Nenshi Al-Gebra was blind; his entire face felt as though it was on fire and he sobbed into his hands but no tears would come. He was also alone and he tried to move his hands to paw at his eyes but they wouldn’t obey him. It was strange that suddenly, amidst the pain and the knowledge that his friends and comrades were all dead, he found himself wishing he had not beaten his wife the last time he saw her, and that he had kissed his son goodbye.
How had he come to be here? That question was foremost in his mind as he slowly managed to roll onto his back, some feeling returning to his arms now and he propped himself up against the wall.
All he remembered was sitting in the car outside the house, eyeing a black sports car that was racing a second car down the street. Some more young punks screwing around, products of the Ethiopian occupation no doubt. He thought nothing of it until one of the carts seemed to lose control before screeching to a halt in front of the house.
He slowly lifted the radio he carried to his mouth and was about to speak when he saw something else in the side view mirror, men in camouflage moving swiftly towards his car. Without waiting for a second he dropped the radio, turned the car on and threw it into gear, the tires screaming as he made a sharp turn.
The flash had come from the his left, the rocket detonating just below the cars chassis had saved his life but send the car flipping through the air like a giant missile so that it smashed the gates to the house open.
Stunned, and unable to see, he had tried to crawl from the car but the sound of a heavy engine roaring had caused him to freeze for the moment, it would cost him much. The big armoured car had smashed into his vehicle, spinning it around like a child’s toy as it charged up the driveway.
Nenshi had been half out of the car when it was hit and the sudden force of the armoured car striking the wreck had snapped it sideways and with it, his spine, he could feel nothing from the waist down.
As the feeling in his arms returned he tried to reach up and touch his face only to find, to his horror, that his right hand was gone, blood seeping from the stump that remained. Again he tried to cry but couldn’t, his eyes were gone.
He was dimly aware now of the crack of automatic weapons and more explosions., though these too were beginning to fade until at last there was nothing except the sound of his breathing and the roar of a fire somewhere nearby.
A cough racked his body and he heard his breath gurgle, he was bleeding internally, it wouldn’t be long now.
Footsteps sounded on the pavement now and he turned his sightless face towards them, trying to see the men who approached him.
“The only survivor.” A voice growled in Arabic but the accent was wrong, an African.
“Not much of one.” Responded a second voice, deeper and somehow more harsh. He felt his body jolt and realized that one of them had kicked his foot. He tried to speak, to say anything but a bubble of saliva and a trickle of blood were all that came forth.
“Sir,” A third voice. “Command on the radio.”
A pause and then the second voice spoke again. “Mensah. Yes sir, all of them. Very good.”
There was another silence and Nenshi could feel himself starting to lose consciousness. How had they found the cell? Who had talked?
He was still trying to find those answers when the men whose name would become feared throughout the Empire drew a pistol and ended his worries forever.
"Claude, for the love of God, turn around!" Julio Zuraban groaned from the passenger seat of an old rental jalopy. "You are completely lost!"
"Nonsense!" Claude dendied. "I know exactly where we're going. The rental office is on the street with the name of a squiggle line with four dots underneath and two above. We keep driving on this road with the three curved squiggles until that intersection." The driver produced a napkin from his chest pocket and tossed it into Julio's lap. The directions were clearly listed in black ink across the napkin... in incomprehensible Arabic.
"Intersection?" Julio repeated, rolling his eyes and gesturing to the trackless expanse of rolling dunes stretching before the sun-faded hood. "You are driving into the middle of the desert!"
The car in which the two rode was an economy-class hatchback from the mid-sixties of Persian manufacture. The Egyptian sun and dust had taken their toll on the car's already ugly biege paintjob. The upholstery was peeling off the corners of the cieling, and the two front seats were mottled with cigarette burns. Despite its shortcomings, the car got Claude and Julio where they needed to be, and for the time being where they didn't.
"I'm confident we're on the right course." Claude defended. "Let me drive. You should look through the photographs from the night before last. Pick out your best to be included in the publication... just make yourself busy while I sort out those directions."
Julio rolled his eyes and tossed the scribbled-over napkin across the gear stick at Claude as he drew a coffee stained folder off the dashboard and glossed through the recently-developed photographs of the celebration thrown for Armenia-bound Ottoman soldiers. It was an assortment of black and white photos of soldiers being drunken pigs at a bloated going-away festival - a few pictures of mustacioed Ottomans groping the dancers' asses, a handful of the gaudy Egyptian-themed decor, one of a chimpanzee giving the camera a toothy smile, another of a dancer undulating within the confines of a cage suspended above the band. All of it was garbage as far as Julio was concerned; nothing worth including in any publication beyond a local paper. Worse yet, Julio had noted that Claude's progress in the piece regarding the party for the soldiers had stagnated. He suspected that Claude had only ever wanted to partake in festivities taking place in Cairo. It was bound to be a lackluster piece... if Claude ever managed to get it published to begin with.
"Merde... What the Hell is this?"
"What is what?" Julio grunted, sitting upright and sliding the folder back on the dashboard. Growing larger in the frame of dust left behind by the windshield wipers was a jeep parked sloppily on the sandy shoulder of the road. The rear of the vehicle had been smashed by a collision and a trickle of fluid oozed out from under the engine block, leaving a dark trail as it flowed down the shoulder of the sand-sprinkled road.
Claude pulled over onto the shoulder of the road a few dozen yards behind a nigh-totalled Land Rover. Not out of any concern for the drivers, but to gawk. The Frenchman popped open the door and approached the vehicle with curiosity. "Bring the camera!" He called out back to Julio in the car.
Julio slid out of the car and approached apprehensively, his trusty camera slung over his shoulder. He came up alongside the vehicle, and discovered it was peppered with bulletholes.
"Jesus, this looks like something you'd see on the road in Armenia." Claude noted as he ran his finger along the craters left by the bullets. "Might this have been rebels? Agents provocateurs?" He asked, ever seeking a new scoop for the publication.
It was then that Julio noticed three men of Sub-Saharan persuasion and thick facial hair hanging back a few dozen yards near a rocky outcrop just off the road. They had noticed the newcomers well before Julio had noticed them.
"Hello?!" Julio called out to the men standing off of the road. "English? Francais?"
"English." One of the three responded, approaching Julio and Claude nerviously while the other two looked on near a sizable rock.
"Your vehicle looks damaged." Julio began, stating the obvious. "I wanted to know that you're all alright."
"We're not." The Sub -Saharan responded with solemn succintness. He pointed over to the rock where his two comrades waited. "She's hurt. Badly."
"May I see?"
The African gave an uncertain nod before apprehensively leading Julio and Claude over to a hunk of rock. One stood, eyeing the two Europeans nerviously while a third stooped over the limp body of a woman half-shaded by the desert boulder, wiping blood from her face and only briefly looking up to meet Julio's eyes, speaking of panic and sleeplessness as they made contact. A blood-tinged band of gauze around her eye testified to the gravity of the injury just beneath.
"Show him the wound, brother." The speaker of the group requested. The woman's caretaker obliged, gently scooching the blood-soaked bandages away from the eye socket but eliciting a groan from the woman nonetheless. A swollen, blood-stained crater inhabited by a withered, bloodied remnant of a lacerated eye looked back up at Julio and Claude.
"Jesucristo..." Julio muttered, the Spanish interjection eliciting a nervous glance from the one caring for the injured woman in the nightdress. "She urgently needs medical attention. We'll get her to a hospital in Cairo."
"No." The three Africans declared in near-unison. "The ones responsible remain in the city. We can't return to Cairo."
"Where then can she go?"
"We need to get to the coast. To Port Fuad."
Julio glanced back at the bullet-pocked wreck of a Land Rover oozing a steady stream of transmission fluid into the yellow sand of the desert behind them. "You'll never make it there with your vehicle in that condition. Come with us. We can drive you to Port Fuad." Immediately, Claude shot Julio a glance of consternation and took him aside.
"Non! Absolutely not! They're wanted men, Florian! I don't know who the they're in trouble with but I do know we don't need to be involved with whatever mess they've gotten themselves into. I am not putting myself in danger to rush some camelfucker strumpet to the hospital, much less when they have their own vehicle!" Claude demanded with wild gesticulation. The Africans didn't have to know any French to know that Claude was having none of Julio's offer to drive them to safety.
"Just look at their car. It's never going to make it back into the city in that condition. Es jodido... and so is she if we don't get her to a proper doctor. I'm not leaving her to die out here... not when we can so easily save them."
"If the people after them find us...."
"Nobody's going to find us... Maybe you can interview one of them for an article? You know as well as I do that we need something else to replace the piece on the party for the Turkish soldiers. Surely they've got some juicy story that would make an interesting article. In any case, drop it and help her into the car."
Claude mumbled something about 'fucking bleeding hearts', bur nevertheless joined Julio in propping up the wounded woman, instructing the others to help her to the car. Carefully, they carried her to the passenger door and set her inside. Claude took the wheel, leaving Julio and the three African men to cram into the back seats. Claude turned over the ignition and turned around sharply across the tarmac, veered slightly into the sand on the other side of the road, and barreled down the remote desert road in the opposite direction; northbound to Port Fuad.
The regional Intelligence Bureau office was a cold and stuffy place. A maze of halls as narrow as the rat races of Beijing and offices as darkened and forbidding. The air was stale and stuck somewhere between nipple-freezing and lip-numbing. Somehow, the claims that the air conditioning had indeed died were more truth that Jun hoped as he walked along the halls. Somewhere down this nondescript passage was where his contact resided. He held a room number in his shivering hands; it felt his gloves were hardly enough.
He also swore he could see his breath.
A missed step almost sent him blindly down the hall as he passed the marked room. Double checking the numbers on the door with his paper, he sighed reluctantly. Quickly wrapping his fingers around the door handle and throwing himself inside.
The room as naked as any room could be, occupied by a chair and some odd tables. And seated at one side sat a diligent agent. Some maps and notes laid out alongside a warm, steaming cups of tea. The agent's head rose from his reviews and a wane smile suddenly sprung across his bloated lips. A warm spark glowed in his muddy eyes. It was almost scary, and for a moment Jun faced hesitation as his foot quivered back.
"Comrade Shandian Jung!" the Mongolian said with a wide grin. Jun jumped startled as the little man shot to his feet. Within a blink the man was on his feet, making long strides across the room to him, "I'm Otgonbayar Ulanhu. I've been informed I was to speak with you on matters regarding Russia, I suppose."
"Indeed." Jun said uneasily. He found the agent's eagerness unsettling and terrifyingly blunt.
"Well, then let's get started!" the Mongol said, seemingly forgetting the material on the table as he passed in towards Jun, "I suppose if you're going into the Republic, and I'm coming with you, it'll be an opportune time to lay out what's going on in there.
"So, uh, to begin!" he said cheerily, "What do you know about Russia?"
"Agent, are you feeling alright?"
"Just a little cold." he said with a nervous smile, "And I've been waiting to do something big, and not just go in and out in and out of Omsk, talking to the same contacts as I always have been."
"Only Omsk?" asked Jun, he suddenly fell incredibly cynical on the stout Mongolian's knowledge of Russia. The infiltration rap-sheet was hardly impressive.
"Well, it's the gate-way into the Republic ever since the IB cells in Siberia were ordered to wake back up. Given the weakened state of the Republic in its affairs it's more-or-less in the hands of Novosibirsk defacto. Officially, the western half is part of the Republic, but given how weirdly spread Republican troops are there after their annexation of Muscovy Siberia's just sort of filled in the gaps.
"It's not to say uniformed soldiers have infiltrated the city since it's still in contact with the leadership out west and there's palpable concerns with lighting fires too early if Siberia rolls in armored cars and uniformed troops. In so far, they've managed to slip several small brigades of plain clothes-men into western Omsk disguised as defectors. Many of whom have established the Kirovsky Commune which services as a trafficking service for our men and additional resources to mount a local uprising when the order is given.
"It's the easiest way into the Republic, or at least Omsk. Once one gets outside of the Commune's street rule, things get difficult to say the least. I would go as far to say that many of the conservatives have sort of felt a kind of shift and moved out into the countryside and city's suburbs. They're not a direct threat, as they perceive us as men who have defected from the East, but they have that fear. It's astonishing really, they'll report you to regional authorities for even the slightest offense.
"And being in a contested zone, the local marshal has declared a curfew and state of marshal law in the event of anything. They're quick on that, I've known lesser agents to disappear due to that if they leave the city."
"So, even then there's suspicion?" Jun asked.
"Very much so. So we're careful in the commune." Ulanhu said softly, "Which is why we're not using it. It's too much of a good thing, and we need not abuse it. We're going in cold, by passing the urban road all together and using the bootlegger's roads.
"As far as I know, we've identified over three-hundred active path ways used by the Mafiya."
"I believe I heard of them. Drug traffickers?"
"More than that." Ulanhu said, smiling awkwardly, "The Mafiya as a organization are a loose collective of organizations. But all of them more or less involve themselves in the same activities: extortion, gambling, drugs, whores, murder, corruption. The own the entire Republican wilderness defacto. Their leaders sort of fashion themselves as kings. I wouldn't be surprised if they all sort of hold themselves as gods as well.
"But as far as we can tell, they've organized themselves similar to the American Mob, of their Sicilian namesake. The men I've identified sort of hold themselves to the romantic image of it, and beyond."
"Beyond?"
Ulanhu got more enthusiastic, gliding over to a chair and sitting down at its edge, "I think there's something bigger in them." he said, "Beyond Russia. Or some kind of psychology. The-" he hesitated for a moment, looking at the cups of tea. "Oh sorry," he continued, smiling awkwardly, "I had thought to pour you some tea a minute ago. Please sit down and drink it before it freezes. I'm terribly sorry."
Jun nodded, gliding over to the table in his short silent steps. Holding the cup in his hands felt good, warm. "So you were saying." he said, taking a sip.
"Oh, right." Ulanhu started up again, "I think there's something more complex going on with the Mafiya than their name would suggest. Some kind of mysticism. I've heard reports of large numbers of bodies laid out in the middle of village center's in the shape of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, or the Cross. Strapping the heads of officers who offended them to the backs of turtles or tying them naked to cattle. It's like they took killing, and made it an art. They're there to install fear, to enforce their enterprise where they walk. Some rumors seem to suggest that people believe they can talk to ghosts, possess men and kill them on the spot.
"Superstition rules their ranks. It's what they do. I've partaken in the capture of and translation of Mafiya assets and I sometimes see or hear mentions of this figure named bog, which is Russian for God. So maybe they're trying to make their activities are some form of divine mandate."
"Which we all know is absolute bullshit." Jun nodded, taking another sip. The drink was hot enough that it brought relief from the perpetual cold of the interior offices. A little life-giving, energizing. It was a filling kind of warmth that pressed against his gut.
"So what is the Republic trying to do about it?" asked Jun.
"From what I can tell: nothing. Or they gave up." the Mongolian said, "I believe they may have tried when they first started perpetuating their authority. But they turned out about as well armed as them. They've locked Republican control to the cities and I fear may be getting some of their funds and freedoms from extorting on this fact. Any bourgeoisie bureaucrats that hope to do business beyond the few populated urban centers need to first deal with the Mafiya. Or they're openly a member of the Mafiya."
"Equipment?" Jun asked again.
Ulanhur shrugged, "Something European, I believe Polish." he said, "The Mafiya is fairly wealthy and there's a power next door whose known to freely trade weapons if you got the money. The Republican army is still using mostly Imperial weaponry which is becoming dated, some in the ranks may have access to Brazilian arms, but it's not to par with the Polish equipment that's in the country.
"For all I know, they could have tanks, the Mafiya."
"So frankly the Mafiya may be the only real force any of us will be fighting."
"We already are fighting them." Ulanhu said, "Though Novosibirsk doesn't want to admit it, there are Mafiya cells operating within the Eastern countryside. There's a lot of unpatrolled borders and they can traffic themselves in and out of Siberia and China without too much contest. I would not be surprised in the next year or two, we start ending up finding our own true Mafiya operations. I predict Outer Manchuria will be the most viable given the Russian population, but if Beijing continues to find way to disseminate Russians across China then the possible range of the Mafiya in China will grow as well; they really like their Russians, more so dis-enfranchised Russians. And if they're unhappy I imagine they'll supplement their displeasure with the Mafiya, establishing their own little kingdoms in indirect service to the Bog.
"Eastern Siberia is just as probable a home to meth production as the west, and with the lack of friends Novosibirsk has in Sakha, the more people to support them there."
"I see." Jun said.
"Indeed." the Mongol said, "We'll be departing tomorrow for Russia. I'll fill you in on the geography of the nation over a hot dinner. And we can plan out how we're going to get to the Urals."
The small coffeehouse was owned by Corporal Davtak Korelian - a native of Nakhchivan who had worked hsi father's restaurant before his conscription period began in early 1978. It was an identical wooden quonset hut like the rest of the warehouses on the row, but a brightly painted sign outside notified everyone that the base's finest watering hole had taken up residence in what used to be a storage area for engine parts. A light rain had gathered around the front, sprinkling cold droplets on the huddled forms of troops as they passed to and fro. Corporal Shavo Abbasian found himself entering through the tastefully decorated door to Davtak's Coffeehouse. and was immediately greeted by the rush of warm air from a jury-rigged fireplace operating in the rear. He surveyed the well-lit, cozy room - men played cards, read books, talked at the bar with Davtak, and listened to the soft sound of the crackling radio. It was tuned to the Armenian Broadcasting Network's music channel, and a light, relaxing Kurdish melody completed the air of sleepy indifference. That is, until one of the soldiers at the bar leaned back from his steaming black mug and sternly told Abbasian to close the damn door before he let all the heat out.
Abbasian apologized to the man, who was none other than First Sergeant Anselm Ebrahimian - otherwise known affectionately as "Cyclops." A dark eye patch wrapped around his grizzled head, while a scar sliced through his face. Many a young recruit arrived at the base thinking First Sergeant Ebrahimian to be a war hero of the utmost degree. A wound from the War of Liberation was the sure sign of greatness. A popular pastime was to keep these rumors circulating, only to have Ebrahimian testily explain that his missing eye was not a case of war bravery, but rather a slip-up with a nail gun. This was decidedly less heroic. First Sergeant Ebrahim was also well-known for his constant attempts to battle the officers who wanted to medically discharge him. He was the head NCO of Firebase Ozanian's engineering company, and he wasn't going to leave until the job was done as well as he could do it. That was, after all, the engineer's creed. But the commanding officers tried their hardest to have the doctor write the testy old man off - they were zero for thirteen tries. His dedication to duty and discipline earned him both the dread of junior enlisted and the praise of veterans - once one got to know First Sergeant Ebrahim, one realized that he was a nice guy.
"Hey, it's Shavo!" cried a voice from behind a mass of people playing poker. Abbasian peered past them to see the silhouette of Goverian, wearing a sleeveless telnyashka and doing knife tricks to try and impress a crowd of teenage WACs who had gathered around him. He waved to his friend but quickly resumed his attention towards the knife juggling before one could slice his hand open. Abbasian made his way through the throngs of people to come up behind Goverian. The juggling act went on for another few minutes before Goverian dropped one and cut his forearm open from wrist to elbow. He yelped and dropped the rest on the floor, moving to nurse his new-found wound.
"It's just a flesh wound, Niko," Abbasian observed. "I think Davtak has a bandage kicking around somewhere."
Davtak, at the helm of his coffeehouse, caught wind of the situation and tossed a roll of thin gauze at Goverian's face. "Think next time, dumbass," came the associated snark from the notoriously blunt tavern owner.
"I'll be sure to," Goverian mumbled through the strip of gauze clenched between his teeth as he wrapped the whole band around his forearm. Two layers did the job, and Goverian cut the gauze with his teeth when he was done.
"There we go. All better, Niko?" Abbasian asked playfully.
"Yeah, if you hadn't broken my concentration," Goverian grumbled.
"Well, I probably saved you from an NJP, friend. We all know you're not supposed to screw the WACs."
"I wasn't trying to."
"Yeah yeah, ladies' man. Try that back home sometime," Abbasian teased, smacking Goverian in the back of the shoulders. "Anyways, it's cold outside. I need some coffee."
Abbasian turned to Davtak, who was in conversation with First Sergeant Ebrahim. "Excuse me, my man, but I would like to order two of your coffees."
"How so?" Davtak immediately replied.
"Well, you know I like my coffee like I like my women," Goverian grinned slyly.
"Hot, black, and bitter?"
"Hot, black, and bitter!" the soldier cried joyously.
"And only the very best for Mrs. Goverian's baby boy!" added Abbasian.
"Alright, gents. Why don't you sidle up to the bar and join our talk?" invited Davtak. "The war is coming!" he added happily.
"Not something to be happy about," warned one of the teenaged engineers sitting next to Ebrahimian. The older man scowled in his direction, his one good eyebrow cocked upwards quizzically.
"'Course it is, son. We get to kill some Turks."
"Well, that's all good and all, but you could get shot."
"We're Armenians - we're invincible," joked Davtak as he stirred one of his massive coffee pots in the back of the kitchen. The smell and the steam rose to the ceiling, casting a murky light over the troops spending their last free time before the assault. The buildup was rumored to be close to finish, and the surprise attack was to begin in less than a week.
Less than a week. After three months of careful diplomatic deliberation and maneuvering - of trying to target the Ottomans and only the Ottomans, and of trying to rebuild the Armenian state - the war to end all wars on Armenian territory was about to begin. A quick blitzkrieg through Armenian territory with the assistance of guerrillas, and that was it. They stopped at the border. And the border was only a hundred kilometers away. Abbasian had heard estimates ranging from a week to a few months, and all of these were idly tossed around by the jittery troops as they sat inside Davtak's Coffeehouse and waited out the cold rains. They sat and talked for hours until taps was played. Then they went to their barracks, and then they slept. Except for those on watch. They returned to their trenches and sat underneath ponchos, staring out over the no-man's-land and dwelling on if they would return. As Abbasian shivered in the cold rain, his hand frozen to the grip of the 12.7mm machine gun dug into the fighting hole, he thought of Davtak's comment earlier. They were Armenians. They were invincible.
He knew it not to be true, but at least it made his gut feel better.
Tsalka Station, Armenia-Georgia Border
"Third fucer we've caught all week, man," Yaglian informed an unamused Abdulian. He pointed his fierce-looking K19 rifle at the handcuffed Russian men on their knees and with burlap sacks over their heads. A horse wagon stuffed to the brim with methamphetamine covered in a blue tarp was located nearby.
"Do you know where it was going?" Abdulian duly asked. He began to walk forward out of the station, with Yaglian by his side.
"Probably Sevan. We all know that the mafia runs that joint. Vice is either legal or not enforced."
"Astute, Corporal Yaglian... And where did this particular shipment come from?"
"Are you fucking retarded, Sarge? They're obviously Russians. Coming in with a herd of refugees no less."
"Did the border guard check the rest of the refugees?" Abdulian continued as he stopped to check out the meth cart. The people at Tsalka Station had long since learned to ignore Yaglian's crude mannerisms, which meant that the Corporal often got away with calling his superiors names.
"They're clear for the most part. He had to turn one back who looked like she had tuberculosis, and her whole family went with her. But otherwise they've been directed to the train station at Tsalka and are going to go see immigrations in Akhalkalaki."
"Good, good. But we still have these three guys to deal with. Speak any Russian?"
"You know I do," Yaglian responded with a playful tone and a twinkle in his eye. He bounded off towards the prisoners to try his very best to be a badass interrogator. Yaglian certainly was a child on the inside.
"You know the drill," Abdulian called after the young border guard. "Don't rough them up too much. I'm going back inside to catch my nap."
"Got it! Leave this to me!"
Yaglian finished his joyful skipping over to the Russians, and quickly began his condescension. Each of the Russians were dressed in rags, smelling foul and covered in mud. Drug smugglers had to blend in, and looking like a refugee was perfect.
"Privet, drug!" called Yaglian in perfect Russian towards the prisoners. They didn't respond. "Pokhozhe, vy ne ochen' umnyy seychas Vy?"
"Poshel na khuy," mumbled the prisoner to the right. Yaglian smiled at the insult, and slid his hands up to grasp his rifle by the handguard. The stock was a club, and if there was any more disrespect it would be time to start smacking people.
But before Yaglian could get to police brutality, the very same prisoner announced that he spoke Armenian as well.
"Well then," replied Yaglian with a strategically measured hint of surprise. "Gotta haggle with the dealers down in Sevan, right?"
"Heh. You're such a smartass. I am Armenian," the prisoner stated bluntly
"Ah, the liason. I know your type. Probably rolled up to Russia to dodge the draft, right? Stupid fucks like you are why the Fatherland hasn't gotten its land back yet."
"There's good money in the trade."
"Obviously not, friend," Yaglian observed. "You're going to jail for a very long time."
"Obviously. But before I could afford a modest mansion on the Black Sea coast. I lived in Crimea in the summers."
"Heh. You know where I live? Underneath PFC Idessian's snoring ass. And I love it."
"Some people aren't content to be paupers," spat the prisoner.
"So how much, exactly, is all this cool blue worth?" Yaglian changed the topic smartly before he could get too off topic. There still was the job of extracting information.
"A lot."
"Did you fail mathematics class, friend? A lot isn't a number. I want a number."
"A lot," the prisoner repeated boredly. Yaglian, in response, maneuvered his rifle to tap the prisoner's head lightly.
"I can swing a lot harder than I look," Yaglian warned.
"Why do you need to know?"
"Personal interest. Also, the government likes to know these things. And I, perchance, work for the government."
The prisoner sighed and hesitated. "156,250 dram. More or less. Fifty kilos at 3,125 dram a kilo."
Yaglian whistled loudly at the number, and took a step back. "Whoo-wee, that is a lot of money."
"See what I said?"
"Definitely. And this is all going down the the Sevan mafia?"
"I don't betray my contacts."
"Well, if you betray them to nice-guy border man, you won't have to be tortured in some prison in the Nagorno-Karabakh mountains."
"I refuse to."
"Alright. Speak for yourself. I'm going to go ahead and destroy this cart and make you watch your livelyhood melt away. Want me to take off your mask?"
"No."
"Got it."
Yaglian then removed the burlap sack off of all of the drug runners because he cared not for their opinions, and wheeled the cart out int the open area designated for disposal of dangerous items. He then walked back to one of the nearby K1010 pickup trucks and fetched a 40mm grenade launcher out of the bed. A round was loaded into it, and Yaglian fired at the wagon. It went up in a bright flash, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the Russian drug runners. They had various degrees of jaded dismay playing across their mugs, while Yaglian chuckled at the burning cart. After a solid minute of enjoyment, Yaglian turned to the prisoners and turned serious. "Fun time is over. We're chucking you in the detention house until the truck gets here. Should only be a day or three. Enjoy your bread and water! We'll be sure to send the NSS up to your suppliers mighty soon. Maybe I can convince them to bring back a picture of your dead boss or something. Put it up in the lobby. Wouldn't that be nice?"
And as the prisoners were carted away, Yaglian heard the drug runner tell the Armenians to go fuck themselves. Life was good.
The soft squeak of a wheelchair echoed down the long hallway. The slouched figure of Hou Sai Tang seated within, his hands gently folded across his lap. His hospital clothes had been changed out for a formal suit. The old man stared ahead with a vacant disinterested chair as he pushed along by a young nurse. The echoing of her footfalls bouncing off of the walls of the empty corridor. The security detail had made sure to keep the floor and the route along Hou's travel through the hospital empty, and that he take it by wheelchair.
They didn't want anything extra to happen.
Turning through the sterile hallways, reeking of the anti-bacterial stew used to clean the walls and floors the two figures moved in silence. Making corners and entering into a small wood-face elevator. There was no exchanged conversation to the two. With a soft "ping" the elevator came to a stop on the bottom floor. The doors opened with a soft sigh into the hospital lobby, and into Hou traveled to meet the small gathering there.
Light applause sounded in the small, low ceiling hospital lobby. Between the chairs and coffee tables that sat in small scattered clusters throughout the room hovered groups of members of government. Officers within the military and their commanders, representatives of the Congress and the ministries. Zhang Auyi and Mang Xhu hovered on the edge of the gathering. The bright smiles took Hou by surprise as he was pushed out, and the welcome that sang in the rain of their applause was a warm stimulant.
But underneath the smiles the chairman saw a certain mystery to some. A complexity trying to be hidden. And none the more obvious in the likes of Mang Xhu and Zhang Auyi. Who though they clapped more fervently than anyone present, kept a distance. Occupying opposite sides of the room. And with the rest of the delegation closing in to give their personal regards they hung back at the outskirts, as if afraid to come into contact with one another.
What strange politics had been happening between the two was a puzzle to the chairman. But one lost to the claustrophobic rain of celebration. With a sea of congratulations of well-wishes the chairman was lost in the gathering mob. Somehow, someone hoisted him up out of the wheelchair and onto his feet. And in his hands was given a simple wooden cane.
Shaking and unsteady the chairman quickly found himself in an awkward position of fighting to keep balance and bow. Very quickly, warm pats on the shoulder turned into a grab for support as the weakened Hou. He shuffled through, guided by hands not his own.
"What's the plan, what's going on?" Hou asked as he was guided along to the doors.
"Yue Zen requested a short public appearance when you got out of the hospital," a voice said, Handoi Hu, the commander of national security. He was looking spectacularly plump today. His thinning brown hair combed back across his rolling face, "I don't know how many channels she tried before she got in touch with me, but she eventually reached me."
"Ap- appearance what?" Hou stammered, the door was getting closer, "She expects me to speak?"
"No, not at all. Just be there for the cameras. I've arranged for government cars to take you to your old residence in Tianjin. I'll explain in full on the ride. Things have been rather choked."
"Then what's the rush!" Hou stammered. But it was too late as he was rushed out into the cold Beijing air outside. The winter afternoon rushed on him, and Hou was quickly reacquainted with what was true cold. With the commander of the national security on his one side, and a doctor on the other Hou stood face to face with the outside again on its own terms. A shallow ramp descended smoothly down to street level, where was parked a long black car familiar to the chairman, and an escort.
"I didn't have much time to put this together." Hu said softly into his ear as he helped Hou down the incline. The doctor the same, "Zen just caught word you were being let out of the hospital yesterday and I didn't have the time to assemble a large scale thing." Below and along the side, behind a corp of armed policemen and a few soldiers a small crowd of gathered civilians stood watch as several NPN photographers hovered about finding photo opportunities.
The three managed to clear their way through. The walk feeling long to the tired Chairman. The feeling on his left side weak and semi-numb. Each step with his leg feeling heavy and he struggled to counter balance on the simple wooden cane. The doctor and Handoi stood by as a means to keep him upright, hovering their hands behind his back, or on his shoulder. It was a walk that felt like it took an hour. But as the car door shut behind him, it was over.
The other doors shut with a soft thud as Handoi and the doctor took their seats. "Right, let's move out." Handoi told the driver.
Nodding, he changed the gear and began rolling, the rest of the escort responding as thus and moved out into Beijing's streets.
"What was all this!" Hou spat, distressed, "How was I not informed."
"Because none of us were informed until recently." the doctor said from the front street.
"I wasn't asked until recently to see if I can set this up." Hu nodded, "I set in the orders. But you know how that system can be. I ultimately had to call the hospital this morning to organize it."
"Then was the rest of the government needed?"
"They showed on their own." Hu said, "Some of it was my own request to try and transition it. But more people had happened in than I had realized and I got suspicious. I'm sorry, I didn't do this in nearly as timely a manner as I had hoped."
"Then what's the matter?" the chairman asked. The car pulled out onto an emptier Chang-An, the siren lights of the escorts flashed through the windows, "I don't get the rush. What information is being with held?"
"Some suspicions." Hu said, "We don't know if it's deadly, but over the couple weeks of you hospitalized I have been given written reports from the Intelligence Bureau about some regular meetings between certain aspects of the government. They don't know if there's a coup organizing to take advantage of your lack of duty, or just Beijing being Beijing.
"They haven't brought up anything to suggest that the meetings were illegal per-say."
"Who's meeting?" Hou asked.
"Mang Xhu's been pulling together the commissioners of the national design bureau's." said Hu, "Nothing out of the ordinary, but I think some internal affairs agent got a little buggy when they were going on with more frequency than he normally pulls the politics card. So decided to put tabs on them. Most of what he can gleam from them were administration concerns and international politics. A lot of the bureaus have been getting a lot of pressure from one another from the new Science ministry for rocket parts and to produce their experimental materials.
"Or from the military branches for the production of VX countermeasures. It's complex. I don't like to get into the details. I just allocate the funding of the police forces and oversee the joint IB operations and conditions."
"I see." Hou nodded, "So, you fear there could have been something internal?"
"Maybe. Again, sorry comrade, but it's also why I got involved with the visitations."
The doctor in the front seat snorted distastefully.
"I've already had someone try to speak their mind to me a letter, so I know you all hate me." Hu told him, rolling his eyes.
The doctor said nothing to address the chairman, "Sorry for the rush too." he said, "But the hospital also needs that section of the hospital."
Hou nodded slowly, "I understand." he said softly, "So who are you?"
"Dien Han." the doctor said, "I'm your rehabilitation specialist and I'm along for the ride to see you out as proper as possible. I'll also be helping you learn how to walk without someone holding your hand again for the next couple days, and have been asked to be on hand."
"Pleasure to meet you, comrade." Hou added.
Northern Turkistan
The helicopters thudded over the cold snowy expanse of the northern Turkistanian country. Miles of flat-land steppe stretched below the flying helicopters as they drove closer to the border of the Russian Republic. Clustered patches of forest whipped by along with expanses of snow-coated fields. Below, the skirting herds of wild-life or a nomad's herd darted from the loud thundering of the blades as the helicopter wind moved along.
Inside, the crew looked down on the winter land. Their coats fluttering in the chill wind of the mid-winter flight. Scarves drawn up around their mouths and noses. Assault rifles lay across their laps. In the center of the cabin, Shandian Jun and Otgonbayar Ulanhu sat back in their own silence. Sacks of gear lay on the floor under the weight of their feet. Extra clothes and equipment to scout the landscape. Several small packs of ammo for their handguns and some personal effects.
On Jun's lap sat a second package. Something longer. The glint of weathered brass poked from the ruffling flaps of canvas that kept it wrapped. The ties of nylon rope held it all together. All the effects of Jun's tent keeping his own toy safe.
The shimmering of the brass in the cold winter light attracted the attention of one of the crew men. Glancing over, his eyes fell on the brass knob hanging out from the rolled tent. He rose a curious brow, and after checking the passing steppe below turned to him. "Comrade," he called to Jun over the roar of the helicopter's motor, pointing to the metal wrapped in the canvas, "That your blade?" he asked.
Jun gave him a long cold look. His face hidden in winter wraps and his dark aviators. He bore no emotion beyond the effects, and his long stare was cold. Unsettling to the young soldier who shifted and began to stiffly and uncomfortably turn away.
