Staking a Claim

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1

Government Building, Coyden, 1200 hours, 12.20.16

Polkovnik Ivan Sakharov strode purposefully into Primary Minister Anatoly Baryshnikov’s office. It was smaller than the General Secretary’s, and was much more spartan; Anatoly didn’t much take to decoration.
The minister turned his weary eyes towards the new arrival, dispelling the horrifying image of Luka Dreykov’s current condition from his thoughts. “What can I do for you, Polkovnik?”
Sakharov cleared his throat. “Sir, Stratarin is in need of some much needed expansion.”
“That’s a repetitive way of putting it.”
The polkovnik coughed, then marched on with his point. "There is some territory to the east that we could easily claim as the beginning… " he paused dramatically, “…of the Grand Expansion of Stratarin!”
Anatoly sighed. Sakharov was a reasonably competent officer, but sometimes Anatoly wondered if he hadn’t leapt out of an old-style propaganda advertisement. “The wha… you know what, never mind. Which eastern territory?”
Sakharov showed a conspirator’s smile. Producing a somewhat large map from seemingly nowhere, he splayed it down onto Anatoly’s desk.
“Right…” he hesitated as he navigated the map with his finger, “…here.”
Anatoly was surprised that his suggestion was quite moderate and made some sense. “Are there any natives in the area?”
“Well…” Sakharov trailed off. Anatoly’s eyebrows shot up in suspicion, leading the polkovnik to slight panic. “Only a few, of course, minister. Ahem. And we wouldn’t kill them, or anything. They would either be carefully cared for and welcomed into our Most Serene Republic! Or removed, should they so choose.”
Anatoly nodded. “Well, I’m impressed.” Sakharov’s eyes showed a slight manic glee, and Anatoly immediately brought him back down to earth. “What does Setzna have to say about this?”
“Set… Setzna? Well, erm, that is to say… they don’t know.”
Anatoly said nothing, only placing his head in his hands.
“But as long as we don’t landlock them, no problems should be had. Right?”
There was quiet in the room for a minute.
“If this launches us into another war…” Anatoly shuddered at the thought, having a flashback to the funeral he had recently attended.
“Oh, of course not! However entertaining that might be…”
Sakharov didn’t even realize his mistake until it was too late. Anatoly rose with all the rage of a tiger. “EN-TER-TAIN-ING!?!” he growled.
No man had ever seen Anatoly thus, and Sakharov was understandably quite frightened. “A slip of the tongue, of course,” he squeaked. “Nothing more.”
Their gazes locked for a second, and Sakharov flicked his eyes away. Anatoly took a deep breath and slumped back in his chair, suddenly exhausted.
“I’ll send Polkovnik Galkin. I can at least trust him to not start a war.” He felt a slight twinge of satisfaction as Sakharov’s mouth hung agape. “Your suggestion is appreciated, and your initiative is duly noted.” Anatoly paused. “Now get out of my office.”
Sakharov hesitated, mouth slowly closing.
“Go.” This word was spoken softly, but with a menace behind it more frightening than any force on Urth.
Waiting no longer, Sakharov fled the office.[edit_reason]Mizspelngs[/edit_reason]

2

As he paced around his temporary headquarters with growing impatience, Polkovnik Joseph Galkin reflected on the new expansionism of his nation. It wasn’t unwelcomed, but Galkin personally wondered if any of Stratarin’s new enemies would take an aggressive stance on it or not. If so, it would be hypocritical, considering Asendavia colonizing far across the ocean just to have land in Gondwana. Then again, the Tripartite State was never thought of in Stratarin as rational.
Another matter to take into account were, of course, the sparse population of natives. Although they were going to be meticulously kept safe for and possibly integrated into Stratarin, there was always the possibility that Galkin’s regiment would encounter resistance and be forced to respond. And that was something that wouldn’t go well, feeding propaganda to their enemies and sowing the seeds of distrust with their allies.
Speaking of allies, Setzna might believe that they are being landlocked, and take preventative measures should Stratarin’s expansion continue in that direction. Which might rip the SEPC apart from the inside.
The advantage, of course, was growth. Beautiful growth. There were accounts, possibly myth, that even the mighty Pax had started as a small nation. Perhaps one day in the far future, as unlikely as it may sound, Stratarin might reach such a height.
Furthermore, expansion was proof that Stratarin was far from a stagnant, dying nation. It was alive and well, and powerful enough to annex nearby territory. It was a statement, in a way.
Galkin was grateful that he didn’t have to make such decisions, and that he had only to follow them. Which he would readily do with his signature dutifulness and attention to detail.
At that moment, a low-ranking officer walked up to him. “Sir, we are ready to move.”
Galkin nodded. “Well, then, let’s move.”

