The North PacificBoard

RAT TAT TAT
Fire swirls through the air, mixing with the toxic gas and overwhelming boom of artillery. Corporal Baunhauser and his men fight with a grim focus. There is none of the bravado from earlier, just a grim determination. The enemy have fought now, to the very rear lines, and this squad has fought nearly every step of the way. Their uniform is torn, makeshift bandages or open wounds upon most of their bodies.
The enemy, even against the last holdouts, face murderous resistance. Artillery crash into their ranks, creating geysers of fire and debris. Although most of the artillery have retreated further behind the lines, the remainder that have stayed keeps up a fierce fire.
Baunhauser himself is burned, scarlet blood trickling from his right arm. His arm burns, exhausted from firing for so long.
"Baunhauser!" This is one of his soldiers, his head banadged, and soot coating his face. His eyes, desperate and tired, look at him pleadingly. "Are we retreating sir?"
His men look at him, their tired faces questioning. Whether to run, or die in the battlefield. The rest of the army was crumbling, enemy breaking through the rearline.
They would never get an answer.
A whistling sound goes through the air, followed nearly instantly by an explosion of light and noise. Baunhauser is thrown, landing several feet away, darkness coats his vision.
His vision slowly returns to him, bringing him to a world of pain and chaos. He is bleeding from several shrapnel wounds, and there is no sign of his men. As his vision clears, the situation becomes imminently clear, his men lay mangled across their former nest, the enemy charging him. Baunhauser's hands grip around the cold steel of his automatic pistol, finding their familiar grip.
He contemplates running, leaving the fight behind. As he staggers to his feet, he realizes grimly that the is no chance of escape. As aircraft roar overhead, he let's loose upon the enemy, shooting into the diseased, charging masses. After a minute, the shooting stops, as Baunhauser falls to the charging waves.
The last of the Marasumean beachhead defensive force, thus falls.

The air.
Simon wheels through the air, following orders to return. His squad is decimated, but his run is complete. The black jet, and the five of the former sixty that remain, streak across the dark waves. They avoid the battlefield, headibg inward.
Their goal is to reach a force of jets, heading from bases far inland, to defend the Artillery that are making their retreat. The beachead force had made a good stand, and bought time for a secondary, larger force to be assembled. This will form a second part to the defense, aimed at bleeding Guyomartland dry.

Diplomacy.
The Republic of Marasume is suprised at the weak spine of the Guyomartish people. Who, so close to the beginning of the conflict, are already threatening nuclear options on an outmatched foe. Negotiations can be obtained, but the options given are unacceptable.