As stated, Britain currently does have an interest in the affairs involving the Ottomans, especially in aiding the Greeks. Seeing the circumstances you have pointed out, I can only agree that it would be wise for us to meet and discuss this situation. I shall personally attend this meeting on the 28th of July.
King Charles III of Britain
[Greece Recap]
The war rages on. After some very harsh negotiating, a British officer was able to talk some sense back into the Greeks, and the war against the Ottomans, who now controlled all of Macedonia, as well as all of the Eastern Aegan Isles, raged on. With the conflict between the Greeks and Brits settled, they actually were now starting to put the Ottomans on the defensive. The only good part about the internal conflict between the Greek-Brit alliance was that it had bought the reinforcements from Britain time to get down to Greece without many casualties being sustained, but it also made Athens and the surrounding area the only foothold they had on the mainland.
[Present, Athens]
In a small, well lit room stood ten men, all looking down at a map of Greece, which had been marked to show the difference between the area controlled by the Greeks and Turks. The majority of the country was marked in green, with only the bottom left of the country marked in blue, and Crete marked in red. It was obvious that the Ottomans currently had the advantage, but, after their recent naval defeat Britain had naval superiority, and was beginning to clear the Turks out of the Aegean Islands, before they would finally hit the coasts of Macedonia, where both air and Naval support would ensure that the Ottomans were pushed back to Istanbul. Once that was done, they would be given the ultimatum of surrendering, or having their own capital attacked. With the Ottomans fighting on multiple fronts, they also had a very small amount of reinforcements they could send, where as Greece could call on Bulgaria to the North if a third party was truly needed to ensure their freedom.
Standing from his position, and beginning to pace a bit, Navy Commodore Smith took hold of his chin, going over the last of the details in his head, before finally speaking to the rest of the men in the room.
"Once our ships have ensured the Ottoman naval presence is gone, you will begin to move. You will head North of Athens, securing Western Macedonia, before hitting the east with support from both Vice Marshal Brannan, and myself."
Nodding, Captain McAllen leaned on the table, before speaking up himself.
"We will move up in three groups. The British army will divide, each moving along one side of the Greek army. Doing this should make it so no matter which one of us finds the Turks first, there will be one group close enough to assist, while the third can continue moving up, clearing out any bases that have been set up, and generally clearing a path for the other two groups once they finish dealing with the main attack force."
Taking hold of a ragged, grey beard, Greek General Pachis looked over the map, and ran over what the Brit said in his head again, translating it into Greek so it would be easier for him to understand. After a few minutes, he looked at McAllen, and spoke.
"Are we absolutely sure that the Turks are moving in one large force? What will be do if they were to leave half of their troops behind, and then the small, third group were to go in, outnumbered? We decided to wait on air support until we push into the East. Would we change that plan if my guess is correct?"
"No. If there is a larger force, we will hunker down, and hold them until our reinforcements arrive. My men should be able to handle that much. As far as I'm aware, we currently have more firepower than the turks with the tanks that were brought in with our reinforcements. To be safe, we will send five tanks with each of the British armies, and four with your men. No matter what happens, you will either be reinforcing us, or be reinforced, so at some point, 9 tanks will be supporting your men. As far as we know from those who survived the initial Turk attack, they don't have much armor. THey do have more than us, but theirs is also inferior. And even then, we don't know if they would bring all of their armor still, when their next target is Athens. So I would assume they wouldn't want to go in and blow up a city that they aim to take over."
The Greek General simply nodded. "Then, it is decided. We move out tonight at midnight, correct?"
"Yes. We will be sending out a plane to scout ahead in an hour, so we can determine where we need to head."
"Very well. I shall get my men prepared. We will see you on the battlefield, captain."
A motorcade of black limousines crawled up the gravel road up the hills north of Santander where an expansive country house with a facade made of mortared-stone, much like the ancient castles that gave this part of Spain it's former name of Castile, stood on the edge of sheer granite cliffs constantly thrashed by the waves below. Opposite the cliffs and the Bay of Biscay, a spawling, well-manicured lawn studded with shapely conical boxwood bushes surrounded the mansion. A winding gravel driveway tethered the country house to Santander on the the bay below, the same driveway the motorcade was ascending.
The triad of limousines lined up just in front of the mansion and came to a stop. The driver of the middle limousine - some tuxedo-donning lackey - left his post behind the wheel and went to open one of the passenger doors. Out from the darkness of the limousine stepped Alfonso Sotelo wearing a white dress shirt and khaki pants; his attempt at casual dress. Unaccustomed to the bright midday sun, Sotelo squinted and massaged his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
"Goddamn it's bright." The Prime Minister muttered to himself. His entourage soon formed behind him, consisting of more of Sotelo's black-suited goons and yes-men. One of them, a bald-headed, muscle-bound man who looked more like an American quarterback than a Spaniard, was Sotelo's bodyguard - an ex-patriate North Floridian-turned-Cazador that insisted on being called Gator. The Floridian scanned each of the housekeepers that flanked the walkway to the front door, ready to tackle any one of them should they even sneeze in the Prime Minister's direction. Standing in front of the door ready to greet Sotelo was another one of the suited goons.
"Bienvenidos, su excelencia.The staff and I have ensured that everything is ready for the summit. Please, come in."
"Any word from the airport when Frederick and Charles will arrive?" Sotelo asked, cutting to the chase.
"Oh yes. Their transportation is ready at the airport for their arrival, which I understand will be within perhaps an hour and a half."
Sotelo nodded in acknowledgement and led his lackies in through the door.
Rebellion Recap
The Rebels have been defeated, and peace has been restored to New Zealand. Yay for now.
Shores of Soth Fiji, present day.
The Fiji military stood down within an hour. Their artillery, decimated, their men's morale had gone far below the will to fight.
"How long until the APCs are ready to mobilize?" questioned a young Major, named Fredric Nanseon.
"About 6 hours. These crews need to rest and refuel the beasts of machines they are going to take to Suva" Replied Colonel Wilson.
The major stepped outside to see his resting crew of 5 NZLAVs.
"Hows the refueling going?" He said in a stern tone.
"All done sir." Replied one of the drivers. Suprised, Nanseon sat down atop one of the vehicles.
"Very good. Were rolling out in 6 hours."
"Wheres the infantry? And that tank that was supposed to come with us?" Asked a solider on top of one of the APCs.
"Armor won't be coming, but the infantry will be here 2 hours before go-time." Replied the Major. The soliders turned back to what they were doing.
4 Hours Later
A column of infantrymen marched up, rifles slung against their backs.
"All ready Major." Said the leiutenant in charge of the soliders. Nanseon stared.
"Oh! At attention!" The men snapped to attention.
"At ease, don't forget next time."
"I'm deeply sorry sir, won't happen again."
3 Hours Later
This was it. A rainstorm delayed their advance in addition to the time it took to get to Suva, but they were here.
"Sir, its too quiet." Said a scared solider.
"Don't worry. Their military is done, wer-" An explosion rocked the vehicle. They heard shouting and gunsfire outside
"AT mines!" Screamed a solider.
"Move!" Said the leiutenant over the radio and the platoon poured out of their APCs. It was hell outside. machine gun nests, rocket fire and mines had already killed a good 9 men out of the 30 in the platoon.
"Heavy fighting in the streets. We need some more men here!" Fredric said to command on Fiji.
"Acknowledged, we have a tank column tasked already." Replied a colonel.
Letter to King Charles III of England, President Anatol Plawgo of Poland, Ali Shah Mohammad of Persia, and the rebellion leaders in Syria, Cyprus, Pontic Greece, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Palestine, and Ossetia
Greetings. My name is Hasmik Assanian, President of the newly formed Republic of Armenia. I have noticed your interest in the Eastern Mediterranean region, and I believe that I have a plan that is mutually beneficial. Because you are currently engaging in combat operations and/or political/economical conflict with the Turkish, I think that if we form a military and political cooperation league, both your goals and mine (namely, securing my borders against a "revenge attack" and making sure other rebellions in Turkish space thrive) will be more easily accomplished. A weakened Ottoman Empire is best for our interests in the region. So with this being said, I propose that we meet in Yerevan sometime in the near future to discuss the political impacts of such a cooperation. August 5th is the day selected by my staff, and shall be held at the Government House. Please reply back with your response as soon as possible.
Thank you,
Hasmik L. Assanian, President of the Republic of Armenia
Yerevan, Armenia
A large bout of rain had swept over Yerevan and the surrounding districts, creating a thick fog that blanketed the city. Vice President Robert Pollundrian was loitering outside of the Government House in Republic Square in his black raincoat, waiting for Assanian to come from his house on the outskirts of town. Pollundrian had his hands shoved deep in his pockets in an attempt to protect against the biting, out-of-season cold that came with the rain, but also to find a lighter. He had a pack of cigarettes located in the front pocket of his suit, but was unable to light them, much to his frustration. So for several minutes the he rummaged around in his pockets in vain, all while being drenched in the rain that could not have come at a more inconvenient time.
Eventually, one of the guards at the front gate noticed the Vice President, and came to approach. The soldier was also dressed in a similar raincoat over his battledress, and the rain was dripping off of the steel helmet that seemed to large for his childish face. An HK33 carbine danged from a shoulder strap as he walked over the pathway to the disused fountain where Pollundrian leaned against. The guard, naturally, assumed that Pollundrian was just one of the many citizens who wandered the streets, either begging or looking for any job.
"Eh, uh, hello?" the guard asked in his young voice. "What's going on?"
"Huh? Oh, shit," Pollundrian let out in surprise. He turned to face the curious guard, revealing his full face. The soldier immediately gasped, and then took a step backwards, perhaps even more surprised than Pollundrian was.
"Sorry, sir. I, uh, I meant no disrespect," he stumbled apologetically.
Pollundrian replied with a chuckle as he resumed his position leaning against the fountain. "That's fine, kid. Following your training."
"I, uh... yeah... Well, is there anything you need help with? I noticed you seem to have lost something?"
"Lost something?" Pollundrian replied. "No... Wait. Yes. Do you have a lighter? I must have left mine at home."
"A lighter, sir?" the guard asked as he quickly placed his hands into his raincoat and searched for one. Pollundrian affirmed, to which the guard nodded and continued searching the pockets. He stared right by Pollundrian as he did so; an eccentricity of his. After a few moments, he shook his head. "Naw, sir. No lighter."
"Heh. Alright, soldier."
The guard nodded, and his hand went back to clutching his rifle sling. "Care to come inside, sir? I believe there are some matches at the guard post by the door. Corporal Savelian's."
"Would he mind if I took some?" Pollundrian asked with a sly smile. The guard shrugged and threw his head back: "Aram!"
A voice from far off replied: "What is it?"
"The Vice President needs some matches for his cigarettes! Can you find any?"
"Well, uh, let me check! Hold on!"
The guard brought his gaze back to Pollundrian. "He's looking," he informed the Vice President.
"Alright."
"Say, why don't you come inside? Why are you out here?" the guard asked.
"I'm waiting for Assanian," Pollundrian replied. "We're going to a meeting at the university."
"The university? What for?"
"The economy. We've got to work on it."
"Ah. Seems obvious."
"You won't believe how complex it is," Pollundrian joked. "I sure as hell don't want to put up with it. But you have to work to fix your problems."
The guard chuckled. "I'm just a footsoldier. My place isn't with the fancy intellectuals trying to figure out how much money should be worth. I'd just give everyone a million dram and be done with it."
"Heh. If it were that simple, we'd have done it already."
"Amen to that, sir," the guard said in agreement. He then let his gaze wander, as the topic was pretty much over by then. He quickly snapped back to his duties, though, and asked: "Is there anything else I can help you with?" he asked.
"I hate to sound rude, but I still haven't gotten the lighter yet," Pollundrian answered with a joking grin.
"Oh, yeah. Right," the guard suddenly, as if he forgot and then just remembered. He turned his head back and shouted: "Aram! Where's the lighter!"
"Come here and get it!" the voice from behind said. The guard made a face into the air silently mocking his partner, and swiveled to run towards the guard post. A few seconds later, he had taken a small silver object from another raincoat-clad guard and was running back to Pollundrian, who raised his hand in the air in a way indicating that the guard toss it. The guard saw his signal, and slowly underhanded it to the Vice President. "Thanks, kid," came the reply.
So Pollundrian finally got his coveted cigarette, just as Assanian's staff car pulled up at the roundabout in front of the garden. Pollundrian saw this, and swore maybe a bit too loudly. He saw the guard standing awkwardly by the fountain awaiting Pollundrian's departure, and returned the lighter with a similar underhand throw. He chuckled at the circumstances, just as he entered the awaiting vehicle for the meeting.
"You can confirm it?" the contact said. Cigarette smoke formed a thin veil that choked the room. Everything hidden behind a light blue-grey haze. Light cast from the un-shaded lamp formed a hazy and smokey halo of light. An ashtray choked with extinguished butts sat on the coffee table. The room the two agents and their RGG contact was small, a mere closet in a shed of an apartment somewhere in downtown Khatmandu.
"We can." Quan said, "Our man fled north across the border. We met a friend of his who told us."
The man nodded, "Well, in any case we'll head back to the boss and confirm it."
"Great. So when do we leave?"
"In a few hours," the Burmese man grumbled, "I got a few personal affairs to finish. But we'll be en'route to Rangoon."
Cebu - July 23rd
"You can confirm that?" Shing said into the hand set, "Over."
"We can. Gunmen are out throughout Manilla and Bacolod. The capital garrison has set up about the capital building and archdiocese to safeguard the Congress and Archbishop while they chase the gunmen. We've got men all over Bacolod chasing fires and explosives." the radio cracked, "We'll need to dispatch men to your position when we're finished here if you can't handle yourselves. Over."
"We copy." Shing responded with a already tired looked, "Cebu over and out." he added, handing the receiver to the operator.
"I told you." the police lieutenant said.
"And I confirmed it." Shing added, "We're going to be on our own, and obviously we can't wait these gunners out." Shing added. To extenuate the point there was a bout of gunfire from the hospital. "We're going in."
"What?" the lieutenant said, eyes widened by shock.
Shing nodded, "We need cover."
"You two are going to get shot! Without a doubt." the officer pleaded, "Wait for the special response to get in here, and we can clean them out!"
Shing whipped around furiously and took the lieutenant by the collar. The policeman's face going suddenly pale as he met with the IB agent's scowl, "And you're just killing more."
(Sorry, can't finish this. I think I drained my energy for the day. If I go on anymore I'll be forcing it.)
A thin, professional-looking fellow slept surprisingly soundly propped against one of the wooden posts holding the roof of the airport up. Airport was probably aggrandizement for the humble facility that served as the primary air hub of the tiny Pacific nation of the Cook Islands. A corrugated metal roof help up by wooden posts covering a concrete floor served as the terminal, - a two-acre long stretch of gravel was the tarmac. A pair of benches underneath a slowly-spinning cieling fan was the only designated sitting space and was presently occupied by a New Zealand family and their luggage, leaving the Mediterranean-looking professional napping on the concrete floor.
A stocky, short woman of Polynesian stock approached the napping man and politely tapped him on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry to wake you up, sir... but you're waiting on the flight to Sydney, right?"
"Yes, yes, that is my destination." The man said with a noticeable Spanish accent.
"Your plane arrived not too long ago. In about twenty minutes, they'll be ready to take off." The Polynesian woman explained courtiously.
"Excelente." The Spaniard acknowledged, reverting into Castillian. "Thank you."
"Spaniard, hmmm?" The woman guessed. "What takes you to Australia?"
"I am a botanist with the University of Salamanca in Spain." The Spaniard recited from his premeditated cover story. "I'm collecting presses of Eucalyptus species from Tasmania for the university's collection." He lied.
"Oh, how interesting! Well take care now, and have a wonderful time."
"Oh, I will." He said politely as he pushed himself off of the post, collected his briefcase, and made his way over to the register to purchase his ticket for the flight to Sydney, fumbling through a number of plane tickets in his pocket that he had retained from Madrid, Caracas, and Lima for a wad of pesetas as he did.
Little did the portly Polynesian woman know that the Spaniard she waved farewell to was none other than Dr. Guijon - the man responsible for synthesizing and maintaining Spain's arsenal of VX nerve agent.
Letter Addressed to Anselmo Zuñiga, M.D. from Minster of Health Andres Quevado
Doctor Zuñiga,
It has come to the attention of the Ministry of Health that you have been collecting data on the spreading immunodeficiency pathogen that has recently appeared throughout this nation. The fact that you have neither volunteered your findings to the Ministry of Health nor cooperated with the Ministry of Health to combat this epidemic and help to produce a cure may very well have resulted in several needless deaths. Whether you have kept your data to yourself for the notoriety of finding a cure on your own or out of disdain for the Ministry of Health, it is imperative that you surrender your findings to the Ministry of Health. Further failure to cooperate will be grounds for your arrest and the seizure of all data pertinent to this pandemic due to the gravity of this situation.
I will need to speak with you in person immediately to compare your findings with the data that have been collected by the Ministry of Health. I trust you will be forthcoming and that your assistance will help us rid Spain of this epidemic.
Outside of Suva
The rumble of the 3 tanks was the only thing keeping Lt. Shepard awake. He was leading the tank column sent to assist the pinned group of soliders in Suva, and they were almost there.
"MG nest up in that building! Fire a shell!" Barked the tank's spotter. Shepard closed his hatch and ducked inside. BAM! An explosion rattled the tank and the building nearby collapsed. Shepard popped his hatch open and looked around. Nothing.
"Major Nanseon? Anyone?" Called out the leiutenant.
"Over here!" Responed the major.
"Come over here. Its safe."
"Thank god you got here. They killed all but 11 of my men, 3 of the survivors are grazed by bullets in places, one got a direct hit to the leg." Said Nanseon. "And 3 of the APCs are out of action."
"Well where is the remains of your platoon, sir?" Asked a driver.
"Just through that alleyway." The major pointed to a wide alley across the street.
"Thats where were going then."
Skies over Suva, 3 hours later
"Its beautiful, ain't it?" Said one of the pilots.
"Yea. Its New Zealand territory now. The Fiji government surrendered 30 minutes ago." Replied another.
"Return to base Foxtrot. Well done on the air cover." Said their commander.
The jets flew in formation back to New Zealand.
Office of the Navy, Wellington, New Zealand, Present Day
"So it is done? The plans approved by the president?" Asked the Cheif of Navy.
"Yes. With the need for overseas air cover, the NZNS Pride of Wellington will become the main production in our shipyards." Replied the advisor. The NZNS Pride of Wellington was an aircraft carrier, similar in many ways the the Essex class carriers.
Lohtlha Military Base, Northern Cape Province, Republic of South Africa
"One people, one nation, one South Africa."
The chant echoed across the parade square from the mouths of 1,500 recruits standing ramrod straight beneath the blazing sun. Among them was Private Shilowa, a recruit new longer, of the newly formed 103rd Regiment. Gone was the small, frail farm boy who had arrived so many months ago. In his place stood a man, a man with broad shoulders and thick arms that easily handled his weapon as a general salute was ordered.
They were the first of the new South African National Army and thousands would follow. The first to take up the arms of a new nation, the first of thousands who would shed their tribal identity in the name of a greater South Africa.
"Soldiers." General Clarkson himself stood before them on the high podium clad in the dress uniform of the Army Corps of Engineers, five stars gleaming on his shoulder. "Over the past months you have proven your worth to this great nation. Your hard work, your hours of sweat, tears and blood have all come to this great moment when you can hold your heads high and say, I am a soldier."
"BUT!" He paused for a moment, blue eyes sweeping the long ranks. "You are not just any soldiers! You are soldiers of the Republic of South Africa, defenders of this incredible nation and with your help we shall rise to a greatness that none before us could have ever dreamed!"
His words fell upon them like a wave and Shilowa felt his chest swell with pride. For a long moment there was silence then a voice called out towards the rear ranks where the instructors stood at attention.
"One people!"
His voice was drowned by the others that roared out the next words like thunder.
"One nation! One South Africa!"
Union Building, Pretoria, Republic of South Africa
"You're certain of this?" The President and Vice-President were alone, a sheet of paper between them on the table. Reddekker looked exhausted and Mandela deeply troubled.
"Yes sir. We received word from our Ambassador who had the news from a friend in the Ethiopian war office." Mandela gestured to the paper and its message that read much like a daily report on the news of the goings on in the Ethiopian capital but within its text there was the hidden message.
"The Chinese in Africa. Do the Ethiopians want to drive us into the arms of the Spanish? I thought the whole idea of ACE was to preserve democracy and prevent the spread of Communism..." Redekker sighed as he glared at the sheet of paper.
"I don't know what to say Paul." Said Mandela. "We know they plan to train Zambian and Tanzanian soldiers alongside their own. This whole "Empire" bit is getting out of hand. Once I would have said we should be afraid of Spain but these days, with the Ethiopians cuddling up to the Chinese, I'm not so sure."
"Have you spoken with Clarkson about this?"
"No, he's reviewing the first of the conscripts coming out of training today. It sounds promising. From everything I hear the whole "One South Africa" but is going over quite well. Not so much with the older generations but it's the youth we need."
"That's good then. How is our rearmament plan running, I don't want us to have to rely on the Ethiopians for anything."
