camera reveals that the interior itself isn't hiding any explosives. 

“You guys remember we have to learn about bomb-making in Chemistry class?” He decides to strike some conversation while double-checking for more explosives around the tunnel entrance and its approach.

Jung nods. “Learning about Explosively Formed Penetrators was pretty fun. What about it?”

“My Chemistry said teacher said that wildlife underpasses were moderately viable places to rig with IEDs. Unless you've memorised a map of the route, or you've got teams of scouts and engineers thoroughly checking the route beforehand, you could roll over one of tunnels these without even realising it. A strong-enough bomb could collapse the road underneath an MBT and get it stuck."

Jung strokes his chin. "I dunno if this is Fudd lore since nobody's tried it yet, but I read on the internet that a breaching charge in tandem with a strong-enough EFP pointed upwards could punch through the road’s asphalt concrete, rip through an MBT's bottom armour, and enter the crew compartment."

Schäfer chips in, pondering the lack of explosives inside the wildlife underpass. “They probably didn't feel the need to plant an IED in there. They've already got two recoilless rifles for knocking out vehicles. And maybe they don't want to piss off the locals by destroying their infrastructure."

Catawnee flies the drone back inside the underpass. At the end of the tunnel he sees a pathway of flattened grass and ferns — a natural animal trail. The trail was flanked with giant, primordial ferns. He also sees an unhidden and untaught tripwire snaking across the trail, likely leading to yet another Claymore mine. Catawnee considered going outside the tunnel to check, but the risk of the Dragonfly getting spotted by the two sentries sitting uphill was too great.

"Tripwire." Catawnee alerts Schäfer as he flies the drone back out the tunnel entrance. "I'll fly up to the canopy layer and cross the MSR through there. Then I'll fly back down to see if it leads to another Claymore."

Some time later, Catawnee confirms that the tripwire does indeed lead to another Claymore mine. The mine was hidden further up the animal trail, camouflaged in a pile of dried leaves and grass in the shadow of a giant fern. It pointed directly into the wildlife underpass. If the tripwire was made taught, and someone tripped it, the mine would explode and blasted anyone standing inside the tunnel at the time with a wall of shrapnel.

Collins crosses his arms. “They sure got their ambush planned out. If anyone on the MSR somehow survives their ambush and the Claymores in the drainage ditch, these f*ckers got a backup plan in case the survivors reorganise and tries to hit their left flank from the wildlife underpass. But what's f*cking fishy is that this mine's got a goddamn tripwire."

Catawnee turns to Collins while the Dragonfly hovers in the shade. "What's wrong with the tripwire again?"

"They don't give a flying f*ck, dude. Victim-activated mines using tripwires violates the Mine Ban Treaty. Both Rhodellia and the NAFS follow it."

Schäfer nods. “Maybe instead of actual NALA regulars, these war criminals are just part of a Separatist terrorist cell that happens to use the same camouflage pattern as the NALA.” 

In the wake of the 1997 Mine Ban Treaty, the Native Aurelian Liberation Army stopped using landmines and victim-activated Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). Before that, thousands of Rhodellian military, police personnel, and militia alike have lost their lives to car bombs, pressure plate and tripwire-activated IEDs, and purpose-built anti-tank and anti-personnel landmines planted by NALA fighters and affiliated terrorists. Victim-activated explosives used to be some of NALA’s most effective and terror-inducing weapons. However, they regularly killed or wounded more civilians than combatants.

Civilian casualties from these weapons comprise a major reason why most people in Native Aurelian-majority Nordwalde Province, including many prominent tribal leaders, choose to stay loyal to the Rhodellian government (or at least not actively take up arms in support the Native Aurelian Free State. It’s hard to support the people who keep killing your children with indiscriminate weapons. This especially rings true when the country is already having trouble dealing with older Unexploded Remnants of War (ERW) from past conflicts.

As a general rule, the NALA proper only uses command-activated explosive devices. However, many independent Separatist militias and terrorist cells in Rhodellian-controlled territory feel less inclined to observe the Mine Ban Treaty. So whenever kids are accidentally killed or maimed by IED explosions, the NAFS readily denies any responsibility and deflects the blame at their allies.

3.3 - The Sentries

Schäfer then turns to Catawnee again. “Hey, check on those two sentries watching over the underpass.“

Catawnee switches to the Dragonfly’s FLIR camera and ascends upwards towards the canopy layer. Further uphill from the wildlife underpass's exit, he sees the broken-up heat signatures of two people sitting in a bush. Catawnee then zooms in on them, and switches to the RGB camera. 

He sees two uniformed insurgents sitting back-to-back. The first insurgent had an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, and was actively monitoring the tunnel exit and area between Arrow Creek Farm and the Powanak River. The other was armed with an M4A1, facing southeast, watching for approaching vehicles on the MSR.

Jung scrawls into his notepad. “Zimmerman never reported anyone in this grid square, or anyone armed with a light machine gun. His battle buddy with the M4 is probably someone we've never seen before either. So that makes thirteen tangos spotted on this hill thus far, the sneaky motherf*ckers.”

Schäfer points to the screen. “Catawnee, observe these guys for five mikes."

“Wilco." Catawnee nods as he and his non-busy squad mates crowd around the screen, just spectating the underpass-facing insurgent automatic rifleman watch his sector of responsibility.

The automatic rifleman spent most of his time peering through his light machine gun's RCO scope, and seemed to have a pattern to his watchfulness. He kept scanning from left to right to left again. He started off by checking the treeline south bank of the Powanak River, then up to the dry masonry wall on the edge of ASR Blue Lagoon, then the windows of Arrow Creek Farm's farmhouse, and finally down at the wildlife underpass exit and approach. And then he loops back to the Powanak River again. The loop takes about 60 seconds to complete. However, every two loops (minutes), he seems to unscope for a minute to rest his eye.

After five minutes, Meier finishes jotting down even more notes into his notepad. "Alright. I think I've analysed his pattern."

Schäfer nods. "What have you got for us?"

"He spends 15 seconds looking towards the river's south bank, 15 at the ASR, another 15 at the farm, and another 15 at the tunnel and tunnel approach. And throughout all that time, he's tunnel-visioned looking through his scope. But after every second search-cycle, he takes 60 seconds to recover from eye fatigue before looking back into his scope."

"Alright." Schäfer nods, looking at his map. "What else?"

Meier moves up to the picnic table and plants his finger on the map. "Here's my idea so far. We can safely reach the entrance of the second wildlife underpass and stay out of this West-facing sentry's line of sight. We just gotta hug the farm's south wall and the steep slope leading up to the MSR. After that, we've got a 15-second window to exit the wildlife tunnel and crawl into the dense undergrowth on either side of the animal trail. We can infiltrate across the MSR one team at a time."

The rest of the squad nods their head in approval of the idea, and takes notes.

Collins also comments on the drone’s surroundings.  “This forest is also pretty ancient and overgrown, as if nobody's mown this lawn since the Colonial era. Judging from the drone footage, you can’t see past 50 metres in these conditions. These two sentries are about a full 100 metres away from the nearest other known enemy element."

Upon hearing those relative distances, Catawnee slaps his helmet. “Oh, Goddamnit...” He turns to his fellow Native Aurelian squad member in Alpha, Private Puhihwikwasu'u Geldfeld, who is nicknamed ‘Wickwash’. “Yo, Wickwash. We should’ve brought our f*cking compound bows with us, man!”

Wickwash takes a deep breath. “Oh shit, you're right. If we did, we could stealth-killed these dudes, skulking way of war-style. If we knew we’d catch them slipping like this, I’d f*cking gladly have rucked 30 miles with an extra eight pounds on my back. Getting a bow kill in 2021 would’ve been rad as f*ck!”

“Yeah. we could've taken sniping positions in the ferns by the tunnel exit, nocked arrows while the West-facing sentry’s tunnel-visioned watching elsewhere. Once they finish their next radio check, we can loose two broadhead arrows up through these f*ckers' larynxes, upper brain stems, and medulla oblongatas... And bup!” He mimics the sound of an arrow striking an archery target, and pokes into the underside of his Adam's apple. “Instant kill or lobotomy, bro, it’s a silent takedown either way.” 

Wickwash nods his head. “That'd be ninja as f*ck, bro."

“Yeah. If we attach bow silencers to our bows, the rest of these motherf*ckers' squad wouldn’t hear shit. Just loose the arrows and drop him when the wind blows through the forest canopy and underbrush layers. Sound absorption by at least fifty metres of dense forest should mask the sounds of our bows. They’re only, like, 60 to 70 decibels unsilenced. And we’ve both got bowstring silencers that cut down string noise by up to 90 percent. If we brought heavier arrows too, our shots would be even quieter, since less energy would be wasted as sound. They wouldn't see or hear the bodies hitting the floor. Easy ‘Silent Assassin’ rank.”

“What could have been…” Wickwash clenches his fist. “What. Could. Have. F*cking. Been!”

While shooting with firearms and live ammunition is by far Rhodellia’s most popular recreational and club activity, archery continues to be a time-honoured tradition. While many of Rhodellia's ethnic minorities and immigrant groups have strong archery traditions, the most famous are those of the country's Native Aurelian tribes. Many state that archery allows them to better-connect with their history, culture, and community as well as learn valuable skills such as clarity of mind, patience, and focus. And thus, archery tends to be one of the top club activities in schools and community centres, roughly on-par with Historical Europan and Argisian Martial Arts (HEAMA) in terms of (registered) regular practitioners. Archers in primary schools, secondary schools, colleges, and universities even compete in their own local and national-level archery tournaments.

Out of respect for Rhodellian archery traditions, and unusual for a high-tech conventional military, the Rhodellian Armed Forces still permit its troops to carry their own privately owned bows (and crossbows) into battle. Of course, in an age of machine guns and automatic rifles, nobody regularly does this except as a joke on field ops; wielding a bow, as cool as it would look, is almost never worth the limited effective range, limited ammunition, limited rate of fire, and extra pack weight. But there are some theoretical scenarios where a bow might be convenient.

For example, bows can be used to stealthily neutralise sentries that are far-enough away from the rest of their unit. Most medium-draw weight compound bows on the Rhodellian civilian market, with no noise-suppressing in-built features or accessories (such as bowstring silencers), shooting common mid-weight 500-grain arrows, produce 60 to 90 decibels of sound. For a brief moment, they can be as quiet as a normal conversation or as loud as a crowded restaurant. But they are still significantly quieter than a suppressed .22-calibre rifle, which typically produces around 120 decibels of sound.

The sound of a bow is also more unusual and unexpected to hear on a modern battlefield, so they are less likely to be immediately identified or reported. Some Rhodellian military academy students have submitted academic papers proposing that modern bows and crossbows can be decent (albeit highly situational) stealth weapons for the modern battlefield. However, despite the bow’s theoretical capacity for (relatively) quiet takedowns, the last time any Rhodellian was ever said to have scored a confirmed kill with a self-bow was back in 1940, during the Third Great War. But even the veracity of this event is disputed.

As the two disappointed Native Aurelians complain about how they won’t make their ancestors proud and be the first Rhodellians in 81 years to score confirmed kills with self-bows, Private John Adebayo, Alpha’s grenadier, pats them both in their XSAPI back plates.

“To be fair, it’s normally us in the Rhodellian Army getting jumped by NALA and not the other way round. None of us could’ve expected to get this lucky. Maybe next time, brothers.” He shakes their shoulders “Maybe next time...”

Catawnee sighs as he maneuvers the drone around in search of further enemy sentries. “Nah, bro, it’s all good. I’ll be satisfied enough if we get to smoke these pricks with our rifles today.”

“Same, brother…” Adebayo nods a few times. “At the very least, you can still high-crawl through the undergrowth, sneak up on the guy, and knife him to death without anyone seeing.”

3.4 - The Engineer

With its FLIR camera activated, the Dragonfly sweeps the western and southern sides of Hill 420.  The first thing to catch his attention is the newly-revealed heat signature of a Separatist insurgent crouching in a giant fern, in the shadow of the 2-metre-tall hedgerow at the base of the hillside alongside MSR Spirytus.

The insurgent seems to have inserted a series of 16-gauge steel pipes into the hedge. Catawnee switches to the Night-Vision camera for a clearer look. Collins leans on Catawnee’s shoulder and points at the tablet screen.
“Yup. The bastards are setting up even more IED. That guy down there must be an engineer of sorts.” He then traces his finger down what appear to be wires trailing down from the back of the most freshly planted pipe, into the undergrowth below, presumably further up along the hedge to 25 more pipes, and then presumably to the Separatist positions overlooking the MSR a quarter of the way up Hill 420.

Schäfer squints his eyes at the screen. “Shit. Are those…?”

Collins leans forward and looking at Schäfer's map of the AO. He traces his fingers along a straight 200-metre section of MSR Spirytus, between the T-Junction next to Arrow Creek Farm and a rough 90-degree bend in the road. 

“Explosively Formed Penetrators. EFPs." Collins nods. "Not only did these f*ckers bring Claymore mines, they deadass hauled enough IED-making materials to set up what looks to be about two-dozen improvised off-route anti-tank mines along this 200-metre section of the MSR.”

Jung crosses his arms. “Collins, there’s no f*cking way a single squad-sized element of dismounts can carry 25 big-ass steel pipes 30 klicks across hilly terrain on top of all their other gear and supplies. They gotta have stolen those from a nearby construction site, or commandeered a truck. Unless they stole these pipes from the farm, this takes f*cking logistics to pull off.”

“If they tried to do that, wouldn’t somebody have heard them getting lit the f*ck up by construction site workers or their security teams? As for the truck, wouldn’t somebody have reported gunshots from an attempted carjacking or at least a car alarm? You don’t get 30 klicks into Rhodellian territory on foot by starting shit with some of the most heavily armed people on the planet.”

Jung scratches the top of his helmet. “Then where the f*ck did they get these pipes from, and how the hell did they transport them all the way out here?”

“I dunno, man. Maybe one of the locals is a builder, an illegal IED maker, and a Separatist sympathiser all at the same time?"

Schäfer interjects. “Focus on your jobs, gents. Leave the theorising and investigating to the autists over at Intel. What matters to us is how to deal with the threat right in f*cking front of us.”

Collins and Jung nod their heads. Collins clears his throat and points to one of the large pipes. “Assuming this guy’s average height, he’s using 16-gauge pipes. Depending on the propellant they’re using for their Misznay–Schardin shaped charges, with a 16-inch chamber, the slugs they can launch are capable of penetrating up to 203 millimetres of Rolled Homogeneous Steel. Each of these is probably powerful enough to pierce through the side armour of our APCs, our armoured utility vehicles, and maybe a few of our lighter IFVs. And of course, these can also disable the engine block of passing LVSRs. Easy as.”

