Planes, Mercenaries, and Blood Gems

A flight of four MiG-29s were screaming by in the air, a few thousand feet off the ground. Traveling in excesses of five hundred miles per hour, each plane was loaded to the brim with bombs. Underneath a jungle could be seen whizzing by. The jets were in the Oynenyuan Free State, nearby Transmass, Matamba, and Tsumebia. There was no government order in either state, nothing but warlords and paramilitary factions existed. The region having been a hotspot of mercenaries and various other factions battling it out for control of it’s vital resources. Blood gems, drugs, and weapons were the desired elements.

Tufts of gray fur sticking out where his neck. The lead pilot spoke into the oxygen mask, “Drago to squad, target is one minute away, prepare bombs,” flight helmet on and visor down to shield his eyes from the brutal sun.

Rogers were the replied heard from the other three jets as each pilot was flicking switches and calibrating their huds for delivery.

“Drop on my mark, ready,” said Dragomir “Drago” Vishnyovsky. The Lupine hailed from Laiatian, having grown tired of his retirement from their air force and wanting to see adventure. 47 years old and not looking to quit anytime soon, he has garnered a reputation in his homeland as an Ace, with 32 and a half confirmed kills during the between the wars back then.

The target was out of visual sight, but the FLIR sensor revealed a small air base held by an opposing faction. On the screen he could see heat signatures of pilots running to their MiG-21s, Mirage F1s, and F-4 Phantoms. All the planes nicely grouped in a hanger to protect them from last night’s rain.

‘Suckers, trying to baby their aircraft,’ he thought before finally shouting “MARK!”

The jets were screeching by, within range and dropped the bombs upon the leader’s command. For a few seconds, the bombs free falled in the air until they hit their targets. The fuel reserves of the air base, the overpacked hanger, and the nearby weapons depot. With the base now officially out of commision until reinforcements arrive, Drago spoke, “Good Hit, Good Hit, let’s peel off and head home.”

The MiG-29s turned away and started back in a Northwesterly manner, back into friendly territory. Their jets were low on fuel, the short legs of the Fulcrums being the only major detriment of the plane.

It was a hot day again, but the heat didn’t bother the pilots of the 198th Tactical Fighter Squadron, nicknamed the “Flying Boofs” thanks to their uncanny leader. Drago was sitting on a recliner, his wolf-like facial features scanning the map on the wall.


On it were the known factions fighting within what would have been the Oynenyuan Free State. The actual government was in the corner fighting off rebels, maintaining a stronghold. He then looked at the yellow blob that was NAFO. The National Army for a Free Oynenyua was backed by Wey-Yu Industries, via covert means. The Rhodesian Conquest of Genosha enabled a clear pathway to their puppet nation, armed with weaponry and missile produced by non other than their gracious master.

Then looking at the orange-ish splatter to the right of NAFO was the DRO. A acronym of the Democratic Republic of Oynenyua. “Bunch of Communists supported by Serenitech and Transmass,” he thought to himself. A hand was up stroking the underside of his salt-and-pepper colored muzzle, signifying the years he went through.

The airbase that his squadron struck the previous day belonged to the DRO, as a result, their air operations were suspended in the local region, giving NAFO ground forces time to establish a defensive line. Looking outside to see the MiG-29s sitting in a hanger, being maintained by their ground crew. Their little airbase was far enough behind the lines to negate any worries of enemy attacks unless they managed to wipe out the multiple lines of SAMs. The pilots were on the other side of the room room, sitting at a table and chatting amongst themselves. Zaura Hunt was seen in her flight-suit, along with the two others.

Like them, Drago was picked up by Wey-Yu Industries with the promise of a large pay and adventures to be had. Having been the most experienced of them all, it was only fitting he was the squad leader. Zaura’s felidae ethnicity pointed to her being a Rhodesian, if she hasn’t mentioned that before. The other two were a Vulpine by the name of “Max” and the other a human male from South Hills. Nothing much could be said about Max other than the fact that he was abnormally quiet, speaking only when spoken to. However he did stay close to his compatriots. The human from South Hills was Jason “Fives” Braccus, his nickname from how much he kept bringing up the staple food in his home country, Five Guys.

The wolf looked back at the map and stared intently into the little gray box the nestled against the DRO’s holdings. The text B7R remained there in black text as he started to drift off into a nap.


Drago was breathing heavily into his oxygen mask, fighting to maintain consciousness while pulling a hard G maneuver. Behind him was a F-16 Falcon belonging to a rival mercenary. The wolf had no time to think as tracers of the Falcon’s gun started flying around his MiG. Slamming the joystick to the left and pulling, he rolled out of the incoming fire, only for the enemy to maintain it’s position.

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The Lupine was straining, fighting life and limb to avoid being just another tally mark. More rolls, more hard turns, and more tracers flying around him as he was staying alive. For a minute seemed like eternity, it wasn’t until he heard his wingmate, Zaura Hunt, shout “GUNS GUNS GUNS!”

Just out of the cusp of the flight leader’s eyesight, the F-16’s wing was torn off, sending it into a irreversible spin starting with it’s tail end sliding to one side and going up. “WOO HOO! THAT’S FOUR!” shouted the female member of the squadron.

“Cut Radio Chatter, Max and Fives need support!” shouted Drago as he glared at his subordinate while turning around and then punching the throttles forward. The engines went into afterburner, shock diamonds forming a trail behind his jet. Looking a little behind, he saw a parachute in the distance. One could only assume it was the same pilot that gave Dragomir a run for his money. Focusing forward, he saw a massive furball of 15 something jets trying to dogfight their way to victory. Fives was struggling to lose a tail, a F-4 Phantom that was all over his rear.

“Goddammit! Someone get this F***ing Brick off of me!” shouted the South Hills native as he pulled a rolling scissors in hopes of getting an overshoot.

Drago noticed what was going on, and couldn’t help but shake his head at the amateur. In a classic dogfight, the MiG-29 would smoke the Phantom at any time of the day. He rolled his aircraft into the general direction. It was too dangerous to use missiles, for fear of hitting his wingmate. Instead his thumb rested against the stick as his index finger was ready to pull the trigger present. He commanded, “Fives, Break Left Now!”

Fives broke left in his Fulcrum, and the flying brick behind him followed suit exposing it’s entire body to the flight leader. The wolf pulled the trigger, his plane spewing 23mm rounds that impacted the phantom. Impacts and fragmenting could be seen as the rounds started from the nose of the plane, all the way down to the tail. It erupted into a massive ball of flames, followed by it’s charred and still burning frame falling down to the ground.

Max “shot down” two jets by causing them to fly into each other because they got greedy. That impressed Drago the most about the Vulpine. Then came the chime through his flight helmet. “Bingo Fuel, Bingo Fuel, Bingo Fuel.”

He huffed, “Alright gang, let’s pull out. I’m at bingo.”

“Awww, come on!” exclaimed Zaura.

“Hunt, we are flying planes that have short legs. Would you prefer to walk the way back?” he said in a disciplinary manner.

“No Sir,” she replied. The Fulcrums were pulling formation as they began to fly back to their base, being sure to check their tails and avoid any followers. The furball continued as rival factions continued to fight for control of the air. The 198th Tactical Fighter Squadron may have not been the victor, but they sure as hell shot down the most. Zaura at four fighters, Max at two, Fives at zero, and finally, Dragomir at a whopping seven.

[spoiler]http://i.imgur.com/LZ9bVyA.png
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UADF Headquarters, Tillanni, Abakamoso

Dagmawi Melaku looked over the map of the country, noting the locations of various other factions and government holdings. The region his group held was only a small portion of a larger area known as ‘Abakamoso,’ whose inhabitants were routinely abused by the Oynenyuan government. When the government started collapsing a few years ago, he founded the United Abakamoso Democratic Front with several men from his village. While not initially a militant group, he recruited from the countryside and eventually was able to take on the Oynenyuan army. He was quite proud with how he and his people had liberated such a substantial part of his people’s land.

While not official, it was largely accepted by those living in territory of the UADF that they were part of the People’s Democratic Republic of Abakamoso, no longer the Oynenyuan Free State. Dagmawi was at the head of the “government” in place - if one could call it a government. Violence was largely what kept the peace within UADF territory - quite similar to the OFS way of ruling. The population hoped it would change once the conflict was over. No-one dared to go against the Melaku Brigade, as it came to be known as, as the socialist militant group was supposedly backed by the regime in Matamba.