"Yes." he said finally. His words bringing his attention back around. But all the same the young air-force man tightened and stiffened as he was addressed.
"I don't see any tassel." he said nervously. His brows frowned behind his protective goggles. "It's not a jian then, is it?"
Jun shook his head. Lifting the package, he turned it upright, holding it between his legs. He buried a gloved hand into the mat for the handle. His Mongolian partner looked up curiously from the idle fumbling with his hands to watch his new partner draw the long curved blade from its sheath. With a sharp song it sang forth from the mat and shimmered in the air.
The sword was nearly as tall as any of the men here, if a foot shorter. Its long, double-edged curved blade held an organic stoutness to the blade. It hung in the air like a sapling tree, a young shoot of bamboo. Jun held it up, his two hands on its hilt with a comfortable familiarity.
"It's, Ja-" the soldier started to ask.
"No." Jun interrupted, "Hardly a island humper's sword. It is Chinese, purely Chinese. It is a miao dao." he said, "I can understand that hardly a man would be familiar with it. Many I presume see it as a Republican weapon, or too Japanese to be used by the Chinese armies.
"But I always liked the leverage." he said with a sweet soft sigh. A motherly little croon.
"It's rather large." Ulanhu stated.
"Yes, but I have a fair bit of reach over the standard Jian." Jun laughed, "And if the situation arises that I need to hold off any fuckers charging me with a knife or a bolo at some point, I'd rather have that to hold out and out-reach them."
There was a soft rattle as the helicopter drew to a soft stop. Jun's body felt like it was coming to a lift, and a slow fall. The helicopter was begin to drop.
Taytu had landed in Ismailia to be drove north through the barren Egyptian desert in order to reach her destination. It struck he as strange, this course of events. Port Fuad was the larger of the two cities, with facilities worthy of a major Mediterranean port. Fuad Airport was larger, and closer to their destination. If the Turks had wanted her to land in Ismailia, wouldn't it have been easier to meet there as well? Surely it would, as a district capital, have a state room good enough for a meeting of diplomats. All they needed was a table and chairs when it came down to it. Whatever the Turks were thinking, it was only a fleeting thought amongst Taytu's many burdens. This meeting was the last thing between their two old Empires and a war. Her words were the last desperate shot from the arsenal of peace that defended Africa from a new generation of blood.
As her Turkish chauffeurs kept the limousine sailing silently down the cement highway cutting between the sands, she played through her words. Every conversation she could imagine was practiced in her mind. Words repeated, rearranged, and reimagined. Ethiopia would make no changes in their relationship with Armenia, but they would send no aid to it either. The Emperor would agree to a joint investigation of the bombing. Peace and doves and wreathes of olive.
On the edge of sight, the Suez was in view. It glimmered in the equatorial sun, and its water was as still as untouched glass. They hadn't sighted even the smallest ship during their trek alongside the normally busy waterway. A hint of fear? These tensions were public. Perhaps trade was already suffering for fear of getting caught in the cross fire.
Port Fuad appeared in the distance. At first, it was little more then glimpsed of white and grey caught in a glimmer of heat on the horizon. Buildings. As they came closer, their forms grew into pure-white apartments and sheet-metal warehouses. Great thick tanks dotted shipyards and truck lots, painted metal obscuring whether they held liquid or grains.
Among the shimmer of new industry, small enclaves of the old world still stood. A great mosque was the jewel of the city, and its minarets were so thick and dominate that they resembled castle towers.
They came to a stop in front of a sprawling complex at the mouth of the canal. Guards stood watch in uniform, silent and uncaring at their posts. Everything seemed cold and martial as Taytu was whisked toward the doors of the building. Her eyes caught the ocean, and on its edge there were specks of silver flashing in the sun. Before she had time to consider them, she was inside.
"I apologize for our discourtesy, Princess Taytu." a man greeted her with a bow just as they entered. He was dressed in a murky-black suit and looked rather western, if not for the fez on top of his head. She was almost taken aback by him. "Thank you." she said in a flutter. "I have found the Ottoman people ever gracious despite what stands between us."
The man in the fez looked up at her and smiled. He had a smooth way about him; comforting, like a consoling relative. Almost paternal in a way. A hint of a mustache hung below his lip, clinging to the edge of his mouth in the way an outline clings to a map.
"I hope we can move this great boulder together." he responded. "And I look forward to hearing what you have to say on the matter."
Assanian had wrapped up his tour in Gyumri and had been excited to see that the polls had jumped ahead for him after his handling of the embassy situation. A radio address had revealed that the Germans were withdrawing, and that further boosted the gains. The political plan had played out right into Assanian's hand, and the outraged public began to favor Assanian's retaliatory policies over Zeratsian's continued calls for peace. Peace was now the option that would drag the conflict out - it was now like slowly pulling off a bandage as opposed to ripping it off. Zeratsian wanted to calm the people, but Assanian called for war. War to avenge the seventeen embassy workers and war to punish the enemy for doing such a horrendous crime. And now, Assanian read the Armenian national newspaper, Hayeren Dzayny, while nursing a bottle of vodka. The triumphant headline proudly exclaimed that the Germans had left Turkey in response to the embassy attack, while a speech conducted by the Kaiser was plastered on the fifth page explaining why. It was like Assanian expected - the embassy raid was a terrible crime and the German military had no business protecting a state that would do these things.
Almost immediately after that was a response by the Turkish Sultanate. Assanian had seen the full thing, but the newspaper had edited out the segments where they claimed innocence. All that was left was outrage at the Germans for leaving. They were rightfully angry, and it showed. Protests had reportedly gathered at the Sultanate to protest the handling of the embassy raid - widely believed to be committed by the Ottomans even inside Turkey proper. Riot police was deployed and dispersed the crowd with water cannons and tear gas, and it was rumored that another round of turmoil was on its way. The Turkish people were unhappy with the loss of their empire, and even more unhappy with the largely indecisive Sultan. They were penniless and poverty was encroaching on all of the cities. They wanted reforms, for sure. Some even wanted regime changes. Assanian read these reports with glee, noting the weaknesses in his enemy. It was all coming together. As the funds in Turkey evaporated, the military supply lines would close up and clot. This, combined with the mature and complicated battle strategy that Ivakon and various Ministry of Defense officials had developed over the last two years, meant that victory was probable. Nothing was certain, but this was as good as it was going to get.
"Mister President?"
Assanian looked up from the newspaper. It was an aide - young, in her twenties, and looking frightened. Her neck muscles were taught as she frowned and told Assanian that Ivakon was waiting.
"Thank you," Assanian replied. And as she began to leave, Assanian called her back. "Actually, why don't you take the rest of the night off?"
"Me?" the aide asked.
"Yes," Assanian replied. "You may return to your home."
"Why... Thank you, sir."
"Tell the rest of your colleagues that they can leave as well."
"I will, sir. Thank you again."
She seemed relieved, and Assanian wanted her to be. His people needed their rest.
Assanian left his coat as he walked up the Government House's stairs, holding the rolled up newspaper in his hand and striding purposefully. At the end of the third floor's hallway was the "war room", behind two double doors and guarded by two NSS Government Service officials wearing their khaki uniforms and orange berets. They stood aside and opened the doors for their President, and he entered. Before him was the war room - Ivakon and several generals stood around a table with a map of Armenia superimposed on the top. Behind them, a map of the world was situated next to a map of the region. Assorted equipment lined the walls on all sides, presenting the image that this was where grand strategy was devised. And it was.
Ivakon strode out to meet the President as soon as he heard the door open. He had a look of grave seriousness on his face: "Sir, we're ready to start. We can go tomorrow. The telegram is typed and ready to be sent to all combat units. The assault is planned - all units have reported back that they are ready."
"Then do it," Assanian replied sternly. He would not tolerate dilly-dallying. Not now.
"Yes sir. They're going to react as soon as the signal is sent - I'll let the communications branch send their warning order now. The actual order goes out tomorrow morning once last minute preparations are finished."
"Yes, yes," Assanian breathed. He felt no fear as he looked over the sand table in the war room. Little symbols designating units were pinned down along the DMZ - it was awfully crowded. Blue squares represented Armenians while red squares represented the Turks. The spacing was about equal, and that genuinely frightened them before. Attackers should always outnumber the defenders at least three to one.
"Do we need to go over the plan, Mister President?" Ivakon croaked suddenly. "A formality... for the record only. Get a picture of this meeting for the history books, eh? President Assanian on the Eve of the War..."
Assanian chuckled, despite not finding the joke funny. "I don't see why not. Everything needs an icon."
"That's great, sir. Here we go."
Firebase Ozanian, Armenia
Abbasian counted rounds, one hand ticking off the stacked pyramid of 155mm howitzer rounds while his other held a clipboard with a spreadsheet for accountability. Another stack of twenty, ready to be loaded into the mobile armored resupply vehicle and sent along with the mobile artillery battalion that was currently being prepared and readied. The hulking guns - modified Polish main battle tanks with giant howitzers in lieu of tank turrets - were to be sent out that evening to a series of classified firing positions and would then cycle through them in a tactic developed by the Tsarist rocket artillery during the 1940s called "shoot-and-scoot." That would severely limit the ability for Turkish counter-battery-radars to provide accurate targets: by the time the trajectory and telemetry data were received and analyzed, the Armenians would be at another point and already shooting. The current plan called for mobile, shock warfare using the thousands of armored vehicles bought from the Polish. Almost all of the nation's fuel reserves had been dumped into vehicles in preparation of the blitzkrieg, and Abbasian was going out with the first wave.
He had been pulled from his static artillery position and placed with the mobile artillerymen after one of the soldiers had tripped over an unsecured electrical cable and gotten a concussion from slamming down on a mobile air conditioning unit. The doctrine de-emphasized static artillery to the point that nonessential crew - mostly round handlers and spotters like Abbasian - were placed with mobile battalions to increase efficiency. It was no secret that static artillery had the shortest lifespan during the opening hours of the war; intelligence reports predicted salvo after salvo of artillery to be the first shots fired before Armenian tanks pushed their way across the DMZ. Many of those shots would be MICLIC canisters - mine clearing line charges that were essentially strings of small explosives a hundred meters long that landed on minefields and detonated the landmines. The mobile artillery units were tasked with eliminating the Turkish static emplacements so that armor and air could move in for the real fighting without prior molestation.
As an artilleryman, Abbasian's job was the most important in the beginning stages. He was able to reach out and kill the early warning and striking capabilities, enabling the far-more-mobile Armenian forces to gain tactical surprise over the Turkish. With the Prussians and their mobile warfare out of the picture, traditionalist defensive strategies used by the Ottomans would mean that they were turtles surrounded by hounds. They were dug in, but once the Armenian forces bulldozed past their heavy defenses and encircled them, they would be at the mercy of their new captors. That, combined with the fact that the DMZ was the only heavily-defended area in Armenia. Past that, the hundred kilometers that the Armenian Army needed to cover was less built up. And even if the Turkish did survive the initial onslaught and keep the fighting at the DMZ, the NSS was rumored to be organizing existing Armenian militia holdouts to strike at main supply lines - MSRs - running through the Erzurum region. The defenses would erode once Armenian irregulars inside the enemy lines cut off the MSRs and deprived the defenders of their ammunition and other consumables.
Abbasian finished his job after a half hour, and handed the clipboard to the supply NCO in the support company. His mustached face dripped with sweat, and his eyes were tired and lined with wrinkles. The NCO thanked Abbasian for his work, and turned around to the hulking MARV's crew and ordered them to get the forklifts over so that the shells could be loaded. The sun was going down, and a dreadful cold was approaching. Everyone knew that this was the final day of peacetime. So as the night came out, everyone assembled to their positions. There was no grand speech, no fanfare. Just the scurrying of troops under orange floodlights, quietly talking to one another about anything other than war. Abbasian mustered at the motor pool with his equipment primed for battle. In lieu of BDUs, Abbasian was given an olive jumpsuit and a tanker helmet with a psalm painted next to a cross. The priest had painted psalms on the helmet of anyone who desired it. Abbasian was never a devout Christian, but he felt that he needed it more than ever. It was a common joke that God would save the poor artillerymen - the holiest of all the soldiers. But the predicted statistics seemed to show that God was forsaking them.
Almost thirty vehicles - four guns, one resupply unit, and a command vehicle per company plus additional supports and auxiliary troops - rumbled in the blacked-out motor pool. The colonel in charge watched mutely as his men piled in and began driving off. They followed a scout car out of the side gate and into the winding dirt roads through the hills nearby. It was midnight - the first day of the war. Abbasian carried his duffel bag over his shoulder as he walked silently and sullenly to his massive armored artillery piece - he had just finished burning his personal letters just fifteen minutes prior. If he died, it was the job of a man in the regiment to look over personal effects and send them back to the family. As such, it was common to simply destroy these personal effects before a big mission - they were looking out for their unknown comrade. It would simply be too much for them. And so Abbasian climbed onto the treads, the metal cold on his hands. After a short struggle up, he tossed his duffel bag into the open turret ring. As the gunner, Abbasian would be spending the next few days in the turret. Another minute and he was buckled down into the seat: he closed the hatch and sat as the engine roared in the rear. Nothing was said. He simply thought.
Six hours later, dawn came. It was a common tactic to attack at dawn - the beleaguered night guards were going to sleep, while the groggy morning guards were just getting up and out of bed. And so, after the first troops were spotted leaving their posts at the changing of the guard, a telegram came down from the Ministry of Defense. Seconds later, a somber radio call was sent out to the officers. It simply said: "Take back the Fatherland."
In the back of that timeworn old car, Sahle and his companions rested for the first time since their ordeal had started. The smooth, unbroken desert put Sahle in a trance as it passed by the window. Carried gently across the endlessness of Egypt on smooth wheels, he nodded off to sleep.
Transported through time and space, he found himself in a familiar garden. Water flowed like liquid crystal, pouring into the speckled stone bowl in such a way that invited him back to something he had long since lost. Palm trees swayed calmly in the cooling breeze beneath a caring sun. Three colonnades connected to a larger mansion surrounded the small courtyard, held up by columns that recalled Islamic influences. The fourth end was open to a cliff save for a short stone railing. Beyond it, the rugged mountains of the Ethiopian highlands dwarfed the world below, blooming with lush green shrubs and shadowed only by small skipping clouds. A small village filled the valley below. A cobbled stone church sat in its center, surrounded by a variety of stone, clay, and straw dwellings. It was home in some simple way. A near forgotten reality refracted from memory. To Sahle, it seemed like a surreal reflection of who he was and what had birthed him.
Turning around to face the great house, his eyes caught the back of a head. It was a little girl in a simple floral dress. Sahle opened his mouth to hail her, but she bounded for the door before a word could be formed. Curiosity drove him after her. He followed her, dodging statue and plant while calling out to her. She was always one step ahead. The mansion seemed to be stretched over an ever growing plane, as each turn brought him to longer hallways with fewer doors. It grew dimmer, as if the sun was setting and slowing drawing the light from the home. There was no hint of any other soul, save for the running girl.
As he continued, the decor grew desperate. Plants were withering, burnt, or dead. Though the statues had first portrayed beautiful and heroic figures, they were now growing skeletal and fierce. Ever stone eye seemed to glower at him. Figured of death overlooked twisted shrubs of stick and knot. He was relieved when he saw that the end of the last long hallways emptied into the outdoors. It was only once he was outside that he recognized how the horror had spread.
The girl stood at the edge of a cliff looking outward across the plain. The green had withered to brown and the landscape was on fire. Sirens called out on the edge of the distance, begging for attention. Fires burned so hot that the great mountains crumbled, filling the ruined village with a rush of pebble and dust. The smell of smoke and sulfur caused him to choke on the air in front of him.
The girl in front of him stared away with an eerie focus. Her hair caught embers from the air, incinerating individual strands like flash-powder, glowing quickly before decreasing. Voices came up from the valley behind her, subtle and tortured. Screams and grief-filled wails. Lighting cracked against the fire storm, drawing out the silhouettes of jetcraft. Sahle kept his focus on the girl.
"Hey!" he shouted. She cocked her head, still looking away. She slowly began to pivot his way. As her face came into view, it became apparent that she had been touched by this sudden catastrophe. Half of her face had burnt away, leaving one of her eyes grey. She held to her chest a tattered flag bearing that familiar sign; A lion, crowned and holding forth a scepter. Though she was maimed, her face held a comforting strength. As Sahle locked eyes with her, the voices in the background changed tone. They were chanting, and a power swayed in their voices as their sound drowned the cacophony of fire and ruin. It was filled with such unmovable resolve that it struck fear in Sahle's heart. Whatever the force that had united the hopelessness in the valley, it seemed solid. Unstoppable. Whatever stood in the way of that force would be crushed by it. Swept into the fires. It was fear of that force that woke Sahle from his sleep.
He was back in the car. Yared and Marc had fallen asleep as well, though it looked as if theirs was happy. Sahle sunk into his shoulders and watched the trees go by.
"There it is." the French driver announced. "The ocean."
Sahle looked out the window. A wall of blue sparkled on the horizon. As they approached it, glints of steely light began to flicker far beyond the shore. It looked as if there were small lights dancing on the edge of the perceivable sea. There was no way to make out what it was that he saw. Tired, he leaned back and faced forward.
He was falling, tumbling over and over again through the cold night air as he hurtled earthward, the roar of the wind in his ears drowning out all else as he frantically fought to control his fall. In a small way he was thankful that tracer rounds were leaping up at him from the ground since they were his only clue as to how close the earth he was.
Lashing out with his feet he at last managed to dislodge the debris that had been attached to his boot and stabilize himself, yanking his parachute cord so that the canvas billowed out into the night above his head and jerked him to a slow fall.
Steady at last, he craned his neck around. His plane was in the distance, falling fast towards the earth and he tried not to see the flaming bodies that threw themselves wildly from the aircraft. For a long moment it seemed to float in the darkness of the night until, with a tremendous explosion, it slammed into a hillside.
The tracers below trailed off slowly though small searchlights from vehicles probed upwards towards him. He could vaguely make out several other chutes. He was not alone. One chute passed close to him and he could just make out the limp body of its passenger. Another casualty in a situation that should never have occurred.
He was furious. The plane, a Prussian Junker, had been one of the last to lift off from behind the Turkish lines and begin heading west towards the Black Sea. But someone, somewhere down in no-mans-land, had not wanted them to make it and the Obersts plane, the last to leave, had taken a direct hit to the right wing and burst into flames.
Frederickson remembered grabbing the men nearest the door and throwing them out into the darkness until something had hit him in the head and he had blacked out, miraculously falling from the aircraft in the process. Now he hung in space, aiming for what looked to be a flat landing space a small distance to his right.
He tugged gently on the steering cables and glided silently through the night, narrowly avoiding the searchlights as he went. Several times the shooting started up again and tracers arced into the sky but none came near him.
The flat space was coming up fast and he was preparing himself for landing when a breeze suddenly caused the area to ripple and he realized that it was a small lake. There was no time to change direction however and he hit the water with a tremendous splash, sinking at once into the stagnant liquid.
He was soaked in an instant, the cold water flooding into every part of his uniform, the shroud settling over him as he fought to free himself, every second expecting to be dragged down by the weight of his gear, then his boots hit bottom and he stood, the water barely reached his chin.
Had it been any other situation he might have laughed in relief but survival instincts ran deep and in a moment he had released the parachute and waded ashore. The only two weapons he had were his Luger and a combat knife, shooting would at least blend into the rest of the racket if needed. It was time to make tracks, and fast, find somewhere to hole up and wait until first light to figure out where he was.
He was suddenly aware of the sound of someone else moving through the air and looked up just in time to see a second paratrooper drop into the same lake he had used. In two quick steps he was back into the lake and quickly approaching the floundering man.
“Soldier. Feet down. The water is shallow.”
The floundering ceased immediately and he heard the sound of a rifle being cocked, he froze at once, now was not the time to get shot by his own side.
“Who is that?” Hissed the voice and Frederickson felt relief course through him as he recognized the voice of Sergeant Tomas Blackthorne, an Anglo-Prussian who joined his regiment five years before.
“Oberst Frederickson. You landed on my chute.” He waited until he heard the sigh of relief before pushing forward to help the Sergeant from his gear. “Did you see anyone else?”
“No sir,” Said the Sergeant as he shrugged the last strap free. “I saw you take a hit in the head and then you vanished out the door as the plane came apart. I was lucky enough to be in the tail when it broke off and got thrown clear.”
Frederickson cursed under his breath. “You have arms?” He asked.
“Yes sir. Rifle, pistol and some spare rounds. No rations or anything else to speak of, it all went with the plane.” The Sergeant replied as they made their way towards dry ground. “We can’t be the only ones. You got at least six out of the plane before you were hit.”
Frederickson stopped at the edge of the lake and knelt, lifting his helmet off and becoming aware for the first time that nearly a third of the helmets upper bowl had been sheered off. He let out a low whistle and tossed the helmet back into the lake. “Bloody close. If and when we find the bastards who took a shot at us, I’m going to strangle them with their own entrails.”
A chuckle came from the Sergeant. “Right there with you sir.”
“We should get moving. Two of us coming down here must have been spotted. Into the trees.” Frederickson motioned towards the tree line, barely visible in the inky blackness.
The two men moved like wraiths across the open ground and into the woods where they paused, the Sergeant laying a hand on his officer’s arm.
“Engine.” He whispered. The sound of a truck approaching swiftly came to their ears like a low growl and they crouched low in the foliage.
In moments an Armenian jeep burst over a low hilltop and skid to a halt, four soldiers climbing out, laughing as they though they didn’t have a care in the world. They trained a light on the chutes in the water and shouted a few times.
Frederickson spoke several languages but Armenian was not one of them, the Sergeant knew a few phrases however.
“They are ordering us to come out, from the water.” He added. “The buggers think we’re still in there.”
As if to confirm his words one of the soldiers fired several rounds into the water and within moments all four were blasting away at the sinking shrouds.
“They can’t know we were Prussian can they? Must think we’re Turks.” Blackthorne muttered.
“No, I think they get it…” Replied Frederickson as one of the Armenians gave a yell of triumph and plunged into the water to pull Fredericksons damaged helmet free. His comrades cheered him as he paraded it around on the end of his rifle. “Yea, they got it.”
The Sergeant hissed suddenly, a warning sound and Frederickson froze in the act of turning away. Dark shapes were moving around them in the woods, unaware of the two Prussians for the moment.
Several hurried past him, intent on the celebrating Armenians and their trophy, passing within several feet of the paratroopers. They paused, knelt, and then rifles cracked in the night and the Armenian carrying the helmet was jerked backwards like a puppet on a string.
Two of the others dove for cover beneath the jeep but bullets quickly found them and their blood pooled into the headlights of their vehicle. The fourth Armenian had thrown down his rifle and was screaming for mercy as dozen Turkish soldiers descended on him from the darkness.
They put several rapid fire questions to the Armenian and he gestured from the fallen helmet, to the lake, and the up at the sky. The Turkish officer listened to him for a long moment and then let out a long tirade, spitting on the helmet for effect.
“Sir?” Blackthorne couldn’t resist asking, he knew that Frederickson spoke enough Turkish to get by.
“Turks are mad we pulled out. Officer says they will kill us if they catch us.” Frederickson was suddenly very aware of just how alone and isolated they were. He had to find the rest of his men, and fast.
The scene by the lake had gotten ugly as the Turks began to take turns beating the Armenian prisoner. The man had curled up on the ground and was crying, screaming for his mother who he must have let only a few months before. They hit him with their boots, rifles butts and even the broken Prussian helmet.
Slowly his cries faded as they broke all his teeth, his nose, all of his ribs, even sodomizing him with a bayonet before the officer finally called them off and put a bullet into the boys head.
The Turkish officer ordered some of his men into the water and they gathered up the parachutes and the broken helmet, loading them into the captured Armenian vehicle. Some climbed into the jeep while the rest formed up in a loose column behind it. At a word from their officer they headed off at a quick jog into the night, the jeep leading the way.
The lake was quiet again. The Prussians had long since moved on.
A bungalow of white stood atop a low hill, overlooking the sea to its south. Wrapped in soft white, tropical plaster the structure was an idyllic and picturesque shape in a rural corner of the Luzonian island. In the near-distance, the softly shimmering sight of the capital of Manilla stood. Clad in sheaths of light it disappeared as light lofty clouds passed behind it across the horizon. The sky as a whole hung with light wreaths of cloud circling ahead, carrying on them the light tinge of salt.
Driving down a stretch of two-track that crawled from the city and along the coast a small, low-profile call thudded by across the loose rocks and sticks that had fallen across he road from the trees that stood bent and bowing over the road. The shadows of the boughs dashing across the wind shield in the soft afternoon song. Windows of the cab rolled down the salty sea-side breeze washed through the car, circulating out the cigarette smoke and carrying the tune of the radio out with it. Local tagalog.
As the car coasted along the coastal rode and neared the bungalow it slowed to a soft roll, and finding a spot came to a stop, pulling off the side of the beaten track to come to a stall alongside a small brick-work step path that wound up the hill. Off to the side an old truck stood under a makeshift wooden canopy, traces of dirt and dried clay miring its side more so than the black caddy that had come to a stop to open its doors.
A solidly built man stepped out of the car. His black uniform hugging his build as he took a last draw on his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and stepping on it. His eyes were wider than any normal Chinese man. His face squared off and worn. He was a man that had seen action. Coughing lightly, the black suited agent walked up the steps.
Waiting for him atop the climb stood a man of Caucasian flair. Certainly tanned by the sun. He was a man that looked more built to be on the big screens. A wide handsome face, his features proud and prominent despite the fine wrinkles that ran dashed around his face. A prominent and jutting chin sprouted from his bottom jaw like a piece of marble. He was if anything, a very Roman looking man, with a certain Russian handsomeness. And he wore a solid Jew's nose that complimented him well.
Behind large sunglasses and under a beaten straw panama the man held out his arms wide, “So the rumors are true!” he laughed, watching the Chinese IB walk up to his stoop. His voice held the lightest tinge of a New Yorker flair, “I was to be visited. So the prodigal Tung comes to check up on me. I was getting worried I had been forgotten.”
Agent Tung smiled softly as he stepped up the hill and onto the porch that wrapped the tiny home. “No, you have not Danielovitch.” Tung said, stepping up onto the wooden porch, “May we sit down to chat?”
“Certainly, what for?” the American asked, politely gesturing the Chinese agent around the porch.
“Normal things.” Tung said, “Like, the requests to you by my department will most likely be taking a larger priority.”
“Oh dear.” Danielovitch sighed, “And that's right, most of your boys are pulling out.”
“For the most part.” Tung asked, “But, Manilla is negotiating an extension on deployment for several units here, to enlarge the long-term joint defense operations.
“I feel they're heartily inspired to keep us on board in the event another Lakandula.”
“Yet they're also still mad at killing him, the Mindanese Pope.” the American chuckled.
“I'm surprised that we managed to retain our original goals,” responded Tung, being wheeled around to some thatch lawn chairs turned to face the sea. Danielovitch offered him a seat, which he took, “Though, there's no admittance to what actually happened on that aircraft carrier.” smiled Tung, cockily.
“And I suppose this is only the start of this correspondence,” the American grumbled sarcastically, looking out across the great wide blue of the ocean. The sapphire peaks of waves rising and falling gently on the warm breeze that blew off their cresting fingers. “So then, what will it be?”
“Whatever is new.”
Danielkovitch nodded softly. “Right.” he muttered, looking back out at the ocean with distant, thinking eyes. “Have you ever had a good cheeseburger?” he asked finally, after a long minute of thought. He turned to look at Tung with curious, questioning eyes.
“I don't think I've ever heard of such a thing.” the Chinese agent said.
“Of course not.” Danielovitch said, “And well, having been raised as an observant Jew back in the States, I never have either. Until recently.”
“What forced you make that decision?” Tung asked, “Seems like a big step.”
“Well God forgive me, but I was in that Little New York part of Manilla today and passed by a food cart, ran by this old bald guy from the Bronx. And we got to speaking, and I decided that having holed myself up on that god-forsaken French island for the past twenty years, maybe, I could transgress that separation of meat and cheese rule and indulge in a cheeseburger for once. Just to be a nice guy, I'd give him a few pesos for something to eat.
“Little NY has been getting bigger,” Danielkovitch added distantly, “In these past few months. More so during that coup episode back home, I don't blame them for doing so. Even I'm not sure what the parties back home are faithful too. But all the same, glad to see a Democrat's still in the office. That's all I can say.
“And, I know squalor.” Danielkovitch continued, “I know there was a sizable community of Americans who got trapped here when the Revolution broke out, then you Chinese cleaned up the place, or so a few.
“I remember back home in Amsterdam there was this place called Eagle Street. Worst part of town, my father worked it as the Ragman, the poorest of them all. It's how I grew up. And even before this drama in the States when I was first down there it reminded me of that. Not third-world poor like I see in the outer ghettos, God, even we have more cleanliness than there. But a given, most of that part of town looks American built, fitting I suppose.
“But, with that coup, if anything goes on in the States to make it worse then I can see it being the second Bronx. It's packed, and no one knows any Spanish or Filippino.”
“And you speak it better.”
“Oh yes!” Danielkovitch laughed, “I lived on a god-forsaken Polynesian island for the past couple decades. Of course I picked up a few different languages to run that pot of a bar you and your partner found me in, God bless it though.
“Speaking of which, how is he? The quiet little one?”
“Shan?”
“I guess.” Danielkovitch shrugged.
“He resigned from the IB the year after.” Tung said, “He sense disappeared. I haven't been capable of catching up on him, and I doubt anyone else has either.”
“Just, poof?”
“Close enough of an analogy.”
“Oh, well. Best of luck to him then.”
Tung nodded apathetically. “Now, Little New York?”
“In an alien, surreal way it reminds me of home.” the American laughed, “Just with more Filipino women than black girls. And not the jazz I remember from the clubs.”
“You see anything in the clubs?” asked Tung.
“Just the girls!” Danielkovitch asked, “But I don't know what's suspicious there and what's not. Remember, I've been kept out of the loop for ages son. If I had to say anything, I would think the whole of the American prohibitionist force would be falling down on those places with a ton of bricks, or the Mafia runs it.
“Come to think of it, those places are probably ran by gangs.” he chuckled, “Just not the kind of gangs that want my head. And I haven't seen any of those gangsters in years.”
“Then maybe we're doing our end of the bargain right.” Tung said with a smart smile. The kind that made the American hold his head back laughing.
“Yes, commendable job!” he cheered, “And I was afraid that they'd come to find out where I am once the US got into this Comintern deal. But not one Vinny the Fish since.”
“So, how are things looking in the American quarter?”
Danielkovitch shrugged, “No one has set up an acting troop or theater.” he said, “Though I've been approached by a few state agencies for my looks. But I'm apprehensive about it, last thing I want is for some informant to take the movie back to the States and go: 'there's that guy that owes us money. There's that guy that owes us his life.'
“, all I wanted to be was an actor.” he continued, “But then you get mad because you're denied work because your Jewish, and you get caught up in the same as the nergoes.
“And now two political factions are vying for influence there. Too bad none of us aren't nearly Catholic enough for the People's Clerical Democratic Alliance, and too American all the same for the People's Democratic-Republic Party of the Philippines. We're just here because it's the most American place we can escape too that won't eat our pockets like Spain, or won't have allies of people that want to kill you like myself, or some magical hole.
“There's no where else for some of us to run! Brazil's like a bi-polar child, Europe is off the wall, Britain I hear just went to the ter. Africa is Africa and Canada no one trusts!”
“Blame Canada.” Tung said.
“Blame Canada!” Danielkovitch cheered.
Ministry of Space and Science research labs, Ullaanbatar.
A soft click and the door opened. Or maybe it was the air conditioning beginning a new cycle. Or some other piece of budget machinery coming to a roughened start. But between the droning announcements over the PA and the nervous pen-clicking research assistants it was difficult to tell what clicked. Despite the origin of the click though stood Shen Tzen as he pushed aside the director's door.
A certain level of sleep deprivation or dissatisfaction with his current priorities manifested onto his face in blotchy makeup like that of a cheap *****. His face pale and dark circles hung under his eyes. He looked tired, old. But it could just as well be the poor sleep. He had lost any sort of environmental control in his new residence in the regional capital of the Mongolian province and his nights were spent shivering in the shrill freezing air of the northern winter. He felt there was not enough blankets to stave off the cold.
Pushing the door to its full arc he was greeted by a rush of warmer air the distinct smell of Vietnamese tobacco, smokier and more grating than any tobacco smoke the scientist had ever come to know. Which, being him wasn't much. He held a general disdain for smoke, it having the properties of otherwise making breathing harsh.
Beyond the cheap tobacco a lingering aroma of tea wafted through the air, reminding him very much of home. It could be said that this too was distasteful to the man, as itself brought grand gilded memories of water than truly and forever tasted like , and the shrill piercing singing of his mother, bouncing and rolling from the edges from too many children.
And then there was, of course, the cat.
He had barely stepped through the doorway when a dark blot raced across the floor to the open door. Tearing across the carpet with such a demented purpose that it rocketed up and away. Taking with it Shen's foot and throwing it out from under him. On a short zag and a graceful save from the restless feline Shen was feeling what it was to re-enter orbit. His weight caught unsupported in the air as he tumbled like a drunk brick to the floor. It was only on quick thinking that his hand bolted out and grabbed the brass entry knob of the door, and holding him up as he staggered for balance.
From behind him, the ambushing cat mewed innocently. Calling out to Shen that it had him again before cantering off down the hall for the next soul whose day it would on.
“Ah, Comrade Tzen.” a voice said from the far side of the room with a ring of snarky pride, repressed under the guide of professional overview.
“Hu Wei,” said Tzen, pulling himself up with the door as an ungrateful crutch. Recovering himself he made the rest of the way into the office, the door shutting with a soft sigh behind him.
The center's overseeing director – Hu Wei – was by no means a man afraid to hide himself behind modesty. His office was decorated with the million gaudy trappings of his own personality. Statues and paintings of cats and a number of sitting and crouching positions, accompanied by equally majestic Tigers no doubt pulled from the pages of any one of a thousand oriental art books. As well, figures of space craft and frames from the earliest high altitude balloons deployed during the days before the ministry was formed. Blown up to immense sizes they filled the empty spaces between bookshelves, and hung alongside photos of the horizon between Earth and space, as captured by rockets deployed in the ministry's earliest stages; all of which hung high and scattered like some imitation French salon.
Several cloth upholstered couches sat in the center of the office on a thick red carpet where a tea table sat laden with biscuits and a warm kettle of tea. Obviously, one of the director's several cats had taken to stealing and consuming some of the biscuits, the otherwise organized dish having been demolished and a few spare cookies sprinkled over the carpet.
