Affenberg
150km East of Potsdam | Volksrepublik Wanka
0800 hours | March 13th, 2016

The clouds were dark and heavy and threatened to let loose their loads of water as the first League prisoners, a mix of Saxons and Sylvans, were roughly forced out of the train. Every single one of them looked tired and exhausted, some bearing fresh scars and bruises. Wet blood was smeared across some of their faces and muddy uniforms, and several had arms tucked inside self-made slings. Most hadn't slept for over twenty four hours. Their treatment- suffering from ceaseless physical abuse and kept awake by the constant screaming and beatings by the Wankan soldiers- was not actually permitted, the Wankan Armed Forces being quite strict and explicit in that matter. But it so happened to be that reservist soldiers had been assigned to move them to the internment camp just outside Affenberg, and these new recruits were possibly the most ill-disciplined troops in the entire world. Many of them had criminal backgrounds and the number of cases the military police had to deal with had skyrocketed in recent months since the loosening of the restrictions on recruits in an attempt to boost troop numbers.

And so the hundreds of Saxon and Sylvan prisoners had endured a torturous night in the hands of what was essentially the Schlesien mafia. A dozen had already died due to the denial of medical help toward them. Screams of pain had accompanied the trains as officers turned a blind eye, instead choosing to curse their superiors for detailing them to this mission. They had cheered when war was declared. But what they did not expect was to have to sit in the hinterland and clean the shit of the enemy soldiers, no, what they all wanted to do was kill Sylvans.

However, there was one thing to note. Even earlier on, the prisoners had been segregated by looks into ethnic Sylvan/Aemen and ethnic Wankan. The Saxo-Wankers, who were in the minority, remained untouched although they were piled back together with the others as they gathered on the train station in front of the officers. The huddled masses were then force-marched twenty kilometers to the camp. Buses and trucks were in short supply, the grim-faced soldiers had claimed. All helping with the war effort, apparently.

Even with the officers present, the mental and physical abuse did not cease. The cold, sinister soldiers were joined by jeering, whip-wielding men of the home guard who were sent to help herd- literally- the group toward the camp. Those who collapsed or otherwise couldn't continue walking were mercilessly whipped or beaten (unless they were Wankan, of course) back to their feet. The route had been carefully planned to ensure the least possible chance of any prisoner getting away. Nevertheless, several did try and no effort was made to recapture them. The bloodthirsty gangsters-turned-homeland defenders didn't need any further excuse- the fleeing men were chased and cut down by rifle fire, even if they gave up trying to escape. The message was clear. Dead bodies were often found with many more bullets in them that was needed to kill a person.

Around halfway through the march, it began to rain. Water soaked the uniforms of the prisoners. The beatings continued. Angry local Wankers, bullies who were only too used to beating up defenseless opponents (and were too cowardly to enlist) were not stopped from dishing out their own punishment. Some women joined in too, bashing heads down with pots and pans. But there was defiance in the eyes of their prisoners, most of whom simply shrugged off the assaults and marched on. One middle aged Wanker, a fat and thoroughly disgusting figure who felt the need to hit a Sylvan with a wooden stick found out that they weren't as down and spiritless as he would've hoped. His throat was almost instantly crushed by the large figure's hand. The Sylvan was quickly grabbed and dragged from the group by a pair of Wankan soldiers, the muzzle of the G-74 digging into his stomach. The Sylvan spat at their feet.

"Go on, kill me, you dirty, dishonorable bastards." he said in English, his voice loud and clear. "Pull the fuckin' trigger. It's that easy to kill an unarmed man. That's all you're good for, right?"

The soldiers didn't understand a single word, but the tone of his voice and his actions was enough to ingrain a tad bit of respect into them for the prisoner. One of them shrugged, and he was released back into the group.

"Behalt' ihn im Auge." ("Keep an eye on him") the other muttered.

The casualties continued to mount. Bodies were left lying on the edge of the road, or dumped into nearby fields. As they arrived at the camp, over fifty captives had died in Wankan hands. Here, they were properly segregated. One after the other was registered. Little notice was taken of the fact that so many of them looked like they'd just come out of the Geheimpolizei's notorious torture chambers. The tall Sylvan who'd killed a person with a single squeeze of his hand was brought up to register.