Mandela cracked open a notebook he held in his lap, turning it a few pages before glancing down the columns. "As you know our Naval technology has always been fairly good so the new gunboats are in production. Everything else is a matter of upgrading or retooling our arms manufacturing."
"Any chance of foreign contracts for equipment or building licenses?"
"Not yet. I haven't contacted anyone, I wanted to see how the whole Spanish-Ethiopian crisis played out. However, with this information about China possibly being brought in I am leaning towards contacting Prussia in order to keep ourselves looking neutral until we can be certain Ethiopia has sold out."
NZNS Auckland, off the Coast of Fiji, Present Day
The bob of the cruiser Auckland rocked most people to sleep. After all, it was almost midnight. But commander Yakatori, a man with Japanese heritage and control over the most powerful vessel in the New Zealand navy, was still awake. The gold topped flagpoles of the surrounding warships gleamed in the moonlight. Yakatori heard a loud ship's horn blasting in the distance. He pulled out his bionoculars to see 2 Pacific class patrol boats alongside an oil tanker. That was odd. The tanker and one of the PT boats flew New Zealand flags, while the other flew none.
"Pirates!" He said loudly.
"Sir?" Asked an officer operating comunications.
"Yes! There!" He pointed and handed her the bionoculars.
"Why isn't our boat- oh god! Sir the pirates have captured our ship and are executing our crew!" Exclimed the officer.
"Send a frigate!" Ordered Yakatori.
"Right away sir!" Replied the officer.
10 Minutes Later, Aboard the NZNS Summer
The commanding warrant officer aboard the Summer ordered a weapons-free on the 2 miniguns on the front of the ship.
"Haha! Got one!" Exclaimed a solider as one PT boat burst into flames. The second one followed soon after and the explosion was followed by a chorus of cheering from the crew.
"Oil tanker safe. Escort er' to Fiji" Orderd the warrant officer.
Disturbing the otherwise harmonious nature of the ocean was a monster of blackened complexion and elongated proportions. Its thick metal skin acting to not only protect the crew but also conceal it in the darkened waters of the Baltic Sea, reducing its structure into a silhouette that drifted under the surface of the ocean in a seemingly effortless fashion. The skeleton inside came in the form of narrow hallways layered with pipes and an assortment of valves and gauges strewn throughout the ship.
Large watertight doors segmented the vessel and separated the living quarters from the more complicated workstations the crew tended to nonstop. Small compartments outfitted with numerous necessities and bunk beds occupied the area in which Fuchs and his Finnish companion, Eemil, rested. Having discarded of their bulky civilian overcoats, the two sat cramped around a small table the crew used for dining purposes, both of them sporting simple, dark-blue military fatigues designed for comfort.
Breaking the silence that had befallen the men minutes prior, Eemil spoke up. "I could go for a smoke." he said staring subconsciously at the metal rivets embedded into the walls around him. "But I'm afraid this thing'll explode." he added in a flat tone.
"You light that cigarette and I'll be the one to throw you overboard." Snickered Fuchs in response, his eyes fixed on a book of naval history.
"You think it'd really explode?" asked Eemil.
"I don't know." answered Fuchs. "But if I caught a whiff of that shit I'd be hoping it did explode." he complained. "I always thought, if I'm gonna turn my lungs into liquid shit I might as well do it with quality cigars."
"I'm sorry, grandpa." teased Eemil. "I'm just getting a little stressed, you know? I didn't think I'd end up in a goddamned submarine. And I told you, I'm claustrophobic." he explained.
"Well, what did you expect?" asked Fuchs, taking his gaze off the book for a moment. "That we could take a fucking cruise ship?" he quipped. "Grow some goddamn balls, you knew what you signed up for."
"And it sure as fuck wasn't a submarine ride." shot back Eemil. "Lord knows these waters are known for dragging ships to the bottom of the ocean, the Vanguardia can attest to that." said the Finn in butchered Spanish.
"What, did you drink a glass of estrogen this morning or are all Finnish men pussies?"
"Pffah! I'm no coward!" spat Eemil. "I was there at Helsinki when the Revolution raged, I threw my fists in the air and spilled blood for Sven." he added pridefully, his demeanor becoming slightly agitated.
"Yeah?" began Fuchs, "Well, you should have thrown those fists into somebody's face, 'cause last I checked you commies were still freezing to death in the north; Finland is still divided."
"Bah!" exclaimed a frustrated Eemil. "Do we even have a plan?" he asked with a tint of doubt.
"Not yet." Fuchs admitted. "We'll figure it out when we get there."
Eemil snickered. "And you're supposed to be the so-called "elite" Prussian Geheimabwehr? Without a damn clue as to what we're doing?" he laughed. "What a joke."
"We're gonna get to Helsinki and do what you and your miserable band of imbecile pinkos have been trying to do for years." he replied. "How's that for an answer?" he said with a smirk.
"Then we'll have to contact the other members of the Finnish Communist Front."
"Great." said a sarcastic Fuchs. "More deadweight." he groaned. "Look," he said. "We'll have Igor Rahkamo dead within the year without your commie friends. Just let me work, alright? If all goes well you'll have your crappy country united again by the end of the year. Maybe then Finns will reach a collective IQ of fifty and we'll all be happy."
"Go to hell." retorted Eemil.
"I'll be there." Fuchs laughed, his gaze once again firmly set on the book in front of him.
Die Preußen Tagespresse
South Finnish Communist Sympathizers gather to peacefully protest the Imperial Government
Harsh criticism of the Imperial Government by self-proclaimed Communist sympathizers has South Finland citizens on edge, fearing tension with the north will increase as a result of the protests. North Finnish officials have yet to comment, but members of the South Finnish Imperial Government have expressed doubt when asked if they believed there was a connection between the Communist sympathizers in South Finland and Sven's regime.
More in Page 10
Santander, Spain
Prompted by the arrival of yet another set of governmental vehicles came forth a barrage of blinding flashes as cameramen gathered outside the gates to the mortared-stone mansion competed against each other for the best shot. A black limousine flying both the Spanish and Prussian flags on its hood navigated up the hills and pass the winding road to the mansion with a pair of black Sedans as escort.
Coming to a halt just in front of the mansion and out of range of news cameras, the doors to the limousine swung open and a wall of suited bodyguards formed around the vehicle. Frederick IV of Prussia emerged from out of the limousine with his now characteristic cavalry coat slung over his arm. Instead he wore a simple white dress-shirt and grey breeches (because hell yeah militarism) and boots. Advised, or rather warned of the weather, his Pickelhaube was nowhere to be seen, and his coat went deprived of use.
A smile shot across the Kaiser's face despite his deep discomfort with both the hot weather and formal gatherings. Greeting the staff of cordial Spaniards gathered outside, he entered the building with his entourage of bodyguards and bootlickers.
(Gorgen did most of the setting so you'll have to deal with that.)
Birgit August sat at his home, his large couch smelled new and fresh from how seldom he used it. The folds of green fabrics with slightly fuzzy stripes going down it gave it a silly look for a politician but what could be said of its look Birgit often countered by telling people to sit down. The couch allowed a person to sink to just the right depth, and feel as if they were suspended in a cloud of prefect equilibrium. Birgit rested in his couch, ahead of him past his mild bluish walls that gave the room a nice sky look was his television. The black box seemed out of place, the ornately carved wooden table it rested on was crafted from African Blackwood, done in an old Norse style the table looked like it was from another era. The carpet the table rested on was the same green of Birgits couch, but with white stripes spiraling into the center. Yes the black box was hardly in place among these things under the warm incandescent light
The television was set to the interim election, Birgit found it amusing he was kicked out of his office at least a week before its next tenant would take his seat but he was past caring, and he just hoped someone moderate would be elected. As the television flashed past commercial’s and onto the silver black and white face of the reporter with the Riksdag behind him. The man on the television spoke loudly, After the shocking vote of no confidence in incumbent Birgit August the Riksdag has called an interim election, as this network understand the vote has finished being counted and the Riksdag is preparing to announce the new Swedish prime minister. Now while we wait for the results we can look at who is predicted to win. Polls taken over telephone have put the far right Sweden Party commanded by Albert Felix, formerly an unpopular party that has slowly gained popularity in recent years in the lead followed by the more moderate replacement candidate from the old Prime Ministers Conservative party Frans Halvar. The mood is however in the Sweden Parties favour as the entrance of North Finland into the far left communist Asian Socialist Bloc and with it the expansion of Chinese power in the region has had many in Sweden fear that liberal approaches to communism in the past by Birgit August former leader of the Center Party have strengthened communism and damaged the sovereign status of Sweden. Because of this the Center party is at a steep disadva- Hold me there the results have just come in!” The man on the screen took a moment and announced in an upbeat tone, “Just as predicted the Sweden party have taken the election and will serve as the government of Sweden for the next two years until the normal election schedule resumes. Well folks this has been an interesting interim election and we will see you again in two years, also remember if you need to shave clean Manceing razors are your only ch-.” Birgit cut the man of with a click of his remote and a long sigh. This would not bode well for Sweden, the people were fearful of China, and despite Birgits attempts to stem that fear by making peace he only worsened it. Now with China at the nation’s front door a man as mad as Albert Felix was elected. In time the people would understand their mistake, however how long would that take?
The next day Birgit woke again and made his way to the living room once again. Upon sitting down he turned on the television once again and was greeted by Albert Felixs face, raised above the masses. Albert boomed in a confident self-glorifying voice, “People of Sweden! People of this good nation! Today I will not lie; we face problems in this age we had not ever dreamed of before. The Chinese have come to our door! The former Government tried to negotiate with them, and they failed terribly. So you the people have elected me to insure that you are never taken advantage of by the communists; that Sweden remains solely a Swedish state. You have elected me to see communism and the dragon that spreads it like fire extinguished from this fair land! I swear to you I will insure Sweden is no longer tainted by this menace. We will abolish the policies of appeasement to leftist groups within and outside of Sweden and by the grace of god who has given us this chance we will fulfill his mission to its competition. Now people of this great nation let us rejoice in prayer for this victory, and let us know that god who watches over us at all times will aid us in our mission to insure that Sweden will never have is sovereign rights infringed by many group or man!”
Birgit muttered to himself, ”…Fuck me” Eventually they would find reason to imprison him as some sort of statement against those who appease communism and aren’t dutiful to god, he would need to get out of Sweden. Norway was off the table, too close. Denmark would never take him in and most other nations would refuse him. Birgit could try to flee to South America; it was unlikely he would be recognized there. Regardless he knew he had to get out of Sweden before Albert consolidated his power. Birgit would head for the airport and get out of the country before Albert found a reason to imprison him.
It has been since time immemorial that man has looked to the stars in wonder, so I ask you, how can going to them be anything but an extension of a will older than any of us? It is our very nature to discover, and to lust for knowledge, you accept this but doubt the nobility of working to the stars?
Hasmik Assanian and the soaked Robert Pollundrian entered through the double doors leading to conference room 4 at the University of Armenia's Yerevan campus. The extravagant room used to be called the Suleiman Room, but the name was sandblasted off the walls by order of the rector, a noted Armenian nationalist. It was quickly painted over, leaving the room remained bare until the factories in Hrazdan could be reactivated to print an engraved plate for a replacement name. Coincidentally, the state of Armenian industry was one of the topics being discussed at that night's meeting. From all over the country, economists gathered to formulate a plan to set Armenia's economy on the right track. There were about a dozen of them, all sitting with assorted papers and books scattered over the circular wooden table illuminated by a brass chandelier hanging above. They noticed the President's arrival, and one of them duly noted that the meeting was started.
After Assanian and Pollundrian took their seats by their respective namecards, one of the economists cleared his throat rather loudly and purposely as a way of starting the meeting off. Assanian shifted in his chair until he found a comfortable position, and said: "Welcome to our emergency meeting, gentlemen."
The rest of the people in the room grunted responses, with Pollundrian chuckling quietly beside the President. He was mildly amused at the scene. Assanian ignored this, and continued: "So on the agenda today is going to find a way to start making gains in the economy. Right now, we're not in debt per se, but we have almost zero opportunities to make money. What I want to do is start churning out exports as soon as possible and use that money to fix up and modernize the country. As we all know too well, the Ottomans have left the country in a state of disrepair, which means we have to clean up the mess."
"So to do this," Pollundrian said, continuing where Assanian left off as per the plan, "we need to figure out a few things. Namely, our eight questions."
Assanian began listing them, counting off with his fingers after each one. "One: what available infrastructure do we have now to facilitate reconstruction of the country? Two: what do we have to repair? Three: what sources of income do we have? Four: what sources of income can be immediately repaired and put to work? Five: what sources of income can we construct in the future? Six: how much foreign aid should we need? Seven: what should the government do? Eight: what should we do with our currency?"
"Assanian and I have both decided we want an expedited meeting. We scheduled to have our plan set in stone tonight, followed by a radio broadcast on the former rebellion network at three o'clock tomorrow. We have until then, and I don't care if we stay up all night deliberating it. If we have everything okayed tonight, Assanian can make it happen. So let's go. Question one."
The room was silent for a moment save for the shuffling of papers. After about fifteen seconds, one of the economists cleared his throat and began to speak. His nameplate read "Jamal Kabadian", and he spoke with an Assyrian-accented tenor. "Mister President," he began, "I have consulted a friend in the railroad industry on the state of Armenian railways, and his report was that there was only two major railways operating from Erzurum to Rize that used to ferry oil to the port city for export. Another runs from Van to Gyumri. All others are either disused or damaged, particularly by the partisans."
Kabadian stopped for a moment to drink out of a nearby glass of water before adding: "The railways can be used to ferry oil, timber, lead, copper, chromium, and zinc from the mines Erzurum to export ships in Rize. The Gyumri-Van link has a little less value, but minerals can be transported from mines there for sale to Persia."
Assanian nodded. "Thank you, Mister Kabadian." He then turned his head back to the table: "What about our roadways?"
Someone else raised his hand: a mustachioed Syrian-looking man by the name of Mohammad Javelian. "The roadways in Armenia are good enough to move around in. Whereas the railways were destroyed by the war, the roads were left by the Turks to move around on, so we have those. They provide transportation between the main cities, so until the railways can be repaired I suggest we use them the highways as our primary trading routes. Trucking will have to take the place of railroads for now, and we do have a large Russian diaspora to perform these duties. Trucking is very common in Russia due to the current climate that renders maintenance of railways impossible. With the recent influx of Russian refugees from the ASF's 'courier railway', I think we'll have a sizable population of truckers."
Kabadian nodded his head in agreement. "Yes, I agree. The roadways, especially the ones linking the Persian borders to the Ottoman ones, were maintained by Ottoman crews prior to our secession because of their value. Of course, other roads are not so well taken care of. I'll get to that later."
Assanian nodded once again, and turned his attention to another figure on the board: Mikael Velonian, a former sea captain from Trabzon. "Armenia's nautical infrastructure is practically nonexistent," he answered in a matter-of-factly tone. "Sure, Trabzon and Rize have some decent ports, but there are currently only fourteen ships in Armenian civilian hands. Many of them were seized from Turkish companies during the war by our navy, and are sitting at dock doing nothing because they're not a part of any company. We have some tools, but we just need to organize them."
"What is the roster of these ships?" Pollundrian asked.
Velonian held up his index finger, indicating that the Vice President wait a second. He reached into his stack of papers and filed through them until he found one with several bullet points. He placed it atop the pile and began to read from it: "It looks like we have two oil tankers carrying about 15,000 DWT, seven dry container cargo ships that carry 17,000 DWT, three dry bulk ships at 19,000 DWT, and two roll-on-roll-offs at 20,000 DWT. All in all, if we gather them in a government merchant marine we can export across the Black Sea to Poland and Prussia."
"Got it. Now, to the subject of airports," Assanian said after listening intently to Velonian. He made a few marks on his notepad, which included the readiness levels of the infrastructure. "Who's got the information on that?" he asked.
Kabadian raised his hand again, and stated: "We have only one proper airport. That, of course, is Zvartnots. Everything else is either a dirt landing strip or a forest clearing used as a helipad. We're severely lacking in the air transport department, so we need to get that under control."
"That's it?" Pollundrian asked. "Just Zartnots?"
"Just Zvartnots," Kabadian repeated.
Pollundrian groaned and then sighed: "Holy hell..."
Assanian raised his eyebrow at the statement, but otherwise displayed no shock. He scribbled down "AIRPORTS!" on his notepad and then went back to the panel. "Is that everything pertaining to transport? Railways, roads, ports, airports... Yes. That's it. Now we need to talk about services: water, sewage, electricity, and telecommunications. First up: water and sewage."
The person sitting next to Kabadian, a stout Russian wearing a moth-eaten suit cleared his throat. His nameplate was "Seyovich", and he spoke with an oddly Kazakh accent. "Each city has its own water and sewage system that is controlled by independent authorities," he reported. "Based on my data, they are doing well. You Armenians like your clean cities, so there isn't too much to repair in that section. Maybe we need a few replacement parts in minor sections, but overall the systems are working fine."
"Good, good," Assanian said, looking down at his notepad. "Now electricity and telecommunications?"
Sevovich began speaking again: "The national power grid is currently down in a few of the more wartorn areas like Artashat or Nakhchivan, but the Turkish never instituted a scorched earth policy so the power grid remains more or less intact. Right now, coal plants operating at about 43% efficiency in Hrazdan power the immediate area, with more coal plants in the Nagorno-Karabakh powering the region. Western Armenia is largely rural, with only the Van, Trabzon-Rize, and Erzurum areas receiving power with their natural gas or coal plants. Some of the bigger cities get rolling brown or blackouts, so that needs to be looked into. But otherwise, electricity requires some major pan-Armenian improvement, but little local improvement."
"What about telecommunications?" Assanian asked.
"Ah, yes. This is where many of the rural areas lack in. Right now, Armenia proper has a fine system of telephone lines... and as you all know, telephone lines direct both telephone and telegraph communications... but in the West, large portions of the country have either been cut off by the war, or never had telecommunications to begin with. However, those areas are not of very much economical or strategic importance, making that point moot. The powerhouses are all set."
Sevovich finished, and waited for Assanian's response nervously. His fingers drummed on the edge of the table as he watched the ripples in his glass of water. Meanwhile, Kabadian had finished his and excused himself from the table momentarily to refill his glass from the water cooler located at the end of the room. The majority of the panel casually observed this, until Assanian began speaking again. "It sounds like we're in a pretty bad shape," he noted.
"Oh, not at all, Mister President!" Kabadian called out from the water cooler. As he waited for his glass to fill, he turned his head to Assanian and said: "It's just the physical things that are lacking. We have communications to facilitate a quick and efficient repair process. We aren't in some sort of dark age."
Assanian, shocked by the unorthodox interjection, listened as Kabadian continued: "There will be ample opportunities to- damn!"
Kabadian had ignored his water glass for too long, and the fluid spilled over the top and gushed down onto his hand and the carpet. Kabadian excused his language as he went to grab his water and sip the liquid down from the top of the glass. As he nursed the glass, he wiped his hand on the side of his coat. After he had solved his crisis, he quickly went to place his water down on the table before running back to retrieve some paper towels to mop up the spill, and also to hide his embarrassment. Pollundrian silently chuckled beside Assanian, before the President flicked him in the arm as a signal to stop.
"Alright, alright," Assanian sternly announced. "Settle down. Have we answered the first question?"
A few affirmatives swept around, and Assanian nodded. "Onto question two. What can we repair?"
Kabadian, still absent from the table, answered the question in a loud voice to compensate for his distance: "For railroads, we need to begin repairs to the war-damaged sections, which shouldn't be too hard. The ASF wasn't aiming to cripple our future economy like an invading force might, but rather deny Turkish troop reinforcements. Therefore, they only damaged infrastructure in places that were either easy to repair or easy to reach. An example of this is the Erzurum Interchange, where the rebels attacked the Ottoman oil pipeline and railroad junction. They only damaged the pipe itself, and not any of the computer equipment in the building. They also just destroyed some cars on the railroad tracks to deny their use."
As he continued to wipe up the spilled water, he added: "They made it easy to repair on purpose. They knew the war was almost over and that we'd be the ones repairing it for our gain, and not the Ottomans for theirs."
"And on the subject of ports," Velonian said, "we have the tools but not the means of using them. Of course, our equipment like cranes and drydocks are going to need extensive repairs, but we have the capability to use our ships as it is and begin exporting. I suggest we form a merchant marine and incorporate the ships into the program. That way, the government can have control over it for a little while until we can start slowly letting the industry seep back into the private sector. That's essentially what we should do as a whole, but I'll get to that later."
Sevovich grunted. "Don't you think that would reduce productivity?"
"How?" asked Velonian. "It's a guaranteed job, and that's what people need. If we give them good wages, then the'll be fine."
"But the private sector can listen to their wants and needs and-"
"Bullshit, Mister Sevovich. The government can do that as well, and probably be better at it."
"But-"
"Enough!" interjected Assanian. "We'll get to this later!"
The room was silenced as both Sevovich and Velonion stared at their papers. With the topic of nautical infrastructure dealt with, Velonian had nothing more to say. "I have nothing more to say about it," he announced.