3

Government Building, Coyden, 1400 hours, 12.25.16

Polkovnik Ivan Sakharov sulkily slinked into Anatoly’s office yet again. Straightening, he coughed to get the Primary Minister’s attention.
Anatoly’s chair slowly turned, and well-masked disappointment adorned his face. “Sakharov,” he sighed wearily. “What can I do for you?”
With the ever-so-slight touch of annoyance, Sakharov announced, “I wished to inform you that the occupation of the area has begun, under the command of Polkovnik Joseph Galkin.” He practically spat out the last part, as though the words were poison. “It would seem my plan is working perfectly.”
Anatoly nodded. “Good. Thank you. You are dismissed.”
Sakharov didn’t hesitate, simply turning on his heel and indignantly strode away.
I need to close my door more often, Anatoly thought. Standing up and stretching, his eyes fell on the bottle of Wodka carefully positioned in an open drawer extended from his desk. Stooping, he picked it up and examined the bottle.
Anatoly had long kept the bottle, taking a few sips on occasion to celebrate important events that related to Stratarin. But ever since the disastrous Fire Pact Crisis, it had called to him in a way it never had before, whispering promises of dulling his internal pain.
He stared at it for a long time, then sighed. Surely one sip wouldn’t hurt. He began to uncork the bottle…
…and the image of a broken Luka Dreykov flashed into his head.
The Wodka’s charm thus broken, Anatoly placed it back into its drawer and closed it. Perhaps another time.

4

Velikolepnyy Building, Coyden, Stratarin, 0900 hours, 09.11.17

Mikhail Starikov’s pen made a skritch! skratch! as it danced across the page. Though seemingly engrossed in his work, he easily noticed the timid knock on his door and stood, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Come in,” he stated unhurriedly.

Apprehensively at first, Polkovnik Ivan Sakharov entered the room, constantly glancing around until his eyes made contact with Starikov’s. He quickly cast his gaze downward. “Ex-excuse me, sir. Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all.” Starikov’s tone was enigmatic as ever.

“Well, s-sir, you hadn’t… assumed office at the time, but do you recall the slight expansion Stratarin made?” His voice grew slightly bolder. “That I suggested?”

“Yes.” The Premier’s voice was as smooth as glass, though there was a noticeable icy undertone. “State your point.”

“W-well, sir,” replied Sakharov, his moment of bravery all but forgotten, “There have been a few problems with, erm, former inhabitants in that area.”

Starikov eyed him, not responding.

“You s-see, a predominantly Vulpine Gondwanan tribe calling themselves the Lisans - they probably have Strataric roots - has been harassing a military installation there. Several men have died…”

“I fail to see what you require from me.”

“Well, the Minister of Defense doesn’t much like me. Can’t imagine why! So I came to ask you for permission.”

“To protect our interests by any means necessary?”

“Yes s-sir.”

Starikov stepped forward, dwarfing the shorter man. “Permission granted. Mention this to no one, not even in the government, other than those who need to know. I don’t want the international community standing with an irrelevant group of savages which has dared to challenge us.”

The polkovnik saluted, then swiftly fled to the safety of the hallway outside.

5

Pribavleniye Hills, Pribavleniye, Stratarin 1100 hours, 9.11.17

He had taken the name ‘Gorokhi’ after the Strataric chieftain of old. As his namesake had, he would lead the Lisans to victory over their foes. And finally, just as Gorok had done, he would unite this lost nation to its former glory.

Stratarin no longer recognized the existence of the God Troitsa, which was only slightly foolish. However, it had turned away from the older gods: Zevs, Drakyn, Torin, among others. This was unpardonable, and the gods had sent Gorokhi to be Stratarin’s reckoning.

Turning away from his contemplation, he looked over his small force that would fall upon the supply shipment sent to the nearby Strataric base. After a moment, he grinned.

