Rostov Region, near Veselo-Voznesenka, Holy Sultanate of Turkey
On a lonesome road stretching across the seemingly endless expanse of farmland that coated the Ottoman frontier, the clamorous roar of a semi-trailer speeding down the asphalt could be heard overpowering the silence of night. Haystacks cluttered the fields on both sides and distant barns stood over the horizon. The road was deserted and dark, the truck being the only source of light, and the only sign of life.
The driver, Mikhail Balashov, a Russian trucker hired to drive and keep his mouth shut sat at the front, his hands steady on the wheel and his eyes focused on the road. Beside him sat Nikolaus Drescher, a Prussian Geheimdienstaufsichtsrat agent in civilian attire consisting of a grey jacket and jeans. The two, who had now been on the road for several hours, had yet to exchange much in the form of dialog despite the Russian's continued persistence.
Breaking the silence, the Russian spoke up in an attempt to get something out of the blonde haired Prussian. "Mister.." he began, taking a quick glance at the German. "Where are you from?" the man inquired in Russian, "I've not seen you before." he added.
"Ukraine." Nikolaus responded plainly and untruthfully.
"Ah," the Russian acknowledged, "and you're new, no? I wasn't informed I'd have a new partner."
"Yes." Nikolaus affirmed falsely. "I needed work; Ukraine lacked the opportunity."
"So you came here?" the Russian laughed. "You're fortunate to have found this job." he said. "There aren't many career opportunities in this dying empire, not unless you want to be a rebel." he joked.
The conversation subsided within minutes and the men were once again in silence. Ten minutes of travel passed and the view outside the windows was the same; rows of haystacks arranged horizontally across uninterrupted Russian farmland.
The German - whose attentive wariness allowed him to spot danger where others could not - swore he could see something in the distance, on the side of the road. Nikolaus took a glance at the speedometer and realized the man was driving over the speed limit. Turning briefly to face the Russian, Nikolaus spoke up. "Slow down." he calmly advised.
"What?" the Russian absentmindedly asked.
"Slow down." Nikolaus repeated in a slightly more demanding tone.
The Russian laughed, "Slow down? We get paid based on punctualli- Дерьмо!". Without warning, Nikolaus yanked the steering wheel and the truck swerved to the left, barely missing a Turkish police cruiser making it's way onto the road to give chase.
The whining siren and flickering red and blue lights tailed the speeding semi-trailer, and a quick glance at the rearview mirror revealed there were three Turkish police cruisers approximately twenty feet behind the big rig. "ебена мать" the Russian cursed.
"Keep driving; full throttle." Nikolaus ordered calmly.
"What!?" the Russian snapped. "I ain't going to jail, comrade, we're pulling ov-"
"Keep ****in' driving." the German demanded, now clearly aggravated with the Russian.
"Comrade..." the Russian laughed, "**** you, we're pulling over." he declared, and began to turn the steering wheel. As he did, Nikolaus once again yanked the steering wheel with his left hand and the big rig swerved back onto the middle of the road. At the same time, and in one fluid motion, Nikolaus unholstered his concealed weapon - a suppressed pistol - and pressed it against the heavyset Russian's flappy triple chin. "BESCHLEUNIGEN!" he shouted in command. The Russian, who had surely soilded his pants, complied with the order conveyed in German as if he had understood perfectly, and the truck's engine once again roared to life as the speedometer began its rise. Not a word was spoken.
Nikolaus took another glance at the rearview mirror and confirmed the cruisers were giving chase. The cruisers were all tailing twenty feet behind, one after the other. Realizing they weren't going to lose the cruisers on a truck, Nikolaus let the cargo do the work.
He pressed his one free hand against his right ear and spoke.
//"Brandt, Nazarian."\\ Nikolaus called over the radio.
//"We hear you, sir."\\ came the voices of two Prussian agents riding in the back of the truck.
//"We have some company. Three police cruisers tailing behind, what can you do?"\\
In the pitch darkness of the truck's cargo trailer, the two Prussian agents looked at each other indecisively. Taking a deep breath, one of the agents - Nazarian, a Prussian-Armenian - looked to his partner with a smile and conveyed his thoughts. "We can use this." he suggested, pointing at a large crate filled with canned drinks. The cargo consisted of an arsenal of weapons bound for Hadrut, Azerbaijan, but the Prussians had been clever enough to hide the malicious cargo under mountains of canned consumables. The decision was about to pay off. "You're a genius." Brandt said.
//"Sir, keep the truck steady; we got this."\\
Brandt walked over to the trailer's double doors and Nazarian placed himself behind the crate of canned drinks. "Gun ready?" Brandt asked.
"Ready." said Nazarian.
"Here's the plan." Brandt began. "I open these double-doors, and you push that **** out."
"Then?" Nazarian asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Then we let 'em have it." Brandt said, gripping his MP5 with one hand. "On three. One.. two.. three!"
The trailer's double-doors swung open as Brandt unhinged its lock and, as planned, Nazarian pushed the already loose crate of canned drinks out of the truck. Fortunately for Nazarian, gravity did most of the work, and the crate slid off the back of the truck, slamming against the asphalt once before plunging itself through the windshield of the leading crusier.
A thunderous explosion of breaking glass ensued as the crate collided and plunged through the windshield. The screams of the Turkish police officers inside of the cruiser were nearly inaudible under the explosive sound of shattering glass and screeching tires. The leading cruiser swerved out of control and, in a domino effect, the cruisers that followed collided and swerved out of control, into a screeching end.
The thumping sound of suppressed fire complimented the thunderous crash as the two Prussian agents peppered the totaled cruisers with rounds from their MP5 sub-machine guns.
//"Out-****ing-standing!"\\ came the voice of Nikolaus through the radio. //"Now get ready to dismount, we're not over yet."\\ he declared.
Nikolaus turned to the driver, "Stop the truck, slow." he ordered, his pistol still aimed at the Russian's head. The Russian complied in silence and the truck came to a slow stop. "Get out of the truck and walk to the back." Nikolaus ordered. Without a word, the Russian opened the door and dismounted the vehicle. Nikolaus did the same and met with the Russian and his Geheimdienstaufsichtsrat partners around the back of the truck.
In the distance, the wreckage could be seen. The Turkish police cruisers were totaled and smoke emitted from under the hoods. The bullet hole peppered cruisers came to a permanent stop in the middle of the road and pierced cans of various drinks sprayed juices throughout the whole scene.
"Brandt, Nazarian." Nikolaus called, and the two leaped off the back of the truck and onto the road. "Get over there." Nikolaus said, taking a glance at the wrecked cruisers. "I don't want anyone broadcasting our location. You see anyone still breathing, you fix it. Understood?"
"Understood." the two replied in unison.
Brandt and Nazarian jogged a minute down the road to the scene and immediately heard the moans and groans of injured Turkish police officers, confirming that there were indeed survivors. To the right of Brandt, a police officer in good enough condition to make a run for it rose to his feet and bolted toward the farmlands on the side of the road. "I got this one." Brandt said, and jogged behind him, pulling out his pistol and unloading several rounds into the Turk's back. A hard "UGHH" marked the end of the Turk as he collapsed onto his belly, his shirt soaked in blood.
"Merhamet! another Turk begged, staggering from behind one of the cruisers with his hands in the air, his uniform drenched in blood. Instinctively, Nazarian leveled his sub-machine gun and let out a burst of lead. The Turk was struck multiple times across the chest, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed with a hard thud.
Another survivor hid behind one of the cruisers, but was spotted by Brandt, who immediately went around the vehicle and unloaded a series of bursts from his sub-machine gun, ripping the man to shreds.
Nikolaus watched from the distance, his pistol still aimed at the Russian. He turned to face the terror-stricken, exhausted Russian and spoke up. "I apologize for what you've been put through." said Nikolaus. "This shouldn't have happened."
The Russian shook in panic, sweating uncontrollably. "We're all going to die, comrade.. I know it. They're going to hunt us down.. We can't get away from this.." he continued, pointing at the wreckage in the distance, watching as the two Prussian agents calmly disposed of any survivors. "I should have known you were one of those crazy ****in' Prussians -- you LOOK Prussian!"
"I guarantee you, Mr. Balashnov, that my men and I will do everything in our power to prevent any harm from befalling you." Nikolaus said sincerely. "All I ask is that you get back in that truck and do as I say. You do that, and I promise you payment and safety after this is all over."
"Pfft.." the Russian shook his head doubtfully, his eyes watering. "****.. comrade.. You got me by the balls." he said, rubbing his temples. "I'll do whatever you say, mister. Just get me out of here, please."
With the Swiss finally out of Greece, the country was finally able to declare independance for the first time in a long time, and, with the help of the British, was able to begin a project to restore Athens, to repair all the damage the war brought to the city. The first things to be repaired were homes, and they were worked on almost immediately. The Greek Army, as well as the remainder of the Brits still in Athens, began to plan out a schedule, which had them finishing the repairs within a month. Until then, the people who had lost their homes were staying in various buildings, if not with relatives in other parts of Greece. Seeing exactly how many had lost their homes, the soldiers were motivated to try to finish their work earlier than planned, which meant shorter breaks, more time working, and less time sleeping for the next three-or-so weeks.
Esfahan, Persia
Christian Brent sat at the table, next to Owen Thompson, the man representing Ireland, who in turn was next to Vasilios Paraskos, the man representing Greece. Looking at the food infront of him, Brent cautiously took a bite, never having anything like it before. Slightly frowning as the food entered his mouth, he forced a smile. Even if he didn't quite like it, he would at least eat it all, as a show of respect. The food had been, after all, prepared specifically for him and the others, so it was the least he could do. Looking at Owen to his left, Brent leaned in, and whispered to the man. "Have you tried the food? What do you think of it?"
Finishing the bite in his mouth, and turning his head to Brent, Owen spoke with a smile on his face. "I, surprisingly, actually quite like it. Better than I thought it was going to be."
Figuring Owen would want to continue eating, Brent simply nodded, and looked around the table. People were interacting all around him, making him feel slightly like an odd one out, but the only people he really had anything to say to were the Prussians, Greeks, and Ethiopians. He could talk to Sotelo, though he wasn't sure how well that would go, and he definitely wasn't going to talk to the French. Figuring he would wait for a conversation to come to him, Brent simply began to eat once more.
((Not really sure where I should be at this table... So... Sitting alone! Hurray!))
"Until another cold winter's day!" Nikolov yelled after the delegate as he strolled to the door.
As he walked down from the altar's stand. Bringing his hands to rest in front of him he strolled slowly out to the aisle watching as the man left through the door. As the cold evening breeze washed through the chamber his two guards began to walk out from their corners. The sound of the door closing was like a muffled bang. And the Cathedral fell silent.
"Was it necessary to be that aggressive to him?" one of the agents said with a smirk. He reached into the front pocket of his black IB-esque uniform and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Putting one in his mouth he rose to light it, but was stopped by Nikolov.
"Bishop doesn't like that," he said, wrapping his fingers around his hand and forcing it closed, "And he's not necessarily any man of power I wanted to see and obviously an idiot. I only hope not all the westerners in this nation of come to such a state of not being capable of being taken seriously."
"Well, what do we do now." asked the one, his cigarette bobbing in his mouth.
"I go back home and inform the others, we work out what we want to do." Nikolov added, "Exact nature of requests and all that.
"And you, you'll go into the Sovetskiy Okrug and meet up with one of our contacts there. We'll get the news out, and try to centralize a little better than before. God knows we'll need a good political bloc going."
Esfahan
Down the table, along side Dean Hong sat the delegate from Vietnam. Munching on his assorted edibles he listened in on the conversation alongside of him as well as catching quips from the multiple topics between Sotelo and the gaggle across the table. Though in the light conversation of the dining hall a certain loud boisterous tone rang out over the chatter. A sort of deep, all too accented French.
Raising his eyes from his dish he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and glanced down that way, to a Russian who seemed to be forcing himself much to hard to be polite and formal. Leaning over he whispered in the ear of the Cambodian delegate. "Can we even take him seriously?" he said.
The Cambodian looked puzzled, "How so?"
"I don't know where he's getting his information. Papau New Guinea in revolution? I'm sure even the Khmer Post would be going mad with war hunger."
The Cambodian leaned over and looked down. His opinion silenced for a second as he considered and listened into the indelicate Russian. Looking the other way, and he easily confirmed that it was at least not the Western Communer. "Very." he commented simply.
"If he's talking about Mindanao," sighed the Vietnamese diplomat, "then it's safe to say Russian intelligence abilities may be much too poor to be of concern."
In Hrazdan, a plan was hatched with Hadrut to start a newspaper for the ASF. In conjunction with spray-painted propaganda and radio broadcasts, more Armenians would join the fight. Already, many were on strike in industrialized areas, and rebel ranks swelled daily. It was only two months into the rebellion, but the martyrs at Yerevan and Nor Yerznka enraged the populace and gave the rebellion steam. Only a few actively took the fight to the Turks, but many supported them with black market guns, free food, and free housing. The radio broadcasts were also being listened to by Turkish sources, who were trying to track them down, and Persians. The signals could also be heard in south Russia, and the the coasts of Poland. With a newspaper, the ASF could spread out more and further undermine Turkish oppression in the region.
With the Armenians at Hrazdan was a former newpaper editor for the "Posta", who had been fired in early April for recognizing the ASF as an independant entity at Esfahan. He joined the ASF, and was quickly put in charge of a rebel newspaper project. But without the equipment to print it, the idea was useless. So the ASF hatched a plan to steal printing equipment from an abandoned factory in Hrazdan, the most industrialized city in Armenia. In the early hours of the morning, two trucks with tarps covering their beds pulled up to the factory. A five man team armed with Polish-made assault rifles from the black market hopped out and covered each other as they kicked down the rotted wooden door to the factory. The raiders quickly spread out in search of printing equipment, and soon found a set that was small enough to move on the wheeled pallets the found stacked against the wall.
The back alleys of Hrazdan were rarely patrolled by the military police, and the Armenians found that they had plenty of time to take the printing press equipment into the trucks. With a lot of effort, they loaded the equipment in, as well as a couple dozen rolls of newspaper-grade paper. The trucks were fully loaded down, as the Armenians tossed their guns inside and closed the hatches. There was no space for them anymore, so they were walking back to base. But first, they had to hide out in the factory until curfew ended at 7 o'clock.
With the moon falling down over the island a certain calming cold seemed to drift over the hospital. A relaxation wrought from the warm glow of the lights that created a comforting contrast with the outside. Much so it turned the halls and bays of injured into a comforting Paradisio for Chinese and Luzonian alike. With the intercoms switching on to the radio, the last hour of light was signaled before the allotted lights-off moment.
In the winding down atmosphere of Cebu Metropolitan Hospital Quan Yun-Qi walked down through the halls, looking out the sterile glass windows to the city-scape beyond. An ocean of soft yellow lights set against the growing midnight blues of the hills and the straight black veil of the night sky above. It was a far-cry from his home in China, where many structures were still kept small. Here, where the influence of American occupation still stood over the cityscape low-hanging sky-scrappers dotted the scenery. Each too alight with their own glow as the last of the officer workers no doubt began filing out.
Major Yun-Qi was still feeling troubled over the lack of information regarding his men. And each time he met the nurse he had asked to retrieve the information she only frowned and shrugged. Take a deep sigh he leaned off the window and continued on down the hall. The last of the night staff was beginning to file out, or to finish up their rounds before the lights were shut off.
On the other-side of the hospital the windows looked out onto the sea. Ripples and waves forming long knives of light as the moon and stars were refracted and reflected in the waves. In the distance sat the dark form of Lapu-Lapu. And beyond that the men he was charged with. Though as fine a scene as it was, it had that haunting specter of uncertainty that hung over it. Though, he kept on down, pausing briefly to scratch and tug at the straps that held his shoulder and its rough cast in place.
Glancing back down the hall where he watched a fellow injured soldier hobble down the hall on crutches he turned a corner blind. Without knowing what was around the turn he took it with abandoned. He had little time to see what was coming out from around. And he jumped and stiffened at the panic and startled scream as he collided into another passing pedestrian. The panic of the nurse subsided to lite laughter as Yun-Qi turned about to meet who he had ran into.
Here holding tightly onto a trey piled with glassware was the nurse from her ward. She chewed at her bottom lip and she carefully attempted to balance a toppled glass on the edge of her steel tray. "Oh, sorry." Yun-Qi said in a awkward start, "I didn't see you."
"Well perhaps you should pay attention." she chuckled, "I thought you're supposed to pay attention to your surr-"
A loud crash interrupted her as the cup she had been trying to balanced toppled out onto the floor. It exploded into several pieces and glassware scattered itself across the floor. "As you were saying?" smirked Quan as he knelt over to pick up the pieces.
The young nurse could only nod her head, "Well I've got a few things on my plate comrade, I've an excuse." she sighed, "And you don't need to do that."
Yun-Qi laughed, "Do you mean that metaphorically or literally." he chortled, picking a few of the larger pieces up as she knelt down alongside him, placing the tray down on the tiled floor.
"You're worse than my Mom." she said, rolling her eyes and reaching out to pick up the pieces, "You know that?"
"Oh really? I thought I was as dry as a German." retorted Yun-Qi. She didn't respond.
"You don't get?" he asked. She shook her head.
"It's something a well traveled Vietnamese officer told me once." he noted, "Apparently Germans are very dry."
"Well, I'll take his word for until I see it for myself." she smiled.
"Do as you do." Yun-Qi nodded. Becoming more comber he added: "Any word on my men?"
"No." she said.
"Well why not?"
"It's difficult getting information out of the military, I thought you'd know that." the nurse said, "I tried. I swear. I went down to the operation headquarters and asked if I could information on a unit and they denied me."
Major Quan nodded, "Makes sense." he sighed, "They'd probably need me down there."
"Sorry." the nurse sighed.
"It's alright, you tried." he said, putting a hand-full of broken glass onto her trey. Standing up he stretched his back. The nurse followed suit. "Well I might as well be going into bed then." he said, "I'll see you on the morning rounds then I guess."
"You too." she nervously said, getting up with one tray with one less glass and many more shards, "And again, sorry."
Yun-Qi waved her off. "It's not a big problem. I'll just hope they're fine." he said, beginning to walk off.
Watching him go down the hall the nurse stood, her finger fidgeting guiltily underneath the tray. Calling out to him she said: "You want to take a walk, Major?"
Yun-Qi stopped mid-stride, confused. Looking around he eyed her with a flat expression. Though his eyes danced up and down her with gleeful excitement. "Aren't you on shift?" he asked.
"Not in ten minutes." she said, "I'll be off then."
"Well, what about me? How am I supposed to get back in?"
"I'll talk to the night-shift nurse about it." she smiled, "I'll see if I can't give you a one-time pass on this one occasion."
"Well, what's the occasion?"
"Maybe we can find out what happened to your men." she said. Though she acted like she was teasing something else. "And perhaps you can get my name then too." and that was it.
Yun-Qi smiled, "Alright then."
"Good. Meet me over by the nursing station. We'll get your coat for something more proper than that thin gown and we'll head out to the Headquarters. Got eight minutes soldier." With that, she turned and headed off down the hall. Smiling wide, Yun-Qi laughed, not believing his fortunes. He followed after.
Roughly ten minutes later the pair were outside the hospital. The Major was dressed back up in his old coat, over his gown. Though his lame arm was not fitted through the correct sleeve, it had been made sure to remain on with the use of the buttons and his belt. Surprisingly, the hole the bullet had punctured had not yet been sealed and was still open. Threads of fabric still hung out seared. It had been cleaned, but blood had already stained it.
Quan Yun-Qi also hadn't seen the structure from the outside in some time. And the only time that was during was on the medical evacuation helicopter flight from the Zamboangna highlands. And from the ground, it was an impressive structure. Some five floors built to service Metropolitan Cebu and Lapu-Lapu towered over the court-yard and surrounding parking lot.
Stands of trees swayed and rattled softly in the cool ocean breeze. Major Quan took a deep breath, feeling the revitalizing salty air. A far and comfortable cry from the choking anti-septic smell that he had feared destroyed his sense of small all together. The town ahead was aglow with a multitude of lights, and strings of lanterns were hanging out over the roads.
The low rumble of cars rolled down the road ahead as light, evening traffic passed. Several light civilian automobiles. Others horse driven carts.
"Come on." the nurse smiled, walking out into the courtyard. Yun-Qi followed.
"Feels good to be out." he said cheerfully, taking in his new, more natural scenery.
"I know." the nurse said, "You get trapped up inside that building and every hour you just want to get out."
"I take it you don't enjoy your work then?"
"Oh no," she said, "I like it. It's just not the place I'd like to do it in. To stuffy. A little depressing at times. It's why I look forward to getting able to walk home.
"And I nearly forgot, sorry. But I'm Xin Lai"
"Quan Yun-Qi." he said, "Nice to formally meet you."
Xin Lai took the compliment with a laugh, "Why thanks." she smiled, "And it's good to hear it from your own mouth and not on the medical paper work."
The two walked out onto the side-walk and began walking down the road, "Fortunately the headquarters are on the same route to where I'm living while stationed here." Lai said, "So it's not that far."
"And you can't take me all the way with you?" Quan asked, maybe over optimistically.
She smacked lightly across the arm, "No." she huffed, almost semi-offendidly, "Not yet at least. Besides, I told the night staff I would have you back as soon we're done. They gave me half and hour tops to waive hospital curfew."
"Well that's no fun."
"I wouldn't have taken you anyways." Lai said.
"You make me feel much better."
"Well don't put your hopes down." Xin Lai commented, "But there's a possibility they'll give you more freedom. They always do shortly before redeployment."
"Well then, I have that to look forward to at least."
"You do. And say, where are you from? You've gotten a northern sound to you."
"I'm from Chifeng." he smiled, "It's nice, though not as good as it is here this time of year."
"I bet." Xin Lai commented, "I'm from Shanwei myself."
"So should I guess your Cantonese then?"
"Half right." Xin Lai said, "My father was Cantonese. Mother was Han."
"Then this isn't much of a change for you?"
"Well ignoring all the churches, Spanish, and Fillipino." she laughed, "It is like home. It's nice and warm. Though it's a lot quieter here than the Shanwei I know."
"It certainly is." noted Quan Yun-Qi, looking about the place. Plaster patches covered the walls of the store-fronts and offices they passed by. Scars from the violent over-throw of the Americans five-years past, and the subsequent in-fighting of the nationalists after. At this level, the battle-pecked streets represented hard years gone. And to him, the ghostly distant memories of the Revolution.
The two kept on quiet for a block, Yun-Qi's hand buried in his out coat pocket where his other sat strapped to his side, giving the impression of having well lost it.
"Takes you back." Xing Lai said with a sad voice.
"To what?" asked the major, looking off from the walls and to the girl at his side.
"The Revolution," she added, "We see this nation's own scars. It's sort of like your own childhood memory brought back to some new place."
"Oh..." Yun-Qi sighed, "I guess it was."
"I was only six when it ended." reminised Lai, "I don't remember much of it, but I do remember my parents being very frieghtened. My Dad always walked me to school, afraid someone or something'd start shooting. We fled north when Hong Kong was about to fall."
"That was in '68, wasn't it?"
Lia nodded, "Then a year later it was over."
"Just like that..." Quan nodded, "My Mom died of plague, back when I was only two, so I don't remember her very well."
"Oh dear, I'm sorry." Lia gasped, "It was Unit 731, wasn't it?"
"She's believed to be one of her victums." Yun-Qi said darkly, casting his view down to the ground, "My father took me and abandoned Chifeng shortly after, at that time everyone was getting deathly ill. We went in-land." chuckling rather darkly Yun-Qi recalled morbidly, "I was told I contracted plague. But he found a doctor in Baotou. And I guess I survived."
"I'm terribly sorry," Lia gasped, "we weren't much in the way of anything like that. If anything, a lot of fighting between everyone and the Japanese I guess. Though, we lost a lot of family to some surprise out-breaks of plague ourselves, but we weren't ever directly hassled."
"Oh, is this it?" Yun-Qi pointed out. Ahead of them stood a large building. Hanging off the side was a large display of flags. The NPCLA, Laotian People's Army, the flags of the People's Republic of Luzon and of New People's China. In addition, smaller flags of the various combat units in Luzon hung from a over-hanging balcony.
"That is," Lia nodded, "Will they yell at me if I follow?"
"I don't think they'll let you be in the same briefing room, but to the lobby."
The Chinese headquarters for their operations on Mindanao was at one point, a mansion. Though during the fighting it had been abandoned. But once Chinese forces came to occupy Cebu and transfer it to Luzon it was restored and made the command post for affairs concerning the central islands of the Philippines. Including being a nexus of recruiting, and the offices of several generals, including those in charge of the Mindanao campaign.
Quan Yun-Qi arrival was marked with the desk secretary snapping to a state of attention when he looked up from his magazine at the desk. His private's uniform was still clean and untouched by combat. Neat creases still ran down his legs and sleeves. "Major, sir." he said in a loud voice, less so to actual welcome the Major than notify the rest of the building, "What can I help you with?"
"I'm Major Quan Yun-Qi," Yun-Qi said, leaning against the desk, "I'm of the 3rd Hebei regiment, I command the third platoon. I need some information."
"You can't be going back out sir?" the private asked, "It looks you lost an arm."
"It's still there." sighed Yun-Gi, patting his injured shoulder with his arm he added, "I only got the shoulder shot. I'm in recovery, I just want to know what the standing orders on the Third is."
"Certainly," the private said, "but I'll need your papers."
The major nodded. Sticking his hands into his pockets he rummaged around. To his relief much of his belongings were still there and he soon produced his service card. Sliding it over he let the private examine it. Looking from the portrait up to him he nodded.
"Thank you Major Quan." said the private, nodding a little more relaxed, "If you can follow me I'll take you in to be briefed on this." he paused momentarily, looking passed him at the nurse, "Then you can return to the hospital."
"Fair enough."
The briefing room was once a reading room. Soft carpet lined the floor and some of the original furniture remained, though stained by who knows what. Empty bookshelves lined the walls and a projector screen hung at the far-side. The shades on the window were drawn down and the lights dimmed to a soft orange. On the wal furthest from the projector, sitting under a tilted portrait of a fox-hunt stood a tattered projector.
Here, Yun-Qi sat alone, waiting for the briefing officer to arrive. From above the muffled sounds of foot steps accompanied the slow lethargic ticking of a grandfather clock as officers strolled about above. the major's leg bobbed up and down as he waited nervously. His fingers tapping against his still knee.
