Eternity RPC Board
Various Locations, Histria
Over the following week
Earth.
![[Image: ZQdkOG6.png]](http://imgur.com/ZQdkOG6.png)
"I am truly astonished," MT5 Bogand said between drags on his ever-present cigarette. "These were riot police and local militia armed more heavily and presumably trained more professionally than the brigadiers. Perhaps we will yet surprise the foreign invaders."
He gazed out upon the city from the northern hills near Histria Airport. A dozen brigadier officers and local government adjutants stood behind him in conference on the windswept agora.
"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward," he intoned.
"Sir?" his adjutant interrupted.
"Something I heard once," Bogand said, waving away the smoke and his thought. "Report."
"Relocations are complete, sir," the adjutant continued. "Civilians have been evicted from select low-incoming housing blocks and relocated to tent camps blocking the road at your specified junctures: both ends of the Highway 41/Highway 120 interchange, the start and end of Highway 36, National 7 at the Radio CRAF exit, and the southern end of Highway 120. All civilian traffic is redirected off those roads and the tent camps are growing quite thick and wide across the roadways. I expect that even if the civilians are immediately evicted it will take some time to restore those roads to working order, sir."
"And the barricades?"
"Yes, local police barricades were brought out of storage to block the roads at each end of the civilian encampments. It will keep cars from causing any unfortunate accidents for now-"
"-and force enemy armor caravans to stop in a killzone to remove them later," Bogand smiled, finishing the thought. "And those buildings I asked you about in the other district, are they evacuated of civilians?"
"Not entirely evacuated, sir. It's a wide area. Some hundreds refuse to comply with the evacuation order."
"All the better! Order those remaining not to leave. Allow relatives and friends to bring them food and supplies, but those who refused to comply cannot leave anymore. We'll occupy the empty rooms as firing positions and hope the foreigners are not so heartless as to carpet bomb buildings with civilians inside."
The young adjutant fidgeted but said nothing.
"Oh, you think they will," Bogand chuckled, stamping out his cigarette. "You are wise beyond your years, MT13, but the eyes of the world are upon us. I suspect their soft leaders will not let them get away with killing more civilians than our number."
Water.
![[Image: PptVmaV.png]](http://imgur.com/PptVmaV.png)
A trio of civilian-registered ships fled out of the port and south, hoping to find safer waters. Whether the penal brigadiers had intended them to flee or they had slipped their chains was unclear. It was clear that the brigadiers closed the opportunity an hour later when a number of regional freighters were maneuvered into the narrowest point of the channel end to end and intentionally sunk. A jungle of superstructure now jutted out of the shallow water at unnatural angles, perturbing the calm water.
"Waste of good ships," said 2nd Company's translator to the civilian dockmaster.
"Then why sink them?" the civilian asked in desperation.
"Bad defensive position," the brigadier replied, fumbling for a pack of liberated local smokes. "Harbor extremely easy to take in previous state. No mines available, so run big ships aground and sink them. No more harbor, only little lake. Into the valley of death."
One of the ships settled against its neighbor with a low gurgle that shook the water. Oil began to seep to the surface in thin streams, annoying the ducks who were using the tangled mess as shade against the mid-day sun. They quacked and flapped their wings angrily as they took off for cleaner water. The brigadier took a few hesitant puffs of the local coffin nails while the dockmaster watched his career sink like the scuttled freighters.
"Your smokes are shit," the brigadier concluded.
Wind.
![[Image: jYrPbZW.png]](http://imgur.com/jYrPbZW.png)
"Do as I told you and this will be very nice and easy time for you," the 3rd Company's translator said to the civilian pilot a row ahead of him. The translator stretched his legs in the rear passenger seat of the civilian plane. Another uniformed man occupied the passenger seat next to him, loaded down with civilian camera equipment 'liberated' from local professional shops.
"Yes, sir," the pilot whispered, gripping the controls with all his might to hide his shaking hands.
"Do you see ships?" he asked, jutting his finger towards the windshield.
"Y-yes," said the Caladrian recreational pilot, breathing unevenly. "Two big ships at eleven o'clock, p-probably ten kilometers north. And two smaller ones, closer in."
"That's a good little cube. Those will be Mir's," the translator said, rubbing his chin. "Keep us low and bring us closer. Really close. Buzz their towers on the biggest ones, you vox me? Then wheel around slowly so we can see the ships from all angles. If you don't do it, we approach all over again until Yuri has pictures he wants. You want good pictures, don't you Yuri?"
Yuri, the photographer, grunted assent from beneath his pile of photographic equipment.