“We should launch another attack on Kileti, try to get more of the medical aid coming in and secure it for ourselves.” Yacobe Gorfu said in his native tongue to his commander, pointing at one of the smaller dots near the de facto PDRA border.

Dagmawi rubbed his sun-worn face as he looked over the map. “What about Matarangwe?” He inquired, pointing to another small dot near the lake. “That’s where the gem factories are. We can fund more than just medical aid. We can get guns, ammunition, new cannons. Maybe more aircraft than just the two we have.”

Yacobe nodded. “We should also consider seizing more territory much more quickly, Commander. Instead of just raids, we must expand our borders if we are to provide the people with what they deserve.”

“Our new recruits are still being trained, Yacobe. In time, we will. We have to worry about those capitalists in the north now as well. While there is still plenty of space between us, I fear we will come dangerously close to them. And then we will have to fight a more formidable opponent, not a wounded dog with its tail between its legs.”

“That will take months, Commander. Surely we can expand our operations further north and east without worrying about some foreigners. This is our land, not theirs. They have no right to be here. They are not fighting for the people.”

“Easy Yacobe. I know you are eager, and I applaud you for it. If it will placate you, seize control of Matarangwe. Bring it under our banner. That city will be worth more to us under our control. Raid Kileti, it’s worth more not under our banner. At least until aid is no longer delivered there. You know aid will not be delivered to somewhere that is blatantly under our control.”

Yacobe nodded in agreement, standing up straight and giving his Commander a salute - which was reciprocated. The two walked out of the large room and eventually walked out of the building into the blistering sunlight. The large colonial period building stood strong behind Dagmawi and Yacobe, serving as the headquarters and seat of government for the UADF and the People’s Democratic Republic. A light utility vehicle waited outside with a single driver, playing solitaire on the hood of the jeep. His head was protected from the sun with a boonie cap, sweat beading on his body and staining his shirt’s back and underarms. When he saw Yacobe and Dagmawi he saluted and cleaned up his deck of cards, stuffing them in his pocket.

“Mekuria! Start us up, we are going to Muragi!” Mekuria nodded and quickly loaded himself up into the truck, tossing his assault rifle into the back of the jeep before starting the engine. Yacobe turned to the commander. “I will call you by radio once I reach the staging area.” Dagmawi nodded, giving Yacobe a pat on the back. “Best of luck my friend, go with the wind.” Yacobe mounted up, and the jeep sped off.

Jonas T’savimba was looking over a table with Dragomir, the other members of the 198th Tactical Fighter Squadron, and a rather punkish looking woman in a tactical getup. The large Pantera Leo with a bit of gut protruding at his midsection. He wore a olive drab uniform and a military cap on his head, nothing was distinguishable between him and his men. A smart leader never wore something that allowed a sniper to find their target easily.

Jonas was a native born Oynenyuan, although Laiatan educated. In his early years he was a staunch communist, although the recent years have proven as a significant change in his own personal beliefs of what communism has done to nearby nations, especially Matamba. Intellectuals being jailed, bankers lined up and shot. His own uncle was a victim of necklacing from communist troops. A hideous act of sticking a tire around one’s arms and torso, then dousing them in gasoline and lit on fire.

T’savimba then joined the more capitalist leaning factions, NAFO. The National Army for a Free Oynenyua was a small group, but the lion-like figure rose through the ranks. His intellect was unrivaled in the region, capable of speaking seven different languages, including common and even Unonian fluently. Backed by a western nation, he had the necessary education and military training thanks to their efforts to suppress the communist movement. A shell company was giving significant contributions to the NAFO, although Jonas was smart enough to know that the rabbit hole goes a lot deeper.


(OOC, the most up to date map.)

The Pantera Leo pointed to a city just to the north of the UADF and said, “My spies have given us confirmation that the communists will be moving to here. But that is not a big concern.”

Joanna, a Corsair and part of the mysterious organization that’s backing the NAFO, spoke up. “We have made pushes into the DRO’s territory to the mines. So far we have captured a few trucks worth of minerals and hidden any that we could not take with us. As a result, they will be upping security on their convoys.”

“Good, good,” said Jonas, “It might be a dent in their wallet, but we need to cut them off badly. However, I’m concerned with the communists to the south.”

Dragomir then added in, “A recon plane confirmed that they had only a handful of jets. In the meantime we hold the air superiority and the MANPADs that’s been given in the previous shipments will be enough to counter any airstrikes should they have the gall. We can worry about them later and let the other factions deal with them.”

“Ok,” replied the large figure, “I suggest that we have your MiGs fly in to their western front, and hit these series of military depots. It’s what’s keeping their men supplied and ours where they are. Once those are out, we can move the soldiers forward, and land our helicopters.”

“Speaking of,” the lupine asked, “How are the Gulls?”

“They are good helicopters, would have preferred Hueys, but beggars cannot be choosers. We’ve put them to good use transporting supplies to our men. We are looking forward to a heliborne air assault in the next day or two.”

“But before we get ahead of ourselves,” replied Joanna, her black lips moving, “Our spotters along the lake here between Serenitech and Transmass have reported seeing tanks being loaded onto shipping barges. They’ve confirmed that the tanks are for the DRO.”

“Shit, Drago, change of plans,” Jonas said, “We will need you to take your jets, and sink them. My men are severely under-equipped to deal with heavy armor.”

“Done,” Drago replied before turning to Joanna, “They in transit now or still loading?”

“Still loading as of thirty minutes ago. By the time you get in the air, they will be leaving port.”

“Shit,” Dragomir said with a huff as he began jogging out of the room. It was daytime and the other members of the flight crew were hanging around one of their jets. As Joanna looked out the window, she could see the ground crew scrambling around the planes, loading up missiles, rockets, and gunpods. It wasn’t until 10 minutes later did the whines of the MiG-29s could be heard as the engines spooled. Joanna looked at her wristwatch and calculated the time. By now the ship would be finishing up final checks, and by the time Drago’s squadron reached there, the ships were halfway across the lake.[edit_reason]Gave the exact location of the lake.[/edit_reason]

Leyla Guleed bent down, looking a little girl in the eye. “Oh, yeah?” Guleed pointed to the rundown, one-eyed teddy bear in the girl’s arm. “Is he your favorite?” The six-year-old girl nodded fervently, quickly describing all of the characteristics of the furry, brown fake animal.

Guleed barely heard what the girl was saying. This girl was just six, and yet, her parents were both dead. Her brother was missing, likely also dead. Her home was long gone. It wasn’t the bear’s name that made it special. It was that the bear was the girl’s only reminder of what life used to be. The girl probably knew that, too. But how does a six year old express that?

The girl had stopped speaking, Leyla realized. Guleed patted her on the head, smiling. “Well, I’m so glad you have a friend,” she said, “and now, you’re going to make some new friends! Here, why don’t you go with Ambro here.” Leyla motioned to a short, fifteen-year old auburn-haired girl that had been waiting patiently to the side. “I’m sure you’ll have a great time getting to know each other.”

The six-year-old nodded, taking Ambro’s offered hand, and walking into the orphanage with her. But an expression flittered across the child’s face for a moment beforehand – a look of sadness, despair, and above all else, knowledge. No matter how nice Leyla was about it, this girl knew exactly where she was, and more importantly, what she was doing there.

Once the girl was out of earshot, Guleed turned to her chief advisor, Samakab Waaberri. “How many did we lose in the raid?”

“It’s bad,” Guleed said, referring to the most recent attack by the bandits known to frequent the unclaimed areas to the South, “we only lost a few fighters. But they ransacked the whole village before we retook it. It’s…not good. Thirty, maybe forty dead.”

Leyla did not even bother responding. She might have been angry when the rebellion started, and she might have despaired when rebellion became intractable civil war. But she had been desensitized to it all, slowly but surely. And that is what truly made her despair. She was the leader of the Oynenyuan Tribal Alliance, a confederation of local authorities that had united to fight the national government, then united to hold their own against the warlords that rose in its place. She had originally just been its health and education officer, but after years of fighting, she had risen to the top mostly because of the deaths of those around her. And in large part as a result, here she was, nearly dispassionate about the deaths of several dozen of her people.

