The expansive plateau and foothills of Tibet sprawled out to the heavenly blue sky. The great earth covered in a mat of young spring grass, blooming in spring life. And under the blue ceiling of heaven sat sprawling across the heights of the ridges, rolling down into erosion carved valleys of the steppe the command center for the Tibetan Militarized Zone.

Formally established in 1949 as the permanent fixed command for the fluid and unresolved situation with Tibet, command had before rotated between posts at Wuwei, Xining, and Chengdu. The nature and location of the command changing based on the conditions against Tibet, the undeclared war which China had with them flaring on and off. It had made questionable gains in the years since the launch of the Western Expedition. It was a long zone of contention, spanning the length of the border from Diqing to the Hotan wastelands. Daily some small incidents erupted with long range skirmishes across the epic valleys of the low steppe, or close altercations with fist and sword and knife in the mountainous alleys under the shadows of immense boulders. Air missions to recon the mountains would receive fire, and combat air wings would sweep the region. Armed bodies of Tibetan soldiers would march down on the Chinese to dislodge a field post or to drive an equal body of Chinese into retreat. Here in this region, the careers and expertise of men were made and specialized.

“I just wanted you to know, that I put in my letter. I'm retiring from the service. I asked the Commission to review you as my replacement.” Quan Yu said, as he sat down at his desk. Across, a younger officer took his own seat, placing his hands on his knees as he watched his superior with deep interest and undivided attention.

Quan Yu was a man of sixty. Having cut his teeth in the revolution he had followed Zhou Enlai west as part of the expedition, and of one of the many junior communist officers the Kuomintang military authority of Whampoa wanted to dispose of. As soon as China filled out into Xinjiang and settled his career come to rest. Now to end at the outer extreme of Tibet. His eyes were deeply eroded, wind scars and sunburns wringing eyes. The wrinkles that rounded them as deep and complex as the landscape in which he had come to live and even start a family for over two decades. The time had balded the officer, scars from combat injuries from the old days were dug deep across his head. A mortar explosion in the fifties had broken an arm before he assumed command, and now it bent backwards and at an angle from his body. His soldier's vigor had drained away and he looked at the world through tired eyes. Yet he was man that none under his command could say they hated. His officer corp looked up to him and he was a fan of the theater, ordering a movie theater built at the command post for all servicemen, general enlisted or otherwise. Yet among his close confidants it was known his heart was elsewhere and not Tibet; he talked of going home to Jiangxi to retire, his children were now almost adults and had not seen their ancestral province.

The younger officer, Feng Lu nodded. Lu was a tall man, and his face was soft. Cosmopolitan. The fact that unlike many of the other older officers who had come into the army from the peasant class and who had hardened themselves through the blood and the grit of the revolution was well evident in his demeanor and his outward appearance. An officer that embraced the cleanliness of the new army, the manners of the army at peace, though he was in the last combat zone in China. He did not wear his hair wild, and he combed it back across his head with the assistance of hair cream to keep it held tight. He was closely manicured, his face narrow and pointed. Despite he youth, and metropolitan cleanliness he betrayed a sharp awareness in his eyes. Eagle-like. He pressed his lips flat before he spoke in a low voice, “I understand. I congratulate you decision, sir.”

Yu smiled, “It was a long time coming.” he said with a rattling sigh. “The status of the region hasn't changed much in the last ten or so years. While I hold you in complete confidence of doing anything, I do not imagine you would have a difficult time. And if things are to change, I don't think you'll have problems either. You have the entire weight of the army at your back.”

“I understand.” Lu said, “And the Commission willing, I'm eager to take up whatever challenge they send my way.”

Quan Yu smiled, and nodded, “I'm sure they'll agree. There is much to do, especially if Congress let's us do it. Perhaps it might be worth doing a strategic briefing. It would not help to get you started early.”

Feng Lu nodded, and followed his commander as he stood up from the small desk. Lu kept a small, tidy office. Not much larger than a closet, it was dominated primarily by his desk and several tightly packed bookshelves. Poking out from corners lit by the light from the room's single window stood portraits and photographs of the man's family. A short letter singing his praises from one of his then young sons hung on the door, framed and at eye level as they left.

They walked down the concrete corridors of the headquarters. Perched at the top of a rise they could look down into the valley below through the wide panoramic panes along the exterior hallway. A single switchback road whipped back and forth up the steep rocky slope with its emerald grass and blooming spring flowers. At the bottom of the valley the rest of the base sprawled itself out through the narrow crevices.

The headquarters were cold and drafty on account of no air conditioning in the halls. Only in a few offices or conference rooms were there stoves or radiators to heat the space in the winter. And on this early spring day, with the snow melted, the air was cold and bitter. The two men closed their coats tight against them. Passing offices and NCOs they met stood stiffly to salute them, their cheeks rosy and flush in the cold air of the passages.

“This will be yours to command, eventually.” Quan Yu smiled, authoritatively, “I hope you enjoy it. It's a fair enough posting.”

“I've enjoyed hiking the hills.” Feng Lu said, relaxed, “Have you been to the Yunnan Pocket?” he asked, referring to the southern extreme of the command zone.”

“A couple times. I've never explored it however. But I've been there.”

“The landscape is dramatic when you get well inside. The forests are a thing of magic, and the height of the mountains are astounding. It's wild and ancient there, impossible.”

“So I've heard from the units there. Men tend to get lose on patrol. The locals are uneasy about them as well. We've conducted intelligence research on the area to find if there is any link to Lhasa's politics affecting them. Or if it's just the soldiers interfering with the land. If I would call any area of concern, it'd be Yunnan. I've tried to find more suitable places to put men to not inflame tensions. Our fortune is it's not an active location, but we need someone there to survey it.”

“I can understand the need.”

They came to the end of the short hall and another wing of the command center. Here, General Quan Yu opened the door and granted his successor to be access to a briefing room. “You'll be spending a lot of time here if they accept.” he said, turning on the lights. They popped and sputtered and soon illuminated the room in a warm yellow glow. He walked over to a radiator in the corner, and turned it on. It kicked and hissed, shaking violently against the wall before settling and quieted.

In the center of the room was a long table for maybe twenty people. At the head a large paper map hung on the wall. It showed in over view a map of the region. Stickers scattered over the map showed the location of deployments and bases. Other stickers, red showed the suspected location of Tibetan forces. “I'll try my best to over-view things from memory. When the process of succession begins the detailed work will begin. Take a seat, comrade.”

