((Collab Post between The Wyrm and Letter Bee))

In the still-lavish Manila Hotel, where the rich landowners who had accepted Priscilla's 'conditional pardons' hob-nobbed with the increasingly more 'prosperous' heads of Worker Co-operatives (coughSubiccough), Aurelia Dizon, wearing a gown of Philippine silk, pineapple fibre, and lacework, waited for Henry Cornell as she sat beside a table of narra wood with her guards beside her. On said table was paella, a Spanish rice dish, Filipino lechon, or roast pig, and Indian curry with the spiciness reduced and sweetness increased for the Filipino palate. Oh, and brandy; brandy was one of the Philippines' natural products. With a smile, she prepared mentally for Henry's coming.

Henry had taken the time to shower and shave carefully berfore donning a suit of white silk that had been purchased from Southeast Asia. Where, he did not know for certain, but the man who imported the things for him knew his buisness. When he stepped into the Manila Hotel dining room he looked every inch the White Afrikanaar, complete with an open necked shirt and black cane tipped with gold. It was often beneficial to have people see what they expected.

He had no trouble picking out Aurelia Dizon though the photo he had of her hardly did her justice. None of his staff had come with him, there would time for that later, though his bodygaurd was quietly enjoying lunch with one of the young ladies who had accompanised him within eyesight of the table.

Henry approached the table, noting the delicasies that had been laid out. He offered Aurelia a dazzling smile and bowed slightly at the waist before extending his hand. It has always confused him why men inistsed on shaking hands with other men, and hugging women. Business was business. A hand shake was how one truely got the measure of another person.

"Madam Dizon. A pleasure. Thank you for meeting with me."

Aurelia got up and shook Henry's hand firmly, clearly trying not to grasp too deeply. She would then say, "I am glad you are here, Mr. Cornell. With the mandate given to me by the people, I now have the guarantees and the ability to give them that ensures that the entreprenurial spirit can survive in the Philippines...provided I fulfil said mandate, which is giving electricity to the masses." A slight smile. "An increase in the Tobacco exports from the Islands will ensure that I won't empty my coffers fulfilling my promises to the public." A light chuckle, as though she was a mother amused at the antics of her babies.

Henry nodded, this was good. "You will understand then, as the worlds largest tobacco producer, that I require a controlling stake in any, how shall I say, "investment venture". What do you think is fair compensation to either your administration, or the people of the Philippines in exchange for such a deal?"

Another smile. "Well, basically, use Philippine Labor, obey Philippine Labor Laws, make sure the local stakeholders are Filipino Citizens of 25 years' residence; I already have a list of people who qualify," she pulled out said list and handed it over to Henry; it contained no names associated with Subic Bay and its Workers' Co-operatives, another sign she was going to throw them under the bus. "Also, voluntary contributions to the Federal Government's public programs; Priscilla loves her Social Welfare."

She then leaned in, her voice lowering in volume. "Also, the latest trade mission to the Ethiopians acquired Teff, which is improving food security in the Philippines. However, my estate has also acquired and planted enough of it to serve as an export good to Ethiopian Restaurants in the United States...or other places that have acquired a taste for that grain, but have some dispute with its original providers." Aurelia had clearly heard of Rhodesia's rejection from the African Congress through radio.

Henry could not disagree with any of the requests. Investing and using local business agents to run the operation not only cut down on his costs, but it also kept him at arms length and ensured that the locals assumed their own people called the shots. The list she provided him, which he gave a quick glance over, would have to be double checked by his trusted business interests in the country but he had no reason to doubt her good intentions. As for "volunmtary" contributions to Social Welfare... That would hurt since he detested forking out any of his hard earned cash to people who were, in his opinion, taking a free ride, but business was business.

As she leaned forward to speak to him of Teff who shook his head slightly. The Ethiopians suppporting the Rhodesians in the African Congress was a power play to gain favour with both sides. The Ethiopians were clever, but they would have been fools to play the situation in any other way. Other than Ethiopia, Rhodesia was the only African state that really had its proverbial shit together. South Africa was a close third but the British mentality of "White is better than black" was causing them massive problems at the moment.

"I understand where you are coming from, but I am not authorized to negotiate any trade on behalf of the Rhodesian government. I am here to further my interests and those of my company." He said as he sipped from the brandy she had supplied. He turned it slowly in one hand, admiring the light colour of it.

"Do you export this?" He held up the glass again. "I recently began to look into investing in the liqour industry and have plans to stop in the Caribbean on my trip home to invest in several operations down there that I think could be a big thing one day."

Aurelia nodded. "We do, yes. Both before and after the Second Revolution, there was this company called Tabacalera* - not to be confused with the Spaniard's own company by that name - which profited from both tobacco and sugar-based alchohols like brandy and rum. It survived the Second Revolution by rebranding itself as a Worker-owned Co-operative...while continuing to function like a regular Corporation, albeit with more privileges to the workers than would be normal in other countries, and with said workers having fifty percent of stock shares that they cannot actually sell. Basically, a bit of legal mumbo-jumbo, and Tabacalera is a shining example of how we can adapt to changing circumstances and switches of rulers."

She then looked at him. "Priscilla doesn't know about that fact yet. Nor should she. More to the point, I own it in a climate where real power does rest with the people." Aurelia smiled regretfully. "There is also the fact that if I cede control of Tabacalera for any sort of prize, I will have compromised my position as 'Top Dog' in this country. And I love being the Alpha Bitch."

Henry nodded as she finished speaking. He could understand where she was coming from but if he was to make the gains he hoped to in the region, he would need the company. Another sip from his brandy gave him a moment to think before he leaned back in his chair.

"What if you reatined control of the company itself, but use Cornell Tobacco as your sole distributor internationallly? You would still operate as CEO and President, or whichever terms you use here, and it would allow me to control the amount and where it goes when leaving the Philippines. That is, in the end, was matters most to me. Controlling the international supply."

"So entreprenurial," Aurelia approved. "Done, and thank you."

"Excellent." Henry raised his glass to her. "To a bright future for both our nations."

Aurelia raised her glass to him. "To a bright future for both our nations." She then looked out the window. "It's still noon; mind a last-minute deal? Basically, I want to buy a few...transport planes, pilot trainer aircraft, and a few crop dusters - not that we use anything but 'organic' pesticides due to Priscilla's policies."

Henry shrugged. "That is easy enough. The South Africans are currently selling a number of aircraft from their Commerical Airfleet. I could certainly purchase a few and "donate" them to your cause. I know the man who is overseeing the sale."

A slight bow. "Thank you. Now, let's enjoy our food, shall we?"

*en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compa%C3%B1%C3%…

Brockton
2:34 PM

Eric Fernandez looked over his ice tea at the nattily dressed little man. Eric placed his height at somewhere around five feet even. His clothing, an immaculate navy blue suit with a large red bowtie, made him look even smaller than he was, so small that he could sit in a larger man’s lap and look like a ventriloquist dummy. The two men sat in the man’s round kitchen table to do business.

On the surface, you would think the nickname Big Jim to be an ironic one. But to those in the know, Big Jim Dwyer lived up to every bit of that moniker. To most people, they thought of Boston as the seat of political power in New England. To think of Boston and Massachusetts was to think of the glamorous Kane family, a dynasty of mayors, governors, and senators. Eventually US presidents would join the list. The Kane family was power personified. But their power was an illusion, something they had been granted by the little man in the big bowtie. Because the actual seat of power in New England rested twenty miles south in working-class Brockton, in this little house.

He held no political office, had never held an office in his thirty-five year career in public service. On paper, James Dwyer was commissioner of the state’s Public Works, and Transportation committees, as well as chairman of the board of Public Service. Decades on the three boards gave him complete control over the state’s public works, roads, and industry regulatory practices. No elected official could get serious legislation passed in the state without Big Jim’s blessing; no company could set up shop in Massachusetts without Big Jim getting something in return.

Over the years, his power grew into other nearby states via highway expansions and corporate extensions. Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire lawmakers all knew Big Jim could arrange it so the big highway came through their district, or he could arrange that company could bring six hundred jobs to their town. Eric knew Big Jim handpicked the delegates who represented Massachusetts at the democratic national convention, and he at least had a say who represented the other New England states.

“I’m disappointed, senator,” he said after a long sip of iced tea. “I’ve heard that you’ve gone to other party leaders, hat in hand. The convention is a month away and now you finally come to darken my door.”

“I’m going west to east, sir,” replied Eric. “Everywhere, I’m getting no interest.”

“As you should.” Big Jim ticked off points with his petite fingers. “One: The west sees Norman as their president, so no go there. 2: The south would vote for Comrade Hou if it meant getting Russell Reed a shot at the White House. 3:… did you talk to Chicago?”

“I talked to Mayor Ricketts for two minutes before he brought up money and slush funds.”

Big Jim let flash a smirk and said. “3: Chicago wants you to buy them off, as Chicago always wants people to do, and you’re above that. But the current administration doesn’t have those qualms. Everywhere else has slammed the door in your face. So, I’m the last stop and the only option left.”

“I’ve still got New York left,” replied Eric. “They’re my absolutely last stop. I figured you would like that.”

The old man let out a warm laugh. “I do like that. But, from what I’ve heard, the reason you aren’t getting anywhere is because you aren’t playing the game.”

“It’s about change,” said Eric. “Something different than what we have now. Norman and his whole cabinet are corrupt.”

“Save it for the campaign trail,” the old man said firmly. “That high minded rhetoric works for the masses, but not for the bosses. With the bosses, it’s all about what you can do for them.” He held up a wrinkled palm before Eric could speak. “I don’t mean money, I mean horse-trading. Eric, I like you. I’d like you to represent my party over Norman. He’s an empty suit, I mean you can see them pulling his goddamn strings.”

“Then I need your support,” Eric pleaded. “A strong showing for me by New England and my base in the Midwest could be enough to throw the vote into a deadlock. The embarrassment of a sitting president not winning on the first few ballots damages him enough in the general election that they have no choice but to pick me.”

Big Jim sat silently for a moment. He sipped his tea and stared off into the distance.

“I have a price,” he said, looking back at Eric. “I get to pick your vice president.”

Eric almost frowned but thought better of it. Since President Wheeler’s first election after the war, each party’s presidential candidate had been allowed to choose his own running mate and the delegates would vote him in as a fait accompli. The days of wide open elections for the spot were long gone.

“Who is it?” Eric asked carefully.

“You’ll know when I tell you,” the old man replied quickly. “Yes or no, senator? This is a one-time offer.”

“Yes,” said Fernandez. “You’ll pick the vice president.”

“And I will fight like hell for you if the convention gets thrown into the back room.”

Eric stretched out over the table and they shook hands, his large mitt swallowing up Big Jim’s tiny hand.

---



LAPD Hall of Justice
2:32 AM

Jessica Hyatt kept to herself in the corner of the jail cell. The half dozen women in here with her were mostly prostitutes with bored looks on their faces. One woman in a blood spattered nightgown sat alone in her own corner, her slipper clad feet folded beneath her as she rocked and looked off into the distance. The red dress that had turned so many heads at the show was now drawing the wrong kind of attention with the women in the cell. A couple of prostitutes looked at her and talked among themselves, laughing quietly at some joke.

In terms of attitude, she was somewhere between the dazed woman and the hookers. Years of protesting and public demonstration meant she was no stranger to a holding cell, but she wasn’t hardened to the experience like the working women. They were stories of the women’s jail matrons, bull dykes who did horrible things to girls simply because they could. She had never experienced it, but she had never stayed in jail long enough for it to become an issue. There was always someone with the protesters who bailed them out after a short time. But this time she was taking a gamble. Parker had ensured her he would have her released by noon if nobody else paid her bail, but that still meant over twelve hours here. She wasn’t sure she could wait that long.

“Hyatt,” one of the guards announced, walking to the door of the cell. “You’re free to go.”

Jessica followed the guard out of the cell and down the halls, relieved to be free but also worried about what was coming. Parker said he wouldn’t release her until noon, so this was someone else. As sick as staying in the cell would have made her felt, knowing Parker’s plan was working made her feel sicker.

Ten minutes later, she walked out the front of the Hall of Justice. A car sat idled at the curb. A uniformed chauffer stepped out of the driver’s side and walked around to the back door. Jessica hesitated, at least until the driver opened the door and she saw inside the car.

“Hello there.”

The woman from the show, the one with the plum gown and the sardonic smile. She’d traded in the gown for a shirt the color of the gown and black slacks. Even if the clothes were different, the smile was still the same.

“Bravo,” she said. “Quite the performance tonight, easily worth what I just paid to bail you out, Miss?”

“Hyatt,” Jessica said softly. "Jessica Hyatt."

“I’m Penelope.” She patted the seat beside her. “Let me give you a ride.”

Jessica licked her lips and nodded. She stepped into the car and sat next to Penelope as the driver closed the door behind her. She hoped to god that Parker wasn’t watching her from some unseen vantage. She didn’t want the man to have the satisfaction.

---

Pinnacle Studios
12:00 PM

“I’m Wallace Welch with ABS News. This news update is brought to you by Cornell Cigarettes. Cornell Cigarettes: Full flavored and healthy. More doctors smoke Cornell’s than any other brand. We lead off this bulletin with tragic news from Hollywood-- ”

Elliot Shaw turned down the radio in his office. Claire Beauchamp’s murder had happened late enough to avoid the papers, but the radio stations didn’t have deadlines. They’d broke the story in the early morning and it had swept across the country via wireless. It would be in the evening editions of all the papers across the country and the few who hadn’t heard from the radio would know the story.
The phone on Elliot’s desk rang and he ignored it. All his reporter sources were calling him on the lookout for a scoop, as if he would spill something to those bastards. They weren’t friends. What he did with them was a simple exchange.

“Knock knock.”

Elliot looked up and saw Agnes one of the girls who ran the switchboard for the executive offices and Pinnacle, with slips of papers in her hands. Agnes was a would-be actress who thought big knockers meant big acting ability. She was at least good at acting when it came to the sack.

“Hey, stranger,” he said with a grin. “What can I help you with?”

“Your messages from this morning. Sidney Applebaum is on hold. I keep telling him you’re unavailable, but he won’t take no for an answer like the rest. Says you owe him one.”

Shit. Sidney Applebaum, the little heb prick. He’d promised Sid first crack at a story if something print-worthy happened from his darktown nightclub questioning. The next day a Hollywood starlet from Elliot’s studio is murdered at a darktown nightclub. The little cockroach could put two and two together, alright. Elliot would have to give him something eventually. He'd work on a sanitized version of events once he had a better idea of what the hell was going on.

“Tell him I’m out of the office,” Elliot said as he stood. “It won’t be a lie.”

He grabbed his pack of smokes and his .38 from the desk. The smokes went into his jacket while the gun went into shoulder holster. He grabbed his hat from the hat rack by the door.

“What if the boss calls?” Agnes said as she handed Elliot the slips of paper.

“I’m going to see her,” he muttered while leafing through the messages.

Most were from journalists. Several from Sid, a few from Arty Gross at the Times. The last message made him pause. An LAPD detective J. Thomas left a message with Ella less than an hour ago. On it was the direct line to his desk at 77th Street Station. He passed the rest back to Agnes and kept Thomas’ message.

“One more thing.”

Elliot pulled out the list he’d gotten from Clair Beauchamp’s apartment and passed it on.

“You got a reserve directory at the switchboard. Look up these numbers and write down the addresses associated with them, and be quick about it.”

He gave her a playful pat on the rump and sent her on her way. After she was gone, he looked back down at the message. It was only natural that the cops would be calling after they figured out who the dead body was. They’d look into every aspect of the dead girl’s life, and Elliot would be the one standing watch just to make sure nothing bad about Pinnacle came out in their search.

But what if Thomas saw him at the club and remembered him? There was no way in hell he could know it was him that quickly. If he remembered him, then he would have to explain why he was there. That might lead to investigation into an uncomfortable place for the studio. But still, it would be ten times as worse if Elliot hadn’t gotten all that commie shit out of the apartment last night. He still needed to tell Jeannie about that. The two needed to come up with a plan before Thomas and the cops got involved. He lit up a fresh cigarette and headed out to break the news to his boss.

Nanning was a city of small stone homes, squat and quaint that pressed against cobble stone and paved streets. Along with the clops of horses' hooves there were the low hums of trucks and cars passing down the old wide streets. Here and there above the blue and red-tiled roofs steel girded water towers flew over the cityscape in accompaniment by higher office buildings and state structures. Even further beyond smoke stakes of small outlying factories rose solo or in scattered pairs silently puffing up white plumes of smoke or steam from outlying mills and refineries.

But pushed to outside the city, the slag and smoke of the industry was far separated from the inner city, which glowed flush and green with tropical palms and orchids in the mild spring afternoon. Along the river barges carried raw material from inland to be unloaded onto trains for delivery to the city factories. And besides them the primitive river barges and junks of up and down stream villages brought in the day's harvest and livestock from up and down the Yongjiang.

“It's quiet the place you have for yourself.” the Bureau agent complimented as he stepped out onto a small veranda overlooking the river. Below a small river-side park stretched where already a few afternoon breakers were sitting with their lunches in the shade of pagoda style gazebos and large bushes.

“I got tired of Nanjing.” a thin wiry old man said in a frail voice. He laconically tapped against his wrist a fresh pack of unmarked cigarettes as he starred across the room to the agent leaning out his window enjoying the view. Across from the elder another black-coated agent reclined in a chair.

The apartment was small, but appeared large in the austere and plain decoration it was presented in. Its owner taking little or no affinity in an abundance of possessions it carried the distinction of feeling like the quarters of a village sage, where he might sit eating plain rice and carrying on his zen meditation. What little decorations that existed that might be called that were hung distantly apart to give the aura of being much, and hung openly to show what pride their owner held in them. On one wall alongside a three-drawer dressed hung a military uniform from the revolution, plain green with rolled back sleeves, the collar trimmed with red stitching and a crinkled orange star sewn onto the shoulder sleeve, deep pockets decorated the chest and sides just under where the elbows would rest, and on a peg next to it a fur cap. On another wall over a washbasin and wooden counter hung a small Vietnamese flag no longer than a foot and a half. It hung next to an equally small Chinese flag.

Few other decorations anointed the walls. Here and there hung photographs of old friends and glories, but behind their glass panes the age in the photographs was beginning to show and the folds in the paper were growing sharper even when pressed flat.

“Have you eaten yet today? I haven't, perhaps I should get up and cook you something. Perhaps I can make some dumplings!” the seated agent said with a half-hidden, knowing smile.

“Ah! Ah!” the old man bellowed, standing to his feet, “You will not! I have never known a Chinese soldier to cook anything. Particularly anything good. If you want to eat, I shall cook!” the old man said breaking into a brisk stride towards the wash basin. There along with it and the flags was a small cast-iron stove and pulling open the cigarette pack he produced a single white cigarette and clenched it between his teeth. “I will show you how a master goes about it.”

The agent laughed. At the window the other piped in, “You don't need to worry about me, I already ate.”

“Well that's good to hear.” the old man said, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, “But perhaps I can interest you in a light. But for the stove and me.”

“Sure thing.” he said, fishing into his pockets for a matchbook as he crossed over toward him. The older man opened the door of the oven and tossed in a few loose shreds of newspaper and kindling sticks as a match was struck and thrown in after, as the second match was being struck for the cigarette the fire in the stove was beginning to crackle.

Taking a long draw on the freshly lit cigarette the old man sighed, low and crackling. “You know, ever since the Revolution finished in China I had to mostly cut back on smoking. I can not get any American cigarettes in this country, and yours are terrible.”

“We realize that.” the agent said, “It's why most of us don't smoke unless there's alcohol involved.” the old man scoffed, rolling his eyes but puffed contentedly away.

“I will say, cutting back does make waking up easier.” he chirped. “But you two didn't stop in to have a casual conversation. You sort never see anyone for casual business. What do you want from me?”

“Nguyen Sinh Cung, we want you for Vietnam.” the seated proclaimed in a declaratory tone of voice. He turned to look at him and gave a wide smile. “Aren't you happy?” it seemed to suggest.

But Nguyen merely rolled his eyes and sighed, holding the cigarette between his hands and making wide sweeping gestures. His eyes dropped to the floor. “And here I thought I would have given up on that.” he said.

Nguyen Sinh Cung was short, shorter than the agents and thinning. His dark skin spotty with blemishes and bony face made him out to be a frailer Hou with thinning hair, his bear was white and black twisted strands of hair and a short mustache completed the ensemble. But while old the compassion in his eyes had not dulled and he looked at the two agents with a weary expression of loss, “Why do you come to taunt me about this. I bid my time until the ghosts of the Revolution could be laid to rest. I've asked politely, I and my comrades to go home and restore our nation. And just now, years later you're asking me if I'm ready?”

“We are sorry.” the agent standing with him said.

“I'm sorry comrades, but I don't want your explanations.” Nyugen sighed.

“Do you have a moment at least to entertain us with your knowledge of people?” the man seated asked.

“Excuse me, but what's your name?” Nyugen asked, “I don't feel comfortable without having something to call you two by. I understand you don't like names.”

“You can call me One.” the agent standing said.

“I suppose I'll be Two.” the one seated said, resigned.

