Guard HQ Building, Batumi, Georgia

The last time the Guards leadership had met, it had been for Davits birthday and they celebrated it by telling jokes, getting drunk and spinning stories late into the night. The same men sat around the table right now had changed more in 6 months since Davits birthday than he had ever expected. Father Botkevli, a local Orthodox priest with a dwindling congregation, had grown his black beard long and it made him look 25 years older, if not a bit wiser. Comrade Dadiani from the Georgian People's Liberation Force, a communist force that was growing quickly in northern regions, had gained several new facial scars since Davit had last seen him and his straw-blonde hair had grown several inches so that it now reached his shoulders. Along also were Davit's friends and colleagues, 'General' Elchin (the Azeri) and Captain Milidani (the skinhead boxer). Missing was Sabauri, a man of the Guard who led a small unit in the countryside outside of Batumi and 'Pikey' Zagreb, out on a mission with his partner, Tamaz. He was probably skulking through some grass somewhere or drunkenly pissing up the side of a countryside pub.

'Gentlemen, I'm sure you have all heard the dark news' started Davit gravely, bowing his head respectfully. 'Two days ago, a local woman was found raped and stabbed by a patrol just one mile from this location. We have not yet located the men responsible for such a crime against humanity but the report from the lads who found her say they saw a heavily armed group of 5 to 7 men talking in a Dagistani dialect or Azeri. Elchin's men unfortunately reached the woman too late and she died in the middle of the road in a pool of blood'. He paused, gauging the reactions of the men around him. As expected, each showed expressions of sadness, regret, anger and hopelessness. Father Botkevli even blessed himself and murmured a small prayer. 'As of now, we number at 85 men in the Batumi City Division of the Georgian Guard. We are poorly armed, the price of food is growing by the day, the people of Batumi are unemployed, crime is growing and as of today, the Armenian smuggler is now refusing to send shipments to our docklands for fear of arrest by the Turks. I'm afraid, gentlemen, we may be out of options'.

There was silence as each man shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. Sometimes it felt as if protecting the people was too big of a task for this many men and not even worth it. 'What are we doing then?' rasped Father Botkevli, scratching his beard. 'If we do not have the resources to protect the people, then it seems a pointless task. What are we to do? What options do we have?'. No man wanted to admit it but the priest was correct. A silence descended on the table. 'Well, I reckon we have a few options. We could disband the Guard entirely and let every man go for himself. We could move away from Batumi entirely and go into hiding in the mountains. Maybe Dadiani's crowd will take us in' said Milidani, nodding at the blonde communist. 'Or, we could do my idea'.

Elchin narrowed his eyes at the Captain. 'And what my that be, Milidani? Go down the pub for a pint?' he growled sarcastically. 'Fuck off, Elchin' said Milidani, a sly smile on his lips. 'I have an idea I think we could try, if you lads want to hear it'. Davit nodded and sat back on his chair, lighting a cigarette. With his leaders approval, Milidani went ahead. 'So since we've started, we've not really done much to hurt that bastard on top. We've twatted a few of his men, yeah, we've stolen some of his weapons, we've smuggled shit in, you know the rest. But we've done anything to really shock him. For all we know, he might not believe we even exist. We're like a piece of annoying blue mould growing slowly in that corner you keep meaning to clean but keep forgetting about. So what I suggest is we do something that involves killing his men, stealing his shit, maybe taking a few hostages or setting up a camp somewhere. Anything that'll get the fucker's attention and starts fights. We get his attention, we get the attention of the people. Fuck, I bet half of Batumi doesn't know who the hell we are and we've been going for two years! We do something that gets the attention of the city and we get a few more men in. We get more men in, Turks start cacking themselves and then we take the city over!'

'Fuck off, Milidani' snorted Elchin. 'You suggest something like this every time we have a meeting and we give you the same answer - we don't have the resources!'. Milidani scowled but to his surprise, Dadiani spoke up for the first time. 'That's not too bad, actually. I could probably see if I can get some lads from the Liberation Force in to help if you did something like that' he said. 'What would we do, though?' argued Elchin. 'We don't have the resources to attract attention. We've got men, a flag and an ideal. The Turks have got guns and I'd rather die with a proper gun in my hand than this second hand shite we've got'. Elchin looked at Davit for help and was surprised to see the man procrastinating, his eyes fixated at the ancient light fixture in the ceiling. 'Do you remember the parades we used to watch as kids, Elchin? The one's with the tanks and the flags and the guns and the marching bands?' he said suddenly. 'Yeah. Those things are why I joined the army' answered Elchin. 'We could do something like that, maybe. Walk down the main street with flags and all that, attack any Turks who have a go at us. Maybe hand out some of the last shipments of food we've got left to the people. They'd like that. And then, like Milidani said, we could set up a camp or something in the main square and claim it for ourselves'.

All men around the table stared into space for a moment, the idea of the Guard's symbol flying in the wind near cheering crowds enthralling them all. 'Why the fuck not?' said Elchin, shrugging. 'We'll probably die in a year if we keep going like this anyway, so why not go out with a bang? See if we can get some new blood in and if we start getting attacked by the Turk's men, we can get some sympathy votes from the gullible bastards'. 'I'd be down with that, as long as we can hand out a few Manifesto's' said Comrade Dadiani. 'And Bibles' cut in Botkevli, never one to deny spreading the word of the Lord.

'All right, so it's decided. We'll sort that out for later this week. A parade. What a fucking good idea' said Davit, laughing. The sombre mood of the table was forgotten as the other men joined his laughter. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.

Undisclosed house, Batumi, Georgia

The Georgian woke with a start and immediately felt a dull pain on his temple. 'What the fu...?' he murmured, groggily attempting to pull his wrist up to his face. But it didn't move. It took him a few seconds to realise he was chained to a radiator in a dark place he didn't remember entering. 'Shit....Erm, honey! I know you like this stuff but I'm not sure I'm really comfortable with it any more' he said loudly, his voice cracking slightly. Moonlight shone through a broken window and he could see pieces of broken glass covering the floor, reflecting the light. It was completely devoid of all furniture and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out a doorway. And a dark figure inside it. His footsteps approached him quickly and soon he was looking into a face cloaked in darkness. There was a click beside his ear and when he turned his neck, he was horrified to see the dark barrel of a gun.

'Don't shoot' he whimpered, now fully awake. 'Then shut your mouth' came the hoarse whisper back at him. 'Why am I here? Don't shoot' whimpered the soldier. 'I told you to shut your mouth, you bitch' snarled the man, swinging at the man's arm with the butt of his gun. The soldier cried out in pain and received another hit in the same spot for his troubles. The man made no noise but breathed through his nose hard like a nervous dog. The man's face stared at his for several moments before he whispered again. 'Now then, lad. I want you to stay quiet and only talk when I tell you to. If you don't, I'll cover that radiator with bits of your head'. He said it with no remorse and instead clicked the gun again. 'Do you understand me, bitch?'.

Bitch nodded quickly, whimpering slightly. 'Okay then, Bitch. I'm going to ask you a few questions to pass the time while my associate gets here. I love a good game of 20 Questions. When he gets here, I'll ask him if he's satisfied with the answers you give and he'll decide your fate. So if you answer these questions the way I like them, truthfully, maybe he'll feel less inclined to blow your brains over that radiator. One thing I cannot stand for in this world is liars. What about you, Bitch? Do you like liars? Are you a liar?' he growled, holding the gun close to his ear. 'N-no, sir. I-I don't like lying at all' he answered, his voice shaking. 'I think I like you, Bitch. We think on the same wave length. It'll be a shame if I have to blow your brains over that radiator. Are you ready for your questions?' he sneered in the darkness. Bitch just nodded.

'Good, Bitch, good. My first question - who do you work for? What's your job?' he said as if it was the most terrifying and life threatening question in the world. 'I'm a soldier for Batumi. I-I work for General Polat in the first Batumi regiment'. The man didn't answer and Bitch winced, as if preparing to be shot for the wrong answer. 'Very well. Next question. Where do you go to work everyday? Where is General Polat based in?' he said finally. 'I live and work in the old Turkish barracks in the North. We usually go out on patrol and make sure no one hascontraband. I don't see General Polat much, he spends most of his time in -' Bitch stopped suddenly and the colour drained from his face. 'Go on, Bitch. Tell me where General Polat is' said the man, clicking his gun very close to Bitches' left ear. The Georgian soldier gulped and then continued. 'General Polat spends most of his time in the Tsar and Sultan Hotel in North Batumi. He-he lives there too'.

The man stood to his feet and for a quick moment, Bitch hoped he'd walk away. But no, he was reloading his gun audibly. 'Big walls, pre-Turks, fancy gardens, private beach, highly guarded, yeah?' 'Yes...sir' said Bitch, feeling depressingly small. 'Hm' was the man's only answer. He finished reloading his gun and then bent down onto one knee to come face-to-face with Bitch. His back was to the moonlight and this darkened his face. 'Well, Bitch, my associate will be making an appearance in a few minutes. I thought I'd ask you about the stuff you do at work. What kind of weapons do you have? What was this contraband stuff you said you look for? What patrols do you go on? While I'm at it, what are you paid? How much? What currency?'

'I-I don't need to tell you that....sir' he said daringly, testing the waters. 'Oh, you don't, do you, Bitch? You don't remember, is that it? Let me jog your memory' growled the man, placing the gun barrel inches from the soldiers mouth. A warm, wet patch spread out from the soldiers pants and he realised he had pissed himself in fear. 'I-I remember now. Please don't kill me. We're given these foreign guns-' 'Where from?' interjected the man. 'I-I think Turkey. They're rifles, we get ammunitions from the dock every so often. Please don't kill me. We search suspects for illegal foods, weaponry, ammunition, explosives, passports, anything pleasedon'tkillme!' whimpered Bitch. 'Keep going' hissed the man with the gun. 'We patrol all areas around the city. There's no pattern, they just send us to areas and tell us to do random searches or set up checkpoints. D-on't kill me, please! I get a wage of 2,000 lira a month. That includes food, weapon upkeep and my bed in the barracks. Please don't kill me, please, I'll tell you everything, I have a wife, justdon't please, please' the man's head flopped down and he began a series of noisy, wet sobs.

The man stood up and sighed. 'Oh Jesus, it's my associate!' he said loudly, as if he had practised it. Another man appeared in the doorway, a taller man. The soldier glanced up and gave a small scream. 'Please sir, don't, please' he began to sob again. The man looked at his associate and rolled his eyes. He nodded and the associate pulled out a gun from his pocket. 'No, sir, please, don't please no!' the soldier screamed as the associate approached him. His screams were silenced by the butt of the gun hitting his temple and the soldiers head flopped forward, out cold. There was silence in the abandoned house again. 'Crybaby' muttered Zugreb, going through the man's pockets. 'How'd it go, lad?'

'Not bad. I was shitting a brick all the way through, though. I hate being that mean to people' admitted Tamaz, putting his gun in his pocket. Zugreb stood up and patted his partner on the shoulder. 'Don't worry, lad, we learned a lot of good stuff from him. It's hard but this information is crucial. My first interogattion ended with me pulling out his teeth with a pair of pliers' smiled Zugreb. Tamaz nodded and stared at his feet. 'Next time, don't call him a 'Bitch' so much. I could hear you from the kitchen!'.

'What happens now?' he said, feeling sorry for the poor man he had just terrified. 'We kill him?' 'No. We'll drop him in someone's garden and they'll probably get him to the barracks when he wakes up. Now, come on. Help me lift him and make sure not to forget any details he said! We've got a report to write'. Tamaz nodded and began unlockin the Soldier's handcuffs. He felt guilty yet he had spared the man's life.

It was a strange feeling.

The Wettest Part of the Sea

"Burble" burbled the drowning sailor.

St. Nicholas Orthodox Church, Batumi

Built during the 1860's by Greek immigrants, the church held a certain flair that other mosques and churches in the city did not. Two large, square towers flanked the doors, which had been made of the finest oak. The stone was lime and decorated in parts with sandstone. Despite being handed over to the Georgian Orthodox community in the 30's, very little changes had been made. Years of dwindling congregations, low funds and lack of support from the Muslim-plurality had taken their toll on the church and what was once a proud church was now a run down shadow of its former self. On this particular morning, however, followers of Mohammed and Jesus Christ made their way inside respectfully.

The back pews had been removed for fire wood and the ones that remained were chipped and plagued with signs of wood worm. The floor was made of simple stone, rough to the touch. Fading light peered in from the large, stained window that hung over the Altar. It seemed the only part of the church kept in good shape were the remaining statues and paintings that depicted scenes from the New Testament. The altar's tabernacle had been ripped from the ground by long-gone Ottoman soldiers and the altar now resembled a glorified stage from which a simple book holder held a tattered bible. As the men took their seats on the pews, speaking in hushed tones, Father Botkevli and Elchin stood at the altar and patiently waited for silence. Silence came in moments as each man of the Guard realised where they were, in the house of God.

'Well, gentlemen. I'd first like to thank Father Botkevli for allowing us Muslim heathens into the church' started Elchin, stepping forward in front of the book stand. The Armenian rifle had been left at home but the strap still hung around his shoulders and he wore full Guard uniform. There was a light smattering of laughter among the Islamic men, who took the joke in good humour. 'I asked you all to come to the church this morning for a meeting of grave importance. Our usual meeting place isn't as large as this church, so I've decided it might be better if a majority of you listened in. As many of you have probably already heard, a certain slippery Armenian smuggler from Poti has decided it is too dangerous to make the trip down to Batumi every week with supplies, so we are completely cut off from the world. Our primary goal is make sure the people of this city stay safe with food in their bellies and a roof over their head. As General Polat masquerades as leader of his so-called 'Republic of Adjara', he decided recently to raise taxes of imported food in order to, in his words, 'protect the local agriculture' He paused, gauging the reactions of the men. All sat stony faced and grim, similar to how he had last night.

'We all know, of course, this is just his chance to line his pocket with a few more Turkish coins. Last night, the leaders of our organisation held a drastic meeting to decide what our next move would be. With the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, rising food prices and our limited resources being stretched even thinner, we came to a conclusion. We have two choices - disband the organisation or make a stand'. There was a collective cry of horror and surprise from the crowd of 50 men, who had grown fond of their place in the Guard. 'Calm down, lads. We chose the latter' smiled Elchin. There was a cheer from the men and some sighs of relief.

'Next Friday, we shall begin a march from the headquarters to Aziziye Square, working up a crowd. When we have acceptable numbers, we shall fell the statue of Sultan Suleiman III and occupy the square throughout the night. If the soldiers arrive, we all know what to do' The Guard cheered louder than before, feeling the hype. 'In the meantime, we are looking for anyone who can play a brass or drum instrument to volunteer in our march and play a few tunes, drop by Davit's house for more information. We're also asking that you keep quiet of this until next Tuesday - it is crucial to the march that people are aware of us yet not so aware that we're overwhelmed by Polat's troops. Now, any questions?'

'What about the Aziziye Mosque? Are we takin' that down too?' came a shout from the back of the room. 'No. The Imam is following a strict policy of neutrality in Batumi politics and we'd ask you all do the same. Guards shall be posted near the mosque to protect it from any potential troublemakers. The last thing we need is a Holy War between Christians and Muslims' answer Elchin, nodding to Botkevli. During Turkish rule, tensions between the two religious groups had occasionally resulted in clashes and Batumi was well know for it's Christian-Muslim plurality, something the Guard had tried to play down. Muslim or Christian, you were a Georgian national according to the Guard and could expect the same protection. Even so, a majority of the Guard was made up of ethnic Georgians, Russians and the occasional Armenian. Azeri's and a small group of Dagestani's made up the Islamic side of the Guard and it was crucial that the Guard showed no religious favouritism.

'What about the HQ? Are we abandoning it?' came another shout. 'No. Several small units shall be placed in crucial areas in the city but we expect most eyes shall be at the Square. The plan of the occupation is to get in contact with Polat himself and see if we can...negotiate a few terms' grinned Elchin, cracking a knuckle. There was laughter and cheers from the men, who all hated Polat as much as Elchin.

'Are we taking over the city?' shouted a guard. There was a pause before Elchin responded. 'I don't really know, friend. A lot of this is in the planning stages at the minute - I just thought a lot of you would like to know what's happening next week. Now, I think we should finish things up. Would you like to say a few words, Father Botkevli?'

The priest took his place beside Elchin. 'Yes, thank you. I'd just like to remind you all that our 'President/General Polat' does not distinguish between your race or religion. Just because you're an Azeri or a Catholic or a Georgian doesn't mean he shows you favouritism. He hates all of us equally, for we are nothing more than annoying flies to him. But his tyranny has gone on for too long - just yesterday, a young pregnant woman came to me looking for help. Her husband has disappeared, she says and she has no food. I gave her what I could but something became clear - our resources are low. I reckon I have a week more of resources left before I run out. People in this city are hungry, cold and dying. We must give it the kiss of life and by God, if that means killing General Demir Polat with the butt of his own rifle, then I would proudly do it myself!' said Botkevli, passion rattling his voice. The bearded priest received a roar of appreciation from the crowd, who began stamping their boots on the cracked stone floor and chanting 'BATUMI, BATUMI, BATUMI'.

Botkevli and Elchin joined in, the allure too strong. When the men finally calmed down after several minutes, all were red faced and hyped. 'Well, gentlemen, I believe this is the end of our meeting. I forgot to ask my son to write out the notes this time but fuck it. You're all on patrol in an hour, get going. We're still looking for men who can play in a band and remember - the march is next Friday, 6am sharp at HQ! Now, say your farewells and get on patrols - we've got Turks coming in at all sides but we won't falter with a bunch of lads like you in the Guard!'

There was a final cheer and a splattering of clapping from the men as they stood up to leave. Botkevli and Elchin retreated to a small room behind the altar and when the door slammed with a final bang, they shook hands and shared a hug. 'It went well, I think' said Botkevli, grinning behind his almighty beard.

'A bit too well, if you ask me. I bet half the city will know about our little march next Friday before the day ends' smiled the Azeri.

Guard Headquarters

When Giorgi Patarava came into the kitchen at 9 in the morning shirtless and wearing a pair of boxers, he hadn't expected see several men in full Guard uniform crowded around the table. 'Mornin', lad' said Davit cheerfully from the table. 'Morning, Dad' said Giorgi hesitantly, hovering around the door frame. 'Are you having a meeting or...-' 'No, we're going out' interrupted one of the men, standing to his feet. 'Just organising this little march thing Elchin was telling us about earlier. Pub later, Davit?' The Guard leader shook his head. 'Got shit to sort out. Another night, maybe'. The Guard nodded and the shuffled past Giorgi along with his unit.

When the front door closed, Giorgi welcomed himself into the cold kitchen. Davit sat at the table, in full uniform for once. 'You out this morning?' asked Giorgi, eyeing the uniform. 'Yeah' grunted Davit. 'Zugreb and Tamaz wanted to see me. They've been scoping the Square and spying on the barracks. It's not great news'. Giorgi picked up an uneaten piece of toast and took a seat across from his father. 'How come?' he said, spreading a precious square of butter on the toast. 'We don't know how many men Polat's got - sometimes there's a few hundred, last night there was near a thousand. And Tamaz thinks they might have a tank in those barracks' grumbled Davit, sipping on some tea. If there was one thing that wasn't in short supply in Batumi, it was tea. Massive tea plantations owned by Polat across the Adjarian Republic were worked on by thousands of natives for meagre pay. Polat apparently had some kind of deal with the Ottomans and delivered the tea across the Black Sea. However, with the collapse of the Ottomans, much of the tea was now being sold at cheap prices to shopkeepers who now had more tea than they knew what to do with. This loss in profits for Polat meant that high tariffs were put on importing food, so now everyone had tea but no biscuits to dip in it.

'A tank?' smiled Giorgi, bemused. 'Yeah. Not sure if they have any shells for it but it's probably used as a scare tactic. Polat hasn't been seen in three weeks as well, which means he's up to something' said Davit, clearly annoyed. 'Those lads I was just chatting to have orders for the march next Friday to try and find out where that slimy Turk has got to'.

'Speaking of the march, what are us Youths doing in it?' asked Giorgi, munching on some toast. 'You'll be near the back marching in line with Botkevli's congregation and behind the Liberation Force men' growled Davit, a warning to his son not to argue. His son frowned but did not speak. He instead noticed a copy of the 'Adjarian Press', a weekly newspaper that was heavily influenced by Demir Polat's regime. 'Will they be there?' he asked, showing Davit the paper. 'Hopefully not' snorted Davit. The Adjarian Press was notorious for it's pro-Polat bias and often reported on made-up stories of certain 'terrorist' organisations attacking Polat's tea plantations. In reality, a small unit of Guards based in the countryside under a man named Sabuari, a semi-insane guerilla fighter who had gotten fed up with hiding in the shadows of the city and had started a small hit-and-run force in hills, attacking isolated barracks and convoys. It was often jokingly said that Sabuari was better armed than the Batumi Georgian Guard as his force was so small yet well armed.

'Don't you have patrols?' asked Davit. 'Milidani said we're doing them this evening' replied Giorgi, not looking up from the newspaper. The two had a rather strange father-son relationship. They tended to argue a lot more than regular people and Davit was often quite gruff with his son but all the same, they had stayed close ever since Giorgi's mother had died. In times of hardship, they had protected each other and took offence at the suggestion that one of the pair was a 'useless old man' or a 'stupid fucking kid'.

The sun peered through the moth-eaten curtains of the kitchen window as father and son sat at the table, both engrossed in their own thoughts but relishing this moment. Both knew after the march, it would be a long time until they shared such a moment again.

Novosibirsk

Radios echoed like ghosts in the hall. The still and patient officers that manned them sat at a handful of desks. Arranged in an orderly file they went through the incoming briefs from the field, compiling them to paper in a certain rigidity. Their faces as stoic as cold rocks as they listened into the heavy frame-built headphones that crowned their ears.

These weren't men that would see battle, and they looked the part. They were too clean, and too gentle in the face to have ever felt a bullet graze their skin. In their uniforms they looked more collegial than military. More bureaucratic in olive than soldier in blood. Even if they wore the effects at their sides, the pistol, the knife. But even loaded for the off-chance they were really more of a decoration than weapons.

Behind the scene, a sergeant stood post alongside a door. Much like the room it was in, it was sparse and barren. Arms wrapped behind his beck he stood at attention as one of the radio men got up out of his seat, and walked to the door. A file in hand.

“Step right in, comrade.” the guard saluted, stepping aside. The radio operator paid him little heed. It was if anything a bore of a formality, just about everyone understood that much. By shift's end they'd probably be drinking together with the Russians, trying their best to avoid the following hang over.

With a groan he opened the door, stepping inside in an office on the edge of ready to move.

“Shàng Jiàng Hue Wen.” the officer said, this time stopping at attention as he brought his hand to salute. He looked towards the window of the office, where leaned the coated and robed figure of the general of the Chinese forces in Russia. Alongside him his Russian counter-part, by far a more grizzled and ragged individual. Compared to the trim and refined, pressed dress of Wen, the Russian was a civilian by stature. A tattered brown wollen coat with a fur ushanka.

“Jūnshì.” nodded the general, “What have we got today?”

“Report from the north, comrade.” the soldier said, holding out the manilla folder, “Quan Yun-qi reports he has taken the targeted site, sir.”

“Very good, thank you.” the general said, taking the folder and waving him off.

“You're welcome.” he replied, bowing as he stepped back out of the room. The door shut softly behind him as Wen turned to his companion.

“Why do we bother to take such a secluded station.” the Russian scowled. His voice was thick and heavy. It nearly turned his Chinese into gibberish. He frowned under his thick wollen beard as he watched his Chinese partner round back to the window.

“So we can break our enemy's back.” Huei Wen replied, “I don't want to give them any more positions to mobilize from that I can't control. If I can reduce the range they can move freely through, the better. Means we can starve them in their cities, and we control what really matters.”

The Russian scoffed, “The cities are what we should be taking. There's too much wilderness in Siberia for us to contest!” he protested.

“I know. But that's why we take key positions.” Huei Wen laughed, flipping through the after action report. “That site is worth it, since it gives us a position to spring from. And we can shut down that area of their communications network. Choke the high and low bands with too much noise and keep them deaf and dumb.

“At least it's what I've been told I could do. Of course means we mute ourselves.”

“That aside, what do we take from this victory, except a wilderness prison.”

“Code book.” Wen said confidently as he held open one of the pages as he turned it to the Russian.

The bear studied it intently. The handwritten Chinese keeping him slow no doubt. “We'll arrange to pick it up one the first supply drops and we can keep ahead of the Republic for the next few weeks at least.” wen continued, “You know that well, don't you?”

“I do.” he said, “But it's a short-term victory. What more can we do with that outpost?”

“Well, apparently most of the original camp fields were burned down. So I see an airfield potential there. We got a northern angle on here clear to their capital. We can bomb them as asymmetrically as we need, and the Bureau can fly the rest to look out for anyone moving to take out the prison.

“We can close down Surgut from there, force its surrender by the end of next month.”

“And what then?”

“And then?” Wen said with a smile as he turned to the window, “And then I leave for Omsk. As soon as that city is ours - or most of it is – I want to be there on the front with the rest of the soldiers. I'm not going to let the distance between there and Novosibirsk dilute what I need to know. I need to know what's going on. I need to see the music played.”

“Music?” the Russian scoffed, “What fucking bullshit are you talking about? I haven't seen or heard of song in war.”

“Aye.” the Chinese general grinned knowingly, “Not for some centuries, comrade. But there's still a time and place. You'll know it. You'll need to follow me when I uproot.”

Kalachinsk, Russia

Loose treads rattled across battered pavement as the tank limped back into base. Around it ran the excitement of war. Trucks and small cars laden with the bloodied and battered sped past. Then it passed deadened streets, where hardly wandered a soul. Through the dusty and foggy windows of thick plastic glass there could be seen the depressed wanderings of lost dogs, or the few odd townsfolk who had returned to their home to try and live a normal life in the midst of war.

The sounds of cannons and gunshots crumpled and were muted out. Replaced with the thin flashing and smacking against the hull the loose treads. Heavy wire held the metal plates together, and that already sounded like it was coming undone.

Clearing the silent streets the lumbering tank rolled into the center of town. Ruinous buildings still lay torn and shattered across the street. But in part the very center was open and immaculate. A busy atmosphere swarmed around the town hall, where now hung Chinese and Siberian banners, red as blood and orange as the morning sky. Men parted from their runs, escorting incoming supplies to their stockpiles to be later distributed. Work was being done on a towering radio mast being erected on sandbag and brick anchors.

The grinding of the broken feet of the steel beast of burden brought to their attention the engineers, who immediately flagged down the Tei Gui, directing Song to alongside their command post.

“You back so soon?” shouted the mechanic as Song threw open the hatch to pull himself out, “What happened? Hell, you can't be out of shells already!”

“We got our treads hit.” Commander Song replied. He hissed bitterly around his words, sitting himself on the rim of the hatch.

“Fucking Hell. Alright follow me around back. We'll look at it.” the Mechanic growled, stepping aside.

Sun Song had yet to come down from the anger of being crippled. For too long a moment they had been rendered vulnerable, because of blindness. As his new driver followed the mechanic as he waved them around, making great exaggerated waves of his hands, he wondered how long it would take. Or if the means to repair the damage had even arrived yet. Much of it looked ready to move in a moment. What they had he feared was set up to service to catastrophic damage.

And he wanted to be out there. He could hear the fight still raging over the radios. The vague indications of position and the response calls. Squadrons were beginning to close in on Omsk. Stay tuned to Combat Radio.

They moved around back of the town hall. Where parked in rank and file were the many damaged vehicles from the war effort. Stacks of bricks, chairs, heavy tables, bed frames, or anything that could be moved and sustain the weight of the Chinese jeeps, buggies, and trucks had been brought out. And arranged on top the work load of the logistical and mechanical corp. Burst tires, frayed chassis, and other menial sources of labor. And in the furthest corner a pile of the already destroyed, burned remains of war's effects.

In that pile of steel and shattered glass there was no distinction made between Chinese or Russian. And no doubt to the mechanics if there were any parts left in working order they'd use it, if it fit. Anything to keep from more requisition paperwork.

Alongside the building say a record player. It looked battered and charred. Bullet holes had cracked open its wooden casing and the arm of the needle was bent. And the ply-wood shell speakers didn't look in any better condition. But it worked. It was soft in comparison to the rumble of the tank engine. Barely there, a whisper. But it played its songs. Homely. Chinese. Sounded like Wen Chaoliang.

Sun Song looked down at it. Whomever had repaired it did a good job. It sounded like home.

“How long?” Song shouted from the turret, turning from the battered record player to the mechanic officer.

“Shit, I don't have all the equipment I could want to do a perfect fix.” he shouted back as he motioned for the vehicle to stop. He bit his lip nervously as he motioned to kill the engine, “But I can try to hook something up with the boys. You're the first armored casualty we had this entire front. I hardly got the cranes to lift one of these up.” he spoke much softer now the sound of the diesel engine had cut out.

“Fuck.” Song swore, leaning his head into his hand.

“I'll try something out here. My men and I might be able to make something out of scrap to lift it up enough to get into it and throw a new link over where you got tore up. But I can't promise same-day service. I could be twelve-twenty four hours.”

“That's just what I needed.” grumbled Song.

“Look on the bright side,” the mechanic smirked as he walked to the side, “Get to have a bit of a breather.” he laughed.

“Who did the patch job?” he asked suddenly, leaning down alongside the side of the tank.

“I did!” Lin shouted from within the hull, pulling herself out. A bright look of victory shone in her eyes as she smiled.

“Well, I shouldn't be surprised.” the mechanic scoffed, looking up at the brimming Lin as she pulled herself out, “Any case, I'll still see what I can do. So long as I can find the cable cutters.”

He nodded, pulling himself off. Sliding down alongside the soldier he still didn't feel at ease with the prospect. But then sometimes he felt he should be off the field when it was hot. It was confusing, and he was still angry.

“Just...” he started, “Just see what you can do.”

“Understood, comrade.” the man said, pulling out a flashlight from the heavy utility belt wrapped around him. He shone the light up into the underside of the vehicle, searching for holes and further damage. “What'd you hit, if I might ask?”

“We were driving along the tracks and we rolled over a mine.” Song said in a low voice, he looked up at the hatch as Li Tsung pulled himself out. He still looked visibly shaken. Pale. His eyes were deeply apologetic, child-like. He shot a sorry frown as he saw his superior officer glaring at him.

“He the one?” the mechanic said, just above a whisper.

