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**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-01-2019, 12:47 AM

Table of Contents

Part #1:

Part #2:

Part #3:

Part #4:

Part #5:

Chaos on the Western Front

Château sur les Rochers Airport, New Castle Province, Libertas Omnium Maximus
July 6th, 1991 - 8:22 AM

David Wilson gently set his cane aside as he took a seat on a stump overlooking the small private airport. Since his honorable discharge from the Maximusian Air Force in 1979, Wilson had always enjoyed spending his Sunday mornings watching the planes come in. They reminded him of the glory days as an idealistic airman, back when the dream was still alive within him. Today, however, something was different.

As he watched the bush planes lazily circle the airstrip before coming in for a landing he was filled not with nostalgic bliss but with an emptiness, the emptiness of being betrayed by the one thing you thought you understood. Gone where the days when he would squeeze into his old pilot uniform, pin on his rusted medals with pride and think to himself, "I served something bigger than myself." His nation had betrayed him, he knew that now. They had used him and kicked him to the curb when he was no longer a useful asset.

"Really", he mused to himself with an air of utter dejection, "they betrayed us all with their actions." His fists clenched tightly, "Today I will get my retribution."

He watched for a few minutes more, silently cursing those who had betrayed him. He finally observed a small private jet touch down on the tarmac. It was time for him to leave. Wilson stood sluggishly and snatched up his cane before making his way back to the street, slowly hobbling over the uneven ground of the airport perimeter to the sidewalk. With each step he took his conviction intensified. He was now utterly certain that his preparations over the past 3 years were fully justified. Before today there had always been a hint of doubt. There was now resolve. It would be a 10 minute walk back to his small cottage. 3 years planning would come to fruition in just 9.

As Wilson stepped onto the sidewalk he reached into his shirt pocket and pressed a button on his cellphone. The phone displayed the word "armed" before shutting itself off. Wilson placed the bulky device back in his shirt pocket, smiled and thought to himself, "This will be a good day"

8:31 AM

The jet slowly taxied off of the runway and onto the tarmac of the tiny airport. It quickly serpentined through a few turns and pulled up to the gate. One of the jet's occupants mumbled something about loving private airports and how quick they were. At least, that is what the blackbox of the vehicle recorded.

The jet's blackbox would be found in a tree nearly 50 feet from the smoldering wreckage of the plane when first responders arrived 6 minutes later.

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-11-2019, 07:27 AM

Château sur les Rochers Airport, New Castle Province, Libertas Omnium Maximus
July 6th, 1991 - 10:13 AM

The black SUVs arrived a mind-blowing hour and a half after the detonation. It took a long time for the government agents to drive down all the country roads to reach a small airport on the far west cliffs of Libertas Omnium Maximus mainland. As their chrome tires rolled past the security checkpoint and onto the emaciated tarmac, numerous first responders and police officers offered direction and queries to the tinted windows. They invariably received no response.

"Alright everyone, get the hell out. This investigation and cleanup is now under the jurisdiction of the Maximusian Department of Defense. Please do not resist."

The EMTs stared blankly at the pale suited figure standing before them. She had a lot of audacity to be barking orders on an official crime scene. One cop even walked back to his car in order to place a verification call via his radio.

The pale woman smiled. "Thats fine." She motioned to the other SUV in a menacing manner resulting in 4 blank faced men exiting the vehicle.

"Let's try this again, shall we? The pale woman asked to a nearby EMT. "You all clear out. Cops, EMT, you all go. This was obviously the work of a bomb. Everyone on board was vaporized. There is no helping them. Your inefficiency will hurt this investigation though. SO SCRAM.

Over the next couple of minutes the first responder team cleared out quickly. It was not until the police sergeant's car drove off of the tarmac and onto the old cliffside roads that the MDD began setting up shop.

The pale woman quietly approached the wreckage. The plane's whole cockpit had been blasted apart and from there the fuselage had peeled back like a banana.

"This was the work of a precision IED, ma'am." said one blank faced man to his superior officer. "It looks like the bomb was planted inside the front landing gear well. It was on a timer I would guess. Or perhaps a GPS. It really depends ma'am. We will have to wait for forensics to-"

"Wait!" The woman snapped. "You were most certainly onto something. The detonator of this bomb, be it by timer or GPS, was designed to go off here. It was designed to go off in Château sur les Rochers. If this was just a statement they would have killed the DA and blown up his plane back when it was taking off from LIA. It would be far easier. The airport in Litudinem is far more crowded and there would be a lower risk of bomb detection. No. The killer needed the bomb to go off here. Why? Jackson, what is so special about this damn little town"

The man she had addressed as Jackson replied quietly, "It is the furthest west airstrip on the mainland, it is also the only real airstrip that is located within 15 miles of Bjeorg. The province, not the city."

A look came over the woman's face. "Shit! Two things! Number one: why the hell do you know this random crap about geography. Number two: we are screwed. This isn't a statement. It is Bjeorg making good on their threat last month. This is a manifesto."

Zamastan · 07-13-2019, 02:34 AM

The Man on The Seawall

June 7th, 1991
8:24 AM
Tofino, Zian, Zamastan

Cool sea breeze flowed gently with the mist through the early morning Tofino streets, clogged with traffic as commuters began their treks to work, parents bringing their kids to school, and pedestrians choked the sidewalks. The bustling city was darkened by the light fog, which hung low to the lower floors of the towering skyscrapers.

Frank Hast, a 33-year old construction worker contracted at the Market Exchange on Portman Avenue, sat in the passenger seat of his family van with his wife, Alice, in the drivers seat, and his 7-year old son, Eric, and 5-year old daughter, Janessa, in the back. The parents often brought their kids to school in favor of putting them on the buses, as the business of the city was often hectic for the little ones. However, today, they regretted the over abundance of traffic, and were stuck in a dead stop several blocks from the school.

Unknown to his wife and kids, Hast was a member of an underground militia group. Small, yet known by the Zamastan government for a string of mail bombings throughout the capital in months prior, two of Frank’s accomplices had been arrested several days ago. Hast had never made bombs or supplied materials for their construction, though he did allow members of the militia to use his basement for those activities. Frank was now anxious about his arrested comrades possibly giving information to the police regarding him or his house, and hated going out in public for fear of encountering police. However, he wanted to make sure his kids were safe and not marked by the militia, so he still brought them to school.

“They really need to work on expanding this road a bit,” Alice stated softly, peering her head up further to try and see over the cars in front of her.

“It wouldn’t change much, there’s always going to be jams like this.” Frank responded. He turned back to his kids. Eric played with “Arros Trading Cards”, while Janessa stared out of the window and up to the buildings in the fog. “Hey,” Frank asked his children, “what are you guys looking forward to today?”

“Mrs. Dobberman said she’s teaching us mul-tee-pul-dation today,” his son replied.

“Multiplication, Eric.” Alice corrected. “How about you, J?”

“We were going to go to the zoo, but I bet Miss Gress is going to say we can’t.”

A faint pair of police sirens caught Frank’s attention, and he peered into the rearview to see if he could find the source vehicles. “Why can’t you go to the zoo today, sweetie?”

“Cause’ its too rainy for the zoo.”

The sirens kept wailing, but the police were likely caught in the traffic behind, unable to move forward due to the congestion.

“I’m sure Miss Gress will still take you to the indoor things, J,” her father reassured. “Like the new tropic section! I hear they have new Sanctarian hedgehogs, you love those things!”

Honking from the vehicles behind the Hast’s van reasserted Frank’s interest in the sirens, and he looked back. A car tried to push into their lane, which led to Alice honking the horn twice. “Hey! Dammit…”

“Alice, hey,” Frank shot back, “the kids are behind you.”

“Daddy, Mom said dammit.”

“Eric,” Frank shut his son down and smiled at Janessa, who went right back to looking out the window.

The sirens had finally gotten louder and the cars in the left lane had begun to move, and as Frank turned, he saw two SWAT vehicles slowly moving up the lane. The honking subsided as four officers in tactical gear exited the vehicles, which stopped three cars back. Jerking forward in his seat, he looked at Alice, then back at the officers, navigating in between the vehicles with their rifles drawn. Alice and the kids hadn’t noticed them yet. Frank panicked.

“Stay in the car, kids.”

“What, Daddy?”

“No matter what happens, stay in the car.”

Alice looked at Frank quizzically as he unbuckled his seat and grabbed the door handle. “Frank, what are you doing?”

The door handle clicked as Frank opened it. “I love you.” Frank pushed the door and stepped out into the foggy street, walking forward and away from the approaching SWAT officers. The point man shouted, and the officers rushed forward after Frank. The remaining officers in the second car joined the chase.
Alice Hast watched in horror as her husband began running full sprint off the road and onto the sidewalk, through an alleyway, pursued by the officers. “What the hell have you done, Frank…”

Frank Hast turned an alley corner, checking into the building’s side with his shoulder hard, and throwing over a metal trash can in the path behind him. One officer took point at the same corner a moment later, taking a shot, which ricochet off the brick wall at a further turn. Frank ducked past just before the bullet whizzed past.

Eventually, after a couple minutes of chasing, Frank stopped abruptly at a stone rise Waterview overlooking Horseshoe Bay and the Tofino Harbor. He had unintentionally cornered himself at the edge of Gaviria Park. As tourists and citizens alike wandered by, curiously looking as Frank panted, sweating from the run, they scattered suddenly as all eight SWAT members started to close in, yelling for pedestrians to flee or drop to the ground, aiming their rifles at Hast. Frank backed up, with his hands still lowered and panting heavily, grabbing the cobblestone barrier between the forested park and the water.

“Frank Hast, stand down and get on the ground,” one officer shouted, “we have orders to shoot if needed.” Frank stood slowly onto the cobblestone wall, contemplating the jump into the water. The officers got closer, moving slowly in a flanking pattern.

A little girl stood behind her father, who urged her not to watch as the police raised their rifles. From where they were standing, the girl couldn’t hear what they were shouting, but she knew that whatever it was, the man on the seawall was scared. The man on the seawall reached into his pocket, and the little girl heard her father say “sweetheart, cover your ears, close your eyes.” The girl didn’t have time to react, because loud bangs rang out, and the man on the seawall jerked backwards, clutched his chest, and toppled backwards. The man on the seawall fell into the water below.

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-14-2019, 07:56 AM

1 Month Prior

Bjeorg Province Administrative Building, Bjeorg Province, Libertas Omnium Maximus
June 10th, 1991 - 10:32 PM

“Ladies and Gentlemen,”

James Wilson exhaled deeply. In his unremarkable 32 year political career he had never gotten used to public speaking. He was actually quite talented in the art of speech writing but whenever he got up to make a statement, be it at a press conference, political meeting or otherwise, Wilson’s lungs seem to enfold upon themselves and he was left sputtering out his eloquently crafted monologues.

Today was no different. As he walked out onto the steps of the grand administrative building he could already feel his throat closing on itself. As sweat began to build on his forehead James approached the podium. He approached the reporters. He approached the crowds. Most importantly, though, he approached his province.

He repeated his line. This time into the microphone before him. “Ladies and... and Gentlemen... It is my...uh... severe displeasure to bring you the following news regarding the province of Bjeorg’s recent appeal to the Maximusian Government.”

His stutter had lessened recently, maybe it was the cool summer air, maybe it was that he had gotten to the point in his career where he realized that being a deplorable public speaker might impact any promotions. In any case, he collected his thoughts and continued.

“I...we...were regrettably...denied our appeal... Our appeal to have an autonomous state of Bjeorg. It was rejected by the Supreme Court. There is no Republic of Bjeorg.”

Shockingly the reporters were silent. Their dreams had been crushed. James could feel it. It was as if their hatred had manifested itself as a sick, damp wind. This wind was assaulting him, burrowing deep into his soul. He continued, off script. This was the first time in his life.

“If we cannot have an independent Bjeorg then who are we? Who are we? We are nothing! Libertas Omnium Maximus has been systematically stripping us of our rights. They hide their intentions behind a wall of words like “for the greater good” and “that which will help the most people.” What about us? Do we matter. We are not being helped by any recent government policies yet we are forced the pick up the tap, mostly. That isn’t fair! If we can’t have our independence the legal way, we can have it by force.”

A crazed look came over Wilson. He knew he was out of line. He knew this was the end of his pointless career as a desk-level politician. He didn’t care. He knew, more than about anything else in his life, that he was right.

“We don’t have the capital, politically, to get our independence.” We are trapped in a cycle. The government has treated us unfairly with the knowledge that we can do nothing about it. We ask for relief. Let us leave the Republic of Libertas Omnium Maximus. All will be well. But no! No! We don’t have the power to do that! We are trapped. Force is the only option as I see it. I wish it hadn’t come to this, but it has. I love you Bjeorg. You shall be free!”

