A Fractured Nation

[Drivindeath]

After much infighting between pro government forces and multiple different rebel factions, things seemed to stall.

In 2003, a coalition of rebel groups formed in the Northwestern region of Syria. This group renamed to the Islamic Republican Guard of the Levant or IRGL. This group comprised of over 20 different factions, all aligning for a similar cause. In the Northeast Kurdish led forces led assaults on IRGL and pro government forces. Pro government forces were able to repel all assaults' and quickly moved in to secure major assets such as oil fields, farms, and populated cities.

By 2004 IRGL split and a second civil war took place. Syria became a breeding ground for terrorism overnight. Kurdish forces and pro government forces acted quickly to gain as much territory as possible. However, in the same year the IRGL returned with the predominate group being the Islamic Liberation Army in Levant or ILAL. Their goal was to eradicate the pro government forces and establish an Islamic Republic. ILAL quickly organized and sent a non-aggression pact to the Kurdish forces. The terms were for the Kurds to return the Aleppo Governorate and in exchange when the fighting is over, the IRGL would create an independently run region in the north for the Kurds. With the deal signed, both the Kurds and IRGL turned their attention to the Pro Government forces.

By the end of 2005 the head of the Syrian Government was captured and beheaded on national television. IRGL took control of Damascus. IRGL immediately betrayed the Kurds and went on an all out offensive in the north.

Currently two territories are contested. IRGL is beginning to fracture once more as groups in the coalition fight for power. The Kurdish led forces are on the retreat. It is currently unknown who is leading the country but some suspect it is the leader of ILAL, Muhammad Qasim, a former member of the Taliban.

 

[Jay]

In the heart of Moscow, amidst the ancient spires and domes that whispered tales of centuries past, stood Brigadier General Dimitri Losevsky as he was rushed to the Ground Operations Command center. Tall and stern, he walked through the dimly lit corridors of the command center. Beaming light from outside lit the halls as he walked past. He entered the Syria Operations segment of the command center as the staffers handed him a few documents that had made their way to him.

The urgency in the air was palpable as General Losevskymade his way to the war room, where maps of distant lands covered the walls and the hum of analysts and intelligence officers filled the room. With a thud, he took his place at the head of the table, where reports from the front lines awaited were prepared for him. Russian analysts were reviewing SVR intercepts and Syrian intelligence to better understand the current battle space.

As he poured over the documents detailing the escalating insurgency in Damascus, a shadow of skepticism crept across his brow. He had seen the ebb and flow of conflict in the Middle East before, each wave crashing against the shores of stability with relentless fury. Yet, amidst the flow of information a gnawing uncertainty that Losevsky himself grew to recognize as defining the situation.

The SVR was quick to link the insurgency to an expansion of the Iraq-based conflict, however, Losevsky found himself aligning with the military GRU. This seemed different. Moreover, he appreciated the GRU's report which highlighted that there were multiple insurgencies spewing out of Syria including leftist militias along with fundamentalists. This was especially contrasted with Iraq where secular Arab nationalists were launching attacks to regain control in a struggle for Iraq's national sovereignty and future. Losevsky reviewed both documents as Colonel Angelika Krutaya gave a rundown on the federal security council meeting, which although ongoing, had ordered immediately that the Russian Ground Forces prepare for active combat in Syria.

The GRU disputed the SVR’s view of another transnational jihadist link with the current Taliban insurgency saying that it was premature to see the events in Syria as a part of a wider global terror struggle. The GRU was more concerned with growing cooperation between different rebel factions and the defections amongst the Syrian Army. Just months ago, the Russian Army and their Syrian allies had pushed back the IRGL. Now much of the Russian Army’s gains had been lost with the Syrian defenders fleeing en mass.

Just months ago, Losevsky remembered reviewing the new proposal which included air strikes in Northern Syria, airborne forces retaking former Soviet facilities, and special forces sent to stabilize the southern front. Even then, the memories of past campaigns haunted General Losevsky's thoughts. Even then, he was skeptical of the seven weeks timeline that the political leadership was reporting. They were lofty ambitions and the harsh reality of war, where victory was often measured in blood and sacrifice. Already, over a hundred Russian service members were killed in ILA or IRGL attacks, with many more wounded.

The Nemtsov Government’s plans for a quick military campaign aimed at providing stability and prosperity began to unravel a few months after it seemed victory was achieved. With a heavy sigh, General Losevsky looked around as his advisors sought to gauge his views on the situation.

“I believe in Syria is undoubtedly dire.” Losevsky began, “the intelligence we have shows us that the Syrian military continues to crumble in the face of militant confrontations. More importantly, our initial plan for a withdrawal of the VDV’s combat forces has enabled these recent militant advances.”

A female analyst raised her hand, to which Losevsky gave a nod. “Sir, one of the main challenges we are facing on the ground is that the regular Syrian army has outsourced security operations to tribal and Shia militias.” She said pointing to various models of the Syrian Army on the map in front of them. “However the tribal militias, which are Sunni, have begun to voluntarily dissolve ahead of the IRGL advances due to negotiations by the IRGL and their tribal leaders.”

“Continue Colonel,” Losevsky said as he flipped to a page on the briefing that contained the GRU’s assessment of the rebel forces.

“Yes Sir.” She continued. “The Syrian Army has proved effective when supported by our air force or VDV forces. However, the current frontline has collapsed and the regular Syrian Army’s leadership seems inept and highly out of tune on battlefield developments.”

Another analyst raised his hand. “Sir, to build upon Colonel Yushakova’s analysis.” He placed several Russian military formations on the board. “A sizeable Russian deployment would be needed to secure the Tartatus-Latika corridor to allow us the ability to hold onto our critical infrastructure in the region. At the moment, our advising force is unable to secure the corridor. Without these two facilities,” He said pointing to the Tartus naval facility as well as at the Khmeimim Air Base. “ Without those two facilities, our ability to sustain a troop deployment would be extremely difficult if not impossible.”

