Whitehall, London

Fraser Campbell slept soundly in his Downing Street bed with his wife beside him. Joyce had crept home a little past midnight. The thoughts had gnawed at the Prime Minister the whole evening and he’d afforded himself an early night to keep them at bay. It was three o’clock in the morning and for the second time in as many weeks the shrill ring of a phone interrupted the Prime Minister’s sleep. A groan left Fraser’s throat and his eyes opened slowly as he lifted himself from his bed and reached for the phone. It was Hobbs. At this time of night it was only ever going to be Hobbs. If the Director of Communications was calling in the dead of the night it meant one thing and one thing only: bad news. The last thing Fraser Campbell needed was more bad news.

Campbell’s gruff voice slunk down the receiver. “What do you want? It’s late.”

The response from the other side of the phone elicited a heavy sigh and one of Fraser’s chubby hands reached for the bridge of his nose.

“How many are dead?”

It was South Africa. That mess that the Palace had insisted upon dragging Britain into had caused Fraser headache after headache. Tonight’s headache sounded particularly gruesome. A platoon had stumbled upon some murdered British ex-pats in Cape Town. They’d been trussed up like animals, hung from the ceiling of a shack, with some warning smeared beside them. On the end of the line Hobbs hesitated to recount the dead and Fraser’s temper wore thin.

“How many, Hobbs?”

Nineteen. Six in the first shack, four more in the next, and then nine crammed into the last one. It was too many to ignore and definitely too many to sweep under the carpet. It would need a response. Beside him Joyce stirred from her sleep by her husband’s conversation.

“What’s wrong?”

She was beautiful, even in the dead of the night, though Fraser could barely look at her knowing where he’d been earlier in the night. He placed a comforting hand on her side and smiled at his wife curtly as he directed his mouth away from the receiver of the phone.

“Go back to sleep, Joyce.”

Hobbs continued to regale Fraser with the details and the Prime Minister lifted the phone from the bedside table. He pulled on a robe and sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the room with the phone resting on his lap.

“This is the last thing we fucking need,” Fraser sighed. “Fine, call round the cabinet and tell them I’ll be holding an emergency meeting in the Cabinet Office in the morning. I expect all of them there and I expect them all there on time. Now that whole business with Oldfield is behind us this week is to be about the passage of the Repatriation Bill and nothing else. So we need to nip this mess in Cape Town in the bud before it’s even started.”

The Prime Minister’s Director of Communications mumbled in agreement on the other side of the phone. Without his glasses Fraser couldn’t make out the hands on the clock face on the wall beside him and squinted hard at them. Slowly the blurred clock face came into focus and Fraser realised it was half three. He stood up from the armchair and took one last glance at his wife before he muttered down the phone.

“Meet me in an hour in my office.”

It had been one thing after another this past month. Oldfield, Clarke, that mess with Hewitt and the Police Commissioner, and now he had this situation in South Africa to contend with. Fraser’s grip on power was tenuous enough, it would be even more so if he couldn’t pass the Voluntary Repatriations Bill tomorrow afternoon, and Moore would no doubt make the most of British ex-pats being murdered on Fraser’s watch. As much as he was ashamed to admit it facing Moore this morning worried him the most of all. Moore had cuckolded him his entire life in every way but one and now Fraser’s humiliation was complete. Moore had taken that which Campbell loved the most. It would take all the Prime Minister had to look him in his smug face tomorrow morning.

But he would. He would look them all in the face, all those that had doubted him to this point, and continue to prove them wrong. He’d lead the country to a better future or die trying.

Or it would have all been for nothing.


Guildford, Surrey

Fraser Campbell’s voice sounded in the living room of Dominic Hewitt’s childhood home. Hewitt had come back to Guildford for a few days to visit his parents now that he had some time on his hands. He didn’t come home often, in large part because of his father, but his mother had been asking after him for so long it felt rude to put his visit off for much longer. With Hewitt losing his job at Downing Street his mother was particularly concerned about him. Everyone seemed concerned about him. He’d studied his entire life to make it to Downing Street and now all of that was gone. He couldn’t blame them for being concerned. Though having been at the heart of government and see it for the viper’s nest that it was the former Press Officer felt relieved at having made it out. Hobbs would have eaten him alive eventually – better that it happened when he was young and could still make something of himself than when he was past it. That’s what he’d been telling himself since Campbell had let him go. He’d told himself it so much he’d almost started to believe it.

There had been a slew of murders in Cape Town. The Prime Minister had announced that he’d be sending more ground troops to South Africa. It was a good call, one Hewitt would have argued for in Downing Street, and it would put the matter to bed for a time. Only for a time though. South Africa was a ticking time bomb. Britain needed to win and win decisively or people were going to turn against the campaign.

“What’s wrong, Dominic?”

From behind him Hewitt noticed his mother stood at the kitchen counter looking at him with a sympathetic smile. Diane Hewitt was a curvaceous woman in her late fifties with blonde hair that was rapidly greying over the past few years. She was Dominic’s rock in hard times. She’d notice the frown on her son’s face before he’d even realised it was there.

“Nothing’s wrong, mother, I guess it just hasn’t really sunk in yet that… that I’m on the outside looking in. You know? This time last week I would have been in the room drafting the PM’s statement and now I’m watching it on the television like everyone else. I’m a nobody all over again.”

Diane shook her head at her son’s pessimism. “You are not a nobody, Dominic.”

The grating laugh of Nigel Hewitt sounded from beside Dominic. Nigel was a heavy man with a full head of blonde-grey hair and a craggy face. There was an uncanny resemblance between Dominic in his father that people often remarked upon. Had his father not let himself go in his twilight years they would have been hard to tell apart if not for the wrinkles. Like Dominic he was always incredibly well turned out. He was wearing a light blue jumper with a white shirt underneath, some chinos, and a pair of light brown brogues. In his hand was a glass of brandy that he sipped at from time to time. Nigel was a very different kind of rock to his son. In fact, he was his son’s rock and his hard place at times. The past few days had proved to be one of those times.

“Stop molly-coddling the child. He very much is a bloody nobody, Diane. Hundreds of thousands of pounds pissed down the drain all because someone decided to play the big shot whilst his boss was out.”

Diane sighed at her husband’s unpleasantness. “Please, Nigel, there’s no need for that.”

The whole family had endured Nigel Hewitt’s complete lack of regard for their feelings for decades. Four decades working for British Petroleum had made the once soft-spoken and gentle Nigel into an unforgiving man. Hewitt wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his father smile. He’d long since become used to his father’s antics.

“It’s fine, mother.”

“See?” Nigel said as he took a sip of brandy. “You heard the child.”

Diane Hewitt shook her head once more and disappeared into the kitchen. Once Nigel was certain she was out of earshot he leant in closer to his son. Dominic could smell the brandy on his father’s breath as his lips parted.

“At least you’re not thin-skinned, boy, I’ll give you that. You’re going to need a tough hide on you if you’re going to make it after that cock-up of yours, I’ll tell you that much for free. I’ll be damned if the Hewitt name is going to be pissed down the river because of you. You know, generations ago the Hewitts were revered. The Troubles damn near ruined us, ruined everything the Hewitts worked at for generations, and through sweat and blood I managed to claw back every inch of respect we were owed. Your father did that, boy, your father made this family great again. Never forget that.”

There was some truth to his father’s tale. Once upon a time the Hewitts had been as close to royalty as one could be without actually being royalty in Britain. If his late grandfather was to be believed they had been royalty once. The Troubles hadn’t “ruined” the family though. The family fortune had reduced from the hundreds of millions to the tens of millions. That’s what passed for ruin in Nigel Hewitt’s book. British Petroleum had gone from strength to strength over the past few decades. North Sea oil and expansion into Africa and the Middle East had saw to that. Yet still Nigel Hewitt took every opportunity to remind his son he single-handedly saved the Hewitt name.

This one time Dominic refused to humour his father and instead smiled wryly at him. “How could I? You tell the same story every time I see you.”

His father’s face turned purple with rage.

“You don’t take that tone with me, you ungrateful little sh-”

Before the words had left his mouth Diane Hewitt appeared from within the kitchen. She snatched the remote from the arm of Nigel Hewitt’s armchair and took the glass of brandy from between his fingers. On her soft round face sat a deep frown.

“It’s been one day and already the pair of you are arguing. I will not have it, not from either of you, especially not after the year this family has had. You’re going to have to learn to peacefully coexist. Do you hear me?”

Dominic nodded in his mother’s direction. Nigel sat deadly still and stared at his wife in silence. After several seconds he extended his hand towards his wife and spoke in a voice that was as menacing as it was gentle.

“The remote, Diane.”

Diane Hewitt handed the remote over to her husband without a word and disappeared off into the house without another word. Nigel pointed the remote at the television and turned the volume up a few bars. Once he was satisfied he set the remote back down on the side of the armchair and sat back into his seat.

After several seconds he looked to his son with a smirk. “Look on the bright side, boy, you won’t have to see that quisling bastard’s face every morning anymore.”

“Fraser was always nice to me,” Hewitt muttered as he spotted the pale man passing a Downing Street windows. “Hobbs was the problem.”


Chelmsley Wood, Birmingham

Opposite from Honor Clarke an elderly man with thinning white hair slurped from a cup of tea. Iain Blaney was the closest thing that Honor had to a father figure since losing contact with her father other a decade ago. Blaney had nurtured Honor will to learn, her desire for change, and moulded her into the firebrand she had become. Blaney had once been the Director of The Putney Society at which Honor now worked. The Society argued for greater legal and political representation for ordinary people and making the legal system and the trappings of government more transparent. It had over the years transformed into an anti-war pressure group that nibbled at the fringes of republicanism. Never was its support for a republic stated outright or the group would have long since been shut down and those arrested. Yet with Clarke at the forefront of its work it had come closer than ever before. It was something that concerned Blaney but Clarke had assured him she knew what she was doing. Honor always knew what she was doing.

The old man peered up from his tea at the television in the corner of the café. The Prime Minister was on screen and on the ticker at the bottom there were details about the attack in South Africa that Blaney’s old eyes could not make out. Clarke looked over her shoulder at the screen and scowled.

“How many dead this time?”

Honor squinted towards the screen to make out the numbers. “Nineteen.”

Blaney sighed.

“This is what happens. We told them at the time that they would regret invading South Africa, that there would be trouble, but did they listen? No, they did not. The King wanted his Empire back and Campbell rolled over for him and let him scratch his stomach. Now we’re all less safe as a result.”

Honor glanced around at the café’s other patrons and then towards Iain. “You should be careful with that kind of talk.”

A shocked look appeared on the old man’s face. “Careful? Who are you and what have you done with Honor Clarke? I didn’t realise that mess with your flat had shaken you so much.”

“It’s not that. Conrad and I aren’t on good terms at the moment.”

Conrad Murray had been another of Blaney’s endless protégés. He wasn’t quite the intellect that Clarke was but there was something to him. Blaney had been disappointed when he’d chosen to pursue teaching instead of following in Iain and Honor footsteps. Though Honor was a once in a lifetime orator and as good a polemicist as Blaney had ever met – she was still coloured. That wasn’t an issue for the old man, far from it, but it did make it somewhat harder to change people’s minds. Oftentimes they would harden at the very sight of Clarke. Murray could have been The Putney Society’s acceptable face. Instead he opted to become an irrelevancy.

To that end Blaney had little nice to say of the boy and shrugged his shoulders casually by way of an answer. “I’m sure he’ll come round.”

“How are the preparations for the march going?”

The march. It was the reason Blaney was here this morning. The Putney Society and what remnants of an anti-war movement remained in Britain had planned a march against British involvement in South Africa next week.

“Things are coming on very nicely,” Blaney said with a smile. “We’re expecting a thousand people, maybe a little more, and that’s just from Birmingham. If Manchester and Liverpool are good to their word we might manage to break five thousand.”

Clarke stared off into the distance, her thoughts centered on her argument with Conrad, and the accusation he’d leveled at her the other night. Posturing. Was it all posturing? Was she wasting her time? She had been asking herself that ever since. Usually Clarke’s resolve was unshakeable but to hear that from the man she loved had made her question herself for the first time in a long time. What good would some march do? Campbell had no intention of pulling out of South Africa.

Blaney sensed a doubt in her and stared hard at Clarke. “What’s wrong? You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

She wanted to put word to her doubts but met with the glassy eyes of her mentor she crumpled.

“No, of course not.”

It couldn’t be posturing. If the march they had planned was posturing, if the protest at the police station the other day was posturing, then everything Honor did had been a waste of time. She would have wasted years of her life. No, the march would go ahead and she would show Conrad that he was wrong. It wasn’t posturing. It was real change. They were going to make their voices heard even if Fraser Campbell and his government didn’t want them to.


Brixton, London

Simone Gayle watched as the heavy-set man in the Harrington jacket stared down at the flowers gathered on the ground of Angell Town estate. Her father had tried to hide her from what had happened here but Simone had heard all about it at school. A policeman had been shot. She wasn’t sure whether the fat man knew the policeman or was just here to lay flowers like the other people that had passed through this morning. She glanced over towards her father lifting boxes up and down the estate’s stairway and then wandered over to the fat man. Simone stopped beside him and looked down at the flowers before turning towards the man.

“Are you lost?”

The man jumped as if unaware of Simone’s presence. “Lost? No, I’m not lost. I’m here to visit a friend.”

“Me too,” Simone said with a point towards Keenan Gayle struggling up the stairs with their possession in hand. “Dad says we’re going to stay with one of his friends until we can find somewhere else to live.”

The fat man smiled uncomfortably and looked towards Simone’s father as if trying to catch the man’s attention. His gestured went unnoticed and instead he tucked his hands into his pockets and decided to humour the girl.

“What happened to your old place?”

“The tall man from the council took it from us,” Simone said with a kick to the ground. “He said that now that Uncle Errol is dead we have to find someplace else.”

There in the man’s eyes was a flicker or something. Simone was too young to recognise it but had she been a few years older she would have. The fat man had heard the name before.

“Errol Clarke?”

As the young girl opened her mouth to answer she heard her father’s voice shouting in her direction. “Simone? Simone? What are you doing? You leave that man alone.”

Keenan Gayle handed a box to his friend and cantered towards his daughter and the man. There were flickers of paint along his clothing and his boots were thick with dust. He was strong, taller than the fat man by several inches, but clearly still young. He took his daughter by the arm as he reached her and pulled her behind him with a nervous smile.

“I’m sorry about Simone. She’s too nosy for her own good sometimes,” Gayle said with a chuckle. “Do you live round here?”

The fat man smiled and gestured down towards the flowers beside them. “No, no, I just came to pay my respects.”

A pained expression crossed Keenan’s face as he considered what had happened to James Oldfield. His daughter watched on, curious to see how her father interacted with a white man, and looked to the picture of the murdered policeman at the center of the makeshift mural.

“It’s a damn shame. Don’t get me wrong I’m no friend of the police but what they did to that boy was awful. No one deserves to die like that.”

The fat man nodded in agreement as he too looked down the picture. “You can say that again.”

There was a sadness in the fat man’s eyes. Even at Simone’s tender age she could see it. He looked at the picture as if the slain man were a relative of some sort. Keenan and the man stood in silence for several seconds before eventually Gayle cleared his throat to cut through it.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“It’s Ray,” muttered the fat man as he extended his hand towards Keenan. “Ray Newman.”

Keenan and smiled and shook the Newman’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Ray, my name’s Keenan. You’ve already met Simone. We used to live over on Moorlands Estate but we’re between houses at the moment and a friend offered us a place to stay for a little while. Just until we’re back on our feet again.”

“Yeah, Simone mentioned something about an Uncle Errol.”

This time it was Simone’s father that fell silent.

“She… she did?” Keenan said as he looked down at his daughter with a disapproving frown. “Well, she should have known better than to talk out of turn like that but as I said the girl’s too nosy for her own good sometimes. It’s going to get her in trouble one of these days.”

A sympathetic smile appeared on Newman’s face. “What happened?”

“Same thing that happened to your friend,” Keenan said with a shrug. “God had another purpose for him in mind and called him up to heaven earlier than we expected.”

“It wasn’t God,” Simone muttered from behind her father’s arm. “They killed him.”

“Simone,” Keenan barked as he commanded his daughter into silence.

It was clear that talk of Clarke’s murder had made Gayle uncomfortable and he gestured towards the boxes that awaited him.

“Listen, Ray, it was nice to meet you but we need to get back to unpacking our things. We’re up at 12D, okay? Stop by sometime for a cup of tea or something.”

Newman’s round face grew red with embarrassment and he removed a hand from his pockets to scratch at his neck. “Ah, well that’s very nice of you but I don’t actually live around here.”

Keenan shrugged his shoulders. His awkwardness seemed to have passed somewhat and he smiled at Newman encouragingly as muttered to his daughter to make her way towards the boxes.

“Yeah, well, you seem to know the area well enough and Simone seems to like you so consider the offer open-ended.”

As Simone wandered over to the boxes she waved towards Ray with a smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Newman.”

Keenan and Ray shook hands again and Gayle followed after his daughter to resume their task. Ray Newman stood alone, staring at the flowers that had been laid in memory of James Oldfield, and considered the advice that Alice Oldfield had given him at Oldfield’s memorial service. He could still help people even when he wasn’t in the uniform. People like Keenan and Simone. Even if they were… coloureds they were still people and they needed help too. James would have helped them in a heartbeat and Ray could still help them. He could go to Paul and tell them to work the case properly or even better he could work it himself for them. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with himself at the moment. He looked towards the father and daughter struggling with their boxes and made a silent promise. Not to them but to James Oldfield. He was going to help them.

Ray was going to bring Errol Clarke’s murderer to justice.

Natchez, Mississippi

Bedlam.

That was the only word that came to Boyd Rafferty's mind to describe the scene in front of him.

The small house just off the dirt road was a pile of smoking rubble, still smoldering in the early morning light. Around the house were firefighters cleaning up wreckage while the Adams County Sheriff's Department handled the bodies. Six tarp-covered bodies lay on the grass beside the house, four of the tarps were so much bigger than the tiny bodies they covered. Under those six tarps was the entire Johnson family. The firemen found Shelby and the children in the cellar, dead from smoke inhalation. Boyd was thankful they had died before the fire touched them. Will Johnson wasn't so lucky. They found him strung up on the live oak beside the house while the fire blazed. The man's face was beaten into pulp so much so that they were just assuming it was Will since it was his house and his family in the fire.

The sheriff's department also handled crowd control around the crime scene. What seemed like the entire black community of Adams County stood on the other side of the cordon. Plenty were yelling and protesting and singing their songs, but plenty still just looked on in some kind of stupor. It looked to Boyd like a sense of defeat so acute that it bordered on heartbreak. Those were the people's gaze whom Boyd hated meeting the most. He could handle outrage and anger, but he could not stand to see that soulless gaze from the people who could not comprehend the scope of the violence.

"Boyd!"

Terry Wilkerson, Adams County Sheriff, ambled over to Boyd with a dribble of tobacco juice on his lip.

"What are you doing here, son? Ain't no charges been filed yet."

"A phone call woke me up," he said softly. "I had to see it for myself."

"Me and my deputies will do what we can to see that those who committed this crime are arrested," said Wilkerson. "Then we'll let you take it from there, counselor."

Boyd was just one of a half-dozen junior lawyers working for the Sixth District Attorney of Mississippi. Adams County and three other adjacent counties made up the Sixth District. A native of Adams County and the most experienced of the DA's prosecutors, Boyd was Assistant District Attorney responsible for all prosecutions in Adams County.

"I want my own investigators involved in this one," said Boyd. "People I can trust."

Wilkerson snorted and spat a wad of tobacco juice at Boyd's feet. His three hundred dollar loafers nearly ruined by thirty-five cent chaw. "I don't think I like your tone, son."

"Too goddamn bad, sheriff." Boyd thrust a finger towards Wilkerson. "For weeks y'all been getting reports from negroes in the county about threats of violence and you just sat on your asses. As soon as I get back to the DA's office, I will request state and federal assistance on this one."

Wilkerson's already ruddy face went even redder, a shade of beet red mixed with purple. He slapped Boyd's finger away with his pudgy hand and pushed his face up into Boyd's personal space. Boyd could smell the tobacco on Wilkerson's breath and felt spittle hit his chin as the sheriff hissed his warning.

"You goddamn Raffertys are all the same! Just because your granddaddy made all that money, you think you're better than the rest of the county, you think you can talk to anyone like you damn well please. You ain't gonna talk to me like that."

"Sheriff."

Wilkerson stepped back just as Boyd was preparing to swing his balled fist into the sheriff's face. Instead, he took a deep breath and watched the fat man amble away in the wake of his deputy. Boyd followed after them to see what was going on. The crowd on the other side of the crime scene tape parted as two young men carried an unconscious elderly woman towards the tape.

"We need an ambulance," one of them shouted. "Mrs. Tillman done fainted."

"Y'all gonna have to get a car for her," Wilkerson told the crowd. "We can't put her in an ambulance. Adams county ain't got any for coloreds."

An angry murmur went through the crowd. The last thing these people needed to be reminded of was segregation and how the people that were supposed to protect them had no place for them.

"Here," Boyd said as he tossed his keys to the deputy beside Wilkerson. "Take my car. If the county government won't provide for, then I'll help."

Wilkerson looked long and hard at Boyd before spitting on the ground. Slowly, two deputies helped the young men carry the old lady through the crowd to Boyd's car. The angry murmur seemed to grow. Boyd heard more shouts and yells and protest before--

"We don't need to be here," someone from the crowd yelled.

The people seemed to stir and give a wide berth to someone in the center. Boyd stood on his tip toes and saw a man he recognized standing in the middle, his arms up and speaking loudly. James Calhoun, that was his name. Boyd had never met the man, but he remembered him from the protest at the courthouse a few months ago.

"All we're seeing here is a reminder of how powerless we are. It does nothing but makes us angry, which we have every right to be. Six people are dead, four of them children. And who speaks for them? Look around and see who all is here besides us. You got the sheriff, Mr. Rafferty, and a few deputies and that's it. If this were a white family, not even a rich one like Mr Rafferty's family, the sheriff's department would be all over this place like a fly on a cow pie. Will Johnson was a good man, but I'm afraid he and his family will not get their justice. That's why we need to leave, because if we stay here we realize the truth. Justice does not exist for our kind. In Mississippi, justice is for white people."

The crowd let out claps and amens at Calhoun's words.

"We need to all pray, not for Will and Shelby and the children, because I rightfully believe they're in a better place. I rightfully believe that they are in heaven, at the side of a God who loves everyone regardless of the color of their skin. No, we need to pray for Sheriff Wilkerson and Mr. Rafferty and all the other white people of Adams County that decide who gets justice and who doesn't. Because we've seen this here before many times, and we know the end result. We know justice will not visit those who committed this heinous act. So pray, pray that God touches their hearts and shows them the light."

The crowd whooped and let out more amens. Boyd caught Calhoun's eye. Calhoun stared straight ahead at him, seemingly looking through him. In these parts, that was the most condemning stare a negro could give and get away with. Boyd couldn't look at him and instead stared down at his feet. He felt ridiculous in his three hundred dollar loafers and five hundred dollar suit. Calhoun was right. Despite his money and his Ivy League education, Boyd was part of the system whose inaction silently condoned atrocities like what happened to the Johnson family.

Sheriff Wilkerson spat another glob of brown liquid towards the cheering and chanting crowd. Boyd saw hate in the man's flushed face. He knew he made the right decision by asking for the help of state and federal agents. Wilkerson would never seriously investigate this case. He'd already made his mind up that justice would not be given to the Johnson family.

"Hey, sheriff," Boyd said as he walked over.

The fat man turned his head just in time to catch Boyd's left hook square in the jaw. Spit and blood and tobacco juice went flying into the air as Wilkerson crumpled to the ground like a leaf. He muttered something and stared up at Boyd with wide eyes and a crazed look on his face.

"I can talk to you any goddamn way I please," Boyd adjusted his cufflinks and spoke softly. "I'm a Rafferty. I can buy and sell your cracker ass a hundred times over if I want. You work for the people of Adams County and you work for me. Don't forget that. If I find out you're obstructing this case or impeding its progress in any way, I will use all my wealth and influence to have you run out of office and run out of this county."

Wilkerson held on to his swollen jaw as he spoke. "You son of a bitch. I'll kill you for this."

"Try me," Boyd said as he stepped over him. "And I'm taking your car, sheriff. I need a ride back into town since those boys took that old colored lady in my car. You can catch a ride with one of your deputies."

La Cabeza, Spanish Morocco

Merciful night fell upon the painted wastelands that composed the jagged fringe of the Sahara. Sierras of marbled yellow-brown sandstone eclipsed the descending sun, casting their long and wicked shadows across orange dune fields between the mountains. The cool silhouette of a ridge to the East rose up the craggy facets of a giant mesa situated betwixt the mountains and ridges - the mass of stone the Spanish colonizers had named La Cabeza. And in the shadows of this mighty head, Julio Zuraban made his move.

Julio, clad in one of the spare fatigues recovered from the commandeered gunship they had arrived in, drew no suspicion when he went to fetch one of the flatbed cargo buggy beneath a parking awning nearby. Five such vehicles were neatly parked underneath a roof of corrugated aluminum, sheltered from the sun and wind-driven sand. Julio selected one buggy with a number of large wooden crates and pallets strewn about the bed, and was thankful indeed to find a set of keys laying on the driver's seat. Armenian fighters had shown Julio how to hotwire vehicles during his years in self-exile as a war correspondent; but the first time he attempted it without the guidance of those crack guerrillas was what had gotten Julio into this mess in the first place. He turned the key over and breathed a sigh of relief as the buggy started without issue.

The senator-in-exile returned to the helipad and parked alongside the stolen Barracuda, its rotors still winding down from flight. Graciela, Joaquin, and the other Spaniards leapt out of the chopper and set about prying open the crates and removing their contents so that a handful of armed stowaways could hide within the crates.

"Hurry," Dejene commanded as he peered out cautiously from within the helicopter. "I have no doubt that our arrival here was noticed by air traffic control. I would not be surprised if they have sent someone to investigate why we almost had a collision with one of those airplanes." The Ethiopian's eyes darted all around, ensuring that they had not drawn any attention. If the forces in command of La Cabeza saw the African, the cover for their rescue mission would certainly be blown, and so Dejene took every precaution to keep himself out of sight of passing vehicles.

Graciela dug fistfuls of wadding material out of the largest crate while Joaquin and another Spanish collaborator whose name Julio had not yet committed to memory hefted he crate's contents - a large pump mechanism - into the Barracuda and out of sight. With the large crate empty, Dejene crawled inside with three commandeered assault rifles in his arms while Graciela replaced the top behind him.

"Cozy in there?" she teased.

"Don't worry about me," the humorless Ethiopian commando's muffled voice replied, "so long as no one saw me, all is well."

Soon thereafter, the other Spanish collaborators found cramped hiding spots nestled within large crates just as Dejene had. Graciela spent a few moments ensuring the contents of the buggy's bed did not look suspicious before taking the front seat beside Julio while Joaquin took one of the back seats.

"Everyone comfortable?" Graciela asked. A chorus of disembodied 'no's grumbled from within the crates.

"That's unfortunate, but you must be still and quiet anyway. We're in the viper's pit now, and if we attract attention at the wrong moment, it'll be the end of us."

"Now that makes me feel comfortable." Joaquin added snarkily.

"Consider it motivation to not botch this thing." Graciela responded. "Let's not waste any more time, get us in there, Julio." With that, Julio eased off the helipad and onto a gravel driveway before falling in behind a string of tanker trucks that rumbled past while merging onto a paved road that looped around the base of the mesa.

Stretching beyond the right shoulder of the road, the cool shadows of the mountains were settling quickly over the land. The brightest of the twilight stars came out of hiding now that the sun had departed the sky. Julio was glad for the cover of night; he hoped that the suspicious eyes of La Cabeza's security forces would miss unusual things about him and his companions that would give them pause in broad daylight. And beyond this expansive facility, in the deserts and shadowy ranges to the northeast, Julio knew that the Amghar and his rebel army of Tuaregs moved now against the facility as well.

The indigenous Tuareg of North Africa had been dealt more than their fair share of misfortune at the hands of the Spanish who had come to rule their land. For a decade, Spanish oil companies incited tribal warfare among the various Bedouin tribes of the region to distract them from the prospectors and exploratory oil wells spreading across the deserts. When Spanish oil interests found themselves dissatisfied with the results of engineered fratricide, they elicited mercenaries and soldiers to quietly dispose of the bothersome Saracens - but apparently not quietly enough to keep the Ethiopian spy network from noticing. Sensing a potential to incite unrest in North Africa, the Ethiopians had been sending agent-provocateurs like Dejene to advise and arm the indigenous populations for some time. Dejene himself had been in the region long enough to sense something remarkably nefarious was at work when Spanish forces began capturing the remaining Bedouin and transporting them to La Cabeza instead of simply dispatching them. Those Tuareg under the command of the Amghar, fueled by vengeance and armed with the most dangerous weaponry the Ethiopians could smuggle through the unguarded Saharan frontier, would do bloody work tonight.

But it would never be enough.

Julio happened to glance up the sheer face of the mesa. Red sandstone rose hundreds of feet into a sky pocked with dim twilight stars. Nestled within fissures in the stone, Julio saw the tri-barreled cannon batteries aiming out across the basin. Even from such distance and height, their size was manifest. If La Cabeza were an island and the surrounding desert a sea, these guns could sink an invading fleet with ease. What could a handful of disguised fighters with little combat experience and a few hundred nomads armed with mismatched hand-me-down weapons hope to do against firepower of that magnitude?

A month ago, Julio might have balked at such terrifying odds, but not tonight. As a senator, Julio had earned Alfonso Sotelo's wrath by opposing the Prime Minister's yes-men in the Spanish Senate. Fabricated claims of Julio's communist leanings forced him to leave the nation in self-exile. He had spent the past three years trying to evade capture and death, running away from the Sotelo until he could run no more. He had been disgraced, beaten, and interrogated at Sotelo's whim. After all of it, part of him wanted to run farther still from Sotelo's reach. But tonight, he had realized fate had granted him the opportunity to exact some tiny revenge for the misdeeds brought upon him and his countrymen. Julio resigned himself to a bloody death tonight, finding comfort in the fact he would take some of his would-be tormentors with him.

The convoy of tank trucks ahead of them slowed to a halt, a pressurized hiss from the brakes sounded from underneath the nondescript tanker in front of their buggy. Nondescript was an understatement - the entire truck had been painted enamel white. There were no identifying marks of any kind on the vehicle, blinking caution lights bathed the rear of the truck in intermittent pink light as it crept forward bit by bit. Graciela craned her head out beyond the buggy to see what had caused traffic to halt.

"What's going on up ahead?" asked Joaquin.

"I think we've found our entrance into the actual facility. But there's some sort of gate or checkpoint first, and they're inspecting everyone going in."

"Shit." Joaquin groaned.

Julio leaned out on his side and saw a line of tanker trucks idling as they waited for instruction from armed soldiers to proceed. Harsh fluorescent light beamed down on a checkpoint straddling a double-perimeter of chainlink fencing crowned in razorwire surrounding a tunnel leading inside the mountain. On a pad of concrete positioned before the gatehouse, Julio could see a flatbed-style truck carrying six or eight yellow forklifts nearly-mummified in ratchet straps. A soldier led a lithe, attentive Doberman on a short leash around the truck, allowing it time to sniff around the vehicle.

Julio swallowed a gulp as he gathered himself back in his seat. Another stint of self-exile suddenly seemed like an attractive option.

"There is no way we are getting through that," Julio affirmed.

"Then what the Hell do we do?" asked Joaquin.

"I only see four guards manning the checkpoint," Graciela noted. "If we kill them, gun it down that tunnel..."

"What about that blast door?" Joaquin pointed out a massive slab of concrete suspended above the roof of the tunnel into the mesa. "First sign of trouble, they're going to close that door down on us. If that happens, we're stuck between every Ejercito soldier in North Africa a hard-ass place."

Despite the inspections, the vehicles ahead were filtering through with surprising speed. As the truck directly ahead of theirs was beckoned forward, Graciela decided a contingency plan would be necessary.

"If you hear two stamps, like this..." Graciela loudly stamped her boots against the metal floorboard in quick succession, "then our cover is blown and we'll have to go in with guns blazing." Graciela explained to the stowaways hidden behind her in the crates.

"Understood." Dejene's voice came from within his pinewood sarcophagus.

After a few short minutes, the truck ahead of them was cleared to pass into the bowels of La Cabeza, and Julio's cargo buggy was beckoned forward. He gulped and eased slowly into the inspection area, into the focus of the fluorescent mast lamps, and stopped when a stoic-faced soldier armed with an assault rifle extended his open palm and signaled for him to stop.

Once Julio had brought the vehicle to a stop, the soldier approached the back of the buggy. He gave a bored look to the haphazardly placed crates in the bed and made his way to Julio. "I'll need the manifest for all these items," the guard stated, drawing a circle around the crates with a finger.

"Ah yes... the manifest. Right, of course," Julio stalled as he dug between the seats desperately for any sheet of paper that might be the one the guarded wanted.

"You either have it or you don't. Where is it?"

Before the guard could call over the dog's handler, another soldier emerged from the gatehouse, this one armed with a clipboard and pen rather than a FE-74.

"Excuse me, ma'am." The new soldier said to Graciela. "You are Capitana Sandoval, correct? Here for the audit process?"

Captain Sandoval? Audit? Julio's instinctual reaction was to express that he knew nothing about these things, but Graciela knew to take advantage of this most unlikely reprieve.

"I am her." Graciela lied without a moment's hesitation.

"My apologies, Captain. I didn't mean to delay you. I understand you're already running late." The new soldier turned to the guard busy accosting Julio about the manifest documents. "Let them through, they're here for the audit."

"Hell, why didn't you say so?" the armed soldier asked, suddenly becoming almost friendly with with Julio. "Go ahead it's fine. We don't need to be holding Dr. Guijon up any longer."

Not about the question the circumstances by which they had avoided the vehicle inspection, Julio drove through the perimeter fence as quickly as he could without drawing suspicion. As their buggy passed through into the cavernous tunnel leading downward into the the earth beneath La Cabeza, Joaquin spoke up once they were out of earshot of any soldiers.

"How the Hell did you know what they were talking about?"

"I don't." Graciela admitted. "They mistook me for someone else, but I'm glad they did because we came very close to being found out. Now, we need to make our way somewhere secluded, get out, and find out where they've taken the prisoners.

"I disagree," Julio asserted. "The prisoners can wait. But from the way those soldiers let us through without a second thought, Dr. Guijon can't. We need to see what he wants from us and find out what he knows about this place."

Vancouver

The elevator doors slid open. FCB agent Bryan Simpson walked down the hotel corridor with Mark Echols hobbling right behind him. The two men stopped outside Simpson's hotel room while the agent got his keys out of his pocket. Echols shifted on his feet impatiently and checked his watch.

"This could have waited," said Echols. "I won't even start on that book tonight. You could have just given it to me tomorrow."

"Come on in," Simpson said with a wink and a smile.

"I'm straight... I don't know if you know that..."

Simpson disappeared into the darkness of his hotel room. Echols grudgingly followed behind him. He was a few steps in when the lights popped on. He blinked and flinched when he saw two men waiting for them in the room. A thin, dark-haired man in a suit and tie sat in the small room's only chair. Standing by his side was Echols savior from the war. Sergeant Silas Crystal.

"Sergeant Echols," Crystal said with a playful smile.

"It's Inspector now," Echols said quietly. "I'm out of the service. Like everyone else who served in the NWC armed forces."

Simpson sat down on his bed and looked up at Echols. "Mark, I'm sorry about the secrecy. This was the only place I knew we could meet."

"So this was a setup?"

"A meeting of the minds," the man in the chair said. "Inspector Echols, I'm Mr. Smith. CIA. From what the sergeant tells me, you and he already have a history."

"He's the reason why I limp when I walk," Echols said cooly.

"I'm also the reason why you have the upper part of your body, Echols."

The CIA man stood and motioned for Echols to take his seat. When Echols refused, the man just shrugged and walked towards the window. He stood at the window and looked out as he spoke.

"We've been at cross purposes, Inspector. Your investigation and ours."

"So you're looking for the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty too? Do you want to bring them in or take them out?"

Smith ignored Echols' question and kept talking. "We're like a pair of blind men trying to cook eggs. We have the frying pan, you have the eggs. By themselves, our puzzle pieces aren't telling either one of us anything. We put them together, then a picture emerges."

Simpson pulled an envelope from his jacket and laid it on the bed beside him. He looked at Echols before turning towards Smith and Crystal and speaking.

"We got a pair of prints from the Peter Leigh crime scene. One is unknown, but one set matches to a former NWC Army private named Chris Walton. A former university student at Simon Fraser. One of his classmates in a political science class was a Joanna Lockhart. Lockhart matches the description of the woman seen with Leigh shortly before his death. Their whereabouts are currently unknown, but we have an APB out for the two of them. There's the information on the two of them, along with the subversive material mailing lists the FCB has collected."

Smith turned from the window and walked towards the bed. He picked the envelope up and tucked it into his jacket before looking at Echols.

"Arthur Stewart. That's the name of the third member of the group. An informant identified him and a man he only knew as Alex. Research has led to some disturbing information. Alex has a contact in Canadian intelligence. The Friends of Northwest Sovereignty are operating with at least partial sanction from Canada."

Echols closed his eyes to stop the spinning. He could hear his own pulse in his ears. A wave of nausea hit him. He had to swallow hard to keep from puking. When he opened his eyes, all three men were watching him.

"This is why I'm working with them, Mark" said Simpson. "We need to work together, and we need to do it fast. So far, Leigh is the only person they've killed but that could change tomorrow, or for all I know in an hour. They're out there and we know who they are, but we need to find them before a war starts."

"And we have our orders, Inspector," Crystal said with a raised eyebrow. "And that is to stop these people by any means necessary. If that means bypassing the laws, if that means we're bypassing those laws to stop a war, then so be it."

Echols gripped his cane so tightly his hands and knuckles were turning white. He looked at Crystal and nodded.

"Let's go."

-----

Toledo, Ohio

"Swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Chica, sabes que tienes que bailar. Baila conmigo y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Culo tan fino Quiero tomar un bocado y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo!"

Billy Carter was working up a sweat on the dance floor. The dance floor, in this case, was a basement in suburban Toledo. He held on tightly to his dance partner's hips as they shimmied and shook with the fast-paced number. Nobody could understand the words to the song, but one of the college kids there knew Spanish and promised it was very dirty.

The thing that amazed Billy was not the music or the dancing itself, but it was his dance partner. She was a white co-ed from UT just a few years older than Billy. He'd been dancing with her for nearly a half hour now and nobody seemed to notice or cared. But then again they weren't the only mixed raced couple on the floor. One other black man danced with a white girl while a few white boys danced with black girls, one of those white boys was Billy's fellow Mud Hen Matt Robinson. Billy and Matt and nearly all the Mud Hens were at the party with the UT students, celebrating sweeping the Canton Cougars in a four-game series.

(Music)

A slow number came on after the dance number faded. Billy and his dance partner got in close and he put his hands on her hips as they slow danced. The girl was probably twenty pounds heavier than Billy, but she wore her extra weight well.

"I need to get something to drink," Billy whispered in her ear. "I'll be back."

He walked through the basement towards the makeshift drink table. A half dozen six packs of soda flanked a large metal tub packed with ice and dozens of cans of beer. Billy pulled one out and popped the top.

"Yo."

Country Jones sat in a metal folding chair beside the table, nursing a beer. Even sitting down the big man was nearly Billy's height.

Country patted the folding chair beside him. "Take a seat right quick."

Billy plopped down and started in on his beer. He hadn't really drunk beer before joining the ball club. Lots of the other boys swore by it, but it always left a bad taste in Billy's mouth. But right now his thirst convinced him it was the best damn thing in the world.

"How come you ain't partying, Country?"

"This is how I party."

"Looks mighty lonely if you ask me."

"I don't recall asking your scrawny ass nothing," Country snapped. "But I see you're having a good time."

"Whole damn team is having a good time," Billy grinned. "That is, except you."

"You never been down south before, right?" Country asked.

"Ohio is the farthest I've been."

Country leaned back in his chair. Billy sipped his beer and watched the dance floor pick back up as another fast number kicked on. He turned and looked back at Country. He was there at the party, but his eyes weren't. They were unfocused, gone to some place that was not here and some time that was not then.

"You all need to be careful out there on the dance floor."

"What do you mean?"

Country's eyes regained their focus as he turned to look at Billy.

"I mean, the white people at this party are fine with you dancing with the white girls, but that's gonna be it. You understand? This ain't like where I'm from, and that's a credit to them, but it ain't that much better."

Billy scowled. "The fuck you talking about, nigga?"

"The college kids who let us come here," Country said with a dismissive wave towards the dance floor. "They're letting us party and dance with the white people so they can tell everyone about that time they let a bunch of negroes come to their party and dance with their women. They want to show everyone that they ain't racist because they had a few black people over to party that one time. And it'll probably be just this one time too. To me, that shit is more racist than the crackers I grew up with in Arkansas. Even if you hated their guts, at least you knew where you stood with them."

"That's how it works up here," Billy said with a shrug. "Northern racism is a lot more subtle than the Southern kind. And it ain't as violent. You ask me would I rather be here, dancing with a white girl I know I can't fuck, or would I rather be in Mississippi where they just fucking torched an entire family of negroes? Nigga, it ain't even a fucking question."

Billy turned his beer can up and drained it in a few quick gulps. He crushed the tin can in his hands and tossed it on the floor beside him. There was a sparkle in his eyes as he turned to meet Country's gaze.

"And another thing, Country? If the white people here feel that way, then I say fuck them. I am Billy Carter. I am black, I am pretty, I'm leading the Ohio League in stolen bases, and I am the fasted goddamn man, black or white, this side of the Mississippi. I am who I am and if they don't like it, tough shit. I'm going back to the party."

Billy stood and headed back to the dance floor with a fresh beer. He took his waiting partner by the hand as the Spanish song started back up.

"Swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Chica, sabes que tienes que bailar. Baila Conmigo y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Culo tan fino Quiero tomar un bocado y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo!"

-----

Hyannis Port, Massachusetts

Sean McKenna cruised up the paved driveway towards the sprawling mansion. Elliot rode in the passenger seat, his right wrist handcuffed to the door handle. The BPD were waiting for him at Helena's apartment. They had all the files Jane Wilson stole from Liam Kane, and they had the girl and Helena in their possession. Jane was charged with first-degree murder, Elliot and Helena with accessory to murder after the fact. Elliot spent six hours in a BPD hot box while a couple of kiddie cops tried to sweat him. He told them to fuck off. They almost went at him with the phone book when a phone call stopped them cold in their tracks. Sean showed up with a pair of cuffs and they headed out to the Cape.

This wasn't Elliot's first trip to the big house out on Cap Cod. He was here just six months ago helping his benefactor's son with a sticky situation. Elliot smoothed everything over and got paid a cool ten grand for his trouble. He reminded himself that that job, plus the dozen other jobs he'd done for the family and its patriarch, was why he wasn't in the city jail and facing ten to life.

"They're waiting for you by the pool. You can go inside," McKenna said as he stopped the car and passed Elliot the handcuff key. "And go only inside, Elliot. I'm under strict orders to shoot you if you try to make a run for it."

Elliot unlocked the handcuffs and rubbed his sore wrist. "Would you actually do it, Sean? After being your friend for so long?"

McKenna's face contained just a hint of a grin. "I'd shoot to wound. And that's because we've been friends for so long."

He climbed out the car and walked into the big house. It was a ghost town, not even household staff in sight. Elliot walked down corridors paneled with rich wood on both sides and a glossy hardwood floor underfoot. In the back was the pool area. A large underground swimming pool had a picture perfect view of the ocean. Two men sat waiting for Shaw at a metal table beside the pool.

