war Ulfheimr´s Demise: Ragnarök

[Nyanta]

  |Part 1: Fimbulvetr

[OOC: Imagine Star Wars the Clone war narrators Voice!]

What happend Until now:

Ulfheimr, the barbaric isolationist nation to the south, threatens Nyantastani sovereignty after dropping Napalm bombs close to the border and causing fires that spread onto Nyantastani soil. Nyantastan immediately mobilized its armed forces and deployed them closer to the border while attempting to resolve the situation diplomatically. 

These actions were fruitless, and Ulfheimr escalated tensions further. On July 25th 2022 Ulfheimerian Terrorist Massacred Civilians in Gotneska furthering Tensions in the Region. With this the Goal was Set for an Invasion and Plans were drawn for Operation Jormungandr. Nyantastan couldn't stand having a neighbor this threatening between it and its allies. Something had to be done. While tensions rose, the allies of Nyantastan didn't sit Idly by. Tagmatium moved one of its aircraft carriers in to the Region to support Nyantastan. This aircraft carrier who was later withdrawn to a different conflict served as a neutral meeting ground for @Iverican and Nyantastani General Staff discussing the upcoming war. With troop exercises, extensive training and the redeployment of troops and logistics it became quiet on the border. But this only supported a surprise attack on Ulfheimr. With their arrogance, they were surly mistaken all of this as an Empty thread. But they would regret their ignorance.  

Everything had lead to this. Preparations were complete. It was time for one last meeting. 

 

---

2145hrs

02 Second of July, 2022

Nyantastan-Ulfheimr Border

The military base is in a tense mess. The special forces are already on the airbases waiting for the order to deploy. The helicopters are warming up. Soldiers run around and prepare for what is ahead of them. Ammunition and fuel is carried through the area in a hurry so that everyone is supplied.  Meanwhile, Akamura steps out of the helicopter that brought him here. His white military uniform reflects the light of the spotlights, the night rain is largely kept off by his cap, and with determined steps the commander-in-chief moves towards the barracks of the generals. Entering the meeting room, he is greeted by a number of generals with a nod of the head. The generals of the Iverican forces are also here to discuss the final steps. The operation will begin at 0115hrs. Several maps lie on the tables or hang on the walls, the room is filled with smoke as the commander-in-chief takes a seat next to his field marshal. 

Everything goes as planned. Ulfheimr should not have the slightest idea since the largest troop movements have long since been completed. Months of waiting and preparation have led to this moment. Over the radio the first air bases announce that they are ready while the generals go through the movements of the ground troops for the last time. From outside you can hear the sound of rotors and engines. Soon the symphony of battle will sound and the end of Ulfheimr will be heralded. The last details are discussed while Akamura and the general staff have a lively exchange and the next round of scouts gets ready to observe the situation in Ulfheimr. The smallest change is immediately transmitted to react at any time. 

---

2300hrs

02 Second of July,2022

Nyantastan

Airbase Valkyrie 25km from Border

The Engiens of the SA-21E Voltor start to roar and the aircraft starts to move down the runway. The first AWAC aircraft take off to provide aerial reconnaissance. Meanwhile, the Einherjar and Queen Ranger Wing check their equipment one last time before taking off. Their mission is to occupy key landing fields and radar/communications stations to blind and deafen the enemy.

---

2315hrs

02 Second of July,2022

Nyantastan-Ulfheimr Border

After the meeting was completed and the plans that had been refined and adjusted since the meeting on the carrier were approved one last time. A large part of the force gathered in front of their general staff and it was time for a heroically cheesy speech to motivate the troops. This is of course also transmitted over the radio. "Soldiers! Brothers and sisters. Today we will do the wurld a great favor. We will not only liberate the people of Ulfheimr and save them from their fate. No! We will also wipe this stain of human contempt off the map forever! It is time that we go ashore and restore law and order. We will not accept failure, we will not fight for Nyantastan today, no we will fight for the wurld! Fight, for the badge you wear! Your country needs your devoted pride! Now wave your honor high! The divide has broken tides!The demand has come to ask for your guiding hands! Lets Drive these Animals out of there Holes and Burry them six feet below!

United We Stand!"

The soldiers shout back "Divided we fall!"

Akamura turns to his field marshal "Do not disappoint me Sterling. It's time we made Ulfheimr pay once and for all."


( @Iverica)

Edited February 6 by Nyanta (see edit history)

[Nyanta]

Phase 1: Surtr
 |Eldgangr 

Without air power, counterintelligence, electronic countermeasures, or a comprehensive integrated air defense, Ulfheimr was indeed vulnerable. But they would not take chances under any circumstances. The forces knew better than to plan an operation based on inflated assumptions. And so the Nyantastanian air force took off at 0:00 sharp.

----
2350 hrs
Nyantastan
Valkyrie airbase 25km from the border.

No. 12 Squadron (Lysstråle 18).

Griffin 1: "Ready for takeoff
Griffin 2: "Ready
Griffin 3: "Roger"
Griffin 4: "Let's go baby!"
Griffin 5: "Let's go"
......
Griffin 18: "Let's make it rain"

Griffin 1: "This is squadron 12, we are operational, task force. Air assault can begin" 

Air Force High Command: "Roger Squadron 12,14,16,24 ready for takeoff. Take to the skies!"

Griffin 1: "Confirmed"

Falcon 1: "Roger"

Eagle 1: "Loud and clear"

Owl 1: "On my way"

Air Force High Command: "17th Air Brigade. Special Forces loaded? Width for infiltration?"

Seagull 1: "We are ready and in the air, 2 minutes to the border and 10 to the target. Over and out."

Air Force High Command: "Roger that. Happy hunting."

All the air bases near the border have never been so active. If the whole thing had taken place during the day, you wouldn't have been able to see the sun for all the air activity.  Squadrons were in the air bombing strategic targets. The special forces were ready to quickly capture nearby airfields and sabotage vital communications links that could not be knocked out from the air. The longer the enemy knew nothing, the better. 

----
0000hrs
Ulfheimr
Airspace 5 clicks from target

Griffin 3: "Quiet night, you'd think after all the drills and massing of troops they'd be at least a little pissed?"

Griffin 7: "You know how they are, they don't even think about us attacking them".

Griffin 16: "A dog that barks doesn't bite."

The staff chuckles briefly, except for the commander.

Griffin 1: "Guys, this is not the time for jokes. We have a mission here."

Silence 

Griffin 3: "Oh, come on. You guys have to admit this is funny."

Griffin 1 pays no attention to the comment, "We're in attack range. On my mark...."

The squadrons move into position

Griffin 1: "Now!"

Bombs fall from the sky like shooting stars. Military bases, airfields, communications centers, and other strategic targets light up like well-planned fireworks. For a coordinated moment, night turned to day before only countless fires lit up the night. 

Griffin 1: "Squadron 12 to base. Griffins have struck. I repeat, Ulfheimr is on fire." 

Air Force High Command: a whoop filled the channels for a short time. The initial strike had succeeded without complications. Ulfheimr was burning and the squadrons had done a great job. "Roger! 12 and 16 return to base. 14 and 24 guard the airspace and then switch with 12 and 16. 36 launch for Close Air Support. 5th Brigade get ready and support ground troops. 

Everyone reported back and celebrated. But the inferno they had ignited would burn for a while. Now it was up to the troops on the ground to fight these Babars effectively and without major losses.