“Thank you Colonel Zhabin,” Lovesky said as he rubbed his face. ‘I am going to Damascus to meet with the Syrian leadership and explain their situation. In the meantime, I’d like a joint-operation plan to stop the IRGL momentum and to stabilize the ground situation. That will be all.”

As the briefing was completed, Brigadier General Losevsky stood up and left for the airport to board a flight to deal with the challenges ahead. Along with him would be several defense and intelligence officers and two squads of Russia's Special Forces. They would bring with them armored vehicles and other equipment as they did not know what to expect in Damascus this time around.

On board his plane, Losevsky updated plans including extensive air bombings against former Syrian bases, drones to conduct more ISR information gathering, the VDV to begin combat operations to relieve pressure on the Syrians, the Navy to deploy to the coastline and provide support, and more intensive ground operations including mechanized formations being deployed. As they began arriving in Damascus, the ancient city greeted him once again, but amidst the splendor of the ancient tapestry, General Losevsky remained heightened alert as he and his men were taken to the Syrian presidential palace, he prepared himself to understand the situation more deeply. A secured line would be set up as Lovesky planned to brief Nemtsov immediately afterward.

​

President Saleem al-Assad looked at the Russian General. "General Losevsky welcome to Damascus. I wish the circumstances were better. But we’re running out of time. The opposition is growing stronger, and the foreign-backed groups are not backing down. I’ve already lost control of several areas, particularly in the north and south. How can we ensure that we don’t lose more ground? The situation is dire."

General Losevsky nodded as the President spoke. "Yes, President Assad. We’ve been monitoring the situation closely. The militants are becoming more organized, and their supply lines are being bolstered by external forces. However, we have resources that can tip the scales in your favor. The question is are you ready to make concessions to break the Kurdish-IRGL alliance, and replace your military leadership, and give people with more energy in charge?

President Saleem nodded but rebutted. "We need to reassert control, but I can’t make these decisions without further alienating the people. The longer the fighting drags on, the more we lose the support of the population. The cities are tense.”

General Losevsky leaned over the map and pointed to key areas "Your forces are spread thin, but we’ve identified key locations that can be retaken with concentrated force. We can deploy advanced artillery and air support to target rebel positions in these areas. If we apply pressure to these locations quickly, it could push them back before they establish full control. But I must warn you, this will take time, and there will be casualties. This is not an easy task."

President al-Assad looked up from the map "I understand. We’ve been trying to avoid civilian casualties at all costs, but this war has no clean solutions. These terrorists are using human shields, killing civilians left and right, and now they are establishing their own community zones. I am losing my country General.”

General Losevsky nodded. "We can deploy fighter jets to conduct airstrikes within the next several hours, specifically using precision-guided munitions to target rebel command centers and supply depots. In the mean time, I need your officers to begin withdrawal to new defensive lines to allow us to avoid the continued massive rout taking effect."

Salem looked at the General. "How long do you think you need to begin to retake the territory and stablize the situation.”

General Losevsky shrugged. "We could have air support in place within days. However, to truly secure these areas, your forces must be able to lead that charge. Currently they are either defecting or abandoning their posts. You need to shake up the leadership. It’ll take time to make them combat-ready. The Syrian Army must clear these areas with ground troops and call up reserves to hold onto cities we recapture."

Salem sighed as he looked at the map "The army is stretched thin. If we call up more soldiers, we risk escalating the rebellion in the cities. I’m already facing protests. If we send in too many troops, the people will see it as a crackdown. They’ll join the rebellion."

General Losevsky nodded. "Yes, and that is the fine line. You need to send enough forces to show strength, but not so many that it appears as an overwhelming military occupation. Limited political reforms might help to reduce external pressure. For example, you could offer amnesty to certain factions of the opposition, but make it clear that anyone who takes up arms against the state will face severe consequences. This could help to isolate the more radical elements."

Salem nodded. "I’ve considered this. But how can I offer amnesty to those who are actively fighting and causing chaos? These are not simple protesters anymore. These are armed groups, backed by foreign powers, with clear agendas. Some of them are terrorists, General. They don’t want reform—they want to dismantle the state."

General Losevsky looked at the map. "True. Some are indeed extremists. But not all of them. By offering a path to peace for those who are not radicalized, you can weaken the opposition's support base. You can also show the world that you are willing to engage in dialogue. The hardline elements will be much easier to deal with once the less committed factions are neutralized."

al-Assad nodded slowly, looking at the map again, before meeting the general’s eyes

"I’ll take it under consideration. I will do whatever is necessary to maintain Syria as a unified state, but I will also not be blinded by the demands of foreign powers. We will chart our own course."

General Losevsky stood up from the table where he and President Salem had just finished discussing military plans. He straightened his jacket, his eyes momentarily drifting to the map on the wall, before he turned to Salem, who was still seated.

"Good," General Losevsky said with a brief nod. "Let us begin preparations then. We’ll coordinate with your military to set the plan in motion."

But before leaving the room, Losevsky glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice as he and the President walked privately away from the other staffers. As they walked toward a quieter part of the palace. “President Salem," Losevsky began carefully, “To be forthcoming, the possibility of another assault on Damascus is not out of the question. We’ve analyzed the situation, and we may face heavy fighting in the coming weeks. President Nemtsov has made it clear that if things get worse, you and your family have a safe place in Moscow. We can offer you everything you need there: security, comfort, no concerns.”

Salem stopped walking, his expression immediately hardening. For a moment, he stared at Losevsky, processing the offer. Losevsky saw Salem’s shoulders tense up.

"Absolutely not," Salem replied. "I will not flee. This is my country, my responsibility. Damascus is the heart of Syria. I will stay and fight here, just as I’ve always said. This is not just my war, it’s the war of every Syrian who’s still here. We cannot give up now."

Losevsky’s eyes remained serious. “I understand your loyalty, but you must also understand the risks. If the assault comes and your forces are spread too thin, it could be disastrous. You’ll be putting yourself and your family in harm’s way. President Nemtsov is offering you a safe alternative. It’s not a retreat; it’s simply a safer choice.”

