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​

---

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​

 

[Alexander]

Hexagone Balard, Paris
​

Slowly the room was filling with Officers, Admirals, Generals, Colonels, Captains, while most of them were Navy that made sense considering the nature of the conversation they were about to have. As all men and women were there the Commander Middle East (CDRMOYORI) Admiral Emile Rose stepped forward, shortly coughing to call all to attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. As you all know Her Imperial Majesty has declared a war on terror, she has also decided to recognize the new regime in Syria as the legitimate government and considers stabilizing Syria a vital stage in this war on terror. That is where we come in. The Empress has ordered us to prepare for support operations in Syria. The Ministry of Europe and Foreign Affairs has made multiple offers towards Syria that we must now prepare for.

The first scenario is one where we provide air support to the ILAL from the Jeanne d'Arc as well as our anti-air vessels in the GAN, the second scenario involves above the provision of air support the insertion of special forces to engage in specific operations seeking to establish the dominance of the ILAL, finally the third scenario is the most far-reaching. The deployment of ground forces directly into Syria in support of ILAL. In this case we would be deploying the Foreign Legion and provide both aerial support and shore bombardment from the GAN. Considering we don't know what the Syrians will go for we need to be ready for all three options. Any immediate questions?"

At that moment Major General Calvin from the Directorate of Military Intelligence spoke up. "Syria is a hotbed of different factions, and most importantly a sizeable Russian presence in support of the old regime. What are Her Imperial Majesty's orders if our forces end up facing Russians?"

"Despite recent development, the Empress is not interested in a war with Russia. Our goal would be to relieve the ILAL forces on other fronts so they can focus on the fronts we cannot fight on. If we do still end up facing Russians the orders are to hold but not engage. If however the Russians shoot first it is weapons free"

From there some more questions from various forces involved in the operation would follow but it would soon be concluded.

"With that, you all have your orders. Let's show them why we are the best in Europe."

​

Considering their home base on the other side of the same sea it hadn't taken the Jeanne d'Arc long at all to deploy to their new location in international waters off the Syrian coast. Their orders had been simple move to their current position and maintain combat readiness. The senior officers in the Strike Group had also been given the details of their possible future engagements. If faced with foreign military forces they were to observe existing international agreements and provide only as much information as they were legally obligated to. Rear Admiral Léa Richard looked over the flight deck of the Jeanne d'Arc as maintenance crews worked to prepare the Rafale fighters for their daily training routine. "A penny for your thoughts" Her Executive Officer Captain Hélène Dufort said as she walked up to the seemingly daydreaming Admiral.

Léa smiled for a second before turning around. "I was just thinking how long it's been since we were actually needed. The civil war was fought on land, the Canadian War of Aggression caught us unready and New Caledonia we were more of a supporting force. This is the first time in a decade we are actually facing an actual international armed conflict."

Hélène sighed "You always overthink these things too much. Versailles has given its orders, Paris has figured out all the legalese, and the Hexagone Balard has worked out the plans. We just need to execute them."

"I know, I just wish the rules of engagement didn't leave up so much to my own authority"

With all of that the full Groupe Aéronaval Jeanne d'Arc complemented by the Mistral classes Achéron and Jean de Vienne was in place. Carrying on it 30 Rafale fighters and hosting the 1st Foreign Brigade including its 10,000 soldiers and 75 VABs on the Mistral classes. Operating at a constant combat readiness with all sensors active it was ready for any threat coming its way. Now the wait was just on the word from Paris that they were authorized to move in.

 

[Jay]

In the rugged hills of Syria’s northern frontier, the ground shifted as a squad of twelve men scaled up the heavy hills that divided the Russian zone of Syria from the land held by the terrorists that took control of the country. The squad of GRU operatives—mostly Chechens and Dagestanis—slipped past the fortified Russian positions and walked through the valleys that now engulfed their surroundings. The Russian outpost, a kilometer behind them now, was obscured by a haze that engulfed the mountainous region. The twelve men donned uniforms captured from ILAL fighters. Wearing ILAL uniforms, their faces veiled with scarves and keffiyehs the twelve operators made sure to look like the local fighters. Brushing up on Syrian dialects from where ILAL fighters came from.

The operators had received intelligence from a Russian drone of an IRGL training camp near their border. After an hour and a half trek through the valley, the operators came out of the valley and used the brushes and treelines to move quietly through the Syrian countryside. After another half an hour, the Master Chief Petty Officer raised his hand, and the squad came to a halt. Khasan looked behind him as Rashid walked up with a map laid out for the squad leader to look at. Khasan confirmed they made it to their last checkpoint before arriving at the camp. The air in the hills was thick with dust and heat as the sun dipped behind the jagged mountains.

Khasan looked at Rashid and Maksim “We’re close. The IRGL’s outpost is a few clicks north. You ready?"

Rashid joked "I’m not ready to get shot in the back, if that’s what you mean." *His voice was dry and gruff as he took a sip of water from his canteen.

Khasan chuckled softly "Just stay sharp. They won't see us coming." he said looking at Maksim to see his thoughts.

Maksim nodded. “Let’s hit it and run, we need to hit another base a couple of kilometers eastward. His eyes quietly scanning the hill ahead”

Khasan nodded slightly. “True that brother.” He said as he pulled out a small map, tracing a line over it with his finger. "Our entry’s here, just past the ridge. The IRGL's southern supply depot is heavily guarded but lightly manned, too. We’ll need to time the attack just after their shift change. Maksim take Movlid, Ali, Adam, Kaysem, and Omar and provide overwatch over the southern supply depot.” Maksim nodded as he took a closer look at the map. “I’ll take Rashid, Alkhazur, Marzbek, Kazbek, and Alimsultan to assault the position,” Khasan said getting a nod from his other two as they separated into two separate fireteams.

Alkhazur tightened the strap on his helmet, checking his gear. Marzbek wiped his brow, his rifle held tightly as they moved to their holding position. The crunch of boots on dirt was drowned out by the distant hum of vehicles and the clinking of metal from the supply depot ahead as the fireteam got closer. “Once Maksim’s team gives the signal, we move fast,” Khasan said, rolling up the map. “Stay close to me. If anything goes wrong, fall back to the secondary position.”

