[b]Independent Istanbul[/b]

"See him?"

Two men laid prone atop a rooftop in Istanbul on a brilliantly moonlit night, looking down at an alley where a lone figure walked. He had his hands in his pockets, a hat pulled low over his head. His posture was casual, yet cautious. He wore a sportscoat and tie, something that triggered suspicion almost immediately. Attached to his wrist via handcuff - also a peculiar sight - was a dark leather attache case. The figure whistled a tune to himself, stepping over the trash and filth that cluttered the damp stone below him. He appeared not to be armed, or at least armed with anything concealable. Even then, there were no obvious bumps or bulges where a firearm would be concealed.

"That's our man," one of the rooftop observers said to the other. He passed his binoculars and pointed. "Same route every Friday. Same fucking briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Couldn't be more obvious if he was wearing a goddamn Ottoman lapel pin."

"You think he's got shit of actual value?"

"We know the Ottomans want Istanbul back. The Independents know it. Their observers have spotted buildup. There's going to be an attempt. We wouldn't be here if there wasn't."

The figure stepped over an overturned trashcan and turned the corner to head west. Moonlight, broken up by the fire escapes and clotheslines, fell across his body and turned him a brilliant shade of dark blue. Just a few meters up the alley were two Armenian agents, dressed in masks and brandishing revolvers and a kitchen knife. The Ottoman courier had no idea. He walked calmly past the two hiding Armenians, still completely unaware. He only then realized what was going on when one of them ran out, grabbed him by the neck, and thrust him into the brick wall.

"Put your fuckin' hands up, dick," commanded the other Armenian as he very purposefully put his revolver to the courier's head and clicked the hammer back.

"Shit! Shit!" the Ottoman courier cried.

"What's a fella like you doing in these parts of town?" the knife-wielding Armenian asked innocently. "Seems pretty dangerous."

The Ottoman tried to move, but the Armenian pressed him further into the wall. The revolver-toting agent reached into his back pocket and took out a brown leather wallet. Opening it up, he grinned. "Pretty good, pretty good. Lots of liras on this guy."

"Please! No!" the Ottoman shouted, before the agent with the knife slipped a hand over his mouth.

"Just take it easy, will ya? It's easier if you don't struggle."

The Armenian with the gun took his keys next, and then noticed the briefcase. "What's this?" he asked. He reached to it, drawing an instinctive attempt from the Ottoman to push the intruder away. "Business secrets?"

"Goddammit, you can have my wallet! Is that enough?" the Ottoman pleaded, muffled by the hand over his mouth.

"I want to know what's in here, though," said the revolver-toting agent. He ran his hands over the handcuff. "Especially since it's fucking cuffed to your wrist..."

"Maybe his wife likes handcuffs and shit," suggested the other agent. "Tie her up and have a go, yeah?"

The Ottoman offered no response.

"Can I have the key, please?" asked the agent with the revolver. He nudged the Ottoman in the back of the head with it, cool metal sending shivers down the victim's spine. "Listen, I can shoot you here and now and get the key. So would you rather be dead or alive at the end of this series of events?"

The Ottoman hesitated for a moment. "Alive," he muttered.

"What was that?" asked the knifeman.

"Alive." He seemed almost shamed.

"Where's the key?" asked the gunman.

The key was in the Ottoman's breast pocket. It unlocked the handcuffs effortlessly, and the Armenian gunman took the case without further issue. He opened up the silver latches and took a look inside, nodding. "I can't read this shit but I think I'll keep it," he commented. "It's a nice case, too. Now why don't you head on out before my friend here stabs you?"

The knifeman grabbed hold of the Ottoman's collar and tossed him down to the pavement, before running away wordlessly. The gunman waited a second, putting his gun back into his belt. "If you like, you can call the police. But we'll be long gone."

He, too, ran. His footsteps echoed dully on the concrete and he dashed into the darkness, leaving the Ottoman lying facedown in the alleyway. After a few moments, he pushed himself up from the floor, fuming. The goddamn Armenians. Who else would have jumped him in an alley? But now he had to report the loss of the documents. He needed to do so quickly, so the powers at be could have a chance to undo what had just happened. So he ran back to the embassy, as fast as he could. The Armenians got back to theirs faster, and by the time the Ottoman courier had explained his case to the skeptical code room, the Armenians had telegraphed the secret documents straight to the NSS and the waiting eyes of President Hasmik Assanian.