“They’ll undoubtedly come again,” Leyla said after a moment, “so see if you can shift around some people for defense. I know, I know – we don’t have the resources.” The OTA received support from several foreign nations, but nothing compared to its enemies. Perhaps more importantly, it was extremely difficult to convince a tribe to commit fighters for operations that did not directly benefit that tribe, making it a constant struggle to maintain many of the OTA’s lines. But somehow, the OTA always found a way. Or it had to date, anyway.

Waaberri nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

In the setting sun, three MiG-29s were maintaining formation to land. One’s engine was out, another smoking badly and leaking oil. No plane was unscathed, as small holes from flak and AA weaponry stitched each and every one of them. All three had their landing gear down, descending until the screeches of rubber hitting the asphalt. Slowing down and gently applying the brakes, they reached the end of the airstrip and began taxing their planes to an open space just in front of their hangers.

Ground crews were sprinting across the tarmac, carrying hoses. They were dousing the planes with water in efforts to put out the smoke and prevent a fire. Drago popped his canopy open, and jumped down from the cockpit. With a thump his boots impacted the ground. The lupine’s face was of stone, feet moving forward to the main building.

The doors of the main building burst open, Jonas jogging out in concern towards the flight leader. He shouted, “What happened?”

Drago just kept looking forward as he walked, “Shipping barges are sunk. They won’t be seeing those tanks.”

“No, I mean what happened?” asked the leader of NAFO when he was within an arm’s reach.

The wolf pilot stopped, and looked behind him. He could see Zaura Hunt who already clambered out of her plane and was being dragged by a few of the ground crew away to safety. Max was being unbuckled from his plane and picked up by a hefty panter leo. The small and fragile looking vulpine being carried fireman style towards the infirmary, the large figure sprinting like hell. Underneath the spotlights, blood could be seen dripping from Max’s flight suit and boots. Then Drago looked at the night sky before saying, “One of us didn’t make it.”

Before T’savimba could get another word out, the lupine just continued walking to the building. The large figure was aghast at the sheer damage the plane went through. Some holes large enough for him to squeeze through were present, canopies with bullet entry and exit paths, and Zaura’s right wing was torn off. "It must have been divine grace they made it back,"was the constant thought in his mind as he looked at the destroyed aircraft that flew home on miracles and hope.

[hr]

The next morning…

Zaura was sitting on a bench outside in the morning sun. Looking at the still sitting wrecks on the tarmac in front of their hangers. Her flight leader sat down next to her and said, “Divine grace huh?”

Still in disbelief over how they made it back, she turned her head and replied, “Something like that, yes. What’s the word on Max?”

The lupine let out a sigh, “He’ll make it. It’ll be a month or two until he is able to fly again. The doctor said that the bullet grazed his leg, if it was a couple of inches to the right, he would have died from blood loss.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, staring blankly at the surroundings. The silence broken by a question from the Felidae, “So… Fives?”

“Don’t blame yourself Hunt. Fives knew the danger when he signed up. He made the honorable choice.”

“Still can’t beleive it happened though, just…” she paused for a second before resuming, “flying into a forest instead of landing on a street?”

“Hunt, Fives knew about the possibility of killing innocents in that town. He did not want to risk it. He could not eject, and he chose to take the option where others won’t die out of selfishness.”

Deep down, Zaura felt hatred for Serenitech, she wanted payback for Fives and Max. “When do we fly again?” she asked, with a tinge of anger.

The Lupine looked at her, noticing her rage boiling up. He answered, “We will fly in the next day or two. I got off the horn with the higher ups. They are sending in pilots and planes. Max will be flown to the corporate islands by another plane.”

Matarangwe, Disputed Area

The sun was just peeking out from above the hills as several BTR-60s pushed forward along the main road, supported by advancing foot soldiers. Police cars blocked the roads to the best of their abilities, though they provided their owners with little protection as the BTRs fired on them. Officers and militia set up on the roofs of their town’s buildings fared better than their compatriots down on the streets, each easily taking out several soldiers from the advancing army before being dispatched themselves. Those injured were pulled back to UADF lines while those killed were left in the street to be collected later.

By noon any remaining police officers and militia had been pushed back to the gem cutting factory, the building encircled by troops and armored vehicles. All other major facilities had fallen to the UADF militants, including the humble town hall. The mayor resisted almost immediately, and was executed in his office by Yacobe only minutes before he got to the factory. “We need that factory mostly intact, make damage to a minimum!” Yacobe called out across the radio to his various squad leaders, who had resorted to taking pot shots at whoever stuck their head out a window. Those inside fired back occasionally, but it had become a standoff.

The lieutenant watched the standoff from the rooftop of a home whose family was likely dead, or had fled as his men went house to house. He looked at his own lieutenant. “Give me the megaphone.” He commanded, which was quickly fulfilled. He brought the megaphone up to his mouth. “Attention Matarangwe Police and militia. This town is hereby under the full control of the United Abakamoso Democratic Front. This factory is to be secured by our army and its profits are to go to the betterment of the People’s Democratic Republic of Abakamoso. Your mayor is dead because of his resistance. You can avoid the same fate. Surrender yourselves and the factory to us, or there will be dire consequences. You have 120 seconds.”

Yacobe put down the megaphone and raised his radio. “Get ready to breach. Take the south wall. Watch your crossfire. Take whoever you can alive. We need examples.” Yacobe looked at his watch and began counting down the seconds until the deadline. Ten seconds… Twenty… Forty… Sixty… No movement could be detected as half the time rolled by, and Yacobe kept counting. Seventy… Ninety… One hundred ten… He raised the radio to his lips once again, eyes locked on the front door of the factory. Seven… Six… Five… Four… His lips curled as he prepared to give the command, until suddenly the door opened and men marched out with their hands raised. The standoff was over, and the factory was theirs. The flag of the People’s Democratic Republic was raised in front of the small town hall, and some troops celebrated while others cleaned up.

Drago sat in his new MiG-29 screaming across the skies, this time it was apparent things were a little different than he anticipated. A day’s worth of cramming a thousand pages into his mind kept him occupied. The analog gauges were replaced with HUDs, everything looked clean and sleek. The lupine was initially confused, but then his years of flying and training kicked in. To him it was like a distant cousin he hasn’t seen in years.

“Hydra 2 to Hydra 1. Confirm destruction of target” was the voice that went through Dragomir’s flight helmet. Rotating his plane to the left and looking at the ground from several thousand feet up. Helicopters were busy moving across the landscape. Some were busy moving supplies and equipment. Others were carrying out wounded. Across the landscape scorch marks could be seen from helicopters landing previously, black pillars of smoke billowing from destroyed enemy stashes and vehicles.

“Hydra 1 to Hydra 2. Target confirmed destroyed,” the wolf huffed. He looked at a destroyed APC on one of the glass panels of his cockpit. On screen was a FLIR camera looking at the burning APC, followed by it’s crew members running out and rolling in the field. The bodies became lifeless as he heard the silent screams in his mind. Yet no emotion could be seen on his face.

“HQ to all Hydra. Airspace is confirmed ours and strategic targets are under our control. Head on home, we got a good meal waiting for you,” crackled over the radio.

“HQ, this is Hydra Squadron. Copy that, heading home,” was Drago’s response as he smiled, then speaking again, “All Hydra, form up on me.”

Nearby the former Laiatan’s plane climbed three MiG-29s, two Su-24M Fencers, and one Su-24MP Electronic Warfare planes. Each of them painted in gray with a painting of a hydra on their vertical stabilizers. The squadron had a new addition of eight squad members. Now fully fitted out with tackling every mission available from air superiority to ground pounding.

“Hunt, what the hell was that?” complained Taga Nikono, a fellow lupine flying one of the attack aircraft.

“Is that butthurt my sensors are detecting, cause I am getting large readings here on the monitor,” shot Yasmine Nassar while piloting her Electronic Warfare jet.

Zaura Hunt, now relieved from the anger, replied in a coy manner, “What’s wrong Taga Baby? Did I steal your kill?”

The lupine, frustrated, “I called the shot first!”

“You snooze, you loose,” said Hunt.

Drago then spoke over the communications device, “Hunt, Taga, look out the windows opposite of eachother.” With the flight leader’s comment, stifled laughter could be heard as the squadron made their way back to the airbase.