"Homes have turned to rubble
And the airstrike has been approved
Tasting their destruction
Fear the black wings of death"

----

0010hrs
Ulfheimr 
Military radio station
Einherjar Squad 1

12 heavily armed special forces landed not far from the station and quietly approached it under cover of night. Panic had broken out and there was a flurry of activity. Skadii, the squad's sniper, got into a good position and radioed the leader. Skadii to Odin: "Sniper in position." Odin: "Roger that, provide covering fire if necessary. However, try to be undetected and quiet."
Skadii: "Roger that. I have you in my sights" Odin: "Roger that. Heimdallr, what is your status?" He turned to a somewhat lanky man who was handling a drone and already in the helicopter playing around on a tablet like a madman.  "Five gunmen, four radio operators and two backup men. The building has 2 entrances and 3 floors. An outbuilding for 3 more technicians and a spare parts shed 150 meters southeast." Odin: "Good work, then let's board." The squad moved silently to the entrance. Thanks to the air attack, everyone inside was frantically trying to figure out what was going on. Thor, the team's blaster, briefly checked the door and found that it wasn't even locked. With a sigh, he nodded to Odin. Odin gave the signal, the door opened, and stun grenades lit up the room. The clearing of the first room took less than 10 seconds. 4 shots 3 dead 1 wounded. Freya, the team's medic, tended to the wounded man. He might be needed later.  The team fought effectively and quickly through the rooms and floors after a good ten minutes, the cleanup was completed. Time for phase 2 of the operation. The lessons with the locals and learning the language were not only useful for the COIN operations. But also to spread misinformation. Knowing that the other squads should have reached their targets, the Special Forces began distributing conflicting radio messages about troop movements, requests for reinforcements, enemy breakthroughs and other matters. This was to give their own troops time and confuse Ulfheimr's troops long enough to know what was going on. After that was done, the targets were sabotaged and destroyed so they could not be used.  The Einherjar had completed their mission, retreated to the LZ and were assigned new tasks or already had new missions. Those with prisoners retreated to HQ to receive information. 

The war had begun.




----
0025hrs
Nyantastan 
Border HQ

"Hide until dawn and attack in the twilight! Dont let them sleep shake them awake with the thunder of guns!
Failure will not be accepted, call for artillery strike, launch attack!
We are back in control, force them to surrender their time we
take what is ours and restore law and order! These barbarians have disregarded human rights for the last time!" These were Sterling's last words to his troops. It was time to strike.  

The First Army of Nyantastan moved out. It was the first war in over 80 years. And everyone here agreed that they were on the right side. The monthly operations paid off, the army was quickly professionalized and well prepared, and in the next hour Ulfheimr would be teeming with Nyantastani soldiers.

 

Edited February 11 by Nyanta (see edit history)

[Iverica]

01 JUL 2022 | 2245 Zebra (Zulu) Time

FOB Sant Miquel, Nyantastani Border

 

 

It was dark at Forward Operating Base Sant Miquel, where the Iverican Army Regimental Combat Team quartered and awaiting 0-hour. The quickly dimming night was coming. Along with it, a heavy chill followed, nipping far more sharply than it should have for the time of year. 

 

The FOB was at the saddle between 2 hills which had appeared ideal at first as it would offer a modicum of protection from wind and any low-angle fire. Unfortunately for the Ivericans, the wind shifted just before dusk, letting in a constant ever-numbing draft which vented into and through their position. The men looked on enviously at the Nyantastani rear echelon units nestled comfortably below, further protected from the windchill.

 

Around the base, men donned windbreaker shells and brewed steaming pots of caffeine and tea under the dim red glow of low-visibility lamps. RCT Command had deemed their emissions control a priority so close to the border and had absolutely banned the use of white lights outdoors and in structures with any unshielded openings. Likewise, the smoking of anything that gave off a visible glow was prohibited and the igniting of such items was punishable by roving bands of MPs. As a result, men in sour moods occasionally stumbled over loose ammunition boxes, tires, or track segments. It also didn't help that command received word from their Nyantastani allies that 0-hour was soon to be expected; causing RCT Command to issue a notice expecting Readiness Condition 2* within 6 hours. It meant that everyone in the base had to complete pre-combat checks, be mounted up with weapons at condition 1, and be ready to roll at the receipt of a 15-minute notice. Given that items were still missing from the checklists, complete readiness in just 6 hours was laughable. 

*REDCON 2: Equipment stowed, precombat checks complete. All personnel alert and mounted in vehicles; weapons manned & charged, round in chamber, weapon on safe. All (100 percent) digital and FM communications links operational. Status reports submitted in accordance with task force SOP. Company team is ready to move within 15 minutes of notification.

 

The cold, the lack of nicotine, the high-strung MPs, and the closing deadlines had everyone on a sudden edge- in stark contrast to the boredom the units had been feeling for the past 2 months. It also didn't help that RCT Command was asking for a miracle. REDCON 2 in 6 hours? The expectation had everyone at company command levels and below scrambling in a futile rush. Captains, junior officers, NCOs and lowly enlisted bustled around, trying to falsify or loophole pre-combat checklist despite missing items. Indeed, LOGPAC* and CSS* units were still reporting missing items which had been expected from their Main Operating Base 72 Hours ago. Several containers worth of vehicle parts, machine fluids, and electronics inexplicably missed their delivery schedule.

*LOGistics PACkage and Combat Service Support

 

In this dim chaos of work stress and pre-deployment anxiety, many crews milled about their vehicles, trying to find workarounds for non-functional or missing equipment. Perhaps most frustrated among them were the tank crews of the 43rd Regiment, 4th Brigade of Cuirassiers, 2nd Division of Horse Grenadiers.

 

UC-42 Léon, Main Battle Tank

 

---

 

The commander's hatch of the UC-42-A2 Léon slammed open with a clang. An officer lifted himself up and out with his arms braced on the rim of the cupola. He went over the right side of the turret, dropped onto the flank deck of the hull and then plopped onto the dirt below.

 

Sighing, he searched the many pockets of his battledress tanker's single suit for his smoke pouch. From above him, the clang of the gunner's hatch opening sounded, followed by the muffled curse of the gunner, one Sargento Palvaen "Pal" Saxweiro. From the sound of it, the young gunner had chaffed his palm on the rough hematite coating. Pal rubbed his open palm as he walked over to join the officer, who was now leaning back against the right-side applique armour skirt and pouring what little tobacco remained into a short briar pipe. Both men could only vaguely see each other in the dim red glow of a small low-vis lamp setup beneath an adjacent camouflage tent.

 

The officer motioned for Pal to cover him as he discreetly lit the compact billiard-shaped bowl from behind Pal's body. He quickly slipped a perforated cap onto the pipe to hide the chamber's glow. He swapped places and covered his gunner, who did the same with his modest clay pipe. Out of tobacco, the young sergeant ripped a cigarillo open and used the flaking contents to fill his clay piece. Unlike his commander, Pal used a cap cover improvised from the base of a .50 cartridge's spent casing.

 

The officer, a tall, wiry man in his late 20's had dark rings under his eyes. His Lieutenant's epaulette had a streak of engine oil on it and his dark hair was mussed and unkempt. The only proper about him was his facial hair, which was trimmed clean on his tanned features lest he face the consequences of a breached grooming standard. Pal was much the same way, albeit skinnier and much shorter. His rust-red hair was greasy and matted atop his paler Narvic features.

 

Both men smoked on in silence, listening to the ambient noises of V8 engines being tested, ratchets and socket wrenches being worked, and men milling about in a rush to stow essential equipment. The 2 had an easy familiarity about them. The officer leaned back, shoulder-to-shoulder with the short junior sergeant. They had their feet braced in the dirt and backs against the firm steel skirts of their tank, their armoured home, so-named Battle Cat by the stencil on their gun barrel and a small sketch of the eponymous sidekick feline from the '80s cartoon, She-Man*. Though notably, this version of Battle Cat came with D-Cups and a suggestive pose.