Salem shook his head again. "Leaving would be a sign of weakness. It would send the wrong message to the people. We can’t abandon this fight now, General. I won’t. Syria needs me here."

For what felt like a long moment, Losevsky said nothing, watching Salem with a quiet intensity. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. But remember, the situation is escalating quickly. If you do decide otherwise, Moscow is ready to assist you in any way."

“I appreciate that,” Salem said. “But I’ve made my choice. We’ll face this storm together. And I will lead my people here, not from some distant city.”

Losevsky gave him one last look before turning toward the door. “I respect your decision, President. But I hope you understand the gravity of what’s ahead.

Salem nodded. "We’ll see. We’ll see."

---

By the end of 2005, Syria was no longer a country—it was a battlefield, a broken husk of what it had been, consumed by internal strife and foreign intervention. Syria’s collapse had been swift, relentless. The IRGL—once a unified force with a singular vision—had fractured. But not before it had shattered the last hopes of a stable Syrian government. In 2005, the capture of President Salem sent ripples across the Middle East. His public execution, beheaded on national television, was the cruel symbol of Syria’s surrender to chaos. With Damascus falling to the ILAL, the last vestiges of the Syrian state crumbled.

The Russian response had been measured, methodical. They knew that Syria’s downfall meant more than the loss of an ally—it meant the erosion of their influence in the region, the loss of their only naval base in the Mediterranean, and the gateway to their long-held ambitions in the Arab world. Russia’s airstrikes and naval bombardments had come in earnest, intended to slow the IRGL’s advance, but the insurgency was like wildfire—too fast, too furious to be stamped out by airpower alone. The bombings did little to quell the rising anti-government sentiment. It was as if the people of Syria had tasted blood; once the whispers of dissent grew louder, the iron grip of the old regime was no longer enough to hold them down.

Every day, more districts of Damascus fell, more towns in the north surrendered to the insurgents. Alliances were being made as the IRGL advanced stunned many. The Kurds were quick to sell out their resistance, joining forces with the IRGL to overthrow Assad. It was not long until their alliance with the IRGL to secure their gains from the war fell apart. With Damascus on the verge of falling, the IRGL launched a furious assault on the Aleppo Governorate.

Moscow knew they could not afford to lose Syria, but they also knew the game had changed. There was no longer a unified state to defend. What remained were pockets of loyalist forces and civilians, huddled together in desperate defiance of the rising tide of chaos. By the close of 2005, Russia’s military in Syria had undertaken a hasty evacuation from the capital. The airstrikes and naval bombardments had proven futile.

---

​

Fighting intensified around Damascus’s international airport as the Russian 7th Guards Air Assault Division held the airport so international diplomats, foreign nationals, and Russian forces could evacuate. The Battle of Damascus Airport took the lives of 84 Russian servicemembers as they held the airport for four days as the retreat from Damascus was complete.

The Russian defense proved futile for the Syrian Government, which was captured before they could flee their government offices. Several low-ranking bureaucrats managed to escape with the remaining Russian forces in Syria. The Syrian President was nowhere to be found, and with growing ILAL assaults coming within the vicinity of the airport terminal, the remaining soldiers were given the order to evacuate. The last Russian helicopter departed Damascus International Airport and flew away to Latika.

Tartus and Latakia became the last holdouts of a broken nation, surrounded by hostile forces on all sides. Russia’s forces dug in, reinforcing their positions with what little they could salvage from the wreckage of their operations. The Russian Ground Forces held onto a small frontline which continued to face IRGL and ILAL assault.

The world outside, meanwhile, had begun to turn its attention elsewhere. The United States, the Gulf states, and the rest of the West had watched Syria’s decline from afar. The world was shocked to see the Syrian Government beheaded on national television. While Russia held the line to fight the terrorists in the region, the world had turned a blind eye to leaving the Russians to carry the burden of keeping Syria together. The rebels, now splintering into factions, were more dangerous than ever. It was no longer a fight for Syria—it was a fight for power over Syria.

In Tartus and Latakia, Russian officers and their Syrian counterparts met in the cold stone rooms of hastily reinforced bunkers. For the Syrians, there were no longer any grand plans, no more strategies for a sweeping military victory. They were simply trying to survive. For the Russians, the Nemtsov Government was hastily reviewing its plans to see if the Russians had to evacuate Syria for good. For the time being there would be no retreat. The Russians had invested too much in this region, in this war, to abandon it entirely. As the winter winds howled through the mountains of Latakia the Russian Armed Forces airlifted more resources to help reinforce its forces for now.

---

A few stray rays of sunlight tried to make their way through the small window as the officers of the 83rd Guards VDV Division gather together. They stood scattered around the room, some fidgeting with their gear, others staring at the floor. Pavel Primakov stood near the door with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as he glanced around at the others. His calm, reserved nature made him appear unaffected, but even he couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind.

Zhenka Dementyev, his long-time friend, shifted uncomfortably beside him, pickin at his uniform. “You’ve heard the rumors, Pasha?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Pasha nodded, but didn’t speak. Instead, Ustin Korolyov, a giant of a man chimed in from the other side of the room, voice low but full of grim curiosity.

“If the IRGL catches you alive,” Ustin muttered, “they’ll behead you. I’ve seen the videos.” His thick arms crossed over his chest as he shifted his weight, uncomfortable.

Filipp Tikhonov snorted from the table, where he was casually polishing his boots. “They won’t catch me alive,” he said firmly, a twisted smirk tugging at his lips. “No one’s taking me that way.”

Tikhon Pervak, usually the more reserved one of the group, looked up sharply. His face darkened as he fiddled with a pen in his hand. “My brother’s out there, fighting,” he said in a low, serious tone. “He’s with the Syrians. I don’t know what’s happening to him. But I swear, if I get caught...” His voice trailed off, eyes distant as if lost in thought.

