0404L, // IN WATERS APPROXIMATELY 10 NM NORTH OF BEACONSFIELD, PRYDANIA
GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG!
The sounds of the General Quarters Alarm rang throughout the flagship Uporište, sending its sailors into a bustle to prepare the ship for battle. “General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Condition Zebra will be set in four minutes,” the calm, calculated voice over the 1MC public address system announced, “This is not a drill.”
Faust Soka? sat in the Captain’s Chair, eyes scanning the calm morning seas as his ship cut through the waters off the northern coast of Prydania. In the distance, he could see some of the other ships that composed Task Force 111, his eagle-eyes catching their various RADARs spinning as they turned to and secured themselves for General Quarters to search for any syndicalist targets. They had gotten underway quicker than he anticipated, and the whole fleet - one by one - shoved off from their temporary shelter in the port at Beaconsfield and ventured out once more into open waters. They were safe in the harbor, but that is not what ships are built for.
He had spread his fleet out in a thin line, relying on some of the smaller ships like their corvettes to use utilize their speed to catch any suspicious vessels, while the ships that were able to carry helos used them to scout and scan areas and report any activity. Even with this artificial and calculated extension of operating ranges, they were spread thin, and so Faust had to focus his fleet near areas of large population along the coastline. This largely meant Beaconsfield and Hadden. His subs… well, they were being subs, and thus had reign to do whatever they pleased so long as it kept the task force safe.
The man rubbed at his chin, still immersed in the waves delivering seafoam and white spray across the fo’c’sle, and lost in thought. He hated to leave Bruno behind, but he trusted the Colonel to do what he was trained and much expertise in doing - his own specialties were with the sea. But the Task Force was available to provide as many assets as they could to the Colonel and his marines.
“Admiral,” the COMMO reported, his hand pressing one cup of his headset to his ear, “Mošordia reports that flight ops are underway and support aircraft are on-station.”
“Very well,” he said, pulling his hand away from his chin and looking down at the navigation chart that his Navigator was poring over.
“Admiral, all ships have reported secured for General Quarters,” COMMO reported again.
“Very well, COMMO,” he replied, sliding out of his chair effortlessly and moving to stand at the navigation table, “COMMO, send this message to all Task Force components: commence OPERATION PHOENIX NIGHT.”
“Send message to all Task Force components: commence OPERATION PHOENIX NIGHT, Cap’n, COMMO, aye,” the officer repeated back with a quick and well-practiced ease, then carried-out his orders.
Faust was worried that his fleet’s early departure from Beaconsfield might have stirred enough suspicion in the syndicalist ranks that were surely watching them, but it was far too late for that now. He knew that the Colonel would be in position, just as he always was. And if not… well, he was good at improvising.
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0410L // HADDEN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, HADDEN, PRYDANIA
Bruno Vidas was a man of very few things. Fortunately, the ability to adapt was one of them. When word was delivered to him about the commencement of their mission, he was almost done with preparations. A grind of his molars was the only indication to his irritation. “Damn you, Soka?…” he muttered, poring over the paper map laid out on the table in front of him.
His marines had set up shop in one of the hangars at Hadden International, graciously loaned out to them by the Prydanians, who were accompanying them in their door-to-door boot-ins. The hangar would serve as their temporary HQ for all operations concerning this sweep-up, including the one over in Jórvik. The Prydanians were very-much needed, Vidas understood. Not only because they knew these streets like the back of their hands (and that wasn’t just an expression), but for international legalities that he didn’t really care to handle when Faust was explaining it to him. He’d leave that to the higher-ups, where the ranks of the military became muddled with politics. He much preferred to be on the ground, here, his hand in the mix. It was the whole reason why he’d refused promotion and - on more than one occasion - committed acts which would render him ineligible for generalhood.
“Captain Radan,” Bruno barked, hailing the junior officer.
“Right here, Colonel,” Patrik responded from the man’s right.
“C’mere,” he said, inclining his head and moving to make room to overlook the map, “What do you make of this?”