“Very well. One, Two... What is it?”

“We've been following the political situation in your home country for some time.” Agent One said, “We know the Emperor and the Mandarin but a new player has come up in the fight. We've heard the name Trung but we don't have any details. We were hoping you might recognize it as someone from the old Civil Service.”

Nguyen shook his head, and checked the stove. He went without answering for some time as he slid in a few logs and stoked the embers into a softly crackling fire. Afterwards as he filled a basin of water: “The name doesn't sound familiar. I can tell you it means middle, so my best guess is someone trying to be a middle ground between the two groups.”

“We thought so too, but analysis of the two parties suggests there wouldn't really be enough middle ground to make sense. But we still don't know enough about this individual's ideology let alone real identity to make a fix.”

“Was that all then? Just that question? I'll hardly be done making supper for two let alone three on that.” Nyugen complained as he dug out a sack of flour from a cupboard under the counter. He walked around the stove to a pantry from where he started to pull various vegetables.

“Not entirely,” Agent Two said, “Our orders after the collapse of the French state to revolution left us without reason to ever enter Vietnam, as you remember. Since then we've been more or less watching the country for the better part of the decade. These orders still stand, but as the climate in Indochina changes and we have reason to suspect a new party has gotten involved we're ready to re-evaluate this stance on the off-chance an outside power is making a power-play into the region. On the belief the original operations was to watch for any resurgent French activity beyond the plantation owners then we're in the belief that this might include anyone else.”

“Do you know who?” Nguyen asked, whetting the flour into a dough.

“We have a short-list, but no confirmation. Japan, Netherlands, the British through Singapore. Hell perhaps it actually is the French trying to subtly drift the country back to them or even Australia.”

“So it's a short-list of whoever and anyone.” Nguyen paused, looking up at them.

Agent Two shrugged, “We try our best, but that's only with actual information. We're trying.”

“So the silk strings with the sharp knives are at their wit's end!” Nyugen joked.

“These silk strings are much longer than that.” Agent One remarked as he walked back to the window.

“The main point of our visit is to probe for the possibility of political interest among the population of the Vietnamese veteran community in support to be the Vanguard in a Chinese supported restoration of order to Vietnam.”

“That is quiet the proposal, and I am honestly stunned.” Nguyen remarked, “But understand, gentlemen: while China has been generous in letting me and my people live here I do not think it washes away the debt of guilt it owes my people.”

The two agents starred at him baffled. Turning to the vegetables he began chopping them and continued, “The time I had to think about the issue the more I had to wonder how it might need to be done to avoid a second thousand years of colonization by China.” he went on, “And I concluded that even if you recreate the Vietnamese government in a free way would bring them back into Vietnam. And once you and your people are ascendant in Indochina how long will they remain as such.

“Hou said all men are family, as all in Asia are like cousins, and all in China are like brothers and sisters. And I have all respect for this statement. And I would very much like to see a Vietnam that is to China as a cousin is for his or her own. But think about it from the perspective of my people, my nation: is getting involved a saving of the family, or a sewing the hand onto a new body?”

The agents gave it a second of thought. “I depends on what you have to say about it.” Agent One said from the window.

“That is the problem, you haven't made commitment to the political thought on this issue.” Nyugen remarked.

“And while we cycle through questions of politics, comrade two pretenders at least square off for rule of the nation, a potential foreign third on its way if not there already. While in the south foreign domination enslaves your people.” Agent Two pointedly observed, “In the environment Vietnam exists in the country may well be sewn onto a whole new body and who says it won't be a thousand more years on them.

“We are today not a land of Emperors seeking new tracts of territory to enrich a private purse. China is the future, the new future.”

“And Vietnam will have that future, but I doubt China will need to have a presence in that.” Nyugen said, pausing to speak to the agents. When he finished he turned back to the food and went about kneading the dough for the dumplings.

“Someone will need to be there to set it on that road. By inviting you to be the Vanguard our intention was not to say you make a public face at the head of a Chinese army. We are very willing to go to Congress to suggest appropriations for arming an expat brigade of Vietnamese, composed of the men who survived the Revolution and are willing to go home and to provide all the guns and ammunition you might need. A Chinese boot need not ever touch the ground.”

“At least not in the public eye.” Agent Two chimed in.

“Suppose what you say is true, but I expect you'll want contr-”

“We do not want control. We do not imagine Hou will want to have control. Between us it's not throw a barrier between the reactionary outside and to prevent the infiltration of Asia by outsiders. If your government is so much willing as to do this, then the opinions of us two agents on the matter is fine and well. Beyond here are the choices of politics and given tacit approval we can begin moving more of our silk strings.”

There was a long thinking silence during which only the street sounds drifted up through the windows. The cars, the carts, the footsteps and the talking. The barges on the river and the horns and bells of city life. At the counter Nyugen rolled his vegetable dumplings and placed a pot of water on the stove where it gradually warmed.

“I've been writing poetry again.” he said conversationally.

“That's nice.” Agent One said. But the direct way he said it told Nyugen that it was not poetry he wanted to hear.

“I'll need to think about it. You've given me much to think about.”

“At least reach out, ask some of the others in the country and build up an opinion. Come back to us. Eventually we'll need to report back to Beijing on the conditions in Vietnam. Especially if we figure out who Trung is.”

“We'll tell you first.” Agent Two said.

“That's good.” Nyugen said softly, turning to them he asked invitingly, “Will you stay for lunch at least. You got me making dumplings and it'd be a shame to waste everything. It's vegetarian, I'm sorry. But I don't feel confident keeping meat at this time of year.”

Agent One stifled a laugh as the thought came to mind the plan might perhaps hinge on an icebox. But it felt too easy, too little. “We might as well.” Agent Two said.

“Good, I can tell you about my poetry then.” Nyugen smiled happily.



The sound of the motorcycle engine cut the still night air as they pull up just several miles from the border. Atop a rocky rise in the middle of nowhere the two young men stood with hats pulled down over their ears and collars pulled tight around their neck. The air was bitter cold, the sky was clear, and the not-so-distant border lay somewhere beyond the blackness of the night. Shuffling around the bike, Guo was the first to speak, “So, here we go: on and away?”

Chao nodded, though it was doubtful he would have seen it. “You think there will be anyone patrolling it?” Guo asked.

Both were understandably nervous. The excitement they felt as they looked out into the night in the general direction of where China stopped wasn't the same sort of giddiness both men felt when they decided to leave home to travel China on a road trip. This was in fact a more terrifying prospect to leave their home. Now all sorts of second thoughts were manifesting themselves, like could they ever come back home if they left? If anyone found out they had left the country would they be derided on their return? Would they get punished? How would the Khazaks treat them? What about any country after?

If they needed paperwork they had none on them. No identification to prove who they were and where they had come from. If they died out there would anyone be able to send their remains home? Were they dead already? The thoughts ran shivers down Chao's back. Guo was understandably nervous and afraid as well. At any point along this vague road they were on they could end up lost and anywhere but some dingy corner of Africa. They might find themselves in Europe, at the opposite end of some king's rifles for being Red Chinese, or associated with China. Or that is what he assumed would be the case.

The two young men looked uncertainly out into the dark night towards Kazakhstan. With a tough kick of his boot into the hard rocky earth Guo grunted: “Alright, if we're doing this let's go.”

“Let me drive.” Chao demanded before he could get to the bike.

“How so?” Guo asked.

“You've been driving it the most the last couple of days, to and from and about work. You got us here. Take a break and I'll get us across the border.” explained Chao.

But Guo laughed, “Nuh-uh, you just want to brag you crossed the border!”

Chao rolled his eyes, “Is that what you're going to make it about?”

“Fuck yeah. It's easy to see that. The two of us haven't been awake for more than two hours so why should I take a break. If anything, I'll cross the border. I'm taking the bragging rights for when we come back.” he decreed, with a confident click from his tongue against his teeth.

“Are you sure, you're not going to chicken out?”

“Hell no.” Guo said.

“Fine, but I'm driving across the next border.”

“You better hope it isn't into Russia then.”

Chao rolled his eyes, and together the two got into the bike. Guo into the driver's seat and Chao in the side-car. The bike's engine puttered and roared back to life and with the soft incandescent glow of the lamp light they began to roll down the hill, the tires bouncing off of loose rocks and stone. With the popping of loose pebbles mixing with the rumble of the motor they made their way to the dark border, a missile propelled by determination, but stupid goals, and blind to the world ahead of them.

As the bike rolled and bounced over the hard off-road terrain, making a slow course ahead Chao had time to think as he scanned the near-distance ahead of them where the headlight illuminated the packed desert earth. He wondered what they would find in the lands beyond China. More importantly, how he – they – might be expected to communicate. Neither of them knew any other language but Chinese. Chao had picked up some Arabic by traveling among the Hui, but would this get them anywhere? As he understood it, much of the world between here and Ethiopia would speak at least some Arabic.

But how was a Chinese man such as himself supposed to get through? What if the bike broke? What if they lost supplies: food, water, money. Could they negotiate for assistance? And what about for work? It wracked his nerves into a warped terror and he felt his heart palpitate and tighten in his breast at each passing turn of the tires towards the border.

If there was a point where one was falling into the precipice, feet detaching the solidarity of the earth and the back turning to show the man the safety he was leaving it was this moment. But it was a moment that dragged on for some time. Crossing the high central Asian steppe felt like an eternity, more when expecting to cross an invisible boundary. Neither of them noticed it when they crossed the border, and left China.

They kept driving, the sounds of the small motor engine popping and rumbling away into the night and leaving behind the Middle Kingdom. They were well outside the Chinese grasp, and were driving blind into the embrace of a new power. By this point they would continue to trade hands and houses until Mogadishu. But if these hands and houses would be closed, invisible, or open to them was for them to learn as they went on into the Kazakh night.

But the stars above, they were wondrous. Hours passed, and Chao turned his head skyward to watch. He thought they had to be in Kazakhstan now. And that thought dispelled the fear at the moment of full fall. There was no answer to how far they could keep going, if they would hit rocks or water or if traveling beyond here was to set a course through an infinite abyss. Perhaps it would be like falling through the Earth, to dive in through one end and pop out the other, then back through until he wanted to stop. He still felt fear, terror at the world around him. But turning up to look at the stars and seeing they were the same here as in China that there would be some consistency to the trip. One same thing to cling to where ever in the world he might be.



Li Chao

June 5th, 1960. The year of the metal rat

We've done it. Or so we hope. More than a few weeks of work at the vineyards and on the fields. They thought we were just migrants traveling around and they believed we'd be staying all season. We told them unfortunately we wouldn't and we'd be moving out, we after all just needed supplies for the road and were willing to work for it.

We hung on a little longer than we expected but we worked as hard as any. The men are are a good sort, simple and humble. But it isn't uncommon for many of the farm folk. It puts things into perspective sometimes. Here in the country the notions of politics are distant, more so now that I imagine they are not worrying about some robber baron or landlord's demands. The land is their own, and they work it as they need. Occasionally as it turns out some official may stop by and make demands and requests for certain amounts of something. But we were only temporary hands so it wasn't our position to ask questions. We just dug the trenches and repaired the irrigation.

The air here can get dry and hot. At high noon we all retire into the shade. The older men stand and watch the black water pipes with stern expressions under their wide leather hats as we avoid the heat, twirling their long beards. They may be farming but I get the impression there's still a little mongol left in these people. There's a look in their eyes as I can tell – as I can hope to see – that looks out on the horizon and wants to go to whatever distant point they see. But they stay put and work their fields. Then at night they sing their songs, drink their tea and their milk.

For a while we thought we had to sleep outdoors. It would be nothing hard, we have sleeping bags rolled up after all. But a few farmers let us into their homes and gave us a guest bed with the dogs or goats to keep us warm for the night. We took it happily, it's impolite to refuse a gift. And if the alternative is sleeping on sandy rocks then it sure beats that.

But in the end the final word on where the border is best crossed came in. Apparently one of the men community sometimes doubles as a smuggler of sorts. Or at least crosses the border often on his own. The guards he said would let him through but the paperwork is too much hassle to trade goats and camels with the folk on the other side so he always went around. According to him there's a point out in the open some ten to fifteen miles south of the main checkpoint that one can cross. The military tries to patrol as much as they can, but in the desert and at night they use the headlights on their cars so they can be seen miles off. So long as everything remains dark no one is around. If you're coming into the country though he says they'll see the tracks and that's when they'll chase you. But going out they have no choice but to let you through.

He can't speak much for the country of Kazakhstan though. He claims to only travel as far west as Urzhar to exchange livestock. But the country used to be Russian decades ago and warns that it perhaps might be a little like the rest of the old Empire. He advises we travel to Almaty, the capital to the south. But at any time before to try and find a way to swap out our Chinese license plate or lose it. It would be suspicious he believes to be seen with that anywhere outside of China.

He thinks at the least we'll find a train we can take to anywhere south and be on our ways. Guo and I agree: we can only hope on this.

The Lady of War - Philippines' Ally

Vietnam

Lady Trung had been moving from bunker to bunker, rendezvous point to rendezvous point, escorted by a small band of riders mounted on white horses. She herself had her own steed, named Aglipay after her 'mother-in-spirit', which she now rode south as she and her people prepared to gather their forces in a surprise offensive. From Lang Son in the north, where wary watch was kept upon Houist China, to the disputed city of Vinh - her destination - her supporters had consolidated a position from where revenge can be taken against Diem's traitorous forces; with the moonsoon rains hitting the country, a tiny window of opportunity had opened up to roll back the reactionary tide. And she planned to take it.

The forces of Diem's so-called 'Republic of Vietnam' had paused to rest after the roads were made muddy by the rains, but the army of the 'Vietnam Restoration League', her faction, were better-able to cope with the weather from a defensive position, and their own fatigue had been slept and nursed away from said defensive position. As Lady Trung, clad in military fatigues and wearing a light brown robe to cover her figure, entered the side of Vinh city taken by the revolutionaries, she rode slightly faster and found passion in the cheers given by the green-and-red-clad women and men who greeted her arrival. They were ready, she knew it. Lifting her curved sword, she spoke to the nearest sergant, "Raise the flag."

Five red stars forming a pentagon against a yellow background; that was the flag her father, Phan Bội Châu, had lifted up in his failed attempt at revolt against the French. She had used other flags in the years preceeding Diem's betrayal, among them a generic Anarchist 'A' Flag. But now was the time to declare herself openly; to proclaim her father's legacy once more. And so the flag of the Việt Nam Quang Phục Hội was raised once more; the same will be done all across her holdings.

Lady Trung then dismounted and went towards an armored pickup truck that boasted a machine gun. Sheathing her sword as the rest of her riders dismounted and switched to similar vehicles, she smiled as, after a slight pause, her army would march towards the lower half of Vinh, ready to evict the reactionaries from the side of town they held. She hoped that similar scenes would play out all across Vietnam, as sleeper cells, flanking battalions sent through tunnels and trails, mutineers and rebels would stage attacks against the weary and half-starving Diemist forces.

Gunfire sounded around her, and some of her men and women fell. Diemist troops were staging a counterattack, but as Lady Trung took up her pickup truck's machine gun - someone else drove the vehicle - and began to fire back, it was clear that their morale was flagging quickly while her people were merely roused into renewed fury.

At the first few roars of her artillery; mostly mortars but there were a few heavier pieces, the counterattack collapsed as the officers of Diem's army zoomed off like cowards in their own vehicles and left their men behind. For a moment, Lady Trung was tempted to continue the slaugther, but instead decided to lift up her curved sword once more to signal a cease-fire to allow the enemy to surrender -

Then the whirring of propeller-driven craft sounded from the south.

"They plan to do a Denver!" shouted Lady Trung as her forces, trained for such an occassion, began to swing every flak gun they had to greet the bombers with a wall of fire. "To think they would bomb their own armies..."

She then shouted to the driver: "Drive us to the nearest air-raid shelter, now!" Said driver didn't need to be told twice, and began zooming off to the middle of the revolutionary-held side of the city, where a cellar door lay open, waiting for Lady Trung to get off; already, the flak guns were firing even as bombs were falling on the reactionary and revolutionary sides of the city alike.

When the driver got off, she would shove said driver into the bunker first, missing valuable time as an explosion sounded behind her. Then she would dive into the shelter and close the cellar door behind her.

Hopefully, Lady Trung thought as she was closely packed with her men and women in the bunker, her forces would have learned from the Western Americans in Denver and downed as many bombers as they can. For now, though, she had to wait...wait to see if the shelter would hold. If it did not, defeat would be snatched from the jaws of victory.

And they cannot have that.

Outskirts of Krakau, Galicia-Lodomeria/"Austrian Occupied Poland", Danubian Federation.

"You can not prevent my entrance into the city, I have the full rights granted to me to move as I see fit and report to the people what is happening here! The media can not be surpressed like this!" shouted a rather large woman, her large cheeks burning red in anger as she angerly shoved her finger into a uniformed man's face. Several others around her echoing her protests as what was essentialy a convoy of vehicles were stopped at a military roadblock.

The man being yelled at was Klaus Stosch, a bulky man who stood strong before the woman shouting her objections straight into his face, almost covering his face with her saliva. He didn't seem to even be bothered, as he looked at her with almost a robotic lack of emotion.

"Ma'am, no civilians are allowed past this point. Media, resident, and even international are all barred entrance due to martial law being declared. It is for your own safety. The influx of russians have led to them ransacking homes and killing people in the streets, we can not safely let anyone in until the situation has passed." He voiced, raising his hands up in order to ensure everyone was paying attention to him. The soft drizzle of an upcoming rainstorm having begun to stain his already black uniform. "Please, everyone return to your vehicles. Official represenatives will be contacted in order to ensure any questions you have will be answered. Until then, for your own safety, leave city limits."

"It took me weeks to get here from Ottawa, and I will not leave so easily!" She retorted. Stomping her heeled foot in the dirt.

"Come now Ms. Elizabeth, I'm sure they'll let us in soon. Let us just wait it out." Chimed in a small, meak little man. He looked like a rat next to a dog with the size difference between him and the woman. Klaus eyed him down, not even noticing his presence until now. He had an American Flag pin on his chest, so he must have been working along side Elizabeth as a joint report of some sort.

That or he just wanted to get into her pants, Klaus didn't care. He wasn't even sure why he was even thinking about this at this point. The 'rat man' as Klaus was calling him now, had managed to drag Elizabeth to her vehicle at this point. Arguing betwen each other just out of earshot. Thank god too, her voice grated on his ears.

It took several minutes for everyone to slowly begin to disperse, returning to their cars and trucks and gradually turning around, heading away from the city they all wished to be in. The woman in particular seemed to have trouble climbing back into her vehicle, her body shaking slightly with her own anger. The approaching cold wind most likely didn't help either.

"I do not like lying to the people, Klaus. It shouldn't be our way." Voiced one of the other guards, shaking his head in disaproval once most of the vehicles had gone their own way.

"No one wants to lie, Wilhelm, but it is better to live this lie then to know the harsh truth of what is happening in that city. The Russian savages should all be forced to live in camps, before they ruin more of our glorious nation with their disgusting ways. First they destroy themselves, now they run to destroy their neighbors."

-----------------------------------------------------

Three Hours Later
East Krakau, Galicia-Lodomeria/"Austrian Occupied Poland", Danubian Federation.

A heavy rainstorm had fully engulfed the city at this point, forcing most people to return indoors until it passed. Getting wet and dealing with the winds an unneeded trouble for anyone sane enough.

Yet here, no one was sane.

The constant thunk of rain against the paved road was being drowned out, the constant yelling and cheering of the mass of people silenced nearly everything else. Before them, stood a line of men. All of them dressed in all black military uniforms, the double headed eagle of the Federation on their shoulders. Behind them was a single halftrack, with a young man standing in the hole where a machinegun would usually have been. His once crisp uniform completely drenched, turning it a shade darker. The only thing making him distinct from the men before him was a yellow armband on his right arm, and the cap he wore, proudly showing the Habsburg Eagle. His expression was stoic, his brown eyes staring at the assembled mob before him, as unwavering as he was.

"You will disperse! All Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarussians are to immediatly disperse and return to designated areas. Faiure to comply will result in force being used!" He shouted from the halftrack. His cap was barely keeping the water from his eyes at this point, and it showed no signs of really letting up at this point. The line of Austrian soldiers stood before him, armed and aiming at a large crowd of Russians and other minority groups from the now defunct Empire. They were screaming, shouting. Insults, demand for food, and of human rights. Rain would not deter them so easily.

"Oberwatchmeister Volker, sir, the Russians aren't bulging in the slightest. What are your orders?" exlaimed a private, looking up at Volker as he stood off to the side of the vehicle. One of his hands was held up in a futile attempt to reduce the water splashing against his face, and his head constantly turning to gaze at the crowd.

Volker eyed the people before him, as if analyzing a chessboard. Saying he was outnumbered was an understatement, there was nearly a hundred of them. He only had sixteen. His face contorted in a frown, as his own advantage lie in his weaponry. Shooting would solve the problem, yes, but would make things drastically worse in the long run. He already had to crackdown on several incidents already…

Most of the mob were in ragged clothing, the poor conditions of their refugee camps meant that many of them hadn't bathed in days. Their clothing was torn, shredded, and other types of damage. Inbetween the shouts, the coughs and sneezes that signal illness were easy to be spot. The storm wasn't helping that situation is the slightest.