Feng Lu bowed, and walked to a chair and took a seat. With the practiced routine of the instructor Quan Yu moved to the board and began explaining the situation:

On the whole, the Chinese side of the border was occupied by twenty-thousand men stretched across the whole of the Chinese border. During the time of the conflict with Tibet since preliminary invasion by Zhou Enlai the bulk of the fighting had occurred over southern Qinghai and Xinjiang. It always came as skirmishes. Chinese offensive efforts had been frustrated by the hard terrain of Tibet. In the field intelligence from the time and gathered since strongly indicated that the Tibetan forces were armed with comparatively modern fire arms, which while at this time would be out of date in an open field of battle had the advantage that equalized them against the Chinese in the high mountains of the Himalayas. The conflict stagnated and stalled. The inability of the Tibetans to make headway against the Chinese has since been confirmed by their inability to assault the Chinese positions. To a point, Chinese air power has been a great support, but the altitude of Tibet's vast plateau is a stress to Chinese air superiority and limits their operational capacity.

As the decades had gone on the militarized zone's priorities has turned from a region for unit combat duty, into training for fresh soldiers to receive fresh exercise it an extreme part of China. “I feel most of the time I am a headmaster for students more than soldiers.” Quan Yu said, tired, “Perhaps in my retirement I will go into teaching, I have many years of experience.”

“I wouldn't say it hasn't be worthless.”

“No, of course not. Never has been. After the War it's been a break. But I feel our importance has been waning in the weeks and months. I'd be prepared to fight to keep material interest on us. Otherwise it will slip into becoming a pariah for something else. The Commission is always in negotiation with other parties. The government is negotiating its policies. We're here to prevent banditry at the border. They won't notice until it spills over.”

“I wonder if we can push the war to conclusion.” Feng Lu said, “From my experiences in Hotan.”

“Yes,” general Yu said, “If you have the chance. General Feng Lu and his goat army march on Lhasa! That would be a headline. You will complete the struggle of several commands before you. Comrade Enlai would probably find it very funny, and very smart.”




The morning began as all others had. The bells rang and the horns opened in the tremendously low hours of the morning echoing across the deep valleys. A city at sleep curling up out of their beds under the still blue light of morning before the first hot rays of the sun could break over the ramparts of the Himalayas. Through the window the young boy could gaze out through the imported curtains at the still dark sky, just becoming illuminated by the first thin bars of blue morning light. The air was cold, and so was the sky. In the thing clouds that existed at these heights only the barest inflection of color could be seen in their long silvery bands. Orange, as in the robes of the monk. Soon the morning chants and recitations would begin, two hours before breakfast would be served. The youth protested silently to himself before leaving the bed. He had only on his mind sleep, the passion to return to the realm of the dreams where he had his freedom. Damn the rinpoches, the diamond could use some sleep for once.

But damn the liberty, as he turned from the windows his room was soon stormed by a squadron of attendants, who bowing delicately and apologizing profusely began to manhandle the young lad, pulling him from bed and forcing him into his monk's attire. He moved with them automatically, as if a robot and simply obliged their respectful demands. They may have touched him, it would have been the same effect, but he was carried down the halls of the Potala Palace and through its lacquer stench of yak butter and candle smoke to preside over the morning prayers. Where from route memory he chanted out the dharma and the sutras in daily ritual as the son peaked over the mountains and casting low fire rods up from over the peaks of the Tibetan mountains. Such is the morning of the 15th Dalai Lama.

For two hours he sat on a cushioned chair above the other monks and the faithful in the hallowed halls of the Potala Palace droning out the sacred texts from memory. In the corners monks beat on drums, gongs, and cymbals creating an atonal symphony joined in by the low bleeting farts of horns and the gut-low gurgling of the monks and they recited the prayers for Lhasa, for Tibet, for the world that morning. Beseeching ancient gods who lives in the deep valleys and dark caverns all throughout Tibet. For the dead picked up by the vultures on frozen wingtips to be carried to heaven and devoured. At its peak the young Dalai Lama gave one of the few offerings he had the power to make in these times, that the Chinese be kept away for another day. And perhaps someone was listening, because for every day since the prayers began the Chinese had not come.

By the time the prayers were finished the sun was well into the sky. The morning light had lifted and the sky was open in its vast clear blue. High into the peaks the thinness of heaven was revealed under a dark blue as intimidating as the great seas below, as if any on this plateau has been down to see the sea.

Breakfast began on a terrace. Accompanied by a few other monks the Dalai Lama sat at a simple wooden table drinking down a brothy soup with vegetables and yak meat. A pot of butter tea in the middle. Surrounding him and sharing from the same common bowls were other monks, all far older than him talking in hushed voices about all manners of things. A pair at the end was locked in a debate about the nature of reincarnation. The young Dalai Lama simply found himself adrift in the normality, his mind empty as he struggled to pretend his belly was full. But looking up out of the corner of his eyes, he saw them.

At a distance in the shade of a doorway seated at a small table of their own were the Britons. Their heads bowed low in secret concourse and their backs arched primitive over their bowl of stewed meat and vegetables. Somehow one of them had brought in cheese. They did not drink tea, but coffee. They wore over their olive green uniforms the robes of monks. Through their conspiracies of Albion they had made their way into the palace and set themselves up as monks before the Dalai Lama had arrived. Or at least, that is how they carried themselves: as monks, rinpoches of the highest order. With their thick moustaches which they never shaved they looked over at the Dalai Lama with eyes always squinted tight against the harsh glare of the high mountain sun. One of them had a cigarette. The Dalai Lama was powerless to stop them.

Watching them, the Dalai Lama noticed as one of them rose from their table as a high-ranking monk approached them. One of the regency council. The arriving monk bowed and engaged in gregarious conversation and joined them at their seat as the one who had just left stepped towards the Dalai Lama. Coming before the table the British man bowed low, and said in Tibetan highly inflected by his accent, “I hope his holiness is having a splendid morning. I wish to extend an invitation by his holiness's regency council that he may join us later this afternoon in a review of the troops. His presence and participation will be highly esteemed.”

He would have had rather do anything else. But in the end like many things he would doubtlessly end up there. He accepted the quest, and the Briton gave him a long smile and backed away.

