Two guards in dark green ballistic armor stood at the entrance of a massive waterproof military tent, laser rifles in hand, their faces expressionless. The outdoor air-conditioning unit, connected to the ventilation duct, hummed steadily, sending bursts of cold air laced with cigarette smoke rolling over the wooden boards outside whenever someone pushed aside the heavy door flap to leave. Thick bundles of black rubber-coated cables, like a giant rainforest anaconda with neither head nor tail, snaked into the tent, delivering power to the command center and adjacent intelligence units. The air conditioners worked hard to cool the complex equipment inside. Countless thinner "snakes" of cable ran outward to all parts of the camp. Camouflage netting stretched overhead, and from it hung cold light lamps like summer night stars, illuminating the forest canopy.
The command tent wasn't the brightest spot; under blackout conditions, scattered cold light lamps glimmered like dewdrops in the forest night.
Fifty meters to either side of the tent stood four quad-mounted anti-aircraft cannons. Operators watched radar screens without rest, alert for any airborne unit not belonging to Latveria. The farther out one went, the sparser the lights became. The temporary helipad was ringed by lights, with hangars housing VTOL assault transports and several armed orbital-landing craft, each capable of ferrying a company of troops or thirty tons of supplies from orbit to the surface. If the airstrip had been completed, Immortal City cargo planes could have landed, and the camp's variety of food would have been far richer.
Nearby was an armored vehicle garage, storing black-painted APCs, self-propelled artillery, and massive super-heavy tanks, all bearing golden eagle insignias. These war machines were well protected; unlike the soldiers' rest area, the garages had prefabricated shelters, anti-air defenses, and camouflage netting. Light here was strictly regulated.
This was not the only such facility—other camps had their own airstrips and garages. Immortal City's war potential had barely begun to be tapped, and Latveria's needs were already being met. New missile crews, pilots, and armor operators were still in training; this camp lacked an airstrip simply because they had arrived only a week ago.
Beyond the military core was the residential sector, its streets little more than lanes between tents. Rows of deep green family tents—each able to house five people—and white prefab medical huts lined the walkways. Cold light spilled from the flaps onto the dirt paths. Refugees, screened for disease, were assigned tents. There was no running water, and generator power was limited, but Victor von Doom had ordered that darkness and fear be driven from the camp.
Before curfew, the streets bustled. People worked in exchange for Immortal City's currency, then traded that for goods. With many residents having family in the army, the newly built financial system had fostered a rough but thriving market—food, clothing, and entertainment items, all bought from the civilian cargo off the transports, became treasured possessions for Latverians in these hard times.
Farther still, lights dwindled. Here stood unfinished concrete bunkers, watchtowers with searchlights, weapons platforms, deep-green prefabricated walls two men high, and barbed-wire-wrapped steel obstacles. Beyond lay a simple road of rough-hewn timber from the surrounding forest.
A light tracked APC roared along the muddy road at top unloaded speed, slowing only at a checkpoint before the barriers. From the turret hatch, a shadowed figure emerged, flashing badge and papers to the inspecting soldiers. One soldier, shining his flashlight, started in surprise, then waved them through after a hasty check. The APC's twin-linked laser cannon turret lifted in almost arrogant fashion as it rolled onto the maintained concrete inside.
Passing through layer after layer of forest checkpoints guarded by heavy weapons and black-armored scouts, the APC made straight for the parking area in the restricted military zone. The owner stepped out and strode toward the camp center, soldiers escorting her to the command tent.
In the cold light, the guards at the door clearly saw her approach—the brim of her black peaked cap with golden eagle crest casting a shadow over dark red hair at her temple. Her black, heavy military overcoat was crisp and immaculate, her tall black boots spattered with mud. Even in the cool summer forest night, such an overcoat was unnecessary—but no one commented. No one greeted her unless on patrol; every soldier who encountered her stood rigidly at attention and addressed her by rank with full honorifics. The hat, the coat, and the gold insignia marked the terrible authority of life and death. If regulations were broken, the chainsword and bolt pistol at her hip might come into play.
Though such authority was rarely exercised, none cared to test it.
Under the training of the discipline officers, the once-enthusiastic but undisciplined guerrillas had begun to follow Immortal City's strict military codes. It worked—compared to the private armies of local magnates, the Latverian regular army was far more popular with civilians.
A gray-coated officer, chest bearing both Latveria's regular army insignia and the golden eagle, stepped from the tent to greet her. The guards and officer saluted. Before he could speak, she issued her order in an icy tone:
"Captain Andras, replace all personnel at checkpoint A-12. They lack the training for such an important post. When they saw a commissar's uniform, they failed to properly check credentials. Even a fool knows the enemy will disguise themselves as our own to infiltrate."
"They're not afraid of you, Commissar Sofia—they've just heard about you charging into enemy lines with your chainsword," the captain replied, removing his beret, his tone lightly teasing. But Sofia did not catch the humor, and Andras, unwilling to embarrass himself further, simply waved the comment away.
The difference between a propagandist and a commissar was simple: propagandists didn't go to the front, didn't enforce discipline, didn't lead charges. Commissars did all of that in addition to ideological education, leading troops when needed. Propagandists dealt with civilians and new recruits; commissars dealt with soldiers in closed training and those already in battle. Both were in the same department, but commissars had direct authority over propagandists to ensure ideological unity.
Sofia was displeased; the checkpoint's laxity showed the training camp's efforts were insufficient—harsher measures were needed. But she knew shaping a disciplined army took time, and time was what Latveria lacked most.
Captain Andras knew little of Sofia or the other discipline officers' origins. Even as a scion of a Hydra family, he only knew that this Immortal City–appointed chief commissar was famed for her severity, and that the commissars assigned to the guerrilla units shared her temperament. Only the Sovereign himself knew where these icy, Latin-speaking officers came from. He did know the background of the head propagandist: a former Navy SEAL from Team Six whose comrades were all slain by the Sovereign, and who received a slap afterward—since then, the man had served without question. Andras had never seen the Sovereign in person, but suspected he would fare no better than the propagandist George if he did.
"We're short on manpower," Andras admitted. "Aside from the scouts, most here are raw recruits waiting to be shipped to the front. But you're right—I'll replace Ivanovich and Popescu. They'll face punishment." He sighed. "Commissar Sofia, the Supreme Commander is waiting for you. Let me handle this small matter."
Sofia gave him a cool glance, then nodded, lifted the flap, and stepped inside.
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