Persia. A land of past victories. A land of used-to-be sprawling cities and ports. Of vast farmland, equal government, and treacherous mountains. A land of the past. Now the great country and land lay in ruins. The once great cities reduced to unfulfilling villages, strained from the massive refugees who left it’s streets and markets. Ports left empty. Resources, untouched. However, there was to come a time where the fate of Persia would decide the fate of every nation on the globe, from Berlin to Moscow, Babylon to Washington.

Arad rode down the street, unaware of the watching eyes. The black mare he rode, whom he had taken the honor of naming Arsalan, or lion, snorted out the ancient dusty air. The once metropolitan of Susa was now reduced to a small, under populated village of nearly 130,000 residents. The empty buildings, sky-scrapers and wonders of their time, are left unkept. Many were beginning to crumble, leaving rocks stacked among their sides.
From atop the Emericon World Organization Headquarters, or at least the past headquarters, Davood crept over the side to have a good view of the poor wanderer beneath. Raising the sniping rifle to his shoulder, and peering through the eye piece, he steadied his breathing. Saying an ancient prayer to himself, from which he had remembered his great grandfather murmuring, he took aim to the head. Taking in one last grasp, he squeezed the trigger.
The gun made a loud snap through the empty streets and left a white streak through the mist that it traveled. Without knowing what he was doing, Arad unsheathed his sword and by instinct swiped the bullet from the air. He fell to the stone road, creating an echo of the failure.
Davood stood with a large smile upon his face. “Arad, is that you?!” he yelled, all the while making his way down the rusty fire-escape. Arad, again grasping reality that he was alive, jumped from Arsalan to greet his old friend. They met at the base of the building, embracing in a long-lost hug.
“At last, I have found you, friend,” Arad spoke, once they had released each other.
“Found me? I thought it was I who shot the bullet?”
Smiling, Arad continued, “Do you actually think I would be strolling through this part of the town alone if I knew you were not here? Come, friend, do you really forget that I graduated Lincoln one class ahead of you?”
“Yes, but it was only because you won the coin toss!” Again, the hugged while laughing. Reminiscing of their times of childhood, grammar school and then military school, Davood showed Arad the way to his home, Arsalan trotting behind.
As the two friends ventured deeper into the city, more people began to wander the streets as well, and the avenue lights lit the street, the houses and buildings remodeled. This was the heart of Susa, the largest city still within the Persian realm. Davood led Arad into a small, mud brick house made the same way they were 6,000 years ago. Arad dispersed of his Freedom Cape onto the couch as Davood showed him the kitchen where they could sit down and talk.
“My apologies for the shot, friend. With the Freedom Jacket and all, I believed you to be a spy. Usually we are told when there diplomats coming.” Davood explained.
“No apologies needed, Davood. I came here under my own power, I wanted to discuss something very important with you. Washington isn’t always the easiest to get idea’s by.”

*******************

Comments are welcomed!

More to come tonight, or tomorrow.