"Name und Dienstgrad?" the prison warden asked. He had asked that to every single prisoner up to now. Sentences were first formed in German, to see if they'd understand. Those who did were put in a separate group together with the ethnic Wankers. Those who did not, and were not of Wankan ethnicity, were put in their own group. This would become standard practice for captured soldiers.

The Sylvan did not reply.

"Name and rank?" the warden asked.

"Captain Eduardo Baxter." came the gruff reply. A soldier walked up to the warden and conversed tersely with the warden, who nodded.

"Unit?"

Baxter did not reply. Shaking his head, the warden said to him in perfect English: "As usual. But you'll find out soon enough that it'll be much better for you if you cooperate. We have enough experience dealing with our own folks." The Sylvan pilot was personally escorted away to the prisons, where he would be interrogated. The army did have an interest in officers.

The group of Wankers and german-speaking ethnic Sylvans were loaded into trucks and driven away. They would be treated very humanely, as they would soon see. The point of which was part of Sonneborn's larger policy of "reintegration"- to bring Saxony, a separate region for half a decade, back in line. The same couldn't be said for the rest. Soon, they would discover that the initial treatment was just the beginning of a much, larger nightmare…

From a hill just around a kilometer away, a pair of military-clad figures watched through binoculars as the prisoners were brought to their cells. One of them made several notations. Their cameras were already filled with pictures of the compound- every corner of it. As former Abwehr agents, they were experts in their field, and it was certain that the Admiral would be pleased.

Max-Bonhöffer-Streitkräfte-Kommandozentrale-Nürnberg
Nürnberg | Volksrepublik Wanka
1100 hours | March 13th, 2016

"In the north, First Army has had to halt its advance. The 10th Füsiliers are shelling the outskirts of Genf, but they lack the supplies to move in to take the town. The advance will resume tomorrow morning." said Field Marshal von der Leijen in a monotone voice. Sonneborn and Hintner, standing on his right and left respectively, listened intently. "The air attacks yesterday put a severe dent in their fuel and ammunition supplies. We're currently restocking them."

"In the central sector, engineers have finally completed the bridges two hours later than expected. The 13th Füsiliers is currently being brought over to the bridgehead, and they will be followed by the 15th. The 14th Füsiliers, meanwhile, has been holding out pretty well on the southern bank, although they have suffered thousands of casualties and will likely have to be pulled back for refitting after this battle. Yesterday they successfully repelled a massed armored assault and are constantly having to respond to probing counterattacks from their flanks by the Saxon 2nd Armored. The troops on the southern bank are still being pinned down from Hill 869, which we will take tomorrow once the three divisions have arrived and regrouped on the salient. The 101st Fallschirmjäger is also preparing to launch an airborne flanking assault on the hill if necessary.

"In the west, we are not entirely sure what the SL is doing. An tank regiment, presumably the Saxon 9th Armored, has withdrawn to Cottbus along with other troops but Saxon troops the size of two regiments are digging in to hold the western sector all by themselves. Regardless, Third Army is on the move again, and will be looking to rapidly capture Zwickau and its airfield. We can use the base to launch aircraft for attacks into Saxony. 16th Füsiliers has crossed the Weser unopposed and is racing to the El Camino Royal highway to cut off retreating enemy troops.

"In the south, the 29th Mountain Division is conducting a fighting retreat from the Cloysteric Highlands. We're rushing in reinforcements for the Fourth Army to throw the Sylvans back.

"We expect heavy resistance in the next few days as we look for a suitable opening. The SL is concentrating its defenses around central Saxony; we will look to either split their forces in two, if we capture Hill 869, or surround them entirely with a northern hook, if we take Leipzig and can force a river crossing across the upper part of the Weser. Either way, if we capture Freiburg with our armored pincers, we will have essentially taken wrested Saxony from enemy hands."