Yevdokiya Yurasova cleared her throat softly. “I heard something worse,” she said. “The ILAL—they burn people alive. That’s what I heard, anyway.” Her voice was unease.

Khristina Shults, leaning against the back wall with her arms crossed, gave a dark chuckle. “I’ve heard that, too. One way or another, they get you... it’s either the blade or the fire.”

Filya’s grin faded. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, still firm. “They won’t take me alive. I’ll make sure of that.”
The others remained silent for a moment, considering his words, but no one offered a response. They were all thinking about it—thinking about the worst-case scenario. But none of them would say it out loud.

The door at the front of the room suddenly opened, and Colonel Valeriy Karavayev, their commanding officer, stepped inside. His sharp eyes scanned the room as the chatter died instantly. The weight of his presence was undeniable. The Colonel was not a man to waste words, and the soldiers knew it.

“Alright, enough chatter,” Karavayev said in his usual terse manner. “You’ve all been briefed on the general situation in Syria. It’s gone from bad to worse. And it’s not getting any better.” He paced to the front of the room and turned to face them.

“The 83rd VDV is being deployed to Latika to reinforce the 7th Guards Air Assault Division. Our mission is clear: hold Latika at all costs. The Marines and Mechanized Divisions will be holding Tartus. These are the last pro-government cities left. Everything else has fallen.” He said pointing with a laser at the map to show where the Division will be.

Karavayev paused and pressed a button on the projector, which switched to a clip of what appeared to be a battlefield transmission. The audio that followed was a mix of Russian commands and Arabic, accompanied by chaotic shouts and the sounds of gunfire and explosions. Screams echoed through the static.

“This,” Karavayev said, his voice cutting through the noise as he pointed to a on the map with his laser, “was the 7th Guards holding the strategic mountain pass overlooking the highway to Latika. They lost it. And when I say they lost it, I mean it. Seventeen Russian soldiers died holding that position, and 180 Syrians died alongside them.”

He clicked a button, and the transmission ended, replaced by a still image of the mountain pass that now lay in enemy hands. Karavayev’s expression was grim.

“That’s the reality of what we’re facing,” he continued. “You’re fighting against an enemy that will stop at nothing. The IRGL isn’t just some collection of poorly trained militants —they’re battle-hardened, ruthless, and they’re organized. They’ve taken down stronger forces than you. Don’t fool yourselves into thinking this will be easy.”

There was a heavy silence in the room. The soldiers exchanged glances, their faces hardening. This was no longer just a deployment. This was survival.

We’re here to hold Latika. It’s the last line of defense, and if we lose it, we lose everything.” Karavayev’s gaze swept across the room. “Remember your training. Stick with your battle buddies. Trust each other, and you’ll be fine. But if you falter, if you hesitate... the enemy won’t.”

Tisha shifted uncomfortably, his mind clearly elsewhere. Pasha caught his gaze, but said nothing. He could see the concern on Tisha’s face—the worry for his brother, the dread of what awaited them.

Karavayev’s voice broke through the quiet again. “We’ll be airlifted into Latika in forty-eight hours. Get your gear ready. Say your goodbyes. Get your ducks in order. That is all.”

The soldiers didn’t need any more words. They stood in silence as Karavayev left.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Pasha muttered, turning toward his gear.

Tisha didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered on the floor for a moment before he, too, started packing his binder. Filya was already out the door, his face calm and focused, but the tension in his eyes was hard to miss.

---

The crisp morning air was thick with tension and anticipation as the soldiers of the 83rd Guards VDV Division stood in formation on the parade grounds. Each soldier stood rigid, their boots dug into the damp earth, their rifles held steady at attention, and their faces forward. Pasha Primakov stood near the front of the formation, his jaw clenched as the cold weather made him shudder a bit.

He shifted his weight slightly, but didn’t dare move out of formation. Beside him, Zhenka Dementyev glanced over, a rare trace of uncertainty flickering in his usually confident eyes.

“You think we’ll actually be fighting today?” Zhenka muttered, keeping his voice low. As they stood at attention and faced forward.

“I’m sure of it,” Pasha answered quietly, his gaze fixed ahead. As he tried to keep his mind focused. Zhenka didn’t reply as he tried to also keep himself focused away from their deployment.

The quiet murmur of voices faded as a sharp, unexpected command rang out over the loudspeakers.

“Attention!”

Every soldier snapped to attention once again as their boots hit the ground sending a small thunder across the parade ground. The hushed crowd of family members, wives, children, and friends who had gathered to see them off watched in silence, the weight of the moment settling over them.

President Boris Nemtsov, accompanied by his entourage of military advisors and security personnel walked out from the crowd and the murmur of families intensified as the President waved to them. The looming crisis in Syria had pulled him from the political battles of Moscow, and he was here to see off the very soldiers who were about to bear the brunt of the war.

As Nemtsov approached, the soldiers remained still, their faces a mixture of pride and grim determination. There was no applause. No fanfare.

Nemtsov stopped at the front of the formation and took a moment to look over the men and women before him. His eyes swept the line of soldiers—some looked barely older than his daughter he thought as he shook hands with the soldiers and wished them luck on their deployment. After inspecting the soldiers, he went to the podium to speak.

“Soldiers of the 83rd Guards VDV Division,” Nemtsov began, his gaze shifting across the formation. “At ease.” The formation then shifted their weight and stood at ease. Boris then continued

“With the permission of Russia’s Federation Council, and in the execution of the treaties of friendship and mutual assistance with the Syrian Government, you have been asked to join the ongoing efforts of your brothers and sisters to help the brotherly Syrian people in their time of crisis.

In a few hours, you will be airborne, heading to a distant land to confront a threat that endangers not only Syria but our very way of life. What awaits you is a battle unlike any you’ve faced before. He paused, allowing his words to settle over the soldiers, the air growing even heavier with his presence.