"Very well, Mister Velonian," Assanian answered. "And on the subject of roads?"
"We're going to need to repave them," Kabadian said as he came back to his chair and settled in. "And build some more linking the cities. Right now the majority of them can't hold truckers, so we'll have to build new ones and refurbish old ones with that capability. Our bridges, too, need to be repaired before they collapse in on themselves. Remember that incident in Hrazdan in '76? We'll need to fix that. Now that we have our own goals and priorities, we can."
"I agree," Velonian said. "Our main roads are good to go, and that will allow us to garner the funds needed to repair and build smaller ones."
Assanian scribbled down the decision into his notepad, and then looked back up. "Airports?" he asked.
Kabadian sighed. "Air travel isn't significant to our grand scheme, so airports should be constructed in areas deemed appropriate in the future. Right now, Zvartots can handle Yerevan and Hrazdan, but I forsee we'll have to build one at Stepanakert for the Nagorno-Karabakh, and also build one at Trabzon, Erzurum, Van, and Nakhchivan. This will all come as Armenia becomes a stronger regional power, so we can let the issues of airports slide for the time being. Ground and sea based travel is our immediate priority, Mister President."
"Alright. So repair our railroads and roads, build more of them, establish a merchant fleet to use our nautical infrastructure, hold off on airports, repair and expand our telephone and electrical lines, and our water and sewer tunnels are fine? Is this our statement on infrastructure?" Assanian leaned back in his chair, awaiting a response. A chorus of affirmatives came back, to which Assanian smiled. "Alright," he started, "that's question two. We've dealt with infrastructure for now. How about we take a half-hour minute recess?"
"Hmm. That would be nice," Pollundrian said softly. Assanian was mildly amused at the childlike statement.
"Alright guys," he announced. "You can take off for a half-hour... Actually..."
He glanced at his watch. "It's six, so I'll give you an hour for dinner. I've heard the campus restaurant is very nice. Dismissed."
At once, the people at the panel began chatting as Assanian leaned back in his chair. The panel slowly left their seats and then the room, leaving just Assanian and Pollundrian. And then, Pollundrian announced that he was going to find some cigarettes, leaving just Assanian sitting alone at the table. He glanced down at his notepad, and then tossed it on top of the table as he, too went to go to the campus restaurant.
Assanian wanted to try out the steak there, and see if the culinary students lived up to their reputation.
The parking lot was a slick sheet as the rain drizzled down on the black-asphalt. Gleams of orange and yellow shone from the oily surface from the streetlights outside. On the far side of the city post-office, the length of highway that bisected the town lay dead. On rare occasion, a dark olive-green army truck would rumble down the length of road on their way to or from the occupied NWC zone.
Ming Fa hung silently in the doorway. Word had it the man he would travel north with would be arriving soon. The Chinese agent checked his watch. 1:24. The man was late.
In a long convoy lumbered down the high-way north-bound. Several armored cars and a truck covered in the dark forms of of soldiers clutching assault rifles. "There's been a lot more of them going north." a voice said behind the agent.
Fa turned to the voice. An elderly lady. Deep dragging bags hung from her eyes as years-weighted wrinkles dragged on her cheek and neck. A curled mat of snow-white hair capped her head like her light, plaid head-scarf. A sorrowful regret and mourning swam in her gaze. Ming Fa was familiar with this local look, the glassy eyed amazed fear that still echoed through the local populace's mind set.
Ming Fa made no response, only nodding as he slowly turned back to the window. "And they say they're annexing it." she grumbled, "I don't want anything to do with them!"
"Why not?" Ming said in a hoarse drained voice.
"I'm not trusting them. They're going to be no better than rag of muffins in New England." the lady said, "To be honest, I dearly hope you chinks don't let them."
Fa gave the lady an idle, lost blink. He turned back to look out the window. "Well, I'm sorry." the crone flustered, "Can I get you anything to drink at least? It's getting cold."
"Tea'd be nice." Fa sighed
"Alright." the lady said. The soft scuffling of her heels clopped across the buffed tile of the post-office as she left for the back-office. It wasn't seconds until after she turned to leave that in the near-distance Fa saw headlight-s turn into the parking lot of the post-office. A considerably rare sight.
Leaning up off the wall he leaned on, Fa called back to the post-office attendant: "On second note, hold that." he called back
Outside, the car pulled up to a stop alongside the curb. It was a long-black model. Sporting a bulky ram of a front-end. A rounded ridge running along the length of the front-end up to the darkened cab. The entire beast was painted over in a slick black that rippled in the halogen lights of the street-lamps and the rain water that rolled off it. Lines of silvery chrome dashed the side and high-lighted the features, lifting it up from the deep shadow it cast on the already darkened asphalt of the parking lot. Two eyes that burned gold glared out from underneath the chrome highlighting.
As it rolled to a stop, the stout antenna wagged awkwardly from the front-end driver's side. Settling as the door opened and out stepped an overweight man, dressed in a dark brown leather great coat.
"This can't be my man," Fa mumbled curiously to himself in Mandarrin, leaning towards the window, "can it?"
"Something the matter sweetie?" the old lady asked. Fa didn't respond as he watched the figure walk towards the doors. Shadows cast from his fedora hiding his face.
The post office door opened with a low sigh as the man stepped through. His coat dripping rainwater. In the light of the post office he removed his hat and flicked off the water. His face was heavy set as the rest of his body. Thick, rounded. A low and stout nose bulged out as his lids hung low over his brown eyes. Muddy-blonde hair lay matted on his head with flecks of grey coming through in patches. A dark patch sat alongside his eye with a few small moles.
The figure looked about the office floor, first away from Fa. Then scanning around towards him. He looked him over with a puzzling look. Opening his thin chafed lips he muttered, "You d'eh berd?"
"You must be the bigger bird." Fa said in a low whisper. His response lit up his face with a warm humor.
"D'thoumous Hrracker." he said with a warm smile, "D'eh-H-M-ou-ah-s-ou-n. Counfuses ah lout ou' people."
"Thomas." Fa nodded, "Agent Fa."
"Spoken like ah China d'owner." he laughed. Looking over to the old lady who was seating herself behind the front desk he said in a lower voice, "Coume on, led's d'alk in my car."
Hesitantly, Ming Fa followed after Thomas. He cast a passing look back through the post office, shrugging it off and entering into the rain. Reaching up he popped the collar up on his coat higher, tightening it shut around his neck.
With the car door clicking shut and on a dry seat Thomas continued, "So, ye'r d'eh China Man I'm joining wid'." he said with a smile. He fired the ignition on the car, which thundered and burst to life with a deep grumble. With a soft jolt it was rolling through the parking lot.
"I go'd me papers in d'ah glove coumpard'mend if you need d'ha check." he added, "So, we're 'eaddin' in'da Canada?"
"To be honest," Fa said as he opened up the glove compartment and riffled through by the light of the in-built light. "You sound like you're already from there."
The car boomed as Thomas threw back his head and laughed. A deep riotous laugh, "Ouhhh Naeh," he said, "Minnesouda, b'ourn an' raised. Duluth."
"I see." Fa grumbled as he unfolded a bright-yellow paper. Unfolding it in the dim light he skimmed over the words. US Army contract. Thomas Hracker. "Pinkerton?" he asked, "Who's Pinkerton?"
Thomas laughed again. Not a excitable roaring laugh, but a humored giggle. "Id who 'ey werk fer." he said, "An' id ain'd ah who, id a whad. Pinkerdoun's ah coundrac'dhour. S'ahd oh gouvernment ouwned nouw. Af'dah Fernandez. Buh'd, we wourk
"So, 'ey don'd like secruds." he added in his thick accent, "Wheh' you froum? Whee'd yah lern dah speak English like dat."
"I'm obligated to keep my secrets." Ming Fa said coldly, folding up the order papers and tucking them back in the glove box. "But you may want to burn that."
"Wahs, when we crouss deh bordeh." he nodded, "Ahd' deh leasd, whee'd you speak English?"
"For my position." he said, "The rest is confidential too."
5 kilometers north of Nalsarovar
The sun set over the horizon. Basking the sky in a deep fiery glow. Dotted thin across the open field, and nestled in groves of trees one of the several brigades under Shaoqiang Jiung camped. Neutral tint tents arranged in clusters, inter-spaced by the light armor and truck-mounted anti-aircraft. In the distance, the low lonely thwapping of helicopter rotors sounded, disturbing the otherwise still, dry calm of this western patch of India.
A centralized, but unassuming tent stood at the nexus of the spread and watchful circle of Jiung's army. A light almost card-board table stood at the center. At which the general stood with his lieutenants. Gujarat laid before them. The bubbling growth that rolled off the side of the Indian sub-continent.
"We could take Bhavnagar directly." one of his colonel said in a low droll, "Our communications with the chopper patrols suggest a minimal hostile presence, barely a skeletal garrison, perhaps."
"Can we confirm their reports? Or is this a vague observation." Jiung asked.
"Simply a vague understanding." the colonel mused.
Jiung nodded, "Then I want this mapped out." he said, "Shang Xiao Bao, I want you and your men to depart south. Scout enemy movements, raid if need be. But your primary objective for you and your men is to establish a light presence and recon for the region. Evade high-scale conflict if possible. Scale the terrain and watch the region for movement."
"Yes sir." the colonel Bao bowing, "What about keeping armed then?"
"I'll try to keep you supplied." Jiung said, "But if you do as I say you shouldn't have to, Bao. Maintain radio-contact."
"Yes comrade, if you'll permise, I would request to take Dhandhuka. It will centralize us enough."
"Very well." Jiung excused, "And if you pick up prisoners, I want them under my watch. I don't need any of them thrashed."
"Understand sir."
"Per the rest of us." Jiung moved, placing his hand on the map, "I want Nalsarovar. Preferably with as little shots as possible. It's going to be our field command for the duration of this offensive.
"If we're well supplied, go in for the cities. But I want control of the country-side. From Nalsarovar, we're going to surround and isolate Vadhavan and work towards Rajkot. Compromise their ability to operate, establish control over the roads in. They'll break if we have time."
"Yes sir." the other officers around the table said.
"Good." Jiung said with a dry sigh, "We'll see about Jamnagar as well. Obviously Jaipur forgot it. Let's not. After that, we'll have compromised enough of the region the village's and small towns will turn on the Persians and the Prince.
"You and your men are going to have four hours to settle. I want us all packed and ready to move right after midnight and take that village. Remember, we're representing the UFI. Adopt their policy. And my own. It'll go well enough."
Hassan and his men crouched in the brush along the hillside over looking the Belgian rails. They were waiting for the signal from the rebels before they acted. Hassan eyed the Belgian troops that had been stretched along the track in order to do their best to protect it from the insurgents. Taking a pair of binoculars from his belt, Hassan inspected the Belgian positions closely.
"They have machine guns in those towers." he quietly informed his men, pointing toward several simple wooden platforms.
"Could we take them out from here?" Idrissa inquired, squinting as he looked toward the structures.
"Not at this distance" Hassan replied. "The angle in the fields are two far out. Do we have mortars prepared?"
"We do" Idrissa confirmed. "That seems a little simple."
"I don't believe the Belgians expected the rebels to have Mortars" Hassan noted.
"I suppose we wait then" Idrissa nodded.
"Indeed" Hassan responded.
Their wait was cut short as the rumble of a train began to vibrate across the ground. Along the edge of the river on the horizon, a small plume of smoke could be seen rising into the sky. As the plume crept closer, the noise made by the iron steam engine became audible, sending birds into flight as it grew louder. The Belgian guards seemed to casually turn their attention to the train as it approached. The Ethiopians continued to wait.
As it passed the Belgian guards, the train passed out of the forest and became visible. A large black beast, the steam engine was pulling several passenger and box cars. The clang and clatter of the engine was joined by a short, deep whistle as the engine passed the troops. The Ethiopians on the hill watched silently as the train continued to pass by, carts zooming by endlessly with a palatable hastiness. The end of the train was marked by a blue caboose, which passed out of vision as it passed behind the treeline. The Belgians guarding the track stood their guard.
After several minutes, a sharp puff was heard in the distance. Hassan and his men turned their eyes to the sky. A dot of light rose slowly into the sky to their west, making its way upward until it burst into a flash of red light. The signal. Before the Ethiopians could respond, the sound of a large explosion rocked the forest. The train has been brought down.
Hassan motioned to the men standing behind him. Nodding, one of the men quickly dashed up the hill that they were resting on, the sound of his footfalls on the jungle floor fading as he rushed through the wilderness. Several moments later, the sound of tubed explosions popped behind Hassan's position. Shells landed near the Belgian towers, exploding in the faces of several soldiers and causing panic as they attempted to find their positions. Several of the Belgian men fired shots blindly toward the forests in front of them, their bullets fated to fail as distance worked agains them.
The familar pop of mortars sounded off again, sending more shells on the Belgian position. One of the shells found it's target. A wooden tower gave way as one of the legs holding it up gave way from the explosion. The Belgian machine gunners jumped from the plummeting platform, injuring themselves in the process.
The mortars fired several more shells. The second tower was struck on it's platform, the explosion ejecting the Belgians occupying it and sending them toward the ground. The floor of the tower had been obliterated, leaving only a burning frame of sticks. Satisfied, Hassan waved his hand and his men stood with him. Together, they moved forward.
As the Ethiopians exited the forest, the remaining Belgian guards opened fire. The Ethiopians rushed across the field that divided them from their European adversaries, firing shots as they moved. Hassan's men began to take bullets as they came closer, but the panicking Belgians were to few to inflict any meaningful casualties. By the time the Ethiopians has reached the burning rubble of the wooden towers along the track, several of the Belgian guards had taken off running in fear for their life.
The fight was over almost as soon as Hassan's men had reached the Belgian position. The remaining Belgians were to few to put up a decent fight.
With the Belgians handled, Hassan and his men quickly rushed westward along the track. The sound of gunfire grew closer as they approached the scene of the wrecked train. Before the Ethiopians could see anything more then the smoke from the scene, the sound of gunfire suddenly halted. Realizing what the casualties likely included, a chill ran up and down Hassan's spine and settled in the back of his neck.
As they arrived on the scene, Hassan's fears were confirmed. The train had been scattered by the explosion, many of it's cars lying on the ground while others were in twisted positions. In front of the train was the twisted remains of track and engine, marking the location of the explosion. The blackened ground surrounding the location of the bombing was still smoking, the plume from the wreck dwarfing the line of smoke that had been produced by the train when it was in operation.
The ground in front of the train was littered with bodies. Blood marred the otherwise green grass of the field where the corpses lay. Belgian soldiers lay near men and women in civilians clothing. The Congolese rebels had got to work looting the bodies, claiming pocket watches from the civilians as quickly as they claimed weapons and ammo from the soldiers.
Unnerved by the slaughter, Hassan walked the field stoicly and sighed.
Modern Day Congo: South of Gondar, Ethiopia
Sahle looked down at the fresh pile of camel dung in disgust. On the other side of the , a small group of Bedouin travelers studied Sahle with the same confusion. The peculiar man had been dropped on them by one of the agents of the government. That much they knew. It had always been in their best interests in the past to follow the orders of government officials if they could. The Ethiopians had treated them generously, offering them supplies and easy passage across the border and only asked the occasional favor in return. In the case of this man, they had only been ordered to take him into the Sudanese desert to the north. The expansive sands were easy to hide in. And easy to get lost among.
Sahle was felt out of place as much as he looked it. The men who he had been left with were not the most comfortable looking lot. Their simple white robes and sun-worn faces marked them as the sorts of people who Sahle would normally avoid. They had spent most of the time after Azima left staring at him as if he had arrived from mars. Not a noise came from them. The only sounds in the air came from the wind, or the camels.
"So, gentleman" Sahle looked up at his hosts. "Thanks for taking me in. Where do I stay?"
Wordlessly, the man standing at the front of the gathered nomads pointed toward a worn canvas tent standing next to one of the smaller mudbrick buildings. Sahle's shoulders dropped. He had never slept in a tent before, but he was fairly certain that it would be unpleasant.
"Really?" Sahle inquired, looking at the Bedouin men with uncertainty. "Don't you have room in the... hut over there? I like to sleep under a roof."
"No room." the head nomad responded. "The tent is good."
"Do you know who I am?" Sahle protested.
"No" the nomad responded abruptly.
Sahle paused. He realized that it would be best he not give them his true identity. If they knew that he was escaping the government, they would probably turn him in.
"Well..." Sahle stuttered, "I am not a man who sleeps in a tent!"
"You are now a man who sleeps in a tent." the nomad leader replied.
Defeated, Sahle sulked toward the tent. One of the Bedouin men interrupted the slinking refuge, grabbing him by the shoulder. Before Sahle could respond, the man had thrust a shovel into his arms. Confused, the fugative royal held up the dented tool with one arm while pointing at it with his other.
"What is this about?"
"You work" the Bedouin leader responded, pointing to where the camels had been tied to their posts. An uncertain Sahle inspected the animals, unsure what it was that he was expected to do. As one of the creatures discharged dung, a horrified Sahle looked back at the men who now seemed to be his captors.
"I do not do poo" Sahle informed them.
"You work" the Bedouin leader replied strongly, raising his voice.
"No!" Sahle waved his arms, the shovel still in hand.
"You work or we leave you!" the Bedouin leader shouted back.
"N..." Sahle sputtered. Pouting, the defeated ex-Emperor slinked toward the humped ungulate, dragging the shovel that had been forced upon him as he resigned himself to dung-wrangling.
Mecca, Ethiopian Hejaz
"Ibn el Gahbah!" Ibrahim jumped as his eyes focused on the shadow on the corner. When the man spoke, Ibrahim struggled to recognize the voice. He only realized who he was looking at after several seconds of studying the silhouette of the man's face.
As the sense of familiarity became recognition, Ibrahim greeted the man nervously. "You... you are the Chinaman from last year. What are you doing here?"
"Assignment." Gang grumbled, "But our assignment left your waters it would seem a while ago so it's become irrelevant now."
Gang slid out of the chair and walked across the floor of the Jewish man's hovel. His weathered boots falling heavily on the floor, "I and my comrades need somewhere to get out of the sun so we can get in touch with home. You'd do that, would you?" he added with a vaguely hostile furrowing of his brow.
Nalsarovar
The night laid across the dry flat landscape as a cooling blanket. And across its threads, lightly illuminated by the silver blue light of the sickle-moon over head long shadows snaked their way across the turf towards the darkened village ahead. Thin dirt roads snaking through pastures and dry farmland as they made their march forward. Crouched low like lions on the hunt. The soft drumming plodding of their boots beating the arid landscape.
With Shang Xiao Bao having gone south to assert his control of the region, every man in the remaining force was in some part played to the village.
Coming around the bend the Chinese force came passed the first shack. The village itself was tiny. Minuscule. Barely existent in the landscape. Connected only to the rest of the world by the dirt tracks. And as the outside world pushed in, the mules and cattle took notice. Waking from their slumber they watched in awkwardly, fearfully as the strange shadowy shapes slip by their pens, disturbing the muck that lined the roads.
In the glint of the moonlight a pair of heavily outfitted officers walked through to the center of the village. The near-distant braying of mules and the curious crooning of cattle marked that the beasts were coming around. The central core of the army centered itself at the village proper, taking position alongside the hovels and homes.
At the crossroads they met, the two coated figured stood, the moonlight glinting off their medals as the soft orange glow in several homes marked the ignition of oil lanterns. The minor officer, carrying a rifle handed it to his superior who took the gun in his hand. Angling it to the sky, and the lake the man leveled the rifle a NCO ran over, carrying a lantern. Igniting it he cast the Shaoqiang Jiung's face in the warm fire light. His lieutenant, his Zhongjiang waited by.
Shaoqiang pressed the trigger on the rifle and its reported echoed through the still of the night. An explosive bolt of sound and fire towards the sky. Startled the mules bucked and brayed. And from the houses, lights drunkenly flicked on. As the first doors opened the soldiers made their presence known, stepping out and cocking a round to the chamber.
"Good evening." Jiung shouted in broken Hindi, "I am Shangjiang Shaoqiang Jiung. And on this hour, your village is under the occupation of the NPCLA in respects to the order and interests of United India.
"From hence forth, we shall be providing for your needs."
Chita
"Strange to be back here." Nikolov chuckled, looking out the window of the sparse apartment he had come to be held up in after leaving Lesosbrisk. Over the patch-work brown carpet sat only a raged couch, and an equally raged bed.
"And quite the accommodations." Akitov observed unimpressed, "I would have expected something better."
"I have been in worse." Nikolov said, "And I only intend to be in here long enough before we head north to Sakha."
"I see." his companion said. The dry unimpressed tone of his voice maintained as he picked at the ragid upholstery on the couch.
"You and I are different people I guess," Nikolov grinned, "You stayed in a house, I marched and slept in the snow. I spent a long period of my life on the wild."
"You make me think of the Finns." said Akitov, "Strange how such forces manifest the same year."
Dixon sat in a rocking chair perched on the porch of a white washed plantation style house on the outskirts of the small Missouri town. The sweltering summer humidity was only made bearable by lemonade and the refreshing breeze which blew through the willow trees in bursts, causing those who spent their day outside to associate the sound of swaying limbs with the cool feeling of the wind.
