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Early August: Beijing, China
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Yaqob woke up to the sound of soft knocking on the other side of the wall. He was sprawled out, sheets wrapped around his naked torso, a book laying open on the edge of the bed. Wen Chu Ming and the Manchurian Campaign. He swung himself up and grabbed the stiff fabric hardcover, smoothing out its rumpled pages, feeling ashamed as if he'd been caught doing he shouldn't. Hou himself had gifted him this book. He closed it, making sure the pages went flat, and placed it on a nearby shelf. The shelf, and indeed most of his furniture, was of near-black ebony wood. Everything in the house had a dark hue, its colors black and dark crimson, grey stone peaking out in places. It soaked up the light like a dungeon and made him itch to go outside.

There was the knocking again. He hopped out of bed, his skin goose-pimpled in the cold air as he found a robe and threw it on. The sound again, tap tap bump. It wasn't at his door. He thought of his older sister Taytu, shot by evil men in America. Though she'd survived and was recovering in Spain, the thought of danger was no longer as far from his mind as it used to be. What should he do? Yell out? That felt foolish. The sound was too gentle for him to be scared of it. He slowly pushed the door open.

It was a woman. Not one of the Ethiopians working in the embassy, but a Chinese woman. She looked young, perhaps his age, wearing a conservative baby-blue dress. She was turned away, bent over slightly, doing something he could not see. He pushed the door open just a crack more and saw she was dusting the seat of a chair.

Well, she couldn't be that dangerous. He opened the door to greet her, but stopped when she jumped. Her face turned red and she bowed.

"So sorry." she said over and over again, holding her bow at a wobbly angle "I am sorry. I am. Accept my apologies."

"You're fine." Yaqob said, "Stand up please."

She did as requested, but she did not look at ease. Her eyes darted away from his as if she was desperately hoping to get back to work.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Shun." she said, "The congressman hired me for you. As a gift."

"The congressman?"

"Their excellencies are... they are outside." she said.

"They?" before she could answer, Yaqob waved his hand. "I'll go out there. One moment." He went back in his room, quickly bathed himself with a sponge and a basin of water, and put on a tight-collared mandarin suit. He did not disturb the young woman as he passed through the drafty house and outside. The sunlight felt harsh on his eyes, and the wet morning air was heating up, promising a humid day. Ambassador Akale Tebebe sat in a gold-gilded kaftan robe. Across from him was a middle aged Chinese man in a mandarin suit, looking to Yaqob like all other middle aged Chinese men. His hair, so black it looked somewhat blue, receded and left behind a long forehead

"Prince! This is Congressman Deng Zhong-shan."

The congressman bowed in his seat. Yaqob smiled politely and took a chair. A servant - one of the familiar Ethiopians - served him tea.

"It is an honor to meet you of course. A real life prince! We no longer have such things in China. It is a privilege to meet one."

"Thank you." Yaqob said, "Of course, your country no longer needs such things."

"We have disposed of the tradition. Our royalty failed their duty. It was a necessary change for us. I am pleased to know Ethiopia's royal family has not failed."

Yaqob replied with a slight nod. Akale jumped in. "Mr Zhong-shan is part of the financial faction. He has connections who are interested in the development of Ethiopia."

"There's a financial faction?" Yaqob said, failing to veil his disappointment. Neither the world 'Financial' nor the word 'Faction' had a place in the Houist future he imagined.

Mr Zhong-Shan smiled. "Yes. Well, it's hard to avoid. We have to interact with the world, it's not like we can avoid that. And if our economy is going to understand the economies of our partners, well, our finances must be clearly defined. Dependable. Your country seeks loans, correct?"

"Yes." Yaqob said. He didn't know much about that, but he wanted to look confident in front of the ferengi stranger.

"Then we need financial policy."

"I understand that, but why is it a faction?"

"Well, I am a member of the committee, but the chairman of the committee is part of the Old Guard. We don't necessarily agree on all things. Much of what happens in finances appears to be bourgeoisie to the Old Guard."

"The Old Guard? You disagree with the revolutionaries?"

Mr Zhong-shan had thus-far been calm, even playful. Now he seemed rattled. His skin went blotchy as if his body were trying to hide a blush. "In small things only. Yes. Yes. This is allowed. Think of it. If we could only agree with the Old Guard in all things, why not make Hou an Emperor? Hou would not want this. Rule by the people means there will be some disagreements."

"Of course." Akale spoke. He looked directly at Zhong-Shan. "We are strangers in a strange land. Much of your world is new to us."

"Of course." Zhong-shan composed himself. "Yes, yes. Of course."

"So Jiang Fu will be expecting us tomorrow evening?" Akale said.

"He would be honored." Zhong-shan replied.

"Jiang who?" Yaqob asked.

"Jiang Fu." Akale said, "He is the man who oversaw the construction of the rail-line to..."

"Urumqi" Zhong-shan said.

"Urumqi." Akale repeated. "He might take an interest in helping us develop rails in Ethiopia, so I am told."

"It is true." Zhong-shan confirmed.

"Okay, but he just took an interest today? This is such short notice!"

"He sent invitations two weeks ago." Akale said, "I assumed you'd be interested."

"But what if I had something to do?" Yaqob protested.

"Well. Do you?" Akale asked simply.

Yaqob paused. "Well. No. Okay. We will go to this man's house."

"Very good." Zhong-shan smiled.

--

Jiang Fu was not a neighbor. After breakfast, they rode in Zhong-Shan's car eastward out of the city, toward Tianjin and the sea. The drive from Beijing to Tianjin took them past the hutongs of inner-Beijing and into the modern suburbs. Past that were waving fields of grain until they reached Tianjin. It was an odd city, its look essentially Chinese on the surface, but built over the remains of European buildings like a first coat of new paint over an old color. They slowed down as they entered the port along the river. It was not a thin snaking river like those so common in East Africa. It was big, slow moving and wide like the Nile. "We could take the ferry of course." Zhong-shan said, "But there is no need to cram in with so many people when I own a boat."

The port along the Hai river was split into sections. They were far down from the commercial section where big barges shimmered near the horizon in the mid-morning humidity. They passed by a disorderly area of tightly packed docks where wooden single-sail vessels seemed almost stacked one atop another. From here fishing boats with ribbed sails entered onto the river like bees leaving their hive. As they went further along, Yaqob saw bigger vessels. Only slightly bigger, but their section was more orderly. They turned off of the road skirting along the dike and went down to the rivers edge, parking on a fresh cement tarmac.

Zhong-shan's boat was the Shùncóng Nǚrén, a single-sail junk with ribbed sails. The sides of the boat were painted yellow.

"I've never been on a ship before." Akale said, smiling, shielding his eyes from the sun.

The sailors all seemed to be friends of Zhong-shan. When the congressmen introduced a few, it turned out they were distant relatives. The scene was perfectly picturesque, young sailors going happily about their work, the city caught in the process of modernization staring down benevolently on a river busy with activity. The breeze near the water was cool and pleasant, and it gently pressed on the sails as they entered the river traffic and went for the Bohai sea. It was slow going down the river. Yaqob watched the city give way to farmland, the farmland give way to tide-water, and tide-water to the open sea. To the east was nothing but water.

They spent the entire day on that boat. Akale did not like it, and threw up several times an hour over the side. It got so that he was only heaving. But despite Akale's sickness, the boat was designed for comfort. They had a full meal of steamed dumplings and fresh fish. The sailors talked very fast, of people he did not know, places he never heard of. The air smelled like salt and fish. The boat creaked and the sea sloshed. With the sun setting, the air was cooling down. Yaqob looked east at the thin light on the horizon, wondering how much of that light was the fleeing sun and how much was the great cities of China. The talk among the sailors turned to war. Yaqob's attention snapped back into the boat.

"There was a skirmish on the Onon river. The Siberians still fight like the Mongols."

"I heard they are hairy naked men and they ride into battle with guns they made out of scrap metal."

"Well that is ridiculous, but I know they still ride horses."

"That war will not last long unless the Japanese are involved. If the Japanese join the war, then it will be a great war."

"We will drive them to the sea again. And I do not worry about the Russians."

"My betrothed's brother is in the coast guard. He said that dead European bodies wash up on the shores of Korea with signs of weird diseases. They are told not to touch them. He said they sailed past an island of floating burnt bodies, held together by melted fat like a ghost raft. They gave it a wide berth."

"I will go to Russia if I have to. It is my duty to the revolution. But I don't want to go. I think it is too wild of a place."

"I don't see the point. How can you build communism if you can't built anything better than a log cabin?"

"To liberate them from the horsemen."

"To liberate them from the Japanese."

"I heard the Russian women grow hair in all the same places the men do."

"That is not good! The men grow hair in all their places!"

The conversation went on to women they knew, and Yaqob's mind began to wander again. When it was time, they all went into the cabin to sleep.

Dawn came. For breakfast they had leftovers of the last-night's dinner. They sailed for most of the day, the sea endless. Akale seemed better now. Yaqob was getting bored of the sea, and he wished he'd brought a book. His afro was damp from ocean spray.

Mid-day, with the sun shining directly above them in a cloudless sky, they spotted land. Yaqob watched as the thin green line slowly populated mountains and beaches. When they came close to the shore, they began to follow it, close enough that the occasional building could be seen. A tower appeared to rise from the top of one tree-covered mountain. The scene was tropical in Yaqob's mind. This was not the tropics it was true, but it was lush and lively, nothing like Ethiopia's searing desert coastal cities. They came around a bend. At first it looked to Yaqob like the mouth of a river guarded by smooth bluffs, but soon he realized it was a harbor. The tower, which had dropped behind the hills, reappeared watching over a port city.

Zhong-shan smiled brightly at Yaqob and pointed at the tower. "That is White Jade Tower. The Japanese built that to honor their dead when they took this city from Russia."

"This city used to be Russian?"

"Oh yes. They used to call this place Port Arthur. We call it Lushun."

A car was waiting for them when they docked. Yaqob could see the Russian flavor of the city. It's public buildings echoed the stark eastern-European style of Slavic kremlins, the specters of castles in their churches and public halls. The city was nestled along the harbor, beneath gently-rising mountains. Everything was alive and green with trees. They left the city and drove up a narrow cement road into the overlooking hills. Something like a mirror caught the glint of the sun on the top of a hill in front of them.

Zhong-shan pointed up at the shining point. "There it is." he said, "Our destination."

The house stood atop a wooded rise, glimmering in the sun. It was glass. Not entirely glass, but dominated by massive windows taking up entire walls, looking like a modernistic Buddhist temple with slanted roofs and earthy woodwork, the glass reflecting the setting sun.

"I warn you, do not take offense. Jiang Fu is very good at starting to talk, but he is very bad at stopping." Zhong-shan said.

"It is okay. I hope he has something interesting to say." Yaqob replied.

They stopped in a gravel drive. There was enough shade beneath the trees that they could see through the windows, but Yaqob tried not to, afraid of being rude. They walked up to the door where they were greeted by a servant woman dressed in all white. Upon entering, the wooden floor creaked, and the servant led them into another room.

It was sparsely furnished, only tables and wooden chairs, but the walls were absolutely covered, mostly in maps. On one wall hung a massive fur blanket. Yaqob approached it and petted it like a cat. The fur was smooth, but course.

"Like it? Mm?" An old fat man with a bulldog face croaked in the corner. He made a sound like he was clearing his throat, but he seemed to wield it as a kind of punctuation mark, meaning whatever tone he put into it.

"It is interesting. Is this some kind of buffalo hair?"

"Mm. That is a ten thousand woman flag. It's women's pubic hair."

Yaqob withdrew his hand.

"Yes. Mm. The Boxers carried it into battle. They believed that the magic in this flag would make them bullet proof. Mm. I suppose their wives and sisters and mothers were happy to let their genitals go cold if it kept the men alive."

"It didn't work?"

"Well of course it didn't work! If women's pubic hair could stop a thirty-forty krag I think body armor would look a bit different nowadays, wouldn't it? Mm! They got gunned down in the millions."

"Mr Fu, this is Yaqob Yohannes, the Prince of Ethiopia." Zhong-shan said, somewhat nervously.

"Yeh, Mm, I saw that you were a negro." the old man stood up. Yaqob, towering above every one of the Chinese he'd met so far, was especially aware of his height as Jiang Fu hobbled toward him. If he were to stack one Jiang Fu atop another, he wasn't sure the top one would even reach his chin. "An American sailor told me you have to watch out for negroes because they are such big animals they can maul anything they want to. You are a big thing, Mm, but I'm not sure you have much mauling in you."

"I've never mauled anyone." Yaqob said.

"Yeh. Mm. You got a place for superstition in your mind?"

"What?"

"Thinking the pubic hair flag could stop bullets?"

"Ah, no."

"Mm. Good. I wasn't sure if your race had any sense. I've been looking over your maps. You think building a railroad in Ethiopia is a sensible idea?"

"I don't know." Yaqob admitted.

Akale spoke up, "Why would it not be? Is Ethiopia worse than any other country?"

Jiang Fu seemed to swing around quickly despite his age, facing the other man. "Here. Mm. Here's the thing. I don't put much stock in the idea that one group of people is all that much more special than the others. Mm. China built the greatest civilization in the world and just half a century ago our people were waving pubic hair in the streets trying to stop bullets. I can look at a piece of ground and tell you exactly how the people there are going to do. Any idiot race could make an Empire in China, or in America. It's communication. Transportation. Mm! That's what matters. Your country is all mountains. Mm! Good for goats! Bad for transportation."

"But what should we do?" Yaqob asked.

"Fly." Jiang Fu said, waving a liver-spotted hand.

Yaqob wanted to ask more, but dumplings were brought out, and Jiang Fu hobbled toward them like a starved basset hound. Yaqob stared out the window at Lushun in the red light of the setting sun.

"I built it. Mm. Mm." Jiang Fu was choking down a dumpling like a snake struggling with a mouse.

"What?"

"This house. Mm. My friends said I am stupid. People are going to see in. See what I do."

"It's not easy to see in. The sun blocks it out." Yaqob assured.

"Mm. What am I doing in here! I don't murder my servants! I don't hide skeletons. What am I hiding? I don't sit around the front room naked. Mm. And so what if I did? I'm not a blushing maiden. If you look into this house and see me naked, that's your problem. And if you keep looking? Why would you do that? Do you stare at toads? Mm!"

Yaqob said nothing, uncertain if he was getting a rant or a lecture.

"Mm! Come on. Eat."

They all sat down, chewing on the fishy tasting dumplings. Congressman Zhong-shan spoke up. "These men came here because they wanted to know about how we may help them develop their rail."

"Mm. This will be harder than Urumqi. That was desert. This is mountains. I can do it. It will cost a lot. Oh. You wanted it built here they told me?" he pointed to a map as he sucked the guts out of a dumpling. Yaqob looked. He was pointing to the south of Ethiopia.

"Yes." Akale said.

"There aren't many towns there. Does anybody live there besides, Mm, jungle pygmies?"

"This is the coffee growing region."

"Oh. That's important. So you want to ship coffee then? That doesn't have to be as smooth of a line."

"So you can do it?" Akale asked.

"Mm. That's up to the government. I'm not a congressman."

"I will begin work." Zhong-shan said.

"During a war? Mm. Hou is a practical man. I don't think he would agree."

"We'll show him why he should agree." Zhong-shan said.

"Mm. Show him. Mm! He'll show you! I keep telling your friends, I know that you have disagreements with the Old Guard, and that's fair enough, those communists are all tea and roses. But Hou? He is very practical. Mm! I'm not a communist. I'm not a capitalist. I am practical, and I can see practical."

Yaqob felt some sort of oddly placed pride swell up in his breast. This was exactly the sentiments he felt about Hou and his communist project.

Jiang Fu continued. "I think it's good that Wen Chu Ming died. Don't tell Hou that. Mm! Never tell Hou that, don't tell him I said it. Mm! But Wen Chu Ming was an idealist. I think. I never met him. Well, Hou lives in the real world. Remember the Tenth Anniversary celebration? Of the end of the revolution?"

"Oh." Zhong-shan said, sounding like he'd been kicked in the gut.

"I don't think the old man knew it, or maybe he just let them have their fun, but the committee for the celebration put together all these theatrics! They had a dozen orchestras, and built this massive set with this big dragon, being held up by a bunch of ten-foot workers, or maybe they were giving it a belly rub. Mm. I dunno. The thing was ridiculous! Then it comes time, and it's night, and all the orchestras are playing together. Then they stop. Hou comes out of the dragon's mouth to make a speech. Only, he doesn't do it puffed up or anything like they expected! He comes out so meek. I remember him having a cane. Mm. I don't think he had a cane, but I remember him. Mm. Having a cane. He looked like someone's grandpa was lost behind the set! You could have heard a stick drop in the crowd. Mm. I think I heard his cane. Did he have a cane? Well, he gave his speech, and it was so casual. Practical."

"He did not have a cane. The Chairman is in good health." Zhong-shan corrected.

"I like that man. The communists come up with ridiculous things. The leftists. They say. Mm. 'We can teach the peasants to make steel when they are not farming.' and Hou says, 'No, there is no reason for that, what is the purpose? Let them farm so we can eat.' Mm. I don't want to know what will happen to China after that man is gone."

"The revolution will carry us forward." Zhong-shan said dully.

"Right. Mm."

"You said something about flying earlier." Yaqob said, "That Ethiopians should fly instead of build railroads."

"Mm. Yes. Airplanes, airships. That might be less expensive, at least for a while. Mm. Here, think of it, you can build your roads and your railroads slowly over time, a little here and a little there. But in the mean time, train pilots, buy aircraft. The future is in the air."

"Is it?"

"It's faster. Mm. The future is in rockets. Space! Think of it. How quick might you get coffee to market with rockets? It's expensive now, but when it is as cheap as a donkey and a cart, Mm! That's the future. The future might be good to Africa. I can tell by a piece of land how good their people will do. Africa is a wilderness. All jungle and deserts and mountains."

"We still want to try with the railroads." Akale said.

"Mm." Jiang Fu nodded somberly, "Yes. I will see what I can do, when I am given permission to work."

She tucked the flashlight under her chin and slowly cracked the second drawer of the big filing cabinet. Around her towered dozens of other similar, the records room for the Folha International, the local paper that had covered the visit of the Princess Mariana and her family to Brasil. The room smelled vaguely of mildew and dust, and she was certain she could rat tracks in the dust that covered a pile of cardboard boxes nearby. The floor above her creaked as someone walked down the main hall and she glanced guiltily upward. She had given the janitor fifty pesetas to let her in to the records room and leave her alone for an hour as she searched the battered filing cabinets.

Jomi, it seemed, had trusted no one, and kept very little in her desk. Isabel had pretended to be Jomi's sister to gain access to the building and knew it was only a matter of time before someone figured out she'd lied. When she had first been able to see her friends desk it had appeared painfully clean. Isabel had sat in a leather chair that bore hardly any sign of having been sat in before. Some pens, empty paper stack, and a few half written stories about local celebrity gossip. Nothing of real value was in the desk and Isabel recalled how Jomi had always told her that she kept her best stuff locked away so no one else could steal it from her.

Seated in Jomi's chair, Isabel thought back through their mutual letters to one particular note, set a couple years previously, in which Jomi had mentioned being forced to hide a key on her desk since she kept forgetting her usual one at home. She had said something about a false drawrer. Isabel, no longer watched by Jomi's editor, had quickly made a study of the drawers and, after a few moments of gently tapping the pressing, she found a small sliding cover that revealed a key. Nothing fancy, but enough to avoid the basic prying eyes.

Isabel had palmed the key and, with the Editor still facing away from her, had slipped out of the room and in to a narrow hallway, hurrying down it until she found the stairs that would take her in to the basement. She had found the janitor, a kindly old woman, in what could only have been her office and home a shabby little space filled with memorabilia of a life long gone by. The pictures of a smiling man and pretty woman, who could have once been the janitor, a collection of playing cards from Italy, empty wine bottles held fading flowers, and a few simple letters with the unsteady hands of children wishing "Grandma" happy birthday, all that she had to show for nearly sixty years of life.