*A decidedly more progressive take on Narvic Barbarian tropes, She-Man was banned by a lot of networks before finally being allowed to air in 1989. This media attention and Karen-induced backlash just made it all the more appealing for children to watch. In those days, watching She-Man was a requirement to be in counter-culture circles.

 

Battle Cat was the lead tank of the 4 in their Lance, itself 1 of 3 MBT Lances* of 2nd Company or 2-COY. Of her sister tanks, she was the eldest, being a former A1. She was converted from one of the very first Léons to roll off the Paseo Tank Plant finishing yards in Nou Stille. About 14 years old now, Battle Cat was a remnant calling back to the previous generation of Exersito Tankers. The age gap was apparent in the styled names each tank in 2-COY had. Unlike Battle Cat, the rest of the company were all brand new A2s from Llarunas Arsenal in Léon. Their crews were the first to have them, meaning that, unlike Battle Cat's current second-gen crew, the youngsters got to name them.

*A "Lance" or Lanssa (Iverican) is a term that refers to a tactical unit of 2-5 armoured vehicles. It is equatable to the more internationally used "Tank Platoon".

 

Going around 2-COY's motor pool yard there was "Boy Band", so named for the crew- none of whom were over the age of 21. Beside Boy Band was Stranger Danger which sported a stencil of an ominous plain white van on the turret flank. Driving in from the depot just now, the "Papa's Belt" rejoined the company. Several belt buckles clinked as the tank drove by, swinging from leather belts wrapped around the girth of the main gun. On the mantlet, jut behind the belts, a pair of raised buttock cheeks had been painted-on. Papa's Belt belonged to Padre Pio, a nickname for Capitan Piolo Urdaneta-Berenguer, rumoured disgraced seminarian and 2-COY's CO.

 

Beside Battle Cat, the crew of "Fun For All Ages" was rushing to complete engine maintenance, struggling with the complex second generation cooling system which shrowded the tank's 1,200 Horsepower V8. An empty slot near a corner of the yard was for "1-800 Get Some Help", which was still en route back from getting her breech stress-checked at the closest gunnery range. Right in front of Battle Cat was "Must Be This Tall to DIE" which had an amusement park height ruler drawn from the side of the barrel down to the skirt armour. Still others like How's My Driving?, The Love Shack, Free Ice Cream, Love From Ivy, Babes Ride 4 Free, Legally Blind, and Tinnitus Guaranteed were in similar states of rushed preparation. The names were all Anglish translations from various Iberic slogans, pop-culture references, and bumper stickers. Battle Cat had clearly been named and lovingly cared for by a previous crew of '80s and 90's kids whereas all the newer tanks with their zoomer crews edged closer to being "dank" and "based".

 

The pair's silent observation of the 2-COY vehicles was interrupted by the sound of motor pool dirt crunching from behind the tank. Uniformed similarly with a far cleaner single suit was their driver. Fresh out of high school, Soldado Tecnico Franco Loupes awkwardly carried 3 bundled MRE pouches by their tops, trying to keep the steaming contents of flamelessly heated water from scalding him. It looked like the mess crews had indeed closed the kitchens. Can't have any dirty pots to scrub if the RCT was preparing for REDCON 2.

 

"H-hey uh, L-T. I got the-", the poor lad started.

 

All of a sudden, Pal got up from his lean and tapped the tobacco out of his clay. 

 

"Sorry, what the fuck did you say?", asked the short sergeant, getting in the face of the driver who had about half a foot on the gunner.

 

"I-uh prepped some food-", Loupes stuttered. Despite their height, Pal's ferocity often cowed the new addition to their crew, who recently replaced a driver that both other crewmen had known since their training on the flats*.

*The Léon Flats are often used as training grounds for Exersito armoured units.

 

"No-no-no. L-T? What the fuck are you, Anglian? Boy, you better straighten your shit out. That is Teniente to you, pútero. Teniente Primo Serrat- this crew's saviour-damned top. In case you hadn't noticed, this is the momma-banging Exersito Iverica, noio, you copy me?"

 

The MRE bags in Loupes' hands shook. His eyes were wide and he looked just about paralysed. One mild gust and the officer could see that the boy would likely spill their dinner on motor pool dirt. 

 

"Pal, quit fucking with him". Teniente Primo Rafael Serrat-Montressor sighed. When Serrat spoke, his voice came out husky, gravelly, like he smoked too much and never had a drop of water.

 

Pal's scrunched brow and look of admonishment quickly transformed into a grin. The short creole reached up and gave the taller Loupes a hard noogie.

 

"Top's right, noio, I'm just playing around. Lighten up, Saviour knows that we're fucking up the wire as it is. Fucking Comman-"

 

Serrat hissed a sudden warning at Pal. With practised verbal finesse, the sergeant snapped into an innocent tune.

 

"-mmunications could be better, eh?", he sang as Capitan Urdaneta, "Padre Pio" walked by the Battle Cat with his crew, Master Gunner Lluch and Sargento Tessarario Elkan. Padre Pio returned a salute to Serrat, who saluted the company commander the moment he approached. Pal and Loupes followed suit, though the latter clumsily saluted with bags of MREs in his other hand. 

 

Padre gave Serrat a small nod and grin, regarding his executive officer and the leader of his 1st Lance with a genial look. Out of all the enlisted men and officers in 2-COY, Padre, Master Gunner Lluch, and Serrat were probably the oldest. The rest were practically juveniles between the ages of 17 and 22. Padre was far from being a boomer at only 35 though his baritone voice and receding, greying hairline made you think he was older. Relatively new to company command, his short tenure was offset by his competence and experience, with 12 years spent inside MBTs. He drilled 2-COY hard making them one of the best, even in the harsh standards of Horse Grenadier units. Despite his more conservative view on command, Padre was still fair and was quickly learning how to develop a rapport with the zoomers he was suddenly in charge of. Serrat, who had always expressed his reluctance for unit leadership to Pal, found himself quickly given a Lance and made XO to Padre's new company organisation. Serrat suspected that behind Padre's fatherly maturity, the man needed a confidant who wasn't constantly snorting about memes and making Field of Battle references. As the eldest among the 1st Lieutenants, Serrat was a clear choice. The other officers surmised that Serrat's lack of a social media presence was also factored into their CO's decision.

 

Padre often spoke more freely to Serrat when he was on edge. It was likely that he was using Serrat's habit of just observing the curious breed of rambunctions juniours that had invaded the company. Serrat could quietly read the company's sentiments, a talent that Padre had learned to get out of Serrat over the last year of drill and joint exercises.

 

"Raf, anything new while I was out?", Padre asked after he shooed his 2 crew away. 

 

Before replying, Serrat, or "Raf", as Padre called him likewise dismissed Pal and Loupes, who were fidgeting in the background. The 2 gratefully took their leave with Pal peeking into the MRE bags that Loupes had been holding.

 

Raf took Padre behind the Battle Cat and both men sat on a shell locker.

 

"Where do I start, Pap...", Raf sighed rhetorically.

 

"This was supposed to be easygoing. We've done this a hundred times before on exercise but Division throws us into some ad-hoc RCT and Logi falls apart? These kids are pretty damn unsure of themselves now, I can feel it. Just 6 months ago, they get their Cav pins in the GCs*, they're told they're the best- and they are- but we're about to roll into country with half our LOGPAC essentials missing"

*GC- short for Grenadieri a'Caval, or "Horse Grenadier" a type of division in the Iverican Army composed of "elite" units.

