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Let loose the dogs of war
#11
Approx. 25Kms East of Freetown

Major Jengo Abrams, of General Katlego's Mende rebels, sat in the main passenger compartment of his command vehicle, studying the maps tacked to the various cork boards. Lengths of red cordage marked the arks of fire of his battery of guns, with a series of pins held a rough circle of blue strong to mark the main area of impact of their shells fired into Freetown.

One of two hard-mounted computers, of which only one actually still worked, had an open word file in which his junior officer was painstakingly studying the expected impact area and marking grids and names of important buildings that may have been damaged. When Wallace-Johnson surrendered, General Katlego would need to know what priority repair work would be needed in the city.

The guns were, for the moment, silent, having finished their initial fire mission. The men worked to inspect their M777s or to ready the next allotment of ammo. The General doubted that Wallace-Johnson would surrender after the soft-gloved initial barrage, after all.

With Wallace-Johnson's forces caught up fighting the Legion in the streets of the city, they had little fear of Wallace-Johnson launching a sortie, even if the fools could have figured out where the Howitzer battery was located. Wallace-Johnson's forces would have had to head east along the highway, past the Major's position before finding the service road that his convoy of trucks had taken to reach their firing position. And his sentries would see them along the highway.

Of course, his sentries to the south wouldn't notice a convoy of Legion Panhards coming from the north-east.

His men outside, tending their guns, heard the sound of engines approaching long before Major Abrams and his command staff. At first, they wrought it off as nothing of importance; probably just more of their own forces. When one of the gunnery sergeants finally clue'd in that no such direction had been given by the Major, the man thought to stop by the command vehicle and open the back hatch, poking his head into the vehicle.

"Sir? Are we expecting company?"


The three officers turned to eye the sergeant in confusion. With the door open, the sound of the approaching convoy of some two dozen armoured vehicles grew dangerously louder. The Major glanced at one junior officer, who still wore the headset of their onboard radio, who offered a shrug, "Nothing from command, sir?"


"TURN THE GUNS! Direct fire! GO!"
The command was without any hope of success. The few seconds it took the sergeant to realize just what the Major had said wouldn't have made any real difference in the long run. The man turned and yelled the command; the artillery crews hesitated a moment before leaping into action, and then the first of the Legion Panhards burst into the clearing, blowing past the sentries posted there.

Small arms fire tore through the clearing. The third Panhard into the field swiveled its Mk19 automatic grenade launcher on Major Abrams' command vehicle, and explosions tore along the armoured vehicle's hull. The driver was killed, standing in his hatch. The remote weapon system was shredded, and one junior officer in the rear of the vehicle was first sprayed with blood from the sergeant that still stood outside, then put hands to his throat to find a piece of shrapnel embedded in his jugular.

The ex-Moroccan APCs burst into the clearing next; Russian-made BMP3s, tracked and easily able to move through the dense jungle foliage, entered the clearing from the northern flank, sections of dismounted Legionnaires advancing in the cover the vehicles provided before fanning out into extended lines, gunning down the gunnery crews that tried to flee or sought to use the M777s as cover.

Within minutes, the combat was over. Legionnaires swarmed through the Mende camp. Survivors were gathered up and given medical attention. Provost Boipello over saw the handling of the POWs, while Sergeant Jackson stood with the Legion convoy commander, Captain Espen Pedersen, a former CCD military infantry officer from Switzerland.

Two Legionnaires held Major Abrams. The Major had refused to surrender, and one of the two Legionnaires had a rather fresh gouge in his helmet where the Major had sought to shoot the man before they had simply decided to flash-bang the interior of the command vehicle.

"Are you the commanding officer here, Major?"
Captain Pedersen studied the Major with a cold, hateful expression. Reports out of Freetown were sketchy, but they were close enough to the city to pick up some of the Legion radio chatter there. Casualty reports sounded steep.

"I do not answer to mercenaries! General Katlego will see you all hanged!"
The Major stood with all the arrogant confidence he could muster, considering he had just recently managed to stop wailing from the affects of the flash-bang that had driven him out of his hiding place.

"Yes, well. Sergeant, any indications of a senior officer?"


