[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Unknown Location, Bjeorg
July 25th, 1991 - Afternoon

Brian Smith was simply besides himself with rage. His plan was rapidly going to the dogs. It was so tactfully conceived. There was no room for error yet all was going awry faster than he could keep up with. Smith was half elated to hear the ring of his special phone. Perhaps it would provide him solace from the crumbling world around him.

“Yes, Mrs. Paterson? What can I do for you? No, you don’t have to record this or broadcast it. I have that covered.”

The response came fast.

“Brian, you must end the insanity. I implore you. I beg you. For the sake of our people. People are dying-"

Smith was livid.

“No. Jean, no. To be clear, this is not my doing. This is your fault. This is all your doing. I am watching a world war unfold. Zamastan is out of control. They have infiltrated Our waters. The St. Peter’s Strait is shared Maximusian and Bjeorg territory as far as I am concerned. You realize that they are trying to take Bjeorg for themselves.”

Jean snapped back.

“You’re lying. Not true. Their intentions were to prohibit another Vulkaria Conflict.”

“They have a funny way of trying to keep the peace. Looks like a full on battle just took place on our doorstep. Funny enough, neither of us were involved. It is my opinion that the Zamastanians believe they have found a prize. Bjeorg."

There was a long silence on the phone before Paterson's response.

"You really think I trust you more than my allies?! Brian, of course I am keeping a close eye on Zamastan. I would be a fool not to. With that said, I certainly trust Castovia a lot more right now than you."

"Then it comes to this Jean. I don't want war. I don't need war. But I see you have enabled our Zamastanian friends to bring it like rats bringing disease. You won't realize it until it's too late and when you do we will both be destroyed."

Smith was winding up for his final ultimatum.

"The Zamastanian ships leave your waters and my waters by tomorrow evening and we discuss Bjeorg's independence in a non-violent manner. If not, I will unleash hell upon you. You will unleash hell upon me. The others will die along the way and the devil will take the rest. What will it be?

Think on it."

Brian pressed the phone lightly down into its console and left his desk. He opened a drawer and retrieved 10 year aged whiskey. With a desolate look, he poured himself a glass and silently watched the birds circle. He scowled. They were vultures, preparing to descend on what was likely a dead deer or raccoon. Smith sipped slowly and mused out loud, "They are the vultures and I am the deer."

[Zamastan]

Reminiscing For My Friend
2:00 AM July 26th, 1991
ZMS SCHULZLAND
MESS HALL

Private Nicholas Henners felt like he was in heaven rather than in the mess hall of the troopship ZMS Schulzland. He was going to see action soon. He had told his mother over the ship’s cents phone that he was going to finally see some war. His mother had warned him to be careful. He said he would be.

He was part of the 6th Marine Division, and they were preparing to land at some point on the shores of the Province of Bjeorg. When exactly they would be landing was up to the generals, who had to wait for the Maximusian response. The consensus from most of the soldiers aboard the Schulzland was disapproval of the submission, and they perceived themselves as being second-class to the Maximusian forces.

“Why do we need to be listening to them?” a tall, thin soldier named Perch had said in the bunk room, the afternoon following the sinking of the Lance Pelio. “I say damn em’ and let’s just do it ourselves, eh?”

“Nah, man, if we do’it without th’ Maxies, we ain’t gonna be able to get nowhere,” a grunt nicknamed ‘Ger’ snapped back, “I ain’t boutta get my arm blown off cuz we don’t know where we’re walkin’.”

“Aight, fair. But don’t forget that them higher ups in LOM haven’t lost sailors, or pilots, or soldiers…” Perch stammered emotionally, “Those Maxies ain’t lost anything except pride. They ain’t lost a boat. They ain’t lost friends…”

Nicholas had been sitting up in his bunk during the conversation, listening instead of talking. He now interjected; “Perch, we all want revenge on them. It’s not the Maxies’ fault.” Perch was sniffling across the room, taking in Nicholas’ words. “It’s the rebs’ fault. It’s the Eirian’s fault. The Maxies are on our side, and they gonna lose people soon… we gonna be in it together.”

Regardless of the soldier’s opinions over their allies, they still respected their own ranks. And thus, they knew deep down that the generals were doing the right thing by waiting. Specifically, the wait to land on the province was important, because the Libertas Omnium Maximus forces still had not engaged. If Zamastanian troops landed without the Maximusians, the world would see it as an invasion rather than a military assistance.

Hours had passed since Nicholas was in the bunkroom with his comrades. He was still in the mess hall, toying with his food and his fork. Planes could be heard roaring over the fleet, and explosions in the night reverberating in the metal of the ship, indicated the occasional flak explosion as shells were lobbed from the shore emplacements towards the ships. The shells were no where near large or damaging enough to wreck a ship, but they were enough to shake the ships if they hit close enough. Many of them were. For now, though, Nicholas sat and listened, and took in his time in the relative peace and obscurity of the dimly lit mess hall. He imagined storming the beach, dodging turret fire, aiming and shooting, sand kicking up around him. He imagined coming face to face with a rebel, standing taller than him and pinning him to the ground. He imagined being hailed as a hero by his commanders, his fellow soldiers, his countrymen, maybe even President Castovia himself.

28 years later…

Nicholas Henners stood in the Gaviria National Military Cemetery in Tofino, the sun reflecting off the tall, glass skyscrapers in the foreground of the bustling city. In the quiet of the cemetery, he reflected on the time he spent in the troopship bunk room with his friend, Perch. The tall, pasty, skinny boy who cared deeply for the lives of his fellow soldiers, had become close with him during those days before the battle began. They talked about home, about their families. Nicholas showed Perch a picture of his red-headed girlfriend, Trish. Perch told Nicholas he didn’t have a girl, but he did have a grandmother who made the best Tuval-fruit juice.

With the warm, ocean breeze taking leaves past him, and birds chirping to signify the peace and safety of the cemetery, Nicholas sat the flowers and his medal at the feet of Perch’s headstone.

James Perch Chulayan
December 5th 1969-July 28th 1991
To The Hope That You Provide

[Xiomera]

The Men (And Women) From Huitzitaca

After the Battle of the Strait of St. Peter

Ixazaluoh felt reasonably pleased with herself.

They never saw us coming, she mused. The captain of the XMS Tamaya, the "merchant ship" that had just sent a Zamastanian warship to an untimely end, couldn't help but be a bit smug. Yet something told her that it wouldn't be so easy for them the next time. Her crew, celebrating the success of the ship's XT-20 Huāo torpedo and their own prowess, caught her attention. "Knock it off and get back into discipline!" she barked. Ixazaluoh was not a captain who was especially tolerant of sloppiness; her crew jumped and scurried back to their stations at her bellow. "Keep your damn eyes peeled for any fighters or bombers. Sonar, make sure there aren't any subs near us either. The last thing we need now is a Zamastanian torpedo up our ass," she snapped.

As the crew of the Tamaya readied for their trip back to Huitzitaca, to reload supplies and prepare for their next run to Bjeorg, Ixazaluoh shook her head. We may have won this round, but they won't be surprised by this trick again. We will need a new ploy, she thought.

---

The "new ploy", dreamed up by the Coytōchte planners back in Huitzitaca, was a simple one. Xiomeran merchant ships would now be suspect, after the Battle of the Strait. The answer was a simple one: make it a much riskier task to target Xiomeran ships traveling between Hespia and Catica. Coytōchte leaders contacted the head of the Xāchi shipping firm, which the Xiomeran Q ship Tamaya theoretically belonged to, and arranged for multiple Xāchi ships to begin traveling the same route as the Tamaya would use to try to keep the mercenaries and Bjeorg rebels resupplied. The Xāchi shipping firm was overjoyed by the deal; they got to make money on shipping runs to Hespia, and got paid a second time for the same runs by the mercenaries just to reroute their ships a bit. The fact that this would now put innocent merchant ships in the firing line didn't matter to anyone at Xāchi, or at Coytōchte. Business was business.

The nations opposing the Bjeorg rebels could target Xiomeran merchant ships, if they wanted. They would now, however, be running the risk of blowing a perfectly innocent merchant vessel, whose sailors had no idea that they were pawns in a massive shell game, out of the water....along with all the bad headlines and international anger that blowing up noncombatant vessels usually generated. The Tamaya's missions would now be shielded by the most unforgiving kind of shield - the human kind.

---

The last run of the Tamaya, though interrupted, had succeeded in its main goal. Some supplies managed to make it to the shore of Bjeorg, and to the waiting hands of the rebels and the Xiomeran mercenaries. XM-01 Tlihuatl assault rifles, XM-38 Huatlxōc semi-automatic .38 caliber handguns, XG-19 RPG launchers, Huatllōtl ballistic vest/combat helmet kits, ammunition, grenades; all the usual goodies the Xiomerans had been supplying to Bjeorg.

The most important one, however, was not meant to be used against people on the ground.

The XM-4 Yaquet MANPADS (man-portable air defense missile system) was explicitly designed and used by the Xiomeran military for scenarios where truck-based or ground-based surface to air missile systems were vulnerable. The Xiomerans had already supplied some of them to the Bjeorg rebels. They were about to supply more of them. Many, many more of them.

The Coytōchte mercenaries, and their Bjeorg clients, didn't have the airpower to counter the Maximusian and Zamastanian air forces. But with enough of the Xiomeran missiles floating around, they might not need it.

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Unknown Location, Bjeorg
July 26th, 1991 - Evening

"You are a fool Jean Paterson, and for it you shall watch your people burn."

Brian Smith set his phone down. His aids and advisors were staring dumbfounded at him. Smith shook his head slowly and slumped into his seat.

"Zamastan will aid Libertas Omnium Maximus in their conquest of us."

Frankly, Smith had seen it coming. It was long overdue. Shots were fired, lives were lost. At this point it was a simple matter of formality. There would be no reconciliation. There would be no peace, save for the everlasting peace of death that Smith was sure was in store for him. Be it by a soldier of the nation he once devoted his life to serving, the ally of the nation that had turned its back on him, or some unseen player, lurking in the shadows, Smith was a dead man walking.

"Sir," nervously inquired a young aid after giving a chance for the news to sink in, "What should we do now?"

Smith stood from his chair slowly and set a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"I believe we have no alternative but to go to war. Reach out to the Xiomerian forces and the local militia groups. Contact the ANM. Give Eiria the go ahead to enter our waters. Their naval strength will help. In other words, get everyone ready for war."

The aid sprinted off with a thousand tasks to do. No sooner had he left the room then two aids bearing a large map of the St. Peter Strait and the surrounding entered. They set the map down on a steel table in the center of the room.

"It is the belief of our Army that Zamastanian forces will likely attack from the south while Maximusian forces move in across the strait. They will have trouble breaching our defenses in central Bjeorg as we have the area exceedingly well fortified with AA guns and mounted turrets."

Smith looked at the map incredulously, he wasn't used to military strategy. He would have to get used to it. That much was for sure.

Smith quickly analyzed the locations pointed out to him by the aids and made some mental notes.