Jason

The two friends sat at the table, Davood enjoying a cow leg, while Arad quickly devoured a hamburger from his supply of food from America. He hated going places on his own, without the American enforcement. He had to always supply his own food, and frankly he was never a good cook.
“So, Arad,” Davood began, after finishing the leg, “you needed to tell me something?”
“Aye. We all know of the debt the Americans have to the Persians, who saved them from the ever expanding empire of the Arabians. We both know of the destruction it put upon the powerful nation of Persia, and the rise to power of the Americans and Zulu. But yet again, the Americans come to ask for help from the magistrate of Persia.” He cleared his throat, and continued, “The Zulu are once again on the move. Apparently they have not suffered as much from the Great War as we the Persian have (he always thinks himself as Persian, even though he is the High Diplomat of America). The Zulu industry is again at full throttle, and looking towards the markets of America. Already they have conquered Turkey, the southern province of Arabia, and now share a border with America. Our spies and satellites have provided us with sufficient evidence of a huge buildup of military forces among the small border. Chicago is currently on a state of alert from a pending invasion of the Zulu. We have again and again tried to contact the Zulu without a reply. I fear a war is to begin, Davood.”
This was not surprising to Davood. The Zulu were a warrior race – always have been. If it weren’t for the initial lack of resources, Davood believed they could have taken over the continent very early on, wiping out the Persian, American, and Arabian race before they even knew each other existed. And now, after the Great War between the Zulu and the world power, Persia, the victorious Zulu had possession over some of the most valuable land on the continent. The missing piece to the country.
“And what is it that you ask from Persia?” Davood asked, even though he knew what the answer was going to be.
“America asks for Persian support in an offensive attack, a preemptive attack, to throw the Zulu off guard and perhaps take the fuel of their economy – Kurdistan (the former area of Persia that Zulu had conquered and retained control of after the Great War, and was some of the most prosperous land in the world).”
“Are you mad, Arad? You yourself have seen this very city. You must have seen Persipolis on your way here. You must have seen the land of Persia. It has all gone down hill. The time of Persia has passed, friend, it is up to America to finish off the Zulu. Persia can offer no help.”
“That is where you are wrong, Davood. Our mountainous lands and steep valleys do not supply us with nothing. I already have approval from Washington of a full aid loan to help Persia respawn after the war, should they help America now.” This caught the attention of Davood.
“Arad, tell me more of what will happen.”
“Very well. If I am correct, Persia’s current military consists of ten Barrel (tank) Brigades, two Tank (modern armor) brigades, thirty infantry divisions, and five bomber, fighter divisions, correct?”
“Aye, that sounds about right, continue please.”
“Ok. If Persia would allow America to upgrade the barrel brigades to tank brigades, then the full force of Persia can be affective. We both know that Persians do not attack in numbers, but with skills. With the Persian forces, twenty American tank brigades, thirty-five American infantry divisions, and twenty American fighter/bomber divisions will accompany them in the attack to take Kurdistan. Once Kurdistan is taken and fortified, America will open a new front north of Chicago to draw the Zulu attention there, while the forces in Kurdistan set up fortifications.”
“This all sounds good, Arad, but what of Kurdistan after the war?”
“It would remain in Persian hands, hopeful of a recovery of the Persian economy.”
“This all sounds great, though very risky. I think we may be underestimating the might of the Zulu Military. Nevertheless, I will present this in front of the King. No doubt my position will allow me to persuade him into accepting this. After all, I am the Prime Minister.”
“Right then. Do you mind if I sleep on this? Tomorrow I will have to call Washington to clear things up.”
“Not at all, friend.”

*************

Again, comments are very much apprecieted.

Update more tomorrow.

Jason

looking good keep it going.

http://www.civfanatics.net/uploads4/Persian_Story.gif

oh, and city directly north of Persipolis (the capital) is Susa

Jason

Good job, loving it:goodjob:

The next few days went by quick. Both men had succeeded in persuading their respected government into allowing the war to commence. It was only a matter of time before the whole world would erupt into a catastrophic battleground, one that might bring the destruction to man kind.

Lincoln sat at his desk, observing the ever growing red spots upon the world map that lay in front him. The red dots, enemy troop concentrations exceeding over 50,000 men, littered the globe. The worst had happened. The long lost ally of Shaka, Hammurabi, had made good on their age-old alliance. While the Babylonians had close to no army that could pose a threat to America or her allies, their navy was stronger then all the allies combined, then multiplied by three. Being an island nation it was their only need of protection. Babylonia was also littered with iron and coal deposits, powering their industry to an undeterred height.
Lincoln knew his navy was not at all shabby. Controlling a large 20 ironclads, 10 galleons, and 5 destroyers was not weak to say the least. However, Babylon also had a newer ship that Lincoln feared. Powered by oil instead of coal, this huge ship known as the Battleship was more then three-times the size of the largest American destroyer and packed more firepower then four times a destroyer. The production yards of Babylon had already produced five of these monsters, as have the Zulu produced two.
Lincoln knew he mustn’t engage these navies on the open sea’s, but rather cut their supply line. Already, a task force of half the American fleet, along with three Arabian destroyers and two Persian ironclads were sent to the coast of Germany to cut the supply of oil from flowing to Babylon, and the other half of the American navy would be committed to the blockade of Arabia, for their own sake, the last oil deposit lay underneath the northern Arabian deserts. This would of course only buy time, the Babylonian fleet would have to muster together to break the blockades, hopefully enough time for the American armies to overrun Zululand.