2nd Panzer Division Headquarters
Darmdorf | Volksrepublik Wanka
2000 hours | March 13th, 2016

A black armored car screeched to a halt outside the divisional headquarters of the 2nd Panzer Division, one of the few regular army units stationed along the coast, ready to be moved north in case Mozria decided to intervene in the conflict. The windows were scrolled down as the stern-faced military policemen standing guard approached. An old man in military fatigues with three golden stars on his shoulder handed him his papers. The man had a bushy moustache and was accompanied by two bodyguards. Generaloberst Erwin Galen the policeman read. The name was quickly checked in the military database. Generaloberst Erwin Galen, Commander of the 7th Panzer Division currently stationed in Potsdam his profile read, followed by personal details. The MP showed his thumbs-up, and the gates were lifted.

The old man, accompanied by his bodyguards wielding short-barrelled MP-10s, walked into the building. "Kommen sie 'rein, die Tür ist offen!" the shout came from inside the office after one of the guards knocked. The doors opened and the three visitors stepped in. At the desk was the commander of the 2nd Panzer, General der Panzertruppe Wolfgang Wedell, who immediately stood up to salute the Colonel-General- before stopping himself. The two-stars' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Herr Generaloberst..?" He knew the 7th' commander relatively well. This figure in front of him was certainly not Erwin Galen. He did seem vaguely familiar, though.

And the old man didn't hide it. The moustache came off, along with the cap. At the same time, the two bodyguards had whipped out bug detectors and were scanning the room. Wedell nearly shouted in surprise, but the old man in front of him motioned him to be quiet. "Verdammt… Admiral?"

The latter nodded and smiled, and sat down comfortably on the chair opposite his desk. "I assume you regularly check this room for bugs?"

"Very regularly, since Sonneborn came to power." Wedell answered, shock still in his face. "You have the nerve, my old friend… waltzing into my office when the Gepo is searching the whole of Wanka for you. Still, tell me, what do I say when it is discovered that Erwin Galen never actually made this trip to Darmdorf?"

"I've got it covered," the old Admiral said reassuringly, "I know Erwin from Meinhof's early days. He will say that he's come down here if asked. In reality, he just went home for today- Panzerkorps II isn't going to see much action in the next hours anyway."

"Well, I'm sure I can trust you with this. So, Wilhelm, what brings you here?"

In his long journey with Meinhof, Admiral Kanaris had made effort in cultivating some very strong friendships in nearly every government department, and this was going to pay off. He had contacts practically everywhere, and the DIKK (Democratic Initiative for the Conservation of the Constitution) was now the most powerful anti-governmental group. And keeping it secret wasn't too difficult, when one considered the fact that the majority were intelligence agents who knew how to cover their tracks.

The Admiral got straight to the point. "What do you think of Sonneborn?"

General Wedell was taken aback. But he did not hold back after he overcame his initial hesitation.

"He's a madman, and now a dictator. Officially, the Septentrion League may have started this war, but it's pretty obvious, to army circles anyway, that we were going to start it had they not bombed the reactor. We were waiting for an excuse to invade. I'm in the military to defend my country, not to attack others. It seems as though I'm the only one in the General Staff who thinks like that, though. It happened all so quickly, with Meinhof's assassination, and then suddenly we're on course for war. I did occasionally doubt Meinhof, but now I wish she was still here. This madness will only have a destructive and bloody ending."

"Sonneborn attempted to have Meinhof killed."

"What?"

"Listen carefully. She's not dead yet, and there may be a way of resolving this issue… and maintaining the status quo. We will have to wait for the right time, however. The war has been started, and we will need to see how it develops…"

The two men stayed hunched over the desk as the old mastermind outlined his plan, which was already in motion. The DIKK had already established contact with Sylvan intelligence and was about to hand over the first batch of actual information. Not that they'd give it directly to their contact in Wanka. At night, an Abwehr courier crossed the porous Wanka-UT border and made its way into the United Territories. Here, the information would be handed over.

Affenberg Internment Camp

The Affenberg Internment Camp, set up in January 2016, currently contains 206 Saxon prisoners (captured presumably from northern Saxony) and 41 Sylvans, most of them pilots. 30 of whom are in urgent need of medical help. Already 56 have died due to maltreatment and denial of medical assistance by Wankan soldiers, and casualties are expected to rise as the planned program for ethnic Sylvan POWs include hard labour in deadly conditions. The camp is supposed to be the temporary home for prisoners of war as other locations have been filled up by the influx of war refugees. The prisoners are expected to be moved in a week.