"I imagine they will try to go around our defenses in the east by making a south-east landing. Let's get some Xiomerans on that."

The aid responded quickly, "Yes sir, I will be right off to wire that in."

There was something nagging at the back of Smith's mind. He hated to do it as it would be the symbolic bridge burning but he new it was necessary.

"One more thing,"

"Yes sir?"

"Rig that tunnel to blow. If anyone tries to cross it... blow them to hell."

[Lauchenoiria]

The Two Strangers

Student Residence, University of Buttercity
July 26th, 1991

“Password?”

“Seriously? You know who I am, I come to every damn meeting, and you’re gonna make me tell you a password like a little kid playing spies!”

“Password.”

“Ugh, fine. Petrichor. Why is that the password anyway?”

“You may enter.”

“Thank you so much for the quick and speedy process by which you have verified my right to be here,” the 19-year-old woman said sarcastically, pushing past the young man who sat on a chair pretending to read a book, never looking at her as she spoke. She didn’t know his name, but she had this same interaction with him every day.

As she entered the room and glanced around she was surprised to see a couple of people she didn’t know. She was one of the most active people within the Student Anti-Communist Association at the university, and she was always suspicious of new faces within the movement. After all, SACA had been outlawed by the government, and if they were ever discovered then she and everyone else in this room would end up in a cell.

“Laura, over here!” said a voice from the front of the room. Laura Moore pushed through the crowd in the slightly too-small-for-this-purpose room until she reached her friend and roommate Victoria Juárez.

“Victoria, who are those people over there?” Laura pointed at the two strangers.

“I was going to mention it to you earlier, I swear, but I know how paranoid you get.”

“You invited them,” Laura said accusingly. “You know that I don’t like strangers, so you hid it from me.”

“They’re on our side, Laura, I promise.”

“You can’t know that! They could be spies, sent by Méndez. For all you know, they’ve reported our location and soon we’ll be surrounded, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison!”

Laura suddenly noticed the rest of the room had fallen quiet and was watching her. She’d been a little too loud in the enclosed space. While she didn’t mind the attention, she didn’t like the way the two strangers were looking at her. Victoria touched her shoulder gently and Laura stepped aside, allowing Victoria to address the crowd. After all, what’s done is done, she figured. If the strangers were spies then their fate had already been sealed.

“Thank you all for coming. I know things have been tense recently, with the government crackdown on protestors, but there’s something we need to address and for that purpose we have a couple of guests. Before we move on to that, though, I have an update on Steven’s situation.”

People in the room began to murmur nervously. Steven had been a member of the group who had recently been arrested at a demonstration, and everyone there was worried – both for Steven himself, and about whether or not they would make him talk.

“He was moved to Summersea four days ago,” Victoria said grimly.

Laura brought her hand to her mouth. Poor Steven, she thought. Nevertheless, she felt slightly relieved. Summersea was where the government sent all the male political prisoners, after they were finished questioning them. If he’d been sent there, and the rest of the group still hadn’t been arrested, then he hadn’t told them anything. Still, it meant it was almost impossible that he’d be released – at least, not before the regime fell.

“I hope Steven will be okay, but this is a timely reminded that all of us need to be more careful in light of this crackdown. They’re, thankfully, not being as thorough with interrogations as they used to be, but I don’t think anyone here wants to end up in their custody,” Victoria continued after a pause. “Now, moving on to our guests. These two individuals, who I won’t name for reasons you’ll all be too aware of, are here to talk about the situation in Bjeorg. As you know, our government has decided to recognise Bjeorg as independent. Want to explain?” she said to the two strangers.

“I assume you all know about the situation, about the independence declaration, the violence, the politics?” said one of the strangers. The room nodded – after all, the people in that room wouldn’t be there if they didn’t pay attention to political happenings around the globe.

“We believe,” began the second stranger, “that the Lauchenoirian government are only doing this to try and destabilise LOM. We also, uh, believe they might be preparing for war.”

With that, the room erupted into anxious whispering.

“Victoria,” hissed Laura, “who are these people?”

“Quiet down, everyone!” called Victoria, ignoring Laura. “Just listen.”

“We have people close to Méndez, watching him,” said the first stranger.

“How did you manage that?” said a voice.

“That is need-to-know,” the second stranger said firmly. “Needless to say, however, that a war would provide the government with the excuse they want to enact stronger measures against dissent. Action must be taken to prevent this.”

“What kind of action?” asked Laura.

“Right now? We start small. It should be easy for us to organise demonstrations against Lauchenoiria’s involvement in any war. There is no law against this kind of demonstration, and in fact it plays right into our hands. We all know the laws against religion in this country, yes? Well, Bjeorgites are much more religious than the rest of LOM. If they arrest us, we can claim they are supporting religion and superstition, which is against their ideology. It’s win-win for us,” said the first stranger.

“Why come to us? Sounds like you’ve got your own group,” called someone from the back of the room.

“Our group is involved in more… clandestine operations. For this, we need a group who have been doing things publicly,” the second stranger said.

“We haven’t done anything publicly in months, not since the crackdown,” pointed out Laura.

“I think it’s time to start again,” Victoria replied, avoiding Laura’s gaze. “We can’t let them see that they’ve scared us, even if it’s a little bit true. Besides, we can’t have our government going to war and killing people like this! Quite aside from strategy, protesting against the Bjeorg conflict is the right thing to do.”

Laura leaned back against the corner of the room, letting the others continue debating tactics and morality. She didn’t want a war, of course not. Truth be told; she was far more afraid of getting arrested than most of the others. She was relieved, however, that the only thing on the agenda was peaceful protest. Some of the others had been advocating more extreme strategies for months, but Laura was strongly committed to remaining peaceful.

“Are we agreed then? The moment the Lauchenoirian government announce any troops, ships, weapons or anything to do with war are headed to Bjeorg, we begin?” Victoria said once the debate was concluded.

Everyone in the room nodded, including Laura. She had to get over her fear. Something had to be done, to save lives in Bjeorg and to save Lauchenoiria from its own government.

[Democratic Republic Of Eiria]

Meeting With The Gods
Downtown Geminus(3rd District), Eiria
July 26, 1991

Chancellor Cera Balodis walked down the small street, careful to keep her hood up. The rain pounded down on her umbrella, and she moved quickly to not ruin her shoes. She ducked into a small coffee shop, named "Olympus Coffee", followed a few moments later by two undercover security officers. She went over to the counter. "Good Afternoon, how may I help you?". The Barista at the bar said, smiling. Cera smiled back at her. "An Espresso, please, and I also called and reserved something earlier, The, uh, Olympus Special".
The Barista's face changed, almost imperceptibly. "One moment please". She made Cera's drink and gestured for her to follow. "This way, please".
"Thank you". She entered a dimly-lit conference room. Inside, at the table, sat fourteen people in hoods covering their faces. Seven men, Seven Women, with code names on tags on the table. One of the women, her tag designating her as Hestia, spoke up. "Madam Cera, please take a seat".
Cera complied, taking the open seat at the end of the table.
"So". Hestia continued, "You want our help with the Bjeorg conflict, I assume. Why?".
Cera took a sip of her coffee. "You have agents all over the world, and more international contacts than the rest of Eiria combined. You are the Generals of the Guard of the Republic. Hell, your agents are the ones guarding me wherever I go. And you must be bored. You haven't seen action, in what, Seven years now?".
A man, designed as Ares, laughed. "At least Seven, if not more. The point is, too long".
Another man, Poseidon, stopped him. "Ares, don't forget that the point of this council is to literally Guard the Republic. So, convince us. Why Bjeorg?".
"All nations in this conflict have an ulterior motive. Zamastan probably wants a slice of Bjeorg. Xiomeria is in it for the Money. LOM and Bjeorg are self explanatory. And us? We need a democratic Ally, and this gives us an opportunity to.... Make a few changes in Bjeorg policy. Make them like us. Then, with a Liberal Democratic Ally on our side, we can increase our power".
The Olympians looked at each other for a moment, then Hestia spoke again. "I believe we are in agreement. We will support you. As for operatives, Delta Gamma Squad will take care of business quickly. Use them well".

[Lauchenoiria]

The Enemy of my Enemy

Fleura House, Lauchenoiria
July 26th, 1991 – at the same time as the SACA meeting

“War is a last resort,” said President Augustin Méndez, his eyes narrowing as he looked at General Felix Toft. They were sat in his office, sharing a bottle of brandy as they discussed the Bjeorg situation. Méndez liked to keep his office relatively plain to avoid accusations of corruption or capitalist influence, however he could rarely resist a good brandy.

“I understand that position, but the situation in Bjeorg is escalating, and if LOM and Zamastan win this war quickly…” Toft said, letting his words trail off and raising an eyebrow. He was seated, leaning back slightly and letting himself relax. The two men were friendly, in private, even though in public they always kept up the proper decorum. Both of them preferred these meetings, away from prying eyes, where they could have a drink and debate the merits of policy.

“It won’t happen, Felix. Besides, I am not advocating ignoring the situation entirely. There are ways we can support the Bjeorgite war effort without risking the lives of Lauchenoirian troops,” Méndez stood and walked over to the window, glancing out at the setting sun.

“You have a plan,” said Toft. It wasn’t a question. He knew Méndez: the man always had a strategy, even if he was somewhat averse to getting involved in armed conflict.

“I do. The trade department is already working on it as I speak.”

“You’re going to sell them weapons.”

“I am.”

“Sir, I mean no disrespect, but…”

“Both sides of this conflict are capitalists. I won’t risk the lives of Lauchenoirians for Bjeorg unless I have to. They are our friends for only one reason – they are the enemy of Libertas Omnium Maximus, a nation which I consider a grave threat. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Felix.”

“That may be so, but we have an opportunity here to get our men on their soil, to make sure they keep their end of any bargain. If we sell them weapons, without any of our people there to make sure they’re using them on the right people, they could turn around one day down the line and use them against us. I don’t trust them.”

“My mind is made up, Felix,” sighed Méndez. “I understand your concerns, I’ve thought about them, but I’m not ready to sacrifice Lauchenoirian lives yet. Maybe that day will come, maybe even soon. But right now? We try it this way. I have a meeting to get to.”

Toft stood, recognising the dismissal, and nodded before exiting the room. In the corridor he straightened his uniform, walking away and wondering how long it would take the president to realise he was making a mistake.

*

Lauchenoirian Department for International Trade Office, Usera
July 26th, 1991 – late

Marcus Baxter grumbled as he searched through the filing cabinet for yet another lost file. He couldn’t wait until they got the new promised computer system, though he was still at a loss over how one worked those things. Still, anything had to be better than the amount of paper cuts he’d got. He should’ve been finished work hours ago, but this Bjeorg deal had required him to stay at the office until long after sunset.

The staff who worked for Baxter were also irritated. He’d insisted everyone at the office worked late, and given the recent crackdown on dissent, nobody had dared argue. Baxter’s brother was a high-ranking official in the Communist Party, and there had been rumours that one of their ex-colleagues, who had allegedly taken early retirement and then was never seen again, had been disappeared on his orders.