Grandma had been resistant at first. The basement was her domain, it seemed not even the Editor did much without her permission down there, but at last, persuaded by the money, she had agreed to let Isabel in to the records room. So here she was, standing in front of a metal filing cabinet, surrounded by dust and mildew, looking for she knew not what.

Her fingers gently pulled the old stained manila envelopes forward one by one. Older titles had been blotted out and new ones written over top. Stories about Football stars, television stars, actors visiting from America, a wide array of what could easily be called "Gossip News".

At last, near the centre of the files, she hit pay dirt. The file read "Portuguese Royals". Her heart pounding, she pulled the manila folder out and laid it on top of the cabinet, a small puff of dust swirling up from the edges. She opened it slowly and found herself looking at another, smaller envelope. This one was sealed and she pulled the penknife from her pocket to cut the top open, doing so as carefully as possible.

She thought she heard footsteps outside for a moment and stopped. Then above her she heard the unmistakable sound of heated discussion. Mens voices. One angry. The other afraid. She didn't know what it meant but every fibre of her being screamed at her to run. She shoved the envelope in to her shirt, closed the filing cabinet, locked it, and dropped the key in to the floor drain. She hurried in to the hall, nearly colliding with the janitor whose eyes were wide with concern.

"The Police, they have come for Jomi's files. They say she had no sister!" The words were not an accusation, just fact. The money Jomi had paid was enough for the woman to know she did not belong. "You must go, and quickly."

Feet sounded on the floor above them, many of them, and all moving toward the staircase Isabel had used to access the basement. She glanced down the other hall and the janitor nodded at the unspoken question.

"There is an outside door, go, quickly."

Isabel ran. She burst through the far door just as the one at the bottom of the stairs opened and several policemen rushed through it, heading for the file room, guns drawn. She didn't waste a second, hurrying up the flight of stairs in front of her. Her feet seemed impossibly loud on the concrete and she could hearing shouting and screams everywhere in the building now. The police were everywhere. The main floor landing presented her three options, and she took the easiest, bursting out of the side door and in to the street.

A surprised policeman only had a moment to open his mouth in a shout before he folded over as she kicked him hard between the legs. He dropped to the pavement, three passing women giving her a cheer as stepped over the groaning man and ran. The street was busy with cars and buses as they sped up and down the boulevard. The sidewalk was packed with those heading home after a long day of work, a kaleidoscope of faces and noises.

Shouts behind her. The sound of a police whistle. Still she ran. Not for the first time in her life she was thankful she was on the smaller side, able to slip through the crowd far faster than her pursuers. She duck and wove, dodging through oncoming crowds of businessmen and around groups of mothers with their strollers and small children. Some called after her, others ignored her, a few cheered her on without knowing why.

For three blocks she ran, not bothering to turn off until a narrow alley allowed her to duck in to the darkness. She panted in the darkness for a moment and then nearly jumped out of her skin as a hand touched her shoulder.

"You alright?"

Isabel almost ran back in to the street but managed to stop herself at the last second as she managed to get a look at her new companion. He was about her height, his face scarred with acne, his hair black but well trimmed. He wore rumpled but well fitting clothes and a cigarette dangled from his other hand. He made no move toward her.

"Yes, yes, I am, thank you."

Just then a police car raced by with siren wailing and she shrank back in to the darkness. The man chuckled slightly and stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe.

"Yea, sure you are. That's why you're hiding from the police." He tugged his jacket a little straighter and then looked her over. "You're Spanish?"

"Yes." She didn't see any reason to deny it and the man was still not approaching her.

"Well, Spanish or not, if the police are after you, we might be friends. Can I offer you a place to stay?"

"To stay?" Hers eyes narrowed.

"Yea, somewhere to hide. And," His teeth flashed in the shadows as she smiled. "Do you have much choice? They won't give up easy."

As if to hammer his point home another police car drove past, more slowly this time, two officers scanning the crowd. Fearing capture, and with no other choice, and she nodded at the stranger and followed him deeper in to the alley.

“I wonder how everyone back home is doing.” Wu Hong spoke, cutting the still silence among the group as they marched along through the trees. Intermittently the radio would squeak or speak as someone along the line said something in it. Fleeting pieces of conversation would come and go, but nothing that brought significance.

“Damn, you're finally going to speak?” Yu Huan asked, smiling as he hoisted the heavy radio comfortably up his back, “I haven't heard much of anything from you the whole time. What's on your mind?” he asked.

“I figured these woods muted him.” Keung added, his voice faint under the weight of the packs. Hong turned to look at him and saw him smiling broadly from under sacks of overflowing green canvas.

“No it's just... Been a while.” Hong said, “The last letter I sent was a day before we moved out. How long has it been now, nearly a week?”

“Probably.” Huan said, “I stopped counting.”

“Last I heard my sister was set to graduate school soon. She was ready to have her examinations. I don't know how she's done, I would like to know.”

“My brother's wide was pregnant. I'd like to know who my nephew is. She was ready to deliver last I heard.” said Huan

“Really? Congratulations. First for them?” Keung congratulated.

“First niece, or nephew. I'd be happy to see a photo of them. When do you think we'll get time to send and receive any letters?” asked Huan.

“Probably when we stop moving.” Lei groaned, walking alongside Keung. His face was glowing red from the strain.

The group came to a gentle hill and they began to climb it. “So how was it, home for you, Hong?”

“Well it was... Quiet.” he said, “Not particularly bad, though spooky; I guess. We could see Korea if you went down the river. There was always a fear that if war broke out with Japan, we'd be the first in the way.”

“So you joined the army?” Keung asked.

“Yeah...” admitted Hong.

“The Korean border? Isn't that a bunch of Anarchist communities, Union Party turf? What'd they think about you joining the army?” Lei huffed.

“No one didn't say anything to me. My father just patted me on the shoulder and let me go.” said Hong, “I don't think anyone believed we would be in Russia!”

Lei laughed, “What'd they think about Tibet?” he asked.

“They hated it. Why?”

“I know a few professed anarchists who hated the idea. Another who wanted to see it happen to break the power of the Dalai Lama. Then he got angry the Dalai Lama was mostly retained, if stripped of his political power.”

“I can't speak for them all.” Hong said.

“I think we're here.” Sergeant Ju Gan shouted from in front. Following him up, the rest of the patrol crested the hill, and from a clearing they looked down into the forest below. Cut into the bottom of a shallow valley buildings could be seen lining a rough grid of streets. A creek flowed through it.

“Is this it?” Huang asked, kneeling down to prepare to drop the radio.

“Might be, call it in.” Ju Gan said, dropping down himself to squat in the tall grass.

Expertly laying the radio down Huang worked the machine and placed the receiver to his mouth. Speaking bluntly and plainly into it he began communicating their location. Working with Ju Gan they began making attempts to calculate their position to refine it.

As they situation oriented itself, the rest of the squad gathered around and took a seat. In the grass flowers were blooming and bees flitted about. Hong wandered forward a few pieces to sit on a rock, listening to the birds and look down at the not-to-distant settlement nestled in the bosom of the wilderness. Through the trees the hints of a road could be seen. So too did the rails of a railroad break into and out of the trees, cutting across craggy, broken fields. In one direction along those rails were the Japanese. In the other direction was the darkness of Siberia's heart and the dysfunctional politics of western Russia.

Seated on his rock Hong could not help but compare it to home. The clusters of small houses, public buildings, and other establishments surrounded by field and wood. He could not see much for farms around it though. But he could see it was a living community. From the houses thin trails of smoke rose and fishtailed in the hot summer air of Siberia. The sky was clear, and the sun was unhindered. Everything below seemed to shine in the emerald glow of the prehistoric forests of Siberia. Even this small isolated community.

Finishing his duties Ju Gan stood up. “We're waiting here for a bit.” he declared, “We're going to need to wait for the rest of the company to come together and we're going to head into town and see what's happening.”

“Yes sir.” tired voices responded, eager for a short reprieve before heading in.

Walking to Hong, Ju Gan sat down on the rock along side him, propping his rifle up against his knees as he searched his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. “Remind you of anywhere?” he asked the young private as he found his pack.

Hong didn't respond. He didn't know what to answer with. A no, perhaps? He became aware that he was certainly taking his time to look down at it, and perhaps that would be a silly answer. He couldn't say yes, because as close as it reminded him of home, he also couldn't come out and say it looked like it. It was missing much of what his home had, it was missing life.

“I don't know if I ever found out, but do you smoke?” his sergeant said, offering him a cigarette. Hong looked over and shook his head and Gan withdrew the pack, putting one in his mouth and searched his pockets again. “I heard you talking back there.” he added, diving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, yeah?” asked Hong.

“Indeed. I can't say this place reminds me of anywhere. But fuck if we're not here- Where the hell did I put my lighter?” he grumbled angrily as he searched his pockets, finding nothing.

“Maybe it's in your bags?” Hong suggested.

“Probably. Fucking hell. Forget it, never mind.” he said, giving up. Opting to chew on his cigarette instead.

The two sat there quietly, as the rest of the squad came to migrate around them. Bao and Qi eventually wound their way over, taking a seat in the tall grass with their rifles in their hands. Over time the forest began to turn and churn as foot steps broke the silence. Traipsing through awkwardly the other teams meandered their way to them, stepping from the trees on an odd course and almost missing them entirely. In time the hill began to fill up as the remainder of the company gathered in.

As they gathered around, officers decided they would become too conspicuous early on, and they were moved to behind the tree line. The fear was the village would be alerted, and they might resist or even send out an alert. As groups found their way in small cooking fires were lit on the opposite side of the hill, and rations were heated. Formal lines of communication were established back, or attempted. A census was taken. As heads were counted the commanding officers in the unit went off to make their decision, and several of the non-commissioned, Ju Gan was one of them.

---

The body of foreign soldiers that walked into the village gave pause to the few that remained there. Standing back aghast the Russian civilians stood and gawked at the uniformed Chinese soldiers who walked in formation into the village. A standard had been unfurled and was carried through the gravel street through the inter-playing shade and sun cast by the trees and village homes. In the center of town the bell tower of a single church rose above the roofs, being the only major landmark in the village. Among them walked Yu Huan, who with the rest of his squad fell in the rest of their group to be the vanguard into the isolated Siberian community. As it were, they would take the temperature, gauge the threat in town and if no resistance was met establish the Chinese presence.

For all the silent pomp the Chinese entered with, it felt anti-climatic. They entered into a town as liberators, but without an enemy to fight. There wasn't any clear distinction of who was an enemy here and who was not. With wary gazes they searched the empty windows as they passed. In Huan's hands his rifle felt heavy, burdened by the tension that hung on his shoulders.

Passing by open doors he could hear the whispers of women holding their children back from the strange people entering their town. Their red flag flew bright and vivid in the summer sun.

Huan pulled his attention from the awe struck and terrified villagers to over the shoulders of his comrades. At the head of the column strode their commanding officer. His long great coat hung down to his ankles and fluttered with every step. The folded collar revealing the fur lining, and his cleanly shaven neck. His cap was an unadorned crown, and the tip of his jian sword rested on his shoulder as he marched ahead unencumbered by any weight, carried aloft by his spectacle of command.

A figure stepped aside into the street, dressed in an old suit. The man looked as if he had not cleaned or shaven in a while. His beard had grown out and was ragged and wild. His hair was pulled back against his skull and tied in a knot behind his head. He seemed nervous and apprehensive as he walked out into the street before the company and smiling tensely he began to speak, his confidence wavering and frightful, “Z-Zdravstvuyte!” he hailed.

The officer rose a hand and halted the company. He made a series of quick curt orders to his men. One of which was for them to stand at ease, Huan could lower his rifle. He looked to his side to where Bao and Qi stood, they kept a hold of their rifles, but allowed their posture to drop some. From the ranks a junior officer stepped forward and joined with his senior counterpart, both approached the man in the road.

In low voices words were exchanged. Clearly neither the commanding officer or the man could speak the same language, and the conversation was carried out through a translator. It was a long conversation, or felt like it. The tension in the column mounted as men shifted in their boots and turned to look at the spectators with wary nervous feeling. As the sun beat down on them, a conclusion must have been met. The senior officer turned back to his men, he was a clean trimmed soldier, if not for the thin beard growing on his chin.

“We're staying.” he announced. Not making the circumstances feel even more climatic.

Perpignan, France - August 10, 1960

"Comrades, we have failed, twice, and now the Cazadores seem to be coming for us all." António da Costa said the words with a sigh as he settled in to a leather chair that creaked beneath him. He was one of three men in the small dimly lit hotel room that overlooked the harbour below.

There was a sense of finality in the sentence and the other men winced when he spoke. No one could deny the truth of his words. They were all exiles, living in France to protect themselves from the Spanish, and it was a shameful moment.

"You can be sure that Delgado will not be so careless with his own security a second time." This time it was Freitas do Amaral who spoke. He was a lawyer and politician, one of the wealthier ones in Portugal. "We missed our chance."

The sound of a clock chiming in the hallway mixed with the sound of a trolley rumbling by on the street below. A breeze pushed vainly at the heavy curtains drawn over much of the patio door, barely stirring the cigar smoke within. Few people were out and about as French soldiers, most of them sporting the red arm band of Communism, wandered up and down the boulevard.

"We were betrayed." The third man, Henrique de Sousa Neto, said from his place looking out the window below. Together, the three men made up the primary resistance to Spanish occupation, lobbying the British Government, trying to raise Communists in France to fight for Portugal. Limited success had been had on all fronts so they had opted for the simple expedience of assassinating Delgado and the Royal couple. Both had failed spectacularly and their careful network of contacts within Portugal were being annihilated by the Cazadores and agents of the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia.

"We were indeed my friends, but by who?" Costa said, sighing again even as he lit a cigar and blew smoke toward the already yellow stained ceiling. "I think we must start to think outside the box. Delgado and his agents seem to have an intimate knowledge of out operations inside Portugal that leads me to believe we are exposed and risking harm to our fellow countrymen."

Following the failed attempt on the King, Queen, and Delgado, the Spanish Intelligence community had moved quickly. Two of their prisoners had died under torture, but they have given up enough information to allow the Spanish to rip the limbs from the Portuguese resistance moment. Men and women who had once been quick to offer their support suddenly found reasons to be out of the country, or unavailable.

"I agree." Neto was nodding vigorously. He was a highly successful industrialist with deep pockets. He harboured secret aspirations to become the next Prime Minister of Portugal and had been laying groundwork to make it happen when the Spanish moved in. His shoulders were slumped, his posture that of a man who spent much of his time reading at a desk. "We must regroup. Rebuild. Fight on."

"No..." Amaral drew the word out slowly as he said it, eyes partially glazed over as he stared down in to the harbour below. Sweat was beading his forehead. His skin had a waxy pallor at all times that had earned him several unpleasant nicknames. Zombielike or not, he was the smartest man in the room, and the true brain trust behind their operations to date. "We need to bring in an expert."

"An expert?"

"Yes, the type of man who kills for money. Someone completely outside our organization, someone the Spanish would not even know. A true professional." He had heard of such men before. Men who operated well outside the laws of any country and could be counted on to complete a job they were paid for, or die trying. He was reminded of one such incident in which someone had tried to kill an American statesman, why couldn't he remember the mans damn name...

"It will not be cheap." Grumbled Neto.

"No, my friend, it will not, but the ultimate prize is Portugal herself." Amaral was nodding slowly as he tapped the fingers of his right hand against the glass, left hand tucked behind his back against the crumpled tail of his dinner jacket. He was warming to the idea. "Someone only the three of us know."

"How do you propose to find such a man?"

"I think I can make some quiet enquiries." Costa was staring up at the yellow stain above him. He was the only one of the three with any military background, having served as a Colonel in Mozambique until the Rhodesians smashed his unit. "There are certain people who do this sort of thing."

He had never actually met any of them but he knew they were out there, ex-military men who specialized in removing obstacles, usually in industrial matters, but occasionally in politics. It was almost beyond belief they were thinking of assassinating a national leader, but then again the Spanish had turned flam throwers on surrendered communists. It was a new world. A new war.

"Is that our only real choice?" Neto was clearly still not happy about the idea of spending more money. Much of his considerable fortune had already been spent on funding the assassination attempts and resistance groups.

"Yes, I think it is."

"Very well. But I want a list of at least three we can chose from." Neto was holding up three fingers. "I like to have some selection when picking a political assassin." A bleak smile crossed his face. "How bad is it that we should even come to that."

"I will begin right now." Costa said with finality, standing and reaching for his jacket and hat. "I will return this evening, until then, adios."

He pulled the door closed behind him and hurried down the stairs and out in to the street. The town was quiet at this hour, dinner hour had yet to begin, but he knew who he needed to speak with.

--------------------------------------------
Mid August: Hargeisa, Somalia
--------------------------------------------

Azima's room was austere, its walls bare, its furniture plain wood. The only colors were the rug, the pillows on her bed, the clothing laid out on a wooden stool, and her handmaids. They were clothed head to toe in red so only their ink black faces stuck out. The two of them said nothing, since their grasp on Somali was tenuous. They went about their work as if she weren't there, as if she were a statue of a piece of furniture to be decorated, covering her in rich embroidered fabric, the scarf around her head almost translucent

She didn't want to be here. Sometimes, she wished she'd been raised her father's daughter, saved from the discomfort of her unnatural life pretending to be an equal among men. Then days would come like this where she got her wish, and she felt the absence of the things she loved about that unnatural life. She longed for the independence, and to be distant from her father, the Emir Hassan al-Himyari.

She was certain she was an ugly girl. The handmaids put rings on her fingers, and a golden circlet around her head, but that seemed to make it worse. She was skinny, stringy, scars on her face that were barely visible, but visible enough. Somehow being so dressed up made her feel worse about her appearance, so much that she wondered if this was any worse than going out naked. At least in that case her unfortunate features would be competing for attention, rather than the few that were highlighted and tragically contrasted with the rich clothing she wore now.

"Pray for me." she said softly to the handmaids. They said nothing. She heard the buzz of an engine, soft and coming from outside.

She went out, into the brown halls, the two black handmaidens following behind her. Outside she heard a lute being played.

Her father was in the courtyard, entertaining a tall man in a black robe. The man wore a red turban with jewels on it, and had a close cut salt and pepper beard. She knew who he was as soon as she saw him.

"Ah, Taysir, here is my daughter!" Hassan said, motioning to Azima. She smiled politely.

"This is the son of Hassan I have heard!?" Taysir bin Faisal said, his eyes growing wide and his smile animated as if he'd just been offered the privilege to eat sweets off her naked tummy.

"Am I what you look for in a boy?" she replied.

There was a brief pause. Hassan's face didn't flinch, but Taysir looked at her inquisitively for a long moment. Then he laughed. "She has a mouth on her too! Yes! I don't feel I am talking to a girl, no, you are like talking to a man. I don't mean to offend."

"The Sultan of Muscat cannot offend so long as he is in my house." Hassan said.

"Well I am your servant. I can offend though. But you are so hospitable, I am your servant." Taysir said. He pulled a flask from his robe and took a swig. Azima's eyes met Hassan's for just a moment.

"Taysir has agreed." Hassan told his daughter.

"Oh?" she sounded. She was really surprised. So quick?

"Well, it is not difficult to agree, I want to see things happen in my lifetime." Taysir started, "And the Emperor of the Abyssinians is a weak man, isn't he? I have heard things. The American thing? Eh. He is a fool. Though I am surprised he hasn't caught you yet. You are amassing an army and your Emperor hasn't even wagged his finger?"

"They know." Hassan said simply, "I am certain of it."

"If they know, why would they not do anything?" Taysir sat down and plucked a fig from a bowl presented to him by a young male servant in harem pants.

"They have the weapons. And war has its uses, doesn't it?"