Schäfer and the squad’s other team leaders nod, noting down what Collins has to say on the IEDs. Schäfers exhales. “So these bastards we’re up against are fielding firepower that can f*ck up anything short of an MBT? That’s just f*cking great.”

“Uh huh.” Collins nods. “Seems f*cking like it, Schäfer.

Jung shakes Schäfer and Collins on their shoulders. “Look on the bright side, guys! Aside from the Claymores, at least they’re not anti-personnel mines!”

Throughout the Nordwalde Troubles, the Nordwalde Separatist Movement and their Native Aurelian Liberation Army allies inflicted most casualties against Rhodellian military forces and police using Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). South of the Nordfluss river, in firm Rhodellian-controlled territory, Separatists fight as guerillas in an asymmetric war.

Their odds of winning against Rhodellian soldiers are slim. Separatist fighters generally lack the heavy weapons, armoured fighting vehicles, artillery support, and air support necessary to ensure fire superiority. If they’re from north of the Nordfluss, from the Native Aurelian Free State, then NALA fighters don’t always have intimate local knowledge of the land either. Even when local Rhodellians do pledge their cooperation, the NALA and NSM seldom have the numbers or logistics to openly hold territory or sustain large-scale combat operations. They never expect to win pitched battles against Rhodellian soldiers, police officers, or Loyalist militia.

As soon as they cross south across the river, neutralising a group of Separatist insurgents in the field can be as simple as calling the cops. Generally speaking, the best way for Separatist fighters operating in Nordwalde to 'win' with minimal casualties is to blend in with the locals, plant a bomb somewhere, hide, wait for a patrol of Rhodellian conscripts to pass by, press the button on the detonator, fire off a few shots, and run away before the survivors call for air support or reinforcements.

Schäfer, Jung, Meier, and Collins flip through their notepads to see if they’ve ever written notes down on this engineer-type insurgent before. They have not. In addition to his M4A1, the engineer also has a M32 Multi-Shot Grenade Launcher.

Private Robert Powell, Fire Team Bravo's grenadier, filters a long whistle through his lips, reminiscent of a falling bomb. “Hey, Sarge?”

Schäfer nods and beckons Powell to speak. “Got some expertise to share, Powell?”

“Yeah.” Powell nods, pointing at the tablet screen. “This motherf*cker’s gotta be one of the first people we need to drop, if not the first. He can drop 3 grenades on our heads per second from up to 400 metres away. He dole out more hurt in the first five seconds than the insurgents' M240L and two M3E1s combined.”

Schäfer nods as he and the squad’s team leaders note that information down. “Thanks for the reminder. But unless he's still setting EFPs when the shooting starts, his exact location will be an unknown. But I'd assume he'd be somewhere around the bend in the road, where is capable of putting down enfilade fire at any guys taking cover in the drainage ditches running along the MSR. Same with their M240L.”

3.5 - L-Shaped Ambush

With the combat engineer/grenadier setting up IEDs in the hedgerow accounted for, Catawnee maneuvers the Dragonfly to along the strip of forest where al-Latif and Zimmerman saw the original thirteen insurgents. The insurgents were still crouching, watching the MSR and ASR, likely waiting for the signal to ambush some incoming vehicles. One of the insurgents was scanning the overcast skies with binoculars, presumably watching for low-flying UAVs. Unfortunately, for them Schäfer already reported their likely intentions, and no vehicles — military or civilian — would be rolling down the area for a long while.

All of the insurgents spotted thus far took precautionary measures to avoid getting spotted. The insurgents' uniforms all had IR remission properties and hid in the cool shade of the forests' trees and undergrowth, collectively reducing their exposures to thermal imaging devices. Their low profiles, out-line breaking camouflage patterns, face paints, attached foliage, and approaching night time also made them hard to spot on the visible light spectrum. There was a fat chance any passing Rhodellian Army patrol or convoy could spot this ambush before triggering it, unless they already knew exactly where to look.

As Catawnee flew the Dragonfly northwards, Schäfer double-checked and updated the precise locations of each known enemy insurgent on his tactical tablet's live map, which relayed information to everyone else in his battalion. Each insurgent hid behind their own tree in a staggered line formation running parallel to the MSR. They seemed to be grouped in battle buddy pairs, with each pair being spaced roughly 40 metres away from each other. Their left flank security team was  due east

Schäfer looks down at his map, checking at the spacing and positions of each known insurgent. They were arranged in more or less how a squad would execute a by-the-book L-shaped ambush. From the left flank security team east of Arrow Creek Farm, to the assault element overlooking the first 200 metres of the killzone between the farm and bend in the road, to the right flank security team looking directly down the length of the road and its adjacent drainage ditches. Yet Schäfer still stroked his chin, frowning.

"Do you guys think this is too big an area to cover for a single reinforced squad?" Schäfer turns to the others present at his table for consultation. "I think there might be even more insurgents hiding around, acting as rear security teams around Hills 420 and 421, or maybe setting up a second kill zone after the bend in the road up to Checkpoint Niner-Alpha. Instead of just a squad, we might be up against an entire section or platoon's worth of bad guys."

The rest of the squad nodded to each other, accepting the possibility as very much plausible.

Meier looks down at the map again, circling his palm in a big ovular radius around the enemy's known positions. "While the Dragonfly still has battery left in it, it's worth doing a big sweep of this whole area. If we're up against at least a section-sized unit, then they've probably got more guys positioned on and around the peaks of both Hills 420 and 421, watching the northern and eastern approaches to their positions."

"Yeah, I can do that." Catawnee nods as begins systematically sweeping every grid square suspected of hiding a Separatist insurgent.

3.6 - A Job Well-Done (Being rewritten)

“And this brings the total up to… Sixteen NALA insurgents.” Catawnee exhales. “Yeah, I think that’s all of them.”
Schäfer thinks so too. He, Jung, Meier, Collins, and their subordinates at the picnic table look at their map of the AO, and all the notes and markings they’ve squeezed into and around their grid square. They've marked the exact location of every Claymore mine, every fighting position, every sentry, and every sentry's probable sector of responsibility. Jung smiles in amusement.
“Yo, Schäfer, look at that shit. Your map looks like a gang just tagged it.”
Schäfer chuckles.
“At the very least I can still read it. What matters is, we’ve got enough information to send a comprehensive report up to Command.”
Catawnee looks over his shoulder at Schäfer, pointing to the low battery percentage icon at the top-right of the tablet screen.
“Hey, Sarge, the battery’s gonna die in like, 10 to 15 minutes. I’m taking the Dragonfly back to base.”
"Go ahead." Schäfer gives Catawnee a hard pat on the back SAPI plate and a firm shake on the shoulder. “Well done on operating the drone, Catawnee. You did real f*cking good today.”
“F*ck yeah, Sarge.” Catawnee exchanges fist bumps with Schäfer and the others before initiating the Dragonfly’s clandestine exfiltration back to his squad’s Patrol Base HQ across the valley. While maintaining a reasonable level of noise discipline, Catawnee’s squadmates at the picnic table cheer, clap, compliment, put him headlocks, put him in chokeholds, and shake his helmet when they can't ruffle his hair. The drone returns without issue, with al-Latif and Zimmerman at the observation post reporting no indicators that the enemy ever noticed it. Meanwhile, Schäfer updates the rest of his battalion on their newfound details on the enemy with his tactical tablet. This would conclude the squad’s reconnaissance of the NALA position.

Schäfer sees it appropriate to wrap things up before writing up his SALUTE report. He reminds his squad, who have gone down to REDCON-2 while reconnaissance was being conducted, that they may be engaging the enemy very, very soon. Schäfer points to his finalised map spread across the picnic table in front of him. The wind starts to pick up, but he keeps the map held down at the sides and corners with random stones he picked off the ground. 
“Gents, let’s just make sure that everyone’s on the same page on what we know so far. Beyond reasonable doubt, we are up against a section-sized element of sixteen NALA or NALA-affiliated insurgents. Consider them 'Hostile'. The enemy has set up a deliberate point ambush. Most likely, they mean to hit a convoy of logistical vehicles travelling along MSR Spirytus.” 

On his map, he traces his finger along the 100-metre stretch of MSR Spirytus between Checkpoint Eight-Alpha and Checkpoint Niner-Alpha. “They have turned this 100-metre-long section of the MSR into a killzone with at least two M18 Claymore mines in the parallel drainage ditches and 25 EFPs concealed in the eastern hedgerow.” 

He then taps the treeline to the east of the MSR. “Beyond the hedgerow on the east side of the MSR, at the base of the hill, is a 50-metre-thick strip of dense bushes and ferns, and shrubbery that can be high-crawled through. After that, there is an abrupt transition to primordial forest. The insurgents’ fighting positions are located along the treeline. They consist of eight two-man FPs, which are currently only as deep as shell-scrapes as of this moment. They are arranged into a 50-metre-long staggered line formation to mitigate enfilading fire from the flanks. There is an average of 4 metres of dispersion between each FP.” 

He then starts tapping each individual fighting position. “Their M240L machine gun emplacement is deployed at the centre, in front of the fourth FP from their left. Judging from where their recoilless riflemen were digging, their M3E1s will likely be situated in the second FP from the left and the one on their far right. From there, they can potentially box in a whole convoy inside their killzone by disabling the front and rearmost victors at the same time. The FPs occupied by their battle rifleman, who might be a designated marksman, and grenade launcher-armed engineer are unknown. But they'll most likely be at the front, where they can engage threads evenly across the whole stretch for their killzone.” 

He looks up at the rest of his squad, who are nodding and checking over their notes. “Gents, does anyone here have any questions? Anything we need to go over?”
Schäfer’s squadmates around the picnic table look at each other, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads. Wickwash raises his hand.
“The floor’s all yours, Wickwash.” Schäfer gestures for him to speak.
“Do you think there’s a realistic chance we’ll actually get to kill people today?”
Schäfer pauses and shrugs.
“That depends on how charitable Goodsprings is feeling. I plan on starting as soon as we’re done with pre-combat inspections, as per the Rhodellian military's doctrine of mission-type tactics. Hopefully, and I got my fingers crossed for this one, he won’t try to call off our attack as soon as word of our impending assault reaches his ears, just so he can drop a f*cking precision-guided bomb and take all the credit instead. There’s no guarantee he won’t do that. So we just have to hope that he’ll let us do what we’ve literally spent our entire lives training to do.”
“I'm finna frag his ass if he makes us cancel. No cap.”
“Maybe, if we're fast enough, we can neutralise the enemy before Goodsprings can try to stop us. Anyway, let's go over our game plan…”

3.7 - The Plan (Being rewritten)

Schäfer looks down at his map of the enemy’s positions, and crosses his arms. It’s about time that the squad formulates a proper attack plan.
“So, gents... not counting Doc, there’s thirteen of us versus eighteen NALA insurgents. We’re outgunned and outnumbered by five people. But…” He taps on the northern and southern ends of the NALA line of fighting positions. The team leaders step closer. Schäfer continues. “If at least two fire teams can sneak up on either their left or right flank, then it's likely only a portion of their force will be able to engage us at once. We can achieve fire superiority.”
Meier nods his head, tracing his finger down the NALA fighting positions in a straight line.
“I see what you mean. They’re all roughly at the same altitude as each other and dug in a staggered line. So if we hit one half, the other half will be more hesitant to engage in our direction because of the risk of friendly fire.”
Catawnee tries to contribute to the discussion as well.
“That, and they can’t see for shit past 40 to 50 metres. If we attack at the edge of their farthest elements’ line of sight, only a few of them will be able to see us and our muzzle flashes at once through the undergrowth. Unless they leave their fighting positions.”
Collins also contributes with his own prediction.
“If we’re within 50 metres of their positions, they’ll probably hesitate to use their M3E1s and M32 as well. Their recoilless riflemen might be hesitant to waste their precious rockets shooting at bushes we might not even be hiding in, especially when finding a safe place to shoot from might entail exposing themselves by crouching or standing outside of cover. Their grenadier might also be worried about spraying his own buddies with shrapnel. They might instead choose to fight with their M4s, giving us the advantage in firepower.”  
Schäfer nods as he notes down what everyone’s saying.
“Pretty much, gents. If we strike from a flank, ideally, we will have local fire superiority while the enemy handicaps themselves.” He continues scribbling into his notepad.

Schäfer then taps his finger on his map. “Anyway, we'll be using Meier’s idea of taking the route Catawnee flew with his drone. We'll starting next to Checkpoint Eight-Bravo, going into the farm enclosure, hugging the wall for concealment, crawling through that hole in the hedge, up the drainage ditch, and through the wildlife underpass for a concentrated attack on their left flank… That's the quickest path to our objective."
Jung frowns, which Schäfer notices. Schäfer gestures for Jung to speak.
"Wouldn't it be a lot easier to just take the long way around, and cross the road further north or south? If we walk a couple of kilometres north or south, can cross at a point where we're safely out of their north and southmost sentries' lines of sight." Jung points to a road crossing on MSR Spirytus roughly three kilometre south of the enemy positions.
"We could." Schäfer nods a few times. "But it'd take us a lot longer to commence our attack, maybe delaying it by 40-60 minutes By the time we reach them using these long routes, they'll make a lot of progress developing their FPs."
Jung nods his head.
"Aight."
Schäfer continues.
"So yeah, I’ll take Doc and two fire teams with me down there.” He nods a few times, visualising an attack in his head. “This route’s a risky one, but it does get us to the enemy flank a lot faster than any alternative routes, even if we are high and low-crawling the entire time. About 20 minutes, considering the bottleneck we’ll be facing at the hole in the hedge. Even then, we should still catch them slipping. They’ll still be above-ground with nothing but shellscrapes and tree trunks for cover, and the undergrowth for concealment.”

Collins steps forward and points to the drainage ditches by MSR Spirytus.
“What about their Claymore mines, Sarge?”
“Unlike the one right outside the wildlife underpass, they seem to be command-activated. We should be good so long as we’re not spotted while we’re down there. We’ll send a fire team out first, in buddy pairs. The first guy will pass through the wildlife underpass and disarm the third Claymore at the tunnel exit. The second guy will disarm the two Claymore mines on both sides of the pipe underneath Checkpoint Eight-Alpha. The second battle buddy pair will follow once the Claymores in the drainage ditches are disarmed, and then stand by on either side of the underpass entrance until the third Claymore is disarmed."
“How will we know when it’s safe for the rest of us to go ahead?”
“Once all the Claymores are dealt with, the team leader can whisper into his radio. If we happen to encounter any more hidden Claymores or tripwires along the way, we can report it with hand signs or via radio as well, or just disarm them as soon as they're uncovered.”
“Sounds good to me.” Collins scribbles into his notepad.