Camp Security

The interment camp itself is located 21 kilometers east of the town of Affenberg, and 180km east of Potsdam. The surroundings consist of flat grasslands and fields, with one road leading from Affenberg to the UT border. Possible helicopter landing zones and aircraft landing strip have been identified and marked on the maps. Camp guards number at 52, excluding civilian staff. They are lightly-armed, mostly with G-74 or other older variants. Two MG-3 machine guns can be expected, but no other heavy weaponry. Images of camp and surroundings with annotations are attached in the following pages.

The 312th Füsilier-Regiment is stationed in Affenberg. It is under-strength and consists of two motorized infantry battalions (800 troops) and a tank platoon (3x Panzer-90s). 6x Spz-10 are also present. Heavy weaponry is lacking as most equipment and other units are located in warehouses and barracks further south. Estimated response time is half an hour. Two more Landwehr infantry battalions can also be mobilized on short notice. Rotor and fixed-wing air support may be available, originating from the Potsdam Air Base.

Further heavily armored units of the 9th Panzer Division are located 110 kilometers away, estimated response time is 3 hours. Distance to UT border is roughly 110km.

Marquess Hall
Dresden
09:00AM

The movements of regular citizens through the streets of Dresden had become an incredibly rare occurrence, many only venturing out to buy food and petrol for their cars. Most of the capital's rich ethnic Sylvans had vacated their luxury penthouses and apartments, fleeing across the border to Sylva for their own safety. The only Saxons remaining in the capital were those of the military assigned to defend the city, Saxon civilians too paralysed or too poor to find safe passage for themselves and, of course, Duke Mattin, who had his wife Terese and their infant son Andoni evacuated to Freiberg, where the League would, for the moment, be able to ensure their protection. The Duke and Colonel Abene, Saxony's premier military head, poured over maps and reports of recent days that detailed Wankan assaults across Saxony's border and the response from the Septentrion League. Mattin rubbed his eyes with tiredness; he, Abene and other military commanders had all been scrutinising the Wankan movements, trying to detect some weakness that they could exploit with their limited military resources. The problem was, the professional elements of the Saxon Defence Forces were already tied up in fighting along the border and moving militia groups meant leaving the Sylvan forces behind the frontline unsupported, which could be a deadly mistake considering how rapidly the war was reaching from west to east.

The Duke sat in Marquess Hall's Briefing Room at the end of a long conference table, his head in his hands partly from tiredness and partly from thinking the main danger was from Wanko-Saxons betraying the country to Sonneborn, when in fact the real danger was from within defecting militia units. It was a mistake Mattin believed to be his error, though really, the fault lay with Colonel Abene and his commanders for not conducting proper screening on militia personnel when the trouble all started. "How did I let this happen Colonel? How could I… put Saxony in such a desperate position?"

Abene and two accompanying Lieutenant Colonels were going over recent communications with the Sylvans with each other when the Duke's comment caught them off guard. Abene, who was also sat at the table on the Duke's left side with his two commanders, opened his mouth to speak, before closing it again to think of an appropriate sentence, and finally opening it once more. "Your Highness, my command team in the field has been in contact with me, they've-"

"I don't care about the damn war, Abene!" shouted the Duke, clearly frustrated and slamming his hands on the table. "I want to know why… why I didn't listen to Sonneborn, why I couldn't avert this, why I didn't advise the Council to put plans for our membership of the League on hold whilst we sorted this out. Instead… thousands are dying and I can't lift a finger to stop it."

Abene ordered his two Lt. Colonels to leave the room and they did so promptly. The Colonel rose from his seat and walked over to the young Duke, who was by now about to start sobbing, placing a wrinkled, veined hand on his shoulder. "Your Highness, I apologise, but I am not good at these sorts of things. All I can say is that you must not fret over why the war couldn't have been stopped, only how it must end, and it has to end, for the sake of Saxony. You, Your Highness, must remain strong for your people and your family. With the support of the League, we cannot fail, we can beat the Wankans, we will triumph."