“Unfortunately.” Song nodded, “Can you hold on to him, while I think something over.”

“The fuck is he going to do?” the mechanic said, aghast.

“I don't know. Help. Something.”

“I'll find something.”

“Private Li Tsung!” Song shouted out. Tsung froze seated on the iron, barreled nose of the vehicle he piloted, “I want you to stay here. That's an order.”

Perm, Russia

The train came to a stop with a rattle and a whistle. Jun could feel the cars slow under him, and come to a jaunty stop minutes later. With a rattle of the chains and the loose boards around him it was confirmed that his icy ride had drawn to a stop. He could still see his breath before him as he stood up, creeping across the moldy straw-packed floor. His fingers stroking the hilt of his sword he pressed himself carefully against the wooden side, peering out. All he could see where trains. Rusted iron trains. Faded beaten wooden ones. A light gray smoke hung in the air around him, a fog of mist from off the breaks and from the engine.

He couldn't hear anyone. So train yard security had yet to come. That's for sure. He'd need to act fast. Throwing open the doors he did that. Taking the jump out of the car and onto the cold gravel below.

Parked on either side marched on large curves in the ice and snow marched the long snaking body of another train. A tanker, but the looks. But the peeling white paint, rust in the hinges, and the massive amounts of scrawling and accumulating graffiti suggested that its use had been negligent in recent years. Crude messages in Russian littered its side in black paint and marker. And as he crawled along its cold side keeping an ear for people out came across bottles filled with snow and ice that had been stored on its iron-wrought carts.

Snow rested banked in banks under the cars and alongside. They rose up in waves and wrapped over the hitches between the cars, burying those sections that were ignored.

And echoing in the distance he could hear those voices he suspected. Lonely and tired, shouting in the distance. They were out and were about to do their sweep through the cold fog that hung over the city. And catching his breath Jun stopped. Listening.

They were ahead, of course. But to how close he couldn't say. Stalking backwards he placed his hands on the cold tanker hull. Feeling down it as he moved through the cold snowy gravel. Looking for a ladder. His hands hit the metal rungs, and he grabbed hold, pulling himself up. They were rough and cold in his fingers as he scaled up to the top.

The wind was cold cresting the iron tank. Flakes of snow brushed past, lifted by the wind. But as he stood he felt as well a strange warm undercurrent. Some heat the fought with the cold, and below laid out the heavy fog that the Chinese agent could see choking the river of concrete and steel. Drowning the rail yard in a thick soup of murky white milk.

Turning about as he crossed over to the next tracks he saw the city, rising out of the murky white mist of a warm early-spring's day. Jutting out like tomb stones in a snow-covered graveyard rose the city of Perm. With spears rising from the mist as church steeples to impale the over cast sky above, and domed mausoleums of government resting low in the milky sea between Asia and Europe. Here was the divide of worlds. Nestled on the southern tip of the Urals, sat in a throne between hills. Cut and divided by rivers that the agent could see as black snakes in the silvery cowl of fog. Far in the distance the Russian wilderness marched gently skyward on glacial marches, lined with trees to the higher foot hills of the Urals. Here was the furthest Jun could ever have dreamed of going. Here he teetered on the edge of a familiar continent, and on into a foreign one.

From below the voices of the Russian guards became louder. Jun didn't have time to admire the distant skyline of the next city of his operation. It wouldn't be long until they found his tracks, and with any luck they'd suspect only a wayward hitchhiker. Scrambling off the other side he hit the snowy gravel with a soft thud, and ran off between the tankers.

Beijing, China

The low hanging gray of clouds hung over the Chinese capital, bathing the city below in diamond white flakes of late-season snow. The light dusting dropped over the capital, shimmering from the roof-tops and laying a thin coat along the ancient stone streets. The late throws of winter keeping a constant sheet of chill on the city.

Bustling through the winding hutongs the gray coated citizenry bustled between their homes or their jobs as afternoon waned on over head. Along the main roads busying women skirted along with the day's groceries slung over their backs. Trucks laden with country-side supplies passed down the plowed and slush bricked streets, a remnant of the old days. Mixing in as well the civilian automobiles that converged on the affluent heart of Chinese politics, as cold as it was. And rising over the city from its heart the psuedo-modern high-rises of politics loomed over head as a reminder to those who held power. A stark contrast to the outer districts that still stood as they had in the old centuries. Even if carved by highway and widened paved avenues.

Riding low and dark through the traffic, flagged with red and guided by the flashing lights of the police security cut the carriage of Hou Sai Tang. A long staff car, painted black and its windows tinted so heavily the outside looked to be like dark ghosts pressed against a stoney and cloudy existence. The aging chairman sat in the back, leaned against the back of the pale-brown leather seats. A wooden cane held between his knees as he stared out the window of the passing city. His city. Though now it felt more distant. Since his announced retirement he had long left Beijing in favor of living outside of Tianjin, his city of birth.

The driver was a young party officer, dressed in the conservative styling of the National Police Service. His cap pulled low down over his eyes, shielding them from the dull glare off the snow and the gray clouds over head. Playing low over the radio so instrumental folk song waxed longingly. Not over-bearing, but soft enough to be in the background at best.

“Give me an hour with Xiogang Wen.” Hou said in a low voice.

“An hour to pass a bill, comrade?” the driver inquired, perhaps to prying. He must have felt the old gaze of Hou turn from the window to the back of his neck. “I'm sorry to inquire, comrade.” he said apologetically, voice almost tripping, “I was just told all this is what it'd be.”

“It's no harm.” Hou excused, raising his hand, “But I just need to talk to the good secretary. I have some words to exchange with him, as a member of Politburo.”

“Understood, comrade.” the driver nodded, “Then you're expected at the General Command?” he asked seeking confirmation, “That date is still on.”

“It is.” Hou nodded.

“Understood.” the driver nodded as he rolled to a gentle stop at an intersection. Here the old cobble roads met with the smooth asphalt pavement of modern road work, glazed with a packed and dusty layer of snow.

Steadily and confidently the car pulled out onto the avenue and merged in with the traffic, its escort close behind. Winding through the old echoes of Beijing it drew in closer to the modern heart. As it drew closer to Chang'an brick and cobble and old mortar gave way to the metal, glass, and cement of the modern Beijing. The dark shimmering towers of the new government looming more over head.

As the convoy connected to and pulled onto the long and wide central Chang'an avenue the eternal landmarks of Beijing came to view. The reddened walls of the Forbidden City, an illustrious palace of old, transformed into a museum for the Revolution, Tienanmen Square across from it, with its towering red and burnt-orange arches and long snow-covered greens and swept brick walks and plazas.

Hou could still smell the sulfur and the burning of the city after the Revolution as he looked out down the Corridor of a Thousand Steps. When at the end, when the besieged Emperor surrendered from the palace, from where he tried to reforge his old Emperor. Old Puyi. He and his meager and starved court were forced to march down the corridor, in view of the bedraggled revolutionaries. Those who had followed him to the heart of the Second Qing. Hou had wanted revenge. For Wen Chu.

Behind through the windshield the glass and brass pagoda of the Beijing Opera House stood faint against the snowy murk of late winter. Ahead down the avenue as they drove east, passing Tienanmen and the Forbidden City the dark towers of governance stood watchful. He could make out their forms quickly.

Stepped and layered like some merger of American deco and Chinese architecture was his office, or his former office. The nerve center of the ministries and the office of the Grand Secretary. It's dozen conference halls, it's libraries of files, and the armies of workers who simply organized the numbers and shuffled the papers and meetings. Perhaps he might blame them for his condition. If he had not chosen to distance himself so much, and to drown himself in work...

Beyond that the arced and molded pillared halls of the Congress stood brazen above the old architecture of the city. It was as much a stranger as the office of the Grand Secretary. Some misplaced model of western architecture in a city of Eastern descent. It wrapped around like a building reaching to bring in its citizens for a hug, pillared and wrought of stone like the halls of Germany. Topped with a concrete dome, blazoned with dragons from whose mouth flew red banners. It wasn't as imposing as the Grand Secretary's office in height, but in the area it took it bested the black and red and orange tower of Hou's former office.

The escort continued passed the office. Its open snowy square dimly lit by the incandescent lights that were never turned off. Low black pillars, topped with a glass dome about waist high. Their light was weak in the day, but by night they kept the plaza out front in a constant warm glow hiding no one.

The motorcade kept moving on. Weaving through the traffic that parted to let them by. It was sleepy. Chang'an always was at this time. Winter was not very inviting to bicycles.

Passing on the right the long sweeping arms of the Congressional Hall drew in from behind the tenants and small stores and restaurants of Chang'an. Reaching out to encircle a plaza where stood a statue to soldiers, the wide columned halls reached out to Beijing. An impressive awning of graying green tile covered in snow swept out and then up from the entrance way. An army of flags hung from posts along the walls and the side, bathing the gray of its shell in bright fiery red.

The motorcade merged gentle towards it. Hou felt the soft bump as they left the main road and onto the private drive that wound around the back of the building. Slowly dropping gently into the cold concrete and blackened brick. The Chairman was arriving.

____

“I suppose you're not too interested in ceremony.” Xiogang Wen smiled as Hou entered his office. It was large and spacious. Comfortably warm. A large grandfather clock in the far corner ticked softly alongside large glass windows looking down on the Congressional Plaza below. Dark red shades hung pulled to the side open to the gray winter light.

“If we do need to do a ceremonial signing then I'd like it to be quick.” Hou coughed as he hobbled across the thick carpet of Wen's office. Wen himself was an old man, like much of the founding government now. Though he had not yet began to gray, his hair was thin and spindly and lay combed weakly over a balding cranium. The distinctness of his chin had softened as his neck sagged.

“Just as well.” Wen bowed, walking around the edge of his mahogany desk. It was sparse and spartan, perhaps one of the few things like that in his office. But for what it made up for in rich carving it did for the elaborate dark satin stain. Seating himself at the black leather chair behind the table he rifled through the drawers, pulling out a red-covered book, about half a pinky thick.

“Well, the job is finished.” the congressional secretary laughed. It wasn't particularly proud, or happy. But it was tired and dreary, “All we need is your signature and we can establish the autonomous districts.”

“As I've been waiting for.” Hou mumbled, strolling over to a chair set up opposite of Wen. He groaned as he sat, pulling a pen from the desk. There was a lot on it, photos of family, calenders and planners.

“And I got one other thing to talk to you about too.” Hou said in a low voice as he flipped over the new law, scanning the title page and skimming through the first few pages, “I didn't come all this way to sign something into law. I could have ordered that delivered straight to my residence.”

“I figured there was something more.” Xiogang nodded. His beady wrinkled eyes dropped to the pages as his superior went through, skimming the tightly packed text and finding the lines to sign.

“There is, something of a promise I made. I suppose you could say that.”

“To who?” Wen asked cynically and dispondent.

“Zhang Auyi.” Hou replied, looking up from the bill, “But I also suppose it's not so much a promise, thinking on it. I told him I'd consider it. And when in Beijing on business not restricted to only signing legislation then what better time than now?

“What do you think of Auyi, comrade?”

“I hold no oppinion.” said Xiogang, “Are you saying I should?”

“You could, but I can't hold sway either way. But he spoke with me, and I can't help but feel that he'd be a better candidate. He has the spirit.”

“We did as much as Politburo is allowed to do, which is to let him run.” Wen grumbled. He was tense as he sat back in his chair, “For now we should really just let the entire thing run out on its own.”

“I'm aware.” Hou nodded, finding the final line on the bill and shutting it closed. Sliding it across the desk he added, “But perhaps you might be able to do something as the head of the Congress.

“I'm not asking you to speak. Just requesting to maybe move some thing around. Get him some allies, maybe. In the papers he announced his support for this legislation, if you needed a catalyst.”

“And the autonomy law itself was fairly contentious even among some of its supporters.” Wen coughed, “It had just enough votes to pass.”

“I know, I still keep up with the Beijing news.”

“But, I'll see what appointments I can encourage.” Xiogang nodded, “But no promises. To him.”

Hou smiled. A short and tempered grin, “Thank you.” he said.

Port Said, Suez Canal

The searing hiss of a rocket passed over her head. Everything was burning. The smell of scorched gasoline and charred flesh hung in her nostrils. The gravity of what it was she had just witnessed sunk in. The first shots of the war. There had been years of posturing and near misses. Now it was here. Her training kicked in. It was time to survive.

Men were falling back. They were covered in soot and blood, the whites of their eyes pristine and wide beneath masks of filth. There was shouting in the chaos, and the wails of the wounded. The Spanish rounds struck the ground like fists, each shot sounding heavier than the last. She was certain that they were getting closer, and that any moment a chance shot would rip through her and kill her. But she sat still. If she ran, they would get her, and this ditch felt safer than any amount of fleeing could.

"We can't fucking fight them with cars." she muttered to herself. She wondered where her partner had went. Elias had been next to her one moment, and gone the next. "We can't fight with..." someone nearby fired a rifle, an its report stung her ears. "Trucks!" That was a stupid plan. Now they were stuck. It occurred to her that this could have been a suicide mission all along. The orders they had been given about how to proceed after this fight could have been nothing more than a comforting ruse to keep them from knowing that they were meant to die here. She heard a pained shriek above the sound of the battle, so sharp that a chill went through her body. They were going to die here.

Thwump. She heard the soft sound of mortars Thwump. She looked to see the mortar team taking their positions, finding any piece of protected flat ground that they could. Their captain, as skeletal and sickly as he looked, was barking orders like a mad dog, though she could not hear what it was that he was saying. She felt the sudden peculiarity of her status. This captain was not Walinzi, not like her, but she felt as if he belonged to some higher class of warrior. It felt strange to think that she was somehow more well trained. She had dined with the Emperor. She had killed a Shah. But this mortar team and their captain, this battlefield was their world, and they knew it better than she did.

"You" he pointed at her with a knuckly finger. "Get the fuck out! Get back!" She didn't argue. She waited for the mortars to fire, and then she ran.

Once out of her ditch, she was much more aware of all the gunfire and where it came from. When the Spanish opened fire with their deck guns, she felt their report reverberate in her chest. Any moment, a stray shot could kill her. She counted to herself as she ran in an effort to maintain her focus, and she was surprised to find it had only taken her twenty two seconds to make it to the next set of buildings. It had felt like ten minutes.

"I'm going to die here." she heard a man rambling. She looked down and saw him. His shoulder had been liquified, only strands of red and pink holding his arm to his body. Blood soaked his shirt, and his skin, and it coagulated in his hair. She realized that he was telling the truth. "What a waste."

"You..." she tried to think of something to say, but this was new to her. "Your country will remember your sacrifice."

He took a long, rattling breath. "Fuck... that." he struggled. He tried to say something else, but the words wouldn't come out. Leyla left him there.

From inside the city, something big exploded. At first, she thought it was the bombs. She looked toward the canal and realized that all of the buildings near it were still intact. Was that Spanish ordinance? It happened again. It was coming from the canal. She held her breath.

A third boom. This one came with a cheer. An Ethiopian cheer. She understood. The Aksum had entered the battle. She wondered if its guns could even reach the Spanish ships. Besides that, it was hardly armed. It had traveled with very little ammunition so that it could carry the explosives that lined the inside of its hull. How many times would it fire? She heard a second salvo.

She heard African mortars and the Aksum. She could hardly hear the Spanish response. For a moment, she thought that maybe they had a chance. Maybe. If they turned the Spanish back here, what a story that would be. A golden page for the history books. Her hope was brief, and it was shattered when Spanish firepower sent hunks of concrete tearing from a building nearby. She ducked her head and prayed.

The mutter of a truck engine made her look up. More men on their way to the fight. Did they think they could repel battleships with automobiles? A turret gunner stood in the back, swaying with the motion of the truck. His hands were wrapped tight around the handles of a long barreled fifty cal. He was stoic. Tense. How many shots would he get out before he died? Would he kill before he was killed?

Leyla took a deep breath, harshened by the petroleum and gunpowder fog. She ran further into the war-marked city. There was, in ditches and foxholes, the mingling bodies of Ethiopians and Egyptians. In places, the ground was slicked with blood. She could smell it, like rot and metal. She needed to link up with Elias, and with the rest of the Walinzi. They would be near the canal. She turned toward it, and toward the sound ofthe Aksum opening her guns.

The Africans were retreating. The sound of small arms fire was petering out. They were rushing the wounded back. Men with less severe injuries limped on their own, or were supported by others. Was this a rout? The subtleties of success and failure blurred in battle. She saw men taking up new positions, but maybe that happened in retreats too? She turned a corner, cautious, expecting to find Spanish soldiers on the ground around the corner. Instead, a hollow thwump. Mortars. Their captain was pointing at a gap in the cityscape, where the hazy steel hulk of a Spanish ship was visible on the murky green sea. She saw a flash of fire come from its deck, followed by the delayed sound of exploding munition in the city. It was like watching lightning and waiting for the thunder.

"Agent Masri" she heard her name shouted. It was faint, but familiarity cut through the gunfire. She turned and seen Elias beckoning for her. He was alive. Thank god for that. Her mind snapped back toward their mission. She sprinted across the road.

"We are ready here." he said, glancing to a six story tenement on the cusp of the canal. "We need to move some of these teams. Hard to tell what will happen here. You know how it works. We want safety on the battlefield."

She nodded. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Keep them from driving through here." he responded, pointing south down the road. "Don't let them argue. You're Walinzi, remind them." He clasped her on the shoulder. "Lets just get this done so we can move on to the next."

She nodded. Focus burned through the chaos. She jogged across the plaza, cutting a line through the smouldering asphalt and stone tiles. The battle was far away, the pounding gunfire and sharp rifle reports on the other side of an invisible wall in her mind. She focused on an armored car. The gunner didn't seem to notice her. He was staring into the distance, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. She thought she saw a cigarette hanging from his mouth, but when she came closer she noticed that it was a stick that he had pulled from a tree. She held her hand out, palm forward and facing the truck. It stopped. The driver clamored out.

"We need to move here, woman." he grouched. "We're going to extract the Aksum's crew."

"This plaza is blocked. She responded calmly. "Walinzi business. You will have to find another route."

"Walinzi..." he muttered. She could see him thinking. She could feel the tension.

He nodded and climbed in the car. As they began to pull away, the gunner looked down at her. He pulled the stick from his mouth and saluted her with it.

"Come now." she heard Elias' voice behind her. "We need to take cover. It's going to happen at any moment now."

The found a spot to hide behind a stone-brick dividing wall. Elias pulled a cigarette from his pocket and offered it to her. She shook her head. He lit it and tucked it into his lips.

"Is your gun loaded?" he asked. She unholstered it and replaced the clip. A Spanish shell whistled through the air before it struck something that Leyla could not see. She watched Elias. He was focused on tenement. His cigarette flickered. Leyla marked the passing of time with each flicker. One. Two. Three. Four.

There was an sudden clap. Several explosions, adding together to create a larger explosion. It felt like the air was being sucked out of her lungs. Dust cascaded from the bottom floors. Small jets of debris shot from the windows. The bottom stories gave in. She could hear the snapping of steel and cracking of cement as it began to fall. Another set of explosions started, small and scattered like the popping on loose-firing ammunition. It was falling to its side. It was falling into the canal.

Elias was grinning. "And..."

Another implosion sounded off. That one surprised her. She knew it had been the plan all along, but the Spanish were moving quicker than she had expected them to. She had thought that they had failed to get a team to the other side. They watched as the second building tumbled into the river. Rubble struck the water with heavy splashes.

"And now we wait for the next set." Elias said.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Through his robes, Yaqob gently rubbed the webbing scar on his chest. It was only a dull ache, but it reminded him of worse pains he had felt. He could see the city outside the painted arch of the turret window. It was calm, palm fronds flitting in the breeze above the thin-spread capital. He rarely came here, to this corner of the palace. He was drawn here now because it faced the northeast, toward the coast of Eritrea where the Spaniards would launch their attack. How long would it be? Months? Weeks? They had never been tested like this before, not here. Not, at least, since Adwa. That had happened in a different century. In many ways, a different Ethiopia. How would it play out this time? Yaqob had little hope that it would end well this time.

The turret-room was small. Dark wood paneling covered the walls, and a darker wood covered the floors. A mahogany end-table stood next to a faded leopard print canvas chair, completing the room's sparse furnishing. Above that hung a traditional painting of a saint done colorfully on animal hide. And then there was Hassan. He stood motionless in the corner, Yaqob's patient General and loyal friend.

"Do you think we can keep them in the Red Sea?" Yaqob asked. He knew the answer, but he hoped for the military brilliance his General had shown in Katanga with the stroke of a hand.

"No." Hassan answered bluntly. There was a caution in his voice, Yaqob noted. Not the caution of a supplicant who didn't know how to talk to an Emperor. No. This was the sound of a man who knew how to choose his words, and knew that obvious confidence often sounded like disrespect. Whether he wanted to be or not, Hassan was a politician. He continued. "I propose to move our navy into the Mandeb Straight. We might catch them being lazy, and they might not move any further than that. That is the only naval strategy we have right now. They know they can do whatever they want. If they decide that taking control of the southern coast simply isn't worth the expense of pushing through the Mandeb, we might be able to keep some ports open. That is my advise, my Emperor."

"They will push through." Yaqob said. "They fear China. Open ports on the eastern coast would threaten them." A part of Yaqob doubted this. African foreign policy had constructed on top of an assurance that China would intervene. But what if it didn't? African politics had adopted the old European desperation for alliance. But what of China? Yaqob had lived there. They had let him exist in exile there during the war that overthrew his brother, but they had not intervened any more directly than that. And Spain? The thought occurred that Sotelo wanted to face China. It would be an enormous gamble for them, but the reward was extreme power."

Hassan was silent for a moment. "That is most likely true." he said, accepting the thought that Yaqob inwardly questioned. "We should move forward under the assumption that we will not have access to the sea."

Yaqob felt his chest throb again. It was an assumption they should make. He knew this. Why did he never hear hope? "We should discuss evacuations then."

"I'm not leaving." Hassan said. "With respect, the battlefield is where I belong. We can't take them down on the sea, but I know I can destroy them on the land. Africa is vast. This land is rough. And... our people do not want them here."

That much was true. His people had little faith in their government, but they had no faith in Europe. Africa still remembered her colonial past, and Ethiopian pride was centered on how they had avoided European hegemony. That same pride had destroyed Sahle. If the Spanish were not cautious, it would destroy them.

"Azima wants the royal family to evacuate." Yaqob said. She was worried about Tewodros most of all, but she wanted them all to go. Yaqob was torn. Would he go back to China defeated? He was no soldier, of course. There was no use for him here. But leaving felt wrong. It felt like abandonment. Taytu had offer to stay behind, to take charge of the guerrilla government while Yaqob rallied for communist support. There was some sense there. Yaqob was known in China, and a living Emperor could be a potent symbol. He knew that she had other intentions, however. She wanted to spite Hassan. Would she work with him? They were repelled by each other. Perhaps he could find somebody else to rule in his stead. Even Hassan himself...

"We should make preparations then." Hassan said. "Before we get news from the Suez. A flight would be best, through Persia to Beijing."

"If I go, could you govern?" Yaqob asked. He turned around to see his General. Hassan looked like he was choking back the honor. It seemed strange, he had never been the humble sort, but Yaqob could tell he was struggling with the thought. "I could, your Imperial Majesty." he said. "But I can't recommend you to leave."

Had he wanted to flee so much that he had been blind to what it meant? His scar ached. "I think I would be more useful in China than I would be on the battlefield." he explained.

"Yes." Hassan replied. "I agree. You aren't a soldier, but you are a symbol."

Yaqob nodded. He understood this. He had thought about it. What did it look like when the Emperor ran?

"I will think about it." the Emperor responded.

Hassan nodded and left Yaqob to his thoughts.

This thing felt like a march into fate. He did not see any options. This would take place, and he would be caught in the middle of it. He thought back to his time in China, and to his military training there. He knew then that he was not made for war. The immediacy, the snap decisions, they did not come to him. He was a thinker, not a soldier. What use would he be? A symbol. That was it. It was imperative for him to stay for no other reason but that they needed his presence. Not for his skill, but just so nobody accused him of running. He shook his head and left the room.

The halls of the palace were decorated with the artifacts and baubles that he loved to collect. They were items of art, and of history. They were swords and shields, statues and idols, paintings and icons. Most were from Africa or China. The rest were from across the world, spanning history as well as geography. To be surrounded by humanity's history was to be submersed in the past itself. When he saw a painting, he wondered about the world that had raised its artist. What had life been like for the man who crafted the early Aksumite Amphora that stood guard in the hall near the door to the turret room? He strolled, moving leisurely through the hall and brushing the artifacts with his hands. He felt the rough chainmail of an old Byzantine hauberk, and the smooth porcelain of Chinese china. How long would this last? Once the Spanish landed, it was inevitable that they would march south and take the capital. They were going to take everything from him. Most likely, his life as well. His collection, and his life.

Despair was the ache in his chest. It felt heavy there. The decor of these halls only reminded him of the flow of history. The same flow he was caught in. He felt like laying down. He passed the war masks, and the mummified cat that stood guard near the phone. When he reached the next room, he was surprised to find he had company.

The priest was an older man, dressed in glittering red cloth over simple white, and a cloth wrap on top of his head. His beard was long and grey, and he had a face that was soft and gentle. One of Yaqob's guards stood watch in the room, and he did not look bothered by the guest. Yaqob wondered. Was he scheduled to meet this man?

"Your Imperial Majesty." he bowed, "I am sorry to come unannounced." He paused, and there was realization in his eyes. "They told me they were going to fetch you."

Yaqob smiled. "I am here." he said. "Sit down."

The old man bowed and found his seat.

"May I ask who it is that you are?" Yaqob inquired, sitting across the table from his guest.

"Zerihun Biruk" he answered politely. Yaqob's eyes wandered to the thick silver cross that hung across his chest. It was geometric - a neat fractal of diamond-shapes branching from themselves. And Ethiopian cross. "I have traveled from Aksum to speak to you."

The formality of the old priest set Yaqob's mind along the ancient processes of conversation. Niceties ruled here, turning the choice of words and actions into a game of chess. Each action had set rules, and each sentence carried centuries of tradition. It cleared his mind, and set it to the task at hand. His next move became clear.

"Would you like coffee?"

The old man nodded. Yaqob snapped his fingers and listened as the guard left the room. This was a delicate moment. If this man was an assassins, this was his chance. Yaqob watched him carefully, looking for any twitch that told of an attack. The old man sat still, wrapped in his own robes. No motion.

"How is it in the north?" Yaqob asked.

Zerihun's smile went flat. There was a flicker of sadness in his expression. "Our people worry, oh my Emperor. I do not leave my place in this world often, but I have seen it. Old men bury their wealth and flee to the south with their wives and daughters. Young men buy guns and machetes and boast about how many Europeans they will slay."

The guard returned to his post. That was a relief. The time had past, and this priest was no assassin.

"What do you come south for, my friend?" Yaqob asked.

"I will tell you." the priest answered. "After we have coffee."

Yaqob nodded. "How have you found the capital?" he asked.

"This is a big place." The priest boasted. "I have not left the country, but could a bigger city be dreamed of? When I was growing up, my people lived in a village. I think one of your apartment housings could have held ten tribes the size of mine." he smiled, revealing crooked white teeth.

"We have grown." Yaqob said politely. Addis Ababa was not a large city by the standards he had seen while traveling the world. It sprawled further than the old towns of Europe, but it was a shadow of the immensity that was Beijing. To a priest from the highlands, however... it was easy for Yaqob to forget how simple his people could be, and how truly mammoth his African Empire looked from their perspective.

A cook wheeled in a cart dressed with everything that would be needed for the coffee ceremony. There were porcelain cups painted with the lion of Judah, and a clay coffee pot shaped like an amphorae. A bowl of green coffee beans sat on the edge of the cart, and on the other end was a kerosene-powered stove. Wordless, the cook began to roast the beans in a steel pan.

"I had my first coffee with my grandmother." the priest said. "In nineteen twenty nine." he began to laugh. "That sounds so long ago! It really isn't, but it sounds like a lot of time!"

Yaqob grinned. The priest's laugh was warm and alive. His joy was contagious. For a moment, Yaqob forgot that there was a war.

The smell of the roasting coffee beans began to fill the room. It was strong and thick, more like a rich meal than a drink. There was so much good about this moment that Yaqob wondered what could be solved by bringing his enemies, and his friends, to experience the coffee ceremony with this priest. Was Sotelo as evil as they said, that he would deny a moment like this one and continue with his war?

Such naive thoughts. This was too horrible of a world for that sort of bucolic simplicity. He felt his old wound tinge numb, but he ignored it.

The cook grabbed the pan full of sizzling coffee beans from the stove and held it in front of them. The priest inhaled deeply and smiled. "Those are good beans that you have, my Emperor." he said. "Very excellent."

Yaqob followed, taking a deep whiff. It was a heavy smell - earthy. It smelled like morning in a village, or breakfast with his father in Dessie, looking out toward the brown-stone rises of the mountains and the rich blue sky above them. He nodded. "That is very good." he agreed. "Very good."

"I remember when you were born." the priest said. "I was not a young man. No. I was younger, but I was not a young man. I was an exorcist, and I lived in Adwa. There were a lot of foul things... demons created by the battle there, and buda. That was a strange time. Some of my teachers thought that the Germans were buda, and they would say 'See how the Germans make factories with the men who work with metal? We know the metal workers are buda. Who else would work with them like the Germans do?' "

The smell of coffee mixed with the thick floral tones of incense as the cook began to light sticks of it. The priest began to laugh his cheerful laugh. "I don't know about any of that, now. But there were evil things in the north back then. I think we fought them off, but now they are coming back again."

The cook served the coffee. Yaqob watched as the priest took a sip and closed his eyes. "This is very good. Very good." He gestured his approval.

"They are coming back." Yaqob felt the hot drink with his lip and supped carefully. "The Spanish, you mean."

The priest nodded. "That is what I have came down here to say. I am not an exorcist anymore. Oh no. I am the guardian of the true tabot, the holy thing that my life is devoted to."

Yaqob paused. "You are the guardian of the Ark of the Covenant?" he asked. "I thought you were committed never to leave its temple?"

"This is true. But this is a special circumstance." the priest said. The sun had was now shining through the window and casting yellow light across the table. In it, Yaqob could see incense smoke. "Aksum will fall to the Spanish. We cannot lose the Ark."

"We will protect our relics." Yaqob assured. "If you want, we could have it flown to China."

"No." The priest interrupted. His voice was panicked and abrupt. Yaqob stopped. What was happening here.