Dixon did not sit alone. The owner of the house, an elderly but rambunctious Senator from Missouri named Jubal Bacon, sat motionlessly alongside his colleague as he nursed a corn cob pipe. The atmosphere in the air was leisurely, but both men and spent to afternoon discussing their trade. Glasses of lemonade sat on copies of documents and treaties.
"I thank you again, Jubal" Dixon turned to his colleague, "I did not expect for August to become what it has become."
"Think nothing of it" Bacon grunted from under his greyed mustache, "It isn't every day that a man get's bade to spend a month with both the hell hounds and heaven's host. No sir. It won't be no trouble to whip these Chinamen anyhow."
"I agree, we have a case" Dixon replied. "I am surprised Fernandez asked me to represent us to the Asian's."
"It is a peculiar sort of thing" Bacon responded, coughing as he choked on the tobacco smoke. "I would be cautious. Yes sir. Your opponents don't hand you glory out of the kindness of their lil' ol' hearts."
"I wonder if Fernandez even knows that I am going to meet with Prime Minister Sotelo next week?" Dixon inquired.
"Perhaps that was the serpents plan?" Bacon suggested, "Keep you from meeting with the man who could prop your career with all that European money and intrigue. He'd know that you'd have to chose your duties over your career."
"I hope that is all that it is" Dixon nodded. "It seems to me that I can do both of these things."
"Thank the Holy Lord and those Wright brothers for the power of the wing-ed airplane!" Bacon roared, causing him to cough a small amount of tobacco spittle onto his pure white suit jacket. Brushing the imperfection he sniffed and placed the pipe back in his maw.
"Indeed" Dixon replied, taking a sip of lemonade as several young boys ran down the road as they fired imaginary bullets at each other from sticks.
"I would not worry about Fernandez" Bacon added as the children and their shouts of 'Bang!' and 'Boom!' faded into the distance. "You have the hearts and ears of these great people of this United States. Yes sir. Our fore bearers did not sweat and bleed to be part of some Oriental Empire. No sir. They did not do that. If we held an election today, I have all the faith that you would be the next occupant of that White House in Washington"
"I appreciate your confidence" Dixon smiled.
"...and after next month, my confidence will be tripled." Bacon continued "Tell them in China what the American people know. Get the support of that Spaniard. You will be unstoppable."
"I will need your help with the first one, still." Dixon replied, "Are you healthy enough to travel to Asia?"
"I will travel." Bacon abruptly responded, taking the pipe from his mouth and jabbing it's tip in the direction of Senator Dixon. "I ain't never seen no China. It will be one more to add to the memoirs. You shouldn't worry about it anyhow, your case to the ASB is sewn shut. They have no argument."
"It does seem that way..." Dixon agreed. "Our occupation of the NWC seems to fall outside of the treaty's area of coverage. After all, we occupied it before we joined the ASB."
"Yessir." Bacon replied enthusiastically. "Those wily Canadians invaded us! It is no imperialism if you are the victim. We only occupy that infernal country of trees and dishonorable men to protect ourselves from their natural dishonesty. You know that Canada is where those men who opposed our founding father's revolution fled?"
"I have heard that" Dixon replied.
"Believe it!" Bacon roared. "That's dishonest men and traitors. They have their own country and we call it Canada. They got a red leaf on their flag because they flutter around uselessly in the blood of good men."
"I'll have to remember that" Dixon chuckled.
"After Seattle, we should just be allowed to go in their and hang every other one of them" Bacon continued to get worked up. "There is five hundred pines per every human being in that infernal nation. We would have no trouble finding a branch for all of them to swing."
"I doubt the Chinese will hear that argument." Dixon replied as he began to fan himself with a stack of papers.
"Damn those Chinamen" Bacon added. "They aren't our blessed mothers.."
At about seven o'clock, the panel members came back to the conference room full of food. Their recess was over, and they were quickly put back to work in matters concerning the future of the country. The conference was about a quarter way over, but the basic framework had been laid out. However, most of the conference was just establishing facts and leaving little room for debate until the bigger questions arrived. Most of the panel members hoped that the conference would be over quickly because of this fact. But there was still much more to go over.
As the panel members went back to their seats, they waited for Assanian to begin the session again. Most of them waited patiently with their hands in their laps, while others shuffled papers around and performed idle gestures like scratching their heads. Eventually, Assanian had mentally counted each panel member and determined all were there, and proceeded to start the session. "Good evening. I hope you enjoyed your dinners, but now we have to get back to work. I believe next up on our list is the means of income we have right now. And I believe Mister Sevovich has an answer for us... Mister Sevovich?"
Sevovich was fiddling with the locks on his briefcase when Assanian called on him. His head shot up and he looked around to see everyone looking at him. "Oh, yes. Right now, Armenia's means of production and income are severely limited," he stated. "Our factories are in shambles because of the outsourcing of production to Turkey proper, which leaves us with generally only our farms. Armenia has typically been a rural country, so we have many, many ranches and farms dotting the landscape in areas such as Nakhchivan, and the Karabakh. Really, only in the East. The West is mineral rich but lacks arable land, but I will get to that later. But on the subject of farms, I want to use Mister Velonian's analogue of 'having the tools but not the means to use them.' If we were to encourage the farmers to grow more food to export in addition to the subsistence farming already occurring, we can sell food to nations like Persia, which do not have much arable land and most of it is not under cultivation... Around 12% was the official figure."
"So what kind of profits do you think foodstuffs would bring, Mister Sevovich?" Pollundrian asked interestedly.
"Well, Mister Vice President, I think that we can export our foods to the Middle Eastern and Circassian areas. Seeing as Armenia's cuisine typically matches that of other regional diets, we can have a large influence on their market as a supplier of staple foods like lavash. Armenia is in a good position to do this as roughly 75% of our land is arable. We're in a close position to other Middle Eastern countries like Persia and Iraq that do not have much arable land, allowing us to gain the upper hand as a convenient source of imported food over countries like, say, China. The other good thing about agriculture is that our population is already heavily involved with it and that the training times are short, minimizing long delays for new workers."
"Excellent, Mister Sevovich. I'll keep that in mind," Assanian replied. He marked down agriculture on his list. "Now, what industrial capabilities do we have?"
"Industrial capabilities are severely lacking," answered Kabadian. "Right now our factories have no workers and are in major disrepair. Really, we have several dozen factory facilities in Hrazdan but nothing to do with them. Some factories in the West are operational such as a few in Erzurum, and they are huge employers. We manufacture cars, industrial equipment, appliances, cement, et cetera. These items can be readily sold to other countries, especially ones to the south of us like Sevovich was saying. In addition to the Erzurum factories, small manufacturing plants are operational in Trabzon, Rize, Van, and Kars. So we're not totally in lack of manufacturing or industry. However, this is just the manufacturing side of things. On the resource side, there are actually a couple of large income makers. An example of this is the huge oil refinery and pipeline operation at Erzurum we seized from the Ottomans last March. There are also multiple processing plants operating alongside operational mines that I'll get to later."
"And what are those operational mines?" asked Sevovich.
"They are our gold and copper mines in the North; bauxite, iron, copper, and molybdenum mines in the South; oil, iron, lead, and zinc mines in the West; and foresting industries in the... well, everywhere. Most of these are operational at a very low capacity, but still operational nevertheless. It is only a matter of the workers leaving the rebellion to go back to work, which I suspect will happen on its own. At my count, I approximate that 40% of the country's established material exploitation operations are active, with 45% in a light to moderate state of disrepair and the last 15% needing much work done to it or is undiscovered."
"Are you sure about this?" asked Assanian. He leaned forward from his chair and gazed intently at Kabadian from across the table. "I was under the impression that virtually zero percent of our resources were being harvested."
"No, sir. Although unemployment is at 30%, we still have manufacturing and resource operations that we can get up and running very quickly. The war was not as destructive as it could have been. A recovery process will take about a year or two, but by 1980 we should be a decent-sized regional power. That is, if we do everything correctly."
"What is- No, we'll get to that later."
"Yes, Mister President."
Assanian nodded at him, and slunk back to his chair. After reaching for his glass of water and taking a sip, he asked: "Is there anything we're forgetting?"
"Services, Mister President!" called out Velonian.
"Ah, the service industry. Do you have anything to say about it?"
"I believe that Armenia can be turned into a touristy place in the near future once we get all of that war and poverty stigma out of the way. Sevan, for example, is... was a nice resort town and often frequented by Turkish officials. You may know this because the Turkish governor in Armenia was assassinated onboard his yacht in April. But the basic infrastructure is still there: the beaches, the hotels, the mountainside villas... We just need to attract some of the more wealthy people there to make it the resort town it used to be. This could also be applied, albeit less, to Van, which has a decent-sized tourism setup that used to attract Persians. But right now we also have to get the stigma of Armenia being poor or wartorn out of the way."
Velonian paused to scratch an itch on his shoulder for a moment, but then continued: "The second service I propose relates to the merchant navy. We can be universal carriers over the Black Sea if we arm our freighters against Russian pirates. Seeing as most shipping is civilian, and thus unarmed, the Black Sea is becoming a hotspot for Russian piracy. Of course, there are few navy ships in the Black Sea as they are essentially stuck in it with Turkey's very selective procedures for going through the Bosphorus. There isn't much use for a sea war here except with Turkey, but that isn't a very large priority for many of the European nations. That means the civilian shipping companies are left unprotected against piracy, unless we step in. If we volunteer to carry other nations' goods for a fee that includes pirate protection, we can dominate the economic scene here and allow the civilian shippers to remain at ease from pirates knowing we're taking the heat."
"Do you actually think that would work?" Javelian asked, speaking for the first time after the recess.
"I can assure you that as piracy rises - and it is rising - the nations will either be forced to build new naval ships in the Black Sea, which is expensive and they cannot be used in any sort of strategic war like in the Baltic or Mediterranean, or outfit their ships with arms and train their crews to repel piracy. Of course, if we're there, pre-armed and pre-trained, we would look like a very affordable option instead of an expensive armament campaign. I think it will work."
"I see, Mister Velonian. Thank you for your input," Assanian said finally after a few seconds of silence. "Any other services we can lend out to other countries?"
"Electricity is one," answered Sevovich. "Our power plants, if they have excess production, can lend power to neighboring countries like Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Iraq, for a price. However, we will need the necessary infrastructure in place first, which I believe is already the case to Georgia and Syria, which are former Ottoman territories."
"And on that subject," Kabadian interrupted, "we could also lease radio stations to revolutionaries in Georgia, Syria, Cyprus, and Azerbaijan. This is only temporary, but it would provide them with a safe place to broadcast their messages without shutdowns from Turkish troops."
"So electricity and radio leases? Seems fine to me," stated Pollundrian. He turned to Assanian and nodded. "I think that about covers it."
Assanian affirmed this, and took a look at the panel. Everyone seemed content with the situation so far, so
Assanian decided to move on. "Good, good," he said, "now we move onto question four, which we've already talked about briefly. What can he immediately repair to start making income?"
Kabadian was the first to reply. "Like I said, 45% of our natural resource exploitation operations are in need of moderate or light repairs before they can get back to work. These won't be major, and can be accomplished with foreign aid. If we bring the industry under the government's wing temporarily to accomplish these repairs, and then slowly let it seep back into private hands, the issue of not having resources to export will be solved, and we'll have a sizable chunk of profit culminating from that. Our industrial capacity is the same way. Many of the factories in Hrazdan need small repairs and workers to get back to producing a wide variety of things."
"Like what?"
"Oh, well... Airplane parts, automobiles, appliances, industrial parts, metals, at least one arms factory, chemicals, and paper. A very diverse range of products that we have the raw materials for. This goes back to the infrastructure questions, so that makes our industry's reactivation largely dependent on when our roads or railways will be available to transport raw materials to feed them. I mean, we do have enough workers to work these new factories, seeing as most of them worked in them before the invasion in 1970. They'll be flocking to go back to work, I assure you. Nobody is happy living in the dumps. We can have the entire city of Hrazdan recovered by next summer if we do everything correctly."
"You seem very optimistic, Mister Kabadian," Pollundrian observed.
"I am, because I've seen the war firsthand. I fought the Ottoman Guards out of Hrazdan, and I saw how delicate we were with the urban scenery there. Everyone was unwilling to simply shell a factory, because we realized that they were going to be our livelihoods after the war was over. We made hunting down the Turkish attempting to 'scorch the earth' a top priority as well. I know that Armenia isn't as damaged as you assume it is, Mister President. I've travelled through the East and the only badly damaged areas I've seen are Artashat and several other small Northern areas."
"I guess you're correct. I spent the majority of the ASF's campaign managing in Hadrut, where the Ottoman Armies had already left in 1976 because of the Greek War. Not too much fighting there."
"Heh. Lucky you."
"No, lucky you. I wish I could have gotten to shoot some people."
The two men chuckled, before Pollundrian roughly pulled them back on topic. Assanian gave Pollundrian a look that seemed to say, "I was getting to that," and continued on. "So besides services leasing and the repair of factories and mines, what else can we immediately accomplish?"
"Well, Mister President," Javelian replied, "because our oil facility at Ezurum is currently active, we only need to fix the one damaged pipeline segment to begin selling the oil back to other countries like Syria. This repair is relatively minor, as none of the advanced flow control equipment was damaged in March's ASF raid on the compound. We just need to weld some sides back onto the segment and fix some small mechanical equipment and we'll be all set. The oil can flow to the prebuilt stations in Syria, Jordan, and Palestine. This will be a good source of money for us as it requires little investment on our part to start the pumps. The oil, facilities, and means of production are already there. If we're lucky, even, we could sell the oil back to the Ottomans for an inflated price if they run low and turn to us for help. As you know, most of Turkey's oil production is in the East, and much of it falls into our boundaries. Hell, Mister President, we're even producing as we speak."
"Yes, I see. I was in contact with a tank commander in Erzurum who took it upon himself to defend the industrial centers there. Tough *******," Pollundrian remarked. "It looks like Erzurum is our immediate economic powerhouse, isn't it?"
"It was the most well maintained by the Ottomans."
"Why?"
"It was closer to them and had more economic value than Eastern Armenia. Simple, really."
"Okay. I get this. So what else are we able to immediately put to work?" Pollundrian asked. The panel members shrugged.
"I don't know," Kabadian said.
"I think we've gone over everything," came from Velonian.
"I agree," affirmed Sevovich.
"Let's move on," suggested Javelian.
Assanian nodded, and looked down at his questions. "What are the long term sources of profit we can construct?"
Javelian was the first to quickly respond. "We can look for more oil and natural gas deposits, especially in the Black Sea. From what I've gathered, there may or may not be a large source of petroleum in the Sea that is relatively close to our shores. If we can find it before the Ottomans do and tap into it, we may secure an energy monopoly over them and cripple their opposition while strengthening ours. By the time it's found, we'd have the capabilities to make offshore rigs to exploit that deposit, so we'd be good to go in that respect. Same way with natural gas in the Caucasus. Although we might have to forcefully take those pipelines to secure our energy."
"Good. Anything else?"
Velonian raised his hand: "We could begin shipbuilding in the Black Sea to increase the size of our water based commercial activities. We could also sell the ships to other Black Sea countries to use in that area, because like I said before, the Black Sea holds little value if Turkey's stranglehold of the Bosphorus and Dardanelles continues. We could be the main suppliers of maritime services and products in the Black Sea, simply because all other countries may not be bothered to invest so much in an area where the payoff would be so little. We would be the affordable substitute."
Sevovich came next: "As of now we're largely dependent on Persian energy sources for our power grid, but if we follow Mister Javelian's advice and search for fuel sources in the Black Sea and Caucasus, we could become more self sufficient and stop spending money on buying from the Persians. I agree that this is a very worthy longtime goal, and that we should make steps towards it. I propose we establish a government-owned energy company to do this, which would regulate the energy flow inside the country and also the export of petroleum and natural gas to countries to our south, which would be largely in need of the stuff if their wars destroy their important industrial sectors."
And then Kabadian: "Mine is simple: build more factories. With the mineral mines becoming active in the future, we'll have the opportunity to expand our industry. It's quite obvious, really."
"Expand our industry with what?"
"Copper is a big one. We have so much copper in this country that can be turned into electrical wiring or other components. Iron for tools or steel, and other such things. Zinc chloride can be added to our lumber, zinc fungicides can also be produced... There is so much we can do with our resources. It just takes a little bit of thinking to figure it out."
A large smile lit the incredibly optimistic Kabadian's face, as everyone on the panel looked at each other. Assanian nodded, and scribbled down their suggestions on his paper. "Is that it?" Pollundrian asked.
"I think so," Assanian replied. He had crossed off five of the eight questions. The session was almost over.
The Republic of South Africa seeks a formal diplomatic meeting with the Emperor of Ethiopia or an appointed representative within the next three weeks. Vice President Nelson Mandela is taking part in a foreign diplomatic tour and would like to make his first stop that of our trusted ally.
We look forward to a favourable reply.
Signed,
The MInister of Foreign Affairs - Republic of South Africa
[Letter to the Office of the Spanish Prime Minster]
To: The Prime Minister of Spain
The Republic of South Africa seeks a formal diplomatic meeting with the Prime Minister or an appointed representative within the next three weeks. Vice President Nelson Mandela is taking part in a foreign diplomatic tour and feel that this is an opportune time to bridge the gap between our two nations and discuss the threat of Communism in Africa and the world at large.
We look forward to a favourable reply.
Signed,
The MInister of Foreign Affairs - Republic of South Africa
[Letter to the Office of the Prussian Chancellor]
To: The Chancellor of Prussia
The Republic of South Africa seeks a formal diplomatic meeting with the Chancellor or an appointed representative within the next three weeks. Vice President Nelson Mandela is taking part in a foreign diplomatic tour and we would like to ensure that Prussia is on our list. We hope to discuss trade, military weapons purchase and the threat posed by Communism.
We look forward to a favourable reply.
Signed,
The MInister of Foreign Affairs - Republic of South Africa
South African Broadcast Corporation
The SABC learned today that President Redekker is due to embark on a state visit to Botswana and Zimbabwe while Vice-President Mandela leaves the country for an international tour in the hopes of creating new trade and diplomatic ties with foreign governments. Both the diplomatic missions come at a time of extreme growth for South Africa as her economy flourishes and begins to open up to foreign investment.
The housekeeping staff standing at attention at the front door opened the heavy front door of the country house before Frederick as he approached, revealing a earthy, bright space whose sienna-colored stucco walls were studded with glazed warm-colored azulejo tiles as per Spanish interior design. Large windows illuminated the salón with warm, golden sunlight from outside, which also afforded the visitors to the mansion with a view of the cliffs and the roiling blue waters of the Bay of Biscay beyond. A stone and mortar fireplace that served as the focal point of the room, which was not burning on the account of the sweltering late July sun outside, was surrounded with carved upholstered seats, one of which bore Spain's prime minister, Alfonso Sotelo, who had already opened a bottle of orujo.
"Wilkommen, Kaiser." Sotelo greeted, setting his glass on a stone coaster on the hearth of the fireplace. "Excellent that you could join us today. I hope you will come to enjoy your visit to the Repulic by the time you leave here. Unfortunately, the reason we are here is actually to conduct a bit of business and I hope you will understand if we cut to the chase; I'm sure that Charles won't mind if we start a few minutes early." Sotelo retrieved his glass of liquor and set it on his knee. He took a swig and continued.
"As I'm sure you already understand, the Ottoman Turks look as if their dominion could collapse with the slightest agitation. A power vacuum in the Near East seems imminent. This is fortituous for those of us with interest in the region such as ourselves, as the Turkish dominion will certainly loose much of it's resource-rich territories on the peripheries of their empire. Unfortunately, this scenario seems bound to escalate into open warfare as everyone in the region scrambles to occupy as much of the Ottoman Empire as they can... The image of a flock of buzzards fighting one another over a dead animal comes to my mind. I'm sure you can sympathize with me when I say that I would much rather not send my armed forces into combat to protect some Tripolitanian oil fields and keep some filthy saracens in line." The Spanish prime minister takes one last sip of his liquor and finishes the glass, leaving only some half-melted ice cubes. "Oh, I nearly forgot, help yourself to the orujo. The finest aguardiente in Iberia and is bottled at a monestary just a short drive from Santander." Sotelo pointed to a dark bottle of orange-yellow liquor next to a number of glasses, inviting the Prussian Kaiser to sample it.
"Anyway, to that end I am convinced that the best way forward from here is to support the Ottoman Empire as long as we can, to keep the Armenians, Persians, and Polish from siezing what could be ours. And in return for our support, we may make demands of the Sultan. The Compania Petrolera has already requested that access to North African oil fields be given to our our petroleum industry and I'm sure we could draft quite a list of demands from the Turks that the Sultan would have little choice but to accept... but that's only if we are in agreement, Kaiser."
As Charles set of vehicles pulled up to the building, just as they did with Frederick, the media did their best to get a good image. Once the vehicles pulled to a stop, British secret service members got out, and made room for the King to safely leave the vehicle, forming a small wall around him as they escorted him to the front of the building. Just as he went to knock, however, the door opened before him, those inside probably alerted to his arrival by the flashing and commotion of the cameras outside. Charles thanked the person who had opened the door, and proceeded inside alone.