Jung nods in agreement, tracing his finger along ASR Blue Lagoon.
“I'll volunteer my team to set up a base of fire along the ASR, parallel to the enemy line. We'll set up overwatch positions along a 20-metre stretch here. Once you give a signal and start your assault on their flank, Wickwash and I will fire a few bursts at the FPs containing their MG and their right-flank M3E1. Wolff will rake their entire right flank with his SAW. Adebayo can also rain fire on the MG emplacement at the centre with his grenade launcher. The higher relative altitude of the ASR should give his grenades enough range to reach it.” Schäfer nods a few times and takes notes. Jung continues. “After we think we've taken out their M240L, their right-flank M3E1, and their M32, we'll keep suppressing their four rightmost FPs as you're moving up. That’ll keep at least a few of them pinned down in their FPs instead of fanning out into the woods, and cut down the volume fire coming your way.”
Wickwash and Adebayo nod a few times, agreeing with Jung’s proposition.
“I’m alright with that, dawg.”
“Same, brother.”

Nobody else seems to have anything to contribute. So Schäfer uncaps his marker again and draws a few crude arrows on his map.
“Alright, gents…” He points to the map. “So, to recap on our entire attack plan… Me, Doc, and Fire Teams Bravo and Charlie will move up along the Dragonfly's route towards NALA insurgents’ left flank. Up until we reach the hedge at the bottom of the enclosure, we will high-crawl and hug the wall in a single-file Squad Column formation. Meanwhile, Alpha will stay hidden along ASR Blue Lagoon. Wickwash, Wolff, and Adebayo will hide behind the dry-stone wall. Meanwhile, Jung will take up a camouflaged position where he can best observe the insurgents' southernmost sentry. With his radio and binoculars, Jung will tell us when it’s safe for us to crawl under the hedge and make our way to the underpass. And then join the fighting once I give the command to open fire via radio, or as soon as you see muzzle flashes or hear gunshots. Alpha, is that good with you guys?”
Jung, Wickwash, and Adebayo once again confirm their approval.
“Jawohl.”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”

Schäfer then taps the position of the wildlife underpass on the map. 
“Charlie will be the lynchpin to this whole operation being stealthy. You guys will be tasked with disarming or repositioning the Claymores in the drainage ditch and at the exit to the underpass tunnel. On top of that, you’ll also be tasked with quietly neutralising their southernmost sentry so we can move into assault positions on their flank. This sentry must be eliminated immediately after they finish conducting a radio check. Collins, I’ll leave assigning the roles to you. Is this gucci with you guys?”
Collins and Catawnee confirm their approval.
“All’s good. We’ll head on over to the OP and go over this with Zim and al-Latif.”
“Mhm.”

Schäfer takes a deep breath. Moving his finger roughly fifty metres south of the NALA’s two oblique-angled fighting positions at the end of their left flank.
“Once the Claymores and southernmost sentry are dealt with, Me, Bravo, and Charlie will advance through the bushes until we’re about 50 metres south of these two southernmost FPs. We'll hide behind trees or foliage right at the edge their visual range."

He then drags his finger in a straight line from left to right. "Bravo and I will form a Fire Team Line formation on our left flank, and concentrate all firepower to the front. Charlie will form a Fire Team Left Echelon formation on our right flank, with all of their firepower facing the NALA FPs. Ideally, we’ll all be in a position to attack within five mikes of the southernmost sentry being neutralised."

He then taps his finger on the NALA left flank fighting positions. traces his finger upwards through the NALA fighting positions. "When we're about to strike, pick your targets according to your roles' SOPs. Kowalski will fire first with a burst of his SAW. Everyone else will fire as soon as you hear him shoot. After our first burst, Bravo will adopt a Wedge Heavy Left Departing from SOP, Catawnee (the rifleman) will be replacing Zimmerman (the automatic rifleman) on the right, and watch out for the 3 o'clock sentry and any flanking attempts."

He then drags his finger upwards through the NALA fighting positions. "From there, we will push northwards using fire-and-maneuver. One fire team moving up at a time, individuals moving from tree to tree, while the other provides covering fire. Textbook shit. If the enemy shoots first and smokes me, return fire. Team leaders, inform Alpha before you move up, make sure they know which concealed FP you're standing behind to cut down the risk of friendly fire. We will advance until the enemy is either routed or destroyed, or until we reach their right flank FPs. At which point, the most intact team will secure their fighting positions while the other tracks any survivors and reports their direction of travel on the platoon net. Another squad can move to intercept them. Once that happens." 

He then taps his finger on the location of the wildlife underpass below the MSR. "The underpass will be our rally point. Should things get FUBAR'd, our rendezvous will be our patrol base here.” Schäfer pauses. “And gents, that will be our attack plan until overwritten. Are there any questions? Is there anything I need to go over?”

Jung, Meier, Collins, and the others around the picnic table look at each other, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads. Schäfer nods and clears his throat. “Alright. Team leaders, go fill in the rest of your teams on everything we’ve noted down thus far. Make sure everyone knows what the f*ck they're doing. I’m gonna send a SALUTE report up to our platoon leader. Collins, Catawnee, head over to OP and talk with Zimmerman and al-Latif. Wickwash, Adebayo, and Powell, swap with Wolff, Kowalczyk, and Fischer for sentry duty so Jung and Meier can walk them through the plan.”

With this, Schäfer’s squad occupies themselves with doing whatever needs doing. 

3.8 - SALUTE Report (Being rewritten)

Meanwhile, Schäfer himself gets busy contacting his platoon leader. As of their platoon’s previous radio check roughly 40 minutes ago, Platoon HQ, 2nd Squad, and the Weapon's Squad should be somewhere to the northeast, and 3rd Squad should be somewhere to the southeast. The platoon should be boxing in the NALA insurgents, so there'll always be at least one squad to intercept them no matter which direction they retreat in. Should Schäfer’s attack plan get FUBARed as per Murphy’s Law, he feels reassured that help is nearby. 
“Tempest Three Actual, Tempest Three Actual, this is Tempest Three-One, how copy?” Schäfer speaks into his personal radio. Tempest Three is the callsign for Schäfer’s platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Gottfried Schmidt. Schmidt responds a few seconds later. 
“Three-One, this is Three Actual. Good copy.”
“Three Actual. My unit has just finished conducting thorough recon on the NALA-affiliated insurgents and their positions with a Dragonfly. Standby for SALUTE report, over.”
“Three-One, Three Actual. Send it.”

As per SOP, Schäfer precedes his SALUTE report by reporting his current location. His squad hasn't moved at all from its 8-figure military grid coordinates since it first started occupying the derelict campsite just under an hour ago.

“Three Actual, Three-One. I am located at the campsite to the west of ASR Blue Lagoon at Grid Bravo Sierra Four-Five-Three-Two Four-Five-Four-Four. Break.” 

He moves on to reporting how many hostiles his squad have discovered. “Size: Section-sized element of One-Six foot mobiles. Break.” 

And then, what exactly the hostiles are doing. “Activity: They are digging in facing west, overlooking MSR Spirytus. They are setting up fighting positions with camouflage nets, thermal insulator blankets, a machine gun emplacement, a mortar pit, and claymore mines. Break. They are also setting up what are likely to be Two-Five explosively formed penetrators along a One-Zero-Zero-metre stretch within their killzone, concealed inside the eastern hedgerow, facing the MSR. It looks like a deliberate point ambush. Break.” 

And then, precisely where the middle of the line of NALA fighting positions is located on an 8-figure Military Grid Reference System. “Location: Five-Five to Six-Zero metres directly east of the MSR segment between Checkpoint Eight-Alpha and Checkpoint Niner-Alpha, along the treeline on the west side of the hill at Grid Bravo Sierra Four-Five-Niner-Five Four-Five-Three-Two. Break.” 

And then, what specific gear the hostiles are wearing, in no uncertain terms, just so friendly forces can immediately identify the enemy as hostiles on sight. “Uniform: Likely NALA-affiliated paramilitaries wearing TAZ-90 woodland camouflage, IHPS helmets, Ground Panoramic Night-Vision Goggles, and SPCS bulletproof vests. Break.” 

And then, what time they finalised their reconnaissance, since he already reported when his squad's observation outpost first saw the enemy. “Time: One-Eight-Zero-Zero hours. Break.” 

And then, every single weapon system the enemy was seen carrying, just so friendly forces can more accurately gauge how much firepower they're up against and predict what tactics the enemy are most likely to employ. “Equipment: One HK417, One M32 MSGL, One M240L, One FIM-92J, Two M3E1s, Three M249 SAWs, Four M4A1s, Seven M16A4s. And Two-Five EFPs and at least three M18 Claymore mines." 

And then finally, to confirm that Schmidt has only noted down accurate, up-to-date information to share up and down the Rhodellian military's chain of command, Schäfer requests for him to repeat every detail of the SALUTE report. "Read back, over.”

“Three-One, Three Actual. I read back...” Schmidt pauses to audibly flip back to the start of his notes, and proceeds to correctly repeat everything Schäfer just said over the radio. Once Schmidt's finished, the two speak some more. Most of their conversation consists of Schäfer going over the locations, orientations, and killing zones of individual Claymore mines; the positions and likely occupants of individual fighting positions; and the positions and (in terms of compass bearings) likely sectors of responsibility of sentries. Essentially, Schäfer ensures that Schmidt, the rest of their platoon, and by extension every other Rhodellian military unit involved in the operation know everything that is currently known about the enemy. This way, everyone up and down the chain of command has the information to formulate a plan. Once all that's done, Schäfer informs Schmidt of his attack plan's very basics..
“Roger, Three Actual. The NALA-affiliated insurgents don’t seem to be aware of our presence yet, so uh… I’m taking the initiative. I will conduct a hasty two-point ambush with my squad to destroy the enemy before they can finish developing their DFPs beyond shell scrapes. Acknowledge?”
 “Roger, Three-One. But that is a f*ck-tonne of firepower your boys are up against. Are you absolutely sure you want to initiate a firefight on your own? And are you sure you don't need us to back you up? Over.”
“Three Actual, Three-One. Affirmative. My squad already has a plan in place, and it'd be best to seize the initiative and exploit this optimal window of opportunity while it still presents itself. We'll lose it if we wait for you guys. Over.”
Schmidt hesitates to speak for a short while, presumably to weigh up the odds of Schäfer's squad avoiding a Pyrrhic victory that'll look bad in the media. Casualties are always a sad and demoralising thing to see on the news. But if Schäfer does have the element of surprise on his side and is able to catch the enemy when they are unprepared, he can negate the unfavourable disparity in numbers and firepower, as well as nullify the enemy's advantage from having fighting positions (which would probably be complete by the time the platoon rendezvouses together and formulates a new attack plan from scratch). Schäfer's odds should be fairly good. Plus, if Schäfer's squad attacked alone, there'd be significantly less risk of friendly fire and the situation becoming an unmanageable clusterf*ck than if everyone attacked from three different directions at the same time.
“Three-One, Three Actual. If you say so. Me, Three-Two, and Three-Three are less than twenty mikes away to your North-East and South-East. Break. We'll form a triangular cordon to intercept any potential retreat towards the North, South, or East, and stand by in case you do end up needing us. Coordinates soon to follow once we're done deciding where to go. Break. Just be advised: You are at a big numerical and firepower disadvantage. If the enemy spots you and shoots first, your boys will be torn to shreds. Break. If you lose the element of surprise before you've even fired a shot, bug out of there immediately.Acknowledge?”
“Wilco, Three Actual. I’ll proceed with caution. Out.”

Edited March 6, 2022 by Rhodellia
Did some editing for Chapter Two as part of a major overhaul for Chance Encounter (see edit history)

[Rhodellia]

An email to Fernando Batón-Baqal, SVP, Relationship Management, of the Indiense Free Companies LLC, from the Rhodellian Department of Defence

@Iverica

Dear Mr. Batón-Baqal

The Rhodellian Department of Defence wishes to hire the services of Indiense Free Companies LLC. 

The DOD’s proposal is for the IFC LLC to assist the Rhodellian Armed Forces in conducting counter-insurgency operations against the Native Aurelian separatist movement in Nordwalde Province, Rhodellia. Based on the IFC LLC’s documented and laudable pragmatism, performance, experience in Vasqqa and Afropa, the DOD has assessed that IFC contractors would be valuable partners.

Rhodellia’s Native Aurelian separatist movement consists of various paramilitary groups. Their fighters are well-trained, heavily-armed, and battle-hardened warriors with a fierce centuries-old tradition of resisting Rhodellian central authority. Many of them also receive substantial aid from the Native Aurelian Liberation Army. They will surely be worthy and worthwhile opponents. 

Should you have any questions about this offer, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Kind regards, Ekhardt Krieger, Department of Defence.

Edited October 29, 2021 by Rhodellia (see edit history)

[Iverica]

 

OOC: okay, i'm not afraid to admit it, I have a fetish for letter formats. As a side note, the whole conference thing will just be so that the DoD can meet the executives and some of the team leaders. It will also be for agreeing to terms for a contract that will be drafted and then sent to the DoD for signing. I don't think the conference and all the other corporate song and dance is needed as the particulars can be agreed on OOC. IMO this exchange of letters is good enough to begin some grounded RP. NALA better hold on to their hair, because some are gonne end up as part of the company scalp collection. That's if the IFC doesn't get overconfident and fuck up

[Iverica]

Double-Pay Men: A "This Land is My Land" Episode

| Part 1: Prologue

 

It had been 130-years since the Gonfalons of the 5 companies last fluttered in Rhodellian winds. At the promise of vast fortune, the men of the Indiense Free Companies mustered a return to many-forested Rhodellia to launch the largest of modern mercenary campaigns. Offered the unique opportunity for gold, glory, and salvage rights, the IFC deployed at full strength.

Deploying their numbers in cities and towns to act as advisors, forward observers, and specialised rear-security, the men of IFC were sent to fill the gaps of the expert but embattled Rhodellian forces. Though eager to put skills honed across the glube on the forefront of a bloody conflict once again, the Free Companies' true utility lay not in their overt operations, but what they were tasked to do away from the public eye. Fringes around Nordwalde province play host to many Indiense Detachments acting with swiftness and ferocity. There, they filled brutal but necessary roles as attack dogs that the Rhodellians could still insulate their reputation from. The account of one Detachment, deployed to Boubonweir, tells us of one such unit.