"The true tabot, it has a strength we cannot let the evil ones have. I am told that Emperor Menelik had plans to hide it if the Italians had succeeded. There are safe places here, but they are in this country."

"The evil ones." Yaqob repeated. "China has ever been our friend and ally."

"They are foreign ones." the priest argued. He was afraid now - Yaqob could see how worried he looked at the idea that China might hide the ark. "They do not know it. If you do not know it, you do not know the danger. If there is evil in China, they could not see it because they do not believe."

"I don't understand..."

"We wish for your cooperation. If you do not understand, we can fight the danger, but we need your help. There is more to the tabot. To the law. Ahh. Yes. It has qualities you cannot understand unless you have known it. I have known it and I love it."

"We will help." Yaqob said cautiously. "As much as we can. My soldiers will be needed for soldiering. For the war. I cannot promise anything exact, only that we will try."

"Do more than try." the priest replied. "Succeed or we will all suffer.

Beijing

An air of tensity loomed in the room. Like the metaphorical and cliched elephant in the room. Even the buzz of the lighting seemed to compliment the expectant worry as it droned overhead. The commanders had assembled, taking their seats at the long table in the middle of the room. There were no windows, the only light from sunken lighting in the ceiling. On the desk a darkened projector sat facing a blank screen.

Sitting at their seats they sat, tapping their fingers on the wooden table as they waited. Their caps pulled over their heads. The medals and symbols of their rank glistened in the yellow-gold lighting. This wasn't just waiting for them. This was meditation. Something was happening, and to be called by the Chairman. Only Lou Shai Dek seemed to be in any sort of peace, his old wrinkled fingers gently stroking along the grains of the wooden table as he leaned back on his seat, scowling emptily at the blank projector screen.

With a groan the briefing room's entrance opened. No one needed to turn to see who it was as they heard the familiar tap of a wooden cane on the laminate floors. With a sudden screech of chairs against the cold-pressed, shining linoleum they stood at attention, turning only out of respect as in followed Hou Sai Tang.

In previous days, he would have come in with upright confidence. His back straight as a razor's edge. But since the stroke, and now he announced retirement he was slower. Almost less confidence. And his expression had grown darker. His sharp dagger beard had grown longer and whiter in the past few months. He was aging, and aging fast.

“Comrades.” he said softly, walking to the table. He picked up his back with what strength he had as he hovered around the edge.

“Comrade Hou.” the commanders bowed, greeting the chairman with polite political smiles. Almost like vipers, the chairman thought.

With a soft shuffle they pulled their chairs back to the table, sitting back down as Hou ambled to the head of the table. “Do we know why we're here?” the chairman asked, his voice gravely.

“It's been all over the NPN even, I don't think anyone here isn't aware.” Han Shen said. He was a man of short stature, but a wide build; even for a Chinese man. It was not to say he was fat. Where his face was pinched in, his brow was not. And his shoulders were large and long. The blue coat of his rank hid most of his features, and the naval decorations only helped to distract it. As well as the honorary medals he wore for her service, and the liberation of Dalian. “The Spanish Invasion of Ethiopia, or supposed.”

“It's been made official out of Spain, comrade.” a tired deeply broken voice said. Almost like wind passing through a pipe of broken glass. Yan Sing. The pale ghost of a man leaned over the table draped in black. His hair was thin and silvery. His eyes were narrow and sharp. He frowned as he spoke, “Sotelo made a public appearance the other day effectively declaring war on Ethiopia, and indirectly us. We've known for a long time he wants to purge Communism from the world, I think we all know that really. But the important thing is that he believes he had acquired the strength to act.

“The exchange in the Red Sea wasn't just a minor skirmish, brothers. It's the first stage to a full armed conflict at this point.”

“You can be so sure?” Shen said, shocked.

“Satellite interception of the broadcasts and work directly from Ethiopia can not lie. They are at war.”

“Oh, I misunderstood the situation then.” Shen apologized.

“There's no excuse for prolonged fishing ventures.” Sing smiled wryly, reaching into his black overcoat and pulling out a bland red and white pack of cigarettes, “We all should no better.”

“Well I hope you caught some big fish, admiral.” Shai Dek brooded.

“Fishing is besides the point.” Hou said angrily, his voice risen to the precipice of a shout. “So what are we going to do about this?”

“Unfortunately apart from doing little, we could simply wait.” Shai Dek said, “We all know wars with Spain have been short. As was the affair in Finland. They'll get tangled up in the Congo or get sand in their shoes getting across the Sahara and won't make this an extended campaign. They'll seek an exit strategy before they risk loosing more men to Malaria than to bullets.

“Think about it as a grander campaign in Vietnam. Had the French actually cared, how many would be butchered by the elements alone? It's no doubt what they saw. And probably a factor in them simply giving up. But I can't speak for France.”

“None of us may.” laughed another officer, in a gray coat. Han Jang. Tall and statue like. His daze was distant, and some would say ever upwards. He had facilitated the rise of a space program, for however slow it was. But it was his and he had all right to be proud in part.

He leaned back, brushing his fingers through his short salt and pepper hair. “But I do agree it may be too earlier to partake in this campaign. If we're going to extend Chinese defensive interests beyond the Free Asia protocol it should be if we know the situation is dire. We don't even know if Spain will intend to mobilize their VX stockpiles on Ethiopia.”

“If they do it'll be a disaster.” Sing added with a biting tongue. There was no mercy on his voice. It was grim and precise.

“I agree.” Jang nodded, “At this point we could at the least act as a measure to observe and seek out their stockpiles. Our High Altitude Wing hasn't been tested in a full war-time scenario. We had successful flights over Russia on air recon of the countryside during the peace interlude. But we haven't flown any over Spanish territory. We could use this as a chance to gauge our aircraft's capabilities in interceptor avoidance, if not being blind to radar as a whole for flying too high to be distinguishable by noise. We may also gauge Spanish radar if they can spot it and attempt to intervene on our pilots.”

“Wouldn't that be risky though?” Hou asked with much sprinkled caution.

“All war comes with risk.” Shai Dek said, “We all here understand that. We've paid out our share in risk across Asia. We may have planned well enough to alleviate significant loss.”

“I understand...” said Hou.

“So we fly over Spain. What are we looking for?” the commander of national security asked. Handoi Hu. A large man. More akin to a cow than a commander. And a balding one at that.

“I'd hope to find perhaps mass mobilization over the desert.” chimed Jang, “Anything. Motorized convos heading to Ethiopia, suspicious air traffic. Somewhere they have to have a stockpile of chemical weapons and if there's intention to use them then it had to be somewhere. Depending on success, I'd suggest we run an unrestrained number of sweeps over Spain from the Pyrenees to the Ivory Coast.”

“That close, we're better off bombing the bastards!” Hu laughed, his large ballooning chin shaking like jello.

“We may have the capabilities given the design of the High Altitude Wing but we don't want to play that card too early.” Sing countered, “As tempting as it would be to set Madrid aflame while Sotelo takes a shit we may not do much harm in the long run. We may just end up scaring the Spanish people more into demanding more aggressive action.

“No, if we do have to bomb that home we'll do it en'masse if this turns into a prolonged war for once. Right now we'll spur the people to demand more aggressive movements and before we know it we're meeting the Spanish on the Indonesian Islands just to cut them off from China, or they're on Taiwan. If we do it late enough, grind them to bits in Africa and then bomb them: we frighten the Spanish people to submit. We make them think we don't have the capability. And when we can hit home, they demand they surrender or they die.

“Turn Spain black.”

“If we do that we're liable to repair.” Hu said, shocked, “That's scary expensive. More than the war.”

“Not unless we willingly ignore that part of our military law.”

“Agreed.” Shai Dek nodded.

“That'll be up to my predecessor.” Hou cut in, “I don't want to be involved in this order or the bastardization of the work I wrote. If we're going to win, I do want us to do so better than our enemy. This is why we exist.”

Sing grumbled under his breath. Thinking about Russia. But in the end the Chairman was right, acting on that initiative that had given them Asia was up to who takes over next. So long as he wasn't a disastrous person, storming into danger.

“What else can we commit at this time?” Hou groaned, “Surely more than photographs.”

“We have the small training contingent on Pemba.” Lou Shai Dek said, “If need be we can get them to reposition to Addis and help them to dig in, or whatever defensible position the Ethiopians need Cao at. That much I can promise immediately.

“But with us in Russia it'll be trickier to allocate more foot soldiers. We can meet with the Turkistanians to make a due date for withdraw from Turkistan with the collapse of the Ottomans no longer facilitating their need. But that will open a front for unchecked Russian movement in the north. So we'll need to get Turkistan formally involved in some way or set a goal to move out when our men control Russia up to their western edge. We could then deploy or redeploy fifty-thousand or more then to Africa.”

“I could have the navy ready to move to transport these relief units.” Jang said with a tired voice, “Do we have a commander for this endeavor?”

“No, but I'll look for a candidate.”

“Excellent.” the admiral said, “I doubt we can move an actual battle group to Africa to relieve the situation in the Red Sea. By the time we arrive I no doubt the Spanish will have total control of the region. If we do dispatch ships it'll be to supplement the Ethiopians elsewhere on their Eastern Coast.

“I'd recommend waiting for a later time to deploy a larger fleet to break any possible Spanish control of the coast later. That way we move not only boats but equipment as well to insure a stronger hold on a liberated coast. And by the time we arrive then we can estimate the Spanish may be thinned out to control the coast. We can piece the Spanish navy apart off the African coast in the way and break the war effort.”

“What about the White Sea?” asked Hou.

“I suppose we could give Shao Shen new orders.” Jang shrugged, “What will help?”

“To break the European economy.” Shai Dek said with no remorse, “Disturb the shipping lanes, especially Spanish flagged ships.”

“Well, I do supposed the United Kingdom can't get involved, not after what they've been through.” Jang shrugged, “And Germany is the only other submarine power we're aware of. France has never been a naval power and we can count the Dutch and Belgians out as being a able threat. Not for the Bohai.

“But we're going to need to organize to refuel them that far out for such a mission. Before I can give the order, if we're going to do it, I need to know the logistical support for this. A submarine isn't a sail ship, it doesn't have have indefinite fuel. And it can't resupply itself alone on raiding – if that's what you're proposing comrade Shai Dek.”

“It is.” the commander nodded.

“Well... I see...” Jang said, chewing his cheek. His face grew pale.

“It sounds like we'll need to study this proposal some more.” Hou nodded, “We'll need to reconvene then?”

“Indeed.” the commanders nodded.

“If we're going to be involved with any greater depth we're going to need to convene Congress.” Hou said, “So we're going to need a greater war plan to present to committee. Something to pass down through succession and accommodates for Russia.”

“Understood, comrade.” Lou Shai Dek nodded.

“I'll have my men draw up a full brief on the resources and time needed.” Jang mumbled, “Suggest authorized piracy or raiding of targeted ships. Measure the... legality I guess and how to cover for that.”

“I'll commit resources from my department.” Sing said, waving a lit cigarette.

“Excellent, thank you.” Jang bowed.

“If it will help, I'll issue immediate orders to the Deep Gobi facility. Redeploy the High Altitude Wing to Tibet. When we do we launch?”

“I want to get in touch with the Ethiopian ambassador first thing, as soon as possible.” Hou said, “Either before I leave Beijing or tomorrow. They deserve to know a few things.

“I'll tell them we'll commit intelligence on Spanish ability, and some military aid given Pemba. But the rest is to be decided.”

“Anything more and we'll need Congressional approval.” smirked Sing, “I agree to this. It's best to not leave this waiting. We move now.”

///Project: STEEL COBRAS///

MISSION DESIGNATION: GEARM174-62

STAGE OF DEVELOPMENT – PHASE III; FIRST FIELD TEST - AUSTRALIAN WILDERNESS

The rebel camp wasn’t much to behold. Tents were set up back to back in rows, with a road wide enough for two tanks side by side to drive down. Everything seemed as if it had been laid out perfectly, more than likely using a laser measuring system to a-line the tents. The rebel commander was reported to have extreme OCD, and it definitely showed. The camp was exactly the same way it had been for the past two months the Australian Army has been scouting it out: The partisans even smoke in the same area at the same time of day. The tents that made up the entirety of the base were all identical: khaki-colored, square things that stood taller than a full grown man with a midget on his shoulders. It was impossible to tell which tents were used for which supplies, and which held which soldiers without a man on the inside. Fortunately for the Australians, they did have such a man. Every three tents, there stood a pole with a light atop it. Not the electrical kind, but the old fire-lit ones from back in the day.

Thanks to this generous amount of light coming from the many poles, Olympus Squad had no trouble seeing their targets while they slowly made their way down one of these avenues between tent rows. Every time they came upon a new tent, Odysseus and Perseus, both of whom were equipped with military grade automatic shotguns, would breach a tent on each side and kill any rebels attempting to hide inside. Of course, most of the partisans were gathered at the end of the avenue, hiding behind a wall of assorted crates and pieces of metal that they had quickly erected when the fighting began. The biggest piece of the wall was also the most heavily armored: An AATV-24, one of many of the pieces of equipment stolen from Fort Baracoda two and a half months earlier. The fifty caliber machine gun on the AATV-24 started to fire on the advancing men of Olympus Squad when a man crawled inside the turret.”Whoa whoa whoa!” Cadmus shouted, firing a burst from his ASM-2.”We’ve got light armor, south-west end of the compound!” Achilles shouted into his headset as the squad dove to the ground. They’d get absolutely chewed apart out in the open here.

”Orpheus! Take ‘im down!” Hercules yelled, fumbling with a rocket launcher on his back. Orpheus calmly brought the scope of his StG 58 up to his eye. Seconds after, Orpheus took in a breath, and a single bullet whizzed through the air, smashing through the gunner’s left eye and popping out the back of his head. The man’s head whipped backwards with the sheer force of the round, with his body following suit moments later. Orpheus visibly shuddered, before running a hand over his chest in the shape of a cross. The rest of the team jumped back up and began to return fire at the rebels. Man after man tried to take the turret gun back, but every time Orpheus shot them in the same exact place; and every kill brought another cross to Orpheus’s chest.

To the side of the advancing squad, Perseus fired off two bursts from his shotgun, mauling a group of rebels lying in wait. Achilles glanced around at his team, pride building up rapidly as they moved down the way, the rebel forced at the other end getting massacred by the elite team’s barrage of bullets. Then, Achilles noticed something.”Where’s Odysseus?!” He shouted, turning around rapidly.”Achilles! stay behind Cadmus!” Jason snarled, snapping off shots with his StG 58.”Hold position! I’m going back to find-” Achilles was interrupted by a massive explosion from behind him. He turned around slowly, fearing what he might see. The AATV-24 the rebels had pillaged was in flames, and the rebels that had clung to it for cover were dead.”What was that?” Hercules said in disbelief. The sound of a shotgun going off in the distance shook the squad back into reality.”They firin’ at us, mates?” Perseus asked, moving over to the others. A man climbed atop the makeshift rebel fortification, holding a shotgun in the air and yelling like a banshee.”-Odysseus..” Achilles finished, breathing a sigh filled with too many different emotions at the same time.”He did it. He bloody did it.” Cadmus muttered, lowering his shield. Achilles jogged to the front of the group, and the others followed after their leader.

Odysseus hopped off the wall and met his squad half way.”You insubordinate, crazy little ginger!” Achilles yelled, hugging his fellow Steel Cobra. The others moved in closer to give Odysseus their own unique forms of congratulations.”How’d you do it?” Hercules asked, shrugging the heavy weight on his back into a more comfortable position.”That, my friend, is a story for the bar.” Odysseus said with a sly grin.”Alright, we’ve got a compound to clear. Let’s move!” Achilles announced, holding his assault rifle in the air with a single hand.”This is Ground Cobra Command to all combat elements of Steel Cobra Company! The compound is nearly clear, but we have a situation. There’s an old Russian-made tank hold up in the south-eastern corner of the compound. No one where these backwater lobsters got a hold of such things, but the Royalists are putting up quite the fight. We don’t have any armor in the area, and the helicopters are ten minutes out. Any teams with anti-armor capabilities are to attempt to immobilize or destroy the tank. Command, out.” The static filled orders from command had reached Jason, the squad’s radio man’s, ears. Jason then relayed it all to the others, and the squad began to move. No order was given, for none had to be. They knew where to go and what to do.

They were Cobras, after all.

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

*A number of days after the above half of the post*

The sun shone brightly in the beautiful city of Sydney, its blazing light intensified as it glared off the many towering skyscrapers that dotted the city. The streets below these skyscrapers were covered by motor vehicles of all makes and models, with hundreds of thousands of citizens crowding the streets, trying to make their way to wherever they were going. So very many human lives, yet at that moment all attention was not on the city and the people within it. No, Australia’s eyes were on Governor-General Mark Chapman and Prime Minister Mary Crackenthorpe, and the mighty vessel they were preparing to board that sat in the harbor behind them. The Governor-General and the Prime-Minister stood side by side on top of a raised platform, their backs to the ocean as the throngs of people who had gotten off work a few hours ago watched their pictures get taken. The media was all over this: after all, it isn’t often your country prepares to join an empire without a drop of blood shed. After the crowd of reporters had their fill of pictures, the Prime Minister took her seat behind the Governor-General, alongside a number of other ministers, as well as General McBride and Admiral Crickett.

Chapman took a few steps to the right, until he was standing behind a wooden podium that a stage hand had dragged up the steps for his use. Mark tapped the microphone and coughed, checking if it was working. The static that followed told the Governor-General that it was, and that it was time for him to make a grand speech to the people of the world.

And he had left his cards on his desk.

Again.

The Governor-General coughed yet again, looking out over the crowd. He had no idea what he should say.”People of Australia,” he began his speech, trying to look as if he had memorized it, and wasn’t making it up as he was going along. Mrs. Chapman, standing in the first row of people, facepalmed. She could tell he had forgotten his cards, couldn’t she? She always could tell..”Today shall be forever remembered in the pages of history. Not just the history of Australia, but the history of the world.” This was going to go very, very badly.”As you all know, my family and I will be leaving for the United Kingdom today. We will be travelling on the HMAS Canberra, flagship of the Royal Australian Navy, and Australia’s only battleship..” The Governor-General turned around, spreading his arms out wide, looking over the massive vessel of war. After a moment of taking in the sight, he turns around to face the crowd and the microphone again.”A mighty vessel indeed. How ironic that Australia’s greatest tool of violence and bloodshed be the harbinger of peace with Great Britain.” Chapman received a polite amount of laughter. Alright, they weren’t all asleep. That’s good, right?”I urge all of you members of states that once belonged to the British Empire to return to her fold. Together, we might recreate that great shining light of freedom and strength, that once owned most of the known world. Under the leadership of King William, the British Empire will return to glory. Long live the British Empire, and long live William the VI, for his many strides to restoring this great Empire!” Chapman began to clap, taking a step away from the podium. The crowd followed his lead, a roar of sound echoing through the docks as the Australians present showed their patriotism.”

Good bye, Australia! I leave you in the capable hands of Prime Minister Crackenthorpe!” With that, the Governor-General and his family, as well as Admiral Cricket made their way towards the ramp that led up to the HMAS Canberra. A pair of frigates sat in front of the Canberra, dwarfed by the flagship. Behind the Canberra floated a tanker. Many miles ahead of the small sea-faring convoy, a submarine led the charge, scouting out the path that the fleet would follow to the United Kingdom..

NEAR MADIERA ISLANDS, OFF THE COAST OF WESTERN AFRICA

-Oberon-class submarine, HMAS Merciless-

Captain Archibald Donawho sat reclined in his chair, staring at the wall in front of him. The captain of the first Australian military vessel to leave Oceanic waters since the Great War, and Archibald was bored out of his mind. He’d settle for playing golf over this. Which was something he never did. Archibald turned in his chair, looking at the various instruments surrounding him on all sides. They were all copies of the instruments used by the crew sitting around on the lower platform before him. It was all the same nonsense he’d seen seen they’d left Australia: a whole lot of nothing interesting. The occasional fishing boat or trade ship popped up on the radar every once and awhile. The graph showing the progress of the mapping of the bottom of the ocean remained as it always did: never being looked at, because oceanography never interested Archibald. No, what interested Archibald was the money and the job where he got to watch ships blow up. Yet, he’d never launched a single torpedo in his entire career. There were never any pirate ships big enough to justify a torpedo attack. So Archibald and his crew were always left on reconnaissance duty.

“We’re going to be passing by the Strait of Gibraltar soon, sir.” Commander Nathan King announced, stepping through a hatch and into the command deck.”Oh?” Archibald sat up a bit straighter hearing this news. This is where all the action at sea is, these days.”Aye, Cap’n. The Spanish Armada is moving down the Suez Canal as we speak. The boys are sayin’ that the Ethiopian’s don’t have a proper navy to respond with, so it won’t be much of a spectacle.” Nathan commented.”Anything’s better than this.” Archibald muttered, resting his head on his hand.

“Well, sir-” Nathan was interrupted by the most anticipated sound that one can hear in a submarine on recon duty: the sound of a telegram typing.

“Who’s it from?!” A sailor shouted through the commotion.”Quiet! Everyone quiet!” Archibald yelled, and the entire deck froze. A man pulled the telegram off the wall, running up the short flight of stairs that led up to the captain’s platform. The sailor handed the captain the telegram, and he began to read it, his eyes moving so much faster than his brain that he had to read it twice to realize what it said.

“Command..Command wants us to document the battle in the Suez.” the captain said, his mouth agape. The captain jumped up from his chair, and began shouting orders. Things were finally getting interesting.

Televised Broadcast of King William IV

The camera's flicked on, and all channels switched their video to what was being shown. The British flag sat as the backdrop for an ornate podium, atop a stage. Seconds later, a greying old man with a gaunt face, large nose and grey eyes like a hawk entered and sat down at the desk, folding his hands over one another, and looking into the camera.

"People of Great Britain. As many of you may have noticed, a slightly large amount of young men of our armed forces said their goodbyes a few nights ago. Many of them had been instructed to not explain why when they left, but as your King, I feel it is now my duty to reveal that secret."

"As many of you know, Britain was once a strong, great country. We ruled more of the world than the Romans could have dreamed of. That was, until, the Great War, which single handedly led to the decline of our nation, and the end of our empire. However, many of us higher ups do not want to call that the end of the Great British Empire. No, we simply want to refer to it as a break. A challenge, if you will."

Clearing his throat and straightening his suit, the king continued on.

"As of this moment, we are formally going to war. With the Ethiopian army distracted by the Spanish, we have seen this as a golden opportunity to retake our rightful lands in South Africa without interference. This is just the first step. Before my death, I plan to restore the British Empire to it's former glory- no. That's not right. I plan to add even more glory, to it."

"Soon, the Governor-General of Australia will be arriving here in our country to formally enter a commonwealth agreement with us, essentially re-instating them as part of the empire, in all but the finest of details. Once South Africa falls, we will restore order to all former territories, either through the diplomatic route the Australians have taken, or through acts of war, as we have been forced to enter with the South Africans."

"People of Britain. We have been i the background for far too long. We have sat and watched as other nations rose to the spotlight. Rose to OUR spotlight. It's finally time for us to take action, and return to our rightful place in the world! Together, we will prevail. Together, we will retake what is rightfully ours. Together... We will restore our Empire!"

Following a brief burst of applause from the room the King had addressed the nation in, he stood from his seat, and exited the view of the camera, just before it blacked out, and the channels which had just been adorned with the face of the King returned to whatever programming had been there prior.

Southern Atlantic Ocean

As the British fleet made it's way South, many of the men who would soon enter combat for the first time sat in silence, listening to various officers bark orders, and repeat strategies at them.

One soldier in particular, a young Irish boy who looked more like a middle schooler than a soldier about to go into battle, sat alone, racking his brain trying to remember what his officer had said to him just moments prior. As he sat there, pulling at brown hair which wasn't actually there, he had caught the attention of somebody who looked almost the exact opposite of him. Tall, with strong features, and very muscular in comparison, the black haired Scottish man took a seat beside him, and leaned forward to speak with his friend.

"Forgot the plan again, Ian?" laughed the taller man, as he watched the Irish boy nearly jump out of his skin.

"No sir! I just-" the boy started, before realizing who he was speaking to.

"God damn it James, you just about gave me a heart attack! I thought I was seriously going to be in trouble!"

Still laughing, James clapped Ian on the back. "Not this time, young Ian. Not this time. Though if you ever do get yourself into any shit, don't worry. I'll have your back."

Having calmed down, the comment warranted a smile from Ian.

"By the way. Where did you end up? I remembering you were debating for a while whether you were going to be a medic or a pilot." James said.

"Well." replied Ian. "I put a lot of thought into it, and ended up becoming a medic."

Smiling smugly, and raising an eyebrow, James replied bluntly.

"So you failed the pilot exam, and went with your second choice?"

"Exactly." laughed Ian in response.

Just as James was about to speak again, an officer came into the room, urging everyone to their feet, at attention.

"Listen up! A broadcast just aired back home that you all should know about. The king has publicly announced what we are doing down here. Which means that, as of now, each and every one of you are at war with South Africa. What that means is that you all need to stop goofing off, start straightening up, and for the love of God, start paying some God damned attention to what I am saying! The time to be giddy about being a soldier in the first major war since the Anarchy ended is over. It's time to get serious, and get ready for the hell you are about to charge into. The fact we announced it preemptively means that they have a little time to prepare, so expect bullets flying over your heads the second you head for the shore.

Now, go get some damn sleep. When you wake up, it could very well be your last day among the living if you aren't in tip top shape, which I would like to prevent at all costs. Now get the hell to your rooms, or I might just have to do the Africans jobs for them!"

Breaking as quickly as possible, people scrambled for their rooms, not wanting to piss off the man known as the the meanest son of a bitch in the entire British Armed Forces.

Downtown London

A low, rumbling thunder rolled across the night sky of London, yet was completely drowned out by the sounds of civilization. People shouting, sirens, car horns... The usual. Yet every single person would complain the second it started to rain on them without warning. That was just life, and seconds after their complaints, they would get used to it, and move on, as they always do.

These were the thoughts of the foreign man sitting on a bench in the center of London, as he watched people go about their business, watching each and every one of them closely. He ran a hand through thick, black hair, pulling it back as whatever products he overkilled it with held the shape as he placed his hand in his front pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. Lighting up, he sat back and relaxed, stretching an arm across the bench, much to the displeasure of an elderly woman who was sharing it with him.

"What?" He said, smirking and revealing pearly white teeth. "It's a public bench, if you can't deal with my hand being there, go sit at home, you hag."

Aghast, the old woman stood up, turned to the man, and swung her arm to slap him, only to have it caught.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." he said in a cocky tone, as he pulled her hand to his lips, and kissed. it, which was the final straw for her. She pulled her hand back violently, and stormed off, glaring at the Persian as she went.

Laughing to himself, the man relaxed once more, as he took another puff of his cigarette, and stroked his stubble-coated chin, before closing his eyes, and dropping the cigarette on the ground, still burning.

Moments later, he sat back up, and resumed his people watching, though not for long. Upon spotting a young blonde, he quickly stood up, and made his way over to her, while maintaining a short distance form her. Eventually, he saw her stop in front of a television shop, and saw that as his opportunity.

Moving beside her, he looked down at the television, and laughed. "They think this shit will sell televisions? Seeing some grey, wrinkly old bastard telling people how to live their lives?"

Looking up at the Persian with bright green eyes, the girl laughed nervously.

"No, really. This shit only appeals to people that look the exact same, and they more often then not already have a TV, yeah?"

"Yeah" the girl said shyly, causing the Persian man to laugh.

"Sorry, that's not exactly the best way to start a conversation, is it?" Extending a hand to the girl, the Persian smiled. "I'm Joseph. Well, Yousef, but I changed my name when I got here. Had to fit in, you know?"

The girl nodded, as she pulled an arm from inside of a ratty coat, meeting his hand and shaking it. "Catherine." She replied bluntly.

"Ah, what a beautiful name!" Joseph relied ecstatically. "A fitting one for a woman with as much beauty as yourself."

"Oh, shove it. I think we both know I'm not beautiful." replied Catherine, smiling at Joseph as she warmed up to him. "You know, you're not going to pick anyone up like that."

"Oh, really? Then, please. Tell me. How can I get you to let me take you somewhere?"

"Just ask." Catherine replied bluntly, once again.

Shrugging, Joseph replied equally as blunt. "Fine. Catherine, may I take you somewhere nice?"

"Sure, but I'm not paying." She said, causing Joseph to laugh.

"I thought that was already part of the deal." replied Joseph. "Now, shall we walk through this rain, or shall we hurry to my car?" He asked, causing Catherine to turn around.

"I didn't even notice it started to rain." she laughed. "Definitely the car, then."

Nodding, Joseph pulled out an umbrella, and pulled the woman close, as he escorted her to his car a few blocks away. Once they were both inside, he asked her if she had any preference as to where they should go. When she replied by shaking her head, he told her it would have to be a surprise, which she agreed to.

As they drove away, Catherine couldn't help but notice that they were leaving town.

"So... This place is outside of London, huh?"

"It's a surprise, remember?" Joseph said, with much less emotion than he had had earlier, which worried the girl.

"Um... On second thought, I need to get home by a certain time. If I'm not back by ten, my mother will kill me."

"Oh, don't worry about it. I don't think that will be a problem." Joseph said.

Scared now, Catherine reached for the door, as if to open it and jump out, but it locked with a click as she did.

"Hey, let me out! I said I changed my mind!" She shouted, pulling the door aggressively, and causing Joseph to stop short, sending her, who wasn't wearing a seat belt, flying forward and slamming her head into the dashboard, knocking her unconscious.

As she awoke, the first thing Catherine saw was iron bars under a dim light. As she came to, she also noticed a few other things. First of all, she was handcuffed to the back of the cage. Second, she noticed that she wasn't alone. There were three other women, and one male, in the exact same condition as her. Two of them were still unconscious, while the other two were frantically trying to get out of their handcuffs.

In a state of panic, and already in tears, Catherine hoarsely tried asking the woman closest to her where they were. Shaking her head, the other woman said she didn't know, and that the last thing she remembered was going into an alleyway to help a woman who said her child was bit by a dog. Immediately after, both of the women began to try getting out of the cuffs, as the other two int he room came to from the noise. But before they could join in the attempted escape, a heavy door opened, pouring bright light into the room, as the silhouette of a man entering the room froze them all, as their eyes glued to him out of fear.

Once her eyes had adjusted, Catherine realized who it was.

"Joseph! What the hell is this?! Please, let me out!" she shouted at him, her eyes welling with tears out of rage as she grit her teeth.