As breakfast closed the Dalai Lama was again shuffled away to another duty or obligation. In a musty hall he was obliged to sit in on a debate between two monks. Ceremonially, he was there to moderate. In practice, it was for him to learn. Not yet into his majority, he could not assume the duties of his position. But in the moment, his heart and mind were not in it. Trying to pay attention, he could not and his mind was set adrift. As the talk and excited retorts of the two monks broiled, punctuated by the loud claps that accentuated Tibetan debate the Dalai Lama went to think about the English. Their guns and weapons they had brought with them south from India. He was not allowed to be privy to the circumstances why. The regency council that surrounded him kept that a strictly confidential matter. But in his young years in the palaces of Tibet he learned to find a way to learn. Even as he was drowned in meaningless obligations and duties.

From what he heard, the British officers had first come north under the waning influence of the Russians. Those far northern men had retreated back to whatever land they had rode from beyond China. He thought they were like Mongols. They could be. He had never seen a Russian before, let alone a Mongolian. But others side they were European, they were like the British. But far ruder. So he had to let that be the reality.

Despite their origins however, the English were here. And has tensions flared into war in India, the consul they established in Tibet did not leave. If anything, it dug in deeper. And through the influences of these high majors tucked away at the roof of the world their weapons and wealth and influence came north. To what end the Dalai Lama could not grasp. But throughout his life they had been doing it. The debate closed, and he was again taken away. To review the troops.

Leaving the palace for the first time that day he traveled out of Lhasa born in a litter. Secluded in his canopy he rode on his cushioned chair. The coach rocked gently back and forth on the shoulders of the monks bearing him. Looking discreetly out the curtained windows he looked down at the faithful who lined the streets to bow and pray to his holiness passing before them. Surrendered to never knowing his face, they kept their heads bowed. Some prostrated on the ground, planting their faces in the dirt as they held their hands before them, palms pressed together. In their poverty they prayed for wealth to his Holiness and the continuation of the peace of the city. But he knew, what little he did know, that was only where the peace was: in the city.

Leaving the city he opened the curtains wider to get a fuller look at the world outside. The liter was born across a small canal cut through the rocky soil. Here the city of Lhasa began to thin as they made their way north. The roads became less paved, less packed gravel and more soft free sand. Ranges for yaks and goat, and fields of barley. Turning his head out into the cold late morning light he looked ahead. Looming atop a small hill in the distance was the fort of Drapchi. Its old walls white washed and shining in the light of the day.

Rising up the road to the fort, the soldiers exercising in the field stopped what it was they were doing to run to the side of the procession and to begin to pray and cheer the Dalai Lama. But it wasn't all of them, the young boy noticed. His gaze was pulled up by the yet still more distant soldiers that simply stood watching him go by. He wondered at their loyalties. He entered into the fort, and lost sight of them.

Passing immediately into the inner courtyard of the fort he was brought to a space along the side of the dusty barren parade ground where there stood a small group of officers with their hands behind their back. They looked up to see who was arriving, and immediately dropped to bow to the arriving Dalai Lama. An attendant with an umbrella was quick to appear as the liter was lowered and the Dalai Lama was shielded from the sun as he stepped out. Cold footed and nervous he looked up at his military officers and quietly greeted them with a blessing. Each of them returned the favor with a quick, quiet, “Thank you”.

The assembled officer corp was mixed. Only two bore striking European features. The other ten were mid-level officers of some degree but Tibetan or Nepalese. They all wore the same uniform, a light cream field jacket with belt. Distinguishing them from the general enlisted all of them wore slouch hats in the English style, though the brims wore flat and lowered to protect their eyes from the sun. Some even wide brimmed pith helmets, with a length of long corded yellow cloth.

“The regimental inspection will begin in just several minutes.” an officer said congenially, “If his holiness would not mind waiting.”

He thought to say he did mind waiting, and if they could begin now. But resigned, he knew what the situation was. “I understand.” he said, “May I wait in the shade?” he asked, looking across to a shaded arcade against the far wall.

The officer smiled, and nodded. He had his permission. Turning on his heels the youth ran to the shade of the gallery. The attendant running after to keep up. Several of the monks followed. But the rest lingered. “Your holiness, why do you run?” asked the attendant. The Dalai Lama did not answer. Stopping in the shade behind a pillar he turned to watch.

Minutes however passed, and little happened. The time lengthened and impatiently the Dalai Lama waited. “Several minutes” turned to several hours before finely a lone brass horn blew and a corp of senior officials began to walk out on the parade ground. Finely dressed military men in uniforms of the European style. Tibetan ministers in robes and dress like that of the old Chinese court. Seeing them the Dalai Lama thought, as he often did of the story he heard of Puyi. The fated last Emperor of China and how like he he was only a boy Emperor when he was deposed of the throne. This also was not a story many in his circles wanted him to know. But their silence was suspicious as he learned the story in pieces and seeing the powerful men with their swords hanging at their side he could not help but be afraid. The attendant who was with him, a young lieutenant not much older than he caught his look of freight and asked him, his voice heavy with concern, “What is wrong?”

The Dalai Lama realized fast he had shown something, and recoiled. As quickly as he could throwing on the mask of stoic ironic detachment he was meant to wear where ever he was. “Nothing. It is nothing.”

“I am sorry, but you looked afraid. Is something the matter?” he asked.

“No. Nothing is wrong.” he lied.

“I ask because you look worried. That is all.”

“No. I'm fine.”

The lieutenant nodded. His expression glowed with respect. Looking back up at the men now taking the field he said in a low voice, “Sometimes I wonder about them too. The British. I don't know what country it is they come from but I wish they would go back.”

The Dalai Lama said nothing in response. He only noted it.

As they took their positions a single bugle call was made, followed by the sound of marching drums as a band sprung to life somewhere in the fort. In a distant corner the Dalai Lama could make out a column of soldiers marching out from a distant barracks. Their faces fresh and ready. Rifles at their shoulders. Or muskets. Some had muskets.