The members of the 198th Tactical Fighter Squadron were outside chilling in a inflated pool just outside of their barrack. A small boombox could be heard blasting a rather iconic song. Baha Men- Crocodile Rock - YouTube

A few jet engines were roaring as a fellow mercenary squadron was taking off in their A-4 Skyhawks. Dragomir just floated in the pool on a doughnut, his furry torso exposed and soaking in the rays. Zaura Hunt was at a nearby grill with Yasmine Nassar, keeping watch on the slabs of local boar caught as thanks from the NAFO soldiers.

Taga looked over and shouted, “Oh, so the girls are busy working in the kitchen huh?”

Hunt laughed and pointed to the lupine with a machete she used for cleaning and parting the hog earlier. She remarked, “Don’t make me go over there and take away your mannelijkheid.”

The Laiatan shut his mouth, this time not wanting to incite a cat holding a machete who just threatened to castrate him. A few of the ground crew members who were partying laughed a bit as their chef resumed cooking. Several beers in hand, it was time to rejoice after a while of hard work. Now the NAFO soldiers were making leaps and bounds, while other mercenary squadrons were picking up the slack while the Hyrdras were enjoying their time off.

The airbase was busier than normal, especially considering that the Federal Republic of Rhodesia is silently supplying and funding NAFO forces. Jonas was inside looking at a map. NAFO has grown considerably. Now that the DRO’s holdings on the mines had been lost, support for the Stalinists have waned, especially from Serenitech. Joanna’s reports confirmed that less and less trucks were coming from the Transmassian government.

“Probably out of self defensive measures. The amount of ground we gained is shocking. They might be preparing for a war with us once the DRO is out of the picture,” Jonas mused. But then his eyes went to the UADF’s confirmed holdings. The thought of another enemy popping up was scary. So it was crucial that the Serenitech backed dogs be put down quickly.

Leyla Guleed truly appreciated the metaphor “wet as a dog,” as she lay in the dirt, her rifle aimed through some bushes at the dirt road that was the only interruption to the tens of kilometers of jungle surrounding her. Sweat poured down her back, her front – truly, her everything, soaking her hair, her clothing, and even her ratty flak jacket. She would not even need to be sweating to feel wet, of course – not with the humidity index close to 90%. But between that, the heat, and the adrenaline coursing through her, she could barely hold her gun.

Barely was enough, though, especially for a beauty like the one she carried. Most of the OTA’s militiamen (and few professionals) carried AK47s or, at best, AK74s. But Guleed was not most militiamen. She’d spent a brief time in university, and a great deal of time in Maxtopia, Bigtopia, and even Equatorial Kundu. More importantly, she’d spent several years now as leader of the OTA, and that, combined with her foreign connections, had gotten her the M-4 carbine she held in her hands now.

Guleed used the rifle more than one might expect, given that she was the leader of perhaps the fifth most powerful group in Oynenyua. But though the OTA had many strengths, its greatest weakness was always in the unwillingness of tribal leaders to commit fighters to battles far away from their own tribes. The tribal leaders claimed they needed those fighters to defend their lands, but in reality, they just didn’t have much interest in helping other tribes. Getting men was like pulling teeth as a result. And so, when it came to major operations, Guleed often found herself and many of her top advisors out in the field.

The OTA leader glanced over at her top adviser, Samakab Waaberri. He was crouched behind some tall bushes, looking down at the same path. He only carried an AK-47 – but it was his AK-47. He’d had it for over twenty years, ever since he deserted from the army to join the OTA, which at the time was a fledgling rebel group. He’d even named the damn thing, though Guleed could not for the life of her remember that name.

But any thoughts of the name of the gun quickly fled from Guleed’s mind at the sound of engines. There was a flurry of activity as the less experienced militiamen took cover, hastily motioning to each other to make sure everyone knew about the oncoming vehicles. As if the roar of their engines was not enough. They were maybe a minute away now, Leyla could tell. She calmed her breathing, focusing on the road in front of her.

A half dozen vehicles came slowly along that road just about when she had expected. Seven altogether – three hum-vees and four trucks, exactly as expected. Guleed watched Waaberri out of the corner of her eye, waiting for him to signal to strike. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he yelled out. Just a moment later, the mine stuck in the middle of the roadway detonated, flipping the first hum-vee over, and forcing the convoy to a halt.

The thirty-some militiamen dedicated to the mission immediately opened fire, pouring a hail of ammunition towards the convoy. The more experienced fighters aimed carefully, while the kids just emptied their clips at the hum-vees. It didn’t matter. The ammo was, altogether, enough. Within three minutes, most of the DRO troops were dead, and the remainder were loudly surrendering. The time had flown by for Leyla – she had shot one man, then kept suppressing fire on one of the hum-vee’s turrets to keep it from being used. She had only fired about twenty bullets; not bad.

Rising, Guleed made her way down to the trucks. While some of the younger militiamen gathered up the prisoners, the older ones began to pick through the weapons, ammunition, and clothing of the dead. Not just the DRO dead, naturally – a half dozen OTA fighters had died as well, and their corpses were shown little more respect. Leyla didn’t care. She made her way directly to the trucks, finding Waaberri already there. She looked at him questioningly. He just smiled.

Guleed felt a grin break her face as well, despite everything. “How much?”

“Enough,” he said, pulling back the flap on the back of the vehicle, and revealing the crates of materials inside. It was everything a forward operating post could want – guns, ammunition, even some medical supplies and electronics. Just what the doctor ordered, she thought to herself. “Get everyone to work unloading these,” she said, “we’ve only 5-10 minutes before they’ll have air support here. We need to be gone by then. And I want the vehicles destroyed.”

“What about them?” Waaberri motioned to the half dozen prisoners taken.

Guleed glanced at them. They were mostly young men, probably conscripts, forced to fight. She knew what Waaberii would say – that they didn’t deserve to die. And it just wasn’t worth the argument. “Fine,” she said with exasperation, “have them help unload the trucks, then leave them with one of the hum-vees.” She motioned to the hulking form at the end of the line of prisoners. “Except him,” she said, scowling at the Felind, “kill him. We don’t want any of his kind around here.”

The UADF had been on the offensive over the last three days, taking territory as suggested by Yacobe. Small villages were the most common settlement taken, a handful actually welcoming the UADF as liberators. Celebratory gunfire sounded throughout the countryside, mixed in with gunfire from firefights with local militias or police forces - those that dared stood in the way of the UADF onslaught. Any opposition that was captured alive was shipped off to the mines or gem cutting factories.

By nightfall much of the gunfire had quieted down as the celebrating troops were either calming down and enjoying dinner, or the lines had stabilized for the evening. Single shots would ring out occasionally, snipers or hunters taking their shots. Among those enjoying the serenity of the night were Dagmawi and Yacobe, sitting by a fire while peering over a map as the hog was cooked by the villagers. This border village was one of those that saw the UADF as liberators. The group’s banner fluttered in the night breeze, high above the village.

“We’ve made many strides these last few days, Commander. We’ve secured roads and villages throughout this area, and I can safely say it is firmly under our control. Partisans are being dealt with.” Yacobe motioned to the now colored in areas of the map, indicating greater UADF gains with updated NAFO and OTA gains.


“Matamba has increased weapon deliveries and aid to us as we’ve continued our advances. We’re getting closer to the OTA and NAFO, so we should expect our borders to stall with theirs. I don’t recommend we get into a shooting war with either of them until we are able to fully commit, Commander. Perhaps even diplomacy.”

Dagmawi nodded as he listened to the brief from his lieutenant, looking over the map and after action reports written up for him. “Very good, very good. We’re getting closer to our ultimate goal of freeing the region from the tyranny of the Free State. No longer will the people be abused for a profit.”

“And what of the OTA and NAFO?”

“We will deal with them once the time comes. Once our borders meet, I want extra defenses along each sector. Machine guns, mortars, armored vehicles. We will not lose this land. Not again. I would be willing to negotiate with the OTA. They are led by the people, and supported by people of this continent. But the NAFO, they must be removed - or at least stopped. They have sold out.”