Khasan’s heart beat steadily as they crouched behind the cover of a boulder, waiting. His hand signaled for quiet with his eyes scanning the depot below. Guards moved lazily as there had been no fighting in this sector for weeks. Suddenly, a faint click came through Khasan’s earpiece—Maksim’s signal.
“Go,” Khasan whispered sharply.

In an instant, his team sprang into motion. Rashid led the charge, moving low and fast along the outer fence as Khasan followed, weapon raised. Marzbek lobbed a flashbang over the fence just as they reached the entrance.

The explosion of light and sound sent the guards reeling, confusion taking over as Khasan’s team breached the depot. Gunfire erupted, as the fireteam engaged the guards around the facility. Alkhazur took down the first two guards before they even had a chance to draw their weapons. “Clear!” Alkhazur shouted in Arabic, as Rashid and Marzbek rushed through the hole in the fence.

On the ridge line, Maksim and Ali provided cover fire as the team below moved into the camp. Maksim could see as Khasan followed Rashid and Marzbek, firing two shots into a guard scrambling for cover. The man crumpled instantly as his body folded onto the ground.

“Move to the supply caches!” Khasan barked as his team advanced. Alimsultan and Marzbek sprinted forward, detonating charges on the supply trucks, the fireball lighting up the depot as the rest of the guards scattered in panic. With a few of the guards escaping, Alimsultan and Marzbek screamed them off and fired celebratory shots.

With their raid finished, Khasan bellowed “Pull back! Now!" to the men as they followed back to their rendevous point under the ridge protected by Maksim’s fire team. They were on the move again using the road as natural cover as they walked on opposite sides of it.

Rashid grimaced as another pebble got stuck in his combat boots. "Time is always against us." Khasan shook his head. “Keep moving. We’ll get to the rest point in another fifteen minutes. Maksim at the head of the column stopped, raising his fist, as he checked the horizon, scanning the terrain. Khasan looked ahead as he crab-walked towards Maksim. “What is the issue?”

Maksim gestured to the end of the road, covered in a blur from the heat Khasan could make two vehicles driving towards them. Khasan pulled out his binoculars and tried to get a closer look. It would take a few seconds but then Khasan could make out fighters hanging on the sides of the vehicle. The distance was an illusion, the lead vehicle saw them.

Then all of a sudden, a violent crack echoed across the road and broke the silence. Muzzle flashes erupted from the technical as the first shot rang out. The sound punched through the stillness like a hammer on steel. Khasan eyes darted to Alimsultan who had an RPG strapped to his back yelling for him to fire as the bullet zipped past them, thudding into the dirt behind, kicking up a cloud of dust.

“Return fire!” Khasan barked as the valley exploded into chaos.
Automatic gunfire ripped through the air, the sharp staccato of the rebel’s DSHK firing at them from a distance. Alimsultan dropped to one knee and squeezed off the safety on the RPG warhead as he loaded it. The bullets from the DSHK bit into the stone, splintering it, and sending shards of rock flying into Marbek who yelped from the sudden pain. Maksim screamed clear as he tapped his shoulder, letting Alimsutlan fire the round. The rocket streaked through the sky with a trail of white smoke before slamming into the center of the technical.

The air was thick with the smell of sweat, oil, and burning rubber as the other two technicals turned around and sped away as their comrades screamed from the cookoff of ammunition and explosives inside the technical that was struck. A hazy hung low over the dusty hills as the fighting stopped. Rashid could feel the heat baking his skin through his gear, his fingers sweating inside his gloves as they tightened around the grip of his AK-12.

Beside him, the five other GRU operatives crouched, their faces set with grim determination as they scanned the horizon. Silence pressed down on them like a heavy hand, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio. The technicals did not come back and so the squad trekked down the road to their next objective. After a mile hike, Maksim screamed out. “Contact, twelve o’clock. Two clicks out,”

Khasan brought his binoculars up, the cracked lenses distorting the distant view. There, across the ridgeline, he spotted movement—a flash of cloth, then the glint of sun off a rifle barrel. IRGL fighters were attacking ILAL fighters. Their ruse had worked as the IRGL fighters were setting up positions behind a crumbled wall and a line of rusted-out trucks. More figures moved behind them, shadowy shapes darting into half-ruined buildings, laying low in the rubble.

“Let them fight it out,” Movlid whispered to Khasan as he watched their rear. The firefight raged on. The ILAL fighters were dug in well but the IRGL were relentless. Rashid could hear the distinct sound of mortar fire in the distance, a dull thump followed by the rising whistle as it arced through the air.

“Incoming!” Maksim shouted, barely getting the words out before the mortar struck. The explosion rocked the ground beneath him, a wave of heat and force slamming into his chest, driving the air from his lungs. Dirt and debris rained down, a sharp, burning pain flaring in his leg as shrapnel ripped through his fatigues. His ears rang with the aftermath, the world around him reduced to a muffled roar.

Gritting his teeth, Rashid dragged himself back up, limping behind a wrecked car for cover. Maksim was already moving toward him, blood running down the side of his face, but still standing, still fighting. He checked him for any wounds but before he could finish fighters emerged from behind them, accidentally stumbling upon the GRU operatives. There was a brief moment where the two looked at fighters and saw the ILAL banners on their heads. The IRGL quickly opened fire with the GRU operatives firing back.

The IRGL fighters were pressing hard now, firing in bursts from the cover of the ruins. One of them, a tall man with a red scarf wrapped around his head, raised an old RPG launcher, aiming straight for Rashid and Maksim’s position. Rashid cursed under his breath, knowing they had seconds before impact.

But then a crack rang out. The sniper’s bullet took the man in the chest, knocking him backward before he could fire. The RPG clattered to the ground harmlessly.

“Good shot,” Rashid screamed, wiping the sweat from his brow as Marzbek took out the IRGL fighter with his SVD. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. His leg throbbed with pain, but he forced it aside, pushing forward, signaling for the others to move.