The prodigal son had returned and the community came out to celebrate him. In a clearing along the side of the Liwu river the people had come down from the mountain villages and along the coasts to celebrate the return of their war hero. He had not just come home with honors, but had come home a man. By proximity, he had made himself not just a man, but his brothers too who may not have the same fortunes to go to war. Still dressed in his Imperial Japanese Army uniform, Baay sat in the shade of a canvas tent as old men with the old tattoos on their faces quickly and haphazardly smeared a greasy paint over he and his brother's faces. Still hot to the touch, they could not help but laugh as globs of it got into their mouth. The elders making jokes as they went. Teasing them and telling them how much more painful it must be for them. The comment was not just sarcasm. The Japanese had long removed their right to tattoo their faces. Any of them who did would be outcast as the Yakuza on the imperial home islands. And only those who would dare to do so would have to hide in the mountains. And these boys had wishes and duties to perform. But these duties did not staunch the deep pain in their hearts for not joining in the tradition which was now dying. They hoped deep inside them that they could one day tattoo their faces and revive the tribe.

Standing just at the edge of the tent, their sister Sayta stood smiling. She joined in the fun making. Cracking comments and laughing along. No one brought up his service. It was not needed here, not yet. This was too good a moment. For the time being, all comments could be made to The Head.

The Head stood at a place of pride in the celebrations. Haphazardly kept preserved, it had been smuggled over from the East Indies by Baay to reach his home village in the mountains. The trip itself was a story as much its taking. Baay had found someone who was willing to transport the thing in a crate of fruits. It wallowed for several days in customs before being unceremoniously moved on when an associate of the shipper retrieved the box and removed the head. Dumping the fruits explaining they were spoiled. By which point the canvas sack the head was stored in was suspected on several occasions. “It is meat, for my dogs” the man is said to have explained. Or: “It is fish guts, for the pigs”. It had almost been intercepted, but eluded capture. And as well as a sign of Baay's martial ability sat now the grand guest of honor as a sign of his ingenuity and cunning.

The Head had belonged once to a Dutchman from Dutch Indonesia. As Baay explained it was simply a patrol they had encountered. A skirmish ensued and the Dutch were forced into retreat. Later, Baay crept out in the night with his knife to find the site of the battle. No one had yet arrived to retrieve the bodies. Perhaps he thought: they were forgotten. All the same in the deep darkness of the tropical night he found a corpse, and removed its head. He had known some officers to keep trophy heads for a time. It was not hard to keep it for a time saying he would sell it to such a trophy hunter. So when it missing, when he had mailed it; it was believed that is what had happened.

As the old men finished the freshly minted Atayal men stepped out into the afternoon sun beaming with confidence and the people applauded and celebrated. Someone had acquired wine, and the cups were flowing in celebration of the boys-turned-men's fortunes. Baay was not much older than twenty-one. His siblings: Yabis, 16; Taraw, 15; and Iban, 16. They all joined him in maturity. Sayta had not yet reached that point yet, but looked forward to the day she could leave the loom for good. She had not yet managed to master her weaving. But her grandmother told her every night she was close. She just needed to keep working.

But the art of weaving hurt her hands. Every night before she went to bed after a full day of doing her chores, studies, and weaving her hands ached and she felt her fingers were slowly curling like her grandmother's. She was barely older than sixteen. She wanted to leave the loom and see the world, or the island in full. She had been told by a distant uncle that so long as she spoke clean Japanese and kept her face free of markings then she could go about the island as she pleased. “But the others,” he added, referring to the old tribes of the island, “they will always know.”

She felt a pang of guilt though. The influence of the Japanese weighed heavily over the island and in these mountains it was more common to see people wearing the clothes of the Japanese. Only the older generations continued to wear the intricate patterned dresses and skirts of the Atayal. By comparison to the single color cloth of the Japanese they were much more fantastic. But they proved to be cumbersome and called one out in town.

Smaller than most, Sayta was easily lost in a crowd and soon after her brother's mock tattooing she was eventually lost to the celebration as the sun began to set. But by then the wine had flowed strong and many were too lost in their drunkenness and revelry to notice as she wandered off down river. Her brother, the war hero managed to see her slip off, and took advantage of the celebratory confusion to make himself scarce to follow his sister. He was joined by Iban, who went racing after, his flesh blushing from alcohol.

“Wait up!” Baay called out, stopping Sayta before she wandered off too far. She stopped, surprised, looking back, “Where you going?”

“Thought I'd head to the beach.” she said, “I was about done with the party.” she added, smiling weakly to try and hide the shame of having to admit it.

“I'm about done too. I don't think they'll notice.”

“What about m-me?” Iban added in, startling the two of them. It was clear he was drinking too much.

“Don't you think you should go home?” Sayta asked. Iban shook his head determined. “No.” he replied.

The two of them shrugged and walked away in silence. Iban staggering behind them. In the dusk the mountain valley was silent, save for the rolling to the Liwu river. Behind them the sound and music of the party carried on the gentle night air. A gentle coolness was falling over the island. The two of them walked in silence. Iban mumbled out a song. Now and then they would check on him, seeing him weave left and right on the mouth, routinely raising and lowering his head, “Feels like I'm swimming.” he said in a long droning voice.

“You may have drank too much. Careful you don't fall over.” Baay told him.

“'scuse me?” Iban mumbled.

The valley road was forested on either side of the small road. Barely large enough to support a car. But out here few vehicles traveled. The failing light was fast to turn to black under the protective awning of the trees. Behind the branches and leaves of saplings and bushes the water of the Liwu shone in bands of purple and orange. A few birds flew around. But in all the jungle was quiet.

The road opened up as they began to trek down the hill from the mountains and the trees cleared, opening up to the great coast and beach as it met the great Pacific beyond it. Looking at it, all of them knew somewhere on that inky black sea the Japanese navy patrolled and the entire arms of empire squirmed and throbbed with the aggression and blood lust that sustained it. Baay knew it to well. Sayta finally decided, she had to know.

“How was it?” she asked them as they walked down to the beach. Iban stopped somewhere up the path to urinate. The two were mostly alone.

For a long time Baay didn't answer. He starred down instead at the milky white sand. The beach glowed in the edging moonlight. “I can't wrap my head around it.” he said finally, “I went in expecting it would be horrible. But I don't feel anything.”

“You don't feel anything?” Satya asked.

Baay nodded, “Perhaps it was I just didn't see much fighting. A lot of the men that carried the assault were mainlanders. The rest of us from Taiwan took a backseat. We cleaned up what they left behind.”

“So, is the story of the head true?” doubtlessly, The Head was still being treated with honors. Last she had seen it, it was being served bowls and cups of wine and fruits. A veritable spread had appeared before it. Half the banquet had ended up somehow before its cushion and bed of flowers.