Coming to the table where Sotelo and Frederick sat, and were already speaking, Charles went up to the seat he presumed was his, and sat down in it, before speaking.
"My apologies for arriving late. What have I missed?"
London, England
Christian Brent sat in an office, handling business as usual, when somebody knocked at his door. Brent gave a nod to one of his bodyguards, who then opened the door for one of the secretaries, who entered, nodding thanks to the guard. She then went up to the prime ministers desk, and took out a letter.
"Sir, this is a letter addressed to the king, but seeing as he is not here, and this may be important, we decided it was best to have you read over it."
Taking the letter and looking it over, Brent smiled a bit, and thanked the secretary, who then left the room. Once the door was closed, Brent opened the letter, and read it over twice, to make sure he got all of the information. Without hesitation, or consulting anybody else, Brent pulled out some paper and a pen, and began to write his reply.
President Assanian,
Hello. I am Christian Brent, Prime Minister of The United Kingdom. Currently his Majesty is out on business, so I am writing to you in his place. I can say that I am very much interested in your proposal, and would like to meet with you in person. That said, if it is not minded by you, I would like to attend this meeting in Charles' place. I am generally the one in charge of the things we will be discussing anyways, and I am on better terms with Marinos, who leads the Greek rebellion, so it would be best if I were to go. Please write back if you would prefer to speak with Charles, otherwise I will take the silence as acceptance of my attendance.
Christian Brent, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
Putting the letter in an envelope, and addressing it appropriately, Brent put it in a basket for outgoing mail.
Somewhere East of Ioannina, Greece
The sun sat in the middle of the sky, as a group of British soldiers made it's way towards Ioannina, which was the closest known city that the Turks had turned into a holding for their troops. The goal was to meet up with the other two groups of soldiers at Neo Mpizani if nobody encountered Turkish soldiers, otherwise, if a distress call came in, unless it was the Greeks, they were to continue on to Ioannina alone.
Just as they got to the road that would take them to their destination, a distress call came in. The Greek troops encountered Turkish soldiers at Krifovo. The second British brigade responded that it was on it's way, and that they were currently headed up E951, and would be there soon. Even though the first brigade was closer, they were to continue with their goal, and were to assault Ioannina while the main Turkish force for the area was hitting the Greeks.
Krifovo, Greece
The two batallions of Greeks were currently fighting very defensively, as they were up against a small division of Turks. Currently, it was the 2'800 Greeks and the British armor against the 8'000 Turks who were stationed in Krifovo. By the looks of it, they were about to move out for Athens. Originally demanding the Greeks surrender, the Ottomans didn't hesitate even a second when the Greeks refused.
Now, the Greeks are sitting in buildings, or behind whatever cover they possibly can, while the British armor fires upon the Turks while it can, before having to back off before they become the main target.
E951, Greece
The second British brigade heads down the road, moving as fast as they possibly can. Knowing that if things stay the way they are, the Greeks will take heavy casualties by the time the brigade arrives, Captain Fox picks up his radio, and calls in Athens.
"This is Fox. The Greeks have found the Turks, and have been encountered in Krifovo. We are on our way to help, but we may not get there soon enough. Could we send some air support to buy some time?"
After a few minutes of silence, Fox gets a reply. "We have two jets ready. They'll be on their way in about five minutes. They should, at least, force the Turks into some sort of cover. That should hopefully buy you enough time."
With that, Fox's brigade sped down the road, to get to the Greeks on time.
[Greece Recap]
The war rages on. After some very harsh negotiating, a British officer was able to talk some sense back into the Greeks, and the war against the Ottomans, who now controlled all of Macedonia, as well as all of the Eastern Aegan Isles, raged on. With the conflict between the Greeks and Brits settled, they actually were now starting to put the Ottomans on the defensive. The only good part about the internal conflict between the Greek-Brit alliance was that it had bought the reinforcements from Britain time to get down to Greece without many casualties being sustained, but it also made Athens and the surrounding area the only foothold they had on the mainland.
[Present, Athens]
In a small, well lit room stood ten men, all looking down at a map of Greece, which had been marked to show the difference between the area controlled by the Greeks and Turks. The majority of the country was marked in green, with only the bottom left of the country marked in blue, and Crete marked in red. It was obvious that the Ottomans currently had the advantage, but, after their recent naval defeat Britain had naval superiority, and was beginning to clear the Turks out of the Aegean Islands, before they would finally hit the coasts of Macedonia, where both air and Naval support would ensure that the Ottomans were pushed back to Istanbul. Once that was done, they would be given the ultimatum of surrendering, or having their own capital attacked. With the Ottomans fighting on multiple fronts, they also had a very small amount of reinforcements they could send, where as Greece could call on Bulgaria to the North if a third party was truly needed to ensure their freedom.
Standing from his position, and beginning to pace a bit, Navy Commodore Smith took hold of his chin, going over the last of the details in his head, before finally speaking to the rest of the men in the room.
"Once our ships have ensured the Ottoman naval presence is gone, you will begin to move. You will head North of Athens, securing Western Macedonia, before hitting the east with support from both Vice Marshal Brannan, and myself."
Nodding, Captain McAllen leaned on the table, before speaking up himself.
"We will move up in three groups. The British army will divide, each moving along one side of the Greek army. Doing this should make it so no matter which one of us finds the Turks first, there will be one group close enough to assist, while the third can continue moving up, clearing out any bases that have been set up, and generally clearing a path for the other two groups once they finish dealing with the main attack force."
Taking hold of a ragged, grey beard, Greek General Pachis looked over the map, and ran over what the Brit said in his head again, translating it into Greek so it would be easier for him to understand. After a few minutes, he looked at McAllen, and spoke.
"Are we absolutely sure that the Turks are moving in one large force? What will be do if they were to leave half of their troops behind, and then the small, third group were to go in, outnumbered? We decided to wait on air support until we push into the East. Would we change that plan if my guess is correct?"
"No. If there is a larger force, we will hunker down, and hold them until our reinforcements arrive. My men should be able to handle that much. As far as I'm aware, we currently have more firepower than the turks with the tanks that were brought in with our reinforcements. To be safe, we will send five tanks with each of the British armies, and four with your men. No matter what happens, you will either be reinforcing us, or be reinforced, so at some point, 9 tanks will be supporting your men. As far as we know from those who survived the initial Turk attack, they don't have much armor. THey do have more than us, but theirs is also inferior. And even then, we don't know if they would bring all of their armor still, when their next target is Athens. So I would assume they wouldn't want to go in and blow up a city that they aim to take over."
The Greek General simply nodded. "Then, it is decided. We move out tonight at midnight, correct?"
"Yes. We will be sending out a plane to scout ahead in an hour, so we can determine where we need to head."
"Very well. I shall get my men prepared. We will see you on the battlefield, captain."
~DED
A motorcade of black limousines crawled up the gravel road up the hills north of Santander where an expansive country house with a facade made of mortared-stone, much like the ancient castles that gave this part of Spain it's former name of Castile, stood on the edge of sheer granite cliffs constantly thrashed by the waves below. Opposite the cliffs and the Bay of Biscay, a spawling, well-manicured lawn studded with shapely conical boxwood bushes surrounded the mansion. A winding gravel driveway tethered the country house to Santander on the the bay below, the same driveway the motorcade was ascending.
The triad of limousines lined up just in front of the mansion and came to a stop. The driver of the middle limousine - some tuxedo-donning lackey - left his post behind the wheel and went to open one of the passenger doors. Out from the darkness of the limousine stepped Alfonso Sotelo wearing a white dress shirt and khaki pants; his attempt at casual dress. Unaccustomed to the bright midday sun, Sotelo squinted and massaged his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
"Goddamn it's bright." The Prime Minister muttered to himself. His entourage soon formed behind him, consisting of more of Sotelo's black-suited goons and yes-men. One of them, a bald-headed, muscle-bound man who looked more like an American quarterback than a Spaniard, was Sotelo's bodyguard - an ex-patriate North Floridian-turned-Cazador that insisted on being called Gator. The Floridian scanned each of the housekeepers that flanked the walkway to the front door, ready to tackle any one of them should they even sneeze in the Prime Minister's direction. Standing in front of the door ready to greet Sotelo was another one of the suited goons.
"Bienvenidos, su excelencia. The staff and I have ensured that everything is ready for the summit. Please, come in."
"Any word from the airport when Frederick and Charles will arrive?" Sotelo asked, cutting to the chase.
"Oh yes. Their transportation is ready at the airport for their arrival, which I understand will be within perhaps an hour and a half."
Sotelo nodded in acknowledgement and led his lackies in through the door.
The Rebels have been defeated, and peace has been restored to New Zealand. Yay for now.
Shores of Soth Fiji, present day.
The Fiji military stood down within an hour. Their artillery, decimated, their men's morale had gone far below the will to fight.
"How long until the APCs are ready to mobilize?" questioned a young Major, named Fredric Nanseon.
"About 6 hours. These crews need to rest and refuel the beasts of machines they are going to take to Suva" Replied Colonel Wilson.
The major stepped outside to see his resting crew of 5 NZLAVs.
"Hows the refueling going?" He said in a stern tone.
"All done sir." Replied one of the drivers. Suprised, Nanseon sat down atop one of the vehicles.
"Very good. Were rolling out in 6 hours."
"Wheres the infantry? And that tank that was supposed to come with us?" Asked a solider on top of one of the APCs.
"Armor won't be coming, but the infantry will be here 2 hours before go-time." Replied the Major. The soliders turned back to what they were doing.
4 Hours Later
A column of infantrymen marched up, rifles slung against their backs.
"All ready Major." Said the leiutenant in charge of the soliders. Nanseon stared.
"Oh! At attention!" The men snapped to attention.
"At ease, don't forget next time."
"I'm deeply sorry sir, won't happen again."
3 Hours Later
This was it. A rainstorm delayed their advance in addition to the time it took to get to Suva, but they were here.
"Sir, its too quiet." Said a scared solider.
"Don't worry. Their military is done, wer-" An explosion rocked the vehicle. They heard shouting and gunsfire outside
"AT mines!" Screamed a solider.
"Move!" Said the leiutenant over the radio and the platoon poured out of their APCs. It was hell outside. machine gun nests, rocket fire and mines had already killed a good 9 men out of the 30 in the platoon.
"Heavy fighting in the streets. We need some more men here!" Fredric said to command on Fiji.
"Acknowledged, we have a tank column tasked already." Replied a colonel.
Yerevan, Armenia
A large bout of rain had swept over Yerevan and the surrounding districts, creating a thick fog that blanketed the city. Vice President Robert Pollundrian was loitering outside of the Government House in Republic Square in his black raincoat, waiting for Assanian to come from his house on the outskirts of town. Pollundrian had his hands shoved deep in his pockets in an attempt to protect against the biting, out-of-season cold that came with the rain, but also to find a lighter. He had a pack of cigarettes located in the front pocket of his suit, but was unable to light them, much to his frustration. So for several minutes the he rummaged around in his pockets in vain, all while being drenched in the rain that could not have come at a more inconvenient time.
Eventually, one of the guards at the front gate noticed the Vice President, and came to approach. The soldier was also dressed in a similar raincoat over his battledress, and the rain was dripping off of the steel helmet that seemed to large for his childish face. An HK33 carbine danged from a shoulder strap as he walked over the pathway to the disused fountain where Pollundrian leaned against. The guard, naturally, assumed that Pollundrian was just one of the many citizens who wandered the streets, either begging or looking for any job.
"Eh, uh, hello?" the guard asked in his young voice. "What's going on?"
"Huh? Oh, shit," Pollundrian let out in surprise. He turned to face the curious guard, revealing his full face. The soldier immediately gasped, and then took a step backwards, perhaps even more surprised than Pollundrian was.
"Sorry, sir. I, uh, I meant no disrespect," he stumbled apologetically.
Pollundrian replied with a chuckle as he resumed his position leaning against the fountain. "That's fine, kid. Following your training."
"I, uh... yeah... Well, is there anything you need help with? I noticed you seem to have lost something?"
"Lost something?" Pollundrian replied. "No... Wait. Yes. Do you have a lighter? I must have left mine at home."
"A lighter, sir?" the guard asked as he quickly placed his hands into his raincoat and searched for one. Pollundrian affirmed, to which the guard nodded and continued searching the pockets. He stared right by Pollundrian as he did so; an eccentricity of his. After a few moments, he shook his head. "Naw, sir. No lighter."
"Heh. Alright, soldier."
The guard nodded, and his hand went back to clutching his rifle sling. "Care to come inside, sir? I believe there are some matches at the guard post by the door. Corporal Savelian's."
"Would he mind if I took some?" Pollundrian asked with a sly smile. The guard shrugged and threw his head back: "Aram!"
A voice from far off replied: "What is it?"
"The Vice President needs some matches for his cigarettes! Can you find any?"
"Well, uh, let me check! Hold on!"
The guard brought his gaze back to Pollundrian. "He's looking," he informed the Vice President.
"Alright."
"Say, why don't you come inside? Why are you out here?" the guard asked.
"I'm waiting for Assanian," Pollundrian replied. "We're going to a meeting at the university."
"The university? What for?"
"The economy. We've got to work on it."
"Ah. Seems obvious."
"You won't believe how complex it is," Pollundrian joked. "I sure as hell don't want to put up with it. But you have to work to fix your problems."
The guard chuckled. "I'm just a footsoldier. My place isn't with the fancy intellectuals trying to figure out how much money should be worth. I'd just give everyone a million dram and be done with it."
"Heh. If it were that simple, we'd have done it already."
"Amen to that, sir," the guard said in agreement. He then let his gaze wander, as the topic was pretty much over by then. He quickly snapped back to his duties, though, and asked: "Is there anything else I can help you with?" he asked.
"I hate to sound rude, but I still haven't gotten the lighter yet," Pollundrian answered with a joking grin.
"Oh, yeah. Right," the guard suddenly, as if he forgot and then just remembered. He turned his head back and shouted: "Aram! Where's the lighter!"
"Come here and get it!" the voice from behind said. The guard made a face into the air silently mocking his partner, and swiveled to run towards the guard post. A few seconds later, he had taken a small silver object from another raincoat-clad guard and was running back to Pollundrian, who raised his hand in the air in a way indicating that the guard toss it. The guard saw his signal, and slowly underhanded it to the Vice President. "Thanks, kid," came the reply.
So Pollundrian finally got his coveted cigarette, just as Assanian's staff car pulled up at the roundabout in front of the garden. Pollundrian saw this, and swore maybe a bit too loudly. He saw the guard standing awkwardly by the fountain awaiting Pollundrian's departure, and returned the lighter with a similar underhand throw. He chuckled at the circumstances, just as he entered the awaiting vehicle for the meeting.
"You can confirm it?" the contact said. Cigarette smoke formed a thin veil that choked the room. Everything hidden behind a light blue-grey haze. Light cast from the un-shaded lamp formed a hazy and smokey halo of light. An ashtray choked with extinguished butts sat on the coffee table. The room the two agents and their RGG contact was small, a mere closet in a shed of an apartment somewhere in downtown Khatmandu.
"We can." Quan said, "Our man fled north across the border. We met a friend of his who told us."
The man nodded, "Well, in any case we'll head back to the boss and confirm it."
"Great. So when do we leave?"
"In a few hours," the Burmese man grumbled, "I got a few personal affairs to finish. But we'll be en'route to Rangoon."
Cebu - July 23rd
"You can confirm that?" Shing said into the hand set, "Over."
"We can. Gunmen are out throughout Manilla and Bacolod. The capital garrison has set up about the capital building and archdiocese to safeguard the Congress and Archbishop while they chase the gunmen. We've got men all over Bacolod chasing fires and explosives." the radio cracked, "We'll need to dispatch men to your position when we're finished here if you can't handle yourselves. Over."
"We copy." Shing responded with a already tired looked, "Cebu over and out." he added, handing the receiver to the operator.
"I told you." the police lieutenant said.
"And I confirmed it." Shing added, "We're going to be on our own, and obviously we can't wait these gunners out." Shing added. To extenuate the point there was a bout of gunfire from the hospital. "We're going in."
"What?" the lieutenant said, eyes widened by shock.
Shing nodded, "We need cover."
"You two are going to get shot! Without a doubt." the officer pleaded, "Wait for the special response to get in here, and we can clean them out!"
Shing whipped around furiously and took the lieutenant by the collar. The policeman's face going suddenly pale as he met with the IB agent's scowl, "And you're just killing more."
(Sorry, can't finish this. I think I drained my energy for the day. If I go on anymore I'll be forcing it.)
My DeviantArt, so sexy
A thin, professional-looking fellow slept surprisingly soundly propped against one of the wooden posts holding the roof of the airport up. Airport was probably aggrandizement for the humble facility that served as the primary air hub of the tiny Pacific nation of the Cook Islands. A corrugated metal roof help up by wooden posts covering a concrete floor served as the terminal, - a two-acre long stretch of gravel was the tarmac. A pair of benches underneath a slowly-spinning cieling fan was the only designated sitting space and was presently occupied by a New Zealand family and their luggage, leaving the Mediterranean-looking professional napping on the concrete floor.
A stocky, short woman of Polynesian stock approached the napping man and politely tapped him on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry to wake you up, sir... but you're waiting on the flight to Sydney, right?"
"Yes, yes, that is my destination." The man said with a noticeable Spanish accent.
"Your plane arrived not too long ago. In about twenty minutes, they'll be ready to take off." The Polynesian woman explained courtiously.
"Excelente." The Spaniard acknowledged, reverting into Castillian. "Thank you."
"Spaniard, hmmm?" The woman guessed. "What takes you to Australia?"
"I am a botanist with the University of Salamanca in Spain." The Spaniard recited from his premeditated cover story. "I'm collecting presses of Eucalyptus species from Tasmania for the university's collection." He lied.
"Oh, how interesting! Well take care now, and have a wonderful time."
"Oh, I will." He said politely as he pushed himself off of the post, collected his briefcase, and made his way over to the register to purchase his ticket for the flight to Sydney, fumbling through a number of plane tickets in his pocket that he had retained from Madrid, Caracas, and Lima for a wad of pesetas as he did.
Little did the portly Polynesian woman know that the Spaniard she waved farewell to was none other than Dr. Guijon - the man responsible for synthesizing and maintaining Spain's arsenal of VX nerve agent.
Letter Addressed to Anselmo Zuñiga, M.D. from Minster of Health Andres Quevado
Doctor Zuñiga,
It has come to the attention of the Ministry of Health that you have been collecting data on the spreading immunodeficiency pathogen that has recently appeared throughout this nation. The fact that you have neither volunteered your findings to the Ministry of Health nor cooperated with the Ministry of Health to combat this epidemic and help to produce a cure may very well have resulted in several needless deaths. Whether you have kept your data to yourself for the notoriety of finding a cure on your own or out of disdain for the Ministry of Health, it is imperative that you surrender your findings to the Ministry of Health. Further failure to cooperate will be grounds for your arrest and the seizure of all data pertinent to this pandemic due to the gravity of this situation.
I will need to speak with you in person immediately to compare your findings with the data that have been collected by the Ministry of Health. I trust you will be forthcoming and that your assistance will help us rid Spain of this epidemic.
Andres Quevado,
Ministro de Salud
The rumble of the 3 tanks was the only thing keeping Lt. Shepard awake. He was leading the tank column sent to assist the pinned group of soliders in Suva, and they were almost there.
"MG nest up in that building! Fire a shell!" Barked the tank's spotter. Shepard closed his hatch and ducked inside. BAM! An explosion rattled the tank and the building nearby collapsed. Shepard popped his hatch open and looked around. Nothing.
"Major Nanseon? Anyone?" Called out the leiutenant.
"Over here!" Responed the major.
"Come over here. Its safe."
"Thank god you got here. They killed all but 11 of my men, 3 of the survivors are grazed by bullets in places, one got a direct hit to the leg." Said Nanseon. "And 3 of the APCs are out of action."
"Well where is the remains of your platoon, sir?" Asked a driver.
"Just through that alleyway." The major pointed to a wide alley across the street.
"Thats where were going then."
Skies over Suva, 3 hours later
"Its beautiful, ain't it?" Said one of the pilots.
"Yea. Its New Zealand territory now. The Fiji government surrendered 30 minutes ago." Replied another.
"Return to base Foxtrot. Well done on the air cover." Said their commander.
The jets flew in formation back to New Zealand.
Office of the Navy, Wellington, New Zealand, Present Day
"So it is done? The plans approved by the president?" Asked the Cheif of Navy.
"Yes. With the need for overseas air cover, the NZNS Pride of Wellington will become the main production in our shipyards." Replied the advisor. The NZNS Pride of Wellington was an aircraft carrier, similar in many ways the the Essex class carriers.
The bob of the cruiser Auckland rocked most people to sleep. After all, it was almost midnight. But commander Yakatori, a man with Japanese heritage and control over the most powerful vessel in the New Zealand navy, was still awake. The gold topped flagpoles of the surrounding warships gleamed in the moonlight. Yakatori heard a loud ship's horn blasting in the distance. He pulled out his bionoculars to see 2 Pacific class patrol boats alongside an oil tanker. That was odd. The tanker and one of the PT boats flew New Zealand flags, while the other flew none.