“You! Get me a coffee!” Baxter said, pointing at one of the women.

“That’s not my job, one of the assistants can…”

“I said, get me a coffee! Are you deaf? Or are you about to spout some Kerlian nonsense about how women shouldn’t be getting men drinks, hmm? Go ahead, give me an excuse to report you, make my day.”

The woman bit her lip and left, heading for the coffee machine on the floor below. Baxter turned back to searching for his file.

As the woman walked she cursed herself for allowing him to treat her like that. She also knew, however, that it was the only smart move. In her 30 years on this planet, the number one lesson she had learned was that sometimes the only thing you could do was try to survive. Growing up in Communist Lauchenoiria had taught her that people who spoke their mind often ended up in a prison cell.

She didn’t want to end up like that. She’d grown up hearing the rumours about disappearances, torture and death. She didn’t like her job, and she didn’t agree with the regime, but she had decided she wanted to survive. Still, she did what she could to work against the regime.

She had been asked by an old friend from university to pass on any information she heard about the government’s intentions in Bjeorg. After she was finally allowed to go home, she had a lot to say. She’d even managed to swipe some duplicate documents to pass on, knowing that they would be helpful.

At university, she had attended student protests with this friend, and had been arrested one time. They had released her, but not before threatening her rather graphically. The experience had terrified her. Her great fear in life was that one day she would end up in a cell being tortured, and would die too young and alone.

If she had known the future, she would have been even more terrified.

Leanna Walker picked up the cup of coffee and headed back up the stairs.

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Ilien Tunnel, Bjeorg
July 26th-27th, 1991 - Midnight

The plastic wrap would stay on. Not much use in taking it out of its sheath if the C4 was destined to detonate and incinerate itself anyway.

Dan Stilton was frankly confused why the C4 was wrapped in anything to begin with frankly. C4 wasn’t inherently hazardous and it couldn’t be detonated by touching, after all. The C4 would only go off if it was time for the tunnel to blow, if it was time to cast aside all hopes of a diplomatic end to hostilities. It certainly looked like a war was brewing though. Shots had already been fired, men had died.

“I guess this is the final straw.” Said Stilton to no one in particular as he set a C4 charge against the tiles of the tunnel. He was actually the furthest east Bjeorgite at the moment, standing only several hundred meters from the opening of the tunnel and Libertas Omnium Maximus.

He had been told to go to the center of the tunnel and lay the charges. Plant it to close to the entrance and you might damage Bjeorg infrastructure. Go too far in and you might get caught by Maximusians on the other end. They were presumably on the other end by by this point. Stilton didn’t know this for sure but he had good reason to believe it to be true. Someone had to keep out the vigilantes and people trying to sneak across the strait into Bjeorg. They also had to ferry the people leaving Bjeorg to somewhere.

Stilton has already seen numerous families walk past his check point, begging to be far way from the impending violence. They would walk through the tunnel, in the dark. The power supply to the tunnel the Bjeorg side.

Dan was always in awe that a tunnel could be so beautifully conceived to serve its current purpose. The tunnel was just long enough that passing through it was an ordeal, but not an impossible feat, to perform on foot. The lights could be turned on and off at Bjeorg’s will. The tunnel could be collapsed any time at Bjeorg’s will. Bjeorg was in control.

Dan finally plugged a cord into the detonator and saw a warning indicator begin to flash. The bomb was armed. As he stepped into his truck and began to drive back towards the entrance of the tunnel he realized that in all likelihood he had just armed the bomb that would start a war.

It was a good thing Dan Stilton didn’t have much of a conscience.

3 AM

Stilton smiled as he entered his sedan and began the drive home. His shift had just ended and he was more than ready to get home to his chicken lo mein leftovers and Ronald, his dog. He quietly turned on the ignition and drove the car out of the checkpoint and into the night.

4 AM

The young officer found was shaken awake by rough hands.

“I’m sorry, I was just.... sorry.” The officer groggily murmured to what she assumed to be this shift’s supervisor. When she opened her eyes she found something different than a supervisor before her.

Three armed men stood before here. They weren’t military of any kind, no uniforms. They certainly weren’t militia. Their guns were not uniform and were certainly not low grade. The man who had just shaken awake was armed with what appeared to be a .44 caliber pistol with a laser sight.

The officer instinctively drew her gun and pointed it at the pistol man. As she did this she glanced around. Her supervisor was sitting in a pool of his own blood. His face looked as if it had been forced into a woodcutter or blender. Most presumably it was the work of a .50 caliber sniper rifle.

The rest of the guards were either tied up and gagged or shot. Horrified, the officer jabbed her gun into the face of the pistol man.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Said a calm, heavily accented voice from somewhere behind her.

“We don’t want to hurt you. But we will. Where is the detonator for this tunnel?”

Paralyzed with fear, the officer could hardly lift her finger to point at a hastily erected guard booth. The gun was wrenched from her hand, she was forced from her seat, and she was spun to view the man behind her.

He was a tall, tan man, with wavy hair and a salt and pepper 5-o’clock shadow. He was dressed in an expensive silk suit and had a golden watch on his left wrist.

“Who are you?” The officer nervously inquired.

The man knelt and shoved the officer back into the seat she was formerly sleeping in. He ran a hand along her seat and smiled.

“Love, you are not in any position to be asking anything. Just tell your superiors that the controls are in good hands. I want things done right. I do it myself. This tunnel will blown when it needs to blow. I don’t trust Smith to make that call. If anyone ventures into the tunnel, it blows. Anyone tries to remotely disable the C4, it blows. You do anything I don’t like, Kaboom. You can tell that to Brian Smith. You can tell him that Bjeorg needs men of action. The ANM are those men. We will do what is in Bjeorg’s best interest. The tunnel dies when we say so.”

The horrorstuck officer could merely repeat her query in response, “Who are you?”

The man laughed before responding.

“As far as you are concerned I am the angel of death. If you like though... you can call me Mark.”

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

National Bureau of Inteligence Head Quarters, Litudinem
July 27th, 1991 - Morning

The fax machine hummed silently as it printed out the long awaited memo. A young intelingence officer lifted it from the fax machine and presented it to his superior who read over the short page quickly.

[box]To: NBI, Litudinem HQ
From: NBI Comm Center

Asset has been re-acquired. Communications established. Situation: idle. Asset is not compromised. Awaiting activation.[/box]

This was the ideal outcome of this operation so far. All was going according to plan.

“Beautiful!” was all that Samuel Lane, director of clandestine operations at the NBI, could say upon reading the memo. He motioned for the young officer to leave the room and, in practically the same beat, picked up the phone from his desk and pressed the pound key twice.

Immediately the line connected to a young operator’s voice.

“VIP 42, this is Presidential Manor priority line, what extension would you like?”

“I need line one.”

The phone played a ringtone for only a second before being answered.

“Good Morning Mr. Lane.”

“Good Morning Mrs. President”

Lane could hear Patterson draw a quick breath upon hearing the words “Mrs President.” It was as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to accept the fact that she was in command through this whole ordeal. The senate and Vox Populi had power, sure, but ultimately Paterson was commander and chief. The outcome of this crisis rested squarely on her shoulders.

“Samuel, I presume you bring me news that the asset is in place.”

Lane smiled, he had always liked Paterson, she would always get right down to business. No tea time for formality. Lane appreciated that, then again, he was a man orchestrated assasinations, political subterfuge, and sabotage for a living.

“Yes ma’am, the asset is in place. Awaiting your confirmation to proceed with the operation.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Lane, I know that you are going to try and talk me down off the ledge. It won’t work. My mind is set.”

“Ma’am. You know I can’t advise this. Political assasinations are tricky. You have to know when the target’s death will be advantageous to your cause or a serious burden. You also have to keep martyrdom in mind. You have to think of the people. You have to think of who will take the target’s place. If killing a leader would make our problems go away, rest assured, we would have killed everyone by now.”

“Put simply, Sam, I intend to proceed with the plan because I believe that without the asset at the helm, the revolution will fail.”

Lane couldn’t help himself but become exasperated.

“Ma’am, you aren’t thinking clearly. Who takes command in the event of the target’s death? No one. This was the case on purpose. If we let the target die we creat at least six new, independent factions. We could mount an invasion in the chaos but we might literally loose Bjeorg to any strong party. We might not even know of this party’s existence yet. I beg you to reconsider!”

“Sam! I will proceed with the plan.”

“Ma’am, you are making a mistake.”

“Do it.”

At that the line went dead.

Lane threw the phone aside and cursed loudly. He buried his head in his hands. This was the end. Lane knew full well that he was about to authorize a hit that would destroy the lives of thousands and probably loose LOM Bjeorg forever. With that said, he knew he had to go through with it. That was his job. After this order, his job would probably be damage control.

Regardless, orders were orders. Lane would have to deal with damage control at some point, that much was for certain. Until then, he would just have to kill Brian Smith and hope for the best.

[Lauchenoiria]

(Written jointly with [nation]Libertas Omnium Maximus[/nation])

Unknown location, Bjeorg/Department of Trade, Lauchenoiria
July 27th, 1991 - late morning

Gustav Ackerman quietly entered his office in the bunker of Mr. Smith

It hadn't taken long for him to be selected as the Head of Commerce for this fledgling nationstate, he was a fiscally minded genius who could turn 1 dollar into 1000 in the blink of an eye. He was also very dedicated to the cause. He loved Bjeorg, he had lived there his whole life and couldn't stand to see Bjeorg's best interests sidelined.

He was about to take perhaps the most important call of his life though and he couldn't help but feel a bit apprehensive. He might be about to secure the heavy arms that Bjeorg needed to remain independent. However, if he wasn't careful enough, he might even make an enemy of Lauchenoiria. That would be game over.

He nervously took a seat in his leather arm chair and lifted the old phone from its console. He dialed slowly.

Tentatively, he listened to the phone ring.

Tristan Cardozo, Lauchenoirian Minister for Trade sat at his desk, staring at the phone and willing it to ring. He had been in the position for almost a year, following the unceremonious ousting of his predecessor for corruption. At least, that's what the official story was. Cardozo had discovered that his job was exceedingly difficult. Apparently, very few places were willing to trade with Lauchenoiria - probably because of the communism. So, this Bjeorg deal was important to him.

When the phone finally rang, Cardozo exhaled in relief. At least Bjeorg were willing to call. That was promising. He picked up the phone.

"Good morning."

"Good morning Mr. Cordozo! Nice to finally speak to you in person"

Ackerman figured that was a fairly acceptable entrance, informal but welcoming.

"Mr. Ackerman, a pleasure. I trust you are doing well?" asked Cardozo. After all, it never hurt to be polite.

"Doing fine, Thank you sir." Ackerman was a genuinely amiable person by nature, he wanted to make sure it translated over the phone. Over the top would have to be the status quo.

"I have been informed that you wish to negotiate the sales of a large number of heavy arms to my nation?"