Really, the man reminded Tzen of his aunt, as annoying and loud of a woman as she was, with no children but her army of cats. She was feared by the village by that fact.
“You can treat yourself to some tea and cookies.” Wei said, gesturing to the table in the middle of the room with his cigarettes. Tzen regarded his boss with a apprehensive look that was not at all well hidden. “Well you don't need to eat or drink anything.” he scoffed.
Hu Wei was the kind of men that put too much product in his hair. Some kind of alien move to connect more to his children in response to the wake of youth interest in America. He had as well grown out a mustache that he combed and curled in a fascinatingly obtuse fashion. He was the man that too Tzen tackled the strangest looks in the most unironic way and achieved the most undesirable results. From the way he regarded shock and apprehension to his appearance, he would have thought everyone drunk, or clueless. When in all, it was just him.
It was perhaps why they put him out here, to get him away from all the normal people, and to live amongst the mad men who can handle below freezing temperatures.
“Anyways,” Hu Wei continued, waving that cigar of his through the air, “I wanted to call you in to say that I so impressed with your research that I decided to give it to the Intelligence Bureau for investigation and implementation to whatever Research and Development adventure they have going.”
“Investigation?” Tzen asked cynically.
“Well it's not like you're doing anything illegal, comrade!” Wei laughed loudly, “So don't hold yourself so tight there. They got their own reasons, I believe.
“Besides that,” he continued, “Beijing has been impressed enough with our progress to set aside time to launch our biggest research feat since the Orbital Atmospheric Research Platform. The proofing of the rubber nylon blend has convinced them it's time to take our tasks to the next level and put something alive in space!”
“Well, thanks for telling me in person, but couldn't you have wrote?” Tzen said with groggy voice.
“Because I wanted to also tell you you're going to help oversee the launch from Green Island.” the director said with a wide smile, “As an advisory person on the inner vacuum seal for the craft. You'll be going with several others to make sure the men at the launch pad have everything set up right.
“I was also going to make sure you get Chou's stuff ready to be taken to the launch.” Wei added, pointing to a small portable kennel that had been hidden by the door, then drifting his hand up to atop a distant corner table where an overweight cat stared dozily at the two men. “He's the lucky one.”
Tzen's expression dropped as he laid eyes on the gray and black tabby somewhere between being fast asleep and wholly awake. His tail wrapped around his plump overflowing belly. His ears twitched as he drifted in and out of being conscious and not-so-much. He did not want to deal with Wei's cats. It was the last thing he wanted out of this.
“You're to make sure he's properly fed and outfitted, slept, and groomed,” Wei listed, “in addition to exercised and prepared for Earth's orbit. You will find everything you could need in his carrier: brush, treats, and a leash.”
“Are you really serious, sir?” Tzen asked, astonished.
“Damn right I am!” Wei boomed proudly, “We're going to have a cat in space, and it's going to be one of my own! It'll be like having one of my own sons up there!”
“And you're entrusting him to me?”
“Oh yes, you're one of the most diligent men on these team, if not the most abrasive.” the director put it blunt, walking across the office to the half sleeping cat.
“I'd imagine somewhere between here and there,” he continued, reaching out to scratch behind the cat's ears, “anyone else would loose him. And I'm not trusting him to the mail system to deploy him. Far too unflattering for him.”
The car purred softly, its eyes going heavy from the soft scratch behind his ears.
Turkistani-Russian border
The helicopter barely touched down on the soft snow when the two agents lunged out of the craft. Coming down in a drift of snow knee high. The wind from the rotors whipping up the ground and creating an effective blizzard, snow-blinding the men even with the goggles. The moment was fleeting and only lasted for several moments before the helicopter lifted up and flew away, leaving behind a cold breezy stillness. Several still moments persisted as the two men sat crouched in the snow, just barely beyond the border. They sat waiting for the helicopter to distance itself. The slow hacking of its blades growing dim and silent as it made its way home, or to the nearest friendly airfield.
And when it died, the world was truly silent. A persisting aura of serenity hung over the two in the Siberian wilderness. It was now only them, and their gear. “Here, snowshoes.” Ulanhu said, his pack was thrown into the snow, from which he produced a pair of wide, flat wooden snowshoes. Throwing him over to his partner he barked: “But them on.”
Several clasped hasps later, the two were on their feet above the snow, supported by the sinew and fiber mesh of the egg-shell, oblong platforms. Keeping a low-profile the two scanned the horizon again, then hoisting up their gear darted for the cover of a stand of pine forest. The soft cool wind nipping into their faces as they moved along and entered into the vegetation.
“Alright, where are we?” Jun asked, as they came to a stop alongside a barely uncovered fallen log.
“Good question,” Ulanhu laughed, reaching into his pocket, from which he produced a map. Unfolding it, he pressed it against the snow caking the log.
“We got in range of Petropavl's airspace, then headed directly north,” he started, pressing his finger on a small unobtrusive dot at the northern-most tip of Turkistan., “Around here somewhere there's a small town, I believe it's called Ishim. It primarily serves as a rail-hub on the Trans-Siberian railway and could theoretically take us to Yekenterinburg, the former capital of the Republic. From there, we're at the gate way of the Urals and we can start looking for this lost army.
“There's nothing in our way up until that point, so it should be a easy hike.” the Mongol continued, “There's an old rail way linking the town with the former Russian territories down south in Turkistan. But ever sense independence status was won in the fifties that rail was terminated. So don't expect to hitch a ride on any train...” He drolled off as he saw the way Jun was looking at him. Even with the glasses or goggles on, the eerie silence reflected the message of his dismissive silence to the Ulanhu, who had only come to know him in the last couple days.
“I've given myself to look over all the intel on the area.” he coughed uncomfortably.
“So anything else?” asked Jun with a heavy voice.
“Well, yes, our gear. What do you got on you?”
“My Changu, ammo for that, and you met my sword.” he said, “Clothing, some rations, and navigation. I managed to pick up a couple grenades, for whichever reason we may need them. As well as a personal medkit.”
“Empty them out, I want to see.” Ulanhu said.
“What?”
“Empty it out, I want to take a visual check.” the Mongol argued, pressing the issue.
Apprehensively, Jun removed his pack. Placing it in the snow and opened it up. Gently placing what he had down. His revolver he flashed from under his coat. He set up his medical kit, unhinging the latches and opening the lid for his partner to see.
“What's this?” Ulanhu asked, reaching into the kit. He lifted the large vial of liquid and shook it, eying the contents with rapt curiosity.
“Naloxone.” Jun said, snatching the bottle from his hands with a quick swipe, “It's a long story.”
“I bet, but what is it exactly? I've never seen a drug like that. I mean, looking at your case I'm used to seeing a opioid painkillers, but I don't see anything! You got the standard gauze and stitches, the blood pressure pills are odd for sure. But I don't think that medication is standard issue anywhere!”
“That's because it's not a painkiller.” Jun said, putting it back in his case and closing the lid, “It's officially marked as a opioid antagonist. It's meant to assist in the sensation of pain, not reduce it.”
Assis? You mean you're... a masochist or something?”
Jun laughed, a dry uncomforting sort of laugh, “I have insensitivity to pain.” he said with a disgusted breath, “It's again: a long story. Something I can tell you later if you want. But I need that to treat my condition, so I don't break any legs. Or even freeze myself to death.”
“But, wait, why would they send you out here? You'll certainly kill yourself! For all the things Beijing does this seems to most reckless and stupid. A person like you doesn't need to be in the field, or should be. It's amazing you haven't been cri-”
“Again, a story for another time.” Jun grumbled.
“Right, sorry.” Ulanhu said, rubbing at his forehead.
“So then, comrade.” Jun started with a smirk, “What do you have I need to know about?”
“Well, all the same.” he said, “But, I do have a few things. Here, let me show you,” digging into his pack he produced a pair of small objects, wrapped in wires. What looked to be a headset dangled from the end of one. “Clip this onto your belt,” he said offering one of the devices over, “Or inside your coat. Put on the headset under your hood to hide it.”
“What is it?” Jun asked nervously, cradling the brick in his hand. He wasn't sure if it was going to explode. In addition to wires a small plastic antenna stuck out of the top.
“It's a short range ECG-radio.” Ulanhu smiled, “It was put together a while back by a couple bureaus and got picked up recently by the IB and NPCLA for inter-soldier communication. We can use it to talk to each other while seperated.
“In an open environment like this, the range I think can go something like four miles. Just turn the channel to frequency 140.85, it's my own.”
“But, how?” Jun asked, looking at it. There was a number of dials that he had trouble rationalizing.
“That one there.” Ulanhu pointed, “It'll be easy when you figure it out.” he said with a smile, sliding the radio onto his belt and running the head set up onto his head. “Just try to speak slowly, sometimes the transmission can be messy.”
Unrestrained by clouds a moonlight drizzle lit the calm waters with a soft glow. It seemed the sea had surrendered to the warships which sailed like stepping stones on its surface. A stanch formation of vessels with varying roles and sizes held the reigns to this once turbulent expanse. Colossal airships imposed an ominous watch over the ships, casting shades upon an archipelago of steel.
His black boots were stuck to the metal beneath them. The end of his overcoat fluttered with the cool wind, and a gleam of starlight flickered off his spiked helmet. The Kaiser found himself standing upon the flat deck of a helicopter carrier. Surrounding him was a sight to behold: the full might of the Prussian Reichswehr. It seemed to rival both the seas and the heavens, threatening to occupy them both right before it took the land. It was a thought that filled Frederick IV with pride and made him smile despite the rumors that he never did.
Approaching from in between the dormant aircraft behind the Kaiser, and their movement surely muffled by the flapping of Prussian battle flags above him came a figure bearing the regalia of the Prussian officer corps - a uniform as black as night - accompanied by two others of lower status. His voice broke the soothing sound of battering waves, "Mein Kaiser." the man bowed.
It was instantly recognizable to the emperor. The voice was that of Lieutenant General Messman, commander of the secretive Geheimabwehr. "Generalleutnant." he acknowledged, his eyes still set on the ships before him. It was both his amazement with the battleships before him and his inability to turn swiftly that kept him from facing his company. Frederick cursed his disability under his breath, his weight resting on a cane.
"Beautiful sight, no?" Messman conversed, bringing himself to a firm stop beside the Kaiser. His posture akin to that of a soldier, but graceful. Messman was a middle-age man. His blonde hair greyed and receded slightly, with faint wrinkles forming around his eyes. He was the kind of man that was both pleasant and intimidating at once, but in the presence of the emperor bowed his head like the rest.
"To us." Frederick replied. He wondered what it'd be like to stand in the place of his enemies, staring at this very fleet open fire. The best and worst sight in the world, he imagined.
Messman smiled, humored. "Of course." he said. His eyes scanned the scene. At least a dozen ships dotted his view. Above him an airship lumbered onward, a soft rumble made it seem alive. "There.." he pointed out with his hand, "The Bismarck." he said. "Quite possibly the most advanced warship in the world - ours."
"Ours." Frederick smiled with relief. "It would seem it carries all the guns in the world, as well." he joked.
"Almost." Messman laughed. His eyes took to the skies next, scanning the airships above. "I hear the Gewitter is here too -- biggest thing to ever fly." he added. "I'd wager this is the safest place in the world right now, if you're German." A quick glance over his shoulder assured his guards were not within hearing range. "But I'm afraid I bring troubling news, sir." Messman revealed.
In the eyes of the world Prussia had failed to aid its ally in Turkey - the second defeat suffered by the Reich in recent years. To Frederick, it was humiliating. It was clear to him and his intelligence officers that the Ethiopian embassy attacks in Armenia were convenient for Assanian at the least, but with the continued incompetence of the Turkish leadership, withdrawal was the only option. Though Armenia itself was the prime suspect, blaming the Turks like the rest of the world did was a key out of a conflict that would likely have dragged the Reich to disaster. But it still felt humiliating, and that's why he was here, personally commanding his forces eastward - to ensure victory in Georgia, and beyond.
"We're missing one of the transports out of Turkey." Messman reported. "On board were members of the 3rd Fallschirmjager Regiment, their commander included." he added. "All are missing."
Frederick remained silent. He was inexperienced with military procedure. He could only listen.
"Their transport was amongst the last to leave upon the order to withdraw." Messman continued. "The Turks deny any involvement. We've not yet contacted the Armenians, but their offensive on the Turks and the plane's departure were awfully close in schedule. It's possible the aircraft was trapped in the fighting, perhaps taken down." he explained. "Mein Kaiser, we await your orders."
Frederick was not a military man. He was not even a born leader. But he knew he could not afford another failure. The eyes of the world were watching - he had to be strong. He had to prove Prussia was still the great power the world once feared. "Get in contact with whoever necessary." Frederick sighed. He wasn't a natural leader at heart but his towering and broad physical figure could fool the most observant men. His appearance alone was commanding. "Use the Bismarck if needed." he authorized. "Prioritize their safe return." Frederick turned to face Messman. It was a sluggish form of movement, like he turned in pain. But his expression relayed anger. "These men, the Armenian and the Sultan, test my goddamn patience. I want their official word on this incident."
"Yes, Mein Kaiser." a loyal Messman bowed. He wasn't phased by the request.
"I trust you with this, Generalleutnant." Frederick said more calmly, his eyes slowly shifting back to the ships.
"I will not fail you, Mein Kaiser." Messman assured. "And when the time to retake your rightful claim comes, I will be there to assist. Of this, I have no doubt." he guaranteed. "Russia will be yours."
Frederick smiled. He turned to face Messman, only to see the officer bow before him. The guards followed. He stepped forward the best he could, his cane shaking slightly with each step. Frederick approached one of the guards. The soldier, no more than nineteen by his appearance could hardly make eye contact. With a gesture of his hand, the Kaiser requested his weapon; a bolt-action rifle of wooden stock. The emperor took the weapon in one hand and carefully made his way to the edge of the ship, where he stood a minute earlier. Frederick let his cane lean against his body and placed his hands around the rifle. Mounting its stock on his shoulder, he aimed northeastward -- into the sky. His rifle shook slightly, but the emperor had his target in sights; Russia laid in that direction. A sudden blast drowned all the sound for a moment, as a single gunshot symbolized the German advanced.
((Sorry for the short post but I didn't want to leave Vilage hanging.))
Egyptian Desert
Julio Zuraban, squished in the back seat of the old car between the rear door, the drummer, and the driver's seat which Claude refused to scooch up so much as an inch, was keenly aware of the passenger sitting beside him finally stirring out of his nap. In his reflection of the rear window, Julio caught a glimpse of his neighbor rubbing crusty sand out of his eyes and was struck with the sensation that he looked familiar. Of course, Julio recognized the man as the band drummer at the celebration thrown for the Ottoman soldiers, but he felt like he had seen his face before somewhere but he just couldn't put his finger on it. As if he were a character in a dream based upon the visage of some person he had once seen walking down the street somewhere. Probably nothing, Julio assumed.
"You were fidgeting quite a lot during that nap." Julio noted, interupting the neutral din of the old engine purring in the front of the car. "A bad dream?"
"It was, yes." The drummer confirmed.
"It suppose that it's no surprise, given what you and your friends have been through lately... Doesn't seem that they're as distressed as you are." Julio nodded at the drummer's two companions dozing peacefully on the opposite side of the back seats. The drummer nodded tacitly in affirmation before staring pensively into the peeling, cigarette-infused upholstery on the cieling of the cabin.
"I apologize but I'm not sure we ever had the opportunity to acquaint ourselves properly. My name is Florian and this is Claude, my associate."
"Heureuse." Claude added from behind the wheel, steering the car north along the desert highway.
"I'm Samel." The drummer briefly responded.
"Es un placer conocerte, Samel." Julio replied, accidentally reverting back into Spanish. Julio noticed that this caused Samel's eyes to widen.
"What was that?" Samel asked, seemingly alert now.
"Oh, nothing. Pleasure to meet you. That was all." Samel nodded tacitly and stared once again into the cieling, leaving the car to return to a now uncomfortable silence.
(Crappy, half-assed post because I'm sleep deprived but Tempest is rushing me. This is the type of thing that should take several posts to build up properly, but I don't have the schedule for that and I didn't want to leave Tempest waiting cause he has his own plans now that he sort of co-runs Prussia)
The Black Sea
The air in the room was cool and still. Lights on the ceiling left the quarters glazed with a white glow, but the silver walls failed to interest the eye. Only vents and signs of age, or perhaps needed maintenance gave them character. A tight-sealed hatch enclosed the room and a constant hum danced within. Frederick sat before a long table. The Kaiser maintained a casual presence - his Pickelhaube nowhere to be seen, though he did don his cavalry coat. The emperor was surrounded by men of high regard, their uniforms and countless decorations to prove it. But he was easily identifiable at one end of the table - his golden beard made sure of that.
A lack of documents on the surface of the table made it clear this had been a meeting without prior notice. The military men gathered there sent forth a silent barrage of questions. They wondered why they were there, surely something had occurred.
"Officers." boomed Frederick's voice. It was a powerful tone. He didn't need to speak loudly for his voice to dominate the room.
"Kaiser." they responded in unison, their heads bowing slightly.
Frederick was more than a leader to these men. They idolized him. Bowing was almost instinctive in his presence.
"I thank you all for being here on such a short notice." the Kaiser began, his hands clasped in front of him. He waited a moment, his mind shuffled. "Our forces have gathered here and our intentions were made clear: To bring stability to Georgia and gain a foothold in the region. But I have questioned myself over this decision." Frederick straightened himself, his eyes piercing those present. "How does this benefit the Vaterland, to risk German lives for so little? We have spilled enough blood for the people of this land. Brave, German men held the line for a people who now view us as traitors. We involved ourselves in this quagmire to be shunned by those we protected." Frederick continued, the men listening intently. "We have spilled enough blood for these people." he repeated.
He was no speaker. He struggled to find words that clearly conveyed his message. But his voice never faltered. He never revealed his inexperience. He looked confident, strong.
"It's time we fight for our own, rightful ascension in the world." he continued. "We will alter course for Ukraine." the emperor revealed. "Poland will fall." Frederick said coldly, not a drop of doubt painted his words. "They hold part of the blame for our failure in Turkey. The more we wait, the stronger our enemy becomes. If we are to ensure the survival of our nation, it is our obligation to put a stop to their growing power." he said. "Eastern Prussia still rests under their banner; they hold our lands hostage. They stand in the way of our own growth, hiding behind the false veil of a distant friendship. But they will be the first to know Prussia does not make friends."
"It makes subjects." an officer added.
"Mein Kaiser.." another stepped in. "Plans have already been drawn for Georgia." he reminded. "We cannot prepare for an invasion of Poland!"
"Plans were long drawn." countered Frederick. "Chancellor Waechter will oversee the forces on land." he said. "They are preparing for invasion as we speak."
"Kaiser.. " an officer began. "This is unimaginable!"
"This is necessary." justified a decided emperor. "A successful nation devours the rest." Frederick said.
"This could be a devastating war!" the officer pleaded. "Mein Ka-"
"Perhaps you'd prefer to stand with the Poles." Frederick threatened, his eyes narrowed and set on the officer.
"My apologies, Kaiser." he backed down.
"Poland stands between European dominance." the emperor continued. "I understand your concerns, but we have little choice. If we hope to exist as a proper nation, we must act for our benefit before the rest of the world. In our current state, we are little more than a nation between the unpredictability of the Spaniards, and the westward expansion of the Chinese. It's time the German people claimed their rightful place in the world. And should anyone stand in our way, we show them why we are an army with a nation."
Somewhere Over The Sea
Rapid thudding filled the air as the aircraft - a Prussian utility helicopter - soared through the air above aggravated waves. The sky was black and only a dim light inside the craft lit the scene. Inside sat Tamaz Nakani, the Georgian warlord charged with providing information to the Prussians in exchange for a seat in power. He smiled, leaning casually on his seat. Across from him were members of the Prussian intelligence corps, the Geheimabwehr. They were dressed in their black fatigues and both men smiled back. To a fool, this was a joyful ride.
"We're relocating you to a different ship." one of the uniformed men revealed over the sound of the rotor blades. "It'll be safer there." he assured.
"I didn't request this." Tamaz responded, confused.
"Orders from Messman." the other operative said blandly. "I believe you've met him." he added.
"Ah, yes!" Tamaz recalled. "Good man." he said. "He was pleasant company, the last we spoke."
"I hear."
"Do you have a cigarette?" Tamaz asked. "The ride's been long. I'm getting anxious."
The Germans spared a second to look at each other. A nod from one prompted the other to produce a carton of cigarettes from one of his pockets. "I do." the soldier said, extending his hand so that Tamaz could pick a cigarette.
"Thanks." the warlord said, cigarette between his lips. The German manned the lighter, setting it alight. Satisfied, Tamaz receded to a state of indifference, leaning back into his chair. he closed his eyes between each drag of the cigarette; his guard was down.
The operative pocketed the carton. His hand movement was slow, precise. Slowly reaching behind his back, he wrapped his hand firmly around the metal handle of a Luger. "Tamaz." the soldier called. "You've outlived your usefulness." he said with a smile.
"Messman sends his regards." the other added.
Tamaz opened his mouth in horror, sending forth a cover of thin smoke. There was a blast and a flash, and the smoke was turned to red mist as blood splattered where he sat. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and blood dripped from the wound. With a soft kick, Tamaz' limb body plummeted out of one side of the helicopter, a hard splash marking the end of his existence.
The room was colorless; a cement tomb holding a simple folding table, brightened by two simple windows facing industrial scenery. It was a room meant for military personal, not diplomats. Taytu took a fluttering breath and feigned a smile. There was no evidence on the faces of her Turkish hosts that anything was strange about her visit, but that only made it seem stranger to her. The entire situation had a surreal quality to it, as if she had walked into a new world where the unwritten rules of diplomacy were alien to her. Her mustachioed host pulled out a chair and, with a flourishing bow, invited her to sit. The metal folding chair was hard and sharp, and she shifted in her chair in order to get comfortable.
"Your government has been accusing us of awful things." the Turkish diplomat started. His voice held a worried condescension, like a teacher talking to a naughty child. His eyes seemed to bulge from his head as he looked across the table at her, and he held his head in a bird-like manner.
"Words were said quicker then they should have been." Taytu admitted. "When blood gets spilled, those who feel they were wrong are going to call out for more blood."
The Turk held his expression solid for several tense seconds before breaking into a grieved smile and nodding. He began to shuffle a set of papers in his hands. "Nobody knows this more then the Turkish people. The Armenians, the Syrians, the Greeks... they have been spilling out blood because of petty medieval feuds for many years. I am sure you have payed attention to the news, yes? They stole what we gave them and used it against us in this 'Revolution' of theirs."
"...So you understand why neither of us would benefit from more war?" Taytu replied. "This here is between my people and yours. We do not need to discuss Armenia."
"Your people have been dealing with these terrorists for years. That will be difficult to forget." the Turk's voice took a harsh turn; reprimanding and bold. Taytu was taken aback.
"Our dealings..." Taytu sputtered, fighting to find the best words. "Armenia is... we do not need to discuss Armenia. This is between... this is between us."
The Turk began to flip through the papers in front of him, pulling one out and placing it on the top of the stack. "I have it here that your agents have been identified working within the country under the guise of a diplomatic mission." he began to read. "Under the command of the 'Ambassador' Amare Debir, your operatives have been tied to the deaths of at least thirty two Turkish loyals, both military and civilian. We also have evidence that Chinese agents might be overseeing similar operations through their connections with the Ethiopian Walinzi?"
Taytu remained silent. The conversation had escaped her grasp entirely. A vague rumbling began to tap at the windows, causing small bursts of glassy vibration.
"It seems like your country has already started the war. Am I to believe that what you have came her to ask, Ms. Taytu, what you have came to ask is for us to not fight back?"
"We can bring an end to the conflict entirely." Taytu raised her voice, cornered and shaken. "This doesn't have to happen. You know this!"
"I am afraid it is much too late." the Turkish diplomat stood up. "Much too late. If we are at war, which I think it was just established that we are, then I have no other choice but to allow it to reach a natural finish."
Taytu remained silent, her mouth agape and her eyes searching as the Turk organized his papers. "Why call me here?" She finally blurted. "Why call me here at all if you have made up your mind." The rumbling in the background grew louder, and the windows picked up their tempo.
"Princess." the Diplomat looked at her with a pained grin. "You're more then a diplomat. You're a bargaining chip."
"That's immoral!" she shouted, bursting up from her seat in protest. "The rest of the world will condemn Turkey for this! Arresting a diplomat! I have immunity!"
The diplomat shook his head and walked toward the door. "The rest of the world stopped caring a long time ago, Ms. Taytu. A very long time ago." with that, he left the room. She collapsed back into her chair. Her skin danced with shocked numbness as she contemplated what would happen next. Too late now did she realize how desperate the failing Ottoman regime had fallen, and now she was unsure of her fate. Would they simply throw her in a stockade as a prisoner of war? Would they hold her back despite whatever ransoms or trades were offered to them, like an emotional sword to hang over her already fragile brother? A part of her hoped that they were planing on ending the war here, and that she would be traded for the deconstruction of the Ethiopian agency in Armenia.
The rumbling vibration that had once been shaking the windows now caused a low echo to bounce through her chamber. It was as if an earthquake had rolled up from the north and was bearing down with the force of one score of demons. She stumbled helplessly to the window and looked out. The water in the canal was moving in fierce waves, lapping angrily at its barriers.
And then it appeared. A battleship.
The steel monster dwarfed the buildings nearby, and its highest points were obscured by the walls of her confinement. Ottoman flags were draped proudly across it, hanging from lines and streamers in a parade of red. Sailors moved across the deck, attending their duties and all bound toward her homeland. A fleet of destruction and death. As the first ship passed, a second one took its place. More steel, more sailors. Each steel gun bristled in the sunlight, jutting out from their turrets and fixtures. Iron threats. As the second passed, a third took its place. Defeated, she could do nothing more then watch and count the ships.
It was one of those mornings, the kind where it dawned so crisp and cold that the sky itself seemed to sharpen the edges of everything it touched. Newly fallen snow was deep in the streets and seemed to explode like little smoke bombs beneath the feet of the folk who hurried from house to house.
Beyond the houses, starting to smear the perfect blue sky, were the campfires of a nearly a million men. For three days the Reichswehr had been deploying throughout the region to partake in the largest war games the world had ever seen.
Field Marshal Guenther Waechter, Supreme Commander of the Reichswehr, stood at the window of the local Town Hall, glad to get some feeling back into his fingers after a night spent sleeping in a tent outside. The winter gear the Reichswehr had been issued for this exercise was far better than the gear he worn during the Swiss-Prussia war in which he had nearly lost all his toes to frostbite.
For three days the army had been assembling as the men grumbled about being dragged away from their warm homes in the winter but they could not deny that it was better than the boredom of sitting in the barracks cleaning pots and pans. Like most Prussians they had felt the sting of the withdrawal from Turkey and wanted to do something, anything, to remind the world who they were, an army with a nation.
“Field Marshal. The General Staff has assembled.” An aide called from the doorway of the Mayors office, now the Field Marshals temporary headquarters. He cast another long lingering glance over the troops he could see, mostly armoured units and fast mounted infantry. Soon they would have plenty to do.
The staff officers were talking quietly amongst themselves when he entered the room and, as usual, his massive bulk brought silence without him even having to say a word. He was tall, even for a Prussian, nearly 6’4 with a barrel chest and thick beard, a throw back to the old army order.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming so quickly.” He began, nodding to them all, and smiling behind the grizzled grey mass that hid several horrific scars given to him courtesy of a Swiss aircraft strafing his staff car during the war.
“I am sure many of you have hoped for what I am about to say, possibly even prayed for it, but let me be put your hopes and fears to rest, we are not here to wage war games.”
A rustle of excitement went around the room and the officers leaned in closer, their eyes shining with delight, their demeanors changing from that of relaxed peace time operators to the men of steel he knew them all to be.
The Field Marshal tapped twice on the table and four soldiers appeared, men of the secretive Geheimabwehr. They handed the General several metal tubes and then withdrew from the room.
He waited until the door closed behind them and then popped the cork tops out of the tubes and drew out several finely detailed maps showing the Prussian border with Poland, Poland itself and several other specific regions blown up for greater detail. He pinned them to the tabletop using thumbtacks from a nearby corkboard.
“In two days we attack Poland.” The Field Marshal was famous for his blunt and straightforward approach to conversation and battle planning was no different. “I have spoken long with the Kaiser and we both agree that this is the best way to not only assist our allies, the Turks, who we have utterly failed thus far, but it will also remove an old enemy who sits between us and the Kaisers rightful claim to the Russian territories.”
He could see relief on the faces of most of the officers. Many of them had, just as he had himself, felt ashamed of the withdrawal of their forces from Turkey, knowing full well that the Turks could not go it alone. The reversal would provide them an opportunity to reclaim their shattered national image and esteem.
“Even as we speak the Kasier is reorganizing our Black Sea forces for an assault on the Polish city of Odessa, which will be launched in two days time in conjunction with our own attacks. I have ordered the Tripitz and our Baltic Fleet to begin steaming for Polish waters where wolf packs already close on what little Navy the Poles posses. The Indomitable will die at anchor.” A rumble of delight went through the General Staff.
“Now, these maps will remain here at headquarters but copies will be issued to all of you.” He stopped, looking at his watch for a moment, then, “In exactly forty eight hours this campaign begins. You will notice, when you check your troop deployments from the war games map, that your men are already ideally deployed for a strike into Poland. You may of course move them about as you see fit but to this point it has all been planned to continue looking as though we intend to launch these war games. Understood?”
A chorus of “Yes sir” came back to him and he nodded, motioning towards the door. “Every man of you back here in 24 hours with your battle plan. Take what I have created, adjust them, modify them, whatever you need. Use your divisional staff if you must, but as of this moment a complete communications blackout is in place beyond this building. All our latest intelligence reports will be made available to you. My personal staff and I have spent years planning for this eventuality, make it happen.”
The Baltic Sea
If a man stood on the edges of the Baltic on this fine crisp day they might notice that ice that sheeted the rocks along the shoreline, the fishing boats the plied the waves, long streamers of exhaust pouring into the cold air. But if he could look beyond them, beneath the inky black surface and past the peaceful serenity, he would find a menacing sight indeed. The Wolf Packs were on the move.
Prussia had learned many things during the Great War and those that followed. Most important amongst them was a simple truth, the submarine was a super weapon.
Research and design for the Prussian submarine fleet had never ceased and while the Prussian high command had trumpeted the building of such impressive ships as the Bismarck and Tripitz they had said little of their submarine fleet for it was a weapon to valuable to reveal.
Now, as the inky waters cloaked their movement, the U-Boats of the Kriegsmarine slid through the depths like so many monstrous sea creatures, scattering fish before them as they drove eastwards. They had been charged with firing the first shots of the war and when they did, the Polish super-dreadnought Indomitable would die.
Intel had reported the super-dreadnought to be laid up for repairs after her first trail run, which only made sense. Such great ships tended to need their kinks ironed out. The Tripitz had returned to dry dock four times before being considered properly battle worthy. Even laid up such massive battlewagons were still dangerous however, their guns could still fire.
The Wolf Packs might be massing but it was a lone wolf who was destined to fire the fatal shots that would kill Poland pride. U-517, captained by Wolfgang Kentz, had left three days earlier and now lay silent on the bottom just outside the Port of Gdansk. It was their second trip to the port; the first had been to quietly reconnoiter the bottom and ensure that the Indomitable was still in port. Spies within the city had confirmed their findings. Most importantly they had discovered that, while a submarine net did exist it was currently hauled up on the shoreline and rusting away.
In fact, the Poles had even failed to set up a torpedo netting around the Indomitable as well. Perhaps it was their belief that the ship was invincible, or maybe they simply did not believe any danger existed. Either way, the great super-dreadnought lay at harbour, safe from a surface attack but when her deathblow came, it would be from beneath the surface.
Somewhere in Turkey
Frederickson was crouched low behind a stonewall, the Sergeant was a few paces away and looking at him, waiting for orders. The sound of shouting, mostly Turkish, was coming from the other side of the wall, along with the sound of heavy blows. The odd Prussian curse could be heard, always answered with another blow, and the Colonel knew he had to act. He nodded to the sergeant.
As one, the two men stood, pivoted, and opened fire. The sharp crack of the sergeants Prussian made weapon drowning out the Colonels captured Turkish rifle, but they both killed a man just the same.
Already three Turks were down, one lying spread eagle, a look of surprise on his face. The other two were wounded and screamed foully as the thrashed in the dirt. The two Prussian Para-troopers they had captured wasted no time and lashed out at their captors. One didn’t even both trying to be clever, he simply smashed his forehead into a Turks face, jammed both of his thumbs into the mans eyes and then grabbed his weapon, emptying the clip into a Turk who tried to run for one of the nearby houses. The second Prussian killed his tormentor with a blow from a rifle butt that nearly took the mans head off.
“This way! Move!” Roared the Colonel and the two men sprinted towards him, diving over the wall just as more Turkish soldiers appeared at the far end of the street. They stared in surprise at the five bodies in the street and then ran towards the wounded men who, upon seeing them, had begun to scream for help.
Four more bullets from the Prussian dropped two more Turks into the dirt, one dead, another wounded. It was a good time to withdraw, and quickly.
They quickly slithered away from the wall, working their way around the corner of another house before hurrying down the street. An empty schoolhouse yawned on their right but at its door, as if set out for them, sat five road bikes in slightly better than useless condition.
Each man grabbed a bike and they took off, peddling like mad men down the road, putting as much distance between themselves and the Turkish patrol as possible. Frederickson had to admit to himself that they looked pretty hilarious as they, four grown men in tattered uniforms, madly pedaled bikes far to small for them down a dusty road in Turkey. He began to laugh. The others turned to look at him, then at themselves and they too began to laugh.
They were still chuckling amongst themselves when they ditched the bikes in some deep brush and struck out overland towards the coast.
A light snow fell over the capital of the mountainous nation as a lone black figure walked up the front steps of the small outpost for IB activity. A nondescript brick building, it looked like any other sleepy office structure this side of the Caspian. And the passing of the heavily coated figure was to the structure as any other business man in the Caucasian city was to his own. The chilling grip of the winter was passing as he eluded its cold searching hands for the warm comfort inside.
"Welcome to a cold Hell." announced Tzu, crossing across the minimalist lobby of the Chinese Inteligence Bureau's outpost, his arm reached outward warmly. He dressed his tall, mouse-like face with a attempt at a smile as he approached the arriving agent.
His advances though were met with apprehension as he came to a full stop before the arrival. The older agent looking down confused at the outstretched hand with a perplexed expression of loss. "Oh, forgive me, comrade." Tzu corrected, lowering his hand to bow. The arrival returned the favor.
