Dinh AaronMk

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

Kampala, Uganda

“Herr Lofaine, it's a good day to be in Kamapala. Ja?” the man said as Loffaine hobbled into his office. The battle-tired French man took great strides across the office.

“And to you, Till Hasch.” Pierre greeted with a polite grin, as he took a position alongside a large plush arm chair.

Till Hasch was a German, that was for sure. His background was reflected very strongly in himself. For those in a time a hundred years ago, he might almost be considered a specimen of the Aryan race. Almost.

Those his shortly kempt hair was golden, and his eyes a smokey blue like steel, his features were round in a strange way. There was that German sharpness in his jaw and his cheeks. But either it was the curse of his fat rolling body that gave him more the build of a misshapen pear or it was some other misfortune that widened most of these across his face until they appeared round. His eyes looked down a large bent nose that dropped down over his lip like an ogre.

But under neath it, he still had his muscles. Even under the fat and his finely trimmed gray uniform that was so standard among the corporation – which made them more an army than a business – defined muscles sprung out at the shoulders. And as he walked over to the desk with a bright smile on his face his raised back and high-held shoulders gave the impression he was still on the drill yard, taking orders from a sergeant, or addressing his general. It was engrained, if anything. He was a man with atmy in his background, all the way down to the first world war. And like that distant blood, he had seen a greater war and lived, but hadn't retired from the rifle; not yet.

“So what is the is the matter that brings herr Piere to Kampala?” Till said warmly. Pierre regarded him with a stoic look, treating him to a partial smile.

“I'm here on a inspection.” the Frenchman said, “the World Cup's coming on in a little over a month and I wanted to check the preparedness of the entire force. We still got lingering threats of China's influence down here to worry about, the last thing I want is to see the lingering ghosts from The War coming to life during this. Juba's been very patient for the last fifteen years, I don't want to dampen the Sudanese.”

“July does come fast.” Till sighed, “But I suppose the start of our thirty years needs to be tested at some point then. Is there anything you want to know?”

“Yes,” Pierre began, turning about looking over his office. Till's office was a shrine in some respects to his own career. Adorning the walls were all sorts of photographs from when he was a private in the German Army some ten years before the war. His accomplishments weren't much to speak of in comparison to Pierre, given the general activity of the German army. But what there was, Till proudly displayed.

Pictures of home in southern Bavaria adorned the wall. Smiling family some many thousand miles off, and green fields; not barren dirt wastelands. “I have read the briefings concerning a small regiment of men somewhere out on the Tanzanian border, I hear they've been as far north as Masaka?”

“Oh yes, those.” Till snickered, “I would have sent men to dispose of them if the Ugandan courts agreed. But they seem to be of the opinion that they haven't done much of anything, and they feel they're some small militia group hitting out against trafficking. Or, that's what their 'independent' report said.” Till sneered. His fists clenched around court and report. Deep seated animosity glowed in his face. It was understandable, he was a man of intuition and action, and something said that group should go. But the contracts held him at a tight leash.

“Have you tried to to investigate possible Chinese connections then?” Pierre asked, “Direct, indirect. Whatever as it would be.”

“Well, I tried. But we didn't produce anything conclusive I'm afraid. They are armed with Chinese guns. But, schiesse! You know just as well as I do that now the war's done all of Africa is crawling with AK74 copies and Type 00's. Our own men use them from time to time. But that's all we can find on the group.

“Apart from having to confiscate a few guns because of outstanding convictions on about a quarter. But we both know they'll get them again.”

“I understand.” Pierre said, “What about connections? Have you identified a leader? What's his record?”

“We have, and I was about to send a dossier to you on him.” Till nodded, slowly and stiffly sitting down behind his deck. He grimaced lightly as he rubbed his knees.

“So give it to me now.” Pierre invited, stealing a seat himself.