After what felt to be half an hourthe door to the room opened up and in walked a less decorated officer. His coat trailing behind him as he traversed the floor. He stopped briefly half-way through the room and looked around puzzled, as if looking for his audience. His eyes fell on Yun-Qi and his expression drifted from startled worry. "Good evening sir," he said with a smile, "you must be Major Yun-Qi?"
"I am." he said.
"You must forgive me," he stuttered, walking over and reaching out for a chair, "I've been used to addressing larger groups of people here. And mostly to introduce a superior.
"So, you had questions about a platoon?"
"My platoon." Yun-Qi corrected, "And yes, I do. I want to know their current orders."
The lieutenant nodded. Sitting down he placed a small folder on his lap. Opening it up he flipped through it until he could find the orders page. "Third Platoon, 3rd Hebei regiment." he began, "Standing orders are to hold their grounds in the highlands north of Zamboangna and control the mountain passes alongside a Major Fai Kaizhi."
Quan Yun-Qi let out a deep sigh of relief, "Excellent." he smiled.
"It's safe to assume then someone other than you is leading them?" asked the lieutenant.
"Yes, a captain Xinggou Tu."
"Then as the Philippinos I've worked with say: 'God have mercy.'"
"If I may ask, who issued that order?"
"Your CO did." the lieutenant said, "He signed the report. In addition Shawyi did for Fai Kaizhi. So I imagine your colleaque felt some pity."
"Good, good." Yun-Qi smiled, "And, I think that's all I needed to know."
"Nothing else then?" the lieutenant asked.
"No, I can catch updates on the battle over the radio."
"True, but those won't be as detailed as you'll get here." the lieutenant said.
"I know that."
"Perhaps if you get the chance write a note to us and have your nurse friend drop it off. We'll see about sending someone off to brief you at the hospital at their convience. Save you another trip."
Smiling, Yun-Qi nodded his head, "Thanks for the offer." he said, "I'll consider it. But I enjoyed my walk."
Winking, the lieutenant added, "With a girl like that who wouldn't."
Shanghai
South Shanghai recording studio
The chords of what sounded to be a slow, low blues song drifted about in the recording booth in the studio. A low, almost sad blues tune backed by the slow playing of the Rickenbacker of one of a handfull black men in China: Harvey. In accompaniment, playing on a tonal range that existed between the tones and semitones of Harvey was the slow methodic plucking of Chen Yiaoliang. Each note played softly and in the mellow, lose rythem of his drummer Hun Bang. Li played in the background, he too picking at his own Ruan.
The song came to a slow close, and a tapping of the cymbols which ended the affair. A brief moment of silence prevailed and then a voice eminated from the speakers: "That was good boys, but I don't think we got the the second verse on Harvey right. Cho bumped the dials when he knocked over his beer."
Harvey threw his head back and laughed, "**** man, not again."
"Yes." the voice said, with an electric ring, "The rest of you can file out but we'll need you to play that verse again comrade?"
"Yea, yea." the new Afro-Sino nodded, propping his battered rickebacker up closer to his chest. The others began to file out into the editing booth to watch and take a break.
The editing booth was littered with the accumulated debree of a recording job in progress. Strewn across the floor lay scattered notes, some decorated with crude and lude drawings to humor those of a certain mind set. Glass bottles of beer were arraged in a pyramid in the corner collecting flies, while cigarette butts were cast where-ever, burning new holes in the carpet. Running across the cieling from recording block to modified desk and floor fans ran length of track tapes, being wound slowly or being reorganized for inevitable cutting-room floor action. One of these blocks was spinning, rolling out a fresh deck to record Harvey's solo adventure.
As he began, the men at the instruments panel began playing with the switches and dials. Lights flashed to illumination as numerous channels were activated. A set of lights danced about displaying the audio in visual form. In addition, a line on a second council began to break, bend and dance to the incoming soundwaves.
And in all, the whole room was hot and smelled of three-day old, dried soup and lite beer.
"Have you ever watched that screen?" asked Hun Bang as Chen Yiaoliang sat down next to him, a bottle of warm alchohol in his hand, "It's kind of interesting."
"What do you mean?" Yiaoliang asked, twisting the cap off his bottle.
"Jus- just watch it." he said, pointing at it. The line that ran through the small round window began to pop and ripple to each chord plucked on Harvey's guitar. The altitude of its peaks matching the lows of its valleys in synchronization and courtship to the notes played. In essence, it matched the song. At moments it seemed to slide to the side as a long note played and then snapped back to the center as it ended.
"It is interesting." Yiaoliang noted, taking a drink.
"Very." he said, "I'd say we should have it on a show or something. But knowing the NPN on such things they'd excuse it as silly and nonsensical."
"I guess you're right there." he said, "I've only had to play with straight lights on me. Figured it was all we really needed, right?"
Bang shrugged, "Guess you've got a point. But still, I'd like to do a show with that projected behind us or something. At least for one section."
"Well next time touring talk comes around I'll talk to the new director and see what he thinks of it."
"Worth a shot." Bang said
"It is."
Shanghai Docks Warehouse
In other realms of Shanghai, other acts were playing out. On the east-end stood a large empty warehouse. Nestled where the spray of the sea could run upon its walls on a windy day. The large doors at its end sat cracked open, allowing a small green car to pass through its maw. Rolling through the emptiness it made its approach to a collection of other vehicles, many older than this simple 1975 model Qilin. Some of the other vehicles it rolled around next to were of a much older styles, some with a faint highlighting of rust.
The car pulled up to a stop. It's driver side door clicked open, and out stepped a man of aged discretion. Dr Xixen Daen looked about at the ensamble gathered. Shutting his car door he walked up to the gathering. It was small, perhaps three other people were here, and they all stood with hands nustled in coat pockets, seeking shelter from the chill, winter air outside.
"Afternoon." he said, walking up alongside of them.
"Afternoon." a younger man said nodding, "I guess you're in on this too?"
"I am." Dr. Xixen said, "So, where is he?"
"Right here." called a voice strolling up from the far end of the warehouse. His hands worked at each other as they sought to remove the black gloves. His black uniform puffed to guard against the cold, "Was waiting to see if everyone showed as they promised."
"Well, we did." the younger man said, "So why are we in a warehouse?"
"Reasons." the IB agent smiled, coming up to them, "One being I can hear just about ever conversation while being hidden in the corner. Another being a inside-joke in the IB."
The third-unspoken man smiled and rolled his eyes. "That being?" Xixen asked
"Dragons fill caves with soldiers and their horde." Guo Han said, "Tigers fill theirs with body-bags. We roosters fill it up with inteligence."
"I don't get it." the younger man commented.
"And you may never get it." Agent Han said, "But he does." he added, pointing out the other who was smiling and shaking his head.
"Who is he?" the younger asked, "Why are we all here?"
"You are all now partners." Guo Han said, "Much like my own, who is standing outside and was here to direct you to this block. You're just operating as a larger group. Because frankly, we want one. If you're all going to be investigating Seattle and helping the Americans to compile their forensics report on the event as well as dissect VX and fish out the last samples we need a good diverse one. We're also not afraid to have this public on some level, though we're not ready to declare this to the NPN and every newspaper in existence, it's on open-for-questions unit.
"Per your purpose. You'll be metaphorically filling this warehouse with information regarding the bombing of Seattle. By order of Congress, we're now charged with gathering information to learn about and understand this new dangerous weapon. They and Hou want to know how to stop it. They want antidotes, and methods to keep ahead of its change. Because, it's still out there, and no doubt being used.
"Some time ago we have recieved reports concerning the Ivory Coast about the mysterious silencing of an entire region of the African nation. One that had gone hot, but all of the sudden had gone cold. We can't confirm this ever happened, nor its nature. But it concerns us, considering who we believe to carry VX.
"The Spanish as we're aware is violently anti-Revolution and will stop at nothing to kill everyone associated with it. Which has put China, and the whole of Asia at high-risk. We've already been threatened once and we're not intent on having it happen again. And if it does happen, at home or on the field, it's been decided we neeed certain preventative measures.
"Dr Xixen Daen and Guo Cong," Guo Han continued, gesturing to Xixen and the younger of the two men present, "You two are some of the premier medical doctors and have high regards in your respective hospitals."
"But only in a general medical sense." Xixen said, "I don't teach anything specefic, nor do I practice any specefic field. I'm in general medicine. Why would you need me?"
"Because we're not sure what VX attacks. Is it the lungs, the nerves, the blood. The notes are limited and we need to know where it goes. And frankly we don't want to throw a group of specefically designated doctors. Costs too much, and there's a low success chance. At least in this event you'll hopefully return with some possible areas where it attacks so the Americans or we can concentrate our studies on that area.
"And the last two," he said, pointing to the last two. A small balding man, and the other man with a broken-looking nose, the one who had been laughing at Guo's 'joke', "We've Dr. Ho Angua of the university of Beijing and a fellow associate of mine Ming Fa. Angua's noted as being a respectable chemist. And Fa headed the molecular examination of the 'Russian Goo'."
"Which we found to be a mixture of gasoline consisting of aluminum soap, naphthenate, and palmitate." Fa said with a smile.
"Yes." nodded Gou, "And I guess by being here you've decided to be a part of this mission."
"So you want us to investigate a chemical that may kill us in any number of horrible ways? And somehow find out how to prevent it?" asked Angua.
"Yes."
"Easy enough then," Angua sighed, "When do we head off?"
Guo smiled, "Eager, I like that.
"If you don't turn back now, then you'll be dispatched for Portland Oregon tomorrow morning. There you will meet with the head investigator in the US. He'll update you on the progress of the investigation and show you around. Very likely you'll be under security, and if you enter Seattle proper in closed environment suits. From what I gather, they've only established a base understanding of how wide-spread it is as well as filtration. There's likely to be more but was lost in translation."
Xixen nodded, "As long as I won't end up as a Unit 731 doctor."
"You won't." Guo said, "Hou'll make sure of that."
((I feel bad for bumping down Aaron's gigantic post with this piddly little thing, so I lifted it from the previous page and put here so everyone sees it:
With the moon falling down over the island a certain calming cold seemed to drift over the hospital. A relaxation wrought from the warm glow of the lights that created a comforting contrast with the outside. Much so it turned the halls and bays of injured into a comforting Paradisio for Chinese and Luzonian alike. With the intercoms switching on to the radio, the last hour of light was signaled before the allotted lights-off moment.
In the winding down atmosphere of Cebu Metropolitan Hospital Quan Yun-Qi walked down through the halls, looking out the sterile glass windows to the city-scape beyond. An ocean of soft yellow lights set against the growing midnight blues of the hills and the straight black veil of the night sky above. It was a far-cry from his home in China, where many structures were still kept small. Here, where the influence of American occupation still stood over the cityscape low-hanging sky-scrappers dotted the scenery. Each too alight with their own glow as the last of the officer workers no doubt began filing out.
Major Yun-Qi was still feeling troubled over the lack of information regarding his men. And each time he met the nurse he had asked to retrieve the information she only frowned and shrugged. Take a deep sigh he leaned off the window and continued on down the hall. The last of the night staff was beginning to file out, or to finish up their rounds before the lights were shut off.
On the other-side of the hospital the windows looked out onto the sea. Ripples and waves forming long knives of light as the moon and stars were refracted and reflected in the waves. In the distance sat the dark form of Lapu-Lapu. And beyond that the men he was charged with. Though as fine a scene as it was, it had that haunting specter of uncertainty that hung over it. Though, he kept on down, pausing briefly to scratch and tug at the straps that held his shoulder and its rough cast in place.
Glancing back down the hall where he watched a fellow injured soldier hobble down the hall on crutches he turned a corner blind. Without knowing what was around the turn he took it with abandoned. He had little time to see what was coming out from around. And he jumped and stiffened at the panic and startled scream as he collided into another passing pedestrian. The panic of the nurse subsided to lite laughter as Yun-Qi turned about to meet who he had ran into.
Here holding tightly onto a trey piled with glassware was the nurse from her ward. She chewed at her bottom lip and she carefully attempted to balance a toppled glass on the edge of her steel tray. "Oh, sorry." Yun-Qi said in a awkward start, "I didn't see you."
"Well perhaps you should pay attention." she chuckled, "I thought you're supposed to pay attention to your surr-"
A loud crash interrupted her as the cup she had been trying to balanced toppled out onto the floor. It exploded into several pieces and glassware scattered itself across the floor. "As you were saying?" smirked Quan as he knelt over to pick up the pieces.
The young nurse could only nod her head, "Well I've got a few things on my plate comrade, I've an excuse." she sighed, "And you don't need to do that."
Yun-Qi laughed, "Do you mean that metaphorically or literally." he chortled, picking a few of the larger pieces up as she knelt down alongside him, placing the tray down on the tiled floor.
"You're worse than my Mom." she said, rolling her eyes and reaching out to pick up the pieces, "You know that?"
"Oh really? I thought I was as dry as a German." retorted Yun-Qi. She didn't respond.
"You don't get?" he asked. She shook her head.
"It's something a well traveled Vietnamese officer told me once." he noted, "Apparently Germans are very dry."
"Well, I'll take his word for until I see it for myself." she smiled.
"Do as you do." Yun-Qi nodded. Becoming more comber he added: "Any word on my men?"
"No." she said.
"Well why not?"
"It's difficult getting information out of the military, I thought you'd know that." the nurse said, "I tried. I swear. I went down to the operation headquarters and asked if I could information on a unit and they denied me."
Major Quan nodded, "Makes sense." he sighed, "They'd probably need me down there."
"Sorry." the nurse sighed.
"It's alright, you tried." he said, putting a hand-full of broken glass onto her trey. Standing up he stretched his back. The nurse followed suit. "Well I might as well be going into bed then." he said, "I'll see you on the morning rounds then I guess."
"You too." she nervously said, getting up with one tray with one less glass and many more shards, "And again, sorry."
Yun-Qi waved her off. "It's not a big problem. I'll just hope they're fine." he said, beginning to walk off.
Watching him go down the hall the nurse stood, her finger fidgeting guiltily underneath the tray. Calling out to him she said: "You want to take a walk, Major?"
Yun-Qi stopped mid-stride, confused. Looking around he eyed her with a flat expression. Though his eyes danced up and down her with gleeful excitement. "Aren't you on shift?" he asked.
"Not in ten minutes." she said, "I'll be off then."
"Well, what about me? How am I supposed to get back in?"
"I'll talk to the night-shift nurse about it." she smiled, "I'll see if I can't give you a one-time pass on this one occasion."
"Well, what's the occasion?"
"Maybe we can find out what happened to your men." she said. Though she acted like she was teasing something else. "And perhaps you can get my name then too." and that was it.
Yun-Qi smiled, "Alright then."
"Good. Meet me over by the nursing station. We'll get your coat for something more proper than that thin gown and we'll head out to the Headquarters. Got eight minutes soldier." With that, she turned and headed off down the hall. Smiling wide, Yun-Qi laughed, not believing his fortunes. He followed after.
Roughly ten minutes later the pair were outside the hospital. The Major was dressed back up in his old coat, over his gown. Though his lame arm was not fitted through the correct sleeve, it had been made sure to remain on with the use of the buttons and his belt. Surprisingly, the hole the bullet had punctured had not yet been sealed and was still open. Threads of fabric still hung out seared. It had been cleaned, but blood had already stained it.
Quan Yun-Qi also hadn't seen the structure from the outside in some time. And the only time that was during was on the medical evacuation helicopter flight from the Zamboangna highlands. And from the ground, it was an impressive structure. Some five floors built to service Metropolitan Cebu and Lapu-Lapu towered over the court-yard and surrounding parking lot.
Stands of trees swayed and rattled softly in the cool ocean breeze. Major Quan took a deep breath, feeling the revitalizing salty air. A far and comfortable cry from the choking anti-septic smell that he had feared destroyed his sense of small all together. The town ahead was aglow with a multitude of lights, and strings of lanterns were hanging out over the roads.
The low rumble of cars rolled down the road ahead as light, evening traffic passed. Several light civilian automobiles. Others horse driven carts.
"Come on." the nurse smiled, walking out into the courtyard. Yun-Qi followed.
"Feels good to be out." he said cheerfully, taking in his new, more natural scenery.
"I know." the nurse said, "You get trapped up inside that building and every hour you just want to get out."
"I take it you don't enjoy your work then?"
"Oh no," she said, "I like it. It's just not the place I'd like to do it in. To stuffy. A little depressing at times. It's why I look forward to getting able to walk home.
"And I nearly forgot, sorry. But I'm Xin Lai"
"Quan Yun-Qi." he said, "Nice to formally meet you."
Xin Lai took the compliment with a laugh, "Why thanks." she smiled, "And it's good to hear it from your own mouth and not on the medical paper work."
The two walked out onto the side-walk and began walking down the road, "Fortunately the headquarters are on the same route to where I'm living while stationed here." Lai said, "So it's not that far."
"And you can't take me all the way with you?" Quan asked, maybe over optimistically.
She smacked lightly across the arm, "No." she huffed, almost semi-offendidly, "Not yet at least. Besides, I told the night staff I would have you back as soon we're done. They gave me half and hour tops to waive hospital curfew."
"Well that's no fun."
"I wouldn't have taken you anyways." Lai said.
"You make me feel much better."
"Well don't put your hopes down." Xin Lai commented, "But there's a possibility they'll give you more freedom. They always do shortly before redeployment."
"Well then, I have that to look forward to at least."
"You do. And say, where are you from? You've gotten a northern sound to you."
"I'm from Chifeng." he smiled, "It's nice, though not as good as it is here this time of year."
"I bet." Xin Lai commented, "I'm from Shanwei myself."
"So should I guess your Cantonese then?"
"Half right." Xin Lai said, "My father was Cantonese. Mother was Han."
"Then this isn't much of a change for you?"
"Well ignoring all the churches, Spanish, and Fillipino." she laughed, "It is like home. It's nice and warm. Though it's a lot quieter here than the Shanwei I know."
"It certainly is." noted Quan Yun-Qi, looking about the place. Plaster patches covered the walls of the store-fronts and offices they passed by. Scars from the violent over-throw of the Americans five-years past, and the subsequent in-fighting of the nationalists after. At this level, the battle-pecked streets represented hard years gone. And to him, the ghostly distant memories of the Revolution.
The two kept on quiet for a block, Yun-Qi's hand buried in his out coat pocket where his other sat strapped to his side, giving the impression of having well lost it.
"Takes you back." Xing Lai said with a sad voice.
"To what?" asked the major, looking off from the walls and to the girl at his side.
"The Revolution," she added, "We see this nation's own scars. It's sort of like your own childhood memory brought back to some new place."
"Oh..." Yun-Qi sighed, "I guess it was."
"I was only six when it ended." reminised Lai, "I don't remember much of it, but I do remember my parents being very frieghtened. My Dad always walked me to school, afraid someone or something'd start shooting. We fled north when Hong Kong was about to fall."
"That was in '68, wasn't it?"
Lia nodded, "Then a year later it was over."
"Just like that..." Quan nodded, "My Mom died of plague, back when I was only two, so I don't remember her very well."
"Oh dear, I'm sorry." Lia gasped, "It was Unit 731, wasn't it?"
"She's believed to be one of her victums." Yun-Qi said darkly, casting his view down to the ground, "My father took me and abandoned Chifeng shortly after, at that time everyone was getting deathly ill. We went in-land." chuckling rather darkly Yun-Qi recalled morbidly, "I was told I contracted plague. But he found a doctor in Baotou. And I guess I survived."
"I'm terribly sorry," Lia gasped, "we weren't much in the way of anything like that. If anything, a lot of fighting between everyone and the Japanese I guess. Though, we lost a lot of family to some surprise out-breaks of plague ourselves, but we weren't ever directly hassled."
"Oh, is this it?" Yun-Qi pointed out. Ahead of them stood a large building. Hanging off the side was a large display of flags. The NPCLA, Laotian People's Army, the flags of the People's Republic of Luzon and of New People's China. In addition, smaller flags of the various combat units in Luzon hung from a over-hanging balcony.
"That is," Lia nodded, "Will they yell at me if I follow?"
"I don't think they'll let you be in the same briefing room, but to the lobby."
The Chinese headquarters for their operations on Mindanao was at one point, a mansion. Though during the fighting it had been abandoned. But once Chinese forces came to occupy Cebu and transfer it to Luzon it was restored and made the command post for affairs concerning the central islands of the Philippines. Including being a nexus of recruiting, and the offices of several generals, including those in charge of the Mindanao campaign.
Quan Yun-Qi arrival was marked with the desk secretary snapping to a state of attention when he looked up from his magazine at the desk. His private's uniform was still clean and untouched by combat. Neat creases still ran down his legs and sleeves. "Major, sir." he said in a loud voice, less so to actual welcome the Major than notify the rest of the building, "What can I help you with?"
"I'm Major Quan Yun-Qi," Yun-Qi said, leaning against the desk, "I'm of the 3rd Hebei regiment, I command the third platoon. I need some information."
"You can't be going back out sir?" the private asked, "It looks you lost an arm."
"It's still there." sighed Yun-Gi, patting his injured shoulder with his arm he added, "I only got the shoulder shot. I'm in recovery, I just want to know what the standing orders on the Third is."
"Certainly," the private said, "but I'll need your papers."
The major nodded. Sticking his hands into his pockets he rummaged around. To his relief much of his belongings were still there and he soon produced his service card. Sliding it over he let the private examine it. Looking from the portrait up to him he nodded.
"Thank you Major Quan." said the private, nodding a little more relaxed, "If you can follow me I'll take you in to be briefed on this." he paused momentarily, looking passed him at the nurse, "Then you can return to the hospital."
"Fair enough."
The briefing room was once a reading room. Soft carpet lined the floor and some of the original furniture remained, though stained by who knows what. Empty bookshelves lined the walls and a projector screen hung at the far-side. The shades on the window were drawn down and the lights dimmed to a soft orange. On the wal furthest from the projector, sitting under a tilted portrait of a fox-hunt stood a tattered projector.
Here, Yun-Qi sat alone, waiting for the briefing officer to arrive. From above the muffled sounds of foot steps accompanied the slow lethargic ticking of a grandfather clock as officers strolled about above. the major's leg bobbed up and down as he waited nervously. His fingers tapping against his still knee.
After what felt to be half an hourthe door to the room opened up and in walked a less decorated officer. His coat trailing behind him as he traversed the floor. He stopped briefly half-way through the room and looked around puzzled, as if looking for his audience. His eyes fell on Yun-Qi and his expression drifted from startled worry. "Good evening sir," he said with a smile, "you must be Major Yun-Qi?"
"I am." he said.
"You must forgive me," he stuttered, walking over and reaching out for a chair, "I've been used to addressing larger groups of people here. And mostly to introduce a superior.
"So, you had questions about a platoon?"
"My platoon." Yun-Qi corrected, "And yes, I do. I want to know their current orders."
The lieutenant nodded. Sitting down he placed a small folder on his lap. Opening it up he flipped through it until he could find the orders page. "Third Platoon, 3rd Hebei regiment." he began, "Standing orders are to hold their grounds in the highlands north of Zamboangna and control the mountain passes alongside a Major Fai Kaizhi."
Quan Yun-Qi let out a deep sigh of relief, "Excellent." he smiled.
"It's safe to assume then someone other than you is leading them?" asked the lieutenant.
"Yes, a captain Xinggou Tu."
"Then as the Philippinos I've worked with say: 'God have mercy.'"
"If I may ask, who issued that order?"
"Your CO did." the lieutenant said, "He signed the report. In addition Shawyi did for Fai Kaizhi. So I imagine your colleaque felt some pity."
"Good, good." Yun-Qi smiled, "And, I think that's all I needed to know."
"Nothing else then?" the lieutenant asked.
"No, I can catch updates on the battle over the radio."
"True, but those won't be as detailed as you'll get here." the lieutenant said.
"I know that."
"Perhaps if you get the chance write a note to us and have your nurse friend drop it off. We'll see about sending someone off to brief you at the hospital at their convience. Save you another trip."
Smiling, Yun-Qi nodded his head, "Thanks for the offer." he said, "I'll consider it. But I enjoyed my walk."
Winking, the lieutenant added, "With a girl like that who wouldn't."
Shanghai Docks Warehouse
In other realms of Shanghai, other acts were playing out. On the east-end stood a large empty warehouse. Nestled where the spray of the sea could run upon its walls on a windy day. The large doors at its end sat cracked open, allowing a small green car to pass through its maw. Rolling through the emptiness it made its approach to a collection of other vehicles, many older than this simple 1975 model Qilin. Some of the other vehicles it rolled around next to were of a much older styles, some with a faint highlighting of rust.
The car pulled up to a stop. It's driver side door clicked open, and out stepped a man of aged discretion. Dr Xixen Daen looked about at the ensamble gathered. Shutting his car door he walked up to the gathering. It was small, perhaps three other people were here, and they all stood with hands nustled in coat pockets, seeking shelter from the chill, winter air outside.
"Afternoon." he said, walking up alongside of them.
"Afternoon." a younger man said nodding, "I guess you're in on this too?"
"I am." Dr. Xixen said, "So, where is he?"
"Right here." called a voice strolling up from the far end of the warehouse. His hands worked at each other as they sought to remove the black gloves. His black uniform puffed to guard against the cold, "Was waiting to see if everyone showed as they promised."
"Well, we did." the younger man said, "So why are we in a warehouse?"
"Reasons." the IB agent smiled, coming up to them, "One being I can hear just about ever conversation while being hidden in the corner. Another being a inside-joke in the IB."
The third-unspoken man smiled and rolled his eyes. "That being?" Xixen asked
"Dragons fill caves with soldiers and their horde." Guo Han said, "Tigers fill theirs with body-bags. We roosters fill it up with inteligence."
"I don't get it." the younger man commented.
"And you may never get it." Agent Han said, "But he does." he added, pointing out the other who was smiling and shaking his head.
"Who is he?" the younger asked, "Why are we all here?"
"You are all now partners." Guo Han said, "Much like my own, who is standing outside and was here to direct you to this block. You're just operating as a larger group. Because frankly, we want one. If you're all going to be investigating Seattle and helping the Americans to compile their forensics report on the event as well as dissect VX and fish out the last samples we need a good diverse one. We're also not afraid to have this public on some level, though we're not ready to declare this to the NPN and every newspaper in existence, it's on open-for-questions unit.