His dark-grey hair shone with a silver sheen under the lights of the lobby's softly humming lights. His coat was unscratched and seemless, parted to show the suit and tie underneath. For the communication's agent, he was a familiarity. "Forgive me comrade Jin Tzu," Tien Tzu apologised nervously as he invited the man to follow him through the building, "I have been in the country for a while and I'm afraid no one in this part of the world is nearly as used t o bowing to one another as home. I've had to become accustomed to western handshaking."
"Fair enough excuse." Jin Tzu smiled as he was allowed through the building, "Now, before I meet with the rest of the local agency I need to know if you got any more leads on the shootings case in Turkistan. I read up on the appropriate papers that were in Beijing over the course of the long flight. But if there have been any additional findings since then I would appreciate being alerted now."
"I regret to say we have not." Tien Tzu sighed, turning back to the analyst, "Our resources in the region are negligible at best and we've been forced to delegate the pursuit of any leads to a voluntary area, if anything. Until we could assemble evidence to suggest who would have done it, or until we get reports of additional attacks we're just waiting until something crops up on our day-to-day duties in correspondence to the local intelligence agencies here and the Walinazi."
"Fair enough." Jin said.
"Also, what can you report on the resources of the operation post?" Jin asked as he was lead into a stairwell, "What connections does it have with other administrations and who do you approach for the local Armenian intelligence as well as the Ethiopian Walinazi? Who do you have staffing the institution? What's material resources do you have at hand?"
"You have not had time to review this I take it?" Tien asked as he climbed up the stairs.
"No." Jin Tzu said.
"Well, most of our auxiliary and operation's staff are manned by lower Chinese agents who supervise delegated members of the Armenian intelligence community being broken into the support roles of the community, they primarily handle incoming information and help delegate our resources across the nation's infant intelligence community. On top of that they organize any training exercises with our combat specialists and Armenian field agents.
"Myself and Jung Jia oversee technical aspects. Naraanbataar and Qualin administer training operations and lend their experience on dealing with Western agencies. Gouji is supposed to be associating with the Walinazi and Chung Bao has sort of ended up being an all-in-one. However at the moment both agents are out finding out what they can on a recent Embassy bombing to fill and complete our records on that event, I don't think either are doing anything important to their own investigations and the associated diplomacy that's no doubt unraveling over it; but I suspect they're using it as an excuse to stop being bored.
"Resource wise, we're being kept stocked with some basic radio communications equipment we loan or sell out to the local government outfits to maintain some sustainability. We cleaned out the basement for a armory and we can outfit the entire staff if the Turks decide to hit the capital, our activities in that event is to ensure the safe evacuation of the embassies and coordinate as well as we can as anti-intelligence operatives. But only so far as we can go before the outpost itself withdraws itself and its papers."
"I see." nodded Jin, being lead through the upper floor. The space up here was considerably open, consisting of one large, mass office space where the noted support and informational personnel worked. Tien Tzu guided him along silently to the far-side of the room where he gently ushered him into a side-office.
"Comrades," he said with a soft smile, turning to the assembled higher agents that waited, "Jin Tzu."
Tianjin
Grey.
The old home had taken a subtle grey tinge.
Perhaps it was the lack of use. The sheets and mouth balls had just been taken out and packed away. But the home still smelled like dust. A cold light parted the faltering dust like dismal haunting knives of something that was. Even if they didn't exist, the large home smelled of ghosts, and spirits of a time gone. Maybe it was why it had been forgotten, and a high prison elected instead. It was musty, stingy, and even with life strolling about through the home it did nothing to chase out the past.
As well, the damn doctor would not let Hou sit down for too long.
Fresh out of the hospital the recuperating chairman shuffled about with a security officer close at hand and a cane in his other. All the while the doctor from Beijing hovered nearby watching the chairman's movement with silent inquisitive eyes. Without the subtle warmth of alcohol within him, Hou discovered a certain bitterness that was welling in him.
Or maybe it was the home. Too many things catching up.
Or expectations.
Shuffling with his support across the dusty old living room of the old house he had acquired for himself towards the end of the Revolution he did his rounds for physical therapy. The several days out of the hospital had not done anything to lift the feeling he was still in it. His side still felt numb and heavy. Each step on his left side was labored and a feat in its own to accomplish. Even walking across the room to the armchair set up against the bare wall felt like it was a mile away.
Each step he took on his left shook, and he had to take a conscious effort to remind himself to lean the other way onto his cane as a officer hung by, waiting to catch him as a fell. He would have used his left hand, if that wasn't flushed with pins and needles. His dependency on the man at his side, and the others now in his house was frustrating. Perhaps the greatest frustration he now had.
The wires of politics played elsewhere. And he was swept away doing paces. Affairs were to be addressed, and he was not present to do it. Instead, he was walking, being frail. Weakened.
Finally, he reached his chair.
Turning about, he sat himself down with a satisfied low groan.
"Excellent job." doctor Dien Han said with a soft cartoon smile, scribbling something down on his clipboard, "I think we did well today, comrade Hou. We can take a break for a bit."
"Thank you." the chairman grumbled deeply.
"Yes, indeed." said Han, checking his watch, "And shortly I think lunch will be arriving. Man knows one has been absent from his home when all the food in it is as absent as he.
"And refrigeration."
"Don't blame me." Hou grumbled.
"Why wouldn't I?" Han said, "You left a perfectly good home to waste. I've heard you never really left that office building of yours, let alone the capital. With the access to resources as you have, I wonder why you never did choose to commute back here."
Coming over the dunes, Claude's car pulled off into the sand near the road. The valley below proved that there was an end to the desert. Port Fuad hugged the coast, and like an ancient Bedouin camp made of concrete and steel it seemed to shrink against the two great seas that it bordered; the endless flat blue of the Mediterranean, and the great yellow sands of the Eastern Desert. The Suez Canal cut through the middle of the town in two parts, leaving an artificially-shaped island before the two canals met as one. It was not the welcome image of the town itself that impressed them, nor was it canal. Rather, it was what these places were playing host to.
The long sea was filled with great steel ships. Refitted dreadnoughts from a distant past floated like ancient behemoths among the sleeker battleships and destroyers. In the middle of the fleet, Aircraft carriers of unprecedented size towered above their guard. They were all heading in the direction of the Canal's mouth, as if a vacuum had opened up in Port Fuad and was slowly sucking them all into the straight blue line that flowed in the middle of it. Several battleships had already entered the canal, following each other in solemn single file.
"The War" Julio said, half whispered. "It is happening."
Sahle's heart sank. He felt as he was being tugged by the soul toward his homeland, and his thoughts drifted there. The old stone palaces of Tigray, the green gardens of Addis Ababa, the scores of coffee-brown women who had brought him to climax in it's bright white hotels and columned stately homes. He had watched it burn before, when it burned in his name, but this was different. He was helpless in this; an exiled son of Solomon with little more then a pair of drums to his name. It was as if he was standing outside of a show he had once headlined, destined to watch his old world burn from the vantage of his new one.
"Friends." Yared interrupted the oglers, "I think we should get going."
They turned their attention in the direction Yared was motioning, looking out to the road behind them. The sun caught the approach of several vehicles charging with speed across the desert.
Julio squinted to focus, the gears in his head turning as he assessed what was happening. "What did you do?" he asked the four wayward Africans.
"Enough." Yared replied. "Lets go."
Claude and Julio were quick to take the hint. Even as their pursuers came over the dune behind them, they peeled out from the sand with furious speed. Soon, the port in front of them was growing closer. Those small concrete bunkers were beginning to look imposing, and the town looked like a maze they would have to navigate to live. Their pursuers had decided that their quick flight marked their identity, and an opening salvo of automatic weapons fire peppered the road behind them.
"Merde." Claude shouted under his breath. They began to speed up. Pedestrians cleared the road, rushing indoors or embracing the walls of buildings. There was no time to break for corners, and each turn was punctuated by a squeal and the rubbery smell of burning tire. Sahle pulled the wounded Aaliyah into his breast, keeping her from knocking about the car as they sped hastily down the road.
"We have a problem!" Julio shouted. It was clear; their escape was cut off by the canal, and all of the bridges had been lifted to allow the battleships to pass. Stopping only short of an drawn back bridge, Julio leaped from the car and ran into an operating booth. A battle ship had just passed, allowing them some time before the next one went by.
Gunfire could be heard around the corner; their pursuers were nearly there. Grabbing the operator by the collar, Julio shook him and shouted. "This thing needs to come down!"
The Turk was bewildered and frightened, and he looked up at the raging Spaniard like a child threatened by a drunken father. "No." he meekly replied. "The ships."
"Joder!" Julio grunted to himself. He quickly scanned the small booth and found a single button that looked about right. Before the Turk could stop him, he pressed it.
The bridge began to fall. It was a flimsy thing, consisting of two concrete bars holding together a wood-plank span. Julio leaped in the car even as it began to speed across. The top of a battleship was nearing, so much that they could see the faces of frightened sailors ducking for cover on the catwalks along the bridge. Panicking, Claude pressed his foot against the throttle and sent their car spinning along the road. Metal scrapped against pavement, and by the time they came to a halt their world had been flipped over.
Behind them, they heard a powerful crash. Cement snapping, planks of wood breaking. The battleship had torn through the bridge, leaving it little more then the shattered remnants on either side. They had lost their pursuers for the time being.
Before they could breath easy, however, the sound of sirens began to blare.
"Joder!" Julio shouted again. We need to find another vehicle. Quickly!"
They spread out. Sahle took a limping Aaliyah down an alley, hoping stay low while the others searched for a new escape. Julio and Claude went one direction while Yared and Marc went the other.
Shouting and chaos filled the streets. It became quickly obvious to Yared that they weren't just dealing with police; there were soldiers here. They found a chain-link fence on the edge of a simple cement building. Jumping it, they found themselves in a quiet area. It was a cement yard, dust covering the cracked ground, and random spools of wire sitting next to cement blocks and 55 gallon drums.
"What about that one, man." Marc pointed to a cement truck. Yared frowned. "No man, where we going to put everyone else?"
"The cement part, man." Marc replied. Yared slapped him on the top of the head. The sound of sirens began to grow closer. They couldn't stay. With speed in their steps, they began to flee again.
As they passed by a window pressed into the cement building, they caught sight of a well-dressed woman climbing out of a window. Quickly, Yared ran up to her and began to help, but she became scared and began to kick and scream. "Shh! Shhhh!" Yared shouted. "Don't make with the noise, sister."
She lept down with his assistance. "Who are you?" She whispered. Her eyes darted back and forth, analyzing the nearby area for any sort of danger.
"We're running, lady. Who are you?"
She straightened the lapels of of her suit jacket. "Taytu, Foreign Affairs Adviser of Ethiopia and sister of the Emperor."
Her title caught the two wayward musicians off guard. Marc stared in wonder, but Yared's surprise was much more short lived. "Well, Princess Adviser, we all need to go." She did not argue the point. With the sound of shouting coming up behind them, they all dashed through a nearby hole in the fence and into a nearby alley.
The local offices of Borgia Industries in downtown Tarifa was a fairly unassuming edifice. It stood only two or three stories higher than the surrounding buildings on the Avenida Algeciras lined with its manicured palm trees. The stucco facades were crisp and clean and the sidewalks kept neat. Though it was a handsome enough building, many who saw it were unable to believe that the single most ambitious construction effort of humanity history was largely directed from within its unassuming walls.
Indeed, one looking down Algeciras could regularly see fleets of cement trucks, dump trucks, bulldozers and excavators rumbling down the main thoroughfare to the work sites along the shore of the Strait of Gibraltar. A forest of towering cranes had been erected throughout the city, hoisting length of i-beams and bundles of rebar about. Activity and noise were now constants in Tarifa as construction went on through the day and continued all night long. As a result, sheets of soundproofing materials had been fixed to many homes and apartment buildings as a response to the constant noise. More than a few residents were upset with the decision to build a mammoth dam in their city, but more still had been gladdened. It was no secret what would happen to the price of land in and around Tarifa when the dam was finally finished. For most, noise and a swelling population of foreigners looking for work on the dam were a small price to pay for the promise of their homes doubling or perhaps tripling in value by the nineties.
From the director's office on the building's uppermost floor, one could see clearly across the Strait of Gibraltar to the northernmost tip of the African continent. In the channel, incoming and outgoing vessels had been confined to narrow lanes marked by a network of buoys and enforced by nimble patrol vessels. In the rest of the strait, a small armada of dredging boats dumped mounds of heavy rock into the water as part of an effort to decrease the depth of the strait and make it easier to build the dam itself when that time came. On the opposite side, in Africa, an army of earthmoving vehicles could be seen shoving mountains-worth of sediment into the southern bank of the strait. This ever-expanding landmass would eventually house the locks that would allow ships to pass from the Atlantic Ocean to the diminished Mediterranean Sea.
"I thought there was a dam being built here." The visitor to the director's office commented somewhat sardonically. He spoke with an accept one did not frequently hear in Spain - perhaps Scandinavian given his slicked-back blonde hair. "I see a lot of things being built but a dam isn't one of them."
"This is all preparation." The director of the project noted from behind his desk, working his way through a thick stack of papers with a stamp in hand. "You understand that when you build, say a house, you don't just start hammering lengths of lumber together. You have to break ground first, establish the foundation, pour the cement, and so on and so forth. That's preparation. And it so happens that when you're damming up an entire ocean there's a lot of preparation involved."
The Scandinavian rubbed his chin thoughtfully, golden-white stubble rasped under his fingertips. "Maybe that makes some sense."
"I'm actually very busy right now so if you're just planning on wasting my time maybe we can move this appointment to another time.. preferably never. What do you actually want?"
"I see you have a lot of power equipment. A lot of jackhammers, drills, dump trucks. For a good price, maybe you will allow my associates and I to borrow them briefly." The director let out an annoyed sigh and then proceeded to continue hammering away with the stamp again.
"Does this look like a hardware store?"
"30 million pesetas.That is what I offer your company in return for the use of your equipment."
"Here's my counter-offer: I'll give you a copy of our manufacturers' catalogs and you'll get out of my sight.
"I can't risk leaving a paper trail of purchases that can be easily followed. I need this equipment discreetly." The Scandinavian explained. "I will give you - personally- a cut of 50 million pesetas if you can make this happen."
Finally, the director looked up to his visitor from his stack of paperwork. "50 million?" He asked incredulously. The blond-haired man nodded in confirmation.
"I can look into our inventories... perhaps see what can be spared."
Port Fuad, Ottoman Egypt
"You are an idiot, Florian!" Claude hissed. "A bleeding-heart idiot!"
Julio Zuraban paid no attention to his associate as they jogged down the alleys of Port Fuad away from their abandoned rental car and the approaching sirens of police cruisers. Dirt and garbage crunched underfoot as the two put distance from the scene and Julio searched for a suitable vehicle. As the sound of the sirens and shouting faded into the distance behind the tenement buildings they delved deeper into a maze of alleys between concrete tenement buildings, Claude felt safe enough to stop and take a few seconds to catch his breath. In the alleys, the sounds of police sirens and shouting melted into the sounds of the city around them. Arpeggios of seagulls squawks rang out from the sky as they soared overhead, mixing with the percussive honking of car horns and the sirens. All this laid over that ominous rumbling of warships steaming through the canal.
"I told you this would happen!" Claude snarled, finding the strength to scold Julio once again. "I told you that we didn't know who we were dealing with when you decided to let that scum into our car. You even had the nerve to tell me we'd be fine. Oui, this turned out fucking marvelously, didn't it?!"
"Claude, shut up." Julio ordered. "Complaining isn't going to improve our situation. What's going to get us out of this mess is if you stopped calling attention to us and helped me find a car."
"Help you steal a car so you can rescue those friends of yours from whatever fiasco it is that they got themselves into? I'll have no part of it. You're such good friends with them - you go save them. I'm not putting my life at risk for the sake of some ungrateful negres - not again."
Without so much as uttering another word, Julio continued on leaving Claude resting against the tenement building. Julio hung a left into yet another alleyway and with that ended his partnership with Claude.
(())
Walking down this new alleyway on his own, it occurred to Julio just how drastically his life had changed since he had resigned himself to self-exile. Not even three years ago Julio was a Senator of the Second Spanish Republic. Now here he was: running from the Ottoman police and rooting about in a filthy alley in the rough parts of Port Fuad - trying to steal a car.
Parked at an awkward angle into an inlet of the alley from the street atop a sizable puddle of old motor oil was a vehicle that made the rental car look like a Spanish Jinete. Huge splotches of rust covered the door and hood, rapidly replacing the flaking blue paint which had faded into bluish-green patches on the roof and hood. Its make was indistinguishable, but it looked like something manufactured around 1950. Julio doubted its owner would miss it too badly.
With a hefty chunk of broken concrete in his palm, Julio cautiously approached the rusting jalopy. He paused for a few seconds to allow a few cars and motorbikes to pass by on the road, and once there was no one looking in his immediate direction, Julio swung the hunk of concrete down onto the passenger side window. With a popping crack, the window collapsed into a thousand glittering shards onto the passenger seat and the dirty floor of the alley. Expanding the hole in the window with his his chunk of concrete, Julio disengaged the doorlock and slid down laying onto front seats of the car.
During his visits to Armenia, Julio had heard very detailed stories from Armenian soldiers about their exploits in hotwiring Ottoman jeeps and even tanks during their war for independence. And if the Armenians could hotwire a tank, surely Julio could manage to do the same with this rusting old clunker.
He swung his 15-pound improvised key again, this time into the steering column housing - cracking it asunder. With his pocket knife, Julio began severing and stripping the lining of various wires and then twisting the exposed copper together. Upon coming together, the wires sparked and the smell of ozone filled his nostrils. And then the motor started up - it had actually worked. He was proud and ashamed of himself all at once.
Glass shards crunched underneath his weight as he extricated himself from the car seats and got up onto his feet to get into the driver's seat. As he spun around, a pair of Ottoman law enforcers stood waiting for him. A club smacked into his gut and Julio crumpled and collapsed to the dirt floor of the alley. As he struggled for breath and spasmed in the dirt, plastic binding cord snaked around his wrists and the officers yanked the reeling senator-on-the-lam onto his feet.
Yun-Qi Quan paced across the room eyeing the transfer notice in his hand. His winter's officer coat trailing behind him. The officer office was cold, but not bitter chilling, not the skin biting freezing that was just outside the ice-frosted windows. The walls of his office were sparsely adorned; if anything the awards of his service in the Philippines hung from exposed placards, alongside photos of his wife and his young twins.
His guest eyed them with a idle, placcid curiosity as his supposed new superior officer looked over his papers. A heavy built person with thin swept back hair. Despite having been out of the bitter cold for more than half an hour is face still beamed a soft rosy red. He half chewed on his swelled lips waiting patiently for Quan to speak.
"Teihou Dong," Quan begins, "I must say a fitting last name, I wonder who picked you up. Fire support? I thought I had that."
"You do, comrade." Dong says, "But not that's not its technical name really. Range support really, as you should know."
Laughing, Quan rose the notice form up, pointing it at him, "A true officer." he chuckled, "So, all smart-assery aside, comrade. So what exactly does this new unit of yours that command sought fit to transfer to me? As I read in the papers, the whole of your men specialize in a PH-77?"
"Yes sir," Dong said with the smallest of smiles crawling across his crooked face, "I was present for the final trials and was transferred as range support for this."
Dong loosened his stance some, yet hiding caution and trace apprehension as if expecting his new XO to yell at him, "I doubt you are familiar with the Russian siezures made during the VX crisis?" he asked.
"I am aware things were retrieved during that time," said Quan, "But for what exactly the IB took I haven't been made aware. I believe I was in the Philippines for the duration of their releases.
"And please, you can be at ease."
"Thank you." Dong bowed, relaxing his shoulders, "Anyways, during the seizure of Russian Republican assets by IB crews a sticky flammable substance was pulled from an isolated Russian lab in their far north. Agents in Beijing and other investigative labs analyzed the substance and broke down its compound and reverse synthesized it.
"The substance was a benzene and gasoline mixture," he continued, "it had a thermite ignition and after reconstructing it found it could stick on and burn a target. Though at the same time could often be scrapped or rubbed off. Our current version, and what we use now, is mixed with polystyrene as a sort of adhesive.
"In Europe, we believe there may have been similar substances used in the Great War, but these have been relegated to reports and no confirmed formula has ever been recovered from whichever side used it. We believe we found in Russia either an attempt to modernize, or recreate the Great War formulas."
"It sounds like you know your stuff." Quan said, impressed.
"I sure do." Dong said with a wide proud smile, "I've taught myself all I can about my new ammo. It's not, shall we say, as stable as a 7.62 and makes for a much more wild, energetic mistress." he said with a sensual hiss, "It's, as I believe the Americans say, hot."
"Well I can't say I am exactly familiar with the term." Quan laughed, "But I believe I have an idea."
"I don't believe it. You've been in the Philippines but haven't crossed with anyone that's bothered to use the term?"
"Well I think most of them were ever in Manilla." Quan sighed, "And I was more on the south island."
"Ah, I see." Dong nodded, "I was, for a while, in the capital. Predominately during the attempted offense. In and around the embassy and the capital center."
"Yeah, I believe I read.
"And well, would you perhaps be at offense for a demonstration of your new toys for my men? I'm fairly confident my NCOs and fellow lieutenants would be interested in seeing what this flamethrower is about."
"Happy to oblige." the transfer grinned, nodding low with an ecstatic, enthusiastic smile.
Shanghai, Seven Nations Pond
An energetic air sparked through the Chinese offices of the Comintern center as a series of phones rang. Electricity pounded through the air as the staffers gathered around radios broadcasting the latest reports from America. Tangible expressions of deep shock painted onto the faces of the gathering crowd as the reports came in.
From somewhere in Washington the newly elected president James Harrison was reinforcing his position against the political pressures, and atop of that: addressing his new immigration policies.
"... And we should not allow the coercion of the enemies of our state that do occupy the Caribbean and South America to penetrate this state!" the president boldly declared, "And that forth right, I am calling to Congress to evaluate and put into consideration a six-point immigration policy against those of the Latin threat. These people, agents of our countries enemy's at this critical juncture must be abolished, to make way for our rightful reclamation as a global super-power!
"I do not stand here now, declaring myself for the ideology of Communism, socialism, or the apathetic affairs of the right. But to define for us what we are and were. To reward those who have earned a rightful respect in America. To put simply, it will be my first mission in many to shine the light on the true local enemy, to show us that it is not the negroes or are in disparity, but a new threat all its own. Which is to say, the Hispanic people's of our southern rivals!
"The Caribbean has failed to sustain itself to the threat and we fear our former allies have fallen to a dangerous trap. One which has come to be a source of imperial in-sustainability: Brazil. We must abolish their agents from home, and deny any more from entering onto our soils!"
"What is he talking about?" a staffer shouted over the radio, shocked.
Behind the crowd, the replacement lieutenant for Auyi hovered over the heads of the mass, picking up the drifting words has they floated gently down. A sudden feeling of despair clouded around him as Fernandez spoke. Certainly within the day the Mexican representation will be calling for a desist for the Americans.
"Our American Will shall not bend," Fernandez continued, "Though we must ultimately, and in the long term, ensure equality to all, we can not extend it to those who have promoted the downfall and overthrow of her neighboring governments. In allowing them access we invite disaster and continued harm to American soil. We have had Canada bastardize our mighty Earthy, but we will not yield to the Beaner!"
Grabbing a staffer firmly by the shoulder, the stand-in turned the young woman around. "Get me Auyi, now." he growled in a low gruff voice.
It would be quite apt to describe the landscape as lunar. In only six hours, thousands of shells had been scattered across the landscape and explosions had punched craters in the rocky sand. The DMZ itself had been cleared of mines with mines with MICLIC charges and armored vehicle tracks cut through the blackened rock. Explosions brought clouds of dust with them, flaring up into the mid-morning air and sprinkling glittering shards of glassed sand along with the standard rock shrapnel. Buildings were on fire, mostly due to Armenian white phosphorous use. Every once in a while a salvo of the deadly chemical incendiary would be shot off to kill personnel, and the brilliant smokey explosion signaled to all that the Armed Forces of the Armenian Republic weren't playing around. Already, blackened husks of tanks and men littered the backroads behind Turkish firebases. They were caught in the crossfire and promptly annihilated. Meanwhile, more explosions rocked the mountains and spewed up geysers of death in their wake. The rumbles from other battles filled the space if the cacophony got too quiet.
Perched atop a rocky hill was the five-vehicle platoon making up second company's anti-emplacement section. Their tank-like mobile howitzers lay draped in gridded camouflage nets designed to defeat night vision capabilities if any existed - a cheap solution to a very real problem. Their barrels were propped into the correct position with the flip-up mounts, and they faced upwards at a steep angle because the battlefield was relatively close. Their engines had been shut off to minimize detection from any thermal equipment - again, another slim possibility but it wasn't exactly going to be ignored. Fifty meters in front, dug into a series of rocky outcroppings was Abbasian and his spotting equipment. A set of binoculars in one hand and a clipboard in the other, Abbasian crossed off the targets that had been destroyed by previous salvos from other units. A radio chirped next to him, its antenna sticking up into the air and receiving precious intelligence. Abbasian's rifle was propped against a rock, and a set of load bearing gear lay in a pile next to it.
Even away from the vehicles, the smell of fuel seemed to fill the air. It was the one thing that distinguished the mountains from previously - gasoline from the vehicle movements and from the petrol bombs lobbed onto enemy positions gave off a distinct smell. It permeated into clothes and equipment - Abbasian was sure that it wouldn't be the last of the smell after today. And the smell of fire came with it. That, and fire. It smelled like Hell. Or at least, it was what Abbasian imagined Hell to smell like. Certainly it looked like Hell - white phosphorous and napalm could certainly leave their impression. Bases burned and patches of forest raged in uncontrolled infernos. Thick puddles of napalm, notorious in its refusal to budge from where it was dropped, created small fires in the middle of the sand. The consequence of this was thick, oily smoke that created a literal overcast in some places. That was the reason why close attack planes had been called off by both sides. Even if they wanted to, nobody could get a plane anywhere close to the DMZ. Of course, they would also have to fight through the layered air defense. But Abbasian was busy taking care of that.
He gazed intently at the topographical map taped to his clipboard. Clipped to his vest pocket was a red pen, which he used to draw thick X's through destroyed targets. He would then cross-check this with whatever additional information he had at hand - now it was a spotter from third platoon, but before he had the services of a passing reconnaissance plane to verify the destruction of enemy emplacements. So far, things were going right on schedule for mobile artillery. The same couldn't be said for the static emplacements, which had been shelled into oblivion by the resulting duel. Abbasian tried not to think of Goverian, of Davtak, or of even crotchety old Ebrahimian. They were probably still alive, but shots of worry ran through Abbasian's head as he tried his best to repress thoughts of his friends dying. But sooner or later an explosion would take him back into the real world, and he would resume his overwatch.
Another salvo came bursting out through the barrels of the guns, shaking the ground and screaming out into the air. The shells trailed contrails as they arced through the thick smoke and came barreling down into the enemy base. A lone anti-aircraft position was being frantically manned, and Abbasian watched it disappear into a cloud of flame. When it cleared, the position had been disintegrated and the personnel were nowhere to be seen. Abbasian should have felt something, but he didn't. A cold detachment had overtaken him - the enemy were mere targets. They were the wooden dummies in the spanelkerts that were dismembered by practice rounds. Abbasian couldn't bear to think of them as people, and so he didn't. Nobody did. After seeing what they did to Armenian soldiers, he actually thought that they were quite like animals. They weren't simply soldiers doing their job, like some would try to say. They enjoyed the wholesale slaughter of Armenians, civilians and soldiers alike. And so he felt not a thing as the artillery guns fired again, blanketing the remaining radar positions with a wave of high explosions.
Northwest Kurdistan
It was a little plane, with two propeller engines thrumming quietly as it turned low through the mountains. It was painted a dark, matte black, and bore no markings. Aviation lights were conspicuously absent from the craft as well, making for an almost perfect camouflage in the dead of night. It had been flown through Kurdistan towards a secret government airstrip - established jointly by Armenian and Persian forces and with the reluctant approval of the Kurdish government - located in the northwest corner of the box that was Kurdistan. It was a small base, nestled in the mountains. One dirt airstrip faced north, flanked by a small hangar and support structures, as well as a barracks-type building and a motor pool. A handful of people walked about, awaiting the small transport plane's landing. It all belonged to the National Security Service - the most forward special forces operating base in the Armenian theater. The plane belonged to the Special Actions Unit: the premier special forces unit in the country. Mikael Gregovyen stood on the tail ramp, surveying his layover location with steely eyes.
A man in a scout vehicle, top pulled down, came screeching out onto the tarmac. He wore a nondescript set of casual clothes, a fleece pulled tight over his shirt. Obviously the NSS base was being fronted as a civilian cargo airport. This must have been the commander, but he pulled off the look of a low-level business manager. He even had a little bit of a beer belly as he stepped out of the truck and moved to shake Gregovyen's hand: "Welcome, Captain, welcome," he shouted above the roar of the two engines. "I am Colonel Jalal Bizani of the Kurdish Relations Battalion!"
"How are you, sir?" replied the Armenian just as loudly as the Colonel began to usher him into the vehicle.
"Fine, fine. And yourself?"
"I'm ready to get into this!" Gregovyen joked.
"As am I. You know that we're your premier support base for your operations, yes?" the Colonel asked as the driver shut the door on the scout car.
"Yes, yes. You're to supply us with equipment if we need it. I got the briefing in Yerevan."
"That's not all!" the Colonel exclaimed, sounding like a radio salesman: "We're also directly responsible for pulling you out if you get into too much trouble and, if need be, providing air support. We can directly support two CAS airframes and send them into southeast Turkey."
"Alright, alright. I see we got the best to support our operations," Gregovyen grinned. His voice lowered as the car wheeled its way out of range of the propeller engines. The Colonel in the side seat nodded, running a hand through his jet black hair.
"Anything less than the best and you can return to Yerevan with a warrant for Assanian... Treason!"
The joke wasn't that funny, but Gregovyen was compelled to laugh anyways. It was good form when in the company of a senior officer. Besides, Bizani seemed to enjoy his own jokes too much, and was almost collapsing in the passenger seat of the scout car. It was actually kind of funny in the same way that watching someone humiliate themselves was hilarious. The car ride ended a few seconds later as the vehicle suddenly stopped outside of the airstrip's terminal. The driver hopped out to open the doors and let the two officers out. Once they were clear, he sped away to find something else to do. Meanwhile, Bizani and Gregovyen hurriedly walked into the concrete building. The wooden door opened for them, and an Armenian trooper wearing a blue jumpsuit and with a K19 hanging around his neck on a sling saluted. As he turned around to close and secure the door, Gregovyen could see that the rear of the jumpsuit read "Maintenance" in Kurdish. Others stood around the hallway in various degrees of interest and disinterest, looking at their new visitor with, for the most part, curiosity.
Bizani led Gregovyen up a flight of stairs covered in linoleum tile, in the style of a typical airport terminal. Aside from the guns which were probably easily stashed, this place seemed perfectly normal. Down the hallway at the top of the stairs was a locked door with a man sitting in front of it. He, too, was business casual, smoking a cigarette and reading a local newspaper. He wasn't actually reading the newspaper, however: Gregovyen knew that his eyes were on him and Bizani. It was a common tactic, really. Meanwhile, the Colonel moved forward to unlock the door and usher Gregovyen in. The guard glared at them as they closed the door, and then returned to his newspaper.
"Alright, alright," Bizani began as he flicked on the lights. A sand table of Turkey dominated the middle of the room, which Gregovyen looked over in awe. A few locations had been marked with yellow pins, and sticky notes explained the operation there. "So we have been planning out a few operations that you could perform... we've been intercepting radio communications, as hazy as they are around here, and combining that with preexisting intelligence to put these suggestions down."
Gregovyen began to look through the pins on the sand table, moving around the table slowly. He was hunched over, squinting at the sticky notes attached to the yellow pins. As he did so, he muttered out the operations he saw: "Bridge destruction, runway cratering, bridge destruction, building destruction..."
"This is mostly logistics stuff," the Colonel pointed out, using his fat fingers to do so.
Gregovyen stopped, looked up, and stared at him.
"Don't we already have people on this?" he asked.
"Well, yes."
"Who?"
"Teams 2 and 3. They are already inside occupied Erzurum linking up with militia elements."
"So why are you tasking my Team 6 with simple infrastructure destruction. Colonel, this is child's play," Gregovyen stated.
Bizani was taken aback. "What?"
"Child's play, sir. Sneak in, plant a bomb, sneak out, and explode it. Regular Army does that," Gregovyen explained in a somewhat condescending tone.
"So what might you want to do?" Bizani stuttered.
"We're Team 6. You've heard of us, no?"
"Well, yes..."
"And you know - well, whatever isn't classified - that we do bigger and better things." Gregovyen was advancing towards Bizani now, a deadpan serious look on his face. "I'm not a fan of having my abilities squandered on simple things like blowing a bridge on the MSR. We've got two teams and militia elements to do that."
"So what do you suppose?" the Colonel replied slowly, looking Gregovyen in the eye. He was suddenly frightened and couldn't tell if the operative was threatening him or not.
"I suppose we invoke the Fedayee Plan."
Bizani looked up from the sand table with an eyebrow cocked. "The Fedayee Plan? I'm not privy to your organization's secrets, Captain Gregovyen. I don't know what that is."
Gregovyen nodded at the tubby Colonel and began to explain: "The Fedayee Plan is simple. It mandates that Armenian operational forces give precedence to NSS Team 6 while they go about in country, making their decisions at a team-based level. That means I'm free to take my men and frolic about Turkey, doing what I please without any oversight from any command. But while I'm at it, I get top picks on materiel moving into the area."
"You're proposing that we let you go loose in Turkey?" Bizani gasped. "That's insane! I- What happened to proper military organization?"
"Colonel Bizani, the National Security Service is not a military organization! We are paramilitary! The 'para' means 'somewhat.' Colonel, we support the war effort, but we do so in our own special way. Team 6's special way involves being lightning fast. When command is on my ass that slows me down! I have political oversight as well, trying to hit targets to make some jackass politician look good!"
Gregovyen's voice was raised now, a quiet shout that intimidated the trembling Kurd. Colonel Bizani was learning quickly that the NSS were not mere followers.
"So, the military needs to do their job, correct?"
There was no answer. Bizani apparently thought that it was a rhetorical questions.
"I asked you a question, Colonel Bizani!"
A stutter was elicited: "Y-yes."
"And my job is damned important!"
"Y-yes."
"So give the go-ahead for the Fedayee Plan and let me do my fucking job!"
A fist came down on the table, and the carefully arranged unit markers went flying across the room. The Colonel's eyes purposefully dodged Gregovyen's boiling gaze.
"I'll arrange it."