"I do indeed. We are supportive of what you are trying to achieve in Bjeorg. We would like to assist you in your cause," Carzodo said, happy to get down to business.

"Well, may I ask, what is you proposition? You know that we are in need of artillery pieces, what can I offer you for them." Ackerman, perhaps prematurely, had taken a bit of a liking to Cardozo, even if he was a communist.

"We are committed to supporting and helping your cause in this way regardless of your capitalistic financial incentives," Cardozo began, "however if we were to do you this favour, the time may come in the future when we need certain assistance, if you understand me."

"I do, sir. You have my assurance that you will receive the support of Bjeorg in your future endeavors equal to the support you show us today, in our hour of need." Ackerman didn't like owing favors, they could be called in at any time and that was their flaw, but desperate times needed desperate measures. He knew nothing else would stand with the Communists.

"My government will be grateful for your support. I am reading over your list right now and everything seems to be in order. We will arrange transport as soon as possible. The concern, of course, is the Maximusian and Zamastanian ships in the area.”

"Indeed, that is the catch. Zamastanian ships have the strait covered but not the west side. That is the only way I believe. You will have to move your ships south of the fleet, down bellow Cadair."

"We understand. We will, of course, ensure our ships are capable of defending themselves. And we will make it clear that should a Maximusian or Zamastanian ship fire upon a Lauchenoirian one, then we might be convinced to join the war. We would, however, prefer to avoid this. Understand?"

"More than understood. Once your ships get within a few miles of Bjeorg's shore we should be able to defend you with our existing artillery and naval vessels. Alas, We didn't keep much of the Navy after the split. All we have are a couple of PT boats and an old cruiser. We cant promise you much in the form of an escort."

"We'll take the risk," Cardozo said. President Méndez, after all, had decided it was worth it. Cardozo was nothing if not obedient. It was the best way to stay alive.

"I am glad to hear. May the wind be ever to your back. Godspeed to your ships." This was totally over the top, just how Ackerman liked it.

"I wish you the best of luck with your cause. Our ships will leave Carville in two days."

"Well, thank you." Ackerman was ecstatic. This had gone pretty much as expected, a good thing when it came to negotiation.

"You are welcome, Mr. Ackerman," Cardozo said, then put the phone down. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. Yes, this had gone well. President Méndez would be pleased, and Cardozo would avoid the fate of his predecessor.

[Zamastan]

Harrison's Folly - Prepare for Landing
9:50 PM July 27th, 1991
ZMS Upham
Strait of St. Peter

Jarris Tavoka paced back and forth on the bridge of his ship. The aircraft carrier had now provided over 300 sorties in the six days since the first surveillance flight on the 21st. The Admiral knew that time was coming for the start of ground operations, and his command from sea would not extend all the way to the cliff faces of Bjeorg. The massing of army affiliated troop transports around the fleet was slowly growing as the hours wore on. 8,000 soldiers were waiting on board the 50 transport vessels; 160 some troops on each boat. In addition, paratroopers were planned to be dropped behind shore-defense installations. The invasion, of course, would be led by Zamastanian generals, but Maximusian authority had the final say on the clearance of the landings, the extent of their push into Bjeorg, and a few other details. For now, Tavoka watched his commanders work to maneuver vessels into formations.

"Admiral," a colonel jested, "we have General Harrison on the line." Harrison was the general appointed by Castovia to head the inevitable ground operations.

"Thank you," Tavoka replied to his colonel. Tavoka respected the General greatly, however, he had a sense of worry about him. He had a tendency for exclusivity, and carried a notorious reputation from his years of service.

Moments later, the two military leaders were speaking through the wire. "General Harrison, this is Admiral Tavoka."

"Admiral, excellent work thus far." Harrison's voice was raspy yet loud, the voice of someone used to shouting.

"Thank you, General. It's good to have your forces here."

"Here's what I need from you, Admiral. Simultaneous air-raids have to happen during the paratrooper drop."

"What?" Tavoka sat stunned and confused. "General, I'm afraid that won't be possible. All military protoco-"

"No, Admiral. You will refrain from lecturing me on that sort of thing, please."

"Sir," Tavoka began to interject. "Air-raids during paratrooper drops can result in deadly friendly fire. You should know this, Gene-"

"Admiral!" The general shouted, stopping Jarris in his tracks. "You. Do not. Have the right to ignore me right now. The President has given me authorization over the invasion force, you of all of us should know this."

Tavoka sat still, holding the phone off to his side. He was unsure how to proceed.

"Alright," Tavoka sighed, "we will coordinate strikes with your people." He had caved.

The general's voice lowered now. "Thank you, Admiral Tavoka. See your planes on the shore."

Harrison's comment didn't sit well with Tavoka. After all, this whole conflict started with Lieutenant Tevis' shoot down. "You mean above the shore, right, sir?" he chuckled, trying to lighten the tension.

Silence followed for a moment. "We'll see."

A chill went through Tavoka's spine. "General..."

"Jarris." Harrison spoke sternly. "The climate has changed, Jarris. Bjeorg is ruled by fear. Fear of others, fear of the future."

Jarris tried once more to ease the general's tone. "Obviously, sir, we have to act with force, but when is violence too much violence. I say it's when our troops turn divergent and accidentally kill our own troops. I don't want to take a risk that will happen to be a disaster for us..."

The line went quiet for a moment. "I don't have easy answers, Tavoka." The general didn't appear to stand down. "Prepare for landing, Admiral."

1985 - Amstelveen, Vulkaria

General Harrison peered out of the visors of his command tank, watching his men storm over the bunker and into the M.L.F. positions. As explosions rocked around them, Harrison refused to budge. Smoke drifted heavily across the battleground. His commanders had suggested against the head on charge because the fear of high casualties. Harrison wanted the enemy cover taken out at all costs.

As the sun set that day, the field outside Amstelveen was teeming with horse flies and the stench of burnt flesh. Over two thousand soldiers died on the field.

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Strait of St. Peter, Bjeorg
July 27th, 1991 - Late Evening

It was a perfect stalemate of ships. The Eirian naval vessels were quietly patrolling the south entrance to the Strait of St. Peter. Meanwhile, a large Zamastanian naval armada sat lurking at the mouth of the strait. If the Eirian ships moved south, they would have to engage the Zamastanian ships in what would likely be result in a pyrrhic victory regardless of the size. The Zamastan fleet couldn't move north with large vessels for fear of loosing the landing craft. It was a stalemate, neither side could move.

This fact absolutely unhinged Admiral William North, commander of the minuscule Bjeorg navy. He had only two frigates and a corvette to command and felt totally helpless. Even with a couple of Xiomeran support ships and mercenary sailors, the Bjeorg fleet was in no shape for combat. North had been continuously reiterating this fact to Brain Smith but to no avail. The tiny fleet was going to have to hold their own against the Maximusian fleet that was likely to arrive at the north mouth of the strait any day.

As far as North was concerned it was effectively a suicide mission. Intelligence regarding the movements of the Maximusian Fleet in the Bay of Chaucer was very limited. There could be two ships attempting to sneak into the strait or there could be an entire armada. The Maximusians were doing a great job of keeping things hush hush on the movements of the fleet. With the Eirian fleet stalemated with the Zamastanian, the only asset remaining was North's armada.

North stepped out of his chambers and onto the deck of the BNS Kiln, the flagship frigate of the small fleet. He watched with great interest as the Xiomeran mercenaries hauled huge ammunition crates across the ship's deck and loaded huge missiles into their launchers. It wasn't something North could easily comprehend. These men were working laboriously on the deck of a metal craft in the heat of the summer for money. Just money. They weren't in it for the glory. They weren't in it for the cause. They were in it so that they could be well payed and then forgotten by the history book. This concept concerned North.

North was a naturally paranoid man, he dead bolted his windows shut back at home and had his service revolver with him at pretty much all time, regardless of wether he was deployed or not. As such, the Xiomerans made his hairs stand up. They didn't believe in the cause or have any tangible incentive to stay with the revolutionaries if a higher bid was introduced. North imagined that backstabbing was quite commonplace among the Xiomeran Mercenaries. In a state of worry, North Fled to the bridge to work out with his advisors how to make three ships act like 30.

As he ascended the steps to the bridge he had a sudden realization. He was a dead man walking. If he somehow survived the next few days and was able to hold off a hostile naval armada, he would eventually be double crossed by the Xiomerans. If they didn't get him, some other party would. When it comes to revolutions and was of independence, the greatest gift you can receive is having no one know of your existence. The minute your name ends up on a list, you're days are numbered.

Of course, North new this going in. He knew that the odds of him living to retirement age were smaller than his navy. It just wasn't until now that he truly accepted it in his heart. This acceptance actually made North feel energized. His untimely demise would be recorded in the history books either way. Since he would die either way, he may as well go down in a manner that would make his grandkids proud.

"What is our heading captain?" asked a bridge navigator.

North smiled, put a hand on the navigator's shoulder and laughed out loud.
"Wherever the Maximusian fleet is going to be, I want to be there first. We will make three ships feel like 3000!"

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Mouth of the Strait of St. Peter
July 28th, 1991 - Early Morning

The naval vessels streaked towards the mouth of the strait with the urgency of a fleet that needed a quick decisive victory. That was pretty much the case for the small Maximusian armada that launched from a naval base near St. Augustine. They needed a decisive victory for the scheduled landing of troops to be successful. They were going to have to clear the mouth of the strait and keep it clear. This was the moment when it would be seen if their plan would prove successful.

Th small armada consisted of only two cruisers, a small support corvette and a frigate. It was only a ship more than the Bjeorg fleet, a fact that the crew were unaware of, but what the small fleet lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. Both Cruisers were fresh off the line ships with only a couple of years use in them. The corvette was tiny but fast and was presently scouting 2 nautical miles in front of the main cluster of ships. The frigate was closely following the two cruisers in a pattern meant to protect against encirclement.

It was actually a very good traveling layout. In the event of a frontal assault the corvette could turn broadside and open fire on any attacker while the cruisers went around both sides of the corvette. If an enemy vessel was to go to either side of the cruisers the frigate could move in.

Aboard the BNS Kiln

Admiral North scowled as he received the report, four heavily armed ships inbound. Judgment day had come.

"Inform Captain Moore that his vessel should go far to our port side" He barked at a deck officer

The wheels in North's head had been turning continuously since his revelation; how to make a last stand. Ultimately he had decided that the best thing he could do would be to spread his forces around. They would still loose. That much was inevitable, but they might be able to damage or disable the enemy. This war would likely be a marathon, it wouldn't be about sprinting ahead on Bjeorg's part, it would be about not wearing down on LOM's.

"Bogeys almost in range of missiles, permission to engage?" inquired an officer nearby.

"Engage the enemy, you may fire at will."

With those words, North had sealed his fate. His death was now inevitable and it filled him with a sort of invigoration and euphoria. His whole life had effectively been leading up to this moment. This was the final act. This would be his gory Swan song. North watched in silence as the foreboding black hulks of the Maximusian Armada came into view.