"Our guest of honor," Big Jim Dwyer said with a short bark of a laugh.

"Big" Jim was a runt. Elliot measured him at five foot six and maybe a buck fifty soaking wet. His white hair and pale skin and tweed jacket with a bow tie made him look like a kindly old librarian or mid-level civil servant. The truth was that Dwyer was without a doubt the most ruthless man in the Commonwealth.

"Elliot!"

Seated next to Dwyer was Elliot's patron. The man who saw his usefulness even when he was BPD, the man who greased the wheels after his messy exit from the force and helped him become a PI, and the man who gave him work when he became a PI. Now, he held Elliot's future in his hands.

"It's been too long," Edward Kennedy said with welcoming smile. "Have a seat."

Teddy Kennedy. The last surviving son of Diamond Joe, the patriarch of the Kennedy Family. Teddy took Diamond Joe's fortune and made it grow exponentially. If it made money, Teddy and his conglomerates either owned it or made money off of it in some way. Teddy's wore shorts, a knit sweater, and boat shoes. His dark hair was peppered with gray. He'd lost a little weight since Elliot saw him last, making his already large head seem even more massive.

"I'd like to thank you for helping X out. That was a delicate situation."

"Xavier is a good kid," Elliot said with a shrug. "I hated to see him in a pickle like that. Plus, the pay was nice."

"Damn kid acts more like Jack than Bobby," Teddy said with a sigh. "That's the third scrape I've had to pay for in the last two years."

"To business?" Dwyer asked impatiently.

They stopped talking as a servant brought out three gin and tonics on a tray. Teddy smiled and nodded at the servant. "Thank you, Wendell."

"You've pissed off the wrong people, son," Dwyer said once they were alone. "You've pissed off me and the people who owe me. And the people who owe me are the type of people who kill when they're angry."

Elliot took a long swig of his drink. "So I saw first hand."

"The only reason you're even alive is because Ted speaks so highly of you."

Teddy pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit up. "I've worked out a deal for you, Elliot. One that Jim has consented to."

"You're done in Boston," Dwyer said softly. "You're done in Massachusetts. You're done in New England. I don't care where you go, but it will not be here. Your little friend Jane Wilson goes to jail for murdering her boyfriend, and your girlfriend Helena gets to live a perfectly normal life as a whore."

Elliot sucked his teeth and sipped his drink.

"And if I don't play along?"

Dwyer shrugged and ticked off points with his fingers. "Deputy Superintendent McKenna blows your brains out. Two weeks later, McKenna will be killed in a mugging gone wrong. Around that time Jane Wilson will be stabbed to death in prison, and Liam Kane's cousin Mink will pay a visit to Helena. You know about Mink Kane, right Shaw?"

"What do you think?" Elliot said through gritted teeth.

"I think you're getting the picture," Dwyer winked. "And I think you knowing that I can kill the people you care about will put you on your best behavior."

"Distance," Teddy said reassuringly. "That'll help more than anything, Elliot. You know I own Summit Entertainment, right? Movies, television, radio. We do everything in the entertainment business, Elliot. The people I have out west are royally fucking things up. I need a reliable man out there helping out. I can put you on a flight out of Boston tonight and you'll be in LA for breakfast."

"LA?" Elliot asked with a scowl. "Doing what?"

"What you do best. Fixing problems. Los Angeles is the future," Teddy beamed. "Come out west with me. You'll fuck movie stars and cause all kinds of mischief. You'll love it."

"Or stay here," Dwyer flashed a cold smile. "And face the alternative."

Teddy started to hum a tune. Elliot recognized it right off. Hooray for Hollywood.

-----

Washington D.C.

Russell Reed looked proudly at the latest addition to his office. The marble bust of Andrew Jackson gazed sternly out at the office. In the bust, Jackson was clothed in the toga of a Roman Senator and his hair was swept back over his head. It was a reproduction of an original carving made before Jackson became president. Russell smiled at it before the buzzer on his desk went off.

"Yes, Patsy?"

"Mr. Vice-President, Traci Lord is here to see you."

Russell smiled and ran his hair through his fingers.

"Send her in, please."

Traci Lord came through the door with a broad grin on her face. She shook Russell's hand very firmly, something he admired in anyone regardless of their sex.

"Traci, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me. We haven't spoken since the election."

"No offense, Mr. Vice President, but Senate Majority Leader tends to generate more headlines than the Veep."

"And you're all about the headlines," Russell said with a chuckle. "Please, have a seat. Have you seen my new decoration?"

Lord's eyes lit up when she saw the bust.

"Pretty. Andrew Jackson?"

"Yes, ma'am. My favorite president. A man of the people, a man who knew how to use power, and a man I aspire to be."

"Your role model if you ever get into the Oval Office?" Lord asked with a smirk.

"When I get into the Oval Office," Russell laughed. "Not if. So, why'd you want to see me, Traci?"

"Wanted some background on my last story on the Ethiopian Appropriations bill." The reporter pulled a notebook and pen from her purse and jotted a few things down before looking up at Russell. "The bill is flying through the Senate. It's supposed to pass by a clear majority this afternoon and President Norman will sign it before leaving town tomorrow night. That's... a lot faster than many people were predicting."

Russell smiled. He tried to hide it, but his own anxiety of the swift passage matched Lord's. What bothered him even more was that he hadn't been involved in talks, so he had no idea what had gone on.

"I guess our senate knows a winner and backs it, regardless of partisan lines."

"I've heard another reason," she looked from her notepad and met Russell's eye. "President Norman cut a deal with Wilbur Helms. Passage of the bill for the administration taking a hands-off approach to civil rights."

Russell fought the reaction, but he knew his mouth was twitching around the left corner. His wife Robin always said that was his worst tell when it came to hiding his anger.

"You've acted as the president's liaison, of a sorts, with Capitol Hill and the Senate especially. I wanted to know if you could comment on the rumors I've heard."

"No comment, Traci," he tried to say as cordially as possible. "Not even off the record or background. Whatever happened between the president and Senator Helms is... just between them. If that's all, I have an appointment."

He thanked her for coming and said his goodbyes as politely as possible. The door shut behind her and he walked towards his desk, placing his hands on the wood and looking down at the polished surface and his own reflection. The man staring back at him as angry, his chubby face flushed and red. The face looking back at him was angry, but it as also impotent... powerless to effect change or even stop change. He had been by-passed by the president, cut out of working a deal with one of his oldest allies. He was mad at that fact, and even madder than he could never do anything to change it.

"Goddammit," he said softly. "GODDAMMIT!"

Russell swept his papers and phone off his desk. He

"That son of a bitch!"

In a rage, he reached out and grabbed the marble bust of Andrew Jackson. He slung the bust across the room and watched it shatter into pieces against the wall. Russell's secretary burst into the room a half second later.

"Sir?"

"Betsy," he hissed. "Hold all my calls. I'm going to the White House."

There was a distant roll of thunder in the sky, heralding the march of yet another front of summer storm clouds. Though the sky was clear over the distant horizon a wall of blackened clouds rolled, the valleys and veils of the oncoming storm flickering and flashing with the sharp light of lightning. It wouldn't be long now as Sen Zhou sat in the city airport's terminal and watched out dusty glass windows as the monsoon storm continued to crawl towards them, counting the time between the flash and the thunder; it was quickly growing shorter.

The Chinese soldiers stationed here with them had long since moved inside the airport to escape the pounding summer rains, the storms had been a wild under-estimation on their behalf and tents had quickly become waterlogged. It was fitting and comfortable that what they had were to be moved into cover; it'd become waterlogged otherwise. The tarmac of the runway outside was still wet with rainwater as well, and the red orange soil along it was dark and impregnated with water still.

“How long will it be until another flight out?” a man begged.

Sen Zhou and Dezhi Cao had been sitting with a young man from the university for the past five minutes. Tentative and nervous introductions had been exchanged and Zhou had grown bored with the formalities.

Unlike other Africans, then man had a more palor complexion than most and a sharper nose. In a number of respects, he was closer to that of the Arabs while still being darker than their light sandy skin, but lighter than the darkened ash of his local neighbors.

“It may not be for another few days.” Cao told him, he sat with his legs crossed in a graying-red armchair. Despite the fans running in the airport's empty terminal he was still sweating and he fingered at the neck of his uniform uncomfortably, “With the storms moving in as they are we're forced to inter-space our flights according to what my weathermen tell me.”

“And what do they tell you?” the young man asked. There was a distraught and tense look in his passionate earthly brown eyes.

Cao shrugged, “We don't have the range of weather observation we would have otherwise, and we're still trying to find individuals to get information from on a broader scale. But we've had challenged with how under-developed the whole of the nation is. There's no one we can call beyond Addis Ababa to get data from.

“But the best bet my men can give me is a day and a half. The summer storms of your country punish us.”

“A day and a half.” the young man nodded, he sighed as he turned his frantic gaze from Cao. He seemed considering, pondering. Rubbing his knees with his hands he sat silent in his chair, leaning forward as if ready to spring up, “Perhaps there is still time then!” he said suddenly, “Are you open to the possibility of taking men and women from outside of Addis Ababa?”

Dezhi Cao raised a brow, “What are you asking me to do?”

“My family – my village – live around Lake Tana, to the north. I fear they may be at the mercy of the Spanish soon if the war continues as it has been. I would like to get them out.”

“Gondar's a far ways away.” Cao pointed out, he leaned out his chair towards the young man and with a solemn expression told him: “I do not have the resources for a mass evacuation at that distance.”

The revelation shocked the student. He leaned back into his chair as if struck in the face, eyes wide and mouth agape. “The great China lacks the shit to go and pick a family up from the north!” he shouted, he was hot with anger and he rose to his feet, defying his respect of authority in Dezhi Cao. The reality of the situation was as offensive to his standards as it was straining.

“My people have been offered an indignant life in Ethiopia for the better part of several centuries and you would surrender us to the Spanish!” he continued, “Do you know what the history of Europe is with Jews? They try and strip us of our heritage, dignity, or life! They even tried to destroy our heritage here in Ethiopia, and would surrender my people to this fate!?” he seethed with anger. He was clearly passionate and he shook with it. Outside the thunder rolled louder as it fueled by his disdain.

Sen Zhou looked at him and down at her commander. “Excuse me.” she said, bowing to the Beta Isrealite as she put a hand on Cao's shoulder, “But can I give a private word of advice to my CO here?”

The youth sputtered and spat, “Fine.” he grumbled. Zhou nodded and looked down at Cao, motioning to following her to the side. Quizzically he sat up from his chair and followed after as the African-born Jew walked a few steps from his seat.

“You do know what the Spanish possess?” Zhou asked in a hushed voice, “At least, we can't confirm if they have it with them here, but we know full well what they do possess.”

“Yes, I'm wholly aware of VX.” Cao whispered back, he shot a wary eye to the young man as he stood with his back slouched and head bowed. His fingers tapped his elbow as he waited, “But what does that mean for them? How does that help us help them? I only really have enough to devote to Addis Ababa and I can't go about allocating my meek resources to areas that Ethiopia may not control in a few weeks if the Spanish offensive persists as such.”

There it was, the fear of action again. His voice didn't shake, but his strong hesitancy to action was in the words. Making excuses where they could be made. “Listen, we don't need to offer much to it, I'm sure if the Emperor is letting us do this then he wouldn't be pre-disposed to offering something to go up there and pull them out. I wouldn't be asking for much, a couple trucks maybe, a handful of men to defend and organize it. And then we'd be coming straight back and we can fly them out of the country with the rest of them.”

Cao shook his head, “No, I can't have that.” he said. He made another nervous look to the student behind him. How much could he hear? “And the Ethiopians look resource strapped enough, do you think their government can afford to allocate anything for this mission? It's all going to fight the Spanish, not make any grocery runs.”

“What if we just asked though?” Zhou asked, “You and I both know I'm the only woman in this army brave to do it. You know in your own heart that you can't do it, personally. But I can. I can find a means.” sighing, she shook her head.

“Can we give it the benefit of the doubt?” she continued, “I can ask Yaqob, or even the palace at least. If not that, I'll find the resources I need myself. I'll pull a handful of men aside, enough to get me there. I'll figure something out.”

Cao looked up at her disdainfully. But there was also pity and fear in those sullen light-brown eyes of his, and he looked away. If partially out of guilt. “I can't lead you out to die.” he said simply.

“I won't!” Zhou promised, “I'll try to make it faster than a simple run for groceries. I'll be in there, I'll be out. I'll figure out a way to move the entire village if they have what I need to do it. I'll bring them all right here, to Addis Ababa, and we can fly them home before the Spanish gas the entire city.”

“You're making a stretch of a promise. Don't promise anything you can't fulfill.”

“I'm not, I know I can do it.”

Cao let out a long defeated groan. He looked back at the distraught man. He shook his head and turned back to Zhou, “I'm going to hate this.” he said, “But I'll let you do it.”

A great big smile stretched across Zhou's face and she felt relief wash over her. She was finally doing something.

Turning to the student Cao declared in a loud voice, “There's been a change of plan, we'll do what we can.”

The student looked like he was hit in the face with another cold blow to the jaw and he looked up with shocked glassy eyes, “You will?” he asked.

“We'll try.” Cao emphasized, “I'm putting my lieutenant on the job. She's going to do what she can.”

The student whooped in joy and dashed across the floor. With a cry of relief he wrapped his arms around Zhou and gave her a great relieved hug. Nearly sobbing into her shoulders he declared, “God smile on the both of you!”

Zhou didn't know what to think, she stood rigidly with her arms pressed against her side as the young man released his grip. “Oh thank you, thank you.” he said with ecstatic bows, “I will never forget.”

“Yes, yes.” Cao smiled stiffly, gently ushering him away, “We'll see you on the soonest flight out.”

The young man turned and left, his face glowing with the widest smile he could wear. As he left, Cao turned to Zhou, “I suppose I'll give you a pass on a shower in the morning, you're going to see what you can do as soon as morning arrives.”

Zhou nodded with acknowledgment. She felt a weight off her shoulder with no longer being tied to Addis Ababa to watch airplanes load and take off for Pemba. She was happy, though for different reasons and not nearly as much as the man who had just embraced her. “I understand, comrade.”

“But, are you really sure?” asked Cao, testing his lieutenant's convictions.

“Would you really turn back on what we promised him we'd do?” Zhou answered.




From his camp outside the city, the sound of thunder mumbled in the low distance as bombs and artillery shells ignited the Russian defense of Yekaterinburg. But per his orders his men were not to approach the city itself. Seated in a chair, Huei Wen waited out the day to a cup of warm tea. Though the sounds of battle could be heard they were a distant fire-cracker. Even the smoke was a faint wisp of suggestion that drifted up through the air.

But for where he was, it was calm. A warm southern breeze blew through the trees rustling their gentle boughs at the warm hushed song of the wind. A musky sappy scent was carried on it from out of the groves at the edge of the farm he and his men had acquired. The owners having long since dispatched themselves for the west as his armies approached. Indeed, his advanced scouts had met the family as they were leaving, all that they reported seeing being the brake lights of their truck as they rumbled down the country road, the back laden down with everything that could be easily moved.

They had advanced warning of them, or were expecting them. While they took their clothes, treasures, and money they had left for the use of Huei Wen and his commanding staff and present company the use of their wood stove. It was somehow a surreal idea that men should enjoy tea and bread baked from left-over flour in the pantry while there was a war not happening several miles from where they stood.

But it was a disruption. It kept Huei Wen within his element. The pops and cracks of distant gun-fire and the song of mortar and howitzer gave him his wits. But the abandoned comforts meant that even if in a limited respect he could play the part of a welcoming host to couriers and reports coming in from land.

From the top of the farm's nearby water pump a pair of soldiers clung to the top of the windmill mast that pumped the home's fresh water from the ground as they fought to secure the radio antenna so as to maintain contact with the rest of the front. A recent Russian air raid had knocked the antenna from its post and for the bulk of the day the two men had been wrestling their balance and the fickle perch to re-affix the antenna. Their shouts to the ground crews and between each other suggested their work was not done, but was well enough the ground had sustainable communications.

The radios themselves were moved to the basement of the farm-house. The cellar door had been thrown open allowing them to coordinate with the men on the windmill.

Per dwellings, the house wasn't large, nor was it small. It had the rich smell of age in its wood and the frame of its low angled roof was decorated with inscribed and painted-in natural scenes of deer and spruce trees. The entire single-story building was painted a soft shade of ocean blue with a shallow front-porch facing a dirt drive-way.

Perpendicular to the home's face a wooden garage stood, or rather it did. Republican bombs had collapsed the structure and turned the commander's armored personnel carrier into a twisted heap of metal that hadn't been completely reclaimed. The driver and mechanic had sustained severe injuries and had to be taxied out of the area by another car.

Beyond all the buildings atop a low hill sat their radar trailer. Spinning slowly on its turn-table the mesh disk scanned the air as around it a small network of trenches and guns poised from the sky kept a shield up for whatever might pluck out the sector's eyes. Camoflauge mesh was dragged across much of the defenses, and the trailer body was draped in it, decorated further it dry yellowing cuttings of straw and grass.

“Comrade Wen.” a soldier called out, summoning Huei Wen's attention to behind him. He turned in his chair and acknowledged the young officer approaching him from way of the house.

“Shàowèi.” Wen nodded, acknowledging the man by his rank, “Would you like a drink?” he offered, gesturing to the tin teapot by his side.

“I'm flattered sir, but I'm not thirsty right now.” the lieutenant answered with a respectful smile, “I have radio reports from the north-group. They found themselves engaged with a mysterious Russian unit on regular maneuvers against a Republican formation moving out from the city.”

Huei Wen sat up in his seat, “Then sit.” he requested. He pointed to a nearby empty seat, “What is the situation on the ground?” he asked as the junior officer sat down.

“They reported that a patrol had located a column of lightly armed individuals moving south along the highway between lakes Baltym and Iseskoye at 0745. upon receiving the reports from patrol at 0758 approximately the division officer dispatched a force of men to intercept and to close that section of road.

“On arrival to the location at 0820 they encountered a heavily armed force, fighting from the back of flatbeds the two groups engaged. By the end of the day five service members were killed, fifteen were wounded, and the unknown targets retreated.”

“Why hasn't Li Chu posted a permanent group at the highway?” Huei Wen asked.

“I didn't think to ask, but over the radio he mentioned that over-night he had been intercepting a Republican party skirmishing his position at the village of Koptyaki.”

“I see.” nodded Huei Wen, “Send a notification to Chu that I will met with him personally and have a professional brief on the situation at hand.” he said sternly.

“I also may need a change of location.” he said stiffly, looking at the windmill, “The Republicans may have found out where I am. It's time the central command moves before they light up the farm.”

“I understand.” the lieutenant bowed,

“Tell the others, I'll finish my tea and we'll be out of here soon after. I want to be packed up as soon as I'm done.”




The wheels of the truck popped and ground down the long gravel drive. Nigh time had fallen in its entirety and the only lights were those that weakly glowed from an incandescent dashboard. Precut numbers and letters glowed a dull reddish-orange and dials slowly climbed or danced atop a back lit face. At each pothole or rut in the road the truck wheezed with rusty determination as it forced through its paces at the hands of new masters. Its only one lying dead at some rest-stop an hours drive away.

In the passenger's seat Ullanhu sat staring out into the shadows. Far away through trees lights glistened off of still water as they passed along the edge of a lake deep in the Russian wilderness. The distant pin-point glimmer of the town on the far-side was as bright and even as the stars themselves in the Russian sky above them. There wasn't even a haze of light over the small town.

“Where are we?” Ullanhu asked, looking across to Vasiliy. Between the two the kidnapped president sat napping with the bag still dropped over his eyes.

Vasiliy took a quick shooting look out the window. “We must... Ah...” he thought, “We should across of lake from Galich.” he said with stern affirmation.

“And where would Galich be in Russia?” asked Ullanhu.

Vasiliy shrugged indifferently, “Is north of Moscow,” he mumbled, “But we not much closer to Urals.”

Sighing, Ullanhu rested his chin on the palm of his hand as they continued their slow clip down the road. In the bed of the stolen trunk parts and pieces sang like bells as they clipped against the bed of the truck.

They kept on for what felt like an hour more. The lights of Galich began to fade back into the darkness and even the lake itself slipped away. Trundling along through backwater swampy roads the continued their press on through Russia.

“We ever going to find a main road?” asked Ullanhu, breaking the silence.

“Perhaps, but not now.” Vasiliy cautioned, “I would like to find a new car first.”

Ullanhu shrugged and nodded. He watched in the distance a farmhouse atop a hill, lantern light lit the windows and it stood as a beacon in the darkness. Like a lighthouse in the ocean of night. Against the starry sky it was a strange sight. Like almost that from a storybook.

Its signal though wasn't for them and they kept going. With a stop Vasiliy stopped them at a crossroads. At the edge of the yellow headlights an old road-sign stood at the corner. Its arms and arrows pointing down each arm of the dirt, rutted roads. Looking at the worn wooden and metal signs Vasiliy could not claim to be brushed up enough, or awake enough to make sense of the writing.

“I think it might be time to stop over somewhere for the night.” Vasiliy mumbled, throwing quick cautious glances down the darkened roads on both sides of them, “Can't promise it'll be comfortable.” he added.

Nonplussed, Ullanhu looked up at him. They crossed the intersection and made way down an overgrown two-track. The tires of the car bumped and jumped over potholes hidden in the night and all of a sudden Ullanhu found himself afraid they were en'route to somewhere off the map. He held his hand up on the roof as he leered out the windows, watching as nothing passed the window. Out the windshield long grass and bushes fell out over the road, nearly covering it in its entirety. Faintly through the darkened underbrush Ullanhu could make out shapes or textures of something well hidden. Whipping in his chest his heart raced with the rising anxiety as he realized he couldn't see the stars.

The bumpy journey lurched over holes that felt like bottomless chasms until Vasiliy brought the truck to a stop. Ahead of them barring the road was a large iron gate. Holding it shut a rusted tangle of heavy chain closed with a padlock barred the road. The lock looked old, and well abused by the weather. In the headlights blots of bloodied rust the rise of hands covered the iron gate and broke the lock down into a camouflaged pattern of oxidation.

Moving his hands from the driver's wheel Ullanhu mumbled in a low voice, “I think I pick it.”

“You think?” Ullanhu asked, perturbed. He watched baffled as he hopped out of the door and rummaged through his dirty, bloodied suit coat for a pick. Then hovered over the lock, breaking the tumblers free in the light of tungsten headlamps. In the disruption of the moment, Belyakov had been shook wide awake and his snoring had given way to a nervous broken breathing.

Finally with the ring of metal clashing on metal the lock fell from the chain and Vasiliy had pushed the gate open. Running back into the truck he threw it back into gear and rolled on through.

For a moment everything but the ground fell away into a perpetual sea of nothing. The two could have been driving through inter-dimensional nothing and neither would have realized. It wasn't until the light of the car captured in its glow the brick wall of some monumental building, covered in moss and creepers. But to Ullanhu, looking out through the door towards that wall with the age of its damage and neglect the three could have easily passed through some portal in time or place.

With a click Vasiliy killed the power to the engines and in an instant there was nothing but darkness in the world. As the motor wound down to the lethargic cold clicking of a still engine there was only the tense breathing of Belyakov between them. Vasiliy threw open his door, and grabbing Belyakov Ullanhu did the same. His feet immediately came down on thick grass.

“Where are we?” asked Ullanhu and he pushed Belyakov through the night-time air. It was cool and still and there was a heavy marshy aroma in the wind. Slowly Ullanhu's eyes adjusted for the low moon-lit light and the stars came back in focus. He stopped to look up at a looming tower over his head. Broken spears and jagged bricks leered out from uninviting nooks along its height until it was less of a tower and more a mangled monster's nest.

“Old Monastery.” Vasiliy said in his typical muddied Chinese, “I sure we find place to sleep inside.”

“Wait, in there?” Ullanhu gaped. Somehow he felt less at ease inside there than when waiting to bail Moscow with the president.

“Of course, is cover. If rains, we not get wet.” said Vasiliy, somehow Ullanhu could imagine him smiling unapologetically.

“Well how can you be so sure?”

“I have light.” Vasiliy sneered, a small dime of silver light snapped to shine in the hallowed darkness. Ullanhu jumped back as it stole away his vision.

“For fuck's sake!” Ullanhu cursed, shielding his eyes, “Don't do that!”

Vasiliy shrugged and waved his small torch to the building. “Where'd you even get that?” he asked, grumbling.

“Pocket. Be always prepare. Is not scout code?”

“Yea, sure.”




There was a peace divorced from that of the outside world. A bulky wood-cased radio played soft music at a low volume, just enough there was an ambient noise without being distracting. In the hall outside boots shuffled back and forth past the door. And seated on the corner of his desk Huang Li Wong read through the sparse records the Siberian inherited from the former imperial state, information copied from some source document in Moscow to be shelved at magistrate offices or military bases to keep a universal tab on the state's numerous VIPs: old-money aristocrats, new-money capitalists, and the officers of the army.

Many bore signs of damage, whether swept up in the post-assassination chaos and mixed together until the narrative of the pages was lost. Or half-burned in a desperate bid to save identities from the communist surge in the seventies. It wasn't as complete as he would have liked, but it was something.

The names however had become a blur in his heads. Many lacked photos so there was no face to connect to the names and the sparse identities. Siberian efforts had attempted to update some of it, but the daunting task of adopting the czarist regime when their own bureaucracy was so thin that the effort was at best token. Still, the most notable were at least given photos provided by the Chinese. But these were not the issue, many of them were already under observation or in a Siberian prison camp.

Still, there was the two names that felt like leads; Fyodor Trobesky and Isaak Girgorvich Alexandrov. But any real meat on them was in the far west, and certainly not here. If there was connection with the Mafiya though, there might be a chance that either one had this information burned so they could become the phantoms they wanted to be.

Suddenly breaking the dull monotony there was a knock at the door. Licking his dry lips and rubbing the cotton from his tongue Huang Li called out, “Come in.”

The door opened and the agent in the doorway bowed. “Comrade.” he greeted, stepping inside and closing the door.

“Did you manage?” asked Huang Li, shutting the file and setting it aside.

“I did, but I don't know for what.” the other agent responded. He was the young sinewy sort of man, with thin side-swept hair, “It was hard as hell to get a word through, but I managed to get a correspondence from our man in Perm.”

Huang Li smiled and nodded, “So: what does he know?”

“Not a whole lot. Apparently those names you gave him are as much of an enigma to him as they were to me.” reported the young man as he leaned against the door. He scratched at the underside of his chin. “He said there was something familiar about the Fyodor sort but excused it as being the name of a local kid in the neighborhood.”

“I see, so Shu doesn't know anything at all?”

“If he did I wouldn't know what you'd want to know.” the young agent scoffed, “But loose lips.

“He did have some other things to key the Lion's Den into though.” he added.

“So what is it then? Does Angua need to know?” Huang Li asked.

“He probably will,” the other man nodded, “Since his partner died in the field Shu's been acting solo for a long-time. Understandably he wants out and is waiting for Huei Wen to get to Perm before surrendering himself over. But that's all pretty obvious knowing his situation.

“What he considers interesting is that maybe about a month ago another agent was in Perm.”

“Another, who?” the dragon-faced agent asked. He leaned in interested.

“He didn't get a name.” the other said regretfully, “But he did say he was working with Makulov, or his mission entailed working with Makulov. I don't know if he made contact with the Phantom General or not but he was out there. Apparently he was going solo.”

“I'll have to call Beijing.” Huang Li affirmed to himself, “How was the condition of the agent when he arrived in Perm?”

“I guess they found him near to death by a sewer outflow.” said the agent, “He had been severely injured, but commented it didn't bother him. He was adamant he leave, but Min Shu had to force him to stay until he was sure he was ok.”

“Yes, I'll have to contact Beijing on this. Are you sure this is a credible report on his part?”

“Sounded so, comrade.”

“Alright, that's enough then. You're dismissed.”

May 11th, 1980: Villanueva de la Fuente, Spain

Alvar Panzano had chugged down six El Cids before sunset, and now he was too drunk to mule race. The speed always went to his head. When he was drunk he would roll it somewhere out in the dirt. Instead, he watched his cousins and tried to forget that he had to go back to Madrid in the morning.

His cousins sped their mules across the dusty fields of La Mancha, dodging the brush and the rocks like hares fleeing a hawk. Their mules - homemade racing cars with bare-bone frames leaving them open to the air - took every bump with exaggerated leaps. That was the driver's fault, Alvar knew. They were playing.

Alvar laid back and listened to the cackle of their engines. Pain flared out from his bruised ribs: a symptom of the fight that had got him suspended from University. The Pissants at the schoolboard had a knack for protecting loud-mouths from getting what was coming to them. The thought of Cornelio Cortez and the nails-on-chalkboard sound of his voice as he talked about how important his father was... it made Alvar want to track him down and beat him all over again. Perhaps this time he could tear his ears off. Imagine how it would look when a whiny-sounding ass like Cornelio talked to women without having any ears. Would he try to hide the bloody scars where they had been? That was a satisfying image. Alvar was finding that, on a cool night with a few El Cids in him, he could get as much pleasure just imagining himself beating Cornelio as he had when it actually happened.

He heard the mules come to a stop at the foot of the rise where he was resting. He sat back up, slowly so that his ribs didn't sting too much, and watched his cousins crawl out between the spindled beams of their vehicles. There were three of them - Estefan, Anso, and Tomas. They were all in their early adulthood, except for Tomas who was only twelve. It was the fashion for men to wear their hair slightly long so that it reached the collar of their shirts, and slicked back with a thick greasy layer of pomade. But mule racing did not agree with the style; it left their hair mussed up and covered in dust.

"Alvar, did you see that half-flip?" Estefan was holding his helmet under his arm.

"No." Alvar said. As usual, he did not sound excited, but he made sure to smile.

"Tomas almost rolled it, but the mule bounced back up!"

"Good work." Alvar held his smile. The young boy looked proud at being recognized by his older kin.

Anso kicked an empty bottle on the ground near Alvar. "It looks like you have been having a good time." he said.

"I feel good."

"You look like it." They all sat down on the same hill.

"Are you going to drive tonight? You don't look like you should drive." Estefan said to Alvar.

"I will go tomorrow morning. It only takes an hour and a half to get to Madrid from here."

"I wish you luck, cousin. These bureaucrats do not make good judges. If we were oil-men, perhaps you could flash some money in front of them to make it go away. But boys from La Fuente do not get that luxury."

"And when you are up there." Anso butted in. "Check out the girls. I have to keep telling you this but you don't listen. Twenty one is too old to not have been with a girl, but it is not too late. You need to do this."

And there it was. Anso had been with three girls before he was twenty, or at least this is what he said. It was the thing he was most proud of. Alvar, on the other hand, had simply never cared. It was not that he did not like women - they were fascinating creatures, otherworldly - but he did not know what he would even do if he got close to one. Anso's ideas were just vulgar. If he had the opportunity, he would fondle the statues in the museums.

The other boys grabbed bottles and ritually clinked them together. "To up, to down, to center, and inside!" at the last word, they all drank deep. Alvar felt his head swim; whether from the booze or from tipping his head he did not know.

"I am not just going to Madrid to talk to the school masters." Alvar face scrunched as he swallowed the hard bubble in his chest from the amount he had imbibed. "I am going to join the Ejercito."

The other boys looked at him with mixed pride and uncertainty.

"They need interpreters." Anso said. "Your schooling will do you good. Don't you know some of the language of Ethiopia?"

"Some. And when I come back from the war, I think that the university will struggle to think of ways to keep me out."

"Everybody like's a war hero." Estefan said. "I would have went to war, if I were not the only physician in town. I am proud to see another member of our family answer the call of duty."

And then for a moment, they were silent. Alvar reflected on how calm he felt. That was rare. When in the city, he felt annoyed and out of place in every circumstance. But here, in the small town where he had grew up, among his family, he felt like a person again. Perhaps the military would help him find a place. When he had a gun in his hand and an enemy to fight, life would make more sense.

A zepelín appeared above the eastern foothills. With the sun long gone, the solemn blue of twilight remained, and the zepelín became the only light in the sky. It glowed bright yellow and red along the compartments on the bottom, making it difficult to see the wavy checkerboard pattern on the balloon itself.

"Orolujo" Anso said. "Murcia to Madrid, maybe?"

"Orolujo has a route from Algiers to Madrid now. Serving those high-class oil men who spent enough time in Africa to get apartments and Moorish mistresses." Estefan added. It was only the two of them talking now.

"I have heard it said that scientists are looking to replace the zepelínes with high-powered airplanes."

"They tried that with airplanes before, but nobody uses them for anything other than quick flights. Who wants to sit down in a noisy tube? And let's say planes do go faster in the future, would it be worth giving up a quiet ride in a comfortable lounge? Even the peasant zepelínes allow you to move around and stretch your legs."

"Perhaps if the planes go fast enough, people will have to use them. Imagine if a man lives in Madrid and commutes to Algiers to work every day? That would be a productive future."

"That would be a pain. You would spend all your free time going to work. Why would you not live in the town you work, or near to it at least?"

Alvar saw Anso push himself up. "The houses are better in Madrid. The shops are better in Madrid too. Who would want to live in Algiers? I doubt they have an electronics shop in Algiers. Even here we have an electronics shop." Alvar imagined that shop. It was a new brick building built partially into one of the old medieval adobe structures at the edge of town. Across from it was a lot that sold automobiles. Aside from those, Villanueva de la Fuente was the sort of town that hosted mostly taverns and food-stands. He had learned boxing in the oldest tavern.

Ah this town. This home.

It wasn't his cousins that he would miss, or his parents or siblings or grandparents. They were just people. It wasn't even so much the town itself: a sleeping part of old Spain tucked between the growing cities. He would miss knowing where he was, and where he would be the next day. He would miss the dependability.

"It was founded by a German, you know." Estefan said.

"What?" Anso replied. They were at it again.

"Orolujo. The zepelínes came in with all those wealthy capitalists fleeing the anarchy after the Great War. That is big money. They won't give over to any high-powered planes so easily. Not if it costs them coin."

"Most of those men are dead."

"But the money is still there. That is the important thing."

Alvar interrupted. "Would boxing get me a higher rank in the Ejercito? I was the middle weight champion last year for my school's league."

"Maybe. It is a sort of combat." Estefan answered. "But I wouldn't worry about. The Ejercito is an honorable place. You will do well."

Time passed.

---

Current Time: The Danakil Desert, Ethiopian Empire

The heat was unbearable. It came with the sun, and before the Spanish soldiers could be ready for it, the temperature climbed to dangerous heights. In the afternoon, furnace winds would blow in from the desert and make it worse. The natives called these the 'fire winds'. They were the only thing more horrible than the sun.

Alvar's platoon had only been in Ethiopia for a week - coming in after the ashes of Djibouti were already cooled - but though they had been spared the horror of that initial battle, their experience of Africa so far had been nothing but hell. They were attached to the chaplain of their regiment, so Alvar's first taste of Africa had been helping with the dead. He was the only interpreter in their platoon, which left him dealing with whatever natives they ran across, and ensured his participation in most excursions outside of camp involving the chaplain or their platoon. He had seen Djibouti first hand, more times than he wanted. The remnants of the city stunk of ash, cooked flesh, and gasoline. It was still an uninhabitable place; men needed gas masks if they went too far into the ruins. There were places where buildings had melted into bubbled heaps. Walking on them was dangerous, as some concealed basements where fires still smoldered. There were also places where human remains, rendered by the fire, mixed with ash to create puddles of lye, so that chemical burns were not unheard of among those who ventured the ruins.

It was sickening. There were still questions as to how the fire had started. Rumor had it that it had been the Africans themselves, condemning their own civilians to die in the blaze just so Spain would fail. He had came to this war expecting to see grisly things, but that was an evil he had not expected.

After leaving Djibouti, heat had become the new hell. They hadn't seen real combat yet. Ethiopian aircraft would buzz over them in ominous formation, but their only targets were the Spanish armor. He had seen a dogfight once in the early morning. From the ground, it looked like a number of planes buzzing around each other, with the sound of their guns having a disembodied quality that made it seem like a movie that was out of sync with its sound.

He trudged along behind the Chaplain's truck, sweating his life out. He, like most of the men, had stripped to the waist, accepting an inevitable sun-burn as a good trade for the ability to breath. That did not save him from toting a pack full of gear, or from the responsibility of holding a loaded rifle just in case a group of suicidal Afar decided to launch an assault on their part of the column.

There was no singing or talking in the Spanish column. Only cursing. Alvar stared hungrily at the box laying on it's side in the back of the truck.

"I want to go in the confessional next." he said to Corporal Fonseca, the man nearest in front of him.

"Fuck off, Panzano. If we let you go in there, you'll touch yourself and we'll have to clean it out."

"That is a fucking lie." he protested. He had a habit of staring, he knew that. He couldn't help himself. But it was the rumor that he had been caught masturbating to the burned corpse of a woman in Djibouti that had killed his reputation with the men. He had stared at the corpse, nothing more. It was fascinating. But that was it.

"The next time you go in that booth is when you confess, Panzano. Confess that you are a nasty little pervert." the other men heard him, and they laughed with the little energy they could still muster.

If the sun hadn't already turned him red, he would have turned that color now. He wanted to bash Fonseca's skull in and watch the brains leak out. He wanted to stake him down somewhere the desert and let the Afar have him. It was whispered that the Afar castrated their captives. That would be good. Men like Fonseca didn't deserve their dicks.

"If you have a problem with me, let's settle it right here. Like men."

"Then I'd have to touch you." Fonseca snarled.

"SOLDIERS! SAVE THE THUNDER FOR THE ENEMY!." Lieutenant De Oviedo shouted back at them. To argue with him would be to risk having your water taken away for a while, so Panzano kept silent. But he fumed. He hated De Oviedo more than Fonseca. The Lieutenant liked to scream. It was his screaming at Panzano about the rumor that had turned most of the platoon completely against him.

So he raged on the inside. His attention was brought back to the confessional when he saw it's last inhabitant wiggle out. Fonseca, tossing his pack and rifle into the back of the truck, replaced him. The truck moved slow enough that it was easy for them to do. At the back of the confessional the Chaplain had set up a fan. It wasn't cold, but it didn't have to be. Any reprieve from the fire winds of the Danakil was welcome. So the men shared the compartment in shifts, laying on their backs as if in a coffin and taking what tiny relief it provided.

There was nothing for Panzano to do but hate the others, to hate the sun, and to watch as the nothing scenery went by. It looked like they were walking on top of an endless pile of dried up, baked-to-death dog turds. That was the only was to describe the Danakil. How the Afar had made this place their home was anybody's guess.

When dusk finally fell on the desert, the Spaniards stopped. They spent the last two hours before sun-down setting up their camps on the rocky hills overlooking the road. From up there, they could see an enemy approach and be prepared for it. Barbed-wire was rolled out along the perimeter. While some men slept, other men stood watch, making it so that most only had four or five hours to sleep.

For Panzano, his sleep was constantly interrupted. The Spanish armor moved at night to avoid overheating. That meant ceaseless rumble of heavy diesel engines on the road below. More than once he heard clustered gunfire. Some sounded heavy, from airplanes perhaps, or some African trick he did not understand. Other times it sounded like small-arms fire playing behind some far away dune.

Fucking war.

Before he was ready, it was his time to take guard. He found a place on his own where he would not have to be with any of the other pissants in his platoon. It was near a rock behind a storage tent. He looked out over the serrated ridges and watched for any Afar raiders, but it was the sky that drew his attention. It was big and bright. The stars were the only lights in this place, and they powdered the sky in a way that he had never seen in Spain before.

That was all there was to see. No traveling bands of wiry Afar. Now that he was awake, the sluggish progress of tanks and armored trucks was no longer distracting. He could only see a corner of it. Just motion behind a dune. Nothing worth watching.

But he came prepared. He had bought a pornographic magazine from a sailor. A "Las Tetas de Diversiónes". His favorite part were the cartoons in the center, by a Spanish artist living in Venezuela who called himself "Juan Buentiempo". It made him jealous of men who could draw.

It kept him entertained through his shift. Before dawn, the rest of the company stirred awake. Alvar Panzano stuffed the magazine in his shirt and stood to attention. That meant it was time to pulled up stakes, to roll up the barbed wire, and to march through the cruel desert all over again. He rejoined the rest of the men.

"Gentlemen!" De Oviedo shouted. "There is a change of plans!"

There was only muttering, but nobody said anything. They did not have time before the Lieutenant was speaking again.

"We are thirty kilometers due north of Dire Dawa! That means thousands of black-skinned killers waiting to take your balls and spread them on their toast! They will not get the opportunity to do so! While our armor makes those black-skinned killers into black-skinned residue, we're going to ready ourselves to finish them off!"

Finally! The fighting! The war!

The men roared in approval. Their blood was up. After suffering the Djibouti, and the Danakil, they finally had somebody they could kill for the trouble.

“God dammit!” Ullanhu heard as he slept. The sudden force and anger of the announcement shocked him awake in much the same way as taking a bag of flour into the stomach would. With his hands clenched he shot awake and then scrambled uncoordinated on a floor whetted with frost and decaying leaves. A cold morning air had crept into the cavernous ruin of the old church ruins and snuggled within the halls as if it was taking rest under the blanket itself.

His sudden darting explosion to stand woke the sleeping president who cried out shocked and terrified as Ullanhu tripped over his sleeping porky body. With a tumble and a smack Ullanhu fell face-first into mossy tiles and a mat of leaves. He spilled out there in the mouse hotel as his head swam in the chill, shock, and soreness of falling face first into granite tile.

Groaning woefully to himself, Ullanhu pulled himself up. Everything about him was sore in ways he thought he'd have never felt. Rising to his feet he meant to ask Vasiliy what was wrong, but it was soon answered before the question could be asked. “Someone slashed the tires!” he roared in spiteful Russian.

Ullanhu walked to the cavernous gaping hole in the side of the ruined church, where the bricks had spilled across the ground inside and out. Stomping and raging alongside the truck they had stolen was Vasiliy, railing on about anyone who might have done it. Clenched fists hammered the side of the cab and crashed against the metal. The hard bangs and cracks his fists made against the side of the cab sounded like they'd hurt, but whatever pain he was feeling was muted by his unbridled rage.

“Someone slashed the tires?” asked Ullanhu as he walked out into the morning light. The sun had barely lifted over the horizon and a gentle fog hung over the meadow they were in. Dew glistened from the nearby bushes and tree tops. And from the high dome-doped bell tower at the front of the large brick and mortar church a flock of sparrows were dancing and spinning about as they fled their roost.

“Yes!” Vasiliy bellowed, waving bruised reddened hands to the trucks tires. Deep gashes were cut deep into the rubber and now they sagged so severely against the vehicle's weight the lips of the cuts bore a bovine overbite.

“Well... Uh... Do we know who?” Ullanhu asked dimly. He was still half asleep and what threads he was spinning were not fully worked out.

“I don't know who, but if I figure it out I will...” Vasiliy began, his face burned a bright beet red that only grew solar as he fought to find what it was he was going to do with them. Let alone figure out who.

“Fuck I don't know. But I'll figure it out when I get there.” he sneered angrily.

Ullanhu nodded along and rubbed at his shoulders. “I'll just...” he said, “... I'll just go keep an eye on Belyakov.”

“Fine!” Vasiliy snapped, waving a dismissive hand up at him, “Go do that.”

Ullanhu turned back to the ruin of the country church, putting his back on Vasiliy who continued to ramble angry Russian. The words from his mouth sounding less like an articulate language, but the sounds of a raw bestial anger. Turning about the crumbling wall it fettered off into muffled distant nothing.

