WesWorld

November 12, 1940, Lor Koh
"Go lower, the man says," Leifteanant Hector Macken muttered. "Go in lower. This is going to be unpleasant."

"Can I say I've never felt fear quite like this before?" the Mosquito's navigator asked, biting his lip as the barren rock of Lor Koh towered ahead of the aircraft. The eight Mossies were in a loose formation four hundred meters above the rolling desert, flying four hundred kilometers an hour, gradually shaking themselves into the line they would use to make their attack run.

"Sure, just say it later," Macken said, concentrating on the flying. It was a beautiful, clear, and cold day. "Next heading?"

"One-five-six in thirty seconds."

Macken took a few moments to wipe the sweat off his brow and stretch his shoulders, then ran an eye over all the instruments again.

The attack profile for this mission was unpleasant and demanding. The Afghan rebels and their Persian allies had put their camp in one of Lor Koh's box canyons, hauling captured 37mm and 20mm AA guns up to the top of the ridges so they could fire at any attacking aircraft. The narrow canyons and the contrary mountain winds on the ridges meant that level bombing from high altitude was too inaccurate, and level bombing from low altitude would send the Mosquitos into a nest of AA.

Some of the pilots had proposed the idea of flying through the canyons themselves to drop their bombs, below the level of the AA guns, but most of the senior officers had balked at the idea. The box canyons were narrow and twisting, and reconnaissance photographs indicated that they were narrower in many places than a Mosquito's wingspan.

In the end, the risk of the Afghan ground fire just had to be run, though twelve Focke-Wulfs and sixteen Hurribombers - two of them with huge wing-mounted 40mm cannon - were flying escort to attack any antiaircraft guns they could find.

"All right," Macken's navigator said. "Come to port, one-five-six."

Macken put his Mossie into a shallow bank, leading his flight of four on the final leg of the approach. Although they were not in the canyon itself, they were still low enough that the arms of the mountain rose up on both sides.

There was a flicker of movement at the corner of Macken's vision, and a pair of Focke-Wulfs dove past him, shooting at an AA gun. They must have had an effect, because the gun didn't fire as Macken's plane passed a hundred meters overhead.

"Forty-five seconds to target," the navigator reported. "Opening bomb bay doors."



Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi was midway through his prayers when the drone of aircraft engines reached his ears. Most of the Afghans did not abandon their prayer rugs, and Maqsoodi determined to finish praying as well.

He reconsidered as the distant sound of engines grew in volume, joined by the sound of cannon and machine guns. Maqsoodi picked up his Mauser rifle and moved towards end of the camp, where one of his adult sons pointed.

"Look out, father, they're-"

Maqsoodi felt a cannon shell pass within a meter of his head. One of the men behind him, one of Maqsoodi's most trusted men, screamed and fell, thrashing from a fatal wound. A snub-nosed aircraft roared overhead strafing the camp. The two more planes, twin-engined, tore past, dropping bombs. The Afghan chieftain threw himself on the ground and waited to die.

The bombing seemed to last for a lifetime, and Maqsoodi thought the mountain was being shaken to its roots. He looked up long enough to see another of the twin-engine aircraft coming straight down towards him, blazing like the sun; it passed a dozen feet overhead and plowed through the tribesmens' camp, a wall of fire rising where it struck the ground.

Something struck Maqsoodi in the head, and when he woke up again, he was alone.

The chieftain tottered to his feet and looked around. The aircraft were gone, but the camp still burned. A dozen of the men who had stayed on their prayer rugs were dead decorations of a bomb crater. Another dozen, further from the blast, called out for help. The crashed plane, aviation fuel all alight, burned in the middle of the camp, where Maqsoodi's men had stored much of their ammunition; it was exploding now in a cacophony of pops.

Maqsoodi stumbled to a boulder and sat down heavily, forcing himself to stare at the remains of the camp. His son stumbled up to him, hand over a bloody shoulder wound.

"Father! Are you injured?"

Maqsoodi shook his head; though that just made the world spin. "I was struck on the head by something, but I think I am mostly uninjured." He closed his eyes. "My son, I have a mission for you."