The insuring uproar was understandably enormous. With reporters screaming and crowds chanting the province anthem it was hard to even know which way one was going in the crowd. This, however, did not stop the agents from worming their way through the crowd.

“Mr James Wilson, for Treasonous conduct and speech, along with encouraging violence against the state, you are being placed under arrest.”

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-16-2019, 06:24 AM

The Next Week

Lawrence Marina, Lawrence Township, Bjeorg Province, Libertas Omnium Maximus
June 16th, 1991 - 1:56 PM

The planks creaked under the weight of the heavyset man and his tall compatriot. The second man switched his cane from his left hand to his right in order to shake the big man's hand.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," the tall man began quietly. "Before you ask about the location of my last "drop", don't worry, the waiter is loyal to our cause."

The tall man stepped onto the gunwale of a small fishing vessel and invited the large man to do the same. The large man obliged and clambered down onto the boat's deck before taking a seat on an overturned bucket of bait.

"Listen, David, you know I trust you, if you say he was loyal, I believe you. So does Mark. We both agree that you are loyal to the cause." The big man smiled awkwardly through the gloom.

"I am glad to hear we have a working relationship mister Nilsson." said the tall man, David Wilson, with a smile of relief. "Do you have any word on the state of affairs of my poor brother? The bastards took James right after he made his speech. He hasn't contacted me. He hasn't contacted his lawyer either."

The big man, Nilsson, took a breath before answering, "You aren't going to want to hear this but we have definitive word that your brother has been taken to a black site. We had a grunt tail the vehicles that took him but he was forced to turn back after the vehicles came to a military checkpoint near New Castle Point. We know there is a base there. I am sorry."

Wilson sat quietly on ship's gunwale, slowly processing the news. "No, Nillson, there is nothing for you to be sorry about. I will contact his lawyer and see what I can do as far as bringing him home through legal methods. Other than that, what is the current state of affairs in your organization. Do you yet have the necessary man power to undertake the plan?"

Nilsson smiled. "We don't yet, however, I believe we have a promising opportunity to recruit some mercs. They will work for a good price. I can't tell you more. Anyway, to the real reason we are meeting. Mark says that he also supports your plan to go through with the murder of District Attorney Melissa Thornton. Mark says it will make a good statement. Château sur les Rochers is an ideal airport, not to mention that killing a low profile government official will get people's attention without a full on Panic in the Gov. Mark gives the plan his blessing and will send someone to pick you up from the pier by the old steel mil at 10:30 AM sharp on the 9th of July. You should sit tight after the detonation."

Wilson stood again and shook the handoff's Nilsson, "Thank you. I hope to continue work with your organization. Aurora Novo Militum is Bjeorg's best and final hope. Know though that the bomb would have detonated without Mark's blessing as well. I don't work for him. This is a partnership. I will see you, 10:30 sharp, pier by the steel mil."

The two men departed the vessel in silence and went their separate ways.

**Xiomera** · 07-16-2019, 07:50 AM

A Matter Of Business

Huitzitaca, Xiomeran Empire
June 17th, 1991 (atl 17, xatl techalotl, 1991)

The flight from Iustitia City to Huitzitaca was a smooth and quick one. Nathan Bosley couldn't help but marvel as the plane cruised above the clouds.

The direct flight to Huitzitaca was the only flight between Xiomera and Libertas Omnium Maximus, and was not a major priority for Xiomeran Imperial Airways. Nevertheless, the Xiomeran flagship carrier was clearly determined not to let anyone find even the slightest flaw in its operations. From the boarding procedure to the spotlessly clean plane, and all the way down to the attentive and polite flight attendants, the pickiest traveler couldn't have found anything to complain about. Even the flight attendants were turned out in military precision, without a stray hair, wrinkle to their uniforms or scuff on their highly polished shoes.

Xiomerans are supposed to be perfectionists, Bosley thought to himself. If they're all like this, that's a good sign.

Bosley wasn't his real name; who he actually was hardly mattered. What mattered was his mission. Bjeorg was in need of help if their dreams were to be realized. The kind of help that Xiomera, if rumors held true, could supply in abundance.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle hand on his shoulder. "We are about to land in Huitzitaca, sir. Do you require anything else before we land?" one of the flight attendants asked.

"No, thank you, madam," Bosley replied. "You have been very gracious, but I will take care of everything I need once we land."

---

The passage through Xiomeran Imperial Customs and Border Security was as efficient and precise as the flight; a quick scan of Bosley's passport and identification, and an equally quick check to make sure no red flags came up, and it was done. "Welcome to the Xiomeran Empire, Mr. Bosley. If you proceed down the passageway, you can retrieve your baggage and either hire a car or obtain other transport to the city," the border guard said firmly, gesturing him forward and already preparing to check the next arriving passenger.

The passageway led him to the lobby of the international terminal, where Bosley looked over a piece of paper before proceeding to a specific check-in stand. Ixmoc Transportation Services, the sign read in multiple languages, including Xiomeran Huenyan and, thankfully, English. "I have a trip reserved to this location," Bosley told the attendant, passing him another piece of paper. The attendant calmly reviewed the travel pass. "Yes, sir, you are expected. Please proceed to Transit Stop C in front of the terminal, and board Ixmoc Transport Vehicle 34," he said, stamping the travel pass and handing it back over.

When Bosley arrived at the designated stop, a white van with the Ixmoc logo was waiting. Bosley handed another attendant his pass, and boarded the van while his luggage was placed in the back. The van then slowly left the terminal area, proceeding out of the airport into the bustling heart of Huitzitaca. Xiomera's largest port was historically the gateway for foreigners to enter the Xiomeran Empire, as well as the major port serving the Imperial capital of Tlālacuetztla, sixty miles away. Over time, the two cities had essentially merged, forming a sprawling metropolis that served as the heart of both commerce and governance for the entire Empire. The trip took Bosley through a city that was constantly in flux. Construction cranes everywhere reached for the sky, seeming to rival the height of the towering buildings already in place. But it wasn't the skyscrapers that Bosley was there to see.

After a while, the van exited the highway and took a winding drive down a loop road surrounding the massive port. The buildings took on a lower height and an industrial character; this was clearly a service area for the port. Eventually, the van pulled up in front of a complex of low-slung, black-hued stone buildings with a large wall around them. "We are at your destination, sir," the driver told Bosley. "Please exit."

Bosley stepped out of the van, slightly apprehensive even though the trip had been planned in advance. He found himself in front of the massive double doors that seemed to be the only break in the wall. A pair of watchtowers flanked the entry, with a single word in Xiomeran Huenyan lettering between them. Coytōchte, the sign read. Apparently, this is the sort of place that you know what it is if you're supposed to be here, and if you're not supposed to be here, you don't need to know what it is, Bosley mused without humor to himself.

The trip to this strange place, for Bosley, had begun in an airport terminal back home. But the road that had led him here actually begun three days earlier, and sixty miles to the north.

Palace of Flowers, Tlālacuetztla
June 14th, 1991 (atl 14, xatl techalotl, 1991)

Meetings of the Emperor's Cabinet were usually a dull affair: routine matters of governance, occasional subtle sarcasm or jockeying for power or position, the uninteresting sausage-making that went into running a centuries-old Empire. Today, however, promised to be interesting.

"We have received a Notice of Solicitation for Mercenary Operations from the Coytōchte Firm," Zocoatl said. The Secretary for Trade and Economic Relations slid a series of red folders to the center of the large, highly polished sacred-fir conference table.

"What of it? Our mercenary firms get bids all the time," Xochca, the cihuacoatl of Xiomera, snorted. "How is a simple commercial contract worth this council's time?"

Zocoatl raised an eyebrow. "As I was about to explain," he said coolly, deliberately using the tones of Huenyan meant to convey subtle disdain to annoy Xochca, "this concerns a matter of one of our neighbors. I have discussed this with the Secretaries of Security and Defense, and they concur that this requires the Emperor's consideration."

At that, the man seated at the head of the table opened his eyes. Xolōtl, Emperor of Xiomera, raised a hand expectantly. One of his attendants quickly picked up one of the red folders and handed it to him, bowing. Xolōtl opened it and began to read, waving his other hand sharply to silence the chatter of the Cabinet. Once he was done reading, he closed the folder and handed it back to his attendant. "Read. Then speak," the Emperor commanded. Once the rest of the Cabinet had finished reading, Xolōtl pointed a single imperious finger at Zocoatl. "So the people of Bjeorg have solicited our mercenaries. Do you think we should allow it?"

"I do," Zocoatl said. "It's a business opportunity, of course. As is the law, the Coytōchte Firm would be required to donate 5% of their earnings from the mercenary contract to the government. So there is profit in it. But also, there is opportunity in other ways. If Bjeorg succeeds, their government and their people would be inclined to look upon anyone who helped them as a friend. The Empire can always use more friends."

"But we hardly need to make more enemies," Xochca said sharply. "If the Maximusians discover that we have aided Bjeorg in their plans, they will most certainly not see us in a friendly light. Why should we take that kind of chance? I do not see the reward as commensurate to the risk."

"Not commensurate? Did you read the part about how much Bjeorg is willing to pay for mercenaries?" Zocoatl retorted.

"There is no risk," Macuh, the Secretary for International Affairs, said with a slight smile on his face. "After all, it is not the government of Xiomera that would be aiding the separatists. It would be a private mercenary company, that just happens to be based in Xiomera, doing so. And since we are a land of free enterprise, we can't reasonably be expected to tell our companies how to conduct their business," Macuh added with his smile slowly widening into a smirk.

Of course, everyone around the conference table knew fully well that the Xiomeran government did, in fact, tell businesses what to do all the time, if it deemed it to be in the Imperial interest. But no one else needed to know that.

Emperor Xolōtl thought for a moment, then turned to Zocoatl. "Inform Coytōchte that they may accept the Bjeorg bid. But also deliver my personal message: if they do anything that gets this government in trouble with the Maximusians, I will personally cut off Axī's head."

Zocoatl nodded. "I think he already expects that, but I will certainly deliver the message."

Coytōchte Firm headquarters, Huitzitaca
Three days later

As Bosley stood in front of the massive gates, several guards came out to greet him. All of them were dressed in black fatigues with no insignia except for stars on the lapels to denote rank. They also all had XM-01 Tlihuatl assault rifles slung over their shoulders, a fact that drew Bosley's immediate attention.

A man with three stars on each lapel strode forward. He was not carrying a rifle, but did have a XM-38 Huatlxōc sidearm strapped to his waist. "You must be Mr. Bosley. I am Caltē, Chief Training Officer for the Coytōchte Firm. We have been expecting you. Please follow me," Caltē said.

The mercenary led Bosley through the gates into a courtyard that served as a parade ground and training area. As Bosley walked through the courtyard with his escort, he could see mercenaries training at various stages. Hand-to-hand combat, firearms training, and in the distance, various groups even seemed to be working with artillery and armor units.

The escort eventually led Bosley into a large building that seemed to serve as the mercenary firm's headquarters. At the end of a sparsely decorated lobby, a large room beckoned. Caltē and Bosley went in, while the guards escorting them stood outside.

An older man with four stars on each lapel stood up, shaking Bosley's hand. "I am Axī, Commander of the Coytōchte. Please have a seat."

Bosley sat down, while Caltē remained standing near the door. Axī sat down, placing his hands on the table. "We have received your request for our assistance. We are prepared to sign a contract to assist Bjeorg with whatever it may require. I trust you have the initial payment?"

Bosley nodded. "Once we agree on the terms, I will have the funds wired through a discreet third party as you directed. Half now, half upon the arrival of your advisors and supplies in Bjeorg. Additional expenditures to be determined later, should our needs change or more assistance be required."

"That is acceptable," Axī said, sliding a contract over to Bosley to sign. "1,000 Coytōchte advisors are ready to depart immediately to Bjeorg, along with the initial supplies of weapons and other armaments as agreed. They should arrive within two days. From there, we will begin training and supplying your soldiers. If that training goes well, we will hopefully have no need for further deployments. But if they should be required....we have more than enough men and supplies to perform whatever tasks are required."

"You will forgive me for seeming skeptical," Bosley said, "but while your forces in the courtyard there are impressive, they don't seem to be a huge army."

Axī chuckled at that. "This is our headquarters, sir. It is not our only facility. Trust me when I say the Coytōchte can command considerable resources, more than enough for any needs you may develop."

With the contract signed and payment made, the wheels were set in motion.