“Service to your nation is amongst the highest forms of civic duty for any citizen in our Federation. You stand in the burning suns of deserts, the freezing cold of tundras, and the wet swamps of jungles to defend our way of life and people. Your sacrifice, and those of your families, can never be repaid. For that, you have my eternal respect and gratitude.” He said turning to the troops and waiting a few moments as he took another look at the soldiers of his military. Boris then turned back to microphone.

“I have every confidence that you will do your duty. I have every confidence that you will prevail.” Nemtsov’s voice hardened slightly as he looked at each soldier. “But know this—the enemy you face is brutal. They will stop at nothing. They will try to break you. They will try to break your spirits. They will try to break your resolve. They will try to break your humanity. But they will not succeed.”

His words were met with a silent nod from the soldiers, who knew the gravity of the situation all too well.

The President then stepped forward again. “I stand before you today not just as the President of this country, but as a man who knows that what you are about to do is what will keep our people safe. We are with you. We will support you, every step of the way. And we will not forget the sacrifice you make for this nation.”

The families standing behind the soldiers began to stir and clap with some whistling as their President spoke to them. Pasha caught a glimpse of his mother, standing with her head slightly bowed, her hands clutching each other tightly. His younger brother, barely out of his teens, stood beside her, staring at Pasha with wide eyes. Pasha’s throat tightened, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t dare.

“Today,” Nemtsov continued, “I ask you all, to put the care of the Russian Armed Forces your sons and daughters, your husbands and wives, your brothers and sisters, and the children of God Almighty. I ask you to support them in their struggle to defend our nation. I ask you not as your President, but a father. I ask you to forgive me to ask the most of you.” Nemtsov said looking at the families of the soldiers once more.

He paused for a moment, letting his words settle before taking a small step back. The soldiers stood in stillness with their hands stiff at their sides as Boris stepped down from the Podium and walked in front of the soldiers once more. “Slava Rossii” Boris screamed, needing no microphone.

The Soldiers the turned their faces right to their Commander in Chief and shouted back "Heroiam Slava".
At once, the soldiers of the 83rd Guards VDV Division began to march forward, their boots thudding in unison against the hard ground. Pasha moved with the others but he could feel the eyes of his family on him. He could hear the faint sound of his mother’s voice, barely audible as their boots clashed with the ground.

---

The flight had been mostly uneventful, just a long stretch of hours spent in the confines of the cargo hold, the hum of the aircraft’s engines a constant background to the muted chatter and the rustling of gear. The soldiers of the 83rd Guards VDV Division were stretched out in their seats, some trying to catch a bit of sleep, others just staring at nothing, lost in their own thoughts. Zhenka Dementyev was one of the latter, his eyes wide open but tired.

As the plane neared Syria a sudden jolt rocked the aircraft, causing some of the soldiers to jerk awake, eyes darting around in confusion. Zhenka’s hand trembled as he reached for his rucksack, trying to find the small piece of chocolate his girlfriend had given him before they left. The sweet taste, the last reminder of home, was the only thing that seemed to anchor him to something familiar.

He shoved it into his mouth quickly, trying to calm his nerves, but his heart was still racing. His body shook slightly, a combination of the turbulence and his own growing fear. The others were still asleep—Pasha, Tisha, Filya—all of them unmoved by the rough patch in the air. But Zhenka couldn’t quiet his mind. The dread was rising in him, and for the first time since he had joined the VDV, he wondered if he was truly ready for this.

His hand clenched the edge of his seat as his mind raced through the worst scenarios. He’d never see his family again, never hold his girlfriend’s hand. What would he do if he was captured? He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the stories he'd heard—the IRGL, the ILAL, how they treated prisoners. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.

He tried to close his eyes, tried to ignore the turmoil in his chest, but sleep wouldn’t come. “What’s wrong, Dementyev?” Yevdokiya asked, kicking his leg lightly with a smirk. Her eyes flicked to the chocolate bar in his hand.

“You can’t have it, Yevdokiya,” Zhenka muttered, glancing away, suddenly embarrassed.

“Seriously, Zhenka, what’s going on with you?” Yevdokiya’s voice softened slightly, her teasing tone gone.

“I... I’m scared,” Zhenka admitted, the words feeling heavy as they left his mouth. He hated saying it out loud. The others would think less of him. “I feel like a coward.”

Yevdokiya’s eyes softened as she leaned forward, her voice lowering even further. “We all are,” she said, a touch of honesty cutting through the facade. "Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying."

From the seat beside them, Pasha’s voice broke in his eyes remained closed, his hands folded in his lap. “You’re not a coward, Zhenka,” he said simply. “You’re a good man. You care about your men, and you’ll take care of them. Just like they’ll take care of you.”

Zhenka was quiet for a moment. A small part of him felt comforted by them, but it didn’t fully erase the unease gnawing at his insides. How could he lead them into battle if he wasn’t sure he could even lead himself through this?

“You’re right,” Zhenka said after a long pause, his voice soft. “But... it doesn’t feel right. How can I ask them to fight if I’m feeling this way?”

Yevdokiya gave a knowing smile. “Because you’ll be there with them,” she said. “We’re all scared. But we do it anyway. You’ll make it through. Trust yourself.”

Zhenka looked over at her, then at Pasha, who gave a small, reassuring nod. He leaned back in his seat, the brief silence around them somehow comforting. For a moment, it felt like they were just a group of soldiers sharing the same weight. The fear didn’t go away, but it felt more manageable with them by his side.

Sensing Yevdokiya’s eyes on the chocolate, Zhenka tossed it to her. “Thanks,” she said cheerfully, as if the world wasn’t about to turn upside down.

Another hour passed in silence as the plane began to approach Syria. The intercom crackled as the voice of the pilot echoed through the cargo hold. “We’re entering Syrian airspace. It’ll be a bit bumpy on the descent. We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes.”

The soldiers stirred as they prepared for the final stretch. Zhenka and Pasha made their rounds, checking equipment ensuring everyone was awake and ready. Zhenka spent the last few hours in the air trying to push the fear aside, but now, as the plane descended, the tension was building again. The gravity of the situation was undeniable.