"I would have out with it. But that is why he is a bad Emperor, isn't it?"

Airplanes flew over. There were three of them in V formation. Fighters. The desert sun reflected off their hulls. On their wings were the crossed swords of Oman. "That is what they don't expect!" Taysir said.

Azima noticed they were bi-planes, their engines sounding old and choked. "I am surprised those old things still fly."

"Why would they not?" Taysir looked hurt.

"I know the Ethiopians have better. I saw them in Mogadishu."

"I have more."

"I hope."

"That mine are older are no matter I think." Taysir said, "It is the heart. That is what matters. Is there heart in Ethiopia? Under this Emperor? The believers will fight with us. And I have seen the people you've trained. I am told you have trained with the Dervish? Hassan showed me his warriors jumping from horseback onto moving automobiles. That is a feat! We have all the heart!"

"Is a good campaign ever started by disregarding your enemy?" Azima asked simply.

"Well, they have their abilities of course, but I do not think their abilities are fatal for us."

Azima sat down. Her handmaids flanked her likes guards. "I know this thing is inevitable, but could it not be delayed until a better moment."

"This thing will not be tomorrow, but we cannot wait for too long. Desta is aware of what we are doing. You know how many Shotel we have caught. He has plans. I don't know what they are..."

"Perhaps he plans to let you undo yourself." she said, "He won't have to sit up for it."

Taysir inspected her for a long moment. "Your daughter does have a mouth on her, Hassan."

"She strategizes." Hassan said. "This is what I taught her to do. She is right. We should not underestimate Desta. But being aware our enemy is capable is no reason to put everything off. We have made our own plans. It was inevitable that our enemy would be more than a pile of manure waiting for us to burn it. What happens next is we test our plans against theirs. That is inevitable. That is every war in history."

Isabel clutched the small envelope close to her chest as the stranger led her deeper into the tangle of alleyways. All around her curious faces peered out at them from hovels built of cardboard, blankets, and scrap sheet metal. The stink as they went deeper was intense, the smell of thousands of people, their waste, poor sanitation, pets, food smells, all of it a horrendous bouquet that assaulted her senses.

The buildings they passed on either side became progressively more dilapidated the further they went from the city centre. Plaster had peeled off many of the upper floors exposing the brick and concrete walls exposed to the elements, showing signs of wear from heavy rains. Rooftop patios were everywhere and a forest of brightly coloured laundry lines criss crossed above her head, providing shade for the narrow passageways beneath.

A dog snapped at her heels and she gave it a swift kick, sending it scampering back into the shadow, her rescuer turning briefly to see what had occurred before laughing softly. She studied him as they went. He was young, a few years younger than her, and was clearly quite fit. His shoulders were perhaps to broad for his jacket and his pants just a bit to short. His black hair was neatly cut and swept back from his forehead, held in place by some sort of cream or gel, and his confidence in this dark and intimidating place was evident.

"Where are we going?" She asked after she had judged they were well away from the main street. He didn't slow his pace but stabbed a figure further in to the urban jungle.

"To my home. I think you will be safe there."

They did not speak again for another five minutes. The route they took was winding but as best as Isabel could tell, he wasn't trying to confuse her, just heading in an Easterly direction. They passed several small shops, cafes and pubs, plastic chairs filled with people who smiled and returned her rescuers wave. They even smiled at her and a few called out greetings.

At last they turned into an alley that was slightly wider than the ones they had just passed through, wide enough for a small car. The buildings still rose steeply on either side for several floors but she got the impression that they had come to the tallest of them all. A proper wooden door was standing open, a large orange tabby cat lying across the entrance in a sunbeam. It flicked its tail as they stepped in to the house and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Daddy!" A small voice shrieked in excitement and Isabel couldn't help but smile as a girl, not more than five, came hurtling from deeper in the house to throw herself onto Isabels' guide. Then the girl caught sight of Isabel and her face became deadly serious as she held out a tiny hand.

"Hello. I am Isa."

"Hello Isa." Isabel couldn't help but laugh at the girls earnest expression. "I am Isabel." She shook the offered hand.

"Forgive my rudeness," Her guide said as he put the girl down, holding out his own hand. "I am Jordão."

"Not at all, thank you for the rescue." Isabel shook his hand, a firm grip, and he nodded slightly at the strength of her own.

"You are most welcome. Anyone wanted by the Policia are friends of ours."

"Not a big fan then?"

"No. They are corrupt and only interested in taking our money, or fucking our women." He said so matter a factly Isabel wasn't sure she had heard him properly.

"They hurt mom!" Piped up Isa from the floor where she was holding on to her fathers other hand.

"That they did." Jordão picked Isa up and swing her onto his shoulders before gesturing toward a flight of stairs nearby. "To the roof. I am most curious as to why they are hunting you."

Isabel followed father and daughter up the narrow concrete stairs that rose for several stories. Each landing opened on to another floor. The main floor, where they had come in, was nothing more than a former garage with a hard concrete floor, several bags of garbage, and a half assembled motorbike. The next floor held what she could only assume were bedrooms even though all the doors were closed. The next floor was the kitchen and living space, which they carried on past and upward three more floors, none of which were finished, before finally climbing through a trapdoor and out on to a roof top patio that had a broad vista of the city.

A woman was sitting on the roof top, her feet up on the wall, leaning back in a red plastic chair. She turned to look at them as they arrived and stood slowly as Isabel smiled at her.

"Hello Anna." Jordão kissed her carefully before gesturing to Isabel. "Please meet Isabel, she is hiding from our dear friends with the Policia."

Anna was a pretty woman, about Isabel's height, with raven black hair, deep green eyes, and sharp chin. It was clear she was in some serious pain but she managed to smile and shook Isabel's hand.

"Welcome to our home Isabel." She slowly sank in to her chair chair. Paolo retrieved two more such chairs from a nearby corner and set one out for Isabel before sitting in the other.

"Thank you. This is quite the view." And it was. They had been going steadily uphill as they moved away from the main street and this house, taller than its neighbours, had a stunning view of the main city itself. She could see the distant location of her hotel and the ungainly sprawl of the slums she had just hurried through.

"It is." Jordão agreed before shooing Isa down the nearby stairs and lowering a small trap door after her. He turned back to face Isabel with a curious look. "Now, I don't want to press, but I am very curious why the Policia are looking for you."

"I am honestly not sure." Isabel found herself telling her hosts the story of receiving the letter in Spain, the journey to Sao Paolo, finding her friend had been murdered, and the near miss at the newspaper. "And then you brought me here, I have no idea what is in here, or why they want it so badly."

She had pulled out the envelope and placed it on the table in front of her. Her hosts were staring at her intently, enraptured with her story. Now they both looked down at the envelope where it lay between them, then at each other, and back to her.

"You are quite the woman." Anna said at last, breaking the long silence. "I have never left out neighbourhood and the one time I did..." She winced and shifted painfully in her chair.

Jordão placed his hand on Anna's and smiled encouragingly at her. "I think you will live."

"Thank you." Anna smiled gently at him and then shifted her gaze back to Isabel. "So you have come from Spain, been spied upon, your friend murdered, and now the Policia hunt you because of what is in this envelope?"

"I think so, though I don't actually "know" what is inside. I only had time to grab it and run." She picked up the envelope and turned it over in her hands. It was a simple thing, not bigger than a full sized sheet of paper but heavy with its contents. "I suppose I ought to have a look."

She took a small pen knife from her pocket and carefully slit the edge of the envelope. Jordão and Anna were watching intently and the moment seem so sacred that she had to stifle a chuckle. She weighed the envelope again and then tilted its contents in to her hand.

A dozen photographs slid slipped into her fingers. They were in colour, slightly bent around the edges, but otherwise in good condition. The top one was in colour and Isabel recognized the hotel she had just been staying at, the white and gold exterior could, the gentle arch over the patio, the same french doors she had snuck in and out of.

"Oh my god..." Jordão had craned his head for a look at the top photo and his eyes had gone wide. Anna and Isabel sucked in their breath at the same time.

The top image was upside down to Isabel but there was no doubting what she was looking at. The photograph had been taken from a distance away, possibly from a tree judging by a leaf in the bottom corner of the image. But in centre of the frame, on her hands and knees, looking back over her shoulder, very naked, and being fucked by a man whose face they could not see, was Mariana Braganza, Queen of Spain.

2:36 PM

"Tempura Six to NEF air control... Tempura Six to NEF air control."

Nagumo cursed as only static greeted his attempts to reach someone in Urajiosutoku. What had started as a normal patrol turned into something else. Bored, Nagumo had gone beyond the usual patrol area and let his mind wander. He was now... where was he, exactly? He'd gotten lost in all the Siberian wilderness. From this high up, he only saw the green lush wilderness and rolling hills and a body of water that could only be the Amur. Though he was not sure if it was Japanese territory on the other side of the river or not.

After another fruitless attempt to reach air control, Nagumo started to descend and adjust course. The compass in the cockpit said he had been traveling in a northwest direction. A quick calculation let Nagumo know he was somewhere above Siberia in Cossack held territory. He let out a sigh of relief at the revelation. The Cossacks didn't have anti-aircraft weapons or planes like the Chinese. Plus, flying into Cossack airspace wouldn't create an international incident.

His fuel gauge read half a tank, a little over an hour of fuel at the current speed. Nagumo lowered his altitude further and started east. He knew that if he headed that way he would eventually find the ocean and Japanese held territory. He cruised a thousand feet above the ground, dipping even lower, so low that his wings came close to clipping the tops of the massive trees. Nagumo slowed to get a look as he approached a clearing among the lush wilderness.

"Chikushō!"

The first thing he saw was the encampment. After that were the men. They were busy clearing trees and creating a path through the Siberian fores. Even from a distance, he knew they were Chinese. All Japanese pilots were trained to identify communist ships, tanks, planes, and men from long range. The wool and fur hats were easy to pick out, not the same color and size as the Russian Cossack hats. The path they were forging started at the Amur. A pontoon bridge reached across the river and into China where a collection of Bào16's were parked in a semi-circle facing the river.

Nagumo knew that he was witnessing invasion, or at least the beginnings of it, but he didn't have time to worry about the political implications of his finding. Survival was on his mind. Nagumo began to climb and accelerate. He knew he was too close and too low for them to have not noticed them, so the best thing he could do was pick up speed and distance before they could open fire. He heard hard metallic pings against the fuselage of his plane as he elevated.

"Japanese! Wukou!" the yells came in alarm. At the sound of an incoming airplane the soldiers on the ground had turned from what they were doing. At first to languidly see what new thing had come to disturb their day, believing it at first to be an unannounced air reconnaissance craft to assist them. But dull bored feeling had quickly turned when they saw the marking of the aircraft and the officers on the ground had jumped into action leading their men to make some sort of response.

The commanding officer of the engineers, Man Wu threw himself out of his canvas tent and threw his gaze skyward. Dressed in slack field pants and a tank top he shouted and demanded to know answers.

"We don't know, it just arrived!" shouted a sergeant. Rifle fire was already popping in the warm afternoon and the deep guttural booms of the tank guns helped to punctuate the gunfire as the Chinese ground troops engaged.

"The hell is it, a spy plane?" he sneered, watching the Japanese airplane rise into the blue.

The bullets against the fuselage began to fade as Nagumo gained more altitude. He saw one rip through his starboard wing, creating a small hole that posed no threat to the R-77's flight capabilities. A tank shell exploded somewhere from below, rattling the cockpit and peppering his windshield with bits of shrapnel.

Nagumo didn't realize it but he was smiling from underneath his oxygen mask. He'd been a naval aviator for almost ten years, and this was his first true taste of enemy combat. The Russians five years ago had no real aerial power, their old and slow crop planes were blasted out the sky with ease. But the Chinese? They were a real threat, a real challenge. And he was in the thick of it and--

The sudden explosion on his starboard side sent Nagumo and the little craft spinning. He felt the heat of explosion, followed by the shattering of the cockpit canopy. He shut his eyes to avoid being blinded by the glass. The next thing he felt was the air blowing on his face and the sensation of fast spinning. He peeled his eyes open and saw the starboard wing was a fiery stub. He fought with the controls as he began to plummet to the ground.

"Tempura Six to NEF air control," he yelled over the roar of the sky. "If you're receiving this message, then I am going down."

Nagumo reeled over the coordinates as best he could remember as the R-77 spun into the thick Siberian forest.

Man Wu and many of the men raced towards the river as they watched the airplane plummet from the sky. A long trail of black smoke drawing a thick heavy line as it came crashing down. There were cheers and applause as men hoisted up their rifles and sub-machine guns and cheered. The air smelled of cordite still, but the fight wasn't over. Man Wu realized as much. The wreckage would need to be recovered, command would like it. The men in Beijing would like it. If the pilot survived, he would be needed. He squinted his eyes at the bright blue yonder to see a dark shape separate from the crashing wreck.

"Someone get on the phone and call back to command!" Wu ordered, bounding back towards his tent, "We were attacked by a hostile air-craft! It was shot down! A retrieval team is en'route to retrieve the wreckage and the bodies!"

His men acknowledged the request. A young private was quick to peel off from the group and head towards communications. The others were assembled by the officers for a hasty recovery mission.

---

When Nagumo came to, he found that he was suspended in the trees. His legs dangled about ten feet above the forest floor. His mind drew a blank on how he got there. The last thing he remembered was going down in flames in his fighter. Looking up, he saw his parachute had become tangled in the branches of a tree. The sight of the parachute brought it back. He'd bailed out just before the fighter took its final dive into the forest. The parachute caught on the wind and slowed him down, but the branches and leaves he caught on the way down managed to do a number on his body. The fact that he was still alive was a small miracle.

But he wouldn't be alive much longer if he kept dangling above the ground like a target. No doubt the Chinese were already heading his way. After doing a quick inventory, Nagumo found that he had his sidearm and Guntō still on him, along with an emergency compass that was sewn into his flight suit. His canteen must have been blown away after bailing out the plane. Water would be a problem later, but for that to happen Nagumo needed to make sure there was a later. He reached across his body and pulled the short sword from its scabbard on his waist. With a deep breath, he sliced the cords holding him up and fell to the ground.

The fall seemed to go on forever, but was suddenly stopped by a burst of pain from his left shoulder. He landed on it with a loud pop that, coupled with the pain, almost made him vomit. Nagumo willed himself to stand and looked at his left arm and how it dangled uselessly by his side. Cursing, he took the sword in his right hand and attempted to get his bearings. He had been flying east when he'd been hit and the compass on his lapel said that his plane had continued that way even after he jumped out.

There was a boom, followed by an intense burst of heat from somewhere nearby. That had to be the plane's engine exploding after the crash. If the plane was east of him, then he had to head that way to at least make an attempt to get back home. But the crash would also be a focal point for the Chinese so he had to hurry. Nagumo wiped sweat away from his forehead and started to run through the forest towards the crash.

Shouting echoed in the forest. A motley group of soldiers running through the underbrush. Twigs snapped under their boots. There was an air of excitement, goaded by the earlier sound of an explosion. The airplane was this way! They were on the trail.

Holding a pistol in one hand Man Wu took point. His blood rushed with excitement as they ran along. He wondered if they would find the pilot dead or alive. What was the worth of either? The question though would be soon answered as he saw beyond the brush ahead of them the fiery glow of the wreckage smoldering through the trees. The air smelled thick of oil and burning rubber. Would it set the forests on fire? If it did he imagined, less worth for them to do if it spread. They came into the crash site.

Nagumo crouched among the foliage as the Chinese soldiers entered the clearing. He assumed they were the soldiers but he couldn't be sure. The smoke from the fire was so thick he could only make out the shapes of people moving. To his right was the burning plane, its fuselage nearly consumed by the flames. The wings had broke off during the fall, leaving the body of the plane looking like a sad, burning log. Nagumo felt a pang of sadness watching the old girl burn. She'd gotten him safely through the invasion of Siberia and the rest of his time here. She deserved a better end than this. But if the fire could make the Chinese think Nagumo was in the cockpit, burning alive, then her sacrifice would be worth it.

Blood was beginning to drip down his face. With his right hand, Nagumo felt the gash on his forehead and winced. He had sheathed his sword and carried the pistol with the one working arm he now had. He started backwards as the Chinese figures fanned out in a semi-circle and began to approach the crash and the surrounding area. He'd have to make his break shortly in order to get away. Whether he could get away for good was to be decided, but he had to at least try.

Man Wu entered the clearing. The thick smoke clouding his vision and scratching at his lungs. He held a part of his shirt to his mouth while holding his pistol. The rest of the men were fanning out, searching the scene. Approaching the wreckage of the plane he stepped up alongside a soldier prodding the wreckage and shifting things with his rifle as tongues of flame sprang out from newly opened cavities. He coughed as plumes of smoke spat forth.

"He has to be around here somewhere!" Wu shouted. Dead or alive, that is. Then he remembered the parachuting form, he looked up searching the trees.

Many had been torn bare from the crashing aircraft. There was a clear gash through the pines from where the airplane had come screaming through. More than wrecked airplane littered the forest floor and there were smoldering pine needles and large splinters of wood. And hanging from a twisted and shattered pine was the tangled and matted fabric of a parachute. The chords had been cut. The man was alive.

"He's here." he said to himself, "He's here! He's somewhere around here!" he shouted.

Nagumo cursed when he heard the shouts in Chinese. He could only make out a few words, but he got what was being said. Somehow, he'd left proof of his survival. He took in a deep breath of the bitter, smokey air and flipped off the safety of his handgun. He could hear the crunching of boots on leaves and sticks. Twelve shots were all he head. Eleven for the soldiers and then one for himself. Nagumo was young, but he knew what happened to Japanese who were captured by the Communists. Better to die than to wish he were dead.

Another deep breath to gather his courage. He was preparing to stand when another explosion rocked the clearing. The fuel tank of the Mitsubishi had caught fire and exploded. The Chinese yelled and scattered as the fire intensified. With the cry of "Banzai!" stuck in the back of his throat, Nagumo began to crawl through the underbrush away from the flames and the soldiers. He gritted his teeth as he crawled one-handed.

Man Wu was far enough back, but others had not been so lucky. His back was turned when a fuel tank in the airplane ignited and exploded and he had been tossed to the ground like a doll cast aside. He could feel the solar heat of the flames lick his back, it was brief and stinging but he did not think he was burned as he lay in the cool and discarded pine needles. But others had been closer.

The cries of pain after the fact returned him to reality and posed a new problem for him as he scrambled to his feet. Several men had been injured. A shard of metal had embedded itself in a young soldier's arm and the one who had been poking in the wreckage had been torn and horribly burned in the latest explosion, his body lay cracked against a tree, lifeless and burned chili red. "Don't try to pull that out now!" Wu boomed to the men helping the injured soldier, "Get him back to camp, get someone out here to isolate this scene. We have a downed Japanese fighter, and its living pilot somewhere."

"Yes sir." the response came. The injured man was raised by the good shoulder and helped back to camp.

Man Wu turned back to the rest of his men. "He's not going to be here anymore. Someone, find a trail. There has to be something."

---

According to his wristwatch, Nagumo had been walking almost an hour. He had no idea how much time he'd covered at that point, his injuries and the thick forest slowing him down. He was thankful that the forest was so thick that no vehicles could navigate through it. He was in no condition to run away from any truck or car. The fire and its smoke were gone and according to his compass, he was heading in the right direction. Eventually he would find the Amur and what he hoped was Japanese territory on the other side.

Nagumo stopped short. He heard voices somewhere. They were distant shouts in Chinese. He reckoned he was maybe a kilometer away from whoever it was that was shouting. Whatever it was, it sounded like an order. He wiped blood away from his eyes and started to hurry towards the river. The voices were growing louder by the time Nagumo could hear the sound of running water somewhere nearby.

After arriving to the plane crash, Man Wu had retired into his command tent. The situation was developing, but now he figured was an ample moment to send word to command and to brief them on the situation. Seated at a table next to the communications equipment he pressed a telephone receiver to the side of his face as he was patched through directly to his commanding superior, Aiwen Wu. It was only a moment, and his voice suddenly rang in clear from the other side.