They advanced in bursts, firing as they went. The world around them collapsing into fragments of violence and survival. The smell of cordite filled Rashid’s nostrils, mixing with the acrid stench of burning metal and flesh.

guarded but lightly manned, too. We’ll need to time the attack just after their shift change. Maksim take Movlid, Ali, Adam, Kaysem, and Omar and provide overwatch over the southern supply depot.” Maksim nodded as he took a closer look at the map. “I’ll take Rashid, Alkhazur, Marzbek, Kazbek, and Alimsultan

Alkhazur lobbed a grenade over a low wall. It bounced twice before disappearing from sight. Seconds later, a dull explosion thudded, and the gunfire from that direction faltered.

“Clear the ridge!” Maksim ordered, limping forward with his rifle raised. His men moved in quickly, sweeping through the wreckage with cold efficiency. IRGL fighters lay strewn across the floor, some dead, some dying. Maksim ignored their cries, stepping over them, while his squad executed any survivors
Outside, the gunfire was beginning to fade. The ILAL had the upper hand now with the GRU having eliminated the IRGL’s reinforcements. The mortar rounds took a toll on the ILAL but the IRGL was pushed back onto the retreat. The GRU operatives could see them breaking, fleeing into the hills, leaving behind their fallen and their weapons.

As smoke curls up into the sky, the GRU operatives retreated, leaving behind the bodies of Syrians dressed in ILAL fatigues, bloodied and contorted in the aftermath of the explosion.

As the months drag on, the GRU’s operation continues, sowing chaos wherever they strike. Each attack is nearly identical: an ambush in the dead of night, a hit on an IRGL convoy or supply line, followed by the placement of dead ILAL fighters

The locals picks up the narrative: ILAL is systematically sabotaging IRGL's operations, seeking to destroy their rival faction and destabilize the region even further. Some began to flee for IRGL territory away from what they saw as extremists

Some several days later, Khasan and his squad were ordered to attack an ILAL facility. The night was thick with the scent of smoke and dust. A dry wind whispered across the cracked earth, carrying the faint sounds of distant artillery fire. A full moon hung in the sky, casting long, jagged shadows over the rugged terrain.

The team moved in near silence, their footsteps muffled by the soft gravel beneath their boots. They were dressed in more identifiable uniforms this time, but this time as the IRGL. They were joined by Naval GRU operators led by Sergey, the team leader, who kept his eyes on the horizon. The force was now doubled in strength as Khasan and Sergey met together to discuss their plan of attack.

"We move in close," Sergey ordered in a low growl, his hand signaling the others to follow. "Get to the checkpoint. We’ll hit it then retreat this way through the hills to take on the stronghold here." Khasan nodded as he studied the map.

“Why not let a small recon force take his vantage point here. They can keep the checkpoint under fire as we strike the facility” He asked as he pointed to a vantage point that overlooked the checkpoint. Sergey leaned in looking at it. Sergey wasn’t too sure. However he could see the tactical advantage from splitting up their force, even if it meant less men to assault the main fortification.

Timur was looking through his binoculars. His eyes flickered over to the distant smoke rising from the frontlines where ILAL and IRGL forces had been clashing for days. The fighting had grown more desperate; both factions were pushing forward, each desperate to maintain their shrinking territory.

As they approached a narrow pass where an IRGL checkpoint was set up, Sergey motioned for the group to stop. Their Syrian accents would only carry them so far. One mistake could lead to a firefight.
Timur pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to Sergey. Sergey and Khasan exchanged a glance as Sergey motioning for them to walk past the checkpoint.

"Ready," Sergey muttered, his voice still low. He reached into his vest and adjusted the concealed pistol at his side.
The checkpoint was just ahead. A handful of men in ragged IRGL uniforms leaned against a rusted truck, joking and laughing over cards, their weapons slung carelessly over their shoulders. They were tired, and distracted.

The strike force’s uniforms, complete with the same disheveled patches and faded colors as the rebels. Sergey and Timur adjusted their bandanas, pulling them tighter over their faces, making their profiles even more as they got closer.

One of the rebels at the checkpoint—an older man with a weathered face and a thick beard—raised an eyebrow as they drew closer. He squinted at them for a moment.

The bearded man waved them through with a casual motion. "You’re late," he muttered in Arabic, his voice rough from days of shouting orders. "The front's moving up. They won’t wait for you."

Sergey nodded solemnly. “We came from the rear. It’s chaos back there.”

The rebel gave a grunt of acknowledgment, and after a few tense seconds, waved them through as Timur handed them a packet of cigarettes. As the group passed, Sergey held his breath, every muscle tight, his eyes scanning the faces of the men who might be the first to notice something out of place. No one moved to stop them.

The team passed through the checkpoint without incident. In the distance, the thump of heavy guns firing reminded them that their work was having an impact. “Keep moving,” Sergey ordered, and they slipped into the night. They were close now. They passed several burnt-out vehicles and abandoned villages as they got closer to the front lines.

Khasan raised a fist, and the column halted. He crouched low, his gloved hand brushing the dirt as he scanned the horizon. The faint glow of a distant fire flickered in the valley below. Behind him, Sergey adjusted the strap of his rifle, his breath visible in the cool night air.

“Checkpoint’s just ahead,” Khasan murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind.

Sergey grunted, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the darkness. “They’re jumpy tonight. Your friends took out their supply convoy in an ambush earlier today.”

“Good,” Khasan said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let them stay jumpy. Makes our job easier.”

Maksim, crouched a few meters back, shifted his weight, his hand resting on the hilt of a knife strapped to his thigh. “Easier doesn’t mean clean,” he muttered.

Khasan glanced back at him, his expression unreadable. “Then don’t make a wrong move.”