 

---

 

1704hrs
11 of May, 2056

"Back then, we only had about 30 days of prep training. Tight, yes, but we'd pulled shorter time tables in the past", I said. The younger man across the table from me looked at me intently but kept writing into the pad.

 

"I know how it ends. But, uh- going through what you did, would you blame your management's rushed planning for what happened to-", the younger man started.

 

"Couldn't be helped", I cut him off.

 

"We can opt out of ops before we launch. All of them should have been aware by then, none of my guys were baguhans[*]. Call it occupational hazard".

I don't know why I felt something after saying that, but I did. The grad student in front of me just listened, the wide eyed expression he'd had on since earlier still plastered on his face. Just then I felt the need for a fat roll of cured tobak.

[*]Baguhans- FNGs; new guys.

 

"Are we done? I've got a grandkid's birthday to prepare for. We've got 3 squealers on the coals, lechon- Ilon style, none of that sweet northern stuff", I said. Truthfully, I wanted to skip some of the questions I knew might follow that one.

 

"J-just a few more for this session, please, po", he said, seemingly abashed. He fumbled some, spilling notes on the table from his sling bag.

 

"Sure", I relented, lightly sighing. "Your abuela would give me an earful if you don't pass this one. Shoot".

 

"O-okay po...", he bagan, stumbling over some apology. "Ah- so could you go over how they prepared you, unique challenges the locale may have put you up ag-", he stammered out.

 

"Easy. SimOps", I said. I couldn't help the slight twang of dismissal creep into my voice. "Again and again, 12 hours a day. Forest ftx- fire team exercises. Tracking refreshers, close protection refreshers, few others. If you didn't pass, you didn't ship out", I said, counting the examples on my fingers.

 

"Oh, right, best one- Killhouses", I continued.  "We did mock ups of other Kabayans' farmhouses. Kind enough to lend us their floor plan. Remodelled some shack nearer Nordwalde and we ran the house until it started showing up in our dreams", I said, recalling the old shithole we renovated into over 30 different layouts with nothing but scraps.

 

"So how did your team do?", he asked.

"First time around? Oh, we all fucking died."

---

 

1750hrs
29th of October, 2021

An ramshackle farmhouse stood at a small forest clearing. Near overgrown fields and branch-littered knolls, the structure of tumbled bricks appeared re-dressed in haphazard sheets of material, barely held together with an assortment of nails and duct tape. 

 

However, abandoned, it was not. Not at the moment, at least. Every so often the glassless windows would flash in tandem with the sharp report of rifle fire from the rooms of the once-welcoming Rhodellian farmhouse.

 

Flashes would light up from windows and doorways. The voles, field mice, and avians that called the neglected and overgrown fields their home had been sent scampering not long ago.

 

From the front door, a trail of detritus led to the interior hallway, where a team of 4 paced briskly down the corridor to the set of bedrooms.

 

They wore an assortment of insulated outdoor clothing under a set of war belts, plate carriers, ballistic masks and ballistic helmets. All of them carrying short rifles, AGP-210C's, chambered in 6.8 . The men behind the point man covered their angles, left, right, and behind. Every so often they checked the ceiling and floors.

 

The Pointman gestured for a stop as the fireteam reached the first room on the left. The TL, or Team Leader, then moved a few feet down the corridor, covering the uncleared space beyond.  The Rearguard walked backward, still covering the 6 o'clock while tightening up with Pointman & the Breacher who had taken positions on the right and left side of a thick wood panel nailed-in to act as a locked door. 

 

Breacher, on the left, inspected the door for traps and gave a go gesture. Pointman, on the right, took a step back and covered his angle of the door with his rifle. Beside him, Breacher briefly turned away from the door, bracing himself on the stone doorway wall and then stoved the door in like a horse would kick some idiot standing behind an ornery animal.

 

The door was scarcely open when Pointman loosed 3 rounds, ending a combatant pressed against the corner of the small bedroom. Breacher recovered quickly from the kick and pivoted on his heel, bringing his rifle up. He covered the corner exposed to him, still protected by most of the stone doorway wall. Pointman swept his aim away and to the left as the pair forced-in swiftly and secured both sides of the centre-fed bedroom. 

 

Sudden shots rang out, the ceiling turned to splinters as Breacher fell to the ground. Pointman pivoted and brought his rifle up, but before he could fire, he was picked off his feet and sent stumbling into the wall behind him. A glimmer of movement revealed a shooter through a narrow window that Pointman had pivoted into.

 

Rearguard began returning fire, his rifle tearing-into the ceiling from cover behind the stone interior walls of the doorway. The TL worked low at prone, checking under the bed and dresser quickly before taking position to cover the window.

 

Rearguard was almost into the room when his head whiplashed, struck from behind. He fell, body thudding heavily on to the floorboards. The Team Leader could no longer secure the casualties. With his off-hand, he readied a frag grenade, unpinned and unlevered it, and then bounced it down the hallway. It detonated, blowing dust from the rafters and ruined ceiling.

 

Working with near robotic precision, TL snapped his rifle toward the window, and placed 5 rounds through, ending the shooter who had re-peeked. He cleared the left and right visible angles of the corridor before he pivoted out the doorway. TL double-checked his rear for just a second, a fatal second. 

 

 A single round met his ballistic mask as he pivoted from his rear-check to face front.

---

"Mistakes were made. But that was of course, an exercise. We all used soft-pellet simunitions, firecracker dummy-frags, and the ceiling had a long section of balsa wood for the OpFor actors to shoot through", I said, after going into a somewhat skimmed account of how the killhouse exercises went.

 

"So... Which one of the guys were you?", the young man asked.

 

"Eh? Oh. I was the TL. I led them and got them all killed. We learned, of course. We breached recklessly. I told them to work the bedrooms quickly since we knew the rooms were small. Only used 2 when I should have had the whole team in. But I insisted that covering the corridor was important since the rest of the house was uncleared... Anyway, you don't need to hear my excuses. We got better. We ran it so many times and in so many configurations that by the end of it, the house would turn up in our dreams the whole deployment."

 

"So you sucked?", that had likely slipped out before the kid even knew what he was saying. I shut him up while he was stammering an apology out. Once he relaxed, I continued.

 

"I did suck. They didn't. They just did what I said... most of the time, at least. We hadn't been in any ops that had entry in for 3 years at that point. In Vasqqa, the platoon was doing long-range recce, stay-behind, observation of PELs, the occasional recce-in-force. We were out in the mountains and old-growth woods for weeks, shitting in our empty MRE packets to hide the scent. I remember hiding one in a box of new ones bound for a Poleto's tent once. Good times", I couldn't help a slight smile escape as I reminisced.

[*]PEL(s)- predicted enemy location

[*]Poleto- rough equivalent, "POG", or Person Other Than Grunt. From the word Epoletta or Epaulette, a shoulder piece usually found on an Iberic Officer's dress uniform. May also apply to non-combatant enlisted personnel.

 

"Wait. Vasqqa? So you-"

 

"Another time hijo", I waved my hand dismissively. I didn't want to go over all that just now. "But yes, we'd been tree-humpers for a good few years over there. No one in the 5-companies could fix an ambush in the bukid better than us. That's why they picked us for ass-crack nowhere Boubonweir."

 

"Boubonweir... So that's the part of Nordwalde where all that shit-", at this point the youngster had gotten slightly too enthused about the details. It had started when I mentioned Vasqqa, no doubt the kid had grown up hearing about the historic conflicts that kept the Empire of New Iberium divided for so long. Evidently, he had also heard about the Indiense trysts in Nordwalde.

 

"Yes where all that whacky and wild shit happened", I confirmed, nodding slowly.

 

"Okay so-so-so, what happened there-"

 

I checked my watch. "Ay, tangina. Tingnan mo 'ung oras. Tara, ka'in, hijo. Lechon won't last forever, there's about 40 guests coming."

 

"You'll tell me there right?", sounded like the kid had blue balls.

 

"A word to my apo about this and I'll use your jewels for a fishball bbq", Maria and her kids didn't need to hear about all that. They'd probably find out when they were older and edgier anyway.

 

"After, then?", he asked hopefully.

 

"O'na, O'na, after! Kulit. Once they bring out the Cha'tas[*] and rum", with that, we both headed out.

[*]Cha'tas- Indiense digestif. Dark Tea, usually Chai, Darjeeling, or Assam brewed for long periods at low temperatures in full-cream milk or in buttermilk. Little to no water used. Typically spiced with cloves, black cardamom, and cinnamon. May occasionally be brewed with small quantities of Saharabica or Vostau Saffron.

---

 

OOC: Yes, it is unusual that they'd train in a kill house with simunitions shooting at actual people with real projectiles, masks or not. Its not impossible, but it is unusual. I took some creative liberty there

 

[Rhodellia]

Chance Encounter

Recap

• The Rhodellian Army and Air Force are hunting down a group of Separatist insurgents spotted travelling through the hills of rural Nordwalde Province.
• Sergeant Schäfer’s squad had a chance encounter with a section-sized group of insurgents. 
• The insurgents were caught camouflaging and digging a line of defensive fighting positions overlooking an important supply route. 
• The insurgents are not aware that they’ve been spotted. 
• Schäfer chose to exploit this opportunity and lead his squad in a surprise attack, despite facing a more heavily armed and numerically superior enemy.

Forces

Rhodellian Army
2nd Infantry Brigade Combat Team, 1st Infantry Division (Sledgehammer Division)
1st Squad, 3rd Platoon, Charlie Company, 3rd Battalion of the 4th Friedrichstadt Landwehr Infantry Regiment (The Bloodthirsters)
14 Soldiers

• Squad Leader - Sergeant Alarick Schäfer (Callsign: Tempest Three-One)
  • Medic - Corporal John Mark ‘Doc’ Garcia
  • Alpha Fire Team Leader - Corporal Rolt Jung (Callsign: Libtard One)
    • Rifleman - Private Puhihwikwasu'u ‘Wickwash’ Geldfeld (Libtard Two)
    • Automatic Rifleman - Private Garrick Wolff (Libtard Three)
    • Grenadier - Private John Adebayo (Libtard Four)
  • Bravo Fire Team Leader - Corporal Koen Meier (Callsign: Clausewitz One) 
    • Rifleman - Private Waltz Fischer (Callsign: Clausewitz Two)
    • Automatic Rifleman -  Private Jakub 'Kowalski' Kowalczyk  (Clausewitz Three)
    • Grenadier - Private Robert Powell (Clausewitz Four)
  • Charlie Fire Team Leader - Corporal William Collins (Callsign: Punisher One)
    • Rifleman - Private Danuwoa Catawnee (Callsign: Punisher Two)
    • Automatic Rifleman -  Private Ludwig Zimmerman (Callsign: Punisher Three)
    • Grenadier - Private Abdul Hamid bin Faisal al-Latif (Callsign: Punisher Four)

Nordwalde Separatist insurgents (assumed)
18 fighters

• 1 Designated Marksman (Squad/Section leader?)
• 1 Engineer with rotary grenade launcher
• 1 MG Team
  • 1 Machine gunner
  • 1 Assistant Machine gunner
• Fire Team Assholes
  • 1 Team Leader
  • 1 Automatic rifleman (Sentry #1)
  • 1 Grenadier with a recoilless rifle
  • 1 Assistant Grenadier
• Fire Team B*tches
  • 1 Team Leader
  • 1 Automatic rifleman (Sentry #2)
  • 1 Grenadier with recoilless rifle
  • 1 Assistant Grenadier
• Fire Team Cocksuckers
  • 1 Team Leader
  • 1 Automatic rifleman (Sentry #3)
  • 1 Low Altitude Air Defence Gunner with MANPAD
  • 1 Assistant LAAD Gunner

Chapter Four: Approach

In the foothills of eastern Nordwalde Province, it looked as if a storm was coming. Sergeant Schäfer felt chills across his camouflage-painted face as the clouds darkened and wind picked up through the wooded valleys. The ancient forests around him, rustling and restless, howled. It took many hours of searching (and a stroke of luck), but his squad of fellow Landwehr conscripts finally found the roving band of insurgents the Rhodellian military spent the whole afternoon hunting for.  The 'Elder Trees' of Nordwalde grew tall from the blood of countless warriors, and the Rhodellian Army was more than happy to keep them watered with dead Separatists.

Sergeant Schäfer’s squad stops behind the hedge on the left side of MSR Spirytus, right at the foot of the western hill. On the opposite hillside, to the east of the MSR, is a forest with no less than eighteen Separatist insurgents hiding in it. The insurgents were last seen digging fighting positions overlooking the MSR. They were probably preparing to ambush a Rhodellian Army logistics convoy. Schäfer took the initiative to try and stop them.

Compared to Schäfer's squad, the insurgents have superior firepower; the enemies have a general-purpose machine gun, a rotary grenade launcher, two recoilless rifles, and three known M18 Claymore mines in addition to their small arms. Including himself, and minus his squad’s attached combat medic, Schäfer has a total of thirteen soldiers to bear against the insurgents’ eighteen. 1st Squad is clearly outgunned and outnumbered.

Yet in spite of the odds being stacked against them, his squad is confident of victory. Sure, the enemy has clear numerical and fire superiority. But through clever use of the terrain, stealth, and the element of surprise, the squad plans to negate these enemy advantages. The squad’s plan is divided into three stages: 

Stage One was for the squad to stealthily reach the hedgerow to the left of the MSR. Schäfer, Doc, Fire Team Bravo, and Fire Team Charlie entered an enclosed pasture for llamas, and high-crawled along the south side of the enclosure’s northern masonry wall (which blocks the line of sight of the insurgents’ ‘Sentry #1’) until they reached the hedgerow (Phase line Alpha). Meanwhile, Fire Team Alpha took up overwatch positions further up the western hillside, along ASR Blue Lagoon. There, they are hiding behind another masonry wall until the rest of their squad commences their ambush.

Stage One was the easy part. With that already out of the way, everything else from then would have a real element of risk.

The second stage is to clear a path to the starting point of their ambush (Phase line Bravo) undetected. It is just over fifty metres south of the insurgents’ southernmost fighting positions (their left flank). Fire Team Charlie is to crawl through a hole in the left hedgerow and into a currently-dry drainage ditch running along the left side of the MSR. After that, they are to go through a wildlife underpass leading under the MSR to the foot of the eastern hillside. There are at least two claymore mines in the drainage ditch and a third claymore mine pointed directly into the underpass at the eastern exit. All of them are to be disarmed if the squad is going to safely reach Phase line Bravo.