To say the temple they found themselves in had been built for paupers once upon a time would have been a insult. Even in the ruined state there was a rich opulence that still shone from the walls. But from where gold leaf had been carved from the walls by locals there was instead glistening morning dew that shone like diamonds in the morning light. Halos of dazzling dew polish framed the face of peeling iconography of Jesus and a diamond sun shone over faded scenes of medieval Russian country life, portrayed in romantic idealism by fresco slowly loosing their colors to the wear of time. And along the bases of statues evidence to the building's final hours reached up along the robes and clothes of Russian saints in the form of scorch marks and stubborn ash. Stains from rainwater added permanent trails of tears from vacant accusative eyes as these holy men looked down at and scorned the communist that had taken refuge under their crumbling roof.

And while the structure wasn't ancient given the signs that there had once been electricity and modern convenience installed here, the severe neglect that it suffered certainly had not helped it.

By the time he got back to the president he was already sitting up. His hands resting crossed and limped in his lap. His suit sagged filthy and wet from off his shoulders. He sat slouched, head bowed down like a monk in prayer. As Ullanhu got near the man shuffled, but did not look up. He kept an eerie withheld silence as reserved and defeated as his posture. There was a certain foul smell that came off of him as well, but Ullanhu assumed all three of them probably smelled poorly by now. And they haven't exactly given the president any breaks for a bathroom in a long time.

Ullanhu knelt down in front of him and the president let out a long stressed breath. The Chinese agent looked at his hooded face, expecting that he would speak to him, or acknowledge him. But not a sound peeped from his lips. “You probably need to see the light.” Ullanhu said gently, and reached out and undid the hood over the president's head. With a slow movement he pulled it up to above his brow.

The moment the morning light hit his eyes Belyakov recoiled against the sudden shot of light, clenching his eyes shot as he recoiled back and rose weak hands up to his eyes. “Christ!” he swore weakly.

Blinking away the knives, Belyakov looked up at Ullanhu and snarled, “Fuck's sakes, what's going on?” he grumbled, “I figured I was with a chink, but I didn't expect any that looked as soft as you boy.” he commented in spiteful Russian.

“I'm just here on the job.” Ullanhu said.

“Fine, some Chinese revolution.” Belyakov sighed. His puffy walrus face had faced and deflated since he was captured by Vasiliy. He was palor, bruised, and his bushy mustache had been joined by thick bearded scrub as messy as his hair had become. Critical eyes leered at Ullanhu from atop cheeks stained with tears, “I was a part of a revolution too, once!” he said in a low accusing tone, “We're all revolutionaries here, so why do you act in betrayal brother to brother?”

“It's not my area to question.” Ullanhu told him.

“Right, and which head of the dragon tells you to do this then?”

“I don't think I'm obligated to say.”

“What the fuck does it matter in the end you shit?” Belyakov continued in fire, “I know for sure you're not going to kill me, and you've evaded the army well enough I might as well recognize I'm not going back. What do you need me for!?” he demanded, “Is it because Dimitriov died in prison too soon, am I to serve the rest of his time? I wasn't even involved in that horse shit!”

“I'm sure you weren't.” Ullanhu said dismissively.

“So who then? Radek? Nikolov? I have a long list and I can keep asking for a while. It'd be easier to just tell me.” the president continued to demand.

“As much as I'd say I don't think you need to know.” Ullanhu retorted. He reached out and grabbed the hood, pulling it back down over his face and pulling the straps tight before he could grab his wrists and stop him.

“One of these days you will be cut up, and fed to the pigs your sons will eat.” Belyakov promised.

“I'll have my eye on you.” Ullanhu whispered to him, as Vasiliy came over the bricks. The Mongol rose as he walked across the leaf-strewn floor.

“How's our prisoner?” he asked in Russian, looking down as Belyakov.

“Smells terrible, but still lively.” Ullanhu affirmed, “So are you done?”

“I suppose.” Vasiliy slumped, “I'd still like to kill the man who did it. But there's no use wishing if we don't know who. We need to figure out what we're doing.”

“I just want to know where we're going.”

Vasiliy sighed, “I was of hoping we make it to Urals.” he groaned, jumping to Chinese, “If we had kept pace, we could make it by end of day today. But is not possible now.”

“Well, we're not walking. How were we going to make it there?”

“Lost car, get new one might shake search men now. So we find new car.”

“I saw a farm-house on a hill not far back as we were coming in. Think they'd have something we can drive off with?” Ullanhu asked.

Vasiliy shrugged, “Maybe. But is of best choice.” he planted his hands on his hip for a moment, and considered, looking down at the president who had since resumed his resigned slump, “I'll pick up pig, you lead us to house. Figure out from there.”



With a toss the armored car was thrown over a pothole in the middle of the road. Holding on his seat Huei Wen held fast to keep from being thrown against the floor, as with the other men in the car. Towards the front cabin a man sat perched against a terminal of radios strapped to the steel hull. The crackling and sheering voices of communication relays from the rest of the operating positions chewed through the air with the sound of the car's engine. Just inches from his head the open port in the roof where the gunner sat dropped down into the narrow room left behind between the radio operator and the equipment strapped down. The light of the afternoon sun glowed through the open turret cutout as the gunner scanned the landscape.

And while the view to the cabin was blocked the general didn't need to know where they were as they stopped. It was a checkpoint.

“Comrade!” someone hailed.

“Afternoon.” responded the driver, “We're en'route to Isetoskoye Camp. Can we get through?”

“What for?” the guard asked.

“Huei Wen wants to meet with your CO. He's in the back.”

“I won't keep the general waiting then, on your way.” the checkpoint guard invited, and they were quickly on the move again.

Many of the roads into the city were closed, most were supposedly completely shutdown by checkpoints and outposts controlling the direction of traffic until the city itself was completely shut down. Communities like Beryozovsky were used as bait, drawing out a battalion of the Republic's men to keep the Chinese from laying claim to the larger of the communities in orbit around Yekaterinburg. But they were soon trapped, and laid to the same sort of siege in that gold mining town as their brethren in Yekaterinburg.

Only the western roads were open. A contested stretch of highway under the gun of mortars. A fanciful promise of escape if they sought to take it. But never a life-line.

With a sharp bounce the armored car came to stop again. “We're here.” the driver called back.

Huei Wen replied back with a curt acknowledging nod as the rear hatch was swung open. Bright sunlight poured in and the general and his escort stepped out into the muddy field of Isetoskoye Camp.

All around the air was filled with the hum of soldiers and their comings and goings. In coming and outgoing vehicles and the rumble of tanks waiting to set out on patrolling the roads and country-side again. In the distance the thrumming of a landing helicopter summoned the return of an airborne patrol as it touched down on the far side of a large farmhouse atop a hill, a two story small mansion wrought of stone.

The grass and gravel drive had been rendered a muddy quagmire from overuse by heavy equipment. As Wen stepped up onto the front porch he briskly shook the mud and dirt from his coat, shaking clumps from the bottom hem and kicking his boots clean on the concrete steps as he walked through the doors.

“Comrade Huei Wen!” a young lieutenant saluted as the general stepped through the heavy oak doors. They stood now in the middle of a large foyer, trimmed with wooden beams. An antique if worn rug dressed the wooden floor they stood on.

“Comrade.” Wen greeted, bowing, “At ease.”

“Thank you.” the lieutenant bowed, stepping aside, “I was alerted you'd be here to see Shàngxiào Li Chu, when I heard you were on your way I came to meet you.”

“Then take me to your colonel.” Huei Wen commanded with a smile. The lieutenant obliged, holding out his hands to follow as he lead him up a flight of stairs opposite the door.

“What's your name, comrade?” Wen asked, making polite conversation as they went along. The stairs groaned under their weight as they went along. The wooden balusters of the handrail contained carved images of deer and other wild animals at play in a forest.

“Zhōngwèi Kwan Lu, comrade.” the lieutenant answered, “I serve in Chu's personnel command. I was asked to meet you when you came.”

“Yes, as you've said.” Huei Wen commented as they crested the stairs. He scanned the walls as they went, paintings and black and white photos hung in abundance from the walls and a still homely feel was kept in the home.

“This site,” Wen continued, “What condition was it in when you procured it?”

“It was still occupied, comrade. When we arrived there was still an elderly couple residing here. It took some negotiation on Chu's part to coerce them to allow him to use their home as a command center.”

“Whatever did he do to see to that.” Wen mumbled with a raised brow of bemusement as he passed an old photo of a man fishing with a youth, a pipe hanging from his mouth, he also donned a heavy mustache.

“So long as we keep most of it to the barns the old man and woman do not get upset.” Lu pointed out, having head Wen, “Much of the command structure makes use of the guest rooms and the inhabitants keep their own bed.”

“I'm sure whatever suits them.” said Wen as they stopped alongside a door.

“Well as I hear it they're still not wholly happy but their complacent. Here's where he's set up his field office.” Lu said opening the door.

Wen bowed as he entered through the door, it shut softly behind him, leaving the commander alone with Li Chu.

Looking up from a desk in the far corner of the room the colonel stood and saluted. “Comrade Wen!” he cheered, offering a stiff salute. The officer seemed stiff. There was a nervous air to his wide smile and quick forced formality. It was as if reviewing cadets, as Wen noted to himself.

Chu wasn't much for a man, a boney figure who had put on some muscle. He was several days behind in shaving, and an already pronounced sharp beard was growing on his chin. “At ease.” Wen invited, looking around the room. It was sparsely decorated and many personal humanizing effects were well removed. A small dresser full of decorative trinkets sat in the corner opposite of Chu's writing desk and a tall mirror stood between the windows opposite of the room's door. Otherwise a bank of cots sat lined against the wall at regular increments, though in irregular states of disorder and decorum. “You seemed to have done well for command posts.” Wen noted with some jealousy.

“I do with what opportunities arise. I liked the hose since it was stone and on a hill.” Chu explained nervously. His thin brown eyes searched carefully. His entire demeanor was like that of navigating a minefield and he was searching for the next place to step.

“Sure, but it was occupied.” Huei Wen said stepping to the deck.

“I negotiated with the home-owners. We're here on their permission now.” said Chu with a smile. He held out his hand to the wooden chair alongside his desk and with an inviting smile asked: “Care to sit?”

“I'll stand for now, Shàngxiào. If you don't mind.”

“Very well, suit yourself.” nodded Chu as he resumed his seat. He fidgeted nervously with a pen in his hand and looked up, “So, what's the visit for?”

“I hear you had a brush in with some independent actors in your sector. I normally wouldn't think much of it but to me it sounded like they were armed pretty well, I thought you could elaborate what had happened. So much can only go over the radios.”

“Oh, of course.” said Chu, a relieved breath passed his lips and the stiffness in his demeanor lifted. “It was a routine interception of a Republican patrol unit searching to scout out any breaches in the security. On the way to meet with the marked detachment my unit intercepted instead a south-bound independent group who fired first on them.

“As word from the patrol sergeant went both sides exchanged fire. My men had taken cover on the other-side of a wooded berm. They had fallen back to that as they were crossing over the roadway and they had arrived.”

“How were these independents equipped?” Wen asked.

“Well...” Chu shrugged, “My reporting NCO said they had uniforms almost similar to the Republican military, the same green and dress of the Imperial army and the same equipment. The only notable difference is that they fought in almost a similar style to the Armenians back in the mid-seventies. They made use of civilian vehicles and fired from the backs of re-purposed utilitarian trucks.”

“So are you sure this wasn't a Republican relief group?”

“Well if it is, then it was very poorly equipped with vehicles.” Chu laughed, “Fuck, civilian cars; our intel says they still have military equipment for however long that can last. But they can't really be abandoning that so soon, can they?”

Huei Wen lowered his head, thinking about that. There had been some reports of sporadic engagements with unidentified forces elsewhere along the siege line. And some scouting of the city itself suggested that it was fighting itself.

“You don't think it's Mafiya, is it?” asked Chu.

“No, I doubt it.” said Wen.

“I see, so how should I go about proceeding? If you need to know more I can't offer you up much else.”

“No, I think that'll do.” Wen nodded.

“Well, comrade. Before you leave perhaps you could answer a question for me: when are we taking the city?”

Wen looked down at him and shrugged, “That'll happen when it happens.” he said simply, “Until then, hold your posts. I want future patrols to try and take something from these independents so we can get an ID on them in the future. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir.”



“You can take the couch.” Makulov's man said, directing Jun's attention to a sparse simple couch in the far corner of the apartment flat overlooking the Volga river. To Jun, the apartment was familiar in its compactness and he had memories of one like it being set on fire to kill him in Perm. However, much unlike that this was clean and didn't smell of corrosive chemicals.

It was in every respect, pristine. Studiously cleaned, tended and decorated. Although there were no personal effects to add to the décor of the small combination living room and kitchen small potted plants were strategically placed at the windowsills, strategically taking as much space as possible and to provide their owners with fresh herbs and spices. Taking off his boots, Jun felt the freshly vacuumed carpet under his foot.

It was a welcome creature comfort after having been for so long shacked up in squalor or in the wilds. He felt a sudden relief and the sore tension in him slip away. For once: he could breath.

“We both have the same sort of mission, so it's only fitting that we share resources. I'll let you shack up here for the time being until you can get yourself proper accommodations for the future.” the Russian spy said, “Until then, my place is yours.

“If you need to clean your uniform or clothes there's a wash bin in the basement of the tenanments. But you'll need to hang everything up on a line.”

“I understand.” said Jun. With a loud thump he threw his bag on the ground alongside the couch as he sat himself down. He brushed his hands along the short-bristled red fabric as he leaned back and felt months worth of strain leave his body.

“Do you want anything to drink?” the Russian agent asked as he walked to the kitchen half of the apartment. There sat on the counter-top an ice-box the size of a large radio sat alongside a sink of stained nickle.

“I'm fine.”

“Understood.” nodded the Russian.

Leaning into the back of the couch Jun looked over the rest of the room. On a dresser stand sat a wood-paneled radio, its top forming into a soft, tall arch and its face set with brass knobs and a woven face for the speakers. Alongside that sparse shelves with simple knick-knacks. Opposite to that and on the wall left of the entrance was where the door to the Makulov agent's room was. Tucked on the other-side of the radio display on the right wall was a cracked door, that given the light reflection of sunlight through the porch door wall alongside Jun was where the bathroom was.

“I'd hate to talk business so soon,” Jun's host started, holding a dark bottle of beer to his chest, “but I'm wondering: do you plan to go see your brewer man?”

“And what?” asked Jun

“Tell him what happened.”

Jun shook his head, “Nothing's happened yet.”

“How can you be so sure, you made the deal with Batista then.”

“I'm not working for him, not yet at least.”

“Ok.” the agent shrugged. He took a swig from the bottle and wandered over to the doorwall, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants. Outside the mid-day sun was beginning to wane and soon it'd be evening. “And another thing,” the other man started, “and this is completely independent, but since you're here: there is going to be some big conference thing in town.” he waved a hand behind him, towards where the heart of Volgagrad was no doubt, “I approached the city as an independent man for hire to run security there; but really to just get inside. I could use backup.”

“Backup?”

“Of course.” the host nodded, “Nothing amazing, but someone else there to pass off as a business partner. I don't know how deep they'll let you go in if at all. But it's happening soon, I can recommend you.

“Between the two of us we can get information important to both of our parties and mission. It's mutual benefit in mutual work, against mutual enemies. How do you say?”

Jun looked up at him, cocking his jaw to the side. He didn't know what to make of it, and it produced itself from thin air. “What's it about?” he asked.

The man shrugged, “I don't know.” he admitted, “There was a small announcement made some time ago about hosting representatives from across the Volga Confederacy. There'll be some other smaller parties in attendance too. I can only expect dirty political business so having two ears there will be a great help. We'll share and collaborate information on what happened at the end of the day. Then after – or during, who knows – Batista will have you in his employ and making good on his word.”

“Sounds interesting, but can I really hold Batista up to it?”

The Russian host laughed, a guttural honest laugh. “Of course.” he cackled, “He may be a former fucking autocrat but he knows when someone can tighten the vice on his balls. Of course don't push him, or he'll as soon have someone pull your guts out over Old Sarepta.”

“Would this hurt my chances with him, going to this conference?”

Again, the host laughed, “Fuck no.” he crooned, “The Confederacy isn't much of a nation as it is a collection of mutual city-states and organizations with land claims. A few enclaves here and there who would rather not. But a lot have their stake in it, especially after the Turks fucked off. Mafiya included. Batista's a stake-holder but himself not big enough to attend.

“I can get you in to work it with me, among the muscle there, simply being there will be enough for some respect. You get the protect some of the more powerful known gangsters in southern Russia!” he laughed.

--------------------------------------------
Moscow. December 15th, 1970.
--------------------------------------------

Viktor Laine was trapped. In the morning he had killed a Tsar, and there was no getting away with that. The entire city was looking for him. He could hear sirens; they echoed everywhere. It made it impossible to tell where they were coming from, and he was giving up trying. It was only a matter of time before he was caught.

He and his partner in the assassination, Juhani Mikael, had lived the last month on the run. Energy had come from hate. They had drank melted snow, and ate what scraps they could steal. Sleep happened in shorts shifts. The horror they had felt after the destruction of the Vallankumous kept them going, along with their single murderous goal.

Buy now the goal was achieved. Juhani was gone. All of Viktor's energy was sapped, and he was too tired to run. He had nothing to run to.

But he trudged on, exhausted rather than afraid. He was in the alley of a half-abandoned slum. Wood houses closed in around him, stacked on one another and tied together with planks and stairs. He dragged his feet through the mud in search of peace.

A crude wood stair brought him one story above the road. From here, he could see a slice of Moscow. Blue lights flashed above streets he couldn't see. The view was not enough, and he could not devise a way out of the city. Did he even want to? Did he still have any desires at all? He felt like a street dog, fleeing when people threw rocks, and nipping at anybody who came near. Life with no personality or reason. Just going through the motions.

Fuck it.

He pushed through a pitiful door and broke into a pauper's apartment. Nobody was home. There was a single bed with stained blankets, an empty basin atop a table, and cupboards with chipped doors. Naked insulation covered the walls. It was the bed that caught his attention. He wanted to lay down and sleep. When they found him, he wanted them to kill him in this bed. Rest forever.

He rifled through the room, looking for anything he might make use of. There were canned soups, and a few sacks of crackers. He turned to see what else there was and came face to face with a mirror. It was the first time he had seen a clear image of himself since the fall of the Vallankumous. Ruined. That was the first thing he thought. He was underfed and bruised. A blonde beard was beginning to grow back, and he was balding. His injuries were a painful reminder of Juhani: the friend who had sacrificed himself to the cause hours earlier. Juhani had been a taller man, with deep set features. Easier to look at than the unhappily aging Viktor. He had spent the last month watching Juhani wear down like this, and seeing himself brought back those memories. Painful memories that reminded him his life was over.

Juhani had been the better man. He never lost sight of his humanity no matter what happened. In the end, it had been him who chose to sacrifice himself. But he would be forgotten. They would both be forgotten. Nobody else had witnessed their struggle. Perhaps they would be recognized, but what would happen to the story? Vallankumous' only witness would be the Russians who hated them.

A final act. A goal. He grabbed on to it with all his remaining strength. He found paper and a blunt pencil, and began to write.



--------------------------------------------------------
Present Day, on the Road to Volgograd.
--------------------------------------------------------

Russia was nothing like Sahle had imagined it. This was supposed to be the country of Siberia, with frozen lakes and mountains blanketed in snow all year long. Instead, all he saw was nothingness. It was like the blank ground on which God had made the earth. There was nothing but grass and dirt, and there wasn't as much as a molehill to break the horizon. Even the small towns they passed were flat and lifeless. Sahle felt blessed just to see a tree.

He woke up feeling somewhat better than before, but his skin was still clammy and his stomach felt useless and unsettled. He rode in the passenger's side of Sorokin's armored truck. Vasily drove.

The horsemen in their caravan fascinated Sahle. They looked like modern soldiers, but they insisted on riding horses. He watched them canter along the trucks. They moved as they pleased - men keeping pace with each other to chat, or galloping to the river when it came near to the road. He wondered what it felt like to ride a horse.

"The last time I was in Volgograd, I found a little cart in front of a laundromat called... ah, I don't know what it was called." said Vasily. He was staring straight ahead. "But they sold the food of Italy. Noodles."

"Why do they ride horses?" Sahle asked.

"Mmm. Those are Cossacks. Not all of them ride horses. Some of them ride in trucks, or just walk."

"Why horses? Farmers in my homeland still use them, but soldiers? That seems outdated."

"A horse can go places that a truck cannot. It is good for that. And you don't have to get petroleum for a horse."

"That's true." Sahle now wondered why horses fell out of favor in the first place. "So Cossack means horseman?"

"No. It is a more specific word. The Cossacks are... in the old days, before there was a Russia, the plains were ruled by horsemen. The ancestors of Attila the Hun came from this place. But then we Russians came. We came to rule over the horsemen. The Tsars were smart men, and they saw the horsemen as an opportunity, and so they payed them to fight for Russia. That was a long time ago. Our Cossacks are not the same as those men. But the idea of hiring non-Russian people to fight has survived because people in the south have been fighting in organized bands for so long it is normal to them. Some of these men fought as Imperial Cossacks for the last Tsar."

"Only some?"

Vasily shrugged. "When there was no Tsar, and the Communists and Turks came calling, the Cossacks found another reason to exist."

"So the Tsar of Russia still had horsemen in his army? My grandfather did away with Ethiopia's cavalry around the time I was born."

"The Imperial Cossacks stopped using horses after the Great War. They ride horses now because there isn't much money in Russia, and horsemen can cover a lot of ground in the countryside. I know that the Communists in the north use horses also."

"I can see why you are one of Sorokin's favorites." Sahle said.

"You can? Because I know what a Cossack is?"

"You know things. It's lucky the band happened to walk into your bar."

"Oh no, not surprising at all. A band comes to Sevan to play music because it is the best place to do that. A Russian comes to Sevan because it is full of Russians and Chinese willing to help the cause. There were plenty of people like me in Armenia."

"Vladmira." Sahle remembered.

They stopped to rest and stretch their legs. Vasily and Sorokin consulted with the men, speaking below Sahle's ability to hear. The weather was warmer than it ever had been in Sevan. The sun felt beautiful on his forehead. Motion and warmth woke his sleeping bladder, and he stepped down in a ditch to piss.

Sahle looked out across the empty plain and imagined Vasily's horsemen. He could see it now, how difficult it would have been before the invention of the automobile to live any other way but as horsemen here. It was too massive of a place, where people could get lost under the monumental sky. Better to thunder across the fields on horseback.

When he was empty, he went back to the stopped caravan. Regina was with a woman who he had thought to be one of her guards at first, but observation said otherwise. She was unarmed, and doted on Regina like a nurse. There was nothing soldier-like about her. Sahle wondered if the woman was Regina's mother.

"Sahle." Sorokin's kindly voice caught his attention. The Colonel had broke away from the rest of the officers. "I have decided that Regina will ride in the front. She should see some of this country. You will ride in the back with me and the men."

Sahle complied. Regina and the woman who followed her climbed into the front with Vasily.

The back of the truck was cut off from the front by a wall. It was a troop carrier, with benches along the sides. A couple of guards rode with them. The air was humid there, and claustrophobia made Sahle nauseous all over again. The engine coughed and came to life. He felt the truck jerk forward, and heard the groan of metal. They were moving.

"I find it almost unbelievable." Sorokin said.

"What?"

"You are an Emperor.. I believe you, because Vasily would have no reason to invent a story like this. But it is still difficult to imagine. Why would somebody of royal blood want to play slum music in Armenia?"

"It wasn't something I chose to do."

"You said that before. I don't know much about what happened in Africa when you were Emperor."

"I was driven out by the commander of my army, a man called Ras Hassan. He put my brother on the throne."

"I have heard that name. Ras Hassan. He was the man who tortured children in the Congo? Brutal leader. It takes somebody like that to toss a chosen King from his seat, morally speaking."

Sahle said nothing. He did not know what to say. At first, he had hated Hassan and Yaqob for the war, but now? He was beginning to believe he deserved what happened.

"You look uncertain." Sorokin tilted his head. "Would you say you were a good king?"

"My father was a good King. I knew that when he took the throne. It wasn't what he did. I don't really know what he did; I didn't pay attention as much as I should have. But... it was the way he carried himself. He knew what he was doing, always. I never saw my father question himself. Until the day he died, it seemed he had everything under control."

Sorokin smiled warmly. "That isn't just the way of Kings. It is the way of good fathers too. My father was like that. A king in his household. You see families where the fathers have died in war, and the women try to take care of the children. They never work. Without guidance, the children turn to crime. Or begging. I think it is just the way of human nature."

"Maybe that is where I went wrong. When father died, I did not know what to do. He made it look so easy..."

"And the people around you used the opportunity. They reached up and took what wasn't theirs to take. You had Hassan and your brother. Russia had the rebels of 1970. It ends the same. Calamity. Always calamity."

"It doesn't matter. I don't have a place anymore. I'm just along for the ride. At least for now." Dammit. Sahle felt alone and exhausted. He wished he could find Marc and get another fix. Hell, even alcohol would work.

"Here" Sorokin, as if he were telepathic, handed Sahle a pocket-flask. "I carry this for good health. You look like you could use some drink."

He could. He took it gratefully and gulped down a couple of drops. Vodka burned his mouth, but damn did it feel good. When Sahle handed it back, Sorokin took a swig.

"I will introduce you to General Rykov the first chance we get. Remember that you are only Sahle to the people who I introduce you to. Regina's teacher has been informed, as has my guard. Outside of this truck however, you are an unknown. Samel again if you must be."

"Regina's teacher. I thought that was her mother."

Sorokin's face fell. He looked as if his whole body had became heavy at once. "Her mother passed away long ago."

Sahle said nothing. The situation was too uncomfortable for him now. He rested his head against the cold steel wall and tried to think of other things while the truck's vibrations massaged his skull.

They stopped a second time, this time because a number of cattle were blocking the road. When Sahle came out of the back of the truck, he saw that Vasily had hopped out: first to argue with the cattle, and then to argue with their owner. They had to wait until it was cleared up. When it was time to go Sahle climbed into the back. He found himself joined by Regina and her teacher this time.

"I thought you were riding...?" he asked, gesturing toward the front of the truck.

"Radmila was carsick" Regina said. They were moving again

Radmila. That was the name of this teacher. She was gap-toothed brunette who Sahle estimated to be in her mid-thirties. Her eyes - youthful grey - were focused on him.

"What does it feel like." the grown woman said, eyes flashing. "Being a King?"

"It's been a few years." Sahle stalled. "Ah... I was always trying to keep something from happening. There was always something. I had people who told me what to do to make what I didn't want to happen not happen. But then when I thought everything was fine, something new came up."

"Your brother is Yaqob II of Ethiopia? The Communist?"

"I guess."

"I've read about him in the newspapers. I remember when you were in the news too. It's so strange, being in the same car as you."

Sahle smirked. "It's stranger being me."

"So does all of Africa have the same Emperor?" Regina interrupted. Sahle was amused by how the little girl acted. She carried herself like a young musician who, having played one performance on stage, decided they were the new Mozart. Too much self-certainty for such a small girl. "I have heard your brother called by that title. Interesting that such a thing would be possible."

"My father was Emperor of one third of Africa. So was I. And Yaqob."

"How did that happen?" Regina sounded amazed.

Sahle had no answer. How had it happened? That was his father's miracle. Something pulled together from rebels and dreamers in the few places where people paid attention to governments. It became clear he had nothing to say.

"People need leadership, Regina." Radmila said. She spoke at the girl, but her eyes were on Sahle. She was giving him her best gap-toothed smile. "It's like green eyes. A rare trait that most people can't have. But if you are in an old family, it's something that has been passed down to you. Correct, your majesty? I do not know much about your history, actually. We should discuss it some time."

"Make that a date." Sahle said. "Once I get my bearings. If I get my bearing."

"You have been through a lot."

Sahle chuckled. "I don't know the half of it."

They spent the time making awkward small talk, which all seemed to blur together as the words droned on. The talk followed the same pattern so that it almost became a sort of boring poetry. When it was done, they stopped for a third time. The sun seemed brighter.

The flatness was still out there; miles and miles of it, without any hint that there was an end. Perhaps this was Russia. Maybe the snowy peaks and forested hills were postcard images from the northern fringes of a boring and empty land. How long would he be here?

When it was time to go, he was in the front again. Vasily had climbed into the turret, leaving the blonde-haired woman who had been in it before now in the driver's seat. Sahle was starting to feel like he was being put on tour.

She was something of an amazon - thick-shouldered, thin-lipped, and straight-faced. Her countenance was single minded. Focused, undistracted. It reminded Sahle of how he had seen adults when he was a child. Completely in control.

"You do not look like an Emperor." she said, not looking at him. "Your majesty, I should say."

"What does an Emperor look like?"

"I do not know. I have not seen one. But I doubt they look like you."

"Well, I sold the crown for booze money."

She cracked an ornery smile. "I don't doubt that."

"What is your name?" Sahle asked.

"Uliana. I would ask you, but I know your name."

Sahle smiled. "You don't look like a soldier."

She feigned offense. "Can women not be soldiers? I think you don't understand things. I can shoot just as straight as a man. Straighter, since I do not have to... I don't know." she couldn't keep it up, and started giggling. "I don't have to balance two balls in my pants."

"I guess a gun makes it more fair."

"I can fight a man with my fists too. I would show you, but I need my fists to steer."

"Don't have to tell me. I don't think I could fight you."

"Oh. That is a thing to say for a man."

"I am good at other things."

She bobbed her head slowly. For a moment, there was silence. Then she spoke again.

"You know, I could teach you a few things. You might need to know, since you are with us now and not in a band."

"Guns?"

She shrugged. "Sure. It is what I know."

--

It was getting dark when they stopped. They were on the edge of some city. Sahle surmised this from the lazy light on the horizon, and the increasing number of scattered villages they passed. The convoy left the main road, entering onto a chipped and abandoned road that led off toward the river Volga, which had joined them not too long ago. Trees and green clung to its banks.

The vibe in this place was chilly. They passed through a ruined gate, and onto the the ground of a moldering mansion. It looked like a haunted house from a movie. The architecture had the somber stonework of the post-war period, rusty-pink coloring the stone. The windows and attractive balustrades hinted at an older aristocratic taste. A dry fountain, filled with trash and debris, waited silently in front, centered by a column with the likeness of a straight-backed Slavic warrior carved into its four sides. It looked like half of the mansion had collapsed, as had much of the roof.

The caravan of vehicles fanned out and formed perimeter in front of the mansion. Their engines went silent one after the other. Uliana slammed open her door and climbed out. Sahle followed. A warm summer air greeted him, carrying the melody of the insects that teemed along the banks of the Volga. The burnt stench of diesel polluted this place now. The grounds, having slumbered in ruin for so long, now squirmed with Russians. He followed Uliana into the house itself.

Sorokin stood in a room opened to the outside by a collapsed wall and roof. Beams from flashlights flitted across mildewed walls, from the men exploring the cavernous rooms enclosed in the still standing structure.

"Look at this, Samel." Sorokin said. There was a hint of wonder in his voice. His eyes were cast upward.

Sahle looked up. Remnants of the ceiling still clung to chipped walls. A vaulted ceiling, like that of an Italian church, immense and exalted. Cracked against a sunset sky, however, it just looked sad and forgotten.

"They used to call it the Pink Palace. One of the Czar's summer estates, built after the war so he could visit the Turkish border with more ease. I only visited it once."

"You got to visit the Tsar?"

Sorokin looked down at the ground. "I used to be a member of his guard, before everything fell apart. I did not know the man, but I met him many times."

Knowing that Sorokin had once served here, when the building was still in use, made the place seem somehow more real. He could see it now - lustrous furniture instead of the rotten sofa, the smell of feasts and perfume instead of insidious decay. Perhaps there had been murals on the ceiling.

"Imagine, your majesty, if this was your home? That is how I feel about Russia. Everything that we once had is now... this. Russia once contested with Europe. We fought back the children of Chingis Khan. We froze Napoleon's armies. And our people looked up at places like this and knew that, whatever his faults, their Tsar was strong. He could protect them. Now? They steal bricks from this place. They piss in the fountain while herding their goats past the ruins."

Oh god, Sahle thought. This was happening to Ethiopia now.

"I think." Sorokin did not seem to see Sahle anymore. He was lost in his own world. "If you need to know why we hate the Communists, you only need look here. The Finns only killed our Tsar. The Bolsheviks desecrated his country."

"Some day you will have it again." Sahle's voice cracked as he spoke. What else was he supposed to say?

"I know." Sorokin said. There was no question in his voice.

When the sweep of the place was finished, sleeping bags were set in the dark rooms, lined along the walls and the floors. Regina and Radmila entered with the others and conferred with Sorokin. Sahle's main concern was finding some place that didn't stink too bad.

He found a place to lay down. Slowly, one by one, so did the rest. Sound died away until there was only the quiet burble of the river, and the muttering of the Cossacks left on guard duty outside.

At night, ruins do something to the nerves. It's that idea of a haunting - that something dead, whether a man or a house, must contain some essence of it's former life. In theology, only people have souls, but to the instinct of the heart, everything has a soul, and the soul of a broken place can always be sensed. His nostrils filled with dizzying mold, and his eyes denied sight by the darkness, Sahle felt the depressed soul of this place. He was more aware now than he had been for a long while. It felt as if he had fallen into a dream somewhere in Cairo, and was just now waking up. Sleep came to him in pitiful doses.

Perhaps, he thought, if he could see the moon, and get out of the oppressive ruin for long enough to recover. Then when he went back, sleep would come easily. He committed to this. Standing up in the pitch black was a struggle, as was navigating the room with nothing to navigate by. All he could see was the rectangle opening of the doorway, and the open space of the ruin washed over by moonlight.

He found it easier to breath in the open air of the collapse. The moon peaked between the crevices of the ruined ceiling. He thought, cautiously, of how far he should wander. There was no reason to go out into the woods and beyond the fence. The Cossacks would likely not allow it anyway. Instead, he contented himself standing where the floor and smashed bricks faded into the mud of the outdoor world. He wondered what exact direction Sevan was from where he was standing. What was Aaliyah doing now? Where was Addis Ababa? What fight was his brother and sister fighting?

"Your majesty." He heard Sorokin's voice whisper behind him. He smelled alcohol on the man's breath. Startle, Sahle nearly hopped up.

"Sorry." Sorokin said. "I saw you wander over here. Trouble sleeping?"

"It's been a long week." Sahle replied.

"I do not sleep well either. Not with the burden of command. Come, walk with me. We should talk."

Sahle obliged. They strolled through the building, passing through darkened halls and into other open rooms he had not noticed before.

"Tomorrow we will go to Volgograd. You will meet General Rykov before any other these meetings proceed. He should know who you are."

"You trust him?" Sahle asked tentatively.

"Yes." Sorokin said. "I trust him like a father. He has done more for the memory of Russia than any other man in the ruins of our country."

Sahle had no other choice but to trust him too.

"Let me explain some things to you." He said. They passed through a door guarded by two Cossacks, and into another dark room. "Things are going to start moving quickly. You will be tossed into a tumult you did not ask for, and that is not your own. The Republic is dead."

They came to Sorokin's room. His daughter was fast asleep in a cot opposite from the one Sorokin sat in. Sahle found a seat on a nearby crate after moving the half-drank bottle of liquor balanced on it's edge.

"It has been happening for some time. The Republic is losing control of the Urals very rapidly. That has been a disaster all its own, but now it is found that the President of the Republic has disappeared."

"Did he run away?" Sahle asked in a whisper.

"Rumor has it that he was kidnapped. We do not know much more."

"What does this mean?" Sahle did not know much of Russian politics, but a phrase like 'The President has been kidnapped.' carries an obvious amount of alarm.

"That means that Volgograd will have to reassess. But my comrades in this nation will reassess with knowledge you do not have. Knowledge you should have. There are truths to this conflict that the public are not aware of."

Sorokin looked at his boots and shook his head. He seemed amused. "I have told this to several people before. My life has been a burden to me, you know? That I have my command to consider, and my patriotic duty. I have Regina to consider too." he nodded at his daughter. She was still fast asleep, tangled in a woolen blanket.

"Yes, I have told several people before. Many times. But it never comes easy. I used to have help in this before. My last position in the service of my country was to protect the daughter of the Tsar. I failed this. And the horrible thing? I met her killers in the hall, after the murder. Before I knew what had happened. They were dressed as Janitors. I told them they were not supposed to be there. Then I let them go."

"You didn't know." Sahle comforted.

"That is my burden to bear." Sorokin nodded. "I accept that I was at fault. There was a lurking danger at the time, all Russians felt it, but there was no reason to take that feeling seriously. Not until the moment that... that Grand Duchess Alisa died. And I have found a way to redeem myself." Sorokin looked back over, at the sleeping girl.

Sahle felt a pang for his mother. Parenthood. He had lost both of his parents, and had no plans to have children of his own. There was too much living to do. Children were an impediment.

"When her mother died, I made it my singular work to protect her from the world. That is all I could do. You would do the same for your brother's son, would you not?"

"I would." Sahle answered without question.

"It is the honorable thing." Sorokin said. "The just thing. When she was pulled from her mother..."

"Did the war take your wife?" Sahle asked sympathetically.

"I never was married." Sorokin smiled. "I guess this is what I am struggling to say. I am Regina's parent, but I am not her father. He was a different man, lost in the early days of the war, and I never met him but from afar. Regina's mother was my charge. Alisa would have given birth to her if she had lived."

"Alisa?" Sahle wasn't sure he had heard right. "The..."

"Grand Duchess." Sorokin inhaled deeply when he was done. They both looked at Regina. "She is the last surviving grandchild of Tsar Peter IV. Rescued from the slain body of his daughter by a doctor who I respect above all other men in our country."

Regina looked different to him now. He could see it. She was nothing like the lumpy Sorokin. But royalty? This had to be a scheme. What had he gotten into?

"How can you prove it?"

"I and my colleagues have convinced the people that matter. Otherwise, I cannot prove it. But the people who I am going to meet know, and they are convinced. Don't you think, Emperor Sahle, that if I were an ambitious man producing a fake pretender, I would have been happy to sell you to the highest bidder? That is the only evidence I can produce for you."

It was unbelievable. How had this not come to light sooner? Even though he saw her in a different light now, not as the daughter of some border guard, but the very purpose of his entire command, the idea of the thing was impossible to swallow.

"That is why I have kept you with me, Emperor Sahle. Think of it. My instinct, when I found out who you here, was to leave you somewhere. Not kill you - that would be regicide, worst thing that could be done. But I am not responsible for you, you are not my King. I could have abandoned you and looked the other way. But I didn't. I didn't because I think you want to find a place to survive. A place that isn't a prison. Well, Sahle, this is your place. I have done everything that I can to give Regina an education, but I lack anybody who knows the true difficulties of monarchy. No close enough adviser had been produced, they all died early in the war. But to give her the instruction of a living monarch? That is an opportunity that is worth the risk."

"You want me to teach your da... the Queen?"

"Tsarina. Yes."

Sahle almost laughed. Him? To teach the girl how to rule a country? She was better suited to teach him.

But looking at her, he could only feel the weight of the situation he had found himself in. Why had she been kept secret for so long? What happens now? There was clearly an unspoken assumption that she would ascend to her throne, but there was no way the Chinese would allow it. But where else was he to go? This was the last choice he had left to make, as far as he could tell.

"I will do it." he said. His mouth was dry.

Los Angeles

Sam Telford sat in front of a large soundboard mixer and looked over every last switch, knob, and button to make sure the mix for this cut was perfect. He could hear the music in his head even before it started. The music had been with him nearly all his life. It was how he'd ended up in New York ten years ago as a gofer for Jackie Cleghorn, head of production for Champion Records. Jackie was talented and helped Sam, a kid fresh off the streets of Harlem, rise through the Champion ranks, from the mailroom to the studio. Jackie now ran Champion and Sam was his go-to guy for production. And now, after years doing things the way they were supposed to, he was about to do it the way he wanted to.

In the recording booth facing him, Sadie sat on a stool and looked at him with a nervous look on her face. She had a pair of headphones around her neck and suspended inches away from her face was a microphone. Her large almond colored eyes were like saucers, so filled with anxiety and dread at what was about to come next. She wore a gingham dress, the finest piece of clothing a poor black girl from Alabama was able to own.

"We ready yet, Sammy?"

Sam turned around to the small group gathered behind him. Three of Champion Records most senior executives smoked cigarettes and checked their watches anxiously.

"Almost," he said as he turned back to the mixer. "And... there."

Smiling, he turned around to face the men. The difference between him and them was apparent to anyone who could see them. First off Sam was black whereas the other men in the room were white. The executives wore dark suits, were clean shaven with short hair. The tight curls of Sam's hair were growing up and together into what most folks called a natural, but and he had heard them call it a "fro" down South. A thick growth of stubble on his face was rapidly becoming a beard. He wore blue jeans, a black button-up shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a leather jacket, and boots. He looked more like a biker than one of Champion Records' top producers.

"So," Sam started, pausing to pull a cigarette from his jacket pocket and light it up. "Backstory time. I know Pete knows about my trip cross country, but you two don't so pretty much for the last six months I've been spending a lot of time in the South scouting talent. Champion needs a new sound, guys."

One of the suits began to talk before Pete, the thin blonde man closest to Sam, raised a hand.

"I agree with Sam on that one. We keep pushing the same old rehash of Mariano and the Moonlights and Boppin' Barry tunes. Barry's last record barely cracked into the top fifty. We are getting our tails kicked here at home and abroad by people unafraid to take a chance." Pete scowled and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I mean, goddammit, the number one hit in the country is that fucking 'Swiggity Swooty' bullshit from Spain. A bunch of gibberish--"

"But it's the music," Sam cut in. "It's coming from Spain, but it's as American as apple pie. It's an extension of what the Chinese did with Harvey Edwards, blending traditional black music with new innovations and styles. That's what I want Champion to do. The success international proves that there is a place for this type of music."

"And that's why A&R authorized the trip," Pete said with a nod.

"I went through twelve states, hitting every small town church and black juke joint I could find and what I came back with?"

Sam turned away from the men and looked through the glass at Sadie. Little Sadie Hamilton, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet and just old enough to not need her mother or grandmother to travel west with her.

"You ready, dear?"

"Yes, Mr. Telford," her voice squeaked through the speakers.

He smiled and winked at her.

"Put your headphones on, honey. And remember to sing it like you'd do back home in Selmer, nobody watching except the folks at choir practice."

Sadie nodded and put her headphones on. Sam started the backing track he and the studio musicians spent a solid week recording and getting right. Sadie took a breath and closed her eyes.

Music

Sam turned around to watch the look on the men's faces as Sadie's singing voice came through the speakers. Pete's eyes went wide and looked through the glass to confirm that this mighty voice was coming from that little girl. Sam laughed at the sight and expelled cigarette smoke out of his mouth. Sam finished his cigarette while the gobsmacked executives listened to little Sadie belt out with all the emotion and pain of a woman twice her age.

"This is the future of Champion Records," Sam said as he stubbed out the cigarette butt. "This is the future of American music. Sadie is the strongest voice, but I have another dozen gospel singers, honkey tonk players, and small town musicians that can all be put on the Champion label for cheap and produce this new sound. They're all black, but they are all talented and they are just what we need."

The three men huddled together and talked as Sadie built up to the climax of her song. The guitar riff, played by Sam himself, strummed along with her soulful crooning and the sax wailed. The huddle broke up and the white men all looked at Sam.

"You know what carte blanche means, Sam?" Pete asked.

"Oui," Sam said with a wink.

"You get Sadie and two more recruits," the older man beside Pete said. Jerry something. "We want this song of hers released as a record and records from the other two. If we like what we hear, and if what we hear sales, then we'll bring them all out."

"Mr. Telford?"

Sam turned to look through the glass. Sadie was watching him with her big eyes wide.

"How'd I do, sir?"

Sam smiled and leaned into the microphone on the mixer.

"It if were any more perfect, you'd have made me cry. Come on out here, sweetie, and we'll get lunch." Sam stood up and looked at Pete and the other two men. "Sadie Hamilton, gentlemen. Look out Boppin' Barry, she is going to be the star of the Champion Pantheon."