The Captain balked. Colonel Vidas had never asked his opinion on something before, let alone something as important chartwork.
“Look at the map, son,” Bruno growled, “What do you see?”
Patrik blinked, then quickly redirected his attention to the map. It was paper, but that was the way that the Colonel had always liked it. He was never really one to trust technology, always saying that it had a tendency to fail when you needed it the most. He glanced at the highlighted blocks and buildings of interest - where the Prydanians had located and confirmed a Syndicalist residency. He very quickly noticed a pattern. There were countless little nests and heavily-fortified outposts, but each of those little nests seemed to stem from around a singular hub of sorts, one for each of the large neighborhoods that composed Hadden. But Patrik noticed something more, as well. Each of those neighborhood hubs was connected to a single mega-complex. There was only one in the entirety of Hadden, and it was clear by all of the observational writing that this was the Syndicalist Headquarters in Hadden.
“You see it, don’t you?” Bruno observed, his arms crossed over his broad chest, “Tell me, Patrik, what would you do?”
Patrik chewed his bottom lip for a moment as his eyes flicked over the cartography, then took a breath. “Well,” he began slowly, “A flat-out assault would be costly, and such an attack en masse would leave our backs exposed to reinforcements from the various neighborhoods. We could attack the smaller outposts first, but it would leave plenty of time for the neighborhood hubs to reinforce and fortify their positions - any element of surprise would be lost entirely, and the resulting door-to-door engagements would likely be costly.” The Captain paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then turned to the Colonel. “I would pre-position elements at each outpost and hub, then request a precision strike from the Navy, obliterating their headquarters. At the sound of the detonation, all elements would attack and secure their assigned positions, staying just long enough to secure anything of import, then reinforcing other elements that are attacking the hubs. They’ll be left in the dark without any leadership, we maintain the element of surprise, and if maintain a speedy assault, we secure the day.”
Colonel Vidas pondered a moment, just for show. Truth was that what the Captain had just described was his plan from the beginning, but he had plenty of time while the Prydanians gave him either approval or denial of his authority to essentially level an entire square block of Hadden. Regardless, he was proud that the Captain was able to deduce and figure out an optimal strategy. “Very good,” he praised, “That’s the plan. Now get to your station, Captain.”
Patrik gawked for a moment, before standing at attention. “Yes sir!” he replied curtly, full of vim and vigor, then dashed out of the room. It only brought a smile to the Colonel’s face. Well, it was more of a half-smirk, but it was positive nonetheless.
“Colonel!” a young technician sitting at a computer terminal said, getting the older officer’s attention, “The Prydanians gave us approval, and with this message: send one from us.”
“Excellent,” Vidas replied, that smirk dashing across his face yet again.
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0429L // 20NM OFF THE COAST OF HADDEN, PRYDANIA
“Captain!” a young fire control technician urgently relayed over his shoulder, “Coordinates and codes for fire authorization received!”
Commander Julija Jefak took a moment to process that information. As captain of the RoMS Ajkula, the lead ship of Ajkula-class fast attack submarines, she was well-aware of the procedures involving the operations of a submarine, as well as well-aware of what might be expected of her in a warzone. Still, the message came as a bit of a shock, so it took the Commander a moment to gather her wits and issue a response. “Very well,” she said, calm and collected as she overlooked the plot, “TAO, input coordinates for missile launch, prep tubes 3 and 4.”
The Tactical Action Officer repeated back the order and set out to complete the task at hand, directing the trained sailors under his authority. Julija watched the chart-plot as the fire control technicians generated two new plots in the system, marking the missiles’ destinations. Several other plots also appeared on the chart-plot, but their colors indicated they were from other ships in the fleet. She decided not to look at the final destination, knowing she didn’t want to think about where ten land attack missiles were going to end up.
“Captain, tracks generated, tubes 3 and 4 ready for launch,” the TAO said, looking back over his shoulder at her.
“Very well, TAO,” she replied, taking one last look at where the tracks disappeared off-screen from their zoomed-in position on the map, “Launch tubes 3 and 4 with birds.”