"Per your purpose. You'll be metaphorically filling this warehouse with information regarding the bombing of Seattle. By order of Congress, we're now charged with gathering information to learn about and understand this new dangerous weapon. They and Hou want to know how to stop it. They want antidotes, and methods to keep ahead of its change. Because, it's still out there, and no doubt being used.
"Some time ago we have recieved reports concerning the Ivory Coast about the mysterious silencing of an entire region of the African nation. One that had gone hot, but all of the sudden had gone cold. We can't confirm this ever happened, nor its nature. But it concerns us, considering who we believe to carry VX.
"The Spanish as we're aware is violently anti-Revolution and will stop at nothing to kill everyone associated with it. Which has put China, and the whole of Asia at high-risk. We've already been threatened once and we're not intent on having it happen again. And if it does happen, at home or on the field, it's been decided we neeed certain preventative measures.
"Dr Xixen Daen and Guo Cong," Guo Han continued, gesturing to Xixen and the younger of the two men present, "You two are some of the premier medical doctors and have high regards in your respective hospitals."
"But only in a general medical sense." Xixen said, "I don't teach anything specefic, nor do I practice any specefic field. I'm in general medicine. Why would you need me?"
"Because we're not sure what VX attacks. Is it the lungs, the nerves, the blood. The notes are limited and we need to know where it goes. And frankly we don't want to throw a group of specefically designated doctors. Costs too much, and there's a low success chance. At least in this event you'll hopefully return with some possible areas where it attacks so the Americans or we can concentrate our studies on that area.
"And the last two," he said, pointing to the last two. A small balding man, and the other man with a broken-looking nose, the one who had been laughing at Guo's 'joke', "We've Dr. Ho Angua of the university of Beijing and a fellow associate of mine Ming Fa. Angua's noted as being a respectable chemist. And Fa headed the molecular examination of the 'Russian Goo'."
"Which we found to be a mixture of gasoline consisting of aluminum soap, naphthenate, and palmitate." Fa said with a smile.
"Yes." nodded Gou, "And I guess by being here you've decided to be a part of this mission."
"So you want us to investigate a chemical that may kill us in any number of horrible ways? And somehow find out how to prevent it?" asked Angua.
"Yes."
"Easy enough then," Angua sighed, "When do we head off?"
Guo smiled, "Eager, I like that.
"If you don't turn back now, then you'll be dispatched for Portland Oregon tomorrow morning. There you will meet with the head investigator in the US. He'll update you on the progress of the investigation and show you around. Very likely you'll be under security, and if you enter Seattle proper in closed environment suits. From what I gather, they've only established a base understanding of how wide-spread it is as well as filtration. There's likely to be more but was lost in translation."
Xixen nodded, "As long as I won't end up as a Unit 731 doctor."
"You won't." Guo said, "Hou'll make sure of that."
))
Esfahan, Persia
Upon hearing the Frederick essentially demand an end to Spanish aid to the Italian resistance, Alfonso Sotelo produced an unrepressed snerk, letting nearby diners onto how he felt about Frederick's misconceptions about the European status quo.
"My apologies, Kaiser. I had a bit of a... cough there; quite embarassing, I'll admit." Sotelo apolgized with a dishonest smile. "But I don't see how on Earth Spanish and the Iberian League's efforts to rebuild Italy into the functioning state would be in any way detrimental to the Prussian people. Would you really prefer having an unstable tyrant with the reigns on the fifth or sixth largest army in Europe running about? I assure you, Kaiser, the Prussian people have nothing to fear from Spanish support of the Roman resistance."
The men all nodded at each other, all of them dressed in military fatigues. Speech at this point was useless, the wind made sure of that. They all took one last strong tug at the rope tied around their waists and stepped into metaphorical hell. The wind would whip at any exposed skin, sucking the wind from your lungs. The rain stung as it hit bodies, coming down in a torrent. The men in a row stepped into the street, water nearly pulling them away. The point man grabbed a foothold in the street, the water swerving around his legs. He climbed up through the window of a nearby bus, staying stuck in the street. He waited as the rest of the line moved along, four other men.
The point man, named Jackson struggled to climb up the slick steel of the abandoned bus with shattered windows sitting in the street, as a buffer against the rain swept streets. Jackson waited for his three other men to carefully climb into the bus to, and moved to the far end of it. Their objective at the end of the street. A tank was stuck in the street, wedged between two cars. Their objective was to rescue the military personal stuck inside the metal beast. Jackson climbed out the front when a massive gust of wind hit him, plastering him against the front of the bus. He waited a moment, and took a testing step out, grabbing a foothold. He had a few seconds where he was free of any support, just him standing in the flooded streets, fear rushed into him as he grabbed a nearby car for support, working his way along the side.
After ping ponging between cars Jackson and his men reached the tank. They moved into action, Jackson was secured and supported onto the top of the tank, where he used the cannon to get a grip. He pulled out a small handheld blow torch, and got to work cutting off the hinges at the top, opening the tank hatch. Jackson quickly dropped down and saw a sad sight. One of the soldiers had been shot in the head, the other was dead, a shot in the head, but he held a pistol in his hand. A suicide note laid on the ground.
Jackson simply shook his head, there was no time for sentiment.
Jackson grabbed the men's tags and climbed out of the tank, gave a thumbs down sign and made back to the subway station, they were headed out soon, about to launch an offensive against the old parliament building, the head quarters of this entire affair.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
That's three mass invasions within the same bloody month! I mean, seriously! The UDTU is attacking now, Blue has a sleeper attack coming soon, and now an invasion by space pirates? What is this, Russia if every american-made FPS happened at once?! - MagicallyDwarven
“So what are going to do about our products becoming obsolete?” John Miller asked his vice president. “Well we’re going to have to come up with something quick or else we’ll go bankrupt again” he replies. “We’ve already stopped producing the pistol” Replies the man in charge of the Rhode Island division. “I think it’s time to discontinue our pistol product, its decades out of date” says the vice president. “I agree with that” John replies to his vice president. “I’ll start designing the product’s successor” a man says. “Good, any other ideas?” John asks. “Our rifle product is also out of date” says the man in charge of the Massachusetts division. “Fine we’ll discontinue the rifle” John says. “I’ll design the product’s successor” another man says. “Any other products to discontinue?” John asks. “No” replies the vice president. “Then I think we can close this meeting” John says.
Krasnodar Krai Region, near Pavlovskaya, Holy Sultanate of Turkey(4:58 AM)
"Welcome back, listeners. This your host D-[static]" proclaimed the voice of a Russian radio host as Nikolaus shuffled through the various broadcasting networks. "-uck me silly Monday is-[static]" came the next, "-Mejor muerto que roj-[static]". Nikolaus sighed, turning to face Mikhail, "Your radio broadcasts are shameful." he complained.
The Russian snorted, "We Russians have never been good at radio shows with a purpose other than propaganda." he admitted wearily, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Quien me salvara ahora!!?-- YO! Capitan Capitali-[static]"
"This is depressing." Nikolaus complained again, shuffling on to the next channel.
"-ello Armenia, it is I -- your Sultan, Suleima- Hah! I'm [static]-oking. It's me, Vahan, coming to yo-[static] live from.. well, that's a secret." came the distorted voice of an Armenian. Intrigued, Nikolaus increased the volume of the broadcast. "[static] the fight to free Armenia is strong, my brothers. Do not be fool-[static] by the Turkish oppressors. Soon, Armenia, our rightful home, will be free of [static]-cades of oppression, decades of suffering at the hands of the Turkish Sultan."
"You have to admit," began Mikhail, "those Armenians have balls." he said with a sluggish tone. "Broadcasting from the Sultan's backya-"
Nikolaus waved his hand in a dismissive manner, "Quiet." he said.
"Brothers and sister of Armenia.. [static]come forth! Raise arms! Resist! Refuse! [static] We are not interested in where you're from, or whether Armeni-[static] is where you were born! What matters is your willingness to fight for what you believe in your heart is your home - Armenia. Armenia[static], Syrians, Russians, all who have suffered under the Turkish imperial boot, we welcome you in open arms! Join the ASF! [static] Fight for freedom!"
The broadcast ceased into static and the brilliant glow of early morning streetlights rose over the horizon. "There's Pavlovskaya." the Russian announced. "With your permission.. " said a facetious, yet serious Mikhail.. "I would like to rest." he requested, "I've been driving nonstop. I don't know how much longer I can go."
"Pull over." Nikolaus said plainly.
"We can stop in the town." Mikhail argued.
"We won't stop in town; it's too dangerous." declared a slightly irritated Nikolaus. "Remember what I said. Follow my orders - pull over." he demanded.
The Russian complied in silent protest and veered off onto the side of the road. A loud hiss was released as the truck's air breaks were engaged and the truck was pulled to a hard stop. "You have about two hours." Nikolaus said, consulting the military-grade watch around his wrist.
"Before I rest.." the Russian began, turning to face Nikolaus. "I have some questions."
Nikolaus rolled his eyes, "Be quick."
Mikhail bombarded the Prussian with questions. "Who are you? Where are we headed, exactly? What's in the back of my truck, besides your men?"
"All clasified information." Nikolaus answered plainly.
Mikhail sighed with frustration. "Comrade, I'm sorry, but there has to be something you can tell me." he complained. "You lie to me, put a gun to my head, and hold me captive. The least you can do is be honest with me." he continued. "Tell me, mister, just how deeply am I getting ****ed?"
Nikolaus let out a snerk. "Mr. Balashov.." he began. "You are under the protection of the Prussian government, I've already promised that much - you have nothing to fear. " he assured, continuing. "I would rather keep my identity - and that of my men - a secret. What we are hauling - and where to - is also best kept a secret, at least until we see it necessary to share such information."
Unsatisfied, the Russian persisted. "Mister, I need to kno-"
"Two minutes of rest have gone by, Mr. Balashov. I recommend you make the most of what you have left." Nikolaus said in conclusion.
Without saying a word, the frustrated Russian shook his head and climbed into the back of the cabin, where the trucker's bunk-bed could be found.
//"Bradt, Nazarian. Dismount - stand guard."\\
International Conference
Esfahan, Persia
Frederick remained courteous despite the almost overwhelming urge to slap the smile off of Sotelo's face. The way in which Sotelo disregarded Frederick's appreciation for the Iberian League's efforts against the Batistan Regime was, to him, insulting. Returning an equally dishonest smile, the Prussian Kaiser glared in response.
Frederick snerked, "Prime Minister, I support the Iberian League's efforts to liberate the Italians entirely." he assured, making sure the others sitting around him could hear. "Truthfully, I admire such a noble deed. Furthermore, I support your decision to rebuild the nation afterwards. I never said otherwise. However, Mr. Sotelo, let it be clear that the organization you are supporting are neo-Roman radicals responsible for the deaths of innocents all across the state of Italy - these are the individuals you are putting into power, men and women who have proved, in some cases, to be just as brutal as the regime they fight against. Surely you understand where my concern comes from, no?"
A wave of revolutionary fervor has swept over the eastern portions of the Empire, most notably in Armenia, but also in Syria, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Pontus. Major riots have broken out in the major cities and provincial capitals of Armenia, with the largest in Yerevan, the historical capital of Armenia. Rioters have remained unfazed as riot police repeatedly attempted to disperse the crowd with CS gas, gunfire, and armored vehicles. The Armenians stood their ground and remained nonviolent, remembering their lession from the "Yerevan Massacres" almost two months prior. Meanwhile, the ASF is gaining support, with short radio broadcasts intermittently aired throughout the region. Authorities are attempting to trace down the signals, but with no luck so far. A massive troop buildup is expected in the coming months as the ASF grows bolder.
Economics took a turn for the worse as minorities are refusing to work, or refusing to sell to Turkish sources. Even military units are defecting in limited numbers, with "All-Armenian" units being the most common perpetrators. Stocks in Armenian-held corporations plummeted, and many business owners are being arrested for treason. While official businesses are suffering, black and grey market trading has improved immensly, with large amounts of unregulated firearms and explosives being sold to rebel groups. Police have also been unable to stop the growth, as more and more Armenians become frustrated with the government.
Sforza's defenses had been completely breached and Italian infantry had pushed desperately across the battered remains of the castle's walls and into the interior castle in a costly bid to free their Generalissimo. Hundreds upon hundreds of Italian infantrymen pulled from the front lines - only a few miles away now that the Romani and Spanish had assaulted Milan - stormed across the crater-marred lawn of the parade ground and Italian choppers hovered over the roof of the citadel where they disgorged dozens of rappeling soldiers. Despite the feverish mobilization of hundreds of soldiers, the deeper parts of the castle still belonged to less than six dozen Cazadores.
Within a fresco-adorned hallway within the castle, an advancing platoon of Italian soldiers was disgusted to discover a sloped wall made entirely out of the corpses of their fallen comrades rising 3/5s of the way up to the vaulted ceiling above them. Blood from the shot-up corpses ran in stagnant rivulets along the marble floor, pooling around the other corpses scattered on the floor. The smell of iron-rich blood was nauseating.
"Mi Dio... they're using us as sandbags." An awe-struck Italian infantryman said out loud.
"Crawl up!" The Italian lieutenant ordered with a scowl.
"It is suicide, signore! If we scale over this wall, they will shoot us as we come up over just like all of them!" A young Italian private with bloodshot, sleepless eyes protested as he gestured to the wall of corpses before them.
The lieutenant shot an annoyed glare at the private. "Then what do you suggest we do?"
"I don't know, signore! All I know is that we just can't do this! We have to find a way around them or something!" The private began backing away from the wall of corpses. After about six paces, the lieutenant unholstered his side-arm and placed a bullet in the sternum of the private.
"Is my stance on desertion clear to everyone?!"
"Si, signore!" The other ninety-something soldiers barked.
"Then climb over those bodies and kill the ****ing rebels!"
A dozen infantrymen stepped onto the sloped pile of dead soldiers and grasped onto bloodied heads and limbs up to the ridge of the dead soldiers. Some Italians slipped and fell as corpses underneath them gave way and others still vomited as they dug their hands and feet into the mound of dead soldiers. Surely enough, reports rang out as the Italians reached the peak of the corpse ridge. Clouds of pink mist indicated that the shots had found their mark and had scored kills. Killed and wounded Italians rolled back down the pile, collapsing onto the soldiers climbing up beneath them.
On the other side of the mound, a group of six Cazadores armed with Italian standard issue rifles fired at each of the Italians coming up over the wall of dead soldiers - their FE-74 ammunition having been exausted hours ago.
With a hand over his earpiece and the other hand firing at Italians coming up over the pile of corpses, the Cazador lieutenant feverishly tried to reach the Spanish chain of command on his personal radio.
"General Juarez?! Can you confirm that you read me?!" He shouted over the reports of Italian firearms.
//This is General Juarez. I hear you. What's the situation at Castello Sforzesca?//
"Not ideal!" The lieutenant understated. "Our walls are gone and we have Italians inside the interior castle. We've not heard anything from the Janissaries in the past twelve minutes and-" The Cazador was interrupted mid-sentence when a bullet from an Italian that was spraying-and-praying from behind the cover of the ridge of corpses hit the Cazador squarely in the chest. A flattened bullet popped off of the Cazador's ballistic vest and clattered on the marble floor, leaving the Cazador dewinded but unharmed. The lieutenant fired a salvo of retalitory shots right at the ridge of corpses until his would-be assassin had been made into an addition to the corpse mound.
"As I was saying, Batista isn't in the castle."
//La puta madre!// Juarez blurted out of frustration //Are you sure?!//
"We've searched every square inch of this palace. Either our intelligence was bad or he escaped before we could lock the palace down."
//That makes no sense. The Italians could have levelled Sforza Castle an hour ago but they haven't fired so much as a shell within a kilometer of the citadel. If Batista is truly gone, then the Esercito Italiano didn't get the message.//
"So what are our orders?!" The lieutenant fired another couple of rounds until pulling the trigger did nothing but produce a click. "I'm out!"
"We're almost out as well!" One of the other six called back.
//If Batista isn't home, then Sforza is nothing but a target that happens to have a sizeable portion of Milan's garrison sitting on top of it. Marius and his boys managed to take out most of Milan's outer ring of AA guns, so once I give the command, you and the rest of your men have fifteen minutes to get away from the citadel before the Fuerza Aerea turns Castello Sforza into a burning crater.//
"Understood."
//Godspeed.// Said a solemn Juarez.
"Follow me, we're bugging out!" The lieutenant turned back to the rest of his squad. The Cazadores realized there was no where to even retreat to, but wordlessly followed his command as they emptied the last of the Italian ammunition and fell back down the corridor after their commanding officer.
Airspace over the Najd-Hormuz Border
NOT CANON
A Fairey biplane buzzed loudly as it soared just above the orange sand dunes of the Arabian Desert. Within the cockpit sat a stoic-looking pilot of European descent and in the two seats behind him sat a bizarre couple. Graciela Machengo had donned a leather wind hat and goggles that gave her the appearance of a less-attractive Amelia Earhart and King Faisal seated next to her only begrudgly donned a pair of aviator goggles. His beard and the keffiyeh that he refused to take off of his head fluttered wildly in the wind and required a hand placed atop his head to keep it from being torn off of his head by the 90 mile/hour gusts constantly swirling about the biplane.
"We've reached the border!" The pilot yelled back to the two sitting behind him. "Where to now?!"
"Veer North!" Graciela commanded over the roar of the engine. "And take us up higher!"
The pilot did as he was told, and the plane ascended up to about 3,000 feet above the rippling dune sea while the plane banked to the left. While Faisal nervously surveyed his kingdom from a point of view he had never seen it from before, Graciela cross-referenced her location and a map that flapped about violently in her lap. She pointed to a large island of rocky desert in the middle of the sand ergs and then retracted her finger to what was presumably the same spot on the old British map.
"There!" Graciela yelled over the biplane engine while tapping Faisal on the shoulder. The Arabian king frowned sternly at the Spaniard, hoping to remind her that it was unacceptable for a woman to touch a Muslim man in any way, especially a king. Graciela paid no heed and pointed again at the island of rock outcroppings.
"That is where we will build the wells!"
"Why there?!" Faisal asked over the constant drone of the biplane.
"Ummm, hello to you too..." Graciela responded, confused.
"No! I said 'Why there'?!" Faisal repeated.
"Oh! That's because the rock gives us a solid substrate on which to drill through! Avoiding the sand ergs means that we don't have to clear the sand away and saves us an extra step and some of the expense we had to go through at Murzuq!" Graciela practically screamed into Faisal's ear so he wouldn't mishear again.
"When can construction begin?!"
"Once I return to Spain I'll send for drilling supplied! I'd expect the ships to leave Valencia within two weeks and it will take some time for the supplies to pass through Ottoman and Jordanian customs! We can expect drilling to begin in a little over a month!"
"Fair enough... now when can we land?!" Faisal asked, anxious to be back on solid land.
Excerpt from El Pais, Monday April 25, 1977
FLOODING RAVAGES THE FRENCH RIVIERA
While meteorologists throughout France and Spain still scratch their heads as to how it appeared, France's tourist-dependant Riviera has been inundated by the effects of a rogue mass of low-pressure air that appeared seemingly out-of-nowhere on the northwestern fringe of the Mediterranean Sea. The air mass is currently causing tidal swells that have practically sunk many of the coastal lagoons along France's Mediterranean coast. Repairs to such an affluent and developed region of France are certain to prove very expensive, but French officials have not yet released an estimated cost for the damage done.
Be it divine intervention or dumb luck, the economically crucial coast of the Cataluña province was spared a major blow from the same air mass. A handful of coastal villages in Spain such as Llanza and Puerto de la Selva have experienced two- to three-meter high tidal swells that have disrupted fishing and damaged coastal property, prompting disaster relief efforts from the Ministry of the Interior. Despite the damage in these small towns, the Cape of Creus in the far northeast of the Iberian peninsula seems to have served as a shield for tidal swells from the Gulf of Lyon and it is believed by many Spanish meteorologists that the air mass was pushed away from the Spanish coast by the cold, high-density trasmontana winds that blow eastward off of the Pyrenees Mountains. Whatever the cause, major coastal cities in Cataluña such as Barcelona are thankful for being spared the same fate as Marseille and Perpignan.
Some, in fact, are almost grateful for the flooding in France. Many popular beaches in the Riviera will have been washed out to sea by the time the tidal swells retreat and thousands of facilities catering to beachgoers and others tourists will close their doors for repairs for the foreseeable future; unfortunate timing when the tourist season begins in earnest in less than a month. Vacationing Germans, Poles, Swedes, and Danes that often frequent the French Riviera during the summer months will likely vacation in tourist hotspots in Spain such as Barcelona and Ibiza instead, meaning increased tourist revenue for Spain in the coming summer months.
Spokesmen for Borgia Industries have also taken advantage of the flooding in southern France, claiming that their proposed Trans-Gibraltar Dam could control future flooding events such as this.
As the light of the sunrise first began to peak above the eastern horizon, several battered Leopard 1's painted in a dark green camo pattern rumbled to the top of a ridge overlooking the town of Busanga. Though the town itself was small, new tents and shacks haphazardly dotted the landscape surrounding it. A small rebel force from the south had been sent to watch the road, and the town had not been sizable enough to give them all accommodation. Few lights flickered in the dark town, it's residence asleep. The rebels had arrived in the Busanga in haste, expecting Iskinder to move slowly. In truth, Iskinder had expected to move slowly as well, but once he had learned how unprepared the rebels were, he had chanced a very hasty night march south in order to hit them quickly and violently. Surely enough, the Ethiopians had managed to catch the rebels unaware of what was coming.
Popping out of one of the tanks, General Iskinder surveyed his surroundings. Nobody was stirring in the town below. As one of his officers approached Iskinder's tank, the general pulled out a pair of binoculars in order to get a closer look at his target. The officer stood at the bottom of the tank and addressed the General.
"General, Sir." The officer started, "May I have a word?"
"You may, Agyeman" granted, his binoculars still held up to his eyes.
"Wouldn't it be cleaner to clear the town with foot soldiers" Agyeman suggested, "This business with a bombardment... civilians might die."
"My men will die if we have to take out all of the rebels man by man" Iskinder retorted, putting his binoculars down to his chest and surveying the sunrise. "Nobody will miss rebel civilians"
"Not all of them are rebel" Agyeman responded, "There are certainly innocent men in the town itself."
"Then we'll avoid the town the best we can" Iskinder countered, "You will want to plug your ears. Tank fire is loud."
Agyeman rolled his eyes and strolled behind the tanks as Iskinder ducked into his vehicle and brought the hatch down behind him. After several moments passed, the bombardment began.
The metal beasts rolled back as they released their load into the tents and shacks below. Explosions rocked the quiet town and awoke it's residence, who were scurrying out into the open air by the time the third volley struck. As time went on, bullets and rpg's whizzed by the tanks in response. Several rocket propelled grenades managed to stick to the metallic behemoths, but only one tank was left inoperable by counter fire when it's barrel was twisted in the explosion of one of these RPG's. After several moments, the tanks went silent and the call went out. Agyeman looked back to the soldiers who stood behind him, tired from the nights march. With a nod, he ordered them to move forward.
Streets of Busanga
The Ethiopian soldiers faced little resistance until they reached the town itself. Even then, the rebels had not been prepared for a fight. Men struggled outside in various states of undress, clinging to their weapons as they attempted to fight back. As the Ethiopians stormed the camp itself, they began to shout. From one of the first tents in front of them, a balding mustachioed man rushed out in nothing but his briefs. Wielding a StG 44, the underwear rebel fired wildly at the charging Ethiopians until he was cut down by a single rifle shot to the shoulder. As he fell, other rebels began to take his place.
One of the Ethiopian soldiers rushed ahead of his comrades, the adrenaline of the charge making him forget himself. He was quickly corrected as a rebel in unbuttoned fatigues rushed him with a machete and hacked his throat. The Ethiopian boy attempted to scream as he fell, but all he managed to produce was a bloody gargle. One of the Ethiopians responded to the attacker with several rounds from an assault rifle, peppering the rebels chest.
As one of the Ethiopian soldiers made an attempt to clear a tent, he was confronted with an enraged man wielding a splintered piece of lumber. The Ethiopian soldier attempted to defend himself from the wood wielding partisan by lifting his arm above his head. The rebel brought the piece of lumber down on the Ethiopian's arm with a crack. Despite what was likely a broken arm, the Ethiopian took out a knife with his good arm and drove it into the rebels belly, slicing upwards like a huntsman opening a carcass. The rebel fell into a pool of his own blood. The tent was cleared.
The Ethiopian advance was halted as a man, this one fully dressed, approached them with two machetes in hand. Before the Ethiopians could bring their weapons to their shoulders, the double wielding rebel leaped toward his foes and cut two of them down in one fluid stroke. He managed to disarm a third before a forth man drove a bayonet through his thigh. Falling to the ground in pain, the rebel paused long enough for another Ethiopian to put a bullet in his head, ending his charge.
As the Ethiopians approached the town itself, gunfire erupted from the windows and doorways of the buildings. The Ethiopians quickly rushed for cover as a firefight ensued between the two forces. For the first time in the battle, the rebels seemed to be gaining the upper hand, and the Ethiopians found themselves lacking for cover as they attempted to find spaces to hide. As his brothers took bullets around him, one of the Ethiopian soldiers fumbled a moltov cocktail from his belt and struggled to light it. His hands shaking nervously, the Ethiopian soldier brought a lighter to the cloth sticking out of the bottle and put it aflame. Carefully, he tossed the makeshift weapon toward the building in front of him.
The building caught fire.
Distracted by the flames, the rebel suppressive fire began to subside, allowing the Ethiopians more time to pick their enemies out of their windows. After several minutes, the field went quiet, and the Ethiopians slowly approached the building. As it burned, two of the Ethiopians nodded toward the men behind them before rushing into the burning structure. After a few seconds, shots rang from inside, and then everything went quiet.
The Ethiopian soldiers exchanged glances, keeping an eye on the doorway. After several more seconds went by, a figure exited the building. It wasn't one of the Ethiopians that had went in. Rather, it was a woman. Completely unclothed, the women wielded a combat shotgun. Blood dribbled from her lip where she had seemingly bit it. Her face communicated pure rage, but her eyes seemed dead to the world. As she cocked her weapon, her breasts quivered and she opened fire. She walked slowly toward the middle of the street, quickly dispatching the soldiers as quick as they could shoulder their weapons. As she approached, one of the men fumbled with his rifle, finding it to be jammed. Drawing a machete, he charged, but she managed to bring him down with a swift strike to the forehead with the butt of her weapon.