Yes, Sam Telford could hear the music in his head. And now it was finally coming out.

-----

Battle Creek, Michigan

Johnny Legarrio was mad as hell.

He drove down the highway in the middle of the night, checking his rearview mirror every few seconds for any new cars that may have appeared behind him. He saw the two big duffle bags in the mirror, each one stuffed to the brim with cash. Johnny's heavy coat hid the body armor strapped to his chest. Dried blood was caked on his hands. It wasn't his blood. He fumed and kept the hunk of junk he was driving at sixty. His car was back in Chicago. It was too conspicuous to be used as a getaway car today.

The radio in the car played some god awful bluegrass music. He reached over and cruised up and down the dial until he found a talk radio show giving the news.

"Two men are still at large after tonight's daring bank robbery of the First National Bank in downtown Chicago. Masked and armed with weapons, four men came in after hours and managed to abscond with over nine hundred thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Police soon arrived on the scene and a gun battle took place, killing two of the robbers before the remaining two split up and disappeared through downtown Chicago, one on foot and the other in an automobile. Both men have currently alluded police capture and police are seeking any information on their whereabouts."

Johnny listened to the rest of the news story with half concentration. There were no leads on his whereabouts, and so far they hadn't publically identified the rest of his crew. Everyone but him and Prussian Joe was dead, gunned down by the cops. One of the cops blew Mick Mahoney's brains out before the guy could even move. Blood spattered Johnny's chest and arms. The cops showed up way too fast for his taste. They were promised more time to get the money and get out there, but they didn't get that time. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Bukowski. Goddamn, Bukowski had sold them out, the son of a bitch. He'd given his word they would have hours before the police arrived. The fat bastard must have gotten greedy and double-crossed them. The odds on Bukowski being there at the farmhouse waiting was too unlikely. Johnny had the money. Prussian Joe was still out in the wind, but the little guy could disappear like a ghost. Not Johnny Legs, though. He was too big of a loose end, and no way cops would be there waiting at the farmhouse for an arrest. Bukowski wanted that money all to himself.

An hour later he turned off the highway and headed down a dirt road towards the established rendezvous point. He could just keep going. He had the money, for Christ sake. But he didn't want to do that. He wanted to pay Bukowski back for what he had done, the bastard. Plus, running meant Bobby C. would be hot on his heels. A creeping doubt in the back of his head bothered Johnny. What if the double cross wasn't Bukowski acting on his own? What if he got sanction from Bobby C. on this one?

Johnny started to slow the junk heap down as the farmhouse got nearer. The time for the meeting was supposed to be four in the morning, an hour from now, but he was sure Bukowski was already hiding somewhere in the dilapidated barn. He pulled to the side of the road twenty miles from the farm and got Johnny lugged the two duffle bags filled with cash into the woods beside the road and left them there. He got a tire iron out of the trunk and placed it on the ground beside the road, marking the place for his return trip, and got back in the car. A half hour later he came to an old and rotting farmhouse and barn. He pulled into the driveway and slowly pulled up to the barn.

A parked sedan was waiting beside the barn. The windows were rolled down, and Johnny could hear a golden oldies station playing Mariano and the Moonlights. Johnny reached into his jacket and got out the pistol he'd used at the bank. Keeping it low, he stepped out the car and approached the parked car.

"Not so fast," a voice said from behind.

He felt a hard something in his back. A pudgy hand slapped the pistol from his hand and spun Johnny around. He looked into the fat and gloating face of Chicago PD Lieutenant Stephen Bukowski, head of the department's prestigious Special Robbery Unit. He was also supposed to be their inside man in the bank robbery. His job was to get them plans and details about the bank and surrounding area and provide them protection from the cops. He had done the first part well but failed spectacularly in the second regard.

"You sold us out," Johnny said calmly.

"I just did some simple math," Bukowski said with a large grin. "This money divides up better one way than six. That is after I give Bobby C. his cut."

"And you'll think he'll just abide you double-crossing us like this?" Johnny asked with a raised eyebrow. "I'm a made man in the Outfit. They won't take kindly to you rubbing out one of their own."

Bukowski shrugged. "I'll tell him you pulled the double-cross. Tried to skip out with the money after it went sideways. I caught you in the nick of time, though, but see you fought back and I had to kill you. Damn shame. It's a stupid move, but Bobby C. is gonna expect it, kid. Stupid is your middle name, after all."

Johnny felt white-hot rage at the last part. It was all he could do right now to not try to fight Bukowski, even with the gun aimed at him. Instead, he kept his hands up as Bukowski backed away from him and shuffled towards the junk heap. Johnny stayed as still as he could while the fat man looked through the back of the car for the cash.

"Where is it?!"

"In the trunk. I got the key right here."

Bukowski stared at him through the dark and started towards him. Just then, Bopppin' Barry Chambers came on the radio and crooned.

"Strangers in the night exchanging glances
Wondering in the night what were the chances,
We'd be sharing love before the night was through?"

Bukowski began to rifle through Johnny's jacket pockets and found no keys. The cop started in through his pants pockets. He dropped the gun a few inches, focusing on getting the car keys from Johnny's slacks.

"Something in your eyes was so inviting
Something in you smile was so exciting
Something in my heart told me I must have you."

Snarling like a wild animal, Johnny lashed out and struck Bukowski's gun. The piece went off twice, bullets snapping by Johnny's ear as they whizzed into the air. The gun fell to the ground with a dull thud. Bukowski tried to reach for it, but he was short and fat, a good six inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier than Johnny. He proved no match for Johnny's strong grip. He hit the cop upside the head with a glancing blow to the skull. Bukowski stumbled back and Johnny hit him with a right hook that knocked him to the ground. Johnny pinned him to the ground with his knees and held him close, his big hands wrapping around Bukowski's fat neck.

"Strangers in the night, two lonely people
We were strangers in the night.
Up to the moment when we said our first hello, little did we know
Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away"

Bukowski fought and tried to get his hands underneath Johnny's. He struggled and thrashed, tried to claw at Johnny's eyes and mouth. The more he struggled, the more oxygen he burned through and made his death that quicker. Johnny throttled the cop's neck so hard and so long that he left rub burns from twisting his big hands around the windpipe. He made sure that there was no life left in the man at all. For what the bastard had done to his crew, it was the least he could do.

"Ever since that night we've been together
Lovers at first sight, in love forever
It turned out so right for strangers in the night."

Johnny took Bukowski's corpse and locked it in the trunk of his car, parking the sedan inside the rotten barn before he got into his own car and drove back to where he had the money stashed. He got the two big duffle bags out the woods, took the tire iron marker, and kept going south so he could find a place to lay low. Wherever he stayed would have to have a payphone. He had to explain this shit to Bobby C.

La Cabeza, Spanish Morocco

Fluorescent light fixtures hung from the ceiling of the stone-hewn tunnel lit Julio's way with a cold, industrial light as he drove the buggy ever deeper beneath the mountain of La Cabeza. It didn't just seem cold down here - it was cold. Compared against the Saharan heat that Julio and his fellow infiltrators had just left behind, the air in this tunnel seemed as if it were freezing. Julio recalled from his last foray underground - a tour of the medieval gold mines at Las Medulas in college - that the temperature underground was always somewhere around 12-14 degrees centigrade no matter the location or time of the year. Here, beneath the Sahara Desert, that temperature change was quite jarring. Graciela was shivering slightly - but it was unclear weather or not that was because of the cool air or the fact that they had made an unauthorized visit to the most secretive and heavily defended place in the entirety of the Second Spanish Republic.

"Places everyone," Joaquin said from the buggy's rear seat. "We've got company up ahead."

The tunnel's downward slope leveled out a hundred meters ahead where an artificial grotto had been carved out of the granite. In this chamber, a pair of cinderblock huts on either side of the entrance formed a secondary checkpoint. A pair of soldiers with assault rifles slung behind their shoulders stood vigil at a traffic barrier whose boom was positioned upright to allow the stream of vehicles through. Julio briefly feared they might be stopped for another inspection, but his fear was allayed when one of the bored-looking guards simply waved the infiltrators through. Beyond the gate was a cluster of buildings constructed from cinderblock and prefabricated concrete slabs. Several tanker trucks idled on a tarmac lot outside the largest of the buildings.

"I have a feeling that we'll need to check in there," Julio suggested once out of earshot of the solitary guard. "They'll tell us where that Guijon fellow can be found."

"To Hell with him," Graciela hissed. "We got in this place, now we need to find where they're taking the captives. We don't need to be wasting any time talking with this asshole."

"On the contrary, this man expecting us is an asset we mustn't throw away." Dejene's muffled voice drew their attention to the pinewood crates on the buggy's bed. "He seems to be high-ranking personnel here. He can show us where they're taking the Tuaregs and the political prisoners, and he may serve as a hostage if things go badly."

"I'm surprised that things haven't already gone badly for us," Joaquin added. "I'm with Dejene. Let's keep our streak of good luck going for as long as possible and not do anything brash." With their course of action decided, Julio pulled up to a concrete parking curb outside the largest of the bunker-like edifices and twisted the key out of the ignition.

"Stay with the vehicle, Joaquin. Make sure nobody bothers the crates," Graciela said as she stepped out. Joaquin nodded in accord as Julio and Graciela left the buggy and made their way through a metal door labelled RECEPCIÓN in blocky stenciled type. Inside the door, they found a drab, stuffy lobby that seemed more like a warehouse breakroom than the reception for a secret military base. Fluorescent lights buzzed from fixtures embedded in the asbestos ceiling tiles. Beneath them, an office desk occupied by a fatigue-clad clerk with a receding hairline tapped away at a typewriter. Considering the security measures required to get this far, the establishment had likely figured that militarizing this lobby was redundant.

"State your business," the aging Spaniard graveled when Julio and Graciela approached the desk, neglecting to look up from the document he was busy punching away at.

"I am Captain... Sandoval," Graciela reported, taking a moment to remind herself of the name the soldiers at the checkpoint had called her. "My associates and I are here to meet with Doctor Guijon for the... facility's audit process."

"Oh, excellent!" The clerk finally looked up from his work and pushed a pair of glasses up onto his nosebridge to check the clock behind them - the only indication of the time of day this far underground. "Madrid called ahead of you to advise us you'd be arriving late. Good thing you're here now; he's been pestering me for the past three hours asking me if I knew when you'd get here."

"I apologize for our tardiness," Julio chimed in, playing along.

"Don't you worry about it." The clerk said as he dialed in a series of numbers on the desk's phone. After a brief exchange with a party on the other end, the clerk hung up and reverted his attention to Julio and Graciela.

"Doctor Guijon will be down momentarily. Go ahead and take a seat while he makes his way down."

As requested, Julio and Graciela stepped away from the desk to a collection of chairs in the far corner of the lobby, far removed from a tanker driver and a cluster of three soldiers conversing in a loose huddle. Julio saw a wrinkled copy of El Pais laid in one of the seats and made a beeline for it. Julio and Graciela - having been away from Spain and the mainstream news cycle for long - were anxious to catch up on any word from the homeland and the war in Ethiopia. Julio's eyes widened as he read the month-old headline: EJERCITO FORCES FACE STIFF RESISTANCE AT DJIBOUTI. Julio and Graciela had scarcely read the first line of the article before a door on the opposite side of the office was thrown open by what might have been the palest-skinned Spaniard Julio had ever seen.

"Captain Sandoval!" He exclaimed cordially as he threw a stained laboratory coat over his checkerboard button-down shirt. "So glad you could make it!"

Graciela bolted to her feet and offered the man a salute as he approached, which prompting Julio to do the same. The lab-coat clad man could not help but laugh at the display.

"At ease, at ease! A handshake will do just fine." The man chuckled, extending an outreached hand to both Graciela and Julio, prompting them to immediately relax and return his handshakes. "Even though the Ministry lets me do whatever I want, I'm still just a civilian and there's no need for such formalities with me. I am Doctor Juan Guijon - and it is my pleasure to make your acquaintances."

Julio could believe that. Guijon hardly looked like a military man. A thin patch of beard and a wiry mustache adorned the doctor's pudgy face. A head of thick hair was combed up neatly - displaying a prominent widows peak against his pale forehead. He did not seem to possess the muscle nor the humorless attitude of an Ejercito officer. Julio shot Graciela a nervous glance before looking over to the soldiers standing nearby. Their raised eyebrows demonstrated that giving the doctor a salute was serious faux-pas. Even so, Guijon did not seem to be bothered by the display, and that offered some reassurance.

"Forgive us, Doctor," Graciela apologized. "Very little was explained to us prior to our arrival. My associates and I know little of what we are to expect here."

"Typical," Doctor Guijon sighed. "Nobody tells anyone anything in the Ministry of War; Compartmentalization is their new favorite buzzword. Information about everything is restricted to a need-to-know basis, especially here. Everyone is so afraid of a leak, and to an extent I understand the concern behind it. We wouldn't want anything we do at La Cabeza getting whispered into Chairman Hou's ears. But at the same time, people like you ought to know enough to do your jobs correctly. Unfortunately, nobody wants my opinion on the matter."

"About this audit..." Graciela said, steering Guijon back to a more pertinent topic.

"Right, right, of course. We're already behind on all this, aren't we," Guijon set about buttoning up his labcoat. "Let's get you up to speed. Come with me."

Graciela and Julio followed Doctor Guijon out of the reception office to the buggy parked outside. Julio surrendered the vehicle's keys to Guijon and took the seat behind him next to Joaquin - who exchanged a brief handshake with the doctor as well.

"So, let me make sure I understand this correctly," Guijon began as he turned the buggy's engine over and reversed out onto the tarmac. "Your job here today is to report back to Madrid and the Ministry that our work here is coming along properly, but the Ministry neglected to tell you anything about the La Cabeza facility?"

"Exactly," said Graciela.

"Idiocy," Guijon groaned as he threw the shift out of reverse. "These audits exist to make sure Ministry of War funds are not being misappropriated, I understand that. But to combat wasteful spending, they fritter away so much more time and money getting auditors out here, and on top of it all it turns out that the personnel that they send us haven't been told anything. I almost think it's comical."

Julio and Joaquin exchanged anxious glances with one another. Had this ruse been found out?

"Ours is not the place to question." Graciela replied.

"Oh, certainly not," Guijon agreed as he cruised down the tarmac roadway leading out of the office chamber and into an arched tunnel up ahead. "It's not your fault that the Ministry of War has this set of counter-productive rules in place. But I'm not about to have you report back to Madrid with nothing to show for it."

"So what exactly is La Cabeza's purpose?" Julio asked.

"Our work here started more than a decade ago, back in July of 1969," Guijon began, keeping his eyes on the seemingly endless tunnel stretching before them. "The Pacific northwest of North America experienced a severe outbreak of pine bark beetles that summer. Thousands of hectares of very valuable timberland were threatened throughout western states and provinces. The Canadians, seeking to mitigate the destruction caused by the beetles, tasked a British chemist - one Lawrence Williams - with developing an effective fumigant to control the outbreak. Señor Williams focused his research on developing a neurotoxic agent - a substance that was highly lethal to animal life but would leave plants unscathed.

"Williams' efforts were more productive than he could have ever anticipated. In 1973, he conducted a trial on series of compounds whose median lethal dosage for the pine beetles was so minute that his instruments couldn't even measure its quantity. As a fumigant, it was far too lethal to be safely used, and Williams moved on with his research. Soon after this development, the Northwest Coalition became independent of Canada and the new government confiscated his research materials. Upon reading his notes, the Coalition approached Williams and tasked him with a new project: enhance the lethality of his fumigant. Over the next three years, Williams and his colleagues honed the lethality of the compound. That compound, as we know, comes to be known to the world as the VX Nerve Agent."

Julio was so engrossed with Dr. Guijon's history that he nearly failed to notice the piping that ran along the wall this far down the tunnel. The hewn-walls of of solid rock were starting to give way to a matrix of ducts and vents along the wall. As Guijon drove ever deeper into the tunnel, he could see where the tunnel terminated in a wall of solid concrete. A bulkhead door of steel was embedded within the concrete facade, around which a cadre of ever more soldiers stood watch. Painted onto the door upon a field of solid yellow were the interlacing circles of the biohazard symbol in jet black. Julio could feel the color drain from his face when he realized what lay beyond that door.

"Of course, during Prime Minister Tejero's attempt to affect a regime change in the United State's socialist administration, an alliance was brokered between Spain, Canada, the New England states, and the Northwest Coalition. The use of VX in the Seattle Incident, as we know, caused international condemnation. The alliance against the United States buckled, and the Northwest Coalition was left to its fate. But, on the eve of the American invasion of the Northwest Coalition, the Spanish Air Forces were called upon by the remnants of the Coalition government to assume responsibility of the remaining VX stockpiles and keep VX out of American hands. That stockpile was flown from the Cold Lake Facility in Alberta to southern Morocco and housed within a colonial French iron mine. Over the course of four years, that mine has been expanded into this."

Guijon drove up to the bulkhead where the guards immediately recognized him. Without a moment's hesitation, a switch was flipped, allowing the massive bulkhead to rise with a whirring, mechanical sound. The metal door was lifted upward on revolving arms, giving the bulkhead the appearance of a mouth opening up. As Guijon drove through into La Cabeza's open maw, Julio felt as if he were being swallowed whole.

Just beyond the door, Julio, Graciela, and Joaquin were driven into a relatively small chamber. On either side of the tarmac driveway were bombs stacked positioned upon their tail fins. Pointed tips rose up to meet a ceiling of hewn granite. If they were inside La Cabeza's maw, then the bombs were its teeth.

"These are the original bombs that were taken from Coalition custody in August of 1976. While the fuzes and explosive components of these bombs have been removed from these weapons, each contains 650 kilograms of the original VX-series compound developed by Lawrence Williams," Guijon explained with the same demeanor and enthusiasm as a tour guide.

"These were the bombs used at Seattle?" A sobered Julio asked.

"Yes. Save for the removed explosive components, these bombs are identical to the eight 1,000 kg bombs used by the Northwest Coalition on Seattle. These bombs have been preserved to give us a benchmark for the purity and lethality of current product."

"Current product?" Joaquin chimed in. "You make VX here?"

Doctor Guijon could not help but laugh. "You have no idea."

Guijon drove through the bomb room to another guarded bulkhead. Again, Guijon was permitted through without question. Beyond this door, a sprawling cavern opened up before them. A small zeppelin could fit comfortably within this space. Housed within this space was nothing less than a VX factory. The space was dominated by dozens of silvery-chrome pressure vats the size of a grain silo, each one connected to a complex network of ducts, pipelines, pumps, scaffolding structures, and more. Labcoat-clad technicians walked above the driveways between each pressure vat on scaffold bridges. Clipboards in hand, they checked an assortment of instruments embedded into the walls of each vat. On the driveways beneath the vats, tanker drivers led thick hoses from the bottom of the tanks and mated them with ports in the ducts and pipes running across the floor. Julio watched as hundreds of gallons of chemical reagent were siphoned from a tanker into one of the massive vats.

"This is the only place in the world where VX is made, and we make a lot of it," Doctor Guijon declared proudly over the sound of a pump drawing raw materials into a vat. "The Cold Lake facility that produced the VX in those bombs we just saw needed a period of five months to synthesize their nerve agent. La Cabeza can produce the same quantity in 36 hours. The molecular structure of our current product is exactly the same as Lawrence William's, but we have developed newer and more efficient means of synthesis. Good thing too, because the Prime Minister has recently acquired a voracious appetite for nerve agent."

The reminder that all of this belonged to Alfonso Sotelo was a punch to Julio's gut. VX was frightening enough as it was. But an unlimited supply of it in Alfonso Sotelo's possession was a recipe for tragedy on a global scale. A stolen glance at Graciela affirmed that she too was distraught by the revelation of what La Cabeza truly was, but for a different reason. Julio recalled her father, the leader of the Spanish partisans before Sotelo had captured them, had likely been taken to La Cabeza as a prisoner. They had seen no sign of any captives within the facility itself, and one could only wonder what fate befell the hundreds of prisoners and Tuareg captives that were being transported here.

"I'd like to see the look on the Chairman's face when he finally gets a whiff of the shit you're cooking." Joaquin commented jokingly in an attempt to distract Guijon's attention from the look of abject horror on Julio and Graciela's faces.

"Ever since the war in Ethiopia began, the Prime Minister and Commander Velazquez just can't get enough of it. If their demand is any indication, I suspect our nerve agent will be used on the battlefield soon. We have facilities at La Cabeza where the VX is injected into every munition you can think of. Artillery shells, naval shells, landmines, rockets. They've even developed flechette shot for the Prometeos that fire a hundred of these little darts laced with nerve agent."

"And there's no antidote? No cure?" Asked Julio.

"None." Doctor Guijon said with a grim certainty.

"VX doesn't distinguish between friend and foe, it kills our men just as readily as the communists." Joaquin added, once again playing the jingoism card. "I thought that this shit was only good for wiping a city off the map, because it doesn't break down. Even today, nobody can go into the Seattle ruins without a rubber suit. If the Ejercito tries to use VX in combat in Ethiopia, then they're just going to end up making East Africa uninhabitable for the next decade. That doesn't seem like a winning strategy to me."

"A clever observation," Guijon agreed with a wag of his index finger. "That is a major reason that we - at least to my knowledge- have never used nerve agent in combat. But as I said, we have learned a great deal about VX since inheriting it from the Northwest Coalition. The Prime Minister doesn't want a city-destroyer, but a battle-winner. In the interest of creating a weapon that can be used readily against tactical targets, I've identified an additive - a catalyst - to nerve agent formulations that can induce VX to loose its lethality upon exposure to the air by breaking it down into harmless intermediate compounds after perhaps a week to a month, depending upon the ambient temperature. Catalyzed VX eliminates the prohibitive properties that make the battlefield use of nerve agent undesirable."

Graciela, who had been silent for as long as anyone could recall, galvanized herself from her silence at last. "I understand you are in possession of a number of prisoners here," she said to Doctor Guijon. "Where are they?"

Julio immediately cringed. Without warning, Graciela had sabotaged their good luck. She knew her captive father had been taken to this awful place, and she had lost the ability to hold in her fear for him. She given them away; the ruse was surely up. Julio prepared to seize Doctor Guijon by the neck and take him as a hostage.

But Doctor Guijon's reaction was not one of recoil or fear. Instead, a wry grin crawled across his pudgy face.

"So you are aware that there is another project underway at La Cabeza?" Graciela nodded in agreement, though she knew nothing of what Doctor Guijon spoke.

"Very well," Doctor Guijon said with a measure of satisfaction as he let off the buggy's brake and continued driving. He steered the buggy through the maze of vats and machines to the far side of the production chamber where an open cargo elevator waited. Guijon parked the buggy into the lift's yawning gate in and produced a key from within his labcoat's pocket. He inserted the key into and pressed a combination onto the lift's keypad, causing the chain-link gate of the elevator to close around them. A yellow siren light on the lift's ceiling turned on and spun about, illuminating the lift with pulses of yellow light as it descended deep below La Cabeza.

"Captain Sandoval, gentlemen," Guijon said as the elevator lowered itself into the darkness of the shaft, "I'd like to show you all my true passion."

Dar es Salaam, Tanganyika

Taytu watched the tide come in, tropical turquoise waters licking at the white beach below. She was in the garden of a laid back estate on the edge of Dar es Salaam. It was a tranquil place, with pearl white adobe walls, a red clay tile roof, arches that spoke of Islamic influence, and pampered gardens where lush plants and fruit trees grew. It was perfect as a travel brochure - a showcase of everything the Europeans had wanted Africa to be. Paradise. But not for Taytu. She was still a dismal prisoner of the Tanganyikan state.

She sipped on mango juice and created grim stories in her mind for the ships that passed by the bay. She imagined the thin-sailed fishing boats were pirates off to pillage the Spanish navy. They would board the battleships with grappling hooks and shotguns, and they would take the soldiers - men that had slaughtered her mother in the sky above Socotra - and toss them into the sea. Perhaps too, the cargo freighters that occasionally passed were carrying the means of war. Chinese armies and weapons arriving from the east to wrap up the war in a few neat battles, and Tanganyikan soldiers shipping out to the Red Sea.

But as her imagination went down darker paths, she convinced herself that the opposite would become true. The more she thought, the more inevitable it seemed that she would soon see Spanish battleships appearing on the horizon. They would come and put Tanganyika down, because the leaders of this nation were too spineless to fight.

Four times she spoke to the council appointed to question her, and each time she berated them. The urgency of the situation drove her to speak angry words. Her brother was under siege. Her country was under siege. She saw the continent coming back under the hateful whip of colonialism, and she hated to think that it would happen while she held the office of Foreign Affairs Adviser. After all of her arguing with them, the Tanganyikans found a new way to throw her off balance. She was invited by the Prime Minister to be a guest in his home, to trade the confined hotel room for polite neglect in a room with a beach-side view. As nice as it sounded, it wasn't a choice she could make. They ordered her around like a disgraceful pet.

Her days went nowhere. She spent them reading newspapers and dreaming of the sea. The war for Ethiopia had moved into the Danakil, where the Spanish advance had been slowed by the efforts of Hassan's army, raids by the tribal Afar, and the persistent struggle to keep their men and equipment supplied with water. How had they liked their first contest with the African climate? She hoped they choked on every inch of dirt. Bastards. She couldn't measure the hate she felt for Spain.

She did her best to keep track of world affairs as well. The Tanganyikan media reported the South African war with the same gravity they gave to Ethiopia. Nineteen British civilians had been found in some bloody scene in Cape Town. Another trumped up story. It was like Stanley reporting the naked natives throwing spears and shooting off arrows at his boats, forgetting the part where the Europeans had been gunning them down with their Maxims for entertainment. Below the Africans headlines were a few stories that caught her brief attention. The President of Russia was stolen from his own office. That was curious. Something that only happened in novels. It would have interested her more if it weren't for her own circumstances. The Americans were still mistreating their black-skinned citizens. Europe and her children followed the same pattern. It was an inescapable cycle.

"Princess Taytu" a servant greeted her with a cold nasal twang. "The Prime Minister invites you to lunch on the veranda. He wishes you to attend him now."

No choice. The circumstances seemed perfectly polite. A servant, starched clothes, a sunny day in a garden. But it felt no different to her than if she had been thrown in the oubliette.

Obedient and frustrated, she went. The servant led her by the fountains and past a lemon orchard, by bright tropical flowers and decorative shrubs. They reached the outward stair; a wide granite construct like those found in front of state house. It was guarded by men in colonial Askari uniform. Lifting the skirt of her dress past her ankles, she shuffled up the stairs. She found the Prime Minister waiting for her at the top.

Prime Minister Hubertus Majogo of Tanganyika was an old man. He had been born on the same day as Prince Hubertus of the Prussian royal family, seventy one years ago. Age had not stooped him. Only a few curly white hairs still clung to his leathery scalp. His skin hung loose, but his eyes were lively and piercing.

"Please." he bowed stiffly, aged bones struggling. "Princess Taytu. Eat with me."

"I'm your guest." Taytu replied. She looked hard at his eyes. Let him see the fire of the Solomonic line burning within her. She would be no timid prisoner. She sat down first, and the Minister followed.

Lunch was grilled fish over pilaf, with a coconut sauce drizzled across. They drank coffee; a cruel touch, she though, with a smell that reminded her of home and her mother. It strengthened her resolve.

"I must apologize again for the circumstances." Majogo started.

"You apologize well." she replied. The rapiers of verbal combat were out. He tapped hers, she parried.

"That is good to know." Majogo replied dryly.

Though she ate, she didn't notice the flavor of the fish. It was irrelevant. She watched the old man out of the corner of her eye, and she knew he was doing the same. They were playing politics of the nervous kind. Not the bored niceties that the laymen see when they imagine diplomats talking. This was two people who stood for the fate of their nations, speaking words that would serve as the scaffolding for the history of their time.

"I have a proposal for you, and I hope you will hear it in good conscious." Majogo spoke grandfatherly, but she saw through it.

"Speak your peace." she said.

"We want no trouble with your government. I respect Emperor Yaqob. I think he is a good man. But I cannot consciously bring my country into a war with Spain. We do not wish to keep you as a prisoner..."

"Well good." she smiled. "Let me go."

Majogo chuckled. "That is fair. That is fair. I should have predicted that. But you know, Princess Taytu, that it would be unhealthy for us to do so without saving face. We wish to smooth over your release, and this is what I mean to propose. First, you will appear in a television broadcast announcing changes to the ACE agreement between the Pan-African Empire and the Confederacy of Tanganyika and Mozambique. Second, you will use your legal power to amend those agreements. After this, we will be able to discuss what method we will use to release you."

She scoffed. "That is absurd! Even if I agreed to all of that, an agreement made under duress isn't in good faith. It wouldn't be legally binding. When I go back to Ethiopia, I will not spare a minute telling my brother what happened here."

"Under duress?" Majogo chuckled. "Does this look like duress?"

"Slavery then."

"Slavery? Do not be melodramatic, Princess Taytu. It does not suit you."

"You can pick your word, it does not matter. What you are doing here is not legal. You cannot ignore that. If you want to save face, then apologize the truest way you can. Honor our agreement. Declare war on Spain."

"That is not on the table anymore. I would have hoped you would be aware of that already. I cannot put my nation in that place, to lose a war we had no reason to fight. If I can protect my people from suffering, I will do everything in my power to do so."

"You cannot protect yourself from this. Ask the South Africans. What is happening is bigger than Sotelo's invented feud with my brother. This thing will come for your people in the end, and you will have no chance to defend yourself once you have sold out all of your friends."

"You offer no evidence." Majogo had stopped eating. He looked at Taytu as if she were a disagreeable grandchild. "I cannot believe that the government of Spain is as rapaciously evil as you would say. Do not conflate your personal enemies with the enemies of the world."

"No evidence? Use common sense, Mr. Majogo. This has happened before."

"The Europe of now is not the Europe of one hundred years ago. They came out of the war humbled. Time has changed them."

Taytu laughed in his face. "When in the history of humanity on earth have the powerful learned their lesson? Don't expect sainthood from them. That is not good policy for your country."

The Prime Minister was indignant now. Her rancor had offended him. "Princess Taytu, I have lived longer than you. I was dealing with Europeans before your brother decided to be our savior. Your enemies are people, not demons. They make decisions rational to their cause. The same is true for your and your brother. You beg us to fight for you. You talk to me as if I am your thrall. I do not blame you for that, because that is what is rational for your nations interest. But remember, Princess, that I am not a thrall to Ethiopia. I stand for Tanganyika. I will do what must be done for this country. If you think it ignoble, so be it. If the history books call me a coward, I will still have peace in my grave. But if I am going to lay down in my bed and close my eyes every night until I die, it must be knowing that I did what was good for my country."

She felt respect for the man then, and a little guilt "You lied for your country. Broke treaties."

"So be it."

"Don't think there will be no repercussions." she parried again. This was going nowhere.

"I can only deal with the problems of today."

"Today has an inescapable effect on the future."

"I can only do what is right for my people in the present." He had cooled down now. His eyes focused on her and made her feel small in her seat.

"Then fight Spain. Ask yourself, if you think they are innocent, why would they launch this invasion of theirs? What has my brother's government done?"

"I hear he is a communist. Is he not a good friend of Chairman Hou, the archenemy of Spain? I know he allows Chinese agents to work from a base on Pemba."

"A communist." she snickered. "He's a King. How can a King be a communist? That my brother likes to think of himself as some sort of humble peoples monarch I will not deny. But let us be serious, the most leftist thing he has ever enforced in our nation is his agricultural policies, and nobody outside of Ethiopia proper pays attention to those anyway."

"Economics isn't what capitalism or communism is about." Majogo retorted. Taytu looked at him, unsure how he could have said something like that. He saw her bewilderment and continued. "Oh sure, in theory that is all either is about, but in practice? Economics in the hands of the world-powerful is a smart sounding smoke screen used to hide whatever squeezing they want to do. I don't care if you hide your taxes under the name of tithes, or military necessity, or the proletariat. If you were a business you'd call it overhead costs. Taking money is taking money, it's how things work everywhere, and will always work for all time. Sotelo doesn't care about that. What he sees is Yaqob turning his back on Europe and shaking hands with the east. That's what a communist is to him."

She didn't skip a beat. "That happened when my father was still Emperor. What Sotelo sees is property. Taking money is taking money? Property works the same way. That is what Sotelo sees when he sees Africa, and his vision doesn't end at Lake Victoria."

Majogo chuckled. "I believe you could continue this duel of words until the moon falls into the sea."

"I'm right." Taytu said. "You know it."

"There is no completing this debate tonight." Majogo sighed. "You know what I am asking. Sleep on it."

--

Perhaps she would have liked her room if she had chose it. It had an old four poster bed, of the medieval style with posts carved like giraffe necks reaching toward the ceiling; mahogany furniture set in a garish Jugendstil style; and a window view out to the sea, where the vale of twilight was ascending in the east. There was also a book shelf with decent variety. This place recalled something of the old Germany, the one that suffered the war and was fading away by the time she arrived in Europe for school. But freedom of movement, when taken away from those who knew nothing else, leaves an indignant hole in the mind. She was restless, and could not appreciate even the nostaligic aspects of the room. It was too early to sleep. But there were the books, and when she found a history on the Great War, she felt an opportunity to be devious. Her captors would try to keep her from her work, but they had offered her the opportunity to study. She flipped through the book to try and get an idea on what it was about.



Useless. She flipped through the pages. Impatience was a symptom of captivity.



Useless. Everything she did was useless. She wasn't a war hero, she couldn't just break out. If she was going to be anything but helpless, it would be her mind that saved her. But how? This book wasn't going to cut it. At least, she couldn't focus on it enough to find whatever secrets she was looking for.

So was that it? Would she simply fail to do anything for herself? Had she allowed her mind to go to mush under the pressure? The night was not being kind to her. She put the book down on the table and laid herself out on the bed, but the downy feel of the mattress on her skin made her emotions paradoxically worse. All she could do was stare at the ceiling and hate the fates for placing her here.

The trees rapped at the wall outside her door. She thought she heard the floor settle. The sound of imperfect quiet. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine home. When she conjured the faces of her family, she worked to hold them in her mind and keep them there in spite of everything around her.

But sleep wouldn't come. She heard the footsteps of servants somewhere far down the hall. No matter. Perhaps focusing on nothing at all would be better, to make her mind like a murky pond. She thought she might go to sleep then, but the house whined, and she was up again.

She rose up her head. The moment her eyes opened, everything seemed to happen at once.

The door slammed open. Three men dressed in black rushed through with pistols in their hands. She jumped up. There was no time to think. Before she could even scream, the first man spoke.

"Come quick. The Emperor sent us." He said it in clear Amharic, in an accent that came from her homeland. Could it be true? She didn't question. She vaulted from her bed and went.

They flew through the halls, too swift to be quiet. Somebody was bound to hear. Corner after corner went by, between whitewashed walls that seemed to close in on them. Was this a maze? She hadn't remembered it like this.

They turned a bend and found an ugly surprise when the man in front tumbled into a Tanganyikan guard. She thought they would be captured now. But in rapid movements, the lead-man smashed his fist into the guard's stomach, forced his head down, and drove a knife into just below his skull. The guard collapsed to the floor with blood leaking freely from the back of his brain.

A trained killing move. These men were Walinzi. She felt elated, already saved.

They got clear of the house and scrambled outside. Gunfire range out across the garden. In the light of the full moon, everything around was enveloped in a blue glow. She thought she saw smoke. Another bullet rustled a nearby potted plant. The Walinzi ducked behind a decorative stone wall, and pushed her down so hard that her head nearly hit the ground. An instinct, like a small voice in her head, told her she should be offended at their insolence. A foolish instinct. She closed her eyes, and gunfire reigned over her senses.

The Walinzi fired back. The blast of their guns hurt her ears and made them ring. Tanganyikan responses hit the wall above her and dusted her with plaster particles.

"How many?" one of the Walinzi asked his comrades between shots.

"Too many. We need to get her to the boat. I'll cover." another replied. A boat. She hadn't processed that idea before they grabbed her and had her running again. The consistency of the gunfire was making all other sound seem like whispering.

They stuck to what cover they could find. It was all going so fast. Flower peddles spewed up in the garden where bullets struck low. She heard shouting across the field. German, the language of the Tanganyikans. "Don't shoot her." they were saying, "Don't shoot the woman."

They dashed through a lemon orchard. The gunfire was no longer on them. She was out. Oh how the Tanganyikan government was going to regret this. The offense to her person, the arrogance they showed her. The very laws of international etiquette pronounced them evil.

Once out of the trees, she saw the boat. A simple fishing trawler; rusted, ugly. Brilliant disguise. They crossed the beach. Pearl-white sand shifted underneath her feet.

"Where's Three?" one of the men shouted.

"He knew what would happen." the other replied. They clamored on board. "Kick the engine. We need to leave!"

Taytu fell to the deck. She was out of breath, and scared that the shooting would start again. She looked out toward the mansion and it's grounds. It showed no signs of violence. After all that had happened, it looked peaceful. At that moment she realized that she didn't hear any gunfire at all. Everything had went quiet except for the waves lapping at the boat. She felt bad for the agent they left behind. The cold click of the hammer being pulled back on a pistol caused her to look back at the men. She froze.

Five Tanganyikan police stepped out of the cabin, holding one of the Walinzi at gun point. The second Walinzi froze.

"It's over" the man with the pistol said. "Drop your weapon and surrender." They all stood still for a moment, eyeing each other. The only movement came from the rocking of the boat. She felt all her hopes melt away. She'd been so close to escape. Close enough that she could almost smell home. That was over now.

The Tanganyikans backed the Walinzi against the side of the boat with their hands behind their heads. They didn't seem to see her. She didn't expect it when the Gunman pulled the trigger. Two shots rang out in the cool air, and the Walinzi agents crumpled to the ground. She knew she had screamed when it happened, but she couldn't remember what that had sounded like. Her body went numb.

They dragged her to the beach, her arms tied behind her back. Her skin was wet from sweat and the sea, and damp sand clung to her clothes. She sobbed. The sea crashed hatefully behind her, as if it were coming to yank her away. They dragged the bodies of the three Walinzi agents, two with their faces burst open from their execution, and the other with a bleeding hole in his neck. All dead. She tried to look away, but there faces were there and unavoidable. She was afraid what would come next. Would they kill her and blame it on the Walinzi? She was afraid to die. More than that, she was afraid to die right now on this beach. And her brother, what would this do to him, to loose so much before the war had even began? What would this entire farce mean for her country?

The Prime Minister came to the beach in his bathrobe. The look her gave her was one of slight disdain, as if she were a child caught drinking out of the liquor cabinet.

"Taytu. What a fool thing your brother has done." he said, looking down at her. She said nothing, so he continued to speak. "Four of my men are dead from this, and so are three of yours. Was it worth it? I suppose I should have expected something like this. Now it is over. You know what happens now?"

She looked at him. What her eyes were telling him she couldn't say. How absolutely frightened she must look on the outside. Inwardly, she was trying to crawl away.

"We will work out the details once my people have time enough to talk about this. From now on, you will sign what we tell you to sign. You will say what we tell you to say. Do you agree?"

Yes. Yes she agreed. After what she had seen, that deal sounded like a blessing. She nodded. Anything to live.

Laying in his cot, Tsung watched the ceiling as a fly buzzed helplessly along the flaking white plaster overhead. It searched the desert landscape of white, wings buzzed and hummed as it hit the hard ceiling in its desperate search for a way out and in damned confusion. Laying with his hands wrapped behind his head the young army private found himself drifting from malicious curiosity to the bug's plight and on into an alien sort of understanding.

It took him all of five minutes to create the metaphor.

In the soft warmth of the afternoon light it helplessly threw itself against the ceiling of the Russian apartment on the daft hope there would be escape. While it might be safe from the broader world smashing its head against plaster board, out of the way of birds and spiders in the middle of that ceiling it was going nowhere. And in the bored doldrums of Tsung's heads he found himself feeling empathy towards the fly, as strange and unnatural as it sounds.

While not physically blocked off by walls, he was held in place by the same ceiling of military bureaucracy and management that had been wasting he and his comrades away in Tyumen. Their commander had since exercised his position to see himself out into the field in someone else's tank, casting him as well into the same trap; though Tsung had never met nor heard the man's name but it was known – or rather well assumed it had happened – that Sun Song had temporarily usurped a lesser commander's vehicle so he could be out with the rest of his unit giving command.

It was hardly debatable why, but stuck in Tyumen there was an uneasy restlessness about it all the while. Even Tsung had took it quietly and gratefully as a break from fighting and he could try and calm the nightmares. Hui and Lin spent their time in their own way. But being trapped in a city slowly being filled with Siberian security forces didn't leave many like the three of them left, all who remained were in the supply network and wouldn't have the time to speak with them, or were in the hospital chewed up by the war; and Tsung didn't want anything to do with them. After all, after the air raid he had decided he didn't need to see another victim of bombs for awhile, but there was a firm inevitability he would be back at it.

“Hui?” Tsung asked, turning from the fly on the ceiling to the gun loader who lay not to far away, a rag over his eyes so he could nap. He grunted unceremoniously as he lay.

“Hui.” Tsung repeated, more forcefully. But he couldn't help but clap his lips tight as his voice cracked over the raised tone.

Wi Hui rolled and dragged the rag from his face and looked over. His bald head glowed in the Russian sunlight. His eyes said it all.

“Have you ever had to wait this long before?” Tsung asked.

“The hell do you mean? I sat on that tank of ours for far longer as you before we were given the deployment order. Of course I had to wait longer.” he replied, “At least now I don't need to sleep atop the turret.” he mumbled as he pulled the rag back over his face.

“Really?” Tsung asked.

“Sometimes, earlier we only got to crank the engines for an hour a day and wait. That's when your former fell on his ass and broke his butt on the ice.” There wasn't any humor in his tone of voice.

“Have you ever been held up for that long before?”

Hui grunted, “No.” he said in a low growl, “I figured standing for inspection was a bad waste of time, but we were never held up for that long. And I've been to other hot zones before, but Russia has been the first time I had to sit through 'indefinite readiness'.” He wrapped the last two words in disgust, “And now we're fucking holding back to go out again, but at least I'm not having to sit by our tank.”

“Where have you been before Russia?” Tsung asked again. While it was like only cracking open a valve to let out a drip, the conversation was a release from the grinding boredom. He sat up in his bunk and turned to Tsung, waiting and listening for its continuance.

“What is this, story time?” groaned Hui as he sat up lethargically, “Bullshit, comrade. I don't remember ever hearing much about you. Why do I need to spill out to you?

“So about that, we trade a story for a story? Who were you before the army?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Tsung.

Hui rolled his eyes, “What did you do before you joined the army, or the army came to you? Where you from? What did you do?”

“You don't really want to hear that, it's boring.” Tsung argued, trying to worm his way out of it.

A part of him didn't feel comfortable talking about it. There was a private part of him that chilled itself shut and stubbornly failed to budge. On the other hand, he didn't want to burden his comrades. Some other part of him in allegiance with his stubborn private self was urging to keep his background quiet, to be a quiet name that'd pass his fellow crewman after the war, or if he got killed.

But Hui was persistent, and he drilled. “Bullshit, nothings too dry. You had to fucking take trajectory calculus while training, did you not? That shit's fucking boring and I somehow did fucking great. So hit me, dammit.”

“It's really not exciting, I hoped around and I landed here on blind luck.” Tsung continued, pressing his excuses and unwillingness to talk about it.

“And how to clean mud from traction bearings too! That was great.” Hui laughed, “Really, just go ahead. It can't be as bad as you make it, comrade. You just don't happen into things. If I was taught one thing in all of this it's because I'm where I am because someone thought I was worth it.

“So go ahead. Let me be the judge on if it's boring.”

Li Tsung groaned. Lifting himself up off his back he sat himself against the wall and softly drummed the back of his head against the dry plasterboard. “I was born in a small town outside of Urumqi, town called Changji. 1957.” he began. By speaking the name of his home-town he could taste again that course silicate taste of dust and clay. “I doubt you heard of it.”