"I understand you had an incident." Wu said on the other side, his voice was neither genially or scolding.

"Still having it." Man Wu corrected, "A single Japanese aircraft flew over the encampment roughly half an hour to an hour ago. We shot it down, and the plane crashed on the Siberian side of the river. Search teams have been dispatched."

"I see. I take it then the pilot has not been found, or any crew members? Do we know what the airplane is? Has anyone been injured?"

"We've identified what might possibly be a single surviving crew member. On arriving to the crash scene there was a parachute tangled in the trees. The cords had been cut so it's possible the pilot survived and is wandering the woods. I remained on scene until we found the first bit of a trail, a young enlistee reported finding blood on the ground and against some leaves. I put him in confidence to help guide the search party and came to issue the debriefing.

"Per what the airplane is: I can't identify the exact model at the moment, the wreckage is fairly badly damage and I can't make out any details. A fuel tank exploded shortly after our arrival and injured one man and killed another. But for my eyes and knowledge it's too badly disfigured to tell what model it is. But it's a single-crew prop airplane to be certain, possibly a fighter or a reconnaissance vehicle. May I speak my mind, commander?" he asked, finishing.

"You have my permission."

"The appearance of the aircraft was rather sudden to say the least. If I had to give any thoughtful pointers on it I would suggest that it's possibly a scouting mission from the Japanese, that perhaps they caught wind of the invasion and are keeping an eye on it. I can't be certain how to confirm or deny it, outside of locating the pilot. But that's an active situation now."

"I understand why you'd be cautious." Wu said, "You're doing good work, keep it up and keep me appraised of any changes. I'll notify the general secretary to put you on priority. I'll need to know what's going on. Beijing will want a report of this as soon as possible."

"Yes sir, thank you s-" Man began, before being interrupted by a breathless runner. He stood painting in the flap of the tent. Man Wu looked up at him astonished and inquiring.

"The path he was on changed direction. He's turned south-south east, towards the river!" he said.

"Dispatch boats! Get someone out to run down the river! I want that man!" Man Wu insisted, boomingly.

"Something's changed?" Commander Aiwen asked.

"Seems our man is headed towards the river, probably looking for a clear way back home. I'll give the full report later. Colonel Man Wu, over and out."

Nagumo heard shouts as he ran out of the forest and towards the river banks. He looked over his shoulder and saw two soldiers step out, rifles raised and yelling at him in Chinese. He took two potshots at them with his pistol, causing them to scatter back into the woods. Nagumo holstered his pistol at the water's edge and went in. He started wading until he was neck deep and then swimming as best as he could with one arm.

He cursed as the current began to make him drift downriver. Shouts from the shore were followed by gunshots, the bullets nowhere near hitting him. He struggled to keep his head above water, and any attempt to use his left arm sent shooting pain through his body, so intense he saw black spots in his field of vision. He kept swimming as fast as he could, not bothering to raise his head.

The sound of a trolling motor rapidly approaching filled with both hope and dread. Hope that he would be rescued, but dread at the realization that the boat and its crew would be Chinese. Someone from the approaching boat shouted at him in Chinese. Nagumo was too tired to even attempt to make sense of what he was saying, but he knew it was some kind of warning to surrender or be killed. Nagumo resolved then and there to either die or escape. Death or disgrace was all that waited for him in the hands of the Communists. And he would rather die in the wilderness than become like the Defeated. More angry shouts that he ignored. Finally, there were warning shots that peppered the water around him.

"Banzai," he rasped, taking a deep breath before diving under the water.

Nagumo held his breath as the current began to take him. Bullets whizzed through the water all around him as he dove deeper and deeper. He turned and looked up at the hull of the boat as he began to drift away from it. Even as an aviator, he was trained in the IJN's extreme underwater survival regiment and could hold his breath for almost four minutes if he moved as little as possible. If the current moved fast enough, he could put a lot of distance between himself and the boat.

---

The Chinese soldiers fired into the water. But nothing turned up. They waited, nothing but the gentle rush of the Amur river and the low hum of the engine singing in the afternoon. As the moments slipped, nothing turned up. But he had just been there.

"If he's not turning up now, he will later." a sergeant called from the boat, looking downriver, "Dead or alive he's gotta come up sooner or later."

Nagumo counted to one hundred and eighty and started swimming. He pointed his body towards the opposite shore from where he'd swam in. His lungs were burning, a tingling that started in his chest was now coursing through his upper body. He slowed as the water began to become more and more shallow. He doubted that he'd put enough distance between himself and the boat to avoid their shots, but he had to try to make a run for it.

There was a grouping of reeds on the river bank as he emerged. He slowly inhaled the fresh air, making sure that everything below the nostrils stayed submerged in the waters. The motor of the boat was beginning to grow louder as it approached. The reeds would be the first spot they searched. Nagumo started to slowly wade towards the shore, careful to not make too much noise.

Slowly churning, the boat plied down the river searching. The men on the shores turned in land, fanning out into the trees as they passed Nagumo, hiding now on the Chinese side of the border. He watched them continued downriver. He let out a sigh of relief as he slipped out of the water and started back into the forest, what he thought was friendly territory. Little did Nagumo know that his journey home was just beginning.

~Mariyinsky Palace, Kiev, Ukraine~
August 1960

(Collab with @NecroKnight)

As was usual on Sundays, Anastasiya settled into her throne room to meet with her guests. Over the last few weeks, she had met with all manner of foreign diplomats, dukes, counts, and even a few prominent ordinary citizens. Setting aside the afternoon for this was a good idea, as it had given her an understanding of her realm far more quickly than she would have ever obtained simply listening to her advisors.

“Yeva, who is first on the list today?” she asked her maidservant, who usually accompanied her and carried a variety of relevant information. She emerged from behind one of the Ukrainian flags hanging on both sides of the room.

“You may wish to prepare yourself more than usual, Your Grace. The Chairman of the Arkhangelsk Socialist Union, a man named Amani Ivanovich Yukarev, is here today to discuss some kind of trade deal involving oil. You may essentially consider him the head of state.”

“That’s very interesting,” Anastasiya mused. “Well, I have no special love of socialists or communists, but I suppose if the leader of another country has decided to come here I should at least give him time to speak his case.”

She looked up and nodded at the door guards while speaking loudly, “You may let him in.”

Soon enough, both Anastasiya and her aide Yeva soon witnessed the sight of the namely communist leader of Arkhangelsk. Which in all honesty, might leave her a bit surprised - since instead of someone dressed up and looking like some radical - the ‘Chairman’ in question looked to be an old man, with a cane. Namely he wore a uniform that was more suited to the dean of a school or the local guide for a forest trip.

The man in question, even removed his cap in proper respect to slavic culture of hospitality - as he soon enough, gave a warm smile and meek bow, leaning on his cane. “Queen Anastasiya. Thank you for seeing me,” he spoke, his voice and attitude respectful and cordial. A far cry from the usual stereotype of the socialist revolutionary. “I apologize, if the note came on such a short notice - but news travels either quickly or slowly, from where I am from - and I determined a quick solution might be better achieved now than waiting for later.”

Anastasiya, while quickly disabused of her notions of how old the man would be, quickly lowered her eyebrows and resumed listening. This man was clearly an old radical - perhaps descended from the days of 1917 itself.

“It is my pleasure, Amani Ivanovich Yukarev. There is no need to worry - I have always felt that a leader shows themselves best not by how they deal with what is planned but by what is unexpected. There may exist some underlying tension between our nations in terms of ideology, but to put aside those preconceptions and discuss purely on a rational and personal basis is my aim in all endeavours.”

She rose from her seat, and gestured warmly for him to follow. “I have a meeting room prepared where we may discuss in more detail.”

“Thank you for that - and you have no fear about our ideological differences. I can admit, that I might be considered the radical among socialist circles instead of your own...“ he spoke, as they walked - namely his step did have some vigor behind it and he moved a bit faster than a man of his age.

As the two of them arrived in the meeting room, that was more fancy than what Yukarev had for his own work and sleeping quarters. “...I consider myself the more older type. The ideals that a person’ work should be worth their sweat. I am not the rapid radicals that once plagued the Russian Empire - though, I was one of the young fools, who got captured and sent to Siberia - after the Petrograd Uprising.”

Namely he was being honest with her, he was old - namely one of the first radicals to attempt resistance against the Tsar yet also one of the likely survivors of those events and surprisingly not radicalized. “...if you think my beliefs will hinder these negotiations, don’t be. I am as capable as any man in my position. I am simply the rational man, who supports neither the brutal Tsar nor the aimless Revolution…oh pardon, my ramblings…”

Anastasiya smiled a little at this.

He soon took a seat, and produced some papers that he had kept inside of his jacket - they were written on old paper, but were readable. Namely, papers that detailed about restarting the drilling that had been established during the Imperial era - namely the Yarega Oil Field. As it was, Yukarev explained that they could access it - yet sadly, most of the infrastructure for processing it was either destroyed in the Second Russian Civil War or simply controlled by another power.

“I am curious, if your industry would be able to processing this kind of oil into usable fuel?” he asked, sharing with her the details - namely the amount and type of oil.

“Hmm, it seems likely.” Anastasiya leaned over the table to examine it in greater detail. “Back in Imperial days, they discovered a great deal of oil here in Ukraine and built refineries alongside with drilling sites to handle the process. However, they failed to consider the type of oil reservoirs we have here. They are narrow and difficult to access, meaning there was much lower production than expected. So our refining capacity well exceeds what we actually extract. If we can restore some of those old facilities to operation, we may very well be able to achieve some kind of partnership.”

“The critical detail that I am curious about is transportation. What exactly is your plan to deliver this oil all the way from Arkhangelsk to eastern Ukraine? Automobiles? Rail? A pipeline? And through what countries do you plan to transport it?”

“Well. We had originally imagined on transporting via automobiles,” replied Amani. “Once we get things going and processing again we might be able to utilize railways…”

“I’m sadly not sure, we can buy or manage an air fleet. Unless your country happens to have one,” he spoke, with some humor in his voice. “As for what countries we plan to pass through. The current is the Moscow Tsardom and Smolensk. Since I had heard rumors, you and the Muscovites might make peace between each other.”

“As such, I was hoping we could gain access to their roads in exchange for a tithe of the oil profits,” he explained.

The Hetman nodded. “That’s reasonable enough in my opinion. Optimally rail would be the best method, but it may take a year or two to get operational even if we start now, considering the state of things in Moscow and Smolensk.” She grinned slightly. “I don’t know much about airplanes, but I’m fairly sure the ones we have would burn through more fuel getting from here to there than they could possibly carry.”

“The Muscovites have indeed recognized our independence, and my government plans to reach out to them soon. A profitable trade deal can only warm relations further, in my opinion.” Walking back around the side of the long, ornate table at the center of the room and seating herself at one of the chairs near the head of the table, she turned to look at him more directly. “My final questions are what percentage of the final profit go to you and us respectively, once we take off the portions for Moscow and Smolensk, and where the fuel will go afterwards.”

“Most of our surplus fuel that we do not keep for our own purposes is sold into Eastern Europe, namely Poland and Austria. Do you desire the fuel back or merely the profits?”

“Hmm. I am sure that is up for debate. But how about having seven percent each be awarded to Smolensk and Moscow, since we are namely passing through them and not directly utilizing anything beyond their infrastructure,” he explained.

“As for the rest, how about splitting in fifty percent for you and thirty-six for us?” he said. “Since namely, you will be doing much of the work of processing the oil into fuel. As for returns, we’d be comfortable receiving back the fuel in return. While profits are nice, I think we have much more use in finished goods than money in general.”

“...and this isn’t me being the socialist here,” he humored. “We have more use of grain and fuel, that paper money to be honest. Our only trade route with Finland is used on a monthly basis, depending on the weather. As such, goods are better than money in this case.”

Anastasiya blinked in evident surprise, expecting a harder deal than she got. She was mentally preparing herself to haggle, but already receiving what she was planning as a goal from the start, it no longer seemed necessary.

“Very well then. We will transport back thirty-six percent of the fuel to you, and offer the same option to Moscow and Smolensk with their seven percents, of either receiving the fuel or profits. The remaining fifty percent we will keep or sell. I’ll have my secretary Myron write it up. She pushed open the door and called, “Yeva, have Myron come see me immediately.” The response of “Yes, Your Grace,” echoed softly as she let the door close once again.

She offered her hand to Chairman Yukarev. “It’s refreshing that we could come to such an amicable arrangement. If there are any further details that need to be worked out, I can send an ambassador or you can send yours.”

“Thank you for this opportunity,” replied Yukarev, shaking hands with the Queen of Ukraine.

~Armyansk, Crimea~

The old man was very bored indeed. He lit up his seventeenth and probably last cigarette of the day, resting comfortably in a chair just outside his house, moon shining ever-so brightly in the clear sky. A couple of wayward “soldiers” in casual clothes, Mosin-Nagants slung over their backs, walked up the dusty street, maneuvering their way around the potholes.

“Hey, pops. Care to spare a couple cigs for us?”

“I’m not a ‘pops,’ I’m Marat. And why should I? Damn things are getting more expensive every day.”

Hearing that, they both moved in unison to get up in his face.

“You may be an old man, pops, but we ain’t about to take this kind of shit. We spend all day protectin’ ya from the Ukies, we deserve a few cigs for the trouble.”

The old man glared back with hopeless defiance. “Sure, tell me how many Ukrainians you’ve fought in the last year. There aren’t any, are they?”

With that, as expected, one of the soldiers wound up and delivered a swift right hook straight into his face. Marat fell off of his chair, but then he started to pick himself back up and-

An alarm blared from the town center.

One of the soldiers exclaimed, “Shit!” They both started to run off, but the other one briefly turned around to say, “We’ll be back for you later, pops!” Marat had made his way back into his chair to watch them go.

“I hope you get shot, fucking juvies.” He wiped the blood off his mouth just as the sound of gunfire began to clatter through the town.

An aircraft engine’s drone began to be noticeable in the distance, along with the sound of periodic explosions that could only mean one thing.

“Damn. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.” Marat made his way to the old cellar in back of his house, in lieu of a bomb shelter. It was the best he could do. The last thing he saw as he closed the hatch were the rumbling treads of a tank rounding the corner.

-

Marat had been in the dusty, now slighly more ordered cellar for about twenty minutes when a knock came on the door of the cellar after a period of silence. He had been moving things around inside during the battle, heedless of it all, by candlelight.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a voice in Ukrainian-accented Russian. After a moment of hesitation, Marat replied, “Yes, I’m here.”

“You can come out now, it’s all clear.” Marat opened the door, and climbed out to be face-to-face with a new couple of soldiers, a fair bit more sharply dressed than the last. The one who spoke saluted. “Good afternoon, sir. We have to ask that you evacuate.”

“Evacuate? What for? I thought the battle was over?” He replied in Ukrainian, surprising the soldier, who switched back to it as well.

“We apologize, but the Royal Army needs to temporarily appropriate the town as a supply point. We’re transporting you all to a provisional camp in Kalanchak, it should only be a matter of a week or two before we’ll allow you to return to your homes.”

Marat was displeased, but he nodded. These soldiers were a lot more serious than the ones he had encountered earlier.

They directed him to the town square, through a terrain now bearing many more scars than before. He saw a few bombed houses on his way, but he was sure there were many more closer to the former garrisons.

He climbed onto a white military truck which evidently no one had bothered to change the camo on with the help of a young woman already seated, and sat across from a couple of young men. As he looked up, he couldn’t help but notice that he had met the two before. Marat couldn’t help but comment.

“Must not have been protecting the country very well if you’re both still alive, huh?”

They both glared holes into the floor as the people around him burst into chuckles and smirks, despite the circumstances.

Hrazdan, Armenia

He felt like an outsider, but one always did when they were around veteran tank crews. Jon stood in faded brown coveralls, smoking a cigarette awkwardly while a tank commander of the Gyumri Garrison’s reserve unit listed off tasks that they would be performing that day. In his left arm, cradled underneath his shoulder, was a leather tanker helmet with a blue stripe painted down the middle: a company evaluator. The tank crew, six of them, were there to put the newest Amrots Landship, numbered 788, through its paces on the Tsaghkadzor factory’s proving grounds. This was cheap, regular, and effective training for the reservist units who often found themselves crewing the heavy tanks on the frontlines in the west, but also provided valuable quality assurance for the heavy industry plant under contract to refurbish them. Better something go wrong in the hills of Hrazdan than in the plains of Karin. Jon, being involved with the program, was offered a spot on one of the test runs to get an appreciation for the beasts.

The Hrazdan Proving Grounds were located to the northwest of the city, conveniently west of the Hrazdan Garrison and north of its industrial neighborhood. This tract of land dipped in and out of hills, through fields, and across trickling streams. A well-worn dirt path ran through several emplaced obstacles and events, culminating in a firing range at the western end of the preserve. It almost looked like a standard rifle range, except the range was stretched to a kilometer and a half long with the hulls of other tanks scattered around to provide targets. Many of them were landships that failed their evaluation: “It’s kind of like when a race horse breaks a leg and you have to shoot it,” was Mister Bagruntsian’s joke to Jon when he was showing him around. The manager sat in a nearby jeep with an officer from Hrazdan, taking swigs of a flask and talking about the dancers at a local club.

“So company evaluators are always in this awkward position because we only have the seats for us crewmen,” the tank commander explained as he clambered up the track, gripping the top of the hull and pulling himself up. With a swing of the leg, he pushed his hips up and rotated his body to the top and got back onto his feet. Jon tried the same, jumping up and grabbing onto the edge of the hull that was above his head. He boosted himself up on a road wheel and awkwardly swung his leg over to the top, pushing himself up to the hull as well. The tank commander climbed up to the new turret of the landship and opened up a hatch, looking down into the body of the tank. “We do have some space in the back where we let you guys sit, usually. It’s on top of this battery box and you have this, well it looks like it is, but it’s a support beam to hang onto.”

Jon looked down into the cramped, metal space. He had done the summer military reservist trainings that all conscripts were required to attend, but they were mostly quick affairs that required students show up for a weekend to qualify on a rifle and relearn soldiering tasks before being released. He had never been in the inside of a tank before, but he quickly realized why they earned their reputations as coffins. Tanks of the Great War especially were crowded, with six crewmen manning weapons and controls inside of a box armored with thick steel walls and complex systems. Despite the upgrades and refurbishment, such as improved ventilation and a newer engine, the landships remained cramped and noisy spaces with discomforts largely eliminated by modern designs. Jon lowered himself into the body of the tank, his helmeted head hitting a valve on the way down. With a thud, his worn black boots hit the metal floor and he maneuvered himself to the back through what seemed like a forest of pipes and valves, like a kid navigating a playground.

The rest of the tank crew, largely apathetic to him, entered through a wide variety of hatches on top. There were six crewmen in an Amrots: a gunner for the main 120mm main cannon, which happened to be the largest tank gun in service in the region; a loader for said shells, a tank commander who managed the crew, a driver who sat down in the hull, and two hull gunners manning side gun positions. The settled into their positions and plugged into the tank intercom system: an aux cord to the helmet led to a headset not unlike those of a bomber crew’s. Everyone in the tank, save for Jon, could talk to each other and coordinate. The tank commander also had space carved out a boxy, vacuum-tube two-way radio to communicate with higher and an additional field phone had been wired into the back of the hull so that infantry could talk to tankers without exposing themselves: an improvised solution to a problem, learned the hard way in the Artsakh. These systems were the first thing tested, a chorus of voices all sounding off into their mics.

“Okay, the intercom works at least,” the tank commander called out to Jon, who marked it down on his clipboard. “Let’s go!”