Seven men had died at her hands before one of the Ethiopian soldiers managed to plant a shot in her. The bullet struck her in the thigh, slowing her momentarily. As the blood streamed down her leg, she continued her rampage with a limp. Two more soldiers fell before another man managed to place a shot. This time, her shoulder was opened up. She paused for a moment, falling to her knee. As it began to look like she might rise again, a third bullet finished her as it pierced her skull.
As the dust settled in the embattled city, the Ethiopian soldiers finished the task of clearing buildings. Several frightened civilians were found, as were for newly repentant rebels. The sun rose on the carnage, and the Battle of Busanga came to an end.
Addis Ababa University of Addis Ababa
A young disheveled man leaned back into the haphazard pile of blankets and pillows scattered across the floor. In his hand, a homemade cigarette glowed, it's contents very different from the typical tobacco. Coughing, he passed the joint to a man sitting across from him. This man was dressed in denim and a loose fitting jacket. Putting the joint to his mouth, the man in denim breathed in deep before exhaling slowly.
"****" he groaned, leaning back into his pillows. "This is the ****."
The disheveled man grinned. His hair was long and matted, and he wore a long decorated robe in the African style. "This is the **** you did in America?" he asked slowly.
The man in denim nodded. "Yeh, but you didn't get reefer unless you went to the hip bars." he explained, passing the joint to his friend. "If you knew people with the reefer, you were hip"
"You're hip, friend" the disheveled man giggled. Taking another hit from the drug, the disheveled man coughed his next question. "What else did you do. In America?"
"Cars" the man in denim answered, "My daddy used to work on cars. He would say 'Tyrone Parker, you better learn your cars. Make yourself useful.' and I would say 'I can't do it better then you, pops'"
The disheveled man giggled. "Cars. That is hip."
Tyrone, the man in denim, nodded knowingly. "It was. We would talk about taking road trips, across the country. I wanted to, only the Canadians destroyed all the sites."
"Those bastards." the disheveled man shook his fist in the air awkwardly. Tyrone giggled. "They are bastards. Now I will never have my car trip."
"I know!" the disheveled man interjected almost as soon as Tyrone had stopped speaking. "We'll go on a road trip!"
"Where?" Tyrone looked at his friend confused.
"****ing Europe" the disheveled man grabbed Tyrone by the shoulder and waved his and in front of both of them as if he was painting a scene. "Imagine that. Tyrone the American and Haruna the Ethiopian take on the great white beast to the north. The great war failed to destroy it..."
"...but they haven't met us yet!" Tyrone giggled.
"Also, white girls" Haruna, the disheveled man, noted. "An entire continent of white girls.
Tyrone's face lit up like a kid in a candy store. "We have to do this!"
"We will" Haruna agreed, "In the fall. You will need to buy a car."
"I will" Tyrone nodded, "Or you. Doesn't that cult of yours own a car?"
"Hey man" Haruna became serious, though in such a way that he still couldn't be taken seriously. "It is true, the messiah walks among us."
"Yaqob is a nice guy." Tyrone giggled, "But he ain't no god. Only god is Jesus, and he died hundreds of years ago ."
"He is back!" Haruna opened his arms to embrace the air above his head, "The savior of man! Yaqob, son of god!"
"Better not tell the Spanish that" Tyrone giggled. "They wouldn't like it if Jesus was a communist."
Haruna fell back into his pillows as he contemplated the conversation. After several moments, he began to speak again. "You need to get a car. We are doing this in the fall."
"In the fall" Tyrone echoed. "I promise you, friend. We will drive to Europe."
Field Outside of the City
A small crowd had gathered on the hill as Professor Adroa and his students prepared their craft for flight. Adroa's first spaceward balloon only had two witnesses to it's flight, but this time the number of people had increased. People picnicked on the hill as the media prepared their equipment, interested in catching the second spaceward balloon in the history of Ethiopia.
This contraption was slightly different the the one Adroa had first unleashed. Even though this one was also equipped with a camera, an extra device was also tucked into it's construction. The device's purpose was to measure the radiation at different levels of the atmosphere, for the purpose of contributing to meteorological data. The contraption itself was affixed inside a wooden frame, which kept the equipment within it safe. The balloon was a reinforced weather balloon, capable of going much further in the atmosphere then a normal weather balloon.
As Adroa's students began to finish their work, Adroa himself walked up toward the growing throng of media. As the sound and sight of camera flashes filled the air, Adroa began to speak.
"My friends, countrymen." He started. Everything went quiet, save for the sound of cameras. "You have the pleasure to witness the second flight of a space vessel in the history of our nation. I am aware we have all heard of the Chinese footage from several years ago that seems to predate our flight, and I have been told that I should address this. We do these flights not for the sake of doing them first, but for the sake of discovery. A man who runs into the future does not have time to see the sites. It is the task of the men who stroll into the future to document what is there. What we do today might not be groundbreaking, but the science that it will contribute to is solid."
As Adroa looked behind him, one of his students gave him a thumbs up. Smiling, Adroa turned back toward the crowd in front of him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, on my command this vessel behind us will lift up past the realm of traditional aircraft, entering the portion of our atmosphere that kisses space itself. What you are about to witness, my friends, is science come alive."
With that, Adroa looked to the students behind him and gave a thumbs up. The students responded by releasing the vessel, allowing it to slowly float into the sky. As the balloon drifted back and forth in the wind, the crowd below applauded politely.
Adroa held his hands skyward and grinned from ear to ear as the camera's fixated on him. With a burst of energy, the young Professor shouted to the onlookers.
"SCIENCE!"
Elsewhere Esfahan
Taytu pushed her plate away as the luncheon began to wrap up. Looking back to Daen Hong, she responded to what he was saying. "I can't say that I would trust Prussia further then I would trust Spain, but the two are likely to be in competition. It sounds as if the Spanish are going to install a puppet government in Italy at this point... that certaintly can't be good news for the Prussians."
Taking a sip of her glass of water, she continued to watch the other side of the table. An air of tension had grown around Sotelo and Frederick, and it was palatable even from where Taytu sat. "In regards to the Monrovia doctorine... It's a solid idea, but at this point it seems like more of a dream then it is a policy. If we actually opperated on it, we would be at war too often."
Darfur, Sudan
The Walinzi agents Zola and Kelile stood amongst a pile of bodies, the charred remains of a truck caravan sitting next to them . The bodies surrounding them were not human, though there had been human remains there. The human remains had been transported to be examined by medical proffesionals, and in their place a series of crash test mannequin had been layed out to show the exact positions of the human bodies before they were moved. A series of circles had been drawn on the mannequin to show where they had been wounded by gunfire.
The desert surrounding the site was vast, stretching for miles in every direction. The ability to strike quickly and unseen in this enviroment was mind boggling for the two agents, who studied the scene intently. Their black great coasts whipped at their feet as the desert winds blew fiercely across the dunes.
"These winds..." Kelile started, examining the mannequin in front of him, "The sand might have hidden the evidence."
Zola nodded, holding on to his faded black fedora. "It might have, but we would never know."
"We should have a crew out here to dig out the site" Kelile advised, looking over toward his partner. "There might be something here."
"Maybe" Zola grunted, "But I suspect we should use a different path. Perhaps the locals know something."
"The locals keep quiet, I hear." Kelile responded, "I doubt they will tell you anything."
"Perhaps not" Zola responded, "But they have to know something. A party big enough to destroy a military convoy liked this is not going to go unnoticed by the locals."
Kelile nodded. "That is true. We'll have to test it out.
Lieutenant Yosef Massivyen watched the Turkish MP walk slowly up and down the hallway in the middle of the grouping of cells at the base's brig. Massivyen was imprisoned by the Turks because he was Armenian. After Captain Kirilinkian's famed desertion at Erzurum, the Turkish government ordered Armenians in important roles imprisoned. Massivyen was an attack helicopter pilot, and part of yet another "All-Armenian" unit. Desertions rose daily in Armenian territory as ethnic Armenians left the Turkish Army with precious military equipment, and then using it against them. Already, reports were coming in about Turkish-produced mortar shells being used as improvised bombs. Armenians had captured mortars, and were bombarding military outposts like roadblocks and truck stops, while the HK53 had become a popular choice among rebel fighters.
Massivyen was locked in the brig with several other pilots. They were treated poorly by the Turks: they were beaten, fed only once a day, and rarely let outside. But Massivyen had a plan to escape. He had sharpened a toothbrush into an improvised knife, and had it concealed in his belt on his BDU stripped clean of rank, name, insignia, and other official military items. That would only make him harder to identify. The guard, brandishing a service shotgun, approached Massivyen's cell speechlessly. As the guard came in front of the cell, Massivyen shouted out: "Hey! You there! I want to go to the bathroom!"
The guard looked at Massivyen. "Fine," he said, reaching into his pocket for the keys. He retrieved a ring of them, and used one to open up the cell door. He put the keys back in his pocket and stared at Massivyen as he walked out of the cell. One of the prisoners started banging on the bars. A distraction. Massivyen took the opportunity and pulled his shiv out of his pocket. He thrust it into the guard's neck, where his jugular was. The guard yelped and hit the ground. Massivyen then grabbed the shotgun from his hands, along with some ammo, and retrieved the keys from his pocket. Next, he made his rounds, unlocking his fellow pilots' cells, allowing them to escape as well. "Alright," Massivyen began, "I think we should get out of here and take our choppers to help the rebels."
It was a blunt suggestion, and not well thought out. Another pilot brought up the concerns of fuel and ammunition, which Massivyen answered with a comment suggesting they fly to Persia. "But why Persia?" the CAG, or CO of the squadron, demanded.
"Historically, they've been accepting of us, and a month or so ago, they had a rally in which they brought up our plight and that they would help. Also, one of the ASF's members is at Esfahan, which means the Persians trust the ASF enough to send a helicopter or something into Turkish territory to extract him. If we could fly to a base in Persia and explain ourselves, we could join in the fight by flying over to the border to strike targets, without repercussion. The Turks couldn't fly into Persia to attack us on the ground. That would be an act of war."
Massivyen finished, and looked at the pilots. They shrugged, deciding that the plan was good enough. Massivyen pumped the shotgun, and gestured towards the door. The helipad was on the other side of the base, but the pilots could use one of the MPs' jeeps to get there faster. The ride was both nerve-wracking and exciting. Of course, no problems were encountered along the way, despite multiple people seeing them. Nobody would discover the bodies until it was too late. Fifteen minutes later, the jeep pulled up to the helipad, where the pilots jumped out and ran to their craft. As per Turkish quick response force doctrine, the helicopters were already armed and fueled, with replacement pilots hanging around in a quonset hut nearby. As the Armenians climbed into the helicopters, the Turkish pilots came running out of the building. The Armenians chuckled as they lifted off, and flew into the sky. No anti-air was activated. They didn't have time.
The CAG quickly took control over the mixed force of attack helicopters and troop transports as they flew towards the border. It was only a short way there, with an hour or so of flight time before they hit it. But before entering, the helicopter pilots quickly sent out a radio broadcast to the nearest Persian military base at Hadishahr: "Hadishahr military base, this is Army Helicopter Squadron 14, based out of Nakhchivan in the Ottoman Empire. We are formally requesting permission to enter your airbase: we are defecting from the Ottoman Empire with our craft to aid the Armenian rebellion. I repeat, we are defecting from the Ottoman Empire and aiding the Armenian rebel movement. Hadishahr, will you respond? Over."
The rebel had been in Marius' tent when the news broke about the tunnel to Sforza, and the aging consul had immediately dispatched him to inform the Spanish General Juarez of the discovery. He felt like he'd been running for days, and was exhausted despite having left his rifle and pack back at the tent. The welcome site of the hilltop looming overhead gave him small comfort; he was quickly halted by a squad of ten Spanish soldiers armed to the teeth with rifles, grenades, and AT tubes. "Halt!" came the challenge, spoken in shaky Italian. "Who goes - "
"I'm a messenger from Consul Marius," the annoyed rebel interrupted, "with an urgent message for General Juarez. I'm not even carrying a gun, for Christ's sake," he snapped, showing his empty hands.
The Spanish soldiers exchanged glances, and the one who'd spoken earlier stepped forward. He could see fairly well in the dim green light afforded by the illumination flares hanging overhead, and what he saw matched the profile of "ragged Italian rebel" well enough that after a final glance, he grunted, "Go on. General Juarez is at the front of the hill, facing Milan. Man with the binoculars, last I saw." The rebel had vanished by the time he got the words out. (is dis k?)
--
The messenger hurled himself towards General Juarez, slowing to a stop a few feet away from the imposing Spaniard. The surrounding men of Juarez's bodyguard eyed the newcomer suspiciously, but they did nothing, seeing that he was unarmed and wore the red armband of the RRC. Juarez, for his part, was speaking rapid-fire Spanish into a bulky handheld radio when the rebel arrived, and carefully placed the radio in its pouch on his immaculate uniform before turning to face the panting Roman. "Yes?" he said, slightly annoyed at being interrupted in such a fashion.
The rebel straightened up, fighting to control his breathing. "You are General Juarez?" Juarez nodded, eyebrows raised.
"General Marius has instructed me to inform you that elements of his command have discovered an underground tunnel leading into Central Milan. Sforza Castle, to be exact," he recited. "The consul has gathered his reserves and even now marches towards the tunnel's entrance. He wishes me to inform you that he'll have Batista's armies surrounded by morning."
--
The decanus inched forward on his hands and knees, gazing down Castelo Sforzesco's torchlit halls in a vain attempt to locate the source of the constant gunfire that had not stopped since he and his contubernium had arrived in the castle. So far, he and the single man he'd picked to accompany him had had no luck, but the cacophony of reports from various types of weaponry was growing louder with every yard they covered. The two were both armed with Italian weaponry, the folding-stock AA-72 PARA that was so common amongst Batista's men. The fact that the rebels and the Federali both carried the same type of weapon had been cause for much confusion during the course of the rebellion, but here in the castle it could actually work to their advantage in the event of a firefight.
Movement flickered ahead, a tan shape - several tan shapes - that were barely visible down the seemingly endless hallway. The shapes quickly rounded the corner, but it was fairly clear that they were dressed in olive-drab Italian uniform.
"Should we go after them?" the decanus' companion inquired under his breath, his StG's skeleton buttstock pressed to his cheek and aimed at the end of the hallway.
"Too many of them," came the whispered reply. "We got what we came for, anyway." The pair cautiously rose to a crouch, and then backed away as quietly as they could manage. When they finally got out of the hallway, they broke into a jog, reaching the injured Turk and the rest of their contubernium within a few minutes.
As the pair approached, one of the rebels kneeling next to the fallen commando glanced up. "What'd you see?" he asked, turning his gaze back to the Turk's wounds without waiting for an answer.
The decanus attempted to look away from the fallen Turk. It was an effort. The man looked like...well, like he'd been shot. His skin, normally olive, had grown pale, and his chest rose and fell abnormally quickly with each ragged breath. He appeared to be unconscious.
Eventually, the decanus managed to tear his gaze away. "The Turk was right, we know that much," he began. "There are Italian troops in the castle, I don't know how many, but they are here." He felt his gaze drop down to the fallen Turk again. "What's his problem? No way a shot to the hand put him in that state."
"It didn't," the impromptu medic responded distractedly. "He's hit in two other places. One round went through his arm, the other went through his chest. I can't find any exit wounds, which means he's still got two bullets in him, and he's been bleeding like you wouldn't believe. I dunno, man...I don't know if he'll make it."
"There's nothing you can do?" The decanus was not a man to take "no" for an answer.
[DISCLAIMER: I have no clue about anything medical and everything below is completely bullshitted.]
The medic shrugged helplessly. "I've tried to stop the bleeding, but the bullet in his chest might've hit near his heart. If I try and take it out, it could **** some **** up down there, if you'll pardon the expression, sir. I really don't have the tools to fix this." He looked apologetic.
The decanus crossed his arms. "Could we carry him out?"
"I don't think that would kill him, so long as we keep him level," the kneeling rebel responded uncertainly. One of the Romani standing guard nearby glanced over. "Shouldn't we hold this position, sir?" he asked worriedly. "Sergio hasn't made it back yet."
"We'll catch him in the tunnel if he's not dead," the decanus asserted. "Now come on, we need to bail. Antoine, Vittore, grab the Turk, and make sure to keep him flat. Everyone get behind me."
The decanus nudged open the broom closet's door with the barrel of his weapon. As he stepped in, he saw a dark shape rising up from the uncovered trapdoor set in the floor. His heart skipped a beat, and he swore, bringing his AA-72 to bear on the newcomer. "Who the **** are you?"
The dark silhouette finally made it out of the trapdoor, and raised its hands frantically. "It's Sergio! Jesus ****, put the gun away!"
"Oh," said the decanus sheepishly, lowering his gun. "What's the word?"
Sergio stretched and dusted himself off. "I talked to Marius," he said, bending down and peering into the trapdoor once more. "He seemed pretty excited at the prospect of getting behind Batista's lines."
The decanus was not satisfied. "What'd he say, though?" he asked impatiently." Will we be reinforced? The Turk's nearly dead, and he needs extraction."
Sergio reached into the hole in the floor and pulled out a slightly pudgy old man dressed in a tattered Italian uniform. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" he said, grinning.
--
After ten minutes of fierce heaving and pulling, 300 soldiers of Marius' reserves had been extracted from the darkness of the tunnel. Marius, having been briefed by the decanus upon arrival, ordered them to form into their centuries and relieve the beleaguered Cazadores. They quickly moved out, leaving the main force of Romani behind. The dying Turkish lieutenant remained where he lay; the tunnel was too crowded to allow for an extraction.
((Um...Aaron...what Belinsky said wasn't meant seriously. By "Of course, I meant that in jest", he meant, "This was a joke, guys". I mean, what with all these important leaders of the world gathered together having simple small talk, why not make a joke by taking what might be serious world events and shaping them to look like everyday occurances?))
Moscow (Past)
The day after the meeting occured, the diplomat had already begun discussing last night's events with higher authorities--not a deity, of course, but his bosses, so to speak.
"So they want those terms, eh? And you're sure you made the best decision to have us consider these terms?" said the boss directly above him in the "chain of command".
"Would you rather I had rejected the proposal and let the separated states of Russia decay even further?" countered the diplomat.
"Hm...very well then. I'll initiate a tribunal, which can hopefully decide on which terms we can agree to, and which ones need changing--or neglecting," said the boss, turning to leave. But before the man could make an exit, the diplomat spoke up again.
"Sir," he said, "I have one request of my own...to keep up spirits, perhaps we should let the news of unification reach the public's ears?"
The boss stood for a few seconds in thought of this, then said, "You know what? Why the hell not, go ahead."
The next day, newspapers were gleaming beacons to the people of Russia. The covers read:
"Unification is Coming!" "East and West Agree on Merger!" "Resurrection Achieves Success?"
In the streets, in the homes, people became excited, terrified, shocked, surprised, curious, intrigued, all at once. Unity! The idea of it actually having been achieved was breathtaking at the least, and ultimately unthinkable. Yet the impossible became possible that day, for now Russia was to be reborn as a new nation, yet this time free from a Czar...or so everyone assumed. Hopefully that would be the case when the merger was made.
Below the streets, in their hideout, the four poker players read the news, and cheered.
"I can't believe this! This is amazing! We did it! We pressured the East and West enough into uniting again!" said Lanky.
"Or maybe they just got sick of their differences without us putting much influence into the matter," said Snotty.
"But you gotta give credit where it's due, Snotty," said Fatty. "We put out a lot of effort into organizing these protests in the West, and while we weren't able to do much in the East, we at least started the chain of civil disobedience."
"Well, regardless of whether or not the Resurrection had anything to do with this, we should celebrate. Perhaps now Russia can return to it's glory, and the chance of that at all should be cause for a drink, I should say."
"Agreed!" said the rest.
The other guy raised his glass and declared, "To Unity!"
"To Unity!" they said, and then they drank the vodka like they were kings.
Novosibirsk (Past)
In the East, the Resurrectionists who had been protesting Nikolov's rule finally felt relieved. Unity had been achieved! East and West would merge, and at last this nightmarish existence could end!
Location Unknown (Past)
"The Coming Meeting in Omsk"
It is about one month away now from the coming Omsk Conference, and already things are looking great. The Russian Republic, the former Volodgian states, Arkhangelsk, and other Russian states have been preparing for when the meeting with the Siberians occurs with glee--at least, it's citizens are. The Resurrectionists all across Russia have been celebrating the most, feeling that they have achieved their goals of unifiying Russia into a single state.
However, this does not mean Russia is entirely whole; there still exists Radek's Territory, and the southwestern Russian states like Volgograd are still under Turkish control. Yet with the recent breaking away of Armenia, which is far closer to Turkey than Southwestern Russia, talk of rebellion has been growing. There are rumors that a government-backed Insurrection is to arise in this region, but said rumors are unconfirmed....
The Resurrector smiled as he read the paper. A month had passed since he'd heard the news, yet it was still so beautiful to hear of this news. Already other states had jumped on the bandwagon, with the pressure of the Resurrectionist protesters, and now rumors of insurrections arising in Turkish Russia were coming about. It wouldn't be too long before a new conflict arose in Russia, as he sadly realized. Yet this was also a grand thing, knowing that Turkish influence was weakening. Before long, Russia could be fully intact, given the right actions were taken.
He looked back to the paper, and continued reading, with that smile still etched upon his face.
"Upcoming Conference in Esfahan, Persia"
Kominislav (Past)
Mikhail Gorbunov and his collegues sat in a room together with a purpose set in mind.
Gorbunov spoke: "Gentlemen, we meet here tonight on the matter of the unification of Russia into a single state. From what we know, there is no set leader for the new government, so we can presume that there will definiely be elections. In that case, we must be ready for them by forming a new party."
Pacing around the room, he went on, "We have been assembled here because we have our own visions of the future; a future of a paradise, a future of a utopia. We are not alone in having these views, by far. Yet all of us are the top in our game; we are the ones who lead the march, who guide the way towards achieving our desires. You are all very inspiring and bright men; I know you will agree with me that the formation of this party should be done, so that the people of Russia can realize the dreams of perfection, and destroy the shackles that hold them down. So, do we all agree on forming this party."
"Aye!" a unanimous call was made all across the room.
"Very well then," said Gorbunov. "Now, on to the name of our party, one that people will recognize anywhere."
"People's Party?" suggested one of them.
"No, too simple," said Gorbunov.
"Revolution Party?" tried another.
"No no no, that's too overused nowadays as well!" said Gorbunov. "We need something that shows who we are. Something that will show that we are different than the more commonly seen branch of our views. What could we go by?"
That's when a name was suggested, one of such simplicity yet with such a standing out feature. It perfectly described who they were, what their goals were, and that they were different from the more commonly known kind of form of government.
"I love it! What say you all?" said Mikhail, very much liking the suggestion.
"Aye!" came another unanimous call.
"Very well then," said Gorbunov. "Gentlemen, the world has just seen the birth of the Leninist Party."
"Marius is sending men into Sforza Castle?" Asked an incredulous General Juarez.
"He is." Said the runner in between pants.
Before Juarez could open his mouth again, he was cut off by the increasingly high-pitched scream that all Italians recognized by heart by this point in the war: the whine of approaching Fantasma fighters. In the dimly-illuminated nighttime sky, five orange dots - the fiery thruster exhaust from the Spanish jets - flew in over the general's head and raced forward at breakneck speeds to downtown Milan and Sforza Castle.
"Abort the air strike on Sforza Castle! I repeat, abort the air strike!" General Juarez roared into his handheld radio.
Juarez received no response and the fighters continued towards the castle. A full ten seconds later, the lead pilot finally responded.
//This is fighter wing 60. We understand you, General. We will be returning to base.// The calm, cool voice of the pilot came in over the radio.
"Don't return to base yet... How much incendiary ordinance were your planes fitted with upon takeoff?" Asked Juarez.
//Between the whole wing, eight napalm bombs.//
"Then drop those bombs on top of the largest concentrations of Italian forces outside of the castle. Do not hit Sforza Castle."
//Understood, General. We're preparing to make our pass at Castello Sforzesca now.//
___________________________________________________
The Cazador lieutenant and thirteen of his men were retreating down the maze-like corridors and galleries of Sforza Castle while a platoon of Italian soldiers chased them hot on their tracks. What little ammunition the Cazadores had between them was used as sparingly as possible in laying down controlled bursts of suppressing fire on the advancing Italians. Between the entire group, they had only forty rounds of mixed ammunition from an assortment of firearms recovered from fallen Italian soldiers.
As the Cazadores rounded a corner in a hallway, one turned back around and threw their last grenade. The metal ball bounced off of the outer wall of the corner and proceeded to roll across the floor into the midst of a cluster of approaching Italian soldiers before exploding. An echoing explosion and a roiling cloud of smoke billowing around the corner confirmed the grenade had done its dirty work.
"That's it, I'm all out!" The Cazador declared as he jogged back to join the rest of the group.
"Next time we get selected for another insertion like this, I am going to hound command and make sure we get five times as much ammunition as we did tonight." The frustrated lieutenant complained as he cleared the corners of the entryway to another corridor with his nearly-emptied sidearm. Just as he had beckoned the rest of his group to follow him in, the Cazadores found themselves face-to-face with a cadre of armed men wearing ragged Italian uniforms.
"Hold your fire!" The lieutenant declared before any of his men could raise their weapons and fire. "Hold your fire, goddamnit! They're friendlies!" The lieutenant had recognized these new faces as Romani fighters. The Cazadores looked over their allies for a moment and then turned back to the entryway of the hall to guard against approaching Italians. Meanwhile, the lieutenant made his way over to one of the rebels.
"How the Hell did you all get in here?" The Cazador asked no one in particular, hoping one of the Italians knew Spanish and would address him.
"There's a broom closet a few doors down that way." Explained a decanus in decent Spanish. "Inside there's a trap door to a tunnel that leads to a barn just south of Milan. Batista must have used it or a tunnel just like it to escape from Castello Sforzesca before you and your men could capture him."
"Pinche cobarde." Spat an aggravated Cazador.
"Anyway, Consul Marius is bringing troops from the front lines into the castle from the tunnel. Once Batista's forces here are routed, we can surround the rest of the Milanese garrison."