Volker couldn't help but sneer, the mob stood defiant before him, as if confident in the knowledge that Volker wouldn't be able to stop them with the few men at his side. He shouted again, echoing his previous statement once again at the mob. His soldiers clearly getting nervous at the sheer size of their opposition.

They did not budge.

"Very well then, we shall scare them into submission." He noted. It was his best option, they were defiant and united in the knowledge that Volker wouldn't dare shoot. They were confident, headstrong… arrogant. If he could turn that around on then, make them doubt, then that might be all he needs.

Volker ducked out of the turret of the halftrack, climbing out the back and moving towards the line of men before him. "Men, take aim!" He shouted, walking down the line of soldiers. The cocking of a few rifles was heard, as they all rested the butts of their rifles firmly against their shoulder. Volker knew they were scared, many of them visibly shaking with their rifles.

The mob flinched, at last. Several members starting to duck away in the back, running down the street away from the firing line before them. Volker sighed with relief as quietly as he could, and signaled for his men to lower their weapons for now. "Fear can break the will of even the must stubborn of animals. Men, move forward and escort the survivors back to the designated refugee areas."

The Russians were getting more bold, and the lack of adequete supplies for such a large refugee population was increasing their militancy. His men were too streched thin to handle it all, but this was the first 'organized' attempt by the animals.

"Oberwachtmeister Volker, sir! Reports of fighting in the northern part of the city!" Volker recoiled at the news, turning to the man informing him of this. Not that man could even describe him, he could barely even be eighteen, his solemn face was pale and contorted from all the running he just had to do. Yet still, his inexpirence showed. As well as the baby face he sported.

"Who? Is it our police units?" The soldier shook his head, pointing his hands north as if it would help him explain the situation easier to Volker.

"Nein, it seems Polish citizens couldn't take it anymore, and they're fighting with the Russians in the city there. Worst is, their armed!"

Volker turned towards his men, shouting at them to load up into the halftrack, as well asordering someone to get on the radio and to request additional forces to move into the northern districts. Something wasn't right here, there wasn't any military armories in Krakau, and no munitions deliveries to the forces here were stolen from. How did either side get armed?

Bakersfield, CA

The big, black ’32 Buick Bonanza came to a screeching halt outside the front of Bakersfield Savings & Loans. Four mean leaped from the four door sedan and hustled towards the bank. All four men wore sharp suits, black and grey, with matching hats. They all wore leather gloves, gloves that held guns. The Two men at the front wielded Thompson submachine guns while one of the men behind them carried a shotgun and the other held on to an automatic pistol. Of the four, the man with the pistol was the only who did not cover his face with a bandana. His uncovered face was handsome, a trim mustache on his upper lip.

They glided into the bank. The two Thompsons rang out in the half filled bank lobby. The dozen or so customers and employees all turned in fright. The man with the pistol held it up and looked at the people in front of him.

“This is a robbery,” he announced. “Everyone stay calm and nobody will get hurt. Now, please everybody get down on the ground.”

Another burst of gunfire from the Thompsons sent the customers and employees down to the bank’s marble floors. The two men with the machine guns hurried behind the counter of the bank while the man with the shotgun and pistol kept their weapons trained on the people in the lobby.

“We’re here for the banks money,” the mustached man said calmly. “Not yours. We’re not criminals, folks. It’s the banks that are the true criminals. They take your money and prepackage it back to you in the form of loans with interest rates you cannot afford, for things you do not need. They are a tool of the capitalist bourgeoisie, a means that they use to keep the working class down. They are why we are in this Great Depression, they are why you starve while they grow fat. They are—“

He stopped short when he saw the two men with machine guns come around the corner with their guns in one hand, sacks in the other. The mustached man let out smirk and took a bow as the rest of the men raced towards the door.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. Have a good day.”

He winked and followed his cohorts out the door and back into the Buick. Once the doors were shut, the car lurched forward and squealed down the road. Its overpowered engine roared as the man behind the wheel, one of the two with the Tommy guns, navigated through the streets of Bakersfield.

“What was that, Vic?” the man with the shotgun asked, scowling at the man without the mask.

“Working on my patter,” Vic replied with a shrug. “Something to keep them occupied while Boykins go in, Joey.”

“Well, cut it out.” Joey had removed his bandanna, his bushy eyebrows knotted together in agitation as he looked down his beak like nose at Vic. “I didn’t understand half of what you just said.”

Of course you didn’t, thought Vic. You and the Boykins twins are just three dump Okie hicks who can barely read. Vic was technically a hick himself, born on a farm in Wisconsin back in ’06. But he was a well-read hick, one who read his history and his economics and knew it well enough to know that Marx was right about the world. The Depression was proof of that. People were dying daily, but all the businessmen cared about were their lost profits. They saw guys like Vic and Joey and the twins as expendable. They were a commodity to be bought and sold and to be sacrificed.

“What are y’all gonna do with your share?” One of the Boykins asked, Vic wasn’t sure which, from the front seat. “It’s nothing but liquor, ponies, and pussy for me!”

Vic chuckled to himself. This was his fourth straight week working with this crew. They’d been hitting banks across California, all those small and mid-sized towns between the big cities of LA and San Francisco. By Vic’s recollection, they’d hauled in enough money to have four equal shares of twenty thousand dollars. More money than Vic had ever made in his life time, money enough to coast for a few years.

“I know what I’m doing with mine,” said Vic. “There’s a little Hooverville I saw when we hit the bank in Palmdale. I’m gonna give them all my share.”

That brought yells of disbelief and argument from the other three men. Vic ignored them. Instead, he saw the sign announcing that they were leaving Bakersfield behind and eased back in his seat. The rest of his crew could complain all they wanted to, but Vic knew he would eventually convince them to give their money away too.

Vic hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t a criminal. In his mind, he was something else. He was fighting for something he couldn’t quite comprehend yet, something he couldn’t put a name to. There was an idea in the ether, but he would soon understand it in a few years time. Victor Hecht wasn’t a criminal; he was a revolutionary.

---


1:45 AM

Johnny Leggario watched the blackjack dealer reveal his hidden card. The ace of spades rested beside the king of hearts.

“Twenty-one,” said the dealer.

The dealer swept his small pile of chips away. Johnny flicked his two ten cards back in the dealer’s direction. He was now down three hundred dollars based on the crude math he was doing in his head. That was okay with him. He’d soon be getting it all back and then some.

After a few more losing hands, he stood and walked around the casino floor. He saw Stein across the floor, nominally playing roulette but his eyes watching everything but the little ball spinning around the wheel. Prussian Joe stood at the craps table, his small fist shaking the dice and letting it loose on to the felt. The eight people crowded around the table cheered, several slapping Joe on the back in congratulations. Johnny grinned to himself. At least someone else was winning.

Johnny made his way across the floor towards the far wall. You had to look at it closely, but you could just make out the little seams on the wall that revealed a hidden door. The door was how the security staff arrived and left the casino floor. He stopped short of the door and paused to light up a cigarette. While he did that, Prussian Joe and Stein made their way towards him. The little German checked his watch and nodded at Johnny.

The hidden door opened a crack. A single, blue eyeball looked out before the door swung inward. David Mather, in his tuxedo and slicked back hair, stepped aside and let the three robbers through the door. Stein pushed him against the wall while Johnny closed the door behind them.

“Valestra said if I let you do this, you’ll leave us alone,” he muttered to the men. “You’ll leave Ross alone.”

“That’s your deal,” replied Johnny. “We have a different one. If none of your people resist or fight back, we won’t hurt a soul. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Mather.

Prussian Joe nodded to Stein. The big man pulled a pistol and sap from his waistband. He sapped Mather on the back of the head. The man let out a gaps of surprise and crumpled to the floor. Stein passed Johnny the gun, Prussian Joe a switchblade from his pants pocket, while he held on the sap.

“Let’s get to it,” Johnny said as they walked through the corridor with the two others in his wake.

June 4th, 1960

Krung Thep, People's Republic of Thailand

---

It was not a usual custom of Grand Premier Thornthep Radchawat to attend Buddhist ceremonies, let alone funerals. He had eschewed religion at age fifteen, and his beliefs were validated by his fellow Khana Rhatsadon at age eighteen. He saw no use in contemplating the afterlife when a man could do good in his lifetime now. However, it was the dying wish of his dear beloved aunt that she be honored with such formalities, and somehow he found comfort in the dulling chants of the fervent monk, and in the lilting scent of the incense that permeated the room.

They drove back to the Revolutionary Palace in a thoughtful silence. Radchawat’s wife, who was a dear friend of his aunt, laid her head on his shoulder and grasped his arms tightly with white satin gloves. For a while, Radchawat contemplated his brief memories with his aunt, but by the time the driver pulled up to the gates of the Palace had already taken on a much more different state of mind.

An eager young soldier ran up to the couple, dressed in a drab olive uniform and with a submachine gun swinging from his hips.

“Grand Premier!”

“Please, comrade.” Radchawat slowly looked up. “Can’t you see we are mourning?”

The young man gulped and adjusted his red-badged collar.

“Premier, the Minister of War wishes to see you.”

Radchawat met Minister of War Thanee Souvanatong at his private office. The hulking wall of a man was clad with a multitude of medals such that made his chest indistinguishable from a Christmas tree, all earned from the 1921 revolution and the 1949 Cambodian War. He was upright and red-faced as always, his greying mustache sprinkled with cigarette ash.

“Premier, it is time we talked.”

“So it is.” Radchawat leant back on his tall leather chair and crossed his arms.

“Lady Trung has been betrayed by imperialists.”

“So she has.”

“This is not new news, Premier.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Premier, do you understand the gravity of the situation?!” Souvanatong slammed Radchawat’s desk, blood rushing to his head and staining his mottled cheeks. “If we allow this to continue, we will have a capitalist Vietnam for a neighbor!”

“That is what we said eleven years ago, when we invaded Cambodia.”

“Cambodia was a success!”

“Do you call the loss of eight hundred soldiers, two thousand Cambodian civilians, and millions of baht a success? Thailand is weary of war, Minister. Our people must rest, and our nation must take a different path now.”

Radchawat tilted his head. “Or would you have us tread the path of our colonizers before?”

“Premier, premier…” Souvanatong huffed and blustered, inflating his cheeks to a fiery crimson. “You don’t understand how easy this war will be. China, owner of one of the greatest armies in the world, supplies our arms. The Philippines is already a major player in the game. Iron and chromium deals are mere days away!”

But then in a sudden and stunning show of humility, the Minister stood up straight, pressed his palms together and bowed deeply. Radchawat raised a brow - it was unusual for this blustering mountain of a man, and a devoted communist at that, to make the traditional wai.

“Premier, please let me send a delegation to Hanoi.”

Radchawat sighed.

“Yes, you may.” He shrugged. “Though there has not yet been an official decision, I sense the intentions of the People’s Congress. There is nothing I can do about it.”

Radchawat finally stood up, a dusty creak emanating from underneath his seat. “Don’t seek sea passage, you will either be shot at by Sulu pirates or the French. Take a plane, and travel northwards first - I don't think we need to intrude onto Laotian airspace."

The Premier bowed deeply, returning the wai. “Thank you, Thanee.”

“Thank you, Premier.”

As Minister Souvanatong turned to exit, Thanee called out to him. “Minister?”

“Yes, Premier?”

“You get Thailand concessions, or you get that delegation home.”

A small packed room, smelling of cigarette smoke and fresh tea. Around a centrally placed table men in black coats were taking their seat. A meeting of field agents, the map of Vietnam hanging on the wall nearby spoke of the subject of the field officer's internal briefing. As the last man filed through the door, it was closed. The murmuring and wayward conversation hung for a moment longer as seats were taken, and a few chairs short several agents took position along the walls, propping files on clipboards against raised on the table in front of them.

“Comrades, I hope you've all had a good lunch.” a figure said at the head of the room. He was a burly man with a hunched back that made him look like a turtle. Old scars around his face made him appear as if he was scowling, though he smiled politely. His eyes were faded and shallow set, but his voice sharp and strong, “We all know the agenda today. Do we have any new information we would like to discuss. Bao Arban, Huang Du: you went to see our mutual friend, what's his position? Let's start there.”

“Nguyen Sinh Cung is apprehensive.” Bao Arban said, the Mongolian and agent who had identified himself as Two. “He holds the belief that any Chinese action in Vietnam would be perceived as being an imperialist project. He's pessimistic about intent and discussed if this would be another thousand years of Chinese rule.”

“And what did you say?” the commanding agent inquired.

“That rule in Vietnam would be Vietnamese. He served us lunch and we tried to convince him that we would be a stabilizing force. But that on the whole his people would be on the Vanguard. I don't think he bought it.”

“But is he receptive?”

“I assume so, but he's with holding his commitment.”

“Huang Du,” the commander turned, “What is your impression on the man?”

“He's a damn good cook and writes OK-poetry.” Huang Du remarked dispassionately, “I'm sure if we had the chance he could have served us a fine three-course meal. Puts the food here to shame.” there were rounds of laughter from the other agents.

“But I have to concur with my partner. Nguyen Sinh Cung doesn't seem to be very willing to go through to Vietnam with the thought of Chinese backing. But if I were to make a suggestion as to how or if we can then I would recommend letting him meet with Congress itself or Politburo. The man has respect for Hou, that much we learned over lunch. If we get the two to speak he may be convinced or at the very least made less stubborn to agree to terms with organizing Vietnamese battalions with Chinese support to end the civil war.”

“Understood.” the commander said, “As it turns out the Dragon wants a full report on this for the next Politburo session. I will include your suggestions for consideration.”

Huang Du smiled and bowed his head, “Thank you.”

“Before anything though I would like to make aware some important developments in Vietnam.” another agent said, “Pertaining to the possible identity of our supposed Trung.”

The commander lifted his head and nodded, bidding him to continue. The agent, stepping forward from the wall began, “Just these past couple of days our new played to the Vietnamese struggle as announced informally his identity.”

“His? Haven't we heard Trung referred to 'lady'?” another agent at the table asked.

“That may be the case but I find it hard to believe given whose flags we seen rising over Hanoi and the cities under Trung's control.” the standing agent said, walking towards the map he began fingering through the papers he held in hand. Making it up to the map he reached for a thumb tack and tacked to the northern portion of Vietnam an orange slip of paper with crudely drawn red stars arranged in a hexagon roughly around the center. “This is the best I've been able to replicate from what I've heard. Does this look at all familiar.”

“That's Phan Bội Châu's!” the commander exclaimed.

“So it is. I didn't recognize it at first so I needed it researched. But I was able to confirm it's the flag he used when he lead an army into Vietnam with remnants of the Kuomintang as the French state was collapsing.”

“His Vietnamese Restoration League was soundly beaten though, it couldn't be him.” one of the agents at the table pointed out, “I remember that. And he was killed in action too as the story goes. Are you going to suggest that was a story?”

“I doubt it.” said the agent by the map, “He's still very likely dead. If he hadn't died he'd be close to a hundred years old by now, assuredly he would have passed away if he hadn't been slain.

“No, what I think is going on is someone is trying to revive his legacy. All the symbolism points to a revival of his Republican legacy in northern Vietnam.”

“He was hardly popular to begin with.” opined the commander.

“If that's the case then shouldn't Trung's revivalist movement melt away?” Huang Du asked, cutting into the conversation.

“It may as well, or find only significant support in the north.” the map-side agent said, “The south has largely only ever been a monarchist's territory. Looking back through his movement he's only ever found real sympathy in the north. In the course of the conflict then in Vietnam, I would to give a tactical assessment that French backed reactionaries will continue to have a strong showing in the south, or local-reactionary backed French will continue to do so. Whoever would sooner deliver Confucian authority.”

“So we have a roughly ideology attached to the name?” an agent taking notes asked.

“It would appear so.”

“But what is Trung's relationship to the Vietnamese Restoration League?” Arban asked.

“If anyone can answer that question, then I am more than willing to hear it.” the map-side agent announced. The room was silent, confirm suspicions. Nodding he continued, “The best I can do is run on assumptions and hypothesis. Right now we have the return of the League flag so we can only guess it's a revival of the movement. Whether it's someone close to Phan Boi Chau or simply a follower bringing it back more than a decade later we can't know for certain until we see this leader, hear what this leader has to say, or find and capture someone close by. We will also not know who is backing them until we capture goods and supplies moving into northern Vietnam that might give indication on who is encouraging operations.”

“It sounds the next assessment you'll give is that we need to find and intercept supplies moving into the country.” the note-taking agent said.

Map-side nodded, “That's right. That'll help at least find out where the material for war is coming from and at the least destabilize the military operations in the north by encouraging a brief material shortage.”

“I hear there's a problem with pirates from out of northern Borneo or somewhere. Think we can get approval from the navy to use some ships?”

The heads in the room turned to the commander. He hung his head low thinking and shrugged. “I'll see what I can get done, boys. I'll put a request up and see what comes down.”

The shuffling and murmuring of the men confirmed their understanding and they moved on. “So what it sounds like is we have a conservative Republican movement in northern Vietnam then?” someone asked, “How does someone start a movement like this.”

“Typically they're known and accredited as someone who passed their imperial examinations. But with two emperors and French control in the nation there could easily be confusion on who is certified as being an accredited Confucian scholar. But that's how Pho had his credentials, the old Kuomintang dossier says as much.” map-side said.

“So assuming it's someone who was close to Pho, or who was in the original movement they are at the least adept Confucians?”

“Asking that now, I believe so.”

“I see, thank you.”

May 11, Army Barracks in Athens
Vangelis Georgiadis never once thought he would personally live to see this day. The young farmer never expected to survive his time spent in the Macedonian forests, fighting off royal soldiers better armed and better trained then he. Every day it seemed like death was coming for him, and yet, he and his brothers pushed on, never stopping, never surrendering. And it had all come to this day. It felt a bit unreal, to have left his life in Thrace, still a young man of 24, to spend the next few years of his life fighting not only for his own life, but for the lives of all who would have something to lose under the Nationalists. He drifted away into a flashback as he thought of the day he left.

"So my son is to sneak off to play soldier because he's afraid the government will come for his Turkish whore?"

The young Vangelis had indeed joined the ranks of Democratic Army with the fear of what would happen to his beloved, a Turkish girl named Defne he met while still a child. He had always been sympathetic to communism, but it was not until the word of the butchering of Turks in the South, areas controlled by the kingdom, that he felt compelled to fight. His father had none of it.

"When they find what's left of you, ill let them know to dump you into the nearest ditch they find."

Defne was always a hated subject between the two. His father was sure it was her that had made him a "fucking leftist bastard". Their relationship was irreparably damaged when Vangelis had announced his intentions to marry her, going as far to declare his intentions to convert to Islam per the wishes of her family. Vangelis did so when he was 18, and the couple had a child, named Mustafa, shotly after. This only served to make the separation from his father that much easier, but made him wonder if he was right to go off and fight like this.

This dissociative state broke when Vangelis felt a sharp sting and caught sight of the bright red on his hand.

An audible chuckle could be heard from across the washroom, where a tall, blond man, 30 years of age but looking seemingly older, came to put his arm around the younger man.

"Careful Vangelis, don't want to come all this way just to end up cutting your own throat in the bathroom,"

Vangelis chuckled a bit as the older man, Adonis, lifted back up and began shaving as well.

"Got something on your mind, kid?"

"Same as always, Adonis"

"If you ain't always got that girl on your mind"

"I just sent her a letter this morning, letting her known I'm alive and that I'll be going back to Iasmos by the end of this month"

Adonis gave a hardy laugh at this news, "So little Vangelis is finally going back to his wife, huh?"

"Indeed"

And with that came two more men, chatting among themselves as to how satisfying it was to watch the body of the old PM hang. Vangelis had not gotten the opportunity to watch Metaxas die. From what he had heard, the old man was basically on his way out no matter what, and the DSE simply wanted to kill him as a public statement, rather than let the bastard rot in prison away from public eyes.

A raid earlier last night had shown that King George high-tailed it out of Athens on the first plane as far away from Southern Europe as possible.

"Probably on his way to London to suck off the King for asylum," one of the two other soldiers said as the conversation turned to the exiled Greek King

"As if he'd need a reason to get on his knees for an Englishman" Adonis quipped across the room

Vangelis choked, fighting back a laugh as he finished his business and exited, making his way to the former Parliament building.

Central Athens
It was a hot day in Athens, and Markos Vafeiadis had picked a less than ideal time to deliver his speech to the crowd, looking for some news and organization with the loss of their former leaders. Word had reached Vafeiadis of the flight of King George II as soon as it was possible. With the death of Ioannis Metaxas, and the arrest and imprisonment of nearly all former member of parliament, it was plainly apparent what was to follow.