"No Sir. Just this ass-hat, throat-cancer, and that mewling baby over there."
Throat-cancer was in reference to the junior officer who had taken shrapnel to the throat. The man's body was laid out beside the command vehicle, where the other junior officer was being tended for gunshot wounds. He also had refused to surrender quietly.

"So be it. As the senior officer on ground, you are found guilty of crimes against humanity. Willingly firing on civilian targets."
Captain Pedersen's hand went to his holstered pistol, and the Major's attitude suddenly began to crack.

"I am a soldier of the Sierra Leonean military! I was following my orders!"


"Following orders. Many 'good Germans' said the same thing in a hundred or so years ago."
He drew the pistol, spat on the Major's boots, then extended the weapon and fired a round into the Major's forehead in one smooth motion.

Sergeant Jackson raised an eyebrow at the rather cold display; he wasn't about to argue over the decision, after all. Hell, it was okay'd by Commandant Tuft before they had even stormed the position. The Legion was not going to pull many punches on men like Wallace-Johnson and Katlego, it seemed.
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#12
Legion Headquarters and training grounds, Sidi Bel Abbès, Algeria


Commandant Tuff stood in his mostly unfurnished new command center. Legion techs sat on the shipping crates much of their equipment had been shipped in. The roar of four 16,000 Watt generators could be heard through the old brick walls of the school-turned-headquarters, powering the Legion's newly acquired telecommunications equipment.

Construction equipment rumbled past outside, a crane working to erect comms towers, dozers moving debris from age-crumbled ruins of the once-dead city. The few hundred people that had still lived in Sidi Bel Abbès had happily welcomed the Legion's arrival. What few young people remained in the city were being taught how to operate the heavy equipment, or how to work with computers or medical practices. The older folks found themselves sought after to instruct Legionnaires on practical skills of their own. Sewing, mending, cooking.

Old women found themselves cooking for dozens, then hundreds of Legionnaires and support staff, and earning good coin in the process. A fresh breath of life was being drawn into the dead city, and everyone, so far, was pleased for it.

The Legion had found a good home in Algeria. The country was on the verge of economic collapse, and the government was eager to throw its chips in with the Legion. The newly formed military force had money, and was not afraid or foolish in how it spent it. Long term gain and sustainable economy was the goal in all things.

The Commandant shifted his attention back to the team at work in the command center. The room would house the Public Relations department, and even as they struggled to get their computers and equipment set up, they were being flooded with messages.

"Capitan Pék. How does the PR department feel on your shoulders?"
He cast a grin to the younger Hungarian man, who returned it with a quiet sigh. He much preferred field command, but he was one of dangerously few ranking officers in the Legion at the moment.

"It is a challenge, Commandant. I am not used to this level of paperwork."


"I suppose you aren't. Luckily, you are a smart man. Now, exactly how has the world responded to his speech?"
He of course was referring to Jacques public address, from the Sierra Leone broadcasting center.

Pék waggled a finger in mock annoyance then keyed appropriate files. Hundreds of applications from around the world had been received within hours of the announcement. They ran the full gambit of what humanity had to offer, and everything Jacques had been asking for. "Not many wanting to carry a gun. We've got doctors, construction workers, fishermen and farmers. Priests, Imams, Rabbis. A sixty seven year old widower from Idaho. She was a nurse during the Ebola outbreak back in the day."


Tuff couldn't help but smile. An honest show of emotion, at least for a moment. The sentimental fool had gone and gotten his hand chopped off, but still managed to rally an army to his banner. Maybe there was some hope for his idealistic fool plan.

"Sir? We have a vid-call here. From Canada. Says he wants to train our men how to use the M777s."
One of the Legion techs addressed the Captain and Commandant, an excited grin screwing up his already goofy-looking features.

"Right then. Put him through to Captain Pedersen. We need those guns operational ASAP." Tuff nodded and glanced to Pék, "I think our young commander will get over the loss of a hand if he gains the use of those guns. I imagine he'll have a few people he wants to talk to."


Outside, a platoon of Legionnaires in training sprinted past in over-weight FELIN Mk2 suits. The kevlar was replaced with metal training plates, heavier then the real thing. Staff, wearing the same suits, training plates and all, sprinted along side, setting the grueling pace.
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