 

Serrat seldom said as many words in one go but there really wasn't any time to be as laconic and implicit as he normally was with matters of company morale. He was also starving, having spent half the day trying to decide why the Cat's auto-tensioning system shat itself and the other half manually getting the tension right on both sets of idlers.

 

Padre nodded.

 

"You know I've been at HQ for most of the week, so I'm not 100% on the particulars here..."

 

Serrat gestured to the Battle Cat behind them.

 

"Look Pap with just the Cat, the last software update we took just before we shipped somehow broke her auto-tensioning. That's one thing. We've also got the infrared system just refusing to work altogether. Pal thinks that some of the sensors got overcooled during storage and now there's condensation inside them. Thermals are also crapping out. We spent 2 hours tweaking hardware only to figure out that a version mismatch from that bad update disabled its sync with the ambient sensors- so she wasn't auto-calibrating to new conditions properly. These aren't even the most important bits. What's bothering all the crews is that instead of getting our usual load of HEAT, we're getting-"

 

Serrat stood up, motioning Padre to do the same. He flipped the lid on the shell locker.

 

"Is that-"

 

"Yessir. Fuckin' extra Wu-tangs*, Padre Pio-sir. These guys are using fucking T-62 knockoffs and ancient IFVs. This stuff is just going in one end and out the other. We've got maybe 10 HEAT per tank total, just ask QM. Last but not the least, Pap, Depot can't find the Level III armour segments. Frankly, sir, logi is a shitshow. I know logi's been strained because of how much is being moved to Ferrefaaierhafen, but Saviour's sainted ballsack..." 

*WU-TANG: a nickname for a Tungsten-Uranium supersabot. Named for both the mix of Wolfram (Tungsten) with Uranium and the Indiense hip-hop group, Wu-Tang-Ina Clan. The G900-WU APFSDS has a penetrator composed of 85% Tungsten with a narrow Depleted Uranium core for added mass. The round has a measured muzzle velocity of 1,770 m/s (5,807 ft/s) when fired from the 128-2 L/42. The round is estimated to be capable of penetrating 900-1000 mm of RHAe. Serrat's issue isn't with the Wu-Tang's lethality, it's with the fact that the round is more likely to over-penetrate a T-62. Its durability and speed mean that it will likely shear right through the tank cleanly and will not tumble or fragment very much. As a result, the enemy might survive the first direct hit and still be capable of returning fire. High-Explosive Anti-Tank (HEAT) would not have this issue and instead either create spalling or outright fill the enemy vehicle with disintegrating shell fragments.

 

"Look Raf, it's bad, no mistake, but we still have the supply to carry us through maybe 48-72 hours of expected contact. I know it will feel like we're wasting supersabots on their little scrap heaps but it's still AT and it still kills. As for the armour... that's something I can request Battalion to adjust to. We can play it safer at longer distances. We'll have to avoid any knife fights for now and be extra cautious for RPG ambushes."

 

Serrat snorted but Pap interrupted what was surely an exhortation of how that was easy to say but a fuck-ton harder to pull off.

 

"Raf, listen. I've got a friend in the FISQ*. Trust me on this one, I'll get him to up-tempo UAV loitering recce for us. It's not an ideal start here but we can't delay the Nyantastanis because we're missing kit. I need you to remind the boys that we've still got a massive edge here. Even without the Level-III ERA*, intel confirms that their shitty ammo can't get through our Level-II unless they're right in our faces."

*FISQ- Forward Intelligence Squadron. Refers to a type of Exersito Unit equipped for forward Electronic Listening, Electronic Support, and UAV Reconnaissance.

*ERA- Explosive Reactive Armour

 

Serrat sighed and nodded, kicking up some dirt with his boot. He took his pipe out and re-lit it. Padre took a cigar out of his tanker single-suit and lit it too. No MPs would dare interrupt the Padre on a smoke break.

 

"I'm counting on you and Pal here, Raf. Might not acknowledge it but these academy kids respect you. I also know that every ranker in 2-COY listens to Pal and that damned silver tongue of his. Remind them that we're Cav, remind them that we're Republican GC's. Let them know that our allies here will be watching. Every one of them will be expecting us to show them how armoured cav fights."

 

After Serrat's pipe burned out, he took his CO's leave and sauntered over to join Pal and Loupes in a meal of now-lukewarm MRE bean chilli and flatbread. Prep for 2-COY and others continued well into the night. Around the small crew in their little camo-net and tarp shelter, the sounds of FOB Sant Miquel preparing for war would continue until the very last second before REDCON 2 was declared. Even then, crews continued to troubleshoot systems from inside the cramped confines of their vehicles.

 

When 2-COY rolled out with the rest of the RCT combat element about 24 hours later, they were still missing their Level-III appliques. True to Serrat's estimate, most of the UC-42 Léons only had about 8-12 HEAT rounds in their racks- the rest of the load were expensive supersabots originally meant to defeat Anglian armour, 2 generations more advanced.

 

---

 

OOC: Just establishing that we're still here. Might have to work some details out with @Nyanta

[Nyanta]

Phase 2: Sol and Mani
     |Twilight

Darkness nothing but darkness. Single lights illuminate the otherwise so gloomy night and although it is summer so the temperatures are especially at night near the single digit range. It was quiet. The kind of silence that could be cut with a knife. The tension in the soldiers was palpable. 

21st "Mudcats" Mechanised Brigade
The only thing in the silence was the slow mechanical sound of the armored personnel carriers trying to drown out the soldiers' footsteps. With every rustle and crack in the bushes, the soldiers looked around tensely. Captain Bjørn saw the tension in the green-lit faces. Night vision devices were definitely a decisive advantage. A corporal of the patrol hastily approached their squad. It was immediately clear to the captain that the quiet of the night was now over.

"Kapten" The soldier standing in front of her was maybe in his early 20s and a bit scrawny. A few greasy blond brown hairs hung out of his helmet and you could see that he was still a child. But you could see from his stature and how the young man presented himself that he was well trained.

"Korpral" The woman who stood in front of him was in her late 30's. Although the corporal was already tall at 1.85cm, this imposing woman still towered over him by 5 cm. But she seemed as if she could overshadow him completely. Her waist-length blond hair a rarity in the military blew in the light breeze while her dark blue eyes stared him directly in the soul. The hair on the back of the soldier's neck stood up and  sweat ran down his face. "We have spotted a group of soldiers about 500 meters from here. As far as we know, they haven't spotted us yet."
After he spoke the words, he took a breath. Before he froze faster than still water in winter at the mention of his name.

"Korpral Sven. Keep an eye on them. Take one of my squads with you as backup. Nourish yourself to 300 meters." She paused for a moment and crossed her arms behind her back. This gesture made her look meters taller. "You know the protocol, ask them to surrender 2 times on Ulfheimish if they don't comply or open fire, neutralize them." With these words Sven saluted one last time "Yes Kapten" before he quietly stomped away. Cold sweat ran down his back. He had heard stories about Captain Olivia Bjørn but thought they were exaggerations. One of the best of her year and a leader. And he had also heard that she had a terrifying aura. Oh how the stories were understatements. And despite everything, she was appreciated by soldiers and officers alike. She knew the names of all the soldiers who served under her. And inquired how they were doing.
Sven looked back at the huge woman. The moonlight illuminated the tall figure. Old fashioned dressed. A clean navy blue uniform, the coat blew in the wind and the blade of what he thought was a useless saber reflected the moonlight.