Vafiadis made his way to the front of the building, a roaring crowd coming to meet him and listen to what he had to say. For years he had given orders as the leader of the Communist resistance in Greece, and now his life's work had come to this. The woolen military uniform he had chosen to wear on this day quickly getting hot under the sun looming down on the city. He wasted no time in speaking,

"Comrades, Men and Women of Greece. I come to you this day with good news.
For 5 long years, we have been in struggle against the vile forces of the Kingdom. We have toiled for years, spilling blood, many giving their lives so that Greece may be free of the bindings placed upon her by those who would call themselves king. So that every Greek would know freedom. We sang that mantra, "Freedom or Death". And each time those words escaped our mouths, they rang true. For many, the later would be the reply to their call, however those who died did so for this moment, for this time when we can firmly say that the Revolution has won in Greece, and that we, the people, have cast aside they who would be our masters, and shown to the world that the Greek People are in control of their own destiny. We have shown that we need no King, and we need his cronies even less! Thus, brothers and sisters, we will proclaim, on this day, a Hellenic Socialist Republic, and the abolition of all monarchy and nobility in this land!"

In the cheering, roaring crowd was Vangelis, who seemed to drift into another dissociative state as he heard this news.

Is this real?, he thought, looking at the crowd around him, at the commander there at the front, proclaiming a new Republic and the fall of the monarchy. All this time, he expected nothing more than to die. To die protecting his beloved and at least saying he tried for her, and to join her in death when the nationalists came for her. And yet, he was standing in this crowd in Athens, seeing the fruits of not only his but many, many other's labors.

Vangelis would awake back in the bunker sometime later, disoriented, and catching a voice beside him.

"Just like old times,"

Adonis had been responsible for saving Vangelis' life many times in the war. Most notably, in the push into Thessaly, where the Kingdom opened fire with artillery onto them, with Vangelis being knocked unconscious, only to be dragged to safety by Adonis. The two had been the best of friends in the Army, with Vangelis returning the favor later, during the battle for Delphi.

"If old Adonis were not watching you..."

"I'd be a meat splatter on the ground right now," Vangelis said teasingly.

"I was planning on passing out on the floor too, but I was hoping you'd wait to join me in it after I invited you to celebrate tonight"

"Of course, I can always go for round two"


Macedonia Department

Vangelis Georgiadis sat reclined in the old wooden rocking chair his wife had moved from their home out to the porch of their home. Now a man of 44 years, he fiddled with a set of komboloi as his youngest daughter, Vakdi, happily played with a pair of dolls her mother had crafted for her, humming some children's song that Vangelis had tried synchronizing moving the beads along with. His eyes followed the beads, falling into a kind of trance as he moved them from one hand to the other.

"Vangelis!"

The man turned his head back to see his wife Defne standing outside of the door, her long black hair tied up, and dressed in clothes betraying what she was doing inside.

"Oh, Defne, what is it, my love?"

"Mustafa", she said, exasperatedly tapping her hand on the side of her hip, a habit she had when annoyed. "You were to meet him in Salonika for lunch, remember?"

Vangelis' eyes widened as he remembered. He had lost so much time in playing with his komboloi, he nearly forgot he was to meet his eldest son in the city before he left.

"Ah, thank you, dear," he wheezed out exasperatedly, "I just need to get my..."

He was cut off by Defne simply holding out his car keys, a mildly annoyed look on her face.

"I called the cafe he is at to let him know you are coming. Don't keep him waiting too long"

Au Bon Pain Cafe, Thessaloniki
Mustafa Georgaidis hated those who were not punctual. He hated lateness in general. Sometimes he wondered how he became like this, but then he remembered when he met with his father, and then the childhood seeds of this distaste for tardiness became all too clear. Mustafa had sat in the cafe, drowning himself in coffee for nearly 30 minutes waiting for his father to arrive. It would be another 30 before Vangelis would enter into the building, finding his son eying him across the room, his hand tapping on his hip, a habit he picked up from his mother.

"I hope you are not upset with me"

"I am not," Mustafa replied, motioning with his hand to let the employee at the counter know to bring over the food he had purchased for himself and his father.

"Mustafa, it has been too long since we last spoke!"

"Indeed"

Vangelis would never be used to the aloof nature of his son. He knew him to be an intelligent young man, 25 years old and already involved in a rather high position in the military. It would seem the personality of Mustafa affected his appearance as well, making him look quite a bit older than he was.

"So, why is it you're going to Cyprus again?"

"Work related,"

Vangelis nodded at this, "So when will you be back"

"Don't know, just need to be there as long as they need me. I'm leaving tonight."

The conversation continued for some time before father and son caught sight of the time.

Mustafa's face became strained at the time, only for Vangelis to chuckle.

"I can tell that face, and I agree, it's getting late for me too." he spoke as he rose up, "I'll be sure to tell your mother and your sisters the news"

"Thank you", Mustafa replied as he hugged his father. The hug lingering for some time before both left, parting ways once more.

Famagusta, Cyprus, Rhodes and Cyprus Department

This was nostalgia.

Mustafa had not been back to Famagusta since he had come here on holiday with his parents. However, the nature of this visit would be far less inviting.

The Popular Civil Guard had gotten reports of subversive activities in Cyprus, mostly coming out of the Turkish minority areas in the North. Mustafa played a valuable asset in these areas, being half-Turkish and a native speaker of the language himself. Accompanying him was his partner Mihail, who was far less useful in these areas, but served the all-important purpose of providing some muscle for the smaller Mustafa.

The two had just gotten information. As usual, when it came to Cyprus, the name Melik was bound to follow. After breaking a couple arms of some Turkish nationalists in the city. Something about an exchange with two Turkish intelligence agents going on in Melik's home before leaving the city, and the two were now staking out the location, having recently seen some visitors enter, and waited for them to leave.

"What do you suppose they're doing in there?" inquired Mihail, greedily consuming a Doner he had purchased earlier as they sat in the car watching

"As they usually do, plot against the country probably"

"No I mean like, they're probably eating or something, but I don't know, how do Turks eat dinner?"

"We eat it the same as you," Mustafa replied sarcastically, "we slather everything in yogurt and then blend it before drinking it as a liquid"

Mihail snorted at this, "No need to be a smart ass, I'm just curious. I've never met a Turkish person before you"

Mihail had come from Sparta, and likely had never even seen a Turk before he was stationed in Thessaloniki.

"Well, I am half-Greek too"

Mihail shrugged before pointing out movement outside the house.

"Its them,"

The plan was to intercept the agents before they got out of Cyprus, and recover whatever it was that Melik was giving them. As the Ottoman agents departed, Mustafa and Mihail were right behind them.

Argyrokastro, Northern Epirus Autonomous Region

"Fucking Shiptars"

Yiannis Anastasopoulos was a true son of Epirus.

Born in Ioannina, Yiannis was ecstatic to partake in the rightful return of Greek lands to the Greek state. Being stationed in Northern Epirus was fine and all, but he did have one problem. And it was the degenerate savages that were an unfortunate carry along.

To say that he did not like Albanians was a grave understatement. Yiannis hated Albanians, who he saw as basically savage. A couple of young women had come by and accidentally bumped into him, prompting him to scream at them, calling them both "shiptars", their name for themselves but that was a painful slur when uttered by the Greeks. The girls quickly shrank trying to get away, only for Yiannis to take hold of one, briskly pulling off the girl's hijab, nearly choking her as it came off. "What are you doing wearing this fucking rag on your head," the soldier said, shouting at the girl, who looked near to tears at this point, "God has no place in this country, so get your head into the 20th centary already!" he said, throwing the cloth onto the ground, prompting to the one girl to start sobbing, as her friend took her hand and walked her away.

"Do you always have to be such an asshole?"

Yiannis turned his head around to see his partner Thaimes, lighting up a joint just out of sight in the alley as usual. It seemed his partner was always getting cheap drugs from the Albanians living in the gutters of Argyrokastro.

"I'm surprised you were paying attention." Yiannis said, walking over and motioning for Thaimes to share the marijuana with him, as usual.

"I don't see why you hate them so much,"

"We're in Greece, in Greek land. Why should some barbarians get to demand to be different?"

"Whats it like living in ancient Athens?"

"Oh shut up, Thaines"

Northern Epirus was mostly Greek even before the occupation, though a significant Albanian minority existed. Tensions were always rising between the Albanians and Greeks, especially in xenophobic behaviors of settlers from Mainland Greece, and occupying soldiers.

"Did you hear that they shot down a guy not to far from here. Say he was planning to try and get in contact with Albania to get them to come invade again."

"Of course I did, and good riddance, I say!" Yiannis spoke between a drag of the joint "Less filth in Epirus, the better"

((Collab Post between BingTheWing and Letter Bee))

The delegation would land in Hanoi's airport without incident; the local Worker's Co-operative would greet the Thai delegation with flowers - mostly orchids - before escorting the Delegation to Hanoi's government building, an old French structure repurposed for the needs of the 'Workers' Councils' that ran the city. This was a bit rushed, but it was about to rain, so it was forgivable.

In Hanoi's government building, there was a neat and clean room that had been stripped of all superflous finery and sported a spartan table and chairs. On the other side of the round table stood a short young woman in military fatigues, surrounded by aides as well as heavily armed male and female bodyguards. This was Lady Le, Lady Trung's second in command. With a rough face and a scar on her right cheekbone, Lady Le didn't have Lady Trung's physical beauty, but was rumored to make up for it with a quick mind.

Lady Le would get up and give a short bow, before saying as thunder rumbled outside, "Greetings. Sorry for the unseemly haste."

At the other end of the table, Foreign Minister Choryan Lektaruthok put his palms together and waied deeply. "Good evening, Lady. Everlasting peace from the People's Republic. And do not worry about the venue; I quite like the aged charm, in fact."

Choryan was a short, balding man just shy of sixty-three years of age and a fondness for patterned ties. The contrast between his five foot five frame and the massive heft of the Revolutionary Army bodyguards visibly armed with hi-capacity submachine guns was almost comical, to say the least. Choryan eyed the Lady and her entourage with a quiet, yet burning, light. These were the faces of a desperate nation, ready not just to die for the greater good of socialism but also for fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters taken from this world in various unpleasant ways by the enemy. Choryan was old, but he was sharp. His entire professional life had been spent knee-deep in the chaotic intrigue that was the political machinery of the People's Republic of Thailand. He had seen his country at the beck and call of imperial overlords, he had seen his country execute hundreds for the sake of revolution, and he had seen his country undergo the military success and political disaster that was Cambodia, but now, at the very least, he hoped, he would see his country through this. Choryan disagreed with the Premier in that Thailand was a tired nation. Thailand was a raring power in Asia, eager for blood and quite capable of annexing the entire Southeast Asian peninsula if need be. But what Choryan did agree on with Premier Radchawat was there needed to be a stopping point. If this belligerency continued, Thailand as a nation would not die, it would get itself killed.

For now, Choryan reduced his inner dialogue to a soft sigh. He proceeded to remember his objectives. Get Thailand resource concessions, no matter the cost.

Lady Le was matter-of-fact, "You are here for Iron, right? That and Chromium from our allies. Well, our Miners' Unions are more than willing to provide the needed resources at below-market prices in exchange for immeidiate help. As an added bonus, you get the services of Sulu Pirates against those of your enemies who have a coast and shipping. Would that not be seemly?"

A pause. "Note that by 'immidiate help', we do not require the use of the Thai Army, as it is still bound by 'occupation duties' in Cambodia. Rather, we want to tighten the blockade around the reactionary forces in French Indochina and Central Vietnam; Diem's so-called Republic of Vietnam. Thus, we want the aid of your navy in enforcing the blockade around the enemy, as well as the use of Thai ports as bases for the Sulu Pirates; they will pay handsomely for the privilege."

Choryan smiled and nodded. This was a godsend - Thailand did not have to get as actively involved as he predicted.

"The iron and chromium deals are deeply welcomed - I will leave it to our economic officers to work out the finer details. However, our country's pride and joy is really the army, and we are yet to improve our air and naval technology as of now. Some help in that matter would be greatly appreciated. However, I am not sure of allowing possible outlaws into Thai ports. Can you guarantee that these Sulu pirates will behave accordingly? Do they have any histories of disobedience?"

Lady Le smiled, "Sulu Pirates are just sailors; rowdy, raunchy, and easily led by alcohol and wenches. If they disobey, that is because they have not been given enough whores and forbidden intoxicants. But if you wish, you can have the Sulu Pirates dock in different parts of the port than used by regular shipping or your military. As for naval technology...you've come to the right place; we have a strong naval tradition."

A pause. "Right now, most of our naval strength are converted fishing and merchant ships fitted with machine guns. However, we have a French Submarine or two we can 'donate' to the Thai cause, if you need it."

Choryan suddenly remembered himself. Did Thailand really need the help? All it would do would be to further 'encourage' his bosses. But at the same time, Choryan knew Thanee would rip into him if he knew that he had passed up an opportunity to acquire a new submarine, a French one at that.

"The French submarines would be excellent, Lady." He stood up to conclude the discussion, lest his superiors be unwittingly given more toys to fight the war. "Together we will wipe out those cursed imperialists." He extended his hand. "Glory to socialism."

Lady Le took the hand. "Glory to the Unified Left."

---------------------
Isfahan, Persia
---------------------

Isfahan was an ancient jewel in Persia's crown, a city brimming with history and art. Yaqob was frustrated that he didn't get to see any of it. What he saw from the window of the airplane was the small shapes of buildings against the far away mountains. He sat in his chair, itching to explore, pent up by Akale Tebebe's schedule and the expectant Chinese.

When they were done refueling, they headed east toward the purple of approaching night. The desert looked like the husk of a cheese all laid out below them. Here was the land of Cyrus, Alexander, and Shapur. He wanted to take a year and tour it all, to pay homage to the ruins at Persepolis, feel the warmth of the flame at a Zoroastrian fire temple, listen to the call to prayer from golden minarets. Instead he sat back in his chair, sipped a glass of ice water, and lamented how tragic it was to be royalty.

"Put the things you don't want them snooping through in your personal luggage." Akale sat down across the hall. Today he was wearing a robe adorned with galloping golden giraffes.

"I have nothing to hide."

"I don't have anything to hide either, but I have plenty of things I don't want people to see." Akele looked out the window into the dark, "I'm going to sleep. You should too. We have a long flight ahead of us. It'll be morning before we reach Urumqi."

"I'm going to do a bit of reading first." Yaqob held up a book; Selected Essays of Hou Sai Tang, Translated by Kifle Mesrak. "Just a few minutes."

"Suit yourself." Akale went to the back. Yaqob took a sip of water and started to read.



Yaqob took a pen and underlined where it said "Foreign Idealogy." Wasn't Houism naturally opposed to foreign ideologies? Like a man following clues on a treasure map, Yaqob felt like he was on the right path to find Hou's unspoken intentions.



Yaqob rubbed his eyes. He wanted to complete the essay. He didn't realize he was this tired.



He wrote in the margins "The monarchy was..." but he didn't complete his thought. His eyes were heavy. He nodded off a few times, fought to stay awake, but sleep took him in the end.

When he woke up, they were over the jagged snow capped peaks of a colossal mountain range. He felt cold, but put that off as his imagination, and sat up straight.

"Welcome back." Akale said. He was sitting in the seat across the aisle again.

"Back?" Yaqob knuckled the sleep from his eye. "From?"

"We're arriving in Urumqi very soon."

The mountains gave way to foothills, and the foothills to an irrigated farmland. Urumqi, much like the farmland, followed the terrain in square blocks. They aimed for an airport on the plains north of town. Chinese military men waited on the tarmac for them, standing like statues, dressed in uniforms the color of evergreen trees. When the plane came to a stop, they surrounded it, and two of the men came inside. Akale Tebebe stood up and welcomed the leading officer like a salesman greeting his mark. They spoke Chinese. Yaqob didn't understand them, so he sat tight and waited. They motioned to him several times, but he didn't know why. More soldiers boarded the plane and the search began. It didn't bother him much. The only time he felt uncomfortable was when an officer picked up his book from the chair next to him and flipped through it. The man must not of had any opinions, because he put it back and moved on.

When the search was over, they were off. Yaqob returned to his reading.



Yaqob circled the end of the first sentence and wrote in the margins on that page "Hou identifies with the Emperor." He kept reading.



Yaqob underlined the second sentence.



"What is Hou's true ideology?" Yaqob wrote on the bottom of the page. The dinner bell rang and he closed the book. Dinner was served mid evening. It consisted of two hard-boiled eggs, slices of grilled steak, fried potatoes, and rolled up strips of injera. Akale took wine with his meal, and Yaqob took coffee.

"You're going to need to learn Chinese." Akale said, looking down at his food.

"Yes. I look forward to it. Was it hard to learn?"

Akale smiled. "It's a whole lot different than any other languages. Their writing system makes very little sense honestly. Don't know if I'll ever learn it."

"I'll consider it a challenge. How is my education to be handled? My brother and sister went to school in Europe."

"Wait a few years and you'll probably be able to apply to a European school. For now, we'll make sure you have tutors so you aren't far behind."

"Would China be an option?"

Akale paused. "China? Well... probably not. Europe accepts aristocracy as a matter of fact, but the Chinese... I'm not sure you'd receive the right lessons from people who believe some barefoot dirt farmer is your equal."

Yaqob disagreed, but he did feel like arguing the point. He turned back to his studies and read for several more hours, midnight when they made they arrived over Beijing.

-Post postponed and deleted-

Pinnacle Studios
4:35 PM

Jeannie Rothstein-Shapiro silently watched the movie on the screen before her. She and Elliot Shaw were the only two people in the small ten seat theater. Set up just down the hall from her office, it was how Jeannie watched dailies and reels from all the different movies being produced by Pinnacle.

Currently, they were watching a reel from the latest Jimmy Fastsitter and Bobby Chambers picture. Set to be released at the end of June, Tramps in Tripoli would be the follow-up to last year’s smash hit, Bums in Baghdad. Tripoli would be the seventh of the Fastsitter and Chambers road films. They were all the same, more or less. Fast talking Jimmy and cool as ice Bobby pretty much played versions of their celebrity personas, except they always got into crazy hi-jinxes across the globe.

There was always some kind of comical chase through a sound stage meant to look like it was on location, Jimmy always did some kind of comedy shtick to get them out of trouble, and there was always an exotic beauty for Bobby to serenade, and the beauty was always a white woman with a tan and a brunette wig. And they always ended with the two pals setting off to their next adventure. If Tripoli made back its budget, then a script was already awaiting them for next year: Louts in Lisbon, coming to a theater near you in 1961.

“So, you’re telling me the girl was radioactive?” Jeannie said, not really paying attention to the action on the screen.

“The shit I found in her apartment seems to indicate that she was at least sympathetic to the radical left.”

“Fuck. This is grief I don’t need.”

Jeannie rubbed a meaty finger on her left temple and Elliot stayed silent. He’d worked for her long enough to know when to talk and when not to. He smoked a cigarette and watched Bobby croon to a fake Libyan on the screen.

“The cops are gonna come to you,” she finally said after a long silence. “Asking for help. Help them, but keep an eye on where the investigation goes. If they get anywhere near the radical shit, run interference. Give them the interracial stuff if you have to. That will mar her legacy, but fuck it. Shall We Dance? is apparently selling out all its domestic screenings thanks to the murder, so we’ll make our buck and be done with her. But if it gets out we hired a commie then the government will be all up Pinnacle’s ass.”

Elliot nodded and took a drag on a cigarette. He remembered reading about what happened to the movie industry in the first few years after the war. The US government declared the movies an arm of socialist propaganda for the western states. Studio heads were fired, directors, screenwriters, and actors were blacklisted, and government censors had to approve everything. Eventually a new presidential administration led to the removal of government intervention and back to business for the movies.

But that shaky peace lasted only until the old rumors of red infiltration of Hollywood were reignited by Claire Beauchamp’s political leanings. It wouldn’t take much to restart the censorship and blacklisting, a government muzzle on the pictures. On the screen, Jimmy Fastsitter ran away from a group of Mexicans made up to look like Arabs, complete with turbans and fake scimitars.

“Stop this shit from spreading,” Jeannie asked with a voice that carried no warmth. “We clear, Shaw?”

“Yes, ma’am,’ replied Elliot. “Crystal clear.”

---

77th Street Station
5:12 PM

Jefferson Thomas got to the station almost three hours before his shift started. That was his usual routine during a case that had his interest. It always reminded him of why he loved the job, made him excited to be a detective. It also didn’t hurt things that he stopped by Leon’s before his shift to get some more powder. A bump on the dash of his car had gotten him going, so now he was ready to start where they’d left off on the Beauchamp case.

There were nearly two dozen messages waiting for him at his desk. Ninety-five percent of them were media inquiries, newspapers and radio stations and scandal rags alike. Elliot Shaw had apparently returned his call while he was off duty, beneath the name was a number listed as his home number. The man’s title, Vice President of Production Affairs, made him sound more tame than he actually was. If you wanted any real information about a member of Pinnacle Studios, then you had to go through Elliot Shaw. He was the investigation’s first stop in finding out who the victim really was, and why someone wanted to kill her.

The next message made Jeff feel a bit queasy. Captain Arnold Prescott had called his desk, looking for him. Everybody in the LAPD knew Prescott and the type of operation he ran. They were officially known as the Intelligence Unit, but everyone knew them as the Red Squad. Essentially Pinkertons on a local level, they investigated subversive activities in Los Angeles. They were rumored to have a hand in everything from wiretapping to blackmail and strikebreaking. And now the head of the Red Squad had called Jeff personally. Why?