The plan’s biggest hurdle is who the squad dubs as the insurgents’ 'Sentry #1'. Sentry #1's main priority seems to be spotting any incoming vehicles or Rhodellian Army patrols approaching from the south via the MSR and ASR. However, the hole in the left hedgerow and the underpass’s exit are within his line of sight. The entire ambush depends on Fire Team Charlie being able to approach and kill that sentry without alerting the rest of the insurgents. 

If this can not be done, the attack will have to be called off. The insurgents would probably be blown up by a random Rhodellian Air Force drone operator instead. Nobody in the squad wants their kills to be stolen like that. Chances to ambush Separatist insurgents like this are too few and far between for any fun-loving Rhodellian to pass up. The squad was extraordinarily lucky to have spotted their enemy first this time around.

Stage Three is actually attacking the enemy position. In the current plan, Stage Three basically begins with Fire Team Bravo and Fire Team Charlie advancing from Phase line Bravo undetected until a ‘good number’ of the enemy are visible. At Schäfer's command, they will then shoot as many insurgents as possible in the first two seconds of the ambush (after which, the surviving insurgents will all have hit the deck or dived for cover). Bravo and Charlie will then take turns advancing down the length of the fighting positions until the enemy is either destroyed or routed. 

However, since plans typically never survive first contact with the enemy, the squad intends on adapting on the fly according to how the tactical situation develops. If everything ends up going horribly wrong anyway, the rest of 3rd platoon and the Rhodellian Air Force are on standby. And most of the 3rd Battalion are less than an hour away.

Now is the time to execute Stage Two of the plan.

Somewhere in the woods further up the western hill, Corporal Jung is watching Sentry #1 through his binoculars. Private Geldfeld (nicknamed ‘Wickwash’) is next to him, keeping his own binoculars trained on the other insurgents’ camouflaged fighting positions. Meanwhile, Corporal Collins and the rest of Fire Team Charlie are lining up along the hedgerow at Phase line Alpha, waiting for their turns to crawl through the hole in the hedge. They await Jung’s signal. Whenever the sentry is looking away from the hole’s direction, Jung will signal Collins over the radio to crawl through the hole and into the drainage ditch. Collins and Jung will then coordinate so that other members of Charlie can crawl through the hole undetected as well.

Collins (Temporary callsign: Punisher One) is first in line. He speaks quietly into his radio headset.
“Libtard One, this is Punisher One. I’m ready to go. Over.”
Jung (Temporary callsign: Libtard One) chuckles before responding.
“Roger, Punisher One. Wait one.” Jung watches Sentry #1, waiting for the right moment to clear Collins to go through.

Sentry #1 has seemingly gone on autopilot, going into a robot-like routine to cope with the sheer boredom of sentry duty. Beforehand, the squad has spent some quite time noting down his video game NPC-like pattern. He spends 60 seconds looking down his scope, staring at a fixed point on the MSR several-hundred metres to the south, likely watching for oncoming vehicles. When he unscopes, his head makes a quick 3-second left-right sweep of his surroundings. He then spends 15 seconds scanning left to right, from his 7 o’clock position to his 5 o’clock position. He also makes a radio check every 5 minutes. The only time he has deviated from this routine in the past thirty minutes was to stop and keep himself awake with a chocolate bar and half a bottle of sports drink. 

Jung waits until Sentry #1 next looks into his scope. “Go! He’s scoped in!”

Collins steps in front of the hole in the hedge, drops to the ground, and starts dragging his face forward through the grass. Before he crawls all the way through the hole, he holds up a mirror, checking to see if the drainage ditch on the other side was clear of enemy presence. The coast was clear. Within ten seconds, he’s already scrambling into the drainage ditch. Collins beckons over Catawnee, then Zimmerman, and finally al-Latif. By the time Sentry #1 unscopes, all of Fire Team Charlie are already in the drainage ditch.

 

In the drainage ditch, Collins whispers instructions to his team.
“Catawnee. Stack up by the entrance to the wildlife underpass and prepare to take out the sentry. Zimmerman, disarm any Claymores you find in the drainage pipes beneath Checkpoints Eight-Bravo and Niner-Bravo. al-Latif, go to Checkpoint Seven-Bravo and do the same as Zimmerman.”

All of them nod. With their orders received, Catawnee and Zimmerman high-crawl north up the drainage ditch while al-Latif heads south. Catawnee crouches by the entrance to the wildlife underpass, and checks inside it with a mirror. He sees no enemies waiting in ambush in the reflection. He beckons Zimmerman to keep crawling forward.

Zimmerman crawls up to the first two Claymores. While scouting the area with the squad’s Dragonfly reconnaissance drone earlier, Catawnee spotted the insurgents’ designated marksman setting them up the command-activated mines. He can just about see the mines’ electric firing wires snaking down the tall grass and into the wildlife tunnel. The mines are positioned so that, in an ambush situation, the insurgents can inflict heavy casualties against any Rhodellian troops taking cover inside the drainage ditch. The mines are also concealed with grass so that any panicking troops wanting to return fire as soon as possible won’t immediately notice them.

Zimmerman is too focused on his task to feel all that nervous. Neither Jung nor Wickwash have given any indication that the insurgents have spotted them. And so, he feels confident that neither mine will explode on him and his team mates unless some freak accident happens. In a sense, operating these mines was literally child's play.

Most Rhodellians’ first experience of M18 Claymore mines is in secondary school. In War Studies, schoolchildren are instructed in the safe, efficient, and effective use of landmines in static defense and ambush operations. When doing airsoft exercises in P.E class, they put their knowledge into practice using airsoft replicas that launch BB pellets. Outside of school, replica Claymore mines are also popular equipment in casual and competitive airsoft and paintball games. Zimmerman knew how these devices worked.

Zimmerman starts by clearing away the Claymore mines' camouflage and removing the wooden stake securing their firing wires. He takes a deep breath.
"Alright... Let's do this." He whispers to himself. He swallows his spit upon seeing the familiar 'FRONT TOWARD ENEMY' embossed on the mines' plastic cases. He then starts the disarming process proper, which is basically a reverse of the normal arming process. He unscrews the shipping plug adapter securing the blasting cap to the detonator well. He lifts the blasting cap out of the first Claymore’s detonator well slowly, steadily, and vertically, doing his best to minimise friction all-throughout. According to his instructor back in Infantry School, a Claymore mine’s firing charge is generated by an electromagnetic switch caused by pressing down the mine’s connected clacker (firing device). But Zimmerman also believes that static electricity generated from friction might substitute for that charge, prematurely detonating the mine. 

He’s not sure if this is just an urban myth or fuddlore he picked up on Threadit, Boogaloo+, or Volkscast at some point in his life. Back in Infantry School, he didn’t want to look like an idiot by asking a ‘dumb’ question when they were learning about explosive ordnance disposal. He low-key wishes that someone else took the fall by asking this question instead, or that this possible myth was already addressed in a lecture.

Within a dozen seconds the first Claymore mine is disconnected from its firing device. Another dozen seconds more, the second mine is disconnected too. Zimmerman starts crawling further up the drainage ditch to check for more mines. A few minutes later, Zimmerman and al-Latif return to the wildlife underpass, giving Collins the thumbs up.

Collins whispers into his radio headset. “Tempest Three-One, Punisher One. All M18s in the drainage ditch have been neutralised. Acknowledge?”
On the other side of the hedgerow, Schäfer is awaiting Jung’s signal, getting ready to lead Doc and Fire Team Bravo through the hole in the hedge. He replies to Collins.
“Roger, Punisher One. Good work. Out.”
When Schäfer, Doc, and Bravo eventually do make it into the drainage ditch, they exchange silent nods and grins with Zimmerman and al-Latif. So far, everything was going to plan.

With the drainage ditch Claymores successfully dealt with, and Bravo and Charlie standing by to advance to Phase line Bravo, it was time to neutralise Sentry #1.

Private Catawnee volunteered to do just that. As the drone operator who flew the drone (a Black Knight Systems AG UA-25 'Dragonfly' reconnaissance micro-UAV) scouting out the route to the sentry earlier, he intimately knows the lay of the land better than any of his peers. From memory, he also has a good idea of an exact path through some forest undergrowth he needs to take in order to reach the sentry undetected. Plus, as a man of Aniyvwiya ancestry, stealthily killing one’s enemies is practically a long-running family tradition. This would be his true moment in the spotlight.

Even before the Colonial era, forest-dwelling Native Aurelians like himself were well-versed in what historians call the ‘Skulking Way of War’. The primordial forests of Central Aurelia were a different beast from the Aurelian steppes. With stealth, surprise, and mobility, 'Woodland Tribes' like the Aniyvwiya could terrorise Rhodellian settlers even into the 19th century. They made no distinction between hunting and warfare. They attacked without warning, and could vanish without a trace. They could effectively turn themselves invisible. The forests were their domain.

In general, the threat of attack Native Aurelian warriors struck fear into anyone venturing beyond the walls of established fortress-towns and fortress-cities. Settlements at the edge of the Aurelian frontier were subject to constant raids. The paths and wagon-trails between them were littered with the bodies of the weak and unwary. Without first befriending the local tribes; driving them away; or exterminating them to the last man, woman, and child, even settlers in the biggest and most heavily armed pioneer wagon trains dreaded passing through any stretch of forest.

Rhodellia’s Native Aurelians have always shown a certain pride for pioneering many of the techniques and tactics used by modern-day Rhodellian special forces and jägers. When he was a child, Catawnee always felt inspired knowing that his ancestors were respected as undisputed masters and innovators of asymmetric, guerilla, and forest warfare. He still does.

And unlike the Native Aurelian Separatist insurgents who slipped up and got themselves caught, Catawnee has zero intention of disappointing his ancestors today.

  

Collins removes his radio headset and hands it over to Catawnee. This way, Catawnee can immediately signal his squadmates to move to Phase line Bravo when it’s safe. He uses a mirror to confirm that no enemies are waiting in front of the tunnel exit to ambush him. He then pulls down his helmet-mounted AresTech GmbH BN3 Binocular Night-Vision Device, and confirms that there are no new explosives inside the tunnel. However, the tripwire rigged to another Claymore mine is still hidden in the same spot at the exit, still camouflaged by tall grass.

The Rhodellian Army has long since sold off all of its victim-activated mines to foreign buyers, and reportedly so has the Native Aurelian Liberation Army (NALA). However, that has not stopped Nordwalde Separatist groups from using victim-activated explosives against Rhodellian military personnel, police officers, and civilians. They don’t care that they’re committing war crimes. If somethings helps kick their Rhodellian colonisers out of ancestral Native Aurelian land, one life or limb at a time, it's perfectly fair game. 

In spite of Rhodellia being a signatory and ratifier of the 1997 Mine Ban Treaty, schoolchildren are still instructed in the use of both command and victim-activated Claymore mines. According to the Department of Education’s logic, teaching Rhodellian children to use victim-activated explosives helps them to understand the mindsets and perspectives of terrorists, which in turn can help them to accurately predict the most likely places they would encounter victim-activated landmines. In theory, this would help Rhodellians avoid tripping over Unexploded Remnants of War (ERW) and the traps of Separatist war criminals. That knowledge was helping Catawnee this very day.

Indeed, even if Catawnee hadn’t already pinpointed the victim-activated Claymore mine and its attached tripwire during this operation’s reconnaissance phase, he and all of his squadmates would have known that this wildlife underpass was the most obvious place to rig with a mine. For any ambushed Rhodellian troops in the drainage ditch, this wildlife underpass would make for a convenient flanking route to the insurgents’ fighting positions.

Catawnee crouches inside the underpass. He pokes his head out of the western entrance to prevent echoing, and whispers into the receiver.
“Libtard One, this is Punisher Two. Standing by. Over.”
“Roger, Punisher Two. Wait one… Go.”

At Jung’s signal, Catawnee peers through his ReaperTech 4x ACOG sight (now sighted at 50 metres) and advances through the tunnel. Near the end, he performs a ‘pie cutting’ maneuver. He also briefly removes his NVGs and uses a mirror to check around the corners. He confirms that there are no ambushers within the immediate vicinity of the tunnel exit. There were also no enemy insurgents at the foot of the hill at any point along the hedgerow to the right of the MSR. 

While Sentry #1 is tunnel-visioned peering through his scope, Catawnee slowly steps over the tripwire and lies down flat at the foot of the hill, vanishing into a green sea of primordial forest undergrowth. He takes care not to accidentally snag his boot on the drainage ditch Claymores’ electrical firing wires in case their movements give away his presence. He starts high-crawling his way uphill, moving in an arc towards the sentry’s rear. It's getting quite dark as evening approaches, and he needs to maintain a low profile, so he puts his NVGs back on.

 

Jung and Catawnee are practically playing a game of ‘Red Light, Green Light’ with Sentry #1. Every time the sentry is about to face Catawnee's general direction, or if Catawnee’s movements (or a fern’s) seem to be at risk of getting caught in the sentry’s peripheral vision, Jung radios Catawnee to ‘stop’. When the sentry is facing away or scoping in, Jung radios Catawnee to ‘go’.

Catawnee has pulled all the stops to minimise the odds of himself getting noticed, according to things he picked up learning Fieldcraft in school, Landwehr basic training, Volkscast tutorials, and online infographics. His face is painted to conceal the natural shine of the human skin and break up the recognisability of the human face. The foliage he applied to his goggles, helmet, and uniform was gathered from the woods just a few-hundred metres to the west; they matched the local flora to a tee and effectively broke up his human silhouette. He has positioned himself upwind of the sentry, where the wind won’t carry the scent of his sweat from marching across the Nordwalde hills. As a precaution, he also applied odorless deodorant to himself before his squad even went on this operation. And by default, current-issue Rhodellian Army battledress incorporates infrared remission to thwart Forward-looking Infrared (FLIR) cameras and optics. Flecktarn forest camouflage also performs excellently in the forest of central and southern Aurelia. Spotting a Rhodellian soldier like Catawnee is easier said than done.