The squad moved again, their footsteps deliberate, their breathing steady. The checkpoint came into view—a rusted truck parked across the road, flanked by a handful of ILAL fighters. One of them, was a bearded man with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

As they approached the men at the checkpoint turned towards them. Before they could make out wh were the intruders the Russians fired at them striking them down one by one. A radioman cried out for help on the phone as he said they were under attack screaming the IRGL was attacking. Timur and his squad used the ridgeline to take out stragglers who ran to defend the checkpoint. Khasan and Sergey moved past the checkpoint. Cutting the wired fencing as they cleared the guards still left at the facility. After waiting ten minutes they broke in.
The facility was quiet save for the heavy hum of machinery inside the facility, which seemed eerily still. The GRU teams worked in sync. The first group swiftly neutralized two enemy soldiers near the entrance. Meanwhile, a team on a nearby hill monitored the operation. As they watched, they observed that fewer guards were present at night, and the facility was abandoned, save for the sealed entrances. After clearing the gates and neutralizing ten more insurgents the GRU then broke into the facility.

And then, with a resounding crack, the door gave way, the metal bowing under the force of their assault. The soldiers surged forward, weapons drawn firing at the insurgents Inside, the darkened halls seemed eerily empty. A few forklifts, dormant and unused.

The GRU commandos wasted no time. Forklifts were repurposed, their engines roaring to life as they smashed through two additional doors, opening the path to the heart of the facility. At the same moment, another team arrived. The twenty-five commandos spread out, planting charges along the production lines, and setting them up.

The GRU intelligence officers swept through the facility, their eyes scanning every corner for any scrap of information. Each room had bits of intelligence. They moved to the desk in the far corner of the room, rifling through papers, their hands swift and practiced as they grabbed anything of value. Documents, maps, cryptic files—all were snatched up and tossed into heavy black duffel bags. Among the items were hastily scribbled notes between insurgents, photographs that had been left behind, and other fragments of intel. Meanwhile, in the background, explosives were being planted with urgency as the sound of bullets came closer to the facility.

Outside, Timur and his team were pinned down by a torrent of enemy fire. The Syrians had retaken the checkpoint and were unleashing a storm of bullets, their heavy weapons cutting through the air as they slammed into the stones behind his fireteam. The crack of gunfire was deafening, and the smell of burnt powder lingered in the air. Timur barked into the radio to the team inside the facility. "We are under heavy fire. We need to move, now! Heading to secondary firing position."

Inside the facility, Sergey was with the intel team grabbing every document and file that could be of use. He heard Timur’s scream over the radio causing him to pause as he gathered the last of the papers. "We’re leaving," he ordered. "Now." But before they could retreat, a group of insurgents appeared, weapons raised. Sergey turned back and dropped them. He and the intel officers cleared the exist while the demolition team rallied behind them. Running through the major doors Sergey dropped his body low, knees hitting the hard asphalt as his men sprinted past him. They ran for hardcover on the other side of the street.

Khasan gave Sergey a quick tap on the back, signaling him to move. With the sound of gunfire still ringing in the air, Sergey sprinted, heart pounding, as the first element of his team took up defensive positions, providing cover.

Outside, the stolen technicals awaited. Sergey and his men jumped into the vehicles as the engines roaring to life as they peeled out of the compound. The heavy trucks kicked up dust and gravel, racing towards the rally point where Timur’s team was waiting. As they made it near Timur’s position a huge fireball erupted behind them at the facility. They hit the gas, barreling toward friendly territory.

Drivindeath

 

[Drivindeath]

Late January, 2006
Private​

Qasim sat in the Presidential Palace surrounded by Generals in his Army. He pondered the situation in Syria. With Syria being thrusted into the International Spotlight it brought many unknowns. Would the Russians leave, would the French bring troops to occupy, would the GA intervene. Qasim recently spoke to French officials with promises of training for his troops, and assistance against the other factions of the IRGL which was quickly dissolving, but most importantly the French recognized the ILAL as the official government of Syria. It was something Qasim wanted to avoid as it has caused more conflicts to arise. The endless chatter from the Generals in the room was drowned out as Qasim pondered his next move. He rubbed his beard and studied the makeshift map in front of him on the table.

---

Alepo Region (Military Command and Control)
​

---

Homs Region

Ayn al-Tineh al-Gharbiyah Region

Talkalakh Region

Front Lines near Russian held Territory
​

---

Damascus Region

Damascus International Airport and Power Plant
​

---

"Quiet!" Qasim shouted. "I can't hear myself think. You all talk about Syria this and Syria that, Syria is broken and gone. Here is what I will do. I'm going to announce our separation from the IRGL."
"But sir! won't that cause a Civil War?" General Hassim protested abruptly.
"Civil War? What's so civil? No this is a conquest over a broken state. Our objective isn't to conquer all of Syria. The objective is to secure the major cities and to take back the ports that the Russians occupy. From there we can hold our lines and improve our peoples lives. I will seek out the assistance the French are willing to provide. I do not want the authority that I have for any longer than I need to. Our secondary objective is to build a stable government and constitution. By doing this, we can regain international recognition." Qasim said.
"Should we also contact the Russians? Perhaps they will withdraw willingly." General Abdul commented.
"In due time. The Russians are still migrating their forces to the ports. We need to ensure that no IRGL forces attack them in the meantime." Qasim continued.

A gruff looking soldier burst into the room.
"I apologize but..."
"What is the meaning of this intrusion! I should shoot you where you stand for this insubordination!" General Abdul proclaimed.
"Generals, IRGL fighters have been attacking our compounds and checkpoints!" the soldier stated.
"Where?" General Abdul questioned.
"Primarily near the Homs Sector sir, but smaller attacks all over."
"So the alliance is over. Put the troops on high alert. I have some calls I need to make." Qasim stated. Qasim then stood up and left the strategy room.

---

Qasim walked into the presidential office and sat at the desk. He let out a sigh. His thoughts grow on the impending battles to come. Qasim prays for the day when peace could be made in Syria. He then thought on who he would speak with first. He thought perhaps the Russians as they held territory inside of Syria's boarders and their shios where off the coast. Then he thought maybe the French should be first as their help was absolutely necessary now. Then he thought about the threat of Thailand as well and if they would strike.

Qasim stood up and left the desk. He looked out the window at the bombed out city before him. 'Is this what I'm fighting for?' He thought to himself. Qasim shuffled back to the desk, he opened the drawer and pulled out a satellite phone. He waited to establish a connection and...