“The gods have spoken to me,” he chuckled, his tail swaying elegantly. “Razrushitel is with you today. Suffer no infidel to live.”

With whoops and shouts that would send shivers down any man’s spine, the force descended upon their target.

6

Pribavleniye Base, Pribavleniye, Stratarin, 0700 hours, 9.12.17

As Sakharov dismounted from the ‘Tigr’ infantry vehicle, taking a moment to breathe in the morning air, he was greeted by a reddish-brown Vulpine snapping up a salute.

“Podpolkovnik Nikita Akulov, sir, at your service.”

Sakharov hid his discomfort only moderately well. He’d never much liked these inferior fox-men. “Yes, yes, very good, Podpolkovnik,” he replied, stepping past him. Akulov, recognizing Sakharov’s prejudice in his body language, turned and followed robotically.

“I trust you’ve heard of the latest attack, sir?” he asked, keeping any sullenness from his tone.

“Yes, yes, a shipment of arms and ammunition was hijacked by some backwards… Vulpine tribe. Tragic.” Sakharov made no move to keep the blame out of his voice.

“We lost every man guarding the shipment,” Akulov replied, struggling to keep a growl out of his voice. “Some of them Vulpine as well.”

“Yes, well, that’s the past. We must deal with these Lisans in the present.” He strode into the relatively makeshift command center. “Would you trust the skill of your men?”

“With my life.”

“Well, then, I need to plan. Podpolkovnik, you are dismissed. Go do… well, whatever you people do.” As Akulov began to stalk away, Sakharov called back, “Oh, and Podpolkovnik? You said you trusted your men’s skill with your life.” He half-smiled. “I may hold you to that.”

7

Pribavleniye Base, Pribavleniye, Stratarin, 1200 hours, 9.15.17

Sakharov watched in shocked surprise as the bedraggled unit, less than a quarter of its original size, stumbled back in the base’s proximity. Seeing Akulov in the lead, he hastily walked towards the head of lessened force.

“Podpolkovnik!” he yelled angrily. “What the hell happened?”

Akulov, tail drooped, looked up bitterly. “As I told you, sir,” he bit out, barely maintaining any form of respect, “it was foolish to hunt the Lisans in their own territory!”

Sakharov bristled. “You will mind that tone with me, fox-face!” he replied hotly. “I knew you were unfit to act as my second-in-command!”

It was clear, from looking into his Vulpine eyes, that Akulov was contemplating murder. However, he seemed to shake that thought off, and straightened his back. “Yes, sir,” he said blankly, as the rest of the unit walked by the two officers. “Sorry, sir.”

Studying him for a moment, Sakharov grunted and turned away. “Little matter. With or without your incompetence, we will crush the Lisans and stabilize the region.”

Velikolepnyy Building, Coyden, Stratarin, 0800 hours, 09.16.17

“They’re morons, sir,” General Pyotr Dementyev reported, shaking his head in obvious annoyance. “Or, Sakharov is. Not sure about this Akulov person.”

Premier Starikov raised an eyebrow. “And how would you suggest the Lisans be dealt with, General?”

Dementyev looked blankly back at him, unsure how to respond. “Well, ah, you see…” he trailed off, sitting down in a nearby chair. “If we knew their base of operations, perhaps an air strike would do the trick.”

Starikov almost looked genuinely surprised that Dementyev had offered any suggestions at all. But then again, Starikov was never surprised. “How would you suggest we find them?”

“Well, I’m not, ah, I’m not sure…” His eyes showed an idea beginning to form in his mind. “How important is the Pribavleniye base?”

“It was always to establish a temporary beachhead in the area. It could easily be replaced.”

“Maybe we don’t have to find them, sir. Maybe we let them come to us. They take the base, and it gets obliterated two minutes later.”

“Enlighten me, General: would Polkovnik Sakharov be informed of this plan?”

A slow grin spread across the general’s face. “No, sir.”

“I approve. You may lay your trap. Dismissed, General.”

As Dementyev left the room, Starikov returned to his paperwork. However, his mind was working on overtime.

The Lisans were a fairly powerful tribe, united mainly by fanaticism for their leader. If he were killed, the tribe would crumble, creating a power vacuum in that region.

Which Stratarin would be more than happy to fill.