Yacobe gave a little nod as he collected the documents from Dagmawi. He trusted in his commander, they had served together for quite some time since the collapse of the Free State government. Dagmawi always had Yacobe’s back, and Yacobe had Dagmawi’s. They had saved each others’ hides several times. Their trust was absolute and unfaltering. He didn’t question the possible consequences of going to war with a group like the NAFO. He just hoped the People’s Democratic Republic would survive and eventually thrive under Dagmawi’s leadership. So far it had.

Jonas was sick, not from a flu or a medical condition, but morally sickened. His soldiers have come back with reports of Felinds being shot on sight in the OTA. Seeing this as an opportunity, despite personal thoughts of taking advantage of such an offense was an immoral thing, he had men photograph and collect the decaying bodies.

“Such hatred…” he said to himself mentally. He was on top of a Rhodesian-supplied Stryker, overlooking the throngs of his own kind who fled the OTA grounds. The red dirt road was packed with refugees, males, females, children, even elders all alike were scared. Not knowing what to do, what to eat, all they could focus on was getting to safety. Babies were being held in their mother’s arms, crying.

Despite Jonas being a emotionally hard man, it wasn’t until he saw a mother carrying the lifeless body of her infant did a tear stem from his eyes. Next to him was Joanna, the leader of the Corsairs in the Oynenyuan region. Her pale skin contrasted from other humans, who had a dark olive, or black complexion. Her face was covered in streaks of mud and black paint, the hair a mess behind the camo bandanna.

“Shall I eliminate their leaders?” asked the Corsair.

“No, I have a better idea,” said the large Felind and leader of NAFO before continuing, “I have Tomo Kenyat in Rhodesia appealing for help.”

“Why the sudden need for diplomacy?”

“Because, we have reached that point where foreign nations can now put a stake in factions. We have already gained the silent support of Rhodesia, what we need now is official support.”

“And what about the OTA then?”

“I will ensure that they do not have a place in our Oynenyua. Such hateful bastards should never exist, especially since these refugees had just fled the DRO.”

“From the frying pan, and into the fire,” commented Joanna. She looked nonchalantly at the crowds, analysing faces. In one section of the road, a group of NAFO soldiers questioning a Felind, who wore telltale signs of him being DRO. In the group was a Rhodesian military adviser, armed with a FAL seen commonly in service with his nation. It was obvious now that things might escalate, but it was within certain minds that more attention on the global scale would benefit the people of NAFO greatly.

[hr]

DuVall, Rhodesia

Inside the presidential office, three figures would be seen sitting on the two couches facing each-other. On one couch was Tomo Kenyat, ambassador and the closest thing to a civilian leader of NAFO. On the other couch sat President Marion Heleck, and Vice President Valintino Saar’bac.

“You must understand when we say we need your official support, Ms. President,” pleaded Tomo. The Felind was old and graying, in human years it was estimated that he would be around his early 70s.

Marion stated flatly, “Ambassador Kenyat, we need more proof, we need the media. A powerful nation such as ours must be careful what they say or do, especially since we are in a precarious situation.”

Val added in while underhandedly motioning to the photos on the table between them, “We are sending supplies, arms, and weaponry unofficially though. The media must gain wind of these atrocities being committed. Then and only then will there be an official international response.”

Tomo by now was frustrated, visibly so. He was grateful for the unofficial support of the Federal Republic of Rhodesia, but they needed more. They needed an intervening force that would help them conquer the rest of the Oynenyuan region. Picking up on this frustration Val continued, “We already have a few journalists in there. Our own people are wanting us to intervene and support NAFO in it’s effort to stop such acts. Even South Hills and the Free Pacific have journalists arriving. All that needs to be done is to appeal to the global stage, show them the graves, the pictures, the bodies.”

“And what if it’s not enough?” asked the Felind while looking at his species’ distant cousin, the Felidae.

“It will be, these pictures are damning enough, even the pictures of your kind trying to flee the OTA will be enough to garner some support from international organizations. It might not be military support, but it will be organizations like the Tigers Club who will set up locations to house, feed, and help the refugees whenever possible. Even for the people that live under NAFO,” said the Vice President.

President Heleck then finished, “Ambassador Kenyat, we are supplying your men with weapons, ammunition, armored personnel carriers, and medical supplies. Even foodstuffs, but I’m not afraid it’s enough, especially since we are doing it in a clandestine manner. Should the media be clamouring over this, we will gladly send an expeditionary force, along with a larger contingent of special forces, and a carrier strike group. Force Recon and SAD operatives are already making an impact on enemy supply lines and leadership, especially for the DRO.”

“What about other nations that would support the other factions?” asked Kenyat.

Val spoke up, “No one wants to support the bloodthirsty monsters, so they will naturally go to support NAFO in it’s quest to right wrongs and seek to prevent such acts. If they do, we will send a letter that says to kindly ‘F*** Off’ and or give them a black eye on the international scale of diplomacy. As to the UADF, do not be surprised if certain communist, A-hem, excuse me. Socialist nations, decide to back them. If you can, find anything that will feed the blood thirsty folks such as the journalists, media outrage will then force them to rescind their hand if they wish to have a standing in global politics.”

“Why the sudden support for us though, I must ask. I found it curious that your country is willing to go to such lengths for an out of the way place like mine.”

“Because Ambassador,” stated Val, “What we want are allies, support on the international scale. It only makes sense for us to support a group that strive for the same ideals as ours. You are a very progressive man who wishes for a small government, just like many others who joined NAFO. They lived under an oppressive regime like the Oynenyuan Free Sate, no?”

“Correct,” nodding Tomo.

“We are willing to help prop up your nation and watch a long lasting friendship exist. In a world such as today, we need them a lot more than others like to admit. Despite Rhodesia’s friendship with the Free Pacific States, we are still a wild card to other nations like the Vekaiyun Union, South Hills, and the more prestigious members on Urth. Even the people of the Free Pacific States saw us as bloodthirsty conquerors in our invasion of Genosha, despite us wanting to put an end to the hotbed of terrorist activity.”

Tomo sat in the couch, this time nodding a little, understanding why his gracious hosts and suppliers were willing to go such lengths. After a minute of silence, he said, “Well, I must get going. I have to deal with matters in NAFO. When I come back, there should be enough media attention on the genocide, and then we can see where to go from.”

Leyla Guleed rarely got the opportunity to spend time in the modest home constructed for the leader of the OTA, given the constant need to travel amongst the various tribes, clans, and towns to maintain public support. When she was not politicking, she was often fighting, though as the OTA’s territory had expanded, the need for her presence at the front line had diminished. Nonetheless, Guleed enjoyed being able to sit in her living room, enjoying a small breakfast while reading through reports from the various front lines.

Of course, serenity rarely lasted, and Guleed’s quiet reading was interrupted when Samakab Waaberri stormed into the room. The OTA’s leader’s chief adviser looked absolutely furious, and his tone confirmed that fact. “Tell me you did not know about this,” he said pointedly, tossing a newspaper featuring images of Felind refugees.

Guleed momentarily considered playing dumb, but ultimately dismissed the thought. She knew this would happen. It was better to just get straight to the point. “I am aware of it, yes,” she said slowly, “but I did not order it.”

“But you allowed it,” Waaberri immediately replied, “and that’s just the same, and you know it. Do you realize how furious the Maxtopians and Bigtopians are? Let’s not even get into the Kundus. They’re all threatening to withdraw support if we don’t get a handle on things. And they should be. This is outrageous – murdering innocent civilians…”

“Nobody was murdered,” Guleed rose as she cut Waaberri off, “the fighters gave them plenty of time to leave, and even let people leave after the time elapsed. They only killed those that resisted, not everyone. And none of them were innocent.”

“Oh, well, it was just ethnic cleansing, not total genocide, why didn’t you say that?” Sarcasm did not suit Waaberri well; he was a bit too earnest to pull it off. But, in his current furor, he was close enough. “Not every Felind cooperated with the Free State. The vast majority of them just moved where they were told, and did what they were told, while trying to eek out a living.”

Now Guleed was angry. “They moved into our lands,” she said. It was the truth. The Felinds had populated the lowlands, but never the rainforests. The Free State had moved them in – entire villages of them – in order to facilitate the government’s campaign to crush the unyielding insurgency in the tribal areas. Indeed, most of the Felinds had worked for the government, be it as soldiers or clerks. “And what they did was viciously oppress our people for years. They don’t deserve to live to amongst us. This isn’t their land. They need to go back where they came from.”