Jay Alexander

 

[Alexander]

Back in the Middle Eastern Command Centre within the Hexagone Balard officers were constantly monitoring developments in Syria, in light of the likely impending combat operations they had even been given authorization from above to refocus observation satellites to the area so they could near-constantly track developments on the ground. "Sir, you may want to see this" Colonel Maeve Blanc, the daughter of a French Father and a Syrian mother herself, and one of the most talented analysts Emile had ever seen. He quickly moved to her desk and looked at the data coming in.

"How recently were these images taken?"

"Fifteen minutes ago, sir"

Emile rubbed his temples, this was going ballistic much faster than they had expected.

"Forward the data to the Minister, Sergeant get me the Minister on the phone immediately" Emile said before walking to his office adjoining the command centre.

Within the Hotel de Brienne Léa had just concluded her meeting with various officers on the ongoing hostage situation in the Chinese embassy and what steps needed to be taken as she walked back into her office. She had only sat down for a moment when her assistant already activated the intercom.

"Your Grace, Admiral Rose has requested to speak to you immediately. He says it is urgent"

If the Commander Middle East was calling it could only mean one thing, shit had hit the fan. "Thank you, I will take his call. Do not let anyone into the office until the call is concluded."

"Admiral, what is the situation?"

"Your Grace, thank you for answering so swiftly. Our surveillance over Syria had shown the outbreak of violence between what we believe to be positions of the ILAL and other members of the IRGL. For now the violence is focused on the region near Homs but it is not isolated to that area. The situation we were afraid of happening appears to be breaking out." Emile replied.

Léa sighed, though she figured it was something like that for him to call her directly rather than the Chief of the Defence Staff or the Minister Delegate for the Navy. "What is the status of our forces?"

"GAN1 is in position off Syrian territorial waters and constantly maintaining a heightened combat readiness. If the order is given they can deploy air power within thirty minutes and begin landing operations within 12 hours"

"I am looping in the Minister of Europe and Foreign Affairs and the Empress' Military Adviser. Hold for a moment" She said as she connected the call to both Versailles and the Ministry of Europe and Foreign Affairs, after informing both of the situation before they could move on to the discussion of what to do next Sophie received word that the Syrians were calling them.

"Your Grace, Admiral, General, Commander Qasim of the ILAL is calling us. I am going to connect him to the call" She said before nodding to her assistant to add him to the now five-party conference call.

"Commander Qasim, it is is a pleasure to speak to you in person. You are in a conference call with myself, Duchess Moreau, the Minister of the Armed Forces, Colonel Bernard the Military Adviser to the Empress, and Admiral Rose, the Commander Middle East. We were just discussing your situation and our recent intelligence of an outbreak of violence so I imagined it would be easier to add you in directly. How are you doing and how can we help?"

Drivindeath

 

[Bossza007]

Private and Encrypted
(For Narrative Purpose Only)​

Iskenderun, Turkey

Perhaps it was a routine commercial flight, or perhaps they were spectral harbingers—Unidentified Aerial Phenomena dancing in the ether, signs of intelligences beyond our terrestrial ken. Could one truly discern the mundane from the extraordinary? At close range, yes, distinction was possible. But when both commercial craft and anomalous objects blurred at the edge of visual acuity, where did certainty reside? And why now, above Iskenderun, did the sky teem with so many—a scattering, no, a flotilla of lights tracing patrol paths, like celestial sentinels? If the Jeanne d'Arc indeed held station, unleashing its Rafales into the boundless expanse above, then even the preternaturally calm minds within Thailand’s radar command must have been alight with a singular, urgent question: “what in the dialectical materialism are we witnessing

“Another UAV confirms successful launch,” the officer announced from the island tower, his voice betraying a practiced calm. “Though, it’s been murmured within the District Force that successive Turkish administrations have, shall we say, become somewhat oblivious to our enduring presence. Curious, considering we maintain a contingent of thirty thousand personnel stationed here, wouldn't you agree? A leased army base and this extensive naval facility—it's not an insignificant footprint.” He paused, scratching his head, a flicker of genuine bewilderment in his eyes.

“Come now, Comrade Dum, let’s not allow such oversights to dampen our spirits,” a female officer responded, a faint smile playing on her lips. “You are well aware of the tempestuous nature of Turkish politics since the Coalition War. Our concern is not fleeting recognition, but the enduring stability of the agreement. Indefinite lease, remember? Until a mutually agreeable withdrawal—that’s the bedrock.” She spun her chair back towards her console, the movement crisp and assured. “Our duty, as ever, remains to ensure no government of a less... amicable disposition assumes power. That, Comrade, is the more pertinent consideration.”

Dum nodded in return, his boots echoing softly on the steel deck as he circled the room, finally fixating on the observation window. “Are our comrades in France still proceeding with their intervention plan?” he murmured, the question hanging in the sterile air. A memory flickered in his eyes. “Wait,” he began, brow furrowing as realization dawned, “if the national government is so hostile towards this new Syrian regime, promising fire and retribution, why… why are we still tethered here?” A genuine bewilderment colored his tone.

The female officer, Asama, her name stitched crisply onto her uniform, swiveled in her chair, the motion a study in practiced calm. “Well,” she began, her voice a steady counterpoint to Dum’s unease, “one of our frigates on offshore patrol did report a knot of vessels drifting just outside Syrian territorial waters. Likely French, though conjecture is a pastime for idle hands.” She shrugged, dismissing the international currents with a wave.

“Why fret? No orders for joint operations have reached us; no flags have been raised. For me, a day untouched by military drills is a blessing in itself.” A pause, then a thoughtful consideration. “Rhetoric, perhaps? Or maybe,” she mused, her gaze distant, “the cogs of confederation turn slower than we soldiers prefer. A France-aligned regime, after all, serves our interests well enough. No need for undue concern.” Her voice trailed off, returning her attention to the luminous glow of her console, the unspoken tension in the room thickening, a silent testament to the unreadable sky above Iskenderun.