The Duke looked up at Abene. It was clear to him why the Colonel was in the position he was, Mattin felt his spirits lifted slightly. The Duke rose from his seat and composed himself, brushing off his shirt and running his hands over his hair. "Alright, alright Colonel. Tell me what the situation is, what can we do?"

Abene looked at the Duke gravely, rubbing a hand on his chin as he thought of what to say. "I have ordered our commanding officers in the field to do all they can and work in conjecture with each other according to their groups. Unfortunately, a majority of the Southern Corps disobeyed orders from the Sylvan general in charge of the area and have suffered enormous losses. The Wankan advance on the other fronts is slow, but…"

"…but they're winning. I understand, Colonel. What do you have in mind?"

"We're depending on the Sylvans now, Your Highness. Our militia will stay positioned around the highways and cities, unless otherwise instructed by a Saxon or allied commander to reinforce a certain position. What we have on the frontline is all that's left of our full-time regular forces so I plan to ask the League's members for more military aid. Without it, Dresden may be in Wankan hands within the next fortnight."

Mattin sat back down, rubbing his forehead. "I see, in that case we'll have to start making preparations to evacuate the city, tell them to get to Freiberg or see if the Sylvans will open their borders to refugees. I'll talk to Councillor Erramun and see if he can rally the Council behind the idea, as well as support you in your requests for more troops."

Abene remained standing as the Duke looked out over the papers on the table, Mattin cradled his chin in his hand, leaning his elbow on the polished oak surface before looking back up at the Colonel, who seemed like he wasn't finished. "…What? What is it, Abene?"

"The… the 6th Militia stationed next to Osterwald forest has reported strange sightings, sir."

"Sightings? Of what? Wankans?"

"We're not sure Your Highness. It started two days before the invasion when the night watches started saying they saw lights deeper in the forest, like torches. They've investigated on multiple occasions during the daylight but their searches turned up nothing, though the lights continue to persist."

The Duke sat up straight, intrigued and slightly disturbed. "You're sure they aren't Wankans? Maybe Sylvans moving through the woods from the fighting over the southern border?"

"There's no messages from the Sylvan High Command about any units in that area and the Wankans would have attacked when the invasion started. Last night, the 6th's corporals kept telling their lieutenants they saw men, silhouettes in military gear darting in and out of the trees. They say they managed to shine a spotlight through the trees briefly to see the gear these men were wearing were not recognised as being from the Septentrion League, or the Wankans, before the strangers darted away over a mound and out of sight."

"You're suggesting the involvement of a third party? Another nation?"

"I think we should consider all possibilities, Your Highness."

The Count's House
Port Prince
10:12AM

The war had progressed faster than Ivan had expected. Already, the Wankans were making headway into Saxony and the Septentrion League were having trouble halting their advance. It was the exactly what the ambitious prince had wanted and, with the support he had garnered from the military, Aemen intelligence and, most importantly, the Folcwaldings, Ivan was ready to make his move, something he had to do before the Wankans reached Dresden and were able to complete their annexation.

Ivan was sat in his office on the second floor of the Count's House, where he often met with his business associates. He was waiting for his father to arrive and bestow upon him permission to command and oversee the incursion into Saxony. He leant back in his leather chair, playing with a porcelain globe of the world in his hands and staring up at the ceiling, which bore a painting of a romantic depiction of Folcwalding, the first king of Aemen who lived more than four millennia ago, whose figure was bathed in light and long, flowing robes which was held onto the legendary hero's body by bright golden armour. The rest of the people in the painting bowed to Folcwalding as he held a sword aloft over them in one hand and gripped a crown in the other. To think, Ivan thought to himself, that he was descended from someone once so revered.

The prince's thought was interrupted when he heard the door to his office swing open. He looked down with a grin on his face, expecting to see his father, only to be met by the fiery gaze of his younger brother, Prince Alexander, who was approaching his desk quite quickly. Ivan stood up, putting the globe down on the desk, and walked around to shake his brother's hand when Alexander delivered a right hook to Ivan's cheek, causing Ivan to spin around and grab onto his desk with both hands for balance. Ivan rubbed his cheek, standing up and turning around to meet his father's favourite child, who looked like he was ready to deliver another blow. "It's nice to see you too, brother."