As they neared the landing zone, Zhenka peered out the small window and his heart skipped a beat. Below, he could see the rising plumes of smoke in the distance. Fires burning in the air above the ground. His breath caught in his throat.

Just as he turned back to the rest of the soldiers, something else caught his eye— a Ka-57 helicopter, appeared suddenly, escorting and guiding their plane toward the airstrip. Zhenka’s hands clenched, his stomach tightening as a thought flitted through his mind—Do the rebels have anti-air? Why was the Ka-57 escorting them?

The anxiety he had pushed down earlier now surged forward with a rush. His hand trembled as he looked at Pasha, who was still calm, even as they all braced for impact.

The plane touched down hard, the landing rougher than expected, the screech of the brake echoed around Zhenka. As it skidded to a halt, the soldiers disembarked, rushing into the cool air of Syria, a brief respite from the suffocating heat they had been warned about.

As they unloaded their gear, Zhenka’s eyes wandered to a group of wounded soldiers waiting by the edge of the tarmac, some in agony, others in shock. Blood stained their uniforms, and medics moved quickly to assist. The sight of them sent a shiver down Zhenka’s spine.

“Stay sharp,” Pasha murmured, clapping Zhenka on the shoulder as they stepped off and towards their quarters.
Zhenka glanced back at the wounded soldiers again, their pain raw. "Stay focused," Zhenka whispered to himself, repeating the words from earlier.

Filya beaconed to the other. “Briefing at 0:600.” He said as the officers could get a few hours of rest before getting new orders.

 

[Bossza007]

Your Fault, Allah​

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Secret and Encrypted unless contextually possible. | NSST 1.0 Architecture​

Thai senior military leaders convening inside the Sattahip Naval Base to discuss potential large-scale military intervention in Afghanistan and Syria​

It was a cold December evening in Chonburi, and the city's public transportation was alive with the hum of peak-hour demand. Soldiers, weary yet resolute, streamed homeward from Southeast Asia's largest naval hub, the Sattahip Naval Base. Inside the base’s main building, the air was thick with tension as the main conference room buzzed with urgent voices and rustling papers. Presiding over the gathering was Sutin Klungsang, Thailand’s Minister of Defense, his expression a portrait of quiet determination. Around him sat the nation’s most senior military leaders, summoned from across Thailand. The discussion that loomed before them—a potential large-scale military intervention in Syria and Afghanistan—was one they had long hoped to avoid. Yet, bound by the democratic will of the people, they carried the weight of their duty with solemn resolve, mindful of their role as the armed forces of a nation built on responsibility and service.

“As I’ve said,” Sutin began, his voice measured yet heavy with restrained anger. “We face a conflict between our democratic mandate and the obligations of the international stage. Technically, we could send ten thousand troops to Afghanistan. But then what? Do we risk their planes turning back mid-flight because we lack support or fuel for their return? The Foreign Ministry tells me Afghanistan’s government doesn’t even want our assistance—it’s no surprise, given the state of their administration. And yet,” his voice tightened, “I cannot ignore the 104 lives stolen by these terrorist bastards. Most of them were workers, people without power or wealth—proletarians. Their blood demands justice.

Marshal of the Air Force Sukampol Suwannathat noticed the strain in Sutin’s voice and leaned forward. “Comrade minister, I understand your frustration,” he said carefully, his words measured but tinged with unease. “But let us consider the broader implications. Parliament may still hold the final say—we have time to prepare before committing to a war in a predominantly Islamic state. Forcing Afghanistan into discomfort would serve no one, especially given their fragile administration.” His gaze sharpened as he continued, voice dropping to a low murmur.

“You know, the ruling party there is social democratic. Their ties to labor unions, their balancing act—it’s all precarious. If economic forces or multinationals don’t crush them first, their path might naturally lead to revolution. We must tread lightly. Comrade Foreign Minister Surakiart has emphasized maintaining Thailand’s reputation—not as agitators but as cautious strategists.” Sukampol allowed a faint smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “Let’s ensure our actions don’t spark something we can’t control. Ideals are one thing. Arbitrary intervention, however, is another matter entirely.”

Admiral of the Fleet Kamthorn Phumhiran leaned forward, his voice measured but firm. “Comrade Sukampol, I must disagree. Article 48 of our constitution charges us, as a state, to strive toward the creation of a World Federation of Socialist States. This duty is not symbolic; it is a declaration of intent, a compass for our actions. Our progress with Vietnam and the Socialist International is proof of our commitment to internationalism.” He paused, scanning the room before continuing, his tone sharpening. “For Afghanistan, yes, logistics present insurmountable obstacles. But Syria is different. Its civil conflict leaves it vulnerable—a chessboard in chaos. If we deploy a carrier strike group to the Mediterranean, we could provoke an attack and frame our response as defensive. This strategy would be swift, decisive, and calculated.” Kamthorn’s gaze hardened, his voice low but resolute. “Comrades, ideals mean nothing without action. The blood of the workers demands justice, and justice demands courage. We must not falter.”

Field Marshal Yuthasak Sasiprapha rubbed his temple, letting out a quiet sigh before his gaze swept across the room. His voice, tinged with irritation, broke the tense atmosphere. “Remind me again, comrades, why I’m here? I command the Republic Army, not some international task force. My leave was denied, and now I’m stuck in this meeting, listening to talk that doesn’t even concern my branch. Liberated society, they said.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Do you know what I had planned? Home before New Year, my children laughing, and…”—he paused, his voice softening—“the warmth of my wife’s arms. But here I am.”

Supreme Commander Songkitti Jaggabatara shifted almost imperceptibly, his expression an inscrutable mask of calm. “Field Marshal,” he began, his voice low yet firm, “it is understandable to yearn for the warmth of home. We are all human, after all. But as soldiers, we carry a heavier burden—a duty that often requires us to set aside personal desires. This discussion, however difficult, is not one we can delay or disregard. Our revolution entrusted us with the people’s collective will, and it is that legacy we protect, even when it asks us to sacrifice.”