"Damn straight. I expect to leave in twenty four hours. I'll let you know where we drop."
Nenshi Al-Gebra was blind; his entire face felt as though it was on fire and he sobbed into his hands but no tears would come. He was also alone and he tried to move his hands to paw at his eyes but they wouldn’t obey him. It was strange that suddenly, amidst the pain and the knowledge that his friends and comrades were all dead, he found himself wishing he had not beaten his wife the last time he saw her, and that he had kissed his son goodbye.
How had he come to be here? That question was foremost in his mind as he slowly managed to roll onto his back, some feeling returning to his arms now and he propped himself up against the wall.
All he remembered was sitting in the car outside the house, eyeing a black sports car that was racing a second car down the street. Some more young punks screwing around, products of the Ethiopian occupation no doubt. He thought nothing of it until one of the carts seemed to lose control before screeching to a halt in front of the house.
He slowly lifted the radio he carried to his mouth and was about to speak when he saw something else in the side view mirror, men in camouflage moving swiftly towards his car. Without waiting for a second he dropped the radio, turned the car on and threw it into gear, the tires screaming as he made a sharp turn.
The flash had come from the his left, the rocket detonating just below the cars chassis had saved his life but send the car flipping through the air like a giant missile so that it smashed the gates to the house open.
Stunned, and unable to see, he had tried to crawl from the car but the sound of a heavy engine roaring had caused him to freeze for the moment, it would cost him much. The big armoured car had smashed into his vehicle, spinning it around like a child’s toy as it charged up the driveway.
Nenshi had been half out of the car when it was hit and the sudden force of the armoured car striking the wreck had snapped it sideways and with it, his spine, he could feel nothing from the waist down.
As the feeling in his arms returned he tried to reach up and touch his face only to find, to his horror, that his right hand was gone, blood seeping from the stump that remained. Again he tried to cry but couldn’t, his eyes were gone.
He was dimly aware now of the crack of automatic weapons and more explosions., though these too were beginning to fade until at last there was nothing except the sound of his breathing and the roar of a fire somewhere nearby.
A cough racked his body and he heard his breath gurgle, he was bleeding internally, it wouldn’t be long now.
Footsteps sounded on the pavement now and he turned his sightless face towards them, trying to see the men who approached him.
“The only survivor.” A voice growled in Arabic but the accent was wrong, an African.
“Not much of one.” Responded a second voice, deeper and somehow more harsh. He felt his body jolt and realized that one of them had kicked his foot. He tried to speak, to say anything but a bubble of saliva and a trickle of blood were all that came forth.
“Sir,” A third voice. “Command on the radio.”
A pause and then the second voice spoke again. “Mensah. Yes sir, all of them. Very good.”
There was another silence and Nenshi could feel himself starting to lose consciousness. How had they found the cell? Who had talked?
He was still trying to find those answers when the men whose name would become feared throughout the Empire drew a pistol and ended his worries forever.
"Claude, for the love of God, turn around!" Julio Zuraban groaned from the passenger seat of an old rental jalopy. "You are completely lost!"
"Nonsense!" Claude dendied. "I know exactly where we're going. The rental office is on the street with the name of a squiggle line with four dots underneath and two above. We keep driving on this road with the three curved squiggles until that intersection." The driver produced a napkin from his chest pocket and tossed it into Julio's lap. The directions were clearly listed in black ink across the napkin... in incomprehensible Arabic.
"Intersection?" Julio repeated, rolling his eyes and gesturing to the trackless expanse of rolling dunes stretching before the sun-faded hood. "You are driving into the middle of the desert!"
The car in which the two rode was an economy-class hatchback from the mid-sixties of Persian manufacture. The Egyptian sun and dust had taken their toll on the car's already ugly biege paintjob. The upholstery was peeling off the corners of the cieling, and the two front seats were mottled with cigarette burns. Despite its shortcomings, the car got Claude and Julio where they needed to be, and for the time being where they didn't.
"I'm confident we're on the right course." Claude defended. "Let me drive. You should look through the photographs from the night before last. Pick out your best to be included in the publication... just make yourself busy while I sort out those directions."
Julio rolled his eyes and tossed the scribbled-over napkin across the gear stick at Claude as he drew a coffee stained folder off the dashboard and glossed through the recently-developed photographs of the celebration thrown for Armenia-bound Ottoman soldiers. It was an assortment of black and white photos of soldiers being drunken pigs at a bloated going-away festival - a few pictures of mustacioed Ottomans groping the dancers' asses, a handful of the gaudy Egyptian-themed decor, one of a chimpanzee giving the camera a toothy smile, another of a dancer undulating within the confines of a cage suspended above the band. All of it was garbage as far as Julio was concerned; nothing worth including in any publication beyond a local paper. Worse yet, Julio had noted that Claude's progress in the piece regarding the party for the soldiers had stagnated. He suspected that Claude had only ever wanted to partake in festivities taking place in Cairo. It was bound to be a lackluster piece... if Claude ever managed to get it published to begin with.
"Merde... What the Hell is this?"
"What is what?" Julio grunted, sitting upright and sliding the folder back on the dashboard. Growing larger in the frame of dust left behind by the windshield wipers was a jeep parked sloppily on the sandy shoulder of the road. The rear of the vehicle had been smashed by a collision and a trickle of fluid oozed out from under the engine block, leaving a dark trail as it flowed down the shoulder of the sand-sprinkled road.
Claude pulled over onto the shoulder of the road a few dozen yards behind a nigh-totalled Land Rover. Not out of any concern for the drivers, but to gawk. The Frenchman popped open the door and approached the vehicle with curiosity. "Bring the camera!" He called out back to Julio in the car.
Julio slid out of the car and approached apprehensively, his trusty camera slung over his shoulder. He came up alongside the vehicle, and discovered it was peppered with bulletholes.
"Jesus, this looks like something you'd see on the road in Armenia." Claude noted as he ran his finger along the craters left by the bullets. "Might this have been rebels? Agents provocateurs?" He asked, ever seeking a new scoop for the publication.
It was then that Julio noticed three men of Sub-Saharan persuasion and thick facial hair hanging back a few dozen yards near a rocky outcrop just off the road. They had noticed the newcomers well before Julio had noticed them.
"Hello?!" Julio called out to the men standing off of the road. "English? Francais?"
"English." One of the three responded, approaching Julio and Claude nerviously while the other two looked on near a sizable rock.
"Your vehicle looks damaged." Julio began, stating the obvious. "I wanted to know that you're all alright."
"We're not." The Sub -Saharan responded with solemn succintness. He pointed over to the rock where his two comrades waited. "She's hurt. Badly."
"May I see?"
The African gave an uncertain nod before apprehensively leading Julio and Claude over to a hunk of rock. One stood, eyeing the two Europeans nerviously while a third stooped over the limp body of a woman half-shaded by the desert boulder, wiping blood from her face and only briefly looking up to meet Julio's eyes, speaking of panic and sleeplessness as they made contact. A blood-tinged band of gauze around her eye testified to the gravity of the injury just beneath.
"Show him the wound, brother." The speaker of the group requested. The woman's caretaker obliged, gently scooching the blood-soaked bandages away from the eye socket but eliciting a groan from the woman nonetheless. A swollen, blood-stained crater inhabited by a withered, bloodied remnant of a lacerated eye looked back up at Julio and Claude.
"Jesucristo..." Julio muttered, the Spanish interjection eliciting a nervous glance from the one caring for the injured woman in the nightdress. "She urgently needs medical attention. We'll get her to a hospital in Cairo."
"No." The three Africans declared in near-unison. "The ones responsible remain in the city. We can't return to Cairo."
"Where then can she go?"
"We need to get to the coast. To Port Fuad."
Julio glanced back at the bullet-pocked wreck of a Land Rover oozing a steady stream of transmission fluid into the yellow sand of the desert behind them. "You'll never make it there with your vehicle in that condition. Come with us. We can drive you to Port Fuad." Immediately, Claude shot Julio a glance of consternation and took him aside.
"Non! Absolutely not! They're wanted men, Florian! I don't know who the they're in trouble with but I do know we don't need to be involved with whatever mess they've gotten themselves into. I am not putting myself in danger to rush some camelfucker strumpet to the hospital, much less when they have their own vehicle!" Claude demanded with wild gesticulation. The Africans didn't have to know any French to know that Claude was having none of Julio's offer to drive them to safety.
"Just look at their car. It's never going to make it back into the city in that condition. Es jodido... and so is she if we don't get her to a proper doctor. I'm not leaving her to die out here... not when we can so easily save them."
"If the people after them find us...."
"Nobody's going to find us... Maybe you can interview one of them for an article? You know as well as I do that we need something else to replace the piece on the party for the Turkish soldiers. Surely they've got some juicy story that would make an interesting article. In any case, drop it and help her into the car."
Claude mumbled something about 'fucking bleeding hearts', bur nevertheless joined Julio in propping up the wounded woman, instructing the others to help her to the car. Carefully, they carried her to the passenger door and set her inside. Claude took the wheel, leaving Julio and the three African men to cram into the back seats. Claude turned over the ignition and turned around sharply across the tarmac, veered slightly into the sand on the other side of the road, and barreled down the remote desert road in the opposite direction; northbound to Port Fuad.
The regional Intelligence Bureau office was a cold and stuffy place. A maze of halls as narrow as the rat races of Beijing and offices as darkened and forbidding. The air was stale and stuck somewhere between nipple-freezing and lip-numbing. Somehow, the claims that the air conditioning had indeed died were more truth that Jun hoped as he walked along the halls. Somewhere down this nondescript passage was where his contact resided. He held a room number in his shivering hands; it felt his gloves were hardly enough.
He also swore he could see his breath.
A missed step almost sent him blindly down the hall as he passed the marked room. Double checking the numbers on the door with his paper, he sighed reluctantly. Quickly wrapping his fingers around the door handle and throwing himself inside.
The room as naked as any room could be, occupied by a chair and some odd tables. And seated at one side sat a diligent agent. Some maps and notes laid out alongside a warm, steaming cups of tea. The agent's head rose from his reviews and a wane smile suddenly sprung across his bloated lips. A warm spark glowed in his muddy eyes. It was almost scary, and for a moment Jun faced hesitation as his foot quivered back.
"Comrade Shandian Jung!" the Mongolian said with a wide grin. Jun jumped startled as the little man shot to his feet. Within a blink the man was on his feet, making long strides across the room to him, "I'm Otgonbayar Ulanhu. I've been informed I was to speak with you on matters regarding Russia, I suppose."
"Indeed." Jun said uneasily. He found the agent's eagerness unsettling and terrifyingly blunt.
"Well, then let's get started!" the Mongol said, seemingly forgetting the material on the table as he passed in towards Jun, "I suppose if you're going into the Republic, and I'm coming with you, it'll be an opportune time to lay out what's going on in there.
"So, uh, to begin!" he said cheerily, "What do you know about Russia?"
"Agent, are you feeling alright?"
"Just a little cold." he said with a nervous smile, "And I've been waiting to do something big, and not just go in and out in and out of Omsk, talking to the same contacts as I always have been."
"Only Omsk?" asked Jun, he suddenly fell incredibly cynical on the stout Mongolian's knowledge of Russia. The infiltration rap-sheet was hardly impressive.
"Well, it's the gate-way into the Republic ever since the IB cells in Siberia were ordered to wake back up. Given the weakened state of the Republic in its affairs it's more-or-less in the hands of Novosibirsk defacto. Officially, the western half is part of the Republic, but given how weirdly spread Republican troops are there after their annexation of Muscovy Siberia's just sort of filled in the gaps.
"It's not to say uniformed soldiers have infiltrated the city since it's still in contact with the leadership out west and there's palpable concerns with lighting fires too early if Siberia rolls in armored cars and uniformed troops. In so far, they've managed to slip several small brigades of plain clothes-men into western Omsk disguised as defectors. Many of whom have established the Kirovsky Commune which services as a trafficking service for our men and additional resources to mount a local uprising when the order is given.
"It's the easiest way into the Republic, or at least Omsk. Once one gets outside of the Commune's street rule, things get difficult to say the least. I would go as far to say that many of the conservatives have sort of felt a kind of shift and moved out into the countryside and city's suburbs. They're not a direct threat, as they perceive us as men who have defected from the East, but they have that fear. It's astonishing really, they'll report you to regional authorities for even the slightest offense.
"And being in a contested zone, the local marshal has declared a curfew and state of marshal law in the event of anything. They're quick on that, I've known lesser agents to disappear due to that if they leave the city."
"So, even then there's suspicion?" Jun asked.
"Very much so. So we're careful in the commune." Ulanhu said softly, "Which is why we're not using it. It's too much of a good thing, and we need not abuse it. We're going in cold, by passing the urban road all together and using the bootlegger's roads.
"As far as I know, we've identified over three-hundred active path ways used by the Mafiya."
"I believe I heard of them. Drug traffickers?"
"More than that." Ulanhu said, smiling awkwardly, "The Mafiya as a organization are a loose collective of organizations. But all of them more or less involve themselves in the same activities: extortion, gambling, drugs, whores, murder, corruption. The own the entire Republican wilderness defacto. Their leaders sort of fashion themselves as kings. I wouldn't be surprised if they all sort of hold themselves as gods as well.
"But as far as we can tell, they've organized themselves similar to the American Mob, of their Sicilian namesake. The men I've identified sort of hold themselves to the romantic image of it, and beyond."
"Beyond?"
Ulanhu got more enthusiastic, gliding over to a chair and sitting down at its edge, "I think there's something bigger in them." he said, "Beyond Russia. Or some kind of psychology. The-" he hesitated for a moment, looking at the cups of tea. "Oh sorry," he continued, smiling awkwardly, "I had thought to pour you some tea a minute ago. Please sit down and drink it before it freezes. I'm terribly sorry."
Jun nodded, gliding over to the table in his short silent steps. Holding the cup in his hands felt good, warm. "So you were saying." he said, taking a sip.
"Oh, right." Ulanhu started up again, "I think there's something more complex going on with the Mafiya than their name would suggest. Some kind of mysticism. I've heard reports of large numbers of bodies laid out in the middle of village center's in the shape of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, or the Cross. Strapping the heads of officers who offended them to the backs of turtles or tying them naked to cattle. It's like they took killing, and made it an art. They're there to install fear, to enforce their enterprise where they walk. Some rumors seem to suggest that people believe they can talk to ghosts, possess men and kill them on the spot.
"Superstition rules their ranks. It's what they do. I've partaken in the capture of and translation of Mafiya assets and I sometimes see or hear mentions of this figure named bog, which is Russian for God. So maybe they're trying to make their activities are some form of divine mandate."
"Which we all know is absolute bullshit." Jun nodded, taking another sip. The drink was hot enough that it brought relief from the perpetual cold of the interior offices. A little life-giving, energizing. It was a filling kind of warmth that pressed against his gut.
"So what is the Republic trying to do about it?" asked Jun.
"From what I can tell: nothing. Or they gave up." the Mongolian said, "I believe they may have tried when they first started perpetuating their authority. But they turned out about as well armed as them. They've locked Republican control to the cities and I fear may be getting some of their funds and freedoms from extorting on this fact. Any bourgeoisie bureaucrats that hope to do business beyond the few populated urban centers need to first deal with the Mafiya. Or they're openly a member of the Mafiya."
"Equipment?" Jun asked again.
Ulanhur shrugged, "Something European, I believe Polish." he said, "The Mafiya is fairly wealthy and there's a power next door whose known to freely trade weapons if you got the money. The Republican army is still using mostly Imperial weaponry which is becoming dated, some in the ranks may have access to Brazilian arms, but it's not to par with the Polish equipment that's in the country.
"For all I know, they could have tanks, the Mafiya."
"So frankly the Mafiya may be the only real force any of us will be fighting."
"We already are fighting them." Ulanhu said, "Though Novosibirsk doesn't want to admit it, there are Mafiya cells operating within the Eastern countryside. There's a lot of unpatrolled borders and they can traffic themselves in and out of Siberia and China without too much contest. I would not be surprised in the next year or two, we start ending up finding our own true Mafiya operations. I predict Outer Manchuria will be the most viable given the Russian population, but if Beijing continues to find way to disseminate Russians across China then the possible range of the Mafiya in China will grow as well; they really like their Russians, more so dis-enfranchised Russians. And if they're unhappy I imagine they'll supplement their displeasure with the Mafiya, establishing their own little kingdoms in indirect service to the Bog.
"Eastern Siberia is just as probable a home to meth production as the west, and with the lack of friends Novosibirsk has in Sakha, the more people to support them there."
"I see." Jun said.
"Indeed." the Mongol said, "We'll be departing tomorrow for Russia. I'll fill you in on the geography of the nation over a hot dinner. And we can plan out how we're going to get to the Urals."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
The small coffeehouse was owned by Corporal Davtak Korelian - a native of Nakhchivan who had worked hsi father's restaurant before his conscription period began in early 1978. It was an identical wooden quonset hut like the rest of the warehouses on the row, but a brightly painted sign outside notified everyone that the base's finest watering hole had taken up residence in what used to be a storage area for engine parts. A light rain had gathered around the front, sprinkling cold droplets on the huddled forms of troops as they passed to and fro. Corporal Shavo Abbasian found himself entering through the tastefully decorated door to Davtak's Coffeehouse. and was immediately greeted by the rush of warm air from a jury-rigged fireplace operating in the rear. He surveyed the well-lit, cozy room - men played cards, read books, talked at the bar with Davtak, and listened to the soft sound of the crackling radio. It was tuned to the Armenian Broadcasting Network's music channel, and a light, relaxing Kurdish melody completed the air of sleepy indifference. That is, until one of the soldiers at the bar leaned back from his steaming black mug and sternly told Abbasian to close the damn door before he let all the heat out.
Abbasian apologized to the man, who was none other than First Sergeant Anselm Ebrahimian - otherwise known affectionately as "Cyclops." A dark eye patch wrapped around his grizzled head, while a scar sliced through his face. Many a young recruit arrived at the base thinking First Sergeant Ebrahimian to be a war hero of the utmost degree. A wound from the War of Liberation was the sure sign of greatness. A popular pastime was to keep these rumors circulating, only to have Ebrahimian testily explain that his missing eye was not a case of war bravery, but rather a slip-up with a nail gun. This was decidedly less heroic. First Sergeant Ebrahim was also well-known for his constant attempts to battle the officers who wanted to medically discharge him. He was the head NCO of Firebase Ozanian's engineering company, and he wasn't going to leave until the job was done as well as he could do it. That was, after all, the engineer's creed. But the commanding officers tried their hardest to have the doctor write the testy old man off - they were zero for thirteen tries. His dedication to duty and discipline earned him both the dread of junior enlisted and the praise of veterans - once one got to know First Sergeant Ebrahim, one realized that he was a nice guy.
"Hey, it's Shavo!" cried a voice from behind a mass of people playing poker. Abbasian peered past them to see the silhouette of Goverian, wearing a sleeveless telnyashka and doing knife tricks to try and impress a crowd of teenage WACs who had gathered around him. He waved to his friend but quickly resumed his attention towards the knife juggling before one could slice his hand open. Abbasian made his way through the throngs of people to come up behind Goverian. The juggling act went on for another few minutes before Goverian dropped one and cut his forearm open from wrist to elbow. He yelped and dropped the rest on the floor, moving to nurse his new-found wound.
"It's just a flesh wound, Niko," Abbasian observed. "I think Davtak has a bandage kicking around somewhere."
Davtak, at the helm of his coffeehouse, caught wind of the situation and tossed a roll of thin gauze at Goverian's face. "Think next time, dumbass," came the associated snark from the notoriously blunt tavern owner.
"I'll be sure to," Goverian mumbled through the strip of gauze clenched between his teeth as he wrapped the whole band around his forearm. Two layers did the job, and Goverian cut the gauze with his teeth when he was done.
"There we go. All better, Niko?" Abbasian asked playfully.
"Yeah, if you hadn't broken my concentration," Goverian grumbled.
"Well, I probably saved you from an NJP, friend. We all know you're not supposed to screw the WACs."
"I wasn't trying to."
"Yeah yeah, ladies' man. Try that back home sometime," Abbasian teased, smacking Goverian in the back of the shoulders. "Anyways, it's cold outside. I need some coffee."
Abbasian turned to Davtak, who was in conversation with First Sergeant Ebrahim. "Excuse me, my man, but I would like to order two of your coffees."
"How so?" Davtak immediately replied.
"Well, you know I like my coffee like I like my women," Goverian grinned slyly.
"Hot, black, and bitter?"
"Hot, black, and bitter!" the soldier cried joyously.
"And only the very best for Mrs. Goverian's baby boy!" added Abbasian.
"Alright, gents. Why don't you sidle up to the bar and join our talk?" invited Davtak. "The war is coming!" he added happily.
"Not something to be happy about," warned one of the teenaged engineers sitting next to Ebrahimian. The older man scowled in his direction, his one good eyebrow cocked upwards quizzically.
"'Course it is, son. We get to kill some Turks."
"Well, that's all good and all, but you could get shot."
"We're Armenians - we're invincible," joked Davtak as he stirred one of his massive coffee pots in the back of the kitchen. The smell and the steam rose to the ceiling, casting a murky light over the troops spending their last free time before the assault. The buildup was rumored to be close to finish, and the surprise attack was to begin in less than a week.
Less than a week. After three months of careful diplomatic deliberation and maneuvering - of trying to target the Ottomans and only the Ottomans, and of trying to rebuild the Armenian state - the war to end all wars on Armenian territory was about to begin. A quick blitzkrieg through Armenian territory with the assistance of guerrillas, and that was it. They stopped at the border. And the border was only a hundred kilometers away. Abbasian had heard estimates ranging from a week to a few months, and all of these were idly tossed around by the jittery troops as they sat inside Davtak's Coffeehouse and waited out the cold rains. They sat and talked for hours until taps was played. Then they went to their barracks, and then they slept. Except for those on watch. They returned to their trenches and sat underneath ponchos, staring out over the no-man's-land and dwelling on if they would return. As Abbasian shivered in the cold rain, his hand frozen to the grip of the 12.7mm machine gun dug into the fighting hole, he thought of Davtak's comment earlier. They were Armenians. They were invincible.
He knew it not to be true, but at least it made his gut feel better.
Tsalka Station, Armenia-Georgia Border
"Third fucer we've caught all week, man," Yaglian informed an unamused Abdulian. He pointed his fierce-looking K19 rifle at the handcuffed Russian men on their knees and with burlap sacks over their heads. A horse wagon stuffed to the brim with methamphetamine covered in a blue tarp was located nearby.
"Do you know where it was going?" Abdulian duly asked. He began to walk forward out of the station, with Yaglian by his side.
"Probably Sevan. We all know that the mafia runs that joint. Vice is either legal or not enforced."
"Astute, Corporal Yaglian... And where did this particular shipment come from?"
"Are you fucking retarded, Sarge? They're obviously Russians. Coming in with a herd of refugees no less."
"Did the border guard check the rest of the refugees?" Abdulian continued as he stopped to check out the meth cart. The people at Tsalka Station had long since learned to ignore Yaglian's crude mannerisms, which meant that the Corporal often got away with calling his superiors names.
"They're clear for the most part. He had to turn one back who looked like she had tuberculosis, and her whole family went with her. But otherwise they've been directed to the train station at Tsalka and are going to go see immigrations in Akhalkalaki."
"Good, good. But we still have these three guys to deal with. Speak any Russian?"
"You know I do," Yaglian responded with a playful tone and a twinkle in his eye. He bounded off towards the prisoners to try his very best to be a badass interrogator. Yaglian certainly was a child on the inside.
"You know the drill," Abdulian called after the young border guard. "Don't rough them up too much. I'm going back inside to catch my nap."
"Got it! Leave this to me!"
Yaglian finished his joyful skipping over to the Russians, and quickly began his condescension. Each of the Russians were dressed in rags, smelling foul and covered in mud. Drug smugglers had to blend in, and looking like a refugee was perfect.
"Privet, drug!" called Yaglian in perfect Russian towards the prisoners. They didn't respond. "Pokhozhe, vy ne ochen' umnyy seychas Vy?"
"Poshel na khuy," mumbled the prisoner to the right. Yaglian smiled at the insult, and slid his hands up to grasp his rifle by the handguard. The stock was a club, and if there was any more disrespect it would be time to start smacking people.
But before Yaglian could get to police brutality, the very same prisoner announced that he spoke Armenian as well.
"Well then," replied Yaglian with a strategically measured hint of surprise. "Gotta haggle with the dealers down in Sevan, right?"
"Heh. You're such a smartass. I am Armenian," the prisoner stated bluntly
"Ah, the liason. I know your type. Probably rolled up to Russia to dodge the draft, right? Stupid fucks like you are why the Fatherland hasn't gotten its land back yet."
"There's good money in the trade."
"Obviously not, friend," Yaglian observed. "You're going to jail for a very long time."
"Obviously. But before I could afford a modest mansion on the Black Sea coast. I lived in Crimea in the summers."
"Heh. You know where I live? Underneath PFC Idessian's snoring ass. And I love it."
"Some people aren't content to be paupers," spat the prisoner.
"So how much, exactly, is all this cool blue worth?" Yaglian changed the topic smartly before he could get too off topic. There still was the job of extracting information.
"A lot."
"Did you fail mathematics class, friend? A lot isn't a number. I want a number."
"A lot," the prisoner repeated boredly. Yaglian, in response, maneuvered his rifle to tap the prisoner's head lightly.
"I can swing a lot harder than I look," Yaglian warned.
"Why do you need to know?"
"Personal interest. Also, the government likes to know these things. And I, perchance, work for the government."
The prisoner sighed and hesitated. "156,250 dram. More or less. Fifty kilos at 3,125 dram a kilo."
Yaglian whistled loudly at the number, and took a step back. "Whoo-wee, that is a lot of money."
"See what I said?"
"Definitely. And this is all going down the the Sevan mafia?"
"I don't betray my contacts."
"Well, if you betray them to nice-guy border man, you won't have to be tortured in some prison in the Nagorno-Karabakh mountains."
"I refuse to."
"Alright. Speak for yourself. I'm going to go ahead and destroy this cart and make you watch your livelyhood melt away. Want me to take off your mask?"
"No."
"Got it."
Yaglian then removed the burlap sack off of all of the drug runners because he cared not for their opinions, and wheeled the cart out int the open area designated for disposal of dangerous items. He then walked back to one of the nearby K1010 pickup trucks and fetched a 40mm grenade launcher out of the bed. A round was loaded into it, and Yaglian fired at the wagon. It went up in a bright flash, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the Russian drug runners. They had various degrees of jaded dismay playing across their mugs, while Yaglian chuckled at the burning cart. After a solid minute of enjoyment, Yaglian turned to the prisoners and turned serious. "Fun time is over. We're chucking you in the detention house until the truck gets here. Should only be a day or three. Enjoy your bread and water! We'll be sure to send the NSS up to your suppliers mighty soon. Maybe I can convince them to bring back a picture of your dead boss or something. Put it up in the lobby. Wouldn't that be nice?"
And as the prisoners were carted away, Yaglian heard the drug runner tell the Armenians to go fuck themselves. Life was good.
The soft squeak of a wheelchair echoed down the long hallway. The slouched figure of Hou Sai Tang seated within, his hands gently folded across his lap. His hospital clothes had been changed out for a formal suit. The old man stared ahead with a vacant disinterested chair as he pushed along by a young nurse. The echoing of her footfalls bouncing off of the walls of the empty corridor. The security detail had made sure to keep the floor and the route along Hou's travel through the hospital empty, and that he take it by wheelchair.
They didn't want anything extra to happen.
Turning through the sterile hallways, reeking of the anti-bacterial stew used to clean the walls and floors the two figures moved in silence. Making corners and entering into a small wood-face elevator. There was no exchanged conversation to the two. With a soft "ping" the elevator came to a stop on the bottom floor. The doors opened with a soft sigh into the hospital lobby, and into Hou traveled to meet the small gathering there.
Light applause sounded in the small, low ceiling hospital lobby. Between the chairs and coffee tables that sat in small scattered clusters throughout the room hovered groups of members of government. Officers within the military and their commanders, representatives of the Congress and the ministries. Zhang Auyi and Mang Xhu hovered on the edge of the gathering. The bright smiles took Hou by surprise as he was pushed out, and the welcome that sang in the rain of their applause was a warm stimulant.
But underneath the smiles the chairman saw a certain mystery to some. A complexity trying to be hidden. And none the more obvious in the likes of Mang Xhu and Zhang Auyi. Who though they clapped more fervently than anyone present, kept a distance. Occupying opposite sides of the room. And with the rest of the delegation closing in to give their personal regards they hung back at the outskirts, as if afraid to come into contact with one another.
What strange politics had been happening between the two was a puzzle to the chairman. But one lost to the claustrophobic rain of celebration. With a sea of congratulations of well-wishes the chairman was lost in the gathering mob. Somehow, someone hoisted him up out of the wheelchair and onto his feet. And in his hands was given a simple wooden cane.
Shaking and unsteady the chairman quickly found himself in an awkward position of fighting to keep balance and bow. Very quickly, warm pats on the shoulder turned into a grab for support as the weakened Hou. He shuffled through, guided by hands not his own.
"What's the plan, what's going on?" Hou asked as he was guided along to the doors.
"Yue Zen requested a short public appearance when you got out of the hospital," a voice said, Handoi Hu, the commander of national security. He was looking spectacularly plump today. His thinning brown hair combed back across his rolling face, "I don't know how many channels she tried before she got in touch with me, but she eventually reached me."
"Ap- appearance what?" Hou stammered, the door was getting closer, "She expects me to speak?"
"No, not at all. Just be there for the cameras. I've arranged for government cars to take you to your old residence in Tianjin. I'll explain in full on the ride. Things have been rather choked."
"Then what's the rush!" Hou stammered. But it was too late as he was rushed out into the cold Beijing air outside. The winter afternoon rushed on him, and Hou was quickly reacquainted with what was true cold. With the commander of the national security on his one side, and a doctor on the other Hou stood face to face with the outside again on its own terms. A shallow ramp descended smoothly down to street level, where was parked a long black car familiar to the chairman, and an escort.
"I didn't have much time to put this together." Hu said softly into his ear as he helped Hou down the incline. The doctor the same, "Zen just caught word you were being let out of the hospital yesterday and I didn't have the time to assemble a large scale thing." Below and along the side, behind a corp of armed policemen and a few soldiers a small crowd of gathered civilians stood watch as several NPN photographers hovered about finding photo opportunities.
The three managed to clear their way through. The walk feeling long to the tired Chairman. The feeling on his left side weak and semi-numb. Each step with his leg feeling heavy and he struggled to counter balance on the simple wooden cane. The doctor and Handoi stood by as a means to keep him upright, hovering their hands behind his back, or on his shoulder. It was a walk that felt like it took an hour. But as the car door shut behind him, it was over.
The other doors shut with a soft thud as Handoi and the doctor took their seats. "Right, let's move out." Handoi told the driver.
Nodding, he changed the gear and began rolling, the rest of the escort responding as thus and moved out into Beijing's streets.
"What was all this!" Hou spat, distressed, "How was I not informed."
"Because none of us were informed until recently." the doctor said from the front street.
"I wasn't asked until recently to see if I can set this up." Hu nodded, "I set in the orders. But you know how that system can be. I ultimately had to call the hospital this morning to organize it."
"Then was the rest of the government needed?"
"They showed on their own." Hu said, "Some of it was my own request to try and transition it. But more people had happened in than I had realized and I got suspicious. I'm sorry, I didn't do this in nearly as timely a manner as I had hoped."
"Then what's the matter?" the chairman asked. The car pulled out onto an emptier Chang-An, the siren lights of the escorts flashed through the windows, "I don't get the rush. What information is being with held?"
"Some suspicions." Hu said, "We don't know if it's deadly, but over the couple weeks of you hospitalized I have been given written reports from the Intelligence Bureau about some regular meetings between certain aspects of the government. They don't know if there's a coup organizing to take advantage of your lack of duty, or just Beijing being Beijing.
"They haven't brought up anything to suggest that the meetings were illegal per-say."
"Who's meeting?" Hou asked.
"Mang Xhu's been pulling together the commissioners of the national design bureau's." said Hu, "Nothing out of the ordinary, but I think some internal affairs agent got a little buggy when they were going on with more frequency than he normally pulls the politics card. So decided to put tabs on them. Most of what he can gleam from them were administration concerns and international politics. A lot of the bureaus have been getting a lot of pressure from one another from the new Science ministry for rocket parts and to produce their experimental materials.
"Or from the military branches for the production of VX countermeasures. It's complex. I don't like to get into the details. I just allocate the funding of the police forces and oversee the joint IB operations and conditions."
"I see." Hou nodded, "So, you fear there could have been something internal?"
"Maybe. Again, sorry comrade, but it's also why I got involved with the visitations."
The doctor in the front seat snorted distastefully.
"I've already had someone try to speak their mind to me a letter, so I know you all hate me." Hu told him, rolling his eyes.
The doctor said nothing to address the chairman, "Sorry for the rush too." he said, "But the hospital also needs that section of the hospital."
Hou nodded slowly, "I understand." he said softly, "So who are you?"
"Dien Han." the doctor said, "I'm your rehabilitation specialist and I'm along for the ride to see you out as proper as possible. I'll also be helping you learn how to walk without someone holding your hand again for the next couple days, and have been asked to be on hand."
"Pleasure to meet you, comrade." Hou added.
Northern Turkistan
The helicopters thudded over the cold snowy expanse of the northern Turkistanian country. Miles of flat-land steppe stretched below the flying helicopters as they drove closer to the border of the Russian Republic. Clustered patches of forest whipped by along with expanses of snow-coated fields. Below, the skirting herds of wild-life or a nomad's herd darted from the loud thundering of the blades as the helicopter wind moved along.
Inside, the crew looked down on the winter land. Their coats fluttering in the chill wind of the mid-winter flight. Scarves drawn up around their mouths and noses. Assault rifles lay across their laps. In the center of the cabin, Shandian Jun and Otgonbayar Ulanhu sat back in their own silence. Sacks of gear lay on the floor under the weight of their feet. Extra clothes and equipment to scout the landscape. Several small packs of ammo for their handguns and some personal effects.
On Jun's lap sat a second package. Something longer. The glint of weathered brass poked from the ruffling flaps of canvas that kept it wrapped. The ties of nylon rope held it all together. All the effects of Jun's tent keeping his own toy safe.
The shimmering of the brass in the cold winter light attracted the attention of one of the crew men. Glancing over, his eyes fell on the brass knob hanging out from the rolled tent. He rose a curious brow, and after checking the passing steppe below turned to him. "Comrade," he called to Jun over the roar of the helicopter's motor, pointing to the metal wrapped in the canvas, "That your blade?" he asked.