“No, that's true.” he said, “It was my only real action though. I think about it a lot.”

“So you do feel something?” she asked.

“I don't know.” shrugging.

“I always thought war would be a horrible thing,” Satya went on, “I hear so much about the scars and injuries. About what happened during the last uprising. The villages destroyed. But really, nothing?”

“I don't know if it's the Dutch or my fortune. But: nothing. It was mostly a lot of marching and cleaning. The worst thing was we did the cleaning for the Japanese, while they did the fighting. I feel lucky that I managed what I did.”

“Amazing. But, I'm just glad you're back and safe and sound.” Satya smiled

“I hope so. But I hear I could be called back at any time. So who knows.”

In the distance they heard a loud popping sound. They both managed to look up in time to see a shape darting across the darkening sky. Smoke and fire trailing from a wing before with a crash it landed and skipped across the ocean, shooting up silver spray as he lurched and lunged towards land. Satya's heart immediately froze. Baay was charged with an instinctive energy and he ran towards the crash.

It was hot and painfully humid. Nothing had gone as planned thus far. Sure, the storm had sent the army regulars scrambling for their barracks, but it has also scattered the planes far and wide. de Peralta's own plane had to make an emergency landing in a river, nearly ripping off the right wing in the process. He drank from his canteen, sweat dripping down his face as he tried to get the radioman's attention. Six days ago, that was how long it had been since landing. His own weapon lay discarded somewhere in the jungle, a fallen enemy's rifle now firmly clutched in his hands. The radioman finally came darting over, his beret tucked into the shoulderboard of his uniform. The radio crackled and hissed as it came to life, frantic chatter coming over the waves as de Peralta ordered the net cleared. He had to wait a few moments as different commanders barked orders, before the chatter died down aside from the occasional cross feed of the enemy communications.

"Enemy forces around Moca are in full retreat. Keep pressing east towards San Francisco de Macoris. Bring forward captured enemy armor, and use it to take Concepcion de la Vega. I know you are tired, and I know you are hurting. We are all in this together, and we shall win our home back. Listen to your commanders, the enemy has fight in them still. Peralta out." He handed the set back to the radioman, before turning to join the firing line once more, taking shots at the rapidly retreating regime forces. Ducking down, a shower of earth filled the air as a rifle grenade slammed into the ground nearby. All Peralta could think was, "This must surely be hell, war is hell..."

THE REPUBLIC OF ARGENTINA

---

Santo Domingo, Hispaniola

The doors to the Argentine consulate had barely been unlocked for the days business when they were thrown wide open by a dozen well dressed and determined looking men who marched straight toward the reception desk. The big marble expanse served to protect the alarmed looking clerks behind it from any physical attack but did nothing to soften the raised voices that echoed off the colonnades and polished stairs.

"We demand to see the Ambassador, at once! You may tell him that Senor Adolfo Carranza is here, along with representatives of various Argentine bushiness here in the Dominican!" A clerk, a pretty local girl, nodded quickly and hurried away toward the staircases while the collection of gentlemen milled about, prevented from following her by two burly soldiers.

The clerk returned within a few moments and beckoned the men to follow her. The heels of their shoes echoed like so many horses or cattle as they bustled along the stone floors, each trying to puff up his chest in an effort to look more important than the next. They passed painted images of Argentinian countryside, even one of the new Chilean territories, and many smaller rooms that appeared largely empty. The building had once been a wealthy wine merchants home until he ran afoul of the Dominican Dictator, Rafael Trujillo. The house had then been gifted to the Argentine government in return for aid in rebuilding damaged infrastructure. Trujillo had gotten his country back on its feet, well, enough for the newly arrived capitalists to begin exploiting and for him to profit from it.

They arrived, eventually, in a small garden where there was barely enough for all of them to crowd onto the stones, more than a few desperately trying to keep their polished toes from the moist brown dirt of the well kept garden. The ambassador, a short plump man who had made it rich in exploiting the resources of Hispaniola, eyed them over a cup of tea, a habit he had picked up from his British counterpart.

"Buenos días, señores. Welcome to my home."

"Good morning indeed!" Carranza replied as he doffed his hat for a moment. The rest quickly followed suit. "I am terribly sorry to interrupt, but we wished to speak with you about the situation to the north. The rebels are already causing damage to a number of our investments!"

The Ambassador raised a hand to prevent the murmur of agreement that was about to swell into more shouting. People often mistook his small size and portly frame for someone of low intelligence. That was doing him a disservice. By enjoying the position he held, and the access it gave him to Trujillo, he had built a considerable business empire of his own. He was a man to be feared and admired.

"Gentlemen, I have already contacted the President General and he assures me help is on the way. We cannot let these uncivilized Jingoistic rebels undo everything we have done." He finished his tea and looked down at a sheet of paper that was being held in place by his tea plate. Nearby, one of the businessmen cursed under his breath as a parrot shit on his shoulder. "I believe a Naval task-force has been dispatched, including a seaplane carrier."

"You mean to support Trujillo then?" Demanded the shit stained man.

"Yes, as long as it suits our interests. I have already spoken with my Spanish counterpart and he assures me that Spain will not allow its interests to be threatened here either. They are in no position to project power into the Caribbean, but they have promised considerable funds to us in order to assist with our own efforts."

A collective sigh of relief went through the group.

"What next then?"

"What next? My dear sir, have you not heard the horrible things the Rebels are doing? It's truly terrible. Rape! murder! Torture! Daily executions of men they capture!" The ambassador placed one hand daintily on his chubby chest as he spoke and adopted a look of pure sadness. He leaned forward. "I even heard they have been eating the hearts of some captives to absorb their strength!"

Gasps of horror went through the assembly and a few paled. Carranza gripped his cane fiercely and held it like it might be some sort of weapon. "We shall vote some funds at once to raise and arm local militias here in the city and surrounding countryside. Come gentlemen!"

Like a heard of ducklings following their mother, they hurried back out of the embassy. The ambassador watched them go and couldn't help but smile slightly. He was certain there were some actual war crimes being committed out by the rebels, but likely none as terrible as those he had invented and would broadcast to the world that afternoon.