Davood stood at the edge of the cliff, peering over the central valley of Kurdistan. The rich farmland was already inhabited by Zulu farmers, their high-tech farming equipment probing the farms. Davood noticed a fort to the northwest, along the peninsula. Turning around, he faced the huge force that lay behind him. Tanks, in twenty columns, stretched back for almost half a mile, while the infantry intertwined with the tanks stretched back still another full mile. This force was to be used to overrun the land, the key to American-Persian victory, should it be obtained on the continent.
Then the rumbling of high-flying fortresses filled the air. Davood could see all the Zulu farmers frantickly running for their lives as allied bombers rumbled overhead, letting loose their furry. Bombs began exploding everywhere among the fertile fields, disrupting the peaceful way of life in the valley. An alarm, a past Persian alarm, filled the air covering up the roars of the bombers engines. In the horizon, Davood noticed small black specks fill the sky, seeping over the mountains that used to form the border between Zululand and Persia. These dots quickly formed the shapes of Zulu fighters, the distinct sun on the tail of the plane gave it away. Allied fighters flew to met them, and soon a frantic air battle was underway. The bombers were still flying high, and were now bombarding the fort in the north.
Soon, an even stronger rumble shook the ground. The tanks and infantry were off to battle, climbing over the hill and into the valley to reclaim it for Persia. They were met with a weaker Zulu tank force not far into the valley, but easily overcame it. This was the first obstacle, crossing the Central Valley. Due west, the armies are to encounter the industrial part of Kurdistan, with the famous Pasergarde (sp?) city. From there it would be all urban conflict, in which Persians were best at. The air battle was soon won, the allied bombers returning home safely and untouched.

***********

Update tomorrow. This was a short part done late at night, and so I didn't feel like checking for errors, sorry if there are some.

Comments are welcomed! ;)

Jason

Dude its good but you really need to stop repeating yourself over there in Apolyton ;)

hehe, I post it in both sites so I can get as much feedback as I can ;).

Jason

good, so you don;t expect for me to read it twice then hey? :rolleyes:

Wery Nice!! Since i am posting her i`l thank you for the comment on my story. This one is much better then mine.

It had been nearly ten years since the last Persian had stepped foot in Pasagarde. The Kurdistan capital, once thriving from the Persian economy in prewar times had been in decline ever since it fell into Zulu hands. While it was still not as bad as Susa or Persipolis, it still was in poor shape. The streets were full of waste, the sewage system was destroyed in the last war and apparently the Zulu government didn’t care to fix it. Many soldiers rode on the tanks to prevent their feet from being soaked in it.

In the horizon, before the mountain peeks stabbed the sky, small smoke stacks jutted upwards. Davood knew that it would be the hardest task for allied forces to take those factories. The Zulu were known for their decisions of either they have something or no one does. Davood was almost sure they would be destroyed before his force could reach it.

Allied bombers and fighters still streaked the sky, bombing specific troops concentrations within the city and surrounding areas. They were, however, not permitted to attack the factories. Arad stared in the distance as he steadied the Spitfire he flew. One of the best plane designs in the world, an English-American had created the basic design and sold it to the American government.

Now Arad was sitting in one of the most powerful air machines on the planet, but was still frightened when he saw black, plane-shaped figures dive and drop through the clouds over head.

“We got Zulu from above, dive!” He yelled into the radio, watching as all the friendly Spitfires around him instantly dropped. Arad jammed his stick forwards and compressed the break. The plan immediately dropped, following other allied Airforce. Then the unavoidable rain of bullets sprayed the plane. Arad held his breath until finally he was out of the storm and flying level. Behind him, in his mirror, he spotted a Zulu plane pressing in. He was being followed, and Tarook his wingman was no where to be seen! “All right,” he whispered to himself, “if it’s a chase you want, it’s a chase you’ll get.” He knew that the Spitfire was much faster then the old Impi design the Zulu planes were, and would use that against him.

Arad hammed the stick closer to him, pushing the throttle back as far as he could. The plane jutted upwards, gaining altitude at 350 mi/hr. Behind him, the Zulu did the same, and Arad even though his noticed that the Impi was getting closer, but then all went white.

The white clouds devoured Arad, and for a moment he thought he was in a dream. The white blanket comforted him in a day dream. Immediately he was shot back to reality as the sounds of the bullets making themselves cozy in the Spitfire filled the cabin. ‘How was the Impi able to shoot me?’ he thought, ‘I should be way out of his range!’. Before Arad decided to exit the clouds, he shoved the stick forwards again, though it picked up more speed as it descended.

Arad broke the clouds only to see the last of the allied plane slam into the forested mountain side. The remaining twelve Zulu impi, including the one chasing him, veered upwards to meet with Arad. Still puzzled by the fact that these Impi defeated a squadron of Spitfires, Arad could only think of one way to get past them. Dive straight through them and hope to make it.

The wind made a whiring sound and the engine felt as if it were going to burst, but it kept together and Arad zipped right by the Impi. Pressing the throttle, Arad was able to escape due to the time it took for the impi to turn around.

Arad knocked wildly on the Persian-wood door. An old man, American features like white hair and a short white mustaches made his face. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week, his eyes drooped to his ears and his nose was red.