Bjeorg, two days later

Two cargo ships, the Palcuā and the Huithuit, arrived at Bjeorg. Their manifests would indicate that they were delivering agricultural vehicles and workers. This amused the Coytōchte soldiers aboard; they weren't farmers, but they were about to plant a seed of rebellion.

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-23-2019, 04:59 AM

Office of the Governor, Bjeorg Province Administrative Building, Bjeorg Province
July 18th, 1991 - Early Morning

"So, what you are telling me is that I have three options and they all end in the loss of my reputability, my political career, and potentially a prison sentence?"

Governor of Bjeorg, Brian Smith, was incredulous. He was tired, angry, confused, worried, at a loss for words, and was now on his 8th straight hour of being in this state. His niece, 1988 Governor campaign manager, and current Chief Strategist in his cabinet, Amanda Smith, had been up all night with him desperately figuring out how to get out of their situation.

"Amanda," said Smith after a long pause. "I want you to distance yourself from this place as soon as I say what I am going to say. Don't call me or talk to me again. At least, not until this ordeal is over."

Amanda stood awestruck. "No, this is my ordeal too. I am your advisor, I am your friend and, most importantly, I am your family! Please, reconsider, we have three options, I have been spelling them out for you all damn night. Only one of them ends in potential execution and I implore you to reconsider."

Smith took a seat next to her in his armchair and pointed to a picture behind his desk of a black and white family photo. He sighed.

"Amanda, I have two options that will save my person, I only have one option that will save my soul."

The pair locked eyes in silence for a time before Smith concluded his thought."

"Amanda, you understand, My mind has been made up since long ago. The cogs are in motion. The game is already afoot. Once the beast is unleashed. It cannot be put back in its place. Once the fire is set, it cannot be un-light. Even if the fire is smothered, there will always be the scorched ground. If I am smothered, you will always see me amidst the smoldering earth of rebellion."

An Hour Later

It hadn't taken long for the Maximusian Government to determine that the bombing was the work of a Bjeorg cell. They had it confirmed for them when a Bjeorg revolutionary cell, The Knights of the New Dawn (Aurora Novo Militum), that had been dormant since the 1950s, claimed responsibility. Bjeorg province's governor would be obligated to make some kind of a statement on it. The issue was simply that responding to something like this could be political suicide. You had to pick your words very wisely.

"Citizens of Bjeorg Province, and the great Republic of Libertas Omnium Maximus, I would first like to take the time to apologize for the delay in my administration's official statement."

And so it begins, Smith thought to himself as he looked out onto the crowd of journalists

"I cannot possibly express how sorry I am that the life of District Attorney Thornton and her husband were lost in the recent bombing. Violence shouldn't be the answer to a situation such as this and I do believe that Bjeorg is better than associating themselves with terrorists. However, desperate times do often call for extreme measures.

I do believe that the call for independence is a just one. I believe that an independent state of Bjeorg is in order.

Just nine months you all called for the independence in a referendum. It wasn't even a slim margin for approval. If memory serves 73% of you wanted independence. Did the government acquiesce to our requests? No, they scoffed at them.

We tried the democratic way. They brought these tragedies to themselves. They did not even indulge us. I'll give a quote. The Great political philosopher, Edward Dale, once wrote: "It is held that when a people can no longer be accurately or effectively governed by their leaders than they have it within their moral justification to establish a new state that might better serve and protect its constituents." I believe what I am about to say has justification by his words.

Effective Immediately Bjeorg is an independent state. This is what you all wanted. You voted for it. We are independent. I have the backing of our province's armed forces unites and my cabinet is on board as well. We want independence and we sure as hell will get it.

This is to the LOM government, the bastards that you are: Know this, You can come for us, but you will never take back Bjeorg. With that said, come and try!"

The crowd silently attempted to comprehend what had just been said for a moment before an enormous crashing noise captured their attention. Everyone, as if passed by a hive mind, shaped their necks to face the strait behind the Bjeorg building. A nearby bridge linking Bjeorg to the mainland's cables had all at once cut loose and the bridge was creaking under its own weight. Slowly the bridge split in the middle before both haves fell into the water bellow. The huge chunks of water splashed with a great noise before sinking into the murky waters.

The crowd slowly turned to the podium again, begging for answers in their eyes. They would receive non today. The podium was empty. The crowds only hint to Smith's location was a black sedan tearing down the road away from the Administrative Building.

Above the building flew a Maximusian flag. The flag was ablaze, It's vivid greens and yellow slowly charing. The black remains of the flag would be taken by the wind moments later.

Zamastan · 07-23-2019, 06:40 AM

The Tears of a President's Son

[Image: 032TOUR1-jumbo.jpg]

Tofino

Zian Presidential Mansion

July 19th, 1991, 10:00 AM

President Cassious Castovia sat at the window of the Gaviria Office, smoking his Rallian Valley pipe with aged vanilla tobacco and reading over briefings handed to him earlier by his chief of staff. He was alerted to the muffled cries of his 10-month-old son, Zacharias, shortly before the door to the burgundy colored room was opened by the security officer standing outside. Cassious’ wife, Mara, entered carrying Zacharias, squirming in his mother’s arms.

“Cassious,” Mara said softly amidst the cries, “Zacharias isn’t eating. I’m worried he’s not reacting to the medicines.”

“Sweetheart, that’s something you should speak with Avis about,” the President responded, referring to the family doctor. “I can’t do much about that, I’m working through these briefings.”

“Can’t briefings wait?” Mara looked quizzically at her husband. He had been President for just about nine years at this point, and rarely did he take personal time. She worried about Cassious’ obsession with the Presidency so often, the thrills of power. Though Cassious was a humble man, the country adored him for the most part, and he was well respected across the world. Leaders of the IDU called him a visionary and a legendary example of a monolith among chaos, but still, Mara worried about her husband. Even more so, whether he would let his job get in the way of the life of their only child, little Zacharias.

Cassious sighed, set his pipe and papers down, and removed his reading glasses. The President looked sideways at his wife and smiled, before extending his arms out to his little boy. Mara settled Zacharias into his father’s reach, letting him cradle to his father’s embrace.

“You know, Zacharias,” he said, smiling at his son, “you look just like a President.” The crying got softer, and died down to a gentle breathing. Mara gave a mixed sigh of relief and exhaustion.

“And you, Mara,” Cassious said, standing from his seat, “look a lot like the First Lady.”

Mara’s nose wrinkled with her famous smile, perking her eyes up to her husband’s.

“How observant you are, Mr. President.”

“I’ll hold onto him for a little,” Cassious nodded down to his son, gently breathing with fresh tears staining his cheeks. “You can go do whatever you need to do.” Mara leaned in and gave Cassious a quick kiss before leaving the Gaviria room. With his free hand, Cassious picked up the briefings from the table top, while rocking Zacharias slowly. Turning a page, he drew attention to red bolded letters entitling the report’s topics:

Libertas Omnium Maximus
BJEORG PROVINCE
THREAT TO REGIONAL SECURITY

Eyes widened, Cassious noted the first picture, a black and white image of a Maximusian flag ablaze on top of a Greco-roman styled building, marked in bolded and underlined black letters as the ‘Administrative Building’. A second image showed a collapsed bridge, semi-submerged in a waterway. A third image, Cassious lingered longer on. A man stood at a podium, mouth wide open, addressing a crowd. The man, noted by bolded letters as “Brian Smith – Governor of Bjeorg Province” Cassious sat Zacharias down on the couch, turning attention to the report.

The summary paragraph below all three images spelled out the situation. Castovia highlighted sections with a pen.

“Possible armed rebellion imminent in BJEORG PROVINCE, MAXIMUSIAN REGIONAL SPHERE. Threats to Zamastan noted in region – see P.6 S3A.

Bombing claimed by Aurora Novo Militum

D.A. Thornton murdered

Protests imminent

Threats to commercialism

Threats to military assests

Threats to foreign aid workers

Threats to domestic travel

Threats to international travel

Cassious sighed heavily, lowering the report and looking out the window once again, out towards the memorials, the gardens, and the bustling, lively city of Tofino. He had seen reports like this before. The war in Vulkaria had proven the importance of intelligence and the necessity for clarity. The uprising in Cadair had been stopped before it began, and Zamastanian lives were saved. But memories harked to before Cassious had given authorizations to intervene, memories of wounded Zamastanians on the streets of Alanis. Bodies strewn amidst wreckage of parade floats. The colors of pride flags torn to shreds by the blast of a terrorist’s bomb. He had seen the security guard whose arm was blown from his side outside the very building he currently resided, victim of an ideology that used violence as a way to get ahead. For Cassious, he knew that something was specifically troublesome in Libertas Omnium Maximus. He looked back at Zacharias on the couch, whose chest was slowly expanding and subtracting with the deep snores of a baby's sleep. Cassious knew that this time, he would act before anything happened to his countrymen. Before anything happened to his little boy.

References:
Cassious Castovia: https://www.theidu.us/wiki/Cassious_Castovia
Zacharias Castovia: https://www.theidu.us/wiki/Zacharias_Castovia
First War in Vulkaria: https://www.theidu.us/wiki/First_War_in_Vulkaria
Alanis Pride Parade Bombing: https://www.theidu.us/wiki/Alanis_Pride_Parade_Bombing

Zamastan · 07-24-2019, 01:43 AM

The Bjeorg Ultimatum
[Image: white-house-press-room.jpg]

Tofino

Zian Presidential Mansion

July 20th, 1991, 9:00 PM

More than a day had passed since reading the report on the Bjeorg crisis. In that time, Cassious had consulted his advisors and generals, as well as having given the Speaker of the Chamber, Cain Blackwater, a briefing about his intentions. Cain and Cassious rarely ever agreed. The liberal had competed for the Presidency against Cassious, and held firm to the Senate. Argumentation was easily the thing Cassious found to be the most frustrating aspect of being President. However, this time, the emboldened Speaker seemed to align with the President when receiving the news. Now, with Cain’s backing, the President had the upper hand.

Cassious had met earlier with his top military aides, and was given outlines of battle plans, primary targets, and the names of people deemed to be key leaders in the brewing crisis. No shots had yet been fired, but Cassious knew that the Zamastanian military had long relied on the intelligence and information gathering and scenario creations which led to the decisions made at the top – his office. Now, it was his move. The chiefs had consulted him, the senate leadership had fallen in line, and Castovia stood at the edge of the Lighton Press Room in the Presidential Mansion, out of view from the reporters and camera lenses. Papers with his planned remarks crumpled gently in his hand as Cassious prepared mentally, breathing slowly with his eyes closed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of Zamastan.”

The press pool stood as Cassious exhaled and turned the corner, away from the wall and towards the reporters. As usual, questions flurried his direction, about the health care bill, about the shooting at the watershed, the train derailment in Abagene, but as he took the podium, the chaos died down.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Castovia began, “let me first say that I have a statement which I will conclude without questions tonight. The matter is important, so please pay attention.” The informality clearly egged some reporters, but nonetheless, pens hit the pad as the President continued.

“As you are likely aware, the Governor of the Maximusian Province of Bjeorg declared on a live television broadcast his intention of secession from the mainland. This is a significant uptick in a crisis that has broiled beneath the surface in the region for decades, and the reason for addressing this publicly from the Presidential office is our government’s official response. It’s coming from me instead of our State Department, because I have consulted both my generals, Speaker Blackwater, and the heads of every government entity.”

Opening his semi-wrinkled papers and placing them on the podium, Cassious reasserted his stance, straightening his back and clearing his throat.

“The Imperial Republic of Zamastan is a staunch and assertive supporter of democracy, freedom, and peace throughout the world. With this said, the Government of Libertas Omnium Maximus, no matter how flawed and problematic, has stood for democracy and we have no reason to stand idly aside in a desperate time that may very well have lasting implications and dangerous ramifications for the entirety of the world.

It is the understanding of our intelligence community that the independence movement in Bjeorg is orchestrated through a culmination of violent acts, which have perpetuated a fear and very present danger in the region. The independence they seek is curtailed by a dangerous ideology that has left many in harms way. We have seen similar acts undertaken in regions left volatile in their wakes, and thusly, this is why the Zamastanian government states the following: we stand with the people and government of Libertas Omnium Maximus and condone the Provincial administration of Bjeorg.”

Reporters jumped, cameras flashed, and Cassious looked up from his papers to the blinding flares of lights and microphones, before raising a hand to address the pool. “Quiet, please, a few more remarks…

“We have also noted several key threats to Zamastanian interest in the region, including but not limited to a sizable amount of Zamastanian citizens living overseas in a potential hotspot. We are concerned that whatever is occurring in Bjeorg may escalate into an armed insurgency, and we advise any Zamastanians to either leave the province to the mainland if you able, or return to Zamastan if you are able. The State Department is waiving visas for these circumstances.