The driver pushed an ancient-looking lever forward, starting the massive engine. It roared to life right beside Jon’s head, thrumming and pushing power to the treads of the machine. The driver pushed forward another set of levers in a complicated procedure, and the hull shifted forward. With a jolt, they were on the move, crawling over the gravel parking area towards the start of the track that would lead them through the proving ground’s course. The tank crew were unbuttoned out of their hatches, heads sticking out into the summer air, enjoying the breeze like dogs in a car. The tank drove out to its first event, a straightaway about two hundred meters long of paved road, followed by another straightaway of dirt road. This would be to test the speed of the landship: it was evaluated to be, on average, forty kilometers-per-hour on flat paved roads and slightly less on unimproved ones. The speed would suffer on various types of terrain, already computed by testing. These speeds were supplied to military planners who would use them to train tankers and plan their operations, but did not need to be tested again.

The landship accelerated, its controlling jeep following close behind. The tank’s engine roared and released foul-smelling gasoline fumes as it hit its maximum rotations-per-minute, upon which the design of the engine encountered a mechanical phenomenon known as “torque peak”: the engine would keep accelerating past its redline limit, but the internal combustion engine would start to drop power and therefore speed. The driver hit his engine’s redline limit and called out the number on his gauge: thirty-nine kilometers-per-hour. Jon wrote it down on his clipboard as the tank bumped off the paved road and onto the dirt straightaway, the entire time listening to irregularities in the engine. The stress test was successful, and the tank turned off down a hill to test its climbing performance. This consisted of a simple series of hills at measured grades. The crew went down the first dip, controlling the handling carefully lest the machine slip in the mud and turn off the track. They gunned it at the bottom of the slope to provide inertia for the trip up, repeating this as necessary for a few more grades.

The tank commander clambered his way to Jon’s seat, poking his head out of a hatch and towards the evaluator. With a smile on his face, he shouted: “Having fun over there?”

“It’s cramped and it smells awful back here!” Jon replied, his voice muffled by the scarf he held up to his face and nose. His eyes watered from the fumes. The tank commander laughed again, shook his head, told Jon that it would get better, and disappeared as quickly as he appeared. Confused, Jon looked back towards the main compartment of the tank where he was giving orders for a fording site. The tank, suddenly, dipped into the water. A river intersected the trail, dug out to be deep enough to ford through but not flood the tank. Jon looked back for any evidence of water leakage, which could quickly flood the engine and cause trouble for a crew locked in a tight, confined space. Luckily, the landship emerged from the riverbed dry, and drove off to the next set of obstacles. This one was a trench-crossing exercise, with a simulated wide trench set up in the middle of the road.

While landships, owing to their long hulls, could cross narrow trenches with ease, longer trenches required the use of steel bridging girders. These were straight, tread-width steel beams located just above the treads that were ten meters long. In the Great War, these would be emplaced by infantry or the crew by hand: this brought them under fire, and a solution was devised after the war by Armenian engineers. One of the features of the landship’s new electrical system were two small motors in the front of the landship: these were activated by the tank commander, which then actuated a lever system that brought the bridging girders to the ground in front of the tank. It was a judgement call for the commander, however: if he let them down too soon, they would simply drop into the trench with no way to recover them. Luckily, this reservist unit was familiar with the course and dropped the bridging beams with no issue. The electrical motors whirred, followed by a clunking sound, and then whirred back into place. The tank moved to the other side of the trench and took a few minutes to dismount and hoist the beams back into their holders.

The final leg of the testing circuit was dedicated to the weaponry. Armenian landships were armed primarily with a 120mm cannon. It sported a coaxially mounted heavy machine gun for infantry, but this was not used often with the sluggish turret speeds. More often than not, the top hatch sported a loader’s machinegun, which could traverse more easily. On both sides were heavy machine guns in lateral gun positions, used to defend the flanks of the beast. Some models added an additional flamethrower to these positions, a tank of pressurized fuel for it being retrofitted disturbingly close to the gunner’s head and prone to explosion from spall or shrapnel. This tank, however, just had its guns: Tsaghkadzor was keen on not destroying its proving ground, they already kept the Hrazdan fire department busy enough with range fires caused by bullets hitting into dry grasses or, sometimes, hot brass setting brush aflame: a flamethrower would be too much for them to handle.

The point of the proving grounds’ range wasn’t to evaluate the competency of the crew, they had gunnery tables for that, but to test the functionality of the weapon. The commander ordered the gunner to first conduct a full rotation of the turret, swiveling entirely around the hull and raising the turret elevation up and down. Once the mechanical reliability of the turret’s hydraulics system was proven, the commander ordered them to take aim at the first of five targets. With the metallic groan of grinding machinery, the gunner spun the turret onto the rusted hulk of another landship. The proving grounds had scattered old, deficient tanks on the target hill almost like a cruel joke: fail the testing and wind up another target for cannons. Practically, the large size of the landships offered a sizeable target to see where the rounds ended up. The commander called out the ammunition: “High explosive! Three charges!”

The loader now, hearing this, reached into the ammunition rack to withdraw a copper-plated tank shell. He swapped it around in his hands to face the other direction and slammed it forward into the open breech. A metal box next to him held bags of primer: each one offered more explosive power to propel the round farther, much like conventional artillery pieces. He took three bags and stuffed them in behind the round, flattening them out so they were evenly spread across the backplate of the projectile. “High explosive! Three charges!” he repeated, before closing the breech door and locking it into place with a level. The gunner adjusted his aim, peering through the optics of his scope and spinning the aiming wheel into the proper position. “Ready to fire,” he announced, face still pressed into the optics.

“Fire!” shouted the commander as he peered into his periscope optic. With a massive concussive blast shaking the inside of the hull, the charges exploded and shot the projectile the distance to its target. It sailed through the air for a few seconds, rotating in flight from the rifled barrel, before impacting just shy of the target. The round exploded into a storm of dirt, smoke, and flame, a dull thud in the distance. The tank gunner opened the breech, smoke pouring out of the barrel, and removed the shell’s casing with gloved hands. Above him was his hatch, which he opened with one hand before tossing the shell out with the other. Smoke from the gun filled the cabin, the ventilation system struggling to vent it out. Jon went into a fit of coughing, his arm over his eyes to keep the smoke out. He had heard stories of Great War tankers passing out from the toxic fumes: the new tanks, despite the upgrades, were not much better. The crew were under strict instructions to keep the tank “buttoned up” for at least two shots, however. After they could open up the hatches to air it out.

Four more times, the steel frame of the tank was rattled by fire. Each time, mechanically and robotically, the loader would slam home a shell and prepare the breech for firing, before the gunner pulled back his lever to send it flying off to another steel target. Each time, Jon breathed in more of the smoke and carbon, before finally having enough: he scrambled for the hatch above him, pushing it open and crawling his way to the top in a coughing fit. His clammy hands fought to unbuckle the strap of his helmet, which he threw down into the tank before leaning over the edge and vomiting over the side skirt armor and the tracks. Another fit of coughing followed, as he dry heaved again and spat out his saliva. “Fuck,” was all he managed to get out. The student-turned-tank-evaluator breathed in deeply, coughing again, and wiped the sweat out of his matted-down hair. A grimace came across his face and he slumped back down into the hull of the tank where the commander was smiling at him.

The tank tossed its final shell out of the loader’s hatch and spun around on its treads. Hatches still open to air out the smoke, they began their drive home. A few minutes of maneuvering led them right around the track and back to where they started, where Mister Bagruntsian had already parked his jeep with the reserve officer and was leaning on its hood. Behind dark sunglasses, he watched the tank crew park and dismount, dropping down onto the gravel and taking off their helmets. Cigarettes were passed around and lit, while Jon stumbled his way over.

“You’re rather pale,” Mister Bagruntsian commented, moving his hand outwards to grab Jon’s clipboard. He looked through it. “And it looks like 788 here passed with flying colors. She’ll go right off to the front.”

Mister Bagruntsian peeked around Jon’s shoulder to the tank. “Maybe once they clean the vomit off of it,” he added with a smile and a slap on the back.

“Nobody ever told me it gets so smoky in there,” Jon protested. The manager chuckled again, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes of his own. He lit one and offered another to Jon with a devilish grin, who stepped back and shook his hand in front of him.

“You might have smoked enough for one day in there. Anyways, thanks for coming out today. Now you’ve got an appreciation for how these things work. What do you do in the reserves, Jon?”

“Besides my student deferment, sir?” Jon asked. “Just the basic conscript stuff. Nothing like this.”

“Then it’s a solid experience for you,” Mister Bagruntsian said. “You think you might put in for a reclassification to this?”

“Fuck no!”

“Alright, well now you’re going to oversee a delivery of these to Karin sometime soon. I have the details in my office.” The manager finished his cigarette in a few long drags before crushing it out underneath his shoes. He started along back to the factory after waving goodbye to the tank crew. “Come along, now,” he called to Jon, “we’ll get you shipped off in no time.”

"Does anything ever happen here?" The comment came from Veronica, a black haired beauty who would normally have spent her summers half naked on Baker Beach back home in San Francisco. She was not what you might call whiney, but she was certainly a bit high maintenance. But she was also damn fine to look at, so she was forgiven.

"What do you mean?" Josh was her boyfriend, and the one who had organized their little summer walking tour of the Spanish Mountains. He was a well built twenty something, with three years in the US Marines under his belt. Veronica was just behind him and he had swung around as he spoke, just in time to see their friends and hiking partners, James and Sarah, roll their eyes. The two were from Britain and found Veronica to be very "American", as they put it.

"We haven't seen a car in two days, just that bus, the trees are all the same, I could have been hot and sweaty on the beach back home if I knew we were just going to drag ourselves up mountains."

"Afraid you'll break a nail, Ronnie?" Sarah said teasingly. The two girls got along most of the time, but when they had a falling out it was often spectacular.

The American flipped the bird and stuck out her tongue as she did so, but they all laughed.

"You are right though, Ronnie, it's damn hot out and I really could use a beer." James cut in before the girls could continue their insults. He was a Royal Marine, having met Josh on a joint US/British exercise in Canada a year previously. The two had kept in touch and decided to meet up again in Spain. Originally it had been a boys trip but Veronica and Sarah had demanded they be included and so here they were, the four of them, hiking up another long brutal hill on the Pilgrim's Route to Santiago de Compostela, reportedly the site of the Holy Grail.

"The next village, El Cebreiro, is just there." Josh pointed upward to where a rounded roof was just showing above some small trees. "The guide book says we can find a hostel there. And a pub."

"Thank goodness..." Muttered Sarah as she shifted her backpack. All of them had brought far more clothing than was needed in Spains dry climate and each was paying for it, though all were loath to part with of their belongings.

Nothing more was said as the four continued their climb up the steep hill toward the village. Spread out behind them, and covering the valley floor, was a forest of Evergreen Oak and Ash trees that had been planted some fifty years before and were now taller than a man. Part of the Old King's plan to reforest his country after it had been so devastated by his predecessor.

Scattered among the larger trees were orchards of almond and cherry trees, easily noticeable for their white and pink flowers that came and went in an never ending cycle during the summer. They had crossed a river at the bottom of the valley, a modern arched bridge replacing the medieval one that had collapsed. The Romans, it seemed, had never made it this far.

"Oh thank fucking Christ..." Panted Veronica as they at last stepped onto the top of the ridge, the roadway levelling out and running in to the village.

"Look out!" James gave a shout from the rear of the group and they all hurried to one side as a car roared up the steep roadway. Roar was a generous term, the engine was roaring, but the heavy vehicle was moving barely beyond a walking pace as it crested the hill. A green and white Guardia Civil vehicle rolled in to view. It was a Viasa off-road vehicle, done in the style of the American Willys jeep, with four officers seated in the open topped interior.

James waved and two of them waved back, a third nodded, the fourth ignored them altogether. The Viasa didn't even pause as it shot through the village, stirring up a little swirl of dust behind it as it went. Several people watched it pass and one spat in the dirt as it went. Like many place in Spain, it seemed the Guardia Civil were not liked here either.

"I see a Pub!" Sarah exclaimed happily, pointing at one of the buildings that fronted on to one of two streets in the village. It was the only building in town with any plaster on it, a faded dark green with dark wood trimmed windows. A row of backpacks sat outside against the wall, not unlike their own.

"I suppose we leave our stuff out here?" Josh asked no one in particular as they got closer.

"I can run in and grab us a pint." James offered as they finally stepped in to the shade of an avocado tree and sank to the ground with relief. A stray dog, one of the thousands that seemed to plague Spain, trotted over and hopefully sniffed around Sarah's ankles until she leaned forward to pet it.

"Grab four of whatever," Josh said with a groan as he pulled off his hiking boots. "Unless anyone else wants something different?"

There was no argument and James made his way inside the pub, ducking through a small doorway and pausing to let his eyes adjust to the darkened interior. A number of heavy wooden tables and chairs were scattered about the space, every seat filled with elderly Spanish men who turned in their chairs to observe the towering Brit. He nodded to a couple, they nodded back, and the rest returned to their cards or complaints about the current state of affairs in the country.

"Four beers, please." James spoke passable Spanish and the bar tender, a swarthy fellow with a dark black beard, nodded and busied himself in the old fridge that hummed away behind him. James glanced up toward the rear of the pub and, for a fleeting moment, made eye contact with a wide set deep brown eyes set in a decidedly pretty face. Then the girl was gone behind a curtain.

"My daughter." Growled the bar tender as he placed four Estrella beer bottles on the counter. "She stays in the back like a good girl."

James didn't reply as he pulled out his wallet, drawing out a handful of pesetas. Spain, especially the more rural areas like this, had some strange ideas when it came to women. In the bigger centres a woman could easily own a business, drive a car, and enjoyed the same rights as any man. But out here, where the Catholic Church still held sway, women were often controlled by their fathers or husbands. It certainly struck him as backward but it wasn't his country to say anything. He thanked the man for the beers, handed over the pesetas and headed back outside.

The other three took their drinks gladly. Sarah was still petting the small dog which was panting along beside her. Sarah was leaning against Josh who had managed to find a comfortable spot against the tree trunk.

"Cheers." Josh raised his beer and all four touched their bottles together before tipping back the cooling liquid.

"Ah, it always tastes better when I'm hurting." Sarah said with a satisfied smack of her lips. She leaned back on her elbows, pointing down in to the valley with her beer bottle. "Train."

The others followed her gaze to where a steam locomotive was chugging through the endless landscape, black plumes of smoke marking its lazy passage. Nothing else seemed to be moving save for a pair of huge vultures that were circling in the updraft. It was a scene of peace and serenity they had been hoping for.

"You know..." It was Veronica who broke the silence. "There might be a business idea here. Could you imagine how much easier this would have been with someone who knew the area. And thank goodness James speaks some Spanish or we would have been screwed."

"That's not a bad idea actually." James was in agreement, he had done almost all of the organizing for the trip and the others had struggled badly with Spanish. English was not as popular down here as they had expected after Spains tight rope act during the Great War had resulted in French and German being spoken as infrequently. "We sure as hell aren't the only young folks out there who want to see Spain. It's a pretty cool place. Though I wouldn't go to Portugal right now..."

Josh snorted. "If you consider Portugal a part of Spain..."

"Don't have much choice do they?" James shifted his position so he could look at Josh. "The Spanish surprised them, rolled in, took the whole lot. Anyone who resists has been massacred and no one can be bothered to do anything about it."

"They can't do much." Sarah broke in. She was studying Political Science at Oxford. "Britain's Empire hangs in the balance already, the United States pretty much keeps to itself and France is a political mess. There is no real balance in Europe, or in many places in the world. You've got the Chinese in Asia, Ethiopia in Africa, Spain in Europe and the United States in the Americas. Who on earth is going to challenge any of them?"

"Well, I don't think the Japanese are going to just lie there and let China do what it wants." Josh had sat up now, Veronica's head resting on his thigh. "I wonder how that will play out. Even here, I don't think Delgado's ambitions for Empire ends at the Atlantic coast of Iberia."

"And let's not even talk about Russia. Can we even call it Russia anymore? I don't know."

"Don't we sound pompous." Veronica broke in, her eyes still closed. "A bunch of twenty somethings discussing the state of world affairs when there is not a thing we can do about it. Can you guys not just enjoy the moment. I want to hear more about this business idea."

The four friends fell back into the rhythm of their earlier conversation as they sat beneath the avocado tree. More beers were consumed and, though they did not know it, Backpackers International would be born from their conversation.

Imperial Palace
12:02 PM

"Operation: Karūseru"

Nobuhito looked at the large map tacked on the wall of his study. The Emperor sat at the head of the table, five other men sitting and watching on while a sixth gave the presentation. His private secretary Kiddo was there, along with the military clique. War Minister Akoi and General Ueda sat together while Admiral Kubo stood, a pointer in his hand. Prince Takara and Count Togai were there as representatives of the Royal Family. Prime Minister Chiba sat at the opposite end of the table from Nobuhito, the sole representative of the government.

"Carousel is the proposed invasion of the Philippines."

The map of Southeast Asia showed a collection of six arrows moving from the Japanese mainland towards the Philippines. A seventh arrow went from Taiwan and encircled the island chain. Kubo tapped the arrows with his stick.

"Each arrow represents a fleet. The six coming from Japan are troop transports. The seventh is Admiral Tanaka's Southern Expeditionary Fleet. The SEF will start the first phase by commencing with carrier-based bombings of strategic targets. After that, we'll start landing troops on Luzon and march on Milan. Once a beachhead is established, Carousel will shift into a general campaign of advancement until the current Filipino government can be replaced by a Japanese friendly one. Carousel ends when we have our preferred government in control. Questions?"

"What's the timetable on this?" Prince Takara asked.

"If His Majesty approves it today, we would look at a start date of November 1st."

"Three months of mobilization?" asked the Emperor. "Is that enough time to prepare?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Akoi. "We are already mobilizing, amassing ground troops and having them ready. Tanaka's fleet is already formed and patrolling the Philippine Sea in search of pirates."

"How many men?" Togai rasped.

"All told?" Kubo looked at Akoi and Ueda before answering. "Ten divisions for the landing force, maybe three hundred naval aviators, and the few thousand men that make up the SEF, maybe one hundred thousand."

"How long do you envision the operation taking?" asked Takara.

"Military intelligence is already at work in Manila, undermining the current government and laying the groundwork for the chosen successor government. Ideally, we would be shifting towards occupation by January of next year. The longest estimates at this moment are six months of fighting before the Filipino surrender."

"What about the elephant in the room?" Nobuhito asked. "Or the elephant on the mainland. China, how do you expect them to react to this?"

"China has its eyes towards Siberia," said Ueda. "Sources are saying they will be invading it soon. Even if they weren't involved in Russia, their navy is not strong enough to successfully intercede on the Philippines' behalf."

"But what of Taiwan and Urajiosutoku?" the old count asked. "They may see our focus on the islands as an opportunity to claim those territories."

"That is the risk we run," said Akoi. "We are gambling, but both areas, along with Korea, will still be fully garrisoned with guards in the case of invasion."

"Prime Minister," the Emperor said. "You've been awfully silent. What do you and the Diet think of Carousel?"

"The Diet loves it," Chiba said with a sigh. "Both houses, the House of Peers especially. I, for one, do not like it. I am worried about our soldiers getting trapped in an unwinnable situation, or potentially setting off a general war with China. But I have talked to people with more power than me, and I have come to the conclusion I cannot stop it and this is needed. The Empire must either expand or die."

"If I may say something," said Togai. "I am the only one in this room that remembers the before times, before the Heavenly Soverign's great-grandfather led us out of the days of the samurai. When westerners came in with their gunboats and demanded we modernize, we did. We traded blades for guns, horses for tanks and airplanes. We have changed our ways, and we have thrived. But as clearly as I see the past, I also see the future. We run the risk of not being part of that future. Every day, the Chinese grow stronger and stronger. We thought we could dominate them and the mainland, but we were sorely mistaken. And now, twenty years hence, it is impossible for us to ever retake what we once had there."

The count tottered towards the map, taking Kubo's pointer into his wrinkled hands.