A certain silence came over the bridge, the quiet of impending death. There was a certain sense of calm as well. In a moment the entire world would be on fire but now, in this final moment, all was alright. A hand silently pressed a button on a control panel and the silence was broken. A missile erupted from the side of the ship and was matched by ten more from each ship on both sides. The end had arrived.

The ships flew at each other, fire rained, the water turned black form oil and soon burst into flame. This all happened in a second. Shrapnel fired from the hulls of the ships in what was slow motion to North. The closer you get to your end, the slower it gets. The ship rocked violently as a missile collided with its bow, shearing a huge chunk of metal clear off the ship.

The screams of burning sailors fell upon deaf ears. The ringing from all of the explosions would be felt by every sailor for days. It would be remembered for a lifetime.

The Kiln, and impressive frigate, flew forward into the Maximusian flagship, raining missiles all the while. North's Corvette veered to the side of combat, likely as a result of a severely damaged motor, and was subsequently grounded on a reef. The collision shook everyone on the boat worse than any earthquake.

It was at that moment that the finality of his actions sunk in. I don't want to die, North thought in a growingly panicked state. His mind was now desperately attempting to find a way out, a loophole, and ace in the hole. There was non, North's casket was prepared. His breath came in desperate raspy breaths. How would it end like this? Why would it end like this??? Never had North been so petrified down to his core. His hands began to shake violently as he watched the missile descend and impact on the deck. There was a huge plume of smoke and fire that erupted from the missile's wake. As suddenly as it had come on, North's terror stoped. He feared death, but it was inevitable and he was certain he had made peace with himself.

The Kiln was now on a desperate course to outflank the cruisers, who had closed ranks around their corvette friend, and were annihilating the remaining two ships. The Kiln was returning fire but it was clear that the tides of the battle had grown worse for Bjeorg. Just as North's vessel was clear of the cruisers, the frigate pounced. It unloaded its missiles violently on the Kiln. They lazily arced across the sky before descending towards their final target.

North slowly smiled as he watched one of his missiles land a solid hit on the Maximusian cruiser's engine module. The ship was surely disabled. That would be one less cruiser that a later Admiral would have to deal with.

One can only live for a lifetime. Their actions can live much longer. This was the final thought of Admiral William North.

The first missile entered the bridge straight through a window. It actually detonated upon impact with an officer. The shockwave killed everyone in the bridge long before the heat was able to get to them. Non the less, the explosion was spectacular. The bridge's doors and hatches went first, buckling under extreme pressure before being engulfed in flame. Then the walls slowly ripped apart in a glorious ball of fire and humanity.

It took a good 5 minutes more for the ship to completely sink. This gave many sailors a good opportunity to get off. Some made their way towards the heavily damaged but afloat frigate. Others decided to risk swimming all the way back to the disabled corvette.

As the captain of the corvette watched the stern of the Kiln finally disappear bellow the water's surface he couldn't help but solute North. North had a mission and he executed the mission, even at the expense of his life. The captain just hoped it was all worth it.

[Xiomera]

Making Themselves At Home

West coast of Bjeorg

Aboard the XMS Tamaya, Ixazaluoh looked over the screens in her ship’s combat information center (CIC). Things had been going well for her, but one thing that the Coytōchte trainers had always taught her was that an idiot relied on luck alone.

The mercenary captain was surprised that the forces opposing Bjeorg hadn’t caught on yet that they were basically guarding the front door while leaving the back door open for anyone who wanted to sneak in. She didn’t expect that luck to last forever.

Nor did the Coytōchte planners back in Huitzitaca. They knew they had a relatively limited window of time to conduct uncontested operations. So they had launched what one Coytōchte planner, tongue in cheek, had dubbed the Bjeorg Express.

Two Xiomeran Q ships were now making regular trips between Huitzitaca and the west coast of Bjeorg, in rotation. One would arrive, deliver its cargo of war, and then turn around to leave. The second one would soon follow, making another delivery. An additional 500 mercenaries had been delivered so far, along with quite a bit of supplies.

Having been at the Battle of the Strait of St. Peter, Ixazaluoh knew that sooner or later, however, the Bjeorg Express would find itself derailed by unwelcome attention. This is what kept her glued to the screens in her CIC, and her missile and torpedo gunners on high alert.

In Bjeorg

While the Bjeorg Express made its regular runs, the Coytōchte mercenaries onshore already were equally busy. They had begun assisting the locals with setting up defenses for the inevitable shore invasion which would come should the Maximusians and their Zamastanian allies decide to play rough.

A series of trenches and bunkers, along with emplacements for guns and missiles, was slowly beginning to take shape along the coast at likely invasion points. “Dragon’s teeth” were being laid, to force amphibious invaders into “kill zones” to make it easier for defenders to “discourage” an advance. Other forms of obstacles, such as hedgehogs, were being laid as well, to slow infantry forces.

The construction of the defenses was going more slowly than the Coytōchte soldiers on the ground liked, and they had made several pointed warnings to the locals that they needed to speed up their work. But any shore defense was better than none at all. The Coytōchte soldiers could only hope that the defenses - and the Bjeorg locals that they were training who were supposed to man them - would be ready when the time came.

[Zamastan]

The Sinking of the ZMS Girssh: Private Fusst's Journal
12:39 PM July 28th, 1991
ZMS Clift
Strait of St. Peter



Private Damian Fusst was a turret gunner of the ZMS Girssh during the 1991 Conflict. Before enlisting in the navy, he was a literature major at the University of Zamastan Southwest. He joined the navy after his father encouraged him too. Fusst reluctantly agreed, but found enjoyment in his poetic writings during his downtime while serving.

He first saw action during the opening stage of the Battle of the Strait of St. Peter, where he assisted his vessel in helping the ZMS Clift rescue sailors from the sinking ZMS Lance Pelio. During an operation in the Northern end of the Strait of St. Peter, his frigate was attacked by vessels crewed by Bjeorgite rebels. The attacking ships were small, only about 30-40 feet long, and there were only 6 of them. However, unbeknownst to Fusst or any of the Zamastanian command, they were fitted with high-powered Xiomeran torpedos - the same kind that had been used to sink the ZMS Lance Pelio three days before. The Girssh was able to sink four of the attacking Bjeorg boats, but the impact of torpedos in a munitions room aboard the frigate resulted in an explosion that damaged the ship to the point of sinking. A Maximusian vessel was able to arrive and rescue many of the Girssh's crew and scare away the Bjeorgite boats. The following is Private Fusst's account that he wrote down following the battle.

"Dear Mother,

I sent our ship out to the mouth of the Strait via Admiral Tavoka's orders. The Maximusian fleet isn't far behind us as of writing, we're on a recon break. This is my story of what happened today. You've no doubt heard of the Lance Pelio's demise. I almost met a similar fate today.

Our ship's guns were loaded and brought to the half cock and reported, and then came the order to bring the right gun to the ready...Shortly after this, the first salvo was fired, and we started on the great game of battle.

Up till now I had not noticed any noise, such as being struck by a shell, but afterwards there was a heavy blow, struck, I should imagine, in the after 4 inch battery, and a lot of dust and pieces flying around on the top of 'X' turret.

Another shock was felt shortly after this, but it did not affect the turret, so no notice was taken. Then the T.S. reported to Lt Mannis that the third ship of the line was dropping out. First blood to ZMS Girssh.

...A few more rounds were fired from the ship's deck when I took another look through my telescope. There was quite a fair distance between the second ship and what I believed was the fourth ship, due I think to third ship going under. Flames were belching from what I took to be the fourth ship of the line, then came the big explosion which shook us a bit, and on looking at the pressure gauge I saw the pressure had failed. Immediately after that came, what I term, the big smash, and I was dangling in the air on a bowline, which saved me from being thrown down on the floor of the turret.

Everything in the ship went as quiet as a church, the floor of the turret was bulged up and the guns were absolutely useless.

...I put my head through the hole in the roof of the turret and nearly fell through again. The after 4 inch battery was smashed out of all recognition, and then I noticed that the ship had got an awful list to port. I dropped back again into the turret and told Lt Mannis the state of affairs. He said, 'Damian, we can do no more than give them a chance, clear the turret.'

'Clear the turret,' I said, and out they went...

I went through the cabinet and out on top and Lt Mannis was following me; suddenly he stopped and went back into the turret. I believe he went back because he thought someone was inside. I cannot say enough for Lt Mannis, nothing I can say would do him justice. He came out of the turret cabinet twice and yelled something to encourage the guns crew, and yelled out to me 'All right, Damian'. He was smiling, and I would like to publish this account to the World. It makes me feel sore hearted when I think of Lt Mannis and that fine crowd who were with me in the turret.

...I was half way down the ladder at the back of the turret when Lt Mannis went back. The ship had an awful list to port by this time, so much so that men getting off the ladder, went sliding down to port. I got to the bottom rung of the ladder and could not, by my own efforts, reach the stanchions lying on the deck from the ship's side, starboard side. I knew if I let go I should go sliding down to port like some of the others must have done, and probably got smashed up sliding down. Two of my turret's crew, seeing my difficulty, came to my assistance. They were AB Long, Turret Trainer, and AB Lane, left gun No 4. Lane held Long at full length from the ship's side and I dropped from the ladder, caught Long's legs and so gained the starboard side. These two men had no thought for their own safety; they knew I wanted assistance and that was good enough for them. They were both worth a VC twice over.

When I got to the ship's side, there seemed to be quite a fair crowd, and they didn't appear to be very anxious to take to the water. I called out to them 'Come on you guys, who's coming for a swim?' I chuckled to encourage them, but someone answered 'She will float for a long time, Damian'. Something, I don't pretend to know what it was, seemed to be urging me to get away, so I clambered over the slimy bilge keel and fell off into the water, followed I should think by about five more men. I struck away from the ship as hard as I could and must have covered nearly fifty yards when there was a big smash, and stopping and looking round, the air seemed to be full of fragments and flying pieces.

A large piece seemed to be right above my head, and acting on impulse, I dipped under to avoid being struck, and stayed under as long as I could, and then came to the top again, and coming behind me I heard a rush of water, which looked very like surf breaking on a beach and I realized it was the suction or backwash from the ship which had just gone. I hardly had time to fill my lungs with air when it was on me. I felt it was no use struggling against it, so I let myself go for a moment or two, then I struck out, but I felt it was a losing game and remarked to myself "What's the use of you struggling, you're done", and I actually ceased my efforts to reach the top, when a small voice seemed to say 'Dig out'.

I started afresh, and something bumped against me. I grasped it and afterwards found it was a large hammock, but I felt I was getting very weak and roused myself sufficiently to look around for something more substantial to support me. Floating right in front of me was what I believe to be the center bulk of our Pattern 4 target. I managed to push myself on the hammock close to the timber and grasped a piece of rope hanging over the side. My next difficulty was to get on top and with a small amount of exertion I kept on. I managed to reeve my arms through a strop and I must have become unconscious.