"What about the air strike, though? The Fuerza Aerea is about to level Sforza Castle!"
"What air strike?"
Soon enough, the howling jets of the Fantasma fighters rumbled through the halls of the citadel.
"That air strike!"
The sound of a handful of explosions and then a hundred bonfires instantly bursting into existence proceeded the decreasing pitch of the departing jets. The Cazador lieutenant, amazed to still be alive, contacted another group of Cazadores.
"Was that the air strike just a moment ago? Why are we not all dead?" The lieutenant demanded.
//I happened to be near a window and my squad saw it all.// Another Cazador reported over the radio; the crackling and popping of fire could be heard over the radio. //They napalmed the parade ground and the park beyond that... The fighters must have taken out a couple hundred of their infantry at least.//
The Cazador lieutenant was elated, with the news, but maintained his cold composure nonetheless. "Contact every remaining squad and fireteam you can reach and regroup at the northwestern broom closet on the first floor. We just acquired reinforcements and supplies... the tide of this battle just turned in our favor."
//Entendido, señor.//
The Cazador lieutenant turned back to the Roman decanus.
"Show us to your supply station." The lieutenant requested, throwing his spent Italian firearm across the floor. "We need some real weapons."
Esfahan, Persia
Alfonso Sotelo, who had been quietly requested to speak with another Spaniard outside the meeting room a few minutes earlier, stepped out of the meeting room for a brief moment with a handful of the Spanish delegates and then returned to adress the other representatives.
"I am very sorry, everyone." Sotelo apologized as he made his way back to his seat. "But I am afraid that certain developments have arisen at home in Spain that require my immediate attention, and so I must depart from this conference earlier than I had anticipated. Before I leave, I would like to introduce you all to Lorenzo Campomanes-Guitterez - the Spanish Republic's ambassador to Persia. This man was instrumental in arranging my wonderful visit to Persia. Given his knowledge of Persian customs and the intimacy he has acquired with the situation of the world being in such an exotic land for so long, I am confident tha Campomanes-Guitterez will be a capable representative in my stead." With that, Sotelo stood up from his seat and directed Lorenzo over to it, next to Adriano Claro.
"I would like to thank our most gracious host, Shah Qajar, for arranging this summit. I will maintain close contact with Lorenzo here and follow every development here carefully. I would be honored to attend another such summit, should another one be neccesary... but until then, farewell to all of you!"
With that, Alfonso Sotelo, his bodyguards, and two other memebers of the Spanish delegation, exeunted and made their way down to the driveway, where a limousine waited to take Sotelo back to the airport, and ultimately back to Madrid.
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, Saturday 27, April 1977
A small Persian military convoy rolled along a dirt road in the Helmand province of Afghanistan, their vision clouded by dust. The road was surrounded by small ditches on both sides, so any would be assailants would likely be spotted before an ambush was possible. The vehicles were thinly armored, and could withstand little more than a standard .50 caliber round, thought they had so far had very little troubles with the Afghan people. As the vehicles began to pass through a small, isolated village, things seemed oddly quiet. There were no villagers to be seen. Suddenly, a rocket-propelled grenade tore through the air from a nearby rooftop, slamming into and obliterating the head vehicle of the convoy. With their lead vehicle in flames, small arms fire began to erupt from the streets around them, mowing soldiers down with ease if they left their vehicles. One soldier could faintly hear screams of pain from his comrades, his ears ringing from the blast, their assailants shouting for the deaths of the "Persian Infidels".
Mashad, later the same day.
Abdullah had been preparing for this day his entire life. On this day, he would prove to us father that he was worthy of the family name Qureshi. He was thankful for Hasim Al-Farooq, the man who had given him the chance to make himself worthy-by taking his own life and that of as many infidels as possible in one fell swoop, and desecrating the memorial of one of the greatest infidels; the Imam Reza Shrine. Driving an 8x4 standard dump truck packed with explosives and covered with little but tarp, covered with a layer of gravel to help hide their true purpose.. He glanced outside his window to ensure that his comrades (another four trucks) were following him, then nodded to them as he pulled out of the alleyway. The quintuple trucks drove cautiously through the streets of Mashad, careful to not arouse suspicion. As they arrived at the site, the trucks suddenly sped up, speeding thrush the security gates, and plowing through dozens of civilians on their way to target. The trucks crashed into the walls f the shrine, each exploding in quick succession, Abdullah watching. He smiled as he held up his detonator, whispering "For Islam!" as his thumb came down on the button, his bomb tearing through the shrine's walls, and the surrounding crowd. Multiple attacks occurred across major Persian cities with the next half-hour, targeting solely holy Shi'a sites, monuments, structures, and government buildings, though most others were much smaller than the attack of Reza's shrine.
The CAG of the squadron heard the response from the Persian units at Hadishahr, but his glee turned to confusion as the Persians asked for their identity. The fleet of helicopters straddled the border for what seemed like ages, until the CAG made his decision. The leader requested clarification, and got the same answer: "Fire four rockets towards where you came from." He spun his helicopter around and got a bearing on the area. He didn't want to fire on occupied areas, or places that people could see easily. He also wanted to avoid setting off a forest fire or damaging infrastructure. The pilot brought his sights over what looked like an isolated lake in a forest, and pressed the "arm" button on his flight stick. The helicopter fired four rockets, and the CAG watched as they streaked towards the lake.
The rockets hit the water and four jets of water erupted from the otherwise tranquil lake. The CAG did his analysis, and saw no damage. He chuckled and turned his helicopter around to rejoin the formation. He toggled the radio back onto the channel with Hadishahr and asked for the officer again. "This is Army Helicopter Squadron 14 lead. I confirm four rockets fired towards Nakhchivan, over. Are you satisfied with our identity?"
The Argentinian representative, the President, Salvador Allende, stood up and produced a measured response:
"I think these proposals produce a great deal of questions. First of all, how is a legitimate government defined? Secondly, how can wars of aggression be entirely terminated? It seems impossible for everyone to agree on that provision. I would like to hear the opinions of the other representatives before commenting further. Argentina believes these would all be positive developments, but would require further discussion."
He then passed the conversation to the next diplomat.
-Rio de Janeiro, Brazil-
"Breaking news," said the announcer on BBN, the Brazilian Broadcasting Network, central news agency of all South America. "The South American Confederacy has just now announced a formal statement. This from Brasilia, live."
Antonio Patriota, Brazilian Secretary of Foreign Affairs, walked up to the podium in front of the camera, with the South American seal showing an arc composed of all the flags of the member countries, and began speaking.
"The nations of Brazil, Argentina, Chile, Ecuador, Venezuela, and Colombia applaud the parties of Russia for their positive development and reconciliation. They encourage the uniting of their great nation, not unlike our own, and hope that the Russian people will achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, for themselves and all parties involved, independent from foreign influence from more powerful neighbors.
We furthermore express our willingness to help in aiding the Russian people in light of their time of hardship, and encourage their positive development in terms of government, and hope that they establish a government respecting of human rights and political freedoms for the good of all Russia."
Switching back to the studio, the announcer finished, "That was Brasilia with an announcement on the Russian unification."
In one of the living rooms if Fitzroy's impressive palace, in the one with some limestone statues of various people, two rapiers hung onto the wall crossed over the granite lined fire place, Fitzroy is laying slouched over on a quite fancy couch, with a nurse tending to him. Fitzroy hears the door open and it is the leader of the Imperial Guard, Anatole. "So what is it, Anatole?" Fitzroy asks, disgruntled as he sees Anatole is holding a document. "A document, it's pertaining to the floods and your absence from the conferences." Anatole replies before asking back, showing some irritation at Fitzroy using a simple sickness as a reason for his not being at the conferences going on lately, instead just staying in home with his imperial guard protecting his palace encase some crazy people try to kill him.
"I'll be fine in a day or two, nothing big." Fitzroy tells Anatole. "I see you are holding a document, give it to me." Fitzroy than tells Anatole, who gives the document to Fitzroy with outmost compliance. "Funny how you despite being in such seat of power don't just send someone to give me a document like this, it's no secret." Fitzroy notes, with Anatole not responding as he gets up off his ass and sees the quite expensive damage costs from the flood. Millions of Euros in property damage, tens of millions of Euros. "So what do you suggest is done sir?" Anatole asks. Fitzroy replies "Taxes are going to have to go up, I am not weakening the military budget just because mother nature decided to **** all over southern france.", who's plans to expand france are not going as hoped. The last thing Fitzroy needs is to lower the money spent in producing more military.
"Wait, what about asking spain for Financial Aid?" Anatole quickly decides to ask before leaving. "No." Fitzroy barks, since the idea of having spain help repair his country would make France look even more weak and over dependent on that alliance he made already. Fitzroy decides to go back to sleep the second Anatole leaves and is not surprised that despite it being over two weeks he is still alive and well. Some kooks from the Nouvellefrance Movement, causing some civilian damage and couple dead Officials. A annoyance to his country at worst. At least now Alar Hibb is dead, but whatever happened to Briller?
Fitzroy would never know.
Somewhere In africa
A deranged french man, the once top agent Briller depraved of much water and food in tattered clothing after a week of pushing his way through the deserts finally gives into his physical weakness and falls down, face first into the sand. He heard from one of his assistants that Fitzroy went into a bunker somewhere in africa. Due to his impatience, not wanting to have to wait until next election, he decided to rush his plans and go straight for Fitzroy, piloting a helicopter he "borrowed" along with a sniper and some ammo that ran out of fuel before crashing in the middle of the sahara desert. Briller suddenly wakes up in the desert, still dehydrated trying to move onward in the burning desert hoping something short of a miracle happens as he is determined to make sure Fitzroy dies, though his brain from the heat has taken its toll. He isn't exactly thinking straight, though it isn't like taking some helicopter and going after where someone might be is thinking straight either.
((Essentially I left him at the mercy of anyone in africa, in 5-7 posts he autodies though.))
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
One day, there will be someone who looks at my signature and wonders "who gives a damn?"
Rostov Region, near Veselo-Voznesenka, Holy Sultanate of Turkey
On a lonesome road stretching across the seemingly endless expanse of farmland that coated the Ottoman frontier, the clamorous roar of a semi-trailer speeding down the asphalt could be heard overpowering the silence of night. Haystacks cluttered the fields on both sides and distant barns stood over the horizon. The road was deserted and dark, the truck being the only source of light, and the only sign of life.
The driver, Mikhail Balashov, a Russian trucker hired to drive and keep his mouth shut sat at the front, his hands steady on the wheel and his eyes focused on the road. Beside him sat Nikolaus Drescher, a Prussian Geheimdienstaufsichtsrat agent in civilian attire consisting of a grey jacket and jeans. The two, who had now been on the road for several hours, had yet to exchange much in the form of dialog despite the Russian's continued persistence.
Breaking the silence, the Russian spoke up in an attempt to get something out of the blonde haired Prussian. "Mister.." he began, taking a quick glance at the German. "Where are you from?" the man inquired in Russian, "I've not seen you before." he added.
"Ukraine." Nikolaus responded plainly and untruthfully.
"Ah," the Russian acknowledged, "and you're new, no? I wasn't informed I'd have a new partner."
"Yes." Nikolaus affirmed falsely. "I needed work; Ukraine lacked the opportunity."
"So you came here?" the Russian laughed. "You're fortunate to have found this job." he said. "There aren't many career opportunities in this dying empire, not unless you want to be a rebel." he joked.
The conversation subsided within minutes and the men were once again in silence. Ten minutes of travel passed and the view outside the windows was the same; rows of haystacks arranged horizontally across uninterrupted Russian farmland.
The German - whose attentive wariness allowed him to spot danger where others could not - swore he could see something in the distance, on the side of the road. Nikolaus took a glance at the speedometer and realized the man was driving over the speed limit. Turning briefly to face the Russian, Nikolaus spoke up. "Slow down." he calmly advised.
"What?" the Russian absentmindedly asked.
"Slow down." Nikolaus repeated in a slightly more demanding tone.
The Russian laughed, "Slow down? We get paid based on punctualli- Дерьмо!". Without warning, Nikolaus yanked the steering wheel and the truck swerved to the left, barely missing a Turkish police cruiser making it's way onto the road to give chase.
The whining siren and flickering red and blue lights tailed the speeding semi-trailer, and a quick glance at the rearview mirror revealed there were three Turkish police cruisers approximately twenty feet behind the big rig. "ебена мать" the Russian cursed.
"Keep driving; full throttle." Nikolaus ordered calmly.
"What!?" the Russian snapped. "I ain't going to jail, comrade, we're pulling ov-"
"Keep ****in' driving." the German demanded, now clearly aggravated with the Russian.
"Comrade..." the Russian laughed, "**** you, we're pulling over." he declared, and began to turn the steering wheel. As he did, Nikolaus once again yanked the steering wheel with his left hand and the big rig swerved back onto the middle of the road. At the same time, and in one fluid motion, Nikolaus unholstered his concealed weapon - a suppressed pistol - and pressed it against the heavyset Russian's flappy triple chin. "BESCHLEUNIGEN!" he shouted in command. The Russian, who had surely soilded his pants, complied with the order conveyed in German as if he had understood perfectly, and the truck's engine once again roared to life as the speedometer began its rise. Not a word was spoken.
Nikolaus took another glance at the rearview mirror and confirmed the cruisers were giving chase. The cruisers were all tailing twenty feet behind, one after the other. Realizing they weren't going to lose the cruisers on a truck, Nikolaus let the cargo do the work.
He pressed his one free hand against his right ear and spoke.
//"Brandt, Nazarian."\\ Nikolaus called over the radio.
//"We hear you, sir."\\ came the voices of two Prussian agents riding in the back of the truck.
//"We have some company. Three police cruisers tailing behind, what can you do?"\\
In the pitch darkness of the truck's cargo trailer, the two Prussian agents looked at each other indecisively. Taking a deep breath, one of the agents - Nazarian, a Prussian-Armenian - looked to his partner with a smile and conveyed his thoughts. "We can use this." he suggested, pointing at a large crate filled with canned drinks. The cargo consisted of an arsenal of weapons bound for Hadrut, Azerbaijan, but the Prussians had been clever enough to hide the malicious cargo under mountains of canned consumables. The decision was about to pay off. "You're a genius." Brandt said.
//"Sir, keep the truck steady; we got this."\\
Brandt walked over to the trailer's double doors and Nazarian placed himself behind the crate of canned drinks. "Gun ready?" Brandt asked.
"Ready." said Nazarian.
"Here's the plan." Brandt began. "I open these double-doors, and you push that **** out."
"Then?" Nazarian asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Then we let 'em have it." Brandt said, gripping his MP5 with one hand. "On three. One.. two.. three!"
The trailer's double-doors swung open as Brandt unhinged its lock and, as planned, Nazarian pushed the already loose crate of canned drinks out of the truck. Fortunately for Nazarian, gravity did most of the work, and the crate slid off the back of the truck, slamming against the asphalt once before plunging itself through the windshield of the leading crusier.
A thunderous explosion of breaking glass ensued as the crate collided and plunged through the windshield. The screams of the Turkish police officers inside of the cruiser were nearly inaudible under the explosive sound of shattering glass and screeching tires. The leading cruiser swerved out of control and, in a domino effect, the cruisers that followed collided and swerved out of control, into a screeching end.
The thumping sound of suppressed fire complimented the thunderous crash as the two Prussian agents peppered the totaled cruisers with rounds from their MP5 sub-machine guns.
//"Out-****ing-standing!"\\ came the voice of Nikolaus through the radio. //"Now get ready to dismount, we're not over yet."\\ he declared.
Nikolaus turned to the driver, "Stop the truck, slow." he ordered, his pistol still aimed at the Russian's head. The Russian complied in silence and the truck came to a slow stop. "Get out of the truck and walk to the back." Nikolaus ordered. Without a word, the Russian opened the door and dismounted the vehicle. Nikolaus did the same and met with the Russian and his Geheimdienstaufsichtsrat partners around the back of the truck.
In the distance, the wreckage could be seen. The Turkish police cruisers were totaled and smoke emitted from under the hoods. The bullet hole peppered cruisers came to a permanent stop in the middle of the road and pierced cans of various drinks sprayed juices throughout the whole scene.
"Brandt, Nazarian." Nikolaus called, and the two leaped off the back of the truck and onto the road. "Get over there." Nikolaus said, taking a glance at the wrecked cruisers. "I don't want anyone broadcasting our location. You see anyone still breathing, you fix it. Understood?"
"Understood." the two replied in unison.
Brandt and Nazarian jogged a minute down the road to the scene and immediately heard the moans and groans of injured Turkish police officers, confirming that there were indeed survivors. To the right of Brandt, a police officer in good enough condition to make a run for it rose to his feet and bolted toward the farmlands on the side of the road. "I got this one." Brandt said, and jogged behind him, pulling out his pistol and unloading several rounds into the Turk's back. A hard "UGHH" marked the end of the Turk as he collapsed onto his belly, his shirt soaked in blood.
"Merhamet! another Turk begged, staggering from behind one of the cruisers with his hands in the air, his uniform drenched in blood. Instinctively, Nazarian leveled his sub-machine gun and let out a burst of lead. The Turk was struck multiple times across the chest, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed with a hard thud.
Another survivor hid behind one of the cruisers, but was spotted by Brandt, who immediately went around the vehicle and unloaded a series of bursts from his sub-machine gun, ripping the man to shreds.
Nikolaus watched from the distance, his pistol still aimed at the Russian. He turned to face the terror-stricken, exhausted Russian and spoke up. "I apologize for what you've been put through." said Nikolaus. "This shouldn't have happened."
The Russian shook in panic, sweating uncontrollably. "We're all going to die, comrade.. I know it. They're going to hunt us down.. We can't get away from this.." he continued, pointing at the wreckage in the distance, watching as the two Prussian agents calmly disposed of any survivors. "I should have known you were one of those crazy ****in' Prussians -- you LOOK Prussian!"
"I guarantee you, Mr. Balashnov, that my men and I will do everything in our power to prevent any harm from befalling you." Nikolaus said sincerely. "All I ask is that you get back in that truck and do as I say. You do that, and I promise you payment and safety after this is all over."
"Pfft.." the Russian shook his head doubtfully, his eyes watering. "****.. comrade.. You got me by the balls." he said, rubbing his temples. "I'll do whatever you say, mister. Just get me out of here, please."
Nikolaus nodded and holstered his weapon.
//"Brandt, Nazarian. We're moving out."\\
NON CANON
With the Swiss finally out of Greece, the country was finally able to declare independance for the first time in a long time, and, with the help of the British, was able to begin a project to restore Athens, to repair all the damage the war brought to the city. The first things to be repaired were homes, and they were worked on almost immediately. The Greek Army, as well as the remainder of the Brits still in Athens, began to plan out a schedule, which had them finishing the repairs within a month. Until then, the people who had lost their homes were staying in various buildings, if not with relatives in other parts of Greece. Seeing exactly how many had lost their homes, the soldiers were motivated to try to finish their work earlier than planned, which meant shorter breaks, more time working, and less time sleeping for the next three-or-so weeks.Esfahan, Persia
Christian Brent sat at the table, next to Owen Thompson, the man representing Ireland, who in turn was next to Vasilios Paraskos, the man representing Greece. Looking at the food infront of him, Brent cautiously took a bite, never having anything like it before. Slightly frowning as the food entered his mouth, he forced a smile. Even if he didn't quite like it, he would at least eat it all, as a show of respect. The food had been, after all, prepared specifically for him and the others, so it was the least he could do. Looking at Owen to his left, Brent leaned in, and whispered to the man. "Have you tried the food? What do you think of it?"
Finishing the bite in his mouth, and turning his head to Brent, Owen spoke with a smile on his face. "I, surprisingly, actually quite like it. Better than I thought it was going to be."
Figuring Owen would want to continue eating, Brent simply nodded, and looked around the table. People were interacting all around him, making him feel slightly like an odd one out, but the only people he really had anything to say to were the Prussians, Greeks, and Ethiopians. He could talk to Sotelo, though he wasn't sure how well that would go, and he definitely wasn't going to talk to the French. Figuring he would wait for a conversation to come to him, Brent simply began to eat once more.
((Not really sure where I should be at this table... So... Sitting alone! Hurray!))
~DED
"Until another cold winter's day!" Nikolov yelled after the delegate as he strolled to the door.
As he walked down from the altar's stand. Bringing his hands to rest in front of him he strolled slowly out to the aisle watching as the man left through the door. As the cold evening breeze washed through the chamber his two guards began to walk out from their corners. The sound of the door closing was like a muffled bang. And the Cathedral fell silent.
"Was it necessary to be that aggressive to him?" one of the agents said with a smirk. He reached into the front pocket of his black IB-esque uniform and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Putting one in his mouth he rose to light it, but was stopped by Nikolov.
"Bishop doesn't like that," he said, wrapping his fingers around his hand and forcing it closed, "And he's not necessarily any man of power I wanted to see and obviously an idiot. I only hope not all the westerners in this nation of come to such a state of not being capable of being taken seriously."
"Well, what do we do now." asked the one, his cigarette bobbing in his mouth.
"I go back home and inform the others, we work out what we want to do." Nikolov added, "Exact nature of requests and all that.
"And you, you'll go into the Sovetskiy Okrug and meet up with one of our contacts there. We'll get the news out, and try to centralize a little better than before. God knows we'll need a good political bloc going."
Esfahan
Down the table, along side Dean Hong sat the delegate from Vietnam. Munching on his assorted edibles he listened in on the conversation alongside of him as well as catching quips from the multiple topics between Sotelo and the gaggle across the table. Though in the light conversation of the dining hall a certain loud boisterous tone rang out over the chatter. A sort of deep, all too accented French.
Raising his eyes from his dish he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and glanced down that way, to a Russian who seemed to be forcing himself much to hard to be polite and formal. Leaning over he whispered in the ear of the Cambodian delegate. "Can we even take him seriously?" he said.
The Cambodian looked puzzled, "How so?"
"I don't know where he's getting his information. Papau New Guinea in revolution? I'm sure even the Khmer Post would be going mad with war hunger."
The Cambodian leaned over and looked down. His opinion silenced for a second as he considered and listened into the indelicate Russian. Looking the other way, and he easily confirmed that it was at least not the Western Communer. "Very." he commented simply.
"If he's talking about Mindanao," sighed the Vietnamese diplomat, "then it's safe to say Russian intelligence abilities may be much too poor to be of concern."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
In Hrazdan, a plan was hatched with Hadrut to start a newspaper for the ASF. In conjunction with spray-painted propaganda and radio broadcasts, more Armenians would join the fight. Already, many were on strike in industrialized areas, and rebel ranks swelled daily. It was only two months into the rebellion, but the martyrs at Yerevan and Nor Yerznka enraged the populace and gave the rebellion steam. Only a few actively took the fight to the Turks, but many supported them with black market guns, free food, and free housing. The radio broadcasts were also being listened to by Turkish sources, who were trying to track them down, and Persians. The signals could also be heard in south Russia, and the the coasts of Poland. With a newspaper, the ASF could spread out more and further undermine Turkish oppression in the region.
With the Armenians at Hrazdan was a former newpaper editor for the "Posta", who had been fired in early April for recognizing the ASF as an independant entity at Esfahan. He joined the ASF, and was quickly put in charge of a rebel newspaper project. But without the equipment to print it, the idea was useless. So the ASF hatched a plan to steal printing equipment from an abandoned factory in Hrazdan, the most industrialized city in Armenia. In the early hours of the morning, two trucks with tarps covering their beds pulled up to the factory. A five man team armed with Polish-made assault rifles from the black market hopped out and covered each other as they kicked down the rotted wooden door to the factory. The raiders quickly spread out in search of printing equipment, and soon found a set that was small enough to move on the wheeled pallets the found stacked against the wall.
The back alleys of Hrazdan were rarely patrolled by the military police, and the Armenians found that they had plenty of time to take the printing press equipment into the trucks. With a lot of effort, they loaded the equipment in, as well as a couple dozen rolls of newspaper-grade paper. The trucks were fully loaded down, as the Armenians tossed their guns inside and closed the hatches. There was no space for them anymore, so they were walking back to base. But first, they had to hide out in the factory until curfew ended at 7 o'clock.
With the moon falling down over the island a certain calming cold seemed to drift over the hospital. A relaxation wrought from the warm glow of the lights that created a comforting contrast with the outside. Much so it turned the halls and bays of injured into a comforting Paradisio for Chinese and Luzonian alike. With the intercoms switching on to the radio, the last hour of light was signaled before the allotted lights-off moment.
In the winding down atmosphere of Cebu Metropolitan Hospital Quan Yun-Qi walked down through the halls, looking out the sterile glass windows to the city-scape beyond. An ocean of soft yellow lights set against the growing midnight blues of the hills and the straight black veil of the night sky above. It was a far-cry from his home in China, where many structures were still kept small. Here, where the influence of American occupation still stood over the cityscape low-hanging sky-scrappers dotted the scenery. Each too alight with their own glow as the last of the officer workers no doubt began filing out.
Major Yun-Qi was still feeling troubled over the lack of information regarding his men. And each time he met the nurse he had asked to retrieve the information she only frowned and shrugged. Take a deep sigh he leaned off the window and continued on down the hall. The last of the night staff was beginning to file out, or to finish up their rounds before the lights were shut off.
On the other-side of the hospital the windows looked out onto the sea. Ripples and waves forming long knives of light as the moon and stars were refracted and reflected in the waves. In the distance sat the dark form of Lapu-Lapu. And beyond that the men he was charged with. Though as fine a scene as it was, it had that haunting specter of uncertainty that hung over it. Though, he kept on down, pausing briefly to scratch and tug at the straps that held his shoulder and its rough cast in place.
Glancing back down the hall where he watched a fellow injured soldier hobble down the hall on crutches he turned a corner blind. Without knowing what was around the turn he took it with abandoned. He had little time to see what was coming out from around. And he jumped and stiffened at the panic and startled scream as he collided into another passing pedestrian. The panic of the nurse subsided to lite laughter as Yun-Qi turned about to meet who he had ran into.
Here holding tightly onto a trey piled with glassware was the nurse from her ward. She chewed at her bottom lip and she carefully attempted to balance a toppled glass on the edge of her steel tray. "Oh, sorry." Yun-Qi said in a awkward start, "I didn't see you."