“They’ve been here for decades,” Waaberri replied, “and plenty of people made the mistake of serving the government.”

Guleed cutoff that line of reasoning immediately. “You are different,” she said sternly, “you left their service. Willingly. Not after the end was in sight.”

“They’re not smart, Leyla,” Waaberri replied, now yelling, “they had no idea the rebellion was succeeding. When they saw it, and yes, it was late, but when they saw it, they stood against the Free State as well. And even if they didn’t, this wouldn’t be justified. It can never be justified. I tolerate the action against those that pick up arms – but I cannot tolerate this. You will tell the council that this stops, now, or else…”

“You don’t tell me what I will or will not do,” Guleed yelled back, “you are not in charge here.”

Waaberri took a few deep breaths, realizing his anger had gotten the best of him. He calmed and lowered his voice, and spoke slowly. “I am not going to be a party to ethnic cleansing, Leyla. That’s why I defected. Take care of this, or I’m gone, and so are the Maxtopians, the Bigtopians, and the Kundus.” With that, he turned and left, slamming the door to the small home on his way out.

Guleed sighed as she watched Waaberri walk down the dirt road in front of her home. She had selected him as her chief adviser primarily because he was a lifelong soldier. But she had also appreciated that, despite a half decade in the army and two decades in the OTA, Waaberri still had a heart. She had shared his idealism once – long, long before she joined the OTA. But not anymore.

But Guleed made up for her humanitarian streak with twice as much pragmatism as Waaberri would ever bring to bear. That’s why she’d joined the OTA when she did – as the government was collapsing, not while it was strong. That pragmatism had quickly led her to leadership. Now, she needed to use it once again to lead her people. “Hiram,” she said, calling out to her personal aid. The young man came running in immediately. “Gather the tribal representatives. I need to speak to them at once. And send word to the units that do heed our orders directly. All action against the Felinds is to halt immediately.”

Most of the tribal leaders would be angry – especially those few to the South that had joined the ranks in the past few days because they supported the campaigns against the Felinds. Some probably wouldn’t even comply. But it would have to do. Guleed needed Waaberri, she needed the foreign support, and at the end of the day, she didn’t need revenge nearly as much.

Kilogo, People’s Democratic Republic of Abakamoso

“Anom Mekuria! You have been found guilty of using the pretense of an honor killing to murder your neighbor by the Honorable Judge Raphel Abay, and a sentence of death has been handed down by the Honorable Judge. Today, that sentence will be carried out!” A man read out loud from a sheet of paper to the crowd that had gathered in the square around the newly constructed gallows. Murmuring reverberated throughout the crowd as the man read off the crimes the man standing next to him, allegedly committed. This was to be the first execution by the new state - a sign that law and order was expected within its borders.

Watching from a balcony of a building near the town’s square stood Dagmawi, Yacobe, and Judge Raphel Abay. Dagmawi leaned against the balcony, cigar trailing smoke. “What did he do?” Yacobe asked, looking over to the judge.

The judge removed his own cigar from his mouth before speaking. “Killed his neighbor over a hog. Neighbor supposedly stole the hog, Mekuria down there got pissed off and went over to his house. Bullet to the brain.”

Yacobe shook his head, also resting against the balcony. “Honor killings. It’s 2016, you would think we would see less of this.”

“You know the Free State barely policed the areas outside of the major cities. Left it up for the people to deliver justice to each other. It’ll take time for us to snuff these things out.”

Raphel Abay was appointed to the position of judge by Dagmawi a few weeks prior, and he was already “cleaning the streets.” A former prosecutor with the Free State government, Raphel had a handle on law - though the UADF had changed some laws. The majority remained the same, but some of the more minor ones were removed or changed. Raphel was the judge for this town and its surrounding villages.

The three men of power looked down at the bustling square, the people not used to a public execution. Dagmawi didn’t intend for public executions to become commonplace, he just wanted enough to happen so the public would learn that such killings would no longer be tolerated. He had lost his father in one. Oddly enough, in quite a similar situation to the man about to be executed by the PDRA. He remained silent as Yacobe and Raphel conversed.

“Do you have any last words, Anom Mekuria?” The executioner asked, placing the paper into his pocket as an assistant retrieved a hood from another person. Anom raised his head and began praying, pleading with his god to save him. A few in the crowd turned their heads from the sight, while Dagmawi continued to stare at the man.

After the man had quieted down - after what seemed like an eternity to the crowd, but was more like ninety seconds - the hangman placed the black hood over his head, and carefully placed the noose around his neck. The man seemed calm until the noose was placed, and he was visibly shaking as the hangman made his way to the lever. The hangman removed his cellphone from his pocket, and dialed a number.

Up on the balcony, Raphel answered his phone. “Yes? All set? Okay. No stays. Go through with the execution.”

The hangman gave a little nod as he hung up the phone, replacing it in his pocket before grabbing hold of the handle. “Anom Mekuria. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Dagmawi closed his eyes and turned his head as the lever was pulled, and an audible snap was heard throughout the square. He opened his eyes after a split second, returning his glance to the now lifeless body of the condemned hanging from the gallows. Nobody said establishing law was going to be easy.

DuVall, Rhodesia

Inside the Presidential office, Valintino Saar’bac and Marion Heleck were sitting on the desk, looking at a TV broadcasting. On screen were video tapes of heavily blurred scenes of honor killings inside the PDRA held territories. Interviews of Felind refugees have also been conducted, covering their abuse. Now photos of dead felinds have been publicized across multiple tabloids and websites.

“And now a video tape of a NAFO soldier as he uncovered what could be a mass grave of dead Felinds,” said the host, accompanied by the hostess. On screen was a Felind dressed in a NAFO uniform. A large blue tarp was being pulled back, revealing a pile of bodies of his own kind inside a pit. It was clearly visible that the journalist was recoiling from the stench.

“Excuse me, I need to go,” muttered the hostess as she began to leave her seat, her felidae paw covering her mouth.

“Please excuse my co-host,” responded the host, a human male as he looked into the camera. Continuing, “Not only has a mass grave been uncovered, but statements of refugees confirming the xenophobia, and surrendering men of the Democratic Republic of Oynenyua confirmed through witness statements that felinds were being specifically targeted, even when they surrendered. Which brave journalists in the region have recorded.”

The screen changed to another journalist who was standing next to a captured DRO soldier, a human male, his skin of a chocolate complexion and sweating from the heat. Behind him were two other NAFO soldiers ensuring his safety. On the bottom of the screen a little insertion said “Bazin Admassu Girma” which one could safely conclude was his name.

The journalist held a mic next to him and asked, “So, can you tell me what happened to your fellow Felinds when they came up against the Oynenyuan Tribal Alliance?”

He was nodding while speaking, “Yas, Yas. We foght dah OTA afdah dey ambused us. We surrenderd, sence we thought dey, outnumbed us. Afdah so much wer keeled.”

The female journalist brought the mic back to her asking, “And then what happened?”

After she moved the mic to him, awaiting a response, he said, “And den dey keeled dem. Dey keeled Sadiki, Samir, dey keeled dem all.” This time the prisoner was on the verge of breaking down.

“They were Felinds?”

He started breaking down crying on camera, “yas, yas. Dey wer. Dey wer gud cats.”

The video cut out, the screen now showing the host. Before another word could be said, the TV switched off. Val stood there with a remote in hand, while the President was still shocked. She knew what was going on, but the news only rammed home the point emotionally.

“So, enough evidence and media attention. Now we step in with an official statement, condemnation, and send in a serious force to put an end to this crap,” said the Vice President, looking at his higher up. Marion still sat on her desk, stumped on what to say. All she could muster was a nod while starting at the turned off television. She got up and sat on the chair behind the desk, beginning to write on a piece of paper.

After a minute, she looked up at her subordinate and said, “Mobilize the Carrier Strike Group, I want them fully briefed on the various factions and that they will be supporting NAFO. Prepare the Marines, and I want the media in here so I can give an official statement.”

“Will do Marion,” was the response from Val, he turned around to head out the office.

[hr]

An hour later…

Marion Heleck, President of the Federal Republic of Rhodesia, sat at her desk. Just opposite of her was a packed room of journalists and several cameras. Light stands were set up to provide the best image for the cameras. The red lights on the cameras went on, signifying that it was live.