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

November 10, 1940, Chaghcharan
Corporal Mohammed Kiarostami stamped his feet and blew warm air onto his hands through the gritty remains of his gloves. The cold was always worst in the pre-dawn watch; the air was crisp but smelled of the battalion latrines. Kiarostami finished the leg of his patrol and glanced back towards the captured airplane he was guarding. Bahman Shahi, the battalion's supply officer and amateur pilot, had been figuring out how the plane worked, and barracks rumor was that Shahi was going try to take the plane up to spot the disgusting Tajik guerrillas.

Hope he's successful. I'm ready to kill some vermin again.

Kiarostami heard a crunch to his left, behind the parked Lysander. "Amir, Saeed?"

No response.

"Amir? Saeed?" Kiarostami started walking around the plane. "Where'd you go? This isn't funny..."

No response.

Kiarostami felt goosebumps form on his arms and a cold sweat began freezing on his neck. He moved to unsling his rifle, and reached out, steadying himself against the airplane's struts. "Amir? Sa-"

A foot slammed into the back of his knees and Kiarostami toppled to the ground, falling face-first into the ankle-deep snow, propelled by a larger man who landed on him heavily. The Persian tried to scream, but just got a mouth full of snow.

A knife came down in his back. The cold spread through Kiarostami's limbs, and a voice hissed in his ear. "Keep your dirty mitts off my plane, you son of a..."

Despite the pain and the cold, Kiarostami tried to push away to shout for help. The knife fell again.



Rob Roy Hyde left his knife in the dead Persian sentry, and looked over his recaptured Lysander. Two of the Tajiks stood by, robbing the rest of the dead guards of their paltry kit, Mausers in particular. Hyde retrieved the starting crank from inside the Lysander's cabin.

A distant pop, pop announced that the guerrilla assault on Chaghcharan had begun. The rifle shots sounded distant, but Hyde figured they were closer than the sound would indicate, being muffled by the snow on the ground. He had little time.

I know this wasn't part of Lieutenant MacDonald's plan, but I'm not going to die as an improvised infantryman in some dunghole town in this miserable country. I'm an aviator, not a PBI...

More rifle fire crackled in the dawn light, then a machine gun rattled. Hyde cranked the Hercules until it whined, and ran around to the cockpit to hit the engine starter.

"You're my baby, Patches. Give me something, baby. Start for papa..."

The big radial Hercules snorted and belched. "Oh, Patches, I love you, baby," Hyde said around a tooth-filled grin. "Here, Mohammed, or whatever the hell your name is. Yeah, here - take my Sten Gun. I've got something more beautiful now." Hyde gave the Sten to one of the Tajiks who'd come with him, who didn't understand English but understood the offered submachine gun.

There wasn't a runway per se, just a flat space covered with snow. The fuel gauges were well above halfway. The Persians must have put a bit of juice in her. If they did, surprised she's purring like she is. Would've expected watered-down stuff. And they left my night observation flares on the winglets. Oh happy day!

"All right, Patches," Hyde told his plane, advancing the throttle to the stops. "You and I, we've got an appointment to put our boots up these Persian backsides."



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

November 15, 1940, League Encampment, Delaram
General MacDonald exchanged salutes with General Pika as he disembarked from the back of the cargo plane. "Helidor. Good to see you again."

"Welcome back to Delaram, sir."

"I'd say it's a pleasure to be back," MacDonald said, glancing around the airfield, "But it's still a dustbowl at the end of the world."

Pika chuckled. "Well sir, hopefully this is worth your time. Do you need a few moments before we can talk, or are you ready now?"

"I'm ready. Lead on."

"Yes sir." Pika headed over to one of the larger tents and stepped inside past the guards. The young Afghani man inside looked uncomfortable in the chair, under the glowering gaze of three submachinegun-wielding Czechs.

"He says his name is Ashraf Yusuf Maqsoodi," Pika said. "We confirmed that with one of the ANA translators. He was very particular that he wanted to speak only to you, sir."

MacDonald took one of the seats across from the young Afghani, and nodded to the translator. "I am Maor-Ghinearál Eoin MacDonald of the Irish Army. You wished to speak with me?"