Smiling, the Persian man walked over to her, and crouched down next to the cage.

"Well, you see, dear. I can't exactly do that. Not yet, at least. Somebody has to purchase you before I can do that."

Catherine froze.

Purchase me? What the hell does that mean? What's going on?

Catherine's thoughts were interrupted by the woman in the cage next to her starting to shout.

"You disgusting piece of shit! Let me the fuck out of here, right now! I swear I will kill you!"

Still smiling, Joseph turned to her. "Well, if you swear you will kill me, I don't think I should let you out of there, now should I?"

Screaming, the woman began to frantically try breaking out of the cuffs, bloodying her wrists as she did so. Meanwhile, Catherine just completely broke down, wailing as the tears started to completely pour from her face.

"Oh, now none of that." Joseph said smugly. "Here, you know what..."

Moving to her cage, Joseph pulled out a key, unlocking her cage and opening the door, before moving behind it and undoing her cuffs.

"Since I feel bad for you, you can go. Just head straight through that door, and you'll be free. Now, hurry, before I change my mind."

Panicked, and without thinking, she ran straight though the door, as Joseph walked behind her, closing the heavy door behind them. As he turned from closing the door, he saw Catherine, completely frozen, as a spotlight focused on her. Laughing, he walked up to a podium next to her, and redid her handcuffs as she collapsed to her knees.

After standing again, he pulled a microphone close to his face, as he looked over a small crowd of people, all wearing elegant outfits, sitting at small tables and enjoying exquisite food and drink.

"Thank you all for coming to the first auction of the year! As usual, we are starting with our youngest item of the night. A beautiful, young blonde runaway, with emeralds for eyes that are just do die for! And for those of you that are here for the organ trade, I'll have you know that the doctor looked over her, and said she's a very healthy little thing. So... What's the first offer?"

Beijing, China

Fulumirani Digane had never been a heavy eater. When he was a child, his mother would chide him for nibbling on injera at dinner and ignoring the spicy watt. Chinese food hadn't changed his habits. He had pushed the steaming bowl of red spicy soup to the side after taking a few sips. In front of him, his hands were wrapped around a hot cup of coffee. Ethiopian. It had been hard to find, at first. The Chinese did not have the taste for the drink. They preferred tea. In those years, chicory had been more common than the real bean, produced cheaply in America. Horrible stuff. He had imported his own beans from home.

But things had changed. African goods had taken hold in the east, and the Chinese were discovering coffee. African Cafe's were becoming fashionable, offering the internationally-claustrophobic Chinese a taste of the world they had been closed off from for so many years. He could find what he wanted in Beijing markets. Some days, when he felt like seeing the city and braving the tight crowds of the markets, he went shopping for his self. That was rare. Most of the time, he sent a secretary.

An out-of-season snow had fell on Beijing. It was a light dusting, leaving sparse white clumps clinging to the spring greenery. There was still a slight chill in the air, but Fulumirani was used to that. He had adjusted to the cold during his time in Canada, but there were days when he missed the warmth he had grown up with. Sometimes, he missed the days that he was the ambassador to the rebellious American south. Nostalgia made him forget how unstable it had been. He just remembered what it was to be a young man in the flowering of his career. And he remembered the warm humidity there.

Snow clung to the pink cotton flowers of peach trees. Beyond were the sleepy buildings of ancient China, with sloping roofs and plastered stone that swallowed the morning's sound. The silent calm of this neighborhood was something he loved. Beyond the creaking green-painted wood of the veranda, it was still and quiet.

He heard footsteps cross the deck. The whining wood made Fulumirani wince. Sometimes, it would groan so loud that it sounded as if it were going to give way.

"Ambassador." he heard the familiar rusty voice of Jean Thaba. "The Chairman's office called us. Hou is on his way."

Fulumirani nodded. This was a conversation he had been waiting for. It was strange to him, how little stress the war was causing him. He had never married, and his parents had passed away years ago. He had a sister in Awasa who still wrote to him, but he hadn't seen her since his last visit home several years before. His part in this was was intellectual. It was duty, not anxiety, that paved the road he traveled.

He watched Thaba walk away, and wondered what his investment was. He knew that Thaba's family still lived in Douala, but he did not know much about them. He had brothers. Would they fight in this war? Thaba had spent a month with them during the winter to celebrate Christmas. He was a young man, still in his twenties. Did he want to fight? Thaba had never seemed like a violent man, but when everything you identified with was put to question...

Fulumirani's blood had never ran hot, but he had considered military service. He was too thin for it, and too lethargic to find anything about warfare admirable. In the end, he decided civil service was a better fit for him.

When breakfast was cleared away, he stayed on the veranda. The sun was peaking above the city, and the air was warming up. Hou would appreciate this setting more than an another stuffy office. A pitcher of water was brought out. Fulumirani waited, and thought.

With a creak the door to the veranda open. There was the dull thud of wood on wood as from within out strolled the Chairman of the Chinese politic. Hunched over a wooden cane. Wrinkled, old fingers gripping tight the modest, carved wood. A seizure had stripped him of most of his mobility, he could no longer walk without a third leg.

With a deep sigh, the Chairman breathed in the air of Beijing. It was warm, if still cool for the late weather. "Ambassador Fulminari," he said, "I hope I haven't come in poor taste."

He turned to the ambassador. "I came from a meeting, it was decided we should move fast to our best capabilities. I hope you are not at odds with discussing the recent storm at home."

"I think my Emperor would be angry if I were" Fulumirani said dryly. He reached to his side and gently pushed out a chair. "Please, sit."

Hou bowed politely. With a stiff groan he lowered himself down into the arms of the wicker lawn chair and leaned back. His fingers wrapped around the wooden cane as he held it out in front of him. His eyes staring distantly out across the local cityscape of Beijing.

"The recent military aggression within the Red Sea has prompted I and my command to consider military intervention to defend your people." he began with a low note, "Though we can not commit a full force immediately due in part of current endeavors and we will need to petition Congress. The issue would be too decisive right now to join in a timely manner. However we do have resources we would be willing to commit to the effort to bypass the National Congress.

"We'll commit the Pemba division of our armed forced to take part in what limited military action they can," Hou said, "Or to defend Addis Ababa when you need more men elsewhere, whatever the case. We will additionally be willing to lend recon support over the Spanish territories to determine the level of threat in an additional front, or the suggestion of a possible chemical attack from Spain."

"Any help will be accepted." Fulumirani explained. He leaned into the table, one elbow on the table. He put in his imagination an image of Africa, and of all the geography that divided it from China.

"I believe one of the largest concerns we have is with the shipping lanes. Spain will not be able to conquer Africa. Not truly. But they can try to subdue her. If we are going to disrupt the Spanish war effort enough so that they will not gain enough of a foot hold in our territories to began to annex them, we will need support from the Chinese industry."

"We understand and we'll be moving to accommodate." Hou said. To be honest it hadn't been thought of at the meeting, Hou thought, though was a valid point. If they were to attempt to disrupt the European shipping to effect Spain, it would be best to leverage something into Ethiopia.

"We're currently in the planning stages to determine the logistic aspects of sending ships to the African coast." Hou continued, with much less of a lie, "Admiral Han Shen said he'll look into the necessary resources to dispatch to the African coast. There's no doubt we will use these to keep open African ports for relief supplies."

"One possible thing I would suggest." Fulumirani said, "Would be organizing a smuggling operation through Mozambique. They are a neutral party on paper, but their government is new and we have our agents within it. I doubt Spain would have the resources to blockade the entire continent. It would be a feat, anyway."

"That sounds like an option." Hou nodded, "When we next convene I will need to pass this to Commander Sing. If you would now - or then - we could arrange the contact information. Keep ahead of the Spanish and keep communications between us two brief. I'm sure he would Sing would prefer it that way."

Fulumirani nodded. "That will be acceptable. The lines of communications could be through my office to yours if you prefer. Or from mine to Commander Sing's. Whichever is determined to be more secure. There might be a point where, heaven forbid, things get out of hand enough that your IB becomes our primary contact with our forces in Africa... and I don't think that is a contingency we can make plans for. If it happens, the circumstances will require us to act based on the unique difficulties that arise." He cleared his throat. "There is another concern, too. The matter of refugees. I hope I am not too forward in assuming that the royal family and their entourage would be allowed in the country?"

"Yaqob lived here once," Hou said, "I'm sure China can accommodate again, and for whomever seeks safety. I'll see to the visa conditions are managed, and I'll bring it up when we meet again so we might organize appropriate lanes for them again. On the intelligence contacts, I'm sure Sing would much rather handle them himself."

"We will follow the stipulations and guidelines your government prefers. Do not worry about that." Fulumirani smiled in his aloof way. "Another thing too..." he shifted in his seat. "I was informed yesterday of a new concern. Regarding evacuation procedures, that is. Yaqob personally asked if the Chinese government would be willing to host certain... religious relics. There are items the old Ethiopian church do not want to lose to the Europeans. They would want assurances that these things will be returned to them when the time is right"

"I wouldn't have any problems with this." Hou said, surprised, "Could you say what needs to be protected here?"

"The communication was brief." Fulumirani said. "But I have my guesses. Nothing that has been verified to me, mind you. And it is hard to say what the scope of the Emperor's suggestion is. He likes these things, you know, his artifacts. But..." he paused for a moment. "If I were to venture a first guess, I would say that it is the Tabot of the Jews."

"I can't say I'm wholly familiar with items from the western faiths." Hou said apologetically, "But if they're important we'll find space to house them until the crisis ends."

"That is all we could ask." Fulumirani replied. "I think that will sate my Emperor."

"Honored, for a friend." Hou nodded, taking a deep sigh.

There was a moment's silence. A warm spring breeze blowing across the open porch. The soft woosh of a car engine echoed from the streets below, "I don't know how long it'll be until the commanders launch the orders for our preliminary moves." Hou spoke, "But I'm assured they'll begin shortly. Anything valuable we collect we'll move to your embassy. Provided formal contacts aren't made between our military and yours to more directly share intelligence and coordinate efforts. So I have a proposal myself," Hou sighed, "For this to work best I presume we will need to establish a joint mission. An organization between our militaries to coordinate our joint efforts through. One which might expand, should we tie up our ends and Congress approves to breech our decades long defensive policy."

"I think my government would be receptive." Fulumirani answered. He hadn't expected this much openness in the Chinese government. He looked out across the city, over the blooming trees of pink and fresh green, and out toward the center where the tops of distant buildings peaked over the nearby horizon of foliage. China. He had spent his time making small concessions, and enjoying the quiet gardens in this sleepy part of Beijing. It was easy for him to forget where he was. The sleeping dragon. This could be the war that woke the dragon. And if it were to be stirred... under its shadow, the world would quake.

"The condition of Pemba will be in question. I am not sure how the Spanish will react when confronted with Chinese territory sitting within Africa's borders. For now, we might be able to use it as a base for our cooperation, but the future might be more complicated. Would it be too soon to start considering military ambassadors?"

"Perhaps." Hou said, "We'll await that when Congress makes full provisions. The commander of the Pemba detachment should work just as well." the Chairman said dismissively, "When it comes time for full Chinese effort, we'll ensure we have dignitaries of our military in the court at Addis to streamline the effort and see to the Spanish retreat."

China, 35,000 meters

It didn't matter how much he had gone up this high. Staring down from the belly of a dragon at the great Earth below was always frightening. Sailing along beyond the edge of the clouds, where the sun was as bright as knives were sharp. Where there was no gratification in the warmth of the sun's radiation, sometimes stolen away by the breath of cold air brushing past his bubble.

And more so was the conditions of the Earth below. Somewhere over Qinghai now, maybe. It was hard to tell. From the crown of the world, the terrain was an identical series of fractal valleys, where rain streams of water no doubt. But being so high and so distant from it all the streams and rivers were no doubt little less than a brown hair in the dust of a rocky garden. Cast in distant haze, yet to clear up high. Whispy clouds passed between he and the Earth, obscuring any finer details he would hope to see. He could see the profile of lakes, that was for sure. As clear as the mountainous, craggy peaks on west-central China.

Even the settlements of humans were invisible this high up. Or at least not those out here. Pressed against his forehead the body of his cold telescope rested as the airman looked down between his padded legs at his home passing below. He sighed, tired perhaps.

To him, what added more to the surrealism of it all was to look up at the horizon. The belly of the great dragon obscured the sky above him. It only pushed his gaze outwards to the horizon. A golden, orange band of light that followed the clearly rounded shape of the Earth's features. No mountains to break the continuity. Not even the might of the Himalayas that would be growing up from the southern horizon soon. And on the other side of that golden halo of the sun's light beaming off the thick clouds of the distance was the cold darkness of the beyond. An expansive blackness where if he looked just right he could see the faint suggestion of starlight in competition with the harsh rays of the sun.

They were flying to Tibet. The entire wing. The four others like him were too distant on the horizon. But if he craned his neck behind him, to look out under the tail wing of their impossible airplane he could sometimes swear to see the dot of one of their distant, yet near companions.

“How much longer we got?” a voice said in the man's ears, underlined with a harsh buzz. The crew's inter-craft communication. Almost reflexively his hand shot up to his ear for the headphones, intent almost to rip them off out of shock. But he relaxed.

“We've almost an hour yet, Sin Wu.” someone else spoke. The familiar clam demeanor of their navigator, no doubt flying his information by a watch and airspeed read-outs. He could almost see the cigarette-ash strewn map unrolled over his lap as he continually referenced it. “Shen, brother: what do you see outside The Peephole?”

The Peephole was the under-estimate of the decade, or so Shen thought as he looked down again at the landscape passing below. Looking back and ahead he looked for a fix he could recognize. Something geographical he could distinguish from so high up. Through The Peephole. The same hole he sat in, hung just over thick class by a wiry and uncomfortable throne. “I think we're just passing over Donggei Cuona.” he reported, looking out to just under the bullet nose of the airplane. Faded in the horizon, under the clouds, the familiar elongated smudge of blue that was Donggei Cuona.

“Thank you, comrade.” the navigator responded. Communications slipped into silence again.

There was an air of tension in the craft. No one could really say why they were relocating from out of Mongolia to Tibet. Even their captain, the pilot, didn't seem to fully understand the reasons. It was another layer to the voyage. One that mixed with the awe and vertigo of seeing your entire home laid open under neath you. Bubbling up from underneath with a feeling of unease.

Earlier this week, Shen had felt at ease with knowing where his life was headed. He had grown complaicent in the Mongolian steppe, minding the extensive airfield stationed there like many other pilots or the bomber crews. Deep Gobi, as elusive and unknown to the world outside, had become a familiar home to him over his passed three years of service.

Something was waiting for them in Tibet.

Western Hills over Beijing, China

The patter of rain on the roof signaled the coming of warm weather that washed away the rest of the stubborn late-season snow. The drops pattered like light feed on the tiled roof, flowing off in rivulets of silver as it raced down the outward curvature. Twisting outward as the rushing water pushed itself over the edge and ribboned down to the gravel yard. There was no other sound more relaxing than the sound of rain. And dancing with the wooden clatter of bamboo chimes hanging from the eaves outside as they bobbed in the warm southerly wind the flow and ebb of nature became a light rain song.

House dimmed with no other music, Mang Xhu, the minister of China's industry sat in a rich crimson chair, staring out the window over the city he hoped to someday call his capital. Like star-light, the glow of yellow lights shimmered in the distance between the boughs of trees. Xhu hazarded he had no better view of the city than outside it. Above it. On the hills that shielded the capital from the dry coldness of the Mongolian steppes to the north-west.

China had changed in twenty years. But there was nothing that bugged him more than the passed several years. He was afraid. Afraid for China. Of the outside. For a brief moment the Chinese state had opened to a western power. America. For a brief moment Mang Xhu clinched his teeth shut tight as he looked west-ward over the Pacific, afraid of the vampiric American capital interests that he had brushed shoulders with once upon an ancient time. For that brief moment the American White House felt friendly to China, for whatever reasons they had, Xhu was anxious.

But the efforts of the American people were turned elsewhere. Apparently, they feared China as much as they did the Canadians. What an ironic sort of enemy they had, after so many years. But it was this that saw the regime change in Washington. The one that closed shut their hopeful doors of diplomatic relationships. And the return of their respective ambassadors. And again Mang Xhu could breath.

Zhang Auyi had heralded the brief trading relationship with the US as a victory for China's economy. But Xhu knew deeper. He had learned it in America. Where the people starved as they did here at home, in China. But their destitute were better hidden. Xhu had learned just how dangerous the American concept of economy and management was. Concerned on trying to export, even during that time when the world was weakened financially. There was nothing that bid passion to the inside. Nothing that went inwardly over outwardly.

To be so proactive was, to him, a voluntary self-destructive act. To move the resources better spent on the people and the nation's well being as a whole to someone else. It wasn't strength. It wasn't inward power. It was bowing to someone else for capital that went only into the pockets of a few.

No, China was rich as it was. He could be as powerful as it was. He only had to win. Things would have been smooth, but Auyi had thrown his hat into the ring and now the entire Secretary Office was stagnant. Hou backing out, months retired from Beijing itself and holding his office by phone and courtier. He, trying to secure the succession for himself and the rightful path above others. And now that Auyi was his competition the office felt cold.

It was a tomb for him now. More than anything. One that was waiting for the dead man to be inturned, but one waiting for him to come to him alive. Last visit he made with officers he could feel Auyi's loyalists eyeing him with suspicion.

He rose his fingers to his lips, taking another draw from a sour cigarette. Xhu was by no means a young pup like Auyi. He was round in his age, though hardly fat all the same. His face a boulder that no moss grew from, but fell off of; his hair a stringy ring haphazardly combed over a balding spot dotted with liver spots.

He couldn't claim the cigarette felt good, the hot stingy smoke and ash dancing across his tongue, racing down his throat. But on the exhale his mind felt clearer and at ease. He could think in this moment of being alone.

He felt his succession was almost certain. He had courted the chiefs of the existing design bureaus. They were to rally their working staff on election day. Bring them to the polls. Even if they weren't all convinced they would ensure a passing win, and he didn't need to get out often. Hold a dinner, present some win, invite the secretaries to serve. Put on a show and talk about wealth and nation and smile. Make them feel they were winners and then send them home.

They were his own campaign. But now Auyi was in he felt he was loosing some of them. He was beginning to panic. He was a respected governor in the south. He was a regarded minister – perhaps not as much as he, but still. If he drew the lines as he had been doing, he'd have amassed a larger supporting block than him. But could farmers and cattle herders even be that ecstatic about election? You couldn't shut down a farm like you could a factory.

He drew on his cigarette again, leaning forward in his chair and closer to the window. The eastern face of his home was all glass, providing a rich panoramic view of Beijing. He hadn't been there when it fell. He wasn't a Hou Sai Tang. But he could lie and say he was. He could lie and say he was here, when he was really out west in the heart of the independent communes. He was a mobilizer then, like Xiogang Wen.

And that late in the revolution little cared for the Worker's Congress. Eyes were out east to where the last of the Reactionaries were being laid down and forced to surrender. The People were winning. Progressivism. A national worker's union.

And then Hou had to cut a deal with them. Absolve most of their roles. Sent only the most criminal to jail.

Xhu would have wanted them all purged. Exiled. Executed. Jailed. Now the last of the Old Guard for the Republicans and the Emperor's old officers were coming to the end of their reeducation terms. They'd be re-entering the larger community. They couldn't have that. But that was for another time.

What then was there for the immediate future. Surely there were those that disagreed with Auyi. He'd need to find them. Promise them things.

What of the International? It was a promising thing. But needed to be stronger. Needed centralizing. But would he be able to take control?

Through it, maybe he could force the annexation of those loyal to China. Stand more united. More as one against the West. It was a thought. It was an idea. Would it pass?

Could he then more appropriately force the proper justice on Japan for their actions in China? Break for once the closest power to challenge China's will in Asia. There were plenty who still hated the Emperor. Retribution would be powerful to the public. No more Europe. No more Africa. Just Japan. Then when the Spanish had burned out and raped Africa he would truly liberate Africa. No more Emperors. No more kings. No more Sotelo.

A door slid open behind him, and for a brief moment golden yellow light flashed in the darkened, gray sitting room. The light of the opening door briefly shining in the glass, casting the reflection of a long skinny woman. Soft footsteps drew close to him as someone moved along the red carpeted floor.

Long soft fingers fell across his shoulders, he looked up at their touch. Not smiling as he looked up at the grinning face of the woman alongside him, body wrapped in a white towel. He hair just barely dry.

“What are you thinking?” she said coyly. She was maybe half Xhu's age. She was short, skinny, and gentle. The epitome of the Chinese beauty to his eyes. Her hair – wet or dry – silky and smooth. And even in the dim stormy light of a rainy afternoon her eyes shone with the youthful romance, a certain lust.

“Nothing, and everything.” smirked Xhu, his voice high and cracked. He reached over to the end-table alongside him, extinguishing his cigarette into the jade-green ceramic ashtray there.

“Very philosophical.” she crooned, leaning over him. She was one of his secretaries, one of many. Several owed him such favors, but this one seemed to enjoy it all the more. He couldn't claim to complain.

“How was the water?” Xhu asked, leaning back. Gently her hands danced at his belt. She felt him, and he felt her. He felt warm, it was just a question if she was all the same.

“It was fine.” she said in a soft voice. She sounded like the chirping of a bird, in a odd childish sort of way. “A little cold. But you'll keep me warm, won't you?” she asked.

“I will.” Xhu crooned, his hand raising for the towel. So roughened, bruised. Yellow patches of cigarettes stains between his fingers. It looked like it didn't deserve the temptress that sat on his lap, dancing her fingers across him.

“You know,” he began, “they say that in his hedonism, Mao believed that young, supple, virgin girls were his key to long-life and good health. To see him through to as deep a time as he could get.” Xhu said, his hand rising along the cotton towel. His knuckles gently brushing along the skin underneath, feeling the curvature of her stomach, her breasts.

“Am I yours?” the secretary asked, shyly.

“Tonight,” Xhu said, wrapping his fingers around where the towel was tied around itself, “and tomorrow.” he added, “And maybe next week.” he smiled, pulling his fingers and letting the towel drop, letting it land across his belly as the naked girl opened his pants.

“Let's both have long life then.” she smiled wide, letting her master have her all.

Kalachinsk, Russia

The clanging of metal. The rumble of motors. The engineer's motor pool was no stranger to activity. Passing through cargo loads with the engineer's logistics corp logo emblazoned on the door. They came with regularity. The pool wasn't just a glorified military shop, as it was a way to register and direct passing motors. With a rain coat and a clip-board a small team of officers hovered on the edge addressing each passing driver on the updates to the battle, or where what amount of shells needed to be.

A light drizzle had fallen in over the small village town. The sky wholly loosing its spring openness and luster and falling into a depressing gray that came with rain so late in the day. It was even more complimentary to the war, and the drab greens faded into the browns and the grays. The only real color was the glowing reds of flags and banners. And the proud warm orange glow of lamplight.

As the light lowered and dimmed, so did come out the lamps. Glowing under the hoisted bodies of cars on wrought steel jacks the men of the attached mechanic's core went to work despite the rain. Dressed in heavy plastic and warm caps they went about despite the cold rain. Even under the jacked-up tank, several scrounged jacks having found their way to its belly to lift the one side off to repair the tracks. The orange fire the illuminated their presence shone off the rain whetted mud and steel. Hoods drawn up over their faces they went at the wheels and the treads with wrenches, welders, and tools Tsung didn't have a name for.

And with the music from the player that sat next to him as he basked in the orange glow of the lamp brought out for him he watched.

They were a soft bunch, he hazarded. Loud, noisy, and proud. Even above the hammering and the grind of metal they talked incessantly over each other and the sound they made. They laughed, jeered, told amusing anecdotes. Even at times turning to engage in conversation with Tsung as one turned away unneeded from the rest, or came to adjust the music.

It had only been the evening so far, but the small squad of men who had greeted he and his fellow crewmen were considerably gregarious as far as things went. And they had introduced themselves quickly in his presence, if on their own time.

There was An Bai, who was the loudest. His voice was noticeable above everything, more so his laugh which came from his mouth at the flip of any joke. It was high-pitched, almost shrill. Fitting in a sense, for despite claiming to be twenty-three he was a man that looked more like a boy than anything. His face smooth and still fat with youth, he wasn't hard or grizzled. A stranger in such company.

Opposite to Bai in physique and mannerisms was the sergeant, third-rank. Though polite he was a hard man to look at. His cheeks shallow and sunken and lips drawn thin and broken. He was sharp in his eyes, and low and quiet in his voice. He was like Tsung's own uncle: calm, collected, and conservative. Also their leader, as far as things went. Bi Wu. Shang Shi Bi Wu.

Guo Jonny was a fairer skinned member of the gaggle of grease monkeys. Taller as well. An echo of European lineage in Chinese lands. He claimed his father was a doctor during the Siege of Hong Kong and sent his then pregnant mother to the mainland with the rest of the excursion lead by Hou. Presumably he was able to use his British citizenship for protection, but he had never heard anything about him apart from stories, as he claimed. He was fair built, and none would tell him apart as Chinese if it weren't for the squat narrow eyes that rested shallow in his skull.

Liu Wu was a the central plains. He was short, squat. But he was nimble. Even at a distance as Tsung watched he was amazed and the speed he had in his hands and fingers. It took him minutes to strip down much of the treads to pass off and begin pawing through the wheels in search of damage. His crooked face bent more misshapen as he peered up through the wheels with a flashlight.

The one to keep the spirits most high in all was a rat of a man by the name of Shu Da. Skinny as a twig, to where his coat – much the same as his uniform – hung loosely from his frame. He darted between the jobs, acting more as a gopher. Acting in defiance of the gloom by shouting crude jokes into the rain. Much to the humor of a bored An Bai.

“Damn, this rain in Russia is so cold it may freeze my soul and turn me into a dumbass!” he called out at the storm, taking on the deep tonal voice of someone very much in that position already. His crude and cocky grin turned up as he ran about with arms laden with tool kits.

“And to Hell with washing the cars, the soup doesn't stick to shit in this kind of weather!” he shouted again, “And damned if we don't know, we're all standing in it!”

Bai's chuckling and hawing was loud enough to excuse the sound of the light drops pattering down onto Tsung's hood as he sat against the wall, impatiently twiddling his thumbs. It's not like he didn't appreciate the attempts at lightening the mood the engineer was trying. But that he was preoccupied. He had come to fear Song, he only knew true anger a few times. He could only bite back and hold his tongue quiet in hopes that whatever was to happen was not heavy.

“So my girlfriend told me before deployment,” Da continued in a flatter tone, “'before you go, could we climb Mount Chomolungma?'

“And I told her, 'baby, if you want to climb the tallest mountain: why not you get on me?'”

“Damn it, Da.” Liu Wu complained, looking out from under the tread well to glower at the patrolling jokester, “Could you really just stop.”

Liu Wu stopped for a brief moment. Staring at him with a blank face. “Da?” he said, “Isn't that what the Russians here use for 'yes'?” he asked.

There was a brief cold pause and silence among the group. “No, that's 'dja'.” sergeant Wu said dryly.

“No, Da!” Da corrected with a wolfish grin, “I'm the fucking Yes Man!” he cheered, laughing loud. An Bai followed suit, and Tsung had to grant him that, it was a quick and smart shot of humor. He himself couldn't help but shake his head and laugh.

“So... uh...” Tsung said, raising his voice, “How ready is it not?” he asked.

“Close to half way if not there.” Wu said, “The old tread plates are off. They only need to be replaced, if we can scavenge some up. We don't have replacements now.” he pulled himself out from under the tank, brushing rain water from his brow with his hand and brushing the grime from his narrow brow.

“You don't have any?” Tsung said, surprised.

“No.” Wu said, shaking his head.

“I can put out a request for someone to scavenge some up. Ask some of the couriers to bring them back after they're pulled from a Russian corpse.” Bi Wu said, voice dry, “It'll be the best I can do, unless Song wants to wait a good week for a whole new tread belt to come from Shenyang.”

“So what did you hit again, a mine?” Guo Jonny asked.

“Yeah...” Tsung nodded.

“Shit, lucky it wasn't very big.” the half-Chinaman smirked, “There's only real damage on the treads. The hull over the belly is fine. Even the wheels and mechanisms in the tread motors weren't badly damaged.” he talked like a doctor giving a prognosis. Cool and calculated in his words, and confident.

“You might at worst hear some grinding from the left side from now on.” he added, “But in a Tei-Gui it doesn't hardly matter.”

“You drove Tei-Guis?” Tsung asked the Hong Konger.

Jonny shrugged, “A little.” he responded distantly, “It's sort of in our training after basic we drive or ride inside most of the equipment you jackasses in the field use. So we're familiar with how they feel in the event you break a toy.”

“Sometimes I wonder if your lot is any better than my nephews.” their sergeant teased, joking, “I'll radio out for an order. If all goes well we could have a new belt to break apart and patch up your damage by morning.

“It's best if you go find a bed,” he ordered, “last I checked they're setting up a field barracks on the other-side of the town square. Best of luck to you, comrade.”

Perm, Russia

If there was ever to be a reminder that he was between two worlds, there was the very infrastructure of the city of Perm itself to remind. Seemingly defiant in its pride despite the failing Russian state, the city of Perm clung tightly to the concept of it is to be Russian. So old in itself that the Imperial industrialism of Siberia had given way to the old and the traditional. Strong baroque blocks of homes shared the same blocks of street with the colorfully bright painted offices and administrative functions in distant and detached Russian Revivalism.

Though strained and dirtied the heavy block and brightly painted plasters and beams acted out to actively ignore the inequality in Russia, against the decaying Republic and the growing strength of the Mafiya. Between the crossroads of chaos in the east and chaos in the west a city had remained standing to benefit. How so, the Chinese agent couldn't name, or identify. Not on the surface of it.

Hanging above the city of speckled agelessness and modern industry the sun cut through spring-time clouds. Basking the city below in a warmth that melted on the roads. Teasing them and coaxing them to bake and shed the slush and the snow that had fallen this late into the year. Cobbled side-walks bubbled with run off that flowed gushing from rusty gutters. Potholes large enough to drown a tiger lined the roads, exploding in fans of water as trucks and cars careened haphazardly along their highways.

The streets buzzed with a hymn of life, if poor all the same. Though there was rust and trash in the gutter, the roads busted, there was not a nail more final that Jun was still in Russia than the street trolleys decorated in the vulgar graffiti of the post-tzardom. Heavy, scrawling, and so coated over the writing was illegible. And clutching to the darkening brass and reddening iron of hand rails rode the tired frail ghosts of the men that called themselves citizens still. Dark torn coats flapping at their ankles as sunken eyes starred distraught at the passing road beneath the street car as it shuddered and clapped along. The tired workmen unflinching as it bumped, breezing through the warm spring air.