With that said, there is a considerable danger. The Provincial government, by order of Governor Brian Smith, has destroyed key transportation networks linking the mainland, and so we order this ultimatum to the governor and his proxies: allow for safe passage of foreign citizens, or face repercussion. We will be finding means of contacting you, Mr. Smith, so please take advantage for your sake and the sake of humanity.”

The reporters didn’t jump this time. They understood what they had witnessed: it was the classic Castovia threat. They had seen these threats before, and every time a demand had not been met, Castovia responded just as arrogantly and assertively as he had made it appear behind a podium. For the pipeline protesters in Pahl, it was tear gas. For the insurgents in Cadair, it was the sight of tanks being unloaded onto a dry dock in Cardiff Harbor. For the revolutionaries in Vulkaria, it was a full-blown war.

References:
Cassious Castovia: https://www.theidu.us/wiki/Cassious_Castovia
Cain Blackwater: https://www.theidu.us/wiki/Cain_Blackwater

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-24-2019, 07:27 AM

Presidential Manor, Litudinem, Libertas Omnium Maximus
July 18th, 1991 - Afternoon

The scowl on General Alexander Wallace's face was horrific. After the complete speech concluded up on the TV screen at the front of the room each member of the Presidential Security Advisory gave each other worried looks. Behind a mask of furrowed brows was concern. This was a once-in-a-nation's-history event and not one councilor could bring themselves to accept that it would happen under their watch.

The board was comprised of the head of each armed forces branch, The Head of the Department of Defense, The Secretary of State, The Secretary of Defense, The Vice President, and the President of LOM. All were seated at a rectangular table with the president at one end and a TV screen at the other.

The DoD head frowned. "I can, at this time, confirm that all routes to Bjeorg have been destroyed or blockaded. The Pierce bridge is down. The Ilien tunnel has been barricaded by Bjeorg police vans and all of the ferry services from Bjeorg to the mainland have been shut down indefinitely. The 11th Battalion has sworn its allegiance to Bjeorg and has moved into defensive positions in the East and Southeast."

The President, Jean Paterson, put a hand through her graying hair.

"How did we let this happen. I mean, It has been a cascading disaster since the referendum but I never expected this. Bjeorg could stay holed up there for years if I am not mistaken."

Alexander Wallace, Head of the Army, looked at a piece of paper in a folder in front of him.

"They have the capabilities of remaining autonomous forever actually, at least, according to everything I could find."

"Besides," began the pale faced Secretary of State, "It isn't like they will not gain support. If the international community is at all divided about their independence, if even one nation recognizes them, we could be in a whole new world of trouble, Ma'am."

Paterson visibly sagged into her stiff chair before answering, "I suppose we have to mobilize troops in order to crush this rebellion. Our chances of reason have passed. They have the price force and an entire Army Battalion on their side."

Paterson leaned over to her Secretary of State, "Can you open communications with Bjeorg? I want a phone here on this table with direct communications with Smith ASAP."

She leaned to Wallace, "God Help Me. Alex, you need to mobilize your troops at once. I presumably the south-east is your best angle of attack. Report back to me when you and your men have a more general plan of attack."

"Ma'am!" shouted the Vice President, "We also need to see what allies we have. If Bjeorg can see that the international community is against them, they might lose the will to keep on going. The life of a nation that is cut off from the rest of the world is a sad one. We should make that clear to them."

Without skipping a beat, Patterson responded, "Yes, John, let's get on that. Also, We need to arrange with Smith the details of returning citizens of other nations back to their native land. Everyone, we have a lot of work to do, let's get on it! Meeting Adjourned."

At that the members of the advisory rushed from the room to begin checking tasks off of an ever growing to-do list. This was the nature of war.

Zamastan · 07-25-2019, 03:46 AM

Aboard the Upham

[Image: hlvleojxyxfgzwdok5ti.jpg]

North Agrimai Ocean
Zian 2nd Fleet - ZMS Upham
July 21st, 1991, 2:00 AM

Under the cloudy, starless sky, the summer ocean was still frigid in the atmosphere above, and Admiral Jarris Tavoka, in the command of the ZMS Upham aircraft carrier, could see his breath hang in the air with each exhale. The ship was under radio silence for the night, and the four other ships in the fleet were under the same order. A day before, they had left the south-eastern ocean to move north-west. Their orders came directly from the military chiefs in the President’s administration, with the command to station off the Bjeorg coast and prepare to extract Zamastanian citizens in the chance that Governor Smith didn’t listen to President Castovia’s ultimatum. With that said, the Libertas Omnium Maximus government was not aware of the fleet’s movements – yet. No doubt, Tavoka thought, that by dawn, with the clearing of the clouds and the sunrise, Maximusian air force planes would spot the fleet. There was going to be a conflict, everyone on the aircraft carrier knew that. It was just a matter of whether or not Zamastanian forces would be caught up in the fire. Tavoka thought of his wife, Regina, and his thirteen-year-old son Percy, receiving the call only a day earlier, to ship out and keep quiet about the mission. He left them at the house in Kelowna, saying nothing about his job and only telling them that he loved them. He discovered the purpose of his shipment after arriving on the ship.

“Admiral,” a voice behind Tavoka said, “the squadron is on approach.” The deck sergeant stood at attention, as Tavoka nodded and continued to watch the sky. Through the clouds, a stealth fighter jet descended and dissipated the sky in a quiet rumble, nearing the Upham’s deck, and touching down with a screech. Two other fighters soon followed.

Fifteen minutes later in the command room, Admiral Tavoka, the rest of the ship’s commanding officers, and the fighter pilots were gathered around a metal table bolted to the floor, reviewing freshly printed and laminated images taken by the stealth fighter’s bottom cameras. This was a preparation stage for what they saw to be an inevitable strike within the next few days.

“Here’s something that worried me during our flight path, Admiral,” one pilot addressed, sliding a picture around and pointing out a ridge line on the topography. “This ridge is rested on the mid-eastern side. This is facing the LOM mainland – we have turret placements and what I believe to be anti-aircraft guns.”

“Anything indicating missile systems?” The admiral was too familiar with the dangers of a rocket’s explosive power against airborne fighters.

“No sir, but they’re still batteries. Nothing that could individually down one of our fighters, but with at least 10 that we captured in this picture alone, that’s enough to give any force some serious damage.”

“What about this?” Tavoka pointed at what appeared to be a concrete entrance to a bunker or some kind of facility.

“That is the Ilien Tunnel, sir. It’s currently the only intact transport route between Bjeorg and the Maximusian mainland. However, it’s barricaded. Those right there are police vans, but there’s reason to believe that there is also artillery positioning near that area as well.”

“If anything is going to be done about getting ground troops into permanent positioning in Bjeorg, it's gonna have to be through that tunnel." The admiral thought for a minute. "Well, we have enough to prove military mobilization. Do we have anything on Zamastanian civilian interests?”

“Two targets, sir.” The pilot analyzed another picture, showing a marked apartment building in a town. “This is the “Percilius” Compound, as we are calling it right now. It’s an apartment complex that houses several Zamastanian citizens who moved to Bjeorg in the late 80’s. Across the street, there is a floral shop which is owned and operated by a Zamastanian family. These are currently the only ones that we were able to find, but I’m sure we’ll be pinpointing more in the coming days.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, anything else before you’re dismissed?” Tavoka eyed the men, before one pilot asked a looming thought.

“Sir, has the Maximusian government been alerted to the fleet yet?”

“They will be soon. President Castovia said he’d be speaking with President Paterson after we finished the flights. These surveillance images will hopefully convince them that we’re not just trying to infiltrate their airspace – we actually want to stop this war before it begins.”

Zamastan · 07-25-2019, 05:22 AM

Paterson and Castovia : The First Call
Co-written by [nation]Zamastan[/nation] and [nation]Libertas Omnium Maximus[/nation]

[Image: WH_library1a.jpg]

July 21st, 1991
11:34 AM
Zian Presidential Mansion, Tofino

“President Paterson. This is President Castovia, I understand you have a serious situation on your hands.”

Castovia sat in the Gaviria Room, talking to President Jean Paterson of Libertas Omnium Maximus. He was about to let her know that he had authorized a flyover of Bjeorg, and he hoped to curve the conversation his direction.

“That is certainly a way to word it,” Jean responded. Cassious could hear the serious sarcasm in her voice. “I see your military caught on quick. Interestingly enough, I have just received reports that an aircraft carrier and a couple of support ships are inbound. Kind of you to send a care package.”

Damn, Cassious thought. The ships weren’t as quick as he had hoped. “I figured that was the least we could do. How else would you expect us to help our friendly neighbors when their flags are being set on fire in the streets?”

“Wow, got pictures of that too did we? Your intelligence service sure is fast at picking up this stuff.” Cassious heard Jean breathe heavily on the end of the line, before continuing with a solemn admittance. “Yeah, we had a bit of a flag burning issue. Wish I could have told you in person.”

“The Z.I.S. is an effective organization, Madam President.” Cassious pressed the speaker button, stood from his desk and wandered to the window. “I mean no disrespect, Jean,” he said, with more confidence in his voice. “I would like to say that we are in full condemnation of the militants in Bjeorg.”

“Good to know our allies are still our allies, then.”

“However,” he continued, “it would be remorse if we didn't tell you why we had a fleet in your waters.”

It took Jean a moment to respond, “It would be. Do go on, Cassious.”

Cassious took a breath. He knew President Paterson was folding to his corner by using his first name. “We have considerable worry that the movement in Bjeorg is not one hundred percent isolated. The ramblings of a Governor have wider implications than the province he rules. To point fingers is to let a problem slide into more of an inferno, and that's exactly what you have on your hands.”

He paused, waiting to see if Paterson would respond. She didn’t. Cassious nervously stammered, but continued. It was time for honestly.

“Our fleet was on a reconnaissance mission, and we have pictures that are currently being sent to your military that you'll definitely want to have a look at.” Still no response from Paterson. “I wouldn't have called you if we didn't think the information was urgent.”

Silence continued, and Cassious was about to interject once more, but Paterson beat him to it. “I would certainly be interested in these pictures. And I do thank you for your concern.”

Cassious worried that he was about to be shut down. Now was the time to make his move. “Let me address some of our findings briefly before I propose something to you. I'm sure your military officials are aware of the armaments the Bjeorg militia has, especially with some defections from your own army. However, our aerial images show significant buildup of artillery that is more than capable of destroying fighter squadrons and tank columns.” Cassious could hear Jean breathing heavily, and the faint scratching of a pen on paper could be heard. “Imagine the damage that can cause to a platoon of infantry troops, Jean.”

“Yes, I imagine it would result in unnecessary loss of life.” Jean sighed, breathed deeply, and continued, addressing the traitorous governor, Brian Smith. “Smith moves fast. An 8th of our military has sided with Bjeorg so scrambling any jets is difficult. I suspected that they were amassing armaments since the 10th but we haven't been able to get any aerial photographs. Thank you for this information. I imagine it will save a lot of troops.”

“Of course, Madam President.” Cassious gleemed, standing tall. “Now, for my proposal.”

“Go on, President Castovia.” Paterson’s urgency was becoming more clear with each word. “Please.”

“Zamastan has a significant stake in this conflict. Nothing we want in terms of land, resources, nothing notorious,” Cassious pondered for a second, he hadn’t thought it would come this far, but now was the time to use a tool that he knew would be effective on his fellow President overseas: compassion.

“Jean, you've seen me at work for the past nine years. Those years have been almost constant conflict started by one singular thing: ideology. I pray that you never have to visit the children maimed by a suicide bomber, or bury one hundred soldiers in a day. I, Jean, have experienced all of this. Time and time again, my people and my nation have been rocked by this constant thing - ideology.” Jean was silent.

“These militants, Jean, have the same ideology - violence.” Cassious was staggering at his desk, as the card he played began to overwhelm him with emotion. “I request, humbly, that Zamastanian forces be allowed to operate alongside any Maximusian operations. I want to stop this conflict from boiling over before it engulfs your nation and strikes at the heart of mine again. Madam President, please. For the sake of Libertas Omnium Maximus. For the sake of your family.”

He waited for a response. He worried that he had pushed Jean Paterson away. He grew conscious of his own emotion, and concerned himself over the Castovia-branded image of a stern, tough leader had just been snuffed out. Then, Jean spoke.