Suddenly, an officer entered the room, bearing a tray laden with Turkish pastries, a gesture that drew a raised eyebrow from another officer. “What’s this, Tent? A capitalist indulgence amidst our socialist vigilance?” The officer bearing the tray chuckled, setting it down on a side table. “Consider it a cultural immersion, comrade. They practically venerate consumerism here, a freedom of choice for those…unburdened by material security.”

Asama approached the table, a faint smile playing on her lips as she selected a pastry. “Indeed,” she remarked, turning from the console. “I was just offered a dinner invitation by a local. A ‘fancy restaurant date,’ he called it. Such a…market-driven approach to courtship. A transaction of wealth inequality, elegantly packaged.” She gestured with the pastry, a subtle flourish in the sterile command center.

“Love through wealth inequality,” Dum echoed, a wry chuckle escaping him, the honeyed sweetness of the baklava momentarily forgotten. “Precisely the affection our LTE system shields us from, wouldn’t you say? Imagine—quantifying devotion in labor tokens: ‘two hours of devoted listening… for a single rose pastry.’ Utterly ludicrous, and yet… undeniably equitable.” He selected a baklava, its layers crisp and glistening, the scent a heady perfume. “Though,” he confessed, biting into the pastry, a thoughtful frown deepening as flakes of filo crumbled, “this sheer abundance… it's a siren song, isn't it? Back home, such confections demand a week’s devotion of community service credits. Here, they are… almost waste.” The taste lingered, rich and decadent, yet tinged with a faint, unsettling hollowness. “Perhaps that’s the capitalist allure laid bare—the freedom not just to choose, but to squander.”

Corporal Tent, overhearing Asama’s remark, chimed in from his station, voice laced with weary pragmatism, eyes glued to his console. “Transactions indeed. Did you glimpse the market prices, comrades? Astronomical. Barely receive enough Baht on shore leave for a decent ration pack, let alone these… these capitalist indulgences.” He gestured vaguely at the pastries with his headset, a dismissive flick of the wrist. “And the haggling—a brawl in broad daylight! Each exchange a skirmish for personal advantage. Give me the LTE any day; transparent, just, blissfully free of this… mercenary spirit.” He sighed, a puff of air against his microphone. “Though,” he muttered, a hint of longing creeping into his voice, “hazard pay tokens for navigating this den of consumerism wouldn't go amiss.”

Asama leaned against the console, the pastry now a forgotten weight in her hand. “Hazard pay,” she echoed, the words laced with a bitter resonance. Her gaze drifted to the observation window, to those faint, spectral lights staining the indifferent sky. “Out there, beyond the horizon, they trade in lives—currency far dearer than any token we exchange. And for what? For shimmering ideals whispered from on high? For veins of earth’s cold heart, ripped open and bleeding resources? Or just… that hollow echo they call ‘freedom’—a gilded cage where exploitation thrives, a liberty to be devoured or to devour?” A tremor of weariness tightened her voice. “At least our struggles,” she conceded, a sardonic edge sharpening her tone, “are meant to be for something larger than ourselves, for the collective, ostensibly. Though,” a ghost of a smile touched her lips, devoid of warmth, “even socialist devotion doesn't barter for a moment’s reprieve, does it?”

From a nearby station, a younger officer, barely a man, his voice still bright with the ink of the academy, cut through the somber air. “But that’s precisely the crucible, Comrade Asama! We offer the world a different ledger, a truer reckoning. Participatory democracy forged in the fire of shared purpose, economic justice woven into the very fabric of our exchange, a society built upon the bedrock of cooperation, not the ravenous maw of competition.” He gestured, a sweep of his hand encompassing the very ideals of their nation, then faltered, the weight of Asama's gaze, sharp and knowing, briefly dimming his fervor. “Isn't it?” he finished, the question seeking not just confirmation, but a desperate anchor in the swirling currents of doubt.

Dum chuckled, the sound low and knowing, a conspiratorial hum in the sterile air. “Right, comrade,” he affirmed, a gentle clap to the younger officer’s shoulder, paternal and faintly patronizing. “In theory, undeniably, gloriously right. In practice…” He let the sentence dissolve, his gaze drifting back to the tray of Turkish sweets, a smile, tinged with something akin to resignation, softening the corners of his lips. “In practice, we’re still steeped in Turkish coffee, the taste of Turkish baklava clinging to our tongues, aren’t we? Even paradise,” he murmured, almost to himself, “even socialist utopia, it seems, cannot entirely resist the lingering… allure.” He winked at Asama, a silent question hanging between them, heavy and syrupy as the honeyed pastry: could most fervent even the socialist conviction truly escape the insidious gravity of the capitalist world that pressed in beyond their fortified haven of steel and signals?​

 

[Bossza007]

Private and Encrypted​

Time was running out and he—Piyawat—knew it acutely. It was a truth he felt in the weary set of his shoulders as he stepped back onto Thai soil, Ankara fading behind him. Three knocks, he delivered them on the door before he scanned his fingerprint on a biometric scanner. The door unlocked and he swung it open, revealing the shared office of the Minister of Defense and other bureaucrats. The room froze for a second before the camaraderie smile broke out. “Comrade Piyawat! A pleasure to meet you again.” Sutin, the Defense Minister, shouted, a ripple of greetings following suit. Brief updates, polite enquiries about families—a veneer of normalcy stretched taut over the unspoken tension—before Piyawat settled opposite Sutin’s desk.

“A great delight coming home,” Piyawat began, a genuine smile briefly illuminating his face. “I remember when the city was more chaotic. It feels…calm and purposeful now. A success for our socialist project in nurturing social harmony and collective liberation, I suppose.” He glanced around the table and inspected a published work of Leon Trotsky in Thai next to Sutin’s family picture. “You’ve been studying Marxism, a commendable endeavor, Comrade Sutin. Man’s work on Literature and Revolution is an insightful piece of literary criticism from a rigorous Marxist perspective. Perhaps, you should consider decorating this office with proletariat arts.” He let out a soft chuckle, a fleeting ease in the charged air.