Jun's interests in the city though did not extend to them, and he highly doubt they knew of the distribution network of the Mafiya so he may find his way to the top, and to hopefully take two birds with one stone. Or just as importantly: if there were any allies of use.

Looking down the narrow city street the immensity of Perm became more brilliantly apparent than it was outside the city in the hills, to see it as a hazy forest beyond the trees. Stretching and snapping over and between hills it flew like a skyward blanket, with the rising crowns of its buildings looming watchfully overhead. From somewhere swinging jazzy music played from an open window. More distantly there was yelling, cheering of children. The honking of horns and the sweeping wish-washing sigh of tires on wet pavement.

Despite the wetness, despite the crime, despite the molding whetted political posters and obscenities it was a living city. Perhaps a rarity.

Is feet were numb as he marched down the street, listening to the city as a whole. Behind him something had rolled up. He could hear the muted hum of an engine and the crackling of rubber long loose stones. It cut the uniformity of the city's aura. In disruption. Perhaps it was nothing. Bowing his head Jun continued, carrying himself as apathetically as the local Russians.

But the sound did not abate. It continued.

Shaoquan dared a sideways look. His heart went tense as he caught a corner glimpse of the beaten white fender of a rusted-over van trailing behind him, just on the edge between side-walk and road. The headlamps broken inward. The metal scratched and dented over triply from collision and ruin. The darkened windows shone the reflection of the sun.

Turning back to in front of him he kept the same pace. But he did not see the city, nor hear the city as it was anymore. The van behind him continued to keep its pace. He could hear the pop and crackle as it continued unabated over the refuse of a city. He could feel the hot rumbling of its motor. It was there. Tailing him. Too obviously. It wanted something.

As he rounded a corner, so did the stalker. Keeping up with Jun in spite of the curious eyes of the bystanders around them. The engine turned aggressively, rising from a low hum to a restrained growl. It picked up the pace, crawling up faster to him. There was a sigh, the noise of the window being lowered. The soft realization of music played into his ears as the vehicle pulled up alongside him. He looked to the corners of his eyes, watching expectantly as it pulled in closer to him, the window lowering. The silhouettes of masked men inside.

The faint shimmer of light on a gun barrel.

He threw himself to the ground just before he felt the hot spray of a shotgun blast carve along his back. He dove before its explosive report tore down the city street and torn from the side of the building alongside him a fist full of stone and concrete. Exploding outward as the heavy shot impacted and exploded against the stone.

“Don't be shit, kill the fuck!” someone roared in deep Russian as the report of the shotgun dissipated as he hit the ground. A frantic drumming filled his chest as he turned onto his back to see the door of the battered van swing open, a massive masked man swinging out on the door with a pump-action shotgun in hand.

With a crashing thump the Chinese agent planted both feet into the metal of the door's side, violently smashing it against the forehead of the man as he hung between sitting and leaning to the outside. With a roaring crash the frame cracked him in the head, throwing him back against the hull of the truck with a shudder. Flinching his fingers hit the trigger of the shotgun, a second report exploded in the city's silent air as he fell back. The gun kicked in his hands and fell loose. At once he struggled to grab his rogue weapon, and find purchase on the door.

Scrambling, Jun threw himself to his feet. Grinding his teeth as he lowered his head, the report of a pistol shattering through the windshield glass. He could feel the bullets pass over head as he sprinted down the side-walk. Dancing between shots and feeling the bullets pass too close. Trampling over garbage he swung himself into an alley between two homes, darting through the darkened and dirtied pathway as he fled.

But he heard the roar of the van. Enraged shouts echoed between the walls as a full steam roar charged along the road behind him. It screamed like a dragon. Bellowing like a lion. It was primal, hungry, and pissed. He was half-way through as he turned, seeing the rusting and flaking van slide down the road, dragging screaming tires along the pavement and breaking aggressively about to angle itself for an attack.

Jun felt the blood rush from his face as he realized what was happening. Without hesitation he turned on his ankles and broke into a full sprint through the alley. The van roared behind him and he heard the crashing of metal on stone, and metal on metal as it slammed itself into the narrow alleyway after Jun. Loud crashing pursued him as he ran. The drumming clanging of trashcans sang over his head as the determined vehicle barreled at him. Its screaming grew harder as it drew closer.

In this moment, Jun was terrified. Never mind being shot at, or stabbed. Dropped down cliffs and frozen bitterly in the heart of Russia. He had his lack of pills to ignore these ills. But there was nothing more absolute or more over all debilitating that being ran down.

He tumbled out from the alley and onto the street on the far side once again, reaching out for a startled woman and pulling her aside as he turned course. Throwing her as he rolled out of the way of a rocketing van that exploded out of the cavernous alley. Hot on his heels and peeling metal and sparks as it scrapped the stone of the twin buildings. Screaming in shock the woman threw herself to the side and hugging the porch of a town house and Jun continued his flight. Charging blindly for a square not far ahead, a rising white and domed church loomed just ahead.

The van was persistent, and regardless of the traffic it spun to the side, turning to find and face Jun once again. Oncoming traffic screamed and scattered as the persistent monster mounted their roads and turned to breath fire. In a full sprint down the side-walk Jun flew down the side of the street. The stripped-white van roared and spun its tires over the road as it ground down the road after him.

The roar of the engine neared on Jun. It was labored. But it was fast. Realizing it was gaining fast, Jun knew he had to act fast. Keeping forward, he came to run alongside a wall alongside the side-walk. It'd have to do to try something.

From the other corner of the building he saw two side doors swing wide open. He'd need to do it.

Jumping up he kicked off a stone in the wall and clambered up its face, reaching out for the top of the garden wall as below him another shotgun blast tore a crater into the stone, exploding in a plume of fire. The hot tongues licked at his feet as sticky flames bloomed under him and he threw himself over the top.

Jun landed with a hard oomph, collapsing in the tangled brambles of a a twisted bush. Even his sensation to pain muted, he could feel the dull throb of the thicker knots in its branches pressing into his sides and ribs as he rolled off the barren bush, pulling from the young twigs the sprouting new leaves of spring and falling into the greening grass.

On the other side of the wall he could hear the shotgun thunder as the motor sped ahead. Hurriedly, he pulled himself to his feet and ran to the other side. The distinctive choked blaring roar of the engine echoing in the near distance, and drawing near again as he ran to the far side of the urban yard. From somewhere near the house Jun heard a woman screamed distressed, “Oh God, the Chinese!”

He paid her no head as he threw himself on the far wall, and clambered up it. Pulling himself to the top he looked down the road. The same white van was charging his way again, having rounded the block. Forcing aside wayward traffic it half charged along the sidewalk, and half into the street. Leaning out the side door a beast of a man dressed in steel leaned out the side, combat shotgun cradled in a thickly armored hand to Jun's position.

Jun dropped down as a load of fire crashed along the top of the wall where he was. Splintering the stone and raining down watery spattering of watery fire and sharp concrete shards. Jun dropped to the grass, rolling back and tumbling onto his feet, tripping across the fire-poked yard. The van behind the wall crashed against the city traffic. Horns blared and metal crashed as Jun threw himself on the other far wall, throwing himself over the side and landing with a hard thud on the other side. Breaking back into a sprint he continued to run.

For the sound of chaos, it was expected the area would have cleared so fast. Gunfire and mad cars had the power to do that. Abandoned at the road, empty cars ran idle in the street has Jun ran dry-mouthed between them. He needed to find cover, or a funnel. In that way he may perhaps deal with the man in armor. He doubted his handgun could take him down at the ranges he wanted.

Stuck or lost, drawing his hunters into the church seemed like the better idea. It stood at the far side of an open park almost invitingly. But dark. There was something off about it. But Jun didn't have time to think about it. Weaving between cars he ran out onto the green. Making it between the trees it drew closer. He checked behind him to check his pursuers, only for in that moment to have the rush of fanning shrapnel scream by his face. The rush sounding like a rocket passing just alongside his face.

He ducked instinctively at the sound. Rolling behind the partial safety of a metal park bench littered with papers. Peering out behind he looked to see the hulking man in iron marching across the far corner of the square. The combat shotgun hugged to his chest as he loaded shells into the chamber. The barrel smoked cherry red hot. A small armory of others hung across his back like wings, and thick belts of fresh shotgun shells crossed in heavy X's across his chest. His face obscured with a replated and bolted welding mask. The dark visor shone in the afternoon sun as he loaded the last shell and shouldered his weapon to fire.

He ducked into a roll as the iron bench rang with the pounding sound of shotgun pellets raining against it, scattering the littered papers into an explosive ring of fire. Whipping around a tree he shot to his feet as another crippling blast from the shotgun tore a deep fleshy, wooden gauge from the tree's trunk and leaving a ring of fire in its wake, charring the rest.

Jun went back to sprinting. His legs kicking off the ground as he threw himself out of the way of trees and lamp posts. The explosive rush of the shotgun rang in his ears at each unplaced shot from his pursuer. He could hear someone swear behind him, but could not make out the words as he staggered up the stairs, feeling marble and concrete pepper his legs as he lunged for the heavy wooden door, throwing them open.

With a slam they shut behind him as he stepped into darkness.

Urals, Russia

The fire crackled alongside Ulanhu. The home given to him temporarily was small. But with Jun no longer sharing the same quarters there was more space to it. But not nearly enough to properly stretch out. In a way, he felt he had more room in his apartment in China.

But there was a luxury here his home did not have. The southern Urals moved slow. It was peaceful. His home in Hohhot was active, almost at every time of day. Even for one of many Chinese back-water cities there wasn't a moment the blare of horns, or the incessant reporting of the public loud speakers on the news did not break into. He had grown familiar to it, and was deaf to it. But being away from it he realized just how much it had filled his life with noise.

Here he had time to read books, shuffle through reports (predominately Russian). A radio in the corner gave a report on the progress in the east, on the war. Though it was considerably stinted to Russian favor, dramatizing the situation to create empathy. All the same, it was the most readily available source of information he had. He wondered if they truly had set ablaze to Omsk by now.

Near by it the more conspicuous military radio sat silent. It was on, but there was no activity on the channel. A channel shared by he and Jun, and the regular recon aircraft that flew out this way, specifically to collect short field briefings. The last of such aircraft had passed nearby only a few short days ago, and it wouldn't be for a week more another would fly by. But the regularity would no doubt become questionable with war in the east.

Still though, he had not heard anything of Jun in too long. He wondered for him. Not worried: he knew he was a capable person. It was just a matter of why he wasn't reporting in. Surely he couldn't have gone so far he'd be out of range so far?

Never the matter, it was a waiting game. The anxiety would need to be bottled for now. A calm veneer kept as to not grow insane with cabin fever. The winter snow had lifted and the Russian countryside was experience a spring rebirth.

There was a crack on the radio. Ulanhu stopped his reading, looking up at the radio tucked in the corner of the tiny wooden kitchen counter. The needle on its face jumped as a light squealed popped and faded. Ulanhu furrowed his brow. What was this about? Was this a mechanical failure with the ECGs?

It popped again, there was static. Something that sounded like speech.

Ulanhu's heart jumped in his chest and he shot up from his seat. The chair falling to the ground as he pushed himself hastily around the corner of the table, dashing to the radio. Grabbing the palm-sized receiver he rose it to his mouth. “Hello. Come in? Over.” he said.

There was a watery grumble from the other side. Someone was playing with it. “You don't need to play with the squeal. It should have been alright when you set out. Over.” Ulanhu said testily.

“Who?” a voice said grumbling on the other side. The voice was heavy. Deep. It was cut, like scars in the throat. Unfamiliar.

“Jun?” Ulanhu stammered foolishly.

“Jun?” the other end said, “Not Jun. Hell.”

“W-wait what?” Ulanhu nearly shouted into the receiver, “Who the fuck is this? Speak up!”

“Nightmare.” the voice said. It sounded like it was smiling.

“How did you get this frequency?” Ulanhu demanded.

“No need to know.” the response said, “All need know is: we found you.”

“Tilli tilli bom.” chirped in someone else.

“No, I demand. Who are you!?” Jun demanded into the receiver. His palm shook and sweat beaded on his brow. His voice rattled in his throat. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

No response came.

Aboard the HMAS Canberra

Mark Chapman carelessly dropped his tray down onto the surface of the metal table, slipping his legs over the bench and taking a seat. It had been years since he ate in a proper mess hall. The Governor-General let his eyes wander around the eatery. There were three rows of three long tables set up, each table having a bench on each side. The room was filled to capacity by the part of the crew that was currently on lunch break. On each side of Mark sat his family: His mother and two daughters on his left, and his son on the right. His daughters, Mary and Natalia, ages thirteen and fifteen respectfully, were practically twins; They were both the blonde haired blue eyed types. Mary was five foot nine, and Natalia was three feet shorter than her younger sister. The two were chatting away about the latest Australian actor to hit the big screen. Mark loved his daughters dearly, but they resented him; especially Natalia. You see, Mark had never spent too much time with his daughters while they were growing up. He had dedicated his life to serving his country, and thus rarely spent time with his family. Mark’s wife, Laura, was in her forties. She looked like an older version of Natalia. She was currently enthralled in learning the story of Ensign Bart Lenko, who was seated across from her. She loved Mark, even if he had missed a fair number of birthdays and anniversaries while he was off fighting the good fight. Mark kept promising himself he’d make it all up somehow. He’d yet to think of a way to fulfill that promise.

Then there was Mark’s son, Jack. He was like the rest of the family: no, he was very different. For starters, Jack wasn’t native to Australia. Mark and Laura had adopted Jack three years ago. Jack had been born in Ethiopia, but his parents had moved to Australia when Jack was only a few weeks old. They had both died of unknown diseases a month after their arrival. Jack was put into an orphanage, where he stayed until he was five. Now, at the age of eight, Jack sat with the rest of the Chapman’s eating mashed potatoes and gravy, chicken, and green beans. Jack had dark skin and brown eyes, and an unending fountain of love for the rest of his family. In Mary’s case, however, the feeling was not mutual. She held contempt to the little adopted boy for taking her spot as ‘daddy’s favorite.’ Mark loved little Jack like he was his own flesh and blood. Even more so, if you were to ask Mary for her opinion (which nobody ever did, mind you.)

Mark turned and looked at Jack, a smile appearing on Jack’s face as he noticed his father looking at him.”Hey dad?” The boy asked between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes.”Yeah, Jack?” Mark returned, curious as to what Jack might want.”Can you take me to see the drivey-thingie they use to fly the boat?” Jack asked, literally bouncing on the bench.”Firstly, son, it’s called the helm; and you sail a boat, you don’t fly. Lastly, this isn’t a boat, it’s a ship.” Mark corrected with a chuckle.”Whatever, dad! Can we see the ‘helm’ then?” Jack asked impatiently.”Of course we can, son. I’ll take you up there right after lunch is over.” At this, Jack gave a little cheer.”Thanks, dad! You’re the bestest-” Laura gave Jack a sidelong glance, and he stopped mid-sentence.”The best.” He corrected himself with a moan. Natalia giggled, and Mary was obviously suppressing a laugh with all of her might. Mark stuffed his face full of chicken as the girls went back to talking.

Across the room, Captain Anthony Martin sat with a group of his fellow Marines. They were eating the same meal as the Chapmans were; except, they weren’t nearly as happy. A group of navy dogs across the room kept giving Martin and his men dirty looks. The worst part, in Anthony’s eyes, was that the Seamen’s commanding officers were encouraging them to be hostile. Antis glared down at his chicken, the anger plain on his face.”Lemme pop one of ‘em in the mouth, cap.” He said with a growl.”Easy now, mate. This is their ship: we can’t go starting fights around here. We’ll get trampled.” Martin said, his voice calm despite his own rising anger. Who’d these sea whores think they were? Martin’s Marines could rip ‘em a new one if they really wanted to. Private Wilson glanced back behind himself, and was greeted with a middle finger by one of the Navy’s men.

”That’s it, to hell with this!” Wilson shouted, standing up and stomping towards the assortment of Navy dogs. Wilson was a lean, African fellow with a barely regulation afro growing on top of his head. Thompson and Harris jumped up right after Wilson and stood to each side of him. Only Antis and Martin remained seated as the Navy boys stood up as well.”What do you want, mudslogger?” One of the Navy boy’s, an Ensign, sneered.”I want your teeth, bro!” Wilson yelled before popping the Ensign in the mouth. A pair of yellowing teeth flew out of the Ensign’s mouth, and Wilson’s desire was fulfilled. The other Seamen at the table gasped: apparently, they weren’t used to retaliation.”Get that ni-” One of the Seamen started to yell, before he found himself being tackled to the ground by Thompson.”Oi, nobody talks to Wilson like that!” He said, before mounting the Seaman and beating his face to a pulp. The Seamen reacted, two of them jumping at Wilson, one at Harris, and another went to help their friend being pinned by Thompson. Harris, being a broad shouldered and stone-chested soldier, was able to beat the Seaman who foolishly tried to grapple with him rather easily. Thompson was rolling around on the ground with one of the men, and seemed to be holding his own well enough. Wilson was the only one in a bad way, as one of the Seaman held Wilson in place, while the disfigured Ensign beat the defenseless Marine’s stomach with repeated blows.

“Enough, before I have you all court marshalled!” A loud and commanding voice called. The brawl ceased as everyone who was watching the fight turned to look at the Governor-General, who was striding over towards the military men mid-squabble. He was quite obviously angry at the lot of them.”You call yourselves soldiers? Mates, I’ve seen more restrain from convicts!” Mark barked, and the military men quickly lined up. Shame was present on the Navy men’s faces, although the Marines looked offended.”Permission to speak freely,sir?” Captain Lee spoke, standing alongside Antis.”Let me guess: you’re going to tell me these Seamen were ruffling your boys’ feathers, and they retaliated with violence. Am I correct, Captain?” Chapman asked, turning to look at the Captain.”Yes, sir.” Martin replied, his face empty of emotion.”Now, it’s been awhile since I was in the Marines, so I don’t remember exactly what the punishment for fighting is. But rest assured, the captain will hear about this. I’m honestly ashamed of this disgraceful behavior. For God’s sakes, there are children in the room!” Mark barked. At this, the Marines lowered their heads, joining the Navy men in their shame.”Go back to eating, but if I see anything like this again, I really will have you all court marshalled. Dismissed!”

Mark returned to his seat and sighed. He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes. Laura put a hand on her husband’s back, and rubbed it soothingly.”Nice job, hun. You haven’t lost your touch.” She whispered quietly. Enisgn Lenko coughed.”I apologize for their actions, sir.” He said.”We aren’t all that bad, honest.” Laura gave the man a reassuring smile.”Of course not, Mark would never assume something like that.”Yeah, right.” Chapman muttered sarcastically into his hands. Luckily, Lenko didn’t hear. Unluckily, Laura did. Mark was met with an elbow to the ribcage.”Ow!” Mark looked up at his wife, scowling. Laura returned the scowl, and the children watched in anticipation. The little spat was disrupted when a man wearing blue combat fatigues jogged up behind Mark.”Sir, the captain would like to inform you that we are nearing London. We should be in British-controlled waters tomorrow, sir.” Mark gave the man a curt nod.”Thank you, Lieutenant. Inform the captain that I will be coming to the helm later to...discuss, something.” The Lieutenant nodded and jogged off.

Finally, they were almost there. The restoration of the British Empire was a handful of knots away.

Arratzu, Spain

"What do you want from me?" Julio Zuraban groaned, his voice rasping from want of water. He couldn't remember the last time he had been fed. A bruised and cut face once swollen and puffy had shrunk around his cheekbones. Another week without food, without so much as a glass of water, he would be dead.

He couldn't wait.

"Your resume has a three-year hole since your departure, Senator Zuraban." The ever-smug interrogator, that torturous bastard, reminded, preparing another cocktail of truth serum at his desk in the corner of this 5x6 meter dungeon. A syringe needled pierced the membrane cap of a thimble-sized vial of cloudy white liquid, mixing with the other components within the syringe in a milky cloud as the interrogator drew the plunger up. "I need you to fill that if you'd ever like to leave."

Julio knew full well that he would never leave this place; not alive. His first reaction was irritation, he was in fact aggravated that the interrogator could say something so blatantly false to him. Even after half of a dozen mind-burning administrations of truth serum to his spinal column, he still found that such an obvious lie could sting almost as much as the injections.There was no question that Julio would die in this place; no one who had seen the monstrous things carried out within the walls the Institute of Arratzu could ever be allowed to live. Why could they not admit that to him? Why could they not simply give Julio the closure that his days in this office, strapped to this horrible seat bolted unto the cold concrete below, would be his final days?

Perhaps this was all part of the punishment: a more subtle castigation than the needle and the fire in his mind - a calculated torment that was so perfectly executed. Or perhaps also that Julio's interrogator was, in a certain respect, being truthful - merciful even. If Julio could tell them what his interrogator wanted to know, he could be free. Free from Arratzu, anyway. And after all he had suffered in this place, it mattered not whether he escaped this place in life or death.

"I left Spain by ship from Alicante on the night of August 12th, 1977. I arrived at Bandar Abbas in Persia on the 2nd of September that year. My compatriot was Claude Lemaire. I was Erzurum in April of 1979. The African was Samel..."

"I know. You have told me all this many, many times." The interrogator handed the syringe over to his associate to inspect as he approached the seat to which Julio was strapped. "You have told me the same story time and time again, each time without inconsistency. I see no reason to doubt the veracity of your testimony."

"Then you know I have committed no crime against the Republic. I have never colluded with communists."

An unfounded fear, I can see now after extensive questioning... but you are hardly innocent. You're an enemy of the state now, Senator. I have no other option than to dispose of you."

"Then do it." Julio snarled with grim purpose. "Kill me, and let me be rid of this place."

"That comes later." The interrogator denied, refusing Julio even the respite of death, accepting the syringe back from his assistant and twirling the needle-tipped vial in his fingers. "I have one more battery of questioning for you. One more administration."

"What for?!" Julio contested, suddenly bolting upright in his seat against the restraints. "You told me yourself! That I have told you everything! I am nothing but a waste of resources! Kill me, damn you!" He struggled against the bindings holding him down into his seat with what little strength was left in him. On the padded strap pulling against his forehead and holding his nape into the headrest, Julio felt a looseness. The strap was by some means unfastened. He could feel it giving slightly against the tugging of his neck. Each strain against the leather band loosened its grip. Slowly but surely the band was coming loose.

"This last questioning is simply to iron out any discrepancies among each of your testimonies. Today will be devoted to completing the official statement for the Oficina, and after that, we will be finished here." The interrogator's eyes flitted across the room, to his partner who had gone ahead and begun preparing the antidote injection - the follow-up drug that kept the truth serum from destroying Julio's mind after each interrogation.

"No need for that." The interrogator called out, interrupting him. "No antidote this time. This one's going to Doctor Guijon as well." Julio's struggling intensified.

"What's wrong, Senator? You said yourself that you did not wish to be a waste of resources, did you not? If we don't need you for further questioning, why then would I waste a vial of the antidote on you?"

"Don't listen to him!" Julio pleaded to the assistant. "Prepare an antidote!" The interrogator shot his assistant a dismissive shake of the head, as if to tell him to ignore the whining of a spoiled child.

Julio's struggling against the seat, making it clatter and jingle. The seat's base bounced against the bolts holding it down into the concrete, clashing and banging with each jerky motion Julio made. The interrogator sighed at his indignance, and then made his way around to the back of the chair to inject serum into Julio's neck one last time.

As the he approached, Julio pushed with all his might against the loosened band against his head. With the most satisfying sensation of loosening, the band gave way under the force of Julio's head. As soon as he felt his head was free, he craned his neck over to his side and swung his face at the interrogator's arm. Instinct guided is open mouth onto his tormentor.

With a soft, popping sound, Julio's teeth found their mark on the interrogator's left hand squarely under his pinky finger. The interrogator wailed in anguish as Julio's teeth sunk deeper and deeper into the flesh of his hand, the syringe in his hand fell upon the floor. A salty, metallic bitterness flooded Julio's mouth as his dry mouth was rinsed with the interrogator's blood. Determination and anger kept his jaw clamped down upon his hand, even as the blood trickled down into his throat.

The interrogator yanked against Julio's head, but every tug severed bands of tendon and muscle, all of which burned in sharp pain. Julio's canines cut down into his interrogator's carpals, grinding down against the very bone, even as heat beat against Julio's face with his free arm in a desperate bid to free himself. With his jaw locked down on his hand, Julio tugged against the interrogator's hand and threw the rest of his body weight toward him. The chair's bolts strained under the duress before finally slipping out of the concrete. The assistant, thoroughly horrified, watched dopily as the interrogation chair leaned over and fell amidst the struggle. Julio lost his vicelike grip on the interrogator's hand as he fell with the chair, thoroughly mangling the interrogator's hand as he went down. The headrest of the chair collapsed on top of the syringe vial, pulverizing the glass and spraying the hateful truth serum all about the floor in a small puddle mixed with glass shards. The interrogator fell against the cinderblock wall, sliding down as he stared down wide-eyed at the blood-soaked mess that was his left hand.

A pair of guards dressed in hermetic rubber suits and gas masks barged through the door and bore witness to the interrogation-gone-awry. Before asking any questions, they bore down upon Julio, blood dripping from his lips, with their cattleprods. It was Julio's turn now to be agonized.

"Get him on the bus!" The interrogator shrieked hysterically. "Get him on the bus with the other refuse! Do not let him die! I want him cognizant when Guijon has his way with him!"

Port Said, Egypt

A warbling rumble thundered through the bridge of La Ira de Dios as the propellers of two Halcon fighters buzzed past the Spanish flagship. They displayed their undersides, before soaring back up into the haze of smoke and dust above the twin ports at the mouth of the Suez. Aside from the funnel-esque intake on their undercarriages, their undersides were bare; no ordinance to slow them down in their reconnaissance sorties over the canal. Their first flights had brought good news to Admiral Santin's ears: the Ethiopian formations were largely retreating in the face of the Spanish bombardment.

But their good news was soon overshadowed by less fortunate tidings from the battle. Blasts muffled by sheer distance rang across the water from within the city. It could only be the Aksum, returning fire upon the Spanish attackers at last. Santin could not see where the shells landed, even as he scanned across his fleet with a pair of binoculars. But as he searched for the telltale geysers of vaporized water racing skyward, the Spanish admiral witnessed something that could put the entire invasion in jeopardy. Plumes of dust burst forth from buildings on the shore of the canal as a rain of crumbling concrete and debris splashed down into the canal.

The Ethiopians were going to seal off the canal.

"Carajo!" Santin spat, smashing his binoculars down upon his console. Anemic though the Ethiopian defenders were, they were perhaps more clever than Admiral Santin had given them credit for. They were goading him into their trap, he was certain. The Ethiopians wanted nothing more than for a number of cruisers to storm the mouth of the canal, where they would no doubt fall victim to some trap they had laid for the Spaniards. Unwarranted haste had doomed the Spanish twice this century - one mistake that ended the monarchy at Coquihatville, and another that nearly ended his own life at Helsinki. Santin would not permit another debacle here in the Suez, not when he had other options at his disposal...

"Grijalba, put me in contact with General Ponferrada, at once."

"Immediately, almirante." The ensign acknowledged, immediately busying himself with the radio console to reach the general's ship.

Santin could do naught but grimace as a second round of explosions dumped ever more debris into the harbor. Every ton of debris that fell into the canal threatened to halt the Spanish advance. It would take but one errant hunk of metal scrap or concrete to block the entire fleet from passing through. Salvage divers with specialized equipment would have a to be procured from Spain to clear the canal again, and that would take days, weeks perhaps. It would give the Chinese time to mobilize and come to Yaqob's rescue. The Aksum threatened to foil Sotelo's plan for Africa. It had to be destroyed.

"Almirante, I have the General on the line." The communications officer reported, his hand cupped over the phone's mouthpiece. Wordlessly, Santin took the phone.

"General, do you see what has happened in the canal?" Santin asked, foregoing any sense of pageantry and decorum expected of high-ranking officers meeting with one another.

//I have. I heard the Ethiopian vessel open fire.//

"That, and they are imploding a number of buildings into the canal. They intend to render the waterway impassible for our fleet, and I fear that if I were to mobilize an assault against the mouth of the canal, they would spring a trap or otherwise hasten their efforts to scuttle the canal."

//I see.//

"The Aksum must be neutralized if we are to proceed, and I know of only one option at our disposal to do such a thing."

//I understand. Let me get into contact with Madrid and relay our situation to General Velasquez. The Ejercito should be able to prepare a task force and provide insertion by 20:00 local time.//

"The Cazadores, I trust?"

//Yes. They would be the only ones qualified for such an endeavor.//

"Perfect."

Perm, Russia

The doors slammed shut before Jun, and he staggered back into dusty darkness. In through the mouth of the cavernous interior of the small chapel. Thin ribbons of sunlight crawled out between the shut doors and along the floor, illuminating thick clouds of dust that floated in the air in thick motes. The sun of gunfire continued to rage outside. But felt more random and untargeted.

“Cut it, he's already dead.” a voice yelled from outside. There was a silent pause, the roar of the shotgun quieting. Distant warbling sirens and alarms rose and fell in the new found peace.

“Should we post a watch?” another asked, hushed.

“No. We need to leave before the police arrive. Let Otluchen deal with him.”

There was a resigned silence of agreement from how ever many there were outside. If it had been the tank with the shotgun that was speaking or someone else was beyond the Chinese Agent. Feet spread apart, he stood a hand at the pommel of his sword. He expected them to follow.

There were no new words spoken. And there were no footsteps towards the door. Jun held his position, painting heavily as he waited. He had been sure they would have given chase. But they did not. His shoulder relaxed as a feeling of perplexion dawned over him. He had evaded them, and they were too afraid to enter. They knew where he was, but didn't seek to catch him.

Slowly, he lowered his hand from his weapon. His widened stance relaxed. He patted himself down, searching for any injuries he couldn't otherwise feel. He sighed with relief, finding none.

The police – according to his pursuers – were no doubt coming. And if the sirens were any indication they were finding their way in on the location. How long it would take was anyone's guess, complicated possibly by the enormity of damage caused on the streets of Perm. Congested traffic and other mess would delay the official police response as they sought a way to move around. But it wouldn't be complicated for them, and would buy Jun only a few minutes.