“Cassious. First, I can only imagine seeing the things you listed. I do hope that this conflict does not escalate in to anything of the scale you have witnessed. I really wish I could turn you down. I really do.” She sighed once more. “You understand that the Maximusians are a proud people. The last thing that they want to see is another nation having to come to their rescue. It also probably blows my chances of reelection. No one wants to see their president go in for help like this. However,” Jean paused, and Cassious knew the answer he hoped for was coming. “I have no choice. I think I need to give you the greenlight. I am haunted by the images of maimed children and mounds of dead soldiers I have seen from the Vulkaria conflict. I will not see that here. If it means the end of my career... so be it.”

Cassious exhaled, placed his hand on his head, and smiled genuinely. It was happening. “Here's what I can promise you, Jean. You have the final say on our actions. If you don't like what our generals propose, you can tell us to stand down.” Gently fist bumping the air, Cassious walked back to his desk, placed the phone back up to his face, and finished. “And another promise - if you can end this quickly, you are going to land any political position from here on in a landslide.”

“Have a nice evening, Mister Castovia.” Jean hung up the phone.

The game was on.

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-25-2019, 07:23 AM

Ilien Tunnel, St. Peter's Strait
July 21st, 1991 - Late Afternoon

The Ilien Tunnel is now the only intact route between Bjeorg and the mainland.

This was a truth known not just to the tunnel's numerous Bjeorgite guards, but to pretty much the rest of the world. There was a very specific reason that this tunnel was spared. It was spared so as to imply that a connection would always exist between the mainland and Bjeorg.

No one really understood why this tunnel had been let to live. Perhaps, it was some sort of a cryptic olive branch. Perhaps, it was a statement that the cultures of LOM would still be continued in Bjeorg. It could also simply have been spared because it would be simply ineffective to not have a means of transportation to of from the nation of Bjeorg. There would always be some use.

The reason for the continued existence of this tunnel was, frankly, irrelevant to the Bjeorg soldiers guarding the mouth of the tunnel. The soldiers were comprised partially Bjeorg police officers and partially of local militia men. Many citizens were more than ready to take up arms in defense of their nation.

A great barricade was placed just inside the tunnel. Two SUVs parked end to end covered most of the tunnel's entrance and sand bags and rebar spikes covered the rest. A crude platform had been constructed running the length of the barricade which gave Bjeorg soldiers the opportunity to look, and potentially shoot, over the SUVs. A 20 man team guarded the barricade at all time.

In the event that anyone was foolish enough to attempt to walk through the tunnel they would be picked up by motion sensors, warned once, and, if they did not turn back, shot once they came in to view of the guards.

"We got a hit on the sensors" came the gruff voice of Police Officer, Dan Stilton, captain of the guard for this shift.

"Dumb Bastard." replied a younger militia man. "Poor sucker is gonna get a .44 to the head if he doesn't know what's good for him.

"Turn Back" Yelled Stilton in his gravely and rough voice. "Turn back or my men will open fire"

A small, meek voice responded. "Please sir, I was visiting my sister when the event took place. May I please return to my home?"

The guards looked at each other in dismay, they really didn't know how to respond to this. They had so far gotten mostly gung-ho vigilantes who thought they could take down all of Bjeorg with a 12 gauge and a pickup truck. They had also gotten some drunks, running through the tunnel on presumably a dare. This was clearly neither.

"Ma'am?" asked the young guard to what was presumably an elderly woman by her voice (though she had not yet come into view of the guards), "are you in a car or on foot."

The response was quick. "Oh, I am on foot. My sister's is just off of highway 56, I rode a taxi there in the first place and rode a taxi back to this tunnel entrance."

The guard shrugged and replied, "Ok, ma'am, can you walk in to view please."

The woman obliged an reveled herself to be, in fact, an old woman.

Again, the guard looked to his superior for answers and was met with nothing. "Ok, ma'am. Where is your place of residency. Where do you live."

Without skipping a beat the woman responded, "1.2.2 Bridgestone Avenue, with a B. B as in Baseball. Martin Township."

Stilton checked the phone book he had on hand. 122 Bridgestone Avenue, Martin Township, Bjeorg. The address checked out.

Stilton climbed to the top of the barricade and helped the woman over to the Bjeorg side. "Welcome to Bjeorg Ma'am."

The guard and Stilton watched in silence as the woman hailed a taxi and drove off into the distance.

Inside the taxi

As the old woman entered the taxi she adjusted her posture shedding off years from her apparent age. She ran a hand through her hair and ran hand through her hair and yanked out some great colored extensions. She would peel off the rubber facial wrinkles when she made it to the safe house. Until then she could only swat the mosquitos from the interior of the taxi and think to herself, I am in.

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-29-2019, 08:11 AM

Presidential Manor, Litudinem
July 21st, 1991 - Evening

"Ma'am, He has agreed to talk."

"Get him on the phone now."

"Done ma'am"

"Give me the phone"

"Yes ma'am."

Jean Paterson lifted the beige phone to her ear in silent dread. The conference room in which she had spent most of the day in was silent.

"Smith?" she began, uncertain of how to handle such a conversation, "Smith I don't know what is wrong with you but you need to call this off right away."

She was met with a horse response, the voice of someone who had been shouting all day, "I will do nothing, and I will say nothing until you broadcast this call publicly. No public call, no me."

Paterson was startled to hear the call click to static. It was a rare person who would put the president on hold.

Patersons advisors nervously looked at one another. Silently, Paterson nodded to her Secretary of State, who, in turn, stepped out of the room to talk with the press secretary.

20 minutes later

It hadn't taken long to get the video cameras and the reporters into the press room. They were eager to hear anything from their president.

Paterson nodded to a sound engineer who plugged the phone speaker into an amplifier and turned it on. All was going to be heard.

Paterson lifted the phone to her ear and spoke, "I did what you said, now, let's talk."

"Sure, hello Jeanie, I imagine you have a lot of questions. Ask away."

Paterson despised the playfulness of his voice, it was as if this was all a sick game to Smith.

"First off, will you release non-native Maximsuians to their native country."

The room tensed, if the answer was "no," Paterson would be making quite a few more phone calls before the night was through.

"Sure, if they want to leave they may. I am many things but certainly not a tyrant."

A gasp of relief filled the press room before Smith continued, "Yes, if any tourist or even native wishes to leave I will not stop them. They may simply walk to the Ilien tunnel and they will be escorted out. What you do with them when the emerge on the Maximusian side is up to you. WITH THAT SAID, if any of the citizens of Bjeorg do choose to leave, they may not return until our independence is finalized."

Paterson adjusted her posture. This was the line where she drove him that she was in command.

"You labour under the delusion that independence for Bjeorg is all but secured. That is false, if necessary the Maximusian Armed forces can overpower you and retake Bjeorg. You loose."

A chuckle made its way through the speakers.

"Oh, Jeanie, you are playing a game of chess. You have to think more than one move ahead. If you occupy Bjeorg by force there will be a revolution again, and again, and again. I might not be around to see the next revolution with your idea but it would certainly take place. Be rational. I know that is exceedingly difficult for you folk. You would destroy any hopes of retaking the province if you stormed it. Besides, as I am sure your Zamastanian friends have told you, we are exceedingly well fortified. What? You honestly think I don't keep watch for surveillance planes?"

Paterson was stunned. Smith's monologue actually contained weight behind it. A direct assault would be foolish.

"Well then, what do you suggest Smith?"

"What do I suggest - Take note of your leaders hesitation people of Libertas Omnium Maximus - I suggest you simply let us have our independence."

"No, I won't get it. I will not allow a tyrant to take over one of this nation's provinces and make it into some sort of military state."

Again, Smith laughed, "Fine, send your armies, send your fleets, send your planes, but know this, every death up to this phone call was on me. Every death beyond here if you choose to pursue war, is on you. Good day Jean."

The line crackled off.

A silent press room looked at each other in dismay. A tear rolled down Paterson's cheek. She left the press room in silence.

Zamastan · 07-30-2019, 06:26 AM

Clear Skies Change

8:23 AM
Strait of St. Peter
July 23rd, 1991

Two Zamastanian Z4-AB fighter-bombers scorched through the sky high above the Strait of St. Peter, the waterway separating Libertas Omnium Maximus and the Province of Bjeorg. The planes flew in formation, without cloud cover and under a bright sun. They were unconcerned about the need for stealth now, since the Maximusian military had given approval for the Zamastanian air force to take most of the air borne missions. As of now, no shots had officially been fired by either side, and the planes were restricted to their reconnaissance mission. That was fine with them, though. At this point, most in the military were hopeful for a peaceful resolution, though they knew fighting would likely be inevitable. For the time being, however, Admiral Tavoka had ordered mandatory flyovers of an area near the entrance to the Ilien Tunnel: the only transit connection to the mainland that was still intact.

According to all the previous intelligence gathering missions, images and radar had picked up heavy artillery positions, all of which indicated Bjeorg rebels were preparing for an offensive by the Maximusian military. They also probably expected the Zamastanian jets, although none of the intel up to this point had showed any weaponry capable of downing a high-altitude fighter like the Z4-ABs, which were the primary jets used for reconnaissance.

“Bearing a half mile on coastline, can you confirm you have a sight on that tube and those vehicles?” Captain Earny Harris in the lead fighter spoke to his fellow pilot over the transmitter.

“Affirm, Sir.” His second fighter back, one Lieutenant Larr Tevis replied, “Looks like I've got multiple vehicles in reverts at about 800 meters to the north of your arty (artillery) pads.” They were referring to the buildup of positions next to the entrance to the tunnel. “Can you switch camera, and shift post, and get some confirmation on the arty platforms on those?”

“Roger, I understand that those are the targets you observed earlier on my timing?”

“Affirmative.”

“Roger, standby.” Captain Harris paused, looking at his instruments. “Let me make sure they're not on another positioning from last mission, I want to check to see that they’re still in the same spot.”

The planes roared and pressed their ailerons downward, descending sharply to get clearer images for the command back on the ZMS Upham.

“Hey, Captain,” Tevis pondered, “I got a four point. Looks like we got orange panels on them though. Do we have any SAM’s up in this area? I understand that was north 800 meters.”

Captain Harris looked at his instruments once again. Tevis was alerting him of possible surface to air missiles. “Confirm, north 800 meters. Confirm there are no SAM’s this far north on the ground.”

“Copy.” Tevis backed away from his interest and reverted to a new target he spotted. “I see multiple riveted vehicles. Some look like flatbed trucks and others are green vehicles. Can't quite make out the type. Look like may be infantry pickups.

“Roger. That matches our intel up there. And understand you also have the other fixed wing up this push? For terminal control, if you can.”

Suddenly, a red light buzzed loudly over Tevis’ dash, and he jerked his head downwards in reaction, turning the transmitter back to his Captain. “Look down at your right, 2 o'clock, at 10 o'clock low, there is a, left 10 o'clock low, look down there north along that canal, right there. Coming up just south of the village.

“What, Tevis, evenly spaced? Are we strafed?”

“No. No. Further east, further west, right now. And there's four or five of them right now heading up.” Tevis began to panic, his incoherent relaying of information causing the same effect on his Captain.

“No, I don't have your visual…” Captain Harris paused briefly, then shouted through the intercom, “Break off!”

Both fighters banked hard to the left, flying sideways. In the split second, Tevis looked down and saw five bright orange streaks piercing through the sky towards the planes, maneuvering mechanically. Missiles. Without a warning, one of the missiles shot straight past the rift of Tevis’ fighter, the second doing the same to Harris’.

The fighters roared backwards and flipped in unison, breaking off in completion of their maneuver and flying frantically to escape the other three, close behind. "I've got a lock-on,” Harris shouted through the intercom, “deploying flares!" The plane's flare system launched smoking heat lights off the side as the jet screamed back upwards into the sky, and a missile swung left and decompressed on that side of the jet. Another missile flew past the flares, past Harris’ jet, and scored a direct hit on Tevis’ tail fin, sending the jet into a dramatic spiral. The left wing, damaged from the first missile's decompression with flare impact, ripped apart from the plane and engulfed it in flames.

“Bailing, bailing,” Tevis could be heard shouting, before the plane erupted in an orange explosion and plummeted to the ground 15,000 feet below.

The fighter’s remains pummeled hard into the ground in a lightly forested area, setting the soil and trees ablaze. Insurgents and locals alike began to arrive at the scene. Tevis’ charred, mutilated body was still in the straps of the jet’s seat, unable to eject before the fateful impact and explosion…

Lieutenant Larr Tevis was the first casualty of the Bjeorg Conflict.