"But our future lies in the Pacific and Southeast Asia."

He slapped the Philippines, the East Indies, Malaysia, Burma, and other Southeast Asian locations with the stick.

"Oil, tin, rubber, natural gas. Resources for our military and civilian industries, nations with friendly governments, an encirclement around the Communists. A check on their growth. Let them take Russia, let them put down the Slavs like the dogs that they are. While they do that, we'll take Southeast Asia. A buffer between us and them when war comes. Not if. Remember, it is not hegemony if there are two powers. For those of you with doubts, ask yourself would they hesitate to do the same to us?"

Togai handed the stick back to Kubo and calmly waddled back to his seat. A long silence fell on the group, all eyes shifting to the Emperor. Nobuhito shifted in his chair. On paper, he had the power to stop this if he so wished. The military clique, the Diet, and even the peerage all served as his pleasure. Nothing happened in Japan without his approval. He was the Heavenly Soverign, after all, a god walking among them. But mobilization had already begun, it had been going on for some time. His approval would just be a stamp, like it always was. He cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead.

"Start preparations. I want updates as we draw closer to November 1st."

---



Hotel Saigon
2:44 PM

"Rumors of my assassination were greatly exaggerated."

Ngo Dhinh Diem smirked at Watanabe from across the table. The two men and their translators were the only ones in the large hotel conference room. Their conversation was stilted, passing through translators before arriving to the two men but they eventually found a rhythm. The self-proclaimed Emperor of Vietnam held a cigarette in his pudgy hand. By Watanabe's calculation, Diem's tailored suit cost what an average Vietnamese earned in a year.

"The Emperor was pleased to hear it," said Watanabe. "We consider you the true sovereign of the people. The rest are colonizers and communists."

Diem bowed slightly at the compliment.

"I consider the Japanese Empire the leading light of Asian prosperity, an ideal for my own empire to aspire to. Your kinds words are greatly appreciated, Mr..." Diem flashed a wry smile. "I'm sorry, but what is your name today?"

"Watanabe," he said. "Simply Watanabe will do for now."

"Thank you, Watanabe-san. While they are appreciated, I feel that your opinions will not be valid if our situation does not approve. Between the French, communists in the north, and that bitch Trung, my grasp on the country is tenuous at best. I need men, materials, training, money."

Watanabe resisted the urge to smile. He wondered to himself how much of the money that he so desperately needed would be for his government, and how much would go to remodeling his opulent home. These meeting had been going on for a month before Diem went into hiding after an assassination attempt on his life failed. They inevitably boiled down to two things: Diem's government was a friend to the Empire and was very open to their support, but he needed concrete proof of the Japanese's friendship before a deal could be worked out. The tailored suits fooled the people of Vietnam, but not Watanabe. Diem was the best dressed beggar in the world.

"Today is your lucky day, your majesty. Answer for me, one simple question: what is the exchange rate, the Japanese yen to your piastre?"

"Roughly two hundred is equal to one of your yen."

Watanabe nodded before reaching under the table. He picked up the briefcase and placed it on the table. He popped it open and slid it towards Diem. The Vietnamese president's eyes widened at the sight of the currency stacked and filled neatly into the briefcase.

"Correct my math if I am wrong, but that would be about two million of your piastre. This is a gift for the Diem government, our commitment to supporting you in this trying time. More money will follow, along with Japanese matériel and military advisors."

Watanabe barely had time to blink before the case disappeared, down under the table and safely with Diem.

"You are so kind, Watanabe-san. As is the Emperor, in his divine wisdom, to favor me over all the others."

"Please see that at least half of that money goes towards your government," said Watanabe. "Officially, the ambassador will reach out to you with a formal friendship agreement and sole recognition of your government diplomatically."

Watanabe stood, his translator following behind him.

"As for the more sensitive diplomatic talks, I'll be in touch."

Central America
Summer

Commissioner,
Thank you for accepting my requests for the upcoming rally scheduled in November. Everything is going according to plan with your help, to maintaining peace in your great city. The Third Nationalist Party also appreciates your support with our right to demonstrate peacefully. We will be making strong pushes toward funding the police departments across Central America. As such, we have begun our commitment to our men and women in blue with a fundraiser. The fundraiser was in honor of Officer Martin Cotilla, who was gunned down a few weeks back while trying to stop a robbery. We honored the victim’s family with the money earned during the fundraiser. I hope that we can work together soon to host more fundraisers.

While our party’s popularity grows stronger with each passing day, we will never forgive you and your department. And in return, I hope you don’t forgive your part in the coming demonstrate to demand a unified Panama.

Best wishes,
Ricardo Martí, chairman of the Third Nationalist Party.

With the ink on the paper finally dried, Martí folded the letter and put it in an envelope. His secretary quickly grabbed the letter and said cheerily, “I will finish that for you since you are busy!” He smiled and immediately got back to work. Since that faithful day with Rubén, the Third Nationalist Party used the funding to rise in popularity. Fundraisers, like the one for Officer Cotilla, were spent with the purpose of gaining allies. The police were easy to buy since both levels of governments overlooked them when it came to the annual budget meetings. Then, there were the politicians to deal with and they were supporters of Blackwell’s conservative party. Not the man himself, but his push on the remaining communists helped secure some supporters. One of them, Iván Reyes, was the mayor of Arraijan and the usual spot where the party met to drive to the park in Rousseau for the usual demands.

However, thanks to Rubén, this year was going to be an important year for the Third Nationalist Party that could either make or break them. The mayor easily flipped sides right after securing his son’s place at the Central American University, which cost them a lot.

Now, with an extra funding pushed aside, Martí hired a private investigator to spy around President Blackwell for anything dirty. So far, nothing worth wild came until his phone rang. He answered and only heard, “Meet me at the café.” And he immediately left the office to head to the investigator’s home in the outskirts of town. After a ten-minute drive, he approached the house and exited out of the car as the investigator approached him. “Come on inside, friend.” He said as he opened the door to his home for Martí to enter.

Once inside, Martí was told to sit on the chair in the dining room while he had to get something from his office. In the meantime, he was offered Mondaisa tea by the investigator’s young son before being told to finish his homework in the room. Once nobody was here, the investigator returned with a massive tape recorder with tape already in it. “What is the meaning of this-.” Martí tried to ask but he was cut off.

“Just listen to it. I think you would like it.” The investigator calmly said and pushed play.

---

Early July
Unknown

“President Blackwell, with tensions between China and Japan rising and Russia—if we could even call it that—still a chaotic mess, your administration must have some options on international matters. Care to share them?” the young inspired reporter asked Blackwell the scripted question.

“We know that any event, even the smallest ones, can have a lasting impact on the entire world especially Central America. Just like the United States, however, we are carefully looking at the situations unbiased and saying nothing officially. Of course, there are some things that can’t just be avoided. Like Spain.”

“Spain?” the reporter was confused for a moment and asked, “What do mean by that, mister President.”

“Look, kid. You have heard about the recent ‘annexation of Portugal’ by the Spanish crown, right? You probably didn’t because no one gave two fucks about it. It is truly sad how Europe rolled over and basically did nothing as Portugal was being burned by the Spaniards. Hell, I am one-hundred percent sure they will be doing nothing when Spain decides to put pressure on Morocco. I think that it is time that somebody give them a good slap.”

“And do you think that Central America could be the person to do it?” the reporter asked.

“If we had the strength and support, then I would happily kill some Spaniards. Hell, to earn me some extra brownie points with the people, I will burn Spain’s beloved royal palace. Maybe then, the king will be put in his place.” Blackwell chuckled as he took a quick smoke break and then returned to the subject, “For now, all we can do is offer the Portuguese royal family Central America as a place of sanctuary for the royal family until Portugal is restored for tyrannical Spain.”

Suddenly, a woman’s voice could be heard in the background saying that he shouldn’t have said that in the first place. “Oh shit, you are right.” Blackwell said as he took another smoke break. Then, he pointed at the reporter and demanded, “Get rid of that tape and start over. Pretend that I didn't say anything about Spain and its government. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mister president. I will get rid of the tapes right away and your-.” the tape ended as the reporter was finishing his sentence.

---

With a look of shock in Martí’s eyes, he looked at the investigator as he paused the tape recorder and pulled out the tape. “How did you get that tape?” he asked.

“It was simple enough. After the ‘clear version’ of the interview was released, the reporter was suddenly fired from his job. I followed him around for a few days until he stopped at the local dump with a box of shit and some trash bags and that was when I got my hands dirty, spending forty minutes at the place before I found it.” The investigator told the story proudly as he pushed the tapes towards Martí. The politician grabbed it and got up.

“Thank you for the excellent work. Hope you keep it up.” he said to the investigator as he was about to leave before the investigator stopped him to say something.

“You realize that once the tape is leaked to the press, Blackwell will want answers. The lad’s fucked for the rest of his living days. But, he will be tearing apart every political party and politician in the country. Including you and the Nationalists. Are you ready for it?” he asked.

“I will be in time.” Martí answered, unsure if he will be able to come out with everything intact and left to return to the office. Once there, he placed the tape down on his desk and looked it for a moment. Was he willing to put everything he has done recently in jeopardy to weaken the Blackwell administration? Even if it meant losing his job? He breathed in and out for a second and picked up the phone. He dialed a number for Montezuma, the Panamanian news station, to give them the tape in hopes of leaking it. After a moment of waiting, he heard a woman’s voice asking how she could help him out.

“I have some cut content from the Blackwell interview.” he confidently answered.

Japanese Airspace
8:14 PM

"Geisha Girl to NEF air control."

Lieutenant Kondō's Tokugawa J-31 soared over the evening sky of the Siberian tundra at five thousand feet. The two-engine bomber moved faster without its usual heavy payload weighing it down. The only thing it carried was the lieutenant and his five crew members. Besides the co-pilot, there were three gunners and a bombardier manned to their posts. Like Kondō, they were all relegated to scout duties.

"Air control here," came the radio's reply almost a minute later. "Go ahead Geisha Girl."

"We're losing light," said Kondō. The sun was now a giant orange ball rapidly disappearing over the horizon. "Permission to turn back?"

Kondō looked over at Lieutenant Shoji. The two pilots traded looks while they awaited a response from Admiral Hoga's headquarters. Kondō and the others were ready to go home, they'd been ready since they were called in around noon. While Geisha Girl was their second home, they'd been in the aircraft for nearly eight hours on the one day of the week they were supposed to be off-duty.

"Geisha Girl, what's your location and altitude?"

"Air control, we're cruising at five thousand and forty-five feet," Shoji said into his headset before looking down at the map and their current heading. "...And we're about twenty minutes south-southwest of the Chinese border. We'll have to push it to get back before night, but we should make it just as twilight ends."

"Come on back, but lower your altitude to one thousand on the way back to accommodate for lost light. Any signs of Tempura Six are to be reported right away."

"Roger that," said Kondō. "Geisha Girl out."

Kondō began to loop the bomber around while lowering the altitude. He keyed the microphone that relayed his voice the rest of the crew inside the aircraft.

"This is your captain speaking," he said in a monotone voice. "The Naval High Command, in all its wisdom, has seen fit to relieve us of duty. Please continue to look for any signs of Lieutenant Commander Nagumo, who should have known better than to go missing in action on our day off. Thank you for flying IJN airlines. IJN airlines where, if you fly with us you have no other choice."

Laughter came over the comm system from the other crewmembers. Kondō looked to his right and furrowed his brow when he saw the slight scowl look on Shoji's face.

"What?"

"A man has gone missing is what. It's annoying we had to come on duty, but still."

"The lieutenant's problem isn't that Nagumo's missing," Toma said from his spot in the tail gunner seat. "It's the steps they take. We're just one of a hundred planes in the air today, swarming up and down Siberia looking for Nagumo and his plane. On top of that they got boats searching the coast and soldiers combing the ground."

"Command pulls out the stops to find one of their own," Morita said in a bored tone. He was halfway down the fuselage in the bombardier seat.

"Yeah," said Date from the gun he was manning right beside Morita. "If you want someone to care about you, you gotta make rank."

"It's more than just that," said Kondō. "Short of Vice Admiral Hoga disappearing, they wouldn't mobilize this kind of manpower. This is Hoga, scared shitless of reprisals from Tokyo."

"What do you mean?" Toma asked.

Kondō smirked as he leveled Geisha Girl out to an even thousand feet.

"I know that none of you have really met Nagumo before," he said after a pregnant pause. "It's just the division between officers and enlisted, and bombers and fighter pilots. I've gone drinking with him several times. He's usually tight lipped, keeps to himself. But if he gets good and trashed he lets some stuff slip over time. The lieutenant commander has powerful family back on the home islands."

"How powerful?" Shoji asked.

"So powerful they don't have last names. Just titles."

"Shit," Morita said over the comm. "Really?"

"Yeah," said Kondō. "His dirty little secret."

Shoji whistled. "As bad as it must be to be Nagumo right now -- it he's still alive that is -- Hoga has it ten times worse."

---

IJN Shogun
9:44 PM

Vice Admiral Hoga looked out at the ocean from the bridge of the carrier. He carried an empty glass in his gloved hands. The glass had been filled with sake repeatedly, Hoga downing the shots as quickly as he could get them. Captain Sasaki was the only other officer on the bridge tonight and he stood off to the side, watching Hoga and refilling his glass when he called for more sake.

"Ground searches have been suspended due to lack of light," said Sasaki. When there was no reaction from Hoga, he continued. "The last few stragglers of the air patrol landed a few minutes ago. None of them reported finding Nagumo's plane. We're set to restart the searches again tomorrow. Starting first thing at dawn."

"Very well," Hoga said quietly. "Captain, do you know how to work the radio of the Shogun?"

"Yes, sir," said Sasaki. "I was a communications officer when I first joined the navy. It's something you don't forget."

Hoga nodded and stared at the glass in his hands. "I need you to send out an encrypted message to Tokyo. Marked urged and top secret, for Admiral Kubo's eyes only."

Sasaski began to walk towards the radio. He pulled a key from his belt and unlocked a metal drawer below the ship's radio equipment. He pulled out a pencil and one-time encryption pad. The pad had a code key that he could use to encrypt the message before sending it. Once it arrived, the message would decoding using a pad that had only one corresponding mate at naval headquarters in Tokyo.

The captain licked the tip of the pencil and prepared to write. "How much detail shall I go into, sir?"

Hoga rolled the empty glass in his hand. "Short and to the point. Tell him that Prince Nagumo Kishimoto has gone missing somewhere in Siberia. We're doing all that we can to find him, but so far there has been no sign of either plane wreckage or a body."

Oujda, a city that lay literally at the end of the railway. Unlike Dakhla it did not have any draw for the average tourist, instead serving as more of a border crossing into Algeria than anything else. The most excitement the town usually saw involved running gun battles between Algerian Government troops and insurgents in the south of the country.

For the people here, mostly Jews, the Islamic population had been decimated or forcefully converted during the Rif War, nothing terribly exciting really happened. Until a month previously at any rate. The first soldiers that had arrived were Military Policemen. They had come into town in the early hours of the morning, taken over the border posts and declared the border closed, dropping the ancient battered steel bar across the road that was barely visible since only four families in the area owned a car.

Then came the engineers. Hundreds of them with huge earth moving machines that began to work on the western edge of the city. Supplies had poured in and the locals were treated to a first hand view of the Spanish Engineering core at work as they cleared the desert of large rocks, laid down power from massive generators, and constructed hundreds of hangers, offices, sleeping quarters, and more, from brown bricks that they did not bother to paint.

The completion of the airfield saw the arrival of transport planes that disgorged officers, fighter aircraft and bombers that lined up in neat rows beneath camouflage netting, and helicopters that carried the elite-Cazadores.

The railway rumbled day and night as trains pulled in, unloading into a new and very primitive station that never the less did the trick as armoured vehicles and soldiers began to arrive in their thousands. The soldiers were billeted in the hastily erected barracks huts as tanks were carefully camouflaged and armoured cars raced through the desert.

In the middle of it all, his door guarded by two military police in their red berets, was Juan de Oñate y Salazar, General of the Ejército de Marruecos. He was standing next to a very fragile wooden table while staff officers clustered around him. No one smoked, the General had forbidden it, though a few held a small glass of wine. The most they would be allowed on this hot day.

"Gentlemen, we are weeks, if not days away, from the next great step in the Reconquista that began 1200 years ago when our ancestors took their first steps in halting the tide of Islam. They retook Spain, we built and lost an Empire, our country began a downward spiral until his majesty, the illustrious King Alfonso XIII, took the fight to Islam here in Morocco and with Gods help, we crushed the heathen. Now it falls on us to carry on Gods work. It falls on us to smash Algeria."

A round of nods greeted the words and a growl of agreement came from the assembled officers. Forty years ago, when most of them had been young men, or even boys, the Rif War had raged across Morocco. They had grown up with the stories of the heroes who had fought in that war and joined the Army with dreams of becoming as famous and feared. Now it seemed, by the grace of God, their time had come.

"They are currently divided between the Government forces, mostly concentrated in the North, and the insurgents to the South. You, here," He stabbed his finger at the map. "Are the middle thrust of three that will come from Morocco and in to Algeria."

"A fourth attack will come from the sea, launched from the Spain herself to fall upon Algiers three days after our own attacks begin. We are to draw the enemy forces away from the coast and toward us."

He swept his finger across the map and over the Alboran Sea to Spain. To many of the officers this was news. The whole operation had been rather hush hush as a good portion of the units being committed had, until two months ago, been committed to the invasion of France. This new plan had been kept top secret until now. All of them were to keep it so, under pain of death, until the invasion began. Most of the soldiers thought they were being moved in to the area for training and reconditioning.

"The Grand Viceroy himself, uninjured by the terrorist attempt on his life, will be crossing with the fleet for the assault on Algiers." This brought a surprised rumble of voices from around the table and every man stood a little taller knowing that Delgado would be joining them.

"You will be taking Conversion Squads with you. They are under orders to provide protection to any Christian or Jew who wishes it. Any Moslems will be given the choice between conversion or a meeting with God himself."

The Conversion Squads, known behind their backs as Death Squads, had been created for the Rif War and operated mostly in Spanish Morocco over the past twenty years, hunting down Islamic sects and secret societies within the Spanish province. Now they were being deployed with the army to convert the Islamic population, or kill them.

"I am sure I don't need to tell you that High Command expects this to be a hard fight." This was mostly true. There was no doubt that the Algerians would be swept aside, but the fewer casualties the Spanish took the better. "Air support will be key since the Algerians have very little to speak of."

"There will also be Portuguese units deployed with you." This brought raised eyebrows and the General held up a hand. "They are part of the Empire now and need to do their bit. Most seem keen to have something to do other than sit around and watch our lads run their day to day existence. We shall see."

"Lastly, the Foreign Legion will be leading the charge to the North." The Spanish Foreign Legion was infamous for its suicidal bravery and legendary for its cruelty toward the enemies of Spain. Made up of men who had been the given choice between a lifetime in prison, or serving their country, it was well known for being tough, cynical, and loyal.

"To God and Country." He held up his own small glass of wine.

"To God and Country." Echoed the assembled officers.

-------------------------------------
Mid August: Addis Ababa
-------------------------------------

"Yared is playing the krar, Marc is playing the cornet, Zuber is playing the drums. I am Ab and I have a piano. Tonight we play for you jazz!"

Leyla was bombarded by things new to her. The music filled the room all at once like a gunshot. It was upbeat and wild, exotic to the point of being sinister. The earthy scent of stone mixed with the smells of alcohol and body odor. The music was loud, so much she couldn't hold a train of thought. People moved onto the polished floor. Though this place was hidden, there was not much illegal about it. There was certainly nothing against the law about serving liquor in a country where every soldier carried a beaker of bright yellow tej with him on campaign. And what could be wrong with music, even something as strange as this? It was the dancing that worried her. Men grabbed hold of women and whirled them around, touching their bodies with obscene familiarity, swinging them between their legs, holding them close. They were breaking profanity laws. She was dreadfully certain of that.