Aside from his appearance and smell, Catawnee even takes his movement into consideration. He cradles his Flectarn-painted Krieger Industries Sturmgewehr 5 kurz (SG5k) carbine in his arms, and maintains a low profile as he crawls at a slow and steady pace, ensuring his movements are smooth, gradual, and non-jerky so as too not get picked up by a human being's peripheral vision. Upon Catawnee nearing the sentry, Jung sends another transmission.
"Punisher Two, this is Libtard One. Switch off your headset so the dude has no chance of hearing us. Break. F*ck him up. Out."
Catawnee complies. At this stage, he only moves whenever a gust of wind is moving through the ferns and bushes, masking out the rustles and slightly unnatural movements of plants in his path. 

One of the most difficult parts of operating in Nordwalde is the sheer age, size, and thickness of its flora. The forests of the east Nordwalde foothills are many thousands of years old, with countless acres still untouched by human civilisation. The indigenous Nordwalders (another Woodland Tribe) traditionally live in harmony with nature and treat it with great reverence. They are known to object to clearing their local forests more than they subjectively consider 'necessary'. Native Aurelian civilisation in this region is primarily concentrated along the Nordfluss river and the foot of the Shfakien mountains. These areas tend to have been historically inhabited by tribes that are more receptive to land development. Population density around Nordwalde's foothills is still very low. So many of the local 'Elder trees' and the undergrowth beneath them have been allowed to grow extremely tall and thick. 

The thickness and density of Nordwalde's flora neutralises many of the Rhodellian Army's technological advantages. They are extraordinarily effective at blocking sightlines and masking heat signatures. Thanks to this, Nordwalde's Separatist insurgents have long been able to operate across the deep woods, moving around and establishing outposts with little fear of observation by binoculars, thermal goggles, and FLIR-armed reconnaissance drones.

At many points along MSR Spirytus, for example, adjacent foliage is so dense and thick that insurgents can theoretically sneak well within grenade-throwing distance of the major road without getting detected by foot patrols, vehicles, or aircraft. The Rhodellian government would have committed to more foliage-trimming or clearing if only it did not offend the local Nordwalder populace. So military travel in this region remains quite dangerous.

At the very least, the potential for stealth operations brought about by the local foliage can work both ways.

Before Catawnee knew it, Sentry #1’s back and bobbing head were already in sight. Catawnee can even hear the sentry whisper-singing to stave off his boredom. The sentry is singing in Nordwalder-accented Anglish.
“...Let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the floor…”
True to the lyrics, a body was about to hit the floor.

Catawnee waits a few minutes for the Sentry to finish his next radio check with the rest of the insurgents. In the meantime, he takes deep (but quiet and controlled) breaths to mitigate an upcoming adrenaline surge and control his heartbeat. Catawnee is as still as a rock. As far as the Sentry seems to be concerned, he is very much a part of the surrounding foliage. For all intents and purposes, Catawnee is invisible.

It seems to take ages. But eventually, the Sentry speaks into his radio.  “Tomahawk Two-Three Actual, Rockstar Three. Check.” He is also using Anglish with a Nordwalder accent. He also sounds quite young, like many older secondary schoolers or college freshmen Catawnee regularly encountered at his local airsoft field back in Friedrichstadt. And with that, the Sentry goes back to singing, and scopes into his rifle.

Catawnee rises from the underbrush, slowly sliding his B9 Bayonet out of its sheath. He looks over his shoulder to check the status of the insurgents’ fighting positions, which should be just over 50 metres away. He can’t see a single one of them through the densely packed tree trunks, bushes, and undergrowth. Neither can he hear any digging. All of the primordial plantlife is making noise rustling in the wind and absorbing all sound waves. Even if he speaks at normal conversational volume, his voice would be inaudible to the other, nearby insurgents. For all intents and purpose, Catawnee and Sentry #1 are alone together… unless the Sentry manages to scream.

Everything is quiet. It's just him and this one sentry. Catawnee glares hard at the target's neck. He pictures the target's trachea and carotid arteries beneath his skin. He pictures his bayonet slicing into them. He pictures himself cutting out the target's scalp for presentation. He can just about smell rust and taste iron. And it only makes him smile.

All Catawnee must do now is carry out the same instruction all Rhodellians are taught to say at the start of every morning, and do what every good Rhodellian is born to do: Kill.

The wind blows. 

Catawnee rushes up behind the sentry, grabs the sentry’s mouth, and stabs him right in the windpipe. Catawnee feels hot blood spraying onto his wrist from the Sentry’s right-side carotid arteries, and even more soaking into his glove from the left-side carotid arteries. He stabs the Sentry even more, all over the neck and above the sternum, anywhere the Sentry’s front XSAPI ceramic trauma plate doesn’t cover. The sentry grabs and claws at Catawnee's uniform, but he's rapidly losing blood, oxygen, consciousness, and control over his motor functions. It's already too late for him to put up a real struggle.

The Sentry barely lets out more than a gasp and splutter of blood as he falls backwards onto Catawnee. Catawnee flicks the blood off his bayonet, watering the plant roots to his right. He gently lets the Sentry lie back on the forest floor. That's when he notices the Sentry’s glazed eyes staring directly up at him, shocked and afraid. 

The Sentry’s face clearly looked young beneath his camouflage facepaint. By Catawnee’s estimates, the sentry looked to be only a few years younger than he was. 16 at most. Not even old enough to have graduated from secondary education or entered National Service. He realises that he just knifed a kid.

It wasn't too out of the ordinary for Nordwalder Separatists to fight from an early age.  Many Nordwalder families can claim a longstanding tradition of violently opposing (Dolchic) Rhodellian rule over their ancestral homeland. Thanks to Native Aurelian oral traditions, many local kids are raised on stories of resistance and insurgency. Many of these kids have brothers, fathers, uncles, and older friends that either died fighting or are currently fighting as part of the larger Nordwalde Separatist movement. Even though the Rhodellian education system is trying its damned hardest to get Native Aurelian separatism out of these kids' systems, many kids grow up developing a sense of duty to  inherit their predecessors' struggle.

Some insurgent groups initiate their members at an early age, in their teenage years. These teenagers often accompany family members, friends, and relatives in conducting guerilla attacks on their Rhodellian 'occupiers'. These younger insurgents are often tasked with espionage, reconnaissance, and other forms of intelligence-gathering. They also go around planting IEDs. More fanatical and insistent kids with high Marksmanship, Martial Arts, P.E, and War Studies grades can sometimes persuade older insurgents to let them join in on ambushes. Catawnee guesses that this insurgent (that ironically just got caught slipping) probably belonged to the latter group.

But none of that really matters right now.

Catawnee simply offers the dying boy a smug grin and middle finger. He moves his face closer and lifts up his NVGs, just so he can engrave his own face as the last thing the boy sees before the latter kicks the bucket.
"That’s for making us ruck all the way out here, you little shit." He whispers to what would otherwise be his fellow Native Aurelian… in Standard Rhodellian Dolchic. "You should have stayed in school."

Catawnee spits on the dying boy as he switches his radio headset back online. He glances downhill at the wildlife tunnel. With the biggest obstacle to Phase line Bravo out of the way, it was time to advance to Stage Three of the plan.
“Tempest Three-One Actual, this Punisher Two. Target neutralised. Over.” He whispers.
Schäfer responds.
“Roger, Punisher Two. Good f*cking work. We’re on our way up. Out.”

Catawnee watches as Sergeant Schäfer and Private Fischer lean out of the tunnel, aiming their rifles up and down the hedgerow and foot of the hill. They provide cover for rest of their squadmates (barring Fire Team Alpha), who step over the Claymore mine’s tripwire and run up the hill towards their preassigned positions along Phase line Bravo. With Sentry #1 neutralised, the rest of the insurgents busy elsewhere doing their own things, and sightlines from the insurgents' fighting positions blocked by trees or their own anti-IR blankets and camouflage netting, the squad won't get heard or spotted.

Along the way, Collins, Zimmerman, and al-Latif stop by Catawnee and personally inspect their comrade’s handiwork. 

Collins gives his comrade thumbs up.
“Yo. Good kill, my dude.” Collins nods as Catawnee returns his radio headset. He greets the dying Sentry with a peace sign as he walks to join Fire Team Bravo at Phase line Bravo. 

Zimmerman can barely contain his smile as he watches the dying Sentry’s life force fading away before him. Zimmerman shakes Catawnee by the shoulder. The two of them high-five (with gloved hands), grab hands, and bump shoulders.
“Sheeeeeeeeesh.” Zimmerman whispers in a high-pitched voice. “You legit scored a confirmed knife kill, you ninja motherf*cker. How did it feel to go medieval on a guy up-close-and-personal?”
Catawnee suppresses his laughter.
“Absolutely f*cking euphoric, dude!"
“I f*cking bet it does!" Zimmerman chuckles quietly.
“Yeah, bro. But oh man, you should’ve seen the look on this kid’s f*cking face when I put him down!”
“Kid?” Zimmerman raises an eyebrow. Catawnee, as smug as humanly possible, points to the Sentry’s increasingly pale body. Zimmerman makes an 'O' shape with his mouth. “Yoooo…" He suppresses his laughter as he turns back towards Catawnee. "You stone-cold child-murdering son-of-a-b*tch. That’s hella f*cked up my guy.” Zimmerman's smiling so much that his cheeks are aching.
Catawnee shows off all the blood on his gloves, sleeves, and bayonet.
“Ain’t no big bright future for this baby-faced bastard. That’s for sure.”
“He probably would've grown up to be a dickhead anyway. Can't plant no IEDs if you're six feet under." Zimmerman shrugs. "But yeah, I actually envy you, bro. Or not. Because guess what?”
“What's up?”
“Schäfer and Collins said I get to sneak off and knife Sentry #2.”
“Yo, that's f*ckin' awesome.” Catawnee nods a few times. “Best of luck, bro.”
“Ay, man. I’ll chef that motherf*cker up real good. Hitman style!"  Zimmerman mimics stabbing someone from behind, and then the exaggerated facial expression of a dead man. "No cap.”
"You got this, man."
The two bump fists as Zimmerman heads off. He dabs on the young, dying Sentry as he skulks off to the northeast, vanishing into the bushes to butcher someone else's father, brother, uncle, husband, or son in cold blood.

Meanwhile, al-Latif crouches by the dying Sentry.
“Yo, nice kill, bro.” al-Latif shuts the boy’s eyelids and closes his bloodied jaw. al-Latif turns to Catawnee, also giving him smile and thumbs up.
“Thanks, man.” Catawnee nods up.
“I’ll just sit here with you, and see if this guy’s got any frag or smoke grenades." al-Latif says as he starts rummaging through the sentry's pockets and combat webbing. "Might need 'em for Stage Three.”
“Gotcha, dude. Lemme just clean my knife real quick.”

Catawnee kneels down to wipe the Sentry’s blood off his bayonet using the dying Sentry’s sleeve, when he notices something on the ground. It’s a clacker for a Claymore mine, and its firing wire is leading directly down the hill towards the wildlife underpass exit.  There, he notices Doc looking up at him, holding up the disarmed mine and its disconnected blasting cap. Catawnee holds up the mine’s clacker. The two nod their heads, grinning at each other.

Catawnee turns towards the insurgents’ fighting positions. Bravo is forming a rough Team Line formation, with each member making space and crouching behind a different tree trunk for cover. Collins is waiting for his teammates to finish doing whatever they are doing. Upon seeing what Catawnee’s holding up, Collins points towards the enemy positions. Catawnee nods. Collins does as well, mimicking depressing a clacker three times with his hand, and showing his approval with a thumbs up.

Catawnee rolls up the Claymore mine’s firing wire as Doc and Schäfer jog up the hill. Doc sees Sentry #1 lying on the ground, and walks towards him out of instinct. That's when al-Latif looks up to Doc, shaking his head, and giving a hand signal meaning ‘He (The sentry) is dead.’ Doc can already tell as much, judging by all the blood still visibly gushing out of the sentry’s perforated arteries and the familiar stench of voided bowels. Doc nods to al-Latif before handing the mine and its blasting cap over to Catawnee.
“Magaling, pareng.” He pats him on the back before rejoining the rest of the squad. "You did good."

Then Schäfer rolls up and crouches by Catawnee.
“Hey, we’re adapting the plan.” He points to the mine and firing device. “We’ll be initiating the ambush with the M18. Wanna set it up?”
Catawnee pauses to deliberate.
“Naw, Sergeant." He shakes his head. "I think I’ve done enough for today.”
“That's cool with me." Schäfer nods. "You doing okay after knifing this guy?”
"Yeah." Catawnee looks down at the corpse beside him, and then back up at Schäfer. "I'm good." He nods.
“Think on it later. Get a psychiatric check-up if you feel that you really need it. In the meantime, form up with Collins. Team Wedge formation. You’re taking Zimmerman's place on the right flank.”
"Wilco, Sergeant." Catawnee nods again. He opts to inspect his weapon one more time before the firefight.

He takes a deep breath as he presses his rifle's magazine release and checks the ammunition in his magazine. Against his expectations when he deployed this morning, his squad is going into Close-Quarters Combat (CQC). So he had to adapt to that. His current magazine is filled with regular military-grade 6.8×43mm ammunition rather than the privately bought match-grade ammunition Rhodellian troops typically reserve for long-range firefights. Accuracy, precision, and long-range ballistic performance will not be as important when he'll be close enough to see the whites of his enemies' eyes.

It's a rare day that Rhodellian troops get to engage enemies within a distance of 100 metres. If they could reliably trade for or produce their own firearms, gunpowder, and ammunition, many Native Aurelian peoples developed strong traditions of long-range marksmanship. In the less-heavily-forested hilly regions of Nordwalde, and in and around the Shfahkien mountains, Rhodellian settlers and troops have historically been fighting long rifle-armed insurgents since the mid-17th century. By the 18th century, most Native Aurelian warriors encountered by Rhodellian pioneers and soldiers had already exchanged their traditional self-bows for long rifled muskets.

The most notable exception to this trend would be natives from the Aurelian plains and steppe. Many warriors or 'braves' continued using bow and arrows on purpose. Until revolvers and repeating firearms became widespread in the 19th century, they used their mobility, reload speed, archery skills, the element of surprise, and psychological warfare to routinely rout or destroy Rhodellian militias and regulars armed with muzzle-loaded muskets. 

In hilly and mountainous terrains where dense forests do not impede lines of sight, insurgents often conduct long-range ambushes against Rhodellian troops at distances of 600 to 800 metres. For these missions, insurgents arm themselves with battle rifles, designated marksman rifles, sniper rifles, and machine guns with telescopic optics. The sheer frequency of having to react to these ambushes is one major reason why Rhodellians are made to practise marksmanship from an early age. It's also why the Rhodellian Army historically took so long to embrace carbines and intermediate cartridges compared to many other countries' militaries. But closer engagements are still more common. According to research conducted by the Department of Defence, the average engagement distance for Rhodellian troops serving In Nordwalde's flatter and more forested regions is around 300 metres. 