@Abefroeman

"General de Peralta!" The radio man yelled from his covered dugout. He frantically beckoned his commander over as he switched the broadcast from the headset to the speakers they had requisitioned from a burned out outpost. The look on his face was that of scared kid, but de Peralta placed his hand on his left shoulder to reassure him. "You are doing great solider. Turn up the volume, let all the men hear it, let the world hear the lies of El Presidente Trujillo. There can be no doubt in who we are fighting against." de Peralta stood back up, and listened to the broadcast being transmitted from Santo Domingo that very moment.

A male and female broadcaster duo were speaking very tersely, with a slight tinge of fear in their voices. 'Good and smart. Using a woman will help garner sympathy from the Westerners no doubt. Though the fear... I wonder if that is from what they are reading, or if that fat pig Trujillo has gunmen in the room with them.'

"Proud people of Hispaniola, of the Dominican Republic, rejoice and know that Presidente Trujillo stands with you against these rebel defilers. Take faith and comfort in knowing your loyal soldiers and marines are here to protect you. The Government has always had your best interest at heart. We have cared for you through the storms of both nature and man, and here we still stand with you." The man had spoken first, a strong and proud voice, before inviting the woman to speak.

"Your proud soldiers and marines fight in the North against the rebels, a pack of wild dogs without a master. Our sons, fathers, brothers, uncles, our proud men of the uniform can not fight without your support, as without us, they have but naught to fight for. Our soldiers, sworn by duty and oath to our Presidente, fight against barbaric monsters who seek to enslave our proud and free people. It is with a heavy heart that I must report to you these harrowing reports from the front, with permission from the military and Presidente Trujillo himself, to show you who we are fighting against."

One of the other radio operators called de Peralta over, having him listen in to a military channel they had tapped into via the outpost's telephone wires. "Yes, your orders are to seal off the ports and airfields. Presidente Trujillo's orders. No one is to leave the country. He and his commanders have issued strict travel orders as well, the people are to stay at their places of residence when not at work. Just get it done, General Garza already sacked two colonels who questioned the orders."

de Peralta shook his head in disgust, before listening back in to the propaganda broadcasts. He even agreed with his enemy on some level, using the civilians as shields against his invasion, and ensuring that no one could flee from the conflict. All about control with Trujillo, a man gone mad with power and his iron grip upon the people.

"It's truly terrible. Rape! Murder! Torture! Daily executions of loyal soldiers they capture! There have even been isolated reports that they are eating the hearts of captives to absorb their strength! People of Hispaniola, we can not let these devil worshipers into our midst. Together as one nation, we must fight against them, and repel them back into the sea." The woman finished speaking, even sounding as though she had been crying as she turned the broadcast back over to the man.

"And yet, sadly, there are some among our great people who do not march with us. Their voices raised in dissent and opposition. Rebel sympathizers and traitors! Soft minds that take the words of the Rebels for truth! Policía de Hierro are our guiding shepherds, these brave and noble men who seek out those who bear the seeds of rebellion in their hearts and question the way of Presidente Trujillo. To those of rebel sympathy, and to those who harbor sympathizers, hear this: Would you have us embrace the very monsters that seek to enslave us? Would you make us lay down our rifles and surrender our armor, stark naked before a force that wishes only death for us? Peace is something we all desire, none greater than Presidente Trujillo, but the rebels would make it the peace of the grave! Shattering our nation's spirit and burning us to ashes, our wives and daughters enslaved, our sons and fathers entombed! Beware the puppets amongst us, sons and daughters of Hispaniola! Know them, and spite them! Give them no succor or shelter! If any one of you doubts the fidelity of another, be it neighbor, brother, parent, or child, speak! It is the sworn duty of the Policía de Hierro to isolate and re-educate these misguided souls. To bring them back to our fold. Expunge their weakness for the greater good!" The man spoke in a fiery tone, as though he were giving a religious sermon rather than reading the news. He had finished, saying something to the effect of 'My apologies...'

The woman spoke up again, the sound of tears almost in her eyes personified into her voice. "I understand why people won't forget their pain, the loved ones we've lost, the countless innocents slaughtered by the rebels. We must never forget that these rebels are the same snakes driven from our great lands nearly thirty years ago. We must never forget. These men are no longer our friends, family, they are no longer our people. They make their pithy, mewling claims of liberty and righteousness, and all the while, they look upon the face of our brave and noble soldiers with loathing and disgust. The enemy sees your soldiers as prey, livestock fit only for killing. To the foe we are less than human, but they will learn their mistake, my people. We do not suffer the fox and the snake who threaten our chickens, nor shall we suffer the rebels who eat the hearts of men."

The broadcast ended there, outside of some updates on commodities being rationed, the power grid needing to be conserved, and the other litany of governmental control over its people.



General Corso was helping to oversee the distribution of captured arms and munitions to locals that had been flocking to their cause. Already, he had seen some two thousand men alone come over to them, and their stories had been a variation of the same tale. 'Presidente Trujillo was a brutal dictator, having sold his own people out to foreign capitalist investors, with his cadre of secret police meting out beatings, imprisonments, and executions to any who did not subjugate themselves to his regime.' They knew support for them would be greatest in the North and the South-West, but even this had not been expected. There was even the two battalions that had defected to the rebel cause. The Major and Lieutenant-Colonel of their respective battalions held no love for Trujillo, both of whom had lost family members to the Policía de Hierro roundups throughout the years. They had spoke to General Corso about the conditions of the army, with those closer to the capital receiving preferential treatment, better supplies, gear, food, pay, while those in countryside appeared to be an inconvenient after thought.

Together with the incoming local militias, and the defectors, General Corso was planning to push South over the Cordillera Central and seize control of San Juan de la Maguana and its vital airfield. With the jungles for cover, and now local knowledge of the terrain, the plan was in motion to be carried out in less than twelve hours. General de Peralta had given his blessing, and would continue the fight East, San Francisco de Macoris and Concepcion de la Vega needed to fall to ensure full control of the Northern sector. He had his own fight to trudge through, and now it was General Corso's turn to bring glory to the Guarda Coasta.