The President breathed in deeply and then began, “My fellow Rhodesian, today our Armed Forces joined NAFO in airstrikes against separatist forces responsible for the brutality in the Oynenyuan region. We have acted with resolve for several reasons.”

"We act to protect thousands of innocent people in the Oynenyuan region from a mounting military offensive. We act to prevent ethnic cleansing and instability. We act to stand united with our ally for peace. By acting now, we are upholding our values, protecting our interests, and advancing the cause of peace.

Tonight I want to speak to you about the tragedy in the region and why it matters to Rhodesia that we work to end it. First, let me explain what it is we are responding to. The Oynenyuan region was formerly the Oynenyuan Free State, a dictatorship. For years it has led stability through rather unethical manners, however, rebellion has started. Now we are facing separatist factions with their own personal goals. Of the major factions, including the remants of the government, the National Army for a Free Oynenyua, the Democratic Republic of Oynenyua, and the People’s Democratic Republic of Abakamoso, instability and horrendous acts have been committed. Its people are mostly ethnic Felind and Human, along with some minorities.

In 2004 the Oynenyuan Free State’s leader, Hanif Mifsud, the same leader who led what is considered a brutal dictatorship, moved against the locals in the last decade, stripped the constitutional autonomy its people enjoyed, thus denying them their right to speak their language, run their schools, shape their daily lives. For years, Oynenyuans struggled peacefully to get their rights back. When Dictator Mifsud sent his troops and police to crush them, the struggle grew violent.

Now the various separatist factions started moving from village to village, shelling civilians and torching their houses. We’ve seen innocent people taken from their homes, forced to kneel in the dirt, and sprayed with bullets; Felind men dragged from their families, fathers and sons together, lined up and shot in cold blood. This is not war in the traditional sense. It is an attack by tanks and artillery on a largely defenseless people who wanted nothing more than to live their lives in peace.

Ending this tragedy is a moral imperative. It is also important to Rhodesia’s national interest. Take a look at the map. Oynenyua is a large place, but it sits on a major fault line between Transmass, Maxtopia, Bigtopia, Tsumebia, Nambutu, and Matamba. To the north, Genosha and it’s transitional government, a recent endeavor to stop the spread of terrorism. And all around Oynenyua there are other small countries struggling with their own economic and political challenges, countries that could be overwhelmed by a large, new wave of refugees. All the ingredients for a major war are there: ancient grievances, struggling regimes, and in the center of it all a dictator that has done nothing but start new wars and pour gasoline on the flames of ethnic and religious division.

We learned some lessons just a few years ago. The world did not act early enough to stop such atrocities, either. Children gunned down by snipers on their way to school, soccer fields and parks turned into cemeteries, countless people killed, not because of anything they have done but because of who they were. Two million Felinds became refugees. This ethnic cleansing in the heart of the continent to the south, in 2016, in our own time, testing our morals and our resolve.

Just this past Wednesday, Ambassador and one of the leaders of NAFO, Tomo Kenyat has begged us for official support. Over the past few months, we have secretly supplied NAFO with the capabilities to fight for what is right. We have supplied them with food for their people. We have supplied them with building materials to accept refugees. We have supplied them with the capability to provide a safe haven for the locals, to be free from such brutality and to be who they truly are.

Today we do what we must do to restore the peace. Our mission is clear: to demonstrate the seriousness of Rhodesia’s purpose so that the separatist leaders understand the imperative of reversing course; to deter an even bloodier offensive against innocent civilians in Oynenyua and, if necessary, to seriously damage the perpetrator’s capacity to harm the people.

Now, I want to be clear with you, there are risks in this military action, risks to our pilots and the people on the ground. It could decide to intensify the assault on the people being persecuted or to seek to harm us elsewhere. If it does, we will deliver a forceful response. I do not intend to put our troops in to fight a war, but I do intend to put an end to such egregious offenses against fellow beings.

Do our interests in the Oynenyuan region justify the dangers to our Armed Forces? I’ve thought long and hard about that question. I am convinced that the dangers of acting are far outweighed by the dangers of not acting—dangers to defenseless people and to our national interests. If we were to allow this war to continue with no response, there would be many more massacres, tens of thousands more refugees, more victims crying out for revenge.
Right now our firmness is the only hope the people have to be able to live in their own country without having to fear for their own lives.

Imagine what would happen if we instead decided just to look the other way, as these people were massacred on our doorstep. That would discredit Rhodesia, the cornerstone of a free and just democracy. We are doing the right thing. We cannot let them down now. Let a fire burn here in this area, and the flames will spread. Eventually this could be drawn into a wider conflict, a war we would be forced to confront later, only at far greater risk and greater cost.

I have a responsibility as President to deal with problems such as this before they do permanent harm to our national interests. Rhodesia has a responsibility to stand with those who cry for help, when they are trying to save innocent lives and preserve peace, freedom, and stability. That is what we and NAFO are doing.

If we’ve learned anything from the century drawing to a close, it is that if Rhodesia is going to be prosperous and secure, we need a world that is prosperous, secure, undivided, and free. We need a world that is coming together, not falling apart, a world that shares our values and shares the burdens of leadership. That is the foundation on which the security of our children will depend.

It is this challenge that we are facing in Oynenyua. That is why we have acted now—because we care about saving innocent lives; because we have an interest in avoiding an even crueler and costlier war; and because our children and theirs need and deserve a peaceful, stable, free future. Our thoughts and prayers tonight must be with the men and women of our Armed Forces who are undertaking this mission for the sake of our values and our children’s future.

May God bless them, and may God bless Rhodesia."

[edit_reason]Forgot a Kosovo :P[/edit_reason]

(OOC: Play this song to get into the mood. :wink: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCTJmXrgsFg)

The skies were a deep hue of purple, and in the seas was a Rhodesian Carrier battlegroup. The escorts were miles away from the capitol ship, providing a defensive fence. The FRRS Samuel Veridia, in honor of the famous explorer, cruised along the waves. F/A-14E Bobcats were coming in to land. The massive two-engine swing wing planes maintained formation above, as one by one, they landed. After several minutes, the final member of the flight took the flight pattern.


Inside the Bobcat, the RIO, or the backseater, held command of his plane. His duty was to maintain radio transmissions and to designate targets. The pilot just flew and shot missiles. It was the crucial factor in how the pilot and RIO interacted that decided if they were going to fly home safely or have to walk their way back.

“Hellhound 3, Hellhound 3, you are cleared for landing. Call the ball,” was the transmission that buzzed into their flight helmets.

“Roger that, calling the ball,” was the RIO’s response before taking off his mask and then saying to the pilot, “Ok Jule, routine landing. Lets do this.”

The navy plane started it’s descent, it’s target the small landing strip on the carrier. Minutes of sweat inducing precision was required. They were already on fumes. It wasn’t until a satisfying slam sending the crew bouncing in their seats, followed quickly by the rapid deceleration that sent both men leaning forward against the seat harness. Now they could finally breath a sigh of relief that their bird was on the ground.

[hr]

Two Hours Later…

Jules and his RIO, Hunley, were in the briefing room. Now freshly showered and in a new flight suit. The rest of the 492nd Tactical Fighter Squadron, more known as the “Hellhounds”, were with the two. Another squadron was present, the 113th Tactical Strike Squadron. Arguably the oldest navy squadron in Rhodesia. Unlike the Hellhounds, the Fighting Varks flew navalised F-111 Aardvarks. Tipping in at 50,000 lbs bare compared to the Bobcat’s empty 44,000 lbs, the aardvarks were not lightweights. However, the Electronic Warfare variants flown by the 798th Electronic Attack Squadron, the “Oracles,” were the true heavyweights, weighing in at 57,000 lbs bone dry.

The three planes were heavy, but they were not anemic in terms of engine performance. Each of them equipped with the F110 engines that kept true to the motto, “In Thrust, We Trust.”

“All right Hunley, tell me what you saw up there,” said one of the electronic attack pilots, his Naval Flight Officer/Co-Pilot nearby.

“Before or after they were turned into a flying hunk of metal and flames?” Hunley grinned. A few chuckles were heard across the room.

“Let’s go with before.”

“Well, I’ll let Jules talk about it, he’s the one who did the work. I was just the one strapped to the back of the beast. Jules?” the felidae asked while looking at his pilot. Jules was a human male who was previously enamored with a model Bobcat in his hands.