[b]Yerevan, Armenia[/b]

The code room of the National Security Service was located underground in what used to be a wine cellar. Underneath vaulted stone ceilings bearing carvings of bottles, grapes, and idealized vineyards were the best cryptologists in the nation, aided by their Polish advisers. They sat at typewriters connected to state-of-the-art codebreaking machines: mostly of Polish origin. Much of this advanced technology was exchanged via a secret program referred to as Operation Beta, where the Poles would send their cutting-edge machines and systems to specialized Armenian organizations to test them against the Ottomans in real conflicts, where issues could be identified long before Poland had to go to war. A particularly stand-out example were the wire-guided missiles utilized by select Armenian Army tank and helicopter groups in the war against Ottoman targets, showcasing capabilities and deficiencies that were addressed by design bureaus in Poland after reports were issued. Polish code machines were used to crack the Ottomans' ciphers in exchange for the sharing of the exploited information between Armenia and Poland.

In the back, behind rows of desks manned by clerks and typists - women, mostly, recruited as part of a drive to train women for administrative jobs in the military and security sectors - was a white door with the painted words: "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - ABSOLUTELY NO ENTRY." Inside was the communications room of the cryptographic department, and two men stood around a fax machine. One was Colonel Victor Ohanian, a member of the Armenian Army Intelligence Corps currently attached as the intelligence and planning liaison to President Assanian's staff. The other was Serzh Dashnakian, the manager of the NSS Cryptography Service. A noted historian - he held a teaching position at the prestigious Armenian National University in Yerevan - with a vested interest in spycraft, Dashnakian had become interested in codebreaking after researching the Great War. At independence, he became the biggest champion of the Armenian intelligence codebreaking service, going so far as to petition Assanian personally for expanded NSS cryptology doctrine. He used his connections in Poland - established during the authorship of his book about Great War cryptology to jumpstart Polish-Armenian intelligence cooperation and, most importantly, bring Operation Beta to include cryptanalysis machines.

The fax machine spat out several pages of documents, communicated from the Armenian embassy in Independent Istanbul. Sent over via radio-facsimile, as the telephone wires between Armenia and Turkey had been cut alongside diplomatic relations, the documents were grainy and monochrome, but still readable. Colonel Ohanian picked a fresh sheet off of the printer tray and turned it over. It had not been encrypted, oddly enough. He turned to Dashnakian. "Where did the embassy get these from?" he asked, puzzled.

"Fieldwork," was the reply from Dashnakian, with a little smile. "Generally they don't encrypt courier communication."

Colonel Ohanian nodded, and the two men waited silently until the documents finished printing. Then, without further word, Ohanian shuffled them into their correct order, put a staple through the corner, and slipped them into a maroon folder marked, somewhat cliche, as "TOP SECRET." It would be going to the President and his security cabinet, who were currently sitting in a conference room with the Director. From what the Embassy had told them, these documents indicated that Ottoman action on Istanbul was immediate. The Ottoman Embassy had been directed to destroy its sensitive information and prepare for evacuation in the near future. Military forces had been drilling nearby - albeit on a Turkish military base with no observable difference from standard procedure - and massing for an invasion. The Independent Istanbul Council had believed this for a long time, and had been preparing defenses and asking for help from the Greeks just across the other border. With the Greeks moving in, the Ottomans were motivated to start a skirmish for their capital before they got there.

Deliberately, the men walked through the hallways and up the marble staircases. Past paintings of Armenian saints and warriors, they strode confidently carrying leather attache cases. Dashnakian led the way to the conference room, at the end of the building. Two armed guards were posted at the wooden double doors, dressed in their olive uniforms. They yielded to Ohanian's ID card, and pushed the door open. Inside were President Assanian, Vice-President Pollundrian, Defense Minister Ivakon, and the Director of the NSS: Levon Ladaryan. Ladaryan looked out the window at downtown Yerevan just across the river, while Assanian enjoyed whiskey from a glass. Pollundrian read a magazine, sitting on a wooden chair in the corner next to the flag, while Ivakon leaned against the wall nearby. They all looked at once as Ohanian and Dashnakian arrived, carrying their vital intelligence. Nobody spoke as they dropped their briefcases on the long table and called the leaders to attention.