Ashraf looked nervous and distressed as he replied to the translator at length. The translator paused for several moments before offering MacDonald the translation. "General, he has come on the request of his father, Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi, to speak on his behalf. Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi says he has seen that the chieftain MacDonald and his men are strong and cannot be resisted on the field of battle. He has taken his tribesmen to the high mountain where he hoped to outlast you, as the great rock in the riverbed withstands the meltwater torrents. But you have pursued him there and he knows now that you will not stop until you have achieved victory. Maqsoodi says that he holds no further hopes of outlasting you, but his course has until now been woven with the course of the Persian general Parwiz. He knows that you have made friendship with the king of Afghanistan, and appeals to your wisdom to hear his request."

"His flattery does him credit. I'm listening," MacDonald replied.

Ashraf continued.

"Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi begs to say that his partnership with the Persian general Parwiz was a mistake, one which has brought grave suffering to his people and to Afghanistan. It has caused him to be aligned in rebellion against his acknowledged sovereign, the King of Afghanistan. So long as Parwiz was strong, Maqsoodi could not resist him, particularly as the King was then weak and could offer no aid against the Persian invaders. Now, Parwiz has been weakened and his days of power are finished; Maqsoodi is confident that the Irish chieftain MacDonald shall present the Persian's severed head to the Afghani king and the Indian princes before the end of summer. He believes it is time to reveal once again his true allegiance, but fears that the Afghani king, and the foreign soldiers, will not accept his profession."

General Pika muttered something in Czech, but no one bothered translating that.

"Maqsoodi begs of you, as a wise and honorable general and warlord, to speak with the Afghani king on his behalf, and secure the promise of His Majesty to restore him to a right state in the kingdom. And he begs you, General, to withhold your troops from further slaughtering his armed men."

MacDonald maintained a stone cold expression and leaned forward. "Maqsoodi's position is simple and I shall be blunt. I have already spoken at length with Mohammed Zahir Shah and know his mind in this matter. If Maqsoodi and his tribesmen are prepared to stack their arms and return to their homes in peace, then I - and Zahir Shah - shall overlook Maqsoodi's error of judgment in aligning himself with the enemy of his sovereign."

Ashraf listened to the reply, then gave his own.

"My father knows that this was likely to be the condition of the chieftain MacDonald, and says that it is acceptable to him, so long as the safety of his people is assured by the honorable word of the Irish chieftain."

"It is given," MacDonald said.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

November 10, 1940, Chaghcharan
Aiden MacDonald moved his borrowed platoon forward under the cover of darkness, pausing in the deep snow just outside the walls of the Persian compound. The Persians, although few in number, had taken up an excellent position in a block of heavily-built houses, linking them together with sandbags and rubble. Apparently they were veteran troops, as they'd even gone to the effort of clearing and demolishing the houses around them in order to clear fire lanes.

But all the preparations in the world don't matter when your guards on them are not alert, Aiden thought to himself. He saw one of the Persian sentries standing on the walls, silhouetted against the dark night and entirely too visible due to the lit cigarette he was puffing on.

Aiden gestured to two of the Tajik guerrillas, who quietly handed off their rifles and scampered up the wall, helped by four of their friends. The sentry puffed at his cigarette; dark shapes suddenly loomed behind him and knives fell.

"All right. Over the wall," Aiden hissed quietly. It's odd, this way of command, Aiden thought to himself as he led his men forward. They're following me even though we don't even speak the same language. This really ought not to be working as well as it is.

The crack of a rifle broke the night, just as Aiden's platoon reached the top of the wall. "Forward, now!" Aiden said, unslinging his Beretta. Another sentry on the wall, wakened from sleep, stirred to his left, fumbling to chamber a round in his rifle. Aiden turned and fired a three-round burst to kill the sentry. The barracks. Have to reach the barracks...

A door in the main building, the barracks, was thrown open; the interior light spilled out, followed moments later by Nationalist infantrymen in various states of undress - but they were mostly armed. Aiden crouched in the snow and brought the Beretta to his shoulder. "Bring up the machine gun! Fire!"

Nearly a hundred confused Persians, wakened from sleep, came out the doors from the barracks. Though they'd made a mistake leaving the lights behind them on, Aiden realized with a dull sense of dread that they were still battle-hardened troops, and were coming at his platoon of guerrillas with fixed bayonets. He fired the Beretta until he'd exhausted the forty-round magazine; he had no idea what good it had done, as a screaming Persian leaped over the ring of bodies around him, thrusting with a bayonet-tipped Mauser. Aiden barely parried the blow away, but the Persian just brought the rifle around and struck him in the chest with the shoulder stock, knocking Aiden onto his back.