"Ah, don't mind Yuri," the translator chuckled. "He's clipped - ah, nerve stapled. Sidestepped the dezzing just in time to help me flash fry our section leader. Now we're both jokered."
He stretched out in the luxurious interior. This was easily the most comfortable plane ride he'd ever been in. Degenerate foreigners may be scum but they sure knew how to fly in style.
"Yuri, my friend, there's two or three uptierings apiece for us if we pull this off for the esteemed MT5."
"Ours not to reason why," Yuri finally spoke with the rumbling of old gears being put in motion, "just to do or die."
...
"So your radar will give us approach angles for their aircraft?" MT5 Bogand questioned, lighting up in the clearly marked No Smoking aircraft control center.
"If their transponders are on," the ATC manager hedged nervously. "Or if they leave a large radar profile."
"Charging an army while all the world wonders," Bogand said, shaking his head in amusement. "I will leave a representative of the Lieutenant-Colonel here so you do not feel threatened. Please tell him as soon as you have something and he will radio me. Do not worry, we will defend this island together."
The manager did not know what face to make.
Fire.
![[Image: pmykDsR.png]](http://imgur.com/pmykDsR.png)
"I don't know how it works, you journo rout, just make it work," 5th Company's translator urged the technical staff at Radio CRAF. "Do you vox me?"
"It's not that simple," the manager said, biting off every word. "We don't know what frequency you want, or what kind of signal to broadcast! And even if we did do it, they'd bomb us the first chance they got. I'm not dying for this new government."
"So don't," the translator said, countenance dripping with annoyance as he stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. "Set it to sweep all frequencies on repeat and get the hell out of here. All we need you to do is set it."
"Fine," the manager hissed in exasperation. "But they can't try me for attempting to jam military GPS signals. I-I'm being held at gunpoint!"
The translator slowed his chew to look down at his own holstered pistol, then to his brigadier escort who fully engrossed in playing with the soundboard across the room, rifle shouldered.
"Not exactly stormed at with shot and shell," the translator mumbled. "Whatever you say, journo."
Histria, Caladria
Present day
The whole world seemed wreathed in supernatural silence as the clouds broke above the islands. All local radio and telecom stations were off the air or inaudible as they broadcast their jamming attempts. Independent of outside information, it seemed clear that the counterattack would come any hour, any minute now. Civilians tensed involuntarily, some sheltered mere meters away from the penal brigadiers. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred.
![[Image: pPdTwQr.png]](http://imgur.com/pPdTwQr.png)
Over the following week
Earth.
"I am truly astonished," MT5 Bogand said between drags on his ever-present cigarette. "These were riot police and local militia armed more heavily and presumably trained more professionally than the brigadiers. Perhaps we will yet surprise the foreign invaders."
He gazed out upon the city from the northern hills near Histria Airport. A dozen brigadier officers and local government adjutants stood behind him in conference on the windswept agora.
"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward," he intoned.
"Sir?" his adjutant interrupted.
"Something I heard once," Bogand said, waving away the smoke and his thought. "Report."
"Relocations are complete, sir," the adjutant continued. "Civilians have been evicted from select low-incoming housing blocks and relocated to tent camps blocking the road at your specified junctures: both ends of the Highway 41/Highway 120 interchange, the start and end of Highway 36, National 7 at the Radio CRAF exit, and the southern end of Highway 120. All civilian traffic is redirected off those roads and the tent camps are growing quite thick and wide across the roadways. I expect that even if the civilians are immediately evicted it will take some time to restore those roads to working order, sir."
"And the barricades?"
"Yes, local police barricades were brought out of storage to block the roads at each end of the civilian encampments. It will keep cars from causing any unfortunate accidents for now-"
"-and force enemy armor caravans to stop in a killzone to remove them later," Bogand smiled, finishing the thought. "And those buildings I asked you about in the other district, are they evacuated of civilians?"
"Not entirely evacuated, sir. It's a wide area. Some hundreds refuse to comply with the evacuation order."
"All the better! Order those remaining not to leave. Allow relatives and friends to bring them food and supplies, but those who refused to comply cannot leave anymore. We'll occupy the empty rooms as firing positions and hope the foreigners are not so heartless as to carpet bomb buildings with civilians inside."
The young adjutant fidgeted but said nothing.
"Oh, you think they will," Bogand chuckled, stamping out his cigarette. "You are wise beyond your years, MT13, but the eyes of the world are upon us. I suspect their soft leaders will not let them get away with killing more civilians than our number."
Water.
