RadarBlind the Marshal
Two early-warning radars sweep the coast. Kill both and every regime gun loses a third of its aim and reach.
The day the squadron stopped taking orders.
The actual opening cinematic, captured from the game.
Dead abeam the Simorgh's anchorage stands a regime installation the war already chewed through. Everything it will become rides the battleship's deck.
Land on the Simorgh's pad and the builders run to the skids. Land on the claim and they jump out onto the sand, ready to work.
Hover the cargo yard, winch a tarp of loose blocks and haul it east. Deck riggers lay the bridle before every lift.
They restore the ruins in doctrine order: the pit, then rifles, then wheels. When the third roof goes on, the Simorgh opens the war book.
After that the base runs itself: steel from the pit, riflemen from the barracks, jeeps from the war factory. You fly. The base fights.
Every pin on the chart is somewhere you have to fly, in the order you decide.
RadarTwo early-warning radars sweep the coast. Kill both and every regime gun loses a third of its aim and reach.
PowerOne oil-fired station feeds every outlying factory and barracks. Drop it and production stops everywhere but headquarters.
Air defenseSAM sites form a belt across the approach. Hellfires are for the SAMs, not the trucks.
AirfieldThe Marshal's Hind squadron sits fueled on the strip. Hit the field and they will scramble.
RescueAzadi sailors held in tents beside the Hind strip. Towers first, then open each tent gently.
RescueThree foreign reporters held on the Legation roof as proof that everything is fine. Give the world a close-up of a winch cable instead.
AssaultForward Command on the southern ridge: production, command and fuel. Break it and the headquarters is out of the war.
CaptureThe Marshal's spy runs his networks from the command tower. Take him alive; what he knows is worth more than the bunker.
Intel-lockedThe recon bird went down on day one. The spy knows the grid square. Bring her pilot home and she flies for you.
Roads first, then the buildings that face them. The Tondbad coast is an authored country, and each district works the way its real counterpart would.
IndustryField, manifold, tank farm and power plant, laid out in the order the process reads and chained together by pipe. Clip the line anywhere and the fire marches both ways.
AviationThe Hind strip, the prisoner pen, a boneyard of picked-over hulks and a working civil airport inside one perimeter wire.
HeritageA bastioned caravanserai and a fire temple burning on its tell. Older than the regime, and it will outlast him.
WaterA qanat shows nothing on the surface. Seven shafts step down from the foothills, and only where the water surfaces does the ground go green.
TownsHouses with real floor plans, traffic on the actual road graph, and townspeople who scatter when the shooting starts.
CommandThe Marshal's citadel on the southern ridge, with its own road, its own armor and its own power. Cut everything else first.
Every tank is full. Rupture one and it doesn't just explode; it pours.
Crude finds the real ground under it, and two spills that touch become one pool. The fire front runs out across the film, always a step behind the oil.
Flame only stands where fuel lies, and leaves the spill only for something worth catching: a tree, a truck, a building.
Torch a rig and it burns standing, a charred lattice wrapped in its own flame, still burning when you fly back at dusk.