Chemeda Magana led her to the dance floor, her dress brushing against the stone. And what was she to do? She followed. It was what everyone in the room was doing. Was it wrong? A public display like this, it seemed like it should be wrong. It had to be. She felt naked on the dance floor in front of everyone. He showed her how to dance like them, and she followed the best she could. She felt like everyone was watching, judging her, the whore of babylon. But they couldn't be watching. They were doing the same thing. How funny that was. How unaccountable.

She liked Chemeda. Her feelings were mixed. He was handsome in his crisp brown dress uniform, a thin mustache on his lips. She'd avoided him in public, not wanting to be lead into marriage. Her senses wanted him, but her mind didn't.

The music bounced. It was like the folksy string music played in coffee houses across the country, if that sound was given a soul and brought to life. He swung her. She felt her muscles strain as she danced faster with her handsome young officer. She could feel his strength. She wanted that. But. She couldn't. She knew she couldn't.

Could she be a woman and a man? Had her friends have been right about this? Was a career a good idea? A female Shotel?

The people in that snug jazz club did not look like criminals. They looked much like her and Chemeda. Half of the men wore officer's uniforms. Others wore western clothing. The women all looked beautiful, their hair wide and natural like hers, their dresses modest enough. This couldn't be wrong. It was exotic, exciting, a whole other world from the dusty streets outside where trucks shared the road with donkeys. That didn't mean it was wrong.

"This is fine!" Chemeda shouted to her over the swaggering music. It was half a statement, half a question. She smiled, feeling dumb, overstimulated, uncertain what to say. The room smelled like sweat, but in a good way.

There were no lyrics to the music, except for the occasional wordless shout from the musicians, which seemed unplanned, like they were letting out pent up energy building in them as they played.

This was different than the world she knew. She felt free. Wasn't that what she wanted after all?

When the dancing was done, her limbs felt tired but invigorated. She followed him to the bar. Chemeda leaned smartly against the wooden counter and looked at the tender like he was a subordinate. He appeared in total control, and she felt as if she wanted to become part of him, to experience that power of control through him.

"Two gin rickeys"

"Okay." the tender said, falling to his work behind the bar.

"I'm not sure if I want to drink." Leyla said. Hadn't she learned enough about the world tonight? She felt like such a child.

"You should try it. This is the new life, Leyla. Enjoy it."

She said nothing.

Two men and a woman came up to the bar right beside her. They seemed more at home. There was none of her anxiety in the woman's eyes. Her dress was not as modest as most, coming to a stop at her knees, and she looked at the men like she was one of their own.

"Three Djiboutis" one of the men said. Leyla wondered what was in that concoction. Would she be asked to try one too? Chemeda didn't try to make conversation. He stood, almost posing, looking important.

"I want to go to Djibouti." the woman said. Leyla had her back turned to them now, but kept listening.

"Djibouti stinks."

"I still want to go. I've heard you can have fun there."

Leyla knew Djibouti's reputation. It was a den for sailors, a place pirates could live in ease if they paid off the right people. A nest of thugs and vermin. A man she'd worked with in the propaganda office was an admirer of American detective novels, and when he excitedly explained the plot of one of them to Leyla, he'd added "Of course, if Sam Bennett took a job in Djibouti, he'd be dead in the first chapter." Such was the reputation of that place.

"I can have fun right here. Look. If the Emperor can have fun here, so can I."

"But you don't have a whore like the Emperor's ferengi." the third man added. All three chuckled to each other, as if it was an in-joke only they knew.

Leyla felt uncomfortable hearing these words. Talking about the Emperor in this manner just wasn't done. It wasn't illegal per see, but it just wasn't something people did, in the same way they didn't shit in a coffee house or blaspheme the lord. Of course, it happened, but... it wasn't done. She'd read the Kebre Negast in school. The Emperors were a root reaching down through the past into the holy days of Israel. She wasn't sure she believed the stories in that book, not really, but the office of Emperor still felt sacred.

She looked at the picture of the Emperor hanging up above the bar. He was a handsome man, a lively face, maybe a little gangling for an Amharic. He was just a man. But a man with whores? Well, she knew the stories about him. But should he be thought of so commonly?

"Here." Chemeda shoved a glass in her hand. It felt cold, and there was a slice of lime floating on top. She took a sip. The alcohol stung her senses. She thought she tasted tree mixed in with the sour citrus.

"It is good, isn't it?"

"Yes." she lied.

"We serve our country, we should have the good life." Chemeda said, "I will command men, and you can protect the capital with that trigger finger of yours."

"Maybe I will be in the field with your men."

Chemeda's eyebrows arched wide, like he was watching an opponent strike an unexpected blow and was impressed by it. "Well, all things are possible" he said once he regained his balance. He raised his glass. "To the new world!" There was a pause. "Now you touch your glass to mine." he said. She blushed, feeling like she should have known that, and she did as he asked.

He ordered more drinks, but she only accepted the one. He talked about the army. About himself mostly. Like so many young officers, he expected his career to take him to the pinnacles of society. Leyla's mind wandered. She had an interview tomorrow. She was to be assigned to a Shotel field agent for training. When she thought about it, she felt overwhelmingly intimidated, like she was looking over the edge of an immeasurable precipice knowing full well she had to leap.

"I believe the Emperor will take us to war with Egypt." Chemeda rambled, his voice slowing down and speeding up as if he no longer had control of it. "That is our ancient foe., but they aren't strong. We can conquer all the way to Jerusalem. I believe we can do this because Armenia will aid us. Did you know the Master of Drills is Armenian? They are good soldiers. We will fight with them to Jerusalem, if they join us it will be an easy thing."

Would she like the agent she was assigned to? Would he like her? Were there other women in the Shotel? Other agents? She hadn't heard of them, but perhaps they were secret. She hoped for another woman, but it seemed unreasonable to hope.

"A war will be good for me. If I become a general... well, that would be a pleasant surprise. But if I become a General, I want to be made a General on the Temple Mount. I hope the Meridazmach is there. And Ras Hassan. And Mikael Serovian. I read his biography. I want to meet him. These are big dreams, I know, but they are my dreams. I'm sure you dream about being a great Shotel."

"Wouldn't Aden be the next target, if there is a war?" she asked.

Chemeda looked stunned. He answered slowly, as if he had to pull his shattered thoughts back together. "Well, that would be for the navy. They don't need the army to hunt pirates."

"Oh, that is true."

"To our dreams!" Chemeda, recomposed, brought up his glass. Leyla met it with an untouched cocktail, but she did not bring it to her lips.

It was dark when they climbed out of the downtown basement and into an ally. The walls here were painted. On one side was a simplistic, almost cave-drawing like depiction of white and black men in military khakis stabbing black children with sharpened crosses. On the other side was an equally simplistic depiction of Hou Sai Tang, the subject obvious only because the artist had captioned it, using sunny yellow paint for his skin. He had two eyes and a thin nose, but no mouth. They exited onto the street, beneath a canopy of tangled electrical wires that buzzed and crackled in a pattern that sounded like breathing.

Addis Ababa seemed alive at night. All across Africa entire villages were already asleep. This was true of most neighborhoods in the capital too. But here there were still some trucks and people on the street. Electric lights further illuminated the blue moonlit night.

They caught a cycle rickshaw back to base. There she would drop off Chemeda. The city went by slowly.

"You don't have to go home." Chemeda said.

"What are you asking?" she turned to him, staring at him real hard this time, hoping her eyes would stop this conversation before it started.

"I'm only saying. Well. You are a modern woman. And I am a modern man. We do not want to get married, not now, am I right?"

She kept looking at him. He drew himself up like an officer in the trenches preparing himself to lead his men over the top. He continued. "Well, we are not getting married, but I am not a priest, and you are not a nun. There are things men and women are supposed to do."

"I cannot hear this." she said. She wanted to hear this. What she dreaded was facing the temptation.

"We will face dangers. We may not live."

She took a deep breath, hoping to sound exasperated. Instead she heard her breath shake. Had he heard that too?

"It is true. You should not feel ashamed."

"I am not your whore of babylon, Chemeda." she said.

"We can be married one day. But we must put it off because of our careers. Why should we punish ourselves for serving our country?"

"I don't want to hear another word." she bit her lip. They were coming up to the statue of Mikael of Wollo mounted proudly in his roundabout. She only had to stay strong a moment longer.

"Look at me, Leyla." he said. She looked. His eyes broke through her, and she felt like he could see her thoughts. It made her feel vulnerable, but it was seductively intimate, and she felt herself melting into his power. He continued. "You and I will see great things. And we will see bad things. We deserve to know the happiness of a man and a woman before that happens. You deserve it. Come with me. I want to see all of you."

She felt her body pushing her up. This was it. She'd almost made the decision to go. But her conscious required one last defense. "Chemeda, we have been happy tonight, and we have known each other like a man and a woman. Don't ruin it with this unseemly thing. Go to bed."

There was a silence. She wanted him to make one final argument, one that would win her over. Her heart pounded in the suspense. They came to a stop. He looked at her, looked down at the seat, and continued the unfair tension.

"Okay." he said. He stepped out of the cycle rickshaw and walked silently into the blue night. She watched him pass the gate, and when he was gone, she sunk into her seat and told the cyclist the address to her home.

--

She woke up early, before the sun was up. She wasn't really sure if she'd gone to sleep. The night before, and the morning yet to come, tugged at her and stretched her out so she felt more tired in the morning than she had when she came home the night before. She washed herself and put on her brown khaki uniform with its long cotton skirt. A crossed sword badge adorned her breast pocket. Her father wasn't yet awake when she left the house. The sun was still not up. There were no shadows, but it seemed like the whole earth was under a great big shadow, only the morning star visible in the new light. She walked through her neighborhood alone.

When she reached a main road, she passed a shabby police booth. The uniformed officer inside was asleep on his stool. There were few cars on the road. The smell of brewing coffee wafted from nearby corner coffee houses. She felt sick to her stomach, and passed them by as if they were garbage heaps. It was several blocks before she found transportation, reaching a bus stop where a half dozen people waited to go downtown. The number doubled before the bus arrived. It was barely large enough to fit everybody waiting, and Leyla watched it ominously as it approached. When it stopped, its shocks made a snapping sound, but the driver didn't seem fazed. The door opened and a thin layer of smoke came out. They climbed on. It smelled of frankincense, emanating from burning resin in a clay pot embedded on the dash. Room was spare, and they shared the corners of seats, stifled in each other's body heats. She felt lonely in this place. People eyed her, and she read menace in their expressions.

Downtown lay beneath the gentle rise where the Emperor's palace stood. It sat in the luxurious shade of a eucalyptus grove. Her mind went to the conversation she overheard the night before, and then to the rest of the night with Chemeda. She sighed and crossed her legs. What was the Emperor like? How would he compare to a rogue like Chemeda?

The Shotel Headquarters was a three story Italian-style building resting beneath the Imperial hill. It looked more like an embassy than a military structure. The bus stopped and she was let off along with two others who ignored her. She walked across the Headquarter's pampered grounds feeling like an imposter. It smelled of freshly cut grass. She entered the open doors, and was met by an ink-black man in the male version of her uniform.

"You don't look familiar. What are you here for?"

"You know everybody in here?" she asked, attempting a smile.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"Agent Leyla Masri. I was sent here from the Propaganda office."

The black man flipped through notes on a clipboard. He didn't look up. "Second floor, north wing. Captain Telehun Gelagel."

"How do I get there?"

"The stairs." he pointed. She nodded and continued.

The staircase was marble. Her shoes clapped loudly against the stairs. There were more people on the second floor, none of them looking at her. Apparently she'd already made it past the guard. She went down the north wing as instructed, but she felt more lost than before. The hall was wide and full of desks. The banks of desks were divided only by shelves, creating makeshift departments. Most of the people behind the desks were men, but there were a few women too, making her feel an unaccounted mixture of pride and disappointment.

"You are Leyla Masri." a man said somewhere to her right. She jumped and looked at him. He was a foot taller and a decade older than her, clean shaven, his hair short. He smiled with only one side of his mouth, but with both of his eyes.

"Who are you?"

"Come with me." he said. She followed as he lead her to an office in the corner. The door was open. Her guide barged in.

"I found your girl." the man said just as she entered.

"Who. Ah." an older man stood up. He had a closely cropped beard and a hairline receded to the middle of his scalp. "You are Leyla."

"Reporting for duty."

"Good. I am Telehun Gelagel. This is Elias Zelalem. He's one of my best."

"Ato Telehun, Ato Elias, I am happy to be working with you." she said. She felt awkward. How must she look? She was making it up as she went, not feeling in control.

"Woizerit Leyla." Elias smiled. He turned to his boss. "I have explained my reservations about your assignment, but I am told you have skills. Do you think you can translate good aim into field work? There are more skills for you to learn than just that."

"I am ready." she said sincerely. "Is there training? I need to know what happens next."

"How do you train for the real world?" Elias asked, "And that's not a rhetorical question."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You train for the real world by being in it. You can't prepare for it. Not even in your head. The best you can do is just, do it. And that's what happens next."

"An assignment?" it was all coming at her at once.

"Yes." Elias looked back to the man behind the desk. "You want to tell her, boss?"

"Well, Woizerit Leyla." the Captain said, smiling warmly, "You are going to be stationed in Djibouti. Elias knows the mission. Learn from him."

"Djibouti?" she said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.

"She's going to need a gun." Elias added, the corner of his mouth perked up.

Washington Post
11:23 AM

"Bob!"

Traci Lord shot up from her cubicle and raced towards the executive editor's office. She clung hard to the letter and envelope she just opened. The workers in the newsroom had all stopped what they were doing to look at Traci as she jogged in heels. The big man's corner office door was open, so she didn't hesitate to walk through into his inner sanctum.

Bob Bigger looked at Traci with a neutral expression. He sat behind his desk with a folded page from that day's Post in one hand, a pencil in the other hand.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Traci. "I saw the door was open and--"

"No, no," Bigger said with a sigh. "As much as I love my crossword puzzle time, I leave the door open for a reason. What's going on, Lord?"

She always felt a little warm glow when he said her name. All the other editors at the paper called her "honey" and "sweetheart" in a tone that was meant to be kind but always came off condescending. Bob called everyone by their last name regardless.

"I just got this in the mail."

Traci handed him the letters and envelope. Bob slipped on his reading glasses and looked it over. While he read it over, Traci looked around the office. There were framed Post articles he had either written or edited. "LONG ASSASSINATED" read one headline. Another proclaimed "WAR OVER; WHEELER CALLS FOR UNITY." Mixed between the articles were photos of Bigger and his wife with presidents, diplomats, and movie stars at black tie galas.

"How legitimate is this?" he finally asked, looking up from the letter. With his thick eyeglasses and bushy eyebrows, he looked owlish to her.

"I just opened it. I need to do background and talk to some people at State for confirmation before I even start writing word one."

"What's your angle?"

"After a run-in with criminals, a member of the Ethiopian royal family is wounded here in the US. Kowtowing to diplomatic pressure from the emperor, the Norman Administration payoffs the nation with subsidies to be passed through congress."

Bigger stroked his chin and looked off in the distance.

"Not bad. But the president is a lame duck, so who cares? Think we can find out if the vice president was involved?"

"I can surely try."

"I'm gonna call in some help."

"Oh, come on, Bob!"

The look he gave her shut her up quick.

"It's a big story, Lord. Now you got some talent, but this is too big of a story for one reporter. We need confirmation from the west coast, here in DC, and even in freaking Africa. You ain't that good, Lord."

"I guess," she mumbled.

"You guess," Bigger said as he removed his glasses. "I'm gonna get Maxwell from the White House to come in on this and see if he can scrounge anything up. The Post has a bureau in Nairobi that can do some follow-up with the Ethopian government on this."

He laid the first paper flat on the desk. It was a copy of a diplomatic cable US Ambassador Jefferson Davis Bacon sent to Foggy Bottom three weeks earlier, the date in the corner confirming the time period. Bigger ran his hands across the surface before staring at it.

"If it's a fake, it's a damn good one. As curious as it is, what do you make of this?"

He held up the second sheet of paper that came with the cable. It was blank with no stationary on it at all. Centered in the middle of the page was the short, typed message.



Tray took the letter from Bigger's hand and looked it over again before speaking.

"It's either a nutball--"

"A nutball with amazing forgery skills."

"--or someone high-up in the government who is pissed."

"Let's pray for the latter." said Bigger. "Now get on the phone with someone at State and confirm that this thing is real. I'm going to contact legal and see if we have a precedence on running what I assume is classified material."

Traci nodded as she collected the material from Bigger's desk. She could feel her heart racing. Finally, after five years at the paper working middle of the road political stories, stuff that almost never made the A-section, and when it did it was in the back pages, this was a shot at some real front page, above the fold news.

She just had to make sure it was real.

---



Sacramento
2:45 PM

"I am flattered by your words," Rick Marshall said with a raised palm. "But I am done with politics, Russ. I am content to serve the rest of my term with as little fanfare as possible and then retire. My days of campaigning are through."

Russell felt a sharp annoyance at the governor's words. They'd just finished nine holes of golf and an exquisite lunch, all on Russell -- well the campaign's -- dime. They were still in the khaki slacks and polo shirts Russell had purchased for them at the proshop. Russell hadn't had to kiss ass like this since his early days in the Senate, when he was so deep in Wilbur Helm's ass everyone thought the junior senator was a proctologist.

"I need your support, governor," Russell said with his best fake smile. "California is going to be a big state in the election and your popularity transfers across party lines. You're the state's Abe Lincoln."

Marshall chuckled and stood. They were in his private study in the governor's mansion. This same study where where Sam Bromowitz met his grisly end. The floors had been converted to hardwood after the war, the carpet soaked with Bromowitz's blood removed and disposed of.

The governor walked towards the large bay window in the study. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and he looked out on the mansion grounds.

"I'll be honest with you," Marshall said with a sigh. "I don't like you, Russ. Never have. You represent all that's wrong with American politics. You seek power for power's sake, and you pass legislation to either fill your pocket or get reelected."

Marshall turned around to stare at Russell.

"You turned our convention into a goddamn mockery. Michael Norman is a good man and he deserved better than you turning him into a fucking fool, Russ. The only reason I'm not supporting Baker is because I care too much about the party to actively hurt it."

Russell stood, tightly gripping the back of the wingback chair he had been sitting in.

"You know what you dislike about me, Rick? The fact that I get what I want. I see what I want and I take it. I have the balls that you lack. You could have been an amazing president, but you were always too much of a pussy to take it. You'd rather stay in California and play it safe."

"Get out of this house," snapped Marshall. "You've got some campaigning to do. Bob Baker is in San Francisco next week. I'll think I'll make a surprise appearance at his rally."

"Why stop there?" said Russell. "Why not head down to Fresno and see little Catherine."

The color left Marshall's face so quickly that Russell almost thought the governor was about to drop dead.

"What did you say?" Marshall finally asked.

"Catherine --- or is it Cathy? Although she's not little anymore. She'd be, what thirty years old now? I wonder if she has children." A smile crept on to Russell's face. "Hey, maybe you're a grandfather, Rick."

"How do you know about that?"

"Oh, Rick. It's my job to know these things. I've known it for years, back when I thought you were going to run for president."

Russell stepped around the chair and walked towards the window and Marshall, the cold smile still on his face.

"See, you think that since you're leaving office you have nothing to lose. And politically, that's true. No more campaigns to win, so who gives a shit about you having a bastard daughter... or a bastard son in Irvine. William, I think is his name. A family you never had anything to do with, a family you kept paying hush money to year after year until both women died. See, politically you can't be touched. But Rick, your legacy will take quite the beating. The Great Uniter? More like the Great Abandoner... not sure if that's a word, but we'll make it one."

Marshall's face had gone from bone white to beet red. Russell put his hands on the governor's neck and helped fix the collar of his polo shirt after it had somehow gotten rolled up.