Jun gave him a long cold look. His face hidden in winter wraps and his dark aviators. He bore no emotion beyond the effects, and his long stare was cold. Unsettling to the young soldier who shifted and began to stiffly and uncomfortably turn away.
"Yes." he said finally. His words bringing his attention back around. But all the same the young air-force man tightened and stiffened as he was addressed.
"I don't see any tassel." he said nervously. His brows frowned behind his protective goggles. "It's not a jian then, is it?"
Jun shook his head. Lifting the package, he turned it upright, holding it between his legs. He buried a gloved hand into the mat for the handle. His Mongolian partner looked up curiously from the idle fumbling with his hands to watch his new partner draw the long curved blade from its sheath. With a sharp song it sang forth from the mat and shimmered in the air.
The sword was nearly as tall as any of the men here, if a foot shorter. Its long, double-edged curved blade held an organic stoutness to the blade. It hung in the air like a sapling tree, a young shoot of bamboo. Jun held it up, his two hands on its hilt with a comfortable familiarity.
"It's, Ja-" the soldier started to ask.
"No." Jun interrupted, "Hardly a island humper's sword. It is Chinese, purely Chinese. It is a miao dao." he said, "I can understand that hardly a man would be familiar with it. Many I presume see it as a Republican weapon, or too Japanese to be used by the Chinese armies.
"But I always liked the leverage." he said with a sweet soft sigh. A motherly little croon.
"It's rather large." Ulanhu stated.
"Yes, but I have a fair bit of reach over the standard Jian." Jun laughed, "And if the situation arises that I need to hold off any fuckers charging me with a knife or a bolo at some point, I'd rather have that to hold out and out-reach them."
There was a soft rattle as the helicopter drew to a soft stop. Jun's body felt like it was coming to a lift, and a slow fall. The helicopter was begin to drop.
"We're about to land." Ulanhu said
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Taytu had landed in Ismailia to be drove north through the barren Egyptian desert in order to reach her destination. It struck he as strange, this course of events. Port Fuad was the larger of the two cities, with facilities worthy of a major Mediterranean port. Fuad Airport was larger, and closer to their destination. If the Turks had wanted her to land in Ismailia, wouldn't it have been easier to meet there as well? Surely it would, as a district capital, have a state room good enough for a meeting of diplomats. All they needed was a table and chairs when it came down to it. Whatever the Turks were thinking, it was only a fleeting thought amongst Taytu's many burdens. This meeting was the last thing between their two old Empires and a war. Her words were the last desperate shot from the arsenal of peace that defended Africa from a new generation of blood.
As her Turkish chauffeurs kept the limousine sailing silently down the cement highway cutting between the sands, she played through her words. Every conversation she could imagine was practiced in her mind. Words repeated, rearranged, and reimagined. Ethiopia would make no changes in their relationship with Armenia, but they would send no aid to it either. The Emperor would agree to a joint investigation of the bombing. Peace and doves and wreathes of olive.
On the edge of sight, the Suez was in view. It glimmered in the equatorial sun, and its water was as still as untouched glass. They hadn't sighted even the smallest ship during their trek alongside the normally busy waterway. A hint of fear? These tensions were public. Perhaps trade was already suffering for fear of getting caught in the cross fire.
Port Fuad appeared in the distance. At first, it was little more then glimpsed of white and grey caught in a glimmer of heat on the horizon. Buildings. As they came closer, their forms grew into pure-white apartments and sheet-metal warehouses. Great thick tanks dotted shipyards and truck lots, painted metal obscuring whether they held liquid or grains.
Among the shimmer of new industry, small enclaves of the old world still stood. A great mosque was the jewel of the city, and its minarets were so thick and dominate that they resembled castle towers.
They came to a stop in front of a sprawling complex at the mouth of the canal. Guards stood watch in uniform, silent and uncaring at their posts. Everything seemed cold and martial as Taytu was whisked toward the doors of the building. Her eyes caught the ocean, and on its edge there were specks of silver flashing in the sun. Before she had time to consider them, she was inside.
"I apologize for our discourtesy, Princess Taytu." a man greeted her with a bow just as they entered. He was dressed in a murky-black suit and looked rather western, if not for the fez on top of his head. She was almost taken aback by him. "Thank you." she said in a flutter. "I have found the Ottoman people ever gracious despite what stands between us."
The man in the fez looked up at her and smiled. He had a smooth way about him; comforting, like a consoling relative. Almost paternal in a way. A hint of a mustache hung below his lip, clinging to the edge of his mouth in the way an outline clings to a map.
"I hope we can move this great boulder together." he responded. "And I look forward to hearing what you have to say on the matter."
Assanian had wrapped up his tour in Gyumri and had been excited to see that the polls had jumped ahead for him after his handling of the embassy situation. A radio address had revealed that the Germans were withdrawing, and that further boosted the gains. The political plan had played out right into Assanian's hand, and the outraged public began to favor Assanian's retaliatory policies over Zeratsian's continued calls for peace. Peace was now the option that would drag the conflict out - it was now like slowly pulling off a bandage as opposed to ripping it off. Zeratsian wanted to calm the people, but Assanian called for war. War to avenge the seventeen embassy workers and war to punish the enemy for doing such a horrendous crime. And now, Assanian read the Armenian national newspaper, Hayeren Dzayny, while nursing a bottle of vodka. The triumphant headline proudly exclaimed that the Germans had left Turkey in response to the embassy attack, while a speech conducted by the Kaiser was plastered on the fifth page explaining why. It was like Assanian expected - the embassy raid was a terrible crime and the German military had no business protecting a state that would do these things.
Almost immediately after that was a response by the Turkish Sultanate. Assanian had seen the full thing, but the newspaper had edited out the segments where they claimed innocence. All that was left was outrage at the Germans for leaving. They were rightfully angry, and it showed. Protests had reportedly gathered at the Sultanate to protest the handling of the embassy raid - widely believed to be committed by the Ottomans even inside Turkey proper. Riot police was deployed and dispersed the crowd with water cannons and tear gas, and it was rumored that another round of turmoil was on its way. The Turkish people were unhappy with the loss of their empire, and even more unhappy with the largely indecisive Sultan. They were penniless and poverty was encroaching on all of the cities. They wanted reforms, for sure. Some even wanted regime changes. Assanian read these reports with glee, noting the weaknesses in his enemy. It was all coming together. As the funds in Turkey evaporated, the military supply lines would close up and clot. This, combined with the mature and complicated battle strategy that Ivakon and various Ministry of Defense officials had developed over the last two years, meant that victory was probable. Nothing was certain, but this was as good as it was going to get.
"Mister President?"
Assanian looked up from the newspaper. It was an aide - young, in her twenties, and looking frightened. Her neck muscles were taught as she frowned and told Assanian that Ivakon was waiting.
"Thank you," Assanian replied. And as she began to leave, Assanian called her back. "Actually, why don't you take the rest of the night off?"
"Me?" the aide asked.
"Yes," Assanian replied. "You may return to your home."
"Why... Thank you, sir."
"Tell the rest of your colleagues that they can leave as well."
"I will, sir. Thank you again."
She seemed relieved, and Assanian wanted her to be. His people needed their rest.
Assanian left his coat as he walked up the Government House's stairs, holding the rolled up newspaper in his hand and striding purposefully. At the end of the third floor's hallway was the "war room", behind two double doors and guarded by two NSS Government Service officials wearing their khaki uniforms and orange berets. They stood aside and opened the doors for their President, and he entered. Before him was the war room - Ivakon and several generals stood around a table with a map of Armenia superimposed on the top. Behind them, a map of the world was situated next to a map of the region. Assorted equipment lined the walls on all sides, presenting the image that this was where grand strategy was devised. And it was.
Ivakon strode out to meet the President as soon as he heard the door open. He had a look of grave seriousness on his face: "Sir, we're ready to start. We can go tomorrow. The telegram is typed and ready to be sent to all combat units. The assault is planned - all units have reported back that they are ready."
"Then do it," Assanian replied sternly. He would not tolerate dilly-dallying. Not now.
"Yes sir. They're going to react as soon as the signal is sent - I'll let the communications branch send their warning order now. The actual order goes out tomorrow morning once last minute preparations are finished."
"Yes, yes," Assanian breathed. He felt no fear as he looked over the sand table in the war room. Little symbols designating units were pinned down along the DMZ - it was awfully crowded. Blue squares represented Armenians while red squares represented the Turks. The spacing was about equal, and that genuinely frightened them before. Attackers should always outnumber the defenders at least three to one.
"Do we need to go over the plan, Mister President?" Ivakon croaked suddenly. "A formality... for the record only. Get a picture of this meeting for the history books, eh? President Assanian on the Eve of the War..."
Assanian chuckled, despite not finding the joke funny. "I don't see why not. Everything needs an icon."
"That's great, sir. Here we go."
Firebase Ozanian, Armenia
Abbasian counted rounds, one hand ticking off the stacked pyramid of 155mm howitzer rounds while his other held a clipboard with a spreadsheet for accountability. Another stack of twenty, ready to be loaded into the mobile armored resupply vehicle and sent along with the mobile artillery battalion that was currently being prepared and readied. The hulking guns - modified Polish main battle tanks with giant howitzers in lieu of tank turrets - were to be sent out that evening to a series of classified firing positions and would then cycle through them in a tactic developed by the Tsarist rocket artillery during the 1940s called "shoot-and-scoot." That would severely limit the ability for Turkish counter-battery-radars to provide accurate targets: by the time the trajectory and telemetry data were received and analyzed, the Armenians would be at another point and already shooting. The current plan called for mobile, shock warfare using the thousands of armored vehicles bought from the Polish. Almost all of the nation's fuel reserves had been dumped into vehicles in preparation of the blitzkrieg, and Abbasian was going out with the first wave.
He had been pulled from his static artillery position and placed with the mobile artillerymen after one of the soldiers had tripped over an unsecured electrical cable and gotten a concussion from slamming down on a mobile air conditioning unit. The doctrine de-emphasized static artillery to the point that nonessential crew - mostly round handlers and spotters like Abbasian - were placed with mobile battalions to increase efficiency. It was no secret that static artillery had the shortest lifespan during the opening hours of the war; intelligence reports predicted salvo after salvo of artillery to be the first shots fired before Armenian tanks pushed their way across the DMZ. Many of those shots would be MICLIC canisters - mine clearing line charges that were essentially strings of small explosives a hundred meters long that landed on minefields and detonated the landmines. The mobile artillery units were tasked with eliminating the Turkish static emplacements so that armor and air could move in for the real fighting without prior molestation.
As an artilleryman, Abbasian's job was the most important in the beginning stages. He was able to reach out and kill the early warning and striking capabilities, enabling the far-more-mobile Armenian forces to gain tactical surprise over the Turkish. With the Prussians and their mobile warfare out of the picture, traditionalist defensive strategies used by the Ottomans would mean that they were turtles surrounded by hounds. They were dug in, but once the Armenian forces bulldozed past their heavy defenses and encircled them, they would be at the mercy of their new captors. That, combined with the fact that the DMZ was the only heavily-defended area in Armenia. Past that, the hundred kilometers that the Armenian Army needed to cover was less built up. And even if the Turkish did survive the initial onslaught and keep the fighting at the DMZ, the NSS was rumored to be organizing existing Armenian militia holdouts to strike at main supply lines - MSRs - running through the Erzurum region. The defenses would erode once Armenian irregulars inside the enemy lines cut off the MSRs and deprived the defenders of their ammunition and other consumables.
Abbasian finished his job after a half hour, and handed the clipboard to the supply NCO in the support company. His mustached face dripped with sweat, and his eyes were tired and lined with wrinkles. The NCO thanked Abbasian for his work, and turned around to the hulking MARV's crew and ordered them to get the forklifts over so that the shells could be loaded. The sun was going down, and a dreadful cold was approaching. Everyone knew that this was the final day of peacetime. So as the night came out, everyone assembled to their positions. There was no grand speech, no fanfare. Just the scurrying of troops under orange floodlights, quietly talking to one another about anything other than war. Abbasian mustered at the motor pool with his equipment primed for battle. In lieu of BDUs, Abbasian was given an olive jumpsuit and a tanker helmet with a psalm painted next to a cross. The priest had painted psalms on the helmet of anyone who desired it. Abbasian was never a devout Christian, but he felt that he needed it more than ever. It was a common joke that God would save the poor artillerymen - the holiest of all the soldiers. But the predicted statistics seemed to show that God was forsaking them.
Almost thirty vehicles - four guns, one resupply unit, and a command vehicle per company plus additional supports and auxiliary troops - rumbled in the blacked-out motor pool. The colonel in charge watched mutely as his men piled in and began driving off. They followed a scout car out of the side gate and into the winding dirt roads through the hills nearby. It was midnight - the first day of the war. Abbasian carried his duffel bag over his shoulder as he walked silently and sullenly to his massive armored artillery piece - he had just finished burning his personal letters just fifteen minutes prior. If he died, it was the job of a man in the regiment to look over personal effects and send them back to the family. As such, it was common to simply destroy these personal effects before a big mission - they were looking out for their unknown comrade. It would simply be too much for them. And so Abbasian climbed onto the treads, the metal cold on his hands. After a short struggle up, he tossed his duffel bag into the open turret ring. As the gunner, Abbasian would be spending the next few days in the turret. Another minute and he was buckled down into the seat: he closed the hatch and sat as the engine roared in the rear. Nothing was said. He simply thought.
Six hours later, dawn came. It was a common tactic to attack at dawn - the beleaguered night guards were going to sleep, while the groggy morning guards were just getting up and out of bed. And so, after the first troops were spotted leaving their posts at the changing of the guard, a telegram came down from the Ministry of Defense. Seconds later, a somber radio call was sent out to the officers. It simply said: "Take back the Fatherland."
In the back of that timeworn old car, Sahle and his companions rested for the first time since their ordeal had started. The smooth, unbroken desert put Sahle in a trance as it passed by the window. Carried gently across the endlessness of Egypt on smooth wheels, he nodded off to sleep.
Transported through time and space, he found himself in a familiar garden. Water flowed like liquid crystal, pouring into the speckled stone bowl in such a way that invited him back to something he had long since lost. Palm trees swayed calmly in the cooling breeze beneath a caring sun. Three colonnades connected to a larger mansion surrounded the small courtyard, held up by columns that recalled Islamic influences. The fourth end was open to a cliff save for a short stone railing. Beyond it, the rugged mountains of the Ethiopian highlands dwarfed the world below, blooming with lush green shrubs and shadowed only by small skipping clouds. A small village filled the valley below. A cobbled stone church sat in its center, surrounded by a variety of stone, clay, and straw dwellings. It was home in some simple way. A near forgotten reality refracted from memory. To Sahle, it seemed like a surreal reflection of who he was and what had birthed him.
Turning around to face the great house, his eyes caught the back of a head. It was a little girl in a simple floral dress. Sahle opened his mouth to hail her, but she bounded for the door before a word could be formed. Curiosity drove him after her. He followed her, dodging statue and plant while calling out to her. She was always one step ahead. The mansion seemed to be stretched over an ever growing plane, as each turn brought him to longer hallways with fewer doors. It grew dimmer, as if the sun was setting and slowing drawing the light from the home. There was no hint of any other soul, save for the running girl.
As he continued, the decor grew desperate. Plants were withering, burnt, or dead. Though the statues had first portrayed beautiful and heroic figures, they were now growing skeletal and fierce. Ever stone eye seemed to glower at him. Figured of death overlooked twisted shrubs of stick and knot. He was relieved when he saw that the end of the last long hallways emptied into the outdoors. It was only once he was outside that he recognized how the horror had spread.
The girl stood at the edge of a cliff looking outward across the plain. The green had withered to brown and the landscape was on fire. Sirens called out on the edge of the distance, begging for attention. Fires burned so hot that the great mountains crumbled, filling the ruined village with a rush of pebble and dust. The smell of smoke and sulfur caused him to choke on the air in front of him.
The girl in front of him stared away with an eerie focus. Her hair caught embers from the air, incinerating individual strands like flash-powder, glowing quickly before decreasing. Voices came up from the valley behind her, subtle and tortured. Screams and grief-filled wails. Lighting cracked against the fire storm, drawing out the silhouettes of jetcraft. Sahle kept his focus on the girl.
"Hey!" he shouted. She cocked her head, still looking away. She slowly began to pivot his way. As her face came into view, it became apparent that she had been touched by this sudden catastrophe. Half of her face had burnt away, leaving one of her eyes grey. She held to her chest a tattered flag bearing that familiar sign; A lion, crowned and holding forth a scepter. Though she was maimed, her face held a comforting strength. As Sahle locked eyes with her, the voices in the background changed tone. They were chanting, and a power swayed in their voices as their sound drowned the cacophony of fire and ruin. It was filled with such unmovable resolve that it struck fear in Sahle's heart. Whatever the force that had united the hopelessness in the valley, it seemed solid. Unstoppable. Whatever stood in the way of that force would be crushed by it. Swept into the fires. It was fear of that force that woke Sahle from his sleep.
He was back in the car. Yared and Marc had fallen asleep as well, though it looked as if theirs was happy. Sahle sunk into his shoulders and watched the trees go by.
"There it is." the French driver announced. "The ocean."
Sahle looked out the window. A wall of blue sparkled on the horizon. As they approached it, glints of steely light began to flicker far beyond the shore. It looked as if there were small lights dancing on the edge of the perceivable sea. There was no way to make out what it was that he saw. Tired, he leaned back and faced forward.
He was falling, tumbling over and over again through the cold night air as he hurtled earthward, the roar of the wind in his ears drowning out all else as he frantically fought to control his fall. In a small way he was thankful that tracer rounds were leaping up at him from the ground since they were his only clue as to how close the earth he was.
Lashing out with his feet he at last managed to dislodge the debris that had been attached to his boot and stabilize himself, yanking his parachute cord so that the canvas billowed out into the night above his head and jerked him to a slow fall.
Steady at last, he craned his neck around. His plane was in the distance, falling fast towards the earth and he tried not to see the flaming bodies that threw themselves wildly from the aircraft. For a long moment it seemed to float in the darkness of the night until, with a tremendous explosion, it slammed into a hillside.
The tracers below trailed off slowly though small searchlights from vehicles probed upwards towards him. He could vaguely make out several other chutes. He was not alone. One chute passed close to him and he could just make out the limp body of its passenger. Another casualty in a situation that should never have occurred.
He was furious. The plane, a Prussian Junker, had been one of the last to lift off from behind the Turkish lines and begin heading west towards the Black Sea. But someone, somewhere down in no-mans-land, had not wanted them to make it and the Obersts plane, the last to leave, had taken a direct hit to the right wing and burst into flames.
Frederickson remembered grabbing the men nearest the door and throwing them out into the darkness until something had hit him in the head and he had blacked out, miraculously falling from the aircraft in the process. Now he hung in space, aiming for what looked to be a flat landing space a small distance to his right.
He tugged gently on the steering cables and glided silently through the night, narrowly avoiding the searchlights as he went. Several times the shooting started up again and tracers arced into the sky but none came near him.
The flat space was coming up fast and he was preparing himself for landing when a breeze suddenly caused the area to ripple and he realized that it was a small lake. There was no time to change direction however and he hit the water with a tremendous splash, sinking at once into the stagnant liquid.
He was soaked in an instant, the cold water flooding into every part of his uniform, the shroud settling over him as he fought to free himself, every second expecting to be dragged down by the weight of his gear, then his boots hit bottom and he stood, the water barely reached his chin.
Had it been any other situation he might have laughed in relief but survival instincts ran deep and in a moment he had released the parachute and waded ashore. The only two weapons he had were his Luger and a combat knife, shooting would at least blend into the rest of the racket if needed. It was time to make tracks, and fast, find somewhere to hole up and wait until first light to figure out where he was.
He was suddenly aware of the sound of someone else moving through the air and looked up just in time to see a second paratrooper drop into the same lake he had used. In two quick steps he was back into the lake and quickly approaching the floundering man.
“Soldier. Feet down. The water is shallow.”
The floundering ceased immediately and he heard the sound of a rifle being cocked, he froze at once, now was not the time to get shot by his own side.
“Who is that?” Hissed the voice and Frederickson felt relief course through him as he recognized the voice of Sergeant Tomas Blackthorne, an Anglo-Prussian who joined his regiment five years before.
“Oberst Frederickson. You landed on my chute.” He waited until he heard the sigh of relief before pushing forward to help the Sergeant from his gear. “Did you see anyone else?”
“No sir,” Said the Sergeant as he shrugged the last strap free. “I saw you take a hit in the head and then you vanished out the door as the plane came apart. I was lucky enough to be in the tail when it broke off and got thrown clear.”
Frederickson cursed under his breath. “You have arms?” He asked.
“Yes sir. Rifle, pistol and some spare rounds. No rations or anything else to speak of, it all went with the plane.” The Sergeant replied as they made their way towards dry ground. “We can’t be the only ones. You got at least six out of the plane before you were hit.”
Frederickson stopped at the edge of the lake and knelt, lifting his helmet off and becoming aware for the first time that nearly a third of the helmets upper bowl had been sheered off. He let out a low whistle and tossed the helmet back into the lake. “Bloody close. If and when we find the bastards who took a shot at us, I’m going to strangle them with their own entrails.”
A chuckle came from the Sergeant. “Right there with you sir.”
“We should get moving. Two of us coming down here must have been spotted. Into the trees.” Frederickson motioned towards the tree line, barely visible in the inky blackness.
The two men moved like wraiths across the open ground and into the woods where they paused, the Sergeant laying a hand on his officer’s arm.
“Engine.” He whispered. The sound of a truck approaching swiftly came to their ears like a low growl and they crouched low in the foliage.
In moments an Armenian jeep burst over a low hilltop and skid to a halt, four soldiers climbing out, laughing as they though they didn’t have a care in the world. They trained a light on the chutes in the water and shouted a few times.
Frederickson spoke several languages but Armenian was not one of them, the Sergeant knew a few phrases however.
“They are ordering us to come out, from the water.” He added. “The buggers think we’re still in there.”
As if to confirm his words one of the soldiers fired several rounds into the water and within moments all four were blasting away at the sinking shrouds.
“They can’t know we were Prussian can they? Must think we’re Turks.” Blackthorne muttered.
“No, I think they get it…” Replied Frederickson as one of the Armenians gave a yell of triumph and plunged into the water to pull Fredericksons damaged helmet free. His comrades cheered him as he paraded it around on the end of his rifle. “Yea, they got it.”
The Sergeant hissed suddenly, a warning sound and Frederickson froze in the act of turning away. Dark shapes were moving around them in the woods, unaware of the two Prussians for the moment.
Several hurried past him, intent on the celebrating Armenians and their trophy, passing within several feet of the paratroopers. They paused, knelt, and then rifles cracked in the night and the Armenian carrying the helmet was jerked backwards like a puppet on a string.
Two of the others dove for cover beneath the jeep but bullets quickly found them and their blood pooled into the headlights of their vehicle. The fourth Armenian had thrown down his rifle and was screaming for mercy as dozen Turkish soldiers descended on him from the darkness.
They put several rapid fire questions to the Armenian and he gestured from the fallen helmet, to the lake, and the up at the sky. The Turkish officer listened to him for a long moment and then let out a long tirade, spitting on the helmet for effect.
“Sir?” Blackthorne couldn’t resist asking, he knew that Frederickson spoke enough Turkish to get by.
“Turks are mad we pulled out. Officer says they will kill us if they catch us.” Frederickson was suddenly very aware of just how alone and isolated they were. He had to find the rest of his men, and fast.
The scene by the lake had gotten ugly as the Turks began to take turns beating the Armenian prisoner. The man had curled up on the ground and was crying, screaming for his mother who he must have let only a few months before. They hit him with their boots, rifles butts and even the broken Prussian helmet.
Slowly his cries faded as they broke all his teeth, his nose, all of his ribs, even sodomizing him with a bayonet before the officer finally called them off and put a bullet into the boys head.
The Turkish officer ordered some of his men into the water and they gathered up the parachutes and the broken helmet, loading them into the captured Armenian vehicle. Some climbed into the jeep while the rest formed up in a loose column behind it. At a word from their officer they headed off at a quick jog into the night, the jeep leading the way.
The lake was quiet again. The Prussians had long since moved on.
A bungalow of white stood atop a low hill, overlooking the sea to its south. Wrapped in soft white, tropical plaster the structure was an idyllic and picturesque shape in a rural corner of the Luzonian island. In the near-distance, the softly shimmering sight of the capital of Manilla stood. Clad in sheaths of light it disappeared as light lofty clouds passed behind it across the horizon. The sky as a whole hung with light wreaths of cloud circling ahead, carrying on them the light tinge of salt.
Driving down a stretch of two-track that crawled from the city and along the coast a small, low-profile call thudded by across the loose rocks and sticks that had fallen across he road from the trees that stood bent and bowing over the road. The shadows of the boughs dashing across the wind shield in the soft afternoon song. Windows of the cab rolled down the salty sea-side breeze washed through the car, circulating out the cigarette smoke and carrying the tune of the radio out with it. Local tagalog.
As the car coasted along the coastal rode and neared the bungalow it slowed to a soft roll, and finding a spot came to a stop, pulling off the side of the beaten track to come to a stall alongside a small brick-work step path that wound up the hill. Off to the side an old truck stood under a makeshift wooden canopy, traces of dirt and dried clay miring its side more so than the black caddy that had come to a stop to open its doors.
A solidly built man stepped out of the car. His black uniform hugging his build as he took a last draw on his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and stepping on it. His eyes were wider than any normal Chinese man. His face squared off and worn. He was a man that had seen action. Coughing lightly, the black suited agent walked up the steps.
Waiting for him atop the climb stood a man of Caucasian flair. Certainly tanned by the sun. He was a man that looked more built to be on the big screens. A wide handsome face, his features proud and prominent despite the fine wrinkles that ran dashed around his face. A prominent and jutting chin sprouted from his bottom jaw like a piece of marble. He was if anything, a very Roman looking man, with a certain Russian handsomeness. And he wore a solid Jew's nose that complimented him well.
Behind large sunglasses and under a beaten straw panama the man held out his arms wide, “So the rumors are true!” he laughed, watching the Chinese IB walk up to his stoop. His voice held the lightest tinge of a New Yorker flair, “I was to be visited. So the prodigal Tung comes to check up on me. I was getting worried I had been forgotten.”
Agent Tung smiled softly as he stepped up the hill and onto the porch that wrapped the tiny home. “No, you have not Danielovitch.” Tung said, stepping up onto the wooden porch, “May we sit down to chat?”
“Certainly, what for?” the American asked, politely gesturing the Chinese agent around the porch.
“Normal things.” Tung said, “Like, the requests to you by my department will most likely be taking a larger priority.”
“Oh dear.” Danielovitch sighed, “And that's right, most of your boys are pulling out.”
“For the most part.” Tung asked, “But, Manilla is negotiating an extension on deployment for several units here, to enlarge the long-term joint defense operations.
“I feel they're heartily inspired to keep us on board in the event another Lakandula.”
“Yet they're also still mad at killing him, the Mindanese Pope.” the American chuckled.
“I'm surprised that we managed to retain our original goals,” responded Tung, being wheeled around to some thatch lawn chairs turned to face the sea. Danielovitch offered him a seat, which he took, “Though, there's no admittance to what actually happened on that aircraft carrier.” smiled Tung, cockily.
“And I suppose this is only the start of this correspondence,” the American grumbled sarcastically, looking out across the great wide blue of the ocean. The sapphire peaks of waves rising and falling gently on the warm breeze that blew off their cresting fingers. “So then, what will it be?”
“Whatever is new.”
Danielkovitch nodded softly. “Right.” he muttered, looking back out at the ocean with distant, thinking eyes. “Have you ever had a good cheeseburger?” he asked finally, after a long minute of thought. He turned to look at Tung with curious, questioning eyes.
“I don't think I've ever heard of such a thing.” the Chinese agent said.
“Of course not.” Danielovitch said, “And well, having been raised as an observant Jew back in the States, I never have either. Until recently.”
“What forced you make that decision?” Tung asked, “Seems like a big step.”
“Well God forgive me, but I was in that Little New York part of Manilla today and passed by a food cart, ran by this old bald guy from the Bronx. And we got to speaking, and I decided that having holed myself up on that god-forsaken French island for the past twenty years, maybe, I could transgress that separation of meat and cheese rule and indulge in a cheeseburger for once. Just to be a nice guy, I'd give him a few pesos for something to eat.
“Little NY has been getting bigger,” Danielkovitch added distantly, “In these past few months. More so during that coup episode back home, I don't blame them for doing so. Even I'm not sure what the parties back home are faithful too. But all the same, glad to see a Democrat's still in the office. That's all I can say.
“And, I know squalor.” Danielkovitch continued, “I know there was a sizable community of Americans who got trapped here when the Revolution broke out, then you Chinese cleaned up the place, or so a few.
“I remember back home in Amsterdam there was this place called Eagle Street. Worst part of town, my father worked it as the Ragman, the poorest of them all. It's how I grew up. And even before this drama in the States when I was first down there it reminded me of that. Not third-world poor like I see in the outer ghettos, God, even we have more cleanliness than there. But a given, most of that part of town looks American built, fitting I suppose.
“But, with that coup, if anything goes on in the States to make it worse then I can see it being the second Bronx. It's packed, and no one knows any Spanish or Filippino.”
“And you speak it better.”
“Oh yes!” Danielkovitch laughed, “I lived on a god-forsaken Polynesian island for the past couple decades. Of course I picked up a few different languages to run that pot of a bar you and your partner found me in, God bless it though.
“Speaking of which, how is he? The quiet little one?”
“Shan?”
“I guess.” Danielkovitch shrugged.
“He resigned from the IB the year after.” Tung said, “He sense disappeared. I haven't been capable of catching up on him, and I doubt anyone else has either.”
“Just, poof?”
“Close enough of an analogy.”
“Oh, well. Best of luck to him then.”
Tung nodded apathetically. “Now, Little New York?”
“In an alien, surreal way it reminds me of home.” the American laughed, “Just with more Filipino women than black girls. And not the jazz I remember from the clubs.”
“You see anything in the clubs?” asked Tung.
“Just the girls!” Danielkovitch asked, “But I don't know what's suspicious there and what's not. Remember, I've been kept out of the loop for ages son. If I had to say anything, I would think the whole of the American prohibitionist force would be falling down on those places with a ton of bricks, or the Mafia runs it.
“Come to think of it, those places are probably ran by gangs.” he chuckled, “Just not the kind of gangs that want my head. And I haven't seen any of those gangsters in years.”
“Then maybe we're doing our end of the bargain right.” Tung said with a smart smile. The kind that made the American hold his head back laughing.
“Yes, commendable job!” he cheered, “And I was afraid that they'd come to find out where I am once the US got into this Comintern deal. But not one Vinny the Fish since.”
“So, how are things looking in the American quarter?”
Danielkovitch shrugged, “No one has set up an acting troop or theater.” he said, “Though I've been approached by a few state agencies for my looks. But I'm apprehensive about it, last thing I want is for some informant to take the movie back to the States and go: 'there's that guy that owes us money. There's that guy that owes us his life.'
“, all I wanted to be was an actor.” he continued, “But then you get mad because you're denied work because your Jewish, and you get caught up in the same as the nergoes.
“And now two political factions are vying for influence there. Too bad none of us aren't nearly Catholic enough for the People's Clerical Democratic Alliance, and too American all the same for the People's Democratic-Republic Party of the Philippines. We're just here because it's the most American place we can escape too that won't eat our pockets like Spain, or won't have allies of people that want to kill you like myself, or some magical hole.
“There's no where else for some of us to run! Brazil's like a bi-polar child, Europe is off the wall, Britain I hear just went to the ter. Africa is Africa and Canada no one trusts!”
“Blame Canada.” Tung said.
“Blame Canada!” Danielkovitch cheered.
Ministry of Space and Science research labs, Ullaanbatar.
A soft click and the door opened. Or maybe it was the air conditioning beginning a new cycle. Or some other piece of budget machinery coming to a roughened start. But between the droning announcements over the PA and the nervous pen-clicking research assistants it was difficult to tell what clicked. Despite the origin of the click though stood Shen Tzen as he pushed aside the director's door.
A certain level of sleep deprivation or dissatisfaction with his current priorities manifested onto his face in blotchy makeup like that of a cheap *****. His face pale and dark circles hung under his eyes. He looked tired, old. But it could just as well be the poor sleep. He had lost any sort of environmental control in his new residence in the regional capital of the Mongolian province and his nights were spent shivering in the shrill freezing air of the northern winter. He felt there was not enough blankets to stave off the cold.
Pushing the door to its full arc he was greeted by a rush of warmer air the distinct smell of Vietnamese tobacco, smokier and more grating than any tobacco smoke the scientist had ever come to know. Which, being him wasn't much. He held a general disdain for smoke, it having the properties of otherwise making breathing harsh.
Beyond the cheap tobacco a lingering aroma of tea wafted through the air, reminding him very much of home. It could be said that this too was distasteful to the man, as itself brought grand gilded memories of water than truly and forever tasted like , and the shrill piercing singing of his mother, bouncing and rolling from the edges from too many children.
And then there was, of course, the cat.
He had barely stepped through the doorway when a dark blot raced across the floor to the open door. Tearing across the carpet with such a demented purpose that it rocketed up and away. Taking with it Shen's foot and throwing it out from under him. On a short zag and a graceful save from the restless feline Shen was feeling what it was to re-enter orbit. His weight caught unsupported in the air as he tumbled like a drunk brick to the floor. It was only on quick thinking that his hand bolted out and grabbed the brass entry knob of the door, and holding him up as he staggered for balance.
From behind him, the ambushing cat mewed innocently. Calling out to Shen that it had him again before cantering off down the hall for the next soul whose day it would on.
“Ah, Comrade Tzen.” a voice said from the far side of the room with a ring of snarky pride, repressed under the guide of professional overview.
“Hu Wei,” said Tzen, pulling himself up with the door as an ungrateful crutch. Recovering himself he made the rest of the way into the office, the door shutting with a soft sigh behind him.
The center's overseeing director – Hu Wei – was by no means a man afraid to hide himself behind modesty. His office was decorated with the million gaudy trappings of his own personality. Statues and paintings of cats and a number of sitting and crouching positions, accompanied by equally majestic Tigers no doubt pulled from the pages of any one of a thousand oriental art books. As well, figures of space craft and frames from the earliest high altitude balloons deployed during the days before the ministry was formed. Blown up to immense sizes they filled the empty spaces between bookshelves, and hung alongside photos of the horizon between Earth and space, as captured by rockets deployed in the ministry's earliest stages; all of which hung high and scattered like some imitation French salon.
Several cloth upholstered couches sat in the center of the office on a thick red carpet where a tea table sat laden with biscuits and a warm kettle of tea. Obviously, one of the director's several cats had taken to stealing and consuming some of the biscuits, the otherwise organized dish having been demolished and a few spare cookies sprinkled over the carpet.