"I brought enough copies for everyone," Dashnakian announced, "and we have to keep it short. This is hot off the printer and already, action is imminent."

The men at the end of the table sat down, all gazing intently at the two intelligence-men standing before them.

"We strongly believe that the Turkish invasion of Istanbul is imminent. Their military maneuvers, starting basically since the breakaway, have been getting more intense over the last few months. The pullback of Ottoman forces from their lost colonies has been managed and a large force has been assembled just next to Istanbul. The Istanbulites have been concerned about this since their inception and have been asking other players in the region for help. Greece has already been contacted. We know since they told us they might need assistance if Turkey tried to make a move. Now we have everything short of a confirmation in this letter asking the Turkish embassy in Istanbul to destroy its sensitive documents and prepare for evacuation this coming week. In addition, census data is being used to identify Turkish nationals still living in the city and prepare them for evacuation - or at least to identify and avoid targeting neighborhoods with significant Turkish population."

"Basically, this is about as incriminating as a diplomatic message will get," Ohanian explained, briefly taking off his cover to run a hand through his greying black hair. "They mention in public that it is not their aim to use force to retake Istanbul but rather to settle their status through negotiation. That is a lie. They are preparing an invasion. At the moment, it looks like the Istanbulites and the Greeks are going to bear the full force. All of the relevant information is on the table."

Assanian wrinkled his pale face and looked down at the papers, then back up at Ohanian and Dashnakian. "Thank you, gentlemen. Victor, head back to the palace and get your staff up to speed and prepare for additional information. Mister Dashnakian, I trust you will go to him and the militaries and have them cohesively formulate and intelligence plan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright then, we don't have much time to waste."

The two intelligence-men nodded, snapped off crisp salutes, and exited as quickly as they arrived. The guards on the other side opened the doors, and they hurried back to their positions. Inside, Assanian and the others exchanged looks. The situation for them had just escalated.

"I wasn't expecting anything this soon, not with tensions between us like this," the Director mumbled, shaking his head.

"They don't want another war," Assanian reminded them. "They're in tatters. Istanbul is too important to lose forever, but they won't start a war with us. They want it quick and easy and hope that they can get it before it gets messy."

"What about the Greeks?" asked Ladaryan softly.

"We will help them, but keep fighting contained to the Istanbul area," Ivakon offered in his thick Russian accent, pacing behind the table and smoking a cigarette. "This is the doctrine we've written for months. I've talked to my counterpart through the Foreign Ministry and this is what we've agreed upon. Just enough to tip the tide in favor of the Greeks, but not a full-fledged restart of the war. It's a measured response this time. Hasmik and I have talked."

"Then that's good, I'll keep my eye on the area," the Director affirmed. He went back to the wall and leaned against it, sighing deeply. His wrinkled face bore scares slashed across his cheek: Shrapnel from a grenade that had exploded near him during the initial fighting for Armenia. Despite his status as a high-ranking member of the political hierarchy, he viewed his job as a way to prevent war. A small skirmish was an acceptable tradeoff for another raging, three year ethnic conflict.

"Our paratroopers haven't had much experience, they weren't deployed during the war," Ivakon said. "But our plans have them drop in over the city to support the Greeks. Quick, effective, and a nice show of force. If the order comes, we'll be there."

"We've got to be ready soon," said Pollundrian, distantly from the back of the room. He snubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "Ottomans are going to fight tooth and nail for that city, just like they did in the 1400s. Let's not have a repeat of Constantinople."

[b]Joint Base Sevan Lake, Armenia[/b]

The conditioning was over, the Candidates thoroughly indoctrinated. The weeks of being woken up violently and forced out into the cold mornings for physical training were mostly over. No longer did the instructors head in at four in the morning and fire off blanks to get the officers-to-be out of bed, but rather downgraded to just an alarm at six and a stern call to formation over the intercom. Physical training was still commenced, but it was easier for them. No more two hour runs in the wooded Sevan hills until everyone threw up on the side of the road. They had much more important things to do. Classroom instruction of tactics, weaponry, leadership, and anything else an officer should know was conducted. The Candidates learned how to use their platoons and squads to take over simulated enemy positions in wargames conducted not unlike a board game. They learned what a squad automatic weapon's most efficient suppression technique was so that they could use it to keep an enemy down behind cover. They learned how to stagger columns to prevent bunching up. They were trained constantly, day and night: Knowledge drilled into their heads. Then came the field week, where they would practice these.

