02-13-2016, 10:12 PM
Legion HQ, Casablanca, Morocco
Commandant Tuft studied the holographic screen which had appeared, obscuring the dozens of open windows that floated around his desk. Muffled by the dark wood-paneled walls of his office, he could hear the barks of orders as the Legion headquarters 'pulled pole', a phrase which meant to break camp. To pack up and leave. To abandon a position. Usually called on contact with, or in sudden advance of contact with, an enemy.
The enemy in their case was the Moroccan government, and the international criminal court which was nipping at his heels for answers and demands of payment of fines and to allow their 'investigators' into the Legion's accounts and financial records. A fine sign of what was important to the 'justice' system, it was their slighted investors that were being protected. No questions had been asked about the supply planes landing in Algeria, convoying equipment and personnel to the long-abandoned Legion barracks in the northern ghost-city of Sidi Bel Abbès.
Sidi Bel Abbès, once known as an agricultural bread-basket region, producing cereals and grains, had faded into obscurity due to unchecked desertification of the region, brought on mostly by poorly managed farming and expansion. Once holding a population of some 200,000 in the late 20th century, the city was home to a scant few thousand squatters. Hence the Legion's ease at purchasing the city and their traditional garrison structures for a scant few million CCD from the Algerian 'government' (a council of warlords pretending to be kings and presidents that had carved most of the country into little more then city-states).
The message that dominated Commandant Tuft's view was short. 'Operation Gauntlet is a go.' A simple message. A disastrous cause. The Commandant sighed and pulled up a program that represented Operation Gauntlet. A simple 'click' of the button that appeared above his desk, and things were sent into motion.
Lungi International Airport, Sierra Leone
Major Curtis Freeman paced nervously in the garrison headquarters, drawing more then a few uncertain glances from his staff. He had agreed to the plan set forward by the Frenchman...how could he had refused? CCD dollars went very far in Africa. And would go further still in the aftermath of what his beloved country had become.
Of course the Frenchman's arguments were not without merit. Major Freeman wanted peace, of course. He had joined the military intent on a quiet, simple job without much hardship. They were little more then over-glorified border guards. The country's entire foreign policy had always been simple, at least so far as the military was concerned. Keep refugees and undesirables out. Keep the roads, airport, and sea-ports open for trade. He hadn't even touched a firearm in years...at least not until the attempted coup.
That morning, the Legion would have begun it's plan to take Freetown from Wallace-Johnson. The man was dangerously power hungry, and would use all the paranoia and hatred that was festering in the city to his advantage. Blood would run thick in the streets if the General was allowed to take control. Assuming General Katlego didn't kill him first, of course. And if either of those mad men won, the Major's life would become far more difficult then he desired it to be.
One of his men stood with a freshly printed sheaf of papers, and held them uncertainly towards Major Freeman, "Sir? From Casablanca, Sir."
Major Freeman froze, staring at the papers with barely contained fear. A quick glance around the room then he carefully took the papers from the man and looked at the cover page, which held only two words. Operation Gauntlet.
Half an hour later, a convoy of six open-topped jeeps, carrying a full platoon of 50+ soldiers, were moving away from the airport garrison to the nearby Coast Guard facility near the Tagrin ferry landing. They secured the facility and the three deep-water coastal patrol boats that sat there, rustling the crews out of their barracks at gun point when needed.
Freetown, Sierra Leone
Legionnaires across the city received a mission update as they went about their on-going tasks. Operation Rien N'Empêche had gone off almost without a hitch. Radio and cellular towers had been secured, military checkpoints taken with minimal violence, city infrastructure facilities occupied. Aided by city police and firefighters, and a scattering of sympathetic military members and employee unions, the undermanned Legionnaire presence in Freetown would have had little difficulty occupying the city while Jacques Danjou was meeting with Wallace-Johnson.
By the time Jacques was seen to the make-shift stockade in the city Parliament, easily half the city was under Legion control. Only the heavily defended blocks around the parliament were still held by Wallace-Johnson, and the checkpoints at the city's outer-most edge to the south-east, where the brunt of the General's forces were preparing to begin their march further inland, expecting to take the fight to General Katlego's rebels.
The update most Legionnaires received was well received; the relief column from Casablanca, which had driven through Guinea and most of the war-torn country of Sierra Leone, was hardly an hour from the airport north-east of the city and the ferries there that would see the much needed supplies and manpower delivered into Freetown.
Some, however, received a different message. Legionnaire Carpenter, and the members of his associated squad, received new orders. Operation Gauntlet. A rescue mission, coupled with a much-needed show of force.