[Image: 1448357739467503005_1000x669.jpg]

[Image: 1448357739467503005_1000x669.jpg]

**Xiomera** · 07-30-2019, 06:57 AM

Beware of Xiomerans Bearing Gifts

Encampment near Ilien Tunnel, Bjeorg

"Foolishness." A single word, followed by a sigh and a long inhale on a pipe.

Lixōch, a sergeant with the Coytōchte mercenaries and commander of the ten-person merc squad assigned to provide backup to the locals guarding the Ilien Tunnel, eyed the tunnel with disdain. "They should have just blown the damn tunnel up like we suggested. What's the point of bricking up all the other doors and windows into your house if you're going to just leave the front door wide open for someone to walk in?"

A soft laugh greeted the sergeant's remark. "At least they were smart enough to let us set up shop nearby. If the Maximusians decide to try to force their way through the tunnel, the locals will need our backup." Nalmi, the senior private in the squad and Lixōch's most trusted soldier, let her eyes wander over to the tunnel entrance as well.

Lixōch snorted at the reply. "That they will. I don't think they quite realize how much they might end up needing it, but that's what we're getting the big paychecks for. Keep someone watching that damned tunnel at all times. And make sure to keep a line open to headquarters," the sergeant said. "We might need our own backup in a hurry if someone gets an itchy trigger finger."

---

Coytōchte Mercenaries Forward Operating Base
Near Lawrence Township, Bjeorg

Iuhcoēcoa, the lieutenant colonel in charge of the Coytōchte Mercenaries mission in Bjeorg (Operation Cochicoatl, or Sleeping Serpent), eyed the maps and data arriving at his command center with a practiced eye. As soon as they had arrived in theater, the mercenaries had set up groups of "spotters", made up of two-person teams, to monitor strategic locations along the coastline and other potential or likely points for a counterattack or invasion by anti-Bjeorg forces. The spotter teams were made up of one Bjeorg local soldier, and one mercenary. Their job was to make sure to warn the command center of any sign or movement that would indicate an attack was imminent.

So far, no sign of any such attack had materialized, but the mercenaries' spotters had already noted the movements in the waters around Bjeorg with interest. Iuhcoēcoa was even more interested. And concerned.

"If the Zamastanians decide to actually push with the Maximusians and invade, I'm not sure the locals are ready," he mused. The mercenaries had been arming and training Bjeorg locals to supplement the 11th Battalion and the local Bjeorg security forces. Strapping Xiomeran body armor on stiffs and slapping Xiomeran weapons into their hands, however, didn't make them Xiomeran soldiers. The training wasn't going anywhere near fast enough for Iuhcoēcoa's liking. And he didn't like taking chances.

"Send a message to Coytōchte Headquarters. We're going to need more reinforcements. More men, and more anti-air and armor capabilities if they can get it through. Make sure they're aware the waters around Bjeorg are no longer friendly," he said to Hualpanata, his second-in-command.

Just then, Lōchiunō, the officer assigned to liaison with the spotter teams, burst into the command center. "Sir! We just received a report, a Zamastanian jet has been shot down over the area near the Strait of St. Peter."

"What? Who ordered that?" Iuhcoēcoa shouted.

"Unknown yet, sir. We are asking the locals for clarification. It wasn't one of our people that shot it down." Lōchiunō replied.

"Did they use our missiles?" Iuhcoēcoa asked, his face grim. "We don't know that yet either, sir. We're trying to get more answers," Lōchiunō said, turning to a nearby radio.

"Hualpanata......get that message sent now. And step up the program to train and arm the locals. We may not have a lot of time before this gets hot. Someone just turned this sitting war into a shooting war," Iuhcoēcoa said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

Huitzitaca, Xiomeran Empire
One hour later

The Coytōchte mercenary firm, the best mercenaries in a country that had quite a lot of them, were famous for many things. One of them was their efficiency. Within an hour of receiving the message from the mercenaries in Bjeorg, a pre-loaded cargo ship set sail from the port of Huitzitaca. It had a cover story of delivering goods for sale to countries throughout Hespia, and a manifest and basic set of supplies to match. What it also had was another battalion of mercenaries, with their own much less friendly set of goods.

The plan was simple: sail close enough to Bjeorg to look like a cargo ship on a normal run, but not close enough to Bjeorg to appear suspicious. Aboard the merc "mother ship" were a set of fast speedboats and skiffs, which would hopefully be able to sneak into Bjeorg without attracting too much notice.

**Libertas Omnium Maximus** · 07-30-2019, 08:24 AM

Unknown Location, Bjeorg
July 23rd, 1991 - Morning

"Who the hell authorized that missile?"

Brian Smith was beside himself. He was now looking at the destroyed remains of a Zamastan jet from a monitor and could not have been more livid.

"Does anyone have any idea who authorized this missile?" he inquired to his staff.

It was a small room and noise traveled easily. There was no real reason for Smith to scream but someone was going to have to take the brunt of his anger.

"Xiomerans have confirmed it wasn't them." said a young aid.

"General Bates confirms it wasn't the 11th Battalion." stated another.

"Dear Lord," Smith mused out loud, "If we have one more party in Bjeorg no one is going to have any idea what is going on. I was supposed to be in charge everything has to be cleared with me."

He paused, contemplated for a second, and returned to speaking, "The militia and the police don't have skill to make this launch, this is ANM. Those bastards. Get me on the phone with Mark now!"

An aide quickly punched in the necessary numbers and handed Smith the phone.

"Mark, I know this is your BS. Why would you authorize...how did you manage to get..."

Smith's aids watched in dismay as their leader went from angry to livid. It was a look of genuine loathing that wasn't ever seen on Smith's stoic face.

"You did...what! How dare you?! You do not have the authority. I am in control. This is my idea. This is my revolution. You are beholden to me!"

Smith was beet red with anger.

"The missiles were a last resort."

Smith quietly switched the speaker on and a deep growling voice was now audible.

"Smith, I used your system to shoot down a plane. That was what it was for. I am sorry if you are too soft to kill one dude. He was hardly innocent. Zamastan is no different than their putrid ally."

"No," was Smith's rapid response. "You never should have shot down that plane. Do you have any idea what you have done? Zamastan was just recovering from a war! They might have stayed clear of this event as long as we let their people go. Now they have a martyr! Now they will want to go to war. You have to leave this to me because I get the big picture. You don't!"

"Let them come, Smith, we can handle ourselves. We have to show that we are strong. We won't take crap from anyone. You fly a jet over our airspace and we will shoot you down. You fly a jet even within shooting distance of our airspace, we shoot it down. That is the picture of Bjeorg I imagined.

Smith was fuming, "I wanted to avoid a war. If I wanted to start a war I would have fired these missiles straight at the Maximusian mainland. I don't. Why? Because I am practical. What it the use of an independent Bjeorg if it is in ashes."

There was a long pause before Mark's reply.

"Let's agree to disagree"

The line clicked to dead.

Smith slowly walked out of his command center and let out a cry of anguish. He knew now, for certain, that he would not survive this conflict. It would be a conflict. He was certain of that too.

**Democratic Republic Of Eiria** · 08-01-2019, 02:31 AM

(The Eirians have entered the ring)
July 23rd, The Chancellor's Study, Geminus, Eiria

Chancellor Cera Balodis buried her head in her hands. The Chancellor of Eiria sat in her study, adorned with ornate oak bookshelves and a beautiful oak desk, which held a play-by-play on the Bjeorg conflict. "This will be a Diplomatic nightmare" she muttered to herself. "The Senate has voted, we, by law, have to join now. Ugh". She closed the portfolio. She thought for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed her secretary. "Marie? Get me my brother, please".

53.2 Miles off the coast of Eiria, Abord the battleship EIS Triton:

Commodore Janis Balodis Stood on the Bridge of the Triton, binoculars pointed at the open sea. He put the binoculars down and sighed. This is what he loves about Naval Service. The calm waves, the beautiful sunset.....
"Commodore ? Commodore, sir".
A Lieutenant Stood at attention, saluting. Janis sighed. "At ease, Tom. What is it?".
"A call from Geminus. From your sister".
"Oh, thanks". He picked up the bridge phone. "Hey Cee. What is it? Bored by the toil of running the country, are we?".
"In your dreams, Jan". She said back in Latvian, a common spoken language in Eiria. "Well, the Senate voted to participate in the Bjeorg conflict. They need someone.... Unorthodox, to lead the Naval forces. Quick on the draw, moral, and a bit mad. Wonder who that sounds like?".
He smiled. "Not sure. How do I sign up?".
"Hold up. You know the risks. And please do be careful". Her playful attitude vanished. "After all, you are still my little brother. I could never forgive myself If I caused you to die".
"I won't die, Cee. At least not without one hell of a fight".
"Please head towards the conflict zone, and don't fire unless initially fired upon. I will send a message to Bjeorg's governor, informing him that help is on the way".
"Roger that. And when I get back, let's get burgers on that old diner on 33rd, for old times sake".
"You're on".

Zamastan · 08-01-2019, 07:13 PM

Cassious' Declaration

July 24th
1991
9:00 PM
Zian Presidential Mansion, Tofino, Zamastan

Walking to the podium where only days ago, he stood and told the Zamastanian people and the world that he would not stand for Governor Smith’s actions, he had to now announce something far more solemn.

President Castovia stepped to the red spruce stand, with the seal of the President displayed across the front, and he took in a deep breath. He’d made remarks like this too often in the Vulkaria years. Deep down, he knew that these announcements combined would define his Presidency. Not his social works, not his amendments stretching the protection of minorities, not the profound care that he and the country knew he had, but he feared that historians would look at him only for his wars.
The camera flickered on, a red light indicating the broadcast had begun. Cassious’ director of communications raised his hand, letting the President know he could begin.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, my fellow Zamastanians. I come to you tonight with solemn and deep pain in my heart. Yesterday morning, over the Strait of St. Peter off the coast of the Province of Bjeorg, a Zamastanian fighter was shot down by an enemy missile. The pilot attempted to reject, but sadly was unable to do so, and perished with the craft.” Cassious hadn’t taken the time to emotionally process the loss of another service member, and the feelings began to leak from his stern posture. He stammered his lines, something he had never done before.

“He… the pilot, lieutenant Larr Tevis was killed…” Cassious paused, his director looking at him quizzically at first, and then with a more realized impression. “Larr Tevis was killed in the service of his nation,” the President continued. “He was killed during a routine intelligence gathering mission. The greatest tragedy of all is that lieutenant Tevis was the first casualty of this conflict: we did not drop bombs or fire our guns, but the Bjeorg revolutionaries took it upon themselves to kill our men.”

Cassious had his energy back. The stern, aggressive posture he was known for globally was beginning to return. “While we as a nation will mourn our fallen soldier, we will continue the fight in his memory. No matter how much they preach it, these monsters do not believe in true freedom, true liberty, or true ideology.”

“We, as a people, will continue the fight. We, as a nation, will be victorious. We have faced hardship before, and we can do it again. On my orders,” Cassious once again halted, looked down and then back up directly into the camera. He would not relent. “The Imperial Republic of Zamastan’s military will begin strikes against the insurgent installations of the Smith regime in Bjeorg. These will be carefully targeted actions, and are designed to disrupt the use of Bjeorg as a terrorist base of operations that Governor Brian Smith has turned it into.

We are joined in this operation friend, Libertas Omnium Maximus. This is a fight in their land, on their request, and this is a fight for the survival of their history.”

The director gave the President a thumbs up from behind the camera. It was time for Cassious to appeal to emotions once more. “I know many Zamastanians feel fear, anger, and pain today. In the days ahead, our patience will be one of our strengths and one of our struggles. We will need our patience and understanding that it will take time to achieve our goals, patience in all the sacrifices that may come. Today, those sacrifices are being made by members of our armed forces who now defend us so far from home, and by their proud and worried families.”

Thank you, and God bless Zamastan, our soldiers, and our strong, devoted, and endeavored people.”

Cassious placed his hand on his heart and nodded to the camera, as the President would always do following an address, as is customary.

The camera flicked off, and the director pumped his hand in the air. “We’re done. Thank you, Mister President.”

Cassious walked out of the podium room and to the Gaviria Room, where his generals were waiting. Closing the door behind him, he gestured to the map that had been displayed on the wall.

“Call up President Paterson. We’re taking the tunnel in the next three days or we bomb it.”

“Sir, that would block a direct access for our ground forces.”

“The insurgents will try to blow it regardless, and we have landing craft that can take the beach heads. This is an ultimatum for Smith’s forces. Pull up options for a landing.”

“Yessir.”

Another general chimed in. “Sir, there’s an option that includes taking the tunnel and landing troops at the same time.”

The President sat in his desk chair, lit a cigar, and moved it to his mouth. “Tell me.”