The corporal quickly averted his gaze and within the next few minutes he reached his squad. Carl his squad leader was already waiting for him "And what do we do Sven? He sat down next to the others who were still watching the figures in the distance. "Close to 300 meters and follow the protocol." He paused for a moment."Even if the captain isn't thrilled about giving up the element of surprise." Carl shrugged, "Well, that's the way it is. The upper ones always think they're doing the best. And if we can win without a fight, that would be great." Sven and the other guys just nodded. Carl looked behind and saw another troop 150 meters away. "We're getting reinforcements?" Sven was embarrassed for forgetting such an important detail. "Yes, that's correct, I forgot to mention that Kapten Bjørn is sending a squad to reinforce us."

The conversation was over, everyone knew that, as Carl grabbed his weapon and flipped the night vision back in front of his eyes. In the next few minutes, the 7 sneaked up on the group of soldiers. As soon as they were in range, they all got ready to fight one last time. Ammunition was checked and everything was unlocked. Lajla, who spoke the best Ulfheimish of her group, crept a good 50 meters closer to the group. All were tense. Carl gave the signal and Aksel, who was lying next to Sven, fired a flare gun. The wooded tundra had suddenly become day. And the Ulfheim soldiers stood there as if caught by the spotlight. Lajla shouted in Ulfheimish that they should surrender. And that nothing will happen to them if they cooperate. Shocked by their own native language, one of the soldiers actually threw away his weapon and threw up his hands. Two more followed him. Number 4 was indecisive but made no move to raise his weapon. Lajla repeated the request. Just as she finished the last sentence. The fifth and last soldier pulled up his rifle and was about to fire. When a single well-aimed shot knocked him to the ground before his finger could even touch the trigger. The sniper Kajsa had once again lived up to her name. Number 4 threw his gun to the ground in panic and threw up his hands as well. Lajla gave them instructions in Ulfheimish while the reconnaissance squad and Captain Bjørn's reinforcements approached with weapons raised. The stricken soldier was roughly doctored by their squad medic before they called in an EVAC from Bjørn's squad.  For the Mudcats, the first night went quietly. They were able to capture 5 more squads and neutralize 2. As expected by the High Command, the Ulfheimr were disorganized and too disorganized by the special operation to form a front.



 

5th "Dragonfly" Aviation Brigade
The iconic flipping of the levers. The howling of the rotors and the ever accelerating flap flap flap. They had heard and experienced all this hundreds of times before. Everyone knew what he had to do. The equipment was checked and everyone was on board. The nightingale so the 4 had baptized their black CH-146 Griffon.  Rising like the majestic bird in the night sky.  Responsible for a few reconnaissance flights and air support.

"There's nothing like the fresh evening air" reported her pilot Ole. And as always, Elsa answered quickly and boldly. The young gunner didn't mince words, and together with Ole was the entertainment of the crew. The two lay themselves constantly with Idiotischen quarrel in the hair to the amusement of the others. "If you find the air so beautiful we can gladly exchange places." Meanwhile, the stoic Astor lit his cigarette. Because Astor smoked only from 100 meters because only from there the cigarette tasted so correctly good. At least that's what he claimed every time. No one was sure if that was true, but it was true that Astor was only seen smoking in a helicopter. With a big smile, Elsa turned to Astor and said, "Smoking again?  Astor turned with the cigarette in the mouth briefly to her before he looked again sighing into the sky. "Why do we have this conversation every time?". "Because you smoke every time we fly?" interjected Ole's co-pilot Finn. "Yeah you and your high altitude smoking" Elsa teased him further. Astor took a deep breath and was about to reply when a radio message from a JTAC* came in.

*Joint terminal attack controller  is the term used in the Armed Forces a for a qualified service member who directs the action of military aircraft engaged in close air support and other offensive air operations from a forward position. Joint terminal attack controller can aslo be  part of the artillery observation battery

"Nightingale. Nightingale come in please. This is Squad 2." Ole answered immediately and the mood changed from carefree and happy to serious and alert. "This is Nightingale what's up?". "Squad 2 India Delta Hotel 264 050. air support. 12 hostiles. Have entrenched themselves in a small settlement. No civilians. I repeat here Squad 2 India Delta Hotel 264 050. 12 targets no civilians. Need fire support." The helicopter immediately changed its trajectory and the two gunners Elsa and Astor let their machine guns warm up. "Roger that will be there in 5 minutes. Nightingale in 5. Over."

Quickly the helicopter was there and the crew could see from above the shots with flares of the Ulfheimr. Which was firing at a squad of Nyantastanis at the edge of the forest. "This is Nightingale commencing approach 1. I repeat Nightingale commencing first approach" The helicopter glided over the treetops and machine gun fire pelted the Ulfheimr like leaden rain. "This is Squad 2. Good run corrected for 32 degree approach from west to east. I repeat 32 degrees correction. West east." Ole corrected "This is Nightingale Approach 2" Again machine gun fire pounded down on the Ulfheimers. "Good job nightingale! You got them. Squad 2 out" Nightingale flew one more round to be sure before landing for a Dustoff*. The LZ** was in a clearing. Fortunately there were only 2 wounded from squad 2, an upper arm hit and a broken tibia. nightingale flew back to base to deliver the wounded and rearm. But as expected, the night remained relatively quiet. The surprise attack and training paid off. So nightingale flew 4 more reconnaissance flights 2 MED EVACS* and 1 CAS*** before they were relieved at the base by a fresh crew. A successful first day of the invasion. And these successes should continue to consolidate in the first weeks.

* Casualty evacuation, also known as CASEVAC or by the callsign Dustoff or colloquially Dust Off, is a military term for the emergency patient evacuation of casualties from a combat zone.

The primary difference between a CASEVAC and a medical evacuation (MEDEVAC) is that a MEDEVAC uses a standardized and dedicated vehicle providing en route care, while a CASEVAC uses non-standardized and non-dedicated vehicles that may or may not provide en route care. CASEVACs are commonly referred to as "a lift/flight of opportunity". If a corpsman/medic on the ground calls for a CASEVAC, the closest available unit with space could be called to assist, regardless of its medical capabilities.

 ** A landing zone is the cartographic (numeric) zone in which the landing is going to take place (e.g., a valley). The landing area is the area in which the landing is going to take place (e.g., the field where the aircraft are to land). The landing point is the actual point on which aircraft are going to land (e.g., a point of the field). Each aircraft has a different landing point.

*** In military tactics, close air support (CAS) is defined as aerial warfare actions—often air-to-ground actions such as strafes or airstrikes—by military aircraft against hostile targets in close proximity to friendly forces. A form of fire support, CAS requires detailed integration of each air mission with fire and movement of all forces involved. CAS may be conducted using aerial bombs, glide bombs, missiles, rockets, autocannons,  machine guns, etc.

[Iverica]

OOC: Previous Part. This phase, the ambush, got so long that I'll have to divide it into 2 posts. This is the setup.

 

02 JUL 2022 | 2300 Zebra (Zulu) Time

FOB Sant Miquel, Nyantastani Border

 

Commander - TN. Rafael "Raf" Serrat-Montressor

It was half an hour into dark at the FOB. A light chill backed by calm winds had fallen upon the mustered tanks and support vehicles of 2-COY, "Bad Boy" company, 43rd Cuirassiers, 2nd Horse Grenadier Division. Around a cleared yard in front of the FOB's tank motor pool, some 15 tanks, 4 MRAPs, 3 trucks, 3 IFVs, 3 APCs, and a recovery vehicle plus truck-towed trailers were neatly mustered-out in a phalanx square.

 

Teniente Serrat, or "Raf" as his peers and superiors called him, had been perched up on his cupola and inspecting the 12.7 mm remote weapon system turret for the 17th time that evening. He had been checking the headspace and feedway when Bad Boy 6, the company HQ's callsign, radioed.

 

This was it. After spending 2 hours mounted up and doing nothing for seemingly no cause, it looked like they were finally ready to move.