"Well perhaps you should pay attention." she chuckled, "I thought you're supposed to pay attention to your surr-"
A loud crash interrupted her as the cup she had been trying to balanced toppled out onto the floor. It exploded into several pieces and glassware scattered itself across the floor. "As you were saying?" smirked Quan as he knelt over to pick up the pieces.
The young nurse could only nod her head, "Well I've got a few things on my plate comrade, I've an excuse." she sighed, "And you don't need to do that."
Yun-Qi laughed, "Do you mean that metaphorically or literally." he chortled, picking a few of the larger pieces up as she knelt down alongside him, placing the tray down on the tiled floor.
"You're worse than my Mom." she said, rolling her eyes and reaching out to pick up the pieces, "You know that?"
"Oh really? I thought I was as dry as a German." retorted Yun-Qi. She didn't respond.
"You don't get?" he asked. She shook her head.
"It's something a well traveled Vietnamese officer told me once." he noted, "Apparently Germans are very dry."
"Well, I'll take his word for until I see it for myself." she smiled.
"Do as you do." Yun-Qi nodded. Becoming more comber he added: "Any word on my men?"
"No." she said.
"Well why not?"
"It's difficult getting information out of the military, I thought you'd know that." the nurse said, "I tried. I swear. I went down to the operation headquarters and asked if I could information on a unit and they denied me."
Major Quan nodded, "Makes sense." he sighed, "They'd probably need me down there."
"Sorry." the nurse sighed.
"It's alright, you tried." he said, putting a hand-full of broken glass onto her trey. Standing up he stretched his back. The nurse followed suit. "Well I might as well be going into bed then." he said, "I'll see you on the morning rounds then I guess."
"You too." she nervously said, getting up with one tray with one less glass and many more shards, "And again, sorry."
Yun-Qi waved her off. "It's not a big problem. I'll just hope they're fine." he said, beginning to walk off.
Watching him go down the hall the nurse stood, her finger fidgeting guiltily underneath the tray. Calling out to him she said: "You want to take a walk, Major?"
Yun-Qi stopped mid-stride, confused. Looking around he eyed her with a flat expression. Though his eyes danced up and down her with gleeful excitement. "Aren't you on shift?" he asked.
"Not in ten minutes." she said, "I'll be off then."
"Well, what about me? How am I supposed to get back in?"
"I'll talk to the night-shift nurse about it." she smiled, "I'll see if I can't give you a one-time pass on this one occasion."
"Well, what's the occasion?"
"Maybe we can find out what happened to your men." she said. Though she acted like she was teasing something else. "And perhaps you can get my name then too." and that was it.
Yun-Qi smiled, "Alright then."
"Good. Meet me over by the nursing station. We'll get your coat for something more proper than that thin gown and we'll head out to the Headquarters. Got eight minutes soldier." With that, she turned and headed off down the hall. Smiling wide, Yun-Qi laughed, not believing his fortunes. He followed after.
Roughly ten minutes later the pair were outside the hospital. The Major was dressed back up in his old coat, over his gown. Though his lame arm was not fitted through the correct sleeve, it had been made sure to remain on with the use of the buttons and his belt. Surprisingly, the hole the bullet had punctured had not yet been sealed and was still open. Threads of fabric still hung out seared. It had been cleaned, but blood had already stained it.
Quan Yun-Qi also hadn't seen the structure from the outside in some time. And the only time that was during was on the medical evacuation helicopter flight from the Zamboangna highlands. And from the ground, it was an impressive structure. Some five floors built to service Metropolitan Cebu and Lapu-Lapu towered over the court-yard and surrounding parking lot.
Stands of trees swayed and rattled softly in the cool ocean breeze. Major Quan took a deep breath, feeling the revitalizing salty air. A far and comfortable cry from the choking anti-septic smell that he had feared destroyed his sense of small all together. The town ahead was aglow with a multitude of lights, and strings of lanterns were hanging out over the roads.
The low rumble of cars rolled down the road ahead as light, evening traffic passed. Several light civilian automobiles. Others horse driven carts.
"Come on." the nurse smiled, walking out into the courtyard. Yun-Qi followed.
"Feels good to be out." he said cheerfully, taking in his new, more natural scenery.
"I know." the nurse said, "You get trapped up inside that building and every hour you just want to get out."
"I take it you don't enjoy your work then?"
"Oh no," she said, "I like it. It's just not the place I'd like to do it in. To stuffy. A little depressing at times. It's why I look forward to getting able to walk home.
"And I nearly forgot, sorry. But I'm Xin Lai"
"Quan Yun-Qi." he said, "Nice to formally meet you."
Xin Lai took the compliment with a laugh, "Why thanks." she smiled, "And it's good to hear it from your own mouth and not on the medical paper work."
The two walked out onto the side-walk and began walking down the road, "Fortunately the headquarters are on the same route to where I'm living while stationed here." Lai said, "So it's not that far."
"And you can't take me all the way with you?" Quan asked, maybe over optimistically.
She smacked lightly across the arm, "No." she huffed, almost semi-offendidly, "Not yet at least. Besides, I told the night staff I would have you back as soon we're done. They gave me half and hour tops to waive hospital curfew."
"Well that's no fun."
"I wouldn't have taken you anyways." Lai said.
"You make me feel much better."
"Well don't put your hopes down." Xin Lai commented, "But there's a possibility they'll give you more freedom. They always do shortly before redeployment."
"Well then, I have that to look forward to at least."
"You do. And say, where are you from? You've gotten a northern sound to you."
"I'm from Chifeng." he smiled, "It's nice, though not as good as it is here this time of year."
"I bet." Xin Lai commented, "I'm from Shanwei myself."
"So should I guess your Cantonese then?"
"Half right." Xin Lai said, "My father was Cantonese. Mother was Han."
"Then this isn't much of a change for you?"
"Well ignoring all the churches, Spanish, and Fillipino." she laughed, "It is like home. It's nice and warm. Though it's a lot quieter here than the Shanwei I know."
"It certainly is." noted Quan Yun-Qi, looking about the place. Plaster patches covered the walls of the store-fronts and offices they passed by. Scars from the violent over-throw of the Americans five-years past, and the subsequent in-fighting of the nationalists after. At this level, the battle-pecked streets represented hard years gone. And to him, the ghostly distant memories of the Revolution.
The two kept on quiet for a block, Yun-Qi's hand buried in his out coat pocket where his other sat strapped to his side, giving the impression of having well lost it.
"Takes you back." Xing Lai said with a sad voice.
"To what?" asked the major, looking off from the walls and to the girl at his side.
"The Revolution," she added, "We see this nation's own scars. It's sort of like your own childhood memory brought back to some new place."
"Oh..." Yun-Qi sighed, "I guess it was."
"I was only six when it ended." reminised Lai, "I don't remember much of it, but I do remember my parents being very frieghtened. My Dad always walked me to school, afraid someone or something'd start shooting. We fled north when Hong Kong was about to fall."
"That was in '68, wasn't it?"
Lia nodded, "Then a year later it was over."
"Just like that..." Quan nodded, "My Mom died of plague, back when I was only two, so I don't remember her very well."
"Oh dear, I'm sorry." Lia gasped, "It was Unit 731, wasn't it?"
"She's believed to be one of her victums." Yun-Qi said darkly, casting his view down to the ground, "My father took me and abandoned Chifeng shortly after, at that time everyone was getting deathly ill. We went in-land." chuckling rather darkly Yun-Qi recalled morbidly, "I was told I contracted plague. But he found a doctor in Baotou. And I guess I survived."
"I'm terribly sorry," Lia gasped, "we weren't much in the way of anything like that. If anything, a lot of fighting between everyone and the Japanese I guess. Though, we lost a lot of family to some surprise out-breaks of plague ourselves, but we weren't ever directly hassled."
"Oh, is this it?" Yun-Qi pointed out. Ahead of them stood a large building. Hanging off the side was a large display of flags. The NPCLA, Laotian People's Army, the flags of the People's Republic of Luzon and of New People's China. In addition, smaller flags of the various combat units in Luzon hung from a over-hanging balcony.
"That is," Lia nodded, "Will they yell at me if I follow?"
"I don't think they'll let you be in the same briefing room, but to the lobby."
The Chinese headquarters for their operations on Mindanao was at one point, a mansion. Though during the fighting it had been abandoned. But once Chinese forces came to occupy Cebu and transfer it to Luzon it was restored and made the command post for affairs concerning the central islands of the Philippines. Including being a nexus of recruiting, and the offices of several generals, including those in charge of the Mindanao campaign.
Quan Yun-Qi arrival was marked with the desk secretary snapping to a state of attention when he looked up from his magazine at the desk. His private's uniform was still clean and untouched by combat. Neat creases still ran down his legs and sleeves. "Major, sir." he said in a loud voice, less so to actual welcome the Major than notify the rest of the building, "What can I help you with?"
"I'm Major Quan Yun-Qi," Yun-Qi said, leaning against the desk, "I'm of the 3rd Hebei regiment, I command the third platoon. I need some information."
"You can't be going back out sir?" the private asked, "It looks you lost an arm."
"It's still there." sighed Yun-Gi, patting his injured shoulder with his arm he added, "I only got the shoulder shot. I'm in recovery, I just want to know what the standing orders on the Third is."
"Certainly," the private said, "but I'll need your papers."
The major nodded. Sticking his hands into his pockets he rummaged around. To his relief much of his belongings were still there and he soon produced his service card. Sliding it over he let the private examine it. Looking from the portrait up to him he nodded.
"Thank you Major Quan." said the private, nodding a little more relaxed, "If you can follow me I'll take you in to be briefed on this." he paused momentarily, looking passed him at the nurse, "Then you can return to the hospital."
"Fair enough."
The briefing room was once a reading room. Soft carpet lined the floor and some of the original furniture remained, though stained by who knows what. Empty bookshelves lined the walls and a projector screen hung at the far-side. The shades on the window were drawn down and the lights dimmed to a soft orange. On the wal furthest from the projector, sitting under a tilted portrait of a fox-hunt stood a tattered projector.
Here, Yun-Qi sat alone, waiting for the briefing officer to arrive. From above the muffled sounds of foot steps accompanied the slow lethargic ticking of a grandfather clock as officers strolled about above. the major's leg bobbed up and down as he waited nervously. His fingers tapping against his still knee.
After what felt to be half an hourthe door to the room opened up and in walked a less decorated officer. His coat trailing behind him as he traversed the floor. He stopped briefly half-way through the room and looked around puzzled, as if looking for his audience. His eyes fell on Yun-Qi and his expression drifted from startled worry. "Good evening sir," he said with a smile, "you must be Major Yun-Qi?"
"I am." he said.
"You must forgive me," he stuttered, walking over and reaching out for a chair, "I've been used to addressing larger groups of people here. And mostly to introduce a superior.
"So, you had questions about a platoon?"
"My platoon." Yun-Qi corrected, "And yes, I do. I want to know their current orders."
The lieutenant nodded. Sitting down he placed a small folder on his lap. Opening it up he flipped through it until he could find the orders page. "Third Platoon, 3rd Hebei regiment." he began, "Standing orders are to hold their grounds in the highlands north of Zamboangna and control the mountain passes alongside a Major Fai Kaizhi."
Quan Yun-Qi let out a deep sigh of relief, "Excellent." he smiled.
"It's safe to assume then someone other than you is leading them?" asked the lieutenant.
"Yes, a captain Xinggou Tu."
"Then as the Philippinos I've worked with say: 'God have mercy.'"
"If I may ask, who issued that order?"
"Your CO did." the lieutenant said, "He signed the report. In addition Shawyi did for Fai Kaizhi. So I imagine your colleaque felt some pity."
"Good, good." Yun-Qi smiled, "And, I think that's all I needed to know."
"Nothing else then?" the lieutenant asked.
"No, I can catch updates on the battle over the radio."
"True, but those won't be as detailed as you'll get here." the lieutenant said.
"I know that."
"Perhaps if you get the chance write a note to us and have your nurse friend drop it off. We'll see about sending someone off to brief you at the hospital at their convience. Save you another trip."
Smiling, Yun-Qi nodded his head, "Thanks for the offer." he said, "I'll consider it. But I enjoyed my walk."
Winking, the lieutenant added, "With a girl like that who wouldn't."
Shanghai
South Shanghai recording studio
The chords of what sounded to be a slow, low blues song drifted about in the recording booth in the studio. A low, almost sad blues tune backed by the slow playing of the Rickenbacker of one of a handfull black men in China: Harvey. In accompaniment, playing on a tonal range that existed between the tones and semitones of Harvey was the slow methodic plucking of Chen Yiaoliang. Each note played softly and in the mellow, lose rythem of his drummer Hun Bang. Li played in the background, he too picking at his own Ruan.
The song came to a slow close, and a tapping of the cymbols which ended the affair. A brief moment of silence prevailed and then a voice eminated from the speakers: "That was good boys, but I don't think we got the the second verse on Harvey right. Cho bumped the dials when he knocked over his beer."
Harvey threw his head back and laughed, "**** man, not again."
"Yes." the voice said, with an electric ring, "The rest of you can file out but we'll need you to play that verse again comrade?"
"Yea, yea." the new Afro-Sino nodded, propping his battered rickebacker up closer to his chest. The others began to file out into the editing booth to watch and take a break.
The editing booth was littered with the accumulated debree of a recording job in progress. Strewn across the floor lay scattered notes, some decorated with crude and lude drawings to humor those of a certain mind set. Glass bottles of beer were arraged in a pyramid in the corner collecting flies, while cigarette butts were cast where-ever, burning new holes in the carpet. Running across the cieling from recording block to modified desk and floor fans ran length of track tapes, being wound slowly or being reorganized for inevitable cutting-room floor action. One of these blocks was spinning, rolling out a fresh deck to record Harvey's solo adventure.
As he began, the men at the instruments panel began playing with the switches and dials. Lights flashed to illumination as numerous channels were activated. A set of lights danced about displaying the audio in visual form. In addition, a line on a second council began to break, bend and dance to the incoming soundwaves.
And in all, the whole room was hot and smelled of three-day old, dried soup and lite beer.
"Have you ever watched that screen?" asked Hun Bang as Chen Yiaoliang sat down next to him, a bottle of warm alchohol in his hand, "It's kind of interesting."
"What do you mean?" Yiaoliang asked, twisting the cap off his bottle.
"Jus- just watch it." he said, pointing at it. The line that ran through the small round window began to pop and ripple to each chord plucked on Harvey's guitar. The altitude of its peaks matching the lows of its valleys in synchronization and courtship to the notes played. In essence, it matched the song. At moments it seemed to slide to the side as a long note played and then snapped back to the center as it ended.
"It is interesting." Yiaoliang noted, taking a drink.
"Very." he said, "I'd say we should have it on a show or something. But knowing the NPN on such things they'd excuse it as silly and nonsensical."
"I guess you're right there." he said, "I've only had to play with straight lights on me. Figured it was all we really needed, right?"
Bang shrugged, "Guess you've got a point. But still, I'd like to do a show with that projected behind us or something. At least for one section."
"Well next time touring talk comes around I'll talk to the new director and see what he thinks of it."
"Worth a shot." Bang said
"It is."
Shanghai Docks Warehouse
In other realms of Shanghai, other acts were playing out. On the east-end stood a large empty warehouse. Nestled where the spray of the sea could run upon its walls on a windy day. The large doors at its end sat cracked open, allowing a small green car to pass through its maw. Rolling through the emptiness it made its approach to a collection of other vehicles, many older than this simple 1975 model Qilin. Some of the other vehicles it rolled around next to were of a much older styles, some with a faint highlighting of rust.
The car pulled up to a stop. It's driver side door clicked open, and out stepped a man of aged discretion. Dr Xixen Daen looked about at the ensamble gathered. Shutting his car door he walked up to the gathering. It was small, perhaps three other people were here, and they all stood with hands nustled in coat pockets, seeking shelter from the chill, winter air outside.
"Afternoon." he said, walking up alongside of them.
"Afternoon." a younger man said nodding, "I guess you're in on this too?"
"I am." Dr. Xixen said, "So, where is he?"
"Right here." called a voice strolling up from the far end of the warehouse. His hands worked at each other as they sought to remove the black gloves. His black uniform puffed to guard against the cold, "Was waiting to see if everyone showed as they promised."
"Well, we did." the younger man said, "So why are we in a warehouse?"
"Reasons." the IB agent smiled, coming up to them, "One being I can hear just about ever conversation while being hidden in the corner. Another being a inside-joke in the IB."
The third-unspoken man smiled and rolled his eyes. "That being?" Xixen asked
"Dragons fill caves with soldiers and their horde." Guo Han said, "Tigers fill theirs with body-bags. We roosters fill it up with inteligence."
"I don't get it." the younger man commented.
"And you may never get it." Agent Han said, "But he does." he added, pointing out the other who was smiling and shaking his head.
"Who is he?" the younger asked, "Why are we all here?"
"You are all now partners." Guo Han said, "Much like my own, who is standing outside and was here to direct you to this block. You're just operating as a larger group. Because frankly, we want one. If you're all going to be investigating Seattle and helping the Americans to compile their forensics report on the event as well as dissect VX and fish out the last samples we need a good diverse one. We're also not afraid to have this public on some level, though we're not ready to declare this to the NPN and every newspaper in existence, it's on open-for-questions unit.
"Per your purpose. You'll be metaphorically filling this warehouse with information regarding the bombing of Seattle. By order of Congress, we're now charged with gathering information to learn about and understand this new dangerous weapon. They and Hou want to know how to stop it. They want antidotes, and methods to keep ahead of its change. Because, it's still out there, and no doubt being used.
"Some time ago we have recieved reports concerning the Ivory Coast about the mysterious silencing of an entire region of the African nation. One that had gone hot, but all of the sudden had gone cold. We can't confirm this ever happened, nor its nature. But it concerns us, considering who we believe to carry VX.
"The Spanish as we're aware is violently anti-Revolution and will stop at nothing to kill everyone associated with it. Which has put China, and the whole of Asia at high-risk. We've already been threatened once and we're not intent on having it happen again. And if it does happen, at home or on the field, it's been decided we neeed certain preventative measures.
"Dr Xixen Daen and Guo Cong," Guo Han continued, gesturing to Xixen and the younger of the two men present, "You two are some of the premier medical doctors and have high regards in your respective hospitals."
"But only in a general medical sense." Xixen said, "I don't teach anything specefic, nor do I practice any specefic field. I'm in general medicine. Why would you need me?"
"Because we're not sure what VX attacks. Is it the lungs, the nerves, the blood. The notes are limited and we need to know where it goes. And frankly we don't want to throw a group of specefically designated doctors. Costs too much, and there's a low success chance. At least in this event you'll hopefully return with some possible areas where it attacks so the Americans or we can concentrate our studies on that area.
"And the last two," he said, pointing to the last two. A small balding man, and the other man with a broken-looking nose, the one who had been laughing at Guo's 'joke', "We've Dr. Ho Angua of the university of Beijing and a fellow associate of mine Ming Fa. Angua's noted as being a respectable chemist. And Fa headed the molecular examination of the 'Russian Goo'."
"Which we found to be a mixture of gasoline consisting of aluminum soap, naphthenate, and palmitate." Fa said with a smile.
"Yes." nodded Gou, "And I guess by being here you've decided to be a part of this mission."
"So you want us to investigate a chemical that may kill us in any number of horrible ways? And somehow find out how to prevent it?" asked Angua.
"Yes."
"Easy enough then," Angua sighed, "When do we head off?"
Guo smiled, "Eager, I like that.
"If you don't turn back now, then you'll be dispatched for Portland Oregon tomorrow morning. There you will meet with the head investigator in the US. He'll update you on the progress of the investigation and show you around. Very likely you'll be under security, and if you enter Seattle proper in closed environment suits. From what I gather, they've only established a base understanding of how wide-spread it is as well as filtration. There's likely to be more but was lost in translation."
Xixen nodded, "As long as I won't end up as a Unit 731 doctor."
"You won't." Guo said, "Hou'll make sure of that."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
))
Esfahan, Persia
Upon hearing the Frederick essentially demand an end to Spanish aid to the Italian resistance, Alfonso Sotelo produced an unrepressed snerk, letting nearby diners onto how he felt about Frederick's misconceptions about the European status quo.
"My apologies, Kaiser. I had a bit of a... cough there; quite embarassing, I'll admit." Sotelo apolgized with a dishonest smile. "But I don't see how on Earth Spanish and the Iberian League's efforts to rebuild Italy into the functioning state would be in any way detrimental to the Prussian people. Would you really prefer having an unstable tyrant with the reigns on the fifth or sixth largest army in Europe running about? I assure you, Kaiser, the Prussian people have nothing to fear from Spanish support of the Roman resistance."
The men all nodded at each other, all of them dressed in military fatigues. Speech at this point was useless, the wind made sure of that. They all took one last strong tug at the rope tied around their waists and stepped into metaphorical hell. The wind would whip at any exposed skin, sucking the wind from your lungs. The rain stung as it hit bodies, coming down in a torrent. The men in a row stepped into the street, water nearly pulling them away. The point man grabbed a foothold in the street, the water swerving around his legs. He climbed up through the window of a nearby bus, staying stuck in the street. He waited as the rest of the line moved along, four other men.
The point man, named Jackson struggled to climb up the slick steel of the abandoned bus with shattered windows sitting in the street, as a buffer against the rain swept streets. Jackson waited for his three other men to carefully climb into the bus to, and moved to the far end of it. Their objective at the end of the street. A tank was stuck in the street, wedged between two cars. Their objective was to rescue the military personal stuck inside the metal beast. Jackson climbed out the front when a massive gust of wind hit him, plastering him against the front of the bus. He waited a moment, and took a testing step out, grabbing a foothold. He had a few seconds where he was free of any support, just him standing in the flooded streets, fear rushed into him as he grabbed a nearby car for support, working his way along the side.
After ping ponging between cars Jackson and his men reached the tank. They moved into action, Jackson was secured and supported onto the top of the tank, where he used the cannon to get a grip. He pulled out a small handheld blow torch, and got to work cutting off the hinges at the top, opening the tank hatch. Jackson quickly dropped down and saw a sad sight. One of the soldiers had been shot in the head, the other was dead, a shot in the head, but he held a pistol in his hand. A suicide note laid on the ground.
Jackson simply shook his head, there was no time for sentiment.
Jackson grabbed the men's tags and climbed out of the tank, gave a thumbs down sign and made back to the subway station, they were headed out soon, about to launch an offensive against the old parliament building, the head quarters of this entire affair.
“So what are going to do about our products becoming obsolete?” John Miller asked his vice president. “Well we’re going to have to come up with something quick or else we’ll go bankrupt again” he replies. “We’ve already stopped producing the pistol” Replies the man in charge of the Rhode Island division. “I think it’s time to discontinue our pistol product, its decades out of date” says the vice president. “I agree with that” John replies to his vice president. “I’ll start designing the product’s successor” a man says. “Good, any other ideas?” John asks. “Our rifle product is also out of date” says the man in charge of the Massachusetts division. “Fine we’ll discontinue the rifle” John says. “I’ll design the product’s successor” another man says. “Any other products to discontinue?” John asks. “No” replies the vice president. “Then I think we can close this meeting” John says.
Krasnodar Krai Region, near Pavlovskaya, Holy Sultanate of Turkey (4:58 AM)
"Welcome back, listeners. This your host D-[static]" proclaimed the voice of a Russian radio host as Nikolaus shuffled through the various broadcasting networks. "-uck me silly Monday is-[static]" came the next, "-Mejor muerto que roj-[static]". Nikolaus sighed, turning to face Mikhail, "Your radio broadcasts are shameful." he complained.
The Russian snorted, "We Russians have never been good at radio shows with a purpose other than propaganda." he admitted wearily, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Quien me salvara ahora!!?-- YO! Capitan Capitali-[static]"
"This is depressing." Nikolaus complained again, shuffling on to the next channel.
"-ello Armenia, it is I -- your Sultan, Suleima- Hah! I'm [static]-oking. It's me, Vahan, coming to yo-[static] live from.. well, that's a secret." came the distorted voice of an Armenian. Intrigued, Nikolaus increased the volume of the broadcast. "[static] the fight to free Armenia is strong, my brothers. Do not be fool-[static] by the Turkish oppressors. Soon, Armenia, our rightful home, will be free of [static]-cades of oppression, decades of suffering at the hands of the Turkish Sultan."
"You have to admit," began Mikhail, "those Armenians have balls." he said with a sluggish tone. "Broadcasting from the Sultan's backya-"
Nikolaus waved his hand in a dismissive manner, "Quiet." he said.
"Brothers and sister of Armenia.. [static] come forth! Raise arms! Resist! Refuse! [static] We are not interested in where you're from, or whether Armeni-[static] is where you were born! What matters is your willingness to fight for what you believe in your heart is your home - Armenia. Armenia[static], Syrians, Russians, all who have suffered under the Turkish imperial boot, we welcome you in open arms! Join the ASF! [static] Fight for freedom!"
The broadcast ceased into static and the brilliant glow of early morning streetlights rose over the horizon. "There's Pavlovskaya." the Russian announced. "With your permission.. " said a facetious, yet serious Mikhail.. "I would like to rest." he requested, "I've been driving nonstop. I don't know how much longer I can go."
"Pull over." Nikolaus said plainly.
"We can stop in the town." Mikhail argued.
"We won't stop in town; it's too dangerous." declared a slightly irritated Nikolaus. "Remember what I said. Follow my orders - pull over." he demanded.
The Russian complied in silent protest and veered off onto the side of the road. A loud hiss was released as the truck's air breaks were engaged and the truck was pulled to a hard stop. "You have about two hours." Nikolaus said, consulting the military-grade watch around his wrist.
"Before I rest.." the Russian began, turning to face Nikolaus. "I have some questions."
Nikolaus rolled his eyes, "Be quick."
Mikhail bombarded the Prussian with questions. "Who are you? Where are we headed, exactly? What's in the back of my truck, besides your men?"
"All clasified information." Nikolaus answered plainly.
Mikhail sighed with frustration. "Comrade, I'm sorry, but there has to be something you can tell me." he complained. "You lie to me, put a gun to my head, and hold me captive. The least you can do is be honest with me." he continued. "Tell me, mister, just how deeply am I getting ****ed?"
Nikolaus let out a snerk. "Mr. Balashov.." he began. "You are under the protection of the Prussian government, I've already promised that much - you have nothing to fear. " he assured, continuing. "I would rather keep my identity - and that of my men - a secret. What we are hauling - and where to - is also best kept a secret, at least until we see it necessary to share such information."