Abbasian, weighed down with a full combat load and a K19U training rifle - a lower-powered version of the ubiquitous K19 battle rifle found within every Armenian force - loaded with rubber bullets and smoke rifle grenades in lieu of traditional bullets and explosives, walked beside his roommate on their way to the staging point. His roommate had been the same Corporal sitting beside him on the bus, a Yazidi with curly black hair and brown skin: Hassam Sulayev. The Yazidi didn't talk too much, but he was evidently born in Azerbaijan before being forced out with his family during the chaos there. He spoke Azeri, Armenian, and Kurdish fluently, and was a similar pickup for the Foreign Legion. They both hypothesized that they were picking foreign-born Armenian soldiers to form an officer core. Diaspora members in particular, from France, America, Russia, and everywhere else, were valued. Their language and cultural skills would enable them to connect to their men and assimilate them into Armenian society faster than a regular unit. It was hoped that the Armenian Foreign Legion would follow the French model, being used as elite shock troops: A grand source of pride for the men there.

The staging point was a circle of tents and rickety-looking buildings in the middle of a forest clearing. The whole "blue" platoon was there, while the "red" platoon had situated themselves atop a fortified hill in the training area called "Kajman Point." It was representative of a typical outpost, fortified and staffed with an equal force. It was a challenge for the blue platoon, since the attackers were traditionally at a disadvantage. Their objective was simple: They were to take Kajman Point and kill, capture, or force out the red platoon. It was just them, with no simulated air or mortar support. Daylight made it difficult for stealth. The platoon leader, a young and short native of Hrazdan named Uzejikyan who looked dwarfed by his flak jacket and helmet, gathered his Candidates around while he stood atop some wooden ammunition boxes with his plans in hand. The plan called for a sudden, aggressively violent strike against the flank of the fortification. The defenders would be caught off-guard and the flood of attacking troops would be enough to collapse Kajman Point from within. The strike would come in from the heavily-wooded northern area.

Abbasian and Sulayev were squad leaders, taking the lead while the other two squads followed behind. Sulayev headed one of the two weapons squads, packing rockets, grenades, and machineguns in support of the raid. Abbasian and the third squad leader would charge up the hill while Sulayev covered him. They trekked through the forest silently, accompanied by an instructor who was grading their every move. Clad in camouflage facepaint and with grass strapped to their helmets, Abbasian's squad believed themselves to be masters of the land. The thought themselves as a pack of wolves, ready to strike and kill. This illusion lasted exactly up until Uzejikyan - walking alongside Abbasian - was hit in the lower back by a rubber bullet. "Fuck!" he shouted as he fell into the dirt. The rubber bullets didn't kill, but they hurt enough to leave a valuable lesson.

"Your platoon leader is down, Candidate! Take the fucking lead!" an instructor answered, running throughout the forest and waving the blue platoon down. "Abbasian, you're the platoon leader now!"

The quiet hollow pops of rubber bullets hitting their marks - there was no rifle report from a training rifle - sounded as a hail of gunfire came into their position. "Scatter!" shouted Abbasian, waving his hands to the side. Sulayev echoed the command, and the platoon scattered behind trees and berms to return fire. They started shooting in the direction of where they thought the fire was coming from in an attempt to suppress the hostiles. The two sides exchanged fire for a moment, another one of Abbasian's men was lost when a bullet plonked off of his helmet. The enemy disappeared into the forest. Abbasian ordered the platoon to regroup while Sulayev jogged out of his fighting position. "It was a harassment squad, they left the main base. We need to cut them off and destroy them before they get back."

Abbasian nodded and his hand shot up: "Hey, we're catching these guys! Hunt and destroy, gentlemen! They went south, let's go!"