When I came to my senses again I was half way off the spar but I managed to get back again. I was very sick and seemed to be full of oil fuel. My eyes were blocked up completely with it and I could not see. I suppose the oil had got a bit crusted and dry. I managed by turning back the sleeve of my jersey, which was thick with oil, to expose a part of the sleeve of my flannel, and thus managed to get the thick oil off my face and eyes, which were aching awfully. Then I looked and I believed I was the only one left of that fine Ship's Company. What had really happened was the Laurel had come and picked up the remainder and not seeing me got away out of the zone of fire, so how long I was in the water I do not know. I was miserably cold, but not without hope of being picked up, as it seemed to me that I had only to keep quiet and a ship would come for me.

After what seemed ages to me, some cruisers came racing along, and I got up on the spar, steadied myself the moment, and waved my arms. One of our Maximusian's big destroyers saw me and came over, but when I got on the spar to wave to them, the swell rolled the spar over and I rolled off. I was nearly exhausted again getting back. The cruiser came up and a line was thrown to me, which, needless to say, I grabbed hold of for all I was worth, and was quickly hauled up on to the deck of the cruiser. The first words I heard spoken were 'Welcome aboard, son. You're on a Maximusian ship, you're safe!'"

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Jonestown, Bjeorg
July 28th, 1991 - Evening

It was generally on nights like this that Smith would have walked to the pier behind his home, sat down, and watched the light slowly disappear from the sky. He hadn't really had much of a chance to enjoy himself since the start of the standoff. Smith cursed silently. Why was he still calling it a standoff in his head? There would be no reconciliation this time. Smith had seen the reports. Zamastan was amassing transports for an inevitable military invasion. Likely they would land in the south-east of Bjeorg while the Maximusians attacked from the North.

Smith stomped his foot in anger. It was a brilliant plan and somehow it went to hell. He had counted on the Maximusians getting support from other nations but not a full army. Of course, the Zamastanians were only half the problem. Smith hadn't counted on such insubordination from ANM. They were a loose end that Smith desperately needed to tie up. Alas, next to nothing was know about "Mark" and he was pretty much the mastermind of the operation. Mark had to die. That much was for certain.

Grumpily, Smith left his office on the second floor of his bunker, defended a flight of steel stairs, and silently entered the "war room."

"Sir?" inquired an officer of Smith's. "Have you been made aware of the Assassin yet?"

Smith smiled. He frankly wasn't at all shocked that someone was after his head. There were so many individuals who wanted him dead. It could be the Maximusians looking to silence him to increase their chances of strategic victory. It could be the Zamastanians, looking to knock him off for their own twisted purposes, whatever they may be. It could be the Xiomeran's acting on behalf of ANM, who decided he was too soft or inefficient to be in command. It could be a vigilante group. It could be crime lords, looking to make a profit in the inevitable chaos. Smith had been sure it was only a matter of time before someone decided to knock him off.

None the less, Smith was a bit concerned by this development. He assumed he would die and had made peace with that months ago. However, he had too much work left to do. If he were to die today all would be lost. Smith had no real successor. Ackerman was a smart and devoted man but he was simply not audacious enough. If he was put in charge it would he would surely sue for peace, regardless of the outcome. Smith couldn't have that. He had worked too hard to have this fail.

Smith shook his head, "No, I was not aware I was being marked. Please, do elaborate."

Smith took a seat in a metal folding chair and motioned for the officer to do the same. The officer happily obliged and began his tale.

"You see, Sir. A couple days ago we picked up an old lady asking to come through the tunnel. The guards thought nothing of it and let her through. Anyway, she lived up in Martin, address checked out as a real one and everything, so they assumed she would board a taxi and head north. She didn't. The guys down at the tunnel figured this was unusual so they sent a dude to tail her. Sure enough, she does get in a taxi. The guard just assumed she was a little disoriented or something. The lady looked very old. He was about to head back to the tunnel when he saw the lady's taxi go south. That was in the direct wrong direction and there were no bypasses or anything so she had no reason to go that way. The guard reported her and we asked around for people who saw her. Sure enough people were seeing some young lady who fit the description in size and stature but was 30 years younger looking. She had been seen in bars and pubs all the way down to Jonestown. She was asking about the government of Bjeorg and where people thought you were.

As best we can tell she is within 24 hours of finding the bunker and probably attempting to kill you."

Smith was simply intrigued. He knew this was the Maximusians, they didn't have an ounce of subtlety in them. This was a very interesting development. As best as he could tell, he had three options as he saw it. He could let himself be killed. Martyrdom was powerful thing. On the other hand. There was a good chance his replacement would make his sacrifice worthless. That was certainly out. His second option was the most obvious, he could send his men out to attempt to kill the assassin. In all likelihood they would fail and the assassin would escape. She would probably be back to finish her mission. The main issue was that he wouldn't be able to anticipate the attack a second time and she might actually kill him.

Smith decided he was going with option three. There was a good chance he would die. It was a fact that someone would die. If all went perfectly though, Smith would be able to deal with two problems at once. This would be ideal.

Smith stood from his seat slowly and addressed the officer. "Sergeant, I need you to call up my good friend Mark. Ask him if he would mind paying me a visit?"

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

The Strait of St. Peter
July 29th, 1991 - Night

Rear Admiral, Nathan Colton, was standing on a balcony protruding from the cruiser’s bridge structure. His vessel along with another cruiser, the Lady Jane, were escorting two barges full of landing craft and artillery down to Foxtrot Gamma jump point. It was a staging area 30 miles south of Chateu sur les Rochers. The idea was to assemble all Maximusian invading forces there before crossing over the strait and landing near Martin, Bjeorg.

Colton’s task in all this was actually quite menial. He would coordinate a series of missile bombardments with all Maximusian ships in the vicinity just before the ground landing. Ideally the Eirian ships would hold their position in the center of the strait for the duration of this bombardment.

The Eirians had the whole fleet situated beautifully in the center of the strait. They were perfectly wedged between the Zamastanian fleet in the south and the Maximusian ships in the north. The Maximusian side was Colton’s primary concern. They were one cruiser short thanks to the handy work of Admiral North. 4 cruisers and one frigate and one corvette might be enough to discourage the Eirian fleet to stay put. Three was a lot less incentive. If the Eirians broke for the north Colton’s job would become a lot harder. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

Colton was taken out of his contemplative state by the shout of a officer. “Sir, we are approaching the jump zone.”

Colton’s response was automatic, he could do this in his sleep. “Officer, set our course due south at 4 knots. Have the Lady Jane begin a 2 km radius standard holding pattern. Send the barges in to the jump zone.”

His cruiser would continue south at a cautious pace until it was able to meet up with the main Maximusian fleet, situated a little further south.

Colton listened to the ship’s propellers slow their violent spin. It was a very peaceful night. The breeze blew in such a way that the heat, while very intense, was only coming in bursts when the wind lightened up. The stars were out in full view on this night, silently shedding their light on the calm waters. Colton crossed the balcony and looked to his west. He could just hardly make out the lights of Martin, Bjeorg.

“The calm before the storm.” Colton mused to the ship’s captain, who had joined him on the balcony.

“Indeed, sir.” The captain responded. “I think this is the final quiet before death. It’s funny though, it isn’t a dread quiet, it’s a peace quiet. The soul feels deeply at ease. War, the folly of man. The everlasting peace, their redemption.”

Not another word was spoken between the two men. They both stood in silence, peacefully watching the water lap up the sides of the ship.

[Lauchenoiria]

Loose Lips

Black Stallion Pub, Jonestown, Bjeorg
July 29th, 1991 – Evening

Abbie Foster sat nursing her drink by the bar, watching Dan Stilton in the reflection of a shiny, well-polished metal tap. He was sitting at a table nursing his own beer, and glancing around the pub. Abbie seemingly absentmindedly twirled a strand of her hair just before his eyes passed her. She had visited the hairdressers specially that morning, and was wearing an outfit that would have had her arrested for anti-matriarchal activity in her homeland.

“Another one, please,” she asked the bartender.

“Make that two, and put it on my tab,” said a voice behind her. The bartender nodded and began pouring the drinks.

“How generous,” Abbie said, turning to smile at Dan, who was standing there. She gestured for him to sit down beside her. “I’m Abbie.”

“Dan,” he smiled back at her, taking the seat. The bartender placed the two drinks in front of them and then headed off to the other side of the bar. “What brings you here, drinking alone on a Monday evening?”

“Well, you know Mondays. Dull and boring, making you long for the week to be over even though it’s only begun. Can’t a girl have a little fun to make them just a little less dull?” she raised her eyebrow at him.

“I don’t see anything wrong with that. I’d like to have a little fun myself,” he replied.

“Great!” she exclaimed, picking up both their glasses and swinging around, heading for a pool table in the corner. “Want to play?”

“That’s… sure, why not?” he said, and picked up a cue. Abbie handed him his drink and took a swig of her own. Bemused, he copied her.

*

Two hours later…

“And then he told me that it had no head!” Dan Stilton laughed hysterically, grasping the table with one hand and almost falling to the ground.

“Sounds like a lot of fun. Must make a welcome break from your work. I imagine that’s very stressful.”

“Oh, it is! Another drink!” he shouted dramatically.

“No, you’ve had too much,” the bartender shook his head.

“Come on! I’ve only had three beers!” Dan said, attempting to stand up straight and flailing wildly from side to side. “Normally I have much more!”

“It’s okay, I have more at my house. We could go there?” Abbie said, catching him before he could fall. The bartender shook his head and turned away. Abbie began to lead the stumbling Dan outside and along the road.

“I don’t live far from here. Are you sure you’ll be okay for work tomorrow?” she asked, feigning concern.

“I’ll be fine, it’ll be fine,” he mumbled, slurring his words.

“Is everything okay at work?” she asked, her voice conveying mild curiosity, careful not to show her true emotions on the subject.

“It’s all a mess, they’re fighting,” he mumbled.

“Who is fighting? Bjeorg and LOM?” Abbie prodded gently, turning into an alleyway. Dan stumbled and Abbie leaned him against a wall. He slumped to the ground.

“They hate each other,” he slurred, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes.

“Who hates each other?”

“Smith.”

“Who does Smith hate?”

“Aurora.”

Abbie’s blood ran cold for a few seconds, panic flooding her system inside even as outside she remained calm as she had been trained.

“Aurora Novo Militum,” Dan said, then threw up on the ground.

Abbie had to work very hard to keep the relief from her face. Of course they didn’t know, nobody knew of the Programme. Really, she should have known what he spoke of the first time, there was no need to panic. Dan groaned and lay down on the ground, his eyes shut.

"Tell me more," asked Abbie, crouching down beside him. And he did. He told her how ANM and Governor Smith disagreed on strategy, how the dispute was getting worse and worse. She sat and listened, and became more excited, until his words turned to gibberish and then he trailed off into snoring.

“Sleep now, Dan. I doubt you will remember this in the morning,” Abbie said, then turned and walked away, leaving him lying on the pavement. Yes, her superiors would be very pleased with what she had learned.