“Globalization is accelerating Western pop culture diffusion,” Sutin remarked, adjusting his tablet. “I find myself studying their art, seeking the material roots of their expressions. However, that’s beside our agenda. The Foreign Ministry tasked you with representing Thailand's interest in Türkiye and Syria during the absence of a formal embassy in the latter. Secure an alliance with the Kurds, yes, and if feasible, the Syrian Communist Front?” The question hung, sharp and expectant.

“Technically, yes. The Middle East Department focuses on long-term influence and subtle power play. Director-General will negotiate an alliance with the Kurdish Democratic League and we expect the Air Force to provide limited military assistance and humanitarian aid.” He paused. “As for the Syrian communists, that’s on the General Secretary. They must convince Comrade Thanathorn that they truly understand Communism on the Marxist ground, before the Politburo considers them a true ally.” His voice trailed, leaving the true currency of power, conviction and ideological purity.

“Well, if the KDL grants us access to Qamishli Airport, we can send an Antonov An-124 Ruslan as a proof of concept. The component might include 137 well-equipped personnel, one self-propelled artillery, and three MRAP vehicles. It is enough to plant a flag. Establishing a foothold in the far northeast Syria is strategically sound as the Russian troops remain pinned to the far west. If they send an aircraft toward the airfield, our radar station in Iskenderun will provide necessary surveillance. We invested in that sentinel for a reason, after all.” Sutin finished.

Piyawat swirled the water in his glass, the liquid catching the muted office light like liquid amber. “What of the French Carrier Strike Group, Comrade Sutin? If we gradually advance the frontline from the northeast and mediate the resentment between the KDL and IRAL, the Russians will retaliate. They don’t concern themselves with humanitarian cost; it stopped at their rhetoric.” He slid his phone across the table, the screen alight with the stark pronouncements of condemnation. “We have publicly denounced Russia’s imperialist ambition and whitewashing.”

Sutin’s chuckle was dry, a sound that dismissed the very notion of Russian might. “The Russians have always been hostile; they are insecure, clinging to the Soviet Empire’s past glory. Such a degenerated workers’ state was the world’s second largest economy. Its successor, the Russian Federation, does not have enough wealth to maintain a welfare state. They have been investing in large-scale infrastructure recently, but since Thailand also consistently does the same, its economic base remains increasingly antiqued to the enduring power of collective labor.”

Piyawat raised a thoughtful eyebrow, letting Sutin’s pronouncements hang in the air for a moment before responding. “Speaking of infrastructure, the Department has been drafting a reconstruction plan post-civil war given we will kick out the Russians. We can reasonably build several Regional Agri-Tech Centers in Syria to ensure food security for the population. The facilities must be workers-owned and subjected to democratic mandate. Irrigation will be paramount; a chance to not merely rebuild, but to reimagine a land verdant and self-sufficient. It will be a huge opportunity to elevate the well-being and living standard of the Syrians.”​

 

[Odinson]

◤ ROLEPLAY NOTICE

Please read this notice thoroughly before you continue roleplaying.

Greetings participants of this thread. It appears that some great RP is going on here. From an OOC standpoint, I don't want to ruin that, but we also have to keep in mind some of the forum rules regarding the use of armed forces:

***

Military and Intelligence

[1] All roleplay threads of a military nature are to exceed one hundred (100) words. Roleplay threads subject to a word count are considered void if they fall below the threshold. Please use the report function and this will be flagged for removal. We will treat all threads as valid roleplay if any in-character response is made to a void thread, irrespective of the fallout.

[3] Before engaging in military roleplay, users must have an order of battle, more commonly known as ORBAT in their countries subforum. This must describe the following — command structure, disposition of personnel, units and equipment, utilised military bases, airfields and installations (including overseas facilities). Personnel and equipment that have not yet been structured are stationed in their capital city.

[4] Initial roleplay threads must serve as an overview to any military operation and encompasses their tactical objectives, belligerents, order of battle and staging points. This may need to be revised due to the volatile and unpredictable nature of military engagement, and as such, must be amended to record all latest revisions.

***

The most important thing that I want to point here is that if anyone actually wants to use military assets here, they must have been organized and deployed in a military thread. The godmodding of troops, warships, spies etc. into Syria isn't acceptable, especially if they are going to be used against other players (or even as a means to intimidate other players).


If you would like to discuss this notice or require additional information, please contact Community Support.

 

[ManBear]

Private and Encrypted

The Shadow War

Warsaw, Poland - March, 2006

The conference room deep inside the Ministry of National Defense was silent except for the hum of a projector casting images onto a large screen. Defense Minister Gen. Antoni Macierewicz stood at the head of the table, his expression grim as he addressed a group of military planners, intelligence officers, and high-ranking officials.

"Poland has no official stake in this fight," Macierewicz began. "But the situation in Syria is deteriorating fast. The IRGL forces are encroaching ever northward. The suspected leader of IRGL is this man." The projector connected to a secure computer within the conference room would make an electronic hum as the light changed colors briefly to show the headshot of a man. "This is Muhammad Qasim. Suspected member of the ILAL and suspected former member of the Taliban. We suspect he was an old guard within the Taliban before defecting and joining the ILAL where he has risen to become a prominent member. We suspect he is bringing his ideology from the Taliban and religious extremism to Syria. That does the civilians of the world no good and offers a place for terrorism to call home. We are on a global war against terrorism and it is our belief that winning in Syria will help combat terrorism." The screen would change once more to show a map of Syria marked in different colors. This northern territory is strictly held by Kurdish forces. A lot of you will remember our assistance to them during the first Gulf War with humanitarian and medical assistance. We would like to further assist Kurdistan by offering assistance from our specialized forces. The problem herein lies within these two regions." A red laser pointer would circle two different regions. "The first region is the contested region against IRGL forces and Kurdish forces. IRGL has the manpower to keep gaining ground. The second region is IRGL handled territory assisted by Russian forces operating primarily near the coast. We have received reports that a French Fleet has stationed themselves off the coast of Syria and it our belief they intend to create a blockade for assistance to factions within. We also believe that Thailand is not far off from offering their assistance to Communist forces within the region. It would be their M.O. after Ukraine.