Aware that they might be led into another ambush, the platoon took off. They sprinted through the forest, trying desperately to keep up with their adversaries. Through the radio, Abbasian ordered the two other squads to branch off and try to intercept from the west. When the north group caught up, they would shoot at the harassment squad and bog them down. Seconds later, one of Abbasian's troops started firing wildly into the woods. A hundred meters in front of them was a creek, and the red squad was scrambling across it. They had jumped down into it and were wading across while Abbasian gave the order to engage. The seventeen men who were left collapsed into firing positions and let loose. Smoke grenades were tossed into the creek, instructors scored kills based on the simulated blast radius. Three enemy troops were lost to gunfire while another was killed by a grenade. While smoke grenades didn't actually hurt the victims, the instructors were sure to shoot them anyways, if only to make sure they knew they were dead. Abbasian's western flank came in moments later and finished off the red squad. "All clear!" someone shouted.

"All clear!" echoed Sulayev from the northern flank.

"All clear! Red squad is down, let's reform!" commanded Abbasian, jumping down into the creek where two red team soldiers sat against a tree, clutching their hits and moaning. He looked over at them. "That hurt, fellas?" asked Abbasian with a grin.

"Yeah, I wouldn't recommend it," grumbled one of them. "Shit's gonna leave a nasty-ass bruise, man."

Abbasian smiled again and jogged back to the forefront of the platoon. Sulayev remained crouched down behind a tree branch, rifle sighted down south. "I don't think they'll come out of their base to get these guys, if that's what your suggesting," observed Abbasian. "I'm not sure if the squad leader radioed back in that he was under attack, but he must have. They're already thing on defenders, we can exploit the advantage."

"We can't come in from the north," Sulayev responded, shaking his head. "They know we're here."

"Actually," the platoon leader said, an idea shining in his head, "we can."

He dropped down to the dirt and grabbed a stick from nearby. He motioned for the other squad leaders to come over while their teams pulled security. Scraping away the grass with his feet to reveal bare dirt, Abbasian drew a circle that represented Kajman Point. He put an X at the north, at the creek. "We leave a squad here to play diversion. The rest of us heads down to the south. The squad up here begins their assault just as we would have normally, spread out to maintain the illusion of multiple elements. While the defenders believe that a frontal assault is underway, the rest of us head in from the south. They'll be pointed in the opposite direction and we can overwhelm few, if any guards." As he spoke, he drew arrows across the dirt representing what he was planning.

"What if they do look for their lost squad?" one of the squad leaders brought up.

"It'll be a squad or fireteam element, nothing more," assured Sulayev. He nodded in approval, cradling the rifle in his arms. "We can ambush them like they did to us, except we don't pussy out and retreat."

Abbasian nodded. "This all look good?" he asked. "Any suggestions?"

"I think my only addition is that we leave Sulayev's weapon's squad up here," one of the squad leaders offered. "We have the heavy weapons to mimic a full assault. More firepower with less people."

"Good, I'll take it," Sulayev said instantly.

Abbasian nodded again, standing up to drag his foot across the plans and destroy them. "We'll circle wide around Kajman Point and radio when we're in position."

The sun began to set over the forests of Sevan as the blue platoon circled the fort. They were tired, dirty, and running low on water. The escapade through the forest had exhausted them. It took them almost two hours to reach their strike position. Abbasian believed that the extra two hours of uncertainty would affect the defenders negatively: They had no idea what was out there and what had happened to their scout team. Anyone could come from anywhere. The tensions would be stewing, they would make mistakes. So when Abbasian radioed in for the north group to begin their mock raid, the defenders flocked to destroy what they thought was an outnumbering onslaught. A firefight broke out to the north of Kajman Point and Sulayev's squad did their best to pretend to assault the compound. He was losing men, and he only had a few to spare. Abbasian was leading a charge up the steep dirt hill by the time Sulayev was hit and put out of action. With a battle cry, the blue team surged over the sandbagged walls of Kajman Point and massacred the unsuspecting red team. It was nearly nightfall before Abbasian hoisted the blue flag over the battlements of Kajman Point.

A truck had arrived at the top of the fort to load the two platoons into for the trip back to the barracks. Abbasian loaded up his soldiers, counting them as they went aboard. Last was him and Sulayev, who packed up the tailgate and locked it in. An instructor headed in with them, sitting across on the other bench. He nodded in approval at the blue platoon leader, simply stating: "Good job, Candidate Abbasian."

Sulayev smiled and patted his roommate on the back. Abbasian let out a heavy sigh and leaned back into the seat. He was just as exhausted as the others. Uzejikyan, sitting next to the instructor, rubbed his lower back and offered his own congratulations.

"You'd make a fuckin' fantastic PL one day, man."