 

Just before, 2-COYs Sargento-Major had given the assembled Lances a nice speech that Serrat had barely listened to, dog tired as he was from troubleshooting his tank, the Battle Cat, all day. Then before that, he half-slept, waking every now and then to check if the Mariscal-II battle management computer safely finished its BIOS update and OS reinstall.

 

From his perch up in the commander's cupola, Serrat confirmed his receipt of the message. He strapped-up his combat vehicle crewman helmet and zipped his single-piece tankers suit. Serrat keyed his integrated helmet headset to the lance frequency and addressed his formation.

 

"All Bad Boy 1 elements this is Bad Boy 1 Actual... listen up kiddos. This is it. This is the one. In less than an hour, we will be cruising down Ulfan roads and making a beeline for Krysstad, our first objective. Bad Boy 1, Battle Cat Lance, we'll have point on this. So trail a column, neat-like. Keep spacing close before the border, about 15 metres and speed at 40 for now. Remember what you are. Motherfucking Horse Grenadiers, the best damned cav in Argis", at that Serrat got enthusiastic affirmations in response from his lance's tank commanders, mixed in with some audible cheers from the crews around the motor pool, waiting at their stations with their heads out of the hatches.

 

"Start your mares up, we are REDCON 1 to Oscar-Mike. Form on my lead. Bad Boy 1 Actual, Battle Cat, out."

 

As the Cat's V8 diesel purred to life, quieted by numerous noise-dampening measures, Serrat couldn't help but feel that the company was missing more than just the extra HEAT ammunition and reactive armour blocks.

 

---

 

Gunner - SGT. Palvaen "Pal" Saxweiro

Sargento Palvaen "Pal" Saxweiro sat above his unbuttoned hatch, enjoying the night air as the 2-COY finally rolled out of the FOB. To his right, Serrat sat up at his cupola, though the commander was far busier with his tablet, sliding his fingers over a 3D projection of the first few grids.

 

The column of tanks rumbled along nighttime Nyantastani highways in silence, Pal occasionally throwing peanuts at passing cars.

 

Typical Raf, Pal thought. The entire company gets to go on an all-expenses paid invasion-vacation, basically a frat party through some other asscrack nowhere country and all top is doing is scrolling through maps he's seen a billion times by now. Pal couldn't believe it. This was supposed to be fucking lit. Pal was amped. Go in, fuck shit up, get foreign pussy, no consequences! If Raf kept this up, it would be Alharu all over again. Pal - partying. Raf - drier and more uninteresting than his 7th-grade chemistry teacher, Ms Roxas' wrinkly snatch.

 

He had to lighten the mood or this whole deployment would be all boring and mature. Shit, pseudo-boomers like Raf didn't know how to enjoy a good war. They were all "OPSEC" and "Professional" and whatever. Fucking BORING.

 

"Hey... Top", Pal called out over the intercom, conspiratorially.

 

"No.". Raf hadn't even looked up from his tablet.

 

"I didn't even say-", Pal groaned.

 

"I know what you're going to say. The answer is, NO. This is a complex, combined arms, armoured spearhead operation to break our enemies' will to fight with shock, awe, and exact use of fire superiority- we will not be starting it by singing Nickelfront*"

*Nickelfront - a particularly bad multinational pop-country rock band. Known for their unsophisticated music and meme-able lyrics.

 

Pal groaned louder, smacking his helmeted head against the gunshield of his custom-mounted 8.6 mm machine gun.

 

"But Raf, it's Battle Cat tradition", Pal groused, using his CO's given name in an attempt at endearment.

 

It wasn't working.

 

"Sargento, one single half-assed time we, mostly you and Ramon, sang Rockstar driving out to some shitty wargame in Variota does not a tradition make. No, I will not spend the next few months of this deployment listening to your atrocious taste in pleb music somehow worsened by that cocksucker's wail you call a voice. No Nickelfront and in fact, no singing at all."

 

Pal grimaced a little at the mention of Ramon, the guy Loupes replaced before scowling at Serrat's attitude. Top, Raf, took himself way too seriously. If he hadn't known and fought alongside the cranky Tacalan man for what - 6 years now? - Pal would probably do something stupid out of spite. Like slip some goat shit into his pipe tobacco.

 

Pal whinged and moped all the way to the border. He didn't say a word when an H&S company MRAP drove up to them to drop off some 'terp* the entire 2-COY command had apparently forgotten to request from the Nyantastanis. He just groaned internally when the 'terp clambered onto their tank from the side of the highway.

*'Terp: Short for "interpreter".

 

Another fucking boomer. Pal bet that this huge bone-head grunt was going to be best friends with Raf. The grunt NCO tried to introduce himself but in response, Pal hawked a gobbet of phlegm and spat out his side of the tank. The 'terp shrugged and amicably introduced himself to Serrat and Loupes instead. Pal just grumbled and sighed when Serrat ordered him to get out so the 'terp could slip into the fighting compartment. The only consolation Pal had was that he could torture the 'terp. At least if this fucking grunt was going to ruin the party, Pal could fart and annoy the hell out of the guy, who was forced to take the jumpseat behind and below Pal's station.

 

Still, he could have made like, 15 sex jokes by now but he wasn't going to because Raf Serrat was being a dickhead. A war? With no singing? This was going to be the lamest fucking deployment ever.

 

---

 

Interpreter - FJK. Lucas Holm

"*Oh boy, you have so much to give

Oh boy, don't let it get you down"

*Though they didn't end up singing Nickelfront, Serrat settled on allowing songs by Modern Talking. Link to the song: Who Will Save the World?

 

The gunner, "Pal" or something, sang (really, it was more like yowled) into the intercom. The young NCO had a terrible voice but that didn't stop the short skinny ginger-headed gunner from confidently yelling through the headset. The crew of the Battle Cat didn't seem to mind. In fact, the commander, Teniente Serrat even sang along sometimes. Loupes, their fresh-out-of-highschool driver tried to chime in now and again but couldn't quite follow- he was too young for the song.

 

The tank rattled and hummed as it cruised down the unlit darkness of a seemingly endless Ulfan highway. The Battle Cat and her company were the spearhead of the massed coalition force behind it. She rolled along, at the head of an armoured column 15 main battle tanks strong.

 

"Who, baby, who will save the world?", Pal continued, clanging his boots on the fighting compartment floor.

 

"It's not too late...", Serrat hummed on, much more quietly, with his gravelly, rough scratch of a voice.

 

"Who, baby, who will save the world? All heroes hesitate!", they sang, duet.

 

"I'm too young to die", they both chorused.

 

"I'm too young to die!", Loupes tried to fill in, a tad off-timing.

 

 

From the cramped and rattling fold-down jump seat behind of the gunner's station, Lucas just tried (and failed) to catch some sleep. Unfortunately, every other second was interrupted by Pal screeching into the intercom. Lucas Holm, 2-COYs middle-aged Nyantastani interpreter was suffering through it all. His ears were starting to ring from the sharp crackle of terrible, terrible singing and his head ached from trying to rest it against the turret cage, which separated the fighting compartment from the rest of the hull.

 

The Fanjunkare (OR-7, something like First Sergeant), in his mid 30's already, knew that he was getting to the age where all this was too much. The interior of the tank, while climate conditioned, was cramped and stale. It was dim too, lit only by dim red low-vis LED strips. Lucas had a fair bit of height on him and was well-built. His 6'1" frame was practically crumpled, with his knees tucked up tight and his head stooped under a switchboard and breaker box.