**Lauchenoiria** · 08-02-2019, 12:00 AM

Divide and Conquer

Fleura House, Residence of the President of Lauchenoiria, Buttercity, Lauchenoiria
July 24th, 1991

Augustin Méndez had been President of Lauchenoiria for a little less than a year, and during that time he had managed to become even more hated by the anti-communist dissident groups than his predecessor. They had managed to get onto the grounds of Fleura House with the attention of spray painting something just this morning. Thankfully, they’d been caught and arrested. His meeting with his security advisers on the Bjeorg situation had been delayed, however, and as he entered the room he could see that they weren’t happy.

“What’s the latest then?” he asked grimly as he took his seat and gestured for them to do the same. He spoke in English, despite being from the Spanish-speaking part of the country. English was fast overtaking Spanish as the primary language of Lauchenoiria, as the English-speaking provinces grew in population.

“Zamastan is going to war,” said General Felix Toft, a hard, grim-faced man who often made people shiver when he entered the room. He was tall, with dark eyes and nobody had ever seen him smile – not even his wife. “It was to be expected, after someone in Bjeorg shot down their plane.”

“So, it’s to be a war then,” stated Méndez, nodding. “Well, we’ve been discussing this. I don’t think the threat is enough to change our plans. The capitalists will always hate us, it hasn’t made them attack us yet. I intend to proceed.”

“It is a risk, Mr President,” said Toft, his expression unchanging. “If we recognise Bjeorg, we are declaring Zamastan and LOM our enemies.”

“They were already our enemies, General. At least this way we can strike a blow to the stability of LOM. We know that someone has been funding those student dissidents, perhaps it was even LOM. No, I am going to do this, and that is final.”

“Yes, sir,” Toft said, then hesitated, as if about to add something.

“What is it, Toft?”

“Well, sir, I am somewhat… confused.”

“About what, Toft?”

“Well, sir, Bjeorg is hardly a communist state. They would be no friend to our cause. Why are we risking war to help a nation with little chance of success, that would undoubtedly refuse to help us in the future?”

“You always were blunt, Toft,” chuckled Méndez. “I admire that about you. The others are often too afraid to say what they feel, but you… well.”

“I apologise if I have overstepped, Mr President.”

“No, it’s quite alright. It is a legitimate question. You are correct, Bjeorg is unlikely to be a traditional ally. However, Libertas Omnium Maximus certainly is not an ally. The capitalists consider us weak, especially in light of the recent problems we’ve been having with the dissidents. No, we must do something about this. LOM is currently in crisis. We have an opportunity to drive a wedge through their country, tip them further into crisis. With Zamastan getting involved, the opportunity only increases. We weaken them, we tear them apart, and then they are no longer a threat to us. And, if we support Bjeorg, they will be in our debt.”

“With all due respect, sir, if we involve ourselves in this conflict, there is a chance they will weaken our forces as well. Would that not be counterproductive?”

“Oh, I think it’s unlikely we’ll need to get involved in a military capacity. We’ll just stir up trouble from the side-lines, watch as they destroy each other. Just as we do to the dissident groups. Infiltrate, divide, destroy.”

“It could work, I suppose.”

“You doubt me, General?” Méndez queried, one eyebrow raised.

“I… no, sir.”

“Good. I am going to make the statement. If all goes well, we won’t need to involve the military at all. If anything goes wrong, however…”

“We will be prepared.”

“It is about time we saw some division in the capitalist countries. They have been far too united for far too long. This is the perfect opportunity to use an old strategy – divide and conquer.”

“You mean to conquer LOM?”

“It’s just a figure of speech, Toft. Although, if the opportunity arose…” Méndez laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. I’m not that foolish. See to it that preparations are made.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good day, Toft.”

*

Statement issued by President Méndez of Lauchenoiria

The Federation of Lauchenoiria hereby recognises Bjeorg as an independent state. We condemn the actions of Libertas Omnium Maximus and Zamastan in acting against this fledgling nation, and ask both nations to cease hostilities immediately and allow the people of Bjeorg to build their new nation. We are hopeful for a peaceful resolution, and call upon all parties involved to cease military operations in the area. If, however, this request is ignored, we will consider acting in support of the independence of Bjeorg.

**Democratic Republic Of Eiria** · 08-02-2019, 01:08 AM

The Proclamation
July 24, 1991, Liberty Square, Geminus, Eiria

Chancellor Cera Balodis Stood before the sea of people on the stairs of the Senate Building. "Good Evening. I apologise for the short notice of this announcement, but given the circumstances, it simply cannot wait".
She paused and inwardly smiled. Perfect. I have the full attention of the nation now, she thought. "As all of you know, the Senate has been deliberating over the growing conflict in Bjeorg, and now have come to a conclusion". She cleared her throat, then continued. "The Sovereign Nation of The Democratic Republic of Eiria hereby recognizes The State of Bjeorg as an independent nation, and Eiria pledges their support in the conflict if it comes to war". She paused again as the crowd talked among themselves, surprised. "Let this serve as a manifesto to the LOM, that we will not tolerate Oppression, and will see you on the Battlefield, if it comes to that". She muted the mic and went into the Senate building.
Inside waited her panel of Advisors and Cabinet Members. "How did I do?" She asked the group.
Daniel Legrand, her Minister of Diplomacy, spoke up. "Very Eloquent and well spoken, Madam Chancellor. Although I doubt LOM or Zamastan were terribly overjoyed".
"I doubt that as well. And for heaven's sake, Daniel, call me Cera".
"Sorry".
"Cera, we have word from your brother, saying that they are approaching Bjeorg ocean". Sarah Larson, her Chief Admiral, spoke up.
"Tell him to stay where he is until I can contact Bjeorg's governor. We don't want any friendly fire".
"Yes madam".

Zamastan · 08-02-2019, 07:44 AM

The Waving Sailors

[Image: 10570_2480465244e06f64106b3e.jpg]

July 24th, 1991
International Waters, the Strait of St. Peter

“Upham, this is Hawk 5. Coming up on the Triton.”

The Zamastanian fighter could see the Eirian ship only two miles ahead, glimmering on the calm, sun-soaked waters of the Agramai Ocean. Command had received word that the [nation]Democratic Republic of Eiria[/nation] had sent a ship to the perceived conflict zone but hadn’t expected it to begin its movement so quickly. Plus, the Eirian Chancellor had just stated she was ready for war. This obviously did not sit well with the Zamastanian commanders, and they sent a plane to circle it. This was to be a warning and a warning only – no shots would be fired by the Zamastanian craft today. If they could, they were going to talk the Eirians down before they stepped up.

The pilot turned on his transmitter and turned it to a known Eirian frequency. “Corvette EIS Triton, this is the Zamastanian military. You are approaching an active conflict zone. Turn around immediately, or there will be serious repercussions.” The pilot waited, peering down as he slowed his fighter and passed the ship. The EIS Triton was not a large vessel in comparison to the Zamastanian war ships, but it made up for size with armaments. Three large forward canons appeared to be locked in a stationary position, but they were foreboding. EIS battleships also were known to have speed to them, something that slightly outmatched their Zamastanian counterparts. However, there was only the one ship – for now, the pilot reminded himself.

“Corvette EIS Triton, this is the Zamastanian military.” The pilot repeated his command as he began to circle back towards the ship. “You are approaching an active conflict zone. Turn around immediately, or there will be serious repercussions.” Still no answer. He slightly moved the frequency dial and tried once more. Again, no answer. He was on the right frequency; they were just ignoring him. He passed the Triton once again, and this time, he could make out figures standing on the balcony of the vessel. Some appeared to be waving.

These poor sailors, the pilot thought to himself. They’re being pulled along into this. It wasn’t a smug thought; it was a genuine sadness coming from the pilot’s conscience. It wasn’t a prideful idea of Zamastan destroying the inexperienced sailors, it was the fact that the sailors likely didn’t have a direct idea that they could possibly find themselves in a fight with the far more battle hardened Zamastanian navy. The pilot could only hope that when he flew by later, the EIS Triton and her crew would be sailing away.

As he looked back at the ship once more and watched it shrink smaller and smaller on the horizon, he could only think of the seemingly happy expressions on the faces of the waving sailors.

**Lauchenoiria** · 08-02-2019, 01:30 PM

Activation

Council of Kerlile Chamber
July 20th, 1991

“Angeline, it is your call.”

Councillor Angeline Pierre sighed, and straightened the papers in front of her. She eyed the woman who had spoken. Councillor Eveline Hart had piercing blue eyes that Angeline did not like to stare at for too long. As the senior member of the Council, Eveline chaired their meetings, and she was very good at forcing the other Councillors to be brief. She had the ability to make someone fall silent with a single glance.

“We have never activated one before. It would be the first time. Are we certain this is the time?” Angeline queried, attempting to chase the nerves from her voice.

“You say your programme is the best. Your mother set this up at great expense. You say these girls are trained from almost the time they can walk. I think it is about time you prove to this Council that your family’s project was worth funding,” announced Councillor Rani Patel.

“I do not believe this is worth the risk, Councillors,” interjected Sarah Robinson, the youngest of the Councillors. She glanced briefly at Angeline and then continued. “If we are caught, there will be repercussions.”

“You are only saying that because your family disapproved of the project from the beginning, child,” said Joan Arnott, chuckling. “A Robinson will never be objective when it comes to a Pierre project.”

“I am not a child, I am thirty-one years old as you well know!”

“Councillors! You are becoming distracted,” scolded Eveline. “We must focus on the matter at hand. The Council is split. We must decide whether or not to move forward. The Pierre family has control over the Aurora Programme. And therefore, Councillor Pierre will decide if we move forward. Angeline, your decision, please?”

Angeline looked around the room once more. She had come into this meeting, excited about the opportunity to test out one of her family’s prized Aurora agents in the field. Since the start of the Programme, almost 90 Auroras had been sent out into the world, and yet not one of them had been called upon to do anything. They just sat in their assigned countries, awaiting orders and building their covers. This was going to be the opportunity to change things. And yet, now when the moment was upon her, Angeline hesitated.

“Councillors, I… yes. Yes, we will proceed. Activate the Aurora in Bjeorg. If our reports are correct, women in Bjeorg will be worse off than they were under LOM. Unless we wish to become the hypocrites the patriarchal countries say we are, we must take action. Bjeorg cannot be allowed to become independent, and we cannot be seen to interfere. This is the best way, and I have faith in the Programme.”

“Very well. I assume you will limit her activities to information gathering in the interim?” asked Eveline.

“Yes, of course. We can discuss what more to do once the situation becomes clearer. I will have my people make contact and relay the orders of this Council to our agent in four days. I assure you, she will not let us down.”

“She better not,” muttered Rani Patel under her breath, eyeing Angeline.

*

Abigail Foster’s apartment, Bjeorg
July 24th, 1991 – 04:30

Abbie Foster groaned as the telephone rang. She’d been fast asleep, in the middle of a dream and she wasn’t entirely sure that the ringing was real.

“I’m coming,” she grumbled to herself as she threw her covers off and stood. She padded over to the phone and grabbed it off the wall, twirling the cable in her hands as she spoke. “Foster residence, how may I help you?”

“Congratulations, Miss Foster, you have won our competition!”

“It’s 4am, why are you bothering me?”

“In order to claim your winnings…”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

“… please contact the Lucky Aurora Corporation on the number given to you when you entered. Congratulations again!”

The line went dead, leaving Abbie frozen in place. She slowly moved to replace the phone but it slipped from her grasp. She caught it by the cable, her well-trained reflexes reacting quickly even through the shock of the call. She stood for several moments, the phone dangling from its cable. Then she took a deep breath, replaced it on the wall and walked over to the window. She pulled it open, letting the cold night air wash over her.

So soon? she thought. She had been told in training not to expect activation for at least ten years from her arrival, and it had only been seven. She took a couple more breaths, trying not to shake. She had also been told in training that after activation, there was every chance she would be dead within a year.

“Prepare yourself.”

That’s what they’d told her. Her purpose was to serve the Matriarchy of Kerlile, to carry out her mission. Every girl raised in the Aurora Programme knew that. They all had different assignments, different primary missions, but all of them were servants of Kerlile. Abbie had spent her childhood training to carry out covert missions, had been sent to Libertas Omnium Maximus at the young age of 14 with instructions to build a cover story, and wait for a call that might never come.

Abbie had hoped it would never come. Her life as Abigail Foster (naturally not her real name) was fairly pleasant, she would have been quite content to just live it. Alas, that was not in the cards. No codeword had been given in the call to indicate just which of her possible missions she was being called upon to complete, but all of them contained some level of danger. It was entirely possible, even probable, that she would not live to see her next birthday.