[Democratic Republic Of Eiria]

A Chancellor's Request (co-written with LOM)
July 29, 1991, The Chancellor's Manor, Geminus, Eiria

Chancellor Cera Badolis sat in her study, paging through report after report in the Bjeorg conflict. Pretty dull Stuff. She thought. We've done most of everything else we can, but now we need permission to land troops. She picked up her phone. "Marie? Could you please get me Govenor Brian Smith on the line, please".

A moment passes, and then a voice answers. "Hello, Mrs Badolis, this is Brian Smith of the Bjeorg nation. How may I be of service to you on this fine night?"
"Good Evening, Govenor. I have called to request your permission to land troops in Bjeorg, in case of land combat".
The Govenor sounded a little surprised. "Whew, well, you certainly get straight to the point. My answer would have to be an affirmative, in truth, I don't see any other way. The Zamastanians are certainly preparing for a ground invasion. The Maximusians seem to be as well."
She chuckled. "My apologies if I am blunt. It's been a stressful day. 8 meetings,a press briefing, and two 'Print Barrages'. And yes, the other nations are preparing, hence this call. Have you heard from ANM recently, any news or contacts?" She has been wondering about the Terrorist cell, and had a file on them open on her desk besides the other papers.
Another pause. "Let's just say, I need to make a phone call with their leader and work some things out. I do know that they will not play much of a role in this upcoming... event. They don't like the spotlight much. Long story short, we can't count on them for any support."
She held her head in her hands. "So they are a useless Ally, and a ticking time bomb? Mētdi!". She cursed, then composed herself. "My apologies, I shouldn't have cursed. And would you be open to a more..... Elite squad landing in Bjeorg? They are highly trained and secretive. Would you be open to their... Assistance?"
"I thank you for the offer but I have another plan for their leadership that will make them far more useful. The grunts of the operation are better to the cause alive than dead. Besides, it is a terroristic organization at heart. You can't actually kill them all. They aren't worth your troops. I do urgently need your troops in Jonestown though. I suspect that will be the landing point of the Zamastanian troops."
She made a note of that on one of her files, then replied.
"Okay. And I'm sure you are questioning Eiria's motives for aiding you, if I am correct."
"Certainly crossed my mind. "Nation's don't just throw money at things with no tangible impact on their nation"
She inwardly smiled. "Rest assured, we don't want land or money. We want two things: A Democratic Ally,and a democratic Bjeorg"
The Govenor sounded Relieved. "Well, those are our aims as well. I am glad to have an ally in Eiria."
"Likewise, Govenor. I think that is it, unless there is anything else you wish to discuss?"
The Govenor paused. "Nothing from me. You will obviously want to put your fleet admiral in touch with my ground troops coordinator but I don't need anything specifically from you tonight."
She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Of course. He actually is my little brother. Any certain radio frequency?".
"CB-280. I imagine from there the two can get in touch. Thank you for your support Ma'am.".
"No Problem, Govenor. Have a good night"
"You too, Ma'am" Click.

She sighed. Everything done for the day. Well, at least, everything that will be publicly known. She dialed a number and waited. A woman answered on the second ring. "Hello, Olympus Coffee Shop, how may I help you?".
"It's Cera Balodis. Change of plans".

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Smith's Office, Jonestown
July 30th, 1991 - 1:20 AM

Smith quietly looked at the digital clock sitting on his desk. It was terribly late but Smith knew that if he tried he would never be able to fall asleep. The memo sitting in front of him was quite clear, the landing will begin at some point in the next 24 hours. He received that 6 hours ago. If his military analysts were to be trusted the landing would take place sometime on the 30th. The most obvious strategic target was Jonestown. His fate was likely sealed.

Since receiving the memo he had entertained every possible escape solution but the assassin would always have plenty of opportunities to get him. It was far better to just stay in his bunker and see if he could outlast the storm. Besides, he needed the assassin for a specific "mission." He was just still pulling strings to get things set up. If everything went as planned he may be the leader of a new nation by by the time the clock next read "1:20 AM"

Smith reached for a glass bottle of whiskey and poured himself a generous glass. He took a small sip of the glass before standing and leaving his office. He silently walked through the concrete tunnel leading from his office to the war room. The officers who usually populated the war room were all outside either shoring up the bunker or coordinating with defense forces. As such, the room was eerily silent as Smith entered it.

Smith walked over to a map in the center of the room and took a good look at it. He was no general or military genius but it was quite evident to Brian from all of the red arrows pointing at Jonestown that he was standing on ground zero of the invasion. His odds of surviving weren't good. That much was for certain.

Smith assumed that this realization would bring about some sense of regret or at least fear. It didn't. Smith couldn't decide if this was a result of misplaced faith in his men or simply the unwillingness to accept that this could be his final night earth. He silently prayed for deliverance before walking over to a locked metal cabinet.

Smith solemnly unlocked the cabinet and retrieved its contents. The pistol felt heavy in his hand. He had some basic combat training a while back but never really expected to have to use it. Now that he knew that he was holding a device that may extinguish the life of a fellow human being it suddenly felt like a thousand pound block of lead. Nevertheless, Smith strapped a holster to his waist and holstered the pistol. He prayed he wouldn't ever have to use it.

No sooner had Smith put the gun away than a huge thunder clap shook the earth. Above him the heavens opened up.

Presidential Manor, Litudinem

Jean Paterson awoke suddenly the sound of thunder and the flash of lightning. She silently exited her bed, as not to wake her husband, and walked into the manor's luxurious master bathroom. She stared intently at her weak frame in the mirror and noted the deep purple circles under her eye. She had aged years in a month. She was certain that if she hadn't already gone grey before the "Bjeorg Affair" she would most certainly have grey hair now.

"There is a defining moment in every person's life."

The voice made Jean jump. It was just her husband but it further reminded her of just how shot her nerves were from the ordeal.

"At some point you question who you are as a person. You are faced with an external threat that makes you question everything you stand for. Some people are broken by the threat. They give up and utterly reject the things they hold to be truths and live out the rest of their days as a husk of their former selves. Others take the threat head on. The reaffirm all that they believe in and it gives them the strength to overcome any obstacle."

Mr. Paterson paused a moment before finishing his statement, "Ask yourself, which type of person are you?"

Jean smiled sadly. "You always had a way with words, John. I certainly wish it was just my life at stake in all this. Unfortunately, that isn't the case."

John Paterson was taken aback for a second before he decided what to say and pressed on.

"Regardless of how much power and influence you may have, you don't have anyone's life in the palm of your hand. You can only control your own life. Thats it. Now, which are you?"

Jean Patterson left the bathroom and walked over to the window. She watched as the water droplets began to streak down the window pane.

"John, which do you think I am?"

John smiled genuinely, "I can't answer that. I have my opinion but that couldn't matter any less. You have to figure things out for yourself."

[Lauchenoiria]

Light a spark to shine a light

Aurora Centre, Undisclosed Location, Kerlile
July 30, 1991 – early morning

The woman let out a low whistle as she read the report. Then she read it again, and once more for good measure. Her colleague sat and watched her for a few moments then turned to look at her.

“Well?” asked the second woman impatiently. “What is it, Tegan?”

“Read it. This is exactly the kind of information we wanted from 11843989. Is Councillor Pierre still in the complex?” Tegan said, handing the paper to the other woman, who took it and then echoed Tegan’s earlier low whistle.

“Damn. Uh, yes, she’s not due to depart until this evening. I believe she is presently taking a tour of the academic training facilities.”

“She’ll likely be bored then, since that wing is barely different from a regular school. Well, Tabitha, shall we go and cheer up a Councillor?” Tegan smiled, standing up. Tabitha nodded and followed her out the door.

*

Fifteen minutes later

“This is perfect,” murmured Angeline Pierre. “It is exactly the kind of information we need. We ought to be able to carry out the next phase of our plan in Bjeorg now…”

Tegan and Tabitha stood silently nearby, perfectly straight, eyes cast respectfully downwards. They watched as Angeline read the piece of paper and muttered to herself, never moving or speaking, lest something they did be seen as disrespectful to the Councillor standing before them.

“Well, you two, I will need this information delivered to the Maximusian intelligence services. Anonymously, of course. They would never believe a Kerlian source and we do not want to reveal the extent of our reach in their breakaway territory,” Angeline said to the pair. They did not respond, causing Angeline to sigh. “You may speak.”

“Ma’am, uh, that is… uh…” Tegan began.

“Yes?” Angeline asked, impatient. “Out with it.”

“That is not our department,” Tabitha said then stepped backwards, cowering a little.

“I am not going to bite you, you know,” sighed Angeline. “I would rather know these things than give the task to someone who will mess up. Obedience is one thing but you just look cowardly when you do… you are doing it again!”

Tabitha had begun to shrink into herself, looking at the ground and shaking a little as the Councillor spoke to her.

“Ma’am, we, uh, are not familiar with the protocols for interaction with members of the esteemed Council, beyond the elementary level. Please forgive us for our discrepancies, and… please, I ask of you, don’t punish Tabitha,” pleaded Tegan. Tabitha closed her eyes tightly as if waiting to be hit.

“Please, relax. I do not intend to punish anyone. Most Councillors, myself included, do not tend to insist on perfect protocol, and in fact find it rather restrictive to productive business. You are fine. Now, please will one of you stop shaking and tell me who can anonymously deliver information to LOM?”

“You ought to speak to another department of the Kerlian Intelligence Service, Councillor. That it outside the scope of the Aurora Programme,” came a high-pitched voice. The three women turned to see a girl of about 12 standing nearby. Angeline jumped a little.

“They are intelligent, are they not?” Angeline mused, chuckling a little. “Well, little Aurora, I thank you. I will contact the relevant authorities. Now, are you not meant to be in a class?”

“Yes, Councillor, I am on my way to advanced interrogation class.”

“Well, I will not keep you,” Angeline said, standing aside to let the child pass. The girl walked quickly down the corridor and disappeared through a door.

“Advanced interrogation… Goddess, this surely can’t be right…” Angeline murmured, as Tegan and Tabitha pretended not to hear. “Anyway,” she said louder, “I will send one of my assistants to deliver this information and then continue my tour. If we are going to be activating some of these Auroras, I want to know everything about the Programme. That woman in Bjeorg will not be the first to prove useful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” chorused Tegan and Tabitha together, as they turned to continue down the corridor.