All the same, he couldn't go out the way he came. The gunmen might still be close enough to notice, and witnesses seeing him leave would reignite the chase. Knowing that they were onto the agent greatly reduced the odds out of his favor. It was a scary, unnerving thought to say the least. He'd have to readjust to find the people he needs to kill.

But for now, time to lie low. If they were too scarred to enter then no one else would follow any time soon. At best simply pretend, possibly. He could lie in the church, or take the time to find a backdoor and leave in the cover of courtyards and alleys.

He sighed confidently, loosening his posture. Turning to face the interior of the dark church.

Beyond the entrance the entire building was a cavernous, hallow shell darkened deep into its self. From boarded windows or minute cracks in the ceiling thin ribbons of light fell through, illuminating the dust and dirt that came to cover every surface of the inside. Highlighting on the ground a cascading mess of refuse and debris. Heaps of discarded rags littered the dark floor where the light fell and loose electrical cables hung cut and undisturbed from the rafters above. It was a hell of a mess in all, cracked and chipping. Peeling back against the wood and the structure itself.

Someone had been inside as well, pock-marking the walls with explosive holes and rifle-inflicted gauges in the plaster and marble. Crude graffiti had been painted over the white walls only to have been partially scorched off. Jun ran his fingers along the walls as he walked out into the main central hall. The plaster drywall cracking dryly as he went and crumbling into earthen dust as he dragged his nails across their damaged surface. How many had once been here? And how many of them had left when the Empire died? Or how many were slain in the chaos?

The floor boards creaked heavily under his feet as he stepped into the thick soupy shadows. His lungs itched at the thick dust he breathed in. Coughing dryly he heard something that sounded like rustling deeper in the building. Rats perhaps. Or bats higher above. There was a crude animalism to the way the noises moved and pecked across the wood.

Up ahead he could hear something heavy move. Plodding almost. A sense of unease crawled up inside of him and his hand crept down his side to his weapon. His heart beat hard in his chest as the wind of danger rolled up inside of him. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the blade at his side.

“Another puppet enters my den.” a voice said aloud in the church, echoing off the dusty rafters, the cavernous dusty ceiling. Echoing sharp and clear and become like it was calling from all directions. Jun spun swiftly on his heels as he thought it was coming from his side, drawing the silver metal of his dao ready to take on whoever had spoken. Only to moments later turn as the echo of the speaker's last words came from the other direction.

“And a man from the orient, no less.” the voice spoke again, crooning. It sounded dry and raspy. Smoky and low. It sounded choked and tired, but still filled with mental sharpness and swiftness. “I think I have heard of such a man creeping-crawling about Russiya. Sneaking about the countryside like a little spider.

“But not his own spider. Someone else's. You're another puppet. Where's your master? Not in Beijing.”

Jun turned, looking for the owner of the voice. But he only saw into the thick shadows. The words were spoken and echoed from all over the inside of the church. His heart raced with panic as he searched and prepared for something. He hoped whoever it was would pull back the bolt of a rifle, or flip the safety off any other gun. Then might he hear the sound and find where the speaker was hiding. If he could hear it over his loud omnipresent voice.

“I want to know, do you know what game you're playing?” said the voice in a prying tone. It picked and gauged. Not unlike an interrogator. “He came so far, to find himself a bigger spider's net. But will this spider be permitted to devour him?

“Not unless he moves. Then he might find himself more than caught.” the voice said, cracking to impatient anger.

Jun looked excitedly about. Fearfully searching for what it was the voice was implying. His eyes darted and crawled along every surface he could find. Across the black shadows, and the soft blue and yellow highlights of weak streams of light. Looking down to his feet, finding only garbage. Were there mines? Trip wires?

“He doesn't speak. I wonder if I have asked the right questions.” the voice said puzzled. There was a sluggish dragging from nearby, overhead. A dry bony rasping against dry wood. He looked up to the balcony just ahead of him. Not high off the ground. Rising from behind its walls, peeling with paint rose a lumbering limp figure. What looked like a man, with a head craned to one side.

“I wonder if he looks to look upon the eyes of God.”

“Who are you?” Jun finally said, hissing between clenched teeth as he still anxiously searched for the man. Or what he had implied was holding him in place.

“One who has seen the truth behind the actions.” he said, “I have foresaken my name, but not my information; for I must know. I am one who lost all, but retain his skill and the horror from these years of anarchy. In a past life I was hunted and scorned, sought to be snuffed out. But instead I was left to long sordid meditation as I waited for death; such things have a way for making such men think about life and the higher causes.

“And by chance, or some greater master's will: I was free.

“Who I am truly is a long story told in the third person. What I am now is the better answer. I am the enlightened. The revealed to. I achieved understanding over my brothers, and killed them all. I am, to the men who were just outside, Otluchen. Zài qūzhú in your language; The Excommunicated.”

“What does that mean then? Mafiya?” Jun demanded, affixed on the shadowy figure that hung above him, leaning over the raised pulpit like a limp doll.

“Was Mafiya.” Otluchen sneered, there was almost the sound of a grimace in his voice, “That was when I was Petyr Ostolvod. He is a dead man now. Drowned out by the realization of the true identity. One he came to know and be devoured by through the years. It is almost funny, he was scheduled to die not but two years before he passed away and made way for myself.

“I can dissect you. Not without tools or surgical implements. No EKG or anesthesia. I don't even need to kill you to see into you. I know all I need to know to piece it together. You're another hit-man. An assassin. Fortunately for me, I doubt my name was on any list. All the same, by association, would you kill me?”

Jun took deep angered breaths. He stood haunched and ready. If anything seemed off, he would need to defy his demands and move. It was the best chance he had. “What if I said 'yes'?” he asked.

“It would not matter. If I die to you it's because of a higher player than I willed it. Do you know free will?”

Jun was silent on the matter.

“I will assume you do. Or you think you do.” sneered the speaker, “Petyr once spent some time in America. There he attended a conference on liberty. During which an oriental such as yourself pleaded the Chinese knew not of liberty or the force of freely thinking. He doubted he was telling the truth to himself, feeling he was speaking it as someone's token to validate their point. But thinking back on Petyr now, I suspect he was right. The Chinese indeed have not changed their styles from anything more free from what they had before, and follow the beck and call of a new master-slave. From one Jurchen to the next.

“No, thinking back I doubt they know freedom and liberty like we in Russia knew, or in America. Or in Europe. But then, they weren't any closer, but closer than the Chinese all the same. Closer than the Africans. Closer than the Arabs, but they themselves had a closer understanding of what was, while the west and Russia tried to throw off the shackles of being the old society. The Ottoman Empire and Persia over knew – or once knew – the realization of the ultimate relationship between people and to the Higher One.”

“Higher one?” Jun asked. He was willing to humor him, if it gave him a few more minutes.

“There is a distinct relationship between one man to another on how to do his part and to be a part of the whole.” Otluchen monologued. His voice slowly finding one source as the figure over the pulpit rose higher. “Peasent would serve to lord who would serve his Empire. And we thought the line would end there. Sometimes they'd near closer to being correct by claiming divine guidance from God. But then the chain stops there.

“Do you think God controls everything in this world? No, he's just another intermediary controlling the things we understand. But beyond that and into theory? The somehow bizzare and unpredictable way man acts even, from top to bottom? Would God have willed for the Great War to go on for as long as it did and to rape his creation so easily?

“What about the retreat of the Spanish from Helsinki? The rise of China from a backwater state to what it is now, even if it is a red cancerous blemish that should be purged much like the self-proclaimed Republic of Spain?

“One evil or hypocrite to another. Truth prevails over all and all liars will eventually die. Those who admit to the truth will live long and happily, or die knowing well that they served the master to the last word of his final dramatic act. A stage show. This is all a stage show. Put on by the benefit of not one, but several. And who knows how many lives they torture for their own amusement, granting power to some individuals arbitrarily.

“But even I know that beyond them there must be something greater. Well beyond my scope in knowing, or yours, or anyone's.”

The figure over the raised pulpit finally worked over the wooden rails. Swaying wildly from the toying of gravity as it floated down to Jun like a specter, hanging limp like a hangman. As it drew closer the features on its person became clearer. The rich embroidering of its robes. The long tangled mane that was a beard and the twisted white locks of hair. A stretched gaunt face with empty sockets, casting shadows across themselves. Then the wide opened mouth, like a ghost screaming.

Otluchen's voice sounded stronger from it. “In knowing this, thinking this, and expressing myself Petyr distanced himself from the man who titles himself God. His followers grew frightened. Though Petyr inspired his own followers. He stood ideologically opposed. But at the same time, though conflicting, he knew that this stance was necessary for existence. For it is the dramatic dichotomy that drives the Higher One's theater. Do you know who's watching you, orient? Who is applauding for your successes, or against you in your defeats?”

Jun was speechless for a response. He watched in shuddering disgust as the corpse of the priest lowered itself down to Jun. Hanging within conversational distance from him. The shadows in his eyes lifted to reveal empty putrid sockets. His flesh was a gaunt leathery green. And in his gaping maw was a speaker.

“It is understandable to not be able to answer. For we may not be able to identify these actors in our own life.” Otluchen continued, “We may need to die to meet them. Or even in death we won't, because we'll simply cease to exist. Or perhaps we'll be reincarnated, unaware of the stories we once defined.

“When Petyr concluded this, he died. He empties his shell and I came in and took his place. As I do the shells of so many former persons that litter this room.

“I would not look, some are deadly, tovorich.”

Jun stared stunned into the face of the dead man that hung before him. Looking up he saw the faint glimmer of thin cables. “Do not worry about those. They are theater.” the corpse-priest laughed, “You have given me pittance enough to talk. I will not worry. But I still must know, are you here to kill me? Or do you want to see through your cause and the following acts of your life?”

Gobsmacked, Jun stared on at the cables above and the looming dead priest before him. He didn't know however long the body had been dead. But before him it smelled fresh as ever. Bitter, it dug into his tongue and his breaths through his mouth brought in a stifling sour taste. “I don't suppose I would have the chance.” he said, looking around. In the darkness of the interior there could be many places he hid. And he could clearly see him. He was in the cross hairs of a target he could not find. And it knew it.

“I will let you in on some truths.” Otluchen said, “Here in Perm, you have no allies. I am still in the game to play politics among my old brothers. They excluded me, but the fear me too much to remove me. I am unable to move freely – if by choice – but I keep a radio. It is how I know you were coming and that I have a rough idea on who it is destined to die.

“A man like you will need information to carry on. And I have such information. But I'll pass it on under the pretense you kill someone for me, or some persons. Do we understand?”

“I... do...” Jun said unsure. He didn't feel at ease assisting a criminal, one that was a member of or associate to the group he was tasked to destroy to his best abilities. But he already knew his cards, he had no choice.

“Excellent. What do you know of the Angles of Death?” Otluchen asked.

“They sound familiar.”

“They are the personal hitmen of Bog. His physical muscle in this world. One resides here and practices out of here. He goes by the name of Gabriel.

“Kill him and bring me his head so I may appraise it and cheer for being on the right side of the directors and the writers of the universe. Then I will reveal to you the information you seek, and fill you on more.”

“Just for killing this man?” asked Jun.

“It won't be easy.” Otluchen sneered, “And he has company from a wraith.”

Port Said, Egypt

Francisco de le Cal Delgado stared southwards, the rumble of the Spanish naval guns carrying easily down the length of the Suez Canal to the mass of Spanish transport ships waiting their turn to enter the Canal. His young face was eager and expectant, his ill fitting uniform slightly to small for his muscular frame, the buttons on his chest straining again the threadbare fabric. The shoulder flag was hastily sown on, the "109" not quite covering the older unit designation. Beneath it, small enough to cause barely a glance was a flag, half Spain, half Argentina. Over them both, curving with the edge of the uniforms shoulder were the words Brigada Internacional.

He clutched an FE-74 assualt rifle in his right hand, the only modern gift from his Spanish employers and he supposed he ought to be grateful for it. It was clean, reliable, and like the rest of the men in his platoon, it came with one hundred rounds of ammunition, six grenades, and a six inch bayonet. A helmet was hung at his waist, an Argentine style beret was perched rakishly on his black hair, it was the only item other than the flag that gave any indication as to his place of birth.

The men around him, over 600 crammed into a vessel meant for half the number, were similarly clothed, there the similarities ended. They were from all over the former Spanish Empire, South America, the United States, parts of southeast Asia and north Africa, a veritable mass drawn together by a common language and desire for adventure under the flag of their former colonial master. The majority, like Francisco, were from Argentina.

To a boy from the farms of Mendoza it was the strangest sight he had ever seen as he looked over his shipmates. The majority of the younger Latins, like himself, were pressed up against the railings cheering every Spanish wheel strike. Behind them, in a small cleared patch of neck space, a group of black Moroccan soldiers were kneeling in prayer and murmuring in Arabic, a language he did not understand. He had made friends with one of them on the voyage, another massive youth like himself who was as broad in the shoulders and an inch taller, he went by the name of Mohammad Hassan and little did Francisco know, but their fates would be intertwined for years to come. He caught Francisco's eye as he bowed for another prayer and winked briefly at his Argentine comrade.

"Ready to go ashore!" The shout rippled through the massed soldiers all of a sudden and Francisco looked down in surprise to see that the landing craft they had brought along had been lowered into the water. Sailors shouldered past the soldiers to drape long rope ladders down into the boats even as the battalions Spanish officers shouted at their men to grab their packs. It seemed that the battalion was being sent in to relieve the pressure on the Marines aboard the warships by driving the Ethiopian and Egyptian land forces away from the Canal.

Francisco pushed his way through the throngs of soldiers to his “bunk”, a patch of deck that he had claimed as his own the minute he set foot on the ship. Many of the other men had claimed bunks below but Francisco had never liked cramped spaces and it turned out he’d made a wide choice, the lower decks had quickly become awash in vomit, sea water, and diesel fumes from the aged tankers engine room.

He rolled up his small bedroll and strapped it to the top of his pack before hoisting it onto his back. Mohammad had been camped next to him and though they had initially avoided each other they quickly began to talk at night. Many of the white Spanish soldiers considered the non-whites sub-human and wouldn’t even give them the time of day, much less speak to them. Francisco, coming from the Mendoza wine region of Argentina, had met many non-whites on the big vineyards and worked alongside more than a few he considered his equal, and in some cases his superior in feats of strength and intelligence.

“Delgado, stop gopping and get in the fucking boat!” The platoon Sergeant, a burly Spaniard from somewhere in Galicia, was waving his troops down the ropes and into the boats. As Delgado went to pass him buy the Sergeant yanked the beret off his head and shoved into his belt. “Get your lid on.”

Delgado quickly grabbed the helmet from his waist and pulled it onto his head, clipping it below his chin and then swinging his leg over the edge of the vessel. It suddenly occurred to him, as he swayed high above the waves that it was a long away down… Never in his life had the thought occurred to him but he quite suddenly realized his was afraid of heights.

For a moment he hung in space, fixed rigid by the height of the drop. Then a hand was shoving at him and he took a deep breath, flipped his other leg over the edge and began to climb down the long rope, clutching at the rope so hard that every wave slammed him against the ship and tore at the skin on his hands.

It seemed to take forever but at last he felt his boots on steel and he was safe again amidst the press of bodies. Only two others came down after home, one of them was Mohammad. They nodded, each trying to mask his fear, as the lines were thrown down and the small landing craft pulled away from the transport.

Diesel engines rumbled and smoke poured from the exhaust of the landing craft as it turned towards the beach, the incoming tide lifting them and carrying them towards a long stretch of beach topped with a mostly empty roadway.

Three men in front of Delgado were a pair of American volunteers he had gotten to know. They were from a place called Florida, he had never been, and they talked with a strange twang to their Spanish. They had been mechanics before they volunteered and like Delgado had headed overseas with the idea of adventure and glory in mind.

Delgado, still staring to the front and trying to control his mounting fear, saw trucks racing across the roadway, men hanging off of every available angle. They slid to a halt and men jumped to the roadway, dropping to their knees and, Delgado realized with a start, that they were about to open fire.

At first he wasn’t even aware they’d fired until he was able to hear the buzz of passing bullets as they whizzed past the landing craft. Several struck the steel hull with a loud PING and men ducked, some laughed nervously.

The first man died quite suddenly, one of the bullets striking the wheelhouse and ricocheting into the packed troops huddled below. He gave a muted grunt and then collapsed into the water that was starting to slosh about the deck of the landing craft. His blood began to dilute the water at once and Delgado found himself kneeling, almost in shock, as the Sergeant screamed at him to get the mans ammunition and grenades.

He did so quickly, pulling the bandoliers from the dead man and slinging them over his shoulder and standing back up, trying desperately not to look down. He had seen plenty of blood before on the farm, even a couple of dead men, but never a man killed before by an enemy bullet.

“Prepare to beach!” The words jolted him out of his thoughts and a glance up revealed the beach to be much closer than he had thought it was. The enemy soldiers were much closer and he could swear they were aiming right at him.

Suddenly the truck nearest to them vanished in a massive geyser of tarmac, dirt and fire. He didn’t know what had happened but he cheered with the rest of the men, the sight taking his mind off the dead body at his feet.

“Thank god for the Navy!” The Sergeant shouted, smiling broadly at Delgado. The smile only seemed to grow and then suddenly blood burst from between the mans lips and he collapsed into the water, his blood mingling with that of the other man. Delgado couldn’t take it anymore, he vomited into the water, his breakfast covering the face of the Sergeant where it stared up at him from the deck.

“Ramp down!”

The cry came from one of the sailors and Delgado wiped his chin on his sleeve, had the presence of mind to take the Sergeants ammunition, and then the ramp dropped with a crash into the water.

The war was on.

Port Said, Egypt

The two Americans were the first to die. They had begun to charge off the ramp when an enemy machine gunner, sheltered by a mass of fallen driftwood, opened fire on the landing craft. The hull suddenly became a death trap as bullets ricocheted off the metal plates and slammed into the men jammed shoulder to shoulder. Some screamed, some cried out for god, most died. The two Americans, a pair of twins from the Philippines, three young childhood friends from Cuba, all of them collapsing under the spray of bullets, all of them between Delgado and the enemy gunner.

He waited only a fraction of a moment before taking a quick step, hoisting himself up the side of the landing craft and then rolling over towards the water below. He hit it with a crash, the weight of his equipment dragging him down until he hit the bottom on his back. He flailed free of his pack, desperate as the water closed in about him and his lungs began to burn, he hadn't taken a breath before he plunged into the tepid waves. He jerked and writhed, finally freeing himself from the pack and kicking out to get his feet underneath him. He lunged for the surface and to his surprise found himself in only five feet of water.

The landing craft was several yards away now drifting slowly towards the beach, blood oozing down her ramp. The wheelhouse was gone, the windows smashed, the driver slumped in his chair. No one emerged from the front of the landing craft though Delgado caught sight of Mohammad struggling to free himself his own pack some fifty feet away. Small geysers suddenly erupted all around the black man and it took Delgado a moment to realize that the enemy gunner was trying to kill them in the water.

He swore, dragged him weapon up from beneath the surf, aimed at the place where he had seen the muzzle flashes, and pulled the trigger. The moment he would never forget, the sudden clarity and joy as he emptied his thirty round clip in a slow methodical motion as he waded towards shore. The machine gun went silent but a dozen other enemy soldiers who had survived the naval bombardment opened fire on him now, their bullets peppering the water all around him and still he advanced.

One by one, clip by clip, he silenced the enemy soldiers, his eyes coldly roving the beach to pick out the huddled forms of his enemy. He showed no mercy, even when several stood with their hands in the air, clearly trying to surrender, he shot them down. Others, stunned by his seeming invincibility as he advanced into the teeth of their gunfire, began to panic and pull back. A second Spanish rifle opened fire as Mohammad, freed of his weight, joined the tall Argentine and together the two of them managed to clear the grasping waves and hit the beach at a run.

The attack was only five minutes old and already a dozen enemy soldiers lay dead in the sand, their bodies flung down by the lethal shots of the two soldiers who seemed impervious to everything thrown at them. One group of enemy soldiers, a later examination would reveal them to be Egyptians, made a stand in a small nest of driftwood and boulders but the two attackers fixed bayonets and with screams of "Muerte y Gloria!" they threw themselves over the barricades and the close quarters killing began.

It took thirty seconds, thirty seconds of screaming and slaughter, to clear the vipers nest. Delgado and Mohammad stopped killing only after the last of the enemy soldiers had stopped crying for his mother. Delgado pulled his bayonet from the mans chest, wiped it clean on the dead mans robes and then stood. Mohammad caught his eye and the two men nodded at each other, only slowly becoming aware of the cheering that was sweeping across the water towards them. The soldiers still approaching the beach in their landing craft, and those on the ships beyond, were screaming themselves hoarse in adoration of the two men.

Delgado looked about him, realizing for the first time that his landing craft was the first one to have reached the beach and the only one to have taken any serious enemy fire. The remainder of the men who had embarked with them were dead and only now, six minutes into the fighting, the second landing craft was only just touching the beach. Around them, their blood pooling at their feet, were at least two dozen enemy dead. Mohammad broke the silence first.

"We have done a great thing Comrade." He reached out and the two shook hands over the shattered corpses of their slain enemies and the cheers of the soldiers landing on the beach below doubled in intensity and boots pounded across the sand as they hurried towards the two of them.

"Keep moving!" A Spanish officer shouted. He caught Delgados eye as he yelled and for the first time since he had joined the Spanish army he saw something different in the officers eyes. For months it had been disgust, disdain, revulsion at the base "colonial troops" he had been forced to command but now something else was behind that gaze, respect.

Shots rang out further down the beach and Delgado turned to see more trucks hastening towards them from the city. It was to little to late. Behind him the bulk of the Brigada Internacional was landing, men streaming up the beach to take up firing positions. The causeway was narrow it worked like a funnel, pushing the Egyptian forces into the teeth of the 109th's gunfire. Trucks exploded, flipping into the air as grenades were hurled by strong young farm lads, men jerked backwards as if pulled by invisible strings as bullets fired by youth who had done it for sport back home found their mark. They might be a motel collection of colonials but the Brigada Internacional was learning how to fight.

It was not without loss of course. Many of the young men had no proper fear or respect for enemy bullets, forgetting that if you can see a man, he can see you, quite the opposite of a deer. Over a hundred would die taking the causeway as they pushed eastwards into the ruins of Port Said. By the time the first boots were in the streets nearly a sixth of the Brigada Internacional was dead or wounded. Of that, half were the Brigades Spanish senior NCO's and battlefield promotions came swiftly. For Mohammad and Delgado it meant promotion to platoon Sergeants as the story of their beach assault spread swiftly through the men and officers alike.

The causeway itself was taken within the hour, the sound of the Spanish cruisers firing beyond the skyline of the city only increasing the demands for urgency from the Spanish officers. Pushed past limits of endurance, the Brigada Internacional found itself in increasingly precarious positions as it fought to advance deeper into the streets of Port Said. More men fell, and those who did not quickly learned how to keep their heads down and engage in pitch gun battles. Hand to hand fighting became the norm as the young foreigners, realizing that they were bigger and stronger than their Egyptian and Ethiopian counterparts, closed in to make the fighting even more personal. Boys, who three months previously had been harvesting wheat, tending to injured animals, and shouldering farm labour, now used that same strength to punch, kick, bite, and in many cases, choke, the the life from other human beings.

Delgado, leading a random band of soldiers now, was in the midst of it all. He had not yet had time to reflect upon the lives he had taken that day but one thing was for certain, he was good at killing. With a rifle he was a crack shot, in hand to hand combat he was as lethal as any many alive. The long hours spent working the vineyards had given him massive upper body strength which he simply used to beat down his smaller opponents if they came within reach. Some of the moments would come back to haunt him in dreams for years to come but for the moment he was a god, an artist, and the battlefield was his canvas.

Two hours into the attack and the Airfield was completely under Spanish control even as the leading elements of the Brigada Internacional began to force the western edge of the city. Fighting was becoming desperate as Egyptian militiamen found themselves trapped between the advancing 109th and the Spanish Marines. They began to cluster into the city centre which made them an easier target for the big Spanish guns, guided onto target by spotter aircraft above, it was turning into a massacre.

The Spanish Commander finally called a halt as the Brigada Internacional cleared the last of the enemy soldiers from the eastern edge of the airfield and secured the buildings that overlooked the tarmac. A head count was taken and the numbers came in, of the six hundred men who had come ashore only two hours ago, almost half were dead or wounded. The 109th's battle was over for the moment.

Tibet, China

The expansive Tibetain plateau rose to meet the sky. As the sky itself came to meet it. The rocks that ran through the Earth's thick hide groped and scratched gnarled at the air above. Hallow and hungry as is – the very spine of the Earth itself – pulled itself from the earthly back of the world. The mountains no longer looked flat. It no longer looked small. Definition and distance returned as the dragons over head orbited and circled down. The wing was now not hidden from itself by the distances they flew.

Shen leaned into the bubble he called his perch. His breaths took to mist in the cold air. In the turning belly of the plane he watched as the entire wing of craft they flew with came into view against the clearing blue of Tibetain sky. There was no longer so much blackness as clouds pulled in across his view, and the panorama beyond. Painting a rich canvas of bright mid-day colors and crystalline white.

The steppe below was a rocky crag. Crowned with diamond peaks of snow and sparkling with melt water. Even further, more directly below them the twinkling and distant lights of their own airfield shone below. Even in the clearest day it had to be a balcony above. How else might he see it?

The lowering sun highlighted clearly his fellow planes. Dark kite-shaped monsters, angled back like arrow heads. As with the wings that hung over them, smoothed and fluid jets ran molded into the metal wings. The whole body was a single molded design, as if crafted by water running over top.

He had seen the prototype once. In some far corner of the home base in Mongolia. Sharp edges and all around primitive demeanor dominated its heavy body. Pink under belly and sandy brown. The craft this father had sired had long lost the rose and beige. They were steel gray and nightly purple. The colors patched and broken along their bowed shell.

The prototype though was not forgotten, and still flew. To its own crew. Though he had not seen it fly. Although if he had he was as forbidden to speak of it as he was forbidden to speak of the craft he rode in. There was plenty of fear in this craft, even on the ground. The black coats of the IB and their unspoken word kept a close watch on them and the aircraft. Shen shuddered to think just what they would do onto him if he spoke. It was for the best he kept quiet.

Landing these monsters was by now a routine procedure for them. Circle the landing strip, closing in ever closer. Coming down even lower. The loops becoming ever dazzlingly tighter as they drew lower to the ground. The plane would shudder, cutting through the uneven air as it went. High pressure, low pressure. Warm air, cold air. The ride was never as peaceful as it was before; where a man could sleep in peace and never be woken, if not for the regular chiming on the headsets that kept the men linked.

Shen had only seen the Himalayas twice. Both when they made voyages to this southern outpost for their wing. Practicing this very maneuver that was so regular in Nèi Měnggǔ. At Deep Gobi. He had seen more of the desert there, and the plains of the upper flat steppes and the forests of Heilongjiang and Eastern Russia.

They had flown as far as the arctic sea over Russia during the dead of winter once. The snow was black as night and there was nothing to see. But Shen starred in awe at the crystaline lights of the night sky in those clear northern skies. And the ribbons and bands of green and red that wrapped the air above them. He had never felt more at peace with himself, or more at awe with nature than there. And for a brief moment then, he felt close to what was preached by part of the Dao.

The base that closed in below was by no feat a complex affair. A single runway cut a black gash across the mountain side where it was cut. Alongside a single tower rose like an axel amid a field of barracks and administrative buildings. Several large hangers sat off to the side, one for each craft in their wing. They alone dwarfed the regular hangers for the contemporary aircraft, the fighters and helicopters stationed here. They were the only bombers stationed here, and they got the hangers armored in steel and concrete.

“We got ten minutes to land.” Sin Wu said in Shen's ears. The static that underlined their communication buzzed harshly, “Buckle up comrades. Over.”

Shen sighed. Leaning back into his seat. Reaching over with gloved hands he grabbed the strap, and pulled it across his lap, buckling him in. He took a deep breath, watching the horizon between his knees. His seat jerked under him, as the plane hit a rough pocket.

_______

The off color of the lights and the wood paneling of the wall gave the room a warm light. Save for the several dozen chairs on the floor and the podium on the far-side, it was empty. Steadily and one by one the pilots filed in. Their eyes searched the sparse briefing room wishfully. They sought some hint as to why they were here. But there was none.

The men who walked in all wore the same uniform. A baggy olive-green fleight suit. Baggy and puffy their insulated one-pieces hung empty off their shoulders, nylon straps hanging limp and dead at their side. Metal buttons glistened in the room's flourescent glow. Stained white undershirts left to finally breath after their cross-country fleight.

Without fleight masks and goggles to keep their faces covered from the cold and eyes free from the blinding sun and cool air the men's faces were lined with red from where the masks and goggles and held down tight. And the accumilating torture of a nose or brow to scratch was being well relieved. Shen moved among them, keeping up with his own group. His puffy cheeks beat red from the cold, indifferent from the mask he had worn. Holding back a sneeze he rubbed his flat bolbous nose as he to searched the room.

His senior – Sin Wu – was a large man, cleanly towering over the rest. He was not hard to loose, and his thick black hair was a mess having removed his leather and fur cowl. The officer already found himself a seat, alongside their lightly built navigator: Xi Li. The rest of the crew had no doubt got lost in the mix, but it'd hardly matter, they were getting the same message. And with nothing else going for him, Shen stole his seat alongside his two crewmates.

For the rest it didn't take long to find their seats. And as soon as Shen had taken a seat the rest had to. Several minutes of patient, uncomfortable silence passed as they waited, until the door behind them opened.

The pilots and crewmen didn't need any announcements. And at once the sound of metal chairlegs grinding against linoleum filled the room as they shot to their feat, standing at rigid attention. Greeting their superior officer as he moved along their side. He had no briefcase, and only purpose in his gaze. His gray coat hung against his knees.

“At ease, comrades.” he said in a hushed voice. He was an older man, well into his fifties. His graying hair thinned against his head and his face sagged loose. At his order they resumed their seats and he took the podium.

“Several days ago,” he began, “we recieved reports of Spanish hostilities against assets of the Ethiopian Panafrican Empire off the coast of North Africa. Shortly following, we recieved news from Spain that the Spanish President – Alfonso Sotelo – declared formal war against the Empire, making it official the two nations are now officially in a state of war.

“As we speak, Spanish forces are engaging Ethiopian assets at the Suez Canal in Egypt.