 

To make matters worse- his head was right underneath the ring. It whined with a loud keening cry when the electronic servos spun and the whole bloody thing traversed, startling Lucas badly a few times. Teniente Serrat had warned him the first time he clambered in and Pal had uselessly tried to spook him about something ambiguously named "the Turret Monster", which was apparently some form of invisible tank legend, some mythical creature that devoured possessions, clothing, and even fingers. Lucas had no idea what they were talking about until his sleeve got caught by the "Turret Monster" evidently referring to tank's propensity to catch loose items in the turret ring when it spun. His uniform was now missing the end of its right sleeve (his favourite one!).

 

Lucas had no idea it would be like this when his CO had informed him of his assignment. Most of his buddies got cushy assignments with Military Police, Civilian Relations, or Iverican Command units. He, solely, was the only one in his company to be put in a frontline Main Battle Tank Company. While perfectly competent as a career NCO, Lucas wasn't expecting to be quite literally picked off the side of the highway as the unit advanced across the border. He had absolutely no- none- zero- MBT training. He may have been an experienced warfighter, having been in the infantry from his earliest days as a teenage rifleman but this was something else.

 

He knew the Ivericans were foreign and had odd customs but this company seemed full of children and barbarians. On one roadside stop, one of the other crewmen, more like a literal boy of around 17 (that would have been young Jose "Joesie" Dei Grau, Soldado Tecnico, driver for the tank "Boy Band") slapped Lucas in the ass and winked as the NCO finished relieving himself by a ditch. Fucking winked. The rest of the Boy Band's crew just laughed and catcalled. They used terms like:

 

"Furreal-furreal"

"Ayo!"

"Malding"

"Ratio"

"Deadass"

"Rizz"

 

The list went on and on. What even was a "Rizz"?

 

The crew of the Battle Cat, while a little more mature, was nonetheless strange and eccentric. The gunner, "Pal" most of all. Pal carried an arrogant disrespect for everything that wasn't his commander. Religion, politics, ethnicity? Pal hated them all and told Lucas just as much. Loudly. Rudely. Many, many times. He also chewed gum, stank of cigarillos, and tapped his feet irritatingly close to Lucas' head. Unfortunately for Lucas, his jumpseat sat about 2 feet lower and behind of the gunner's own. Which meant that every damn fart that the young gunner made was very close and very, very olfactible.

 

Resigned to his fate, Lucas tied his scarf tight to his face and eventually fell into a troubled, rather smelly sleep.

 

When he awoke the tank interior was dark. They'd stopped somewhere. Fuck, his whole body hurt like a sonofabitch.

 

---

 

Commander - TN. Rafael "Raf" Serrat-Montressor

 

Serrat was on the ground and walking before Loupes even stopped the tank. The pre-dawn light had the surrounding Ulfan landscape faintly lit in a deep purple hue. They were now at a stretch of low rolling hills between the coast and the first layer of highlands.

 

Clogged roads and bridges had meant that they'd made it only about 50 klicks the whole night. It was close to 0400 local now and they'd just made it to the Regimental Combat Team's forward staging point some 6 klicks away from the town of Krysstad, the capital of the Ulfan border region. The whole RCT had trained for weeks to take Krysstad. It was expected to be the first major land engagement of the invasion.

 

Thus far most of the battles fought had been forward screening and recce elements engaging border security and local irregulars. 2-COY had passed a few burnt-out Ulfan APCs, IFVs, and trucks along the coastal highway - meaning that some resistance was still present despite reports of numerous surrenders and defections. The border region was more of a nation unto itself, with a distinct set of clans or tribes with a somewhat rocky relationship with the ethnic majority in the capital heartlands.

 

The Teniente had little time to admire the pastoral views and ponder on the details of the initial advance, however, and he instead strode briskly past the vehicles and personnel of 1-COY and the H&S company. Around him, mean dozed on open bedrolls or gathered around flameless stoves, brewing strong pots of coffee and heating MREs.

 

Weaving his way around the orderly assemblage of tanks and wheeled vehicles, the tall wiry first officer of 2-COY made his way to the RCT's command tent, where regimental command was gathering company commanders and executive officers.

 

The NCO on watch snapped a quick salute to Serrat and raised the entrance flap for him. Inside, a warm orange glow lit the expansive tent, about the size of a large hotel suite. The smell of rich freshly ground coffee warmed the Teniente's nose, a far cry from the powdered or concentrate brews of the enlisted cook pits outside.

 

The centre of the tent was dominated by folding tables put together to form 1 long table. Around the space, small rings of officers congregated, cliques and friends from the RCT's officer cadre talking in their little in-unit groups. Some of the more advancement-hungry ones had even donned their aiguillettes, sabres, cloaks, and peaked officer caps - affectations that Serrat cared little for, dressed in his plain tanker jumpsuit. The only piece that made him stand out as an officer was his holstered service pistol and the cap-badge on his cover which he had swapped his helmet for before he jumped off the Cat.

 

Serrat had wandered over to the large samovar of freshly brewed Altarian medium roast when a calloused hand clapped him on the back.

 

"Raf!", came the gruff and warm voice of the Padre, or Piolo "Pap", Urdaneta-Berenguer, CO of 2-COY.

 

Serrat's commanding officer gave him a small wrinkled grin from his lined face. Pap was a few inches shy of Raf's height but was stockier and well-built. Like Serrat, Pap didn't care much for an officer's affectations and wore his plain combat uniform and pistol, though the older Capitan kept his sabre on his belt where Serrat did not.

 

There was another officer waiting just behind Pap, someone from 3-COY that Serrat didn't really know. A Teniente by the looks of his epaulette and cap-badge.

 

 

"Sir.", Serrat returned, touching his cover with his right fingers in a quick salute.

 

"Just the man... Listen I wanted to give you a heads-up before the Coronel gets in.We've got a FRAGORD, just came in now. Think there's gonna be some changes and it looks like yourself and Albein here will be-", Pap had gestured the young officer behind him when the tent flap was raised again.

 

"CORONEL. SALUTE", came the bellow of the Regimental Sargento-Major.

 

At that, all the officers in the room immediately fell silent, stood-to, and snapped a sharp salute.

 

An older officer dressed in his combat uniform entered after the senior NCO and gazed around the tent's space.

 

"At ease", came the Coronel's stentorian voice as he strode towards the centre of the room. A small team of adjutants and staffers followed behind him, rolling down a white screen and setting up a laptop and projector.

 

"Gentlemen. Like myself, I know all of you have just spent the better part of the night on the road and are eager to close with and destroy the enemy at Krysstad."

 

A chorus of, "here-here's", and sabres rattling in their scabbards filled the room at that.

 

"I am pleased to announce that as planned, the RCT will be taking point in the liberation of the provincial capital and its environs. However, there are a number of developments passed from G-2 that have warranted theatre command to make some changes. Given the time-sensitive nature of these developments and the resulting Fragmentation Order, I must put this address ahead of our briefing protocol."

 

The Coronel stood beside the projector and nodded.

 

Serrat watched on as the Coronel and his staff brought the situation to light.

 

---

 

The Briefing

ISR* from the FISQ has spotted a large formation of armour, mechanised, and motorised infantry flanking down from the highlands along the northeast, scheduled to enter within our AO in the next 24 hours. Given the composition and attitude of their movements, G-2* asserts that this battalion-sized unit has the intent of outflanking and preventing the forward elements of our spearhead from effectively surrounding the objective of Krysstad. Screening elements have not yet encountered heavier armoured resistance such as the T-62s and T-72s making up the bulk of this flanking thrust. Despite efforts from initial air strikes on enemy concentrations, the survival of elite armoured units in the north of the country was to be expected.

*ISR: Intelligence, Surveillance, Reconnaissance.

*G-2: Division-level Intelligence Staff.