Really, the man reminded Tzen of his aunt, as annoying and loud of a woman as she was, with no children but her army of cats. She was feared by the village by that fact.
“You can treat yourself to some tea and cookies.” Wei said, gesturing to the table in the middle of the room with his cigarettes. Tzen regarded his boss with a apprehensive look that was not at all well hidden. “Well you don't need to eat or drink anything.” he scoffed.
Hu Wei was the kind of men that put too much product in his hair. Some kind of alien move to connect more to his children in response to the wake of youth interest in America. He had as well grown out a mustache that he combed and curled in a fascinatingly obtuse fashion. He was the man that too Tzen tackled the strangest looks in the most unironic way and achieved the most undesirable results. From the way he regarded shock and apprehension to his appearance, he would have thought everyone drunk, or clueless. When in all, it was just him.
It was perhaps why they put him out here, to get him away from all the normal people, and to live amongst the mad men who can handle below freezing temperatures.
“Anyways,” Hu Wei continued, waving that cigar of his through the air, “I wanted to call you in to say that I so impressed with your research that I decided to give it to the Intelligence Bureau for investigation and implementation to whatever Research and Development adventure they have going.”
“Investigation?” Tzen asked cynically.
“Well it's not like you're doing anything illegal, comrade!” Wei laughed loudly, “So don't hold yourself so tight there. They got their own reasons, I believe.
“Besides that,” he continued, “Beijing has been impressed enough with our progress to set aside time to launch our biggest research feat since the Orbital Atmospheric Research Platform. The proofing of the rubber nylon blend has convinced them it's time to take our tasks to the next level and put something alive in space!”
“Well, thanks for telling me in person, but couldn't you have wrote?” Tzen said with groggy voice.
“Because I wanted to also tell you you're going to help oversee the launch from Green Island.” the director said with a wide smile, “As an advisory person on the inner vacuum seal for the craft. You'll be going with several others to make sure the men at the launch pad have everything set up right.
“I was also going to make sure you get Chou's stuff ready to be taken to the launch.” Wei added, pointing to a small portable kennel that had been hidden by the door, then drifting his hand up to atop a distant corner table where an overweight cat stared dozily at the two men. “He's the lucky one.”
Tzen's expression dropped as he laid eyes on the gray and black tabby somewhere between being fast asleep and wholly awake. His tail wrapped around his plump overflowing belly. His ears twitched as he drifted in and out of being conscious and not-so-much. He did not want to deal with Wei's cats. It was the last thing he wanted out of this.
“You're to make sure he's properly fed and outfitted, slept, and groomed,” Wei listed, “in addition to exercised and prepared for Earth's orbit. You will find everything you could need in his carrier: brush, treats, and a leash.”
“Are you really serious, sir?” Tzen asked, astonished.
“Damn right I am!” Wei boomed proudly, “We're going to have a cat in space, and it's going to be one of my own! It'll be like having one of my own sons up there!”
“And you're entrusting him to me?”
“Oh yes, you're one of the most diligent men on these team, if not the most abrasive.” the director put it blunt, walking across the office to the half sleeping cat.
“I'd imagine somewhere between here and there,” he continued, reaching out to scratch behind the cat's ears, “anyone else would loose him. And I'm not trusting him to the mail system to deploy him. Far too unflattering for him.”
The car purred softly, its eyes going heavy from the soft scratch behind his ears.
Turkistani-Russian border
The helicopter barely touched down on the soft snow when the two agents lunged out of the craft. Coming down in a drift of snow knee high. The wind from the rotors whipping up the ground and creating an effective blizzard, snow-blinding the men even with the goggles. The moment was fleeting and only lasted for several moments before the helicopter lifted up and flew away, leaving behind a cold breezy stillness. Several still moments persisted as the two men sat crouched in the snow, just barely beyond the border. They sat waiting for the helicopter to distance itself. The slow hacking of its blades growing dim and silent as it made its way home, or to the nearest friendly airfield.
And when it died, the world was truly silent. A persisting aura of serenity hung over the two in the Siberian wilderness. It was now only them, and their gear. “Here, snowshoes.” Ulanhu said, his pack was thrown into the snow, from which he produced a pair of wide, flat wooden snowshoes. Throwing him over to his partner he barked: “But them on.”
Several clasped hasps later, the two were on their feet above the snow, supported by the sinew and fiber mesh of the egg-shell, oblong platforms. Keeping a low-profile the two scanned the horizon again, then hoisting up their gear darted for the cover of a stand of pine forest. The soft cool wind nipping into their faces as they moved along and entered into the vegetation.
“Alright, where are we?” Jun asked, as they came to a stop alongside a barely uncovered fallen log.
“Good question,” Ulanhu laughed, reaching into his pocket, from which he produced a map. Unfolding it, he pressed it against the snow caking the log.
“We got in range of Petropavl's airspace, then headed directly north,” he started, pressing his finger on a small unobtrusive dot at the northern-most tip of Turkistan., “Around here somewhere there's a small town, I believe it's called Ishim. It primarily serves as a rail-hub on the Trans-Siberian railway and could theoretically take us to Yekenterinburg, the former capital of the Republic. From there, we're at the gate way of the Urals and we can start looking for this lost army.
“There's nothing in our way up until that point, so it should be a easy hike.” the Mongol continued, “There's an old rail way linking the town with the former Russian territories down south in Turkistan. But ever sense independence status was won in the fifties that rail was terminated. So don't expect to hitch a ride on any train...” He drolled off as he saw the way Jun was looking at him. Even with the glasses or goggles on, the eerie silence reflected the message of his dismissive silence to the Ulanhu, who had only come to know him in the last couple days.
“I've given myself to look over all the intel on the area.” he coughed uncomfortably.
“So anything else?” asked Jun with a heavy voice.
“Well, yes, our gear. What do you got on you?”
“My Changu, ammo for that, and you met my sword.” he said, “Clothing, some rations, and navigation. I managed to pick up a couple grenades, for whichever reason we may need them. As well as a personal medkit.”
“Empty them out, I want to see.” Ulanhu said.
“What?”
“Empty it out, I want to take a visual check.” the Mongol argued, pressing the issue.
Apprehensively, Jun removed his pack. Placing it in the snow and opened it up. Gently placing what he had down. His revolver he flashed from under his coat. He set up his medical kit, unhinging the latches and opening the lid for his partner to see.
“What's this?” Ulanhu asked, reaching into the kit. He lifted the large vial of liquid and shook it, eying the contents with rapt curiosity.
“Naloxone.” Jun said, snatching the bottle from his hands with a quick swipe, “It's a long story.”
“I bet, but what is it exactly? I've never seen a drug like that. I mean, looking at your case I'm used to seeing a opioid painkillers, but I don't see anything! You got the standard gauze and stitches, the blood pressure pills are odd for sure. But I don't think that medication is standard issue anywhere!”
“That's because it's not a painkiller.” Jun said, putting it back in his case and closing the lid, “It's officially marked as a opioid antagonist. It's meant to assist in the sensation of pain, not reduce it.”
Assis? You mean you're... a masochist or something?”
Jun laughed, a dry uncomforting sort of laugh, “I have insensitivity to pain.” he said with a disgusted breath, “It's again: a long story. Something I can tell you later if you want. But I need that to treat my condition, so I don't break any legs. Or even freeze myself to death.”
“But, wait, why would they send you out here? You'll certainly kill yourself! For all the things Beijing does this seems to most reckless and stupid. A person like you doesn't need to be in the field, or should be. It's amazing you haven't been cri-”
“Again, a story for another time.” Jun grumbled.
“Right, sorry.” Ulanhu said, rubbing at his forehead.
“So then, comrade.” Jun started with a smirk, “What do you have I need to know about?”
“Well, all the same.” he said, “But, I do have a few things. Here, let me show you,” digging into his pack he produced a pair of small objects, wrapped in wires. What looked to be a headset dangled from the end of one. “Clip this onto your belt,” he said offering one of the devices over, “Or inside your coat. Put on the headset under your hood to hide it.”
“What is it?” Jun asked nervously, cradling the brick in his hand. He wasn't sure if it was going to explode. In addition to wires a small plastic antenna stuck out of the top.
“It's a short range ECG-radio.” Ulanhu smiled, “It was put together a while back by a couple bureaus and got picked up recently by the IB and NPCLA for inter-soldier communication. We can use it to talk to each other while seperated.
“In an open environment like this, the range I think can go something like four miles. Just turn the channel to frequency 140.85, it's my own.”
“But, how?” Jun asked, looking at it. There was a number of dials that he had trouble rationalizing.
“That one there.” Ulanhu pointed, “It'll be easy when you figure it out.” he said with a smile, sliding the radio onto his belt and running the head set up onto his head. “Just try to speak slowly, sometimes the transmission can be messy.”
“I see...” Jun said.
“Right, let's go north then, will we?”
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Unrestrained by clouds a moonlight drizzle lit the calm waters with a soft glow. It seemed the sea had surrendered to the warships which sailed like stepping stones on its surface. A stanch formation of vessels with varying roles and sizes held the reigns to this once turbulent expanse. Colossal airships imposed an ominous watch over the ships, casting shades upon an archipelago of steel.
His black boots were stuck to the metal beneath them. The end of his overcoat fluttered with the cool wind, and a gleam of starlight flickered off his spiked helmet. The Kaiser found himself standing upon the flat deck of a helicopter carrier. Surrounding him was a sight to behold: the full might of the Prussian Reichswehr. It seemed to rival both the seas and the heavens, threatening to occupy them both right before it took the land. It was a thought that filled Frederick IV with pride and made him smile despite the rumors that he never did.
Approaching from in between the dormant aircraft behind the Kaiser, and their movement surely muffled by the flapping of Prussian battle flags above him came a figure bearing the regalia of the Prussian officer corps - a uniform as black as night - accompanied by two others of lower status. His voice broke the soothing sound of battering waves, "Mein Kaiser." the man bowed.
It was instantly recognizable to the emperor. The voice was that of Lieutenant General Messman, commander of the secretive Geheimabwehr. "Generalleutnant." he acknowledged, his eyes still set on the ships before him. It was both his amazement with the battleships before him and his inability to turn swiftly that kept him from facing his company. Frederick cursed his disability under his breath, his weight resting on a cane.
"Beautiful sight, no?" Messman conversed, bringing himself to a firm stop beside the Kaiser. His posture akin to that of a soldier, but graceful. Messman was a middle-age man. His blonde hair greyed and receded slightly, with faint wrinkles forming around his eyes. He was the kind of man that was both pleasant and intimidating at once, but in the presence of the emperor bowed his head like the rest.
"To us." Frederick replied. He wondered what it'd be like to stand in the place of his enemies, staring at this very fleet open fire. The best and worst sight in the world, he imagined.
Messman smiled, humored. "Of course." he said. His eyes scanned the scene. At least a dozen ships dotted his view. Above him an airship lumbered onward, a soft rumble made it seem alive. "There.." he pointed out with his hand, "The Bismarck." he said. "Quite possibly the most advanced warship in the world - ours."
"Ours." Frederick smiled with relief. "It would seem it carries all the guns in the world, as well." he joked.
"Almost." Messman laughed. His eyes took to the skies next, scanning the airships above. "I hear the Gewitter is here too -- biggest thing to ever fly." he added. "I'd wager this is the safest place in the world right now, if you're German." A quick glance over his shoulder assured his guards were not within hearing range. "But I'm afraid I bring troubling news, sir." Messman revealed.
In the eyes of the world Prussia had failed to aid its ally in Turkey - the second defeat suffered by the Reich in recent years. To Frederick, it was humiliating. It was clear to him and his intelligence officers that the Ethiopian embassy attacks in Armenia were convenient for Assanian at the least, but with the continued incompetence of the Turkish leadership, withdrawal was the only option. Though Armenia itself was the prime suspect, blaming the Turks like the rest of the world did was a key out of a conflict that would likely have dragged the Reich to disaster. But it still felt humiliating, and that's why he was here, personally commanding his forces eastward - to ensure victory in Georgia, and beyond.
"We're missing one of the transports out of Turkey." Messman reported. "On board were members of the 3rd Fallschirmjager Regiment, their commander included." he added. "All are missing."
Frederick remained silent. He was inexperienced with military procedure. He could only listen.
"Their transport was amongst the last to leave upon the order to withdraw." Messman continued. "The Turks deny any involvement. We've not yet contacted the Armenians, but their offensive on the Turks and the plane's departure were awfully close in schedule. It's possible the aircraft was trapped in the fighting, perhaps taken down." he explained. "Mein Kaiser, we await your orders."
Frederick was not a military man. He was not even a born leader. But he knew he could not afford another failure. The eyes of the world were watching - he had to be strong. He had to prove Prussia was still the great power the world once feared. "Get in contact with whoever necessary." Frederick sighed. He wasn't a natural leader at heart but his towering and broad physical figure could fool the most observant men. His appearance alone was commanding. "Use the Bismarck if needed." he authorized. "Prioritize their safe return." Frederick turned to face Messman. It was a sluggish form of movement, like he turned in pain. But his expression relayed anger. "These men, the Armenian and the Sultan, test my goddamn patience. I want their official word on this incident."
"Yes, Mein Kaiser." a loyal Messman bowed. He wasn't phased by the request.
"I trust you with this, Generalleutnant." Frederick said more calmly, his eyes slowly shifting back to the ships.
"I will not fail you, Mein Kaiser." Messman assured. "And when the time to retake your rightful claim comes, I will be there to assist. Of this, I have no doubt." he guaranteed. "Russia will be yours."
Frederick smiled. He turned to face Messman, only to see the officer bow before him. The guards followed. He stepped forward the best he could, his cane shaking slightly with each step. Frederick approached one of the guards. The soldier, no more than nineteen by his appearance could hardly make eye contact. With a gesture of his hand, the Kaiser requested his weapon; a bolt-action rifle of wooden stock. The emperor took the weapon in one hand and carefully made his way to the edge of the ship, where he stood a minute earlier. Frederick let his cane lean against his body and placed his hands around the rifle. Mounting its stock on his shoulder, he aimed northeastward -- into the sky. His rifle shook slightly, but the emperor had his target in sights; Russia laid in that direction. A sudden blast drowned all the sound for a moment, as a single gunshot symbolized the German advanced.
Egyptian Desert
Julio Zuraban, squished in the back seat of the old car between the rear door, the drummer, and the driver's seat which Claude refused to scooch up so much as an inch, was keenly aware of the passenger sitting beside him finally stirring out of his nap. In his reflection of the rear window, Julio caught a glimpse of his neighbor rubbing crusty sand out of his eyes and was struck with the sensation that he looked familiar. Of course, Julio recognized the man as the band drummer at the celebration thrown for the Ottoman soldiers, but he felt like he had seen his face before somewhere but he just couldn't put his finger on it. As if he were a character in a dream based upon the visage of some person he had once seen walking down the street somewhere. Probably nothing, Julio assumed.
"You were fidgeting quite a lot during that nap." Julio noted, interupting the neutral din of the old engine purring in the front of the car. "A bad dream?"
"It was, yes." The drummer confirmed.
"It suppose that it's no surprise, given what you and your friends have been through lately... Doesn't seem that they're as distressed as you are." Julio nodded at the drummer's two companions dozing peacefully on the opposite side of the back seats. The drummer nodded tacitly in affirmation before staring pensively into the peeling, cigarette-infused upholstery on the cieling of the cabin.
"I apologize but I'm not sure we ever had the opportunity to acquaint ourselves properly. My name is Florian and this is Claude, my associate."
"Heureuse." Claude added from behind the wheel, steering the car north along the desert highway.
"I'm Samel." The drummer briefly responded.
"Es un placer conocerte, Samel." Julio replied, accidentally reverting back into Spanish. Julio noticed that this caused Samel's eyes to widen.
"What was that?" Samel asked, seemingly alert now.
"Oh, nothing. Pleasure to meet you. That was all." Samel nodded tacitly and stared once again into the cieling, leaving the car to return to a now uncomfortable silence.
The Black Sea
The air in the room was cool and still. Lights on the ceiling left the quarters glazed with a white glow, but the silver walls failed to interest the eye. Only vents and signs of age, or perhaps needed maintenance gave them character. A tight-sealed hatch enclosed the room and a constant hum danced within. Frederick sat before a long table. The Kaiser maintained a casual presence - his Pickelhaube nowhere to be seen, though he did don his cavalry coat. The emperor was surrounded by men of high regard, their uniforms and countless decorations to prove it. But he was easily identifiable at one end of the table - his golden beard made sure of that.
A lack of documents on the surface of the table made it clear this had been a meeting without prior notice. The military men gathered there sent forth a silent barrage of questions. They wondered why they were there, surely something had occurred.
"Officers." boomed Frederick's voice. It was a powerful tone. He didn't need to speak loudly for his voice to dominate the room.
"Kaiser." they responded in unison, their heads bowing slightly.
Frederick was more than a leader to these men. They idolized him. Bowing was almost instinctive in his presence.
"I thank you all for being here on such a short notice." the Kaiser began, his hands clasped in front of him. He waited a moment, his mind shuffled. "Our forces have gathered here and our intentions were made clear: To bring stability to Georgia and gain a foothold in the region. But I have questioned myself over this decision." Frederick straightened himself, his eyes piercing those present. "How does this benefit the Vaterland, to risk German lives for so little? We have spilled enough blood for the people of this land. Brave, German men held the line for a people who now view us as traitors. We involved ourselves in this quagmire to be shunned by those we protected." Frederick continued, the men listening intently. "We have spilled enough blood for these people." he repeated.
He was no speaker. He struggled to find words that clearly conveyed his message. But his voice never faltered. He never revealed his inexperience. He looked confident, strong.
"It's time we fight for our own, rightful ascension in the world." he continued. "We will alter course for Ukraine." the emperor revealed. "Poland will fall." Frederick said coldly, not a drop of doubt painted his words. "They hold part of the blame for our failure in Turkey. The more we wait, the stronger our enemy becomes. If we are to ensure the survival of our nation, it is our obligation to put a stop to their growing power." he said. "Eastern Prussia still rests under their banner; they hold our lands hostage. They stand in the way of our own growth, hiding behind the false veil of a distant friendship. But they will be the first to know Prussia does not make friends."
"It makes subjects." an officer added.
"Mein Kaiser.." another stepped in. "Plans have already been drawn for Georgia." he reminded. "We cannot prepare for an invasion of Poland!"
"Plans were long drawn." countered Frederick. "Chancellor Waechter will oversee the forces on land." he said. "They are preparing for invasion as we speak."
"Kaiser.. " an officer began. "This is unimaginable!"
"This is necessary." justified a decided emperor. "A successful nation devours the rest." Frederick said.
"This could be a devastating war!" the officer pleaded. "Mein Ka-"
"Perhaps you'd prefer to stand with the Poles." Frederick threatened, his eyes narrowed and set on the officer.
"My apologies, Kaiser." he backed down.
"Poland stands between European dominance." the emperor continued. "I understand your concerns, but we have little choice. If we hope to exist as a proper nation, we must act for our benefit before the rest of the world. In our current state, we are little more than a nation between the unpredictability of the Spaniards, and the westward expansion of the Chinese. It's time the German people claimed their rightful place in the world. And should anyone stand in our way, we show them why we are an army with a nation."
Somewhere Over The Sea
Rapid thudding filled the air as the aircraft - a Prussian utility helicopter - soared through the air above aggravated waves. The sky was black and only a dim light inside the craft lit the scene. Inside sat Tamaz Nakani, the Georgian warlord charged with providing information to the Prussians in exchange for a seat in power. He smiled, leaning casually on his seat. Across from him were members of the Prussian intelligence corps, the Geheimabwehr. They were dressed in their black fatigues and both men smiled back. To a fool, this was a joyful ride.
"We're relocating you to a different ship." one of the uniformed men revealed over the sound of the rotor blades. "It'll be safer there." he assured.
"I didn't request this." Tamaz responded, confused.
"Orders from Messman." the other operative said blandly. "I believe you've met him." he added.
"Ah, yes!" Tamaz recalled. "Good man." he said. "He was pleasant company, the last we spoke."
"I hear."
"Do you have a cigarette?" Tamaz asked. "The ride's been long. I'm getting anxious."
The Germans spared a second to look at each other. A nod from one prompted the other to produce a carton of cigarettes from one of his pockets. "I do." the soldier said, extending his hand so that Tamaz could pick a cigarette.
"Thanks." the warlord said, cigarette between his lips. The German manned the lighter, setting it alight. Satisfied, Tamaz receded to a state of indifference, leaning back into his chair. he closed his eyes between each drag of the cigarette; his guard was down.
The operative pocketed the carton. His hand movement was slow, precise. Slowly reaching behind his back, he wrapped his hand firmly around the metal handle of a Luger. "Tamaz." the soldier called. "You've outlived your usefulness." he said with a smile.
"Messman sends his regards." the other added.
Tamaz opened his mouth in horror, sending forth a cover of thin smoke. There was a blast and a flash, and the smoke was turned to red mist as blood splattered where he sat. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and blood dripped from the wound. With a soft kick, Tamaz' limb body plummeted out of one side of the helicopter, a hard splash marking the end of his existence.
The room was colorless; a cement tomb holding a simple folding table, brightened by two simple windows facing industrial scenery. It was a room meant for military personal, not diplomats. Taytu took a fluttering breath and feigned a smile. There was no evidence on the faces of her Turkish hosts that anything was strange about her visit, but that only made it seem stranger to her. The entire situation had a surreal quality to it, as if she had walked into a new world where the unwritten rules of diplomacy were alien to her. Her mustachioed host pulled out a chair and, with a flourishing bow, invited her to sit. The metal folding chair was hard and sharp, and she shifted in her chair in order to get comfortable.
"Your government has been accusing us of awful things." the Turkish diplomat started. His voice held a worried condescension, like a teacher talking to a naughty child. His eyes seemed to bulge from his head as he looked across the table at her, and he held his head in a bird-like manner.
"Words were said quicker then they should have been." Taytu admitted. "When blood gets spilled, those who feel they were wrong are going to call out for more blood."
The Turk held his expression solid for several tense seconds before breaking into a grieved smile and nodding. He began to shuffle a set of papers in his hands. "Nobody knows this more then the Turkish people. The Armenians, the Syrians, the Greeks... they have been spilling out blood because of petty medieval feuds for many years. I am sure you have payed attention to the news, yes? They stole what we gave them and used it against us in this 'Revolution' of theirs."
"...So you understand why neither of us would benefit from more war?" Taytu replied. "This here is between my people and yours. We do not need to discuss Armenia."
"Your people have been dealing with these terrorists for years. That will be difficult to forget." the Turk's voice took a harsh turn; reprimanding and bold. Taytu was taken aback.
"Our dealings..." Taytu sputtered, fighting to find the best words. "Armenia is... we do not need to discuss Armenia. This is between... this is between us."
The Turk began to flip through the papers in front of him, pulling one out and placing it on the top of the stack. "I have it here that your agents have been identified working within the country under the guise of a diplomatic mission." he began to read. "Under the command of the 'Ambassador' Amare Debir, your operatives have been tied to the deaths of at least thirty two Turkish loyals, both military and civilian. We also have evidence that Chinese agents might be overseeing similar operations through their connections with the Ethiopian Walinzi?"
Taytu remained silent. The conversation had escaped her grasp entirely. A vague rumbling began to tap at the windows, causing small bursts of glassy vibration.
"It seems like your country has already started the war. Am I to believe that what you have came her to ask, Ms. Taytu, what you have came to ask is for us to not fight back?"
"We can bring an end to the conflict entirely." Taytu raised her voice, cornered and shaken. "This doesn't have to happen. You know this!"
"I am afraid it is much too late." the Turkish diplomat stood up. "Much too late. If we are at war, which I think it was just established that we are, then I have no other choice but to allow it to reach a natural finish."
Taytu remained silent, her mouth agape and her eyes searching as the Turk organized his papers. "Why call me here?" She finally blurted. "Why call me here at all if you have made up your mind." The rumbling in the background grew louder, and the windows picked up their tempo.
"Princess." the Diplomat looked at her with a pained grin. "You're more then a diplomat. You're a bargaining chip."
"That's immoral!" she shouted, bursting up from her seat in protest. "The rest of the world will condemn Turkey for this! Arresting a diplomat! I have immunity!"
The diplomat shook his head and walked toward the door. "The rest of the world stopped caring a long time ago, Ms. Taytu. A very long time ago." with that, he left the room. She collapsed back into her chair. Her skin danced with shocked numbness as she contemplated what would happen next. Too late now did she realize how desperate the failing Ottoman regime had fallen, and now she was unsure of her fate. Would they simply throw her in a stockade as a prisoner of war? Would they hold her back despite whatever ransoms or trades were offered to them, like an emotional sword to hang over her already fragile brother? A part of her hoped that they were planing on ending the war here, and that she would be traded for the deconstruction of the Ethiopian agency in Armenia.
The rumbling vibration that had once been shaking the windows now caused a low echo to bounce through her chamber. It was as if an earthquake had rolled up from the north and was bearing down with the force of one score of demons. She stumbled helplessly to the window and looked out. The water in the canal was moving in fierce waves, lapping angrily at its barriers.
And then it appeared. A battleship.
The steel monster dwarfed the buildings nearby, and its highest points were obscured by the walls of her confinement. Ottoman flags were draped proudly across it, hanging from lines and streamers in a parade of red. Sailors moved across the deck, attending their duties and all bound toward her homeland. A fleet of destruction and death. As the first ship passed, a second one took its place. More steel, more sailors. Each steel gun bristled in the sunlight, jutting out from their turrets and fixtures. Iron threats. As the second passed, a third took its place. Defeated, she could do nothing more then watch and count the ships.
It was one of those mornings, the kind where it dawned so crisp and cold that the sky itself seemed to sharpen the edges of everything it touched. Newly fallen snow was deep in the streets and seemed to explode like little smoke bombs beneath the feet of the folk who hurried from house to house.
Beyond the houses, starting to smear the perfect blue sky, were the campfires of a nearly a million men. For three days the Reichswehr had been deploying throughout the region to partake in the largest war games the world had ever seen.
Field Marshal Guenther Waechter, Supreme Commander of the Reichswehr, stood at the window of the local Town Hall, glad to get some feeling back into his fingers after a night spent sleeping in a tent outside. The winter gear the Reichswehr had been issued for this exercise was far better than the gear he worn during the Swiss-Prussia war in which he had nearly lost all his toes to frostbite.
For three days the army had been assembling as the men grumbled about being dragged away from their warm homes in the winter but they could not deny that it was better than the boredom of sitting in the barracks cleaning pots and pans. Like most Prussians they had felt the sting of the withdrawal from Turkey and wanted to do something, anything, to remind the world who they were, an army with a nation.
“Field Marshal. The General Staff has assembled.” An aide called from the doorway of the Mayors office, now the Field Marshals temporary headquarters. He cast another long lingering glance over the troops he could see, mostly armoured units and fast mounted infantry. Soon they would have plenty to do.
The staff officers were talking quietly amongst themselves when he entered the room and, as usual, his massive bulk brought silence without him even having to say a word. He was tall, even for a Prussian, nearly 6’4 with a barrel chest and thick beard, a throw back to the old army order.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming so quickly.” He began, nodding to them all, and smiling behind the grizzled grey mass that hid several horrific scars given to him courtesy of a Swiss aircraft strafing his staff car during the war.
“I am sure many of you have hoped for what I am about to say, possibly even prayed for it, but let me be put your hopes and fears to rest, we are not here to wage war games.”
A rustle of excitement went around the room and the officers leaned in closer, their eyes shining with delight, their demeanors changing from that of relaxed peace time operators to the men of steel he knew them all to be.
The Field Marshal tapped twice on the table and four soldiers appeared, men of the secretive Geheimabwehr. They handed the General several metal tubes and then withdrew from the room.
He waited until the door closed behind them and then popped the cork tops out of the tubes and drew out several finely detailed maps showing the Prussian border with Poland, Poland itself and several other specific regions blown up for greater detail. He pinned them to the tabletop using thumbtacks from a nearby corkboard.
“In two days we attack Poland.” The Field Marshal was famous for his blunt and straightforward approach to conversation and battle planning was no different. “I have spoken long with the Kaiser and we both agree that this is the best way to not only assist our allies, the Turks, who we have utterly failed thus far, but it will also remove an old enemy who sits between us and the Kaisers rightful claim to the Russian territories.”
He could see relief on the faces of most of the officers. Many of them had, just as he had himself, felt ashamed of the withdrawal of their forces from Turkey, knowing full well that the Turks could not go it alone. The reversal would provide them an opportunity to reclaim their shattered national image and esteem.
“Even as we speak the Kasier is reorganizing our Black Sea forces for an assault on the Polish city of Odessa, which will be launched in two days time in conjunction with our own attacks. I have ordered the Tripitz and our Baltic Fleet to begin steaming for Polish waters where wolf packs already close on what little Navy the Poles posses. The Indomitable will die at anchor.” A rumble of delight went through the General Staff.
“Now, these maps will remain here at headquarters but copies will be issued to all of you.” He stopped, looking at his watch for a moment, then, “In exactly forty eight hours this campaign begins. You will notice, when you check your troop deployments from the war games map, that your men are already ideally deployed for a strike into Poland. You may of course move them about as you see fit but to this point it has all been planned to continue looking as though we intend to launch these war games. Understood?”
A chorus of “Yes sir” came back to him and he nodded, motioning towards the door. “Every man of you back here in 24 hours with your battle plan. Take what I have created, adjust them, modify them, whatever you need. Use your divisional staff if you must, but as of this moment a complete communications blackout is in place beyond this building. All our latest intelligence reports will be made available to you. My personal staff and I have spent years planning for this eventuality, make it happen.”
The Baltic Sea
If a man stood on the edges of the Baltic on this fine crisp day they might notice that ice that sheeted the rocks along the shoreline, the fishing boats the plied the waves, long streamers of exhaust pouring into the cold air. But if he could look beyond them, beneath the inky black surface and past the peaceful serenity, he would find a menacing sight indeed. The Wolf Packs were on the move.
Prussia had learned many things during the Great War and those that followed. Most important amongst them was a simple truth, the submarine was a super weapon.
Research and design for the Prussian submarine fleet had never ceased and while the Prussian high command had trumpeted the building of such impressive ships as the Bismarck and Tripitz they had said little of their submarine fleet for it was a weapon to valuable to reveal.
Now, as the inky waters cloaked their movement, the U-Boats of the Kriegsmarine slid through the depths like so many monstrous sea creatures, scattering fish before them as they drove eastwards. They had been charged with firing the first shots of the war and when they did, the Polish super-dreadnought Indomitable would die.
Intel had reported the super-dreadnought to be laid up for repairs after her first trail run, which only made sense. Such great ships tended to need their kinks ironed out. The Tripitz had returned to dry dock four times before being considered properly battle worthy. Even laid up such massive battlewagons were still dangerous however, their guns could still fire.
The Wolf Packs might be massing but it was a lone wolf who was destined to fire the fatal shots that would kill Poland pride. U-517, captained by Wolfgang Kentz, had left three days earlier and now lay silent on the bottom just outside the Port of Gdansk. It was their second trip to the port; the first had been to quietly reconnoiter the bottom and ensure that the Indomitable was still in port. Spies within the city had confirmed their findings. Most importantly they had discovered that, while a submarine net did exist it was currently hauled up on the shoreline and rusting away.
In fact, the Poles had even failed to set up a torpedo netting around the Indomitable as well. Perhaps it was their belief that the ship was invincible, or maybe they simply did not believe any danger existed. Either way, the great super-dreadnought lay at harbour, safe from a surface attack but when her deathblow came, it would be from beneath the surface.
Somewhere in Turkey
Frederickson was crouched low behind a stonewall, the Sergeant was a few paces away and looking at him, waiting for orders. The sound of shouting, mostly Turkish, was coming from the other side of the wall, along with the sound of heavy blows. The odd Prussian curse could be heard, always answered with another blow, and the Colonel knew he had to act. He nodded to the sergeant.
As one, the two men stood, pivoted, and opened fire. The sharp crack of the sergeants Prussian made weapon drowning out the Colonels captured Turkish rifle, but they both killed a man just the same.
Already three Turks were down, one lying spread eagle, a look of surprise on his face. The other two were wounded and screamed foully as the thrashed in the dirt. The two Prussian Para-troopers they had captured wasted no time and lashed out at their captors. One didn’t even both trying to be clever, he simply smashed his forehead into a Turks face, jammed both of his thumbs into the mans eyes and then grabbed his weapon, emptying the clip into a Turk who tried to run for one of the nearby houses. The second Prussian killed his tormentor with a blow from a rifle butt that nearly took the mans head off.
“This way! Move!” Roared the Colonel and the two men sprinted towards him, diving over the wall just as more Turkish soldiers appeared at the far end of the street. They stared in surprise at the five bodies in the street and then ran towards the wounded men who, upon seeing them, had begun to scream for help.
Four more bullets from the Prussian dropped two more Turks into the dirt, one dead, another wounded. It was a good time to withdraw, and quickly.
They quickly slithered away from the wall, working their way around the corner of another house before hurrying down the street. An empty schoolhouse yawned on their right but at its door, as if set out for them, sat five road bikes in slightly better than useless condition.
Each man grabbed a bike and they took off, peddling like mad men down the road, putting as much distance between themselves and the Turkish patrol as possible. Frederickson had to admit to himself that they looked pretty hilarious as they, four grown men in tattered uniforms, madly pedaled bikes far to small for them down a dusty road in Turkey. He began to laugh. The others turned to look at him, then at themselves and they too began to laugh.
They were still chuckling amongst themselves when they ditched the bikes in some deep brush and struck out overland towards the coast.
A light snow fell over the capital of the mountainous nation as a lone black figure walked up the front steps of the small outpost for IB activity. A nondescript brick building, it looked like any other sleepy office structure this side of the Caspian. And the passing of the heavily coated figure was to the structure as any other business man in the Caucasian city was to his own. The chilling grip of the winter was passing as he eluded its cold searching hands for the warm comfort inside.
"Welcome to a cold Hell." announced Tzu, crossing across the minimalist lobby of the Chinese Inteligence Bureau's outpost, his arm reached outward warmly. He dressed his tall, mouse-like face with a attempt at a smile as he approached the arriving agent.
His advances though were met with apprehension as he came to a full stop before the arrival. The older agent looking down confused at the outstretched hand with a perplexed expression of loss. "Oh, forgive me, comrade." Tzu corrected, lowering his hand to bow. The arrival returned the favor.