Songkitti’s eyes hardened, a flicker of resolve breaking through his measured tone. “We are not here to serve ourselves, nor even the whims of a single government. We serve the people’s voice, the ideals that bind us together. This is why we must focus—this is why we must act.” He straightened slightly, the authority in his presence undeniable. “Field Marshal, I respect your honesty. But this discussion is about how we intervene—decisively, humanely, and swiftly—should the people demand it. Let us not lose sight of that, no matter how heavy the hour.”

Defense Minister Sutin straightened in his seat, his expression unyielding. “Let’s concentrate on the most feasible mission—our potential intervention in Syria. We currently have a carrier strike group led by a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, with another group under construction. If we deploy them near Syrian waters, we need to account for the political and logistical repercussions.” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “Passing through the Suez Canal isn’t an option. Our relations with Egypt remain strained—they still refuse to acknowledge the ICJ’s ruling on our right of passage. Attempting transit would only escalate tensions into outright conflict.” His voice hardened. “As for the Syrian Islamic forces, we must determine how to neutralize their capabilities decisively and efficiently. Anything less risks emboldening our enemies and undermining our position on the international stage.”

Admiral of the Fleet Kamthorn Phumhiran nodded gravely, his voice steady yet carrying a spark of conviction. “Comrade Minister, the numbers speak to our readiness. Principal Maritime Group One alone can execute up to four hundred ground-attack sorties, delivering precision-guided payloads with devastating accuracy. All sorties could rain down six hundred thousand kilograms of guided munitions on Islamic-held positions. Our focus, of course, would spare the traditionally Kurdish territories—though I understand the government is investigating whether the Kurdistan Workers' Party has a foothold in this war. If we confirm their involvement, we may find an unexpected ally in shaping Syria’s future.” Kamthorn’s gaze sharpened, his words taking on an almost fervent edge. “With a stable, democratic-socialist state in place, the region’s wounds could begin to heal. But this mission cannot rely on airpower alone. Our marines must be prepared to deploy amphibiously—decisive, swift, and efficient.”

Field Marshal Yuthasak Sasiprapha leaned back, the edges of his mouth curling into a faint, sardonic smile. “There’s a faction in the Foreign Ministry advocating for Syria to be handed over to the French. If there’s one thing history’s taught us, it’s that imperial ambitions always turn out so well for everyone involved.” He let the words hang, his tone thick with irony. Leaning forward, his gaze swept the room with a mix of challenge and weariness. “I don’t condone imperialism, let’s make that clear. But—let’s be practical here—if we’re going to intervene, giving Syria to France might be the path of least resistance. Do we really want to stretch ourselves thin trying to build a socialist state halfway across the world? We’ve barely begun unifying Southeast Asia with Vietnam, and now we’re talking about raising a social-democratic experiment in the Middle East?” He shook his head, his expression hardening. “Ideals are fine, comrades. But let’s not let them blind us to the cost of ambition.”

Supreme Commander Songkitti Jaggabatara interjected, his voice calm yet edged with quiet authority. “Field Marshal, your perspective holds weight, but this discussion must remain within the civilian government’s mandate. Our role is to execute strategy, not dictate Syria’s fate. However, the success of any intervention hinges on precise and unified military action.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, as if measuring the resolve of every leader present. “Comrade Minister Sutin, I propose we focus this session on actionable plans for deploying a carrier strike group to the Mediterranean. The details of governance can wait until we’ve secured our objectives.” His tone softened slightly, though his expression remained implacable. “Would this course of action meet with your approval?” Sutin’s eyes narrowed, his expression a portrait of grim determination. With a slight nod, he acknowledged the Supreme Commander’s words, signaling both agreement and the end of the debate—for now.​

 

[Drivindeath]

With the floods of messages coming in and international coverage, Muhammad Qasim took it upon himself to address the nation and the world. He would make his way to the Syrian National Broadcasting Station (SNBS). Individuals that are tech savvy set up the cameras and got all necessary equipment ready to broadcast. Muhammad Qasim would stand at the podium that was taken from the Presidents Palace. It wasn't his idea to stand behind the Former Presidents Podium but his men insisted. A man behind the camera gave the countdown "5...4...3...", he would then hold up 2 fingers then one and point. The televisions would play the theme for the SNBS then show Muhammad Qasim on camera.

He would stare awkwardly at the lens and read the teleprompter. His eyes would shift from right to left in a mirror image. He then would step around the podium and turn his back to the camera. He stared at the Syrian Presidential Seal. His shoulders hung low. He turned back to face the camera. His mouth hung open for a few moments and then he spoke in English and off script.

"Fellow Syrians, Esteem Leaders around the Globe, today was a day to be remembered in history. We... the people of Syria... have chosen our destiny. I have received many messages as of late. One notably from Thailand. So let me speak on that first. President Thaksin Shinawatra, let me first say may Allah bless you. I believe you think that you understand who I am. I've been called many things in my life, I've been called a Husband, a Father, a Scholar, a Freedom Fighter, but the one that everyone knows is a Terrorist. It is true that I fought for the Taliban. I did this not for religious purposes or for political gains. I did so in keeping the Middle East, Middle Eastern. I left the Taliban when President Saleem al-Assad began gassing our citizens with the help of the Russian Federation. This included the deaths of my wife and 4 children. I knew at that moment that the fight wasn't in Iraq or Afghanistan, it was at home. The Islamic Liberation Army in the Levant is not and has not ever been a terrorist organization. I condemn the actions of the public execution of President Saleem al-Assad and the other captured government officials. I have taken swift action to apprehend the individuals in my organization that are responsible and will cooperate fully with international courts. Bossza007

Second, let me address the Kurdish conflicts. I have already issued a cessations of all hostilities against the Kurdish People. Sadly I am not the leader of the IRGL. The IRGL has over 20 different leaders and we work as a council. My complaints fall on deaf ears. What I can promise is that the ILAL will not engage with the Kurdish People and we mean no ill will towards them.