The answer came when he shuffled the paperwork on his desk around. He saw the envelope sitting beneath paperwork and remembered seeing it the night of the Beauchamp murder. During the craziness, he hadn’t been able to look at it. Now, he picked it up and opened it. It was an LAPD arrest record on Wendall NMI Brock, the South Central DB he'd been working before the Beauchamp murder, and it was heavily redacted. It listed Brock’s name, date of birth, and last known address at the top. It only had one arrest on it, a drunk and disorderly from ’58, but everything after that had been censored by someone. Three whole pages, and nothing but a simple misdemeanor two years ago.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jeff muttered to himself.

“Mr. President.”

Hoyt was standing there, early like Jeff and ready to go. His sport coat was off and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. Jeff saw blood spatter on Hoyt's tie. His knuckles were swollen, but not cut. It was the swelling that came from hitting something with brass knuckles for far too long.

“Hoyt,” Jeff mumbled, putting the arrest record down quickly. “What are you doing here?”

“Big case, partner,” the big man said with a wink. “I got the itch to work. Been here since three. How about you?”

“Yeah,” Jeff said, nodding. “I need to call that studio guy back. He left a message.”

“We’ll do that later. We got a mandate from the captain. All negro sex offenders in the South Central area are to be rounded up immediately and thoroughly questioned. As you can see, I've been doing my part.”

A smile crept up to Hoyt’s face. It was a smile in name only, and it scared the hell out of Jeff. He knew what thorough questioning meant. It meant brass knuckle work, rubber hose work, phone book work. And new dental work for the guys they brought in.

“Now come on back,” Hoty laughed. "And help me out, boy."

---


Hay-Adams Hotel
8:34 PM

Russell Reed stayed silent while he and Jeff Brewer watched the makeshift screen rigged. A projector behind them was running footage of President Norman ‘s campaign stop in Iowa. If you just saw the president you would have confidence in him and the government he headed. Michael Norman was directly out of central casting, Hollywood’s idea of what a US president should look like with his square-jaw and perfect head of steel-colored hair.

But once you talked to the president for more than five minutes, that confidence evaporated. He was just so… awkward when it came to dealing with people, bad at making it seem like he cared and was actually listening to them. At best, he was distant with them. It gave him the air of being stuck up, something you couldn’t do if you were scrounging for votes in Pigshit, Iowa.

“I’m still confident in the polls,” Brewer replied.

Russell didn’t say a word. The suite on the hotel’s top floor served as campaign headquarters for the reelection of the president. They sat in two chairs facing Brewer, formerly the White House’s deputy chief of staff, now served as campaign manager.

“If we’re going up against Houghton, we’ll win in a landslide. Even if it’s against Baker, we’re still polling ahead by a good ten point margin.”

“Don’t trust polls, Jeffery,” Russell said, his eyes fixed on Norman trying, and failing, to kiss a baby on the forehead. “Anonymity at the ballot box is one of our most sacred traditions, so people will lie if pressed.”

On the screen, Norman was talking to a man. There was no sound, but the man’s body language implied he was not a fan of the president. His scowl furrowed deeper and deeper the longer Norman spoke.

“Jesus,” said Brewer. “We’re supposed to edit this down to thirty seconds to put in a newsreel, but I don’t see how we can get more than ten seconds of good footage.”

Russell leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. Brewer shook his head and searched his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. When he found it, he lit up and dragged deeply before he blew a thick cloud out of his mouth. The man was nervous. Russell understood perfectly those nerves. All of their careers were relying on the goofball on the screen.

“Have you heard any more news about Fernandez?” Brewer asked.

“My friends say he was in Boston last weekend. Without a doubt, he was meeting with Big Jim. Big Jim keeps his own counsel, so there’s no way to know the results of that meeting. Even if he has New England, it's only for the first ballot or so. Big Jim is good about making sure his side is the one that comes out on top, so he'll switch sides once he sees how the wind is blowing.”

Brewer looked out the corner of his eye at Russell. “And what about our friends from Sun City?”

“Sledge reported back that they’re on board. So, that’s a lot of states with a lot of delegates in our camp to start with. Even if Fernandez gets something out of his travels, it won’t be enough.”

“Let’s hope. I don’t want to even about think what a convention fight will do to the president once we get to the general.”

Russell didn’t reply. Instead, he watched the president on the screen back away from another angry man, a secret service agent getting between the two of them and holding the man back as Norman walked away to the next unfortunate Iowan.

For four years, Russell had watched Michael Norman fumble with the power of the presidency while Russell had to carry his water. And now he was asking people to let this slow motion train wreck continue for another four years. Russell regretted ever attaching his political fate to this clown who could barely carry on a conversation with the average voter, regretted using his power and political capital to get him elected four years ago. As Senate Majority Leader, he had a power that only the presidency could rival. If he were from anywhere but Georgia, he'd have been a shoe-in for the '56 nomination. But, thanks to men like Jefferson Davis and Huey Long, southerners were always long shots when it came to the White House. He had to settle for the vice-presidency.

At least for a little while longer.

“Get sound of the speech and put that in the newsreel,” Russell finally said. “Put in a few quick shots of the president shaking hands, that’ll get you fifteen seconds at least. It's not much, but we need people across the country to actually see their president for a change.”

Topkapı Palace, Constantinople
Topkapi Palace had served as the seat of power in the Ottoman Empire for centuries. It's halls had seen murder, conspiracy, love, hatred and arguments since the days of Suleimann but as of the 1940's, had been reformed to fit the Ottoman's new constitution. It stood proudly on the banks of the Bosphorus, overlooking the great city that had once been declared the Second Rome. Since the Tanazamat reforms 60 years previous, had lost much of its
political relevance. In the early days of Osman's rule, it'd been the place of many meetings but as Osman had grown older and lost interest in politics, served more as tourist attraction and symbol of the old Sublime Porte.

"He's praying, Selim. I cannot disturb Him" repeated Muhammad, the smirk still mocking the Grand Vizier. "This is important, Muhammad" snarled Selim, lifting his walking stick threateningly. Muhammad looked unperturbed at the crippled veteran standing opposite and sighed. "This isn't the army, Selim. You can't get what you want by demanding it. This is the Grand Sultan, the Caliph of our Religion, Allah's representative on Earth! His word is second only to the Prophet Muhammad, Allah be with him" replied Muhammad in a hushed tone, as if afraid Osman himself was listening. "And he said, no more little disturbances while he prays! Why, I remember the last time you came barging into here, screaming about this and that, it was all very, very queer!"

Selim Pasha hated Muhammad. Why the Sultan had chosen a young, handsome Arab as the head of his own Janissary Guard was honestly beyond him but Selim guessed it was probably at the suggestion of the army. Those thick, blowjob lips probably had something to do with it as well.

"Yes, yes" snapped the Grand Vizier, his walking stick once again by his side. "If you'd like to wait an hour, the Grand Sultan will be with you" said Muhammad, his sickly sweet smile on intensified by the twirled ends of his moustache. The Janissary Muhammad gave him a wink and minced away behind the door, slamming it after him. Selim grumbled something about a bundle of sticks as he turned to look at the waiting room. Two French style windows flanked an ancient painting of Suleiman the Magnificent and several cracked, leather armchairs occupied each corner. The carpet was dusty and the tacky wallpaper showed traces of mold.

Osman IV had once held meetings with the military in this very room 20 years previous but it had fallen into disuse during the the Greek Invasion of Cyprus, when the military and cabinet had met independent of the Sultan. Selim Pasha lowered himself into a chair slowly, groaning at a shooting pain going up his leg. It was getting worse. Old age, said the doctor. Selim himself was on the wrong side of 70 and had been born in a dying Ottoman Empire but his own pride prevented him from retiring. He intended to stay in power as long as he could and leave a stable, politically independent Ottoman Empire in his wake. His premiership had lasted since the early 40's and he intended to keep it that way, army or no army.

Selim's hand gently brushed his leg, where that old war wound was. It brought back a flood of memories.

Kara Station, Ottoman Sanjak of Syria
1917

The desert realm was silent now. Only the occasional burst of far-off gunfire cut through the dark wastes, each one sending a dark shiver down Selim's spine. He was handsome, then. The stresses of politics and age had not yet scoured his face and body but the desert sands and lack of sleep had taken their toll. Even bent within the remains of the train station, shakily reloading his rifle, one could easily see him on the front of a French fashion magazine. The sound of hooves and the trail of dust had slowly faded into the distance only minutes before but Selim still felt weary.

"Nefer Selim" hissed Dervish from somewhere outside the station. "Are you still alive?" "Y-yes, sir" mumbled Selim, not daring to peek out over the shattered wall. Dervish didn't reply but instead hopped over the wall to join his inferior. "Anyone else?" "I-I don't kn-know, sir" replied Selim, tears springing to his dark eyes. Dervish, a man with a hard face and a powerful beard, ignored the cowering Nefer and glanced over the wall.

The train station was the only source of Ottoman civilisation for miles around but days of raids and attacks from Arab cavalry had left it in ruins, a skeletal brick building that was slowly losing to the shifting sands. The tracks had been left deliberately untouched, to the relief of the Ottoman High Command.

"Those fucking towel-heads will be coming back soon, Nefer" said Dervish, that familiar glint of madness flashing in his eyes. "We'll give them hell, boy. There's a train coming in a few hours with supplies. We're going to take down as many of these fuckers as we can before it gets here". Selim nodded quickly, sniffing. "Cry for our brothers later" growled Dervish, glancing at the dead bodies, littered all over from the last raid. Friends, leaders, fathers had all died in the last raid. They had used dynamite and superior numbers to overwhelm the small Ottoman unit but the Red Star and Crescent still flapped proudly above the flaming ruins of Kara Station.

"Come on, Selim. I saw Enver fall at the machine gun but it's still up there. I have a plan" grinned Dervish, motioning his remaining soldier to follow him. The men crawled on their bellies to the doorway, avoiding rubble from the walls and the remains of their comrades. They stayed low, making their way to the tall, machine gun nest on the outskirts of the station. Selim's heart pumped hard in his chest as his hand brushed against the uniform of Enver, who had been shot from his nest and fallen 10 feet to the floor. He froze, tears springing to his eyes again. "Sir, I-I don't think I can..." he mumbled, a sob cracking his voice. Dervish already had a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.

"Nonsense, Nefer. We will be heroes" said Dervish, a reassuring smile and an outstretched hand pulling Selim to his feet. "You understand? I don't want tears or fear or any of that. I want you to be the good soldier you've always been". He bear hugged Selim and held the young man's face in his hands. "Reinforcements in a few hours. I promise" he said, kissing the young man on the forehead. Selim nodded and wiped his running nose on his sleeve. "Up the ladder, there's a good boy. I'm right behind you" said Dervish, clapping the future Grand Vizier on the shoulder.

Selim shakily climbed up the ladder and scrambled into the tiny nest. Dervish came after him and they both crouched behind the shaky wooden structure. A machine gun, still hot to touch, lay motionless on its stand. Dervish examined it carefully, muttering to himself for some moments as his Nefer hugged his knees. "Okay, Selim. You keep a look out, I'm going to find more ammo for this gun in the stores in the cellar. You see anyone, let me know" whispered Dervish. As he shuffled past, he stopped momentarily. "This is one train that won't be late, you'll see, Selim. It'll be over before you know it" he smiled and Selim returned the favour.

Selim squinted through his binoculars, scanning the horizon for the daily dust cloud he had come to hate. This was the first time the Arabs had broken through the fence and they had wreaked havoc. No doubt they were returning to their camps to gather up another force to fully take control of the station.

Dervish picked through the bodies of his fallen comrades, collecting ammo, guns and whatever else. He paused over the body of a Turk who had lost his legs to dynamite and a fallen horse. His screams had pierced the air of the battlefield for hours until he had fallen abruptly silent at the hands of his own gun. "Allah loves a warrior" he murmured, closing the mans eyelids.

When he returned to the bottom of the ladder, Selim was peering over the edge, staring down at him. "Selim, keep look out" he hissed, shifting the collection of guns slung around his shoulder. "Don't you need help, sir?" replied Selim meekly. "No! Now check the horizon!" he retorted in hushed tones. Selim nodded and scrambled to the other side of the nest, squinting through a pair of binoculars.

In the dawn sun, at the end of the valley, he could just see the very thing he didn't want to. A large dust cloud, kicked up by the biggest force of horses he'd ever seen.

Arabs.

Topkapi Palace, Constantinople
"Selim Pasha?" asked a voice, gently shaking the Great Vizier awake. Selim awoke quickly, his bloodshot eyes madly scanning the room. His heart pumped in his chest. He was still in the Sultan's Quarters. "Selim Pasha?" repeated the man, standing up. It was Sultan Osman, casually dressed in dark robes. His impressive beard had become even greyer since Selim had seen him last. A white turban was wrapped around the Sultans head.

"My Sultan! My greatest apologies, I must of drifted off!" apologised Selim, jumping to his feet to bow. A pain shot down his leg and he audibly gasped, reaching madly for his walking stick. The Sultan gently took his Grand Vizier by the shoulder and lowered him back to his seat. "It happens to the best of us, friend" he smiled sadly. "Please, go easy on that leg. I want my Vizier in one piece".

Selim, his face red with embarassment, bowed his head in shame. His beating heart was slowing now but the pain in his leg was yet to subside. "You seemed disturbed while you slept, friend. What were you dreaming of?" asked the Sultan. "A better time, my Sultan" replied Selim, only now daring to look the Ottoman Emperor in the face. Two Janissaries flanked the Sultan, who sat on an Ottoman stool opposite the armchair that Selim had slept on. They each looked bemused but neither was Muhammad, who would of no doubt made a quip by now and stayed silent. "It's the crack of dawn, Selim. Why are you here?" asked the Sultan kindly, placing a hand on his friends.

"Kurdistan, my Sultan. It's exactly as we feared" replied Selim. "There was an explosion this afternoon. The city of Karakilise is under martial law". The Sultan sighed and scratched his beard. "When did you hear about this?" he asked finally. "Two hours ago, my Sultan. I rushed here to inform you as soon as I heard. The military are staying silent on the matter apart from that".

"Shall we move ahead on your proposal, my Sultan?" asked Selim, slowly massaging his leg at the epicentre of pain. The Sultan never answered.

Some days later

To: Tsar Alexandre V of the Russian Empire, Kaiser Wilhelm IV of the German Empire, Kaiser Franz Joseph Otto II of the Danubian Confederation, Hetman Anastasiya Artemivna Solovski of the Kingdom of Ukraine,

In light of recent events in the Ottoman Empire, I write this letter with a heavy heart. The end of the Great War was a turbulent time for many European nations and I'm sure no one would like to return to the fruitless bloodshed and anger of these times. But I fear if we do not take a united stand against evil ideologies present in our nations and neighbours, the turbulence of these times will once again begin to rock our great continent. The fingers of nationalism and communism have found their way into all of our nations and at the sixth decade of this century, I believe it is finally time to take a united stand. I am proposing to you, great, holy leaders of Europe, a co-operation of our states against the growth of these ideologies that wish to topple our states.

Communism grows on the fringes of Europe and will spread from nation to nation until all of the world follows the word of the Red Dragon, which stirs in the Far East. Already, great nations such as France and Greece have been swayed by the words of Karl Marx and its citizens placed under oppressive, atheistic regimes. Communist insurgencies are present in both Russia and Ukraine and I am open to pledging the Ottoman Empire behind the legitimate monarchies in the fight against communism. Likewise, the question of nationalism lays unanswered in many of our nations. It is my own solemn belief that all nations of Europe should be united under strong leaders and empires and I believe all of you join me in this line of thinking.

The slide of Europe towards chaos can be prevented before it becomes an unstoppable free fall. But only in our own co-operation. I look forward to a safe, holy and just Europe under our careful guidance.

Signed:

Sultan Osman IV Han, Sovereign of The Sublime House of Osman, Sultan of Sultans, Khakhan, Commander of the faithful and Successor of the Prophet of the lord of the Universe, Padishah of The Three Cities of Istanbul, Edirne and Bursa, of Anatolia, of Rumelia, of Kurdistan and all territories of the Ottoman Empire

The field was black. A cutaway of a tent was present against the ether, like the backdrop for a play. Two puppets fell down into place, a red-headed woman inside the tent, and an over-exaggerated Sahle on the outside. Some very swanky kind of American music played in the background. The Sahle puppet started to knock on the tent-flap, moving his hip to the song. The red-headed puppet opened its wooden hinged mouth when the singing started.

You better get back to your used-to-be
'Cause you're kinda love ain't good for me
I hear you knocking, but you can't come in
I hear you knocking, go back where you been

Their motions stayed constant, but stilted and creepy. The Sahle puppet took up the next verse.

I begged you not to go but you said goodbye
And now you're telling me all your lies

Both puppets flapped their mouths for the chorus.

I hear you knocking, but you can't come in
I hear you knocking, go back where you been, oh yeah

The puppets took off into the sky as if yanked up by their strings. Sahle opened his eyes.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
June 5th: Yerga Chefe, Sidamo Province, Ethiopia
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Sahle woke up before sunrise. He was lying under his cot, feeling his breath blow back from the canvas. Birds chirped outside. He stayed like that for nearly an hour, hoping he could get some extra sleep. He gave up on that when he saw the first red glow of early sunlight. It was time to get up.

He was dressing when Desta Getachew came in. The Minister of the Pen wore his robes of state, but Sahle put on a safari suit again. "Are you ready for breakfast, you're majesty?" Desta asked.

"Yes. Give me a moment."

"Good." Desta left. When Sahle was dressed, he went outside. The morning air was pregnant with the cool humidity of a summer morning, and dew washed his boots. The Imperial party was eating outdoors near their circled vehicles, a long table and stools provided, making them look like the Last Supper turned camping trip. They had eggs, a mixed bread and beef dish called fir-fir, and sourdough pancakes cooked Ethiopian style served with fruit. The Ethiopians stood up and bowed as soon as they saw him, and the startled foreigners followed suit. He motioned for them to sit back down and approached the table. Desta shot him a telling look. Sahle stopped, cleared his throat, and spoke.

"We hope you all enjoyed the night."

"It was absolutely rugged." Bradford Carnahan spoke up, "Like a weekend in Vermont."

"That's good." Sahle approached Rudolph von Lettow-Horbeck, put his hand on his shoulder, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "That shit's still to crazy. Why did you bring it?" Rudolph grinned impishly. The Emperor sat down and ate.

"What's on the agenda today, brave leader?" Bradford said to Desta.

"I have a plantation south of here." Desta said, "It's bigger then the one we saw yesterday."

"Capital."

Sahle wasn't excited about another day looking at coffee shrubs with a bunch of foreigners dressed like Stanley and Livingstone. He'd only went on this tour in order to pursue Livy Carnahan, and that wasn't turning out the way he'd wanted to. His attempts at conversation were meeting with awkward half-responses.

They finished breakfast as the drivers and Imperial Guardsmen packed up their tents. When they were done, the table was packed, and they were back on the road. They were no longer on the War Road. Ethiopia's back roads received no attention from the national government, kept up instead by local officials and the farmers themselves. These were little better than dirt trails beaten and cut into the Sidamo forests. Bridges were too expensive to maintain, so crossing a river involved finding a ford. It was early enough in the wet season that the fords were still easily crossable. In another month, rushing waters would claim lives. They bumped slowly over a dry river bed. Rudolph took out a flask of Wine, drinking a little before offering it to Sahle. "From home. Juisi." he said. Sahle took a swig.

They reached a coffee farm and climbed out. The tall shrubs looked like hedges along overgrown country lanes. Farmers were at work, dresses in thread-bare shirts and pants, pruning excess growth before the rainy season came and drove them indoors. The Emperor and Desta walked in front of everybody, and when the farmers saw him they turned around and bowed.

"These plants, like the ones we saw yesterday, will produce beans later this year." he said. It was a short version of the speech he'd given at the smaller farms up the road. They came to a bluff, a fifty foot muddy drop beneath them, where they could see the valley open up. It was framed by hillsides heavy with verdant forests, but the valley itself was cleared and planted with row upon row of young coffee shrubs. All together it was a vision of an agriculture Eden.

"Selling to America and Japan has made this all possible." Desta said, smiling warmly like a proud father. "These fields will slake the thirst of steel workers in Pennsylvania, and fishermen in Okinawa."

"Will these new plants produce cherries this year?" Miyagi Yakuga asked.

"It will be three years" Desta replied, "I'm afraid nature isn't very accommodating to capitalism, but we must make due."

"Is there a risk these farmers might unionize?" Bradford Carnahan came with the next question, eying around as if one of the poor locals could understand English and was spying on them for ideas.

"Unionizing isn't legal in Ethiopia, strictly speaking." Desta said, "If a farmers agitated enough to be a real union, they'd risk being called Shiftas, and laws against Shiftas carry heavy penalties. Possibly death."

"Very good. I'm pleased to come to Africa and find that you people are Republicans."