“No, I haven't.” Hui responded, “But sounds awfully dull, but do continue.” he remarked sarcastically.

“Anyways, my family were farmers. We raised goats.” he continued, “Besides goats we shared several acres of wheat with our neighbors as part of the local commune.” he could hear them as ghosts at the back of his mind, “We weren't far outside of Urumqi, if we wanted we could easily take the train into the town to visit the theater there, wasn't much going on at home despite the radio.” he laughed, “If you were far enough south you could see the mountains on the horizon, weren't anything spectacular, a dry rocky range really, the Bogda Shan east of Urumqi are much more impressive.”

“I had never known mountains before the army.” Hui commented with a smirk, “I was born up river from Shanghai, all I got to know was a murky river. But go on, how'd you get in the army?”

“Dad served in the revolution, I suppose he wanted his sons to know that pride so insisted all three of us also enlist, I was the only one who they actually needed I guess, and I ended up in tanks.”

“I see, so where'd you end up for basic. When were you there?”

“Ah...” he thought, “1978, Nanjing. That was the furthest I had ever been from home.”

“And after?”

“Mongolia after basic for graduate training and active duty, Ullanbator. It somehow felt the closest to being home after Nanjing.”

“So from Mongolia, how'd you end up in the Manchurian Defense Army?”

“I had asked for a change of duty, I didn't like it in Mongolia. The winter was too cold, I was hoping to end up somewhere in the south. I wanted to be warm again.”

“And so that's where the prodigal son comes to join the unit of men!” Hui laughed, “So that wasn't so hard, yeah?”

Li Tsung's face flushed a soft shade of red that Hui laughed at. Shrugging he tried to hide the fact and lowered his head. “Don't be too hard in yourself, you did fine.

“So, returning the favor.” Hui cracked, clapping his hands together and swinging his legs up over the side of the cot. “1957, Nantong. Began training for the armored corp in Shenyang. 1973, just in time for the war on Mindanao. As soon as I was done in basic I got shipped straight to Manila, which is where I met of all people: Sun Song.

“He was my commanding officer at the time and just a green commander of a single tank.”

“Wait, wait.” Tsung cut in, “You were sixteen when you signed up?”

Hui nodded enthusiastically, with a proud smile on his face. “I wanted in, I was bored, young, and I lied my way through registration. Figured if I wasn't fit, they'd throw me out and at the best they take my name off the draft lottery list. Turns out I was needed. I don't think they ever caught on, or if they have it's much too late now.” Hui seemed incredibly proud of the fact and wore a wide smile. His face glowed.

“So anyways, back then it was just me and Song. We did about two years of basically garrison work, by that point the Luzon government didn't need our tanks in the street so it was a lot of drills and finding ways to kill time in the city. The beaches, the women. It was almost a vacation with this looming risk of work over our heads.” Tsung was feeling jealous.

“So, the second phase of the war begins and we're sent off to Butuan. My first active deployment in a combat zone. After about a couple months the driver falls sick from something awful and was sent home. He basically got his injury ticket out he was bent over so bad. I never thought to ask what he had. But damn, was he pale!

“We get holed up with an incomplete crew. About then we get your predecessor, Huang Ho or 'Little Brother'.”

“Why was he called Little Brother?” Tsung asked.

“Guy was small.” he exclaimed, “I want to say he was maybe from Taiwan.”

“He never talked about it?”

“No, but unlike you he was a lot more involved.” Tsung responded back with an almost accusing wave of his hand, “It never occurred to me.

“But the war in Mindanao was a cursed sweaty thing. It rained a lot, there was mud everywhere, and we dug our tank out of muddy road ways more times than I can count. I got enough mosquito bites to last me the rest of my life and I think I fell ill from something once every month, but never so much so I was sent home; which by that point I would have wanted.

“But the Philippines was a lot of driving down jungle roads hoping some pig doesn't shoot a rocket at us from the trees. We lobbed a lot of shells at things that I don't know even existed but Song insists an infantry patrol found and there was some arguing over the radios to set up some sort of bearing on them.

“And the tank leaked when it rained. We actually had to bail it out.” he said laughing, “That was fun.”

“That was your Philippine tour?”

“Pretty much. You can talk to Lin about it. We called her Lady San Francisco since she came in when we rolled into some town by that name. I dunno why, but Ho was on about America a lot when we were there. I think he had family there. But he sort of forced it on us with how much she called her San Francisco.

“I wouldn't call her that anymore, she's still annoyed.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Tsung nodded.

“Good...” said Hui, “So, heard what you wanted?”

Tsung paused to think about it. “I guess?” he said, he certainly felt time had passed.

“Good, maybe now you can be a bit more involved. I know nothing's happened but I was starting to wonder if you were just a child-like automaton.”

“Oh, wel- Wait?”

“You heard me.” Hui smiled snarkily.

“I'm not a- whatever you called me!” Tsung retorted defensively.

“Don't blame me, I'd blame Lin.” Hui laughed.

Tsung was about ready to try for pushing the matter further. But when the door opened he looked up, setting aside his remarks as Lin herself walked in, accompanied by a sergeant for the armored division. There was an enthusiastic pep to her step, and the sergeant himself looked modestly relieved.

“We got new armor!” she boasted happily, “It just came into the city not too long ago. We're heading back up to meet with Song as soon as possible.” she delivered the news with the same sort of cheer one might announce a new boyfriend, or girlfriend. It completely put aside any notions of idle amusement that Tsung aspired to as he looked stunned and surprised at his tank buddy.

“Comrade Wo, how are you?” Hui asked, standing up to bow to the officer.

Wo, a small and almost invisible sort of man returned the gesture, “I am fine, and will be better now that I can reclaim my own tank.”

“Until we can catch up with Song at the Republican capital he's our temporary commander. But I don't think we're going to have problems.”

“I only really foresee trying to organize reconnecting with the unit. By all reports I heard the country-side east of the city is in enough of our control that there won't be any significant threats to us.

“Now comrades, if you three can ready up quick we can go. I'm sure we're all excited.”

Reality returned to Tsung.




The ceiling fan clicked as it made its short and round rotations from the ceiling overhead. Behind frosted glass walls city detectives and patrol officers moved as shadows through the halls. The central police precinct for Nanjing was quiet and subdued, with only the faint ringing of telephones to cut the whispering of secretaries and officers. Through windows to the outside the stoic straightforward brick and mortar high-rises and apartments of Nanjing swept through its valley, the windows glimmering in the sunlight as blue smoke from distant linen factories puffed above the rooftops to mingle with the clouds that drifted quietly and lazy through the blue sky.

The air outside was humid, and it was no different in the conference room. Standing at the head of a long wooden table Chu Sun casually loosened the buttons of his uniform suit as he began his address. “The news came back from Beijing on the lab-tests on the recovered pieces of the bomb used at Dong Wu's rally. The suits in the lab at national central are confident that the make and identity of the explosive is unique to our man, a manufacture like it hasn't turned up in our records; revolution or post. I'm sure it's a detail our man Kwan Yu can describe.” he finished, motioning to a man a few seats down.

Yu bowed as he sat up. None to pretty to look at, Kwan Yu had the face of a fish. Heavy lips stuck out away from his mouth wearing a permanent swelling from a mean punch to the jaw. His flat nose pressed neat and round to his face, and he was as well as fat as an over-gorged gold-fish. But he spoke with a sharp confidence and steady tone, “Thank you comrade.” he smiled, which helped to smooth out his features, “Now while we can't get a sure fix on who our delinquent bomber is the thing the lab could say for certain is that the device used at the scene was a pipe-bomb. Or rather, multiple pipe-bombs. Their analysis of the remains of the explosive agrees with the Nanjing investigation that our suspect constructed and tied together several pipe-bombs linked to a timed trigger, possibly an oven timer to complete a circuit at zero.

“Chemical analysis of the compound use to set off the explosive is likely to be a mixture of sugar and potassium nitrate.”

“Great, we have to question everyone in the city now.” another investigator joke.

“Yes well, we can't all be so lucky that out terrorist has managed to get his hands on actual military-grade explosive, Riu Huang.” Yu conceded with a dull smile.

“Now it's reasonable to suggest our man knows that the explosive charge this mix provides in a single pipe isn't nearly enough to kill, so by the over-kill evident in its size I can say confidently that our individual isn't trying to start a panic, he's aiming to kill.” he rested a fleshy hand on the table as he sat down, “Now I'd like to talk some more but this sweaty head in damning me.” he complained.

“I'll take over.” the man next to him conceded, a slightly smaller and fitter counterpart to Yu. Carefully combed back hair reflected some sort of attempt to appear contemporary and younger than the middle years he was in. With spectacles balancing on the tip of a narrow down-bent nose he took to speaking, “Our bomber also took to further compensating for the lack of impact he calculated his package would have by having it near to the stage. Cross referencing with scene reports, photographs, and the first-hand accounts of city detectives as the scene itself we went through the paces of trying to figure out the conditions of the explosive while the lab was looking at the composition.

“The attack itself took place in the Zongshen South Park, just several blocks from the Sun Yat-Sen Mausoleum. By the time we got to the area that scene was already swept up well before any of us got there. They had deconstructed the stage and city authorities were beginning to actually patch the small crater the bomb left in the concrete plaza. So return value to the location has been lost completely, we'll have to rely on photos and maps for future evidence and leads.”

“I suppose in the end this relates to our victims of the explosion.” Wu Jing-Shen cut in, scratching his head uncomfortably. “Forensically we can figure out how far all our victims were from the bomb, and they were pretty close. I'd say between the crowd and Dong Wu.”

“Fine and all, but are we actually close or are we confirming Nanjing's department did a good job so we can pat them on the back?” Riu Huang asked with hard grating wit.

A boisterous man, Huang carried shoulders like an ox, hardly contained in his clean flat-brown suit. He rubbed long thin fingers across his square sunken face, “Any one we would otherwise suspect his already under surveillance or still in prison. Our hidden hotels too don't like to release people on any date, some of our biggest anti-government names are so deep in re-education they basically don't exist anymore.”

“It's a fair point, but the investigation is still fairly young.” acknowledged Sun, “We got an untraceable weapon, no immediate subjects, and our crime-scene is too cleaned up. I think the only order I have on this is that we re-pursue witnesses to try and get a physical description of our man. But before we should look into just how the bomb got there. If it was left in a bag we could narrow it down.

“I'll go to the Nanjing City Events Committee and see who helps put together and build these rallies, we could have a reliant witness body there.

“More-over, I think even now we can be confident in one thing: our man is targeting politicians. But we don't know if there's a history here. Dong Wu wasn't local to the area so we can rule out local mis-identification or hate towards the man. For safety reasons any future candidate sweeping through Nanking will need to be under tighter security, the city police know that. But what we need to do as a team is look out not just for him but for anyone who raises red flags, that's my second standing order.

“Whose our next candidate on the campaign trail to come to the city?” he asked, finishing.

“Wong Hua-Kau.” Huang said, “He's another minor league and in the bottom percent so no doubt willing to risk any personal safety to gather support. I'll get in contact with his campaign and say while he's in Nanking the National Police will be with him.”

“Good, thank you comrade.”



A warm breeze blew across the sandy beach, stirring the bushes and shrubs that scratched against the railing of the porch overlooking the beach. Flocks of gulls littered the beach, herons plied the shallows in search of crabs. Far out in the waves of the Bohai Sea the pencil-thin profiles of ships passed across steel-blue water in the haze of an open sky. The smell of sea-salt was fresh and heavy in the air, providing a crispness as Chairman Hou leaned against the armrest of a wicker chair.

Relaxed, a large white shirt hung from his slender old frame. He looked down under the brim of straw wove, white Panama hat to a cup of tea cradled in his crooked fingers. With a straw he stirred a loose tea leaf through the briny water, mixing in added milk with care and patience as the warm drink cooled to a more palpable temperature.

Alongside where he was seated the glass door wall slid open. Stepping through, a man in a subdued gray suit stepped out onto the deck, nervously and reflexively turning his own hat in his hands. Hou looked up at him as the Congressman looked down at him. Smiling tensely, he bowed before the senior Grand Secretary.

“Good afternoon Wu Shou.” greeted Hou with a muted polite nod, “Please, sit down.” he invited, showing him to a nearby chair. Without hesitation congressman Shou took the seat he was shown.

“Tea, comrade?” Hou asked as he seated, “It's a fresh kettle, just brewed.”

“It'd be my honor.” We Shou smiled. His voice was as startled as a mouse. Sheepishly he reached for the simple cast-tin kettle and poured out a small glass of rich black tea into a spare porcelain cup.

Shou Wu was my no means a powerful looking man. Sheepish and slight, he really looked and acted like a congressional junior than the long-serving member of Congress that he was. Hou watched as a line of sweat beaded underneath his crown of graying hair.

The two sat in a certain silence, nearly meditative as Hou watched the sea. Shou Wu pensively waited for the great Hou Sai Tang to speak, sipping at the hot briny drink in his hands. “It's wonderful weather, don't you think?” Hou asked, breaking the silence.

“Indeed it is, comrade.” said Shou, “The weather has held well, for a while I thought it would rain, it was certainly threatening that.”

Hou nodded, said nothing. He removed his stirring straw from his drink and raised his cup to take a sip. The loose tea leaf rested against his coarse silver-white mustache as he drank. “I need you to drop your support from comrade Wong.” Hou finally spoke, cutting blunt into business, “Do you understand?”

“Excuse me?” a baffled Shou exclaimed, “I realize comrade Wong is not doing well in the elections, but he insists personally he can still pull ahead. Just recently NPN polls reshuffled the entire mid-field of the candidates list. If he can capitalize on this then he can get notoriety and jump ahead!” he insisted. There was a hint of personal bruising in how he spoke, jumping and stuttering as if he was struck a blow.

“He's been polling in the bottom five for the better part of a month and a half when Yue announced he was retiring from the campaign trail. And where do you think those reshuffled supports go to when they changed their minds at the news polls?” Hou asked, pressing. He turned to look at Shou, his face was paper-pale and dreading ultimatum.

Shou knew where most of them went to. He didn't want to admit it all the same. “I want you to announce you're ending support for Wong from congress and to your district. You'll be supporting the next best candidate, the next best related to him.

“You're going to put your name behind Zhang Auyi, lead your people in behind him.” he insisted, “There isn't going to be argument, Wong when his campaign runs out of steam will do the same.”

“Is this a planned succession?” Shou was visibly shocked, his eyes went wide.

“It's a top-office endorsement and hardly a planned succession of office. If it was otherwise I wouldn't have allowed Mang Xhu to run or all the eligible members of Congress to do so as well.

“Under a worse country, this election would have been quiet, and one of our own wouldn't have been blown up in Nanking.” hissed Hou, “But China is a better country, we deserve to act the part. But we also deserve a leader fit for its name who will be a shining example of China's cause. An icon, not an enforcer. Do you understand?” Hou took a sip of his tea again.

Shou dabbed his palm across his forehead as he looked down, “And what if I don't?”

“Next Party and Politburo committees I will put in a word to the fellow chair holders that your level of merit in the party is in question. Perhaps it will lead to you being relegated out of congress. Perhaps after your present term you will never be allowed to hold office in Beijing.

“Maybe you'll just be sent back to Sichuan to perform office work the uninspiring communal council from whence you come from, and you'll be dead-ended.

“It won't be a purge, but it'll be an exile from Beijing.” the threat wasn't necessarily one Hou sought to deliver, or even abuse. But once made he knew he would have to make good on it when it came time. But with the frozen look of Shou he knew it was something that was weighing heavily.

“I understand.” the congressman said with heavy resignation.

“I don't know what sort of pact the two of you made for this sort of thing but there's a time in place to recognize defeat in your crusade. The game's panned out for longer than it had any right to. Be humble and acknowledge that for your friend, he'll follow.”

“As you wish, comrade.”

“Good.”

Yerevan, Armenia

The phone rang. Assanian clambered off of the couch that he had spent the night on, scratching at his stubble and tucking in half of the white undershirt that hung sloppily over his trousers. Hungover with a throbbing headache as was the usual for a weekend morning, he brushed away a bottle of vodka next to a progress report on subsidized apartment highrises in West Yerevan. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet while Assanian gingerly lifted the red phone off of its base. With a groan in his voice, he half-muttered: "So it's happening?"

An aide on the phone acknowledged with a hasty affirmative and outlined what had happened an hour prior. Turkish warplanes had engaged Istanbul defenses and were dogfighting with Greek craft in the air. As it now appeared, Greece had lost the fight for the air and had rushed ground forces to the frontlines of the city. Istanbul militias had blockaded major armor movements in the industrial outskirts and were engaging in brutal street-to-street fighting with the Turkish troopers. Greek units had begun to reinforce the local police and militia detachments and were holding their own against overwhelming odds in a typical Hellenic fashion. Greek and Armenian vessels reported being strafed by token Ottoman resistance in the Black Sea and the Aegean, but the Turkish warships were more concentrated on steaming to battle positions along the Mediterranean. "Mister Ivakon has begun execution of Operation Pyramid as per your orders. Airborne units are being cobbled together to drop as many personnel into Istanbul as we can in a short time period. Little activity on the border, looks like everyone is firmly entrenched and not going anywhere."

"They don't want to go anywhere," Assanian predicted bluntly. "Tell them to let headquarters know the instant a fucking Turk flinches in our general direction. They don't have the military buildup to try and smash our lines but reconnaissance has been wrong before."

"Yes, sir," the aide answered unhesitatingly. The phone became muffled for a second as he relayed the information to another telephone operator with a direct line to the War Ministry. The aide came back and reported in: "We're limiting our response to Istanbul but are ready to conduct aggressor plans with our border units, the Poti garrison, our Cyprus base, and our Kurdish outposts. Everyone is on high alert and waiting for your signal, Mister President."

"Alright, alright," the President replied, throwing on a coat over a wrinkled dress shirt sans tie. "I'm heading to the War Department. Tell Jordan... Eh, Minister Ivakon that I'm getting there as quickly as I can."

"Yes, sir." The phone clicked off as the aide hung up, presumably to attend to more important issues as intelligence flooded the call center to be distributed to other government officials. The windows of Assanian's residence rattled, helicopters flying low and fast from bases west of the Hrazdan River to Sevan Lake. Military couriers had taken to the streets in staff cars flying little Armenian flags, even personal civilian vehicles. In just a few short hours, the reservists would be completely mobilized to man defensive positions in antiaircraft nests and artillery pits all across the nation.

Assanian, still reeking of alcohol and bad decisions, slammed through his door while grabbing a briefcase. He had no idea what was in it, just that it was probably the one from the other day's meeting. A car was called from the motor pool to come pick him up and the Presidential Guard had formed a protective barrier around the city residence to deter saboteurs.

"The fucking world has gone mad!" the President of Armenia shouted at nobody in particular. "Spain! China! The fucking Ethiopians! Now this shit? Can we go six fucking months without another goddamn war?"

Joint Base Sevan Lake, Armenia

"Your unit has just been deployed, gents."

A crisp morning breeze blew through the formation in front of the Sevan Lake barracks. The Army security battalion stood in fatigues before their commander, who outlined that because of the Istanbul crisis they were needed to rapidly clear and secure the Istanbul airport. Their battalion would be flown to a forward airbase in Greece before being trucked into the city under the cover of night. The flight was heading out in an hour. PFC George Yaglian bowed his head at the thought, the fact that they weren't even a rapid-response battalion bothering him. Now he had an hour to cram everything he needed for urban fighting into a rucksack and make it to the tarmac to board a plane. His roommate, standing next to him, also understood: his Armenian had been improving to the point where he really had no excuse anymore to disobey orders and act disorderly in public. It turned out for the best, as he narrowly avoided a transition to the Foreign Legion and a first-class ticket to an Istanbul drop zone right in the heart of the fighting. At least the airport would be on the Greek side of the Bosporus and therefore marginally safer.

The barracks was a rush of soldiers packing their gear. Yaglian tore apart his bathroom locker for a toiletries kit of shaving cream and toothpaste, packing that at the bottom of his green pack. Clothes, combat gear, a tent half, and a sleeping kit completed the nearly thirty kilo load. He packed some porn magazines in the side pocket, never leaving home on a mission without them. With a lot of time and little to do at his border post, Yaglian became a connoisseur of the pornographic arts. That, alongside drinking, smoking, womanizing, and complaining, became his favorite activities. "This is bullshit," he blurted out to his roommate, exercising the latter.

"How am I supposed to tell the girlfriend about this?" mumbled Private First Class Iain Panoutsopoulos in a thick Grecian accent.

"Do you even have a girlfriend?" shot back Yaglian, stuffing a poncho liner to the top of his rucksack with some effort.

"I have... some..."

"Casino whores don't fucking count, Pano," Yaglian reminded him.

"This one is real. Do not worry, my friend."

The rucksack went on over the worn body armor and load-carrying harness with a considerable amount of effort. Next came the rifle, slinging it around his chest atop the gear. It was uncomfortable and heavy, and it would be a permanent part of his person for the foreseeable future. The steel helmet - scarred and battered from skirmishes along the Georgian border - went on last, the capstone of his combat equipment. He had written his name, rank, and blood type on a white piece of tape attached to the front while a simple Orthodox cross had been painted on the back. Sometime during his tour in Georgia, the members of the outpost had all signed the sides of it in black marker. He wanted something to stand out from the newer members of the security battalion, so he managed to cobble together his most faded uniform - bleached almost white by the sun and and repaired in the barracks many times with a sewing kit. The formation went fifteen minutes later on the tarmac. Huddled together in the shade of a wooden awning, a Captain was giving the situation brief. The Ottomans were closing in on the city quickly and they were taking a flightplan over the Black Sea to land at a Thracian airfield - a strip of dirt carved out of some farmer's land - before being trucked in.

Not much else was discussed during the briefing: everything that was known was passed out on a strictly need-to-know basis. That didn't even account for what wasn't known, and that was most of the situation. They were being pushed out from high alert without taking time to collect their senses. There was just no time. The troops were rushed onto the waiting transport aircraft - gargantuan propeller-powered cargo carriers painted camouflaged green on top and bluegrey on the bottom - and sent out without much fanfare. Dusk fell over the hillscape of Armenia as the last of the three planes struggled off the cracked pavement of Sevan Airfield. They banked west, towards Istanbul, the final rays of sun shining off of the wingtips before it set beneath the horizon.

The Black Sea

On the deck of a former flattop cargo ship were six improvised helicopter landing pads and assorted support structures. Heavy, Polish-made troop-carrier helicopters sat high on their suspensions, engines at takeoff speed and troops rushed inside. Rain pelted at the troopers huddled in their coats, seaspray lashed at the faces of guards manning the rail. Haroud Abbasian and Ibrahim Sulayev, platoon commanders in the 11th Foreign Legion Regiment (Arab) looked over the map of Istanbul marked up in battle plans. Their wave was the next one to go once the helicopters returned. They had been stationed on these makeshift floating bases in the Black Sea in lieu of an airborne paratrooper unit like they had thought, becoming the first Armenians to react to a crisis in Istanbul. It was rather fitting that most of the men weren't Armenian at all, but rather ethnic Arabs and Kurds who were placed together for unit cohesion. Abbasian and Sulayev spoke Arabic fluently and were to communicate between regular Armenian units and those in the 11th Regiment who were not as strong in the language and customs of their new home. Some of them grumbled that the Armenians sent the Arabs, Greeks, and Russians first into battle to preserve their own sons, but Abbasian was there to serve as an example that Armenians were going in with them as equals. It was a roundabout, mildly racist subject, and one that nobody tried to think or talk about.

Abbasian and Sulayev counted off their platoons as they clambered aboard the massive helicopters. The gigantic green beasts could hold as many as fifty troops, but was mostly designed for cargo. On the tailbooms of the craft were painted black and white stripes to easily identify them to ground observers that were inside the city already. These invasion stripes were adapted from American military tactics during their conflict with Canada. With the helicopters fully loaded, the ramps closed and sealed the men inside. The roar of the ocean, the constant pelting of rain, and the whomping thumps of the rotors were dulled by a skin of aluminum. Everyone inside stood huddled close to each other bathed in the red lights: there was no sitting space with all of the gear and weapon systems crowding the cabin. It was suffocating, sweaty, and miserably tense. Someone tried to crack a quick joke in Arabic, effecting only nervous laughter. Abbasian leaned back against the ramp in the back next to his squad leaders, who all looked to him with a mixture of anticipation and cold apathy. He was tested, sure, but new to their unit. He was similarly a half-breed, and the ethnic Arabs had a distrust of their mixed-race Lieutenant. Until they personally saw him on the battlefield, the doubts would remain. Abbasian loaded a straight magazine into the rifle and held it close to his body like a child.

"I'm not about to give some sort of grand speech," said the platoon leader sagely. "Look out for your mates and keep your head down. That's it."

It took an hour to get to Istanbul. They flew low over the waves to avoid antiaircraft fire, but it was useless anyways. A pair of fast-moving attack craft had spotted them on a shorefront patrol and moved to engage. The small, nimble craft engaged their supercharged propeller engines and honed in on the beasts racing towards the city. One of the helicopters raised its throttle, nose bucking up to gain altitude and slow its speed. A Turkish fighter saw it, turned, and fired a burst of cannon across the sky. The tracer rounds streaked towards the slow, hulking, and poorly maneuverable helicopter before shredding the tailrotor in half. An explosion flashed brilliantly across the dark waters and the helicopter immediately began to autorotate. Over the radio, the pilot frantically called his last mayday as the main rotor's energy spun the craft out of control. The torque tore the fragile beast apart on the way down to the rough waves, where it impacted in a thunderous splash. The fighters, satisfied, peeled off to begin another assault but were turned back by, as luck would have it, a need to refuel. The wreck of the helicopter was never found, while Istanbul authorities recovered the body of a washed-up soldier five days later. It was assumed they had drowned.

It took them another fifteen minutes to get to Istanbul after a quarter of the company had been lost in the helicopter crash. The landing zone had been picked up by Pathfinders on the beaches months before and were now lit by flares prepared by the forward-advance ground teams. This was the fourth landing of the night. On the beach was yet another wreck: a helicopter from the second wave that had snagged a powerline with its rotor, pulling out a telephone pole with its immense force and slamming it into the side of the body. Nobody had been hurt, but the craft was deemed useless and had been condemned to lay on the beach for the remainder of the operation. The four helicopters that had survived the trip from the helicarrier touched down on the sand nearby to hurriedly disgorge the troopers. Abbasian counted off his men as they left, loudly shouting the numbers as they ran from the ramp to a seawall that was being used as cover. The helicopters were sitting ducks for Ottoman airstrikes, despite the overwhelming Istanbul flak and cannon fire that blanketed the sky. They landed for maybe thirty seconds at most before struggling off the ground, whipping sand and seaspray at the Armenians on the beach.

Before long, the sun's rays peeked through the buildings on the cliffs of Istanbul. In a double-file line, Abbasian led his troops up through the paths to the city proper, quickly before they were ambushed by an Ottoman element. Istanbul had been bombed for a solid twelve hours by tactical air units trying to snuff out militia positions: an office building not a hundred meters away billowed smoke as its carpet, paper, wood furniture, and anything else burned away in an inferno. Waves of heat washed over the Lieutenant, who scrambled his way over rubble and into the haze of smoke. Gunfire rang out through the streets. It echoed through the empty, tightly-packed streets. Boots crunched on broken glass. They were close to their objective: a hotel situated to the east of the canal that divided the city in half. Abbasian's platoon was a forward warning element for the regular military, tasked with holding off Turkish infantry as they maneuvered through the streets outside of the cover of their armored vehicles and air power. For now, the militiamen held off the Ottomans at the industrial outskirts but were falling rapidly: they simply hadn't had enough time or resources to train up against the relatively experienced Ottoman military hardliners. Abbasian didn't trust them to hold out for much longer.

And they didn't. Lieutenant Haroud Abbasian trudged through the courtyard to the hotel when he heard the first shot: it cracked over his head and sent his troops scrambling for cover. The safeties on their weapons were clicked off and someone shouted a direction to return fire.

The war was on.

((This is a collaborative post by @Vilageidiotx and @gorgenmast. Edited by @Pepperm1nts.))

Dire Dawa, Pan-African Empire

Sunrise over the Danakil brought with it the battle. A wake of pulverized dust rose into a fire red sky as it came onward into the foothills of the Ethiopian Highlands.

Hassan chose as his perch the top of a small hill north-east of Dire Dawa. From here, he could see the flat valley where the battle would begin. It was rainy season in the highlands, and stream beds that spent most of the year bone-dry now trickled with shallow water. One river - the Dechatu - divided Hassan from Dire Dawa before running north. Another came down from the east and ran along the edge of the eastern hills. They came together in the north, where they disappeared beyond the river bluffs that marked the end of the Danakil desert. Between the waters was the road to Djibouti, and the indention left by the destroyed railroad. The road and rail met in a small village beneath the bluffs; a place called Shinile

It was in that direction that Hassan saw the enemy appear. The Spanish approach kicked up so much dust that the north was covered in a brown haze. When the solid figures of tanks appeared out of the haze, it sent a chill through Hassan's body. This was it. Djibouti had been a planned failure, but this was the real test. What happened here would decide everything.

"Tell the armor to move out." he said. No hesitation. He could not afford to be anything but bold here. To break under the pressure that such a fight imposed... that would be the end.

He heard the motley sound of a dozen different manufactures of engine come alive in the valley behind him. He had hidden his armor in the vale between the hill he had chose as his perch and the rising highlands south of Dire Dawa. The first shots of the battle were fired as the Ethiopian armor made its appearance out in the open. Hassan became aware of his breathing. He monitored it, taking strong and steady breaths. He could command his forces where to advance and where to fall back, but he could not command them to succeed. For now, he could only watch.

--

A hundred armored fighting vehicles pressed inexorably southward. They were elements of the 133 Regimiento Blindado, the armored spearpoint of the Spanish invasion. Lightly-armored vehicles fitted with heavy machine guns and small cannons on their turrets roared across the last remaining miles of the detested Danakil, spitting sand and sun-baked gravel from thick-walled tires. Compared against the heavyweight tanks and rocket artillery plodding along some distance behind, these lighter vehicles were small, weakly-armed, and thinly-armored. But their light weight made them nimble and maneuverable. They were light cavalry of the Ejercito, perfectly suited for harassing, raiding, and cutting off routes of escape. Or rather, perfectly suited for such roles in more suitable climes.

The Danakil's unearthly heat, however, could not be more unsuitable for the sort of blitzkrieg warfare that the Spanish commanders had planned for the East African theater of the war. After Spanish light armor had landed at the smouldering ruin of Djibouti, the armored vanguards raced after the withdrawing Ethiopians into the Danakil through the night and well into the day. Come the sun's heat, Spanish drivers found their engines overheating. Stranded on baking desert and open terrain, the first waves of Spanish light armor took heavy losses from Afar fighters and dehydration. The Spanish learned to advance armored squadrons at night and early morning, but it proved too late to catch up and waylay the withdrawing Ethiopian forces.

But on this dawn, the Ethiopians could retreat no more. Here at Dire Dawa, at the yawning mouth of the African Rift Valley, Ras Hassan's forces made their stand. As the Spanish armored cars came ever closer, their enemy came into view. Plumes of diesel smoke rose skyward against the stunted skyline of a provincial city. Ethiopian armor was moving to engage the Spanish advance.

Spanish jeeps and armored cars ground to a halt as their drivers laid eyes on the enemy. Commanders unbuttoned their hatches or leaned out the windows with binoculars in hand. In magnified detail, they witnessed their opponent. Hundreds of tanks in every shape, size, and state of repair. The more learned officers might have recognized postwar Renaults or the numerous Polish contraptions, but the variety was staggering. It was clear that the Ethiopians had cobbled together every automobile with a gun and some armor in an attempt to match the Spanish. But had those tankers learned to fight together as a cohesive force? Did they even know how to operate all of the vehicles in that hodge-podge? Their inconsistency would be their downfall.

Thunder rumbled across the western horizon. Puffs of fire and smoke erupted from Ethiopian tanks as a handful opened fire. A series of sharp whistles rang across the barren plain as a dozen shells fell in a wide scatter a kilometer short of the Spaniards. Ranging shots; evidence that the enemy gunners were unfamiliar with their tanks and what they could and could not do. The Spanish commanders resolved to press their advantage in a flurry of radio signals. Motors roared as their insides filled with fresh diesel, and the 133rd drove forward into the valley.

The Spanish drivers weaved and bobbed at patternless intervals as they advanced, speeding up and slowing down at random. They had entered the enemy's field of fire, but hitting a moving target at this distance would be a difficult task. The African gunners tried nonetheless, sending screaming shells upon the light armor in a thunderous fusillade. Plumes of pulverized ejecta sailed a hundred feet into the air with each impact and rained down around the Spanish.

The randomized, staggered advance was not foolproof, as a more experience Ethiopian gunner demonstrated. A high-explosive shell grazed the side of a Spanish armored car and exploded directly underneath. The vehicle was ripped apart with bent fragments of thin armor plating raining down with the debris cloud. The mangled chassis of the vehicle somersaulted to the side before grinding to a halt as a burning heap. It was a stark reminder that despite the obsolescence of their enemy, the powerful guns on their tanks were plenty strong to make mincemeat of armored cars.

Before more carnage could be unleashed against the Spanish advance, the roar of propellers screamed overhead. Gunners on the cars tore their gaze up to see long-winged airplanes buzz past mere meters overhead, red-yellow roundels on their wings and sides identified them as Spanish aircraft. Two pairs of the Cachalote torpedo bombers roared fast and dizzyingly low; low enough for the tankers of the 133rd to see their underwing bomb racks laden with ordinance.

The two wings veered to the north and south walls of the valley, where Ethiopian flak guns opened fire too late to give the attackers pause. As the planes approached the advancing Ethiopian armor, they turned about and ran above the enemy tanks. Amidst the front tanks of the Ethiopian column, the Cachalotes loosed their bombs onto the enemy. One by one, heavy cylindrical canisters fell - sometimes into the gravel, sometimes falling directly onto the African tanks with booming clangs. Then the second wing crossed the path of the approaching tanks, dropping their bombs in the path of the enemy. Not wanting to run into the bombing strafe, most of the tanks slowed to a halt. With their weapons dropped, the Spanish planes beat a hasty retreat back to the aircraft carrier waiting off the Somali coast.

Curiously, the bomblets did not explode. Nozzle-like apparatuses on the base of the bomblets popped open on a timed fuse instead, propelling a thick gray smoke that billowed up and outward with a pressurized hiss. Shouts of terror rang out through the Ethiopian tanks upon the realization that the Spanish had employed deadly VX gas against them. Some gulped their last clean gulps of air and held their breath as the noxious clouds spilled over their vehicles. Some used their last moments of life to whisper prayers to Allah, God, or whichever they called their maker.

But as the smoke clouds wafted across the valley and seeped into their vehicles, the agonizing pain associated with exposure to VX was never felt. The odorless gas that was claimed to render instant death smelled sharp and acrid, but did little more than elicit bouts of coughing. The realization came gradually that this was not nerve agent. What sort of poison gas had the Spanish just used against them?

The mass confusion within the Ethiopian ranks distracted many from the fact that they could not see but a few feet in front of their turrets. Through the smokescreen, the roar of the advancing Spanish vehicles grew ever louder over the sound of their idling tanks.

And then, without warning, a torrent of lead tore through the synthetic fog into the Ethiopian armor.

--

Hassan could no longer see the fight. It was obscured in dust and smoke, so that only the firing of guns and moans of steel could be heard, and the flash of fire seen. He realized that, even so close, he had no way of directing his armor from here. When enemy aircraft made their appearance, it became apparent that Hassan's lofty position made him nothing but a target.

He climbed into his vehicle and pointed south toward the town. He could not direct the armor, but he could prepare the infantry for their part in the battle. He was comfortable with ground troops - the staple of the wars his ancestors had fought. It would be up to the commanders of Ethiopia's armor to make their own decisions.

The ride down the hill jostled Hassan back and forth, and he held on tight. A wing of Ethiopian aircraft came in from the south - too late to counter the first appearance of Spanish planes, but a welcome sight none the less.

The smell of smoke and gasoline was beginning to fill the air now. When he reached the trenches where the Somali soldiers waited, his first instinct was to look back at where the battlefield was.

But all he saw was ruddy blankness.

"Have all artillery focus their fire just below the bluffs. If they can make out Shinile, or know where it is, tell them to use it as a reference point." he said to his communication man, who cranked alive a bulky portable radio and shouted back Hassan's orders into the microphone.

When he came to the Somali Regulars in their trenches, he found many of them praying in Arabic. Their voices came together into one drone, above which the cannons began to drum and the clamor of armored warfare held constant amplitude. But the drone of their prayer coming together like a song put Hassan in a better state of mind.

When the Spanish planes flew over, the sound of misplaced gunfire filled the town. It came from the poorly disciplined men that filled most of the African military apparatus. But the Somali soldiers stood with discipline. They did not flinch. They prayed.

--

Behind the incoming wings of Spanish Halcones came the approaching roar of helicopter rotors. Over the last leg of the shimmering Danakil came a quintet of Barracuda helicopters buzzing in low and fast toward the field of battle. In the rearmost chopper, Victor Ponferrada - general and commander of the invasion of Ethiopia - stood in the aisle between his pilot and copilot and surveyed his soldiers gathering for battle behind the armored columns.

"Bank right," General Ponferrada told the pilot over the resonant thrum within the cabin. The pilot eased the joystick over, tilting the right side of the helicopter gently toward the ground. Sprawled across the desert floor some hundred feet below him, the menagerie of Spanish weaponry was on display. Trucks with howitzers in tow were being driven up toward the battlefield. Up ahead, he could see howitzers that were already in position and nearly deployed. As his chopper sped past, Ponferrada watched for a fleeting moment as the baseplates of the mammoth guns were staked into the sun-baked earth by Spaniards armed with sledgehammers. Within minutes, the battle would be joined by the Spanish guns. With a nod of satisfaction, Ponferrada held his hand flat and waved it in the pilot's view - indicating that he was to level out.

The rocky plains leading into the valley were occupied by a swarm of combat vehicles. Centauros and Mesteños - the Spanish main battle tanks - crawled forward with clusters of infantry following right on their treads in order to advance under the protection of tank armor. As they advanced toward the billowing curtain of artificial fog, the light tanks ahead of them rolled backward in retreat. The smokescreen was quickly dissipating, the Ethiopian drivers of the tanks mired in that smoke would be advancing through within moments. With their cover disappearing, the light armor was withdrawing and ceding the field of battle to the heavier guns.

The Barracuda shuddered as its rotors cut through the downdraft of an Halcon buzzing past. Ponferrada's eyes followed the fighter up as it arced skyward to put guns on an Ethiopian fighter high above the battlefield. Wispy contrails trailed behind the wingtips of the Ethiopian plane as it banked hard to evade its attacker. Ponferrada recognized the humpbacked profile of the Ethiopian fighter - a Focke-Wulf 288. The postwar Prussian Spatz was a respectable plane, but combat aviation had made much progress since the 50s and the hand-me-down 288s would have a difficult time evading the guns of the younger Halcones.

"Increase altitude," Ponferrada demanded, knowing the Ethiopian fighters would be too preoccupied with their individual dogfights to strafe his helicopter. The pilot throttled up, sending the Barracuda climbing several hundred feet above the battle. Up here, the General was presented with a commanding view of the battle playing out below him. From this height, it was like watching minuscule tanks escorting clusters of ants toward the diffusing shroud of smoke - armored cars and pulled away and withdrew along the north face of the valley. Every movement on the battlefield was his to survey. What Alexander or Napoleon might have given to see Hydaspes or Waterloo from a God's-eye view such as this.

Ethiopian tanks could be seen lumbering out of the smog now, certainly ready to avenge themselves for the initial barrage inflicted upon them by the Spanish light armor. Ponferrada took the radio mic from the copilot's console and spoke into it.

"Enemy armor is emerging from the cover of smoke. Coordinate amongst yourselves to focus fire on high-caliber armor. Use your shape-charge rounds for the main battle tanks, incendiary shells for the light armor in order to sap their courage." he commanded over the mic, holding it against his throat rather than his mouth to conceal the noise of the propellers.

The first ten to fifteen Ethiopian tanks burst forth from the smoke cloud into the crosshairs of an approaching column of Centauros. A moment passed as the gunners within zeroed the gargantuan muzzles upon the enemy, followed by fire and thunder erupting from their cannons. The earth around the Ethiopian tanks burst into a fine cloud of dust as the vehicles absorbed the impact of the shells fired upon them. Blossoms of sparks and red-hot metal fragments radiated out from the impacts. The Ethiopian armor seemed to be surviving the initial salvo.

The African tanks responded in kind - not as a concentrated fusillade as the Spanish had conducted, but sporadic fire. Ponferrada saw the flashes of fire burst from the Ethiopian columns, and then diverted his attention to his own armor. The first thing the Spanish commander noticed were a handful of geysers of debris rocketing up from where the Ethiopian rounds had hit bare earth rather than a solid tank - many of them had missed. Perhaps the African tankers were not well acquainted with the quirks of their vehicles, perhaps they were not well trained to begin with. Ponferrada didn't much care as to the reason why, but was nonetheless glad to see such ineptitude on the part of his opponent.

More Ethiopian armor had rolled in from the fading smoke into the kill-zone, prompting the Spanish armor to open fire once more. Ponferrada first saw the flash, and then heard and felt the percussive force of the soundwaves jolt the helicopter. The distance and constant whine of the rotors notwithstanding, a thunderous blast could be heard clearly by all those aboard. Sparks and slag burst from the Ethiopian tanks. With this salvo, Ponferrada could see visible signs of critical damage to the Ethiopian vehicles. A few tanks had taken damage to their treads or wheels, causing them to advance in weakened spasms or veer to the left or right. One began to billow with thick, black smoke from within. A Polish TK-55 must have taken a shape-charge round to the magazine, for that unfortunate tank was annihilated in a spectacular fireball. The turret rode the explosion skyward before crashing back down to Earth in a burning heap - certainly a terrifying sight to the other Ethiopian tankers.

The Ethiopian tanks managed another salvo - this time only one or two shells missed. Two of the older Centauros had taken serious damage - particularly one whose exhaust port turned into a jet of fire. Black smoke billowed out from its hatch and from the cannon itself for a few moments, before the force of an explosion from within the tank blew the hatch off and sent a plume of fire spewing out from the cannon's muzzle. A smoldering fire burned from within the tank, incinerating the crew within. Ponferrada could only hope that death came swiftly for the four souls inside. His grimace reminded him of his chapped lips, and he drew a canister of lip balm from within his breast pocket and applied a dab to his lips. The Spanish armor fired once again in retribution while Ponferrada rolled his balm-lathered lips together.

"Deployed elements of the 130th Artillery are to open fire into the kill-zone," the Spanish commander said into the mic as he screwed the lip balm canister back together. "Anti-armor ordinance - low arc, maximum velocity - to be fired on my mark. Armored units are to advance into the kill-zone upon termination of that salvo."

The Barracuda was jarred violently as an ear-splitting bang set warning sirens blaring through the helicopter's consoles. The pilot and copilot immediately set about flipping various switches and knobs.

"What the Hell was that?" Ponferrada snarled.

"High-caliber munition," an anxious copilot reported as he shut off the sirens. "Probably an anti-tank round." A staccato burst of bullets pinging off the Barracuda's armored hull confirmed that the chopper was being fired upon.

"We're taking ground fire from enemy infantry," barked the pilot. "Given your priority, we need to withdraw to a safe distance."

"Fair enough." Ponferrada agreed as he took the radio mic up to his throat once again.

"Mark! Open fire!"

--

Hassan climbed onto a flat-topped house and looked out toward Shinile where the duel of armor was underway. Smoke and dust still obscured his vision, allowing only chaotic glimpses and making it difficult to understand the line of battle. What he saw did not give him confidence. Behind him, his radio-man monitored near unintelligible chatter. He wondered which belonged to the tank commanders, and what they were saying. He wanted to have their view.