“His name is Jean-Marie William Monbuka.” Till began reciting, “He is a Roman Catholic priest of the Baganda people. He was born in Masaka, and will probably die in Masaka. As far as we can tell his only foreign contact was a trip to England and France, so he's at least literate enough in French alongside the as-expected English and Swahili. We believe is father came from France too, but information on him is sparse; I can only confirm he paid taxes.

“Now, he runs a small church in the heart of Masaka. He's been known to preach to the youth and has a distate for just about anything modern. He wants to see computers smashed, and our mobile manufacture burned in hell fire. So he's sehr conservative.

“But, I found no direct affiliation to China. Or anything that would confirm the schwinehund to be associated. During the years of the war he disappeared, and talking to who I could some claim he fled to the Congo like so many others, but where to is sketchy. I've heard into Goma, or as far as Kinshasha.”

“Why would he go to Kinshasha?” Pierre asked, “That city was being shelled today as the Two Congos fought each other off.”

Till shrugged. “The inconsistencies make me wonder, but I can't hold it up in the Ugandan courts when I request warrants to search his home, his church, and any personal information he has. According to the judges at least.”

“So you have your suspicions then?”

“By got I do!” Till yelled, “But nothing to back it.”

“Alright.” Pierre nodded, “Well, for him I do give permission to put them under surveillance leading up to and through the World Cup when it hits Juba late next month. But, keep is discreet, of course. Send someone to Irish Alley or wherever if you need a mole. But don't arose anything suspicious and put this district in danger.”

“Understood.” Till agreed, “I'll have someone dig through there in the next couple of days. Hopefully have him in and working his way in by the the start of next week.”

“Timely enough I suppose on short notice then.” sighed Pierre, “How are the conditions of the men then?”

“Alles gut.” the commander said, “we've ample ammunition for our peace-keeping and providing efforts, I haven't had to sign many disciplinary papers lately, and I believe no one in the local units has gone into the dark corners of Irish Alley lately. So I can only pray that they learned not to be pricking themselves with needles since I started breaking jaws.”

“Fuel?”

“Enough to keep the aircraft in the air every day, and twice on Sunday.”

“I'd like to see them then.” said Pierre, “May we?”

“Ja.” Till smiled, standing out his seat, “And I'll have the full briefing on Monbuka to your office in Kinshasha as soon as possible. If we haven't emailed it already.”

“I await the reading.” Pierre said. As they walked to the door he added, “And is your knee bothering you?”

“Kliene, kliene...” Till responded, “It's lousy Italian production. I should have bought German!”

“I do hear the Japanese have good implants.”

“Don't get me started.” spat Till as they went through the door.

Mbandaka, Congo

(Action Tiem)

The black Osprey cut through the sky in the breast of a rainstorm that flowed over the Congolese jungle like a wet blanket. The hard rain that poured down on it and across the windshield as it passed over the Congo river below. The brown, dark confluence of water that was the river cut clean through the heart of the jungle. Its wide, deep waters running out to the sea, and Kinshasha-Brazzaville; the twin cities and final gate into the heart of darkness.

Though, light had come to the Congo in the last decade. By sheer force of foreign armies doing the fighting for the Congo, and the need to equip and supply them in the wet jungles of central Africa development had happened. The once darkened city of Mbandaka had power, and it shown in the storm.

Below, through the water-washed, tinted glass of the pilot's canopy of the Osprey with the white mare the African city glowed with a soft yellow light. The ironic fortunes of post-war somehow finding an unexpected home down here. For the war had a way of re-writing the economic landscape.

In the east, India's croplands had come to burn under multiple foes. And while it did someone needed to pick up the slack. When the dusts had settled, the victorious government of the former DRC acted on the new landscape. It chipped away for this city on the confluence of the Congo and the Tshuapa the park that had long protected the jungle that grew up to and butted against the city. With new land, cheap land, anyone looking to try for their wealth in farming came in over the past year and cleared out what they could.

The city on two rivers grew. Fields bordered by still-standing jungle trees cut a pattern of agriculture in the dark tropical soil. Lights shone in the distance as the presence of the ASN worked in. The mercenaries needs had expanded parts of it as well.

As boats shipped the new goods down the river to the capital a bridge long incomplete for nearly a century was being tackled by goods some commanders or private investors in the PMC had acquired. Though, no one talked about it; the talk was about how it was time to lay over the face of the city carved by intense conflict since the 1960's. It was a time for grain, rice, roads, rail, and soldiers.

In the back of the Osprey two bound, gagged, and bleeding captives lay on the cold dirty steel of the helicopter as it pivoted and moved in on its landing. The two run-way local airport was lit for them, and behind the small terminal was its landing pad.

Communications between the two picked up as they neared. Relays on landing orders were given and requests accepted, appropriating a quick landing.

Water splashed and buffeted in the cyclonic winds kicked up by the rapidly chopping motors of the Osprey as it came to land on the helipad tarmac. It had been quickly laid out, like much of the airport. And much of it still was in construction, like the rest of the city.

The rain continued to fall on the town as the engine's died, clicking and steaming as they cooled in the falling rain. The lights shone onto its accented the dripping and falling water, making the black hide of the craft flow. Even the painted mare took on a more erotic look as the fresh rain water fell across its painted pearl-white hide, mane, and raised tail.

With a pneumatic hiss the side-doors opened, sliding to the side as the crew on board jumped out. The captives were handled roughly, ran across the tarmac with a hand at their zip-tie bound hands and another at their necks as they were dashed through the cold, rainy, afternoon evening. Guards posted at the edges followed suit, ready to over see the hand off of the prisoners.

With his armored boots splashing in the pooling water alongside the Osprey landed Flash Sentry. He took a quick glance to the sky. “Fucking rain.” he hissed. He removed his helmet, and pulled the plush pony that had been strapped to it out of its ties; one having been shot off during the fire fight made it easier.

“Captain Bradely!” shouted a technician at the landing as he ran over, “You still got that fucking thing?”

“You mean Flash?” Bradley smiled, as he flipped his helmet and through the orange and blue pony plush onto his own blue hair, capping it with his helmet, “I ain't fucking getting rid of it, damn good luck charm.” he smiled cockily.

“Yea whatever, but a thing like that should have burned in the war a long time ago!” the man yelled as Flash walked off the tarmac.

“And every soldier needs his lucky charm you motherfucker!” he yelled, smiling, “I don't see you got one! Guess you got it boring!”

“Hey, I got one!” he shouted, gesturing down to his crotch, “Ain't no pussy shit either.”

“And here I thought it got blown off.” Bradley jested, stopping at the edge of the tarmac.

“You wanna fight?”

“Aw shit no, I wanna eat. I heard there's food, where the fuck is that?”

The airport hand waved him off, shaking his head. “Hey fuck you. Grub's in the terminal building. Don't be afraid of any Japs seeing you eat, this ain't the suit and tie place to be.

“But the commander wants a debrief, so go do that first.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way.” Bradley, or Flash Sentry called back. From behind, the pilot and co-pilot were just stepping out, regarding the rain in bitter taste.

The commanding officer's office wasn't much to speak of. Like the rest of the terminal, it was a quickly built room composed of what was probably pre-fabricated walls welded together and bolted on top of a concrete base. Like the rest of the building. A small window on one side looked out into the dark Congolese evening with the rain still pouring down. The soft lighting gave the room a warm glow, for all its spartan amenities. A aluminum desk, a few chairs, computer, and some creature comforts comprised of family photos filled the sparse atmosphere.

But it didn't need to do much filling, because the man at the helm could fill the room easily enough.

It was not to say Colonel Jacob Mozabe was a fat man. But he was certainly a large, brutish man by African terms. The way he sat at the computer was like one would expect from a comical guerrilla. He peered through – or over – the frame of a pair of glasses too small for his large face. His gray suit was worn tight over him. Even what little hair he had seemed a little too little for such a big creature.

“Capdain Bradely.” he said finally, after a long silence that Flash took standing at attention. Mozabe's voice was thick and heavy, and accented. Flash had once taken him for a Jamaican, though he had politely corrected him by saying he was South African.

“You may sid down.” he added, not changing his position or demeanor as he typed.

Flash slouched from the unexpected command. Sighing defeatedly he stepped around the chair, and took his seat. His superior continued to type.

After what felt like a prolonged wait, Colonel Jacob turned to his officer, his hands still on the keyboard in that off 'too big for this world' way. “Your assignment doday, How'd id go?” he asked.

“It's a success.” Bradely began, Jacob typing along, “We encountered OPFOR patrol across the border in Gabon at around 3:33 in the afternoon. Pilot sergeant Kimbly opened the engagement with a pair of HE explosive rockets, opening a LZ in the jungle and startling the initial patrol for our landing. By 3:35 we had loaded the Osprey, and were en'route for home.

“Total engagement time was approximately forty-five seconds.” Flash said with a tough sigh, leaning back into the chair, “Total searching of, and confirming the dead lasted a minute, after which we detained two injured, but live captives and returned them here to base. They were escorted into custody as we landed.”

“Who dreated the capdves as you flew?” Jacob asked, “Cathlyn Mierrie?”

“Yes, Re- Cathlyn Mierre treated the captives injuries and restrained the bleeding for the return.” Flash Sentry said, restraining himself from referring to their team medic by her call-name, Redheart.

“Injuries or casualdies?”

“Just a single zip-tie.” Flash smiled.

“Dhat will be on your bill.” the colonel said dryly.

“Ooh, a dollar! I'm so sad.” Flash joked, playing at wiping a tear from his arm.

“So what was the ammo expenditure?” Jacob asked.

“I would say about a clip each.” Flash reported, “Mac burned through half a belt on his gun in suppressing our targets for us to mop up with burst-fire.”

“Any potential intel captured during the mission?” Jacob inquired.

“No sir.”

The colonel nodded, brushing his thick sausage hands over a few last keys before mashing enter. “Dhank you capdain.” he said with a smile, the first expression during the entire endeavor he made, “You're free to report in for dinner. What I hear it's a pork barbeque and chicken.”

“Beans sir?”

“Someone skimped on dhat I'm afraid. Sorry.”

“It's no big deal I guess.” Flash frowned as his stomach growled.

The Funny Farm

Nigerians.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

Also as a fore-warning I'm working on a story arc involving the World Cup and Juba. Provided someone gives me a window to post, you could be seeing the bases written out in my next IC post.

I kindly request you give me the reigns on this until then, and if I can fit you into the happy fun times to come after to try and not get involved beyond whatever IC acknowledgement you could give. ASN is assuming direct control.

Details may be subject to change as I see fit and sensible until that post.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

And then I tried to make tank combat interesting.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Kalachinsk, Russia

Tse Lin was the type who could find the words needed to describe riding in a tank was like, for her. Or at least to the men. She didn't doubt she could manage to describe it other women in the force. Precautions needed to be taken, or so the indoctrination claimed. And given the often passive-aggressive hostility or the insistent flirting many lonely soldiers tried to pull on her type it paid to keep such observations quiet, or learn to put someone in a hold and threaten to tear off his balls.

But there was still that something in riding in one. Even so high up in the turret the vibration and rattle of the heavy diesel engine in back. Even with the muffled effects of reduced cylinders in the new power-plant for the modern TG 1980 there was still that distinct thunder in its chassis. The distinct way it rumbled through the steel, assisted by the way the treads moved across rough terrain that rolled deep into her legs. Even though the edge of her small steel seat often numbed them from lack of appropriate padding, the message over her pelvis was almost a way to forgive that. Just short of a prolonged orgasm.

And the gun she got to handle to go with it.

Her shoulders brushed against the side of the impossibly angled targeting computer. A whole mess of knobs and levers and dials she couldn't ever hope to read. But she knew it by heart, just like every other gunner in the Armored core of the Chinese army. Wi Hui had alongside him the auxiliary box, should something ever happen to her or the computer at her side that would prevent the precise angling and movement of the turret in which they sat.

Wi Hui, her loader sat staring out the tiny pin-hole window he was given. It was almost expected that if she was removed he was entrusted with blindly firing at approximately the same coordinates Sung would give in engagement. But Lin knew him well enough he wasn't searching for anything to shoot, he was putting aside himself for when he needed to take the dive to load shells. It was coming, the sternness in Sung's voice as he screamed over the radio for positions on the rest of the column were testament to that.

“Position requests on any units near coordinate positions 55, 74!” he shouted. The map laid out on his lap brushed its corners alongside Lin's face in rhythm with the movements her seat was taking her through.

“55, 74. Kalachinsk, Russian Republic. Come in!” he continued to yell, taking occasional glances up wards through his canopy of glass and steel to check the surroundings.

Lin wondered where they were in regards to their area. Filled with the curiosity of the moment, she pull the sighting scope up to her eyes and gave the road ahead a gander.

It was broken up, pot-holed, and mostly rain whetted mud and clay. Deep ruts ran the length of the muddy and churned soil, marking where trucks had passed. Water filled these furrows, breaking only for sticks or the upturned rock or thick unbroken clod of clay kicked up by any of the vehicles that came through.

There was a misty sort of quality ahead of them. The trees dropped with a sort of sadness. It was fitting really, for the almost two years she had come to know the Russian atmosphere there was no fitting display. The Russians were a people who had lost their nation some ten years ago. The Siberians had only just repaired their state a year prior, just before she had been sent her with this lovable crew. She couldn't lie, she loved them like brothers. It came with the territory, she assumed.

And this territory, this was knew. She didn't even know if in the eyes of the Russian peoples supposedly their allies if they trusted them. Did they see them as saviors? Or just another complicating element in their greater revolution. After all, it was no secret among them that the Chinese had flummoxed in assuring a hastier end to their Civil War. They held the president of the Republic, they could have demanded their cessation and allowed them to be absorbed in Siberia!

Though, despite this: the Diplomatic offices liked to deny it. They with the rest of Beijing claim it was them defending the east against the terrors of VX. To prevent another Seattle. Maybe they were right, in a strange sense. But it was the only they thing toted.

“Sun Song, Q-41I. Calling in at approximately two a half kilometers north of the old Siberian highway inbound to Kalachinsk. Requesting all nearby units for assistance.” he continued, looking up through the glass. That queer ovular microphone pressed close over his mouth as a singe hand held down the bouncing and waving map.

“Do we have an-” bullets began striking the side of the armored shell, silencing Song mid-call as the pinging and twisting of lead striking against the side of the hull pattered like rain. An anxious smile exploded across Lin's face as she leaned back in her chair, going for the adjustment as Hui began to scramble for shells, coming to that precarious balance between seat and hanging.

“270 degrees!” Song bellowed to the crew, leaning in to his bulletproof ports and peering out into the countryside around them, “Nest, five hundred meters!”

Metal clinked and clattered as a motor hummed as Lin reached to the targeting console and blindly dialed in the position, trusting her intuition and sense of feel, she peered through her sights as she spun the turret to the appropriate position on her left. As steel clashed shut Hui bellowed out, “READY!”

Lin needn't have any other command as she cupped the trigger mechanism firmly in her palm and pulled.

With a resounding sound of thunder, the chamber of the main gun erupted with a meaty and throaty boom. Immediately, the filmy white tuft of exaust steamed out from the chamber as the empty shell was ejected, split moments after the muzzle flashed with bright fire, streaming out an flashing silver flash. From Lin's command a blooming explosion of soil, dirt, and wood bloomed up out of the distant tree line, sending high a column of debris.

Though the offending nest fell silent, it summoned further attention to them.

Like angered bees dashing themselves against the thick hide of a bear live fire rained on them. The metal sing and dinged as bullets recoiled ineffective against them. The soft tinging of the thick plexi of the windows only suggested that they would need many more rounds to break a hole that may put their Commander – or driver – down.