 

Rest assured, G-2 and theatre command had expected this scenario and prepared accordingly. I can disclose that our strategy at this phase allowed for a gap in our forward screen and aerial coverage to form - this had the intention of inviting a counter-attack from surviving units. The rationale was to draw hunkered-down armour out of safety and thus grant us the opportunity to funnel, surround, and destroy remaining massed armoured resistance in the region. As you can see, the bait worked and elements of the Ulfan 1st Armoured Brigade have consolidated into a battalion task force, likely presuming that they have the opportunity to catch our forces out of balance by coming through the valleys of Innsdal. The enemy likely presumes that the high ridges and steep hills of this region would disrupt line-of-sight for recce and grant a modicum of cover against anything other than high-angle of attack airstrikes. From Innsdal, the enemy's likely course of action will be to engage our flanks at long range and retreat into the cover of the valleys when our air comes for them.

 

As you know, the enemy is mistaken. While air from the Nyantastani Air Force and the @Gallambrian 627 squadron is more than capable of dropping ordnance consistently on their route, theatre command has elected to hold on striking the battalion task force and to allow their approach into Innsdal unmolested.

 

Our orders now, gentlemen, are to form a combined arms detachment to ambush and destroy the task force. After reviewing our current conditions, I have decided that 2-COY should take the lead on this detachment. I am further reinforcing this detachment with 3 lances from our mechanised company, 1 lance of Leons from 3-COY, and attaching a forward observation team with accompanying JTACs.

 

Furthermore, a Nyantastani component composed of 3 platoons of infantry, 1 motorised platoon with ATGMs, and support from pre-embedded special forces.

 

Moving forward, you should hear from 2-COY's Capitan Urdaneta yourselves.

 

Pap took the floor and cycled the slides.

 

I have identified this segment of highway 450 as our best opportunity for a killbox.

 

Pre-ambush, there is a trifling matter of ridding the detachment from observation and early warning from enemy screening units. Given that any attack on said forward units will likely prevent an effective ambush, 2-COY has elected to have armoured units standby around 2-3 klicks from the ambush zone. However, Nyantastani infantry platoons will be able to covertly infiltrate much closer to the zone, letting the screening elements pass without incident. We have earmarked another Nyantastani unit to intercept and destroy these light recce elements later.

 

Employing the embedded special forces, a number of obstacles can be set up to slow the battalion's main component. A trucking accident and minor landslide can be arranged to further bunch up the task force's armoured core which will initially be spaced wider company by company. The obstacles should also give our armoured ambush elements to complete their insertion and set up hasty ambush positions and mines.

 

Once in position, the detachment will await the arrival of the enemy task force and initiate contact once the lead elements have crossed Phase Line Alpha, denoted by the strip of road with mines. At that time, it is likely that the enemy's rear elements would also fall between Phase Lines Charlie and Delta...

 

 

Serrat watched impassively, noting his own position in Pap's plan. While he knew that the 2-COY would be annoyed to learn that the Krysstad - which they had been training to take for weeks - would be some other unit's glory, they might yet be pleased to trade it for an opportunity like this. Up close and personal with a battalion of enemy armour. Some of the younger glory hounds would probably be over-eager, frothing at the mouth for such an opportunity. Raf just felt like a healthy heap of caution would be needed where the Coronel and Pap were so eager. There were many ways this could go wrong. A heap of variables depended on conditions being just right. Though under no circumstances would he undermine Pap or question him in front of the whole officer cadre.

 

Serrat just smiled a little and nodded as Pap outlined the plan. At least Pal would get to shout, "git sum!", at tanks a few times this deployment.

 

---

 

 

 

[Nyanta]

Commando Saboteurs 

Behind enemy lines
Somewhere near Krysstad
Special Operations Unit|| Queens Ranger Wing 
Enemy Tank Battalion|| Late Evening||

"I'm glad we found you."
Spoke a voice in Ulfheim uniform at a campfire flanked by 2 lying tree trunks. The man, about 30, was the smallest of the group that had joined the unit a few days ago. But this was nothing new, after all, the country is at war.

Another voice rang out, "And we're glad to have you here. After all this mess. We can use every warrior. That they would dare to anger the gods like this. To attack out of the blue." The man was full of rage, and yet he looked extremely dejected.

Arye, the man starting the conversation, stoked the fire a bit and nodded while listening to his new chamber mate Gragas. "And then for no reason. We should have just overrun them years ago!" Gragas stood up and gesticulated wildly.

Hannes, who was sitting next to Arye, shook his fist seemingly angrily. But he actually thought about how ill-informed the Ulfheimr must be. If they had not heard of the provocations and transgressions of their living god.
"Well, if you keep yelling like that, their fighter planes will hear us," the voice sounded like throwing a handful of nails into a bucket and hurling it around. Thor, the leader of their platoon, was old and scarred. Although he commanded one of the tanks, he was a giant in the battalion at 190 cm tall. His long white beard and the light really made you think he was some kind of god.

"We'll get even with them, my boy. We've found a gap in their formation and a safe route for an attack. We're moving out at 2300." With these words, Thor left the group to carry the good news. Ingram's ears perked up at the information. And he sighed before looking to his comrades and then to Gragas.  You're really telling me they're going to fall for this… barbarians.

Within the next hour they were sitting by the fire before Gragas left them as well. To communicate behind enemy lines with minimal chance of detection. The Nyantastan military developed a mixture of gestures and military signals some time ago. The disadvantages are obvious, but especially in such situations this is the safest way of communication. So while they continued to talk normally so as not to arouse suspicion. The 3-man squad communicated in secret.

"We all agree that there will be an ambush, right?" At their squad leader's question, they all nodded in affirmation. "Good, that means we need to keep the troops close together and figure out where the ambush is most likely to take place. Ingram you try to get into one of the lead vehicles. Hannes, you and I will join the logistics. It's going to be stupid if you have to refuel every 30 kilometers."

That was the end of the meeting Ingram, who was a bit younger anyway, pretended to be an enthusiastic warrior of Odin. His love for history helped him to be so convincing that even some fanatics were surprised. Fortunately, they only bugged him with questions about the gods instead of wondering how he knew all that. The additional training hours of the defectors certainly didn't hurt either. Meanwhile, under the cover of night, Hannes and Arye were working on some tanks. Nothing too flashy. Most people would think that the metal was simply corroded. Good thing the military regularly siphons off some acid from Brunswick. That done, Hannes joined one of the engineers to get some more tools and insights. While Arye made friends with the logisticians. In the course of the next few days, there were always minor breakdowns and stops. Once even wolves attacked the MRE's and have made almost half unusable. The responsible guard had probably fallen asleep despite coffee. At this point, it is hardly necessary to mention that this person was never seen again.  After all was clear where they drove long, it became also the small group ever clearer where a good position for an ambush was. That the Ulfheimers blindly seized this opportunity made their incompetence and pride even more ridiculous.  

Of course, this was no easy matter for Hannes, Ingram and Arye.  Once they were almost exposed.

"Tell me, which clan are you from? Or what combat unit?"

Ingram looked at Hannes, and both didn't know for a moment if this was a joke. Just as Ingram was about to answer, the questioner laughed himself to death, "As if I expect a serious answer to that. The main thing is that you are here now! We're going to get back what's ours!"

The sigh of relief. And the journey went without incident. There was still the challenge of the screening. But everyone was sure that this problem would be solved. After all, the one or other mishap had not only worsened the mood. A few of the troops were also still hungry and disappeared regularly to hunt. Which led naturally again to still more breakdowns. The saboteurs were successful and thanks to the mixture of pride and the hope to win this lost war, everyone was too busy to even think about something like saboteurs.