[Democratic Republic Of Eiria]

New Arrivals
July 30th, 1991, Aboard the Eirian Cargo plane Cryptic, near Jonestown, Bjeorg

Airman Trent Essen checked the Navigation again, just to be sure. He didn't want to screw this up, or the Sergeant will have his badge. If I screw this up really bad, I won't have to worry about the Sergeant. I'll end up dead. He checked all of the Plane's gauges again, fiddling with his dog tags around his neck. His copilot, Senior Airman Jennifer Aria, looked at him in concern. "Trent, are you okay? That's the third time you have checked everything in the last minute".
"Yeah, I'm fine".
She was unconvinced. "Ooookay. Approaching landing zone now. Landing gear down". The plane rattled a bit, then touched down. Trent relaxed as the plane turned off the runway into a blacktop and slowly came to a stop. Jessica grabbed the radio. "The Cryptic has landed. Chest, start your approach". Both pilots unstrapped and opened the cockpit door. The cargo plane squadron was carrying a load of military equipment and soldiers, but the Cryptic was also carrying a special passenger. Jennifer went to greet said passenger, a woman in her late 30s, with blond hair and pale skin. "Miss Thompson, did you have a good flight? Hopefully turbulence didn't ruin it".
The Woman smiled. "I've had worse. Thanks for flying me". She was accompanied by two security guards, who flanked her as she got off the plane. The soldiers helped Jess and Trent carry the equipment off the plane and onto waiting transports As the next plane touched down. The pilots then got back into the cockpit, and departed from Bjeorg, heading back to Eiria, as the Transports headed into Jonestown.

Aboard the EIS Triton, Channel of Saint Peter, near Jonestown
Field Admiral Jānis Badolis adjusted his new uniform. Jeez, Admirals apparently don't need comfort. His promotion had come swift after the last battle, giving him more control of the Bjeorg Conflict. His radio crackled to life. "Cryptic, Chest, and Cavern have finished their drops. The rest of Gamma Theta Squadron is following suit".
He activated the radio. "Thank you, Sergeant. Report when the squadron is finished".
"Roger that, Admiral".
He put the radio back and sat in his chair on the bridge. Patrolling was dull now, just going back and forth, staying near Jonestown. Now there were 540 troops on the beach, unloaded from the 20 transport ships that came with the armada. They are secured on the beach, used for cover. After all of the planes drop their passengers, there will be 750 troops on the beach, camping out. And that was only the beginning.

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Smith's Bunker, Jonestown
July 30th, 1991 - 5:AM

Smith groggily lifted his eyelids to find himself seated at his desk. His clock read 4:59 AM. He was surprised to still be alive frankly. The attack must not have taken place yet. This was all great news. Smith opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a thick mahogany cigar box. He popped the lid and selected a Landata Special, which he lit and eagerly smoked.

"Please tell me you have good news." Smith begged of an aid as she entered the room.

"Yessir!" was her quick response. "The attack has not been pressed by either the Maximusians or the Zamastanians. Additionally, while you were sleeping the Eirian troops have landed. They have taken up defensive positions in areas where our forces are the weakest."

"Thank you, Laura."

Laura, the aid, exited the room, leaving Smith to think things over. He needed to set the wheels in motion if his plan was to work with ANM. He had to execute the plan before or during the inevitable battle. Smith understood this now. If he didn't the Maximusian assassin would figure out that he was on to her and leave. Then she would show up when he least expected it and kill him. Right now she probably thought that Smith was being overly cocky and was attempting to get as much done in his bunker as he could before leaving. She might even be as foolish as to think that he was taking the time to load up computer monitors or boxes of documents to take with them.

This last thought gave Smith an idea. He should feed, and by doing so manipulate, the assassin's idea of what was going on by making the concept seem real. Smith leaned over to his PA system and pressed the talk button.

"This is an announcement to all non-essential personnel in this facility: if you are not actively engaged in a task please begin clearing out all records and documents and leave them in boxes outside the facility. Floppy disks, VHS tapes, maps, documents, anything that isn't immediately essential to this facility's functioning must go. Thank you."

Now the assassin could have a sweet moment of proving herself right. The boxes were her proof. This thought made Smith beam from ear to ear. There was nothing better than making people think they had you right where they wanted you. She would find out soon enough that he held all the cards.

Smith picked up the phone and dialed his good old friend "Mark." After a brief exchange with the operator, Smith was greeted by the calculating voice of the leader of ANM.

"Good Morning, Brian, I presume the intention of your call was not to exchange pleasantries."

"No, Mark, I am furious with you. You steal my tunnel bomb detonator, you disobey me at every turn, I half expect your men to not even bother showing up to our defense when the Maximusians and the Zamastanians invade. If you cross me again-"

"If I cross you again... what?"

Smith was about to bring down the hammer and he was going to more than enjoy it.

"If you cross me again I will sue for peace. I have written testimonies that my speech was made under duress. You and your group of violent extremists were planning to kill my niece if I didn't declare independence. You blew up the bridges. The police were overwhelmed by the rapid militarization of the populace and the militia groups established a near state of martial law. You were responsible."

Smith could hear Mark grow more and more enraged by the second.

"You cowardly bastard!" Mark snarled. "You will spend the rest of your miserable days rotting in a pitiful cell in Litudinem if you go through with this."

Smith laughed mockingly, "Mark, I might, I might not. That doesn't effect you. You on the other hand, you will find yourself in hell if I go through with this. I will testify before a Vox Regionum committee. I will plead guilty of neglecting the duties of office and probably some counts of indirect manslaughter. They will probably send me to prison for the remainder of my life. I am 65 years old now so I doubt that I will be in prison too long. You on the other hand will be enemy number one. Every nation will be looking for you. You will be extradited and the Maximusian government will kill you without even a trial."

Smith began laughing hysterically, as if the concept of Mark being on the receiving end of a bullet was simply the funniest thing in the world. Smith imagined that Mark probably had steam coming out of his ears that point.

"You son of a bitch! You Goddamn bitch! I am going to come over to that pathetic little weasel hole of yours and rip your intestines out with my bear hands. Dead men tell no tails. You dead bastard!"

"Marky Marky Marky" Smith said in a patronizing rendition of Mark's accent. "You have no idea where I am. You will never find me."

Smith was pretty much certain that wasn't true. Mark had people everywhere and Smith could bet that Mark was already picturing Smith's intestines on the asphalt outside the bunker. Smith was actually counting on this. He was also counting on Mark not giving in to Smith's demands.

"No. I will find you Smith and I will kill you. You aren't getting my word that I will not double cross you. I am about to. I'm also calling your bluff. You won't sue for peace."

At that the line went dead. Now Smith had only to put the last wheel of his plan into motion. When all was said and done, Smith was planning to see Mark dead on the asphalt.

[Lauchenoiria]

A delivery arrives

Magdaline Bay, near Eurich, Bjeorg
July 30, 1991 – 5:17am

Captain Cebrián Caro of the Sophie Ross stood on the deck as the ship pulled into port in Eurich. He glanced nervously at the waters, keeping his eye on the old Xiomeran naval corvette which had followed them from Lauchenoiria for protection. Thankfully, the journey had passed without incident, much to Captain Caro’s great relief. He did not want Lauchenoiria to get dragged into the conflict – and certainly not as the result of the loss of his ship.

They arrived at the port and after all the necessary paperwork, began to unload the shipment. Bjeorgite trucks were waiting for the shipment already, and the procedure was quick and efficient as missile launchers and artillery moved from the ship to land. Captain Caro was anxious. He didn’t like the idea of Lauchenoiria giving this much to Bjeorg, especially as he had no faith that Bjeorg would win the conflict with their former rulers in Libertas Omnium Maximus.

The captain exchanged pleasantries with the Bjeorgite men at the dock, commenting on the weather and other pieces of small talk he didn’t much care for. He was anxious to get back to Lauchenoiria, safely away from the battle. Though they had landed on the other side of Bjeorg from where the naval battles had been taking place, he was still anxious to be out of disputed territory. After all, President Méndez had been abundantly clear: he was to avoid getting Lauchenoiria caught up in the war.

Once the shipment had been unloaded, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The Bjeorgites were impatient to get the weapons to where the battle would be taking place, and the Lauchenoirians were relieved to no longer be a tempting target to the Zamastanian and Maximusian ships. Of course, that was no guarantee that they would get home safely. Despite Lauchenoiria’s official policy of enforced atheism, Captain Caro said a silent prayer as they began to make their way back towards the sunrise.

[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

Eurich, Bjeorg
July 30th, 1991 - 6:32 AM

The convoy was tearing down the road at an incredible pace. It was imperative that the Bjeorg soldiers got the artillery pieces to Jonestown and South Caulden before the joint military invasion began or it might be game over for the revolutionaries. The convoy of massive trucks were flying at well over 110 km/h. On top of that, the roads were bumpy and rough from lack of maintenance, making the ride just a little more perilous.

"It's ironic." stated one driver to his partner. "Even now that we are free of LOM they still haunt us. These roads are their handiwork. No use repairing the roads of a voter base that isn't likely to vote for you in term two. Eh?"

The trucker's partner nodded agreement, tightening his grip on the .44 revolver on his lap.

"I could shoot them all in the face." the driver continued, "I wouldn't be invigorated by putting a massive whole in Paterson's head but I certainly wouldn't regret the act either. I would stand there and I would cock the gun - just like how they do it in the movies - and shoot her one handed. After the deed was done I would blow the smoke off of the gun barrel and say something witty."

"Lets just do our part and drive the artillery over, ok?" The partner stated angrily. He was completely sick of the driver's delusions of grandeur. "We still have a long ass drive ahead of us and an incredibly bumpy road. The map says we have about 180 km to go at least. That's assuming we don't hit any road blockages near Middletown. If that bridge is still out we have to pop all the way over to I-290. I think it still is out actually. That will be a mess. Let's get way clear of that."

The driver grunted in acknowledgment and unhooked his CB radio from the truck's sun visor.

"This is Falcon 2, be advised that we should try to go south of Middletown. The bridge has likely not been fixed. We should proceed on B-340."

The driver put down his radio and changed into the middle lane. No luck, it was just as cracked up and potholed as the left and right lanes.

"Damn it. Those Maximusians are killing us."

The joke clearly didn't sit well with his partner as a nervous silence suddenly enveloped the cabin of the truck.

After what seemed like an eternity the partner stated meekly, "I wish it was just the roads that would be killing us today."


South Caulden, Bjeorg

Located just 30 kilometers south of Jonestown, South Caulden was the home base of ANM's largest concentration. Accordingly, Mark was present and was absolutely livid. He was pacing back in forth in his tent with a loaded pistol in both hands. His whole body was shaking with rage.

An aid cautiously poked his head in and said, "We know the plan with Smith and we have the operation leader briefed. Give me the go and he is as good as dead."

The aid jumped in his skin as he heard the pistol discharge into the ceiling of the tent.

"Yes. Yes. Prepare the trucks. Let's get him. Tell them I will be right there." Mark exclaimed with a huge smile on his face.

"Sir," the aid nervously retorted, "are you sure you should come with?"

Another six rounds were discharged into the air.

"Of course I should. I must be there. He must know that it was me!"

The aid knew that if he insisted again he would discover what it meant to be on the wrong end of the barrel. He plastered on a fake smile and left in silence. He just prayed that Mark was sensible enough to wear a normal suit instead of his usual silk suit to this endeavor. Silk would stand out far more. With a regular suit on Mark would look like pretty much everyone else from afar. He would look like any old business man.

The aid watched in silent dread as 18 buff soldiers past by and headed for the SUVs parked nearby. This would likely be the end of poor old Smith. He didn't stand a chance.