"Pirates!" He said loudly.
"Sir?" Asked an officer operating comunications.
"Yes! There!" He pointed and handed her the bionoculars.
"Why isn't our boat- oh god! Sir the pirates have captured our ship and are executing our crew!" Exclimed the officer.
"Send a frigate!" Ordered Yakatori.
"Right away sir!" Replied the officer.
10 Minutes Later, Aboard the NZNS Summer
The commanding warrant officer aboard the Summer ordered a weapons-free on the 2 miniguns on the front of the ship.
"Haha! Got one!" Exclaimed a solider as one PT boat burst into flames. The second one followed soon after and the explosion was followed by a chorus of cheering from the crew.
"Oil tanker safe. Escort er' to Fiji" Orderd the warrant officer.
Disturbing the otherwise harmonious nature of the ocean was a monster of blackened complexion and elongated proportions. Its thick metal skin acting to not only protect the crew but also conceal it in the darkened waters of the Baltic Sea, reducing its structure into a silhouette that drifted under the surface of the ocean in a seemingly effortless fashion. The skeleton inside came in the form of narrow hallways layered with pipes and an assortment of valves and gauges strewn throughout the ship.
Large watertight doors segmented the vessel and separated the living quarters from the more complicated workstations the crew tended to nonstop. Small compartments outfitted with numerous necessities and bunk beds occupied the area in which Fuchs and his Finnish companion, Eemil, rested. Having discarded of their bulky civilian overcoats, the two sat cramped around a small table the crew used for dining purposes, both of them sporting simple, dark-blue military fatigues designed for comfort.
Breaking the silence that had befallen the men minutes prior, Eemil spoke up. "I could go for a smoke." he said staring subconsciously at the metal rivets embedded into the walls around him. "But I'm afraid this thing'll explode." he added in a flat tone.
"You light that cigarette and I'll be the one to throw you overboard." Snickered Fuchs in response, his eyes fixed on a book of naval history.
"You think it'd really explode?" asked Eemil.
"I don't know." answered Fuchs. "But if I caught a whiff of that shit I'd be hoping it did explode." he complained. "I always thought, if I'm gonna turn my lungs into liquid shit I might as well do it with quality cigars."
"I'm sorry, grandpa." teased Eemil. "I'm just getting a little stressed, you know? I didn't think I'd end up in a goddamned submarine. And I told you, I'm claustrophobic." he explained.
"Well, what did you expect?" asked Fuchs, taking his gaze off the book for a moment. "That we could take a fucking cruise ship?" he quipped. "Grow some goddamn balls, you knew what you signed up for."
"And it sure as fuck wasn't a submarine ride." shot back Eemil. "Lord knows these waters are known for dragging ships to the bottom of the ocean, the Vanguardia can attest to that." said the Finn in butchered Spanish.
"What, did you drink a glass of estrogen this morning or are all Finnish men pussies?"
"Pffah! I'm no coward!" spat Eemil. "I was there at Helsinki when the Revolution raged, I threw my fists in the air and spilled blood for Sven." he added pridefully, his demeanor becoming slightly agitated.
"Yeah?" began Fuchs, "Well, you should have thrown those fists into somebody's face, 'cause last I checked you commies were still freezing to death in the north; Finland is still divided."
"Bah!" exclaimed a frustrated Eemil. "Do we even have a plan?" he asked with a tint of doubt.
"Not yet." Fuchs admitted. "We'll figure it out when we get there."
Eemil snickered. "And you're supposed to be the so-called "elite" Prussian Geheimabwehr? Without a damn clue as to what we're doing?" he laughed. "What a joke."
"We're gonna get to Helsinki and do what you and your miserable band of imbecile pinkos have been trying to do for years." he replied. "How's that for an answer?" he said with a smirk.
"Then we'll have to contact the other members of the Finnish Communist Front."
"Great." said a sarcastic Fuchs. "More deadweight." he groaned. "Look," he said. "We'll have Igor Rahkamo dead within the year without your commie friends. Just let me work, alright? If all goes well you'll have your crappy country united again by the end of the year. Maybe then Finns will reach a collective IQ of fifty and we'll all be happy."
"Go to hell." retorted Eemil.
"I'll be there." Fuchs laughed, his gaze once again firmly set on the book in front of him.
Santander, Spain
Prompted by the arrival of yet another set of governmental vehicles came forth a barrage of blinding flashes as cameramen gathered outside the gates to the mortared-stone mansion competed against each other for the best shot. A black limousine flying both the Spanish and Prussian flags on its hood navigated up the hills and pass the winding road to the mansion with a pair of black Sedans as escort.
Coming to a halt just in front of the mansion and out of range of news cameras, the doors to the limousine swung open and a wall of suited bodyguards formed around the vehicle. Frederick IV of Prussia emerged from out of the limousine with his now characteristic cavalry coat slung over his arm. Instead he wore a simple white dress-shirt and grey breeches (because hell yeah militarism) and boots. Advised, or rather warned of the weather, his Pickelhaube was nowhere to be seen, and his coat went deprived of use.
A smile shot across the Kaiser's face despite his deep discomfort with both the hot weather and formal gatherings. Greeting the staff of cordial Spaniards gathered outside, he entered the building with his entourage of bodyguards and bootlickers.
(Gorgen did most of the setting so you'll have to deal with that.)
Birgit August sat at his home, his large couch smelled new and fresh from how seldom he used it. The folds of green fabrics with slightly fuzzy stripes going down it gave it a silly look for a politician but what could be said of its look Birgit often countered by telling people to sit down. The couch allowed a person to sink to just the right depth, and feel as if they were suspended in a cloud of prefect equilibrium. Birgit rested in his couch, ahead of him past his mild bluish walls that gave the room a nice sky look was his television. The black box seemed out of place, the ornately carved wooden table it rested on was crafted from African Blackwood, done in an old Norse style the table looked like it was from another era. The carpet the table rested on was the same green of Birgits couch, but with white stripes spiraling into the center. Yes the black box was hardly in place among these things under the warm incandescent light
The television was set to the interim election, Birgit found it amusing he was kicked out of his office at least a week before its next tenant would take his seat but he was past caring, and he just hoped someone moderate would be elected. As the television flashed past commercial’s and onto the silver black and white face of the reporter with the Riksdag behind him. The man on the television spoke loudly, After the shocking vote of no confidence in incumbent Birgit August the Riksdag has called an interim election, as this network understand the vote has finished being counted and the Riksdag is preparing to announce the new Swedish prime minister. Now while we wait for the results we can look at who is predicted to win. Polls taken over telephone have put the far right Sweden Party commanded by Albert Felix, formerly an unpopular party that has slowly gained popularity in recent years in the lead followed by the more moderate replacement candidate from the old Prime Ministers Conservative party Frans Halvar. The mood is however in the Sweden Parties favour as the entrance of North Finland into the far left communist Asian Socialist Bloc and with it the expansion of Chinese power in the region has had many in Sweden fear that liberal approaches to communism in the past by Birgit August former leader of the Center Party have strengthened communism and damaged the sovereign status of Sweden. Because of this the Center party is at a steep disadva- Hold me there the results have just come in!” The man on the screen took a moment and announced in an upbeat tone, “Just as predicted the Sweden party have taken the election and will serve as the government of Sweden for the next two years until the normal election schedule resumes. Well folks this has been an interesting interim election and we will see you again in two years, also remember if you need to shave clean Manceing razors are your only ch-.” Birgit cut the man of with a click of his remote and a long sigh. This would not bode well for Sweden, the people were fearful of China, and despite Birgits attempts to stem that fear by making peace he only worsened it. Now with China at the nation’s front door a man as mad as Albert Felix was elected. In time the people would understand their mistake, however how long would that take?
The next day Birgit woke again and made his way to the living room once again. Upon sitting down he turned on the television once again and was greeted by Albert Felixs face, raised above the masses. Albert boomed in a confident self-glorifying voice, “People of Sweden! People of this good nation! Today I will not lie; we face problems in this age we had not ever dreamed of before. The Chinese have come to our door! The former Government tried to negotiate with them, and they failed terribly. So you the people have elected me to insure that you are never taken advantage of by the communists; that Sweden remains solely a Swedish state. You have elected me to see communism and the dragon that spreads it like fire extinguished from this fair land! I swear to you I will insure Sweden is no longer tainted by this menace. We will abolish the policies of appeasement to leftist groups within and outside of Sweden and by the grace of god who has given us this chance we will fulfill his mission to its competition. Now people of this great nation let us rejoice in prayer for this victory, and let us know that god who watches over us at all times will aid us in our mission to insure that Sweden will never have is sovereign rights infringed by many group or man!”
Birgit muttered to himself, ”…Fuck me” Eventually they would find reason to imprison him as some sort of statement against those who appease communism and aren’t dutiful to god, he would need to get out of Sweden. Norway was off the table, too close. Denmark would never take him in and most other nations would refuse him. Birgit could try to flee to South America; it was unlikely he would be recognized there. Regardless he knew he had to get out of Sweden before Albert consolidated his power. Birgit would head for the airport and get out of the country before Albert found a reason to imprison him.
Hasmik Assanian and the soaked Robert Pollundrian entered through the double doors leading to conference room 4 at the University of Armenia's Yerevan campus. The extravagant room used to be called the Suleiman Room, but the name was sandblasted off the walls by order of the rector, a noted Armenian nationalist. It was quickly painted over, leaving the room remained bare until the factories in Hrazdan could be reactivated to print an engraved plate for a replacement name. Coincidentally, the state of Armenian industry was one of the topics being discussed at that night's meeting. From all over the country, economists gathered to formulate a plan to set Armenia's economy on the right track. There were about a dozen of them, all sitting with assorted papers and books scattered over the circular wooden table illuminated by a brass chandelier hanging above. They noticed the President's arrival, and one of them duly noted that the meeting was started.
After Assanian and Pollundrian took their seats by their respective namecards, one of the economists cleared his throat rather loudly and purposely as a way of starting the meeting off. Assanian shifted in his chair until he found a comfortable position, and said: "Welcome to our emergency meeting, gentlemen."
The rest of the people in the room grunted responses, with Pollundrian chuckling quietly beside the President. He was mildly amused at the scene. Assanian ignored this, and continued: "So on the agenda today is going to find a way to start making gains in the economy. Right now, we're not in debt per se, but we have almost zero opportunities to make money. What I want to do is start churning out exports as soon as possible and use that money to fix up and modernize the country. As we all know too well, the Ottomans have left the country in a state of disrepair, which means we have to clean up the mess."
"So to do this," Pollundrian said, continuing where Assanian left off as per the plan, "we need to figure out a few things. Namely, our eight questions."
Assanian began listing them, counting off with his fingers after each one. "One: what available infrastructure do we have now to facilitate reconstruction of the country? Two: what do we have to repair? Three: what sources of income do we have? Four: what sources of income can be immediately repaired and put to work? Five: what sources of income can we construct in the future? Six: how much foreign aid should we need? Seven: what should the government do? Eight: what should we do with our currency?"
"Assanian and I have both decided we want an expedited meeting. We scheduled to have our plan set in stone tonight, followed by a radio broadcast on the former rebellion network at three o'clock tomorrow. We have until then, and I don't care if we stay up all night deliberating it. If we have everything okayed tonight, Assanian can make it happen. So let's go. Question one."
The room was silent for a moment save for the shuffling of papers. After about fifteen seconds, one of the economists cleared his throat and began to speak. His nameplate read "Jamal Kabadian", and he spoke with an Assyrian-accented tenor. "Mister President," he began, "I have consulted a friend in the railroad industry on the state of Armenian railways, and his report was that there was only two major railways operating from Erzurum to Rize that used to ferry oil to the port city for export. Another runs from Van to Gyumri. All others are either disused or damaged, particularly by the partisans."
Kabadian stopped for a moment to drink out of a nearby glass of water before adding: "The railways can be used to ferry oil, timber, lead, copper, chromium, and zinc from the mines Erzurum to export ships in Rize. The Gyumri-Van link has a little less value, but minerals can be transported from mines there for sale to Persia."
Assanian nodded. "Thank you, Mister Kabadian." He then turned his head back to the table: "What about our roadways?"
Someone else raised his hand: a mustachioed Syrian-looking man by the name of Mohammad Javelian. "The roadways in Armenia are good enough to move around in. Whereas the railways were destroyed by the war, the roads were left by the Turks to move around on, so we have those. They provide transportation between the main cities, so until the railways can be repaired I suggest we use them the highways as our primary trading routes. Trucking will have to take the place of railroads for now, and we do have a large Russian diaspora to perform these duties. Trucking is very common in Russia due to the current climate that renders maintenance of railways impossible. With the recent influx of Russian refugees from the ASF's 'courier railway', I think we'll have a sizable population of truckers."
Kabadian nodded his head in agreement. "Yes, I agree. The roadways, especially the ones linking the Persian borders to the Ottoman ones, were maintained by Ottoman crews prior to our secession because of their value. Of course, other roads are not so well taken care of. I'll get to that later."
Assanian nodded once again, and turned his attention to another figure on the board: Mikael Velonian, a former sea captain from Trabzon. "Armenia's nautical infrastructure is practically nonexistent," he answered in a matter-of-factly tone. "Sure, Trabzon and Rize have some decent ports, but there are currently only fourteen ships in Armenian civilian hands. Many of them were seized from Turkish companies during the war by our navy, and are sitting at dock doing nothing because they're not a part of any company. We have some tools, but we just need to organize them."
"What is the roster of these ships?" Pollundrian asked.
Velonian held up his index finger, indicating that the Vice President wait a second. He reached into his stack of papers and filed through them until he found one with several bullet points. He placed it atop the pile and began to read from it: "It looks like we have two oil tankers carrying about 15,000 DWT, seven dry container cargo ships that carry 17,000 DWT, three dry bulk ships at 19,000 DWT, and two roll-on-roll-offs at 20,000 DWT. All in all, if we gather them in a government merchant marine we can export across the Black Sea to Poland and Prussia."
"Got it. Now, to the subject of airports," Assanian said after listening intently to Velonian. He made a few marks on his notepad, which included the readiness levels of the infrastructure. "Who's got the information on that?" he asked.
Kabadian raised his hand again, and stated: "We have only one proper airport. That, of course, is Zvartnots. Everything else is either a dirt landing strip or a forest clearing used as a helipad. We're severely lacking in the air transport department, so we need to get that under control."
"That's it?" Pollundrian asked. "Just Zartnots?"
"Just Zvartnots," Kabadian repeated.
Pollundrian groaned and then sighed: "Holy hell..."
Assanian raised his eyebrow at the statement, but otherwise displayed no shock. He scribbled down "AIRPORTS!" on his notepad and then went back to the panel. "Is that everything pertaining to transport? Railways, roads, ports, airports... Yes. That's it. Now we need to talk about services: water, sewage, electricity, and telecommunications. First up: water and sewage."
The person sitting next to Kabadian, a stout Russian wearing a moth-eaten suit cleared his throat. His nameplate was "Seyovich", and he spoke with an oddly Kazakh accent. "Each city has its own water and sewage system that is controlled by independent authorities," he reported. "Based on my data, they are doing well. You Armenians like your clean cities, so there isn't too much to repair in that section. Maybe we need a few replacement parts in minor sections, but overall the systems are working fine."
"Good, good," Assanian said, looking down at his notepad. "Now electricity and telecommunications?"
Sevovich began speaking again: "The national power grid is currently down in a few of the more wartorn areas like Artashat or Nakhchivan, but the Turkish never instituted a scorched earth policy so the power grid remains more or less intact. Right now, coal plants operating at about 43% efficiency in Hrazdan power the immediate area, with more coal plants in the Nagorno-Karabakh powering the region. Western Armenia is largely rural, with only the Van, Trabzon-Rize, and Erzurum areas receiving power with their natural gas or coal plants. Some of the bigger cities get rolling brown or blackouts, so that needs to be looked into. But otherwise, electricity requires some major pan-Armenian improvement, but little local improvement."
"What about telecommunications?" Assanian asked.
"Ah, yes. This is where many of the rural areas lack in. Right now, Armenia proper has a fine system of telephone lines... and as you all know, telephone lines direct both telephone and telegraph communications... but in the West, large portions of the country have either been cut off by the war, or never had telecommunications to begin with. However, those areas are not of very much economical or strategic importance, making that point moot. The powerhouses are all set."
Sevovich finished, and waited for Assanian's response nervously. His fingers drummed on the edge of the table as he watched the ripples in his glass of water. Meanwhile, Kabadian had finished his and excused himself from the table momentarily to refill his glass from the water cooler located at the end of the room. The majority of the panel casually observed this, until Assanian began speaking again. "It sounds like we're in a pretty bad shape," he noted.
"Oh, not at all, Mister President!" Kabadian called out from the water cooler. As he waited for his glass to fill, he turned his head to Assanian and said: "It's just the physical things that are lacking. We have communications to facilitate a quick and efficient repair process. We aren't in some sort of dark age."
Assanian, shocked by the unorthodox interjection, listened as Kabadian continued: "There will be ample opportunities to- damn!"
Kabadian had ignored his water glass for too long, and the fluid spilled over the top and gushed down onto his hand and the carpet. Kabadian excused his language as he went to grab his water and sip the liquid down from the top of the glass. As he nursed the glass, he wiped his hand on the side of his coat. After he had solved his crisis, he quickly went to place his water down on the table before running back to retrieve some paper towels to mop up the spill, and also to hide his embarrassment. Pollundrian silently chuckled beside Assanian, before the President flicked him in the arm as a signal to stop.
"Alright, alright," Assanian sternly announced. "Settle down. Have we answered the first question?"
A few affirmatives swept around, and Assanian nodded. "Onto question two. What can we repair?"
Kabadian, still absent from the table, answered the question in a loud voice to compensate for his distance: "For railroads, we need to begin repairs to the war-damaged sections, which shouldn't be too hard. The ASF wasn't aiming to cripple our future economy like an invading force might, but rather deny Turkish troop reinforcements. Therefore, they only damaged infrastructure in places that were either easy to repair or easy to reach. An example of this is the Erzurum Interchange, where the rebels attacked the Ottoman oil pipeline and railroad junction. They only damaged the pipe itself, and not any of the computer equipment in the building. They also just destroyed some cars on the railroad tracks to deny their use."
As he continued to wipe up the spilled water, he added: "They made it easy to repair on purpose. They knew the war was almost over and that we'd be the ones repairing it for our gain, and not the Ottomans for theirs."
"And on the subject of ports," Velonian said, "we have the tools but not the means of using them. Of course, our equipment like cranes and drydocks are going to need extensive repairs, but we have the capability to use our ships as it is and begin exporting. I suggest we form a merchant marine and incorporate the ships into the program. That way, the government can have control over it for a little while until we can start slowly letting the industry seep back into the private sector. That's essentially what we should do as a whole, but I'll get to that later."
Sevovich grunted. "Don't you think that would reduce productivity?"
"How?" asked Velonian. "It's a guaranteed job, and that's what people need. If we give them good wages, then the'll be fine."
"But the private sector can listen to their wants and needs and-"
"Bullshit, Mister Sevovich. The government can do that as well, and probably be better at it."
"But-"
"Enough!" interjected Assanian. "We'll get to this later!"
The room was silenced as both Sevovich and Velonion stared at their papers. With the topic of nautical infrastructure dealt with, Velonian had nothing more to say. "I have nothing more to say about it," he announced.
"Very well, Mister Velonian," Assanian answered. "And on the subject of roads?"
"We're going to need to repave them," Kabadian said as he came back to his chair and settled in. "And build some more linking the cities. Right now the majority of them can't hold truckers, so we'll have to build new ones and refurbish old ones with that capability. Our bridges, too, need to be repaired before they collapse in on themselves. Remember that incident in Hrazdan in '76? We'll need to fix that. Now that we have our own goals and priorities, we can."
"I agree," Velonian said. "Our main roads are good to go, and that will allow us to garner the funds needed to repair and build smaller ones."
Assanian scribbled down the decision into his notepad, and then looked back up. "Airports?" he asked.
Kabadian sighed. "Air travel isn't significant to our grand scheme, so airports should be constructed in areas deemed appropriate in the future. Right now, Zvartots can handle Yerevan and Hrazdan, but I forsee we'll have to build one at Stepanakert for the Nagorno-Karabakh, and also build one at Trabzon, Erzurum, Van, and Nakhchivan. This will all come as Armenia becomes a stronger regional power, so we can let the issues of airports slide for the time being. Ground and sea based travel is our immediate priority, Mister President."
"Alright. So repair our railroads and roads, build more of them, establish a merchant fleet to use our nautical infrastructure, hold off on airports, repair and expand our telephone and electrical lines, and our water and sewer tunnels are fine? Is this our statement on infrastructure?" Assanian leaned back in his chair, awaiting a response. A chorus of affirmatives came back, to which Assanian smiled. "Alright," he started, "that's question two. We've dealt with infrastructure for now. How about we take a half-hour minute recess?"
"Hmm. That would be nice," Pollundrian said softly. Assanian was mildly amused at the childlike statement.
"Alright guys," he announced. "You can take off for a half-hour... Actually..."