Alexander was furious. "What the hell are you doing Ivan!?" he shouted. "Do you know what kind of position you've put me in? Do you even think about what your actions will do to others!?"

"If I did, would I feel more from that punch?" Ivan replied, chuckling ever so slightly.

"Stop it, brother, because this is not funny, not this time. You're about to invade another country, a country that is allied to Sylva, for its money!? How did you even talk father into supporting that idea? What am I supposed to tell Mariana when my own brother snatches Saxony from one of Sylva's allies!?"

"That it's just business? Or perhaps that I've taken the decision to forcibly keep the peace? What should I care for what your Sylvan wench thinks."

Alexander raised his fist to hit Ivan again, but was stopped by the sound of a familiar voice coming from behind. "Alexander!"

Both princes looked over to the doorway to see their father, King Reginald, standing there staring at the two of them. The King walked towards the pair, peering at them with that disappointed visage that haunted the princes' childhood. "What is the meaning of this?"

Alexander was the first to speak up, pointing towards Ivan. "Father, how can you let him do this? How can you let Ivan go through with this sham!?"

Reginald said nothing, instead he walked past his sons to Ivan's desk and picked up the small porcelain globe that was resting on its surface. He held it up to Alexander. "Tell me, Alexander, where is Aemen on this?"

"Father-"

"Where is Aemen on this globe?"

Alexander pointed to a small but sizeable portion of land marked 'Aemen' on the globe's map. Reginald lowered his arm, looking his son straight in the eyes. "We are surrounded by enemies, Alexander. Enemies will stay enemies until it suits them not to be, whilst allies will become enemies once they sense we are no longer useful to them. Do you know the only thing that stops our enemies from destroying us now?"

Alexander and Ivan were silent whilst Reginald placed the globe back on the desk. "Fear, Alexander. Fear of our strength, fear of what we can do in retaliation. Your ancestors didn't build a kingdom such as ours on soft policy and diplomacy, they knew what to do, what had to be done. They weren't afraid of bloodshed for they understood its necessity. This single act we inflict on the Saxons will serve two purposes; it will stimulate our economy and enforce the notion that the Aemen are a force to be reckoned with."

Alexander looked at his father, motionless, before lowering his head. "Yes, father. I understand, but… but Mariana…"

"Yes, the Sylvan princess. You are to tell her that I have seen fit for Aemen forces to take control of Saxony for the time being. I will name Ivan duke once Dresden is secured and request any other military forces within the country to return to their home nations. You will tell her I am doing this in the name of peace on the continent and that I refuse to see this escalate beyond Saxony's borders whilst Ivan and the political and military teams from the Ministries of Initiative and Relations ensure that tensions in the country are defused."

"Father-"

"This will, of course, all be a lie. I have no intention of relinquishing Saxony, I have no intention of letting its ducal family ever regain their title and I have no real concern whether or not the other nations agree to my terms, but I know they will not risk another war to rival the Pan-Septentrion conflicts of the past. Even Sonneborn, for all that Wankan whelp is worth, wouldn't risk a move that would upset his fragile position of power and the Sylvans, the Organised States, the so-called League, dare not think of opening an Aemen front with possible Achesian support. Do you understand?"

Alexander could only nod. He knew this was simply another lesson, as his father used to say, in what it was to lead, to rule, to be a king. It was all about strength in the Olbridge family and if you couldn't accept that, you had no place as an Aemen prince. "I… I understand, father. I will tell Mariana when I next meet with her."

"When you next meet with her you will have no choice, our forces will already have landed in Saxony. Now leave, Alexander, and reflect on what I have told you."

Alexander looked at his father one last time, his expression having turned from one of regret and sadness to one of compliance and dutifulness. The Heir Apparent nodded and turned, without looking at Ivan and calmly walked out of the entrance to the office. Reginald knew that, out of all of his children, he could rely on Alexander the most to ensure his legacy continued after he was gone. The King turned to Ivan, who was still massaging his cheek. "You have my assent to begin the peacekeeping mission in Saxony. You and Field Marshal Bezuidenhout will command all military efforts and you will also sit alongside the High Minister of Relations on all press conferences concerning your efforts and motivations for the action we are taking. Do not disappoint me, Ivan."