Aiden looked up as the Persian loomed over him, bringing the fixed bayonet back around to finish the job. I can't move fast enough. Why can't I move? Oh, this is going to hurt, Aiden thought to himself.

At that moment, the Tajik Breire gunner atop the wall opened fire, and the Persian flopped back into the snow, missing half of his head. Aiden scrambled in the snow for his Beretta and inserted another magazine, trying to ignore the pain and shortness of breath as he resumed firing. Aiden wasn't sure how long the wild, confused pre-dawn melee continued before he passed out.



"Hello, sunshine."

Aiden blinked up at the roof of the tent. Lieutenant Hyde leaned over him, grinning, and apparently clean-shaven. "My name's not Sunshine."

"No humour you have," Hyde said. "You'd best thank your lucky stars that my ol' wan was a horse doctor and tried to teach me the trade, cause you needed it, Lieutenant."

"What?"

"Near as I can tell, you've a few cracked ribs," Hyde said. "You've not a scratch on ye, just a purple bruise the size of, well, yourself. It looks like you got sucker-punched by a railway locomotive."

"Uh," Aiden said. "I... don't remember the end of the fight."

"Probably not. You've been out most of the morning. We won, of course. I'd say it was glorious, but it wasn't, at least as I can see. A lot of dead, though the enemy dead seem to outnumber the friendly dead. I'm not sure the Tajiks were interested in taking prisoners." Hyde looked sour. "And don't even think about trying to get up and do that officer-in-charge thing. You're not in the condition for it. The Tajiks gave you some opium to help you with your pain; I think they gave you a bit much."

"That explains why I feel so... uh... blissful."

"Perhaps. In any case, Doctor Hyde's orders are bed-rest until medical evacuation arrives."

"Medical evacuation?"

"Yes. Another Mossie flew over this morning and I asked for one of the Dakotas and a small field hospital team. Lord knows the Tajiks need the help. I figure they've got a hundred or so wounded, some serious. Now, you're you're not going to be an ornery patient for Doctor Hyde and try to wander off to play tough officer, right?"

"Not right now," Aiden said. "Maybe later."

"Good. Cause now that I've patched you up, I have to go work on my plane."

"Was it still damaged from the crash?"

Hyde looked indignant. "Heavens, no. It... just got shot up a bit more when I was strafing fleeing Persians this morning. Just need a few more patches in the wings and she'll be good as new again."

"How long until that plane's nothing but patches?"

"Har har, very funny, sir."



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.[/quote]

November 19, 1940, Lor Koh
Darkness fell across the rocky slopes of Lor Koh.

In his rocky perch over the canyon, Major Elbinger checked his watch. He and the other men of the 3rd Pandurs still had a few hours yet before the attack started. In the intervening few hours, if all went according to plan, most of the defenders were going to disappear. The remainder, Persian loyalists to General Parwiz, should have no clue what was happening until it was too late to resist.



Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi walked quietly at the head of his surviving men. There were still three thousand of them left after the bombing, pulled in from other camps around the mountain, but they were nearly as tired and discouraged as Maqsoodi. They still moved quietly as they left the canyon, avoiding the sentries the Persian guards had set out.

The story Maqsoodi had given was that they were going on a raid. But none of the Afghans were staying behind, and none of the Persians were going along.

He found the appointed place. "Stop here," Maqsoodi commanded.

Enemy troops waited for him, looking tense. Most of them were of the Afghan National Army, but there were Irish and Czech tanks displaying their respective tricolors.

Maqsoodi spoke with the commander, who confirmed the details of the agreement. At a signal, Maqsoodi's tribesmen laid down their arms. They'd get them back again, eventually - the Irishman MacDonald had personally guaranteed it. But the war, for Maqsoodi and his men, was over.



"Time."

The Pandurs were ready. Ropes fell down from secured bolts high on the canyon walls, and the Yugoslavians, trained for this task and many others, began rappelling down. Maqsoodi's Afghans had left, but there were still Persians in the mountain fortress of Lor Koh.

Across the canyon, the Czech Pandurs started to emerge from the system of caves and tunnels that had been betrayed by the Afghans.