"I want your public endorsement, a press conference before I leave the state this week should do, and I want a series of rallies in the month prior to election day. You give me those, Rick, and your legacy remains intact. What do you say?"

"You silence says it all," Russell said after he finished straightening Marshall's collar.

Russell headed for the door of the study, looking back at Marshal as he walked.

"If you'll excuse me, I gotta get back on the trail. I'll have my people contact you sometime tomorrow and give you your speech for the press conference. I enjoyed that round on the links today, Rick. Next time I won't go so easy on you!"

Admiral-General Martín Fernández de Navarrete stood with hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, swaying gently with the motion of the ship. The ever present smell of cleaning solvents, gun powder, tonnes of steel, and the salt sea air combined to create a comforting and familiar bouquet. He could feel the hum of the ships huge engines as they drove Eastward, the slam of the ocean as the ship drove its bow into the ebb tide and pushed through.

"Come right five degrees, steer nine zero degrees." The Officer of the Watch was standing near the slanted bridge windows, a sextant in one hand as he glanced down at the numbers again to verify his math.

"Steer nine-zero degrees, aye sir." The helmsman echoed as he turned the ships wheel, the bow of the Don Quixote responding quickly to come around to the new course.

As Navarrete watched the Don Quixote buried her bow in an oncoming wave, the ocean shedding across her deck and through the brightly polished bronze scuppers. The 15inch guns, held in place by their massive weight, were surrounded by a swarm of men who were buffeted by the waves, one or two slipping until they were caught by their lifelines. Sailors straddled the big gun barrels, working carefully to free the leather caps that protected the muzzles from the salt water. Other sailors bustled about clearing the heavy pins that would prevent the guns from turning.

On either side of the Don Quixote, hidden from Navarrete's view, twelve 6inch, sixteen 4inch, and sixteen 1.5 inch guns, as well as twelve anti-aicraft guns, were receiving similar treatment from the remainder of the Don Quixotes 2,000 crew.

On the forecastle the crew had released the blocks on the huge anchors, preparing let them run free should the flagship lose power while transiting the Strait. Those on the main guns had finished their work and began to vanish below decks, or through the steel doors to the rear of the turret.

Navarrete looked down his watch. Four minutes and thirty seven seconds had elapsed since he had ordered the fleet to battle stations. He expected the best from the crew of the Don Quixote and they did not disappointment as confirmations of battle stations flooded in from across the ship.

"Four minutes and fifty three seconds. I like it." Navarrete snapped his watch closed and turned to look at a nearby flag officer who was holding a radio headset to his ear. "The rest of the fleet?"

Behind them, spread out in formation, were the fifty two other vessels of the Don Quixotes battle group. Two more Heroe-Class battleships, four aircraft carriers, sixteen cruisers, dozens of destroyers and minesweepers. The largest Naval force assembled by Spain since the Grande y Felicísima Armada sailed against England 372 years before.

"All indicate they are closed up."

"Good. The Admiral has the con." Naverrete returned to the centre of the bridge, his voice carrying easily to the assembled officers and crew. The Officer of the Watch saluted and stepped back to join his comrades. Navarrete glanced over at the damage control board and then snapped the next order. "Load."

"Gun crews to load." The metallic voice echoed throughout the steel hull. Deep below them, stripped to the waist as they began to sweat in the heat of the lower decks, sailors would be rolling huge gunpowder bags in to position to ram them home behind the 15inch projectiles.

"Number One gun standing by." The Deck Officer intoned from the nearby weapons table. A moment later; "Guns two, three, and four standing by."

"Aim."

"Aim!"

Navarrete watched as the huge barrels began to swing to the North, elevating until they were pointed into the distance where the Rock, Gibraltar herself, stood out against the morning sun. The final sliver of the Iberian peninsula to remain in enemy hands, but for how long? Britain had once ruled these waves without question but the Great War, and the subsequent chaos within the Empire, had reduced the British presence in the Mediterranean to a mere whimper until the Spanish sailed with immunity through the Strait.

The warships around the Don Quixote, some far closer than the huge battleship, turned their turrets to add to the threat of implied violence. A radio operator sitting nearby looked up suddenly and waved to catch Navarrete's attention.

"Radio message from the English, Admiral. Their Garrison Commander wishes to know our intentions."

"We intend to pass through the Strait without harassment and will retaliate in kind should any be forthcoming."

The radioman nodded and returned to his radio set as the fleet plowed Eastward. The tension on the bridge was intense. The Spanish rarely sailed more than a dozen ships past the Rock at any one time, and never before with a force this size. Navarrete knew that the British would be looking down at them through binoculars, their radio probing the size of the fleet, setting ranges for their own 9.2inch guns that dominated the peak of the rock, easily able to reach out and touch any ship in the fleet with devastating consequences. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time until Spain retook the Rock, it was impossible to defend from the landward side, and the garrison lived in fear of that day.

"Compliments of the Garrison Commander, he wishes us excellent weather and fine sailing." The radio operator interrupted Navarrete's thoughts.

"Please return my compliments. You may stand down the gun crews when we are clear of the Strait. I am going below." Navarrette returned the salutes of the bridge officers and made his way toward the ladder at the rear of the bridge, the noise and hubbub returning as his presence faded.

The heat of the lower decks reached up to welcome him, so different than the wind cooled bridge. He descended two decks to the main command centre, his own space on the ship where none but his officers would come without invitation. A chart table lay in the centre of the room, it could be swapped out for new charts as they sailed into new regions. At this time it bore a chart for the Western Mediterranean with two hash marks carefully laid out.

One lay off the South coast of Spain, it was here that the battlegroup would pickup several hundred troop ships and their air escort, a dozen of the great airship carriers that had yet to be fully tested in a military operation. The second mark showed the landing zone in Algeria.

Navarrete laid a finger on that second mark. It was there, on the wild coast of Africa, that the first step towards rebuilding Spains African possessions would be taken.

.

Wu Hong sat on a log at the side of the road. Nearby Ju Gan stood in the shade of a tree, smoking a cigarette. His rifle hung slung across his chest and he rested his hands on it. Looking around, things appeared eerily calm, empty. A few villagers went on their ways passed the Chinese soldiers who found themselves in the past couple days loitering around in the village. Orders had been sparse, and command silent. The only standing issue to them was to hold tight and remain in the village. Ostensibly Long company would be catching up in the next few days, surveying and staking their way through the wilderness of the Russian far-east to help made that final connection with them. For now, without armor, without heavy artillery, or any mechanized support of any kind they were on their own, a few hundred men to a few hundred Russians.

Passing down the street a small patrol of men walked by, acting more casual than security like. They held their wool caps in their hands, and their padded coats worn open at the chest. A gang of children followed close behind, practically nipping at their heels in excitement and wonder for the strange soldier men who wandered through their hamlet. They looked poor, a little dirt, a little worn down, their shirts and trousers worn through and wearing a layer of caked dirt.

“Still no phones?” Ju Gan said to the men as they passed, knowing what the answer was. Everyone did, it was the first thing they found out. As well as with the electricity.

The men shook their head. “Company commander I guess sent some men down the rail road to follow the electrical lines too. Looks like some time ago a storm had knocked over the electrical poles.” the patrol leader said, joining Gan in the shade, “Only the rail road got cleared, and the roads out of town. But one way or another these folk are isolated.”

“Damn.” Gan said, puffing on his cigarette.

“I heard from down the chain that even so, it's kind of been that way for a while. Or on and off. Nothing really works here, except the trains; and the cossacks use that.”

“Fucking hell. What's the update on Long?” he asked.

“I don't know. Maybe half way here? Could be about anywhere, but no one has told me anything exact. Not exact.”

“We're going to be here for a while I take it.”

The other soldier nodded, and looked around. “Place gives me the creeps. Like someone's watching.” he said, turning to leave.

As they walked down the road Gan turned to Hong, “So, how are you liking war?” he asked.

Hong looked up at him with an unfamiliar bizarre curiosity. “It's, ah- now what I was expecting.” he said.

“Not I either.” Gan said with a long sigh, “I had hoped once to be a part of the Tibet invasion, but that never happened. Now here we are, at war but we haven't seen any action.”

“Mhm...” Hong nodded.

“If things are this easy, say we have one good battle. We'll be at the Urals by Dongzhi.”

Hong nodded along. But truth be told, he didn't want to think about it. Crossing the Urals would mean crossing into Europe, and into Russia's heartland. He could see as well as any of them they were in Russia's backwater.

“Come on, let's take a walk.” Gan said, putting out his cigarette on the tree trunk and pitching the butt aside. He walked off down the street, following the foot steps of the other patrol.

The streets of the village were all dirt. In places, raised corduroy sidewalks offered a way out of the dirt streets, which may presumably turn to mud during spring time thaws. And throughout the community, the houses were space so far apart each had in their backyards rich full gardens, behind leaning and sagging wooden fences, tied together by strips of rusted iron wire.

Hong looked at the homes they passed. Despite many being gray, built of weather worn and tested logs from the surrounding wilderness some had been painted over, though over the years the brightly colored paints needed to coat and finish them must have become hard to find, as much of them were beginning to chip and peel back from the homes themselves. Pigs and chickens rooted around in the dry streets and in the shade of the trees and the tall grasses.

Walking towards the creek they stopped. Older women stood at the shoreline and laboriously bent over the waters, washing blouses and trousers, and underwear and shirts. “I was sort of hoping there'd be cute girls here.” he said distantly, looking up into the hills on the other side of town, “But the young flowers have all gone.” Hong didn't have anything to say.

The community straddled either side of the small creek that bisected it. A small wooden bridge was the only crossing between the two halves and much the same dominated the other side. There was a homestead with an orchard in the back, and between the full green boughs of the trees the bright reds and yellows of apples hung ripening on the branches, in their shade a handful of pigs scavenged for the over ripened apples and those that had fallen into the clover.

“Fuck this shit.” Gan complained, turning and walking the other way. But in the distance Hong could see something. It was distant, barely visibly before the underbrush on a hill the other side of town. But in the sunlight cast along the edge of the trees he thought he could see a figure at the edge of the treeline, dark and silhouetted against the underbrush. He looked to be wearing a hat, or a helmet, or a mask. He – it – was all in black.

Before Gan could get away Hong asked, “Sergeant, comrade... What do the cossacks wear?”

“What do you mean?” asked Gan, turning back to him.

“What do they wear, what's their uniform?” Hong asked, he turned back to the hill but the figure that had been there was gone. But he couldn't help but feel as if he had been seen.

“Grey coat with a big fur cap, I think.” Gan told him, “Or Russian field uniforms. I haven't seen them yet though, we haven't. Why?”

“Just... Wondering.” a hesitant Hong said, under his breath.




“What's the status on the search for the pilot?” the radio asked.

“He hasn't been located, but he has been spotted.” Man Wu said, he sat leaning over in a chair, again in the communications tent. On the other end of the receiver was one of the junior command officers, taking a regular debriefing of an evolving situation. He hadn't contacted them, but had come looking for him, “Last seen he was in the river about a kilometer and a half away from the camp. A boat crew and patrols have been sent out to comb the forests. Based on his movements he actually passed into China, so unless we have to cross again I'm not worried about our men wandering into Japanese territory following him for the time being. Over.”

“Copy that. I don't imagine our pilot has any supplies on him, I take it?” the other officer asked, “Over.”

“No, I don't believe so. I can't imagine the Japanese sent him out here to camp so it's not likely he would have anything on him. So this may slow him down, if he has to eat. You think that? Over.”

“That's our basic assumption here in command. If he doesn't eat he may slow down. Or he'll stop and forage or find food some other way. The pursuit won't be direct. He's not entirely lost yet. Furthermore, he doesn't know the land. Command still has confidence, we only encourage you to try harder.

“And also, have you retrieved the crashed airplane yet? Over.”

“We have, it's in our custody and it's being packed so we can ship it back. Over.”

“Good. But we should probably discuss other things. What's the situation with our mission? Has it been set back?” the radio asked. “Over.”

“We haven't been set back at all. Clearing crews are maybe about ten to twelve kilometers in. The parts and supplies to build a more permanent bridge have arrived, so soon we'll begin laying the road. We're moving ahead on schedule and we'll be able to connect to the forward groups shortly. Over.”

“Copy that, so there has been little to no disruption? Over.”

“Appears not. The Japanese weren't here to disrupt it seems. To observe, perhaps. But until we have that pilot we can not be sure. Over.”

“Then we don't have anything to talk about further. Keep up the good work. Over and out.” the other officer said unceremoniously, and hung up. Man Wu whiped his brow and stepped out of the tent. The northern sun was sharp in his eyes and he squinted back against the strong daylight. Turning his sight north he rested his gaze on the foundations of the span across the Amur.

It was by no means a complicated feat. The river wasn't the Yellow River, and its flow was gentle and stately. Its dark waters flowing at a comfortable and genial pace, not very deep, though neither was it shallow. The pontoon bridge that presently connected China and Russia was at either end flanked by steel beams set into the earth and the day time flash of sparks and stars blinked into and out of existence as engineers with welding torches fixed additional spans and struts into place.



They were up by early morning with the demands of the old man. Words spoken in a language neither of them understood. Rising out of their slumber between woolen and hide blankets, Guo and Chao staggered to their feet. They stumbled through putting on their pants and their clothes before they stepped out into the freezing cold night. After sleeping under blankets, it hit them impossibly hard, like stepping into a steel door. They shivered and wrapped their arms around themselves, the coats they were given helped but in the dead of morning, before the sun even rose, and with a northern breeze it all felt out of time for a mid-summer's morning.

They walked out between the yurts of a camp, being joined by the other men and the young boys of the family band. Some of them still looked sidelong at them. Others had warmed, and treated them to the hospitality of neighbors. And as with the yurt they had abandoned, the warm smell of smoldering dung-fueled fires crackled in the inside and the smell of buttery cooking floated out the door as mothers and grandmothers began the work of preparing breakfast. For them though, this immediate luxury wasn't for them as the followed the rest out to the pens where the goats were kept.

It was here the men split. Some went off to horses, and mounting rode off to graze the horse herd on the open steppe. For the likes of Chao and Guo they shuffled to the goats, low and stubborn they milled about in a paddock of metal posts driven into the ground and wired together to make a impromptu fence. All the same, many of the goats were secured to the fence itself directly for security. Mixed among them were the sheep, themselves waiting to eventually be let to graze in the open steppe. Shuffling in with the animals they went about their work.

Pulling out leather sacks they approached the nannies of the herd.

Squatting down at the side of one, Chao ran his hand along her side, betting the doe as she turned a head to sniff and investigate the man squatting alongside her. “Don't you fucking bite me.” he grumbled under his breath as he gently pushed her head away. She bleated in response, but held still as he lay the stiff leather pouch down under her udders. Grabbing a teat, he began milking.

The milk squirted out, uneven at first. Chao had never milked an animal in his life, and his uneven grip and rhythm made it difficult to begin. But as he went along he had gotten into the beat, and soon he was filling the pouch with warm goat's milk. A distance off Guo was doing the same.

“Never thought I'd find myself milking goats.” Guo complained.

“It's not entirely unexpected.” Chao reminded him, “We had to stop and work our way through China to get some stuff, directions. You really don't think we would've tried this on our way through here, did you?”

“Yeah but- shit Chao. We could herd the horses. We got a motorcycle!”

“I don't think that's what they're made for.”

“But, still.”

“They probably don't appreciate it if we did try.” added Chao.

The stream stopped, and the goat became stubborn. Before she could begin moving Chao pulled out the container of milk before she could walk away and turn it over. Stubbornly she tried to leave early, resisting Chao's initial attempt to stop her before the leather sack could be withdrawn. Be fore a hoof connected, it was gone and he moved to the next one.

This one turned and began to try and nibble on the coat loaned to him. Making repeated attempts at it, he pushed her head away before settling into the tedium of competing against her, and her teets.

“What do you think about the old man?” Guo asked, slightly further away.

“He seems OK enough.” Chao responded.

“What do you mean? Can you understand him? Because I sure can't, he could be doing anything with us.”

“Well we can still leave at any time.” Chao answered him, “Or at least we got the bike and a full tank of gas at the least. So we can leave. Besides, how else are we going to get through here?”

“I'm just worried something will happen.”

“We have a lot of ground to cover. We're likely going to have to put our faith in other people we don't know or can't really communicate to. We're going to have to start at some point.”

“That might be true, but, well- you know. Do any of us know what's going on? Have you seen how they gather around the radio sometimes? It doesn't seem like anything good is happening. What if we end up in that situation?”

“Well, then we do. And we keep going.”

“I really don't like how you're so easy with this, so casual. I don't know if you're thinking about it as much.”

“I think about it plenty.” said Chao, brushing away the goat's head and moving along. Guo rose among a cloud of sheep, which startled and shot away the moment he rose.

“But, well. Some of these people have guns.”

“Your dad had a gun.” Guo pointed out.

“Yeah, a Japanese relic from the war! It's not like he had any bullets for it.”

“He still had one, didn't he?”

“Yeah, right. There's a wide difference between a gun with bullets and without!”

“How do you know he didn't have any? He could have. I know my uncle kept his hidden.”

“Damn it, Chao. You're not making it any easy.”

Chao held his arms out to his side and declared, “What choice do we have?”

Guo sighed uncomfortably, and went back to work.



Li Chao
July 20th, 1960. The year of the metal rat.

We've been riding along, following the river for the better part of several days. We've found no breaks in it and the terrain is rough. Out of fear of loosing site of it in the great steppe we elected to follow it close instead of heading out into the steppe itself to find flatter ground. We've been moving slow as a result.

We're starting to run low on food and Guo is getting upset. We've been able to find a few things along the river side to help us along but the sparsity of anything out here has made it difficult. There are often grasses for miles, but it's also all rocks and dirt. There's a barren dryness to this land not unlike the desserts I believe, or the Chinese interior. If there were more mountains and valleys I would however be more willing to call it that, but there is nothing. It's beginning to dampen my expectations.

However, fate and luck would have it our journey west didn't end in failure. Before we could get into our last can of gas we ran into the local Kazakhs. We came on a herdsman and his family, or clan, or banner. However you want to say it. We rode across him as he and his sons or brothers were tending to their herds of horses at the river. There was a tense moment when guns were drawn. Guo and I both were terrified, but the situation de-escalated.

Unfortunately, our Arabic was either too poor or their grasp of it equally as bad as ours and trying to speak with them came down to a long session of pantomime. I felt like I was in school again, it was not enjoyable.

Anyways, I think we've been given the option to stay with them for some time. It was hard to figure out. But in exchange for being kept sheltered and fed as a way south is sought after we help tend their livestock and do the chores. I can't say if any of them have anything planned that would be bad for us. But I feel like I can have faith in it. I can't quite tell, but I think Guo might be uncertain, or afraid. We will just need to wait and see.

In the time being, we rest and work, like the days traveling through China. And perhaps we can pick up some Kazakh. By no means do I hope to speak it, but that I can learn a few words to help us.

While Yukarev kept riding his memorials, when he wasn't making sure that the Union wasn't needing something handled or fixed. With the oil-line slowly being developed, four nations in the Russian landscape could take some comfort in not being subjected to the cold and perhaps even a chance to restart their industry. As much as people disliked each other now, they were all still Russian - they all spoke the same language and in a way, still worshiped the same religion.

With the already approving marks, coming from the Cooperation to Establish Oil - Chairman Yukarev had also send letters to the Tsarina of Moscow, the Queen of Ukraine and the leadership of Smolensk. Namely he wanted to establish the Committee for People and Resources - a political-economic alliance between the four powers, which had begun from oil trading and producing and would hopefully help reduce the skirmishes along their borders and improve the livelihood of everyone involved. Namely, in the most ironic sense - trade would help to hopefully lessen conflict and fighting.

Since one had less reason to fight, if their people weren't starving, cold or workless.

[CPR Letters: @Shyri @Mihndar ]