“Our proud nation has not yet effectively opted for official interference on the matter. However, by request of Hou Sai Tang command has issued for limited assistance to our Ethiopian allies as official measures are drafted in response to this, and the matter is raised with Congress.

“Of the points of this unofficial entrance to the conflict, it was elected that you, the pilots and crewmen of the High Altitude Recon and Bombing wing are to engage in long-range reconessience sweeps across Spain and Spanish Africa, and the whole of North Africa to obtain information and data estimates of Spanish movements on the current front and to acquire the means by which Beijing to assess the likelihood of additional fronts in this war opening in a Spanish effort to expand the scale of the war. In addition the searching for any stores of the chemical agent known as VX.”

Hushed murmurs whipped between the mouths of the men present, astonished and mildly terrified at its invocation. Without waiting for them to finish the senior officer rose his voice, silencing them as he continued, “As well as the location of military and industrial installations of great teactical importance to future efforts to neutralize Spain should – on Chinese intervention – the moment be deemed neccesary that Spain is to be attacked directly!

“Comrades, that is what is asked of you.” he said, finishing, “You will be deployed after a twelve hours rest for Europe. Your equipment will be cleaned and prepared, your planes refueled. As with any and all events – training or not – you are to maintain maximum altitude to fly above enemy radar.

“In excericises you have all flown commendably, though we are not proven in practice. This is our chance to define the wing and even encourage and expansion of the project we're all a part of. I won't waste your time with anymore words. I will simply say in closing: you'll make us proud.”

Kalachinsk, Russia

“Hey, we got it!” the early morning air echoed. The engineer crews had just begun to gather at the growing motorpool. Since the previous night several more damaged vehicles had arrived for maintenance, or had been pulled in off the field by brave salvage crews. The night was filled with the thunder of diesal as night crews facilitated to the placement of the scrap equipment. Teams of mechanics had set out in the damp late night to keep up, but despite them there was a significant backlog built up for the day teams.

Sun Song's Tei-Gui still sat precariously by, waiting attention. Though in the muddy ground of the old town hall's back yard it had begun to sag. The damaged side still lifted up off the ground enough to work. And standing proudly nearby with a rusted belt of linked steel plates was Jonny, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his overalls.

“Figured they'd pull through.” Wu said, taking a large swig from a warm flask. He still looked tired, “We can get this done then.” he added, looking to his side. Tsun stood by distant. Short hours were new to him, and he felt stuck in a daze.

“The hell you doing so awake?” Da joked, raping Tsun on the back as he whipped around from the side, “It's only zero-fivehundred.”

Tsun grimmaced at the hours. He'd been up late watching them last night. Going to sleep wasn't much easier, spending much of the time thinking about how Song might bear down on him. If he had done this at home his drill sergeants would have him castrated. But there it was running over something. But a mine was a fair comparison.

“How long?” he asked groggily.

“Give us a couple hours. This afternoon you may be able to head out.” Wu said in a low voice.

“What do you think Song will do?” Tsun asked.

“Song?” Wu laughing, “I don't know the fucker good enough. For all I know he could force you to breath exaust for a week or cut off an ear.

“But if it was me, I'd smack you across the head and tell you not to do again or I'm writing the paperwork. And I might as well bust your nuts over that if I have to go to the discplinary officer and run the briefing gambit.

“I'm not willing to take any bets.” the sergeant added.

“I don't think anyone is...” Tsun said drowzily.

“Deal only in absolutes.” Wu said with a proud nod, “Accept only victory. Believe in no superstition. The power of victory is in man only.

“I remember that from training. Do you?”

“How could I forget.” Tsun grumbled.

Wu nodded, standing by idly. “Coffee?” he offered.

“Excuse me?”

“Coffee.” Wu repeated, “I guess it's the new thing. A lot of people in Shanghai and Hong Kong have been drinking it. Last I was in Beijing I saw one place in the south-east corner selling coffee. Comes from Ethiopia. Probably the closest any of us will be to Africa.

“And stronger than tea too. Want a swig?” he offered again, holding out the flask.

Apprehensivly, Tsun took the flask. The metal was warm in his fingers. Lifting it to his nose he smelled it. The drink was potent, with a strong earthly aroma; sweet and bitter. He gave Wu an unsure look.

“It's not going to kill you, and it's not contraband.” he said, “And it's not liquor so you won't get drunk.

“Drink it all. I can get more. I know the Quartermaster well enough.”

“Well... if you say.” Tsun said hesitantly, raising the flask to his lips.

All to quickly he tipped it high. And all too readily the hot liquid inside came rushing to his lips and washing into his mouth. Sharp bitter heat exploded on his tongue and in shook he reeled back, coughing out a mouthful of bitter black water. He gagged, spitting as he fought to quench the burning sensation on his tongue. Wu roared with laughter, clapping his hands as Tsun struggled with what just had happened.

“Drink, not chug it!” he seazed, laughing.

“Oh shit, you did it for me.” Wu chuckeled, “I didn't think I would get that today, but I did. Shit, I don't think I need to drink any now.”

Tsun gagged, trying to spit off the burning from his whole tongue. But to no painful avail. “And you're not supposed to chug it!” Wu exclaimed, “I said drink!”

“The hell happened without me?” Da asked from the tank.

Whipping a tear from his eye Wu recovered himself. “Nothing, go back to work.” he ordered, waving him off.

“Go, try again. But careful.” Wu invited again. Tsung shot him a angry look, offering him the flask again.

“No, I mean it.” the sergeant said again, his voice tettering on that of an order, “If you're falling asleep on duty then you might need a little help. Because Song's coming.”

Tsun's chest siezed at the revelation. Paniced he looked around. Turning to find his superior officer walking through the morning mist towards them. Arms wrapped around his back, coat hanging about his knees.

His driver fidgeted with the flask, nervously trying to hide it as Song walked closer. Was this sentencing?

“Sun Song.” Li Wu saluted, stepping aside.

“Comrade.” song bowed, “How are things?”

“We've located a replacement tred, throwing it on as we speak. I imagine it'll be done by the afternoon at the latest.”

Song nodded, seemingly ignoring Tsun for the time being. “Excellent.” he said, “I want to get out as soon as we can. We're missing things. We've already preached city limits. I got commanders under me wondering where I went. I don't want them to go lacking.”

“I understand.” Wu agreed. Gesturing to Tsun he stepped back, “I imagine you're here for him.” he added.

Song smiled politely, waving Wu off before he turned to Tsun. The young driver's chest felt like iron. His heart wrapped in chains. It wasn't admiration. It was fear.

“Comrade.” Song said.

“Sir.” Tsun said nervously.

“Will this happen again?” Song asked.

“No sir.” Tsun replied.

“Then we're good.” the officer smiled, “Though, I want you to take more responsibility. Sleep more. If need be I can put in a few requisitions and find something to keep you awake. I'm sure I can find something medically at my disposal.” he stopped, looking at the flask.

“Coffee...” Tsun said nervously.

“Coffee.” Song nodded, “Tsun.”

“Yes?”

“Given what I know, I order you to drink more coffee.” Song ordered, pointing to the flask, “Or some strong tea before we go out anywhere. How you acquire it will be up to you, I'm not going to baby sit you about it. But as an order, to perhaps prevent this again; drink more of that. Carry it in your bags if you must.

“Finish that, and go to the rest of the crew and get some sleep. We're moving out as soon as we get the tank back.”

“Yes sir.” Tsun bowed. A part of his mind drew a sigh of relief. The other held back defensively against the burning bitter drink.

Urals, Russia

“Comrade Makulov, I must really stress how dire this is!” Ulanhu protested loudly, as he followed the Russian commander down the hall of his cabin hall. The former imperial general looked tired and worn. He moved with a heavier gait and obviously was not in the mood.

“How am I supposed to be concerned with the gross negligence of a soldier who is not even mine to command?” the general protested, his voice heavy and discplinary. He shot the Mongol a harsh look to the side. His face read he didn't want to have any of it. He just wasn't having the morning for it.

“Because for all I know our enemies may be using the radio to find our location.” pressed Ulanhu, “From the communications I got last night it's strongly implied they do know where I am, and by association you and your men are.”

Leaning against the opening to a large living room Makulov turned. Glaring silently down at Ulanhu he sighed. “Last I checked comrade, locating one by radio doesn't require one. Unless Jun had three I can not believe you.” he spoke like a displinary father, a cynical teacher. “And I have many men under my command still, and not just in the village itself. If there was any direct threat to our hideout and our safety then it would have reached me. Furthermore, we can hold our own against the rabble that was the Mafiya.

“Now, I don't give a shit about your toys from the orient and I'm sure they're probably off trying to play with you more on it. But it's wise you don't yield to their psychological war. No matter how many people they string up to the trees we've always told ourselves: we are more, we are stronger, we are more loyal.

“We're the greater strength against gangsters. I am confident we can hold off a few lone gunmen. If it was a direct Republic threat I may care more. But if you excuse me, comrade, I would like to take a nap by the fire. I've had a terrible night last night.”

“Comrade, could you at least promise someth-” Ulanhu argued desperately, his heart fluttering in panic in his chest.

“Good bye, comrade.” Makulov replied, annoyed.

“B-” Ulanhu started.

“Good bye!” the general shouted. His face writhed in discomfort as a hand climbed to his temple, “Please. Walk yourself out.” he grumbled.

Ulanhu knew the demands were rejected. There wasn't anything more he could do to change the rebel general's mind. He turned slowly from the officer as he returned to finding a couch to lay on.

Ulanhu's boots beat solo on the carpet as he walked down the rest of the hall. As always the heavy doors that seperated Makulov's private quarters from the more functional section of his rural headquarters hung shut. Made of heavy oak, Ulanhu forced them open. They groaned heavily on their iron hinges. And just as much they closed behind him.

The guard that stood nearby watched his go with a apprehensive look. Ulanhu though was to distracted to notice. He walked by, his head swimming in fear and the weight of his partner having been killed in the field. How might he get back to Beijing and report the loss then? How should he establish a connection with home? Was he trapped until the Chinese army made it to the Republic's capital? The questiones were heavy, and played ruinously across his good concious. He wasn't a field agent like Jun was, there'd be way he'd survive Russia.

But, they only had the one radio. How likely was it they were going to find him? Could they have used it though to find the signal on their own radios to triangulate him? Afterall, ECGs weren't much but a way to downsize and boost the range...

“Comrade.” the guard said to Ulanhu before he could get far. The Mongol froze startled.

“I heard some of the conversation, you have problem. Ja?” the guard asked. His Chinese was weak, shaky at best, even conversationally. Rough and broken, it was delivered in stressed breaking the rythym. The guard's staccato accent changing the tones, mutating it.

“Just... Just a little.” he said, turning to address the guard, “Why?”

“If you scarred, could always invite you into town.” the guard invited, “Stay with family until the situation blows over. Ja?”

“Well, thanks... But I don't think that's neccesary.” Ulanhu grumbled, “It'd be best if I were let alone.”

“I understand, but to one comrade to another.” laughed the guard. He was heavier set, and his body jiggled like gelatine when he laughed. He leaned forward, looking into the administrative hall. “By the way, what was on the radio?” he asked.

“I- I guess it's not state-important.” the agent grumbled, walking up to him. “Just a lot of threats. And does the phrase 'Tili tili bom' mean anything to you?”

“Tili tili bom!?” the guard replied, his blue eyes going wide, shocked. “Is an old lullaby. Mother sung it to me when I was a kid.”

“It is?”

“Dja. Was always a little creepy. But I guess it scarred most of us to sleep!” the guard said, rolling with laughter, “Mother sings: 'Tili tili bom. Close your eyes now. Someone is walking outside the house.'”

“Doesn't sound pleasant at all.” Ulanhu commented, disgusted.

“Aye, but I still sing it to my kid.” the guard smiled, “Lately though, I wonder sometimes. I hear from family in city out near Tyumen of stories of people hearing song on the streets, at night. Then when they wake in the morning someone is dead. Is rumors, but is enough. Are you sure you want to stay alone?

“You got company at my place, and guns. And you're not at the edge of town. More in center. I won't care for Chinese things, I can let you set up in the basement. Wife and son don't speak Chinese, Makulov ordered I tried. So try I did.”

“I'll have to consider it...” Ulanhu nodded, distantly, “But, is there anyone else I can talk to about this? Perhaps to put me at rest I can ask someone to see if they can find Jun or his body?”

The guard shrugged, “Ivan, probably. Apart from being comrade Makulov's muscle he oversees our matters in the city. Mail, groceries, supplies, inteligence, scouting. Stuff like that. He could deliver the word down.

Ivan. Ulanhu didn't have good instances with him. When they first arrived the burly Russian threw him naked into an icy pond. Ever sense the scrawny Mongolian feared he'd try to make another effort. Loud, muscle bound, and angry. He wasn't a figure he wanted to deal with, and he tried to hide that fact. “I'll keep that in mind.” he said, if apprehensive and distant from the proposal. He much preferred Jun's cold distance from the aggressive and challenging personality of Ivan.

“I understand. But my offer always open.” the guard nodded, “Name is Konstantin.”

“Nice to meet you, Ulanhu is the name.”

Golondrina, Port Fuad, Egypt

Luis found himself staring up at a network of aluminum ducts and piping. The soothing rumbling of the idling engines vibrated under his back. He was somewhere in the interior of the warship, somewhere removed from the bullets and the rockets and the dying. A fleeting respite from the war raging beyond the bulkheads, Luis welcomed it all the same.

He laid upon a plastic dining table; the Cruiser's mess room, Luis recognized. It had apparently been converted into a triage during the course of the battle, evidenced by the green card hanging on the wall above his head meaning that he was of the lowest priority. Medics went back and forth past his feet to check with the actual casualties, glancing briefly at the green card before ignoring him. The medics' lack of concern was in fact reassuring to Luis, who worried that he had been somehow injured in the exchange between the cruiser and the Ethiopians. He didn't remember how he had come to be placed in triage, only the fact that he had thrown up. That and his first sight of real blood, the Ethiopian burning to death before his eyes. He would remember those things for the rest of his life.

A gurney rattled past his feet, its occupant shrouded by a blanket splattered in dark, drying blood, the very sight of which wrung Luis' stomach. How could he be expected to fight, to kill, when the very sight of blood could make him faint? He didn't belong here. He knew that much.

"I understand he was the first." A gruff voice unfamiliar to Luis declared, punctuating the silence and the gurney rolled out of the mess hall.

"So I hear. The first to give their life for this war." This voice was familiar, and commanded terror from Luis. It was General Ponferrada. Luis shut his eyes and pretended he was still unconscious.

"And he has been joined, with the landing of the International Brigade there will be more to come."

"Reconnaissance flights report that the irregulars have actually taken substantial amounts of ground. Color me surprised, I am that much more hopeful now for the campaign in Ethiopia, when the Africans engage our real soldiers." The General's words elicited naught but silence. A tense, unnerving silence that even Luis was disturbed by.

"They are real soldiers, General. They fight for you, they are dying for you. Don't discredit them again." Luis couldn't believe his ears. Who would dare talk to any general in this tone? Let alone Victor Ponferrada.

"You are fortunate, Admiral, that I honor your leadership and direction. Your service in Boston and Helsinki is a credit to the Republic. Very seldom do I tolerate anyone to speak with me in such a tone."

"I honor them." Admiral Santin shot back. "I respect the foreigners for their bravery and dedication to the fight against the socialists. They aren't just some pawns to absorb bullets for the regular infantry. Give them the respect they deserve."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the mess hall. Beads of anxious sweat formed on Luis' forehead. Several moments passed before the muffled, concussive rumbling of artillery cut the silence and, curiously enough, the tension.

"The destroyers are still firing?" General Ponferrada asked, welcoming a chance to change the subject. "I thought that all targets of value had been hit already."

"All but one." Corrected Admiral Santin. "That salvo came from the Aksum."

"Don't fret, Admiral. The Ejercito is preparing to neutralize the Ethiopian vessel as I speak." Ponferrada dismissed, his bootfalls drawing closer to Luis' makeshift cot. "By morning tomorrow, the fleet will reach the Red Sea." The General's footsteps ceased when he reached the table upon which Luis lay. Even and he kept perfectly still, feigning unconsciousness, Luis could feel the General's piercing gaze as he inspected him.

"What's wrong with him?" Admiral Santin asked of the triaged private.

Luis couldn't help but wince as the general scrutinized him. He hoped the general hadn't notice the twitch of his face. This was not how he wanted to be seen by such a formidable superior - hiding from the battle in triage. He felt his face grow warm completely against his will. He was blushing profusely from embarrassment. He could feel it in his cheeks, sweat matting under his hair. He tried his best to squelch the reddening glow, but it was of no avail. There was no way that the general would miss such a display.

"Cowardice." Ponferrada concluded.

Bilbao, Spain

It was only when he was on the plane when they took his bag off. With the whizzing of black nylon sliding past his face, Julio Zuraban's pupils stung upon exposure to light for the first time in hours. Through squinted eyes, he found himself handcuffed to the armrest of his bench seat. in the cavernous belly of a massive aircraft - military construction, that much was clear. Most probably a Gargola bomber, the workhorse of the Spanish air forces, simply due to its size. Pintles on the far end of the fuselage where racks of bombs could be mounted suggested that this was indeed a requisitioned bomber. Though he was hardly an expert on military aircraft, Julio knew well enough that these planes were built for the express purpose of moving a great masses for incredible distances. It was clear this would not be a short flight, but the destination was not as apparent.

His captors had blacked-out the half dozen windows on the plane just as they had with the bus that had taken him to Arratzu. Even so, there was nothing to see beyond the walls of the plane. Julio stole a glance behind him out the rear loading bay, and saw only the interior of a hangar and a line of prisoners being herded off the buses and up into the fuselage of the plane like so much cattle.

"How come they aren't fucked up like the other flights?" The handler who had removed Julio's bag from his face asked his companion. "The Doctor decide he doesn't want a plane full of vegetables anymore?"

"Couldn't tell you. Maybe he needs some controls for his projects?" His partner suggested nonchalantly, locking handcuffs to seats and yanking black bags off of captive passengers as he went.

Questions bit at the tongues of all the prisoners aboard, but each knew to stifle their questions. Julio and the rest of them learned that speaking out of turn earned nothing but a round of cattleprod beating; worse still came when one was demanded to talk. Anyone who had spent any amount of time at Arratzu knew that everything went most smoothly when silence was maintained.

Another twenty minutes passed as the last of the prisoners were chained to their seats, a length of time that passed like seconds to Julio. After what seemed to be an eternity of ennui and isolation at Arratzu, he could scarcely process all the activity around him. His senses were overloaded trying to process it all, particularly the sheer anxiety and discomfort of what appeared to be a hundred fellow prisoners. In a way it was a welcome break from the bleak hopeless that permeated Arratzu, to know that he would not die there after all. At the same time, the departure from Arratzu was terrifying. After hurting that interrogator so, Julio knew he would not be allowed to go unscathed, and he remembered how he wished for him to be fully aware when he met this Guijon. Whoever this man was, it could be counted upon that he would mete out a fate worse than any at Arratzu.

Anxiety bubbled up in his stomach as the engines spun to life outside the hull. The plane rumbled and shook as their handlers made their way out of the rear doors, which ground shut behind them. The lighting of the hangar left the cargo hold as the doors shut amidst the building pitch of the spinning propellers. The plane bounced gently beneath Julio, exacerbating the queasiness in his stomach. The plane was rolling; already taxing itself out the hangar and onto the runway, they could feel the landing gear's suspension bouncing against the tarmac. Whatever their destination, the pilots seemed intent on arriving as quickly as possible.

As the captives were jostled about within the dark belly of the airplane, Julio's anxious glance met that of his neighbor.

"I know you." The man sitting next to him uttered. He was older man, just shy of elderly. Or perhaps younger. A time in Arratzu had made appear older than his years, and he was bruised and cut much the same as Julio.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Yeah. I know you. You're the Senator. Zuraban."

"What's left of him." Julio confirmed.

"I don't think you could've done worse than me." With his free hand he pointed to a scaly patch of scabby scar tissue just above his right ear, notably devoid of the thin, black hair set to graying by the tribulations he had faced. "One of those masked assholes got carried away with that box knife during the initial processing. Gilipolla."

"Why would they do that?"

"I suppose I did antagonize him. A little." He admitted with a sheepish grin. "Maybe more than a little." Julio smiled in turn.

"Anyway, I recognized you. I saw you a few times in person, in Madrid. Before you just sort of disappeared after telling that committee how full of shit they were. Yes, I remember that. Quite a stir that made; took some balls to say what you did, I admire that. That had to be what, five years ago now. I guess you got what you deserved. Five years in that place... You paid dearly for it."

"I don't think I was in for that long." Julio admitted. "They took me in sometime in... April, I think?"

"This year? Jesucristo, I don't even think you spent six months back there. You must have made someone's shitlist."

"You could say that." The former senator admitted with his own mischievous smile. The whine of the propellers dramatically increased in pace, the bouncing accelerated as the plane lurched forward to take off, erasing the smile from his face. Julio's stomach sank against his back as the bomber rose up off the runway and climbed upward, bumps of turbulence rocked him and the others as the plane soared upward. As stability returned to the fuselage, Julio's new acquaintance resumed his conversation.

"Anyway, I never really introduced myself properly." Julio's neighbor extended his free hand around his lap over to Julio. "I'm Joaquin."

"Joaquin." Julio repeated, accepting his handshake with his own free arm. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." Joaquin agreed, bouncing with the turbulence. "For the last friend I ever make, I could do a lot worse than Senator Zuraban."

Sevan, Armenia

Sahle's dreams deposited him in his own past. It was in his school years, in those early days when he had been sent to Europe to receive what his father saw as a 'proper' education. He had been young then, on the first step to pubescence. It had been the girls who discovered his sexuality for him. European girls, who were wealthy and bored, and who saw in him, even in his youth, the exotic Nubian prince from old stories. The ones who first taught him were the older girls - those who were nearly out of school - and they had taught him a lot. When he had returned home, he had brought his new discoveries with him.

It was early morning. Addis Ababa was somewhere in the grey forgotten mass beyond the walls, a quiet city in those days, and one he had never cared much about. What he remembered the most, the detailed nucleus of the dream, was the wool skirt hanging from the pine tree in the corner of the courtyard. The tree had been dry, and when the wind picked up it caused the tree to hiss. The skirt was tangled at the top, fuzzy blue thread impaled delicately by needle-tips.

When the tree hissed, it caused young Sahle to cringe. He was paranoid that somehow, it would wake the girls father - a visiting delegate from Russia. He could hardly remember the girl anymore - she had been young, as slender as snake, and she wiggled in his arms in a way that would make him instantly hard. Her hair had been a dark-streaked blonde. He couldn't remember her face. But he could remember her father. He had been a serious man, bearded and tall, and dressed in dark tweed that made him look like a statesman of old Europe. When he talked, it came out as an eloquent growl. What would a man like that do when he found out what Sahle had done to his wiggling daughter?

Sahle had recruited help from his younger brother. It was strange, Yaqob in the dream. His face in childhood existed in tandem with the solemn face of the adult he had grown to be. Even stranger had been his helper, Hassan's daughter Azima when she had been hardly more than a toddler. When she grew up, Sahle would fuck her too. This knowledge caused the dream to slowly fade. He saw the two children climbing the tree, and he saw the adults within. Everything faded. He thought of the schoolgirls when they showed him the broom closet, and he thought of Azima all those years later. He was lost, burning in a fever dream. And he was also horny.

Colors danced in a kaleidoscope pattern set against neon grey. Breasts floated down like raindrops, morphing and confusing him. Where was he? Was there music? He heard familiar voices.

"An old man from Kars was feeding the soldiers." the voice started, "And the soldiers asked why the man lived alone."

Sahle stayed in the titscape. The voice continued. "He says 'See that fence over there? I laid every stone by hand, building it up for miles. But do they call me Ohanjan the Fence Builder? No.' "

" 'See that tank over there? I built it out of spare parts, piece by piece, and sold it to the government to help fight the Turks, but do they call me Ohanjan the Tankman? Pah!' "

" 'Look over there at that church. I rebuilt it with my nephews, and we restored it so the priests could hold services in there again. Do they call me Ohanjan the Godly?' "

The voice began to crack. " 'But you fuck one goat!"' it said before laughing. Sahle watched a final tit-bubble float down. Inside was a goat. It bleated, and the tit burst along with his dream. He woke up.

Sahle was laying on a couch, his back aching from the stiff cushion. Above him, watching from shelves and walls of immaculate white, were dozens of tiny faces. They were small and beady eyed children, boys and girls, with painted cherub faces. Sahle's head swam as he tried to get his bearings. He remembered that he was in the doll makers house, and that a night of partying still burned in his brain. He heard Yared and Marc laughing, and he heard the soft sound of gentle chiseling.

He took a deep, rasping breath and propped himself up against the rock-hard arm of the sofa. The room was bleached white, each corner and crevice immaculate. Shelves lined the room, stacked with dolls and figures - all in porcelain. There was an overpowering smell of stale cinnamon, masking the the subtle scent of paint. From a window overlooking Sevan, only the sides of buildings were visible in the foreground. They were on the second floor. In the distance, the empty green hills of Armenia.

Aaliyah was sitting as still as one of the dolls lining the wall, and she was facing the awkward man who this place belonged to. Davit, he was called. Davit was a withdrawn man, but his awkwardness did not feel as if it came from incompetence. He was Sahle's age, but he acted like an old man - distant and uninterested in his visitors. Vladmira had told them what to expect.

"He does not like people." she had said. Sahle remembered her lips, red with lipstick, as they pursed after each word. "Davit did not fight. No. He was not in the war. He has stayed, with his dolls. He found a way to use his talents after the fighting ended."

Sitting on a wooden stool, he gently put the finishing touches on an ivory mask he had spent the last week carving. They had given him a photo of Aaliyah, and allowed him to measure her face as if her forehead was being fitted for a dress. It surprised Sahle when the aloof little man asked them to come back so that he could put the final details on the mask in the presence of its customer.

He carved these masks from ivory, or made them from porcelain. Veterans scarred in war found the service useful - a man who had lost and eye, or part of a cheek, or half of a face, could cover up the ugliness of their wound and join in on the excitement that filled the post-war country. For Aaliyah, the mask would cover up the scarred pit where Stanley Barnham had drove a knife into her eye.

He sat still, absorbed in his work, his fingers pinched delicately to a small brush. He made small strokes, perfecting the tiniest details on the small mask he held in his lap like an infant. Yared had tried to poke him into conversation when they first arrived, asking him about the dolls that stood their corpse-like watch along his shelves.

"Who is this?" he had asked, fingering the frills of a tall dolls dress.

"Queen Victoria" the doll maker had answered without looking up.

Yared moved on to another. "This?" he asked about another.

"A girl." that had been the entirety of his answer.

The last one Yared inspected was a man, it seemed. He wore a suit, and except for a well-kept cut of grey-black hair, had the same feminine face as the others.

"This one?" Yared asked again.

"President Assanian" the doll maker answered.

Eventually, Yared had became bored, and he entertained himself by telling jokes to Marc, who was still riding high from their last lines of Sotelo's blow.

Sahle's eyes wandered to Vladmira. He felt guilty, but he could not help but think about her. She held herself in a way that made him think of nothing but the flesh under her tight clothes. Oh what flesh! It was as if she had designed her every pose with him in mind. She sat in her own corner, her legs folded and her body leaned to one side so that the shape of her hip was completely evident. Sahle had been surprised to see her again. He had expected Vasily, or Oziryan, to meet with them instead. Maybe even one of Oziryan's lackeys. For a perfect creature to do such a menial task... it was like seeing a Queen serving drinks in a bar. It made no sense.

"Are you having a show tonight?" she asked, cutting through the silence.

"No." Yared replied. "The Old Man is out of town. We're shut down for a few days."

"Why do you still work for him?" she asked. "There are better payers in this city." Sahle watched her legs as she shifted in her seat. How much would it take to see more of her? He felt guilty, but he hated that it was something to feel guilty about more. Why should that be considered wrong? Why couldn't he taste the pleasures of Armenian hedonism and still care for Aaliyah? There were chains there that he did not like.

"The city is filling up with acts" Aaliyah noted.

"Be still." the doll maker hissed. Aaliyah stood straight up and obeyed.

"That is true, friends." Yared said. "People keep coming here every day. All those young soldier boys trying to forget that war. Some of them think they can sing."

"Where would you work." Sahle broke in, "If you were us?"

Vladmira looked up, her blonde hair brushing against her skin as she thought. How much a model woman she looked in that pose. "The Azerbaijan" she answered. "Near the lake. They do televised shows every Saturday. That is where a person could get their face out there.

For a moment, Sahle considered it. Then he remembered. He could not risk his face being out anywhere.

"That's not my thing." he answered. "The Old man runs a cushy little club."

"Pity." she said. "You would have looked good on the television."

Sahle's heart skipped a beat. Then he thought of him and her in bed, breasts heaving and bodies mingling. He became aware of his own breathing. Then he felt guilty again. That damned guilt. Had Aaliyah saw anything there? Was she jealous, or did she know what he was thinking? When did women become a stressful thing? When he was young, before he had to flee into the desert and become Samel, he could move from woman to woman as casually as he changed his clothes. How easier that had been. He loved Aaliyah, but... he wasn't sure why there were guidelines there. At least, he didn't understand now what he thought he understood before. His lust for Vladmira had changed it.

"I understand that Spain and Ethiopia has are at war." she said. "You people are from Africa, this is right?"

Sahle felt his stomach knot. He had left home for good, but some part of him wished he could go back. In some ways, he had allowed himself to think that he might return some day, a thought that comforted in those times when he felt out of his element. Would his family survive this invasion? He doubted it. It felt as if his childhood was dying a slow death behind him. It was depressing. Now he wanted to go somewhere and get high.

"It is strange, friends." Yared said. His voice was somber, "When I heard of the war, it felt like I just left. I remember it."

"I heard the fighting is in Port Said." Aaliyah added. He could hear what she mean. Was it in Egypt? Was it going to be fought where I lived? Was it happening in that place we had just left? The latter fact caused Sahle's skin to crawl. Port Said. That is where they had lost the Spaniard, and where Sahle had nearly been discovered by his own sister, the Princess Taytu.

Taytu. How would she fair in this war? They had not gotten along as children, but she was his blood.

How strange. When had he became so sentimental?

"We were just... we were just in Port Said." Sahle squeaked, his mouth dry.

Vladmira lifted an eyebrow. "Yes." she said. "Those thugs started chasing you there. Oziryan has said."