Unsatisfied, the Russian persisted. "Mister, I need to kno-"
"Two minutes of rest have gone by, Mr. Balashov. I recommend you make the most of what you have left." Nikolaus said in conclusion.
Without saying a word, the frustrated Russian shook his head and climbed into the back of the cabin, where the trucker's bunk-bed could be found.
//"Bradt, Nazarian. Dismount - stand guard."\\
International Conference
Esfahan, Persia
Frederick remained courteous despite the almost overwhelming urge to slap the smile off of Sotelo's face. The way in which Sotelo disregarded Frederick's appreciation for the Iberian League's efforts against the Batistan Regime was, to him, insulting. Returning an equally dishonest smile, the Prussian Kaiser glared in response.
Frederick snerked, "Prime Minister, I support the Iberian League's efforts to liberate the Italians entirely." he assured, making sure the others sitting around him could hear. "Truthfully, I admire such a noble deed. Furthermore, I support your decision to rebuild the nation afterwards. I never said otherwise. However, Mr. Sotelo, let it be clear that the organization you are supporting are neo-Roman radicals responsible for the deaths of innocents all across the state of Italy - these are the individuals you are putting into power, men and women who have proved, in some cases, to be just as brutal as the regime they fight against. Surely you understand where my concern comes from, no?"
((Blerg. I feel I'm missing something.))
A wave of revolutionary fervor has swept over the eastern portions of the Empire, most notably in Armenia, but also in Syria, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Pontus. Major riots have broken out in the major cities and provincial capitals of Armenia, with the largest in Yerevan, the historical capital of Armenia. Rioters have remained unfazed as riot police repeatedly attempted to disperse the crowd with CS gas, gunfire, and armored vehicles. The Armenians stood their ground and remained nonviolent, remembering their lession from the "Yerevan Massacres" almost two months prior. Meanwhile, the ASF is gaining support, with short radio broadcasts intermittently aired throughout the region. Authorities are attempting to trace down the signals, but with no luck so far. A massive troop buildup is expected in the coming months as the ASF grows bolder.
Economics took a turn for the worse as minorities are refusing to work, or refusing to sell to Turkish sources. Even military units are defecting in limited numbers, with "All-Armenian" units being the most common perpetrators. Stocks in Armenian-held corporations plummeted, and many business owners are being arrested for treason. While official businesses are suffering, black and grey market trading has improved immensly, with large amounts of unregulated firearms and explosives being sold to rebel groups. Police have also been unable to stop the growth, as more and more Armenians become frustrated with the government.
Sforza's defenses had been completely breached and Italian infantry had pushed desperately across the battered remains of the castle's walls and into the interior castle in a costly bid to free their Generalissimo. Hundreds upon hundreds of Italian infantrymen pulled from the front lines - only a few miles away now that the Romani and Spanish had assaulted Milan - stormed across the crater-marred lawn of the parade ground and Italian choppers hovered over the roof of the citadel where they disgorged dozens of rappeling soldiers. Despite the feverish mobilization of hundreds of soldiers, the deeper parts of the castle still belonged to less than six dozen Cazadores.
Within a fresco-adorned hallway within the castle, an advancing platoon of Italian soldiers was disgusted to discover a sloped wall made entirely out of the corpses of their fallen comrades rising 3/5s of the way up to the vaulted ceiling above them. Blood from the shot-up corpses ran in stagnant rivulets along the marble floor, pooling around the other corpses scattered on the floor. The smell of iron-rich blood was nauseating.
"Mi Dio... they're using us as sandbags." An awe-struck Italian infantryman said out loud.
"Crawl up!" The Italian lieutenant ordered with a scowl.
"It is suicide, signore! If we scale over this wall, they will shoot us as we come up over just like all of them!" A young Italian private with bloodshot, sleepless eyes protested as he gestured to the wall of corpses before them.
The lieutenant shot an annoyed glare at the private. "Then what do you suggest we do?"
"I don't know, signore! All I know is that we just can't do this! We have to find a way around them or something!" The private began backing away from the wall of corpses. After about six paces, the lieutenant unholstered his side-arm and placed a bullet in the sternum of the private.
"Is my stance on desertion clear to everyone?!"
"Si, signore!" The other ninety-something soldiers barked.
"Then climb over those bodies and kill the ****ing rebels!"
A dozen infantrymen stepped onto the sloped pile of dead soldiers and grasped onto bloodied heads and limbs up to the ridge of the dead soldiers. Some Italians slipped and fell as corpses underneath them gave way and others still vomited as they dug their hands and feet into the mound of dead soldiers. Surely enough, reports rang out as the Italians reached the peak of the corpse ridge. Clouds of pink mist indicated that the shots had found their mark and had scored kills. Killed and wounded Italians rolled back down the pile, collapsing onto the soldiers climbing up beneath them.
On the other side of the mound, a group of six Cazadores armed with Italian standard issue rifles fired at each of the Italians coming up over the wall of dead soldiers - their FE-74 ammunition having been exausted hours ago.
With a hand over his earpiece and the other hand firing at Italians coming up over the pile of corpses, the Cazador lieutenant feverishly tried to reach the Spanish chain of command on his personal radio.
"General Juarez?! Can you confirm that you read me?!" He shouted over the reports of Italian firearms.
//This is General Juarez. I hear you. What's the situation at Castello Sforzesca?//
"Not ideal!" The lieutenant understated. "Our walls are gone and we have Italians inside the interior castle. We've not heard anything from the Janissaries in the past twelve minutes and-" The Cazador was interrupted mid-sentence when a bullet from an Italian that was spraying-and-praying from behind the cover of the ridge of corpses hit the Cazador squarely in the chest. A flattened bullet popped off of the Cazador's ballistic vest and clattered on the marble floor, leaving the Cazador dewinded but unharmed. The lieutenant fired a salvo of retalitory shots right at the ridge of corpses until his would-be assassin had been made into an addition to the corpse mound.
"As I was saying, Batista isn't in the castle."
//La puta madre!// Juarez blurted out of frustration //Are you sure?!//
"We've searched every square inch of this palace. Either our intelligence was bad or he escaped before we could lock the palace down."
//That makes no sense. The Italians could have levelled Sforza Castle an hour ago but they haven't fired so much as a shell within a kilometer of the citadel. If Batista is truly gone, then the Esercito Italiano didn't get the message.//
"So what are our orders?!" The lieutenant fired another couple of rounds until pulling the trigger did nothing but produce a click. "I'm out!"
"We're almost out as well!" One of the other six called back.
//If Batista isn't home, then Sforza is nothing but a target that happens to have a sizeable portion of Milan's garrison sitting on top of it. Marius and his boys managed to take out most of Milan's outer ring of AA guns, so once I give the command, you and the rest of your men have fifteen minutes to get away from the citadel before the Fuerza Aerea turns Castello Sforza into a burning crater.//
"Understood."
//Godspeed.// Said a solemn Juarez.
"Follow me, we're bugging out!" The lieutenant turned back to the rest of his squad. The Cazadores realized there was no where to even retreat to, but wordlessly followed his command as they emptied the last of the Italian ammunition and fell back down the corridor after their commanding officer.
Airspace over the Najd-Hormuz BorderNOT CANON
A Fairey biplane buzzed loudly as it soared just above the orange sand dunes of the Arabian Desert. Within the cockpit sat a stoic-looking pilot of European descent and in the two seats behind him sat a bizarre couple. Graciela Machengo had donned a leather wind hat and goggles that gave her the appearance of a less-attractive Amelia Earhart and King Faisal seated next to her only begrudgly donned a pair of aviator goggles. His beard and the keffiyeh that he refused to take off of his head fluttered wildly in the wind and required a hand placed atop his head to keep it from being torn off of his head by the 90 mile/hour gusts constantly swirling about the biplane.
"We've reached the border!" The pilot yelled back to the two sitting behind him. "Where to now?!"
"Veer North!" Graciela commanded over the roar of the engine. "And take us up higher!"
The pilot did as he was told, and the plane ascended up to about 3,000 feet above the rippling dune sea while the plane banked to the left. While Faisal nervously surveyed his kingdom from a point of view he had never seen it from before, Graciela cross-referenced her location and a map that flapped about violently in her lap. She pointed to a large island of rocky desert in the middle of the sand ergs and then retracted her finger to what was presumably the same spot on the old British map.
"There!" Graciela yelled over the biplane engine while tapping Faisal on the shoulder. The Arabian king frowned sternly at the Spaniard, hoping to remind her that it was unacceptable for a woman to touch a Muslim man in any way, especially a king. Graciela paid no heed and pointed again at the island of rock outcroppings.
"That is where we will build the wells!"
"Why there?!" Faisal asked over the constant drone of the biplane.
"Ummm, hello to you too..." Graciela responded, confused.
"No! I said 'Why there'?!" Faisal repeated.
"Oh! That's because the rock gives us a solid substrate on which to drill through! Avoiding the sand ergs means that we don't have to clear the sand away and saves us an extra step and some of the expense we had to go through at Murzuq!" Graciela practically screamed into Faisal's ear so he wouldn't mishear again.
"When can construction begin?!"
"Once I return to Spain I'll send for drilling supplied! I'd expect the ships to leave Valencia within two weeks and it will take some time for the supplies to pass through Ottoman and Jordanian customs! We can expect drilling to begin in a little over a month!"
"Fair enough... now when can we land?!" Faisal asked, anxious to be back on solid land.
Excerpt from El Pais, Monday April 25, 1977
FLOODING RAVAGES THE FRENCH RIVIERA
While meteorologists throughout France and Spain still scratch their heads as to how it appeared, France's tourist-dependant Riviera has been inundated by the effects of a rogue mass of low-pressure air that appeared seemingly out-of-nowhere on the northwestern fringe of the Mediterranean Sea. The air mass is currently causing tidal swells that have practically sunk many of the coastal lagoons along France's Mediterranean coast. Repairs to such an affluent and developed region of France are certain to prove very expensive, but French officials have not yet released an estimated cost for the damage done.
Be it divine intervention or dumb luck, the economically crucial coast of the Cataluña province was spared a major blow from the same air mass. A handful of coastal villages in Spain such as Llanza and Puerto de la Selva have experienced two- to three-meter high tidal swells that have disrupted fishing and damaged coastal property, prompting disaster relief efforts from the Ministry of the Interior. Despite the damage in these small towns, the Cape of Creus in the far northeast of the Iberian peninsula seems to have served as a shield for tidal swells from the Gulf of Lyon and it is believed by many Spanish meteorologists that the air mass was pushed away from the Spanish coast by the cold, high-density trasmontana winds that blow eastward off of the Pyrenees Mountains. Whatever the cause, major coastal cities in Cataluña such as Barcelona are thankful for being spared the same fate as Marseille and Perpignan.
Some, in fact, are almost grateful for the flooding in France. Many popular beaches in the Riviera will have been washed out to sea by the time the tidal swells retreat and thousands of facilities catering to beachgoers and others tourists will close their doors for repairs for the foreseeable future; unfortunate timing when the tourist season begins in earnest in less than a month. Vacationing Germans, Poles, Swedes, and Danes that often frequent the French Riviera during the summer months will likely vacation in tourist hotspots in Spain such as Barcelona and Ibiza instead, meaning increased tourist revenue for Spain in the coming summer months.
Spokesmen for Borgia Industries have also taken advantage of the flooding in southern France, claiming that their proposed Trans-Gibraltar Dam could control future flooding events such as this.
Outside of Busanga
As the light of the sunrise first began to peak above the eastern horizon, several battered Leopard 1's painted in a dark green camo pattern rumbled to the top of a ridge overlooking the town of Busanga. Though the town itself was small, new tents and shacks haphazardly dotted the landscape surrounding it. A small rebel force from the south had been sent to watch the road, and the town had not been sizable enough to give them all accommodation. Few lights flickered in the dark town, it's residence asleep. The rebels had arrived in the Busanga in haste, expecting Iskinder to move slowly. In truth, Iskinder had expected to move slowly as well, but once he had learned how unprepared the rebels were, he had chanced a very hasty night march south in order to hit them quickly and violently. Surely enough, the Ethiopians had managed to catch the rebels unaware of what was coming.
Popping out of one of the tanks, General Iskinder surveyed his surroundings. Nobody was stirring in the town below. As one of his officers approached Iskinder's tank, the general pulled out a pair of binoculars in order to get a closer look at his target. The officer stood at the bottom of the tank and addressed the General.
"General, Sir." The officer started, "May I have a word?"
"You may, Agyeman" granted, his binoculars still held up to his eyes.
"Wouldn't it be cleaner to clear the town with foot soldiers" Agyeman suggested, "This business with a bombardment... civilians might die."
"My men will die if we have to take out all of the rebels man by man" Iskinder retorted, putting his binoculars down to his chest and surveying the sunrise. "Nobody will miss rebel civilians"
"Not all of them are rebel" Agyeman responded, "There are certainly innocent men in the town itself."
"Then we'll avoid the town the best we can" Iskinder countered, "You will want to plug your ears. Tank fire is loud."
Agyeman rolled his eyes and strolled behind the tanks as Iskinder ducked into his vehicle and brought the hatch down behind him. After several moments passed, the bombardment began.
The metal beasts rolled back as they released their load into the tents and shacks below. Explosions rocked the quiet town and awoke it's residence, who were scurrying out into the open air by the time the third volley struck. As time went on, bullets and rpg's whizzed by the tanks in response. Several rocket propelled grenades managed to stick to the metallic behemoths, but only one tank was left inoperable by counter fire when it's barrel was twisted in the explosion of one of these RPG's. After several moments, the tanks went silent and the call went out. Agyeman looked back to the soldiers who stood behind him, tired from the nights march. With a nod, he ordered them to move forward.
Streets of Busanga
The Ethiopian soldiers faced little resistance until they reached the town itself. Even then, the rebels had not been prepared for a fight. Men struggled outside in various states of undress, clinging to their weapons as they attempted to fight back. As the Ethiopians stormed the camp itself, they began to shout. From one of the first tents in front of them, a balding mustachioed man rushed out in nothing but his briefs. Wielding a StG 44, the underwear rebel fired wildly at the charging Ethiopians until he was cut down by a single rifle shot to the shoulder. As he fell, other rebels began to take his place.
One of the Ethiopian soldiers rushed ahead of his comrades, the adrenaline of the charge making him forget himself. He was quickly corrected as a rebel in unbuttoned fatigues rushed him with a machete and hacked his throat. The Ethiopian boy attempted to scream as he fell, but all he managed to produce was a bloody gargle. One of the Ethiopians responded to the attacker with several rounds from an assault rifle, peppering the rebels chest.
As one of the Ethiopian soldiers made an attempt to clear a tent, he was confronted with an enraged man wielding a splintered piece of lumber. The Ethiopian soldier attempted to defend himself from the wood wielding partisan by lifting his arm above his head. The rebel brought the piece of lumber down on the Ethiopian's arm with a crack. Despite what was likely a broken arm, the Ethiopian took out a knife with his good arm and drove it into the rebels belly, slicing upwards like a huntsman opening a carcass. The rebel fell into a pool of his own blood. The tent was cleared.
The Ethiopian advance was halted as a man, this one fully dressed, approached them with two machetes in hand. Before the Ethiopians could bring their weapons to their shoulders, the double wielding rebel leaped toward his foes and cut two of them down in one fluid stroke. He managed to disarm a third before a forth man drove a bayonet through his thigh. Falling to the ground in pain, the rebel paused long enough for another Ethiopian to put a bullet in his head, ending his charge.
As the Ethiopians approached the town itself, gunfire erupted from the windows and doorways of the buildings. The Ethiopians quickly rushed for cover as a firefight ensued between the two forces. For the first time in the battle, the rebels seemed to be gaining the upper hand, and the Ethiopians found themselves lacking for cover as they attempted to find spaces to hide. As his brothers took bullets around him, one of the Ethiopian soldiers fumbled a moltov cocktail from his belt and struggled to light it. His hands shaking nervously, the Ethiopian soldier brought a lighter to the cloth sticking out of the bottle and put it aflame. Carefully, he tossed the makeshift weapon toward the building in front of him.
The building caught fire.
Distracted by the flames, the rebel suppressive fire began to subside, allowing the Ethiopians more time to pick their enemies out of their windows. After several minutes, the field went quiet, and the Ethiopians slowly approached the building. As it burned, two of the Ethiopians nodded toward the men behind them before rushing into the burning structure. After a few seconds, shots rang from inside, and then everything went quiet.
The Ethiopian soldiers exchanged glances, keeping an eye on the doorway. After several more seconds went by, a figure exited the building. It wasn't one of the Ethiopians that had went in. Rather, it was a woman. Completely unclothed, the women wielded a combat shotgun. Blood dribbled from her lip where she had seemingly bit it. Her face communicated pure rage, but her eyes seemed dead to the world. As she cocked her weapon, her breasts quivered and she opened fire. She walked slowly toward the middle of the street, quickly dispatching the soldiers as quick as they could shoulder their weapons. As she approached, one of the men fumbled with his rifle, finding it to be jammed. Drawing a machete, he charged, but she managed to bring him down with a swift strike to the forehead with the butt of her weapon.
Seven men had died at her hands before one of the Ethiopian soldiers managed to plant a shot in her. The bullet struck her in the thigh, slowing her momentarily. As the blood streamed down her leg, she continued her rampage with a limp. Two more soldiers fell before another man managed to place a shot. This time, her shoulder was opened up. She paused for a moment, falling to her knee. As it began to look like she might rise again, a third bullet finished her as it pierced her skull.
As the dust settled in the embattled city, the Ethiopian soldiers finished the task of clearing buildings. Several frightened civilians were found, as were for newly repentant rebels. The sun rose on the carnage, and the Battle of Busanga came to an end.
Addis Ababa
University of Addis Ababa
A young disheveled man leaned back into the haphazard pile of blankets and pillows scattered across the floor. In his hand, a homemade cigarette glowed, it's contents very different from the typical tobacco. Coughing, he passed the joint to a man sitting across from him. This man was dressed in denim and a loose fitting jacket. Putting the joint to his mouth, the man in denim breathed in deep before exhaling slowly.
"****" he groaned, leaning back into his pillows. "This is the ****."
The disheveled man grinned. His hair was long and matted, and he wore a long decorated robe in the African style. "This is the **** you did in America?" he asked slowly.
The man in denim nodded. "Yeh, but you didn't get reefer unless you went to the hip bars." he explained, passing the joint to his friend. "If you knew people with the reefer, you were hip"
"You're hip, friend" the disheveled man giggled. Taking another hit from the drug, the disheveled man coughed his next question. "What else did you do. In America?"
"Cars" the man in denim answered, "My daddy used to work on cars. He would say 'Tyrone Parker, you better learn your cars. Make yourself useful.' and I would say 'I can't do it better then you, pops'"
The disheveled man giggled. "Cars. That is hip."
Tyrone, the man in denim, nodded knowingly. "It was. We would talk about taking road trips, across the country. I wanted to, only the Canadians destroyed all the sites."
"Those bastards." the disheveled man shook his fist in the air awkwardly. Tyrone giggled. "They are bastards. Now I will never have my car trip."
"I know!" the disheveled man interjected almost as soon as Tyrone had stopped speaking. "We'll go on a road trip!"
"Where?" Tyrone looked at his friend confused.
"****ing Europe" the disheveled man grabbed Tyrone by the shoulder and waved his and in front of both of them as if he was painting a scene. "Imagine that. Tyrone the American and Haruna the Ethiopian take on the great white beast to the north. The great war failed to destroy it..."
"...but they haven't met us yet!" Tyrone giggled.
"Also, white girls" Haruna, the disheveled man, noted. "An entire continent of white girls.
Tyrone's face lit up like a kid in a candy store. "We have to do this!"
"We will" Haruna agreed, "In the fall. You will need to buy a car."
"I will" Tyrone nodded, "Or you. Doesn't that cult of yours own a car?"
"Hey man" Haruna became serious, though in such a way that he still couldn't be taken seriously. "It is true, the messiah walks among us."
"Yaqob is a nice guy." Tyrone giggled, "But he ain't no god. Only god is Jesus, and he died hundreds of years ago ."
"He is back!" Haruna opened his arms to embrace the air above his head, "The savior of man! Yaqob, son of god!"
"Better not tell the Spanish that" Tyrone giggled. "They wouldn't like it if Jesus was a communist."
Haruna fell back into his pillows as he contemplated the conversation. After several moments, he began to speak again. "You need to get a car. We are doing this in the fall."
"In the fall" Tyrone echoed. "I promise you, friend. We will drive to Europe."
Field Outside of the City
A small crowd had gathered on the hill as Professor Adroa and his students prepared their craft for flight. Adroa's first spaceward balloon only had two witnesses to it's flight, but this time the number of people had increased. People picnicked on the hill as the media prepared their equipment, interested in catching the second spaceward balloon in the history of Ethiopia.
This contraption was slightly different the the one Adroa had first unleashed. Even though this one was also equipped with a camera, an extra device was also tucked into it's construction. The device's purpose was to measure the radiation at different levels of the atmosphere, for the purpose of contributing to meteorological data. The contraption itself was affixed inside a wooden frame, which kept the equipment within it safe. The balloon was a reinforced weather balloon, capable of going much further in the atmosphere then a normal weather balloon.
As Adroa's students began to finish their work, Adroa himself walked up toward the growing throng of media. As the sound and sight of camera flashes filled the air, Adroa began to speak.
"My friends, countrymen." He started. Everything went quiet, save for the sound of cameras. "You have the pleasure to witness the second flight of a space vessel in the history of our nation. I am aware we have all heard of the Chinese footage from several years ago that seems to predate our flight, and I have been told that I should address this. We do these flights not for the sake of doing them first, but for the sake of discovery. A man who runs into the future does not have time to see the sites. It is the task of the men who stroll into the future to document what is there. What we do today might not be groundbreaking, but the science that it will contribute to is solid."
As Adroa looked behind him, one of his students gave him a thumbs up. Smiling, Adroa turned back toward the crowd in front of him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, on my command this vessel behind us will lift up past the realm of traditional aircraft, entering the portion of our atmosphere that kisses space itself. What you are about to witness, my friends, is science come alive."
With that, Adroa looked to the students behind him and gave a thumbs up. The students responded by releasing the vessel, allowing it to slowly float into the sky. As the balloon drifted back and forth in the wind, the crowd below applauded politely.
Adroa held his hands skyward and grinned from ear to ear as the camera's fixated on him. With a burst of energy, the young Professor shouted to the onlookers.
"SCIENCE!"
Elsewhere
Esfahan
Taytu pushed her plate away as the luncheon began to wrap up. Looking back to Daen Hong, she responded to what he was saying. "I can't say that I would trust Prussia further then I would trust Spain, but the two are likely to be in competition. It sounds as if the Spanish are going to install a puppet government in Italy at this point... that certaintly can't be good news for the Prussians."
Taking a sip of her glass of water, she continued to watch the other side of the table. An air of tension had grown around Sotelo and Frederick, and it was palatable even from where Taytu sat. "In regards to the Monrovia doctorine... It's a solid idea, but at this point it seems like more of a dream then it is a policy. If we actually opperated on it, we would be at war too often."
Darfur, Sudan
The Walinzi agents Zola and Kelile stood amongst a pile of bodies, the charred remains of a truck caravan sitting next to them . The bodies surrounding them were not human, though there had been human remains there. The human remains had been transported to be examined by medical proffesionals, and in their place a series of crash test mannequin had been layed out to show the exact positions of the human bodies before they were moved. A series of circles had been drawn on the mannequin to show where they had been wounded by gunfire.
The desert surrounding the site was vast, stretching for miles in every direction. The ability to strike quickly and unseen in this enviroment was mind boggling for the two agents, who studied the scene intently. Their black great coasts whipped at their feet as the desert winds blew fiercely across the dunes.
"These winds..." Kelile started, examining the mannequin in front of him, "The sand might have hidden the evidence."
Zola nodded, holding on to his faded black fedora. "It might have, but we would never know."
"We should have a crew out here to dig out the site" Kelile advised, looking over toward his partner. "There might be something here."
"Maybe" Zola grunted, "But I suspect we should use a different path. Perhaps the locals know something."
"The locals keep quiet, I hear." Kelile responded, "I doubt they will tell you anything."
"Perhaps not" Zola responded, "But they have to know something. A party big enough to destroy a military convoy liked this is not going to go unnoticed by the locals."
Kelile nodded. "That is true. We'll have to test it out.
Lieutenant Yosef Massivyen watched the Turkish MP walk slowly up and down the hallway in the middle of the grouping of cells at the base's brig. Massivyen was imprisoned by the Turks because he was Armenian. After Captain Kirilinkian's famed desertion at Erzurum, the Turkish government ordered Armenians in important roles imprisoned. Massivyen was an attack helicopter pilot, and part of yet another "All-Armenian" unit. Desertions rose daily in Armenian territory as ethnic Armenians left the Turkish Army with precious military equipment, and then using it against them. Already, reports were coming in about Turkish-produced mortar shells being used as improvised bombs. Armenians had captured mortars, and were bombarding military outposts like roadblocks and truck stops, while the HK53 had become a popular choice among rebel fighters.
Massivyen was locked in the brig with several other pilots. They were treated poorly by the Turks: they were beaten, fed only once a day, and rarely let outside. But Massivyen had a plan to escape. He had sharpened a toothbrush into an improvised knife, and had it concealed in his belt on his BDU stripped clean of rank, name, insignia, and other official military items. That would only make him harder to identify. The guard, brandishing a service shotgun, approached Massivyen's cell speechlessly. As the guard came in front of the cell, Massivyen shouted out: "Hey! You there! I want to go to the bathroom!"
The guard looked at Massivyen. "Fine," he said, reaching into his pocket for the keys. He retrieved a ring of them, and used one to open up the cell door. He put the keys back in his pocket and stared at Massivyen as he walked out of the cell. One of the prisoners started banging on the bars. A distraction. Massivyen took the opportunity and pulled his shiv out of his pocket. He thrust it into the guard's neck, where his jugular was. The guard yelped and hit the ground. Massivyen then grabbed the shotgun from his hands, along with some ammo, and retrieved the keys from his pocket. Next, he made his rounds, unlocking his fellow pilots' cells, allowing them to escape as well. "Alright," Massivyen began, "I think we should get out of here and take our choppers to help the rebels."