His dark-grey hair shone with a silver sheen under the lights of the lobby's softly humming lights. His coat was unscratched and seemless, parted to show the suit and tie underneath. For the communication's agent, he was a familiarity. "Forgive me comrade Jin Tzu," Tien Tzu apologised nervously as he invited the man to follow him through the building, "I have been in the country for a while and I'm afraid no one in this part of the world is nearly as used t o bowing to one another as home. I've had to become accustomed to western handshaking."
"Fair enough excuse." Jin Tzu smiled as he was allowed through the building, "Now, before I meet with the rest of the local agency I need to know if you got any more leads on the shootings case in Turkistan. I read up on the appropriate papers that were in Beijing over the course of the long flight. But if there have been any additional findings since then I would appreciate being alerted now."
"I regret to say we have not." Tien Tzu sighed, turning back to the analyst, "Our resources in the region are negligible at best and we've been forced to delegate the pursuit of any leads to a voluntary area, if anything. Until we could assemble evidence to suggest who would have done it, or until we get reports of additional attacks we're just waiting until something crops up on our day-to-day duties in correspondence to the local intelligence agencies here and the Walinazi."
"Fair enough." Jin said.
"Also, what can you report on the resources of the operation post?" Jin asked as he was lead into a stairwell, "What connections does it have with other administrations and who do you approach for the local Armenian intelligence as well as the Ethiopian Walinazi? Who do you have staffing the institution? What's material resources do you have at hand?"
"You have not had time to review this I take it?" Tien asked as he climbed up the stairs.
"No." Jin Tzu said.
"Well, most of our auxiliary and operation's staff are manned by lower Chinese agents who supervise delegated members of the Armenian intelligence community being broken into the support roles of the community, they primarily handle incoming information and help delegate our resources across the nation's infant intelligence community. On top of that they organize any training exercises with our combat specialists and Armenian field agents.
"Myself and Jung Jia oversee technical aspects. Naraanbataar and Qualin administer training operations and lend their experience on dealing with Western agencies. Gouji is supposed to be associating with the Walinazi and Chung Bao has sort of ended up being an all-in-one. However at the moment both agents are out finding out what they can on a recent Embassy bombing to fill and complete our records on that event, I don't think either are doing anything important to their own investigations and the associated diplomacy that's no doubt unraveling over it; but I suspect they're using it as an excuse to stop being bored.
"Resource wise, we're being kept stocked with some basic radio communications equipment we loan or sell out to the local government outfits to maintain some sustainability. We cleaned out the basement for a armory and we can outfit the entire staff if the Turks decide to hit the capital, our activities in that event is to ensure the safe evacuation of the embassies and coordinate as well as we can as anti-intelligence operatives. But only so far as we can go before the outpost itself withdraws itself and its papers."
"I see." nodded Jin, being lead through the upper floor. The space up here was considerably open, consisting of one large, mass office space where the noted support and informational personnel worked. Tien Tzu guided him along silently to the far-side of the room where he gently ushered him into a side-office.
"Comrades," he said with a soft smile, turning to the assembled higher agents that waited, "Jin Tzu."
Tianjin
Grey.
The old home had taken a subtle grey tinge.
Perhaps it was the lack of use. The sheets and mouth balls had just been taken out and packed away. But the home still smelled like dust. A cold light parted the faltering dust like dismal haunting knives of something that was. Even if they didn't exist, the large home smelled of ghosts, and spirits of a time gone. Maybe it was why it had been forgotten, and a high prison elected instead. It was musty, stingy, and even with life strolling about through the home it did nothing to chase out the past.
As well, the damn doctor would not let Hou sit down for too long.
Fresh out of the hospital the recuperating chairman shuffled about with a security officer close at hand and a cane in his other. All the while the doctor from Beijing hovered nearby watching the chairman's movement with silent inquisitive eyes. Without the subtle warmth of alcohol within him, Hou discovered a certain bitterness that was welling in him.
Or maybe it was the home. Too many things catching up.
Or expectations.
Shuffling with his support across the dusty old living room of the old house he had acquired for himself towards the end of the Revolution he did his rounds for physical therapy. The several days out of the hospital had not done anything to lift the feeling he was still in it. His side still felt numb and heavy. Each step on his left side was labored and a feat in its own to accomplish. Even walking across the room to the armchair set up against the bare wall felt like it was a mile away.
Each step he took on his left shook, and he had to take a conscious effort to remind himself to lean the other way onto his cane as a officer hung by, waiting to catch him as a fell. He would have used his left hand, if that wasn't flushed with pins and needles. His dependency on the man at his side, and the others now in his house was frustrating. Perhaps the greatest frustration he now had.
The wires of politics played elsewhere. And he was swept away doing paces. Affairs were to be addressed, and he was not present to do it. Instead, he was walking, being frail. Weakened.
Finally, he reached his chair.
Turning about, he sat himself down with a satisfied low groan.
"Excellent job." doctor Dien Han said with a soft cartoon smile, scribbling something down on his clipboard, "I think we did well today, comrade Hou. We can take a break for a bit."
"Thank you." the chairman grumbled deeply.
"Yes, indeed." said Han, checking his watch, "And shortly I think lunch will be arriving. Man knows one has been absent from his home when all the food in it is as absent as he.
"And refrigeration."
"Don't blame me." Hou grumbled.
"Why wouldn't I?" Han said, "You left a perfectly good home to waste. I've heard you never really left that office building of yours, let alone the capital. With the access to resources as you have, I wonder why you never did choose to commute back here."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Coming over the dunes, Claude's car pulled off into the sand near the road. The valley below proved that there was an end to the desert. Port Fuad hugged the coast, and like an ancient Bedouin camp made of concrete and steel it seemed to shrink against the two great seas that it bordered; the endless flat blue of the Mediterranean, and the great yellow sands of the Eastern Desert. The Suez Canal cut through the middle of the town in two parts, leaving an artificially-shaped island before the two canals met as one. It was not the welcome image of the town itself that impressed them, nor was it canal. Rather, it was what these places were playing host to.
The long sea was filled with great steel ships. Refitted dreadnoughts from a distant past floated like ancient behemoths among the sleeker battleships and destroyers. In the middle of the fleet, Aircraft carriers of unprecedented size towered above their guard. They were all heading in the direction of the Canal's mouth, as if a vacuum had opened up in Port Fuad and was slowly sucking them all into the straight blue line that flowed in the middle of it. Several battleships had already entered the canal, following each other in solemn single file.
"The War" Julio said, half whispered. "It is happening."
Sahle's heart sank. He felt as he was being tugged by the soul toward his homeland, and his thoughts drifted there. The old stone palaces of Tigray, the green gardens of Addis Ababa, the scores of coffee-brown women who had brought him to climax in it's bright white hotels and columned stately homes. He had watched it burn before, when it burned in his name, but this was different. He was helpless in this; an exiled son of Solomon with little more then a pair of drums to his name. It was as if he was standing outside of a show he had once headlined, destined to watch his old world burn from the vantage of his new one.
"Friends." Yared interrupted the oglers, "I think we should get going."
They turned their attention in the direction Yared was motioning, looking out to the road behind them. The sun caught the approach of several vehicles charging with speed across the desert.
Julio squinted to focus, the gears in his head turning as he assessed what was happening. "What did you do?" he asked the four wayward Africans.
"Enough." Yared replied. "Lets go."
Claude and Julio were quick to take the hint. Even as their pursuers came over the dune behind them, they peeled out from the sand with furious speed. Soon, the port in front of them was growing closer. Those small concrete bunkers were beginning to look imposing, and the town looked like a maze they would have to navigate to live. Their pursuers had decided that their quick flight marked their identity, and an opening salvo of automatic weapons fire peppered the road behind them.
"Merde." Claude shouted under his breath. They began to speed up. Pedestrians cleared the road, rushing indoors or embracing the walls of buildings. There was no time to break for corners, and each turn was punctuated by a squeal and the rubbery smell of burning tire. Sahle pulled the wounded Aaliyah into his breast, keeping her from knocking about the car as they sped hastily down the road.
"We have a problem!" Julio shouted. It was clear; their escape was cut off by the canal, and all of the bridges had been lifted to allow the battleships to pass. Stopping only short of an drawn back bridge, Julio leaped from the car and ran into an operating booth. A battle ship had just passed, allowing them some time before the next one went by.
Gunfire could be heard around the corner; their pursuers were nearly there. Grabbing the operator by the collar, Julio shook him and shouted. "This thing needs to come down!"
The Turk was bewildered and frightened, and he looked up at the raging Spaniard like a child threatened by a drunken father. "No." he meekly replied. "The ships."
"Joder!" Julio grunted to himself. He quickly scanned the small booth and found a single button that looked about right. Before the Turk could stop him, he pressed it.
The bridge began to fall. It was a flimsy thing, consisting of two concrete bars holding together a wood-plank span. Julio leaped in the car even as it began to speed across. The top of a battleship was nearing, so much that they could see the faces of frightened sailors ducking for cover on the catwalks along the bridge. Panicking, Claude pressed his foot against the throttle and sent their car spinning along the road. Metal scrapped against pavement, and by the time they came to a halt their world had been flipped over.
Behind them, they heard a powerful crash. Cement snapping, planks of wood breaking. The battleship had torn through the bridge, leaving it little more then the shattered remnants on either side. They had lost their pursuers for the time being.
Before they could breath easy, however, the sound of sirens began to blare.
"Joder!" Julio shouted again. We need to find another vehicle. Quickly!"
They spread out. Sahle took a limping Aaliyah down an alley, hoping stay low while the others searched for a new escape. Julio and Claude went one direction while Yared and Marc went the other.
Shouting and chaos filled the streets. It became quickly obvious to Yared that they weren't just dealing with police; there were soldiers here. They found a chain-link fence on the edge of a simple cement building. Jumping it, they found themselves in a quiet area. It was a cement yard, dust covering the cracked ground, and random spools of wire sitting next to cement blocks and 55 gallon drums.
"What about that one, man." Marc pointed to a cement truck. Yared frowned. "No man, where we going to put everyone else?"
"The cement part, man." Marc replied. Yared slapped him on the top of the head. The sound of sirens began to grow closer. They couldn't stay. With speed in their steps, they began to flee again.
As they passed by a window pressed into the cement building, they caught sight of a well-dressed woman climbing out of a window. Quickly, Yared ran up to her and began to help, but she became scared and began to kick and scream. "Shh! Shhhh!" Yared shouted. "Don't make with the noise, sister."
She lept down with his assistance. "Who are you?" She whispered. Her eyes darted back and forth, analyzing the nearby area for any sort of danger.
"We're running, lady. Who are you?"
She straightened the lapels of of her suit jacket. "Taytu, Foreign Affairs Adviser of Ethiopia and sister of the Emperor."
Her title caught the two wayward musicians off guard. Marc stared in wonder, but Yared's surprise was much more short lived. "Well, Princess Adviser, we all need to go." She did not argue the point. With the sound of shouting coming up behind them, they all dashed through a nearby hole in the fence and into a nearby alley.
The local offices of Borgia Industries in downtown Tarifa was a fairly unassuming edifice. It stood only two or three stories higher than the surrounding buildings on the Avenida Algeciras lined with its manicured palm trees. The stucco facades were crisp and clean and the sidewalks kept neat. Though it was a handsome enough building, many who saw it were unable to believe that the single most ambitious construction effort of humanity history was largely directed from within its unassuming walls.
Indeed, one looking down Algeciras could regularly see fleets of cement trucks, dump trucks, bulldozers and excavators rumbling down the main thoroughfare to the work sites along the shore of the Strait of Gibraltar. A forest of towering cranes had been erected throughout the city, hoisting length of i-beams and bundles of rebar about. Activity and noise were now constants in Tarifa as construction went on through the day and continued all night long. As a result, sheets of soundproofing materials had been fixed to many homes and apartment buildings as a response to the constant noise. More than a few residents were upset with the decision to build a mammoth dam in their city, but more still had been gladdened. It was no secret what would happen to the price of land in and around Tarifa when the dam was finally finished. For most, noise and a swelling population of foreigners looking for work on the dam were a small price to pay for the promise of their homes doubling or perhaps tripling in value by the nineties.
From the director's office on the building's uppermost floor, one could see clearly across the Strait of Gibraltar to the northernmost tip of the African continent. In the channel, incoming and outgoing vessels had been confined to narrow lanes marked by a network of buoys and enforced by nimble patrol vessels. In the rest of the strait, a small armada of dredging boats dumped mounds of heavy rock into the water as part of an effort to decrease the depth of the strait and make it easier to build the dam itself when that time came. On the opposite side, in Africa, an army of earthmoving vehicles could be seen shoving mountains-worth of sediment into the southern bank of the strait. This ever-expanding landmass would eventually house the locks that would allow ships to pass from the Atlantic Ocean to the diminished Mediterranean Sea.
"I thought there was a dam being built here." The visitor to the director's office commented somewhat sardonically. He spoke with an accept one did not frequently hear in Spain - perhaps Scandinavian given his slicked-back blonde hair. "I see a lot of things being built but a dam isn't one of them."
"This is all preparation." The director of the project noted from behind his desk, working his way through a thick stack of papers with a stamp in hand. "You understand that when you build, say a house, you don't just start hammering lengths of lumber together. You have to break ground first, establish the foundation, pour the cement, and so on and so forth. That's preparation. And it so happens that when you're damming up an entire ocean there's a lot of preparation involved."
The Scandinavian rubbed his chin thoughtfully, golden-white stubble rasped under his fingertips. "Maybe that makes some sense."
"I'm actually very busy right now so if you're just planning on wasting my time maybe we can move this appointment to another time.. preferably never. What do you actually want?"
"I see you have a lot of power equipment. A lot of jackhammers, drills, dump trucks. For a good price, maybe you will allow my associates and I to borrow them briefly." The director let out an annoyed sigh and then proceeded to continue hammering away with the stamp again.
"Does this look like a hardware store?"
"30 million pesetas.That is what I offer your company in return for the use of your equipment."
"Here's my counter-offer: I'll give you a copy of our manufacturers' catalogs and you'll get out of my sight.
"I can't risk leaving a paper trail of purchases that can be easily followed. I need this equipment discreetly." The Scandinavian explained. "I will give you - personally- a cut of 50 million pesetas if you can make this happen."
Finally, the director looked up to his visitor from his stack of paperwork. "50 million?" He asked incredulously. The blond-haired man nodded in confirmation.
"I can look into our inventories... perhaps see what can be spared."
Port Fuad, Ottoman Egypt
"You are an idiot, Florian!" Claude hissed. "A bleeding-heart idiot!"
Julio Zuraban paid no attention to his associate as they jogged down the alleys of Port Fuad away from their abandoned rental car and the approaching sirens of police cruisers. Dirt and garbage crunched underfoot as the two put distance from the scene and Julio searched for a suitable vehicle. As the sound of the sirens and shouting faded into the distance behind the tenement buildings they delved deeper into a maze of alleys between concrete tenement buildings, Claude felt safe enough to stop and take a few seconds to catch his breath. In the alleys, the sounds of police sirens and shouting melted into the sounds of the city around them. Arpeggios of seagulls squawks rang out from the sky as they soared overhead, mixing with the percussive honking of car horns and the sirens. All this laid over that ominous rumbling of warships steaming through the canal.
"I told you this would happen!" Claude snarled, finding the strength to scold Julio once again. "I told you that we didn't know who we were dealing with when you decided to let that scum into our car. You even had the nerve to tell me we'd be fine. Oui, this turned out fucking marvelously, didn't it?!"
"Claude, shut up." Julio ordered. "Complaining isn't going to improve our situation. What's going to get us out of this mess is if you stopped calling attention to us and helped me find a car."
"Help you steal a car so you can rescue those friends of yours from whatever fiasco it is that they got themselves into? I'll have no part of it. You're such good friends with them - you go save them. I'm not putting my life at risk for the sake of some ungrateful negres - not again."
Without so much as uttering another word, Julio continued on leaving Claude resting against the tenement building. Julio hung a left into yet another alleyway and with that ended his partnership with Claude.
(())
Walking down this new alleyway on his own, it occurred to Julio just how drastically his life had changed since he had resigned himself to self-exile. Not even three years ago Julio was a Senator of the Second Spanish Republic. Now here he was: running from the Ottoman police and rooting about in a filthy alley in the rough parts of Port Fuad - trying to steal a car.
Parked at an awkward angle into an inlet of the alley from the street atop a sizable puddle of old motor oil was a vehicle that made the rental car look like a Spanish Jinete. Huge splotches of rust covered the door and hood, rapidly replacing the flaking blue paint which had faded into bluish-green patches on the roof and hood. Its make was indistinguishable, but it looked like something manufactured around 1950. Julio doubted its owner would miss it too badly.
With a hefty chunk of broken concrete in his palm, Julio cautiously approached the rusting jalopy. He paused for a few seconds to allow a few cars and motorbikes to pass by on the road, and once there was no one looking in his immediate direction, Julio swung the hunk of concrete down onto the passenger side window. With a popping crack, the window collapsed into a thousand glittering shards onto the passenger seat and the dirty floor of the alley. Expanding the hole in the window with his his chunk of concrete, Julio disengaged the doorlock and slid down laying onto front seats of the car.
During his visits to Armenia, Julio had heard very detailed stories from Armenian soldiers about their exploits in hotwiring Ottoman jeeps and even tanks during their war for independence. And if the Armenians could hotwire a tank, surely Julio could manage to do the same with this rusting old clunker.
He swung his 15-pound improvised key again, this time into the steering column housing - cracking it asunder. With his pocket knife, Julio began severing and stripping the lining of various wires and then twisting the exposed copper together. Upon coming together, the wires sparked and the smell of ozone filled his nostrils. And then the motor started up - it had actually worked. He was proud and ashamed of himself all at once.
Glass shards crunched underneath his weight as he extricated himself from the car seats and got up onto his feet to get into the driver's seat. As he spun around, a pair of Ottoman law enforcers stood waiting for him. A club smacked into his gut and Julio crumpled and collapsed to the dirt floor of the alley. As he struggled for breath and spasmed in the dirt, plastic binding cord snaked around his wrists and the officers yanked the reeling senator-on-the-lam onto his feet.
And so ended his three-years of relative freedom.
Yun-Qi Quan paced across the room eyeing the transfer notice in his hand. His winter's officer coat trailing behind him. The officer office was cold, but not bitter chilling, not the skin biting freezing that was just outside the ice-frosted windows. The walls of his office were sparsely adorned; if anything the awards of his service in the Philippines hung from exposed placards, alongside photos of his wife and his young twins.
His guest eyed them with a idle, placcid curiosity as his supposed new superior officer looked over his papers. A heavy built person with thin swept back hair. Despite having been out of the bitter cold for more than half an hour is face still beamed a soft rosy red. He half chewed on his swelled lips waiting patiently for Quan to speak.
"Teihou Dong," Quan begins, "I must say a fitting last name, I wonder who picked you up. Fire support? I thought I had that."
"You do, comrade." Dong says, "But not that's not its technical name really. Range support really, as you should know."
Laughing, Quan rose the notice form up, pointing it at him, "A true officer." he chuckled, "So, all smart-assery aside, comrade. So what exactly does this new unit of yours that command sought fit to transfer to me? As I read in the papers, the whole of your men specialize in a PH-77?"
"Yes sir," Dong said with the smallest of smiles crawling across his crooked face, "I was present for the final trials and was transferred as range support for this."
Dong loosened his stance some, yet hiding caution and trace apprehension as if expecting his new XO to yell at him, "I doubt you are familiar with the Russian siezures made during the VX crisis?" he asked.
"I am aware things were retrieved during that time," said Quan, "But for what exactly the IB took I haven't been made aware. I believe I was in the Philippines for the duration of their releases.
"And please, you can be at ease."
"Thank you." Dong bowed, relaxing his shoulders, "Anyways, during the seizure of Russian Republican assets by IB crews a sticky flammable substance was pulled from an isolated Russian lab in their far north. Agents in Beijing and other investigative labs analyzed the substance and broke down its compound and reverse synthesized it.
"The substance was a benzene and gasoline mixture," he continued, "it had a thermite ignition and after reconstructing it found it could stick on and burn a target. Though at the same time could often be scrapped or rubbed off. Our current version, and what we use now, is mixed with polystyrene as a sort of adhesive.
"In Europe, we believe there may have been similar substances used in the Great War, but these have been relegated to reports and no confirmed formula has ever been recovered from whichever side used it. We believe we found in Russia either an attempt to modernize, or recreate the Great War formulas."
"It sounds like you know your stuff." Quan said, impressed.
"I sure do." Dong said with a wide proud smile, "I've taught myself all I can about my new ammo. It's not, shall we say, as stable as a 7.62 and makes for a much more wild, energetic mistress." he said with a sensual hiss, "It's, as I believe the Americans say, hot."
"Well I can't say I am exactly familiar with the term." Quan laughed, "But I believe I have an idea."
"I don't believe it. You've been in the Philippines but haven't crossed with anyone that's bothered to use the term?"
"Well I think most of them were ever in Manilla." Quan sighed, "And I was more on the south island."
"Ah, I see." Dong nodded, "I was, for a while, in the capital. Predominately during the attempted offense. In and around the embassy and the capital center."
"Yeah, I believe I read.
"And well, would you perhaps be at offense for a demonstration of your new toys for my men? I'm fairly confident my NCOs and fellow lieutenants would be interested in seeing what this flamethrower is about."
"Happy to oblige." the transfer grinned, nodding low with an ecstatic, enthusiastic smile.
Shanghai, Seven Nations Pond
An energetic air sparked through the Chinese offices of the Comintern center as a series of phones rang. Electricity pounded through the air as the staffers gathered around radios broadcasting the latest reports from America. Tangible expressions of deep shock painted onto the faces of the gathering crowd as the reports came in.
From somewhere in Washington the newly elected president James Harrison was reinforcing his position against the political pressures, and atop of that: addressing his new immigration policies.
"... And we should not allow the coercion of the enemies of our state that do occupy the Caribbean and South America to penetrate this state!" the president boldly declared, "And that forth right, I am calling to Congress to evaluate and put into consideration a six-point immigration policy against those of the Latin threat. These people, agents of our countries enemy's at this critical juncture must be abolished, to make way for our rightful reclamation as a global super-power!
"I do not stand here now, declaring myself for the ideology of Communism, socialism, or the apathetic affairs of the right. But to define for us what we are and were. To reward those who have earned a rightful respect in America. To put simply, it will be my first mission in many to shine the light on the true local enemy, to show us that it is not the negroes or are in disparity, but a new threat all its own. Which is to say, the Hispanic people's of our southern rivals!
"The Caribbean has failed to sustain itself to the threat and we fear our former allies have fallen to a dangerous trap. One which has come to be a source of imperial in-sustainability: Brazil. We must abolish their agents from home, and deny any more from entering onto our soils!"
"What is he talking about?" a staffer shouted over the radio, shocked.
Behind the crowd, the replacement lieutenant for Auyi hovered over the heads of the mass, picking up the drifting words has they floated gently down. A sudden feeling of despair clouded around him as Fernandez spoke. Certainly within the day the Mexican representation will be calling for a desist for the Americans.
"Our American Will shall not bend," Fernandez continued, "Though we must ultimately, and in the long term, ensure equality to all, we can not extend it to those who have promoted the downfall and overthrow of her neighboring governments. In allowing them access we invite disaster and continued harm to American soil. We have had Canada bastardize our mighty Earthy, but we will not yield to the Beaner!"
Grabbing a staffer firmly by the shoulder, the stand-in turned the young woman around. "Get me Auyi, now." he growled in a low gruff voice.
My DeviantArt, so sexy
It would be quite apt to describe the landscape as lunar. In only six hours, thousands of shells had been scattered across the landscape and explosions had punched craters in the rocky sand. The DMZ itself had been cleared of mines with mines with MICLIC charges and armored vehicle tracks cut through the blackened rock. Explosions brought clouds of dust with them, flaring up into the mid-morning air and sprinkling glittering shards of glassed sand along with the standard rock shrapnel. Buildings were on fire, mostly due to Armenian white phosphorous use. Every once in a while a salvo of the deadly chemical incendiary would be shot off to kill personnel, and the brilliant smokey explosion signaled to all that the Armed Forces of the Armenian Republic weren't playing around. Already, blackened husks of tanks and men littered the backroads behind Turkish firebases. They were caught in the crossfire and promptly annihilated. Meanwhile, more explosions rocked the mountains and spewed up geysers of death in their wake. The rumbles from other battles filled the space if the cacophony got too quiet.
Perched atop a rocky hill was the five-vehicle platoon making up second company's anti-emplacement section. Their tank-like mobile howitzers lay draped in gridded camouflage nets designed to defeat night vision capabilities if any existed - a cheap solution to a very real problem. Their barrels were propped into the correct position with the flip-up mounts, and they faced upwards at a steep angle because the battlefield was relatively close. Their engines had been shut off to minimize detection from any thermal equipment - again, another slim possibility but it wasn't exactly going to be ignored. Fifty meters in front, dug into a series of rocky outcroppings was Abbasian and his spotting equipment. A set of binoculars in one hand and a clipboard in the other, Abbasian crossed off the targets that had been destroyed by previous salvos from other units. A radio chirped next to him, its antenna sticking up into the air and receiving precious intelligence. Abbasian's rifle was propped against a rock, and a set of load bearing gear lay in a pile next to it.
Even away from the vehicles, the smell of fuel seemed to fill the air. It was the one thing that distinguished the mountains from previously - gasoline from the vehicle movements and from the petrol bombs lobbed onto enemy positions gave off a distinct smell. It permeated into clothes and equipment - Abbasian was sure that it wouldn't be the last of the smell after today. And the smell of fire came with it. That, and fire. It smelled like Hell. Or at least, it was what Abbasian imagined Hell to smell like. Certainly it looked like Hell - white phosphorous and napalm could certainly leave their impression. Bases burned and patches of forest raged in uncontrolled infernos. Thick puddles of napalm, notorious in its refusal to budge from where it was dropped, created small fires in the middle of the sand. The consequence of this was thick, oily smoke that created a literal overcast in some places. That was the reason why close attack planes had been called off by both sides. Even if they wanted to, nobody could get a plane anywhere close to the DMZ. Of course, they would also have to fight through the layered air defense. But Abbasian was busy taking care of that.
He gazed intently at the topographical map taped to his clipboard. Clipped to his vest pocket was a red pen, which he used to draw thick X's through destroyed targets. He would then cross-check this with whatever additional information he had at hand - now it was a spotter from third platoon, but before he had the services of a passing reconnaissance plane to verify the destruction of enemy emplacements. So far, things were going right on schedule for mobile artillery. The same couldn't be said for the static emplacements, which had been shelled into oblivion by the resulting duel. Abbasian tried not to think of Goverian, of Davtak, or of even crotchety old Ebrahimian. They were probably still alive, but shots of worry ran through Abbasian's head as he tried his best to repress thoughts of his friends dying. But sooner or later an explosion would take him back into the real world, and he would resume his overwatch.
Another salvo came bursting out through the barrels of the guns, shaking the ground and screaming out into the air. The shells trailed contrails as they arced through the thick smoke and came barreling down into the enemy base. A lone anti-aircraft position was being frantically manned, and Abbasian watched it disappear into a cloud of flame. When it cleared, the position had been disintegrated and the personnel were nowhere to be seen. Abbasian should have felt something, but he didn't. A cold detachment had overtaken him - the enemy were mere targets. They were the wooden dummies in the spanelkerts that were dismembered by practice rounds. Abbasian couldn't bear to think of them as people, and so he didn't. Nobody did. After seeing what they did to Armenian soldiers, he actually thought that they were quite like animals. They weren't simply soldiers doing their job, like some would try to say. They enjoyed the wholesale slaughter of Armenians, civilians and soldiers alike. And so he felt not a thing as the artillery guns fired again, blanketing the remaining radar positions with a wave of high explosions.
Northwest Kurdistan
It was a little plane, with two propeller engines thrumming quietly as it turned low through the mountains. It was painted a dark, matte black, and bore no markings. Aviation lights were conspicuously absent from the craft as well, making for an almost perfect camouflage in the dead of night. It had been flown through Kurdistan towards a secret government airstrip - established jointly by Armenian and Persian forces and with the reluctant approval of the Kurdish government - located in the northwest corner of the box that was Kurdistan. It was a small base, nestled in the mountains. One dirt airstrip faced north, flanked by a small hangar and support structures, as well as a barracks-type building and a motor pool. A handful of people walked about, awaiting the small transport plane's landing. It all belonged to the National Security Service - the most forward special forces operating base in the Armenian theater. The plane belonged to the Special Actions Unit: the premier special forces unit in the country. Mikael Gregovyen stood on the tail ramp, surveying his layover location with steely eyes.
A man in a scout vehicle, top pulled down, came screeching out onto the tarmac. He wore a nondescript set of casual clothes, a fleece pulled tight over his shirt. Obviously the NSS base was being fronted as a civilian cargo airport. This must have been the commander, but he pulled off the look of a low-level business manager. He even had a little bit of a beer belly as he stepped out of the truck and moved to shake Gregovyen's hand: "Welcome, Captain, welcome," he shouted above the roar of the two engines. "I am Colonel Jalal Bizani of the Kurdish Relations Battalion!"
"How are you, sir?" replied the Armenian just as loudly as the Colonel began to usher him into the vehicle.
"Fine, fine. And yourself?"
"I'm ready to get into this!" Gregovyen joked.
"As am I. You know that we're your premier support base for your operations, yes?" the Colonel asked as the driver shut the door on the scout car.
"Yes, yes. You're to supply us with equipment if we need it. I got the briefing in Yerevan."
"That's not all!" the Colonel exclaimed, sounding like a radio salesman: "We're also directly responsible for pulling you out if you get into too much trouble and, if need be, providing air support. We can directly support two CAS airframes and send them into southeast Turkey."
"Alright, alright. I see we got the best to support our operations," Gregovyen grinned. His voice lowered as the car wheeled its way out of range of the propeller engines. The Colonel in the side seat nodded, running a hand through his jet black hair.
"Anything less than the best and you can return to Yerevan with a warrant for Assanian... Treason!"
The joke wasn't that funny, but Gregovyen was compelled to laugh anyways. It was good form when in the company of a senior officer. Besides, Bizani seemed to enjoy his own jokes too much, and was almost collapsing in the passenger seat of the scout car. It was actually kind of funny in the same way that watching someone humiliate themselves was hilarious. The car ride ended a few seconds later as the vehicle suddenly stopped outside of the airstrip's terminal. The driver hopped out to open the doors and let the two officers out. Once they were clear, he sped away to find something else to do. Meanwhile, Bizani and Gregovyen hurriedly walked into the concrete building. The wooden door opened for them, and an Armenian trooper wearing a blue jumpsuit and with a K19 hanging around his neck on a sling saluted. As he turned around to close and secure the door, Gregovyen could see that the rear of the jumpsuit read "Maintenance" in Kurdish. Others stood around the hallway in various degrees of interest and disinterest, looking at their new visitor with, for the most part, curiosity.
Bizani led Gregovyen up a flight of stairs covered in linoleum tile, in the style of a typical airport terminal. Aside from the guns which were probably easily stashed, this place seemed perfectly normal. Down the hallway at the top of the stairs was a locked door with a man sitting in front of it. He, too, was business casual, smoking a cigarette and reading a local newspaper. He wasn't actually reading the newspaper, however: Gregovyen knew that his eyes were on him and Bizani. It was a common tactic, really. Meanwhile, the Colonel moved forward to unlock the door and usher Gregovyen in. The guard glared at them as they closed the door, and then returned to his newspaper.
"Alright, alright," Bizani began as he flicked on the lights. A sand table of Turkey dominated the middle of the room, which Gregovyen looked over in awe. A few locations had been marked with yellow pins, and sticky notes explained the operation there. "So we have been planning out a few operations that you could perform... we've been intercepting radio communications, as hazy as they are around here, and combining that with preexisting intelligence to put these suggestions down."
Gregovyen began to look through the pins on the sand table, moving around the table slowly. He was hunched over, squinting at the sticky notes attached to the yellow pins. As he did so, he muttered out the operations he saw: "Bridge destruction, runway cratering, bridge destruction, building destruction..."
"This is mostly logistics stuff," the Colonel pointed out, using his fat fingers to do so.
Gregovyen stopped, looked up, and stared at him.
"Don't we already have people on this?" he asked.
"Well, yes."
"Who?"
"Teams 2 and 3. They are already inside occupied Erzurum linking up with militia elements."
"So why are you tasking my Team 6 with simple infrastructure destruction. Colonel, this is child's play," Gregovyen stated.
Bizani was taken aback. "What?"
"Child's play, sir. Sneak in, plant a bomb, sneak out, and explode it. Regular Army does that," Gregovyen explained in a somewhat condescending tone.
"So what might you want to do?" Bizani stuttered.
"We're Team 6. You've heard of us, no?"
"Well, yes..."
"And you know - well, whatever isn't classified - that we do bigger and better things." Gregovyen was advancing towards Bizani now, a deadpan serious look on his face. "I'm not a fan of having my abilities squandered on simple things like blowing a bridge on the MSR. We've got two teams and militia elements to do that."
"So what do you suppose?" the Colonel replied slowly, looking Gregovyen in the eye. He was suddenly frightened and couldn't tell if the operative was threatening him or not.
"I suppose we invoke the Fedayee Plan."
Bizani looked up from the sand table with an eyebrow cocked. "The Fedayee Plan? I'm not privy to your organization's secrets, Captain Gregovyen. I don't know what that is."
Gregovyen nodded at the tubby Colonel and began to explain: "The Fedayee Plan is simple. It mandates that Armenian operational forces give precedence to NSS Team 6 while they go about in country, making their decisions at a team-based level. That means I'm free to take my men and frolic about Turkey, doing what I please without any oversight from any command. But while I'm at it, I get top picks on materiel moving into the area."
"You're proposing that we let you go loose in Turkey?" Bizani gasped. "That's insane! I- What happened to proper military organization?"
"Colonel Bizani, the National Security Service is not a military organization! We are paramilitary! The 'para' means 'somewhat.' Colonel, we support the war effort, but we do so in our own special way. Team 6's special way involves being lightning fast. When command is on my ass that slows me down! I have political oversight as well, trying to hit targets to make some jackass politician look good!"
Gregovyen's voice was raised now, a quiet shout that intimidated the trembling Kurd. Colonel Bizani was learning quickly that the NSS were not mere followers.
"So, the military needs to do their job, correct?"
There was no answer. Bizani apparently thought that it was a rhetorical questions.
"I asked you a question, Colonel Bizani!"
A stutter was elicited: "Y-yes."
"And my job is damned important!"
"Y-yes."
"So give the go-ahead for the Fedayee Plan and let me do my fucking job!"
A fist came down on the table, and the carefully arranged unit markers went flying across the room. The Colonel's eyes purposefully dodged Gregovyen's boiling gaze.
"I'll arrange it."
"Damn straight. I expect to leave in twenty four hours. I'll let you know where we drop."