Desta paused a for seconds for questions before he spoke. "To get down there we need to follow the road. We'll stop at a warehouse where processing will be done at the end of the year." They followed him, loaded back into their vehicles, and continued their journey. When they arrived at the large metal warehouse in the middle of the forest, they were surprised to see a Landrover waiting in front of it. Two Ethiopian tricolors flanked the front of the vehicle, the characters "ምድሪ ባሕሪ" printed in black on the central yellow strip, spelling out in Amharic "Medri Bahri".

Desta's car was first in the caravan. When it stopped, Desta got out and slammed the door. He went to talk to a man in a light grey military uniform. Sahle hopped out and went to join his Minister of the Pen.

"He's inside." Desta said. He went around Sahle and addressed the rest of the group still sitting in their vehicles. "We've got government business to discuss. Take this time to stretch your legs. We brought refreshments for anybody who needs it, so help yourself." He went inside. Sahle followed.

The Coffee warehouse smelled close and dusty. Sacks of beans were stacked to the ceiling on either side of them. They went to a back office, where a confused foreman was holding the door open. He bowed when he saw Sahle. They went inside, and the foreman went out. That left them in the room with the man who'd came hunting for them.

Hamere Noh Dagna looked like a mocha bulldog, dressed in a light grey naval dress uniform, with his head appearing to be smashed between his peaked cap and his epaulets. "Your majesty" he said, testily.

"We didn't expect to see you so far from the sea." Desta replied. Sahle stayed silent, standing behind his Minister of the Pen like a faithful wife.

"I got your notice, that I am to sell one of my darlings to the American navy. I must lost my invitation to that meeting. So I'm here. Time to make up for my mistake."

"You were invited to Addis Ababa last month. You didn't come."

"To your birthday party, Desta? It seemed frivolous."

"Nothing is frivolous for people of our station, Hamere Noh. Wasn't it Adam Smith who said 'People of the same trade seldom meet together, even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public'"?

"So you entered a conspiracy against me?"

"It's not a conspiracy against you." Desta sat down. Sahle stood in place, thinking if he should say something, frozen like a statue, a witness by default. Desta continued. "The American government has interests it wants to protect in the South China Sea without actually getting involved. Their public is too isolationist to support any direct support of eastern powers, but they want to bolster the Philippines as the dark horse candidate in the region. A ship is all they asked. One ship, and they'd reward us with money."

"Then you'll have to buy a new ship with some of that money, to replace the one you stole from me." Hamere Noh stared down Desta.

"Not enough money to steal a ship. Part of the payment is in preferential trade agreements. Ones that will benefit us."

"Let me guess, coffee." Hamere Noh said, pausing for effect. Desta didn't answer. "And here we are, sitting in a warehouse full of your coffee. How much of this beneficial trade agreement is going to arrive as money in your pocket, Desta?"

"The deal is done." Desta said coldly. Neither talked for a moment, maintaining a bitter air between them. Hamere Noh broke the silence, "Your Imperial Majesty, did you think about this decision, or did you trade your stamp for one of those whores he's always bringing you?"

"I'm his Minister of the Pen. It's my job to hold his stamp. Is it your job to speak treason?" Desta challenged. Sahle didn't feel angry, he felt cornered. "I talked to the American ambassador himself about the matter." he said.

"It's nice that you had the time for him." Hamere Noh retorted. "We have three battleships. They are the jewels of my navy. You taking one of them from me is like you taking a child from a mother of three. I want you, your Imperial majesty, to tell me to my face. I flew here to hear it from your own mouth, so tell me now, are your going to take one of my children?"

Sahle tried to come up with the words to say, but they were tangled up in his head, and he couldn't pull enough free to make a sentence. Desta spoke for him. "The paperwork is signed. You can chose which one the Americans pick. His Imperial Majesty expects you to treat the American naval delegation with courtesy."

Hamere Noh's eyes didn't move off the Emperor. Sahle only managed a dry "Yes." The meeting broke up, and Sahle spent the rest of the day desperately wanting to get high. Luckily Rudolph had the goods.

The toured more farms. By dinner he was in a cannabis blur, his conversation with the Bahr Negus a dull and distant pain. They were going to eat outside until it started raining. They fled inside a different coffee shed, rain pattering on the tin roof, the roads outside being churned into a sticky muck. He and Rudolph went first, eating more than their share, taking a window seat so they could watch the weather. The rain let up and a rainbow appeared in the cloudy brown sky. Somehow, he'd managed to forget about Livy.

They camped again, off in the grass to avoid the worst of the mud. It took longer this time for their servants to set up their tents, and it was dark when they were ready. Sahle slipped into his cot almost immediately, but he had trouble staying asleep, finding himself staring at the dark canvas. He heard his name called, a wraith-like voice to his sleep addled mind. He heard it again. Awake this time, he identified it.

"Your majesty." Livy Carnahan called out. What time was it? Sahle hopped up, realizing he was still fully dressed. He met her at the front of his tent.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Eleven. Have I offended you?"

"What?" Sahle scratched at his eyelid.

"You were distant, and my brother thinks I offended you, and he said it'd be bad for business, so I had to check."

"I thought you weren't interested in me."

"I'm not interested in you that way. You being... you're majesty... that's too big for me. But I don't want to offend you. We can be friends."

"Okay." Sahle said, letting her see him smile, but inhaling air into a body that felt empty from the thought she wouldn't love him. Had he ever expected that from the girls he pursued before? Or had he always expected it? "You like music?" she asked, "Come with me, I have something to show you."

He followed her into the night. The moon was their only source of light, and for the first time he noticed she was still wearing her khaki safari dress, though she'd eschewed the hat and let her red hair flow free. They were in a clearing cut through by a muddy road, both sides walled in by the night-blackened woods like a room with two exits. Unseen creatures serenaded them as they approached the parked caravan of cars. Livy lead him to the landrover she'd spent the last few days in, went to the back, and started to unlatch the tarp placed over their luggage. Sahle helped. When it was uncovered, he was surprised to see a portable turntable.

"Why do you have this?" he asked in a sort of astonished yelp. Livy pulled a record. Gershwin. "My brother was going to play music when we traveled, but after he saw the roads..." she swallowed the words she was going to say and reached into the small collection of records, pulling out a pure white sleeve. She slipped the record out. The front said "I Hear You Knocking - Plump Poker"

"What's this?"

"You like American music, right?"

"Is Plump Poker a type of Jazz?" Sahle asked.

"Plump Poker is a person." she said, "Here..." she set up the turntable, put the record in, and it started to play.

You went away and left me long time ago
Now you're knocking on my door
I hear you knocking, but you can't come in
I hear you knocking, go back where you been

It was different than what Sahle knew. Different than Jazz certainly, and that was the most exotic music he could think of. He felt like the first human to ferment grains and discover alcohol, introduced to something he had no words to describe, stuck instead with a collection of feelings and sensations that were not necessarily new in their parts, but when put all together were too primitive to explain.

I begged you not to go but you said goodbye
And now you're telling me all your lies
I hear you knocking, but you can't come in
I hear you knocking, go back where you been, oh yeah

She smiled at him, doing a kind of hip-based American dance that was incredibly sexy to him. "We're friends now?"

"Friends" he promised.

Rhodesian Embassy, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Reginald Heap sank into his leather office chair with a sigh, the chair squeaking as if in sympathy with his depression. He was wearing a red bathrobe, even in Ethiopia it got chilly in the wee hours of the morning, and white slippers on his feet to combat the cold tiles. His office was his sanctuary, even Beatrice did not enter it uninvited. Tall bookshelves filled with all sorts of books he had never read and Ethiopian trinkets he gave zero fucks about, but they made the locals think he was interested. In truth, he enjoyed Ethiopia for the drinking, the booze, and the women who would do literally anything he wanted. Rhodesia was less open minded about inter-racial fucking and certainly more tight on the drug control despite thee climate being ideal for Marijuana production.

He turned slowly in the chair, eyes raking the books, narrowing as he caught sight of a touristy Ethiopian Lion holding the national flag on one shelf. He had been certain that Ethiopian support would be enough to force the African Union vote but it seemed not so much. It had literally been his only mandate, other than keeping Ethiopia friendly, that he had been given by the Rhodesian Government. He had done that as best he could, spending Government money liberally on lavish parties, drugs, booze, whatever it took to keep the Emperor on side. It hadn't been enough. He would have to explain that when he was recalled, he knew that was only a matter of time. Rhodesia tolerated many things from its white citizens but failure, well, failure was not tolerated by anyone. He supposed that he could at least go back to the family estate where Beatrice could hold her lavish dinner parties and he could enjoy some more ebony pussy.

That made him think of Sara Reicker, the newly arrived secretary he had not really gotten to know. He had peep holes in her room but either by accident, or maybe she knew, she had kept them blocked off. There was no doubt that she was a good looking lady, almost thirty years his junior and in the prime of life. She was a prize worth having but he didn't dare try to force the topic. She was a Rhodesian Government employee, one of the "Good" Negroes. Reginald had always broken them up that way. Good or Bad, always Negroes. He hated them. He hated them because he wanted her, he wanted all their women, and it was so easy to take them, but it was weakness. His father had hated them for different reasons and the first time he found Reginald with a pair of black lips around his cock he had beaten the boy badly. But Reginald couldn't help himself.

The sound of movement outside the study door interrupted his train of thought and he waited for a moment. Eyes straining to see past the single lamp that was lit on his desk. The hallway beyond was plunged into darkness. He had thought he was the only one awake in the house.

"Hello." He called out, pulling his robe tighter around his body. He hadn't heard the dogs barking, or any shouts from his security detail, so whoever was out there had to be a member of the household. "Beatrice?"

There was a small scuffle and a muffled gasp before all was silent in the hallway. Cautiously he stood, still trying to see into the hallway. An inner instinct warned him to turn off the light and hide but another part of him rebelled against that. This was his house, he would not cower in fear. With slow movements he picked up the phone on his desk and punched in the two numbers that would ring through to the guardroom outside before lifting the phone to his ear. Nothing. The line was dead.

Something bordering on genuine fear began to blossom in his stomach as he put the phone back down. His eyes cast about the room and came to rest on a copy of the St. James Bible on a book case next to a photo that showed him and Beatrice on their wedding day. Quickly he crossed the room, grabbed the book off the shelf and tore it open. He had long ago hidden a small pistol inside the pages, cutting out a perfect shape so that it rested comfortably, just in case, one did not grow up Rhodesian without being cautious. His fingers stopped as they opened the cover, the pistol was gone. He dropped the Bible, the sound of it slamming into the tile loud to his ears as the fear began to take over.

"What's the matter Reggie? Lost something?' The voice from the door was unexpected and he froze in his panic, turning to stare at the woman who walked through the door. Sara Reicker, naked except for a pair of black gloves, stood before him. His eyes bugged out as he realized that she was holding the pistol that was supposed to inside the Bible. "Lost something?"

Sara purred the words and Reginald had the uncomfortable feeling that she was watching him like a cat watched a mouse.

"I brought you something." She continued, reaching behind the door frame and dragging another person into the light. Beatrice. Her wrists were tightly bound behind her back and she ankles were hobbled. She to was naked, a rag stuffed into her mouth. Sara kicked her hard behind the knees and Beatrice gave a muffled shriek as she collapsed, bouncing hard off the floor.

Reginald was having a hard time processing what was happening as he stared from his bound wife to the gun toting secretary. His mouth opened, then closed, he couldn't find words. He took a step towards Beatrice and the pistol flashed silver in the light as it lined up on his forehead.

"You're a pig." Sara suddenly said. She said it so mildly that he was taken aback again. His mind was whirling, trying to make sense of what was happening. She saw his confusion and smiled. "Oh, and the Rhodesian Government no longer requires your services."

Before he could speak, she fired, the bullet slamming into his forehead and snapping him backwards so that he bounced off the desk and onto the floor with a crash, dead before he hit the tiles. Sara stepped over the bound and gagged Beatrice and squatted down, checking for a pulse on the dead man. Satisfied she turned back to Beatrice. Outside the dogs had begun to bark and a voice shouted in the darkness. She had a minute or so left to her. She took a knife from the desk, cut the bounds on Beatrice's legs and helped her to her feet, smiling as she patted the woman on the cheek. The fear and terror in the white face made her realize how this moment had made living in Rhodesia completely worth it.

She said nothing else as she smiled, placed the gun under Beatrices chin, and pulled the trigger again. The older womans head snapped backward and blood splattered the ceiling. The body crashed to the floor and Sara dropped the gun from where she held it, the weapon hitting the ground, bouncing once and sliding under a nearby chair. She swiftly knelt and cut the bounds from the dead womans wrists. She had used sheets in both cases, they would leave virtually no evidence the Police to work with. The knife went back onto the desk even as more shouts came from outside and she could hear the sound of men running across the gravel. Lights were coming on at the far end of the house in the servants quarters.

With last look around she stepped into the hallway, ran swiftly up the long stairs, and made her way down the long hall to her own chambers. She paused long enough to place the gloves and torn sheets back into the cleaning supply cupboard where they had come from and then slipped inside her apartment just as the front door crashed open and security men burst into the house.

She stepped in front of the mirror, using damp toilet paper to clean the small spots of blood off her skin before flushing them down the toilet. Satisfied, she slipped into her white sleeping shift, adopted a sleepy and annoyed expression, and stepped out of her room even as more shouts filled the air.


London, England

"Thank you, thank you, and thank you again!" The representative of the Barnardo’s and the Fairbridge Society was effusive in his manner as he shook the tall Rhodesian by the hand. The two men were standing outside the "London Fairbridge Orphanage", one of the largest in London.

Some thirty children stood in the street, their suitcases by their feet, staring sullenly at the Afrikaner who beamed down at them. Several newspapermen stood nearby, smoking the Cornells he had handed out, their pencils scratching a brief story for the local papers about how a Rhodesian man, representing white farmers, had come to London to relieve the Barnardo’s and the Fairbridge Society of a number of their orphans. Only one had a camera and the Rhodesian was careful to stay out of any photos. What the reporters could not know was that in the back, carefully hidden from view, all record of the children, their names, their families, their ties to England, were being consumed by fire. The Rhodesian had bought some positive press with cigarettes, but he had bought the orphans with cold hard cash.

It was no secret in the Government halls of Salisbury that Rhodesia was a white country on the 'dark continent". Numerous programs had been begun to try and increase the population and none had been more successful than the very straight forward practice of buying orphans from European and North American countries.

"Alright children. Onto the bus!" The Fairbridge representative called out as a a pair of hired busses ground to a halt in front of the orphanage. The children, ranging in age from three to fourteen, uncertainty written across their faces, shuffled to the bus, the older ones helping the younger as they put their bags under the bus and them climb the rubber covered steps into an uncertain future.

The Rhodesian watched them go, his smile still plastered on his face. With records spotty at best, and the majority of them destroyed in exchange for some gold, the sheer size of the orphan buying operation would never truly be known. He expected to leave Britain with near three hundred children on a ship that would sail in two days time from Bristol, stopping in France, Spain, and Italy, on the way to pick up more children. In all, he hoped to return to Rhodesia with nearly six hundred young passengers.

Once in Rhodesia they would be adopted out to white families who would be given a stipend by the government for their care and upbringing. The older boys and girls would be given over to the military where they would be raised to fight for their new country. Not everyone would be happy. He knew some, usually those who did not speak English, would commit suicide or try to run away. It was a price they had to pay but a desperate situation called for desperate measures. Rhodesians were an endangered species in their own country and war was coming.

Simple failure happened as well. Not everyone was cut out for military service. The boys who did not make it through training would be turned over to the public service, and the girls would be given over to the breeding program. A number of government funded programs existed to encourage white women to have children, including cash bonuses but some years earlier the Rhodesian government had found it was not quite enough. They had instituted a "breeding program" in which certain women, always former orphans or kidnapped foreign nationals, were transported to "Rest Homes" were they were kept as virtual prisoners and given the choice between having children for the continued survival of the Rhodesian state, or they could vanish into the savannah. All took their first choice. he wasn't sure what happened when they were no longer useful and, like most Rhodesians, he didn't want to know. In fact, the whole "breeding program" was treated as a rumour by the Rhodesian people and largely ignored.

"Thank you again Mr. Smith!' The Fairbridge man said again as he tipped his hat to the Rhodesian who smiled and touched the brim of his own cap in return.

Officially the children were being sent overseas under the Child Migrant Program. The Rhodesian had carefully presented himself as a Canadian farmer. It was not hard, the British public assumed that everyone from the colonies was the same and only someone who had spent time overseas might notice the difference in accent. Canada and Australia were largely considered the best place to send the orphans, though some had gone to South Africa. This had been convenient for the Rhodesians who simply got some money into the right hands and children got off the ship in Cape Town and on to a bus that carried them to Salisbury. He had quietly been making arrangements for more of the children to go that route, it saved him a lot of time and money.

Mr Smith supposed that a small part of him should feel guilty about the whole affair but Rhodesia's survival was more important to him than any morale quibbles about right and wrong. All these children would one day be good sons and daughters of Rhodesia. Everyone had their part to play.

Sevan, Armenia

The rain poured heavily onto the streets of Sevan as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was nearing the end of Sevan’s rain season, but it was still raining or cloudy almost every day that month. Neon lights, commonly used just for lettering in storefronts in Yerevan or other major cities, were ubiquitously artistic in Sevan. They lit the streets in brilliant colors, and signaled all sorts of services for sale. This particular town’s claim to fame was from the tourism industry. Lake Sevan had always been a popular vacation destination for Armenians: it hosted a well-tended marina with hotels, restaurants, and various recreational activities for people and their families. Further downtown, however, the seedier side of tourism emerged. Sevan used its money to start building entertainment venues that were not as kindly-looked-upon by society. Casinos, drug dens, brothels, and anything else that anyone could want were all there. Most of it was even legal, with the city being declared an exclusion zone for vice laws as the Armenian government sought to contain it inside one area.

Money came to the city in one of three ways: Armenians looking to have a good time, rich Persians spending holidays in town to party away from a more conservative Islamic society, and the gangs. The third was arguably the most important faction in town by the turn of the decade, and were responsible for the rapid construction of luxurious hotels, apartments, and casinos. After all, real estate and construction were the best ways to launder dirty money: money that often came from the methamphetamine trail across the border to Russia. Many of these apartments remained empty, but they still provided jobs in the form of maintenance workers, cleaners, and security guards. This kept the local government off of the Mafia’s back for the most part, having reached a mutual understanding with them: stay out of their business and they’ll make it worth it. These drugs mostly came in from Gyumri, and then headed down further south to Yerevan, Stepanakert, and Nakhchivan. About a third of the drugs in Armenia, however, were consumed in the many dens that lined the neon-lit streets.

Hagop Malkhasyan and Mikael Kataev were both almost blackout drunk. Both of them wore white linen shirts tucked into fitted cotton pants bloused into high boots. Mikael’s sleeves were rolled up to reveal a crisscross mural of tattoos of eagles, crowns, and stars all ornately crawling up his sleeve. Revolvers in decorated leather holsters slung low across both of their pants, open-carried without care for the law. Hagop wore a dagger on his other hip, engraved with the name of his dead sister: Anahit. The pair stumbled down a set of creaky wooden steps into a red-lit basement, graffiti and art painted across the brick walls. Thick clouds of opium smoke wafted around them as Mikael led Hagop to a counter in the corner. A woman in traditional garb, seemingly bored, wordlessly placed a metal tin on the wooden counter and held out her hand. Several Dram were dropped into it, and she smiled emotionlessly before hiding back behind her translucent view. The men thanked her to no reply, and made their way to a back room. Three couches surrounded a broken table atop an Armenian rug, a phonograph playing the relaxing flute tunes of folk music.

“Are you ready?” slurred Mikael, as he quickly downed a pill from the container. Hagop nodded, and wiped sweat from his brow. He checked the silver watch that adorned his forearm: they had ten minutes. The man slumped back into his sofa and unconsciously tore at a hole in the cushion as Mikael dropped a pill in the limp palm of his other hand. This was the methamphetamine that Hagop had spent his adult life trafficking as part of the Sevan Mafiya, and he was no stranger to its effects. Usually drunk or high from something else, the Mafiya gave themselves a hit of meth when it was time to get the job done. In this case, someone had given up the location of a Mafiya money stash to the police: it was raided the next day, and Hagop’s boss was now out of several thousand Dram. It was business as usual in Sevan, and what was about to happen next was by no means unprecedented. Hagop took the pill.

It was only a minute or so before Hagop sprang back to life from his drunken stupor. Immediately, his eyes went wide and he fixated his gaze on the lightbulbs in the chandelier above him. His hands balled into fists, he felt the blood rushing through his body. Hagop swore loudly, and stood up. Mikael grabbed him, throwing him back down to the sofa. “Wait, wait, wait, wait. Get it all through you,” Mikael warned. His hand was shaking and his breathing was rapid and shallow. The Russian man’s own eyes were dilated and scanning about the room rabidly. “We’re gonna wait until Krikor gets us, we’re gonna wait.”