A young intelligence officer, Major Jakub Stasiak, nodded. "We have a window to covertly assist them. If the IRGL, French, Russian, and Thai forces consolidate their position, the region will be locked down. It is our belief that a small platoon sized element could HALO jump from outside Syrian territory to land near the capital city of Qamishli. It is there we are likely to find a way to contact the Kurdish leaders."

The plan was high-risk but calculated. Polish involvement had to remain deniable, meaning no direct combat deployments. Instead, Poland would provide logistical, intelligence, and training support to anti-IRGL forces while carefully avoiding direct entanglements.

Col. Marek Lisowski, commander of JW Kommandosów, leaned forward. “Our operators can be inserted via HALO jump into eastern Syria. From there, they will establish contact with relevant factions, assess their capabilities, and discreetly provide weapons, tactical training, and reconnaissance data."

Macierewicz exhaled. "No Polish insignia. No official acknowledgment. If captured, they are ghosts."

The Shadows Prepare

Polish Center for Special Operations and Unconventional Warfare, Poland – March, 2006

The dimly lit briefing room smelled of gun oil and sweat. A red light overhead cast shadows over the maps and satellite imagery pinned to the walls. Twenty-four men, clad in black fatigues, sat silently as Col. Marek Lisowski stood before them, his voice low and firm.

"This is Operation Obsidian Dagger," he began. "Our objective is simple: infiltrate eastern Syria, establish contact with local resistance elements, and disrupt IRGL and Thai-backed operations. You are ghosts—no insignia, no Polish ties."

The team leader, Cpt. Paweł Drabik, studied the map. "Insertion method?"

"HALO jump from a C-295. You land near Amuda under darkness, move to a safe house, attempt communications with Kurdish led forces, and begin tactical support operations. Supplies will be airdropped to you via C-295 as we learn of your success in dealing with the Kurds. Your gear is unmarked, your movements off the books. Warsaw will track you through burst transmissions, but if you're caught…" Lisowski's voice trailed off.

Drabik nodded. "We were never there."

The team stood, each man grabbing his rifle, checking silencers, and securing gear. Their weapons—Twenty suppressed HK416D145RS rifles, two suppressed M110, 2 suppressed FN Minimi Paras, twenty-four WIST-94 pistols, encrypted comms—were stripped of serial numbers. No trace. No mistakes. Their combat uniforms would be the Suez camouflage pattern, MICH TC-2002 helmets, KWM-02M(NIJ Level IV), Wz. 2010 Rucksack, hydration Bladder, three days of rations and water, and each operator has water purification tablets and a survival kit designed for a desert and mountainous climates. Each operator would have a Motorola MTP8500 radio and the team leader would have a RRC-950 radio to communicate long distances through burst transmission. Each team member would have GPNVG-18 panoramic night vision goggles

In 24 hours, they would jump into the Syrian night. Poland would not be at war—but war would feel Poland’s shadow.

The Shadows Descend

The C-295 roared through the sky, its engines vibrating the entire fuselage as it pierced through the cold desert night. Inside the cargo hold, twenty-four men—elite members of JW Kommandosów—stood in complete silence. The faint glow of their night vision goggles illuminated their masks as they checked their equipment one last time.

The plan was clear. Insertion via HALO jump was their only way into the target zone near Amuda, undetected by enemy radar or surveillance. Drabik, the team leader, moved down the row of operatives, his eyes scanning their gear. Silenced weapons, encrypted radios, and tactical knives were all checked and double-checked. Every operative was stripped of any identifying markings. This was Poland’s invisible hand.

"Five minutes," the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. The tension in the air was palpable.

Drabik pulled up his goggles, locking eyes with Sergeant Radosław Kowalski, his second-in-command. “Stay tight. We’re ghosts in the night. No trace.”

Kowalski nodded without speaking. The men were ready. They had trained for this.

“Thirty seconds,” the pilot announced.

The ramp opened with a hiss, letting in a rush of cold air. The dark horizon stretched out, a barren expanse of desert beneath them. There would be no turning back.

“Zero trace,” Drabik whispered to himself, just before the order came.

“Ten seconds,” he barked over the comms.

The men moved quickly to the ramp, each operative positioning themselves in formation. The plan was precise—freefall to a low altitude, followed by parachute deployment, and then a silent approach to Amuda, where they would rendezvous with local contacts.

“Five… four… three… two… one. Jump.”

The ramp was a brief moment of freedom before the team dropped into the void, their bodies swallowed by the dark night. The force of the fall slammed into them, their parachutes deploying as the earth rushed upward.

The cold desert air whipped past them as they fell, descending with deadly precision. They were ghosts, invisible, undetectable. After four thousand meters, the team deployed their main parachutes, opening with a sharp snap, their bodies now gliding down with controlled ease.

Drabik signaled to his team, and the group adjusted, gliding as one toward their landing zone. The earth below was still, devoid of movement, but danger was ever-present. The team spread out, ensuring they would land in perfect formation.

As the ground loomed closer, they adjusted their trajectory. Their altitude was dropping fast—1,500 meters now, and the landing zone was almost in view. Amuda lay ahead, its outlines barely visible beneath the moonlight.

With a soft thud, the team began to touch down one by one. Boots hit the sand with practiced grace, rolling to absorb the impact. No noise. No sign of their arrival. The men were already cutting away their parachutes, wiping away any trace of their landing.

Drabik stood up first, scanning the terrain. The night was eerily quiet, the only sounds the wind and the rustling of sand beneath their boots. His team quickly gathered in a loose formation, weapons ready, eyes sharp.

"Bury the chutes and move out."

Once the parachutes had been secured under the desert sand, the team disappeared into the dark landscape, their mission clear: make contact with the local forces near Amuda and begin supporting their fight against the IRGL and Communist forces in the region.

The sky above was empty, and the desert stretched out endlessly. But Poland’s shadow had crossed into Syria, and the revolution would feel its touch.

Jay Drivindeath