“Yes, what can I do for you, young man?” he asked.

“Sir,” Arad stuttered, raising his hand to the salute position on his forehead, “Fighter Pilot Arad Sektoosh. I would like to talk to you about the new Impi the Zulu have.”

“New Impi? Yes please come in. I am Admiral Johnson,” he said while holding the door open for Arad. The room smelt of fire, it burning in the fare wall of the room. A desk was pushed up to the side of the fire and a bed took up the rest of the room that the sofa did not. He took his spot behind the cluttered desk, and Arad sat in the sofa.

“Now, Pilot Arad… Persian are you?” he asked quickly.

“Yes sir, but I have lived in America for close to ten years now.”

***************

Thanks for the comments!

Jason

Pretty hectic weekend with Drivers Ed and all, and i tried to update this tonight but the writing was crap and I erased it. I will try to update tomorrow, if not, Tuesday.

Jason

“So, these new Impi, you say, are much better then our Spitfires? The Admiral asked, his white mustache following his lips as they opened just enough for the words to escape. The Admirals blue eyes looked faded, as from years of stress and labor, of adventure and intrigue.

“They are faster, sir.” Replied Arad as they both took a seat at the small brown desk inside the small room which housed only one window that looked outside to the rest of the city. “We lost a dozen good men already, I was lucky enough to escape.”

“That’s horrible. I will make sure those men have a good funeral, being the first blood of this horrible event. Would you like some coffee?” he asked politely. Arad was a little annoyed of the quickness in which he switched subjects.

“No, thank you though sir. Now, about these Impi –“ Arad was cut off from his question, as the Admiral continued,

“So, tell me about Persia. How was it like growing up in a class three nation?” Americans always had this cocky way of classifying countries on how rich the general populace was. Arad was astonished by the question, and caught off guard. Rethinking it he was able to supply an answer.

“Well, sir, I don’t believe it was much different then America, especially because in the time I was being raised Persia was not as bad as it is now.”

“Ah yes, it was before the Great War. Do you believe this war is greater then the last?” He broke subject again. His faded eyes now fall upon his desk in a blank stare. His hands silently pulled the white hair that remained slightly connected to his head. Arad couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to talk to someone with a mind, obviously this man didn’t have one. He silently rose and exited the room.

Davood stood atop the largest building in the city. His brown hair was constantly trifled with by the gusting winds that seemed to spy the city all year round but seriously kicked in around this time of the year. He heard the door behind him open and slam shut, turning to see it was Arad.

“Ah, thank you for meeting with me, friend.” Arad spoke, shaking his friend’s hand with eagerness. “I am sorry I am late.” After he had left Admiral Johnson’s office, he was called in for a briefing sketching out the plans for the next air raid on Zululand. Again he had tried to warn the Captain there, but was waved off with the “You must be mistaken” slogan. That was then he realized that a Persian had to be notified, as the Americans were hopeless.

“What is this about? Or did you want to shoot me this time?” Davood said, laughing at his own joke as he stared into the solemn face of Arad. His green eyes beamed a signal of fear. “This is serious,” he realized, “what is it friend?”

“Davood, I have some bad news concerning the war. On my last mission we encountered a new breed of Zulu aircraft. I like to call it the Impi II. It is faster, more mobile, and packs more firepower then the American Spitfire. Friend, we are in trouble.”

“Have you notified your superiors?” Davood asked, a hint of relief in his voice.

“I have tried, but I have just realized how incompetent Americans are. Ten years with them and it takes a war for me to realize this. I believe it is up to the Persians to bring light of the situation, and possibly extinguish it.”

“Arad, you know of the state of the Persian military, and –“

“Yes, I know, Davood. But I don’t see any alternative. I have booked the next flight to Washington, but that will be another week and who knows if I will be able to talk with an intelligent American even there. Look, friend, we must take care of this. USAF is already planning the next bombing run on Zululand, condemning more pilots to a surprising death, including myself. And who knows when the Zulu’s will conquer the skies and begin to drop bombs upon Persipolis? You know as well as I that after the first bomb hits our city that the war will be over. Persia will withdraw and America will be overrun. Is that how you want the war to end?” Davood stood there. His mind pondered as he observed the city work in the streets below. Zulu and Persian alike were living in cooperation, the only city in the world to have that diversity.

“I will think of something. I have too.”

*******************

Thanks for the comments. Sorry for such a late addition.

Comments are, as always, very much welcomed.

Jason

Again I tried to write tonight, but all of it was crap. Must be having a writers block or something. Hopefully I will be able to write tomorrow.

Jason