They were to make their way, by any means necessary, to the ferry crossing, where Sierra Leonean coast-guard vessels would be waiting to take them to an off-shore transport ship. They would be joined by Legionnaire Vanders.
One hour north-east of Freetown, Sierra Leone
Sergeant Jackson and Provost Boipello were once more the second-from-the-front Panhard in the convoy. They had suffered losses in the long drive from Casablanca to Sierra Leone, but they had been miraculously light. The roads in Sierra Leone were in far better shape then what they had been struggling along through the region formerly known as Guinea, and had even managed to keep one step ahead of most of the bandits and rebels pouring across the unguarded Sierra Leone border.
The convoy was spread over 800 meters, rather then the 1,000 they had started at. 17 of 20 Panhards remained in the convoy, and a few of the transport trucks had grown cramped as they stripped what they could from vehicles that had broken down, then crammed their crews into whatever space was available in the rest of the convoy.
Barely an hour from the airport where, according to the plan, they could stop and rest. The last pit-stop had been eight hours prior, when they had sucked the last of the fuel from the tanker trucks and fuel jerries. The gas stations of the last town had been either destroyed or sucked dry before the convoy had arrived, a possibility they had wisely planned for.
Boipello shifted uncomfortably and leaned closer to the slightly cracked window as Sergeant Jackson tugged his second boot off, and peeled the sock off sweat-soured feet. A Pampers brand baby-wipe was then liberally scrubbed against the American's foot, a valiant, if futile, effort to overpower the stench of his feet.
"Sanitation is important, Boipello. A soldier fights on his feet, after all. Have to keep them clean and healthy."
Jackson took a deep breath, as if to demonstrate that the smell wasn't as bad as Boipello and the rest of the vehicle's passengers were making it out to be.
"You cannot smell the odour like we can, Jackson. You should have taken the chance at the last fuel stop to wash your feet in the river like the rest of us."
One of the Legionnaires jokingly made a gagging sound, as if fending off the urge to vomit, which only caused one of their younger Legionnaires to visibly pale and press a hand more tightly to his mouth.
Approx. 25Kms East of Freetown
Major Jengo Abrams walked back towards his command-post vehicle, as his men scrambled through the final checks to ready the seven M-777 howitzers to fire. "Prepare to fire. Opening salvo, 3 HE per gun, followed by seven practice rounds."
A junior officer nodded at the command and barked the orders to the gun crews. Their loading teams began laying out the requested shells for ease of loading.
Commandant Tuft studied the holographic screen which had appeared, obscuring the dozens of open windows that floated around his desk. Muffled by the dark wood-paneled walls of his office, he could hear the barks of orders as the Legion headquarters 'pulled pole', a phrase which meant to break camp. To pack up and leave. To abandon a position. Usually called on contact with, or in sudden advance of contact with, an enemy.
The enemy in their case was the Moroccan government, and the international criminal court which was nipping at his heels for answers and demands of payment of fines and to allow their 'investigators' into the Legion's accounts and financial records. A fine sign of what was important to the 'justice' system, it was their slighted investors that were being protected. No questions had been asked about the supply planes landing in Algeria, convoying equipment and personnel to the long-abandoned Legion barracks in the northern ghost-city of Sidi Bel Abbès.
Sidi Bel Abbès, once known as an agricultural bread-basket region, producing cereals and grains, had faded into obscurity due to unchecked desertification of the region, brought on mostly by poorly managed farming and expansion. Once holding a population of some 200,000 in the late 20th century, the city was home to a scant few thousand squatters. Hence the Legion's ease at purchasing the city and their traditional garrison structures for a scant few million CCD from the Algerian 'government' (a council of warlords pretending to be kings and presidents that had carved most of the country into little more then city-states).
The message that dominated Commandant Tuft's view was short. 'Operation Gauntlet is a go.' A simple message. A disastrous cause. The Commandant sighed and pulled up a program that represented Operation Gauntlet. A simple 'click' of the button that appeared above his desk, and things were sent into motion.
Lungi International Airport, Sierra Leone
Major Curtis Freeman paced nervously in the garrison headquarters, drawing more then a few uncertain glances from his staff. He had agreed to the plan set forward by the Frenchman...how could he had refused? CCD dollars went very far in Africa. And would go further still in the aftermath of what his beloved country had become.
Of course the Frenchman's arguments were not without merit. Major Freeman wanted peace, of course. He had joined the military intent on a quiet, simple job without much hardship. They were little more then over-glorified border guards. The country's entire foreign policy had always been simple, at least so far as the military was concerned. Keep refugees and undesirables out. Keep the roads, airport, and sea-ports open for trade. He hadn't even touched a firearm in years...at least not until the attempted coup.