Overhead was waged a different sort of battle. The aerial war-horses of the Ethiopian airforce - craft with paintjobs more attractive than their pedigrees - contested the skies against the Spanish. There was no certainty in that fight either. They twisted through the sky, partnered with shining Spanish fighters, dancing together in a way that seemed almost beautiful. The painted Ethiopian craft - lions and warriors, dancing women and Christian Saints - added a melodramatic tinge to the event. The Spanish fighters were cold and industrial, with colorless fuselages gleaming like polished silver in the desert sun. That was their fight; mirrors and mythology playing for the air.

Directly below him, where the neatly aligned streets of the main city met mangled squalor in the form of unplanned shacks and dirt huts webbing all along the edge, platoons of men with anti-armor guns and rocket launchers advanced cautiously toward the front. Some rode in the backs of large polish trucks, or the smaller taxi-trucks that only had three wheels. They would be the first thing to come rushing back if the armor broke.

A pair of dancing fighter planes moaned over the city. The African soldiers opened fire on them, shooting pointlessly above their own heads.

"Radio the hills." Hassan shouted above the noise. "Ask them if they have anything left to throw into the fight."

The radio-man relayed the request, and a static voice responded over his machine. They did.

"Send them in. Stick to the hills. Right flank. See if we can put some push on them."

Hassan drank in the noise of war, fingering the grip of his handgun. His men were poorly equipped and without uniform training, but they had something the Spanish lacked. Inveteracy. They had fought in Syria and the Red Sea, in Katanga and Ta'if. They had fought against each other in '74, and some would have been old enough to remember doing the same in '52. Some, like himself, had seen action during the Congolese Revolution. Spain had seen war too, but never as deep and never as total, and never on their own door step.

He stood, his mind plugging away at the problem of how to win this thing. He watched the pulsing dust in front of Shinile. He listed to droning aircraft engines and the heart-like thump of armored vehicles dueling on the sand. And, like the footsteps of stone giants, he heard his own artillery doing its work.

But then another sound joined it all. An answer to his own artillery. The enemy had brought in heavy guns. He saw the flashes and the bursts, more furious than what tanks could produce, and he began to reassess.

"Recall those reserves." he yelled. "Send them around the east hills. Tell them to use the ridge-line as a mask. Go around the hills and strike at the back of the enemy." Inveteracy. Perhaps he would catch the Spanish unawares. This was a text-book maneuver, but he had caught them unprepared before.

A V-line of five Ethiopian fighters passed overhead, slow and low, their planes groaning from the lack of altitude. Hassan pondered how many years it would be until the Afar dug out the last of the scrap-metal this battle was producing. When would the last twisted Spanish steel go to market?

--

"Open fire!" The battery's commander bellowed to his orderlies.

A soldier under his charge tugged fiercely upon the howitzer's lever, triggering the firing pin to smash into the shell's firing cap. A clap of thunder set the desert to trembling as the gun's muzzle belched a plume of fire. A patina of fine dust burst upward around the howitzer from the massive recoil, but the gun itself held fast with its iron talons staked firmly in the desiccated earth. Another blast, followed by dozens more, heralded the start of the Spanish barrage.

The Spanish guns were aimed at a shallow angle and their shells flew fast and low - nothing like the arcing trajectories of the German shells plunged upon Ypres and Verdun in the Great War. Solid cones of steel screamed just above the Spanish armor before gravity pulled the shells downward into the Ethiopian columns. At such speeds, the barrage was unstoppable; be it earth or steel, the shells pulverized whatever they hit. Those tanks hit by the shells crumpled like tin cans.

As the cannon report echoed off the surrounding hills, an unearthly sound howled across the land - a ghastly falsetto accompanying the choir of battle. The drivers and gunners of the Ethiopian armor witnessed plumes of fire rising above the Spanish tanks. Those who had served in the Danakil knew what was coming - they had tasted the fire of Spanish rocket artillery fired en masse.

The rockets arced high above the battle, buzzing past the Halcones and Spatzes dueling for mastery of the sky above. There, thousands of feet above the ground, the propellant fizzled out and their Earthward plummet began. Crude and inaccurate, the rockets scattered wildly as they rained down amidst the Ethiopian armor. When they careened into the African tanks, the high-explosive charges in their pointed noses exploded. The rocket casings disintegrated as they burst, transforming into high-energy shrapnel with enough energy to perforate light armor.

In the midst of this withering fire, The Spanish tanks went on the offensive. The Mesteños, fast and durable, led the way into the battered Ethiopian column. Using the husks of wrecked tanks as cover, they filtered into the Ethiopian column, sowing confusion and disorder among the Ethiopian armor. The Spanish circumnavigated the heavily-armored fronts of the Ethiopian tanks and scored shots on the more thinly-armored sides. The poorly-disciplined drivers of the African tanks, fearing a fiery demise trapped in a burning tank more than the quick death of being shot for desertion, resolved to retreat. One by one, Ethiopian tanks shifted into reverse and backed away. If their tanks could no longer move, then they unbuttoned the hatches and poured out on foot. The rout had begun.

News of the routing Ethiopian armor trickled through Spanish radios in crackling Castillian. New orders came to the artillery: double down on the attack and prevent the Ethiopian tanks from rallying. The artillery officers issued their soldiers new firing solutions, prompting the gunners to tweak the angle and direction of their monstrous guns. But unbeknownst to them, they were watched from above as they made their calibrations.

--

From the hills that hemmed the valley in, a regiment of Somalian fighters peered over the ridgeline into the Spanish artillery batteries. Down the hillside, dozens upon dozens of howitzers were trained upon the battlefield on the opposite end of the valley. The infantry had all but left them to assist the tanks in scattering the Ethiopian armor. They paid no attention to their surroundings, the artillerymen were preoccupied with the armored battle going on downrange or leafing through the trigonometry manuals for their guns. Ras Hassan had guessed correctly - the Ferengi commander had left his artillery unprotected. Now was the time to strike.

The Somalians charged above the crest of the ridge and raced down the hillsides with their weapons drawn. An avalanche of African fighters descended to the valley floor at full speed. As they neared the bottom of the valley, they filled their lungs with dry desert air and announced their presence to the Spaniards with an ululating warcry.

"LILILILILILILILILILILILILI!"

The Somalian warcry resounded across the valley. The Spanish artillerymen tore their attention from calibrating the cannons and recoiled as they witnessed hundreds of African fighters charging down from the hillsides at full sprint toward them. The officers drew sidearms, but the enlisted artillerymen - unprepared to participate in close combat - did naught but quail and turn to flee.

Seeing the terror in the Spaniards renewed the zeal of the Somalians. As they neared flat ground, they held their weapons to their hips and fired into the Spanish batteries. Here, the Somalians resolved, the ferengi would be repaid for several massacred Afar villages.

--

The events in Shinile passed beyond Hassan's vision. What he saw was a line of solid Spanish tanks advancing steadily through the broken remnants of the Ethiopian armor. African planes in their full painted beauty dove at the coming enemy, peppering them until the very last moment they could pull away. A few tanks stalled and smoked on the field. It was not enough. The din of the battle was so loud that, when the African soldiers at the edge of the city opened fire, the effect was almost unnoticeable. But in the next moment, when the Somalis on the right flank joined the fray, that noise could be heard across the entire field. They raised up in their trenches, ululating and shouting in high voices. Their line didn't just respond with haphazard gunfire - a volley of anti-tank rockets launched all at once from their place, and their fire washed over the enemy in a flash. There were fewer, but the advance would not waver or turn around.

The tanks opened fire. Their sound drowned all the rest. It was soon a matter of buildings and fences exploding. Hassan scrambled from the roof with his guard. Dust flew around them.

"Ras, the ferengi have entered the St Gabriel." a voice shouted on the ground. Infantry. He had expected his armor to do more, and now it was broken, the battle was in danger. The city was in chaos. A three wheeled taxi-truck rolled by like a chariot, armed Ethiopians in the back.

"We can't defend this part of the city." he said. "The houses are too small, the streets are open. Their tanks will drive us. We need to pull back to the center of town." he looked behind their position, seeing if he could spot a good place for defense. The town was flat, so that even the squat huts and shacks out here near the edge managed to block what he could see. There were a block of four-story apartment buildings near the railroad yard. He knew their construction was poor, and that it wouldn't take long to bring them down with heavy guns, but they and the road nearby overlooked the empty space of the rail-yard. It was the only place to make a stand.

"That'll work." he mouthed. He had a plan now. He started to speak out loud now. "That'll work. Where is a runner, I need a runner!"

Nobody. No matter. He grabbed one of his Palestinians by the shoulder and squeezed. "You! You're a runner now! Change of orders. Pull back every other battalion and have them fortify them behind the railyard. We will use the workers apartments as a bulwark!"

The guard motioned a solemn acknowledgement and jogged off. This was the plan. He led the rest of his men to the Somali trenches, passing only two blocks from the front lines.

He found the Somalis hard pressed. They had rocket launchers and armor-piercing guns, and it was their place in the line that had singly held against the enemy advance. The first trenches had been torn by enemy fire. The remnants of those soldiers found a new place in a goat pen, surrounded by a wall made from one foot of thick mud-brick, topped with a line of ordinary sticks driven into the mud like pikes. The Spanish attack sent splinters flying from the top, but the bottom miraculously held. The Somalis crouched unnaturally behind their scant protection. While some fired back at the enemy, others frantically dug into the ground.

"Ras!" the commanding Somali officer shouted from the back trench, holding onto his helmet while shrapnel rained all around. "Get back! It is gory work here! This is not the place to be!

"Can you hold this position?" Hassan shouted back over the din.

"We're still here."

"Stay here." Hassan said. "We are pulling back to the center of the city. This position needs to hold or this army is over."

The Somali commander looked back over his embattled soldiers. He sucked in air between his teeth, making a hissing sound. "This will be an ugly thing, but we will hold. Save this battle for us, Ras."

Hassan nodded at the man and left him there to fight his fight. The battle for Dire Dawa wasn't over yet.

Awash River Basin, Ethiopia

It was a scene that recalled old Ethiopia, and the world as it had been during the Era of Judges. Yaqob sat enthroned outdoors. An early-morning rain had made the rich African earth a muddy slosh beneath his throne, and filled the air with the fresh scent of grass and soil. The sky was also wet - not cloudy, but wet with a cool after-storm mist that made all the colors of nature vibrant and bright.

To Yaqob's right was Ras Rais in starched military dress. Rais had joined them on his way back from a meeting with Hassan, heading toward Shewa in the entrenched highlands. To Yaqob's left was a ferengi black man from America: Fitawrari Bucephelus L. Scott, the leader of the International Sefari, wearing a blue kepi and a great-coat cape that recalled the war the Americans had fought over slavery. The Fitawrari Scott was leading the ferengi of his International Sefari to reinforce Hassan at Dire Dawa, and the Emperor thought it fitting to escort them some of the way.

Yaqob's attendants held heavy, embroidered umbrellas above the heads of their Emperor and his companions. Mvulu stood below the throne in the ivory-and-cream dress uniform of the Imperial guard. The priest Zerihun Biruk stood in front of them all, dressed in black robes with a golden chasuble draped across his shoulders. He was leading a prayer, his hands stretched out across the field where a dozen riders in shammas and traditional clothing sat atop their horses. On the other side of the field was a mass of people, appearing as a sea of white robes and shammas peppered by the fatigue uniforms of the foreign soldiers.

As Zerihun spoke, the people bowed their heads in prayer. All was silent except for his somber voice, and the distant turbulence of the Awash river at the bottom of the hill.

"O Lord my God, in Thee do I put my trust.
Save me from all them that persecute me; and deliver me,
lest they tear my soul like a lion, rending it in pieces while there is none to deliver.
O Lord my God, if I have done this,
if there be iniquity on my hands, if I have rewarded evil unto him that was at peace with me.
Let the enemy persecute my soul and take it; yea, let him tread down my life upon the earth,
and lay mine honor in the dust. Arise, O Lord, in Thine anger;
lift up Thyself against the rage of mine enemies,
and awaken for me the judgment that Thou hast commanded.
So shall the congregation of the people compass Thee about;
for their sakes, therefore, return Thou on high.
The Lord shall judge the people:
Judge me, O Lord, according to my righteousness and according to mine integrity that is in me.
O let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end, but establish the just;
for the righteous God trieth the hearts and reins."

When the priest was done, a slow murmur came over the people. Zerihun found his seat just below Yaqob.

Once all was still again, the horsemen saluted their Emperor. "Negusa Negast Yaqob the Second, Elect of God, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah and King of Kings of Ethiopia." their voices joined into one. Yaqob responded only with dignified silence.

Once the pomp was finished, they spurred their horses and began to ride. They rode one way across the field, and then the other, and then back again, with hooves pounding heavy on the earth. Each rider had with him a number of long spear-like rods, which they grasped with one hand while holding the reigns with their other. Yaqob watched them, but he hardly saw them. There were other things on his mind. The Walinzi attempt to save his sister had failed, putting her in danger and giving the Tanganyikans all the evidence they need to prove the Ethiopian Empire was in the wrong. War had came through the Danakil and was nipping at the edges of his homeland. Everything worked to break his already fragile spirit.

"What do you call all of this, your Imperial Majesty?" the Fitewrari Scott asked. He spoke a sporadic Amharic interlaced with English words to fill in the gaps.

"Gugs. It is a game of war. You will see in a moment, when they get started." the riders were still riding, showing off their horsemanship and warming up.

"I think the knights of the old dark ages used to do this." Scott noted. "These men do not fight like this, do they? I mean when they are on the battlefield, during the real war."

"No." Yaqob smiled. "I suspect they kept their rifles with their families today."

"I saw Ras Eba Gugsa ride in the gugs." Zerihun noted. His voice had a tiredness to it, as if he was worn down by the effort of remembering something from so far back.

"When was this?"

"Oh... so long ago that I cannot recall. Was I a boy, or a grown man?" he shook his head and smiled. "The past has all become one thing. Never mind that. I recall that the Ras was getting older. Filled with hate after the war. I remember he had a reputation for spurring his horse bloody."

"Brutish man." Yaqob said.

"Takes a certain kind of evil to take your problems out on a helpless horse." Scott berated the long-dead memory of the man he'd never met.

Ras Rais still said nothing. He hadn't said anything since Yaqob greeted him, and even then their conversation had been formal. But that was who Rais was, and though it made it difficult to warm up to the man, it did not seem out of place or strange. He sat straight and stiff like a statue in Egypt. But it was in Yaqob's nature to bring the man into the conversation. He figured it was this way for most people in politics. A man unaddressed was an opportunity missed.

"How did you find Ras Hassan on the front?" he turned to face Rais.

"He is in his element on the battlefield. In the face of war he is determined."

"As always. I have faith our forces will pull forward in this thing."

"Faith." Zerihun said approvingly. "That is the important thing."

The riders began their spectacle in earnest. Hooves kicked up fat clods of dirt and horse shit. They formed into two groups, one chasing after another, with the pursuers tossing their rods and the pursued doing their best to dodge or deflect them. Back and forth they went, pursuers becoming the pursued once they reached the end of the field.

"This is an affair. One heck of an affair." the Fitawrari Scott looked amused.

"If only war were this pretty." Yaqob replied.

"If only." Scott said. "I have seen war. I saw it in Tennessee and Cascadia. I didn't think I would be seeing it again."

"This is your third war?" Yaqob asked. For him, it was easy to forget how much had happened in America.

"I might just have lost count." Scott smiled grimly.

"Such a strong person, to have went through all that and still saw it fitting to join in our war."

"Come from strong people."

"I have heard these things, about the Negroes of America. I suppose you have been through more than I can know."

"Not as much as you would think. I grew up easy."

The conversation lapsed for a moment when they were distracted by the fighting. Two horses crashed into each other and brayed like harpies, but the riders held on tight.

"I was directed to think that Africans had it hard in America." Yaqob continued their talk.

"Most do." Scott continued. "Oh, I've been called by a few mean words in my time, but I can walk right by and forget about it. See, my grandpa owns a tool and dye shop in Alexandria, Virginia. Across the river from Washington DC. We have money, so we don't have too much trouble. It is those poor Negroes in old dixie that see the worst of it. Horrible things go on down there."

"Satan is in too many places." Zerihun injected.

All there was to do was to agree, and be silent.

The ceremonies came to an end, but the crowds did not disperse. The warriors prepared to move, as did Yaqob's entourage and the foreign soldiers, but the villagers did not go. Instead they shouted words of encouragement and prayers. They hung religious charms on the necks of some of the men, both the shiftas and the ferengi. And they shouted to him, their Emperor, sending him a volley a prayers and praise, and making requests he could never promise to fulfill. He walked with Ras Rais and put on a strong face like that of a great war leader, though he hadn't felt prepared for the tasks ahead of him since this war began. He saw, in the crowd beyond his Imperial Guards, women with children clinging to the skirts of their white dresses, and old men who looked sorry to be past their prime now that their world was threatened. There were steely-eyed boys, manliness swelling in their skinny chests as they watched the shifta warriors walk tall with rifles and swords. The young boys would search for the war so long as it was going on, and when the opportunity came, they would become a part of it. These were his people; the people who suffered in his name, because a far away enemy chose to hate him. Could he save the nation by sacrificing himself? Was that an option open to him? He almost wanted to. To take up a cross and martyr himself for his people. But he knew it wouldn't work, that truth stood invincible at the back of his mind. If he surrendered, it would mean losing any real opportunity to be helpful, and to work for his people. But had he even worked for them at all? That question nagged at him.

When they reached Ras Rais's staff car, the general turned around and bowed. "Your Imperial Majesty, be safe on your travels."

Yaqob smiled. "I hope that the next time we meet, it will be in victory."

"Yes." Rais said, smiling limply. "If you are in need of any assistance in evacuating Addis Ababa, I will send what I can."

"I suspect you will need all of your equipment to defend our capital."

Rais looked somewhat uncomfortable. It was an unusual look for him, so in seemed to translate as a look of pain. "I fear I will not have the opportunity to defend the capital. If Hassan fails at Dire Dawa, my forces will be the only thing between Spain and the rest of the country."

"I am not a military man, so I will not contradict your orders, but is the capitol not priority?"

"The capitol can move to Gondar. Most of it already has. And now it is cut off from the coast, Addis Ababa makes a poor industrial city. If I were to move my forces into the Awash valley, then I would be drawn into a fight where I and the enemy are on equal footing. The highlands are more defensible."

Yaqob felt as if he had been struck down by Rais's words. "I will confer with Hassan when I get a chance." he waved. "The Chinese have offered to help with the evacuation. We will work out what part the military shall play when it comes time to do it."

Rais bowed again and climbed into the car. Yaqob watched it go down the road, wheels spinning in slick mud. The wet coolness in the air was beginning to feel like a numbing chill.

The Emperor met with Mvulu, Zerihun and the Ferengi Fitawrari. They climbed on horses - easier to see the country from, and more inspiring to the people who lived near the Awash. It had been Yaqob's idea a first; a gimmick that would look royal to the average peasant, and would allow them to truly drink in their surroundings. When the Fitawrari Scott explained that he had never once rode a horse, they found him a mild pony that required very little guidance from the rider. Troop trucks carried the the Ferengi Internationals, while Zerihun, Scott, Mvulu, and Yaqob rode on ahead along with Yaqob's Imperial Guards. Mvulu's peg-leg was strapped to his saddle by a device he had made custom for the job.

They rode over the descending savanna of the Awash valley as it faded toward the Danakil. This was a place of rolling grassland and sparse acacia trees. It was still not unheard of to see wild asses grazing in the shade of those trees, though most wildlife had been scared away by the Ethiopian caravan so that Yaqob saw nothing but some birds and lizards.

"What is your faith, Fitawrari Scott?" The Priest spoke.

"Methodist. Born and raised in the Hunting Creek 1st Methodist Church."

"American Protestant. We are brothers in one faith then. Our church and your church shares one God."

"I suppose it does."

"Tell me then, what part does your churches play in the racial fighting in your land?"

The Fitawrari grinned wide. "Every part on God's big old earth. The Black churches fight the good fight. We send food and money down to the southern black churches so they can help their people. My pastor met with your countryman on a march in Jacksonville commemorating the race strikes from back when Dixie was a country."

"Our countryman?" Zerihun questioned. "An Ethiopian?"

"The Ethiopian is what they call him. I do not know much about the man."

"I have heard of him." Yaqob spoke up. "A good man, putting his all into a good cause. If I had a legion of such men, this war would be over before the rivers dry up." Yaqob did not speak the whole truth. He could not tell him how the Walinzi had warned Yaqob of the man who called himself the 'Ethiopian', and how his continued crusade for Negro rights in America could ruin US-Ethiopian relations. It had been their recommendation he write a letter to the President of the United States denying Pan-African support for this "Ethiopian." The letter had never been written, but that did not mean Yaqob hadn't seriously considered it. He wondered again if he was the right leader for his people.

"We'll find another way to end this war then. Even if we have to fight us some fights in dry rivers."

Yaqob smiled, but he found it hard to say anything. His mind was still overwhelmed by the news of his sister, and what Ras Rais had said about abandoning Addis Ababa if Hassan fails. The war had hung heavy on his every moment for months, stinging at his chest and dragging down his thoughts. Now it was extremely urgent. He could hear the sound of the axe swinging above his head, and it was coming down on all their necks.

"There are churches in the south that help persecute southern negroes." Scott said. "It was two years back I read about a church that lynched itself few young boys for an supposed crime against one of their daughters."

"Vigilante justice. Shifta justice." Zerihun reflected. His eyes glazed as if he were turning his vision inward.

"They were twelve. Both of them were. Brothers. Twins I reckon. They hung them from the steeple. Your Imperial Majesty, that is why I am here. If I went down to be some sort of hammer of justice in the south, its would cause trouble for my kin back home. Feds would snoop around my granddad's shop. And what type of fight could I give? If John Brown's ghost don't rise up with the banner of the Lord's vengeance in his hand, then fighting violent ain't going to get anybody nowhere. That's a battle for lawyers and politicians, and men like that "Ethiopian" who can fight that way. I know the soldier way of fighting. And I can do that here, against the type of injustice I know how to fight. Shoot the bastards, leave'em in the field, and shoot me some more."

"Then we count you as our brother, Fitewrari Scott." Yaqob said.

"And I am glad to be your brother, your Imperial Majesty."

--

They slept at the edge of the southern highlands, under tents like the nomad kings of history. Kilometers on horseback had worked Yaqob's thighs sore. He struggled to sleep. Sometime after midnight a light rain fell on their camp. He could feel the air get colder within moments, and the patter of rain on canvas made it harder to sleep.

But it was not just the climate that kept him awake. He was consumed by a tingling inevitability, like victory was an impossible thing he chased because he had no other option. It was all in vain. He thought of the wrong he had done: overthrowing Sahle, looking the other way as Hassan mutilated children in far away Katanga, presenting the head of the Rouge General at a banquet in a fit of fevered zeal. He had always meant to do right, but circumstances never let him. That was no excuse. There were no excuses; sin was sin. What would the priest say about that? Could the judgement of God be pulled back? Or was it too late? Once dead, the executed man couldn't be stitched back together. Even God's judgement, at some point, had to be counted as irrevocable.

When the night seemed deepest and the rain coldest, he thought he heard airplanes in the distance. A soft hum barely audible above the rain. Pain danced in his chest, just below the scar. He needed to let it all go.

It was still dark when the Emperor found the priest's tent. Zerihun stirred easily. He lit a match, and then a candle. A vulnerable light filled that simple tent. The Emperor sat down on the floor. He was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"I am doing wrong, father. People die and I am to blame."

Zerihun's face was protective in the flickering light. It was a look that made Yaqob feel like a little boy, and the tears trickled in spite of him.

"The enemy says that I am all they want. That it is what I have done... my policies, that is what they come to destroy. I fear what it would mean for me if I surrendered myself. But it would be easier for this country."

"No, child." Zerihun spoke. The familiarity of his speech both stung at Yaqob's pride and made him feel warm. He said nothing, and Zerihun continued to speak. "The easy path is not the best path to take. This is true with one person, and it is true with many. What is difficult is worth doing. Think of the first man who thought to sow a crop. His neighbors would have said 'What a fool you are. Grain grows in the summer, and we can eat our fill. That people must starve in the winter is unavoidable, that is the way it has been since the beginning of time. Do not try to capture the grain, but pray with us for the return of the good days in our ancestors time when fewer starved.' But the man planted seeds, and he learned by his mistakes. He did not, when the first crop failed, say 'This is the end of my endeavor, because this thing cannot be done.' He tried again. And in trying, he made the world a better place. Men have to struggle for their world to improve. And so do Emperors. Surrendering is easy, but it wouldn't do any good for your people."

It was what Yaqob had hoped to hear, and he wept openly. Zerihun prayed with him until dawn.

When the sun came over the hillside, and the Ethiopians were awake, they set off again. Yaqob did not feel at peace, but that was fine. He would do as he had done in Addis Ababa before Ras Rais had told him the bad news. He would take his discomfort and put it to work. If he had been a bad leader in the past, then he would leave that in the past. He would not dwell. Instead, he would use his fear as wind for his sails.

The countryside was dusty and brush-scattered. Villages built from mud and twig stood quiet between dry river beds. One village they passed had a Mosque built out of bundled sticks, with a minaret that looked like the spindled finger of a jungle forest God pointing at a dry desert sky.

Near midday, they passed a copse of trees near a trickling river bed. Flakes of white covered their leaves like a dusting of European snow. An Imperial guardsman hopped from his horse to inspect the strange material. He brushed a finger across the top of a leave, inspected it, rolled it with his thumb, and then licked it.

"Ash." he said.

Zerihun looked knowingly. "It is silent now, but on a typical day a dry wind prevails south across the Danakil."

Yaqob understood. "Djibouti is just north of here."

"Nearly."

They all looked at the trees uncomfortably; the guardsman with the ashen finger most of all. There was no wind now, and the trees were silent as granite. The caravan pressed on.

The world became ominous to them after the trees. A thin haze filled the sky, like the smog left by city life. The air smelled smokey. There were times, not often, where a faint rumble could be heard in the distance. It sounded like thunder in the desert. Storms were rare in the Danakil, but they were not unheard of. But there was also war out there, they all knew that, and each time the sound was heard, battle was all anybody could imagine.

"I do not know what America is like." Zerihun broke the uncomfortable silence with the American Fitewrari. "But I hear it is a green land. This must all look horrible to you."

"It got it's own kind of beauty." The Fitewrari said.

"The Afar is where they unearthed the oldest human skeletons ever found." Yaqob noted. "Humanity might have very well started in this place."

"My momma told me man came about in Eden." Scott replied. "This don't look like any kind of garden I've seen."

"This land has changed." Zerihun "The deserts have not always been deserts. Even gardens wilt, my friend."

"Now father, are you telling me that God done let paradise wilt?" Scott teased.

"I suppose he must have." Zerihun replied. "Where else could it have gone?"

The smell of smoke grew thicker as morning became afternoon. The haze was heavy on the air now, like a film of dust on glass. There were flashes flickering to the east, and the occasional disembodied sound of battle. Yaqob had never experienced these things. Battle, for him, had always been a distant idea. He had no interest in entering it, but he had made up his mind that he would get close enough to see it. Was it honor that drove him? Or curiosity? He couldn't tell.

"You Imperial Majesty, I think we should prepare to turn back." Mvulu asked anxiously.

"Not until it is time. I will decide when I am ready."

"That is very good, your majesty. But I must remind you that your guard cannot protect you from a Spanish army."

"We will not get that close." Yaqob promised. "But if I turn back now, I will feel incomplete."

They were near enough now that the throb of big guns could be felt. Small-arms fire could be heard just below the gentle purr of the wind. The air smelled unnatural - chemical, and metallic, with the haze of smoke now so oppressive that it made him feel hemmed in. Mvulu sent some of the guard to scout ahead, accompanied by a couple of the Shiftas in their party.

Planes flew overhead. Yaqob did not know who they belonged too, but they made everybody nervous. "Your majesty." Mvulu said as the horses whinnied and stamped. "I cannot protect you from enemy planes. We should turn back now."

"These horses cannot outrun aircraft." Yaqob replied. "We must trust in our fates."

The other men said nothing. There was a sense, shared among them all, that speaking might attract the enemy. It wasn't realistic - the enemy was still far away - but the feeling was enough to make everyone silent. It was the horses, not too proud to snort and cry at the sinister atmosphere, and the burly hum of diesel engines, that made all the noise for them. But those were paltry sounds compared to the nearby battle.

The riders returned and told them that there was a makeshift field-hospital just over the rise. They were on the very edge of the war now. Yaqob quickened the pace of his horse. He wanted to see this thing and be done with it. He climbed the precipice of the hill. What he saw on the other side was the ugliness he had expected. Dirty, ragged, and broken scattered on the open ground. On the far horizon was fire and choking-black smoke

"Oh god." the Emperor said. The words felt like a whisper in his throat, but it had been loud enough for the priest to hear.

"Shall the sword devour forever?" Zerihun murmured in a voice that was thoughtful and somber. They rode down the hill.

(Optional Music)

Yaqob could see in the distance a valley filled with smoke and fire. Dire Dawa was only a shadow in the fog of war. His first face-to-face image of war was hideous, but it wasn't far away battle that took his attention. Once he started to process everything he was seeing, it was the people in the camp below him that he saw. Wounded, broken, and used up, they leaned against smashed tanks and armored trucks shot up so bad they were near unrecognizable. The women and old men of a nearby village had arrived on the scene with buckets of water, which they served to the wounded in humble clay bowls. The women were ripping at the hems of their skirts to create makeshift bandages. All of them, the soldiers and the villagers, looked up at him one by one with faces confused and hesitant. When they realized he was their Emperor, their countenance changed. There was awe, and shame, and fear, and the tired looks of men who had given up. Others looked prideful or rejuvenated, the sight of their nation personified in the flesh waking them up from their defeat. Yaqob began to weep, but this time he did not weep for himself; He wept for his people.

"I think we can take it from here, your Majesty." the ferengi Fitewrari said. He looked stoic, calm, and his dignity gave strength to Yaqob.

The Internationals started to unload and form up. What happened to them now Yaqob did not know. He saw the Shiftas heading in their own directions. Yaqob was now alone, with his guards, and the damaged men surrounding them.

"Could we use the trucks to move them?" Yaqob asked.

"I don't think we can do much." Mvulu explained. "We might be looking at deserters. I don't know."

Yaqob took a slow, deep breath. "Maybe. Lend them the trucks though. We have no need of them."

He rode out among them. There were bloodied soldiers, and those with no noticeable wounds. Some burned, others marked by ash. They all looked to him with their own personal forms of curiosity. It was situations like this, the powerful moments, where Yaqob did best. His heart was stirred. He spoke.

"I am so very proud of you all!" he said. The words came slowly as he thought about what he would say. "Seeing what you will do, I have faith our people will survive until the last days of the world!"

"We are losing this battle, your majesty." an anonymous voice shouted out from among the people.

Losing. That stung at Yaqob's confidence, but he could not let his people see it. He was silent for a brief moment, where only the thumping artillery could be heard. "You have lost one great battle, but that does not mean you have lost everything. You enemies and your friends have seen what you can do. If your ancestors could see what you have done for your country, they would crawl from their graves at Segale, and Adwa, and Magdala, and they would shout your names join you on the battle line! Be proud of yourselves, my sons. Remember what I said today when you witness the last invader leave our continent forever. Our children, and our children's children, will remember you all as the generation that saved the world!"

There was a weak cheer and ululation, weak because the wounded themselves were weak, but it gave Yaqob a surge of hope. No one defeat was total defeat. He was confident his country would be in this fight until the end.

West Istanbul

Greek Army trucks were old, captured Ottoman medium-load vehicles painted in a mottled green lizardstripe ostensibly to camouflage against air attack while sitting in their motor pools. They were also noisy, rattling and growling as they shifted gears on the dirt roads into an Istanbul embroiled in conflict. They kicked up the light brown Grecian dust and belched acrid smoke that so happened to drift directly back into the cabins of the trucks in the convoy following. George Yaglian kept his head down behind the truck's cabin and had wrapped a red-pattern scarf around his face to keep the fumes out. His eyes watered and he had fits of coughing whenever a particularly bad cloud rolled through. His hands were gripped over the wooden handguard on his battle rifle and his gaze diverted down to the wooden floor of the truck. Yaglian's rucksack lied directly in between his legs, entangled with everyone else's gear in the cramped troop carrier. Around him, dozens of other similar trucks carried hundreds of Armenian soldiers into battle. Motorized infantry, as they were called, were instrumental in Armenia's plan to reinforce key areas while the Greeks tried to battle the Ottomans head-on at the Bosporus Canal.

Yaglian's unit, technically assigned as a military police detachment dealing with installation security, had been deployed from its regular duties guarding airfields at Camp Sevan Lake to secure the Istanbul airport before the Ottomans had a chance to get there. Air-transported to a forward Greek base, these men were being raced to the airfield before the Ottomans had a chance to cross the bridges - which had not been bombed due to refugee considerations - over the strait. The enlisted man next to Yaglian was his barracks roommate and good friend Iain Panoutsopoulos - often shortened to Pano by the Armenians in the company -, a Greek with shaky nerves and a questionable dedication to military service. Pano's leg bounced up and down while he played with his rattling handguard. Beneath a scarf made out of a dirty white undershirt wrapped around his neck and face, Pano's eyes were squinted as if he was trying to concentrate on picking out details on the ground. Yaglian put his hand on Pano's leg and looked over at him: "Don't worry, they're still east of the canal," he said moderately confidently.

An explosion boomed from a distant fuel storage plant, punctuating the Private First Class's declaration. A raging fire sprang from the ruptured fuel tanks while secondary detonations rocked nearby buildings. A column of smoke rose in seconds, drifting heavily into the air before a trio of Turkish warplanes flew straight through it. Spotted by ground observers, an autocannon was directed to engage: 20 millimeter rounds erupted from no fewer than three ground stations. Three streams of tracers converged right ahead of the formation and quickly ripped the fighters to shreds. Machines of aluminum and steel became balls of fire hurtling into the ground.

One of the Turkish pilots had apparently bailed out and deployed his parachute. One of the gunners apparently noticed this and expertly targeted him with another burst of antiaircraft fire, leaving nothing left.

"Fuck me, fuck this shit," one of the troopers exclaimed. "Nobody's flying anything into this fucking airport."

"Shut the hell up," was the reply from the platoon leader. The middle-aged officer had one hand on the radio phone and the other over his ear as he tried to get directions from higher. A map had been taped to the top of the truck driver's cabin, which the Lieutenant stood behind. "We're taking our right here!" he shouted, banging on the top of the truck. With great effort, the driver swung the heavy, high vehicle to the right at a fork in the road and almost tipped the thing over. The scenery began changing from sparse houses to factories and industrial buildings to more built-up neighborhoods. Soon enough, the trucks were navigating through the rubble-strewn streets of Istanbul. Artillery fire raked the city blocks in a back-and-forth pattern, sometimes coming close enough to spray broken glass and shrapnel against the sides of the truck. One of these explosions came too close for comfort, rocking the truck back and forth. Yaglian flinched down, feeling the dirt land on the back of his neck: his ears rang for a few minutes after that.

The airport was a fifteen minute drive through the city. On the south end of the west side, the airport had a sophisticated L-shaped runway and a heavily expanded terminal capable of supporting passenger and cargo flights across the world. A smaller, military annex had been completely leveled in the opening blows.

Yaglian's truck was the fourth to exit onto the tarmac through a hole in the fencing. The trucks assumed a line formation and quickly sped across the tarmac, thundering and rumbling over the smooth asphalt. Forward observers, waiting for them, had called in quick-response artillery in the form of mortars from the other side of the Bosporus. Yaglian could hear the whistles over the roars of the engine, screaming: "Get the fuck down! Get the fuck down! Incoming!"

Blasts rang out in ten-second intervals at random spots across the airport's runway. The trucks kept driving through the barrage. Meanwhile, panicked drivers began to speed up and zigzag in hopes of avoiding blast damage. Two trucks nearly collided before being swerved back onto their original courses, which now began to diverge as the battalion assigned to cover the airport were split to defend the different locations. Yaglian's company - Affirm - was heading to the terminal, while Baker was to hit the hangers and Charlie to establish spread-out perimeter security. Affirm company punched through the litter and debris on the tarmac to swing through towards the entrance boulevard. Suleiman International Airport was fairly sizable and had kept a garden boulevard well-maintained. Now, Greek trucks flattened the meticulous tulip fields while mortar shells knocked over palm trees and statues of folk heroes. The truckers aimed to unload in a parking garage near a roundabout next to the grand gates, to minimize danger from the air. This, however, proved fruitless when it was discovered that a police barricade had been erected a hundred meters down the boulevard.

The trucks stopped, but the barrage still rained down. As the explosions began to intensify, the troopers hurried to load up their gear and dismount. Yaglian had just donned his pack and grabbed his rifle's carry handle when he felt something warm and wet splatter across his back. Almost instantly, he heard a yelp and a gurgle. Shrapnel had torn through the neck of the man sitting next to him, almost severing his head. The Armenian jumped back, exclaiming "What the fuck?!", and then tripped and fell onto the pile of rucks in the middle of the truck. He scrambled away from the corpse now dangling over the side of the truck.

"Get the fuck off the truck!" screamed the Lieutenant, before grabbing the dead man's battle gear with his right hand and pushing him off the side. The body, formerly a star barracks poker player named Ismail, landed with a thud. Yaglian, almost in shock, was picked up and thrown off the truck by someone else. "Get up! Get up! Go!" was the encouragement from a familiar voice. Yaglian whipped his head around, trying to regain his composure, before Pano yanked him to his feet with a strong, golden-skinned arm. "Get to the terminal!" the Greek shouted in his heavy accent. Another whistle: another explosion. This one landed atop the parking garage, destroying a support column and collapsing the top northwestern corner. Yaglian didn't need more of a sign than that, and picked up running after his comrades into the terminal.

Suleiman International Airport used to be a luxurious center of transit for foreign dignitaries, businessmen, and other people of note. A golden chandelier lay in shambles on the marble floor of the main hall, shattered crystal surrounding the mass of metal. Pearl white columns, the ones closest to the door stained with grime, supported a ceiling with a blown-out glass dome. Inscriptions in Ottoman, sayings from Sultans past, covered the high walls. Yaglian's company sprinted through the entrance hall, ignoring the shattered opulence in a startling juxtaposition of wealth and despair. They found shelter from the mortars underneath the airport's mezzanine, huddled together under tables in a Turkish restaurant. The explosions continued for another hour before the mortars were silenced and it was safe to move around again.

The battle reached the Bosporus by midday, and the Armenians met the Turks once again in fierce combat in the streets of Istanbul. Yaglian could watch across the bay and ships burned and airplanes fell. For now, the west was relatively secure and more elements were moving into the airport. It was slated as the new command and control center for the Armenian military if the embassy became too dangerous. Although no planes could land - indeed, the runways were cratered and at least one had the wreckage of a civilian airliner caught in the wrong place at the wrong time sitting atop the tarmac - and no formations could congregate for long, the hangars and terminals became staging places for the Armenian military in Istanbul.

For Yaglian, who had set up a marksman post atop the roof of the main terminal, the war was not ending anytime soon. He heard the sounds of battle cascade across the ruined city. Snaps, booms, rumbles, and sometimes cries. He felt every explosion and aircraft flyby. The artillery that so desperately fought to exterminate the Armenians before they reached the airport had been redirected elsewhere with only casual attempts to dislodge the dug-in forces. The battle had reached the neighborhoods near the bridges, picking up in intensity as more and more ordinance was dedicated to the fight. Yaglian and Pano, veterans of the Georgian theater, were still rattled by the ferocity of the fighting.

"Did we take any more wounded?" the Greek asked slowly, carefully. His green eyes looked down at the concrete roof of the terminal while his hand tightened around the grip of his marksman rifle. It was a standard issue K19, equipped with a scope that couldn't really see far enough for what they were doing while totally destroying any semblance of effectiveness in close quarters battle.

"Us in particular, or?" was Yaglian's response.

"Of course," said Pano softly. A machinegun burst from a guard position down by the tarmac was sent across the strait. The guards on the roof peeked over the hasty sandbag cover before dipping back down. "Other than Ismael," the Greek added with a pained frown.

"You were close, weren't you?" asked Yaglian. Cheesy, but he didn't know what else to say.

"The fucker conned me out of two months of pay," Pano lamented, referencing the seedy barracks poker games. "But he was good for a Muslim."

"We've got to get the body," the Armenian told the Greek. He cast a quick glance back towards the roundabout.

"Lieutenant got it. I saw. He was covered with a poncho in the lobby."

"The Lieutenant did that?"

"Ran out in the barrage," said Pano with an approving nod. Yaglian slumped down a little, wondering if he should feel surprised at the heroism or disapproval for the carelessness of going out under fire. He settled on feeling both, but this was underpinned by a swelling of pride in his leader. Sometimes officers did make good people.

"I thought he was a dick but now I kinda like the guy, man."

In the hours ahead, that Lieutenant would be shot by a sniper from across the canal as he fought a fire on the tarmac caused by an incendiary round. His head would be splattered over the Suleiman International Airport's runway for four hours until his body could be collected and sent back with the rest of the casualties as night fell and the Turks couldn't shoot as effectively. The Platoon Sergeant took command and assumed the Lieutenant's duties by morning. The operation would continue as planned.

East Istanbul

"Shit! Fuck me! Fuck this shit! Fuck!"

A young Muslim soldier lay in the rubble of a collapsed room clutching his abdomen. A rifle round had torn through his body armor and fatigues before tumbling through his stomach and tearing a ragged exit wound in his back. The platoon medic was frantically stuffing cloth in the wound to soak up the blood.

"It's not serious! It's not serious! Shut the fuck up!"

Abbasian fired off the last of his rifle magazine at a shadowy figure moving in the smoke of the battlefield. He didn't hear any sort of scream so he loaded another one and popped off another pair. He shouted a contact report, catching the attention of a grenadier who launched a rifle grenade at the facade of the light-blue-painted building. The Lieutenant crawled away from the window he was shooting from and turned around to inspect his men. They had been lined up in the office building's windows shooting across a courtyard at the horde of Turkish soldiers streaming in from the east. Istanbul militias had taken up positions to the north, and the street was littered with their bodies and burned out vehicles. A stench of gunpowder and iron - from the blood - lingered in the air, complemented by smoke and faint scents of burned flesh. Someone had started a fire in the southeast quarters of Istanbul, in the slums, that was threatening to spread north towards the Foreign Legion's forward positions. The fighting in that particular industrial park had stopped for now.

It was like Erzurum, except Abbasian was now in charge of the fighting. He felt himself lose touch with reality as the brutality of the fighting was prolonged. He remembered the trenches and the boredom, the drug abuse, and the itching for war. He remembered the fear of fighting the first time, rethinking his decision as he felt the pressure of explosions wash over him and heard the bullets whiz by his head. This was not the first time he was convinced he was going to die: the fear of mortality in that building in East Istanbul was old hat for Lieutenant Haroud Abbasian. As Abbasian checked off his squad leaders in a calm, collected fashion like an automaton, he remembered missing war when he logged the woods of the Nagorno Karabakh. Walking along the woodland trails in the Black Garden reminded him of DMZ patrols and combat reconnaissance with the artillery observers. He missed the little things, like the cargo pockets on his pants that weren't there on his woodsman jeans and flannel. And now he was back in the fight, fearing for his life again. It would be funny if it weren't happening to him. Everywhere he went, he wanted to be somewhere else.

