[b]Poti, Georgia[/b]

The Georgian summers could be unbearable. For the Armenians, used to the highlands and the chills of altitude, the marshes of Poti could be suffocating. Humidity long ago had ruined anyone's chances of appearing at work with an unsoiled uniform: sweat pooled in the armpits and the backs of the staff at Headquarters, Joint Base Poti. The windows of the recently-constructed, white-plastered building were propped open to let in any semblance of a breeze on the still days. The armed guards' faces - blank with a mixture of contempt for the climate and for the country in general - glistened with sweat outside the tall wooden door. Staff officers often gazed upon them as they entered the headquarters, wondering how they'd ever manage to survive eight hour shifts wearing a flak jacket all day. There was no respite from the Georgian coast's summer. And certainly not for the operations department that resided in the basement: the relief of hot air rising out of the low basement was no major relief when all it ever did was circulate back in a neverending cycle. What was actually an ordinary brief turned oddly cinematic as officers congregated in a windowless concrete room under blazing hot lamps, waiting for a Lieutenant to present the weekly report. Except this time, the report was more than just a usual recap of the week's events. Today, Mikael Gregovyen would be joining the regimental staff to present on his latest findings.

The special operative wore his lizard-patterned battledress with the sleeves rolled up and a bandolier slung diagonally against his frame in the manner of a Sam Browne belt. In his brown leather holster was a Chechen revolver, the infamously rugged Grozny-Type manufactured by skilled gunsmiths in the eponymous city. This was a prized possession amongst Armenian troopers in Georgia: those who went out on patrol, killed a bandit, and were lucky enough to find the revolver took it and replaced their own sidearm. It was a symbol of the veteran. Chechen raiders were regarded to be some of the most hardcore fighters in the region. To kill one was to prove their own prowess. To take their weapon from them was the ultimate assurance of victory. Soldiers who wore the Grozny-Type on their belts were never berated or corrected by anyone but the most junior of officers. Even they learned to see it as a symbol of authority, albeit unconventional. Even the senior commanders were beginning to realize that the Grozny-Type was a source of pride amongst veteran Armenian expeditionary soldiers. They rarely contested the usage of the piece. Seeing as Lieutenant Gregovyen had just burned a Chechen encampment to the ground, there was no conflict from anyone. Gregovyen knew this, and used his opportunity to his advantage. As if his ranking as an NSS SAU operative wasn't enough, his Grozny-Type was sure to keep the officers' attention.

An intelligence officer stood beside Gregovyen, next to a board with several maps. He held a wired remote for a projector in his hand, and a technician in the rear stood ready to put up the slides. Gregovyen looked at his watch and then at the officer, nodding. The technician took note of the cue and started the projector. A flickering noise not unlike a film camera's echoed throughout the concrete chamber as the officers sat back in their seats. Gregovyen took the stage to begin his briefing. His pale skin seemed ghastly in the projector's sepia light. Dark hair, matted by grease and sweat, formed little curls that seemed to be magnified in shadow against the projected slide behind him. He cleared his throat rather conspicuously.

"Good evening, sirs," he introduced. "I am Lieutenant Mikhael Gregovyen, as you may know. I am part of the NSS playing its role Georgia at the moment and I do indeed have some very important news for you."

The officers squinted their eyes at the cowboy on the stage, while the intelligence officer stood behind in the shadows. The slide clicked over to the standard "CONFIDENTIAL" title slide, and the intelligence officer duly spoke up in his monotonous, professional tone: "I do not need to remind anyone that, until further notice and declassification from the National Security Service, this information is rated confidential and shall be seen by your eyes only. No reproductions of this material will be allowed, as we are dealing with rather sensitive material dealing with our plans for the security and reconstruction of post-Ottoman Georgia. Should this information be leaked before it is deemed appropriately declassified by the National Security Service, full legal prosecution will occur. The Army Intelligence Service has no authority over this matter, as it is jointly relevant."

"So with that said," effortlessly continued Gregovyen as he paced about, "we are trying to protect the identity of a specific section of guys we have a newfound interest in. They're small at the moment, only about eighty fulltime members, but we believe that their ideas have potential once they prove themselves worthy in the environment around here. Until then, they are small fish in a big pond. But if they can take down the ruling party in their city then they may gain some traction."

A slide clicked into place showing a photograph of Batumi with several markings on it from a scout. Buildings were circled in marker alongside written captions identifying buildings as Georgian Guard headquarters and the strongholds of the local tyrant: General Polat.