Firefights happening at ranges of 100 metres or less haven't been common since Operation Highwayman back in the 1990s. Nordwalde insurgents almost never want to endanger their friends, families, and livelihoods and  lose public support and by turning their own villages, towns, and cities into war zones. So they usually opt to engage Rhodellian troops in the countryside. When CQC happens nowadays, it's either a deliberate near-ambush meant to prevent Rhodellian troops from calling in Close Air Support and artillery or the result of both sides making horrible mistakes, leading to a chance encounter. Outside of Military Operations in Urban Terrain (MOUT), Rhodellian troops are almost never the ones initiating these close-range firefights. So for Catawnee and the rest of his squad, today is a big red-letter day or 'UNO Reverse Card'.

 With Catawnee seemingly being mentally exhausted from performing two highly important tasks today, al-Latif raises his hand, volunteering to take his comrade's stead.
“I’ll place the mine, Sergeant."
Schäfer nods.
"You sure?"
"Defos. I need more kills to brag about for when I get back home.”
“Be my guest, killer. Try to angle up the enfilade attack...” Schäfer makes two 'OK' hand gestures "Juuust right. Catch as many targets and less tree trunks as you can in the killzone. Minimise the secondary missile hazard for us. f*ck 'em up."
"Insha'Allah. I'll see to it." al-Latif nods. Meanwhile, Catawnee hands him the mine, its firing device, and its firing wire.

Schäfer pats them both on the shoulders, for now it was time to kick off Stage Three with a literal bang. “Now let’s go rack up some killstreaks and earn some feathers.”

Edited November 24, 2021 by Rhodellia
Even more background information and other BEEEG improvements (see edit history)

[Zaxar]

A Silent War: A "This Land is My Land" Episode

| Chapter 1: Prologue

 

For reference:

Emperor William I Zaxar - The Emperor of Greater Zaxar

Leon Varxsos - Minister of Defense (top of the military food chain- answers to no one but the Emperor)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'What I say to you now minister, must never leave this room. Understood?" William knew very well that he didn't have to say this, he trusted Leon more than anyone, but it felt proper to do so anyway.

"Of course Will, you know you don't have to say that." The minister smiled. "Is this about that lady again?"

"No, it's actually an important state matter this time" he laughed, "but in all seriousness, the orders I am about to give you can't be told to anyone else. Not even the other ministers. If people don't know they're lying then they are much better at it." Leon nodded as the Emperor laid out a map of Southern Aurelia on the table. "@Rhodellia," he pointed, "this little nation here. I hope you've heard of it."

Varxsos chuckled. "I believe I may have heard of it before sir. The good ol' commie gun nuts that like to import our goods if I'm not mistaken."

"That's the one. And that brings me to why you are here today Leo. You see, those nuts are turning their lovely little toys on several little separatist groups. Now this normally wouldn't be of any concern to us. However, one of these separatist groups is none other than the Native Aurelian Liberation Army. These fighters fly the banner of Native Aurelians on their flag."

"Ah, I have heard a lot about these guerrillas. They're supposedly quite good at what they do."

"Which is incite our own Native Aurelian peoples, which I will remind you is nearly all of our population, into a patriotic frenzy over our own past conflicts with the Rhodellians. I have had to deploy the Ranger Corps to several cities already to keep NALA agitators from causing full on riots. And I do personally sympathize with their cause. This 'friendship' with the Rhodellians is very new to Zaxar and frankly this is why. They are a bunch of warmongering, full-of-themselves, communist, pieces of sheesh-crap." He paused to take a breath and patted his pet sheesh Larry. Larry always loved to come to to the war room with Will. "However, they currently pay us quite a lot of money for all of the lithium they import. People might be upset now at the Rhodellian-backed genocide going on up north, but they will be far more angry if they start losing their jobs."

"Definitely. People do tend to be like that unfortunately. So what were you thinking of doing?" Leon looked up from the map.

"Well, since our military experience is somewhat lacking, I was thinking that we send some of our high command as an attaché to observe the Rhodellian tactics. We can say that they are allowed to assist in the combat against any separatist group but the NALA and bam it looks like we are helping our 'friends' out and protesting against their treatment of the natives."

Varxsos stroked his goatee in thought. "That could work I think. I've got a few generals in mind for the job actually."

"I'm not finished yet. We then send volunteers to fight for the Native Aurelians. That way we can get some seasoned veterans while also ensuring that Rhodellia stays occupied. If their guns are busy killing NALA rebels then they won't have time to renew their grudge against us. Sure there will be Zaxari casualties and there is a small chance that the Rhodellian government will find out but I feel the benefits are well worth it." William looked up at Leon. "Thoughts?"

Leon smiled. "I like it." He turned for the door. "I'll have your soldiers and generals by the end of the week Will. They'll then be deployable on your command."

"Excellent, see to it." The Emperor tossed a shrimp at Larry who quickly devoured it. "Good boy Larry," He chuckled, "long live the empire!"

[Kirvina]

In The Cold | I

The only outposts of Aroman civilization north of the Sagraphas which have weathered the test of time are its churches, often spared from destruction by invading forces due to the literacy and helpfulness of the lay-priests found within. Indeed, they are not Christian churches, but old pagan temples of the Unconquered Sun that have more in common with that faith than they would like to admit. When the first Aromans conquered the Gulf of Auriel and gave the continent its name, before their sword-arm came their religion, the omen of their impending arrival. And long after they were driven out by foreigner and native alike, still these monuments stand, in testament to their venerability.

Kirvina has, as longtime policy, preferred to conduct its embassy work out of temples. As both a rhetorical device which supports its optics as the successor state of that imperial heritance, and a useful hub occupying what the ancients' discerning eyes had picked out as crossroads and wayrests, the familiar spire of a Solar Icon often promised an easy move and domineering position. Even in Nordwälde province, the historical hot-thorn in the foot of the House of Rödel's children, the Kirvinians stubbornly keep an outpost. This is not done for sheer force of will. The Kirvinian Embassy, or Temple of Mathas Alaskautos, has long served as an off-limits neutral zone for the local warlords.

Besides giving Kirvina more soft power over the region's affairs than its work put into fixing it could possibly deserve, this status as peace-broker is also a guillotine poised over the neck of any would-be embassy invader. The threat of Aroman force of arms sits squarely behind the unassuming gray rocks that hold the Temple together, and even the toughest, most marginalized extremists of the region would be hard-pressed to willingly invite a conflict with Rhodellia's southern neighbor onto their plate when there is already so much to worry about. For this reason, even when the worst of storms rages across Nordwälde Province, there is always a single, uninterrupted eye of calm.

Giorgos Stavros is one of many seasoned guardsmen stationed around that eye of calm, helping ensure that it continues to be so. For his part, he would much rather be home in gentle Taurapetra, watching the waves crash into the shore. Stationed with him is the Aracóri rifle crack-shot Alexandra Tachoras, who passed up a career in sport shooting to keep watch across the Great River for the most part of her adult career. At present, the both of them find themselves doing work they are very overqualified for: buying lumber from the local villagers to make sure that the Embassy's stock of firewood does not run out over the long winter still ahead of them. With hand gestures, of course, as no local speaks the Aurelian lingua franca Illaei, much less their native Kathevei or Aracórha.

"Damnable, " grumbled Stavros, "damnable." His turn keeping watch outside the squat thatch hut meant that it was his turn to get gawked at by the town's children, many curious little faces peering from around corners and between barrels to ogle his shiny gun and kit. The sort of soldier these people were used to was a vagabond who foraged to survive and carried around a bolt-action from Typhon's War as his main battle weapon. Stavros struck an odd sort of picture to them, the kind of well-armed man you saw on the tape of an Orchavonei war movie, but there in the flesh.

He turned over his shoulder to call inside, which quickly brought Tachoras stumbling out, one hand on her beret: with an expression that quickly twisted into annoyance. "Y'know I always think that means trouble! Could, I dunno, /ask/ next time. With a normal inside kinda' voice. Asshole." Stavros only rolled his eyes in response, a playful sort of retort that he was well used to giving. "Hah. Yeah. Sorry princess, forgot your dialect comprised 'whispering everything' and 'pausing an entire rendition of kaigomai-kaigomai between each sentence'. Yep. I'll keep to that." He tipped his hat down in mock acknowledgment, shouldering his rifle a little more tightly. "Still, these people are looking at me something funny. I do not think we should linger too long. I would ask them what is on their mind, but .. linguistics, not my forte." 

"Well .. lumber'll be out in two. Hang tight." Tachoras took up a position besides him, the two of them breathing in the frosty air. It became quickly clear from their conversation that they found something tense about the crowd, which for the most part, took the hint and dispersed. "Sure as hell didn't accept this posting to get uploaded to whatever cracked streamin' service these dickweeds use for some Reggit karma. Keep at it. Scram." A reflexive statement if anything, as their watchers had by then long went back to their business. Stavros's hand fell to his belt and pulled off a canteen, unblocking the cork with his teeth. "You would think that Base's public relations effort this, public relations that would stop the moment the Ambassador actually took a look at this hell-hole. Who exactly are we relating to, huh?"

And as the cart containing their precious firewood was pushed out front and the money and canned food used for wordless barter passed over with a handshake, there was no answer for him but the low whistle of the Rhodellian wind.

Edited December 29, 2021 by Kirvina (see edit history)

[Zaxar]

A Silent War: A "This Land is My Land" Episode

| Chapter 2: The Hobomock Regiment

 

For reference:

Leon Varxsos - Minister of Defense (top of the military food chain- answers to no one but the Emperor)

Yas Kipchekk - Colonel in the Zaxar Army

"Aquène wematin!" - IRL and IC Wampanoag meaning "peace brother [non related]!" It is a traditional toast in Zaxar.

"Aho" - IRL and IC Wampanoag meaning "yes, I agree," "I understand," or "I acknowledge." It is the traditional acknowledgment phrase in Wampanoag and Zaxar in general. Similar in use to the English word "okay."

"Hobomock" - IRL and IC Wampanoag god known as "Death Spirit."

"Keihtanit" - IRL and IC Wampanoag god known as "The Great Spirit." This spirit is the most revered and powerful of the spirits.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leon loved the city of Green Falls. Located at the base of the beautiful waterfalls which gave the city its name, the entire place had a feel of youth and promise that could be found nowhere else in the Wurld. And on this bright summer day the city glowed nearly as bright as the falls themselves. He frequently holidayed here at the Emperor's spacious mountain retreat, but today he was here for more serious matters. He needed soldiers; and where better to get them than the Green Falls Military Academy.

The Green Falls Military Academy had been founded shortly after the end of the Flaxzar War and had been one of the most respected training bases for the Army ever since. Thousands of young conscripts had passed through these old iron gates and every one of them had left as a valiant soldier of the Empire.

Leon saluted the guards at gate and his driver took them through into the heart of the compound. As they headed for the academy headquarters, Leon noticed a particular man leading some soldiers in exercises in the corder of the quad. Leon spoke to the driver. "There he is, let's stop here." The driver pulled over and Leon hopped out of the car. The driver saluted and drove off.

"Colonel Yas!" Leon shouted. In Wampanoag culture it is customary to refer to people, even high ranking military personnel, by their first name. Though when speaking to an officer, one should also include their title out of respect.

Colonel Yas turned to face him. "Good evening minister!" Yas smiled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ah, the pleasure is all mine colonel. I require a word with you if you have the time. I'm here on behalf of the Emperor."

"If the Emperor would like time then time I will make minister. Let us speak in my office." The colonel laughed and turned to a nearby soldier. "Lieutenant, run exercise 32 today and then some range drills if I've yet to return."

"Right away Colonel!" The Lieutenant turned back toward his troops and resumed barking out orders while Leon and Yas made for the small brick office at the center of the compound. Leon could feel the eyes of the young soldiers on his back as he walked. He must make note to visit the Academies more often he thought. He was in charge of these young men after all.

Colonel Yas led the minister into the the building which contained very little in the way of luxury. Some chairs, a utilitarian oak desk, a table, a small kitchenette, and an old television. The Rhodellian frontlines would be an improvement for this man Leon thought quietly.

"Would you like anything to drink minister?" Yas asked as he took two cups off a shelf.

"I could do with a nice cider if you have one." Leon replied.

"I just received a fine Cortland cider from Kieno the other day." Kieno ciders were the best apple based ciders in the Wurld as far as Leon knew. Grown in the rich, frosty, hills surrounding the city, the cider apples developed a unique and profound flavor. To offer one to a guest was a clear sign of respect and hospitality.

"That is most kind of you." Remarked Leon as Yas handed him his drink. He raised his cup and gave the traditional Wampanoag toast. "Aquène wematin!"

"Aquène wematin!" They drank. As they drank they talked. All unimportant matters; they talked about family, recent high-profile fights, the weather. Nothing controversial or heated.

When the first cup of cider was finished, Yas poured them each another one and the business drink began. In Wampanoag culture it was said that the first drink was for greetings, the second for business, and the third for a good time. Today was a business day unfortunately, so they would have to stop at two.

"So what orders has the Emperor given to us today minister?"

"One of great importance and equal secrecy Colonel. Say, have you ever visited Rhodellia before by chance?"

"I cannot say I have I'm afraid. Though my grandfather visited once. He said it was quite a nice place apart from the people. He would always rant about how one of them people was looking at my grandmother funny and then when he challenged his to a fight, the guy pulled out a gun and shot him in the leg." The Colonel laughed. "He's gone his whole life just waiting for a war to erupt with them. He's still ready to come out of retirement just for the chance to shoot one."

Leon smiled, "well now might just be your opportunity to make your old gramps proud. Your regiment is being deployed undercover to Rhodellia. The Emperor has decided that we must aid our Native Aurelian brothers in their fight for freedom. I will need your regiment deployment ready by the end of the week. No one must know about this Colonel, understood?"

Yas raised fist to his heart in salute. "Aho!"

"Excellent," Leon rose and saluted the Colonel. "What is your regiment's name Colonel?"

"Festalivee sir"

"Well you better order some new uniforms, cause you're Hobomock Regiment now." The minister then nodded, turned, and strode away toward his waiting vehicle.

As the minister got into the vehicle he called out a final farewell to Yas, "Keihtanit be with you brother!" and drove off out the eternal iron gates.