But being a leader meant that he had to put that behind him. Like when he checked off his squad leaders for ammo and casualties, Abbasian was supposed to be cool. That's what they taught at OCS. If anything else, they had to keep a level head even if their minds were racing like his was. Whatever emotions were running through Abbasian's head had to be kept away from his men. So when a seventeen-year-old Private was dying in what used to be a break room for a financial consulting firm, he was focused and collected. And thus, the detachment set in. He and reality no longer seemed to exist in the same place. Abbasian wanted to step back from it all and evaluate what he was thinking, process the complicated emotions that raced through his head. In reality, he was emotionless. He didn't show that he felt. If he showed anything, it could be weakness: weakness that could endanger his men. He couldn't break down, lest his men see the set example and break down as well. So as soon as Abbasian checked off his troopers and ensured that they could fight through another round of Turkish aggression, he settled back into his position by the Platoon Sergeant, medic, and radio/telephone operator, and readied his rifle.

He was the boss, he was the man. In the symphony of destruction, he was the conductor.

Stepanakert, Armenia

Maya Abbasian toddled behind her mother with a paper bag full of bread in her arms. She protested to her mother that she could hold it while her mom fumbled with three other bags of groceries. They walked down the sidewalk of a Muslim neighborhood in West Stepanakert, across the highway, which had not been very well attended to by the government. The paint peeled off of the walls, faded advertisements for products lined the brick alleys. West Yerevan was, by and large, an immigrant sector largely divided into self-segregated ghettoes. There was one for the Muslims, one for the Yazidis, one for the Russians, and one for the other Caucasians. The Muslims lived where the Turkish middle-class used to back during the occupation, mostly because the religious infrastructure already existed. As such, they were probably the most well-off of the minorities. Away from the shining government buildings in Yerevan, the glorious public works projects in Artashat - a city so brutally decimated that they were basically starting from scratch to showcase a "new Armenia" -, the Polish-funded factories of Hrazdan, and the neon-lit casinos and nightlife of Sevan were the simple, lowly neighborhoods of West Stepanakert.

There was some subtle tension between the Armenians and the Muslims of Stepanakert. The Turkish occupation had put a bad taste in the mouth of the mostly Christian nation for Islam, especially during some of the more hardliner years when mosques were built out of razed churches. These were, in turn, burned down by the Armenian Revolutionary Front in the 1940s and '50s and then again by the Armenian Separatist Front from 1977 to 1979. The Nagorno-Karabakh Crisis, when Ottoman Azerbaijan acted on its own to try and retake the Artsakh region was quickly put down by the Armenian military over the course of a four week war. The Abbasian family remembered the rocket attacks on Stepanakert, all while Haroud was away at the Erzurum DMZ. It was in 1979 where Fatima Abbasian's husband, Sirwan, had died in one of those attacks. He was getting gasoline for the family truck when an Azerbaijani rocket hit the gas station and killed two dozen civilians. A retaliatory attack on an Azeri school the next day was proudly reported by local media, but offered no condolences for the mourning family. These tit-for-tat attacks reassured the Christian Armenians, like it was a Crusade to vanquish the invading Muslim Turks and their lackeys from the fatherland. For the Abbasians, it was just more violence.

But that still didn't stop the tensions from creating a problem in the Nagorno-Karabakh. They had been refused service by Christian shopowners and restaurants a few times, and the police were always "too busy" to respond. It didn't really bother Fatima or Maya. She held out hope that her son's military service would assuage the community's fears about Muslim Armenians. For now, Maya had almost tripped over the concrete step leading to the front of their house and had dropped the bag of bread onto the porch. Her mother reprimanded her softly: "Don't run so fast! You'll hurt yourself!"

Across the street, a neighbor planting her vegetables leaned on her shovel and chuckled. "Keeping track of the kids, Fatima?"

Fatima turned her head and smiled while simultaneously scooping up the paper bag. "Sure, she's a rowdy one."

The neighbor, an older woman in her sixties named Karina, chuckled again. She also wore a hijab and a conservative blue dress, a crescent star on a gold necklace hanging from her neck. On her wrist was a golden bracelet from her family's history in Syria. Despite her worn face, her smile was somehow impeccably bright white. She was the elder woman of the neighborhood, having a long and industrious history in the city of Stepanakert doing who-knows-what. "Have you heard from Haroud lately?"

"Not since a phone call from the train station, no," Fatima admitted. She brushed her hijab's loose end over her shoulder and smoothed out a wrinkle in her dress. Maya had gone off inside with one of the bags to put the groceries away.

"I wouldn't be surprised if that were the last time in a while," Karina said. "I remember when Hassan went out with the Ottoman forces in... Well, I'll have to ask him again but I think it was Greece way back during the forties. He was gone for a good half a year and we only had a letter from him once or twice."

"We've already had him away for nine whole months," Fatima lamented. She gave the rest of the bags to Maya one at a time so she could put them on the table. "He managed to call every week or so. They had a payphone made at the firebase he was at. And he wrote all the time. Mailed his little sister all of these mementos like bullets and coins and everything else."

"They invaded Istanbul, mind you," Karina replied soothingly. "He might not have a chance to write anything for a while."

The mother nodded as Maya came running out of the green wooden-paneled house with the dog. He bounded over the steps and ran out onto the yard where he spun around in circles, clutching his bone. Maya went down to play with him for a few minutes as her mother checked the mail. Karina went back to planting her vegetables across the street.

Inside was a letter from Haroud, posted on a plain beige envelope bearing military post office stamps. It was crinkled, and a suspicious mind might have thought they saw evidence of it being opened and resealed by intelligence agencies. It had been dropped off that morning while Fatima had been running errands. The postman, as was typical in rural mountain communities, rode his horse through every morning with satchels pinned to its side. He was always happy to deliver letters from sons and husbands at the front, being somewhat of an overbearing patriot. Fatima, smile on her face, excitedly grabbed the letter from her son and opened it there at the mailbox. Maya played with the dog still, throwing a stick and chasing it with childish joy. Her laughter filled the humid summer air.

Haroud's handwriting seemed rushed, scrawled on the Army-marked papers in black pen. Contrary to the usual neatness, the letter had been folded into thirds unevenly.

Mother,

My unit has been undergoing training for two weeks for a new operation. Two weeks! It's been fast-paced, learning how to operate in and around our new helicopters. These things are huge, loud, heavy, and they rattle like nothing other. I have about forty guys under my command, none of them speak any sort of Armenian except maybe my radio operator (who knows broken phrases.) I've been giving them a crash course in everything but these men are mostly immigrants who need more time. That's what we all need: time. We're getting rushed from one place to the other, hurrying through everywhere. I can't tell you what's going on, but I'm sure you'll find out shortly.

I'll be alright, however. Even without much time to prepare, I trust this to be over quickly. For now, we have received life jackets from supply. For what, I have no idea. I'm no sailor. I can't even swim (I remember when dad tried to take me down to the pond when I was little, I've never touched water since) and you know how I get nervous being over water. If we're flying our helicopters over the ocean... I expected to fight on land.

Let Maya know that I said hello and have some little trinkets for her. I know how much she liked patches and flags so I've got a box being sent that will get home maybe next week. I found some dog treats at this shop in Sevan on pass, maybe Tsaghik will like them! You know how she's picky. Give her a pat or two for me, too. I should be home soon.

Much love,
Haroud

That was it. Fatima knew that Haroud had to be purposefully vague before the censors got to it. That didn't stop an inkling of worrying from appearing in her mind. What was her son doing? She heard the rumors of a new war with Turkey over Istanbul, was he going there? Maybe Karina would know, she had connections into the military that offered the neighborhood some relief when their husbands and sons went to war. She could figure out what they were doing. It was only a matter of time until they knew for sure. As she thought about the concept of yet another war, Fatima felt another unpleasant feeling rise from within. The image of an official Army telegram in the mailbox appeared in her mind's eye. She banished it immediately.

She had lost Sirwan. She wasn't losing Haroud.

Driving had a way of shortening the distances. And with the noon sun over-head much of the countryside's details, hills, groves, and roads had been released from their mystery under the dark moon-lit sky. Having marched much of the day down a long narrow road, littered with potholes and rocks the size of Ullanhu's head the three of them were on the edge of giving up. Even in the cool breeze of the Russian north, there hadn't been much relief in the long walk.

“You don't even know where you're going!” taunted Belyakov as they walked. The fourth time in the passed two hours, each sneering deceleration no less dulled from the last. But he was starting to loose his breath. Out of shape and old, his words came out forced on dry tired gasps for air.

“Shut up!” Vasiliy barked, smacking him across the back of the head, sending him into a stagger as he recoiled forward from the hit.

Vasiliy hadn't openly questioned it. Ullanhu felt on some level the man understood that there wasn't much choice with their truck out of commission. They could very well wander the woods, but neither of them were exactly well prepared for that sort of ordeal. Without so much as a map, the infinite web-work of the roads in the Russian country-side could and were their only means of navigation.

It was a wonder that while on such predictable pathways they hadn't been caught yet.

For all around there were rolling seas of amber grass, spaced and broken with frothy crests of hardy bushes, and even further interrupted by stalwart thickets and stands of trees bent with the wind and wound tight around one another. Spruce trees loomed over-head, silent and calm in their solitude as they sighed gently in the gentle cool breezes. Crows cawed in the distance as flocks of song-birds chattered in the trees.

It was an estranged sound to Ullanhu, he hadn't come to know much in the way of peace in Russia. So much of his time here had been moving feverishly from one point to another, around the sound of guns, or on the run he hadn't cared to notice the country's natural rhythms. He thought back to home, and the steppes of Mongolia and he realized in horror he felt sadness, a deep fearful nostalgia for home and a beginning of forgetting something.

The crispness of the Mongolian air, the stillness of the nights and the open skies over-head. A world without city or town, with only nature and the stars. Without threat, fear of violence. With a trembling heart he realized as he sat on these things he missed them, and he felt he had earned himself a long, long vacation to home.

Atop a hill they arrived to their goal. It was so different during the day, Ullanhu was unsure it was the same house he had seem illuminated in the nightly glow. It was a wreck, partially run down with the wood siding hanging askew by rusted nails. The windows were sagged, and the front-porch hung dangerously to one side as if ready to fall off completely. To the side an equally dilapidated horse-stable stood, occupied by a solitary rusted truck, some thirty years old by its appearance.

But more importantly, and what confirmed it to Ullanhu was that it bore signs of being lived in still. Trailing from a stone and mortar chimney a thin trail of smoke rose into the air before catching the breeze and dispersing completely.

“That must be it.” Ullanhu pointed out. His feet were sore, and he was more than eager to sit down; if the home owner would let them.

“Are you sure?” Vasiliy asked, surprised and disgusted.

“I only saw it at night, I only knew it was here because someone lit lanterns in the windows. But it's the only house here we've seen for miles, and someone lit a fire inside at least.” the Mongolian agent observed, pointing to the smoke rising from the chimney, “There's a truck parked in their stables too.” he added.

“So is there.” Vasiliy nodded, there was a song of relief in his voice, “We'll in move investigate.”

“Yea, sure. We'll move in.” Ullanhu repeated. He felt a pang of guilt as he drew close behind Vasiliy as he drew his pistol. He hoped that it wouldn't have to come to violence. He may technically be one, but he never held himself to be a soldier.

It's why he liked his desk job.

But as they came in close to the home, it became obvious that something was off. There was a calm emptiness to the air and no out shouted to protest as the door exploded open with a forceful kick from Vasiliy. The air inside smelled of mildew and age, with a smokey bite from wood-smoke.

“Hello?” Vasiliy called out in Russian, his handgun held out as he stepped carefully through the middle of the dirty living-room. Faded and sagging couches flanked either side of a long graying tea-table where rested a few crinkled books and forgotten magazines. Dusty bookshelves and end-tables sat littered and choked with wooden decorations, old lanterns, and torn pieces of note-paper. The floor was littered with the same chaos, a stormy gestalt of refuse unswept.

Ullanhu pulled the president over to the side where there sat a cast-iron wood stove, the source of his smoke, tucked between two fading milky windows. Holding his hand above the surface of the blackened iron he felt the heat radiating from it. It was still warm, someone was just here.

“We might not be alone.” Ullanhu cautioned quietly as he looked about. He held the president's shoulders like a human shield and crept along the edges of the room as Vasiliy checked the corners. Belyakov grunted in mild distaste and disapproval as he was man-handled about between Ullanhu and the greater world.

Vasiliy disappeared around the corner into a hallway, passed black and white photos of a smiling man and his family, seated atop a horse-drawn wagon. There was a tense moment of no reply from the Russian, until he called out. “I think I found our home's owner.”

“Really?” Ullanhu called back.

“Yeah, come meet him.” Vasiliy invited in Russian.

Ullanhu felt his gut twist as he obliged, following his path down a short hallway. There at the end in the living room the corpse of an old man lay half in bed. His head lay tilted to the side with an expression of frozen shock. A bullet hole and tore clear through the temples of his forehead, painting the far wall in a thin veneer of blood and brain.

“Oh great...” Ullanhu muttered.

Kneeling besides the corpse, Vasiliy reached out with a hand and brushed against his forehead. “His corpse is still a little warm, he must have been killed earlier this morning.” he observed, in plain Russian. He played with his hands, feeling the stiffness in his joints, “Rigor mortis hasn't even set in yet.”

Ullanhu held on tight to Belyakov as he silently struggled to try and get away, but no avail. “So what are we doing?” Ullanhu asked.

“No use now in asking, ya? I suppose we'll wrap him up in sheets, drag him out back. I check out his car.”

“You check out his car?”

Vasiliy nodded, “Of course.” seeing the pale look of shock in Ullanhu's face he rose his hands defensively, “I'm sorry, someone has to do it. I don't know how long either of us will be sitting here.”

Ullanhu groaned, “Fuck. Fine, I guess I'll have to.” he looked down at the body half splayed against the bed. Something caught his eye, and he looked over.

“What's that?” he asked, nodding towards what he saw on the ground. He held Belyakov tighter as if he had any chance of escaping, or any sound way of getting far with his head still bagged.

Vasiliy looked over and stepped towards what his partner in crime and pointed out. Leaning over he picked up from off the ground a worn double-barreled shotgun. Holding it up he presented it to him, “Looks like the old man was trying to fight someone.” setting it on the bed he added, “As soon as you're done with him, I'd check things out around here. I'm sure you can find some shells for it, might be useful later.”


There was an unsettling feeling of familiarity again driving a tank. It was a numb rote thing, he wasn't piloting it out to a drill or the firing ranges. Knowing well ahead was its purpose and that his break from it had ended weighed in heavily on Tsung. But he commanded himself like a robot, even as the thought hung over him. He wanted to say he had already seen enough, and he wanted to go home.

But he kept going ahead, cold and numb.

“Song Sun is checking at a Lake Sartash inside the eastern part of Yekaterinburg, hardly in the city itself but in its limits according to locals.” sergeant Wo reported from the protection of the turret.

The entire tanks smelled and felt new under Tsung's hands. The windows he were given were for once clear and crystal and he saw the road ahead with the clearest detail he had even seen. He could actually see Russia while on the move, and not the milky faded image of the landscape he had in the old tank. The smell of fresh oil, protective grease and wax hung heavy in the cockpit air. The entire interior glowed with a fresh untarnished coat of dark green paint. It was impossible for him to believe something this fresh and clean can be employed to military use.

Then again, it was bound to loose the luster very soon.

“It appears our division was broken into three separate units. Song is in the central unit.”

“Do you know what command wants us to do?” Hui asked Wo.

“No I do not.” Wo responded with a dismissive shrug, “But so far I'd say the rest of the army has done a good job locking the city down, the road is clear and quiet for as far as I can see.”

“Good to know.” Tsung mumbled to himself. No one would have heard him over the thunderous noise of the engine.

Soldiers along the side of the road passed them by as the treads thumbed across a checkpoint. The difference was like night and day as the landscape opened up with military activity. Even through the thick steel hull the thunder of canon boomed as sporadic fire was thrown at the besieged city. The Chinese asserting and proclaiming their dominance of the country-side around the Republican capital.

_____________

White dust filled the air as the tank wound along a narrow hairline road at the lip of a crater in the middle of the forest. Still holding in its trap the abandoned claws of hydraulic shovels, train-car sized dump trucks, and implements of digging lay a deep chasm that opened outside Tsung's window, large enough to swallow a sports stadium. Passing vehicles kept stirred in the air a thick haze of chalky dust and sand. At each wind gust more blossomed up into the warm summer, thrown free from loose piles that ran the embankment's edge. Beyond heavy green and brown sheets a low wall of wound razor wire poked out in thick twisted bends from the underbrush.

“What a fucking nightmare.” Wo grumbled from the turret as he looked around. Shuttering in his seat, Tsung grappled with finding the edge of the narrow switchback they drove along as they dove deeper into the white pit. Fearful glimpses out the window were without benefit, it was narrow enough he could find no edge from the driver's seat. Just the pit itself.

Wo was in his own world as he looked out the turret's canopy, cringing at the sights. Tsung was slowly melting in failing courage.

With a soft thumb the cabin leveled out as they hit even ground and merged into the twisting awkwardness of navigating the shielded and covered depots, fuel and ammo dumps. Men on their way out crowded a chaotic network of informal roads and paths that cut between the dumps, depots and the piles of white coarse dirt and briny green pools of water. Their presence wasn't warmly received, or consciously received as they tried to move through the business of the day and the impatience of returning patrols. In the controlled anarchy, the improvised base resembled much more the madness of mid-day Shanghai or Hong Kong than an army mission.

Wo found them a guide, and they followed a tired looking private as they made their way slowly the maze. At the far end of the pit they pulled up into the motor pool. In wait banks and rows of armored cars and tanks lay out in their wide-rows, empty spaces spoke of the men out on patrol. Atop the turret of an idle tank sat a smoking an officer slouched over his knees as he watched the factory new Tei Gui crawl passed him.

There was a shout and the rifleman stopped, Tsung pulled the break and came to an abrupt stop. The hull popped and banged as someone climbed aboard and atop the turret. With a loud whine the top hatch was thrown open.

“Comrade Wo.” Sun Song shouted into the cabin.

“Sun Song.” Wo acknowledged, “Can I get my crew back?”

“Only if I get mine.” Song replied. Leaning back in his seat Tsung watched as Wo pulled himself out of his commanding perch and Song threw himself back in.

“The chair's comfortable by the way.” said Wo.

“Looks new too, I can get used to it.” Song smiled as he looked over the interior of the hull.

The commanding officer's face was thick in dust and dirt. But through the mask his brown eyes glowed with glee as he re-assumed his real command in a new seat. “What's going on here?” Tsung heard Wo ask from outside.

“Horse shit, I'll tell you what.” Song scoffed, “Huang's under the impression that everything will be safe from Russian artillery at the bottom of this quarry. I'm just waiting on some saboteurs to lob a grenade into it. That'll do us in as much as someone getting in an accident!”

“I can tell rolling in.”

“Anyone can see it, I complained to him but he made his mind up. At least he put the camp at the top, but most of us will still have to run down into it if we're attacked. I don't like it.

“I'll give you a full briefing later.”

“Right you will.” Wo said, clapping his hands on the hatch. Tsung heard his foot falls against the hull as he disembarked.

“Welcome comrades to Shartash camp, eastern forward operating position.” Song shouted over the motor as he closed the hatch, sealing them in, “We have our own designated spot at the back, let's go.”

And with that, Tsung was back in the thick.

___________

“I wouldn't be taking too many showers, or well: don't expect to ever be clean.” Song explained as he lead his crew up the embankment of the pit. “If it doesn't rain then vehicle traffic in and out will kick up clouds of silt and dirt. It's not a desert wind, but even if you're not down there a good westerly breeze will blow it back to you. Getting dirty will be a major circumstance for all of us, and there's no point in trying to keep up on it, even if the option is open.”

“Song, what's the taste in the air though?” Tse Lin asked from far behind. She lapped her tongue against her lips, which were already turning a faded white.

Tsung could taste it too. A lingering salty taste that came and went, mixed with other fumes.

“Rock-salt.” Song grumbled, “Huang fucking ordered us to park in the middle of a salt-mine.” he spat in annoyance. “So keep your water canteens sealed when heading down into the pit, catch yourself in a cloud and you'll be drinking salt-water. And keep it brushed and rinsed off if you can so your skin doesn't dry.

“I know I said to not shower, but at least keep it rinsed off. Or your knuckles will be bleeding like the motor-pool crews.”

“Fascinating.” Hui answered sarcastically.

“Oh it is.” Song mumbled.

Breaching the top of the embankment Song pointed them around, “About two-kilometers to the west are enemy positions.” he said, throwing a hand out to the city. A dense wall of trees beyond the tents and barbed-wire fencing obscured from vision the shelled and chewed apart wasteland of bombings and combat. But as the trees moved the branches distant glimpses of mangled and bent water-towers and industrial super-structures shown through the cover. “For about the first week we shacked up in this position we bore the brunt of mortar shelling five times a day. It was then really just a trench-line the infantry cowered in and we held out in the woods behind us performing patrols or rushing in from the north and south to drive away assaults.

“Most of that has quieted down now, beyond there we got snipers as the problem. If we ever get asked to run a patrol there we will not be opening any hatch under any circumstance. Understood?”

The crew nodded tacitly and Song continued, “Main camp is on the west-side of the pit.” his voice was drool and depressed as he looked over the green tents flapping in the soft summer breeze, the dark colors faded by a fine dusting of ground dust. “Command is on the north-side, but we'll have here our showers, mess hall, cots, and radio mast broadcasting two stations: front-line music and vital communications.

“It's all laid out in squares, so it'll be easy to get around it all.” he finished dismissively.

“When do we go out?” Hui asked. It was the question Tsung was dreading to here, but expecting all the same.

“Tomorrow is what I hear.”




“I will not accept 3,000, I will only accept 7,000.” the old man argued as he sat on a stump in his front yard.

Far from the main city itself, Sen Zhao and her cohorts were starkly foreign for the outskirts of Addis Ababa. The roads here were no less paved as they were grated gravel and rock and where leafy foliage grew hugging the mud walls of the old man's hut. Like the bushes, and the long leaves and yellow fruits of a nearby apple tree, the sheet metal roof glimmered with a fresh downpour of rain. Not ten minutes before they arrived a fierce summer storm had washed over and drenched the landscape. And in following the simple lead of a “cheap truck for sale”, she and her men had driven through deep puddles of mud in the rust-colored roads.

Zhao was flustered, aghast with the stubbornness of the man she was bartering with. Up ahead dark clouds loomed closer, threatening to dump another torrential wash of rain. For Zhao, she planned to have had the deal sealed before the summer rains again washed the outer city roads out. Her accomplices looked just as impatient as her as they held their eyes up to the sky as they puffed gently on their bitter cigarettes.

To make matters worse, Zhao was not used to bartering, and had never bought a car before in her life. But she knew the thirty-year old jalopy the man had on sale could not be worth 7,000 birr.

“Clearly the tires are flat, and what you have on their now, the... the treads are wearing out!” she pleaded, trying desperately to lower the value of the truck, or prove it is over-priced. But she struggled to find any appropriate details. The Ethiopian had refused to let any of the soldiers she brought with her to look under the hood, or even get close. Sweat beaded on her brow in her desperation, but partly for the intense humidity that fell in the valley.

“And?” the old man asked. He was in no better condition than the truck for a human. His face was heavy in wrinkles and baked with a mummified stiffness that had muted his expression. He held his arms crossed over an old white robe, crossing his skeletal ankles as he sat hunched atop his old stool, looking up at Zhao with cold beady eyes. “You are the great Chinese military!” he exclaimed with unrestrained sarcasm, “So what the tires are bad. You make it back to where ever you came from and you'd put big... thick... Mine resistant tires on it! Sell it back to me and four times the cost!

“No, 3,000 is still too low!”

Zhao dabbed her brow with her wrist, curling her lips as she thought. “4,000.” she offered, defeated, “I'll- I'll see about us sending you the remaining 3,000 later.” she hoped the plea would work.

“The Chinese military is crediting me 3,000 Birr?” the old man laughed, “Next, you will not be able to find me as you leave the country with my truck!” he cackled, “This is theft!”

“We are very reliable.” Zhao insisted.

“As a mule!” spat the old man, “I know how these promises go and no: I want it all up front. Your people will be fleeing this country soon with all the cowards of this city! Your as yellow as your skin.”

Zhao's insides spun at the insult. She bit her cheek and held her tongue, holding back against the man. She could hear the echoes of that priest she had abandoned off the coast of Socotra after he had insulted her. There was a temptation to smack him across the head for belittling her. She'd been to and done things he probably wouldn't understand or believe in the end. But even for all the anger she knew that'd kill the deal then and there.

Frustrated she turned to the men standing guard around their own army truck. “Yu, Jong, you have anything on you?” she asked in Mandarin.

Wen Yu, and Yuan Jong stood off to the side, arms resting on their rifles as the looked about transfixed in their boredom. Yu with his long face resembled a man who'd been starved, even at the young age of twenty was sporting a prominent receding hairline when he went out without his helmet. Jong on the other head was a short fluffy sort of man, the kind of person who hadn't quiet shed their baby fat.

The two shook their heads. “I only have twenty-five ren, comrade.” Jong answered.

“Alright...” Zhao admitted defeated, she turned bruised to their own truck. Her boots splashed across the shallow puddles as she headed to the door.

“5,000, my only offer.” the old man called out behind her. She stopped with her hand hovering over the cabin's door handle, the others were slowly taking up their own seats.

“I only have 4,000 and...” she began, paused and looked at Yu, who she realized hadn't told her how much he had. He caught her look and knew. “Thirty.” he mouthed.

“Fifty-five ren.” she added. She felt her skin run cold and the old man nodded.

“Throw in one of your rifles then.” he demanded, “I'm sure you can get another. And some magazines, I want to fight those Spanish bastards when they come for my house.”

“You can't be serious?” she asked.

“I might be, but you want my car?” the old man asked.

Jumping from the step she grumbled to herself. “Fine, alright.” she answered him, fishing into her pockets for the allotment that Cao had given to her for this mission. Pulling out a wad of Birr she motioned for her two cronies, “Give me your money.” she demanded in Chinese.

“Comrade, really?” answered Jong, clearly taken back and perhaps a bit offended.

“I am, you too Yu. And give me your gun and magazines. You won't need them, you're driving.”

“Wait, what?” Yu stammered from the driver's wheel, “Zhao, are you really sure.”

“Shut up, it's an order. Both of you: now.” she sneered.

Grumbling in protest, the two fronted their part of the deal and the exchange with the elderly Ethiopian was made. With a wide smile he rose from his seat. “Pleasure doing business.” he said, picking up his stool, “Let me get the keys.” he mumbled as he hobbled to his shanty.

“Zhao...” Jong started.

“I don't want to hear it.” Zhao cut him off.

“How am I going to get a new gun? Fuck, you know how much paper I'm going to get slapped with when this is through!?” Yu protested. “Both of us, fuck. That was our allowances!”

“Military business. Had to be forfeit. For the gun: you lost it. I'll talk to the quartermaster.”

“Damn right you will.” protested Yu. His shallow high cheeks burned with a furious red as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, “At least you didn't confiscate my cigarettes.” he grumbled as he fished out his lighter.

“Alright, Mrs. Comrade...” the Ethiopian man said as he came back out, holding a single pair of battered, tarnished keys on a wire-thin ring, “Here is your end of the bargain.” he offered, handing them over.

“Thank you.” Zhao bowed, taking them. But not without bitterness, “You have a good day, and stay safe.”

“That I shall.” the man smiled. With a nod he stepped aside as Zhao pulled the doors opened. They groaned on their hinges and the entire cabin sagged and bobbed uncomfortably as she hoisted herself up.

“You two lead the way in,” she shouted to her two soldiers. She felt confident until she looked over the mess of a cabin, noticing the lack of a steering wheel, it having been replaced completely by a wrench tapped to the column, and the shift lever a knob-less spear that jutted out from the floor. “... I'll try to follow.” she groaned.

________________

The clouds opened up again not a minute before they had arrived to the airport. As the first drops landed against the windshield Zhao discovered in horror that the windshield whippers did not work. As the raindrops turned from pins to melons she found herself leaning as far forward as possible, paying as close attention to the tail-lights of the truck ahead of her as the world rippled in distorting waves through a waterlogged windshield.

The vehicle itself ran with more clatter and bang than a low steady rumble that she had gotten used to. The motion and wobble of the cabin threw the long shifter in uncoordinated arcs that slashed the air like a sword. At each arc the engine coughed and heaved unhealthily until Zhao had tried to hold it steady as it popped and reared into the airport. Pulling up into a dry hanger, the truck finally gave away and fell silent, stalling then and there.

Frustrated in her clear defeat Zhao turned the keys and tossed them into the far window with a agonizing scream. If this thing couldn't be made any less worse, then the mission north would be impossible by far.

Outside the attachment of mechanics that had come with Cao looked across the empty hanger towards the mangled zombie that Zhao had brought to them, exchanging curious and horrified glances at each other other their lunch table. Throwing open the door Zhao stepped out as the senior mechanic sat up and walked to her.

“Good afternoon, comrade.” he saluted. He smiled as his eyes glowed behind a pair of large classes, he ate up the rolling joke of a vehicle behind Zhao taking it all in.

“Whatever.” Zhao grumbled, stuffing her hands deep into her pockets. One would hope with the hanger doors open and the rain coming down the humidity would have settled, but it still hung as heavy as earlier. “I need you to look over this... whatever it is.” she said, waving at the truck, “I'll need it ready to go north.”

“Why can't you take one of our trucks again?” the mechanic asked as he walked to the jalopy.

“Cao wants it for when we have to work on evacuating Addis.” Zhao explained once again, “He's not giving me a lot of shit to work with. Just a couple jokers.” she said, looking to a far corner where Yu and Jong stood whispering to each other.

“Well, whatever Cao says.” said the mechanic as he opened the hood of the truck. The hinges groaned as it was hoisted up with the soldier's brow, “Shit, where the fuck did you get this?” he exclaimed.

“Why? What's wrong?” Zhao asked, rushing over.

“Looks like you got a colony of rats who made a home in here.” he laughed, nodding to the twisted piles of grass and sticks that clogged every open space in the engine, “I'd hate to see what's going on inside.”

“You can fix it though, right?” she asked.

“I might not have the parts,” he laughed, “But I sure as hell can clean it. I'll do what I can and make it road worthy.

“Or at least by half standards. I don't know what you're driving into.”

“Mountains, I think.”

The mechanic nodded and tapped his fingers across the metal. “Of course.” he mumbled, “I'll see what kind of hack-job I can do over the rest of the day.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” the mechanic said. He rose a hand and called his men up from lunch, “I'll start now.”

“That'll be great to know.”

“There's on thing I should tell you to,” the mechanic added before Zhao could turn away and head into the rain, “Cao sent a man down here. I guess he was anticipating you'd be here. But he was sending a message some kid from the college was down asking for updates. I assume he's the reason you're going north?”

“It is, he wants to fetch his family and needs help.”

“A noble cause, but I told him to come around tomorrow. Maybe you can take him. As a guide.”

Zhao nodded. “A guide, right.” she wasn't entirely happy with the idea.

The White House
Washington D.C.

"Mr. Brewer, something's going on in the Oval Office."

Jeff Brewer, White House Chief of Staff, came out of his office and hurried down the corridor to the Oval Office, past the secretary who gave him the warning, when he heard shouts from inside the office. Brewer came in and saw President Norman and Vice President Reed in each other's faces, shouting and yelling as a pair of secret service agent tried to get between them. Even though Norman was at least four inches taller than Reed, the smaller man had both hands firmly on the president's lapel and pushing him downward until they were both face to face.

"He cut your balls off," Reed shouted over the din. "You made a deal with the goddamn devil, Norman! Do you know what you've done!"

Brewer put himself into the middle and, with the help of the two secret service agents, got the two men apart.

"The fuck is going on?" He finally asked.

"You two sandbagging sons of bitches are the problem," Reed shouted at Norman and Jeff. "You cut a deal with Wilbur Helms on Civil Rights and now everyone on Capitol Hill is laughing at the White House for giving in. That old fucker came into this office and clipped your balls!"

"I made a compromise," Norman said from behind the Resolute desk. "I have other legislation I want to see passed, Mr. Vice President, and I can't do that when the Senate is filibustering every bill that goes through Congress." Norman pointed a finger at Reed. "And you will address me by my title, especially in this office."

"Negroes are getting beaten and killed. A family died two weeks ago, little children were burned alive! And you have the gall to talk to me about being pragmatic. You are a sandbagging son of a bitch, Mr. President."

"Do you want to know the deal I cut?" Norman asked, ignoring Reed's insult. Jeff knew the president was the better man and he would let it go, to a point.

"You'll be hands off on any civil rights bills," said Reed. "Right?"

"I will be hands off," Norman said with a twinkle in his eyes. "I will not interfere or be vocal about any civil rights legislation. My exact wording to Helms. I never said anything about you."

Jeff saw a change come over Reed. He straightened up from his hunched shoulders, his snarl seemed to disappear. And the anger melted away. Jeff could see that his mind was turning over the possibilities. Jeff could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

"You want to be a big part of his administration, Rusell?" the president asked with a raised eyebrow. "This is your chance. You were an excellent vote counter and whipper. The Black Caucus are supposed to be working on a civil rights bill. Help them get it through the House, and especially the Senate, and you will get all the credit for it. I promise."

"Mr. President..." It was an odd thing for Jeff to hear the tone Reed now took. It was soft and reverent, so unlike the loud and demanding man Jeff knew the vice president to be. "I will do everything in my power to see it accomplished."

"Mr. President," the speaker on his desk buzzed. "CIA is on the line. It's urgent."

"I'll let you get to it," Reed said with a smile. He shook hands with the president. "Thank you, sir."

"Get to work," Norman said with a nod and a smile.

Just like that, Reed was gone from the Oval Office.

"There," Norman said to Jeff. "That should keep him out or hair."

"What if he gets it to pass?"

"He won't," Norman said as he sat down at the desk and started for the phone. "I'll make sure of it if I need to. If anyone is going to see that congress passes civil rights legislation, it's going to be me or no one at all."

Norman picked up the red phone and listened for a moment.

"What? When?"

----

Galveston, Texas

The dance floor of the nightclub moved and shook, filled to capacity with young, black men and women dancing to the band onstage. Front and center was a young black man with an electric guitar, dancing as he played a loud and fast-paced riff. Behind him, a drummer, bass player, and two horn players tried to keep up. The words 'T-Bone & The Bone Patrol' were stenciled on the drumkit. T-Bone slung his guitar behind his back and grabbed the microphone in front of him. The crowd cheered and the band went into a holding pattern as he half-sung and spoke the verse.

"Man, I came home the other night and all my shit was out in the front yard. I said there couldn't be one thing going wrong, that crazy ass girl of mine. Let me go over here and see what's wrong with her this time."

From the back of the club, Sam Telford chuckled and blew cigarette smoke out his mouth.

"Went up in the house and she's sitting looking all crazy I said 'What's wrong baby?' She said 'You don't love me.' I said 'You know I love you.' She said 'No you don't. You stay out all night with yo friends, drinking and carrying on and you don't even think to call and let me know where you at' I said,'Well hold on a minute baby. Let me tell you one more time and maybe you'll believe me', so I told her something like this:"

T-Bone whipped the guitar back around and started playing a furious riff that sounded to Sam like a mix of the old blues standards and what they called rock and roll, but the rock and roll he had heard wasn't this fast or this aggressive. He kept his face close to the mic as he howled the chorus.

"I said I love you baby until the day that I die! I Spell it L-O-V-E. C'mon girl why you do this? You know I love, I love you, I love you! You know I tell you!"

In a flash, the guitar was back around T-Bone's back and he was clinging to the mic as he spoke again. Sweat was pouring off his face as he spoke again.

"I said c'mon baby let me back in the house. You know I love you. She said 'You don't even buy me presents'
'Yeah, I did. I bought you a box of chicken but I ate it on the way home.' She said, 'You don't even know my name!' 'Yeah it's Melissa.' She said 'No dumbass, it's Roxanne. Spell it out for me' Damn, man. Hold on. So I had to tell her something like this:"

This time, T-Bone danced to the beat in a strange duck-hop as he went into a guitar solo. He ran from one side of the stage to the other as the crowd went wild. He returned back to the mic, throwing his head back and slinging sweat across the stage, to belt out the chorus.

"I spell it R-O-X-A-N-N baby! Her name is Roxanne and she's rocking my world. You know I love her, I love her, I love her, I love her, and so I tell her!"

From the back of the club, Sam got the attention of the bartender and passed him a note and his business card. T-Bone Harris was a name he had heard for years now, but he'd never had the pleasure to see him in person. Now that he had, Sam knew what all the fuss was about. The Bone Patrol was average at best, but T-Bone was the real star. He was raw and gritty, but the sound he had was something Sam had never heard before. He knew that with T-Bone, he could make something the world had never heard before.

"I thought we was going to make some love but I heard a knock at the door... I was like, 'G-God damn. Who is it man?" White man said, 'I apologize for knocking so hard. This is Dallas PD, we're looking for T-Bone Harris.' I said 'Hold on. He's in the back. Let me go get him for you.' So I went to the back of the house, man my woman's sitting there and says 'Where you going?' I said 'I gots to go!'"

A large smile broke out on Sam's face as the band went into the home stretch of the song. Sam was almost a hundred percent certain he'd found another star for the Champion Records Pantheon.

"I started running! I started running from that white man. He gonna take me away for the whole century!"

-----

Brooklyn

Anthony Fortunato didn't make eye contact with Johnny Legarrio for a solid five minutes. The old man ate his cannolis in silence while Johnny looked on with a growing sense of unease. Armed men flanked both sides of Johnny and Fortunato. Johnny was not here under his own free will. Fortunato had ordered the meeting with Johnny after news of the fiasco in Chicago started to flow through the underworld. That heist gone wrong ended in three deaths, one of them a CPD lieutenant killed by Johnny's own hands.

Fortunato ate his dessert in silence while Johnny looked on. They sat at a table on the back patio of Fortunato's impressive mansion home. The two bodyguards watched the scene impassively, their guns never far away. Johnny wanted to say something, but he knew better. The diminutive little man with the big glasses was not someone you interrupted. The organization Johnny worked for -- some called it the Mob, the Mafia, La Cosa Nostra, even The Outfit -- was a Byzantine tangle of alliances, families, and rivalries. But one man always stood above it all as the clear leader of the syndicate. This man,capo di tutt'i capi or boss of bosses, was calmly finishing his cannoli and kept Johnny waiting.

When it came to power, Anthony Fortunato was quite unlike anyone Johnny had ever met from the Life. Most guys, from mid-level mobsters all the way up to guys like Bobby C., always wore their power on their sleeve like a badge of honor. They had to remind you how rich they were or how influential they were. Fortunato had none of that. The man radiated power, it enveloped him like a sheet. He controlled a shadow economy with a GDP the size moderately sized European country. At his command was an army of wiseguys and button men who could take care of any problem or person within reason. People thought President Norman had power? This man, this short and skinny old man with big glasses, had real power.

"Have you ever been to New York, John?"

Johnny almost jumped when Fortunato finally spoke. His voice was soft but thick and deep. He adjusted his glasses and looked at Johnny with his eyelids half closed.

"I lived here briefly," Johnny replied. "Couple of years after my father died I moved here."

Fortunato lit up some foul smelling Turkish cigarette. Johnny figured that was the cause of the man's smoky voice. The old man turned his gaze towards the view on the back patio. They had a perfect view of Manhattan from across the river.

"I came here as a baby in 1902." He pointed a wrinkled finger to some spot Johnny couldn't make out. "There. I grew up there, Little Italy they called it. It was a sovereign country on American soil, a neighborhood that was home. I didn't leave Little Italy until I was sixteen and I barely knew how to speak English. It was a place where people took care of each other. But then, the Italians moved out and the Chinks moved in and it went to shit."

"Way of the world," Johnny said with a shrug. "Dagos get good jobs and flee to Brooklyn so Chinese move in. They'll get good jobs and go somewhere else and some other group of people move in. Before it was the Italians it was the Irish. It goes around and around and around."

Fortunato chuckled. "How old are you, Johnny?"

"Thirty-one."

"Fight in the war?" Fortunato asked with raised eyebrows.

"I wouldn't call what I did fighting," he said with a tight jaw. "It was something worse."

"War...," the little boss said before nodding. "War has put our rackets in an awkward position, Johnny. Before, we had connections in Europe that would smuggle across the ocean things that we needed, products and services. In return we would send them money an other various items. But our pipeline across the Atlantic has become perilous do to the war in Africa. So we have adapted. Now our friends in Europe have become our friends in Russia and now we use the Pacific. The only problem with that is that we have no adequate distribution in the West, but we are working on it."

Fortunato beckoned one of the men over and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and darted inside the house. Johnny watched him leave before turning back to Fortunato.

"You know Frenchie Gallo, my guy out in Arizona?"

Johnny shrugged. "I know of him, but I don't know him personally."

"Frenchie is setting up new territory in the Southwest. Sun City will serve as the base for that territory, but he has pressing responsibilities. Things that he can't take up himself since he needs to stay legitimate for gaming and liquor licenses. I want you to go out there and establish and strengthen our criminal rackets through the South and Midwest."

Johnny shifted in his chair. He was expecting many things when he'd been summoned to New York for this meeting. But this? This wasn't one of them. Up until the summons, he wasn't aware Don Fortunato even knew he existed.

"Why me? You got hundreds of made guys here in New York you know better and probably trust more."

"Let me answer your question with a question. The unfortunate mess you encountered after that bank robbery. Do you think this police lieutenant you killed was acting alone? Or did he have an accomplice?"

The old man's eyes didn't move an inch as he looked at Johnny. He could see through the younger man as if he were made of glass. Of course Johnny had harbored those suspicions since Bukowski had joined the crew. No, joined wasn't the right word. Jammed into the crew on Bobby C's insistence. And the one guy Bobby had demanded be on the job was the one who betrayed them? The one who tried to kill Johnny and take the money?

"What do you think?" Johnny finally answered.

Fortunato's face broke out into a soft smile.

"I hate Bobby as much as you do, Johnny. He is a pig who has no sense of restraint or mercy. He is not a gentleman, but an animal. But as of right now he is untouchable, even for a man like me. He has powerful friends and allies in the Syndicate and the political reality of the situation is a tricky one. One day, it will not be so tricky and there will be a simple solution to our problem. Chicago is not safe for you, even if Bobby C. were not your enemy. You still killed a police officer. I am told you are a smart man and a good earner. You are a good ally for me to have. I do not want to lose you, and if you do a good job in Sun City you may get the chance to return home and take care of our mutual enemy. Anybody in our organization can be clipped for the right amount of money."

Johnny reached out and took the Don's right hand into both of his.

"Thank you."

"If you want to thank me," he said softly. "Make me lots of money. And get some sun while you're in Arizona, you're too pale!"

Volgograd

The oars knocked against the side of the boat, and the Volga thrust thirstily at the gunwale. They crossed the river on a seasoned old row-boat. Uliana, still dressed in fatigues and a military jacket, packed the bottom of the boat with bags of what Sahle figured were guns and equipment for gun care - things he knew next to nothing about. At first, both of them rowed, but when it became clear to them that Sahle's rowing was counterproductive, Uliana threatened him with a shave if he didn't stop and leave it to her. Watching her work and with nothing to do himself, Sahle felt fidgety. He looked this way and that, trying to keep himself momentarily entertained. The water was calm. Sahle stared across it, at the scrappy city behind them, and the long wooded island they were rowing toward.

The entry of Sorokin's party into Volgograd hadn't been a royal procession. Sahle thought theirs would be the only armed convoy, but he found the city filled with mercenaries and soldiers. It was an unremarkable town, and from the river it appeared to be stretched out thin on the east bank of the Volga like a dusting of flour clinging to the edge of a board. Pitifully aged buildings lined the decayed streets, and some structures wore the signs of battle. There were walls riddled with bullet wounds, and places where the corners of buildings had been blasted to look like blocks of swiss cheese. Uliana had found him waiting at his room, staring out at the soldiers and cossacks loitering in the square, when she invited him across the river to practice his shooting. Now they bobbed in the middle of the great river, so wide it was like a lake, and Sahle tried to think of something to say to the intimidating woman.