A trio of civilian-registered ships fled out of the port and south, hoping to find safer waters. Whether the penal brigadiers had intended them to flee or they had slipped their chains was unclear. It was clear that the brigadiers closed the opportunity an hour later when a number of regional freighters were maneuvered into the narrowest point of the channel end to end and intentionally sunk. A jungle of superstructure now jutted out of the shallow water at unnatural angles, perturbing the calm water.
"Waste of good ships," said 2nd Company's translator to the civilian dockmaster.
"Then why sink them?" the civilian asked in desperation.
"Bad defensive position," the brigadier replied, fumbling for a pack of liberated local smokes. "Harbor extremely easy to take in previous state. No mines available, so run big ships aground and sink them. No more harbor, only little lake. Into the valley of death."
One of the ships settled against its neighbor with a low gurgle that shook the water. Oil began to seep to the surface in thin streams, annoying the ducks who were using the tangled mess as shade against the mid-day sun. They quacked and flapped their wings angrily as they took off for cleaner water. The brigadier took a few hesitant puffs of the local coffin nails while the dockmaster watched his career sink like the scuttled freighters.
"Your smokes are shit," the brigadier concluded.
Wind.
"Do as I told you and this will be very nice and easy time for you," the 3rd Company's translator said to the civilian pilot a row ahead of him. The translator stretched his legs in the rear passenger seat of the civilian plane. Another uniformed man occupied the passenger seat next to him, loaded down with civilian camera equipment 'liberated' from local professional shops.
"Yes, sir," the pilot whispered, gripping the controls with all his might to hide his shaking hands.
"Do you see ships?" he asked, jutting his finger towards the windshield.
"Y-yes," said the Caladrian recreational pilot, breathing unevenly. "Two big ships at eleven o'clock, p-probably ten kilometers north. And two smaller ones, closer in."
"That's a good little cube. Those will be Mir's," the translator said, rubbing his chin. "Keep us low and bring us closer. Really close. Buzz their towers on the biggest ones, you vox me? Then wheel around slowly so we can see the ships from all angles. If you don't do it, we approach all over again until Yuri has pictures he wants. You want good pictures, don't you Yuri?"
Yuri, the photographer, grunted assent from beneath his pile of photographic equipment.
"Ah, don't mind Yuri," the translator chuckled. "He's clipped - ah, nerve stapled. Sidestepped the dezzing just in time to help me flash fry our section leader. Now we're both jokered."
He stretched out in the luxurious interior. This was easily the most comfortable plane ride he'd ever been in. Degenerate foreigners may be scum but they sure knew how to fly in style.
"Yuri, my friend, there's two or three uptierings apiece for us if we pull this off for the esteemed MT5."
"Ours not to reason why," Yuri finally spoke with the rumbling of old gears being put in motion, "just to do or die."
...
"So your radar will give us approach angles for their aircraft?" MT5 Bogand questioned, lighting up in the clearly marked No Smoking aircraft control center.
"If their transponders are on," the ATC manager hedged nervously. "Or if they leave a large radar profile."
"Charging an army while all the world wonders," Bogand said, shaking his head in amusement. "I will leave a representative of the Lieutenant-Colonel here so you do not feel threatened. Please tell him as soon as you have something and he will radio me. Do not worry, we will defend this island together."
The manager did not know what face to make.
Fire.
"I don't know how it works, you journo rout, just make it work," 5th Company's translator urged the technical staff at Radio CRAF. "Do you vox me?"
"It's not that simple," the manager said, biting off every word. "We don't know what frequency you want, or what kind of signal to broadcast! And even if we did do it, they'd bomb us the first chance they got. I'm not dying for this new government."
"So don't," the translator said, countenance dripping with annoyance as he stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. "Set it to sweep all frequencies on repeat and get the hell out of here. All we need you to do is set it."
"Fine," the manager hissed in exasperation. "But they can't try me for attempting to jam military GPS signals. I-I'm being held at gunpoint!"
The translator slowed his chew to look down at his own holstered pistol, then to his brigadier escort who fully engrossed in playing with the soundboard across the room, rifle shouldered.
"Not exactly stormed at with shot and shell," the translator mumbled. "Whatever you say, journo."
Histria, Caladria
Present day
The whole world seemed wreathed in supernatural silence as the clouds broke above the islands. All local radio and telecom stations were off the air or inaudible as they broadcast their jamming attempts. Independent of outside information, it seemed clear that the counterattack would come any hour, any minute now. Civilians tensed involuntarily, some sheltered mere meters away from the penal brigadiers. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred.