Salignac
Chief Grayson was not used to working on land. After serving such a long time aboard Antica's primary carrier, Bellerophon, it was strange to service his planes on solid earth. Specialist Hoshino sat down beside him, and the two of them began to eat their lunches. It was silent, but that was no bother. Upon reflection, it was actually enjoyable to sit under the sun, with trees and grass around.
"All pilots to your fighters! All pilots to your fighters!" The loudspeakers announced. Chief Grayson put his sandwich down. Something was obviously a problem.
"Captain Hayes!" He shouted. The Captain, as well as the rest of her pilots, were running to the airfield from their barracks, all of them in some state of undress from the necessary flight suit, all of them hurrying to fix that.
"Not sure. All I know is that half of the squadron needs to be in the air in the next few minutes. That's all I got from Pierrefeu. I'm sure even they don't know what's going on." She said, zipping up her flight suit and slipping her helmet on. She was mostly ready since it was her flight that was due for the next Air Patrol. Sitting in her cockpit, she plugged into the radio, and immediately heard a steady stream of chatter.
"Ok pilots, keep it down. Stinger, where are you?"
A moment's pause before a response. "Currently off near the southern tip of the island."
"Captain, Pierrefeu just sent new information. Antican platoon pinned down somewhere in Vacqueyras. Unknown number of casualties. Attackers are... Shirerithian. Babkhans, probably. They're requesting support. Orders are to give them some."
Vacqueyras
Lieutenant Hendricks is dead. Ensign Beckett could barely see his still body laying in the middle of the street, accompanied by a number of other Home Guardsmen. A burst of automatic fire convinced him to bow his head back and away. He looked at the rest of the platoon. He was the junior Ensign.
"How's Ensign Faye?" He asked. Ensign Faye, the senior of the two, was hit by the same initial burst that took out a squad's worth of men, including the Lieutenant, but was lucky enough to still be on his feet when they took cover in... what is this?
A number of Gasconians were there, backed away from their tables against the far wall. A restaurant, from the look of it.
"Can somebody alert the Militia?" He asked. Nobody moved. Nobody seemed to understand. "Est-ce que... allez... a la Militia?" This is what he got for not paying attention in class.
"La Milice?"
"Yes! La... Libre Gasconienne Milice!" One of them seemed to understand what Ensign Beckett was going at and went to find a back door to the restaurant, if there were any. The rest, however, stood motionless, fear in their eyes.
"Don't worry, sir. I got Pierrefeu on the radio, asking for some backup. They've probably already alerted everyone on the island." Another burst of fire broke through one of the windows and into one soldier's head, who slumped onto the shoulder of the man next to him. It was not taken well.
"Sniper Team Alpha is in position. I have them in my sight."
The radio clicked on. "Who are they?"
"They're Babkhans alright."
"Fire at will."
Caporal Favreau crouched down behind a crate and looked at what was going on in front of them. The sound of gunfire could be heard for blocks in every direction, attracting the attention of him and his patrol. "Private, radio to Headquarters. Babkhan soldiers are firing at a Gasconian restaurant. One does not know who is inside."
Private Emile nodded and pulled out his hand radio when a single clean shot rang out. Caporal Favreau looked out and saw one Babkhan land flat on the ground, his helmet bouncing away, material oozing out a very large hole in his head. The rest of the Babkhans were taking cover, but it was obvious that they did not know where it was coming from. A second shot, and a second Babkhan tumbled over. The remaining Babkhans fell back to an alley.
An Antican soldier positioned himself at the doorway to the restaurant and layed down some automatic fire in the direction that the Babkhans moved back to. A number of Gasconians then fled out of the door and in Caporal Favreau's direction.
"The Babkhans!" One of them cried out.
"What are they doing?" Favreau asked them.
"I don't know, but I think they killed both Gasconians and Anticans."
"They're trying to overthrow the Revolution!" Another cried out.
"Private Emile," Caporal Favreau said. Emile had yet to communicate anything to the local Militia headquarters. "Tell them that the Babkhans are suppressing demonstrations and killing innocent people. An Antican unit is trying to push them off. Request back up." Private Emile nodded and relayed it through his hand radio.
Overhead, a group of aircraft flew low. One of them broke formation and swung back around, closing on the ground. It vanished behind some buildings which blocked Favreau's view. Soon after, a loud buzzing sound.
Stinger released her trigger and rolled her fighter into another large loop, circling back on the position. It was a fairly inaccurate shot, but it did put the Babkhans on notice.
"Ok guys, just provide me some cover. Babkhans have aircraft, after all."
"Wilco."
Stinger switched channels.
"Beckett, do you read?" Fan doors open. Lift fan up to speed.
"Uh, yes ma'am-- uh, sir."
"Tell your boys to stay low and hold position." Engine nozzle swiveled to vertical. The main street that the fight broke out on was large enough to fit a Viper, but not the alleyway the Babkhans have been pushed into. With a bit of fine adjustment, Stinger was in position, and tilted her right wing down. Two- and three-story buildings comprised this section of the town, just low enough to make a quick getaway easy, just in case.
Another nudge rightward. The Viper drifted right, and then balanced itself out close enough for the job to be done. Stinger pressed down the trigger, laying down a spray of automatic fire down the alley. It was not well illuminated, so Stinger was firing more or less blind, but the large amount of dust, wood chips, and flesh that she could make out was telling. Gunfire was returned and ricocheted off the canopy.
"Alright, Beckett, let's see if that helps you any." Stinger said, pulling back on the trottle and tipping the fighter forward, clearing a two-story building before switching back to horizontal flight.
The War Room, Chateau des Comtes de St Jean, Outside Pierrefeu
A large map of Isle St Jean was spread out on the table. It was new, but one wouldn't have known it: its surface was already covered in pencil marks, circles, arrows to indicate unit placement and troop movements.
"I think we sort of figured that the Babkhans would make their move." Braden said. It was undisputed.
"Their transports are all in Vacqueyras's harbor, as well as a majority of their forces in preparation for departure." Valeria stated, reading off of the clipboard in her hand. The echo of rapid footsteps preceeded Commander Octavius's entrance.
"Sorry I'm late." He said, doing the buttons of his jacket up, quickly covering up the t-shirt he had underneath.
"It's quite alright," said Braden, who'd been up since five that morning, plotting strategems. "We've got a rebellion on our hands, to add to the Babkhan troubles." He took an unabashed swig from his flask (finally recovered from the Steward's Department aboard the Bellerophon), and pointed toward the southern region of the map, whose borders had been rather roughly drawn on in red.
"One of the local potentates, a certain, ehh..."he fumbled for the name, making a wheeling movement with his hand, until Ensign Valeria came to his assistance.
" 'Alexandre Lebed-Cygne, Chevalier d´Arkan,' she read off the clipboard.
"Thank you. That fellow. He's gone around to all the local lords in the south--those viscountcies are mostly vacant, you know, so most of his accomplices hold no rank higher than baron--gathering up a feudal levy, and has begun a counter-revolution in Frejus." He indicated the city. Chris looked at the confused, tangled markings near it, and asked,
"Have they engaged our troops in those cities?"
"Yes, said Braden, "and they've killed a few. I think it isn't worth it to try and wrangle for them now; I think we should order our forces to withdraw from Frejus and Carcassonne, and regroup at Salignac with the units already stationed there."
Chris thought about it for a moment. "Frejus is the base of the rebellion?" Braden nodded. "Bellerophon can position itself here..." he took one of the grease pencils and drew an X in the water almost directly south of Frejus, "...and bombard them into submission."
Braden shrugged. "Perhaps, but I don't want to do that unless it's absolutely necessary. If possible, I'd like to buy this fellow off, and not have to fight him at all."
"Well, it never hurts to provide a little encouragement, plus, it could help give us more time to focus on the Shirerithians."
"I'm afraid we'll be fighting them both simultaneously. The Babkhans have units spread over the entire island. Plus, who knows where the Hyperboreans stand on this. The Shirerithian MoMA said that the following actions would be considered their response, but the only Shirerithian units that have been reported in action are Babkhan."
"That can be easily solved." Christopher added. Everyone looked at him, puzzled. "We also have troops stationed in all major towns, plus the Free Gascon Militia. To simplify matters, we should try to drive the Babkhans out of them and forcehem into a confined area. We can begin with the Capital, since that's our highest concentration."
"We have a full brigade and half the Militia. The Tank Regiment is also stationed in full outside the city. It's about time we used them." Braden concurred with the plan. First the Capital, then work on the area to the north. Vacqueyras would be tricky, since it was where the Shirerithians were mostly gathered in preparation to leave. Braden began to write out a set of general orders.
"Relay the order to put both Red and Blue Squadron on hot standby. Half on the ground, ready to launch. Half in the air to provide area denial, ready to shoot anything not Antican and sees fit to fly." Christopher said to Valeria.
"Actually, I already relayed that order for you." She responded.
"I see." Christopher wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I don't know what I'd do without you." Katherine awkwardly wriggled herself out of the hold.
"Alright." Braden began, reading off the last bit of his orders. "All Babkhan units are to be commanded to surrender, and be escorted to the departure point in Vacqueyras. Those that refuse are to be engaged. Deadly force is permitted. Do not engage Hyperborean units unless fired upon first."
He passed the dispatch to Nelson, who gave it to the radio operator and instructed her to inform the commanders outside the rebel zone of their new orders. Braden called over, "Also, order the retreat from Carcassonne and Frejus, and tell them to regroup at Salignac." It was done.
"Alert the local Militia headquarters that I will be there presently!" Christopher added. The radio operator, beginning to think she deserved hazard pay for this kind of work, saluted.
Pierrefeu
The sky was dark, heavy, the color of insistent pencil lead. A deep humidity hung over Pierrefeu, deeply bothering some Antican soldiers, but hardly affecting the Sylvanians, who really found the sensation quite soothing.
Nelson Werner took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping perspiration from his brow, and casually remarked, "I do believe it could rain."
Braden threw back his head and laughed. "Dear Werner, you do provide the most excellent comic relief."
"Whatever is that supposed to mean?"
"Remarking on the weather as if it might ruin a croquet match. We ride out to battle, to agony and death, blood running in the gutters, and what have you to say but, 'Ah, I do think it might rain, Mr. Indianensis, would you care for another mint julip?' like this were some social call back home."
"Forgive me for trying to lighten the mood," Werner said, a little resentfully. "It does remind me of home, though. A sticky, oppressive day, when it seems it might rain, but never does. Maybe the rain would cool things off a little."
"You always say that, Nelson, and then when it does rain, you're astounded that it's only more humid. Besides, a rainstorm is the last thing we need, slicking up streets and generally frustrating the course of urban warfare. It would be a better dramatic affect, I cannot deny: besides, it seems better, if I'm to die on the scimitar of some uncouth Babkhan, to do it during an extraordinary rainstorm, than in a spell of mere wet heat."
Nelson couldn't deny this.
Turning to Ensign Valeria, Braden said, "You know, my great-grandfather died on a summer's day almost exactly like this one, back at Poplar Hall."
Katherine was taken aback by Braden's wistful spinning of family anecdotes in the midst of impending slaughter and certain doom, and could only manage a faint, "Oh, really?"
"Yes, ma'am, indeed he did. He fought in Terre D'Riches, you know, and had a bullet lodged in his stomach. It didn't penetrate any of his organs, but it began to slowly burrow into him as the years went by. I was very young when he finally did die, but I can remember Dr. White riding up from Vincennes with his medicine bag and probe, and my poor old granddad--Silas Praisegod Indianensis--being stretched out by the front stairs. They took me outside, but I could hear him scream something fierce when Dr. White began to probe for that bullet. Never did get it out, and he died right there in the entry hall. Blood loss. Dreadful stains all over the woodwork, took weeks to scrub out."
Ensign Valeria regarded him blankly. "Of course," he said, "medicine has improved inestimably since then, but it's still not good to take a bullet to the abdomen."
"I'll remember," she said uncomfortably
There was a moment of more or less complete conversational silence, the sound of a running jeep engine and boots marching over cobblestones and the rumble of the tanks being the only sounds heard as the Anticans began to spread out from the cathedral in the center of the city, each battalion taking one of the four main streets that spread out from there, and splitting up into platoons to cover side streets. The quiet calm was so deep, in fact, that both people and pidgeons were startled when Colonel Munier's voice boomed over the megaphone: "Attention citizens! Ze Babkhan counterrevolutionaries wizin zis city are being dealt wiz. Stay eenside your 'omes. Zees ees for your protection."
"Perhaps it would be better to speak in Gascon," Christopher suggested to her, without adding that her accent was so thick that she might as well have been. He couldn't figure out, for the life of him, why she'd been given the job of warning the citizenry of Babkhan dangers: he supposed it was because her voice was easily the loudest.
Munier held the megaphone away from her face. "Hein? Oh! D'accord." Moving it back into position, she shouted, "Attention les citoyens! Les contrerevolutionnaires Babkhans..."
From the direction of the Castle, the first properly assembled regiment of the Free Gascon Militia quickly marched into the square, closely followed by the first troop of tanks. One of the officers stepped forward with a couple of ballistic vests and helmets.
"Merci." Ensign Valeria said as she took the helmet, rested it on her head, and then proceeded to put the vest on. Christopher did the same after pausing for a moment.
"I wasn't aware you spoke Gasconian, Kate."
"I studied Alexandrian when in college. Functionally, they're almost the same. After talking with Mister Beaumont, I think I've gotten some of the proper dialectal differences hammered down, but they understand Standard Alexandrian as well."
"You shouldn't talk too much to that man. He's absolutely crazy." Next, a pistol and holster. Valeria took it unquestioningly, but Christopher decided to check it. "Oh bullocks... I should've asked Bellerophon to drop a shipment of its Armory."
"What's the problem?" Valeria asked.
"No problem," He said, slipping the pistol back into its holster. "I just prefer our guns." He turned back to Braden and Nelson and shouted over the sound of tanks in motion. "We'll take over the push southward, if you don't mind. Take some work off of your back." Braden, who did not make the attempt to shout over the noise, simply gave the OK sign with his hand.
Braden noticed that the square was beginning to empty of soldiers, and made the decision to continue on with Munier.
The battalion proceeded west, creeping along slowly, Munier shouting out her warning at regular intervals, and signalling for a platoon to depart down a side street from time to time, lieutenants taking up her call, until "Les Citoyens!" could be heard all over the western part of town.
It was hardly necessary to repeat; everyone was inside, firmly latched in. No immediate danger from sniper fire was detected, although the men kept anxious eyes directed upward, and then darting back down to ground level to assess the dangers there.
It happened, in fact, that they almost ran into the first Babkhans they met: an entire platoon, visible behind the wall of rubble they'd erected; it was plainly obvious which two houses they'd decided to dynamite especially for the purpose.
Everyone knew that violence was inevitable, but Colonel Munier was nothing if not obedient to her orders. "Your unconditionelle surrender est demandé. Lay down your arms, and report eemeediately to ze 'olding center een thees city, from where you weel be taken to--" A burst of gunfire interrupted her. "I take zat as a No."
She crouched down. Braden and Nelson joined her, and listened attentively to the speech she gave. "Eh bien, les hommes! Ve are come to eet at last. La bataille. I do not know eef you seenk thees eez a juste cause, and eef you do or not, I am glad to see that la patriotisme 'as made you brave eenough to fight for Antica regardless. I 'ave nothing else to geeve you, but zat."
"On my signal," said Braden, "Launch a volley of grenades into them. After that, we charge them."
There followed a great shuffling about, an assessment of the grenades, many of them held by inexperienced young men and women with shaky hands and sweaty palms. Braden saw one of these right near him, and placing his hand on the man's shoulder, said, "Just remember, pull the pin, count to three, and lob the bastard as hard as you possibly can--in that direction." He nodded, and the man nodded back.
Then, taking one in his own hand, he waited until he was sure. Sure of what, he didn't know exactly. Then, he shouted, "NOW!" pulling the pin from his grenade, he counted, and threw it as hard as he'd ever thrown anything, in the direction of the foe. His was first, and the explosion that roared out, the burst of fire and screams of agony were all his. He saw, in th corner of his eye, Munier and Werner pulling theirs, and then, everyone else, and soon, the opposing force was rendered a mob of screaching, wailing, and fiery torment. Before a counterratack could be launched, Braden drew his saber, pointed in toward the other side of the barricade, and positively hollered, "CHARGE!"
He distinctly heard Munier's voice begin a battle cry, only to be lost in the mass of the others' voices; he saw her flashing saber, waving the men on, as the woman was the first to dash over the barricade.
Braden breathed a silent prayer, summoning up all the courage he possessed: "Lady Pallas, our defender in times past, let your blessing fall upon me this day, may your spear be mine, and may your shield guard my life and those of my comrades. Forsooth."
"Our lady breathes scorn upon the enemy!" he called to the men, before scrambling over the barricade himself. It wasn't clear to them, nor really to him, if he meant the Colonel, or the Goddess.
Braden beheld a scene of horrid majesty. Fires burnt everywhere. Men lay dead and smoldering in the street. There were sounds of shouting, commands being yelled, and then, gunfire as battle was joined in earnest. Colonel Munier beheaded one particularly bold Babkhan who rushed out from the line, parrying his bayonet thrust with incredible ease, and slicing off his head as if she were swatting a fly.
She took the severed extremity by its beard and flung it into the Babkhan ranks.
Nelson, who had never fired a gun at a person, and whose only experience beyond pheasant shooting had been a few weeks of training, shouldered a rifle and began firing randomly at the Babkhans, letting out a howl that seemed totally alien to him.
Braden's preferred weapons, for the moment, were two single action Dinarchial Army Officer revolvers, "peacemakers" in the vernacular. Steadying himself as much as possible, he aimed, and shot a Babkhan officer in the shoulder. Not where he'd meant for it to go, but it did the job sufficiently. Between him and Nelson, a man crumpled down, shot through the neck. He was a sergeant, an old man of sixty years, his silver hair spattered with crimson. Nelson saw the soldier who fired, shouting, "I got one!" to one of his fellows, and slapping high fives; Nelson shot the man's arm off, and then shot the man whom he'd high-fived.
Munier was going into a positive trance. She took another grenade from the pouch of a dead man, pulled the pin, and tossed it generally into the midst of the Babkhans. She shot off a quick succession of rounds into the front lines, as distance combat faded and hand-to-hand became the reality. As the ranks of the enemy moved forward, she clubbed a Babkhan in the face with the butt of her rifle, laughing gaily as his jaw crunched.
Meanwhile, Nelson found himself pushing the stock of his rifle against that of a particulary greasy, fat corporal; he was practically borne to ground, when he managed to kick the man's legs out from underneath him, and shoot the fellow in the back of the head as he struggled to extricate himself.
Meanwhile, Braden was locked in single combat with the enemy lieutenant, parrying a heavy scimitar thrust with his saber, getting in a small leg-wound, eliciting a gasp of pain from his oppent, receiving a deep wound in the shoulder in retaliation. He stabbed the lieutenant through his flank, then picked up his sword, and threw it into the chest of the fellow who came to avenge him.
Clutching his wound, he cried out, "Where are those bloody tanks, for the love of God!"
With the firing of the lead tank's gun, the corner shop burst open. A small group of isolated Babkhan soldiers were seen going inside; the first hostiles they had seen that day. Christopher looked out from behind the lead tank. Curious quiet.
A couple of guns interrupted the silence from inside the remains of the store, which the Militiamen quickly responded to in kind.
"Move in!" Christopher cried out.
"Avancez!" Katherine translated for him.
One of the platoons moved up and encircled the shop, a second providing covering fire. Once in position, the second advanced, with the first covering them. Everyone paused for a moment, and then more fire was poured into what little was left of the shop, followed by a column of militiamen pouring in through the torn open doorway. More firing.
"Position units to cover every direction of is crossway." Christopher said. Valeria nodded and provided the proper order, pointing and shouting in turn. He followed the column into the store. After all, it was not in his nature to let action get away from him willingly.