Pthfp!

The Irish Assault Pioneers had the toughest job, advancing up the canyon itself. However, they also had a dozen Cronin carbines in the hands of their lead scouts, and the Persian guards never heard the guns that were killing them.

The fighting was short and violent, and was over shortly after midnight. Most of the Persians remaining at Lor Koh had not expected their Afghan tribal allies to disappear right before a League assault. Their resistance took a toll, but it was a hopeless last gasp.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

November 20, 1940, Lor Koh
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from International Soldiers; The League of Nations at War, 1935-1940[/SIZE]

With the surrender of Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi's tribal fighters, the League troops launched Operations Countenance and Ironclad, what turned out to be the last major operations of the war.

The Yugoslavian troops under General Stefanovic moved in on the city of Farah. Although they had expected heavy resistance, most of the opposition focused around the airfield, and was overcome in an afternoon of moderate skirmishing. The defenders included the surviving pilots and ground crews of the Persian Nationalist Air Force, whose planes lacked fuel and ammunition to get airborne. Valiant but out of their element, they were overcome by the professional Yugoslavian infantry.

Farah itself fell virtually without a fight, but the townspeople treated the foreign soldiers with suspicion and distrust. Stefanovic responded with a low-pressure occupation and assisted in the reconstruction of several city buildings destroyed earlier in the conflict.

Battlegroup Pika, composed of General Pika's Czech troops and Sherzai's Afghans, advanced on Herat, where General Parwiz and the last Persian Nationalist troops had holed up.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

November 22, 1940, Herat Province
[SIZE=1]Válka vstník mírových armády v Afghánistánu, 1940-1941[/SIZE]

League commanders anticipated heavy resistance to the move on the Persian Nationalist stronghold of Herat. The advance, code-named Operation Ironclad, was given to a composite unit formed by the Czech 5th Tank Battalion, 4th Mounted Infantry Battalion, the 44th Dragoon Battalion (motorized), and 83rd Horse Artillery Battalions, supported by the only motorized battalion of the Afghan National Army. This ad-hoc armoured brigade moved relatively slowly, advancing up an old caravan track while the League's engineering units worked out a highway. Like the other roads carved out by the League engineers, this track eventually became the Kandahar-Herat Highway, or Afghanistan's A-1 Ring Road.

On November 22nd, Battlegroup Pika turned west to seize the city of Shindand, which fell without a fight. The Battlegroup paused in Shindand for several days building up their logistics, while ANA troops moved into Shindand for garrison duty. The unrestrained Afghan troops outraged the local populace by looting much of the city, and on November 25th, the locals stoned four Afghan policemen. Czech troops re-entered the city and reestablished order, but the city remained a hotbed of tribal resistance for the next two years.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

Kandahar Cantonment, Friday, 13 December 1940

The Third Pandur Battalion of the Royal Yugoslav Army was drawn up in formation on the parade ground at the LONAFF cantonment at Kandahar. Major Oton Elbinger had led more than five hundred of his men into Afghanistan in the previous summer. Now they were going home; their work in Afghanistan was done – soon the rest of the Yugoslav contingent would be headed home as well.

There were empty places in the ranks of the battalion – sixty five of its officers and men had become casualties during their time in a God-forsaken country. Some were wounded, who had been evacuated home; those were the lucky ones. Others were not so fortunate, but they too had been sent home so that they could lie in the soil that had given them birth.

Oton Elbinger stood at the head of his battalion and listened to Colonel Stevan Radovanovic deliver a speech, praising the accomplishments of the Pandur battalion during its campaign; the roll of engagements, allusions to the acts of heroism of his men. Elbinger was at once proud and exasperated; he was a soldier, and he did the job he was ordered to do; but this was not the fight he wanted, nor the enemy he would have chosen. But soldiers rarely have the opportunity to choose the battles they are called upon to fight.

Radovanovic finished his speech; the ceremony was nearly complete. Now it was Elbinger’s turn.

“Battalion, Attention!” he bellowed.

Pandurs are not normally parade-ground solders, but today their boot-heels clicked in unison like the Foot Guards.

The band struck up the Royal Anthem. The battalion’s colours and guidons dipped in salute, while rifles snapped with precision. In a few minutes it was all complete.