"This is Batumi," Gregovyen stated. He pointed to the west docks in particular, crowded with rusted and scuttled commercial vessels. "Close to the Armenian border but still controlled by violent Georgian warlords who like to assert their dominance through fear. They have unlimited power there, and recently have been doing all sorts of things like raising taxes and restricting food in an attempt to punish their enemies. Our guys there are called the Georgian Guard, and they fancy themselves to be a reconstructive influence. They've been seeking to end the anarchy, first at home. Their name - and from what we've gleamed talking to the undertrodden citizens - suggests that they want to expand that to all of Georgia. So far, they're apolitical. They want Georgia for the Georgians, but we might be able to change that. With a few silver tongues in play, we could convince senior leadership to accept a generous offer of assistance. For us, this works out well. Poti gets a reliable supply line in the short term and the long term might come to see a stable Georgia. But it's going to get worse before it gets better. The Dagestani warlord that we just recently took out in the east, for example, has a dozen different guys on the lower rings of the pedestal jockeying to replace him after our supposed allies in the region took our aid money and ran instead of moving in themselves. Unless some unstoppable force moves in immediately to fill the power vacuum - a reformed Georgian Guard, perhaps - there is no way we can maintain stability.

Our pitch to the Guard comes mostly in the form of: 'Us Armenians will help you and you will be well on your way to victory in Georgia.' If need be, we can always bring out the 'no better friend, no worse enemy' card and just wipe them off the map if they're insistent with a no. But I'm no grand strategist and that's up to the Georgian theater commanders to decide. Knowing their desire for longterm stability, my professional opinion is to assure them of a continued stable alliance. Some sort of military pact against the broken-up post-Ottoman bandit states and the scheming Turks bent on revenge. We could try to expand existing agreements with Poland and Persia to funnel some of their aid into Georgia to ensure continued stability. We don't want it slipping back into failed state territory after the Guard finishes its march across the land and begins to relax. We need that stable northern border for anything. Mostly the bandits and the Mafiya's continued encroachment onto the Armenian sphere. If we establish a Georgian state with these guys, we'll be able to alleviate our problems by shifting them onto them. We'd continue to support them, but it wouldn't be our border towns getting shot at through a porous Georgian anarchic wasteland. It'd be theirs. And we'd make our mark on the region as a new leader in reconstruction efforts: Armenia was the example of the revolution and should continue to be an example beyond it. The way we're shaping up could net us regional power status in a few years if we're optimistic."

The regimental commander in Poti, a Colonel, sat up in his seat. The folding metal chair creaked under his relatively large frame. He crossed his arms and spoke up: "With the mess of warlords in this goddamned country, what are they trying to do?"

Gregovyen smiled and switched to the next slide, showing a photograph of the town square in Poti. A statue of Sultan Suleiman stood tall on a pedestal, surrounded by Ottoman flags. No guards were seen, but a note on the photograph stated that the picture was taken from a hotel window and that armed guards routinely patrolled the area. Gregovyen admired his scouts' audacity. "They are planning a march on General Polat's main headquarters, or at least that's what the word on the streets is."

"General Polat?" the Colonel asked, squinting his eyes at Gregovyen. "Is this the warlord in the area?"

"General Polat is a businessman," explained the Lieutenant. "He used to own the tea plantations around Batumi and the surrounding region when it was owned by the Ottomans. He received subsidies from the Turkish government as the Georgian frontier started getting destabilized. Eventually, a larger cut of his resources get routed to the Ottomans: they prop up a mercenary army of sorts for him to defend his gains against the insurrection that they think will be squashed in a matter of weeks. That was not the case. However, even after the Ottomans were gone, Polat retained his soldiers. This was to try and maintain the Georgian border, since Batumi was located closer to the Turkish side of the '77 DMZ. They are a bastion of old Ottoman control in the country, kept alive through an imposition of fear and tyranny. This makes him different from your average Chechen or Dagestani raider. If he can be deposed or assassinated, this is a powerful message. If the Guard succeeds, that puts them in a leadership position amongst the moderate reconstructionist forces in Georgia. They can take the lead and we'd be better off supporting them."

The officers turned amongst themselves and whispered to each other. Evidently the description of Polat had set off the gears inside of them. They all came to the conclusion that if Polat was a Turk and the Guard was fighting him, they would fight the Turks. Circumspect curiosity turned to conscious action. The Guard suddenly became another ally in the war, at least in theory. The Colonel confided with his aide before turning back to Gregovyen on the stage. The aide - a Captain barely older than Gregovyen with a boyish face - nodded and his eyes flickered to Gregovyen. The Colonel sweaty face shone underneath the light above him as he chewed on a stick of gum. "Lieutenant, if the Guard is an active anti-Turkic force, you have my permission to contact them. I will write up the formal orders and tell the Army Headquarters in Yerevan."