“Launch tubes 3 and 4 with birds, aye, ma’am,” he repeated back, then adjusted the microphone on his headset to communicate with the torpedo room and other fire control technicians, “Tube 3, launch in 10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”
FUH-WUMP-SHHHH
The ship dipped forward, offset by the loss of ballast, but their trim pumps quickly compensated and leveled them out again.
“Tube 4, launch in 10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”
FUH-WUMP-SHHHH
The ship dipped forward again, and was righted once more by her trim pumps’ redistributed ballast to the forward trim tanks.
“Birds away,” the TAO reported, analyzing the data on his screen, “Positive track, all conditions green… Estimated time of impact T-minus three-zero seconds.”
“Very well, TAO,” Julija replied, almost automatically at this point. She tore her gaze from the plot and to the feed from the periscope, watching as two plumes of exhaust trailed to the horizon, joined by 8 other thin lines originating from different places over the horizon. As they all joined into a formation and slipped further away, she directed her eyeballs back to the chart-plot.
“Impact in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Impact,” the TAO declared.
And the plots were gone.
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0432L // HADDEN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, HADDEN, PRYDANIA
The thunderous boom shook the metal walls of the hangar. It lasted for about twenty seconds, just shaking repetitively, seemingly mimicking the end of the world. And just as quickly as it began, it was over.
But a new sound replaced the deafening explosion - that of the rumble of fire and punctuated by the staccato of small arms fire. Bruno looked out across the airport’s dormant runways, his steely gaze centered on the glow from the far end of Hadden, where the smoldering headquarters of the Syndicalists now lie. He blew out a hefty amount of smoke, relishing in the sting of tobacco on his lips, then turned and ducked through the small door back into the hangar that house their temporary headquarters. No one dared to stop the Colonel from smoking indoors.
All around him, technicians and officers were scrambling about talking in hushed tones and listening to the reports of the assault units clearing each and every one of the nests and the hubs. Grease boards were scribbled with information, and the map in the center of the room was being dashed with red X’s to indicate burrows that had been secured.
“Sector three has been completely secured, Colonel,” a Lieutenant reported, handing him a clipboard of the information, “Sector one is almost secured, and the nests in sectors two and three have been eliminated; squads are converging to support the clearing of the respective hubs.”
“Good,” Colonel Vidas growled, the ash on the tip of his cigar falling to the concrete floor as it wiggled between his teeth, “Report as sectors are cleared, Lieutenant.”
“Yessir,” he replied, standing at attention before running off to take care of whatever other tasks he had to perform.
Truth was, the Colonel didn’t want to see the casualty reports.
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0534L, // IN WATERS APPROXIMATELY 15 NM NORTH OF BEACONSFIELD, PRYDANIA
“Admiral, Stražarski reports that two fast-attack craft have been neutralized,” the COMMO reported, annotating the transmission in his logs.
“Very well, COMMO,” Faust replied from his captain’s chair, his eyes locked on where the water broke over the bow of the Uporište, but his gaze distant with thought and calculations. His hands gripped harshly at the arms, his knuckles whitening with each pulsing squeeze. He hated this. The reports; the waiting; all of it.
“Admiral, another message incoming over HF. Wait one…”
Faust turned his gaze to the junior officer, his face hard angles and lines of many battles.
“Colonel Vidas reports that Hadden is secured and the syndicalist threat has been eliminated,” the COMMO said at last. Faust let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding, relaxing back into his chair. It was done; finally done.
“They better be,” Faust quipped from his position, earning him the entertained smiles of those on the bridge, “I lent him 10 damn cruise missiles, and I expect payment back for ‘em.”
“The Colonel reports that they are now apprehending those who have surrendered and aiding in the cleanup and firefighting efforts,” the COMMO chuckled, still performing his duties.
“Very well, COMMO,” Faust almost sighed, “Draft a message to send to the Prydanians to read as follows: Syndicalist threat in the East has been routed - fyrir konung, til Valhallar.
"Don't worry," the Admiral smiled, "I'll tell you how to spell it."