Oblivious to the conversation that was unfolding, perked his head up and asked, “Before or after they were turned into a flying hunk of metal and flames?”

Now laughter could be heard erupting throughout the room. Hunley just sat there grinning, pleasantly at how close of a bond he and his pilot shared. Flying the Bobcat was a two man job, and the same response from the both of them only proved that they were some of the most capable pilots out there. The true test of their mental bond was not through their flying skills, but through their day to day thinking, that mental bond of which Bobcat pilots pride themselves on.

“Let’s go with before,” said Hunley.

“Well then,” resumed Jules, “We were at thirty thousand feet an…”

The sounds of the conversation droned out, several pilots and co-pilots were forming a circle around the speaker. On the board was a map on the Oynenyuan region. The Bobcats of the Rhodesian Navy has given NAFO and Rhodesia a strong grip in the air above the OTA. Strike bombings done against the DRO and OTA has officially crippled their ability to wage war. Although IEDs and insurgent attacks were taking the place of large scale battles. Rhodesian marines had recently arrived, but NAFO has managed to nearly wipe out the DRO. Progress has been made in the south towards the remnants of the Mifsud regime. It was now a race to fight against the regime and secure the capitol.

Samakab Waaberri allowed his hand to run along the side of the burnt-out home as he walked, feeling the wood that had once made the structure sound. Leyla Gulend once told Waaberri that humans perceived more through their hands than through anything else, even more than through their eyes and ears. The sixty-something soldier was sure that the thirty-something leader had learned that in college, and that was enough for him to believe her. But as he felt the finished wood under his finger, he truly felt what she had meant. Closing his eyes, he could easily imagine what this wood once was, the foundation of a home, one of many in this village.

But opening his eyes brought Waaberri back to reality. He had reached the end of that wall, and now looked upon one of the main streets of what had once been a town of several hundred. It was a town no longer. Bodies lay in the streets, swarmed by bugs. Most of the buildings were on fire. Bullet holes marked the walls of those structures that had not been burnt to the ground. It was an ugly, ugly scene. But Waaberri was certain that it was becoming a scene all too common across OTA territory. With the announcement of the Rhodesian invasion, and the cutoff of foreign support, Gulend had lacked any reason to restrain those elements that wished to cleanse the OTA’s territory of the felinds. To the contrary, Gulend had every reason to fan the flames. The people willing to perpetrate these kinds of crimes were generally the most competent insurgents, the people the OTA was going to need in order to win a years-long guerrilla war. The rest of the population sympathized broadly with these insurgents, and would only be more resentful when the Rhodesians inevitably sought to bring to bring to justice those responsible for the massacre of this Felind village.

Samakab Waaberri did not share those sympathies, and that was mostly what brought him here today. In the immediate sense, he was here to bury the head. He had heard of the slaughter two days before, and had gathered seven like-minded compatriots to travel here to search for survivors, bury the dead, and free any remaining livestock. Getting here had taken time, even with the truck that Gulend had let Waaberri keep. But it would take even longer to do the gruesome task of putting to rest the tens of people killed. Many of the militias were no longer giving the felinds the opportunity to leave, given the likelihood of them returning alongside the Rhodesian marines. That, in a more general sense, was why Waaberri was here. He recognized the need for brutal tactics in a brutal conflict, but he had told Gulend he would not abide ethnic cleansing, much less genocide. So when she had tacitly approved of a resumption of the campaign, he had left. He planned to just wait out the rest of the war, and then to turn himself into the Rhodesians when they took control. Perhaps they would allow him a life in prison. He knew the NAFO would kill him – if not for exiting prisoners or for failing to stop the ethnic cleansing, then for being far too well-respected a figure to be allowed to live if this region was to be occupied.

As Waaberri turned the corner of the house, preparing to organize his somewhat sickened men for to dig the graves for the dead, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The elderly soldier looked over quickly, seeing nothing. But while his age left him slower, it also left him with the experience to know how to look carefully. Doing exactly that, he saw the camouflaged movement in the trees. This wasn’t a runaway villager or a local militiamen or even an OTA fighter. No – this was someone professional. And as Waaberri very well knew, there were only one group of professionals roaming these parts: the Rhodesians’ hit squads. Reports of their assassinations of village leaders had been flowing in from across the OTA, and from the sounds of things, though they might’ve had good intentions, they were not very choosy. They’d killed many extremists, but also quite a few moderates, and many others in between. Of course, Waaberri understood that they probably had only limited intelligence – people spent lifetimes understanding the complexities of tribal politics, and the NAFO had few people with that kind of background. But still, it didn’t make the life of OTA’s more moderate politicians any easier.

None of that meant much in this moment, though, as Waaberri was pretty sure this team had simply been given his name. It made sense – he had, up until a couple weeks ago, been the chief military adviser to the OTA’s leader. He had done a good job hiding his whereabouts after leaving that position, but using the truck had likely attracted far more attention than he had expected. It looked like that was going to catch up to him now. Turning, he walked slowly towards his compatriots, momentarily shielding himself from the Rhodesians using the burnt-out building. He motioned to his comrades, pointing off into the woods, letting them know what was coming. Several began to reach for their weapons, but Waaberri waved them off. None of these men needed to die today. Those men were here for him, not them. So much injustice had been done in this village; Waaberri would not let even more injustice be perpetrated on his friends.

Coming to the end of the building, he took a deep breath, then stepped around the corner, raising his hands. “These men are not soldiers,” he said, using the Codexian he had learned in the army and honed as military adviser, “whatever business you have with me, you do not have with them. They are here to provide what little service can be provided to these people.” Waaberri glanced at one of the dead felinds, lying not too far from him, to drive home his point. “I urge you to let them. I will not fight you.”

A lone human male stepped out from the foliage. He wasn’t dressed like one would expect of a special forces squad in comparison to nations like South Hills or the Free Pacific States. Wearing shorts that ended mid thighs, struggling to contain the muscles. His torso was covered by a plate carrier, underneath a t-shirt. His olive skin and face was smeared with a mixture of local mud and black paint. Atop the head was a boonie hat, with the night vision goggles still strapped on but rotated up. The rifle was slung in front, right hand on the grip with a finger extended over the trigger, rather than on the trigger itself. His bulging arms gave the impression that he could kick a lion’s ass barehanded.

He walked casually, confident even so. His squad were in strategic positions to provide the best amount of firepower should something go sideways. His muscles rippling with every step in the combat boots he wore. It was evident that the Marine Force Recon teams loved steroids, even having government support in synthesizing the perfect blend for special forces. Easily topping the scales at 210 lbs and maintaining a height of 6’3", he made Waaberri look like a anemic stick.

Finally stopping at ten feet away from the individual who called him out, he spoke, “Samakab Waaberri, you are coming with us. Tell your men that if they decide to interfere, we will gladly watch the lions fight over their still breathing bodies. If you at all jeopardize our mission, we will end you with extreme prejudice. Afterwards, you will get on the ground with your back facing me, and hands on your head. You have ten seconds to comply. You know what happens if you decide to test us.”

He then stood with a leg positioned back, it tensing up to get ready if it all goes sideways. His FAL had the selector to full auto, thirty round of 243 Winchesthair ready to be pumped into whatever the owner deems a target.

Waaberri nodded. He remembered men like this – the free state had once had a few. A very few, he thought to himself, smiling despite the situation. He doubted any had stuck around in Oynenyua. “Okay,” he said simply, glancing to his men. “Go,” he ordered. His compatriots needed little more encouragement. In a sense, most villagers were fighters. Nearly everyone owned a firearm, and most were ready to use it to defend their village.

But being a fighter in a sense didn’t make any of these farmers into real fighters. Only three had their weapons with them; none of those guns had been manufactured in the last 30 years. Given the opportunity, the group quickly clamored to Waaberri’s truck, climbing abroad then driving off as fast as the motley vehicle could take them. Burials would have to wait, at least until they didn’t think there were a bunch of men waiting to shoot them.

Waaberri slowly complied meanwhile, turning around, and then lowering himself to the ground. It was caekd with dry blood. Waaberri thought about repositioning himself slightly to avoid it, but thought better for it. He doubted the Rhodesians would appreciate it. And given the stench in this retched place, he didn’t really think it’d make him feel much better, either.