The drug coursed through Hagop’s system as he, too, began hyperventilating. “I want to go, brother,” he growled through his breaths as he ground his teeth together. He hated the sound of it, and he hated the feeling, but he couldn’t control himself. Again, he wiped sweat from his brow and went back to tearing up the hole in his sofa’s cushion. It was getting bigger now: finger-size to palm-sized, and he continued to tear chunks of padding out from the dingy red couch. It was painful to wait for ten minutes. Hagop’s foot tapped incessantly against the ground, Mikael’s hand keeping a firm grip on his shoulder to keep him from moving. “Alright, alright, alright,” he muttered underneath his breath, his other hand resting on the wooden grip of his revolver. His skin itched, and he found himself rapidly scanning the room to focus on everything. Pain, troubles, and everything else washed away in a rush of euphoria over him. He was ready to go and happy to do it.

Krikor, an older man who had been something of a manager for Hagop and Mikael, stumbled in through the door with a submachinegun. Hagop’s eyes darted to the gangster and took in every last detail: his grey, curly hair; blue, dilated eyes; and tattoos ringing his neck just above the raincoat he wore unbuttoned. “Let’s go!” he shouted, before waving back at the stairs. Hagop sprang into action, unholstering his revolver and rushing out the door behind Krikor. He barreled through a crowd of youths, still not fully in control of his motor functions, and sprinted up the stairs. Mikael followed more slowly, using the barrel of his handgun to push away one of the kids who now wanted to fight. Krikor took up the rear, eyeing the denizens of the drug hideout before closing the door on his way out. He winked at the apathetic woman at the counter before he left. The trio stumbled through the rain in an alleyway, talking about the plan. “We’re gonna go to this guy’s house and fuck him up,” Krikor repeated over and over. “We got a special fuckin’ way, too.”

At the curb, a sedan awaited. It was painted a beige color, with a dark brown stripe running down the center of the hood that widened out to paint the cab and trunk. Typical of car designs in that era, the body was made of a shined metal of a sleek and curved design. Its short hood led to a hatchback design: another Mafiya hitman sat in the back with a machinegun poking its barrel through a rolled-down window. Hagop stumbled through into the backseat, scrambling against the cold, fake leather before sitting as upright as he could on the far side of the bench. Krikor got into the driver’s seat, quickly starting the engine with his keys. The engine sputtered to life with a cough of smoke out the rear, its yellow lights flickering in the downpour. Mikael was in the street, revolver aimed to his eyelevel and his arm extended. His shirt was wet with rain, water dripped off of his long hair. He swept the street, eyeing the distance for movement. Satisfied, he lowered himself into the vehicle and closed the door. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the villa where the informant lived was short, but the Sevan roads were no friends to the vehicle and its occupants. As the road quality lessened outside of the city, the bumpier it got: Hagop was thrown around the back and bashed his head on the handhold above the window. Dazed for a second, he wiped his forehead to reveal blood. He shook his head and smiled at the blurry, hazy image in front of him. He didn’t feel the pain, nor was he too concerned. They took a turn off the paved road and down a muddy dirt path, splashing a puddle in the process. Some of the mud came through the open window, splattering across the Mafiya gunner and his piece. The gun was of Army issue: a belt-fed, air-cooled, medium-caliber piece with its serial numbers scratched off. A loose belt of brass hung lazily from the receiver, clacking against the metal as the hatchback bumped over potholes and other irregularities. The gunner was silent, steely, and unfazed by the rain and mud: he simply wiped it off of his weapon and out of his eyes.

They arrived at a gated compound, typical of these villas. An ornate metal fence surrounded a squat, tan stone house. A single light was still on in the kitchen, hidden behind translucent blue curtain. Maybe he was asleep. In front of the house, a colorful garden was well-tended to: tulips, roses, sunflowers, and anything else sat nice and neatly in front of green bushes. The gunner in the back of the hatchback slowly charged the bolt on his armament, while Krikor turned around. “Go after it, Hagop,” he commanded softly.

Hagop nodded, opened the door, and stumbled out into the street. The bright lights of the car’s headlights blinded him for a second: he shielded his eyes, drew his revolver, and advanced towards the gate of the fence. His focus now turned onto the front door of the house: a brown, carved wooden door with a bronze handle. He felt his blood pumping and his breathing intensify. His heart was thumping through his chest, either from the drugs or the adrenaline. Keeping his lips pursed, he exhaled through his nose like a bull as he pushed the gate open. It creaked loudly in the night, and Hagop began running to the door. He got there a second later, knocked loudly, and sprinted back into the darkness. As he dove into the bushes, he turned around to see a lone figure open the door.

A bright flash of light and a long tongue of flame erupted from the window of the hatchback as the gunner squeezed his trigger. The rapid cracks of the machine gun snapped at the silence and over twenty rounds went downrange in a matter of seconds. The informant barely had enough time to flinch before the force of several mid-caliber rounds tore him in half. Blood sprayed across the steps of his house as he collapsed into his garden, guts now splattered down his hallway. His hand reached out as he fell, as if to stop the onslaught of death. The rest of the rounds impacted on the wall of his house in a horizontal spray pattern, shattering his windows and blowing out his lights. Someone, probably his wife, started screaming from inside the house. She ran to the door, dropping to her knees when she saw the body of her husband: she began wailing against the night. The gunner let loose another burst instantly, blowing her head off her shoulders and scattering fragments of brain and skull across their entrance’s rug. Hagop stood by and watched the whole ordeal, feeling relieved now that the man was dead. Unconcerned with the mess, he stumbled his way back to the car and slid inside.

“That was good work,” Krikor said, patting Hagop on the shoulder. “We might not get the money back, but at least we sent the message across.”

Hagop nodded and smiled. He looked back towards the bodies lying in the light of their hallway, fallen atop each other in a bloody pile. It served them right for wronging the Mafiya. Maybe others would take the hint and go home before they would up in the same place. The car’s engine revved up and the wheels kicked up mud as it sped off, back towards the city. After all, it was time to celebrate.

Armenia-Georgia Border

“Corporal Yaglian, do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Sergeant,” answered Corporal Yaglian as he finished hanging a freshly-washed uniform on a clothesline. Usually they would hire a local woman to come in from the nearby town to do laundry, but the operations tempo had increased since the last patrol was attacked and there was simply no time anymore. The two stood outside of the brick barracks at their border outpost, just outside of the canvas covering that shaded a recreation area. Yaglian was stripped down to just his boots and trousers. He smoked a cigarette in the hot sun, while his section leader appeared in his full uniform. He wore his rank on a fedayi cap and carried his NCO dagger slung low on his web belt with his handgun and other equipment. His sleeves had been rolled up, and Yaglian could see sweat stains under his armpits and down his chest. Sergeant Ozanian had been a soldier for the better part of this decade, but had been busted back down to Sergeant following a disastrous operation in the Artsakh during the last war. His element had failed to defend its position in Khojaly and were routed.

Ozanian’s face betrayed a man who felt guilt for what happened during the war. He was, in the grand scheme of things, only about as old as Yaglian’s father, but looked much older. Worried eyes sat in a stress-lined face, touches of grey tinging his hair and neatly-trimmed mustache. Yet he proudly maintained his posture and his uniform despite being told to step down as a Platoon Sergeant and move to the Border Service. Yaglian knew what happened in Khojaly only after a drunken confession, where Ozanian broke down and cried about the loss of his unit in the barracks: it was the only time he had ever said anything. Everything he did now was to the standard, perhaps in an attempt to atone for the last war. Now, he held a stack of papers in his hand, stamped with Border Service letterhead. He handed them to Yaglian and cleared his throat.

“Our Lieutenants have gotten together with Captain Havanian, and we have received orders to push into Georgia.”

He noticed Yaglian’s raised eyebrow and continued: “The people who did this to 3rd Platoon’s troops were part of the Mountain Wolf faction, an Islamic group with ties to the Azerbaijani resistance. Evidently this was found out by people far above us, and certain other people want these Mountain Wolves to know what we’re capable of.”

“Certain other people?” asked Yaglian, tossing his cigarette into the pale-green grass.

“If I had to speculate, Corporal, it’s the Persians. They’re occupying Azerbaijan and these people are making it difficult,” Sergeant Ozanian suggested. He shook his head, remembering the Azerbaijanis he fought years ago. Perhaps these were the same people who bombarded his garrison for days with incendiary shells. The old man still bore burns on his right leg from one of those attacks, but he had only ever shown Yaglian.

“So we’re going hunting for Islamic militants who might be connected to the Azerbaijani rebels,” Yaglian summarized. “So we’re going east.”

“Correct. Because our company is close to where we think these people are, we’re going in to strike back. Nothing big, but we want to make sure that they know who they’re dealing with. Nine dead soldiers can’t be ignored. The Mountain Wolf presence in this area is led primarily by a Shia warlord named Simon Batirashvili: he’s a big supporter of Shia movements in the area and the Mountain Wolves are popular in our area. Those guys who have been popping off shots at our positions are his men.”

“And we have a plan for this?”

“Each one of the platoons is going to hit a different encampment. Our platoon has orders to head to the town of Patara Darbazi and conduct a raid on the Mountain Wolves there. It’s mostly a supply depot for their raider parties, hidden up in the mountains.”

Yaglian went through the copies of the battle plan that were handed to him. The town of Patara Darbazi was circled on a map and a handwritten indicator of the Mountain Wolf encampment just a few hundred meters to the east. It was a small town with just over a two dozen buildings nestled in the Georgian mountains. The team leader looked up into the distance, across the border road and chain-link fence to the mountains. The green, forested sloped ridges were occasionally interrupted by tall peaks before calming back down. Patara Darbazi was only ten kilometers from their post: it didn’t take long for foot-mounted raiders to hit border positions before slinking back behind the innumerable valleys and into the forests. A return hit on Patara Darbazi was an unusually aggressive mission for the Border Service. While it would take away a supply point for Mountain Wolf operations, it was unlikely to cause any major damage: it was really just a message. The two other platoons in Yaglian’s company would hit similarly minor targets at the same time. Captain Havanian was apparently hopeful that this would make Batirashvili’s forces back off.

The battle plan was relatively simple: the platoon would mount up and move with their vehicles to the outskirts of town before dismounting and attacking from the west and south. The forces on the west would light up the encampment with overwhelming firepower before the southern-positioned troops would sweep through. Once the camp was cleared, the western troops would move east to clear again. Upon the destruction of the camp, they would disengage back the way they came and drive home. They would strike at dawn, moving into their positions under the cover of darkness before they had enough light to actually conduct combat operations: it also held the advantage of attacking during a change in the guard where the night shift was too tired and the morning shift was too groggy to react properly. Resistance was expected, but it was a smaller base of operations on the fringe of Batirashvili’s men’s control. More of his power was concentrated in the city of Rustavi, meaning that there were only supposed to be just shy of fifteen militiamen occupying the post at a given time.

Most of this intelligence was released to the Border Service and subsequently passed down through the chain of command by the National Security Service: a shadowy government intelligence organization that frequently operated outside of the country. Yaglian had heard rumors of operatives and spies in Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Turkey, but they were just stories he heard in bars. Evidently there was at least someone in Batirashvili’s sphere of influence, because information on the Mountain Wolves had been stapled to the map of Patara Darbazi. A photograph of the town had been copied and included in the order, with another photograph of the camp illustrating a series of former military tents set up in a neat row with a canvas covering a sizeable stash of wooden boxes. Four guard positions, one at each corner of the camp’s perimeter, were marked.

Yaglian gave the papers back to Ozanian and nodded. “We’re going in from the south?” he asked, seeing his own section on the plan. The section leader just nodded, taking the papers and putting them back in a leather document case.

“We go tomorrow, so get your people together and make sure the plan is distributed. Have your equipment ready to go and pack for a light raid,” ordered the Sergeant.

“You’re not worried about this?” Yaglian asked as his section leader turned around. “We’re not the Army…”

“The Army isn’t here, so we’re going to do it,” duly answered Ozanian. “And besides, these were our men.”

The section leader shrugged and walked away, leaving Yaglian to himself. Still shirtless, he felt the sun wash up against him, warming him. This helped only slightly with an icy sense of dread that began to creep through him. He felt something off about Sergeant Ozanian: he was never usually this talkative with briefings. Something felt different, like he was excited to go out. He never speculated about the political leanings of groups or who wanted them in or out of a region: he just handed over the plans and told Yaglian to prepare his team. Perhaps the Mountain Wolves’ relation to the Azerbaijanis had something to do with it, and it suddenly became more personal for Sergeant Ozanian. Whatever the case was, Yaglain also felt that the reciprocal attack was not going to be the end of it. Border clashes were relatively frequent, but he had never heard of an intrusion this far into the country. Ten kilometers through the mountains was enough to raise some alarms about expanded Armenian intervention, and who knew where it would go from there. The Poti garrison was expanded under continual re-justifications: would the Border Service be on the same track?

Corporal Yaglian dropped the news to his team, and instructed them to begin gathering their gear. The men scurried off to their own destinations while Yaglian opened the door to his steel wall locker. Hung up on a rack by its sling was his wooden carbine, which he took and tossed onto his bed alongside several curved magazines and cardboard boxes of stripper-clipped bullets. As he closed his locker door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused: he examined the stubble on his face, his hooked nose, the curly hair that went in every direction, and his own green eyes that stared back at him like he was questioning himself. Yaglian squinted, frowned, and closed the door completely. He sighed: it was time to get back to work. The battle wouldn’t wait for him.

Gyumri, Armenia

A Military Policeman arrived at the office early that day with a stack of case folders. After being waved past the secretary, he arrived at the office in the back and dropped them right onto Tigran Korkarian’s desk. The patrol chief looked up at the runner, a Corporal wearing a crisp olive uniform in his shined brown leather boots, and thanked him. Sergeant Kavalian had done a quick job at putting together everything related to this weapons case, including armory numbers of all the equipment that had gone missing and what unit they were last assigned to. All in all, forty firearms had gone off the grid: ten semi-automatic carbines, ten bolt-action marksman rifles, and twenty pistol-caliber submachineguns. Each one was turned into the Gyumri Regiment’s armorer after a reservist training exercise the month prior and loaded onto transport alongside miscellaneous equipment and several hundred rounds of ammunition. The two truck drivers assigned that day were two Privates by the names of Karlovian and Marovian. Personnel records of both of these men were attached, as well as the results of the investigations into them.

What it came down to was that both of them were unassuming conscripts, the only point of interest being that Private Marovian’s home of record was located in East Gyumri near the Russian neighborhoods. He was slotted as the primary driver for that transport, and Sergeant Kavalian’s men were working under the theory that Marovian had stolen the truck for himself. Karlovian had been a longtime friend of Marovian, according to their comrades in the barracks, and was most likely an accomplice. Where the truck went after that was never found. A clear link between Tigran’s murder case and Kavalian’s theft case could also not be found until the weapon was identified. So far, they just had ammunition shells, but that would require additional investigation based on the headstamp information. One of the Gyumri Police detectives was tracking down the cartridge’s manufacturer. This information could then be used to see if it was local or not: if it was, then they most certainly sold to Gyumri’s garrison and the ammunition store could be narrowed down based on the date. That would be cross-referenced with withdrawal logs to see if that particular shell was in a box on the stolen truck.

This took the day while Tigran began to formulate who he would be going to. By the time the report came back in the evening stating that the ammunition was made in Hrazdan in a factory that sources the Gyumri garrison, Tigran was ready to investigate further. Alex joined him by the patrol car that had pulled by out front, loading shells into a shotgun to be kept in a trunk. They were going to Private Marovian’s mother’s apartment to see what could be found. Tigran lowered himself into the passenger seat and shut the door before reaching out the window to turn on the lightbar’s external switch while Alex started up the engine and the tired rolled over the black asphalt road. They drove through Gyumri, onto Abovyan Street. Freshly redone, Abovyan Street was lined with flourishing green trees and delicately-planted gardens. The police vehicle rushed past street food stalls, groups of children coming home from school in their uniforms, and couples walking their pets and infants. Once the turn onto Vartanants Square was made, they proceeded to turn past the city hall and its gardens and statues.

East Gyumri was less nice than West Gyumri. Well-maintained avenue greenery gave way to bare streets. Buildings became simpler and less adorned, and bars over the windows started appearing as the police moved further into the rougher neighborhood. The paint on nationalist murals was peeling, and litter blew across the streets in the gentle evening breeze. The Marovian family lived on the second floor of an apartment off the main street, a grey concrete building with a faded flag hanging from the rooftop. The police parked in front of an out-of-service bus stop adorned with Cyrillic graffiti. In the distance, a dog barked at them from behind a chain-link fence while people stopped to look at them on the street. A gaggle of children crossed the street to the other side as soon as Tigran and Alex pulled themselves out of the patrol car and straightened their uniforms. Alex looked back at the barking dog and the children and unconsciously patted down his duty belt to feel the grip of his revolver.

A tall, lanky, baby-faced man in his early twenties cracked open the door of the apartment when Alex knocked. He looked like he jumped slightly, and a brief look of surprise crossed his face before he quickly subdued it. He had hair that looked grown out and a few patches of stubble on his chin, and he wore black-rimmed glasses. “What do you guys want?” he asked in a slight Gyumri accent, sounding slightly shaky.

“Is this the Marovian family?” asked Alex calmly, sizing up the man. While taller than the police officer, he seemed to shrink away from him.

“Yeah, yes… What happened?”

“Who are you?” bluntly asked Tigran, cocking his head to the side.

“David,” answered the man at the door after a slight pause. Tigran and Alex looked at each other: Private Marovian’s given name was Aram. “D-Did something happen to my brother? I heard that he went missing or something?”

Alex shook his head: “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Who else lives here? Is your mother and father around?”

David frowned and looked at the floor: “My mother is in the back listening to the radio… My father died in a train crash years ago.”

Alex and Tigran were unmoved by the sob story, but offered condolences anyways. “I’m sorry to hear about that,” Alex said. “My own father was hit by a car when I was seventeen. Can you go get your mother? We have some questions about Aram.”

David nodded, and shut the door as he went to the back. Something was off about him: he was too nervous for this. It took a few minutes, longer than both of the officers thought was comfortable, to open the door. This time, a fifty-year old woman in a plain dress stood alongside David. She told the officers to enter and take a seat on the couch. Tigran accepted, and removed his cap as he sat down on a faded, pale blue couch next to a coffee table that had one of its legs replaced. Alex declined, and stood with his arms crossed next to the sooty fireplace. David scurried off to a back room and closed the door a little too loudly. Tigran glanced over, past the dingy walls with peeling paint, and looked back at the elder Marovian. “Ma’am, I am Chief Korkarian of the Gyumri Police. The Army has asked me to look into your son’s disappearance: I’m talking to you because they don’t have the jurisdiction in off-base matters.”

“What does a police investigation have to do with it?” the mother asked cautiously. “I was told that there was a vehicle accident.”

Alex and Tigran briefly exchanged looks. Alex subtly indicated to Tigran that he should keep up the military’s story with a head nod, then turned back to scan the back room where David had disappeared to. Tigran continued: “Well we figure there must have been a reason why he didn’t turn up. Do you know of anything that had troubled him? Sometimes if someone’s mind wanders, they make mistakes.”

Private Marovian’s mother looked taken aback. “There’s nothing wrong with my boy,” she insisted. “I didn’t invite you into my house to insult him or what he did for this country.”

“I think Officer Korkarian would be the last person to insult service to this country,” Alex shot back, his hands balling into fists before relaxing: it was an old woman, after all. He calmed down: “What he meant was that if there was something going on at home. Maybe he had a girl who left him? Maybe he had money problems.”

Marovian’s mother eyed Alex, keeping her hands neatly folded in her lap.

“Financial troubles?” Tigran asked delicately. “I noticed that this isn’t… the best neighborhood.”

“I make a livable wage,” tersely answered the woman.

“For a family of three?”

“Wh-“ began Private Marovian’s mother. She stopped, eyes wide, surprised at what she had said. Quickly, she tried to cover it up. “My family is fine.”

Tigran stood up from the couch and smoothed out the wrinkles on his uniform. He understood fully well that family was integral to Armenian life, and they were often unwilling to admit their own flaws. People kept their families tight, sometimes too tight for their own good. This was one of these cases: Tigran had a bad feeling about the Marovians, and his instinct led him to believe that somehow they knew where Private Marovian was. He figured that David might offer some more insight, seeing as he appeared to be the same age as the missing soldier. But he also had some suspicions about the boy. “Can I go see David?” asked the chief.

The mother hesitated, but knew that the question was less of a request and more of an order. She smartly bowed her head and stood up, leading Tigran to the back room. Alex followed behind at a distance, hand inching closer to his belt and revolver. They walked past rotting wooden doors and a stained spot on the wood floor from a ceiling leak, before coming to the back room. Tigran gently shooed the mother away from the door before knocking twice. There was no answer at first. For a few more seconds, he waited, then knocked again. David came to the door, looking frazzled: “Sir, I don’t know what’s going on.”

Tigran sized up the boy: “Do you have a copy of your conscription papers anywhere, David?”

“Conscription papers? No… I, uh, I was National Servi-“

“National Service issues papers, too. Can I see those?” Tigran asked again, a hint of frustration in his voice.

“I… lost them.”

“It’s a crime to not produce your papers when asked by a police officer,” Tigran reminded him. “If you lost them, you should have reported to the Gyumri office to get replacements.”