The shop was that of a local barrel maker. How such a small-scale business could be maintained itself in a city, with the expected demands, made Christopher wonder and he stumbled through bits of shaped wood and pieces of iron hoops. As he made his way further in, squeezing through the overzealous Militiamen who saw fit to pile into the shop even though there was little space for them, he could see that the shop was actually bigger than it seemed. In the next room, there were a couple random shots being taken, rattling through the air at two different and distinct frequencies. One was the standard firearm that the Militiamen were distributed. The other, with more of deep rat-tat-tat, must have been the Babkhan firearms.
The back door was opened, squeaking as it went, and again the Militiamen charged through the back area to catch up. Christopher made his way through as well, until something got in his way, bringing him face first into the dirt floor.
"Commander! Are you alright?"
Christopher opened his eyes. It began blurry, but quickly focused into the face of Ensign Valeria, an extra bit of blood splashed on her, from her helmet, down her left cheek, and onto the ballistic vest. "Present and accounted for." Christopher replied. "I tripped on something."
Christopher rolled into a sitting position to see what it was. It had rolled a bit away, thanks to the momentum his running foot provided. Christopher rolled it back into place and looked at it. A green, rusted metallic head.
"Count Peter." Katherine noted, a touch of surprise in her voice. It continued to look out with its cold, emotionless eyes. Under his moustache, it continued to have a slight snear to its lips, somehow detachingly content with the horror that had been commanded. Katherine lent Christopher a shoulder to lift himself up on. His foot was not broken, but the pain indicated that it was not exactly as it had been a moment before. One more victim to the cruelty of Count Peter. Christopher pulled out his pistol, chambered a round, and fired straight into Count Peter's face. No one who was not carefully watching expected a gunshot to ring out after the Babkhans had been smoked out and killed, so most instinctively jumped.
Christopher looked at the gun, and then holstered it again. "I don't think Braden would have appreciated me doing that..." He bent down and picked it up. Whatever, he thought to himself, tossing it to the nearest Militiaman.
"For Commander Indianensis."
"Pour Commandeur Indianensis."
The situation was bleak. A line of fallen corpses delineated the boundary between the Babkhans and Anticans, almost forming another barricade; but it wasn't much of one, considering that the Babkhans were treading across it with little difficulty on that account, although what awaited them after was rather painful. Nonetheless, the Anticans were being pushed back up and over the rubble barricade, and it looked as if they might be driven back, or Gods forbid, overwhelmed. A man fell dead to Braden's right, shot through the stomach, and another fell directly in front of him , wailing in agony, clutching his stump of a leg. Another soldier shot both legs off an advancing Babkhan.
Colonel Munier was positively panicking, speaking completely in Alexandrian, barking at the men to hold the line, to advance, not to retreat. A bullet whizzed by her, leaving hole in her uniform, just about an inch from her side. She grabbed one man and practically threw him down the rubble stack, slipping and sliding herself as bits of chalky, white dirt crumbled around her.
"Allons-y, les hommes! Allez, allez!"
She was largely ignored, and that was infuriating. She began shooting near the feet of withdrawing men, pushing them forward into the fray, taking at least one by the scruff of the neck and tossing him back, headlong. "Allez, ou je vous tuerai moi-meme!" Most of the soldiers had no idea what she was saying, but it sounded stern.
One man turned, and broke into a dead run, bolting up the side of the heap. "Come on!" he called. "It's hopeless! Retreat!" Munier grabbed him by the hair, threw him upon the ground, and cracked him across the face with the hilt of her saber, knocking out a few of his teeth.
The withdrawal slowed, but even Munier could not halt it, as the Babkhans approached. She began to know an emotion almost alien to her: despair. She would not allow herself to be captured by Babkhans. She'd take twenty of them with her before killing herself. Braden, lower down on the slope of the heap, fired off at a few of the Babkhans who'd broken the line and were trying to storm the hill. More came. He looked to the skies, waiting for deus ex machina, and then...
The roar of tank engines, and the cry of the advancing Gascons. It might have been the Lady herself, descending upon the host of Babkha, shield and spear in hand, with Dike and Nemesis in tow.
For indeed, Justice and Retribution now fell upon the foe, and struck them deep with terror; the course of the engagement was reversed, the enemy put to flight, and chased down before they could make good their escape. The Gascons gleefully set themselves to the slaughter of the Babkhans, and Munier, recovering from her frenzy, did little to stop them.