(I’m posting this extremely unfinished post here just to force myself to write the rest sooner. I’m not bothering to space it out yet. Pretend this isn’t here)

Remgrad, City of the World Revolution

Things hadn’t aged here since the Great War. Their Aerowagon looked like something from the past and future had been fused together and hurled back in time - the product of insular thought and necessity, it had the appearance of a princely Victorian carriage, with rear, spoked wheels bigger than a man, and smaller front wheels like that of a bicycle. An aircraft engine powered a large rear-mounted propeller used for on-rail, high-speed propulsion. Louverture watched the blur of buildings pass by the windows as the Aerowagon sped over the tracks. The old dwellings became more deteriorated the closer they got to the outskirts of the city, where heavy bombardment rendered every construction an aging ruin. It felt like he had boarded a time-traveling machine to when the fires of Revolution raged most fiercely. First there had been buildings weathered by time but otherwise intact, with asymmetrical additions and repairs that clung to the old Tsarist structures like time-warped growths, rising vertically and outward one on top of the other, utilizing every bit of space available to the revolutionary inhabitants of this place lost in time. That was the present. Then came the crumbling remains of edifices long-ago destroyed by artillery barrages, slumped against one another and riddled with the markings of slaughter. This no-man’s-land was a glimpse of thirty years prior, in stasis, both destroyed and preserved by the war. Here the ruins were prowled by Communists and Queensmen shooting at one another from behind the rubble in sporadic skirmishes fought endlessly through a fog-of-war so thick it obscured everything physical and not. Louverture knew of men who fought here every day having long-forgotten why, their minds twisted and fixed only on the need to kill; the buildings were like desiccated trees too stubborn to die, and those who prowled the concrete jungle like man-hunters, lying in wait behind the ruins for men-prey to cross their rifle scopes. This was where the present and the past clashed without a future in sight.

Louverture hoped the men he led would turn out different. That the war would not sway them to their baser instincts and that they would instead carry on with grace and a good purpose. He had christened himself and them with the names of good men, of liberators, and men of moral character. He travelled with a John Brown and Shields Green; with Nat Turner and Robert Shaw; Rainsford Jayhawker, Douglass and Quaker Comet among them too. The Russians had done the same with theirs. Every man and woman here had rid themselves of their old name and taken up a new one in a ceremony awash with the color red. There were Revmiras, Ideyas, and Engelsinas here; Marlens, Barrikads, and Vilenors named that way after fallen revolutionaries, theorists, and simple concepts. As far as Louverture could tell, these were the names of people and things smashed together to create something new that was neither Christian nor Tsarist; it was a complete renouncement of the old Russian tradition. Something built on the ruins of the past, like all things in Remgrad.

Mexico City, Distrito Federal
July, 1955

The morning commute for these employees was just as routine as any other. A bus stopped at its station halfway down the street, outside of the wrought-iron fencing reinforced with brick columns that secured an imposing compound of office buildings. The employees, like most other government men, marched towards the entrance of the gates dressed in drab suits of black, grey, and blue while carrying leather briefcases. They queued on the sidewalk as guards checked their paperwork and badges, another traffic jam in a day full of them. Simple entrance signs next to the guardhouses of the bored policemen displayed the names of their workplace: the Departamento de Investigación Politica y Social.

The DIPS was born from security concerns following the revolution, being descended from Venustiano Carranza’s Sección Primera. Throughout years of name changes and reorganizations, the Sección Primera provided an organized intelligence service to hunt down lingering revolutionaries and insider government threats that showed themselves after the conclusion of Adolfo de la Huerta’s failed 1923 uprising. As the world regained its footing and international relations became a central focus of Mexican government policy, the mission of DIPS expanded to handle the onslaught of challenges. Responses to American border incursions, spy missions in the glitzy embassies of Havana, and rooting out Brazilian economic espionage all became daily activities in the DIPS’s foreign branch.

It was on the fourth floor of the foreign branch’s headquarters where a young man sat some time later in the morning, sullen faced, hands clasped in his lap. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down at his half-shined shoes. The sound of typewriters clacking away in the open-aired office in front of him wasn’t enough to drown out the thoughts that swirled around in his brain. His mind, albeit scrambled, formed one coherent message again and again that poked and prodded at his psyche: I fucked up. I really fucked up.

He hated waiting, but this was worse. He had just been bailed out of a Mexico City prison on Saturday night by his supervisor and was called in to report to Arturo Urbano himself, the director of the DIPS Foreign Service. The agent tried to steady himself but still jumped when Director Urbano emerged from the wooden door. “Valdés, Enrique,” Urbano called out sternly, eyeing the young man’s name on an index card. Agent Valdés jumped to his feet, standing straight up to the director. “Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Get your ass in here,” the director barked, stepping back through the door.

Valdés moved quickly, shaking as he stepped inside the office. Urbano had already returned to his massive upholstered chair behind the oak wood desk, staring intently at a printed out record atop a brown personnel file. The door shut, blocking out the typewriters and conversations in the office behind it. Only a ticking clock broke the silence.

“Agent Valdés, what project are you working on?” Urbano asked, eyes never looking up to the anxiety-riddled man in his office.

“The, uh, Jamaica analysis, sir,” stammered Valdés. “Local political factions that would be friendly to us there.”

“I don’t really care about the specifics,” Director Urbano said, putting the paper down. He stared at Valdés from behind a thick mustache. “Did something outstanding happen that I didn’t know about?”

“What, sir?” asked the young agent.

“Outstanding, you know. Cause for celebration. Because it sure looks like you were celebrating,” chastised the director. Before Valdés could respond, he went down the rap sheet in front of him. “Drunk in public, fighting a motherfucker, punching a goddamn cop, and trying to make a getaway in your automobile despite being drunker than a vagrant on the street. And this isn’t the first time this has happened. Your supervisor wants you off the team, and he kicked you all the way up to me. You’re in a shitload of trouble, kid.”

Urbano stood up from the desk, walking around it while still glaring menacingly at Valdés. He opened up a small humidor that sat beside a wooden bookshelf and took a cigar from its top shelf. A small yellow and green Cohiba label wrapped around the thickly rolled tobacco leaves. The director paused to light it, puffing smoke out into the room. Whatever he was doing, if it was a deliberate intimidation tactic or not, Valdés felt like it worked. He had removed his shirt jacket and was now directly in front of the young agent with his hands on his hips, puffing on the cigar.

“I should fire you and let you go get a shit job with the tax office,” he said, shaking his head. “You know how much of a pain in the ass people like you cause me?”

“No, I-”, stuttered the young man, trying his best to stay straight as the director leaned his face forward into his. Despite being shorter in stature, Urbano seemed like he could just as easily snap Valdés’s neck as sign a memo ordering his employment terminated.