David’s blank face turned to a frown, and his stance became aggressive. Without further word, he looked back over his shoulder at the window behind him. It was open, to let the summer air circulate through the hot and humid room. The boy bolted towards it, and Tigran reached out futilely. David swung through the window to the outside balcony, hanging onto the edge of the window as he checked where he could land: a fabric awning over the entryway provided a damper for his fall, so he took it. Tigran ran to the window and shouted for Alex to get the car. The other police officer ran out through the door, elbowing the Marovian mother out of the way as he scrambled towards the staircase. Tigran watched as David rolled across the awning and dropped onto the sidewalk with a yelp. Evidently that wasn’t too bad of a fall, because the scrawny boy got up and took off running up the street. He was barely twenty meters away before Alex busted through the main door to the apartment building and raised his revolver from his holster.

“Stop!” he commanded, but David kept running. Alex was having none of it: he clicked back the hammer on his revolver and leveled it above the boy’s head in an attempt to fire warning shots. The handgun barked two times, both bullets whizzing past the kid’s shoulder. David turned around in horror to watch, before stumbling over himself and falling to the ground. He tried to pick himself up, but Alex was a fast runner and was closing in. Just as David got off the ground and gained speed, Alex was already over him. A rugby tackle threw the teen down to the sidewalk, bashing his head against the concrete and splitting open a gash next to his left ear. David raised his hands to his face to defend himself as Alex pistol-whipped him into a daze. “I fucking said stop!” he repeated.

“Alright, alright!” cried out David. “I’m stopped, I’m stopped!”

Tigran was now out on the street with the mother in handcuffs, who was now facedown on the hood of the police cruiser and wailing. “Aram! Aram!” she shouted, before Tigran told her to be quiet. Alex was meanwhile dragging David, whose real name was found to be Private Aram Marovian, to the vehicle while interrogating him about the weapons. Still injured, he left specks of blood on the pavement as he was thrown to the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. Onlookers gathered as Alex waved his piece around to keep them at bay, fearing a possible ambush by Marovian’s allies. Both of the officers stuffed their captures into the back of the car before switching on the siren and driving off the same way that Aram had tried to escape. The holding cell that night would be occupied by them and a few frequent drunks who were picked up on what seemed like a rotational business, except this time the new prisoners were taken away by the military at dawn.

Inside the apartment, four rifles and a shotgun were found in the closet in Aram Marovian’s back room. A large sum of dram was hidden underneath the floorboards, along with an address that appeared to be located in the industrial district by the rail station. This information was forwarded to Tigran, who sent it to Sergeant Kavalian: there would be a combined force assembled to raid the address in the coming days. The arrest of Private Marovian would start a fire that sent the rest of his contacts scurrying, but there were still problems: the rest of the weapons were not found and the location of Private Karlovian was not known. Private Marovian would be interrogated by the military police in an attempt to figure out how deep the connections went. In the meantime, the police were gearing up for a major operation: reinforcements were being called in from neighboring towns and provincial National Police units, alongside military policemen with heavier weapons. Things were calm, at least for now, but Tigran Korkarian knew that it wouldn’t last. It never did.

"She did what!?" The Question came out as a roar as Byron Starr, Rhodesian Minister of Foreign Affairs, shot to his feet, regretting it almost immediately as his legs slammed into the edge of his desk, sending it crashing over onto its side. Papers, pens, mementos from his military career, and a half filled cup of coffee, went flying in every direction with it.

"She shot them both." The men seated across from him, who had not moved even as the desk slammed into the floor a few inches from his toe, said with a thin smile. The eyes above the smile were cold as ice, a green beret neatly perched on his head, green fatigue uniform immaculate.

"Sweet suffering christ!" Byron swore, staring down at the ruins of his desk. He heard the door open briefly and then close again as he secretary glanced inside to make sure everything was okay. "FUCK!" He shouted the word and upended his chair with one foot for good measure, the back of its crashing off the wall and bringing down the framed photo above it with a smash. The door opened and then closed again.

"When?" Byron asked as he looked back at his visitor. Donald Prescott, Head of the Rhodesian Security Bureau, looked down at the book on his lap. Byron knew it was an act, the Thomas knew exactly what was written on the paper.

"01:20 hours this morning. Security heard the first shot around that time. It took them two minutes to figure out where the shot came from which they only were able to ascertain at first because of the second shot."

"You sure it was your Agent?" Byron asked as he leaned forward, hands on either side of a large globe he had next to his window. He wanted to smash the globe as well but the thing had been ridiculously expensive and taking out his anger on inanimate objects was not going to fix the problem at hand.

"Quite certain. She confirmed it to our local field officer who is on site." Donald glanced down at his paper again. He was not happy either, but he would be damned if he was going to admit to a political flunky like Byron. The two men got on well enough outside of working hours but at work, well, the politicians had no idea what was being done to keep Rhodesia from drowning ina sea of black faces.

"Fuck." Byron said the word again as he sighed and looked back to Donald. "There will no doubt be an investigation by the Ethiopians. We can't cover this up."

"No, we can't." Donald replied as he crossed one leg over the other. "The men we have on the ground are running damage control, the local story is that Heaps and his wife were killed by a Communist sympathizer. Ethiopia is lousy with those right now."

"And the Agent?" Byron asked. All he knew at that moment was that an RSB operative had decided to essentially murder the Heaps. The RSB was given a huge range of latitude and freedom to operate by the Government but killing off Rhodesian officials was a massive breach of protocol. Part of Byron had to admit he would have liked to kill Heaps himself, the sanctimonious bastard.

"She is still in Ethiopia. Officially all the household staff have been detained by our security people until the investigation is completed." There was a pause. Donald knew he was treading on thin ice but Sara Reicker was hands down his best coloured female operative and he would need her again soon. "By the letter of her mission she did what she was instructed to do?"

"Oh?" Byron's voice was dangerously quiet as he turned to look at the RSB Head.

"Yes. We signed off on an order directing her to mitigate the damage Heaps could do to Rhodesian interests. And, to be perfectly frank, the man had no fucking use to anyone after he managed to shit the bed so fantastically in getting the African Union support on our side." Donald spat the words. Heaps had been an embarrassment to the Rhodesian Government for some time and only his connections to the old country assured him a prime job. Basically it had been Heaps in Ethiopia or the Rhodesian request for new Spitfires would get "lost" in the shuffle.

"It actually works in our favour," He continued. "With the Communists to blame we are already working on a spin to place the blame on a Zambian National." He saw the interest flare in Byron's eyes and continued. "Our first RSB man on scene on was a quick thinker and, along with a couple of the Security men, "found" a man hiding in the bushes who was from the household staff. He was shot trying to escape and is known to have Communist ties."

"What sort of ties?" Byron asked, shaking his head slightly. He had been a soldier once and did not want to know to much about the murky world of espionage.

"The sort I made up an hour ago and sent off to an RSB Man who has by now planted it in the dead mans home." Donald smiled thinly again. Not a pleasant expression.

"Damn you're good..." Byron muttered as he began to pace, hands clasped behind his back, oblivious to the papers being torn up beneath his boots.

"We will need a new Ambassador of course." Donald continued. "And I would suggest a personal visit from yourself would make this seem all that much more sincere. Heaps was of course a valued Member of your staff."

Byron barked a laugh, the first such sound he had made in an hour and he stopped his pacing. "Yes, valued. If I didn't know better I would throw a "he's dead at last" party. I suspect someone somewhere might suspect something if I did that."

"Probably." Donald said drily as he stood from the disaster that surrounded his chair. "Will you be going to Ethiopia then?"

"I have too, a valued colleague was just assassinated by a Zambian Communist!" Byron managed to look somewhat stricken though he could not prevent a shark toothed smile from crossing his broad face. "Your buddy Bennet is going to be thrilled by this."

Donald nodded. Thomas Bennet, the Head of the Rhodesian Security Forces, had been spoiling for a fight since the Brush Wars and recent murders of white farmers in Zambia by mobs of blacks had gotten his back up. Now a Rhodesian Ambassador had been assassinated by a Zambian Communist, true or not, and Bennet would find a way to use the situation to his advantage.

It seemed almost ironic, that the horror of the Great War was followed by more war - Civil Wars urged on by Anarchists, Republicans, Nationalists, Communists and...even traitors. At the moment, he was likely the only high-ranking officer that the Loyalist faction had - as many of the other officers were fighting with the Rebels. Namely men whom rather would support the false-Kaiser Paul von Letow-Vorbeck, than their actual Emperor. He would make sure, every such traitor hung - not bothering to check, if they had rank or title back home. A traitor deserved no mercy.

He recalled that moment, almost two years ago. Governor Ebermaier had shown him, the Commanding Officer of the Schutztruppe the telegram. Then he was just an Oberst - he had heard about the traitor Letow-Vorbeck, whom had taken control of German East Africa and renounced his duty to Germany and its people. He had to admit, he wasn't the most die-hard tradionalist. He thought that the Empire could do with some changes. He didn't always like the certain customs, of his homeland - and did prefer British tea to German coffee. His own political ideals were rather...liberal - if one could call it that. Although, he was a true monarchist and a Loyalist. He'd have fought into the heart of the Siberia tundra, within Imperial Russia - if asked by the Kaiser. As thus - his choice had been rather surprising to the Governor.

"What are you doing? We could rule these lands! The Kaiser, the Fatherland. It has grown weak. We've bled here and for what?! A pad on the back, and a comfortable living back in some dusty old mansion in Bavaria?"

"Your mistaken Governor. Once I would have called you a hero. You held on, even when the Entente kept smashing against the walls. But now? As it was with Benedict Arnold - 'once you deserved a hero' funeral. But now, all you deserve is a bullet'."

It had been his first kill - after serving in the Imperial Army. It wouldn't be the last time, he had to execute one of his own countrymen. Imperial officers, whom had chosen to support Paul von Letow-Vorbeck. There had been some Loyalist officers, but overall - most of the Officer' Corps seemed to support Paul von Letow-Vorbeck.

He had been lucky, namely - he had gotten a larger portion of the Askari, local enlistees in the Colonial Troops to support him instead of Letow-Vorbeck. They were brave men. Brave men, whose names he wrote down and made sure to remember. Once this war was over - they and their families would be rewarded handsomely. Never, since in the Great War - had he fought alongside great men like these.

---

"Quickly! Quickly! Set up a defensive perimeter. All men loaded, chamber round, shoot anything in gray!" yelled Jaegar Hurst, current Governor-General - Oberst of the Schutztruppe. Although, he wasn't much of a leader of a unified 'protection force' at this moment - as the entire West Afrikan colony was in flames.

Namely, he had gathered as many men as he could - and set up a perimeter to defend a single Telegraph Station. It had been set up after the Great War - to namely keep in contact, between the homeland and the other colonies. Hurst found it hilarious - that the telegram that started the Civil War had come from here. As he now had one of his men, quickly get behind it. The man was a local, from the Duala tribe - so he was more literate and understood German better than the others.

"Start writing everything I say. Word by word," he ordered - as the man, soon connected everything up - just as artillery shells landed nearby. "Ignore it. Start typing."

THIS IS OBERST HURST, COMMANDING OFFICER OF THE SCHUTZTRUPPE. LOYALIST FORCES STILL REMAIN FIGHTING. REBELS SUPPORTED BY MAJORITY OF OFFICERS. REQUEST ASSISTANCE AND SUPPORT.

After that was written, he soon dug in for a long siege. He and his men needed to hold out long enough for an answer to come - the Fatherland needed to know, that not all of the colonies had turned rebels and some were still loyal to the Kaiser and needed aid.

---

It had been three weeks of fighting around the Port Harcourt - at least, there had been some good news. The Loyalists had managed to take control of the entire city - driving the Rebels completely out. It seemed, that the Rebels had assumed, they might win sooner and lacked the numbers the Loyalists had. Hurst had made it a personal game almost - that every shot, Imperial Officer - their killer would get a bonus of several Goldmarks as a reward.

The Rebels relied too much on their better training - that they forgot the most important factor of any war. Men in trenches were the most crucial to winning a war - not the Officers behind them. Plus, unlike the Rebels - Hurst had no bias against promoting from among the local forces. He had no choice and some of the Askari Officers were as good as Imperial ones.

In the early night, did the reply come from Berlin and it wasn't what he had hoped.

HOMELAND IN TURMOIL. UNABLE TO REPLY WITH REQUEST. KEEP FIGHTING ON.

That reply had complicated things further - it meant, that whatever it was - it seemed serious enough, to even abandon a colony for. It complicated things - cause in essence, they were still a colony. If things were bad enough - then either the British or French could march in and seize the lands - if Hurst managed to defeat the Rebels. No doubt, either one would be waiting for the chance to get back at the Germans after the end of the Great War.

For West Afrika to survive and remain in German hands - Hurst decided on a plan, in the late night - a plan, that was almost unknown as it was bold and insane. If it succeeded, then he might just save West Afrika and make sure - no traitor and no other Empire, would seize the lands of the Kaiser.

The reply, he typed out himself - since it was personal and he needed it dictated by himself.

REQUEST PERMISSION TO TRANSFORM COLONY INTO A DUCHY. REQUEST PERMISSION FOR TITLE OF DUKE - TO RULE IN ABSENCE UNTIL FURTHER ORDERS FROM THE KAISER.

He thought about such a request - it felt almost like blackmail, to demand a title and land - in exchange for continuing to fight for the land, belonging to the German Empire. Plus it came out so randomly and directly - likely to the opposite operator - it wasn't everyday, that the Kaiser established or allowed the establishment of new land and titles. Although, he saw no alternative - he had learned, how Dukes in older times used to rule the numerous provinces that made up the Empire now. It would also prevent - the other colonial Empires, from walking in to 'install order' in absence of it. If the land, was ownership of a Duke of Imperial Authority - then the threat of retaliation from the homeland, might be just enough to stall their hand.

He quickly wrote out another addendum to his previously send telegram.

WEST AFRIKA WILL REMAIN IN GERMAN HANDS. I, SWEAR - TO UPHOLD THE RULE AND AUTHORITY OF THE KAISER AND THE GERMAN EMPIRE. AS LONG AS I LIVE - NO TRAITOR, NO COLONIAL, NO OTHER EMPIRE - EXCEPT THE KAISERREICH, WILL BE ALLOWED OWNERSHIP OF GERMAN WEST AFRIKA. THUS, SWEARS JAEGER HURST VON BADEN.

---

The reply came sooner than he would have expected - but it was something to fight for. To rally the other Loyalists behind - to remain, to keep on fighting. Then, when the traitors had been dealt with - to rebuild the colony into a Duchy.

A Duchy, that one day might host the Kaiser himself - streets cleaned, paved a good enough - that a man such as himself, could enjoy a shoe shine at.

THE EMPIRE HEREBY GRANTS THE TITLE OF HERZOG TO OBERST JAEGAR HURST. HEREBY GRANTS AUTHORITY FOR THE ESTABLISHMENT OF A DUCHY IN WEST AFRIKA. GOOD LUCK.

After the reply, Herzog Jaegar Hurst von Deutsche Westafrika - had gone on the offensive. He had a mission to complete and the sooner, this Civil War ended - the sooner they could start rebuilding and start sending help back to the Fatherland. Although - after the Civil War - the new Herzog of Westafrika would find this, duty would demand almost a lifetime of service from him.

---------------------------------
June 6th: Addis Ababa
---------------------------------

Leyla Masri was among the murmuring crowd at the fence in front of the Rhodesian embassy. It was a pristine gothic manse not far from the Gebi Iyasu, in a neighborhood that included several embassies and homes for rich foreigners, so that the crowd was unusually multiracial for Addis Ababa's typically native population. Beyond the iron fence, the stately house didn't seem changed in any physical way, but an air of dread hung over it.

Three types of authority figure were gathered in the yard. Officers from Addis Ababa's police force were the most out of place, most consigned to guard duty at the fence and it's gate, though some just mingled in the yard and stared uselessly at whatever seemed good to stare at. That left two conflicting authorities, the security at the Rhodesian embassy in white colonial uniforms with pith helmets, and Ethiopia's own Shotel. The Shotel sent three agents, men in khaki uniforms with no sort of decoration, who were engaged in a conversation with the Rhodesians that somehow reminded one of Trench Warfare, tense and unmoving.

"They caught the camera-man." a familiar voice said in her ear. Chemeda Magana was standing behind her, a young man in the khaki uniform. She knew him because he was training to be an officer in the very same complex she worked.

"Did you follow me?"

"No. Everyone's coming out here."

She kept looking forward, afraid somebody they knew might see them talking and reach an unjust conclusion. "Cameraman?" she asked.

"Someone took a photo of the murder. I don't know how he got in."

A black van pulled up and with difficulty was let through the crowd and into the driveway. An eruption of excitement followed as the bodies were wheeled out in black bags. There were three.

"Whose the third?" Chemeda asked.

"The murderer."

There were seemingly infinite rumors floating around about who the murderer was. A servant. A Communist. Someone in the French embassy involved in a ménage à trois with the Rhodesian ambassador and his wife. The authorities were not letting out too many clues if any of those were true. With the bodies bagged, those who'd came looking for answers were disappointed yet again, and the crowd grew thinner. Leyla joined the exodus, needing to get back to work. Chemeda followed.

"I came here in a car." he bragged. "You want a ride back to the Academy?"

"You know we can't be seen like that. Addis Ababa isn't so sinful that a boy and a girl alone in a car won't be a scandal."

"Maybe scandal isn't so bad."

"Don't be foolish." she said, walking up to one of the several cycle rickshaw's that'd pulled up to the crowd expecting the exodus. She felt powerful paying the cyclist with her own money in front of a man who was trying to woo her. "I'll see you later." she said to Chemeda before turning to the cyclist, "The Menelik Roundabout". She was off, leaving Chemeda behind her.

She arrived at the Academy just after noon, when most everyone had wandered off for lunch. The wind was pleasant as it rustled through the eucalpytus trees in the courtyard garden. She entered through the open door below the sign of the crossed swords and was greeted kindly by the very same receptionist she'd haggled with when she first applied to work here. They'd put her in the Propaganda Section, an open place on the second story consisting of a few shared desks and a cabinet full of supplies.

There was very little need for Propaganda in Ethiopia. What they mostly put out was the equivalent of public service announcements. Everybody had left except for their director, who sat on the sill of an open window and smoked. He looked at her sort of startled. "Woizerit Leyla, I thought you went for coffee?"

"I went to see the Rhodesian Embassy." she said, "But nothing is happening there."

"I can't have you around the office." he said, "I'm letting you go for the day. All active agents are on call just in case whatever happened at the Rhodesian embassy happens again. We have no orders until then."

"Oh. Where do I go?"

"Home." he put out the cigarette and stood up, "Or the shooting range. Have you been? They said you shouldn't have a problem."

"I haven't yet."

"Do that I guess." she shooed her, "But you can't stay here."

Feeling embarrassed, she left. She couldn't shake the feeling she had done something wrong, though she couldn't think what the earth it might be. Still, she had the day. And he had a point. She'd go shooting.

The range was across the way, in a room made to hide the sound. It was open to the Shotel, even those who were mere clerks, to practice shooting. The Shotel wanted their entire workforce to be able to shoot, just in case they were drafted into the military as a civilian regiment during a future war. Of course, they hadn't thought of women, and the agent watching the range barred her from entry at first. Her director managed to get her permission, but by that time she'd been spending excess break time talking to Chemeda.

She liked Chemeda. She liked watching him, talking to him. But she didn't want to marry him. She was young, her life ahead of her, a world to see beyond a bubbling pot of wat and children clinging to her skirts. And with marriage off the table, why talk to him at all? That was how rumors started. Rumors that could ruin his career, and hers.

The man watching the shooting range, Agent Reja, watched her distrustfully when she walked in. He had to let her use the range, but he didn't want to. He picked up a German Luger, standard issue for the Shotel, and showed her how to load a magazine and prepare it to be fired. Then he handed it to her. This was the first time she'd ever touched a gun. It was like handling a holy object, something of uncertain magical power. She weighed it with her hands. It was, ominous to her, heavier than it looked. All thoughts of work or men or murder on Embassy Row went from her head. He pointed her in the direction of the range. She went as solemn as a priest.

The Shotel's firing range was not especially impressive. It was a concrete room, its floor, ceiling, and walls chipped by stray bullets. Paper targets hung from steel frames, replaced fresh for every new user. A plywood box marked where a person was supposed to stand. She felt nervous, and playfully mused if this was what it felt like going into combat as she took her place in one of the firing boxes. Taking a deep breath, she guessed at a proper stance, aimed, and after a moment's hesitation, she pulled the trigger.

She knew guns were loud, but the noise seemed too loud, and that combined with the kick back made her think she'd done something wrong. She almost dropped it, and let in a quick gasp that was almost a yelp. When it was over, she was stunned, looking down at the smoking gun. Laughter rang out from the doorway. Agent Reja had been watching her the whole time.

"That is not a coffee pot, is it?" he said. "But you did not do so bad, little lady." He pointed to the target. She'd sent the shot into the outer red ring. "Maybe they'll make you a field agent, eh?" he laughed again.