It was a blunt suggestion, and not well thought out. Another pilot brought up the concerns of fuel and ammunition, which Massivyen answered with a comment suggesting they fly to Persia. "But why Persia?" the CAG, or CO of the squadron, demanded.
"Historically, they've been accepting of us, and a month or so ago, they had a rally in which they brought up our plight and that they would help. Also, one of the ASF's members is at Esfahan, which means the Persians trust the ASF enough to send a helicopter or something into Turkish territory to extract him. If we could fly to a base in Persia and explain ourselves, we could join in the fight by flying over to the border to strike targets, without repercussion. The Turks couldn't fly into Persia to attack us on the ground. That would be an act of war."
Massivyen finished, and looked at the pilots. They shrugged, deciding that the plan was good enough. Massivyen pumped the shotgun, and gestured towards the door. The helipad was on the other side of the base, but the pilots could use one of the MPs' jeeps to get there faster. The ride was both nerve-wracking and exciting. Of course, no problems were encountered along the way, despite multiple people seeing them. Nobody would discover the bodies until it was too late. Fifteen minutes later, the jeep pulled up to the helipad, where the pilots jumped out and ran to their craft. As per Turkish quick response force doctrine, the helicopters were already armed and fueled, with replacement pilots hanging around in a quonset hut nearby. As the Armenians climbed into the helicopters, the Turkish pilots came running out of the building. The Armenians chuckled as they lifted off, and flew into the sky. No anti-air was activated. They didn't have time.
The CAG quickly took control over the mixed force of attack helicopters and troop transports as they flew towards the border. It was only a short way there, with an hour or so of flight time before they hit it. But before entering, the helicopter pilots quickly sent out a radio broadcast to the nearest Persian military base at Hadishahr: "Hadishahr military base, this is Army Helicopter Squadron 14, based out of Nakhchivan in the Ottoman Empire. We are formally requesting permission to enter your airbase: we are defecting from the Ottoman Empire with our craft to aid the Armenian rebellion. I repeat, we are defecting from the Ottoman Empire and aiding the Armenian rebel movement. Hadishahr, will you respond? Over."
The rebel had been in Marius' tent when the news broke about the tunnel to Sforza, and the aging consul had immediately dispatched him to inform the Spanish General Juarez of the discovery. He felt like he'd been running for days, and was exhausted despite having left his rifle and pack back at the tent. The welcome site of the hilltop looming overhead gave him small comfort; he was quickly halted by a squad of ten Spanish soldiers armed to the teeth with rifles, grenades, and AT tubes. "Halt!" came the challenge, spoken in shaky Italian. "Who goes - "
"I'm a messenger from Consul Marius," the annoyed rebel interrupted, "with an urgent message for General Juarez. I'm not even carrying a gun, for Christ's sake," he snapped, showing his empty hands.
The Spanish soldiers exchanged glances, and the one who'd spoken earlier stepped forward. He could see fairly well in the dim green light afforded by the illumination flares hanging overhead, and what he saw matched the profile of "ragged Italian rebel" well enough that after a final glance, he grunted, "Go on. General Juarez is at the front of the hill, facing Milan. Man with the binoculars, last I saw." The rebel had vanished by the time he got the words out. (is dis k?)
--
The messenger hurled himself towards General Juarez, slowing to a stop a few feet away from the imposing Spaniard. The surrounding men of Juarez's bodyguard eyed the newcomer suspiciously, but they did nothing, seeing that he was unarmed and wore the red armband of the RRC. Juarez, for his part, was speaking rapid-fire Spanish into a bulky handheld radio when the rebel arrived, and carefully placed the radio in its pouch on his immaculate uniform before turning to face the panting Roman. "Yes?" he said, slightly annoyed at being interrupted in such a fashion.
The rebel straightened up, fighting to control his breathing. "You are General Juarez?" Juarez nodded, eyebrows raised.
"General Marius has instructed me to inform you that elements of his command have discovered an underground tunnel leading into Central Milan. Sforza Castle, to be exact," he recited. "The consul has gathered his reserves and even now marches towards the tunnel's entrance. He wishes me to inform you that he'll have Batista's armies surrounded by morning."
--
The decanus inched forward on his hands and knees, gazing down Castelo Sforzesco's torchlit halls in a vain attempt to locate the source of the constant gunfire that had not stopped since he and his contubernium had arrived in the castle. So far, he and the single man he'd picked to accompany him had had no luck, but the cacophony of reports from various types of weaponry was growing louder with every yard they covered. The two were both armed with Italian weaponry, the folding-stock AA-72 PARA that was so common amongst Batista's men. The fact that the rebels and the Federali both carried the same type of weapon had been cause for much confusion during the course of the rebellion, but here in the castle it could actually work to their advantage in the event of a firefight.
Movement flickered ahead, a tan shape - several tan shapes - that were barely visible down the seemingly endless hallway. The shapes quickly rounded the corner, but it was fairly clear that they were dressed in olive-drab Italian uniform.
"Should we go after them?" the decanus' companion inquired under his breath, his StG's skeleton buttstock pressed to his cheek and aimed at the end of the hallway.
"Too many of them," came the whispered reply. "We got what we came for, anyway." The pair cautiously rose to a crouch, and then backed away as quietly as they could manage. When they finally got out of the hallway, they broke into a jog, reaching the injured Turk and the rest of their contubernium within a few minutes.
As the pair approached, one of the rebels kneeling next to the fallen commando glanced up. "What'd you see?" he asked, turning his gaze back to the Turk's wounds without waiting for an answer.
The decanus attempted to look away from the fallen Turk. It was an effort. The man looked like...well, like he'd been shot. His skin, normally olive, had grown pale, and his chest rose and fell abnormally quickly with each ragged breath. He appeared to be unconscious.
Eventually, the decanus managed to tear his gaze away. "The Turk was right, we know that much," he began. "There are Italian troops in the castle, I don't know how many, but they are here." He felt his gaze drop down to the fallen Turk again. "What's his problem? No way a shot to the hand put him in that state."
"It didn't," the impromptu medic responded distractedly. "He's hit in two other places. One round went through his arm, the other went through his chest. I can't find any exit wounds, which means he's still got two bullets in him, and he's been bleeding like you wouldn't believe. I dunno, man...I don't know if he'll make it."
"There's nothing you can do?" The decanus was not a man to take "no" for an answer.
[DISCLAIMER: I have no clue about anything medical and everything below is completely bullshitted.]
The medic shrugged helplessly. "I've tried to stop the bleeding, but the bullet in his chest might've hit near his heart. If I try and take it out, it could **** some **** up down there, if you'll pardon the expression, sir. I really don't have the tools to fix this." He looked apologetic.
The decanus crossed his arms. "Could we carry him out?"
"I don't think that would kill him, so long as we keep him level," the kneeling rebel responded uncertainly. One of the Romani standing guard nearby glanced over. "Shouldn't we hold this position, sir?" he asked worriedly. "Sergio hasn't made it back yet."
"We'll catch him in the tunnel if he's not dead," the decanus asserted. "Now come on, we need to bail. Antoine, Vittore, grab the Turk, and make sure to keep him flat. Everyone get behind me."
The decanus nudged open the broom closet's door with the barrel of his weapon. As he stepped in, he saw a dark shape rising up from the uncovered trapdoor set in the floor. His heart skipped a beat, and he swore, bringing his AA-72 to bear on the newcomer. "Who the **** are you?"
The dark silhouette finally made it out of the trapdoor, and raised its hands frantically. "It's Sergio! Jesus ****, put the gun away!"
"Oh," said the decanus sheepishly, lowering his gun. "What's the word?"
Sergio stretched and dusted himself off. "I talked to Marius," he said, bending down and peering into the trapdoor once more. "He seemed pretty excited at the prospect of getting behind Batista's lines."
The decanus was not satisfied. "What'd he say, though?" he asked impatiently." Will we be reinforced? The Turk's nearly dead, and he needs extraction."
Sergio reached into the hole in the floor and pulled out a slightly pudgy old man dressed in a tattered Italian uniform. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" he said, grinning.
--
After ten minutes of fierce heaving and pulling, 300 soldiers of Marius' reserves had been extracted from the darkness of the tunnel. Marius, having been briefed by the decanus upon arrival, ordered them to form into their centuries and relieve the beleaguered Cazadores. They quickly moved out, leaving the main force of Romani behind. The dying Turkish lieutenant remained where he lay; the tunnel was too crowded to allow for an extraction.
Moscow (Past)
The day after the meeting occured, the diplomat had already begun discussing last night's events with higher authorities--not a deity, of course, but his bosses, so to speak.
"So they want those terms, eh? And you're sure you made the best decision to have us consider these terms?" said the boss directly above him in the "chain of command".
"Would you rather I had rejected the proposal and let the separated states of Russia decay even further?" countered the diplomat.
"Hm...very well then. I'll initiate a tribunal, which can hopefully decide on which terms we can agree to, and which ones need changing--or neglecting," said the boss, turning to leave. But before the man could make an exit, the diplomat spoke up again.
"Sir," he said, "I have one request of my own...to keep up spirits, perhaps we should let the news of unification reach the public's ears?"
The boss stood for a few seconds in thought of this, then said, "You know what? Why the hell not, go ahead."
And that was that.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next day, newspapers were gleaming beacons to the people of Russia. The covers read:
"Unification is Coming!"
"East and West Agree on Merger!"
"Resurrection Achieves Success?"
In the streets, in the homes, people became excited, terrified, shocked, surprised, curious, intrigued, all at once. Unity! The idea of it actually having been achieved was breathtaking at the least, and ultimately unthinkable. Yet the impossible became possible that day, for now Russia was to be reborn as a new nation, yet this time free from a Czar...or so everyone assumed. Hopefully that would be the case when the merger was made.
Below the streets, in their hideout, the four poker players read the news, and cheered.
"I can't believe this! This is amazing! We did it! We pressured the East and West enough into uniting again!" said Lanky.
"Or maybe they just got sick of their differences without us putting much influence into the matter," said Snotty.
"But you gotta give credit where it's due, Snotty," said Fatty. "We put out a lot of effort into organizing these protests in the West, and while we weren't able to do much in the East, we at least started the chain of civil disobedience."
"Well, regardless of whether or not the Resurrection had anything to do with this, we should celebrate. Perhaps now Russia can return to it's glory, and the chance of that at all should be cause for a drink, I should say."
"Agreed!" said the rest.
The other guy raised his glass and declared, "To Unity!"
"To Unity!" they said, and then they drank the vodka like they were kings.
Novosibirsk (Past)
In the East, the Resurrectionists who had been protesting Nikolov's rule finally felt relieved. Unity had been achieved! East and West would merge, and at last this nightmarish existence could end!
Location Unknown (Past)
"The Coming Meeting in Omsk"
It is about one month away now from the coming Omsk Conference, and already things are looking great. The Russian Republic, the former Volodgian states, Arkhangelsk, and other Russian states have been preparing for when the meeting with the Siberians occurs with glee--at least, it's citizens are. The Resurrectionists all across Russia have been celebrating the most, feeling that they have achieved their goals of unifiying Russia into a single state.
However, this does not mean Russia is entirely whole; there still exists Radek's Territory, and the southwestern Russian states like Volgograd are still under Turkish control. Yet with the recent breaking away of Armenia, which is far closer to Turkey than Southwestern Russia, talk of rebellion has been growing. There are rumors that a government-backed Insurrection is to arise in this region, but said rumors are unconfirmed....
The Resurrector smiled as he read the paper. A month had passed since he'd heard the news, yet it was still so beautiful to hear of this news. Already other states had jumped on the bandwagon, with the pressure of the Resurrectionist protesters, and now rumors of insurrections arising in Turkish Russia were coming about. It wouldn't be too long before a new conflict arose in Russia, as he sadly realized. Yet this was also a grand thing, knowing that Turkish influence was weakening. Before long, Russia could be fully intact, given the right actions were taken.
He looked back to the paper, and continued reading, with that smile still etched upon his face.
"Upcoming Conference in Esfahan, Persia"
Kominislav (Past)
Mikhail Gorbunov and his collegues sat in a room together with a purpose set in mind.
Gorbunov spoke: "Gentlemen, we meet here tonight on the matter of the unification of Russia into a single state. From what we know, there is no set leader for the new government, so we can presume that there will definiely be elections. In that case, we must be ready for them by forming a new party."
Pacing around the room, he went on, "We have been assembled here because we have our own visions of the future; a future of a paradise, a future of a utopia. We are not alone in having these views, by far. Yet all of us are the top in our game; we are the ones who lead the march, who guide the way towards achieving our desires. You are all very inspiring and bright men; I know you will agree with me that the formation of this party should be done, so that the people of Russia can realize the dreams of perfection, and destroy the shackles that hold them down. So, do we all agree on forming this party."
"Aye!" a unanimous call was made all across the room.
"Very well then," said Gorbunov. "Now, on to the name of our party, one that people will recognize anywhere."
"People's Party?" suggested one of them.
"No, too simple," said Gorbunov.
"Revolution Party?" tried another.
"No no no, that's too overused nowadays as well!" said Gorbunov. "We need something that shows who we are. Something that will show that we are different than the more commonly seen branch of our views. What could we go by?"
That's when a name was suggested, one of such simplicity yet with such a standing out feature. It perfectly described who they were, what their goals were, and that they were different from the more commonly known kind of form of government.
"I love it! What say you all?" said Mikhail, very much liking the suggestion.
"Aye!" came another unanimous call.
"Very well then," said Gorbunov. "Gentlemen, the world has just seen the birth of the Leninist Party."
"Marius is sending men into Sforza Castle?" Asked an incredulous General Juarez.
"He is." Said the runner in between pants.
Before Juarez could open his mouth again, he was cut off by the increasingly high-pitched scream that all Italians recognized by heart by this point in the war: the whine of approaching Fantasma fighters. In the dimly-illuminated nighttime sky, five orange dots - the fiery thruster exhaust from the Spanish jets - flew in over the general's head and raced forward at breakneck speeds to downtown Milan and Sforza Castle.
"Abort the air strike on Sforza Castle! I repeat, abort the air strike!" General Juarez roared into his handheld radio.
Juarez received no response and the fighters continued towards the castle. A full ten seconds later, the lead pilot finally responded.
//This is fighter wing 60. We understand you, General. We will be returning to base.// The calm, cool voice of the pilot came in over the radio.
"Don't return to base yet... How much incendiary ordinance were your planes fitted with upon takeoff?" Asked Juarez.
//Between the whole wing, eight napalm bombs.//
"Then drop those bombs on top of the largest concentrations of Italian forces outside of the castle. Do not hit Sforza Castle."
//Understood, General. We're preparing to make our pass at Castello Sforzesca now.//
___________________________________________________
The Cazador lieutenant and thirteen of his men were retreating down the maze-like corridors and galleries of Sforza Castle while a platoon of Italian soldiers chased them hot on their tracks. What little ammunition the Cazadores had between them was used as sparingly as possible in laying down controlled bursts of suppressing fire on the advancing Italians. Between the entire group, they had only forty rounds of mixed ammunition from an assortment of firearms recovered from fallen Italian soldiers.
As the Cazadores rounded a corner in a hallway, one turned back around and threw their last grenade. The metal ball bounced off of the outer wall of the corner and proceeded to roll across the floor into the midst of a cluster of approaching Italian soldiers before exploding. An echoing explosion and a roiling cloud of smoke billowing around the corner confirmed the grenade had done its dirty work.
"That's it, I'm all out!" The Cazador declared as he jogged back to join the rest of the group.
"Next time we get selected for another insertion like this, I am going to hound command and make sure we get five times as much ammunition as we did tonight." The frustrated lieutenant complained as he cleared the corners of the entryway to another corridor with his nearly-emptied sidearm. Just as he had beckoned the rest of his group to follow him in, the Cazadores found themselves face-to-face with a cadre of armed men wearing ragged Italian uniforms.
"Hold your fire!" The lieutenant declared before any of his men could raise their weapons and fire. "Hold your fire, goddamnit! They're friendlies!" The lieutenant had recognized these new faces as Romani fighters. The Cazadores looked over their allies for a moment and then turned back to the entryway of the hall to guard against approaching Italians. Meanwhile, the lieutenant made his way over to one of the rebels.
"How the Hell did you all get in here?" The Cazador asked no one in particular, hoping one of the Italians knew Spanish and would address him.
"There's a broom closet a few doors down that way." Explained a decanus in decent Spanish. "Inside there's a trap door to a tunnel that leads to a barn just south of Milan. Batista must have used it or a tunnel just like it to escape from Castello Sforzesca before you and your men could capture him."
"Pinche cobarde." Spat an aggravated Cazador.
"Anyway, Consul Marius is bringing troops from the front lines into the castle from the tunnel. Once Batista's forces here are routed, we can surround the rest of the Milanese garrison."
"What about the air strike, though? The Fuerza Aerea is about to level Sforza Castle!"
"What air strike?"
Soon enough, the howling jets of the Fantasma fighters rumbled through the halls of the citadel.
"That air strike!"
The sound of a handful of explosions and then a hundred bonfires instantly bursting into existence proceeded the decreasing pitch of the departing jets. The Cazador lieutenant, amazed to still be alive, contacted another group of Cazadores.
"Was that the air strike just a moment ago? Why are we not all dead?" The lieutenant demanded.
//I happened to be near a window and my squad saw it all.// Another Cazador reported over the radio; the crackling and popping of fire could be heard over the radio. //They napalmed the parade ground and the park beyond that... The fighters must have taken out a couple hundred of their infantry at least.//
The Cazador lieutenant was elated, with the news, but maintained his cold composure nonetheless. "Contact every remaining squad and fireteam you can reach and regroup at the northwestern broom closet on the first floor. We just acquired reinforcements and supplies... the tide of this battle just turned in our favor."
//Entendido, señor.//
The Cazador lieutenant turned back to the Roman decanus.
"Show us to your supply station." The lieutenant requested, throwing his spent Italian firearm across the floor. "We need some real weapons."
Esfahan, Persia
Alfonso Sotelo, who had been quietly requested to speak with another Spaniard outside the meeting room a few minutes earlier, stepped out of the meeting room for a brief moment with a handful of the Spanish delegates and then returned to adress the other representatives.
"I am very sorry, everyone." Sotelo apologized as he made his way back to his seat. "But I am afraid that certain developments have arisen at home in Spain that require my immediate attention, and so I must depart from this conference earlier than I had anticipated. Before I leave, I would like to introduce you all to Lorenzo Campomanes-Guitterez - the Spanish Republic's ambassador to Persia. This man was instrumental in arranging my wonderful visit to Persia. Given his knowledge of Persian customs and the intimacy he has acquired with the situation of the world being in such an exotic land for so long, I am confident tha Campomanes-Guitterez will be a capable representative in my stead." With that, Sotelo stood up from his seat and directed Lorenzo over to it, next to Adriano Claro.
"I would like to thank our most gracious host, Shah Qajar, for arranging this summit. I will maintain close contact with Lorenzo here and follow every development here carefully. I would be honored to attend another such summit, should another one be neccesary... but until then, farewell to all of you!"
With that, Alfonso Sotelo, his bodyguards, and two other memebers of the Spanish delegation, exeunted and made their way down to the driveway, where a limousine waited to take Sotelo back to the airport, and ultimately back to Madrid.
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Curse PremiumA small Persian military convoy rolled along a dirt road in the Helmand province of Afghanistan, their vision clouded by dust. The road was surrounded by small ditches on both sides, so any would be assailants would likely be spotted before an ambush was possible. The vehicles were thinly armored, and could withstand little more than a standard .50 caliber round, thought they had so far had very little troubles with the Afghan people. As the vehicles began to pass through a small, isolated village, things seemed oddly quiet. There were no villagers to be seen. Suddenly, a rocket-propelled grenade tore through the air from a nearby rooftop, slamming into and obliterating the head vehicle of the convoy. With their lead vehicle in flames, small arms fire began to erupt from the streets around them, mowing soldiers down with ease if they left their vehicles. One soldier could faintly hear screams of pain from his comrades, his ears ringing from the blast, their assailants shouting for the deaths of the "Persian Infidels".
Mashad, later the same day.
Abdullah had been preparing for this day his entire life. On this day, he would prove to us father that he was worthy of the family name Qureshi. He was thankful for Hasim Al-Farooq, the man who had given him the chance to make himself worthy-by taking his own life and that of as many infidels as possible in one fell swoop, and desecrating the memorial of one of the greatest infidels; the Imam Reza Shrine. Driving an 8x4 standard dump truck packed with explosives and covered with little but tarp, covered with a layer of gravel to help hide their true purpose.. He glanced outside his window to ensure that his comrades (another four trucks) were following him, then nodded to them as he pulled out of the alleyway. The quintuple trucks drove cautiously through the streets of Mashad, careful to not arouse suspicion. As they arrived at the site, the trucks suddenly sped up, speeding thrush the security gates, and plowing through dozens of civilians on their way to target. The trucks crashed into the walls f the shrine, each exploding in quick succession, Abdullah watching. He smiled as he held up his detonator, whispering "For Islam!" as his thumb came down on the button, his bomb tearing through the shrine's walls, and the surrounding crowd. Multiple attacks occurred across major Persian cities with the next half-hour, targeting solely holy Shi'a sites, monuments, structures, and government buildings, though most others were much smaller than the attack of Reza's shrine.
The CAG of the squadron heard the response from the Persian units at Hadishahr, but his glee turned to confusion as the Persians asked for their identity. The fleet of helicopters straddled the border for what seemed like ages, until the CAG made his decision. The leader requested clarification, and got the same answer: "Fire four rockets towards where you came from." He spun his helicopter around and got a bearing on the area. He didn't want to fire on occupied areas, or places that people could see easily. He also wanted to avoid setting off a forest fire or damaging infrastructure. The pilot brought his sights over what looked like an isolated lake in a forest, and pressed the "arm" button on his flight stick. The helicopter fired four rockets, and the CAG watched as they streaked towards the lake.
The rockets hit the water and four jets of water erupted from the otherwise tranquil lake. The CAG did his analysis, and saw no damage. He chuckled and turned his helicopter around to rejoin the formation. He toggled the radio back onto the channel with Hadishahr and asked for the officer again. "This is Army Helicopter Squadron 14 lead. I confirm four rockets fired towards Nakhchivan, over. Are you satisfied with our identity?"
The Argentinian representative, the President, Salvador Allende, stood up and produced a measured response:
"I think these proposals produce a great deal of questions. First of all, how is a legitimate government defined? Secondly, how can wars of aggression be entirely terminated? It seems impossible for everyone to agree on that provision. I would like to hear the opinions of the other representatives before commenting further. Argentina believes these would all be positive developments, but would require further discussion."
He then passed the conversation to the next diplomat.
-Rio de Janeiro, Brazil-
"Breaking news," said the announcer on BBN, the Brazilian Broadcasting Network, central news agency of all South America. "The South American Confederacy has just now announced a formal statement. This from Brasilia, live."
Antonio Patriota, Brazilian Secretary of Foreign Affairs, walked up to the podium in front of the camera, with the South American seal showing an arc composed of all the flags of the member countries, and began speaking.
"The nations of Brazil, Argentina, Chile, Ecuador, Venezuela, and Colombia applaud the parties of Russia for their positive development and reconciliation. They encourage the uniting of their great nation, not unlike our own, and hope that the Russian people will achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, for themselves and all parties involved, independent from foreign influence from more powerful neighbors.
We furthermore express our willingness to help in aiding the Russian people in light of their time of hardship, and encourage their positive development in terms of government, and hope that they establish a government respecting of human rights and political freedoms for the good of all Russia."
Switching back to the studio, the announcer finished, "That was Brasilia with an announcement on the Russian unification."
In one of the living rooms if Fitzroy's impressive palace, in the one with some limestone statues of various people, two rapiers hung onto the wall crossed over the granite lined fire place, Fitzroy is laying slouched over on a quite fancy couch, with a nurse tending to him. Fitzroy hears the door open and it is the leader of the Imperial Guard, Anatole. "So what is it, Anatole?" Fitzroy asks, disgruntled as he sees Anatole is holding a document. "A document, it's pertaining to the floods and your absence from the conferences." Anatole replies before asking back, showing some irritation at Fitzroy using a simple sickness as a reason for his not being at the conferences going on lately, instead just staying in home with his imperial guard protecting his palace encase some crazy people try to kill him.
"I'll be fine in a day or two, nothing big." Fitzroy tells Anatole. "I see you are holding a document, give it to me." Fitzroy than tells Anatole, who gives the document to Fitzroy with outmost compliance. "Funny how you despite being in such seat of power don't just send someone to give me a document like this, it's no secret." Fitzroy notes, with Anatole not responding as he gets up off his ass and sees the quite expensive damage costs from the flood. Millions of Euros in property damage, tens of millions of Euros. "So what do you suggest is done sir?" Anatole asks. Fitzroy replies "Taxes are going to have to go up, I am not weakening the military budget just because mother nature decided to **** all over southern france.", who's plans to expand france are not going as hoped. The last thing Fitzroy needs is to lower the money spent in producing more military.
"Wait, what about asking spain for Financial Aid?" Anatole quickly decides to ask before leaving. "No." Fitzroy barks, since the idea of having spain help repair his country would make France look even more weak and over dependent on that alliance he made already. Fitzroy decides to go back to sleep the second Anatole leaves and is not surprised that despite it being over two weeks he is still alive and well. Some kooks from the Nouvellefrance Movement, causing some civilian damage and couple dead Officials. A annoyance to his country at worst. At least now Alar Hibb is dead, but whatever happened to Briller?
Fitzroy would never know.
Somewhere In africa
A deranged french man, the once top agent Briller depraved of much water and food in tattered clothing after a week of pushing his way through the deserts finally gives into his physical weakness and falls down, face first into the sand. He heard from one of his assistants that Fitzroy went into a bunker somewhere in africa. Due to his impatience, not wanting to have to wait until next election, he decided to rush his plans and go straight for Fitzroy, piloting a helicopter he "borrowed" along with a sniper and some ammo that ran out of fuel before crashing in the middle of the sahara desert. Briller suddenly wakes up in the desert, still dehydrated trying to move onward in the burning desert hoping something short of a miracle happens as he is determined to make sure Fitzroy dies, though his brain from the heat has taken its toll. He isn't exactly thinking straight, though it isn't like taking some helicopter and going after where someone might be is thinking straight either.
((Essentially I left him at the mercy of anyone in africa, in 5-7 posts he autodies though.))