"Yes, sir," Gregovyen responded. "I have had a full dossier written and sent to your desks. That should elaborate more on what we think about these guys. But I'll ready my men and we can head down by tomorrow."

The projector shut off, casting darkness back upon the room. The officers debated amongst themselves as they stood, their metal chairs screeching across the concrete floor. Gregovyen looked down at his boots, then at his blouse. He unconsciously smoothed out his thighs and turned to the intelligence officer, still standing in the shadows where the ceiling lights did not illuminate. There was a reason why they were called spooks after all. The officer nodded at Gregovyen and held up a manilla folder. "I have everything I need to brief the NSS," he said. Without so much as a farewell, the officer saluted. When Gregovyen returned it, he wordlessly disappeared into the shadows. The covertness of the act was not lost upon Gregovyen, who took a moment to ponder what was happening. Soon enough there would be no need for secrecy. Soon enough, Armenian troops would be marching to Tbilisi to restore order. Soon enough, they would be showing the world that the post-Ottoman state was no pushover. Where the Ottoman military was stiff, rigid, yet rotten at the core, the Georgian insurgency was the opposite. The spry, flexible fighters were dangerous. More so than the easily outmaneuvered Ottomans. But if they could win, if they could stabilize their northern neighbor, the prestige of the Armenian state would be elevated. They would show the world.
 
[b]Kyrenia, Cyprus[/b]

The sailors of the [i]Breadwinner of Rize[/i] manned the rails in the mild wind, looking towards their first port visit. Clad in blue coveralls, they looked out over the shimmering waters. Cypriot fishermen, sailing out for their daily trips, waved. The Armenians waved back, of course, as the [i]Breadwinner[/i] motored slowly into the port of Kyrenia. Captain Vartanesian looked out onto the deck of his vessel from the bridge. Containers with goods were raised and ready to be sold on the docks. It was a goodwill visit: the cargo was mostly Armenian cultural items, and they would be receiving Cypriot goods in exchange. As the [i]Breadwinner[/i] circumnavigated the globe, they hoped to do the same at various other ports. But for now, the crew would get to enjoy Cyprus. Captain Vartanesian had a few friends there, and he planned to spend his evening at the taverns. The rest of the crew was free to enjoy liberty under the close supervision of the ship's officers: they didn't want them too rowdy. The last thing that Armenia needed was its sailors exploring the world for the first time and getting into drunken fistfights in exotic ports. As such, Vartanesian decided to shorten the leash. They would have fun, but not too much. It was the best option for everyone. Cyprus was a test run of sorts, since an Armenian military presence at Nicosia would have the safety netting of Armenian MPs. It was best to have that option for the first port landing, just in case. Not that Captain Vartanesian particularly wanted anything to happen. He knew that his crew were good men, but when there was alcohol involved the dynamic could change quite quickly.

"Don't do any stupid shit," remarked the personnel officer in a characteristically crude safety speech the evening before. "No fucking underage girls, no getting wasted, and no fighting the goddamn locals."

The ship was guided to the shore by Cypriot tugboats staffed by older sailors - the younger men were in the Navy themselves and were thus unable to perform civilian duties. They looked up at the Armenian sailors manning the rails, younger versions of themselves ready to adventure across the seas. The [i]Breadwinner[/i] stalled its engines to allow the tugboats to push the ship towards the far dock. Weapons were now ordered to be stowed onboard: the crew gathered burlap sacks to cover the menacing machine guns and autocannons while magazines were unloaded and moved to storage. The threat of interception of the vessel had passed. The Merchant Marine commanders were worried about Turkish forces seeking revenge independent of the armistice and still ordered ships in the Black Sea and Mediterranean to be armed. The [i]Breadwinner[/i] faced a special danger from the south, as they could unwarily wander into Spain's naval flotillas currently bombarding Ethiopia's Egyptian possessions. With tensions as high as they were, nobody wanted to sail a merchant ship into a conflict zone and drag Armenia into yet another war. They had just finished with Turkey. It was best not to tangle with Spain. Captain Vartanesian commanded the ship into port - the only sizable pier in the neglected harbor - and dropped anchor at noon. The ramps were brought to the ready, and they disembarked.