He glanced at his watch. "It's six, so I'll give you an hour for dinner. I've heard the campus restaurant is very nice. Dismissed."
At once, the people at the panel began chatting as Assanian leaned back in his chair. The panel slowly left their seats and then the room, leaving just Assanian and Pollundrian. And then, Pollundrian announced that he was going to find some cigarettes, leaving just Assanian sitting alone at the table. He glanced down at his notepad, and then tossed it on top of the table as he, too went to go to the campus restaurant.
Assanian wanted to try out the steak there, and see if the culinary students lived up to their reputation.
The parking lot was a slick sheet as the rain drizzled down on the black-asphalt. Gleams of orange and yellow shone from the oily surface from the streetlights outside. On the far side of the city post-office, the length of highway that bisected the town lay dead. On rare occasion, a dark olive-green army truck would rumble down the length of road on their way to or from the occupied NWC zone.
Ming Fa hung silently in the doorway. Word had it the man he would travel north with would be arriving soon. The Chinese agent checked his watch. 1:24. The man was late.
In a long convoy lumbered down the high-way north-bound. Several armored cars and a truck covered in the dark forms of of soldiers clutching assault rifles. "There's been a lot more of them going north." a voice said behind the agent.
Fa turned to the voice. An elderly lady. Deep dragging bags hung from her eyes as years-weighted wrinkles dragged on her cheek and neck. A curled mat of snow-white hair capped her head like her light, plaid head-scarf. A sorrowful regret and mourning swam in her gaze. Ming Fa was familiar with this local look, the glassy eyed amazed fear that still echoed through the local populace's mind set.
Ming Fa made no response, only nodding as he slowly turned back to the window. "And they say they're annexing it." she grumbled, "I don't want anything to do with them!"
"Why not?" Ming said in a hoarse drained voice.
"I'm not trusting them. They're going to be no better than rag of muffins in New England." the lady said, "To be honest, I dearly hope you chinks don't let them."
Fa gave the lady an idle, lost blink. He turned back to look out the window. "Well, I'm sorry." the crone flustered, "Can I get you anything to drink at least? It's getting cold."
"Tea'd be nice." Fa sighed
"Alright." the lady said. The soft scuffling of her heels clopped across the buffed tile of the post-office as she left for the back-office. It wasn't seconds until after she turned to leave that in the near-distance Fa saw headlight-s turn into the parking lot of the post-office. A considerably rare sight.
Leaning up off the wall he leaned on, Fa called back to the post-office attendant: "On second note, hold that." he called back
Outside, the car pulled up to a stop alongside the curb. It was a long-black model. Sporting a bulky ram of a front-end. A rounded ridge running along the length of the front-end up to the darkened cab. The entire beast was painted over in a slick black that rippled in the halogen lights of the street-lamps and the rain water that rolled off it. Lines of silvery chrome dashed the side and high-lighted the features, lifting it up from the deep shadow it cast on the already darkened asphalt of the parking lot. Two eyes that burned gold glared out from underneath the chrome highlighting.
As it rolled to a stop, the stout antenna wagged awkwardly from the front-end driver's side. Settling as the door opened and out stepped an overweight man, dressed in a dark brown leather great coat.
"This can't be my man," Fa mumbled curiously to himself in Mandarrin, leaning towards the window, "can it?"
"Something the matter sweetie?" the old lady asked. Fa didn't respond as he watched the figure walk towards the doors. Shadows cast from his fedora hiding his face.
The post office door opened with a low sigh as the man stepped through. His coat dripping rainwater. In the light of the post office he removed his hat and flicked off the water. His face was heavy set as the rest of his body. Thick, rounded. A low and stout nose bulged out as his lids hung low over his brown eyes. Muddy-blonde hair lay matted on his head with flecks of grey coming through in patches. A dark patch sat alongside his eye with a few small moles.
The figure looked about the office floor, first away from Fa. Then scanning around towards him. He looked him over with a puzzling look. Opening his thin chafed lips he muttered, "You d'eh berd?"
"You must be the bigger bird." Fa said in a low whisper. His response lit up his face with a warm humor.
"D'thoumous Hrracker." he said with a warm smile, "D'eh-H-M-ou-ah-s-ou-n. Counfuses ah lout ou' people."
"Thomas." Fa nodded, "Agent Fa."
"Spoken like ah China d'owner." he laughed. Looking over to the old lady who was seating herself behind the front desk he said in a lower voice, "Coume on, led's d'alk in my car."
Hesitantly, Ming Fa followed after Thomas. He cast a passing look back through the post office, shrugging it off and entering into the rain. Reaching up he popped the collar up on his coat higher, tightening it shut around his neck.
With the car door clicking shut and on a dry seat Thomas continued, "So, ye'r d'eh China Man I'm joining wid'." he said with a smile. He fired the ignition on the car, which thundered and burst to life with a deep grumble. With a soft jolt it was rolling through the parking lot.
"I go'd me papers in d'ah glove coumpard'mend if you need d'ha check." he added, "So, we're 'eaddin' in'da Canada?"
"To be honest," Fa said as he opened up the glove compartment and riffled through by the light of the in-built light. "You sound like you're already from there."
The car boomed as Thomas threw back his head and laughed. A deep riotous laugh, "Ouhhh Naeh," he said, "Minnesouda, b'ourn an' raised. Duluth."
"I see." Fa grumbled as he unfolded a bright-yellow paper. Unfolding it in the dim light he skimmed over the words. US Army contract. Thomas Hracker. "Pinkerton?" he asked, "Who's Pinkerton?"
Thomas laughed again. Not a excitable roaring laugh, but a humored giggle. "Id who 'ey werk fer." he said, "An' id ain'd ah who, id a whad. Pinkerdoun's ah coundrac'dhour. S'ahd oh gouvernment ouwned nouw. Af'dah Fernandez. Buh'd, we wourk
"So, 'ey don'd like secruds." he added in his thick accent, "Wheh' you froum? Whee'd yah lern dah speak English like dat."
"I'm obligated to keep my secrets." Ming Fa said coldly, folding up the order papers and tucking them back in the glove box. "But you may want to burn that."
"Wahs, when we crouss deh bordeh." he nodded, "Ahd' deh leasd, whee'd you speak English?"
"For my position." he said, "The rest is confidential too."
5 kilometers north of Nalsarovar
The sun set over the horizon. Basking the sky in a deep fiery glow. Dotted thin across the open field, and nestled in groves of trees one of the several brigades under Shaoqiang Jiung camped. Neutral tint tents arranged in clusters, inter-spaced by the light armor and truck-mounted anti-aircraft. In the distance, the low lonely thwapping of helicopter rotors sounded, disturbing the otherwise still, dry calm of this western patch of India.
A centralized, but unassuming tent stood at the nexus of the spread and watchful circle of Jiung's army. A light almost card-board table stood at the center. At which the general stood with his lieutenants. Gujarat laid before them. The bubbling growth that rolled off the side of the Indian sub-continent.
"We could take Bhavnagar directly." one of his colonel said in a low droll, "Our communications with the chopper patrols suggest a minimal hostile presence, barely a skeletal garrison, perhaps."
"Can we confirm their reports? Or is this a vague observation." Jiung asked.
"Simply a vague understanding." the colonel mused.
Jiung nodded, "Then I want this mapped out." he said, "Shang Xiao Bao, I want you and your men to depart south. Scout enemy movements, raid if need be. But your primary objective for you and your men is to establish a light presence and recon for the region. Evade high-scale conflict if possible. Scale the terrain and watch the region for movement."
"Yes sir." the colonel Bao bowing, "What about keeping armed then?"
"I'll try to keep you supplied." Jiung said, "But if you do as I say you shouldn't have to, Bao. Maintain radio-contact."
"Yes comrade, if you'll permise, I would request to take Dhandhuka. It will centralize us enough."
"Very well." Jiung excused, "And if you pick up prisoners, I want them under my watch. I don't need any of them thrashed."
"Understand sir."
"Per the rest of us." Jiung moved, placing his hand on the map, "I want Nalsarovar. Preferably with as little shots as possible. It's going to be our field command for the duration of this offensive.
"If we're well supplied, go in for the cities. But I want control of the country-side. From Nalsarovar, we're going to surround and isolate Vadhavan and work towards Rajkot. Compromise their ability to operate, establish control over the roads in. They'll break if we have time."
"Yes sir." the other officers around the table said.
"Good." Jiung said with a dry sigh, "We'll see about Jamnagar as well. Obviously Jaipur forgot it. Let's not. After that, we'll have compromised enough of the region the village's and small towns will turn on the Persians and the Prince.
"You and your men are going to have four hours to settle. I want us all packed and ready to move right after midnight and take that village. Remember, we're representing the UFI. Adopt their policy. And my own. It'll go well enough."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Hassan and his men crouched in the brush along the hillside over looking the Belgian rails. They were waiting for the signal from the rebels before they acted. Hassan eyed the Belgian troops that had been stretched along the track in order to do their best to protect it from the insurgents. Taking a pair of binoculars from his belt, Hassan inspected the Belgian positions closely.
"They have machine guns in those towers." he quietly informed his men, pointing toward several simple wooden platforms.
"Could we take them out from here?" Idrissa inquired, squinting as he looked toward the structures.
"Not at this distance" Hassan replied. "The angle in the fields are two far out. Do we have mortars prepared?"
"We do" Idrissa confirmed. "That seems a little simple."
"I don't believe the Belgians expected the rebels to have Mortars" Hassan noted.
"I suppose we wait then" Idrissa nodded.
"Indeed" Hassan responded.
Their wait was cut short as the rumble of a train began to vibrate across the ground. Along the edge of the river on the horizon, a small plume of smoke could be seen rising into the sky. As the plume crept closer, the noise made by the iron steam engine became audible, sending birds into flight as it grew louder. The Belgian guards seemed to casually turn their attention to the train as it approached. The Ethiopians continued to wait.
As it passed the Belgian guards, the train passed out of the forest and became visible. A large black beast, the steam engine was pulling several passenger and box cars. The clang and clatter of the engine was joined by a short, deep whistle as the engine passed the troops. The Ethiopians on the hill watched silently as the train continued to pass by, carts zooming by endlessly with a palatable hastiness. The end of the train was marked by a blue caboose, which passed out of vision as it passed behind the treeline. The Belgians guarding the track stood their guard.
After several minutes, a sharp puff was heard in the distance. Hassan and his men turned their eyes to the sky. A dot of light rose slowly into the sky to their west, making its way upward until it burst into a flash of red light. The signal. Before the Ethiopians could respond, the sound of a large explosion rocked the forest. The train has been brought down.
Hassan motioned to the men standing behind him. Nodding, one of the men quickly dashed up the hill that they were resting on, the sound of his footfalls on the jungle floor fading as he rushed through the wilderness. Several moments later, the sound of tubed explosions popped behind Hassan's position. Shells landed near the Belgian towers, exploding in the faces of several soldiers and causing panic as they attempted to find their positions. Several of the Belgian men fired shots blindly toward the forests in front of them, their bullets fated to fail as distance worked agains them.
The familar pop of mortars sounded off again, sending more shells on the Belgian position. One of the shells found it's target. A wooden tower gave way as one of the legs holding it up gave way from the explosion. The Belgian machine gunners jumped from the plummeting platform, injuring themselves in the process.
The mortars fired several more shells. The second tower was struck on it's platform, the explosion ejecting the Belgians occupying it and sending them toward the ground. The floor of the tower had been obliterated, leaving only a burning frame of sticks. Satisfied, Hassan waved his hand and his men stood with him. Together, they moved forward.
As the Ethiopians exited the forest, the remaining Belgian guards opened fire. The Ethiopians rushed across the field that divided them from their European adversaries, firing shots as they moved. Hassan's men began to take bullets as they came closer, but the panicking Belgians were to few to inflict any meaningful casualties. By the time the Ethiopians has reached the burning rubble of the wooden towers along the track, several of the Belgian guards had taken off running in fear for their life.
The fight was over almost as soon as Hassan's men had reached the Belgian position. The remaining Belgians were to few to put up a decent fight.
With the Belgians handled, Hassan and his men quickly rushed westward along the track. The sound of gunfire grew closer as they approached the scene of the wrecked train. Before the Ethiopians could see anything more then the smoke from the scene, the sound of gunfire suddenly halted. Realizing what the casualties likely included, a chill ran up and down Hassan's spine and settled in the back of his neck.
As they arrived on the scene, Hassan's fears were confirmed. The train had been scattered by the explosion, many of it's cars lying on the ground while others were in twisted positions. In front of the train was the twisted remains of track and engine, marking the location of the explosion. The blackened ground surrounding the location of the bombing was still smoking, the plume from the wreck dwarfing the line of smoke that had been produced by the train when it was in operation.
The ground in front of the train was littered with bodies. Blood marred the otherwise green grass of the field where the corpses lay. Belgian soldiers lay near men and women in civilians clothing. The Congolese rebels had got to work looting the bodies, claiming pocket watches from the civilians as quickly as they claimed weapons and ammo from the soldiers.
Unnerved by the slaughter, Hassan walked the field stoicly and sighed.
Modern Day Congo: South of Gondar, Ethiopia
Sahle looked down at the fresh pile of camel dung in disgust. On the other side of the , a small group of Bedouin travelers studied Sahle with the same confusion. The peculiar man had been dropped on them by one of the agents of the government. That much they knew. It had always been in their best interests in the past to follow the orders of government officials if they could. The Ethiopians had treated them generously, offering them supplies and easy passage across the border and only asked the occasional favor in return. In the case of this man, they had only been ordered to take him into the Sudanese desert to the north. The expansive sands were easy to hide in. And easy to get lost among.
Sahle was felt out of place as much as he looked it. The men who he had been left with were not the most comfortable looking lot. Their simple white robes and sun-worn faces marked them as the sorts of people who Sahle would normally avoid. They had spent most of the time after Azima left staring at him as if he had arrived from mars. Not a noise came from them. The only sounds in the air came from the wind, or the camels.
"So, gentleman" Sahle looked up at his hosts. "Thanks for taking me in. Where do I stay?"
Wordlessly, the man standing at the front of the gathered nomads pointed toward a worn canvas tent standing next to one of the smaller mudbrick buildings. Sahle's shoulders dropped. He had never slept in a tent before, but he was fairly certain that it would be unpleasant.
"Really?" Sahle inquired, looking at the Bedouin men with uncertainty. "Don't you have room in the... hut over there? I like to sleep under a roof."
"No room." the head nomad responded. "The tent is good."
"Do you know who I am?" Sahle protested.
"No" the nomad responded abruptly.
Sahle paused. He realized that it would be best he not give them his true identity. If they knew that he was escaping the government, they would probably turn him in.
"Well..." Sahle stuttered, "I am not a man who sleeps in a tent!"
"You are now a man who sleeps in a tent." the nomad leader replied.
Defeated, Sahle sulked toward the tent. One of the Bedouin men interrupted the slinking refuge, grabbing him by the shoulder. Before Sahle could respond, the man had thrust a shovel into his arms. Confused, the fugative royal held up the dented tool with one arm while pointing at it with his other.
"What is this about?"
"You work" the Bedouin leader responded, pointing to where the camels had been tied to their posts. An uncertain Sahle inspected the animals, unsure what it was that he was expected to do. As one of the creatures discharged dung, a horrified Sahle looked back at the men who now seemed to be his captors.
"I do not do poo" Sahle informed them.
"You work" the Bedouin leader replied strongly, raising his voice.
"No!" Sahle waved his arms, the shovel still in hand.
"You work or we leave you!" the Bedouin leader shouted back.
"N..." Sahle sputtered. Pouting, the defeated ex-Emperor slinked toward the humped ungulate, dragging the shovel that had been forced upon him as he resigned himself to dung-wrangling.
Mecca, Ethiopian Hejaz
"Ibn el Gahbah!" Ibrahim jumped as his eyes focused on the shadow on the corner. When the man spoke, Ibrahim struggled to recognize the voice. He only realized who he was looking at after several seconds of studying the silhouette of the man's face.
As the sense of familiarity became recognition, Ibrahim greeted the man nervously. "You... you are the Chinaman from last year. What are you doing here?"
"Assignment." Gang grumbled, "But our assignment left your waters it would seem a while ago so it's become irrelevant now."
Gang slid out of the chair and walked across the floor of the Jewish man's hovel. His weathered boots falling heavily on the floor, "I and my comrades need somewhere to get out of the sun so we can get in touch with home. You'd do that, would you?" he added with a vaguely hostile furrowing of his brow.
Nalsarovar
The night laid across the dry flat landscape as a cooling blanket. And across its threads, lightly illuminated by the silver blue light of the sickle-moon over head long shadows snaked their way across the turf towards the darkened village ahead. Thin dirt roads snaking through pastures and dry farmland as they made their march forward. Crouched low like lions on the hunt. The soft drumming plodding of their boots beating the arid landscape.
With Shang Xiao Bao having gone south to assert his control of the region, every man in the remaining force was in some part played to the village.
Coming around the bend the Chinese force came passed the first shack. The village itself was tiny. Minuscule. Barely existent in the landscape. Connected only to the rest of the world by the dirt tracks. And as the outside world pushed in, the mules and cattle took notice. Waking from their slumber they watched in awkwardly, fearfully as the strange shadowy shapes slip by their pens, disturbing the muck that lined the roads.
In the glint of the moonlight a pair of heavily outfitted officers walked through to the center of the village. The near-distant braying of mules and the curious crooning of cattle marked that the beasts were coming around. The central core of the army centered itself at the village proper, taking position alongside the hovels and homes.
At the crossroads they met, the two coated figured stood, the moonlight glinting off their medals as the soft orange glow in several homes marked the ignition of oil lanterns. The minor officer, carrying a rifle handed it to his superior who took the gun in his hand. Angling it to the sky, and the lake the man leveled the rifle a NCO ran over, carrying a lantern. Igniting it he cast the Shaoqiang Jiung's face in the warm fire light. His lieutenant, his Zhongjiang waited by.
Shaoqiang pressed the trigger on the rifle and its reported echoed through the still of the night. An explosive bolt of sound and fire towards the sky. Startled the mules bucked and brayed. And from the houses, lights drunkenly flicked on. As the first doors opened the soldiers made their presence known, stepping out and cocking a round to the chamber.
"Good evening." Jiung shouted in broken Hindi, "I am Shangjiang Shaoqiang Jiung. And on this hour, your village is under the occupation of the NPCLA in respects to the order and interests of United India.
"From hence forth, we shall be providing for your needs."
Chita
"Strange to be back here." Nikolov chuckled, looking out the window of the sparse apartment he had come to be held up in after leaving Lesosbrisk. Over the patch-work brown carpet sat only a raged couch, and an equally raged bed.
"And quite the accommodations." Akitov observed unimpressed, "I would have expected something better."
"I have been in worse." Nikolov said, "And I only intend to be in here long enough before we head north to Sakha."
"I see." his companion said. The dry unimpressed tone of his voice maintained as he picked at the ragid upholstery on the couch.
"You and I are different people I guess," Nikolov grinned, "You stayed in a house, I marched and slept in the snow. I spent a long period of my life on the wild."
"You make me think of the Finns." said Akitov, "Strange how such forces manifest the same year."
"Then and now is a time of change my friend."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Carthage, Missouri
Dixon sat in a rocking chair perched on the porch of a white washed plantation style house on the outskirts of the small Missouri town. The sweltering summer humidity was only made bearable by lemonade and the refreshing breeze which blew through the willow trees in bursts, causing those who spent their day outside to associate the sound of swaying limbs with the cool feeling of the wind.
Dixon did not sit alone. The owner of the house, an elderly but rambunctious Senator from Missouri named Jubal Bacon, sat motionlessly alongside his colleague as he nursed a corn cob pipe. The atmosphere in the air was leisurely, but both men and spent to afternoon discussing their trade. Glasses of lemonade sat on copies of documents and treaties.
"I thank you again, Jubal" Dixon turned to his colleague, "I did not expect for August to become what it has become."
"Think nothing of it" Bacon grunted from under his greyed mustache, "It isn't every day that a man get's bade to spend a month with both the hell hounds and heaven's host. No sir. It won't be no trouble to whip these Chinamen anyhow."
"I agree, we have a case" Dixon replied. "I am surprised Fernandez asked me to represent us to the Asian's."
"It is a peculiar sort of thing" Bacon responded, coughing as he choked on the tobacco smoke. "I would be cautious. Yes sir. Your opponents don't hand you glory out of the kindness of their lil' ol' hearts."
"I wonder if Fernandez even knows that I am going to meet with Prime Minister Sotelo next week?" Dixon inquired.
"Perhaps that was the serpents plan?" Bacon suggested, "Keep you from meeting with the man who could prop your career with all that European money and intrigue. He'd know that you'd have to chose your duties over your career."
"I hope that is all that it is" Dixon nodded. "It seems to me that I can do both of these things."
"Thank the Holy Lord and those Wright brothers for the power of the wing-ed airplane!" Bacon roared, causing him to cough a small amount of tobacco spittle onto his pure white suit jacket. Brushing the imperfection he sniffed and placed the pipe back in his maw.
"Indeed" Dixon replied, taking a sip of lemonade as several young boys ran down the road as they fired imaginary bullets at each other from sticks.