That morning, the Legion would have begun it's plan to take Freetown from Wallace-Johnson. The man was dangerously power hungry, and would use all the paranoia and hatred that was festering in the city to his advantage. Blood would run thick in the streets if the General was allowed to take control. Assuming General Katlego didn't kill him first, of course. And if either of those mad men won, the Major's life would become far more difficult then he desired it to be.
One of his men stood with a freshly printed sheaf of papers, and held them uncertainly towards Major Freeman, "Sir? From Casablanca, Sir."
Major Freeman froze, staring at the papers with barely contained fear. A quick glance around the room then he carefully took the papers from the man and looked at the cover page, which held only two words. Operation Gauntlet.
Half an hour later, a convoy of six open-topped jeeps, carrying a full platoon of 50+ soldiers, were moving away from the airport garrison to the nearby Coast Guard facility near the Tagrin ferry landing. They secured the facility and the three deep-water coastal patrol boats that sat there, rustling the crews out of their barracks at gun point when needed.
Freetown, Sierra Leone
Legionnaires across the city received a mission update as they went about their on-going tasks. Operation Rien N'Empêche had gone off almost without a hitch. Radio and cellular towers had been secured, military checkpoints taken with minimal violence, city infrastructure facilities occupied. Aided by city police and firefighters, and a scattering of sympathetic military members and employee unions, the undermanned Legionnaire presence in Freetown would have had little difficulty occupying the city while Jacques Danjou was meeting with Wallace-Johnson.
By the time Jacques was seen to the make-shift stockade in the city Parliament, easily half the city was under Legion control. Only the heavily defended blocks around the parliament were still held by Wallace-Johnson, and the checkpoints at the city's outer-most edge to the south-east, where the brunt of the General's forces were preparing to begin their march further inland, expecting to take the fight to General Katlego's rebels.
The update most Legionnaires received was well received; the relief column from Casablanca, which had driven through Guinea and most of the war-torn country of Sierra Leone, was hardly an hour from the airport north-east of the city and the ferries there that would see the much needed supplies and manpower delivered into Freetown.
Some, however, received a different message. Legionnaire Carpenter, and the members of his associated squad, received new orders. Operation Gauntlet. A rescue mission, coupled with a much-needed show of force.
They were to make their way, by any means necessary, to the ferry crossing, where Sierra Leonean coast-guard vessels would be waiting to take them to an off-shore transport ship. They would be joined by Legionnaire Vanders.
One hour north-east of Freetown, Sierra Leone
Sergeant Jackson and Provost Boipello were once more the second-from-the-front Panhard in the convoy. They had suffered losses in the long drive from Casablanca to Sierra Leone, but they had been miraculously light. The roads in Sierra Leone were in far better shape then what they had been struggling along through the region formerly known as Guinea, and had even managed to keep one step ahead of most of the bandits and rebels pouring across the unguarded Sierra Leone border.
The convoy was spread over 800 meters, rather then the 1,000 they had started at. 17 of 20 Panhards remained in the convoy, and a few of the transport trucks had grown cramped as they stripped what they could from vehicles that had broken down, then crammed their crews into whatever space was available in the rest of the convoy.
Barely an hour from the airport where, according to the plan, they could stop and rest. The last pit-stop had been eight hours prior, when they had sucked the last of the fuel from the tanker trucks and fuel jerries. The gas stations of the last town had been either destroyed or sucked dry before the convoy had arrived, a possibility they had wisely planned for.
Boipello shifted uncomfortably and leaned closer to the slightly cracked window as Sergeant Jackson tugged his second boot off, and peeled the sock off sweat-soured feet. A Pampers brand baby-wipe was then liberally scrubbed against the American's foot, a valiant, if futile, effort to overpower the stench of his feet.
"Sanitation is important, Boipello. A soldier fights on his feet, after all. Have to keep them clean and healthy."
Jackson took a deep breath, as if to demonstrate that the smell wasn't as bad as Boipello and the rest of the vehicle's passengers were making it out to be.
"You cannot smell the odour like we can, Jackson. You should have taken the chance at the last fuel stop to wash your feet in the river like the rest of us."
One of the Legionnaires jokingly made a gagging sound, as if fending off the urge to vomit, which only caused one of their younger Legionnaires to visibly pale and press a hand more tightly to his mouth.
Approx. 25Kms East of Freetown
Major Jengo Abrams walked back towards his command-post vehicle, as his men scrambled through the final checks to ready the seven M-777 howitzers to fire. "Prepare to fire. Opening salvo, 3 HE per gun, followed by seven practice rounds."
A junior officer nodded at the command and barked the orders to the gun crews. Their loading teams began laying out the requested shells for ease of loading.