A crowd of onlookers had massed at the docks with a contingent of Cypriot policemen and Armenian MPs driving in from Nicosia Airbase. The sailors, having changed from their coveralls to a more ceremonial uniform, strode with swagger onto the pier whilst led by Captain Vartanesian. Clutching seabags in one hand, they waved to the children ready to come see the men who had toppled the Ottoman Empire. The sailors threw candy to the kids and cigarettes to the men and women: they were liberators today, ready to reap the rewards that came with it. Many of them would later be trying to score free deals from prostitutes out in town, claiming their service as reason enough. The harbormaster - a burly, bearded Mediterranean man who looked more like a pugilist than a sailor - had come to greet the Armenian merchant sailors and their skipper. Captain Vartanesian stopped to shake his hand in front of the newly-formed parade, flash bulbs from the Cypriot reporters' cameras dazzling them. "Good to see you, Captain!" the harbormaster boomed. He smiled and gripped Vartanesian's hand firmly, with confidence and friendliness.

"How have you been since we last spoke, Mister Kasoudis?" the Armenian beamed.

"I've been just fine, just fine indeed!" Kasoudis said cheerily. He looked over his shoulder at the Armenian sailors and grinned again. "Thank you so much for coming here. I feel like this visit will help the both of us."

There were rumbles of resentment within the Cypriots about the Armenian airbase at Nicosia. The Air Force squadron in Nicosia had only been mostly on recon sorties throughout the coast, searching for troop shipments that were never there. The locals thought that this would make them a target. However, there had been few reprisal bombings on Cyprus ever since the Cypriot National Army had brutally driven out the Turks early in the war. Their Coast Guard defeated any additional attempts at a sea invasion, and so Cyprus remained a fortress in the Mediterranean. Antiaircraft guns, left behind by retreating Turks, deterred Ottoman aggression by the air. It was secure, but it wanted its peace and quiet. Their banking sector wanted to be left alone and healthy, growing from Armenian businessmen and their investments in the relatively low-tax sector. Their shipping and commerce industry desired to be hidden from Turkish sea raiders and the damages they inflicted on shipping lanes to Greece. They reasoned that if the Armenians left, the Turkish would have less of a problem with them. After all, it was the Armenian state that the Turks had most of their conflict with.

The governments, however, sought to increase their tensions into "an unshakable alliance spanning the Eastern Mediterranean, deterring further colonial aggression." This meant, mostly, a deterrent against the Turkish. It also bore the subtext of protection against European invasion, like if the British decided to struggle with the Cypriots for control over the territory. It was a far stretch, but still a protection nonetheless. Vartanesian knew that his countrymen were amiable to an idea of a bloc formed with the other post-Ottoman states, and considered himself a supporter as well. Cyprus was a good a place to start as any. With a solid foundation of trust and friendship formed between the Armenians and Cypriots, a political and military alliance would build itself naturally. The Air Force and Navy were both making their cases to the civilian political leadership of Armenia and Cyprus in order to further establish power projection points into the Mediterranean. The strategic location was not lost on them. They could strike Turkey if need be, and stand ready to support allied governments in Greece, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and Ethiopian Egypt. It would further secure trade out of the Bosporus and Dardanelles, just like what the [i]Breadwinner[/i] was already doing. The Greeks in particular had also voiced support of Nicosia turning into a joint base: they would be able to have another angle of approach into Turkey if their coastal Anatolian possessions came into danger.

"Well, Mister Kasoudis, I suppose we should commence this visit in good spirits," said Vartanesian with a wave of his hand to the parade of sailors. "My men will take to your hospitality. Don't worry, I have made sure that they will behave!"

Both of the seamen shared a hearty laugh, looking over at the men half their age prancing into taxis and streetcars on the nearby road. The onlookers had dispersed, driven back by the approach of Cypriot stevedores in pickups and work trucks. They went back to their stores and their homes, many to open up shop to the port visit. Kasoudis, twirling the end of his mustache, smirked. "They're sailors, not saints!" he reminded the Armenian.

Captain Vartanesian removed his cap to tuck it under his arm and cracked a crooked grin. He smoothed out his white dress uniform's blouse and looked back at the tanned Mediterranean man. "I believe our respective agencies have worked out the finances and trading of this deal. We'll let the dockworkers do the rest."

"They know what they're doing, they'll get it done."

Vartanesian nodded and ran a hand through his thick, curly hair. "Oh, and make sure they don't break my ship," he joked, pointing to the dent where Trabzon's dockworkers had smashed a cargo container into the hull during military resupply operations after the battle.

The harbormaster looked up at where Vartanesian had pointed and let out a hearty chuckle. "Worry not, comrade. You are safe in Cyprus."