"I would not worry about Fernandez" Bacon added as the children and their shouts of 'Bang!' and 'Boom!' faded into the distance. "You have the hearts and ears of these great people of this United States. Yes sir. Our fore bearers did not sweat and bleed to be part of some Oriental Empire. No sir. They did not do that. If we held an election today, I have all the faith that you would be the next occupant of that White House in Washington"
"I appreciate your confidence" Dixon smiled.
"...and after next month, my confidence will be tripled." Bacon continued "Tell them in China what the American people know. Get the support of that Spaniard. You will be unstoppable."
"I will need your help with the first one, still." Dixon replied, "Are you healthy enough to travel to Asia?"
"I will travel." Bacon abruptly responded, taking the pipe from his mouth and jabbing it's tip in the direction of Senator Dixon. "I ain't never seen no China. It will be one more to add to the memoirs. You shouldn't worry about it anyhow, your case to the ASB is sewn shut. They have no argument."
"It does seem that way..." Dixon agreed. "Our occupation of the NWC seems to fall outside of the treaty's area of coverage. After all, we occupied it before we joined the ASB."
"Yessir." Bacon replied enthusiastically. "Those wily Canadians invaded us! It is no imperialism if you are the victim. We only occupy that infernal country of trees and dishonorable men to protect ourselves from their natural dishonesty. You know that Canada is where those men who opposed our founding father's revolution fled?"
"I have heard that" Dixon replied.
"Believe it!" Bacon roared. "That's dishonest men and traitors. They have their own country and we call it Canada. They got a red leaf on their flag because they flutter around uselessly in the blood of good men."
"I'll have to remember that" Dixon chuckled.
"After Seattle, we should just be allowed to go in their and hang every other one of them" Bacon continued to get worked up. "There is five hundred pines per every human being in that infernal nation. We would have no trouble finding a branch for all of them to swing."
"I doubt the Chinese will hear that argument." Dixon replied as he began to fan himself with a stack of papers.
"Damn those Chinamen" Bacon added. "They aren't our blessed mothers.."
At about seven o'clock, the panel members came back to the conference room full of food. Their recess was over, and they were quickly put back to work in matters concerning the future of the country. The conference was about a quarter way over, but the basic framework had been laid out. However, most of the conference was just establishing facts and leaving little room for debate until the bigger questions arrived. Most of the panel members hoped that the conference would be over quickly because of this fact. But there was still much more to go over.
As the panel members went back to their seats, they waited for Assanian to begin the session again. Most of them waited patiently with their hands in their laps, while others shuffled papers around and performed idle gestures like scratching their heads. Eventually, Assanian had mentally counted each panel member and determined all were there, and proceeded to start the session. "Good evening. I hope you enjoyed your dinners, but now we have to get back to work. I believe next up on our list is the means of income we have right now. And I believe Mister Sevovich has an answer for us... Mister Sevovich?"
Sevovich was fiddling with the locks on his briefcase when Assanian called on him. His head shot up and he looked around to see everyone looking at him. "Oh, yes. Right now, Armenia's means of production and income are severely limited," he stated. "Our factories are in shambles because of the outsourcing of production to Turkey proper, which leaves us with generally only our farms. Armenia has typically been a rural country, so we have many, many ranches and farms dotting the landscape in areas such as Nakhchivan, and the Karabakh. Really, only in the East. The West is mineral rich but lacks arable land, but I will get to that later. But on the subject of farms, I want to use Mister Velonian's analogue of 'having the tools but not the means to use them.' If we were to encourage the farmers to grow more food to export in addition to the subsistence farming already occurring, we can sell food to nations like Persia, which do not have much arable land and most of it is not under cultivation... Around 12% was the official figure."
"So what kind of profits do you think foodstuffs would bring, Mister Sevovich?" Pollundrian asked interestedly.
"Well, Mister Vice President, I think that we can export our foods to the Middle Eastern and Circassian areas. Seeing as Armenia's cuisine typically matches that of other regional diets, we can have a large influence on their market as a supplier of staple foods like lavash. Armenia is in a good position to do this as roughly 75% of our land is arable. We're in a close position to other Middle Eastern countries like Persia and Iraq that do not have much arable land, allowing us to gain the upper hand as a convenient source of imported food over countries like, say, China. The other good thing about agriculture is that our population is already heavily involved with it and that the training times are short, minimizing long delays for new workers."
"Excellent, Mister Sevovich. I'll keep that in mind," Assanian replied. He marked down agriculture on his list. "Now, what industrial capabilities do we have?"
"Industrial capabilities are severely lacking," answered Kabadian. "Right now our factories have no workers and are in major disrepair. Really, we have several dozen factory facilities in Hrazdan but nothing to do with them. Some factories in the West are operational such as a few in Erzurum, and they are huge employers. We manufacture cars, industrial equipment, appliances, cement, et cetera. These items can be readily sold to other countries, especially ones to the south of us like Sevovich was saying. In addition to the Erzurum factories, small manufacturing plants are operational in Trabzon, Rize, Van, and Kars. So we're not totally in lack of manufacturing or industry. However, this is just the manufacturing side of things. On the resource side, there are actually a couple of large income makers. An example of this is the huge oil refinery and pipeline operation at Erzurum we seized from the Ottomans last March. There are also multiple processing plants operating alongside operational mines that I'll get to later."
"And what are those operational mines?" asked Sevovich.
"They are our gold and copper mines in the North; bauxite, iron, copper, and molybdenum mines in the South; oil, iron, lead, and zinc mines in the West; and foresting industries in the... well, everywhere. Most of these are operational at a very low capacity, but still operational nevertheless. It is only a matter of the workers leaving the rebellion to go back to work, which I suspect will happen on its own. At my count, I approximate that 40% of the country's established material exploitation operations are active, with 45% in a light to moderate state of disrepair and the last 15% needing much work done to it or is undiscovered."
"Are you sure about this?" asked Assanian. He leaned forward from his chair and gazed intently at Kabadian from across the table. "I was under the impression that virtually zero percent of our resources were being harvested."
"No, sir. Although unemployment is at 30%, we still have manufacturing and resource operations that we can get up and running very quickly. The war was not as destructive as it could have been. A recovery process will take about a year or two, but by 1980 we should be a decent-sized regional power. That is, if we do everything correctly."
"What is- No, we'll get to that later."
"Yes, Mister President."
Assanian nodded at him, and slunk back to his chair. After reaching for his glass of water and taking a sip, he asked: "Is there anything we're forgetting?"
"Services, Mister President!" called out Velonian.
"Ah, the service industry. Do you have anything to say about it?"
"I believe that Armenia can be turned into a touristy place in the near future once we get all of that war and poverty stigma out of the way. Sevan, for example, is... was a nice resort town and often frequented by Turkish officials. You may know this because the Turkish governor in Armenia was assassinated onboard his yacht in April. But the basic infrastructure is still there: the beaches, the hotels, the mountainside villas... We just need to attract some of the more wealthy people there to make it the resort town it used to be. This could also be applied, albeit less, to Van, which has a decent-sized tourism setup that used to attract Persians. But right now we also have to get the stigma of Armenia being poor or wartorn out of the way."
Velonian paused to scratch an itch on his shoulder for a moment, but then continued: "The second service I propose relates to the merchant navy. We can be universal carriers over the Black Sea if we arm our freighters against Russian pirates. Seeing as most shipping is civilian, and thus unarmed, the Black Sea is becoming a hotspot for Russian piracy. Of course, there are few navy ships in the Black Sea as they are essentially stuck in it with Turkey's very selective procedures for going through the Bosphorus. There isn't much use for a sea war here except with Turkey, but that isn't a very large priority for many of the European nations. That means the civilian shipping companies are left unprotected against piracy, unless we step in. If we volunteer to carry other nations' goods for a fee that includes pirate protection, we can dominate the economic scene here and allow the civilian shippers to remain at ease from pirates knowing we're taking the heat."
"Do you actually think that would work?" Javelian asked, speaking for the first time after the recess.
"I can assure you that as piracy rises - and it is rising - the nations will either be forced to build new naval ships in the Black Sea, which is expensive and they cannot be used in any sort of strategic war like in the Baltic or Mediterranean, or outfit their ships with arms and train their crews to repel piracy. Of course, if we're there, pre-armed and pre-trained, we would look like a very affordable option instead of an expensive armament campaign. I think it will work."
"I see, Mister Velonian. Thank you for your input," Assanian said finally after a few seconds of silence. "Any other services we can lend out to other countries?"
"Electricity is one," answered Sevovich. "Our power plants, if they have excess production, can lend power to neighboring countries like Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Iraq, for a price. However, we will need the necessary infrastructure in place first, which I believe is already the case to Georgia and Syria, which are former Ottoman territories."
"And on that subject," Kabadian interrupted, "we could also lease radio stations to revolutionaries in Georgia, Syria, Cyprus, and Azerbaijan. This is only temporary, but it would provide them with a safe place to broadcast their messages without shutdowns from Turkish troops."
"So electricity and radio leases? Seems fine to me," stated Pollundrian. He turned to Assanian and nodded. "I think that about covers it."
Assanian affirmed this, and took a look at the panel. Everyone seemed content with the situation so far, so
Assanian decided to move on. "Good, good," he said, "now we move onto question four, which we've already talked about briefly. What can he immediately repair to start making income?"
Kabadian was the first to reply. "Like I said, 45% of our natural resource exploitation operations are in need of moderate or light repairs before they can get back to work. These won't be major, and can be accomplished with foreign aid. If we bring the industry under the government's wing temporarily to accomplish these repairs, and then slowly let it seep back into private hands, the issue of not having resources to export will be solved, and we'll have a sizable chunk of profit culminating from that. Our industrial capacity is the same way. Many of the factories in Hrazdan need small repairs and workers to get back to producing a wide variety of things."
"Like what?"
"Oh, well... Airplane parts, automobiles, appliances, industrial parts, metals, at least one arms factory, chemicals, and paper. A very diverse range of products that we have the raw materials for. This goes back to the infrastructure questions, so that makes our industry's reactivation largely dependent on when our roads or railways will be available to transport raw materials to feed them. I mean, we do have enough workers to work these new factories, seeing as most of them worked in them before the invasion in 1970. They'll be flocking to go back to work, I assure you. Nobody is happy living in the dumps. We can have the entire city of Hrazdan recovered by next summer if we do everything correctly."
"You seem very optimistic, Mister Kabadian," Pollundrian observed.
"I am, because I've seen the war firsthand. I fought the Ottoman Guards out of Hrazdan, and I saw how delicate we were with the urban scenery there. Everyone was unwilling to simply shell a factory, because we realized that they were going to be our livelihoods after the war was over. We made hunting down the Turkish attempting to 'scorch the earth' a top priority as well. I know that Armenia isn't as damaged as you assume it is, Mister President. I've travelled through the East and the only badly damaged areas I've seen are Artashat and several other small Northern areas."
"I guess you're correct. I spent the majority of the ASF's campaign managing in Hadrut, where the Ottoman Armies had already left in 1976 because of the Greek War. Not too much fighting there."
"Heh. Lucky you."
"No, lucky you. I wish I could have gotten to shoot some people."
The two men chuckled, before Pollundrian roughly pulled them back on topic. Assanian gave Pollundrian a look that seemed to say, "I was getting to that," and continued on. "So besides services leasing and the repair of factories and mines, what else can we immediately accomplish?"
"Well, Mister President," Javelian replied, "because our oil facility at Ezurum is currently active, we only need to fix the one damaged pipeline segment to begin selling the oil back to other countries like Syria. This repair is relatively minor, as none of the advanced flow control equipment was damaged in March's ASF raid on the compound. We just need to weld some sides back onto the segment and fix some small mechanical equipment and we'll be all set. The oil can flow to the prebuilt stations in Syria, Jordan, and Palestine. This will be a good source of money for us as it requires little investment on our part to start the pumps. The oil, facilities, and means of production are already there. If we're lucky, even, we could sell the oil back to the Ottomans for an inflated price if they run low and turn to us for help. As you know, most of Turkey's oil production is in the East, and much of it falls into our boundaries. Hell, Mister President, we're even producing as we speak."
"Yes, I see. I was in contact with a tank commander in Erzurum who took it upon himself to defend the industrial centers there. Tough *******," Pollundrian remarked. "It looks like Erzurum is our immediate economic powerhouse, isn't it?"
"It was the most well maintained by the Ottomans."
"Why?"
"It was closer to them and had more economic value than Eastern Armenia. Simple, really."
"Okay. I get this. So what else are we able to immediately put to work?" Pollundrian asked. The panel members shrugged.
"I don't know," Kabadian said.
"I think we've gone over everything," came from Velonian.
"I agree," affirmed Sevovich.
"Let's move on," suggested Javelian.
Assanian nodded, and looked down at his questions. "What are the long term sources of profit we can construct?"
Javelian was the first to quickly respond. "We can look for more oil and natural gas deposits, especially in the Black Sea. From what I've gathered, there may or may not be a large source of petroleum in the Sea that is relatively close to our shores. If we can find it before the Ottomans do and tap into it, we may secure an energy monopoly over them and cripple their opposition while strengthening ours. By the time it's found, we'd have the capabilities to make offshore rigs to exploit that deposit, so we'd be good to go in that respect. Same way with natural gas in the Caucasus. Although we might have to forcefully take those pipelines to secure our energy."
"Good. Anything else?"
Velonian raised his hand: "We could begin shipbuilding in the Black Sea to increase the size of our water based commercial activities. We could also sell the ships to other Black Sea countries to use in that area, because like I said before, the Black Sea holds little value if Turkey's stranglehold of the Bosphorus and Dardanelles continues. We could be the main suppliers of maritime services and products in the Black Sea, simply because all other countries may not be bothered to invest so much in an area where the payoff would be so little. We would be the affordable substitute."
Sevovich came next: "As of now we're largely dependent on Persian energy sources for our power grid, but if we follow Mister Javelian's advice and search for fuel sources in the Black Sea and Caucasus, we could become more self sufficient and stop spending money on buying from the Persians. I agree that this is a very worthy longtime goal, and that we should make steps towards it. I propose we establish a government-owned energy company to do this, which would regulate the energy flow inside the country and also the export of petroleum and natural gas to countries to our south, which would be largely in need of the stuff if their wars destroy their important industrial sectors."
And then Kabadian: "Mine is simple: build more factories. With the mineral mines becoming active in the future, we'll have the opportunity to expand our industry. It's quite obvious, really."
"Expand our industry with what?"
"Copper is a big one. We have so much copper in this country that can be turned into electrical wiring or other components. Iron for tools or steel, and other such things. Zinc chloride can be added to our lumber, zinc fungicides can also be produced... There is so much we can do with our resources. It just takes a little bit of thinking to figure it out."
A large smile lit the incredibly optimistic Kabadian's face, as everyone on the panel looked at each other. Assanian nodded, and scribbled down their suggestions on his paper. "Is that it?" Pollundrian asked.
"I think so," Assanian replied. He had crossed off five of the eight questions. The session was almost over.
[Letter to the Office of the Spanish Prime Minster]
[Letter to the Office of the Prussian Chancellor]
South African Broadcast Corporation
The SABC learned today that President Redekker is due to embark on a state visit to Botswana and Zimbabwe while Vice-President Mandela leaves the country for an international tour in the hopes of creating new trade and diplomatic ties with foreign governments. Both the diplomatic missions come at a time of extreme growth for South Africa as her economy flourishes and begins to open up to foreign investment.
The housekeeping staff standing at attention at the front door opened the heavy front door of the country house before Frederick as he approached, revealing a earthy, bright space whose sienna-colored stucco walls were studded with glazed warm-colored azulejo tiles as per Spanish interior design. Large windows illuminated the salón with warm, golden sunlight from outside, which also afforded the visitors to the mansion with a view of the cliffs and the roiling blue waters of the Bay of Biscay beyond. A stone and mortar fireplace that served as the focal point of the room, which was not burning on the account of the sweltering late July sun outside, was surrounded with carved upholstered seats, one of which bore Spain's prime minister, Alfonso Sotelo, who had already opened a bottle of orujo.
"Wilkommen, Kaiser." Sotelo greeted, setting his glass on a stone coaster on the hearth of the fireplace. "Excellent that you could join us today. I hope you will come to enjoy your visit to the Repulic by the time you leave here. Unfortunately, the reason we are here is actually to conduct a bit of business and I hope you will understand if we cut to the chase; I'm sure that Charles won't mind if we start a few minutes early." Sotelo retrieved his glass of liquor and set it on his knee. He took a swig and continued.
"As I'm sure you already understand, the Ottoman Turks look as if their dominion could collapse with the slightest agitation. A power vacuum in the Near East seems imminent. This is fortituous for those of us with interest in the region such as ourselves, as the Turkish dominion will certainly loose much of it's resource-rich territories on the peripheries of their empire. Unfortunately, this scenario seems bound to escalate into open warfare as everyone in the region scrambles to occupy as much of the Ottoman Empire as they can... The image of a flock of buzzards fighting one another over a dead animal comes to my mind. I'm sure you can sympathize with me when I say that I would much rather not send my armed forces into combat to protect some Tripolitanian oil fields and keep some filthy saracens in line." The Spanish prime minister takes one last sip of his liquor and finishes the glass, leaving only some half-melted ice cubes. "Oh, I nearly forgot, help yourself to the orujo. The finest aguardiente in Iberia and is bottled at a monestary just a short drive from Santander." Sotelo pointed to a dark bottle of orange-yellow liquor next to a number of glasses, inviting the Prussian Kaiser to sample it.
"Anyway, to that end I am convinced that the best way forward from here is to support the Ottoman Empire as long as we can, to keep the Armenians, Persians, and Polish from siezing what could be ours. And in return for our support, we may make demands of the Sultan. The Compania Petrolera has already requested that access to North African oil fields be given to our our petroleum industry and I'm sure we could draft quite a list of demands from the Turks that the Sultan would have little choice but to accept... but that's only if we are in agreement, Kaiser."
As Charles set of vehicles pulled up to the building, just as they did with Frederick, the media did their best to get a good image. Once the vehicles pulled to a stop, British secret service members got out, and made room for the King to safely leave the vehicle, forming a small wall around him as they escorted him to the front of the building. Just as he went to knock, however, the door opened before him, those inside probably alerted to his arrival by the flashing and commotion of the cameras outside. Charles thanked the person who had opened the door, and proceeded inside alone.
Coming to the table where Sotelo and Frederick sat, and were already speaking, Charles went up to the seat he presumed was his, and sat down in it, before speaking.
"My apologies for arriving late. What have I missed?"
London, England
Christian Brent sat in an office, handling business as usual, when somebody knocked at his door. Brent gave a nod to one of his bodyguards, who then opened the door for one of the secretaries, who entered, nodding thanks to the guard. She then went up to the prime ministers desk, and took out a letter.
"Sir, this is a letter addressed to the king, but seeing as he is not here, and this may be important, we decided it was best to have you read over it."
Taking the letter and looking it over, Brent smiled a bit, and thanked the secretary, who then left the room. Once the door was closed, Brent opened the letter, and read it over twice, to make sure he got all of the information. Without hesitation, or consulting anybody else, Brent pulled out some paper and a pen, and began to write his reply.
Putting the letter in an envelope, and addressing it appropriately, Brent put it in a basket for outgoing mail.
Somewhere East of Ioannina, Greece
The sun sat in the middle of the sky, as a group of British soldiers made it's way towards Ioannina, which was the closest known city that the Turks had turned into a holding for their troops. The goal was to meet up with the other two groups of soldiers at Neo Mpizani if nobody encountered Turkish soldiers, otherwise, if a distress call came in, unless it was the Greeks, they were to continue on to Ioannina alone.
Just as they got to the road that would take them to their destination, a distress call came in. The Greek troops encountered Turkish soldiers at Krifovo. The second British brigade responded that it was on it's way, and that they were currently headed up E951, and would be there soon. Even though the first brigade was closer, they were to continue with their goal, and were to assault Ioannina while the main Turkish force for the area was hitting the Greeks.
Krifovo, Greece
The two batallions of Greeks were currently fighting very defensively, as they were up against a small division of Turks. Currently, it was the 2'800 Greeks and the British armor against the 8'000 Turks who were stationed in Krifovo. By the looks of it, they were about to move out for Athens. Originally demanding the Greeks surrender, the Ottomans didn't hesitate even a second when the Greeks refused.
Now, the Greeks are sitting in buildings, or behind whatever cover they possibly can, while the British armor fires upon the Turks while it can, before having to back off before they become the main target.
E951, Greece
The second British brigade heads down the road, moving as fast as they possibly can. Knowing that if things stay the way they are, the Greeks will take heavy casualties by the time the brigade arrives, Captain Fox picks up his radio, and calls in Athens.
"This is Fox. The Greeks have found the Turks, and have been encountered in Krifovo. We are on our way to help, but we may not get there soon enough. Could we send some air support to buy some time?"
After a few minutes of silence, Fox gets a reply. "We have two jets ready. They'll be on their way in about five minutes. They should, at least, force the Turks into some sort of cover. That should hopefully buy you enough time."
With that, Fox's brigade sped down the road, to get to the Greeks on time.
~DED