The battalion would depart Kandahar in the morning; for the moment Elbinger sat in the LONAFF officers club, a place filled with Irishmen, Czechs and fellow-Yugoslavs, all sharing a moment of conviviality.

At his table sat Jovan Antic, his executive officer, and his company commanders, Ratko Raketic, Zarko Todorovic and Karlo Novak. They were all pensive, thinking of the friends that they had lost, but proud too of what they had accomplished. Radovanovic had praised the battalion for its fighting prowess and for its initiative; and that was true. But was it all worth the cost?

At the bar was an Irishman, rather well into his cups, or merely maudlin – Elbinger was not certain. He turned to the assembled officers, many of whom were departing, and shared a warrior’s poem. He spoke in a rich baritone voice, saying:

“An empty glass beside me, I toast to memories – I know he won’t be walking through the door; an empty glass beside me says, he’ll drink with me no more. The bullet came from nowhere; I saw my best friend fall, and though I tried to even up the score, this empty glass beside me says, he’ll drink with me no more.”

“And though he’s not beside me, I lift my glass on high, and give a toast to those who’ve gone before; to those who drink with us no more. An empty glass beside me, but in my heart I know, some day we’ll meet up on that distant shore – and he will drink with me once more.”

The Irishman drained his glass, followed by every other officer in the club. They all had faced danger, they all had seen comrades fall; they all knew the pain of loss.

The crescendo of broken glasses echoed through the Afghan night.




Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

November 26, 1940, Herat Province

Parwiz sat in silent contemplation, the map of Herat's defenses spread out before him. There was precious little left to mark on the map - Parwiz's Nationalist loyalists were so badly diminished that he could have reformed them into a bloated infantry-cavalry battalion. Nor would his Afghan friends be any help - with Maqsoodi's defection to and amnesty by the Royal Afghan government, most of the Afghan tribal leaders were more interested in fleeing Parwiz's sinking ship and preserving their own interests.

I'd try to go for an insurgency-style campaign, but I no longer have the assured support of the Afghan locals. We'd be sold out at the first convenient moment, and hunted down by the League lapdogs.

Reconnaissance and spies told Parwiz that the Czechs were spearheading the Afghan National Army troops; there were enough of them, armour included, to make thought of resistance in the field impossible.

I should consider the inevitable, Parwiz thought to himself. As long as I've got the remnants of a force, they may deal with me. I don't want to try to negotiate when I've got nothing left to negotiate with.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

November 29, 1940, Herat Province

General MacDonald's aide shook him awake in the wee hours of the morning.

"What?" MacDonald grumbled.

"Sir, General Pika just transmitted for you. I thought it was important to wake you, sir. I've ordered warm coffee brought in."

"Ugh," MacDonald growled, sitting up. "All right, turn up the lamp, then."

"Yes sir. Here's Pika's message, sir." The aide placed the folded sheet down on the table. "I'll go find you that coffee, sir."

"Thanks," MacDonald said, putting on a jacket against the chill seeping in through the tent. "Please God don't let Pika have gotten hammered in front of Herat," he muttered to the empty tent. He sat down at his folding desk and unfolded the paper.

Quoted

GREEN GROW THE RUSHES OH GRIP [1] to FIONN [2] At 2320 Hours received em'sry officer from SIMPLISTIC [3] [STOP]. Officer requests immediate ceasefire to request, comma, negotiate terms with SIMPLISTIC [STOP]. Temp halt for evening two three km SE of Objective PUNCHBOWL [4] [STOP]. Request immediate input regarding possible ceasefire and terms [STOP]. EAGLES SOAR SOFTLY TO THE LAKE FOR FISH.

"Oh," MacDonald said softly. "Then that's it. Parwiz has had enough." He slid his boots on and stepped outside, looking up and feeling the chill of the air on his face. The cold and clear skies, with little ambient light around the League's encampment, gleamed brightly in the sky overhead, a half moon low on the horizon.

"Parwiz has had enough," MacDonald said quietly. "Let's end this, then."



Note [1]: Grip = Pika's radio call sign.
Note [2]: Fionn = MacDonald's radio call sign.
Note [3]: Simplistic = Parwiz's code name.
Note [4]: Punchbowl = Code name for Herat.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.