"How much do you know Oziryan?" Sahle blurted out. For a moment, he felt naked. What would they think he meant by that? Would they suspect his jealousy now? He waited for a response.

No reaction. He had to be more careful with his words...

"Oziryan keeps a close eye on the people he knows he can use." she explained cryptically. "You may become useful like this too."

"It is done." the doll maker exclaimed. He held the mask up to his face - a yellow-veined ivory sliver of face; a cheek and an eye. The front had been painted in brown enamel, matching Azima's skin. The color followed the grains of the ivory so naturally that it looked as if brown had been its original color. More impressive, however, had been the eye. A deep-souled brown eye, the iris's attended to with such delicacy that it made the mask feel almost dangerous to some instinctual corner of the mind. No amount of paint could catch the soul of the eye, but the doll maker had came near. Sahle realized that was what made the dolls in the room seem so sinister. It was in the eyes.

"It will attach by this strap." Davit explained, producing a piece of thing leather. "I will keep this copy for a few nights, to make copies of. For now though..." he handed the mask to Aaliyah. She held it like a child receiving a gift, playing with it in her hands. She was smiling. Sahle felt warmly elated for her. For a moment, he forgot about Vladmira in the corner.

She held it up to her face, covering the place where the wound was. It was an odd thing, seeing an unmoving copy of that corner of her face with its unblinking enamel eye. In some ways, it brought more attention to the disfigurement it hid. These masks were rare, but occasional, sights on the faces of soldiers. For a young woman to have such a thing though...

Still, it was hard to ignore the artistry. That was the beauty of it. Davit the doll maker was a master at his hobby. And Aaliyah loved it. She stared herself in the eye, grinning like a young girl newly in love. "It is lovely." she exclaimed, reluctantly handing it back. "Thank you Davit. Thank you."

The Doll maker smiled courteously and nodded. Aaliyah embraces Sahle, falling into his arms. "It is lovely." she repeated. He felt her warmth in his hands and couldn't help but smile as well.

"There is a matter of my payment." the doll maker turned to Vladmira. "Ivory is expensive, and this was a special work."

"Yes." Vladmira answered. "You have Oziryan's assurances. What you asked for will be delivered."

Port Said, Suez Canal

The sun was setting, and the ruined buildings of Port Said were casting shadows on the cratered city.

"I shit muhself" a man moaned. His voice slurred as if he was drunk, but his problems were much worse. He lay on a stretcher nearby, his stomach torn open. In the gathering dark, the bloody mess on his belly was washed in shadow.

"I shit muhself. I... I shit muh..." he continued to mutter.

"We are threatened." a Captain said. His uniform hung limp from his torso, unbuttoned and stained, and he stood bare chested as he argued with Elias on behalf of the commanding officer who headed the expedition. Leyla knew that the Army could do whatever it wanted - Elias was hardly the highest ranking man on the field. A more impetuous commander would most likely not bother to ask the Walinzi agents before making a decision, but this one had been chosen wisely. "The Spanish have the airfield. They are moving quickly." the Captain gestured to the west.

"A counterattack would play into their hands." Elias argued. Leyla had never known him to be a strategist. "If we face them directly, they will win. They have the resources. Your job is to delay."

"I shit... I shit..." the wounded man crooned. Leyla wanted to put a bullet in his brain. She wondered if he had actually shat himself, or if he was confused from his wounds. The air smelled like smoke, and blood, and dust and saltwater. These battle scents were strong, and their acrid stench overpowered everything else. If he had shat himself, she couldn't smell it.

The Captain stood a head taller than Elias. Leyla found it intimidating, but Elias didn't look effected. Both of the men didn't seem to notice the dying man nearby them. "If they cut off our retreat, we will be lost." the Captain argued.

In the background, the battle for the airfield was winding down. It had created a racket, of bombs and rifle reports, the only war sounds now that the Aksum and it's Spanish sparring partners had went silent. The tittering of gunfire had been a constant, and its play near the airfield had blended together to make one long roar. Now it was starting to go quiet.

"We draw back, but slowly." Elias argued. "Let them to slip further into the city. It will be more dangerous for them there.

"I shut... I shut muhself." the dying man continued to mutter. She could hear the blood in his voice. Leyla could hardly ignore him. She had seen dozens of men die that day... maybe hundreds. Why was this one effecting her? When a couple of shaggy-haired soldiers came and carried the dying man away, Leyla was relieved.

The Captain nodded and walked off.

Elias looked tired. She could see it in his eyes, drooping and bloodshot. His skin was covered in the same grey film that covered all of them - a mix of gun-smoke and pulverized cement. It covered their skin, and made their black Walinzi uniforms look grey. Elias' hair, so often well groomed, was a greasy tangle. She hated to think how she looked

"Is there any way you can get some sleep?" she asked,

Elias shook his head. "I don't know that they will be able to do anything tonight." he answered. "It is dark, and the city is still mostly ours. Hopefully, they won't risk what they do not have to."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

Elias took a deep breath. "We can work through the night. Give Ras Hassan all the time he can use. I hear he is going to turn the highlands into a fortress..." his eyes went glassy as he looked south. Stress was eating at him. So much had been put on their shoulders. The fate of a continent, and of the race that called it home, rested entirely in their hands.

In the background, scattered gunfire cracked through the air. A sour-smelling breeze wafted through the remaining cement and stone hulks left behind by the ruined buildings. It was warm, and the dust it carried grated against her skin. Adrenaline was wearing down, and she could feel herself becoming tired. There was a subtle blur in her vision, and her skin felt clammy. It was no time for sleep, though. Elias was right in this.

Their work had slowed. There were only a few buildings left on the ocean front, and they were hardly large enough to send into the canal. They had held off sinking the Aksum, using it as a threat to keep Spaniard cautious in their approach. In some places, soldiers had been tasked with bringing metal debris to the canal and boating it to the center to be sunk. Elias had lamented the fact that they had no divers to anchor the it in place.

Through the thin haze of battle-fog, the moon was starting to take the sky. Elias and Leyla walked silently toward the canal. Behind them, where the fighting trickled on, the rare explosion would catch her attention. She would look back toward the airport. Fires burned a dull orange, as if the final touch of a sunset surrounded them at all sides. Flashed of red flared up where mortars were still in use. Even in this lull in the fighting, the battle was still alive.

Small trucks delivered metal debris of all kinds, most of it big. Leyla watched as soldiers unloaded a twisted metal beam, half the length of the vehicle that had delivered it. They helped it into a commandeered fishing boat, where two Walinzi agents finagled it into a comfortable position. Elias pulled a small flashlight from his coat. When it clicked on, its beam joined several others.

A rumble distracted them from the other side of the river. Another controlled demolition. Smoke bellowed out in thick pillowy clouds as a thick minaret tumbled into the canal. Ancient stone struck the water with a splash.

Elias chuckled. "That isn't going to make us friends." he said. For a short moment, she felt as if they were back on mission in Armenia, making jokes as they observed people on the street, preparing their report for their old director, Amare Debir. She thought about the last time she was him, on the shores of Pontus, surrounded by braying baby goats. That had been before Constantinople, where she had killed the Ottoman Sultan and ended one of the oldest powers in Europe. Had Amare survived the chaos that followed? Had he safely made it wherever he meant to go?

They climbed into a second boat. Elias handed Leyla an oar, and they gently stirred into the canal. Cool air hung close to the calm black-green water, and her hands began to feel chilly. A wooden plank was floating nearby, splintered on both ends and soaked dark. It made her wonder how safe this venture was. On shore, men talked under their breaths. Leyla could not hear them over the sound of their truck's idle rumble.

The twisted steel beam was long enough to span two boats. Leyla watched the boat behind them carefully, keeping in line with it as much as she could. Elias held the front of the beam on his shoulder, his knee pressed against a bench for balance. She glanced at it. The steel was corkscrewed and charred, and it was bent the center so that it was not straight. Would it even matter? As far as she could tell, it would be a waste of time. The agents in the second boat carried with them a buoy to tie to the beam so that it would float. In Leyla's mind, it wouldn't matter. It was simple debris, and it would be pushed away.

What were they doing?

She payed attention to the battle behind them. It sounded like it might be picking up. Were the Spanish launching another attack? She considered that sound must carry better out here in the open water. Still, she glanced back. An orange fire-glow filled the city, peppered with the strobe flashing of combat from the direction of the airport. The possibility of an offense while they were in the open water made her paranoid. She subtly began to row faster.

They passed a mine. It was a spiked metal ball, bobbing quietly in the water. They had laid many of its kind throughout the canal. To hit even just one could potentially devastate the Spanish advance. Even in the widest parts of the canal, such a thing would slow their advance by days. Every hour counted. The longer it took, the more ordinance was moved into the mountains of Ethiopia. Time allowed more men to enter the army, for the fever of anti-Spanish sentiment to spread, and for more war drums to sound across the continent. She imagined elders talking to their sons about their own glory days. Stories of Belgians in the Congo, and Brits in Somalia. And of course, stories remembered from when they were boys, told to them by the elders of their youth about the time when the African King surprised the world and brought the white men of Italy to their knees in the same passes that Hassan now fortified. Young men were hearing all these stories now, and they were working their blood hot. When the Spanish landed, there would be a rifle behind every tree, and a machete behind every bush.

They came to the center of the canal. As the men began to work, she watched the ENS Aksum. It was a dark mask of shadowed steel, showing only the thin dance of water reflections and a few dull orange glows mirrored from the city. The Aksum had been silent for some time. Leyla did not know if it had ran out of ammo, or if it was only saving what it still had left. The one thing that comforted her was that there was no way she could imagine its part of the mission failing. How could the Spanish possibly get it out of the way without it sinking and blocking their path? Even if she died here, at least her death would have helped to accomplish that much.

The metal beam stabbed into the water with a muffled splash. She watched as it bobbed back and forth, suspended by a buoy. It jabbed up, passing within a few inches of Elias' head. He dodged, and motioned for her to row. She questioned what they were doing again. How could this not be a waste of manpower? If Elias had been struck by the beam, and if he would have died from it, how idiotic would that have been? A casualty without sacrifice. A vain waste of time.

They rowed back to shore, watching the glowing fires of the battle beyond. Was it getting closer? Anxiety began to bloom inside her. When she saw the men waiting on the shore, waving their hands to get their attention, she knew something was wrong. She felt exposed on the water. If they came within the aim of enemy guns, they be open targets. She scanned the shoreline, looking for any evidence of Spaniards. The time it took to reach land seemed agonizingly long, and when they came ashore, she heard the news that she had been afraid to hear.

"Agents." a soldier grunted, "We have a new trouble."

Port Said, Egypt

The sun had begun to set when the first reinforcements for the Brigada Internacional came ashore, moving up through the bodies scattered across the beach and through the burning remains of the Egyptian and Ethiopian defenders of the airport. They were parceled out where possibly, bringing the 109th strength back up to what one might consider fighting fit. Already those who had fired shots in anger looked down on these new arrivals as “new blood”.

For the newly promoted Sergeant Delgado it meant new orders. He had been summoned to the command post set up in the airports old terminal. The building, as he approached, was a bombed out shell. Miraculously, the control tower still stood despite previous shelling by the Spanish and now sporadic mortaring by the Ethiopian forces.

The jeep dropped him off at the front of the building and he was waved inside by a burly officer in the uniform of the Spanish regular army. His epaulets told Delgado that the man was a major, though he did not recognize the unit insignia. Though, if he was honest with himself, he knew virtually nothing about the Spanish army.

His boots crunched on broken glass and scattered bits of roof tiling as he walked into the building. Rows of empty seats vanished into the fading light on either side of him, the once blue plastic buckets now coated in a thick layer of dust. Shops lay empty, long looted, the security gates lying in ruined heaps on either side of gaping entrances. There were no bodies to be seen but pools of dark dried blood gave testament to the battle that had raged here only a few short hours before.

He stepped over a crumpled mass of steel that had collapsed from the ceiling and into what had once been a food court. The vendors were empty and quiet but the reinforced concrete ceiling gave the assembled officers somewhere relatively safe to hold their meeting. They were gathered around a small table, one left from the food court furniture, and many of them were seated in the almost comically small chairs so common in airports.

They nodded at his approach and few offered him tense smiles. A far cry from the disdain he would have earned from them the day before. Mohammad was already there, his face the only non-white in the group and his smile was broad and genuine. The two Brigada Internacional sergeants were the only ones with any sign of recent battle on their uniforms, the rest of the assembled officers and sergeants were all Spanish regulars who had evidently just landed, or avoided the fighting.

“Welcome Sergeant.” The ranking officer, a Colonel by the looks of it, greeted Delgado as he strode up. “My congratulations on an outstanding offense. I understand your promotion is well merited and certainly deserving of a medal.”

“Thank you sir.” Delgado said with a slight incline of his head.

“It is this bravery that I am going to call upon again. I have to confess that we did not expect you attack to be so successful so our regular troops are still heading ashore so we are going to send you onwards again.” He stabbed a finger onto the map in front of him. “The Navy has reported Ethiopian troops and militia are trying to make the Suez unusable for our ships and we need to put an end to that immediately.”

The finger moved to the airport, then jabbed at Delgado as the Colonel continued to speak. “We need to force the Western edge of the airport and move on the Canal, as quickly and quietly as possible. I need the Brigada Internacional to move out within the hour and move as quickly, and as quietly as possible, through the city to engage those enemy forces trying to block the Canal.”

Delgado had to suppress a grunt of disbelief as he stared at the Colonel. The other mans eyes were intense, almost pleading, as he stared back. Sweat was trickling down from under his helmet and it took Delgado a moment to realize that this Colonel was afraid. Not perhaps for his own life, but certainly of failing his superiors in what was obviously a vital part of the operation.

“Can we count on support from the regular army and naval elements?” Delgado asked. He knew virtually nothing about large scale operations but he had an uncle in the Argentine army who allowed him to join him at the officers’ mess from time to time and he had picked up a smattering of knowledge from listening to them.

“As much as we can give.” Responded the Colonel. He was looking at the map and Delgado could see small marks denoting the locations of the ENS ASKUM and the Spanish fleet where they were trapped into the Canal.

“A night attack with inexperienced troops, this hardly seems like a well thought out plan.” Mohammad had spoken up. His accent was tinged slightly, betraying his Moroccan heritage and several of the officers glared at him, clearly resenting the presence of the black man, let alone his questions. To everyone’s surprise the Colonel did not get angry. Instead he sighed, and his shoulders slumped slightly.

“You’re right Sergeant, it is not a great plan, but at the moment it is I the only plan we have. The Brigada Internacional has been decimated, I know, in fact you only have one senior officer left. But for this fight I don’t want fancy thinking or pretty tactics, I just want you to reach the Canal and put an end to the Ethiopian efforts to block it. I need men of action who can get this done no matter what it takes, have I got those men?”

He looked from Mohammad to Delgado who, after a moment, nodded. “Good.” Said the Colonel. “You have four hundred or so able bodied men, each of you will take two hundred. Go fast, go hard, and take no prisoners, we don’t have time to guard them. Regular troops will continue the attack behind you to clear the areas you pass through. I don’t care how you do it, or how you get there, just fucking do it.”

There was a soldier standing to one side with a pair of back packs and he stepped forward at the Colonels wave and handed one to each Sergeant. Delgado opened his to find a flare pistol and a collection of flares, red, green and yellow.

“The red will light the sky for you, yellow will burn on contact, fire them at enemy positions you want the Navy to bombard. The green will denote a friendly position, be careful with their use, they’re all I have. I scrounged them from the helicopters that are coming in and stole a few from the Navy.”

The two Sergeants, thusly dismissed, turned and hurried from the terminal towards the jeep that still idled out on the tarmac. They climbed into the back seat, the stench of violent death and burning floating to them on the westward breeze.

“I think this may be a suicide mission.” Mohammad commented as the jeeps tires squealed on the tarmac and rushed towards the distant eastern edge of the airport.

“Fuck them.” Delgado said casually. “They’re desperate and like it or not, we have to prove ourselves to the Spanish so let’s do it. We may not be an elite unit but we can be.”

Nothing else was said as they raced across the tarmac, the wind plucking at their hair, each man trying to pretend he was no exhausted as his eyes drooped and their heads bobbed along with the motion of the jeep.

They came to a halt in front of the exhausted Brigada Internacional, the men were scattered about in some long grass, most of them curled up sleeping or smoking quietly. Some stuck up their heads as the jeep arrived, even more sitting up another three jeeps arrived, loaded to the gills with grenades and ammunition. Those who did not wake were soon roused by a gentle prod in their backs. They quickly made a semi-circle around the two Sergeants and more than a few had the faraway look of men who know they were not done yet.

“Gentlemen, we’ve been asked to move out. It seems that the Navy can’t sort its own shit out and we are going to have to pick up their skirts for them.” Delgado spoke loudly and more than a few chuckled at the mention of the uselessness of the Navy. It wasn’t strictly true but nothing brought men together more effectively than a mutual scorn of something else. “We are moving out in 30 minutes to move fast and hard towards the Canal. We are not taking prisoners. Rearm yourselves, get some food and water in you, and make sure your bayonets are sharp. That is all.”

The men fell out with little comment, reaching out to take the ammunition from the Spanish soldiers who are brought it. For the first time since he had joined the Brigada Internacional Delgado saw something that made him smile slightly. The irregular soldiers were treating the regular Spanish soldiers with the same disdain they had experienced only 24 hours before. They were the ones who had paid with blood, their uniforms bearing testament to the struggles they had seen. They were becoming more than a scared misfit collection of men, they were becoming soldiers.

Hartwell, GA

Russell Reed sat on his deck overlooking Lake Hartwell with a drink in hand. He grew up not far from here in Lavonia, the only son of an upper middle class family. His daddy was a banker who dabbled in politics and fancied himself as something of a kingmaker in Franklin County. He found out the truth when he tried a run at the state legislature. The men who took Jonathan Reed’s money hand over fist were not pleased to see him actually enter a race. He was slandered throughout Franklin County as a man who cared for nothing but cash, they said once he was in the state house he would work with the big interest to take farmer’s land, they said he had changed his name and was actually Jewish. Who, they asked, would vote for a greedy Jew in the pocket of big business? When Election Day came, Jonathan Reed only got five percent of the vote and retired from politics all together. For ten year old Russell, the lessons his father’s failed campaign taught him were extremely valuable.

At twenty-five Russell beat a six man field and was elected to Georgia’s Ninth Congressional District. The victory was the result of nearly six years of hard work, Russell traveling around the district and meeting people. He talked not to the old pols that ran the counties, but the people on the outs with them and the young ones eager for their shot. Five years consolidating power and votes in the district laid the groundwork for an organization that would one day spread around the state. The organization and Russell campaigned tirelessly day and night across the district, any place where a registered voter might be he went out and met them. He refuted the old claims of his Jewish blood, showing a crowd in Habersham his family tree traced all the way back to England.

Twenty years in congress, twenty years climbing the rungs of the ladder while his statewide influence grew. Russell started to run unopposed after his third reelection to office, the opposition in the Ninth gave up. He was elected Speaker of the House just as civil war broke out, the old fault lines of north and south ripping apart into a new conflict. Unlike most of his southern brethren, Russell stayed in DC and continued to act as Speaker through the war. He knew the war would be temporary, but the gavel was something he had wanted his entire life. Five years later he was proved right when the south was brought back into the fold. Soon after he announced his intention to run for the Senate and faced an uphill battle. The people of Georgia called him traitor and Yankee sympathizer, the old Jew claims were brought back with a vengeance. What the people of Georgia didn’t count on was the loyalty of his organization, the men he had cajoled and horse-traded with for over twenty years, the men who proved they would do what it took for Russell. With a razor thin margin of just a thousand votes, he was elected into the Senate. From there the journey repeated itself.

Now Russell was majority leader of that body. He ran the old chamber with an iron fist. That institution that for so long was seen as inept and slow moving now ran like a well-oiled machine. He used his gifts for politicking and manipulation to get the ninety-five other men under his control. Where Jonathan Reed had failed miserably under the misguided notion that he was a kingmaker, Russell was king. And he was just on the second leg of his journey. This plan was something hatched long ago, something he never spoke about aloud with anyone. Slowly but surely he had been acquiring contacts across the country, men who could control and influence delegates and electoral votes. In the Midwest and small pockets in the northeast they were working for him. Depending on how the meeting he had scheduled today went, he could use those men as both weapon and bargaining tool.

“Senator, sir?”

Willy, Russell’s assistant, stood at the edge of the deck with his arms behind his back. Russell stood and nodded to Willy, his signal for the younger man to leave. Behind Willy stood the impressive figure of Michael Norman, all medals and stars. The general wore his military uniform with the cluster of five stars on the shoulder and rows of ribbons and medals on his chest. For his part, Russell wore khaki pants and a button-up shirt.

“General,” Russell said with a smile. “Welcome to my home. Won’t you have a seat?”

Norman took a chair next to Russell and looked out at the lake, commenting on the impressive view and lovely house. A moment later Willy appeared at their side, passing the general a drink. Russell sent Willy away again and watched Norman sip his beverage.

“General, I want to congratulate you on that magnificent performance last week in Washington. You held the whole world in the palm of your hands and managed to bring some sanity back to the situation.”

Russell had watched from outside DC, watching on the television as they showed Norman walking into the city, alone and unarmed to speak to the rogue military men who occupied it. The country watched all night, waiting for news before he emerged just before noon the next day with the soldiers withdrawing from Washington and allowing free elections to take place without force.

“Thank you, senator. Sending in more troops would have just escalated it. What those men in Washington needed was to listen to reason.”

“Mmm,” Russell said with a mouthful of bourbon. He swallowed it and looked towards Norman. “And I bet they also needed a candidate, someone who would listen to their needs. Someone who can sympathize with their position, someone who shares their same background.”

He smiled when he saw Norman shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“When do you announce your candidacy, General?”

“Soon. Within the next few weeks at the earliest and a month before the convention at the latest. Running was something I had been considering, but recent events forced my hand.”

Russell nodded and took another sip of his drink. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn’t prompt Norman. That was the way he handled favors. He would not suggest or propose. If someone wanted something from him it was their job to ask. No, the general had to ask himself.

“If I want this to succeed I’ll need your help, senator.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Several things. I need the south in my corner if I plan on making a serious run for the White House. I’m experienced in military politics, but I’m a novice in other political arenas. I need your help in courting delegates and political bosses.”

“Why do you need my help with delegates? You’re Michael Norman, war hero and now peacetime hero. You’re from the south.”

“I’m from Virginia, but to a farmer from Alabama that may as well be Boston. My political agenda could ruffle many feathers in the south, civil rights chief among those items. I can get votes across the country, but I need the south to stay solid for me, and I need you to do it.”

“The quid pro quo, General? A cabinet post?”

“Vice president.”

Russell scoffed and took another sip.

“I think it was Daniel Webster who was offered the same role and said ‘I don’t propose to be buried until I’m dead.’ Why would I give up all the power I have in the Senate to sit around all day, twiddling my thumbs.”
Norman gently placed his drink on the glass table between the two men and nodded to himself before he spoke.

“I’ve heard of your reputation, senator. The way you can read politicians like an open book. Nobody is better than you are in political warfare. But I also have a talent for reading men, but my battlefield is an actual battlefield. I’ve conducted strategy on a massive scale. I think I can read your intentions and strategy pretty well. You want to be president. You have never stated it, but everyone in Washington knows it’s true. The only problem is where you’re from. Zachary Taylor was the last southern president elected, and that was in 1849. The first civil war caused the streak, and now the second one has caused at least another hundred years before one is elected. I’m from a border state, I fought for the US in both wars, and I can overcome the Southern taint through my record in the war. You can’t, and it doesn’t matter that you were loyal during the war, all that matters is that little GA next to your name on the ballot. Then there's the glamour of running the Senate, or lack thereof. The real poltico insiders know who you are and what you can do, but John Q. Citizen has no idea who you are. Ask ten people on the street who you and they'll all say who? If you’re my vice president you’ll be a key adviser in my administration with a place in the national spotlight. I’m afraid I can’t give you any true power without throwing off the balance of the three branches, but you voice will be heard and you will help make decisions. At the end of my presidency, four years or eight however I feel, you will be the heir apparent with the endorsement of the former president, the Democratic Party’s infrastructure, and your own talents and people at your disposal. Senator, you can’t lose.”

Russell took his time replying, finishing his drink and staring off at the lake in silence while Norman watched him decide. He shook the ice cubes and placed the empty glass on the table before extending a hand to Norman.

“When do we start?”

Houston, Texas
Two Months Later

Russell leaned back in his seat while the men talked. The six men gathered in the smoky hotel conference room were informally known as the Lords of Texas. They were comprised of media moguls, oil barons, and political bosses who each own their own fiefdom of political power and influence in the state. If anyone running for statewide or federal office in Texas wanted to be taken serious, they needed the support of one of the Lords. What Russell was asking for was support from them all.

“Gentlemen,” he said, holding a hand up to quiet the din. “I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

“Well, that’s your own little wagon,” said one of the men. Jerry “Buck” Buchannan was the undisputed boss of South Texas. Six counties near the border were under his control. They were heavily Mexican and heavily corrupt. They voted how the jefe wanted, as many times as the jefe wanted.

“You shouldn’t have hitched your horse to a goddamn liberal bleeding heart,” said Charles Mayhew, owner of sixteen major papers and television stations across the state.

“We don’t give a flying fuck what he did against Canada. His talk is too socialistic for my taste. I don’t want those goddamn bastards back in control of this country.”

The men broke out into general rabbles of agreement with Mayhew, one after the other rallying against the Norman’s liberal policies. Russell let the men talk while he stood up and fixed himself a glass of water. When he returned to the table, he stood and talked while cradling the glass.

“So, you don’t throw your influence and money into the Norman campaign to elect him president. What you do is throw your influence and money into the Norman campaign to elect me Vice-President. He has given me his assurance and I believe him to be true when he says I will be a key and close advisor in his administration. I can stop him from getting too liberal with his agenda.”

“Seems simpler to me to elect the other fella,” grunted Dallas oilman Pete Smith. “Your promises and assurances won’t be a damn thing if he wins and you and Norman ain't in the White House.”

“Oh, no,” Russell said softly. “You want to do everything in your power to get General Norman in the White House, at the very least do everything in your power to make Texas go his way in the election. Do y’all want to know why?”

He drained the glass of water and held it in his hands as he spoke.

“A Norman loss in the election sends me back to the Senate, back to the spot of majority leader where I can continue to work hard. Where I can work hard on those bills that will help our country so much, bills like the FCC media monopoly bill that will force any one company from owning more than three newspapers, radio, or television stations to sell every media outlet to get them at or below the maximum. The chairman of the FCC was appointed by the Senate, after my approval as Leader of course.”

Mayhew shifted in his seat and played with his necktie while Russell walked around the table. He stopped by Pete Smith and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Or what about that big natural gas pipeline they want to put in Texas, the one that’s going to go all the way to California to provide so many people with good Texas gas? That bill is in committee and a word from me to the chairman, a Democrat who is chairman by my good graces, and it dies in committee like a toddler strangled in the crib.”

Russell took his place back at the head of the table and met Buck Buchanan’s gaze.

“Or the very important work the Justice Department’s doing, investigating voter fraud across the country, and particularly in the South. The steering committee that decides where they go is chaired by my Whip. You see, y’all fail to realize that the power you hold is so delicate.”

He banged the glass on the wood table with a loud thud. It held together and Russell showed it to the men.

“It’ll survive a thud or two, but an all out assault on that structure?”

He snarled and tossed the glass across the table, where it crashed against the far wall and shattered into a dozen pieces.

“You call yourself Lords of Texas, but I am the Lord of the US Senate. If Texas goes to the Republicans, or if Texas goes our way but I still sense anything less than complete devotion to the cause, I will do everything in my power to make sure you all pay.”

Russell took a deep breath and straightened his tie before smiling at the stunned men.

“General Norman’s people will be in touch. Y’all have a good day, and remember to vote Democrat. “

Washington DC
Election Day

“Repeat after me: I, Michael Benjamin Norman.”

“I, Michael Benjamin Norman—“

“Solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States--”

“Solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States—“

Russell stood off to the side with his wife, watching as Norman took the oath of office. He cut quite a dashing figure, the president-elect with his full head of steely gray hair and tall figure with a rugged jaw line. Like a Hollywood ideal of what a president should look like. He wore a black suit with a blue tie. An American flag pin was on one lapel of his suit, a five-star pin on the other lapel. For his part Russell wore a similar cut suit but with a black tie. He took his oath of office minutes earlier and accepted the polite applause that came from the assembled crowd. Nobody came to see him sworn in.

Norman carried Texas and the entire South all the way up to Maryland. He also took California and the entire West Coast, the Southwest, New York, and the Northeast. If not for Vice President Mitchell's strong Midwestern base, Norman would have won every state's popular vote and electoral college vote. It was the largest presidential margin of victory since James Monroe was reelected unopposed one hundred and sixty years earlier.

“So help me God.“

“So help me God.“

A cheer went out from the nearly one and a half million people gathered at the capitol. President Norman shook hands with the Chief Justice and smiled, hugging his wife and sons before taking to the podium to give his inaugural address. Russell had a hand in the speech he was about to give, but just a slight edification or two. Like that meeting on the lake back in the summer, Russell was slightly surprised at Norman’s speech writing skill. That was the second time he had underestimated the president, something he was learning the hard way not to do. The crowd quieted as Norman looked down at his speech and then back up at the crowd.

“Potential. We are a nation filled to the brim with it. Ever since 1776, it was said that it would only be a matter of time before the United States became one of the great powers of the world. Years of territorial expansion and civil war led to a realization of that dream after the Spanish-American War. We were poised to become one of the greatest nation states of all time, so worried was the rest of Europe they called our country The American Peril… but we faltered. When the world was consumed with war, we turned our backs on our destiny and we have paid the price. Potential has been squandered through mismanagement; potential has been delayed due to threats both foreign and domestic. This nation has been battered by war twice in the last fifty years, two wars I saw the horrors of first hand. Damage has been done, and the scars of internal strife have yet to heal. Only through growth can we heal. This is why we must finally reach out potential, we must finally manifest our destiny, and we must heed the call and take our place on the world stage, a place we have been destined to take for two hundred and four years. We will rebuild this country and set it on a path that will show the world that we are ready to become something more than an also-ran, and the next century to come shall be called the American Century.”

The crowd wildly applauded while the president paused, the supporters behind him rising to give him a standing ovation. Russell was among them, smiling as he clapped his hands and saw the mass of people clapping along with the new president’s agenda, a plan to get the country back on its feet and back on the path that had been laid down so long ago.