"Colonel Sorokin told me the secret." he broke the silence.

She raised an eyebrow. "He told me you know. But don't go telling everybody you meet."

"Of course not. But he said her majesty's personal guard were aware."

"Her majesty even?" she said in a teasing draw, "You are an Emperor too, are you not?"

"Used to be." he noticed how the process of rowing a boat had made her thick shoulders seem manly and unappealing. He liked her, but what for? In the past, attraction had always been a physical thing - see a beautiful body and imagine the things you could do with it. But this was different.

"Shouldn't two monarchs be on a first name basis, since you are both equals? And Regina has become comfortable with people calling her by her first name. It would be strange if everyone called Sorokin's daughter your majesty."

"I'll call her Regi then. Would that be casual enough?"

She chuckled. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. She wouldn't mind, but if the Colonel heard, he might think twice about his monarch collection."

"You sound so disinterested." Sahle smirked. "I would have thought serving a savior Queen would inspire a warrior woman like yourself. Seems like something from a fairy tale."

"I've never seen a fairy tale come true." she retorted.

He leaned forward. The plank that served as his seat moaned as he moved. "There is no romance in this at all for you? I've only been here a few days, and I already see the romance in this country."

"Are you flirting with me?" she gave him an incredulous smile. It was a common look for women. She was trying to look surprised, and only mildly amused, but in the liveliness of the expression he could see that she was enjoying his company.

"What? I'm just talking about romance." he said.

She eyed him for a moment with a smiling suspicion. "Okay." she said. "I remain uncertain about what Sorokin is doing, but that is my own business. I'm here because it's the best job I've found in my line of work; that's why I follow Regina. But do I believe in happy endings and the goodness of the righteous cause? Well... my grandmother told be a story about romance that maybe you should hear."

Uliana cleared her throat and started her tale. It was a big river, and Sahle was glad she found a way to fill the time, so he did not interrupt. "My grandmother said there was once an important elder in her village that had two daughters. They were both at the age when marriage becomes important to a girl. Their father had been a busy man when they were growing up, so they spent their childhoods competing for his attention. After their brother made himself a drunken disgrace to the family name, a gallant war hero from another family began to earn the respect of the village. He lamented to the priests the loss of virtue in the country, and confided with old men how he wanted to see honor restored to their people. He was not only gallant, but he was a handsome man. The girls, both unwed, competed with each other for his glances. After some time he started to reciprocate their interest. He would send separate letters to each of them, filled with all the romances of a clever suitor, and more so because the man was naturally charming. The letters would be scented with flowers, and they would ask the girls to complete tasks to prove their love. A letter would ask one girl to wear a certain dress at church on Sunday, or to carve hearts into one of the big trees outside the village. And each letter would be filled with beautiful love poetry, with a request to memorize the letter and burn it so the words would remain between them. The girls did as the letters asked, swallowed up by the romance of the thing. Both girls knew it was a competition, and they would try to outdo each other in the perfection of their tasks, because each one secretly knew that they were the one girl this gallant man truly loved. They would wear increasingly expensive and beautiful dresses on Sunday, or carve increasingly elegant and artful images into the trees. As the months went by, he would task them with more. He would ask them to shape their hair into complicated braids in styles unusual to Russia, or for one girl to dance alone in the town square at midnight. And the girls kept at it, each one knowing that they would defeat the other and win the love of the gallant man."

Her story paused a moment when they reached the island. Wet sand slid beneath their feet as they pushed the boat up onto the shore and into the bushes and tall grass. They walked into the forest and Uliana continued.

"So the girls, after doing all of that, got their final letters. Each girl was certain they were the lone recipient because this was their last task; to them, it seemed like he had already chosen. They were to collect flowers at dusk until they had a big bouquet. Then, when the sun began to set, they would meet their gallant suitor in a secret grove. But before they met him, he requested they disrobe so that he could see them like Adam first saw Eve. Now, both girls thought themselves the only one to have received the letter. They went to different meadows, and picked their flowers. And at sunset, when nobody could see them from the river, they took off their dresses and undergarments and went to meet the man of their dreams. At some point along the way, the girls crossed paths. That should have been the end of it. But the competition had peaked, and neither were willing to give up. They reasoned it a sort of Judgement of Paris, and each one held themselves as the natural choice. They imagined the excellent suffering of their sister, naked in some forest, cold, rejected and humiliated, and the spirit of the competition drove them to this end. So the sisters bickered as they walked, and stole flowers from each other. They kicked off their shoes and tossed off their jewelry and let down their hair in an effort to more correctly look the part. This had been going on for months, and now was time for the reward. One of them would be swept off their feet."

There was a silence. She looked knowingly at Sahle. "Well." she said. "This is the part where you ask me what happened to the sisters."

"What happened to the sisters?" he asked blankly.

"Well, the young man met them in the woods, and he clapped them in handcuffs. He dragged them naked to the magistrate and had them booked for prostitution. When they were questioned, they told a silly story about true love and letters they could not produce because they had been burned. The people had watched the sisters dressing and acting immodestly for months now, so the girls and their family had no recourse. Their father was shamed, and the gallant man was welcomed as a village elder in his place."

Sahle frowned. "What a horrible story." he said. What did this mean? He had been trying to flirt with her, and she replied with this?

"Yes. But it is a real story, and those are more important than the romances."

"Well, I'm depressed now." Sahle pretended to pout.

"Then it will be fair when we start shooting, because I have a feeling your shooting skills will make me depressed too." she smirked. "We'll go to the center of the island to practice."

The island was low and damp. Most parts rose high enough for the ground to be dry, but there were in some places swampy forests pocketed with stagnant ponds. They went into one of those forests until they were deep enough that trees surrounded them thick on either side. It was a calm place. Birds tittered in the trees, and the rays of the setting sun blushed behind the leaves. In the shade, the damp air felt chilly on his skin. The scent of soaked plant-life was strong. It seemed late to practice at firearms, but he was no expert. He watched, uncertain if he should be doing something, as she pulled two pistols from a case. She grabbed one, slammed a magazine into it, and held it up to him.

"You know how this works?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Good." she handed it to him and pointed to a nearby tree. "Hit that loose branch, over there. Take your time, you don't need to impress me."

He straightened his arms like Vasily had showed him. His arms shook anyway. He was self-conscious of everything going on beyond his shoulders - the stiffness in his muscles, the uncomfortable weight of the gun. He tried his best to aim. Inhale deep. His sweat made the trigger slick. He squeezed, and the weapon fired. The woods echoed with the sound. It is always easy to forget how painfully loud a gun is if you haven't pulled the trigger for a long time. He looked, but couldn't tell if he had hit the target.

"You missed." Uliana said.

"How do you know?"

"That little branch? You aren't tossing pebbles, my lord. If you had hit it, it wouldn't still be dangling from the tree. Here, watch this."

She pulled up a second pistol and aimed quickly. He watched the branch. Her first shot caused it to fall from the tree. Once it hit the ground, she shot it again and it popped into two pieces.

"Why did you shoot it on the ground?" he asked.

"It was the only target I could think of." she said.

They continued, though it never much of a contest. When they ran out of naturally occurring targets, she carved a bulls-eye into the tree and they used that. It was splintered by the time it was too dark to see. After dark, Sahle assumed they would boat back across the Volga, but she surprised him when she pulled a massive wad of canvas from her bag and pitched a tent.

"Are we camping?" he looked at it. He had lived like this off and on between Cairo and Sevan, and it had left him with a strange opinion of camping. A mix of uncomfortable and happy memories made up his idea of the thing.

"You need to learn this life in its entirety. There will not be many hotels in your immediate future."

"So we're going to sleep together then?" he grinned back.

She chuckled. "You try so much. No, not tonight. You are in training."

They did exactly what she said - nothing. He was following her vibe, which said there would be no sex tonight. She slept in her fatigues, and went to sleep quickly, leaving Sahle to himself and feeling alone. He listened to the birds, and the wind in the trees. When he was younger, nature had only depressed him. Everything outside of civilization seemed inconvenient. It was something about the dirt, and how the climate was never quite comfortable, or how annoying it was to walk on uneven terrain. But he couldn't help but notice a subtle appreciation for it burgeoning in his mind. It made him feel soft, like floating on the surface of a cold pool. His nerves were releasing their burdens, one by one. He kept his eyes open and watched the branches of trees play their shadows in a cloud-filtered moonlight. When he felt ready to sleep, he closed the flap of the tent.

He was awoken at sunrise by the discharge of gunfire. The tent-flap was open, letting in the salmon light of dawn. In the confusion that followed such a sudden awakening, the gunshots terrified him, but when he remembered where he was, he calmed down. He cleaned the sleep out of his eyes and crawled out into the morning.

The air was cold with river-mist. Uliana had managed to procure green paint from somewhere, and she made a much better target. The smell of meat frying in its own juice dominated their little patch of the woods, and mixed deliciously with the vague earthy scents of the forest.

"Eat." Uliana said simply. She had taken her pistol apart in the short time it took him to crawl out of the tent. He supposed she might be cleaning it, but the inner workings of the firearm were beyond Sahle's understanding.

"What did you cook?" he asked.

"Kolbasa." She said. Her hands moved quickly as she put the weapon back together. He took her up on the offer and ate a sausage straight from the pan. His hands covered in grease quicker than he expected, and he wiped his hands against his pants.

"Why the target?" he spit the words through his food.

"We should get some shooting done." she said dispassionately.

"Now? What time is it?"

"You'll get to your meeting. Finish eating."

"I think." he started to say, pausing to finish his food. "I can think of a few other things we could do with that time."

She chuckled. "You try."

"Somebody once told me that Russian women aren't scared of a little fun." he was in his element now.

She looked up and smiled at him. "That might be true, but you're no ordinary person. The way I see it, if I wait long enough, I might be a Queen."

"You'd look good in a tiara."

"I'll take that as a promise." she teased.

He stood up and walked to where she was. "Ready?" she asked. He nodded, took the gun, and weighed it in her hand.

"I think I might be getting used to this thing." he said.

"We should make this a game then." she looked him with an ornery smirk. "If you are so interested in what is beneath my clothes, I'll give you a chance to find out. You shoot, I shoot, and when someone misses the target, they strip an article of clothing."

"What? That's not fair." Sahle complained.

"It's incentive." she replied. "But, if it makes you feel better, I'll take first shot." she took the gun back from him, aimed it, and fired. The target splintered in the center. He grabbed the gun and took a shot. He missed.

"Take off your shoes." she teased. He complied.

Perhaps it was nerves, or performance anxiety, but he completely failed all of his shots. It took no time before he found himself sitting in some cold swamp naked, with all of his clothes in a pile behind the meaty Amazon who had bested him. It wasn't until the last few shots that she pitied him and failed a few times on purpose, making herself barefoot. He felt like an idiot.

"The Emperor has no clothes." she joked.

"Can I have them back?" he had underestimated how cool and damp the air was, and how damp everything was, until he lost his clothes. Everywhere his naked skin touched the ground felt slimy and rotten. His scrotum retreated so quick his testicles seemed to be sharing real estate with his intestines.

She looked him over very quick, but it didn't take her too long to seemingly loose interest. "In a moment. I have another thing to teach you." she dug into her bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars. "Here" she said, handing them to him. He had to resist the urge to look at himself with them, since all of himself was on display now. Next she pulled out a long-barreled rifle with some kind of scope on top. When he pressed the binoculars against his face and looked at some anonymous trees, he caught her taking another peak at his nudity through the corner of his eyes. He pretended not to notice.

"More shooting? I don't have anything else to lose."

"You are a bad shot." she replied. "But I want to teach you spotting."

"What does that mean?"

"Adjust the binoculars to that tree over there." she commanded.

Sahle was surprised when he saw the one she was talking about. It was twice the distance as the target they had been shooting at up to this point. But she had a scope, he supposed. And she was skilled with guns, as his balls soaking in the mud attested to. He focused on the tree and she prepared her gun.

The shot made him jump. It wasn't the sound of it, but how the bullet carved a massive hole into the tree. Splinters flew.

"Did you see that?" she asked.

"You killed that tree."

"Not that. What you are looking for is the trail the bullet leaves behind. It will look like the bullet has stirred the air behind it. Think of the haze you see on the road during a hot day. It will be like that, but real quick and in a line. I'll do it again. Watch."

She shot. "I think I saw it that time." Sahle said.

"Watch again." she said. They kept this up for a while. He became confident in seeing the trails. But this was a more boring practice, and the seeping ground beneath his bare ass was making him feel cold and slimy.

"I think we're done." he said. "I need to get ready for that meeting."

"I suppose you should." she said. She shoved his clothes into his lap and, after wriggling her feet in the mud for a moment, went to put her shoes on and pack up. He got dressed quickly, taking care to avoid getting his clothing dirty. The day just started to get warm when they left.

--

Sahle was not late for his meeting. He was made to wait in front of Volgograd's Duma building. It was like so many of the world's capitol buildings - a wide, multi-storied structure with roman columns and a stately appearance. Like the rest of the city, the Duma building was scarred by the warfare that had came here after the collapse of Russia. The flag of the old Russian Empire flew from a pole on the roof - a black eagle, crowned, with wings spread across a golden background. The entrance to the building was guarded by the weathered statues of two lions. The lion on the right had lost its head, leaving remnants of its mane hanging slightly over the cracked stone. In the broken space of its neck somebody had carved a crude smiling face. Behind the lions, soldiers stood guard with rifles in hand.

Sahle was leaning against the lion when a tired Sorokin came out of the door of the Duma. "Samel." he said. "The General has approved your audience."

"Good." Sahle replied. "I thought you were just asking to let me into the waiting room." He walked through the door, and followed Sorokin into the building.

The Duma building was decorated sparsely. There were few paintings, and no rugs or plants. In an empty corner some distance from the door, a shredded Ottoman flag hung in a glass case, beneath which were framed photographs of soldiers posing among smoking rubble.

"I told Rykov who you are." Sorokin explained. "Don't be surprised in how he greets you."

They passed by an office before Sahle could answer. He knew not to speak of himself in front of strangers and give himself away. Instead, he watched them from the corner of his eye. They were all uniformed soldiers - sitting around typewriters and filing cabinets, and doing not much of anything. He passed out of their sight, but the oddness of the thing stuck with him.

"How many monarchs has Rykov met now? Three?"

"More than that." Sorokin replied.

"Nice." Sahle said, impressed. "I don't think I've met that many."

They went up a flight of stairs, and then through several halls. The offices they passed were all staffed with men, and each man was in the uniform of a ground soldier. Some were armed. The number of door and hall guards increased as they went. One at this hallway, and then the next door. When they finally reached the doorway into Rykov's office, they found it guarded by four men. At the sight of Sorokin they were let in.

General Rykov was sitting at a plain desk, carefully studying several maps draped over the surface. He was much older than Sahle had anticipated. His hair was ivory white, and a pair of bifocles rested on his nose. His face was that of an old soldier. His jaw was wide, and his cheeks sharp, but his skin hung like a deflated balloon from those strong bones.

"Your Imperial Majesty." he looked up at Sahle and rose smoothly from his chair. His voice was calm and mild, but his eyes were different. They were the lone powerful thing about the man. Pale blue eyes, scrutinizing him as if he could see Sahle's entire life written on his shirt.

"General Rykov, I presume?" Sahle said as casually as he could.

"What of me that is still on this earth." The General said, imparting a polite bow. "I want to start by extending you a kindness. Have you been told what is happening in your country?"

"Do you know?" he said. His heart skipped a beat. News. No matter where he was, his old world trickled back to him in the form of horrible news.

Rykov softly chuckled. "You might be surprised to find that Russia still has newspapers and radio. There are a few things you might want to know, and I would be remiss to not tell you."

Sahle nodded assent and swallowed his nerves.

"The Spanish are assaulting a city called Dire Dawa."

"Dire Dawa. Yes." Sahle repeated dry-mouthed. It wasn't a town he liked - a dusty railroad depot full of manufacturies and merchants, but there was little else to do there. Still, he knew how close it was to Addis Ababa and his home.

"I believe there have been skirmishes, but that is all I know regarding the war. There is another thing."

"Say it." Sahle asked.

The old man eyed him for a moment. His face was calm and somber, but his eyes were telling. "It's your sister. I could not pretend to pronounce her name..."

"Taytu." he said.

"She is being held by the government of Tanganyika. I don't quite understand the circumstances. They are claiming that agents of your country tried to slay their Prime Minister during talks?"

"What?" Sahle was baffled. He didn't really know what Yaqob had done as Emperor, but the scenario he was being told made no sense to him.

"It's an odd claim I know. There is certainly more under the surface, I can tell. But I thought you should know where things stand at the moment."

Sahle felt something, but he did not show it. He did not want to seem weak among these men. What he felt wasn't fear, but rather guilt. He couldn't help but feel guilty. Had he really wasted his shot at the throne, just to flee and party in Sevan while his homeland and family suffered?

"Colonel Sorokin." Rykov motioned. "I want a word alone with the Emperor. Do you mind?" Sahle did not see the Colonel leave, but he heard the door shut. It was only him and the General now.

"Sit, if you wish." Rykov offered. He walked over to a window behind his desk and looked outside. Sahle found a seat in a polished wood swivel chair in the corner of the office.

"I can't help but say, your majesty, that your presence here feels something like an omen." Rykov said.

"Of what?" Sahle asked.

"I think that the world has been on the precipice of war for some time. A true war mind you, one that will touch everyone on this earth. My country has been at war for a long time now, and your country has become the stage for this international drama between China and the west to play out. And now you are here of all places."

Sahle cleared his throat. "Don't blame me."

"Oh don't worry about that." Rykov said in a kind voice. "My country and your country are too busy for you to complicate our... eh, lack of a relationship. The only people in this land who would want you are the Chinese, and I am not interested in doing them any favors."

"I appreciate that." Sahle replied.

"I suppose I'm rattling now." Rykov smiled. "Do you have any concerns?"

"One I suppose." Sahle said. "Regina. How do you know she is who Sorokin says?"

"Well, think of it this way; has Sorokin done anything that suggests he is ambitious?" Rykov asked.

"He comes off as nervous." Sahle replied. "I guess not. But he does claim his daughter is the Queen of Russia."

"Him and his colleague explained that to me six years ago, and he has done nothing to further her claim since. I have urged him to go public with his claim and start the process of putting her on the throne, but he has only acted for the safety of the child."

"Wouldn't that make sense if she is his daughter? Maybe he was ambitious and regrets it now."

"I might have came to the same conclusion had it not been for Dr. Pukirev. The Doctor came to me with Sorokin and confirmed the story of Regina's sad birth. I knew Pukirev when he was the Tsar's family physician, and he was always an honest man. Well respected in the court. He saved the child himself, and lost the mother in the process. Before he disappeared, he was Regina's most fervent champion, though he had no place to gain power through her."

"What happened to him?"

"I think it was Sorokin's caution that drove him to run away. If he is still alive, I suspect he is living in an alley somewhere drunk out of his wits." there was a moment of benign silence where the General said nothing. "Someday I would like to see that man again. He was a good one. Did his work well."

"So you believe it then." Sahle sunk. "It's true." He didn't say the rest of his thoughts. What happened to him? How did he trip into a circumstance like this?

"You will be a witness to many things if you choose to stay with us. Tonight, there will be a meeting. Sorokin and I agree you should witness this meeting as a foreign adviser; we feel you might have some insights. You won't want to speak up while the meeting is in session, because for now you will be a random nigger to the Cossacks. We will not be telling them who you are. Not yet."

Sahle nodded.

"Good." Rykov said. "I have one more question for you, and it is important enough that it is the larger reason I decided to meet with you in person. Why, Emperor Sahle, are you here?"

The air went stale for a moment as Sahle tried to think of an answer. "I don't know."

Rykov frowned. "That is a non answer." he said.

"It's the only one I have." Sahle answered. "I haven't been in control of where I am for many years. I don't know if I was ever in control of where I was, actually. I just find myself in places, making the most of my time until I end up somewhere else."

"You seem exasperated." Rykov replied. "But that is a difficult answer for me to swallow. It's not like the other Kings I have known."

"I can't speak for the others." Sahle replied. "But that's the only answer I have."

Rykov nodded. "If you have nothing else to say, then neither do I. You are dismissed, your Majesty, if you wish to be."

--

With the meeting over, Sahle walked speedily from the building and appreciated the fresh air once he was out. His identity was safe here, but he did not feel comfortable alone in a strange land, so he returned to the hotel. On his way, he passed a stand where a few homely commoners sold some sort of beer. He did not understand the word - Kvass - they used to describe it.

The lobby of the hotel was plain. The reception desk sat in the opening to a much smaller room, where a hapless employee watched bored soldiers drink Kvass and loiter about doing nothing. He squeezed by them into the halls, and climbed the stairs to the second story where Sorokin stored his inner circle. As he passed the guards, he passed by the Tsarina's gap-toothed teacher.

"Radmila." he said. A name and a smile, that was a habit he had learned when he was young.

"How are you..." she started to say, but she squinted and paused.

"Samel." he saved her.

"Yes!" she bubbled. "You coming back from your meeting?"

"Just looking for something to eat. Do you know if they are serving lunch here?"

"Rykov is providing dinner to all soldiers and government in the capitol, but only dinner." she explained. "You could go out and buy something though."

"I don't have money." he said.

"Oh! I was going out to find lunch. Want to come?" She sounded genuinely excited, and he knew the decision was already made for him. "You don't need to be paying for me."

"It's no matter. The money is Sorokin's anyway, and it's not like I pay rent." she laughed. "Come on. It will pass the time."

"I can't argue with that." he replied. She lead him back the way he had came, through the lingering men, and back outdoors.

"What did you think of General Rykov?" she asked.

"He's friendly. Never met a friendly general before. It's difficult to imagine him at the head of an army."

"I wouldn't have thought that." she sounded surprised. "I've never met him."

They walked the wide street. No cars went by, so they stayed in the center. That was something he noticed about this town - the car traffic was sparse. There were a few cars, and just a few more motorbikes, but most traffic seemed to be on foot. Those walking the town were a martial-looking people. Even the unarmed civilians were stoic, dressed in dark and haggard clothing, going about their lives with a quiet urgency. The city around them was brutal and scarred.

"How long ago was the battle fought?" he asked.

"Ah, how long ago did the Armenian war start?" she replied. "That's when the Turks were forced out of the city."

"By Rykov?" he knew the answer.

She nodded. "They fought over the city for six years, starting after Rykov left the Ukraine. I think it would have been a nice war to read about, if I hadn't been forced to live in it. Gleb Apostol and his Cossacks capturing brigades of Turks, and then turning around and taking as many Poles in the North. Semem Hertsyk laying siege to Astrakhan. Rykov never had enough supplies or men, but he kept the Turks from getting comfortable."

"I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in a warzone." he said, trying to sound thoughtful.

"Weren't you in Armenia? And you were King during a civil war."

"I never saw the fighting." he said. They entered into a big, empty square. There were a few silent market booths along the edges, and an ugly two-story apartment building jutting out into the middle of it all. At the center of the empty space was a damaged equestrian statue.

"I didn't see any of Rykov's battles." she said. "The war for me was just hunger. That is what I remember, the hunger and how it touches every part of life. When everybody is hungry, nothing much else gets done. Everything starts to fall apart."

Sahle said nothing. Radmila looked at him and giggled nervously. "I'm sorry about that, I invited you to lunch and now here I am telling you sad stories."

"You must still be hungry then." he replied, half smiling. She led him to where an old man was selling flat-bread out of the back of a cart. The bread looked to him exactly like the injera they made in his homeland. It was a poignant little detail that took him back, and for a moment his entire being felt as if he was a child again, and only a hallway away from his mother. He tried to shake the feeling and focus on the present, but it clung to him and only melted away slow and unwilling. She bought two and they found a curb to sit on.

"What do you think of Russia so far?" she asked after a swallow of bread.

"Fine place." Sahle grinned. "I should find an apartment and settle down."

"Where are you thinking?"

He shrugged. "I don't know this town. Between here and the hotel... well, I guess I know that place over there, sticking out into the plaza."

"Oh no." she said, playing horrified. "That place is haunted. You can't go there."

"You really mean that?" his eyes stretched wide and he looked down at her, astonished. He didn't know what the superstitions of this land were, and he felt the sting of culture shock that was so common for him now.

"I've seen a lot of strange things in my life" she replied timidly, and the gap between her teeth seemed cute. There was an uncomfortable pause. "You keep talking about me. But I want to know about..." she looked around, suddenly aware of the few people nearby them. Her voice went to a whisper. "You. The life you were born to. That had to be amazing!"

"I don't think I can tell you those stories after what you have told me." Sahle replied. "That would be cruel."

"I want to know." she nudged him.

He sighed. There were only two kinds of memories from his original life; those that were uncomfortable, and those that were simply too tedious to repeat. "I had everything a person could want, I think. Really, I don't think I knew what I wanted. It was just life. I guess you want me to describe the cakes and the royal dances?" he looked at her.

"Yes. Things like those are what I was thinking of."

"Cakes were good." he said. "There was this party, three weeks after I was crowned, where somebody had made a cake that looked like me. They had built this sculpture out of marzipan and dye. Life sized. It tasted like plaster, but it was neat to look at."

"Cakes." she looked dreamy-eyed into the distance. "That is the sort of thing I imagined."

--

In the evening, Sahle and Vasily went with Sorokin to the conference the city was so abuzz about.

Sahle sat with Sorokin in General Rykov's office, posing as an assistant. Vasily sat between Sorokin and Sahle, while General Rykov occupied his own desk. There was no conversation. All geniality in this meeting had died the moment that the first of the invited leaders arrived. He was a skeleton-thin man with grey hair and deep-set eyes, and he greeted Rykov with a stiff handshake and no words. Vasily, who was pretending to take notes for the Sorokin party, passed his paper to Sahle.

'Andrei Yaroslav. Was President of Ukraine. Surrendered to Rykov before chaos. Now Poland controls Kiev.'

The wire-tight tension strung between Yaroslav and Rykov now had a context for Sahle, and he had nothing else to do but watch it play out. Rykov pretended not to see the Ukrainian, while Yaroslav read a book. When there was a knock on the door, the bad air seemed to leave the room. One of Rykov's guards entered.

"Announcing Oleg Yushchenko, Hetman of the Sochi Host." he said. A thick man followed in. He was middle aged, clean cut, with a comfortable paunch and a ridiculous wardrobe. He wore a black velvet coat, embroidered in gold, that went down to his toes. There were loops sewn into the breast of the suit that held what looked like golden bullets intricately inlaid with silver. He also wore a tall fur hat with the Russian crest sewn into the front.

"Mr. Yushchenko." Rykov greeted politely.

"General Rykov." Yushchenko bowed. "Colonel Sorokin. It is good too see the world treat my friends so fairly."

"How is it in Sochi?" Rykov made conversation.

"Fair." the fancy man replied. "The piracy problem on the black sea is starting to affect business. The Pontic Greeks are the worst offenders there. They are like Barbary pirates. If I had the material, I would go down and burn all of Pontus."

Sorokin passed another note to Sahle.

'Owns tea plantations. Never fought battle.' Sahle passed it back. He didn't think he needed a note for that. This man carried himself like a self-important businessman. There was nothing soldierly about him at all.

"If we had a navy, perhaps we could handle the pirates." Rykov said. Yushchenko nodded, and then turned around to greet the Ukrainian. "President! I am happy to see you on our side."

"Poland is your enemy and my enemy too." President Yaroslav said. He folded his book over his left hand and stood up to shake with his right.

"Our peoples were friends once. We shall be friends again." Yushchenko's prosaic politicking was cut short by another knock, followed by the soldier from before making an entrance.

"Announcing Ihor Iosifovich, Hetman of the Kuban Cossacks." the soldier spoke, and then withdrew. A short, wiry man entered. He had the body of a horse jockey and a haggard face masked behind a bushy black mustache. His fatigues were threadbare, and the only mark of his rank were the red sash around his waist and a couple of medals hanging from his chest.

"Ihor, my friend." Rykov smiled. The small intense man nodded and found a seat. "I have brought three quarters of my host." Ihor explained. "The others are hunting Turks. They should stay down there."

"Three quarters of the Kuban host is fine by me." Rykov replied. Sahle watched another note slide from Vasily's side of the table.

'Son of Koba from Georgia. Killed more men than anyone in room except me.'

Sahle looked over at Vasily, but his eyes caught Sorokin instead. The Colonel had that uncomfortable look on his face that men sometimes get when their mistress and their wife meet at a party. It was cold sweat and a constipated countenance. Sahle lost track of the conversations in the room as they divided into two separate parties. He didn't pay attention to the gathering Cossacks until the guard entered again.

"Announcing Semen Hertsyk, Hetman of the Don Host." The man that walked in looked the most up to the job of any Sahle had seen. He carried himself like a King; chin up, back straight, with a gait that never slouched or showed any hint of laziness. He had a great pepper-grey beard and the military dress uniform of a Russian Imperial officer. His eyes, which were deep-seated in his face, were small in an almost Asiatic sense.

"Hetman Hertsyk." Rykov greeted. Before Sahle could catch the rest of what was being said, Vasily thrust another note across the table.

'This one love himself. Largest host.'

"...thank you, General Rykov." Hertsyk was saying when Sahle turned back to them. "I have seen Zaporozhians wandering about the city, but Apostol isn't here. I was hoping to talk with that man and get his opinions about the movement of the Ukrainian Poles."

"He is on his way I am sure." Rykov replied. The Cossacks began to talk among themselves. Sahle looked back to his side at Sorokin. He still had that constipated look. Was there something wrong with him, or was something going on that Sahle didn't understand?

It was ten minutes before another knock came to the door. Everybody looked up this time, all at once as if they were a herd of skittish deer. The door opened and the familiar soldier entered.

"Announcing Hetman Gleb Apostol of the Zaporozhian Host." The announced man hadn't yet entered when Vasily shoved a note at Sahle.

'Brilliant.'

The man that entered did not look like the brilliant type. He was thick and soft-fleshed, with eyes deep set in his chubby face. His eyebrows were thick and twisted, and he sported a needle-thin waxed mustache and a sparse scraggle of fat hairs on his chin. He did not look military or dour either, but rather he entered the place like a big smiling gorilla.

"General Rykov." he saluted. He whirled around and started shaking hands. "Semen! Oleg! Ihor! Well bless my balls, it's Mr Ukraine! It's beautiful to see your face." As they shook hands, the overwhelmed Yaroslav cracked his first smile of the day. Rykov gently closed the door and locked it just as Apostol turned on his heals and faced Sorokin.

"Lazar." the big man greeted. "You look like there are dwarfs mining your sphincter for gold. Why the face?"

Sorokin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His bald spot shone with pearls of sweat. "I am not used to the climate inland. I will be fine."

"I hope you will. This is no time for a man to run a fever. Where is your daughter, the lovely girl we have come here to discuss? I would think she should attend a meeting like this."

"We are talking about China in general." Rykov reminded.

"China, China, China." Apostol muttered. "I can tell you how that will happen. If the Chinese were brilliant, they would break the Republicans in the mountains and drive hard to Nizhny Novgorod. From there they could take Yaroslav and become one with the Communes before entering a war with the Poles. But the Chinese are not brilliant, they are bureaucrats, so here is what they will do; they will fight for every town piecemeal. Every time they get the chance to crush the Republic, they will turn it down so they can fight slow."

"So you don't think the war is almost over?" Sorokin looked up.

"It was over a year ago. The Chinese just don't understand that quite yet."

"It might be inappropriate to act now." Sorokin said. "That's what I think that means. If we play our hand so soon..."

"The Chinese don't realize it yet." Apostol interrupted. "But when will Makulov realize it? Or any of those Generals on the front? There is a flopsweat drenched, President sized hole in Russia now, waiting for somebody to slip in and fill it."

"Then we fill it." Hetman Iosivich slammed his fist into his chest.

Apostol grinned and wrapped his arm around the small mustachioed Hetman. "We are of one mind, Ihor. I want all of you by my side when we rise into Moscow!" Ihor Iosivich looked supremely uncomfortable, and when the opportunity came to slip out of Apostol's grip, the small Hetman took it.

"Moscow." Sorokin swallowed the word. "We are getting ahead of ourselves."

General Rykov had been standing in the corner with his chin in his hands. His eyes were downcast like he was inspecting the floor for secrets. When Sorokin finished speaking, the General looked up. "I agree with Hetman Apostol." he said calmly. "You have asked us to wait for a golden opportunity. This, I think, is to be our last opportunity. Certainly the last one that happens in my lifetime."

"My life's work is the protection of Regina. What I am seeing in this plan is desperation. Would any of you act so quickly if it wasn't for the Asiatics coming across the Urals?" Sorokin was passionate. More passionate than Sahle had ever seen the man.

"Crowning her and putting her safely on the throne is the safest thing for her." Rykov countered.

The Hetman Semen Hertsyk had been nodding his agreement to what Rykov and Apostol were saying, but now he thrust himself forward to join the discussion. "Friends, General, I solidly concur with the plan to action. No great victory can be won through a love of safety. If you look at the lives of the greats; Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Belisarius, Alexander Nevsky, Dmitry Donskoy, Alexander Suvorov, you find that they did not meet their success through safety. Russia waits for us, Colonel. We must take it."

"It is easy for you or me to say this, but we are talking about the life of a ten year old girl. A march on Moscow is patently unreasonable and irresponsible." Sorokin was turning red. Sahle felt like a soldier under fire, and his chair was his trench.

Apostol grumbled nothing intelligible. He pointed at Vasily. "You, and your nigger, talk sense into your boss."

"I think that would be inappropriate to do." Vasily shrugged. "Since he pays us."

General Rykov spoke next. "What I think is inappropriate is that Colonel Sorokin presumes to own the monarchy."

Sorokin looked hurt. "I thought it was agreed I was to be her advocate and regent?" he said.

"I agreed out of respect for what you have done in saving her and keeping her." Rykov answered. "But what you are doing now is an abuse of my kindness. You are still my subordinate, and the armed forces of this nation are commanded from this office. This is the last chance we will have to put the young Tsarina on her throne. I want to see the grand daughter of Peter seated in the Kremlin before I am dead. I want to die in the same Russia I was born."

Sorokin sunk. "This is it." he muttered. All at once, the tensity in the room fled out through the pours in the wall. Sorokin seemed to melt into his chair, but the meeting continued.

"War it is." Andrei Yaroslav broke the air. The Ukrainian President's voice had a nasal twang to it, not so much that it was annoying, but enough to be distinct. "My people will fight if we get a promise that all our territory will be respected. The Ukraine is my price."

"Some of that property belongs to my host." Gleb Apostol said. Yaroslav bristled at that. "This meeting will be a waste of my time if I do not get all of the Ukraine." he replied.

"My host has done more against the Poles than your meager partisans." Apostol puffed up as he spoke.

"You want to be a sovereign nation then? Sovereign Cossacks, like it is the sixteenth century again? This is not the era for what you propose."

"I want to serve my Tsarina." Apostol said proudly, slamming his clenched fist against his chest.

Yaroslav looked almost horrified. "So you want some of my nation for Russia then? How much do you plan to steal?"

There it was, Sahle thought. All the tension Sorokin had released now had a new host in this blustering Ukrainian.

"I have a plan." General Rykov pulled a map from his desk and intervened in the verbal melee. "I propose the Zaporozhian Cossacks shall be given the Ukrainian land east of a line drawn at the east bank of the eastern-most line of the Dnieper. This line shall break from the river going north from Novomoskovs'k, and going south from Vasylivka, so that the Ukraine will still hold the Crimea and..."

"You steal half of my country and call it friendship?" Yaroslav was fighting mad. His face was beat read and he spoke his words as if they were knifes he was twisting into Rykov's gut. "That is not what will happen. All of the Ukraine or I walk away tonight."

"That is unreasonable..." Rykov complained.

"It is my decision." Yaroslav stamped

Rykov kept calm and collected. "I cannot concede to you in this temper."

Yaroslav did not concede. He stomped out the door and slammed it shut, leaving a room full of Hetmans uncertain about their plans.

"We go forward." Rykov said. "I will try to convince the President if he is still in town tonight, but until then we go forward. I want us to execute this war as quick as we can."

"There is a thousand miles between here and Moscow. The Chinese are nearly as close as we are." the Hetman Oleg Yushchenko noted.

"The Polish defenses are limited to the Ukraine and the area surrounding Moscow." Rykov retorted. "There are Republican defenses along the Volga, but most of the Russian fighting forces are in Perm. What stands between us and Moscow is those militias. They might not be able to stand up against Cossacks, but they can slow us down until Poland or the Republic finds the resources to cut us off."

"Which we cannot afford." Sorokin muttered.

"There is a way you could neutralize most threats by the Republic." Apostol spoke now. He dropped his blustering tone for a calmer one and twisted his waxed mustache as he spoke. "We send a small number up to occupy the Samara Bend. There would only be the isthmus to the bend and the bridge at Tolyatti to defend. If the Republic were to feel safe of their control of the Volga, they would have to lay siege to this force on their island."

"Surely the enemy would choose to face us in Moscow and end the rebellion at once." Yushchenko balked.

"If we move quick and sporadically up the road, they won't know how large of a force we command. Send flying detachments of riders well beyond our flanks. Close enough we can close our ranks if we must, but covering a wide enough area to create the impression of a mass invasion."

Rykov was inspecting closely the map on his wall, and he nodded slowly as the Hetmans spoke. Before Rykov started to speak, Sorokin interrupted and stood up.

"I need to retire."

"From the military?" Rykov inspected the Colonel.

"For the night." Sorokin said. "Excuse me."

Vasily and Sahle stood up. It was an awkward retreat, and Sahle avoided eye contact until they were outside. Following Sorokin, they jogged through the halls. Nobody said a word. What had happened? They rushed out of the building, and Sahle found himself thinking how ridiculous it was that he missed waking up in the woods in the morning, in a foreign land, and a circumstance he understood only a smidgen more than what was happening now.

Assembly of the Republic, São Bento Palace, Lisbon

Smoking had been banned in the Assembly two years earlier and yet, the stale smell of tobacco still lingered in the air.

It only made Geraldo Cardoso, a deputado of the opposition party, Partido Socialista, crave a smoke more. Judging by the uncomfortable foot tapping of his companion, Cristiano Pereira, he was not the only one. The old Brazilian, who's complexion only darkened with age and constant reelection, held a blank stare at the droning speech of the Deputy Prime Minister, a man of swarthy Angolan descent. Geraldo glanced at Cristiano, who met his gaze briefly and rolled his eyes. This was a vote they had already lost and everyone knew it.

For the past three hours, every member of the Assembly had piled into the room and loudly debated the merits and faults of the Prime Ministers proposal - a declaration of war on the Ethiopian Empire. Geraldo could only watch as his party was beaten down, again and again, by the skilled orators of the Government. Arguments and accusations flew wildly from both sides and two deputados had already been removed by the Speaker.

"The aggressive actions of the Ethiopian Empire against our closest ally and friend, Spain, should not be met with silence from the international community. As a founding member of the Iberian League, Portugal should not stand for this kind of..." droned Mbandi, reading his speech from a sheet held close to his nose. Geraldo wondered how much he had been paid to write it. If Cristiano was to be believed, half of the men opposite were in the pocket of some Spaniard or another and judging by the bored silence from a majority of the Socialist deputados, so were they.

But Geraldo wasn't. That was one thing the young politician could say with pride - he was loyal to his party and his country. Cristiano, despite receiving demotions from the party leaders, continued to voice his negative opinion of Spanish influence loudly, for everyone to hear. The party leader of the socialists, a meek man by the name of Nando, had never been a match for the wit of Salvador Macedo, Prime Minister of Portugal and good friend of Spain.

Mbandi finished his speech justifying war, to the relief of the entire Assembly and passed on speaking rights to Macedo, who took his place. It was no wonder this man was Prime Minister. He had the good looks, the charismatic speeches and the intelligent wit to keep him power.

"Gentlemen" he purred into the microphone. Immediately, the entire Assembly sat a little straighter. Macedo had the kind of voice that demanded attention. "The decision to join our Spanish comrades in war was a hard one. No leader wants to send the young men of his country into danger. I certainly do not. But as it stands, we cannot ignore the injustices of the Ethiopian regime. Under our current foreign policy, we will not tolerate threats of sovereignty on ourselves or our allies from our own backyard. We will not tolerate the rights of men, white or coloured, to be curbed by emperors and chairmen. I will not tolerate the destruction of age-old traditions by men of no creed."

He paused as the murmurs of agreement from his party, the majority Partido Republicano, turned to frenzied shouts.

"So, my fellow deputados, today I ask you, as your elected leader, to approve the declaration of war against the Ethiopian Empire. Against the men who would only wish to destroy what 800 years of tradition have built in this country. What 2000 years of history have built on this continent. I ask you to help our dearest friends and neighbours in Spain defend their sovereignty from the Empire that grows on their border. To defend-"

And so it went on. Geraldo could hardly hide his distaste as the Prime Minister continued, practically bragging at his un-won victory. The old Brazilian beside him sighed heavily and sank into his chair. "Christ, I wish we could just get to the vote already" groaned Cristiano, massaging his eyeballs with his knuckles. "We already know how its going to go, they're just wallowing in the victory" murmured Geraldo in reply. They'd all been told how to vote by the whip but even the combined opposition all voting against the proposed declaration would not beat the majority whip.

The only reason the Socialists had even turned up for the vote was to save face and look like a viable opposition but to Geraldo, it seemed like a waste of time.

Later that evening...

"God, I could use a drink" grumbled Geraldo, assisting Cristiano down the steps of the assembly. The old Brazilian leaned heavily on a cane, his leg having been completely ruined in his youth. Cristiano looked dejected and his eyes narrowed as Nando, his party leader, hurried past, his eyes attached firmly to the ground. "Bastardo" spat the Brazilian when he was out of earshot. "How treasonous of you" replied Geraldo dryly, preparing himself for another anti-Spanish rant. The two walked out the front doors, wondering why they had even entered in the first place.

"Geraldo, we need to get rid of him" said Cristiano suddenly, gasping from the effort of walking but still managing to gesture towards Nando ahead of them. Geraldo snorted. "This isn't the favelas of Sao Paulo, Cristiano" he replied, slowing his walk to stop.

The cool summer air felt refreshing after a day spent in the stuffy assembly. As deputados rushed off home through the brightly lit lawns of the Assembly, Geraldo and Cristiano sat down on a bench. "We don't have to...y'know, 'get rid of him'. There are legal methods, my friend. Nando is not suited to the job of head of the opposition and I'm not the only one to think he needs a replacement" replied Cristiano, pulling a hat from his jacket pocket. He examined the hat, brushing lint with his other hand, before placing it on his head.

"Well, you're right there" replied Geraldo, a cigarette already in his mouth. "If you can find someone suitable to replace him, I'll help you get him in". The younger Lusophone frowned for a moment, as he dug into his pockets for a lighter. He grunted in frustration as he realised he'd left it at home. "Got a light?" he asked the Brazilian. Cristiano silently produced a lighter from his pockets and lit a cigarette of his own. Both men puffed on their cigarettes thoughtfully.

It hadn't yet dawned on them that they were now at war.

Jornal de Notícias, Portugal

...and it is decreed, as of the 22nd of July, 1980, that the Second Portuguese Republic has declared war on the Ethiopian Empire, in defence of its ally, the Second Spanish Republic and its colonies. All Ethiopian-Portugese business is to be suspended immediately and all travel to and from the Ethiopian Empire is to be stopped. Prime Minister Macedo has declared the act of war "a necessary act to combat the threat on Spanish Africa" and has dismissed claims that Ethiopians in Portugal are at risk. However, Prime Minister Macedo has refused to comment on alleged claims from the opposition that the declaration was purely to appease Spanish interests and is to travel to Italy on a state visit in the coming weeks....