She sighed, and closed the window. She went through to the kitchen, picking up an apple and biting into it hard, channelling her frustration and her fear into the fruit. There was nothing she could do about the matter. She had to accept that the life she had built here, the friends she had made… all of it was about to be over. An Aurora agent had to be willing to drop everything the moment she was activated.

Today she would make the call, find out her mission, and then carry it out to the best of her ability. She would use the skills she had given up her childhood to learn, and she would further the aims of the Matriarchy of Kerlile. After all, she was Kerlian, and whatever false identity she took, she would always be an Aurora.

**Democratic Republic Of Eiria** · 08-02-2019, 06:34 PM

International Waters, The Straight of Saint Peter
July 24, 1991

Commodore Janis Balodis picked up the radio. "Zamastanian Aircraft, this is the Triton. We have orders to stay stagnant here until cleared for entry by the Free State of Bjeorg. And, If you don't like us staying here, you won't like the 42 ships about a mile and a half behind us". 45, actually. He thought. Because of the three subs. He changed the radio frequency. "Triton to Liberty".
His Vice Commodore, Alisha Jameson, answered. "Liberty here. What's up?".
"Be advised. Zamastanian Fighters up ahead. Slowing to full stop know". The ship slowly halted, just out of Bjeorg Ocean.
"Roger that. Oh Bloody hell".
"What is it, Alisha?".
"Paul's got his weapons primed and manned." Paul Stanfield was a Corvette Captain, commanding the Napoleon.
"What?!".
"Yep. Telling him to stand down now".
The line went dead for a minute, then crackled back to life.
"He was reluctant, but stood down. He's awfully trigger happy".
"Please try to keep him in line. We can't afford insubordination".
"Roger that. Heading to your position. ETA 45 seconds".
"Copy that".
Sure enough, the Triton was soon surrounded by a whole armada of ships, which slowed down and stopped, forming a protective ring of ships around the battleships and destroyers. He shifted the radio frequency, then a activated it. "Zamastanian Aircraft, be advised. Any attempt to interfere with Eirian Affairs in Bjeorg will provoke serious consequences. We apologise for the lack of warning or etiquette, but given the circumstances, it was necessary". He turned to his Lieutenant. "Inform the Chief Admiral of our position".

The Chancellor's Study, Geminus, Eiria

Chancellor Cera Balodis sat behind the ornate oak desk of her study, thinking. The Initial Naval charge is sent. We have ground and Air Troops Ready. What else is there to do besides contact the Governor? Then She had a thought and smiled. As she picked up the phone, Her Minister of Diplomacy entered the room. "Who are you calling? Governor Smith?". He asked, curious. She shook her head. "The Olympians". David's eyes widened in surprise. "Is that necessary? I mean, we don't want to be excessive".
"It is. We're going against LOM and Zamastan. It is very necessary".

Zamastan · 08-02-2019, 07:46 PM

Battle of the Strait of St. Peter

[img] https://www.theolivepress.es/wp-content/...-Spain.jpg[/img]

July 25th, 1991
Morning
The Strait of St. Peter

“We’ve got confirmation on the EIS Triton, Upham. Preparing to pursue.”

The [nation]Democratic Republic of Eiria[/nation]n corvette, the EIS Triton was in motion, moving at top speed and flanked by six unidentified speed boats and a large cargo vessel which was also unmarked. The ZMS Clift and the ZMS Lance Pelio had been given orders to break away from the main carrier fleet and pursue the Eirian ship, which was sitting 43 miles south of the aircraft carrier ZMS Upham’s position. The Triton had clearly seen the approaching frigates, and had turned in a complete 180 from their heading and was moving along the coastline, just grazing the borders of international waters and the Maximusian boundary. Occasionally, it performed zig-zagging maneuvers, possibly to try to confuse radar. The corvette, however, was not the official focus as of now; that focus was on the speed boats and the cargo vessel.

Admiral Tavoka, upon learning of the speed boats, was convinced they were smugglers from the larger vessel. Disrupting or capturing the smaller ships, the cargo ship, or even the corvette for that matter, could provide insight into whether there was a direct correlation between the newly discovered missile stations on Bjeorg and the possibility of outside intervention. That was the task force’s mission.

“Corvette EIS Triton, this is the Zamastanian military.” Captain Ursel Trenton aboard the Lance Pelio spoke on the frequency. The warning had been given earlier by a pilot, and now it was being relayed by him. “You are approaching an active conflict zone. Turn around immediately, cease your motion, and prepare to be boarded. Otherwise, there will be serious repercussions.” The Eirian ship continued to move in the direction of its heading, and Trenton ordered the Zamastanian vessels to prepare for engagement.

It was nearly thirty minutes later when the three larger ships were within two miles of each other. The Eirian ship had curiously slowed its pace, not enough to be caught, but enough for the Zamastanian frigates to get within deck turret firing positions. Captain Trenton gave the ultimatum to the Triton once more. ““Corvette EIS Triton, this is the ZMS Lance Pelio of the Zamastanian Naval Forces. You are approaching an active conflict zone and conducting dangerous maneuvers. Turn off your engines, cease your motion, and prepare to be boarded. Otherwise, there will be serious repercussions.” Still no response from the Eirian Corvette. However, upon the second request, two of the smaller speed boats that were flanking the ship jutted outwards, bouncing in the wake and spinning in the direction of the Lance Pelio. Trenton could see from the bridge’s video monitors that sailors onboard the Triton were scurrying from the back towards their posts, presumably in the front of the ship.

“Battle stations,” Trenton shouted. “They’re moving towards us, prepare for engagement!”

“Yes, sir!” Captain Eric Falsted on the ZMS Clift could be heard saying through the transponder. The Clift pressed forward, stirring up large waves and outpacing the Lance Pelio, preparing a turn to the right to try and encircle the approaching speed boats.

Onboard the EIS Triton, Senior Commodore Janis Balodis watched from the bridge as two of the Xiomeran smuggling craft broke off and spun towards the fast-approaching Zamastanian frigates.

“Distract them for a little until we get into a far-enough away position to fire,” Balodis ordered the speed boat crews from the deck. “Do whatever you need to do, I’ll give you the signal. We only need to reach the fleet and we’ll be fine.”

“On our way, Commodore.”

The speed craft rushed the distance in between the Triton and the Lance Pelio. On board one of the boats, a crew member manned a rattling gun turret placed at the bow, beginning to unload rounds on the Pelio’s front.

Sailors on the Pelio’s deck covered their heads with their hands as bullets sprayed their direction. “Under fire,” one young recruit shouted upward. The siren on board the Pelio began to wail loudly as crew members manned their side-board weapons and returned fire. Tracers hit the water aggressively from the larger warship, striking up huge splashes around the smaller, more nimble craft. One of the speed boats crossed straight into the fray of incoming Zamastanian bullets and was riddled in and around the hull. The engine sputtered, smoke and a sudden lurch forward indicated the boat had lost the ability to continue the chase. Bloodied crew members, Xiomeran mercenaries, scrambled to gain control of their craft, but when the boat was hit by the Pelio’s wake, the Xiomeran smuggling craft capsized, sending her men tumbling into the sea water.

The Lance Pelio’s main forward canon now positioned itself upwards and extended it’s focal tube, aiming for the Triton’s rear engines. The ship was still in a heading and had gained speed, and to her right, the Clift was gaining on her, preparing to entrap the vessel. The cargo ship began to turn away from her Eirian protectorate, Trenton thought to himself that they were preparing to escape.

“Locked, sir,” One of the battle officers said to Captain Trenton.

“Free fire on the Triton!” Trenton ordered, loudly. He was about to end the Eirian’s ability to fight.

A loud boom and heavy vibration reverberated across the ship as the canon fired, sending smoke filling into the atmosphere as a large explosion shot outwards and into the sky. Seconds later, a massive explosion could be seen on the back of the Triton, causing the water around the ship to bubble from the force of the impact.

Aboard the Triton, it was chaos. The back of the ship had been racked by the force of the battery fire, and bloodied, maimed sailors were being pulled and dragged to the front of the vessel as more able-bodied men ran to the back to extinguish the flame.

“Damn it!” shouted Balodis, staggering to get to his feet. The force of the blast had knocked him and many of his officers to the floor. “Get men back there and give me a damage report!”

“Engines are operational, sir, but one of the rotaries is damaged, a generator likely exploded, and water is spilling into one of the barrack rooms. We won’t sink, but we’re definitely a lot slower and operating on 70% power.”

Balodis cursed under his breath, sweating profusely now. He hadn’t anticipated the Zamastanian vessel would open fire so quickly. “I’m going to turn the ship around!”

“Commodore, they’ll hit us again!”

“No, they won’t.” Balodis said sternly, “They’ll think we’re stopping. If it looks like we’re crippled, they’ll get closer. That gives us the shot we need.”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

The Lance Pelio was preparing to fire again when the Triton turned. Smoke billowing out of the back of the ship, crew members rushing around the deck, Trenton knew he had scored a good hit.

“Prepare to board, all forward deck canons ready. No need to keep the main canon up.” Out of the corner of his eye, Trenton noticed the cargo vessel, which had only recently pulled away, was positioned exactly adjacent to the Lance Pelio, situated a half mile from them. “Did we check on the shipping boat?” Trenton quizzed.

Suddenly, an explosion and a thunderous crack rocked the Lance Pelio, yanking Captain Trenton to the ground and sending him into a panic. “Who was that?” He shouted, voice cracking. “Are we hit?”

“Taking in water from below the surface line, Captain!”

“Was it the Triton? Fire back!”

“I don’t think so, sir, the Triton has no guns trained on us.”

“What the hell is happening?” Trenton put a hand to his head, feeling warm blood trickling down his temple, earned from the fall to the metal floor.

Aboard the Triton, Commodore Balodis was ecstatic. “Did the Q Ship hit them?”

“Yessir, looks like a torpedo!”

“I’ll be damned,” he said, chuckling to himself. This was perfect, and even he hadn’t anticipated the Xiomeran mothership involving itself in the fight. “This works way better than I would’ve thought. Status on the frigate?”

“Stationary, sir. They may have suffered a hit to their engine room.”

Balodis smiled. “Sink her.”

The canon aboard the Triton trained on the Lance Pelio, and with smoke pooling out of both ships, the Eirian vessel opened fire, striking the front bow of the Pelio twice. Within moments, the Pelio began to list to the side, taking on water from the front left as well as the back left. Captain Trenton and his crew abandoned ship as the frigate sank below the waves. In thirty minutes, she was completely submerged. Later reports would find that 55 sailors perished when the ship sunk. An additional 12 had been killed in the exchange of fire with the speed boats. In total, 67 men perished along with the ZMS Lance Pelio.

The ZMS Clift, now the sole operating Zamastanian vessel in the immideate vicinity, prepared to turn. Captain Falsted sent his ship back to the listing Triton and picked up sailors from lifeboats and the water. On the ship’s radar, he could see two additional EIS Ships inbound, marked as the EIS Liberty and the EIS Napoleon. The Eirian fleet had arrived.

“SOS, this is Captain Falsted of the ZMS Clift,” Falsted transmitted on Zamastanian and Maximusian radio frequencies. “Capital vessel is sunk, in process of rescuing survivors. Additional hostile vessels are inbound via radar signal, need immediate reinforcements and assistance.”

The Xiomeran Q ship, its speed boats, and the crippled Triton were slowly in retreat, wary of the impending bombardment the would receive from the Clift or any other arriving Zamastanian vessels. On the horizon, the two additional Eirian corvettes were rapidly approaching, preparing to guide their damaged comrades out of the battle zone.

Twenty minutes following the beginning of their retreat, three pursuing Zamastanian frigates, the ZMS Tofiniua, the ZMS Jackson, and the ZMS Whiterock, as well as a squadron of jets, caught up to within a mile of the newly formed fleet. The Eirian’s realized they were outnumbered and continued their retreat, but not before retribution was paid. The EIS Napoleon was strafed by the frigate’s heavy canon fire, and a sortie of bombs dropped by rushing jets resulted in the ship sinking in an extremely fast ten minutes. Lifeboats and Xiomeran speed boats quickly picked up any survivors they could find and sped away. Neither side officially won the Battle of the Strait of St. Peter.

Casualties:
Zamastan:
-67 sailors killed
-Loss of the ZMS Lance Pelio

Eiria:
-153 sailors killed
-Loss of the EIS Napoleon
-EIS Triton heavily damaged

Xiomera:
-8 sailors/mercenaries killed
-One speed boat sunk

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