Third, I have ordered the ILAL to allow the passage of the Russian Armed Forces to return to their Military Bases. I have not yet spoken with any Russian officials, but I'd like to make a few things clear to them. Syria is not yours any longer. You have my blessing to return to your bases in good faith that you will leave Syria. If I do not hear from the Russian Leadership within the coming month, then by February I will order my men to retake the bases. This is not a statement of war or to try and create conflict, it is a matter of Syrian Independence. The Syrian people still wish to maintain good relations with the Russian Federation. Jay

Fourth, I'd like to address Israel. We may not have had the best relations in the past but Allah shines on a bright future for both of our nations. We have been at odds over many issues but the most pressing is that of the Golan Heights. I propose that should Israel remove their armed forces from the region we can share the region in a split custody. I will personally guarantee that Syria will keep armed forces away from that region as well. Blakey

Fifth, and last, let it be known that I am not the leader of Syria, nor do I want to be. I just happen to be the most influential figure in Syria at the current moment. I plan to act as the temporary leader of the Syrian People until elections can be held, at which point I will step down from power. The ILAL has always dreamed of creating an Islamic Republic, however our ideals align that of the United States with their freedoms and prestige. I will be having my make shift government setting up a website to accept donations with complete transparency of where funds will be spent in efforts to rebuild Syria from our long wars. I will also comply fully with Global Assembly Laws in the ethical treatment of Soldiers and Civilians alike.. I welcome Global Assembly Investigators into Syria to help with our ongoing problems. We prefer if these Investigators come from the United States due to their unbias views in global politics. Odinson

May Allah bless Syria and the Syrian People."

He would step out of view of the camera and the broadcast would abruptly end.

 

[Bossza007]

Marx, Help Me​

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Secret and Encrypted unless contextually possible. | NSST 1.0 Architecture​

Sorrowing Old Man (At Eternity's Gate), an 1890 portrait by Vincent van Gogh​

Thaksin leaned back in his chair, staring at his phone as the broadcast from Muhammad Qasim, leader of the Islamic Liberation Army in the Levant, abruptly ended with a bizarre pledge to some "supernatural being." He winced, massaging his temples as a migraine started to creep in. “How can a fellow human be so dense? Aren’t we supposed to be an intelligent species?” he muttered, half to himself. The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the shared workspace at the Government House of Thailand.

Thaksin, still clutching his phone, turned to his assistant, Minnie. “This guy doesn’t get it, does he? Thailand’s at war with him, and now he’s spouting superstitious nonsense. Do you know what this means? People will storm community assemblies, demanding immediate action. And worst of all…” He paused dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “My Bangkok Comedy Club time is about to take a hit.” He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, though the faint twitch in his jaw betrayed his frustration.

Minnie chuckled, shaking her head. “You know,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “I voted for that war too. It’s right there in my community assembly’s database. Al-Qaeda, organized religions—all of it. Doesn’t the World’s Liberation Manifesto say we’re here to free people from oppression? That includes superstition, doesn’t it?” Her tone softened as she tapped on her tablet, preparing for the next task. “These people believe in all that because they’ve been kept in the dark. Their rulers have used this nonsense to keep them chained. It’s tragic, really. Everyone knows that.”

Thaksin shook his head, a bitter smirk playing on his lips. “It’s almost funny, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low but laced with venom. “They’ve been fed lies for so long that they’d defend them with their lives. Religion—whether it’s Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, or Islam—was always just a leash for the ruling class to keep the masses in line. And now this Qasim clown says he wants to model his freedom after the United States? What kind of freedom is that?” He let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Freedom to choose which corporation works you to death or which street corner you’ll starve on? The hypocrisy is enough to make me sick.”

The sound of footsteps interrupted their conversation. A figure strode toward their table, his presence commanding attention without effort. Chuan Leekpai, Founding Figure of the Thai Republic and the current Secretary of Government, settled into a chair with the deliberate ease of someone used to wielding authority. “Let’s not get too carried away,” he began, his tone firm but not unkind. “We’ve got plenty to deal with already. Participatory institutions are under heavier strain than ever. If we fall behind on national coordination…” He paused, his gaze flicking between them, “…that’s when the real problems will start.” He leaned back slightly, the afternoon light catching the lines etched on his face. “Speaking of which, here’s something new. We’ve just greenlit joint patrol operations with Australia.” A faint smile played at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Interesting times, wouldn’t you say?”

Thaksin let out a short laugh, more bitter than amused. “Well, at least our waters will be safer from so-called ‘Islamic threats’ now that Australia’s taking the lead. Frigates for them, eight offshore patrol vessels for us—plus four replenishment ships to keep things running. Not that anyone’s keeping score, right?” He set his phone down on the table with a dull thud, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“That’s not the real issue, though,” he continued, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. “It’s this broadcast. People are going to take it as a rallying cry for more intervention in Syria. And the nerve of that guy…” He gestured toward his phone, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “‘Thaksin, the President’? Give me a break. I wouldn’t touch executive power with a ten-foot pole. We live in an egalitarian society, and I plan to keep it that way.”

Minnie nodded, her expression hardening. “Exactly. We’re not mindless authoritarians or hypocritical liberal democrats pretending to champion freedom while the elites hoard everything.” Her words lingered in the air like smoke, sharp and acrid. Thaksin and Chuan exchanged a wry glance, their laughter faint but knowing.

Outside, the late afternoon light painted Bangkok in hues of gold, the city’s green expanses standing in stark contrast to its sprawling urban chaos. The air was calm, almost deceptively so, as if holding its breath. Minnie exhaled and tapped her tablet, her voice quieter but still steady. “Freedom. Democracy. It’s funny how often they get twisted into weapons. But maybe…” She hesitated, her gaze drifting to the view. “Maybe someday, we’ll get it right.”

The three sat in silence for a moment, the distant hum of the city filling the room. Finally, Thaksin leaned back, a faint smirk on his lips. “If the world doesn’t implode first.”

Drivindeath​