The reports of responsive fire from the rest of the Tei Gui under Song's hand responded in muffled waves as they freely fired on the distant tree ridge.

“Arrow head!” Song hollered into his radio, “Clear through the tree line! Break what you can, let the Russians mop up the rest!”

“Sir, we're taking fire!” Tsung shouted nervously over the mounting racket that was the saddened attempt of suppressive fire on mobilized armor. For all of his unproven worth, Lin couldn't help but snicker. He was young, cute. But thus far a pussy. Though Hui seemed to treat him understandingly enough, but then again, so had he to she, and to Tsung's predecessor; an impressive man and a amusement lost to his own stupidity.

“What fire! I see no fire!” Song shouted back down to him, almost laughing. The rebuke did make Lin smile excitedly as she waited for new coordinates to dial in.

“GROUP!” Song shouted down. Lin's heart raced in excitement. She shuffled her legs in anticipation. “300 degrees! Six hundred meters! HE, by the bushes!”

Ling responded thus, looking down her para-scope as Hui loaded the shell. The soft clicking of the dials muted by the Russian rain on their thick hide, and the burning roar of their powerful motor. She scouted down the offending group, an odd assortment as they tried to pack up and run from them, fleeing down the road to the town in the distant.

Over the thin trees and sparse foliage the roof tops of the village of Kalachinsk rose in the distant. Faded and murky through lens and wet fog. But for what she could see, it was the same as any settlement in the Russian far-east. Very few proud, old structures rose high above. Very much unlike the fabled imagery of a rural Europe. It was the last czar's push in capitalizing the riches of his land's sparsest place. It was also smoldering, and where her targets sought shelter.

“READY!” Hui bellowed, and the report of the gun sounded heavy in the enclosed shell of the hull. The report a great crack of thunder. A plum of rock and soil responded just ahead of the retreating men that threw them back and scattered the rest in the air. They hit the ground limp to not get back up.

“Muzzle flash, possible nest!” reporting Song. From the deck below Lin could hear weak stifled coughing from Tsung, “Straight ahead. Five-hundred meters.”

Lin dialed in the coordinates, re-adjusting the turret to run along with where the tank thundered. She stole a brief glance below to try and see what was wrong, but only caught Hui pulling out a long cylindrical brass shell.

The same steel hatch closed, and again Hui screamed at the ready. Drawing the firing mechanism the barrel reported loud and proud as a shell flew to the offending direction.

The explosion lit up the wooded patch behind the target position. Bright fire bloomed from the brush and trees. Taking over and ripping into the Russian nest in a cloud of dirt and white-hot rounds. From the tracers streaking from the impact sight, the explosion caught an ammunition dump. Red and green tracers ripped haphazardly through the air, burning bright luminescent trails through the air.

The flashes and bangs of additional fire buffeted and boomed just outside as the advancing Chinese pushed through the soft defense of the Republican counter-siege. Clods of smoke and ash bloomed across the fields and in the road as the village of Kalachinsk drew nearer. Lin took a breath as Song gave more orders. Through the parascope the red roofs and starched white, sterile structures of Kalachinsk grew nearer.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

And if you're not allows anyone in the RP to pick out anything that may be an inconsistency and bring it up for review.

I do understand the personal feeling to have a comprehensive history when you do an app, but things can always come up later that may change details, and if it's too rigid than you may have an issue retconning them in. And those details can be added later. And if you're so concerned about things that you need to reserve a host of nations then you're obviously not a type-writer like myself.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

All it takes is another major Vatican Counsel to re-examine their roll in their world and reform the church as they deem fit, and you could go from a church that promotes pacifism and humanitarian aid to one that says it has the right to defends it sovereignty and church interests/followers with military force.

And then the Papal States are back in order.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

Crya said
I may be reserving The Vatican. I believe I'll have them join up with the Oculi soon.

no

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

In action:

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Goats are the ultimate physics weapon.