Edited January 3, 2022 by Zaxar
Fixed typo (see edit history)

[Zaxar]

A Silent War: A "This Land is My Land" Episode

| Chapter 3: Recall

Colonel Yas passed the rifle back to the soldier and pointed to the 50 meter target. "There's your shot private." The man droped to one knee and proceeded to fire off 3 shots, one to the leg, the next to the body, and the third to the helm of the Rhodellian shaped target. "Good," Yas nodded to the soldier before moving on to the next man in line.

It was at this point that he noticed Captain Ohitekah striding toward him. He turned to greet the man who had, over the course of their 5 month deployment, come to become a favorite of the Colonel for his quick thinking and fighting skill. "Aquène wematin!" the captain called out, "I've got some news outta Sandrica for ya!"

Yas was not particularly surprised by this, orders from the capital were quite common. Though he wondered why Ohitekah seemed so interested in this if it was just another training or intelligence mission. Maybe they would get another shot at a sabotage or preemptive strike job? That would certainly explain Ohitekah's excitement, it had been almost two weeks since the mission at Stony Crossing and the Zaxari boys were more than ready to imitate the success of the mission. The mission had been sent to Yas by the highest levels of Zaxari command and he had led the operation himself, taking 15 of his best up around the bridge which was under Rhodellian control. The bridge guard was lighter than usual though, as several NALA units had launched diversion attacks along the Rhodellian defense to the north. This left only ten guards for the bridge who were quickly dispatched by the concentrated Zaxari rifle fire from the surrounding woods before they could even raise an alarm. the Zaxars had then swiftly destroyed the bridge, which would be critical in any Rhodellian armor offensive into the woods which housed the Zaxari camp, before disappearing into the night. When the Rhodellians would later discover the destroyed bridge and slain soldiers, they had no reason to believe that the Zaxars had any involvement. In fact, it had been the Zaxari advisory mission to the Rhodellians who had counseled against leaving the bridge under a reduced guard. This operation really meant little to the overall strategic goals of the Rhodellians or NALA, but it had been the first flawless mission that the Hobomock Battalion had pulled off, zero casualties, objective destroyed.

"What is it captain?" Yas inquired.

"Varxos has ordered us home."

"Sorry, what?" Yas shook his head. "Why in the spirits would he do that?"

Ohitekah glanced around, "perhaps I should allow him to explain that himself. In private." Ohitekah motioned towards the Zaxari command tent and Yas followed him inside to find none other than Leon Varxos himself on video call with Yas's lead medic, Lieutenant Chaska. When Chaska noticed Yas enter, he quickly bowed to Varxsos and stepped aside to let Yas take the screen.

"It's very good to see you Colonel, even if it is only over video. I hope to be seeing you soon in person." Varxos smiled.

"Am I being recalled?" Yas asked. Of all people, why should he be replaced? Had he fallen out of favor?

"The entirety of the Hobomock Battalion is being recalled Colonel. Only a few soldiers will remain behind under the command of Captain Chaska to help train and advise our NALA allies. The rest of you are needed for a more important assignment."

"Do we have any information on this next assignment minister?" Yas knew this had to be something important, why else would the Emperor pull them out of Rhodellia a mere 5 months in?

"That remains classified Colonel. However, I am pleased to announce that you all have been promoted. The Hobomock Battalion has been reformed into the first official special forces unit Zaxar has had since the days of the Wampanoag Empire. Your battalion, about 1,000 strong if I'm not mistaken, will be reorganized into a full special operations division. And the Emperor would like to to command this division, Major-General."

To say that Yas was surprised would have been an understatement. "Aho minister, we will be ready to leave by dawn." Yas saluted and began to mentally list all that must be done to meet this deadline.

"One more thing Colonel," Varxos smiled, "pack warm..."

[Iverica]

Double-Pay Men: A "This Land is My Land" Episode

| Part 2: Shafted

Part 1- Here

 

It had been 130-years since the Gonfalons of the 5 companies last fluttered in Rhodellian winds. At the promise of vast fortune, the men of the Indiense Free Companies mustered a return to many-forested Rhodellia to launch the largest of modern mercenary campaigns. Offered the unique opportunity for gold, glory, and salvage rights, the IFC deployed at full strength.

Deploying their numbers in cities and towns to act as advisors, forward observers, and specialised rear-security, the men of IFC were sent to fill the gaps of the expert but embattled Rhodellian forces. Though eager to put skills honed across the glube on the forefront of a bloody conflict once again, the Free Companies' true utility lay not in their overt operations, but what they were tasked to do away from the public eye. Fringes around Nordwalde province play host to many Indiense Detachments acting with swiftness and ferocity. There, they filled brutal but necessary roles as attack dogs that the Rhodellians could still insulate their reputation from. The account of one Detachment deployed to Boubonweir, tells us of one such unit.

 

---

 

2250hrs
25th of January, 2022

 

The Team Leader exhaled slowly as he dropped his weapon to low-ready. Around him, Breacher and Pointman had just finished checking every inch of the basement for hidden surprises. Curled up like dead roaches, 2 corpses bled slowly onto the floorboards. This was the last room of a Nordwalde adobe 2-storey, a shitstack of heavy stone and 2x4s that had probably seen several generations of Nordwalder peasants squirted out on its floorboards before turning into a junky den (judging by the rust syringes in some corners) and then a weapons cache that the NALA insurgents had been squirrelling away for a rainy day. The basement was a dim and musty space lit by a single fading bulb hanging by a wire from a low ceiling of rotting floorboards. It seemed that the team had caught the cache on bank-day though, because there was more material than one might expect to find in a regular cache. Mortar rounds, RPG warheads, mines, ammunition, plastic explosives, some radio sets, gps equipment, and a few optics and NV devices.

TL ripped his helmet and balaclava off, using the latter to wipe a slight sheen of sweat from his forehead. It was 2 degrees centigrade, but the brisk breach-and-clear had left him damp under all the weight of his ballistic helmet, plates, and Southface outdoor threads. He cracked a lightstick on, giving it a brief shake before dropping it near the doorway. With another hand on his PRC, he updated the Tactical Ops Centre (TOC) and called in a crew to help with Site Exploitation (SE) and salvage. Breacher was already cracking boxes open with a crowbar and snapping photos of every weapon and warhead serial number that was, by contract rights, theirs. Pointman and Rearguard were already knocking on walls, floorboards, and ceiling panels looking for any hidden compartments.

His backup fireteam was still set on security outside, waiting for a truck and trailer to whisk their salvaged goodies away. In TL's experience, the backup only ever called in to report a sassy civie, a scared suspect hiding in the outhouse, or to ask for a lighter. This had been the case for the platoon's 2 weeks of running Internal Security housecalls on Nordwalder towns behind the front. It came as a surprise to hear backup report that their Rhodellian Liaison had pulled up with some local law enforcement. 

Their Dolch-looking liaison made his way down the steps and into the basement, a grey winter coat going over his flecktarn BDUs. The Rhodellian towered over the rest of the fireteam members, whose average height numbered somewhere between 5'7-5'10. The Dolch blondie was easily 6'4, so he stooped and slouched because of the low ceiling. That might have been impressive, were it not for the fact that the blondie was a Rear-Echelon POG fresh out of school. Unlike most of the Rhodellian combat troops, the young officer had likely not seen action on the front. TL nodded to the Rhodellian, not bothering to salute. One benefit of being a private contractor was that you didn't have to kiss officer ass.

 

"Howsit, POG?", TL greeted. The Rhodellian looked flustered for a moment but didn't acknowledge the petty jab. Instead, the man took a long look at the cache before speaking.

 

"We'll be requisitioning this whole lot for further examination. First time we've seen a cache this big in these parts."

 

Breacher, who had been carefully doing price estimates for the haul's salvage value moved to approach the liaison, a threat plastered on his face. TL stopped him with a palm to his chest. TL looked the Rhodellian in the eye before speaking in a lower voice.

 

"Want it all? Fine. But by salvage rights, it's ours. Read the contract again. The section allows for our employer to do an on-site inspection of the goods, but if you're going to sequester it- that is- move it off the premises where we can't audit it, you'll need to fill this out", TL unlocked his phone and forwarded a hefty sized pdf to the liaison. The officer scrunched his eyebrows as he brought his own phone out and went through the document. TL continued.

 

"That's Form 16F. Based on the terms of the contract, you can sign for it and we'll hand the stuff over on credit. The value would be based on IFC price indices, rounded up. Just sign there at the bottom", the TL smirked. IFC policy in-country was that combat teams had salvage liberties if the contract permitted it. Usually, employers offered salvage options as a means to lower Iberic PMC fees. In this case, the Rhodellian government allowed a rather generous total salvage value. After handling and other fees, IFC personnel involved in the salvage could be paid between 60-80% of the value of seized weapons, munitions, or military equipment pre-approved in a long appendix attached to the contract.

The Rhodellian scrolled on his phone for a few seconds and put on a smile of his own.

 

"I did actually read it. What you're saying is right but you forget, we have a clause here that states- and I'm paraphrasing- that under exigent circumstances, your team can only bill a 16F for the items you've properly documented and entered into the form. Under pressing circumstances of a 'combat area'", the liaison gestured to the 2 dead guys in the corner before continuing.

 

"-necessarily supplemented by orders in pursuant to the fulfilment of your contract, like an urgent WARNO or something similar from your leadership, a representative of your employer can sign an incompletely filed 16F which would bill the employer for whatever items have been filed correctly", the young officer let that sink in for a moment.

Pointman and Rearguard had come down to listen in, leaning on the staircase bannister. TL glanced at them, then at Breacher, who had a slight grimace of apprehension on his face. He remembered that he needed this, they all did. TL pushed that reminder out of his mind. FOB dwelling motherfucker. The liaison spoke again.

 

"Looks to me here like the total your boys have written up is what... $50,000 plus change? Too bad, what do you reckon this is all worth, 150k?", the Rhodellian mused whimsically.

 

"250k", hissed Breacher through gritted teeth. "Look man, half of that goes to the guys who actually worked his site, split 8 ways after the company takes a big cut. I got shit to pay and people that count on this. Fuck you. Pay the estimate", Breacher was seething. He looked just about ready to scalp the guy. TL patted his shoulder and shook his head before turning to regard the Liaison.

 

"Alright, diploma-boy. You know your shit, I'll give you that. The legalese you just rattled off states "necessarily supplemented by orders, etc.". I haven't gotten any. Sounds like you're missing a piece."

 

The Rhodellian regarded the TL passively and slipped a sheaf of papers out of his coat's inner pocket. Wordlessly, he offered them outstretched. TL's hand felt numb as he snatched the papers.

 

The TL knew what it was before he unfolded them. A fucking WARNO. The Rhodellian spoke again.

 

"Came in an hour ago. Orders like these don't go through your TOC, apparently. I thought I'd drop them off while checking up on you. Look, I don't actually enjoy this and be fair, you hotshits started this whole banter and troll thing. I'm just doing my job-"

 

"Eat a dick. Just fucking sign it already", TL interrupted. He started feeling a little queasy.

 

"What? Boss-", Breacher interrupted, voice incredulous. 

 

"Leave it. Nothing we can do, it's from Theatre Ops."

 

Breacher gave him a look. TL wordlessly stomped up the stairs. The team reluctantly followed. 

 

---

 

2015 hrs
11 of May, 2056

 

"That's how the deployment started. Already stank. We needed a payday and assholes plus bad timing put us out on our asses. Tangina, nakakabwist pa rin." I winced as I took another sip of rum. getting shafted doesn't make for a good memory. The young student across the table sagged in his chair.

 

"Woah, if you guys had taken it, that would have been like 22-25k for each of you? I'm guessing that for the 20's that would have been a pretty good haul for a day's work and 2 dead insurgents", the youngster guessed out loud. 

 

"It wasn't just a 'good haul kid'... we needed that", I said.

 

"What do you mean", he sat up a bit straighter, curious.

 

I sighed and downed the glass. 

 

"Look 'ta, most of us grew up in the 90's. Being Indiense back then and from a family of military men, shipbreakers, and welders- well... you needed paydays more then anything. Most of us knew each other since school days. Joined the Tercios together. Once you do a tour or two, the rush of being "a trained killer" gives you ideas. Let's just say we did some stuff that didn't pan out and we had to pay some not-nice people to keep our families safe- and you've seen how big families like mine get, in '22 my brothers and sisters were... what... thereabouts between the ages of 12-18, 'Pa was out of work when a mooring-line accident took his leg. Most of my uncles were either KIA or dead in a gang shooting. Ma and 5 siblings living on Pa's NCO pension and the shitty settlement from his company. They could barely afford rent, food, and power, let alone money to have them relocated with new names. The crew needed money fast, it wasn't just me. 'Breacher' had a kid in the hospital who needed 10k monthly just to keep alive, the rest were in the same nasty deal as me or... well, you get it."

 

The kid was silent for a while.

 

"Damn."

 

"Yeah, not quite like this Empire we live in today eh, kid? Most Argics and Alharuns wishing they could be us with subsidised University education, a good enough salary to start a retirement fund, and a life expectancy topping the charts", I chuckled and poured myself some more. The sounds of the birthday party in the background were fading as guests made their goodbyes. Nobody bothered our little corner of the patio.

 

"So uh- what were those orders? Boubonweir? Why the heck was it so important?", the kid asked.

 

"Slow down, kid, you're contributing to my eventual stroke. Yes, Boubonweir. Forest and mountain country adjacent to Nordwalde but far from the front. No one really paid it much mind, most of the counties there were pretty neutral, mix of Dolch and native that got along okay most times. Problem is, some local militia reported some guys who'd been spotted with a mule carrying mortar rounds and RPG warheads. Unfortunately, the trigger happy idiots killed everyone so we didn't know who they were affiliated with. Everytime the local militia or G-men went to take a look at sightings, all traces would just vanish. Like someone was watching or more likely, leaking their movements to what we guessed was a small cell smuggling shit to and from a cache somewhere in the mountains. Rhodellian forces were all tied up and there was probably a mole amongst the local authorities, so they sent my platoon to go take a look- we were the only ones relatively nearby that were already operating and qualified for mountain long-range recce. It was pretty simple, infiltrate, find some of the sussy fuckers, follow them and report the cache location for the Rhodellians to hit. But, as you may have well heard, it wasn't quite that simple."

 

I allowed a pause, I couldn't help it, building the tension was kind of fun. Before I went on, I had the kid fetch me another bottle and cigar. I'd need those for the rest of the story.