“I wasn’t asking,” Urbano cut him off. He looked out towards the city street. Just a few blocks away was the famous Paseo de la Reforma with its fancily-embellished banks, high rises, and offices. He turned back to Valdés: “But you have one saving grace in this department, and that’s purely because God must love you or something.”

Urbano went back to his desk, withdrawing another, thicker folder from a filing cabinet adjacent to his humidor. Like most other documents in the DIPS office, it bore a red “SECRETO” classification stamp. He tossed it onto the desk in front of Valdés where it landed with a heavy thud.

“There were some developments at our Cuban embassy last week, a bunch of ragtag guys have decided that they wanted to take a stab at the Dominicans and Haitians… they call themselves the Guarda Costa of Hispaniola. Whatever the hell that means: I haven’t seen that word in print since my old history textbooks. Here’s everything we know about them. You’re the new project lead.”

Valdés was speechless. His fear turned to confusion, expressed in his face while he restrained his body to keep standing up. Urbano blew a puff of smoke at the agent. “You have questions?” he asked sardonically.

“I, uh, where is the workplace?” was all Valdés could say.

“Your workspace?” snorted Director Urbano. “It’s down in the basement, next to the boiler room. You have a crew of five. All of them are kind of fuckups like you. You’ll get along great. I’ll send you off that way with the deputy to give you your specific orders later. You’re dismissed.”

Valdés hesitated, the urge to click his heels together and salute washing over him. He had spent two years in the service like most men and had been in trouble many times as a young eighteen-year-old. DIPS, however, was nominally civilian even if most of the staff were former military men: there was no rigid procedure like he had to perform in uniform. But he simply nodded, grabbing the folder in front of him and turning for the door. Director Urbano called out his name as he pushed open the heavy door separating the office from the working floor.

“Valdés,” he said. “Just don’t fuck this one up.”

July 7th, 1955

Our country of Turkey has long suffered injustice. Indeed it had done so from its very inception, where Imperialist invaders occupied its rightful lands. The international stage as some called it scoffed at the Turkish people, they decried their efforts to be free from terrorism that the Arabs and Kurds so viciously insisted upon. But the Turks persevered. Turkish resolve pushed out the traitors, the villains South. It pushed them North, it pushed them East and West and every way away from Turkey. Many times a foreign coward has tried - and failed pathetically - to return these wrongs inflicted upon our brave people. Not once have these horrible people succeeded.

But our work is not done. Though within the Republic of Turkey our people enjoy unprecedented rights, freedoms, a cultural renaissance, luxuries, and a respect for our way of life, many of our kinsmen abroad cannot enjoy such wonders. Within the Caucasus, even now our fellow Turks of Azerbaijan, Azeris, Azerbaijanis, they are oppressed. The tyrants of the self proclaimed Transcaucasian Republic stifle their culture, their development, their faith. They demand their efforts for conflicts they have no interest in, they aim to remove the soul of our dear brothers and sisters for their childish cause. We cannot let this stand.

As of today, I, your Prime Minister, demand of the Transcaucasus that they issue a free and fair referendum for Azerbaijan to willingly join the Turkish Republic as an autonomous Republic. Should the self-determination of Azerbaijan’s people be resisted, then our nation will be forced to take drastic steps. Thank you.

The recording was distributed across the nation by television and radio, and a very similar letter was sent to the relevant embassies and couriers some time before. It was truly a throw of the coin on whether or not the Transcaucasians would accept the offer of a free referendum, and though he did not doubt the results of it he doubted the good faith in their presentation. They would of course be intelligent enough to not falsify the vote to a truly obscene level. But he knew there were other ways to suppress the will of the people. Perhaps men from the rest of the Caucasus would be bussed in to vote in a land they had never lived in. Perhaps they would create a protocol to apply for the vote by which they would cut out much of the relevant voters. But if lazy they could quite simply adjust the percentage for a narrow victory in their favour.

There were contingencies in place for just this. Mountaineers, artillery, and motorized infantry had all been discretely mobilized in the Turkish East to ensure that if the Transcaucasian government failed to do so, the Turkish government would ensure the destiny of Azerbaijan would come to life. At the same time, infantry and mechanized divisions had been prepared in the South for a counter-attack in the event of opportunism from the Kurds and Arabs. Avnicoglu truly did not want war. It was bad for everyone involved, but it was better than letting injustice reign. Drumming his fingers on his desk he relaxed, asking his secretary for tea and the newspaper. One of those which he didn’t control the headlines for if possible. Perhaps he’d go for a walk with the children after lunch! Then of course, he'd have to sit with the generals to hear of the preparations for the smaller, more isolated conflict that would be made to control an actual land border with Azerbaijan should it be allowed to reunify but said route was not given. After all, enclaves and exclaves were so messy on the map; they just wouldn't do.

Tblisi, Georgia, Transcaucasia

July 8th, 1955

---

While the exterior of the parliament proudly proclaimed the iron willpower of Georgia's testament to time, the round table the premiers sat around only told the tale of some most desperate souls. The interior was musky, dripping an oozing haze of mist and lint caked from the morning sun. Their impromptu council room had flooded itself with village elders, generals, lieutenants, adventurers, and any and all who cared to pack themselves into this rancorous meeting of minds.

"If they want their damned precious Turks so much, I say they can have them! And if they aren't happy with that, i'll enjoy watching those Turks try to march a Renault across the Javakhk Range."

Ah, young Vazha. The Georgian incessantly boasted with impressive proclivity upon himself, leaning well along the more aggressive side, from the tiniest stern glance in basic small talk to the bombastic exchanges in the high courthouse. And here, in the early hours of the morning, he unyielded his verbal incendiaries. He had a temper, no doubt, but that same fiery temperament lent him a certain popularity. Blyukher cracked a faint smile, a bit remnisicent of that same tempering of temper fading as he had been through some four decades of war. From his etched, creased face easily slid an approving grin, a reminiscence of the fire he felt fade through the years.

"What are you suggesting?!"

"It's simple! If that minister is so concerned with Turks living in Turkey, well, we here in the Caucasus have plenty of horses to ensure they may all reach the border safely..."

All the Armenians - save Petrosyan - chortled in turn, peppered with acrimonious applause. She, on the other hand, mulled about in an awkward smile, its ilk given only for conflicted and uncomfortable disagreements. Most among them would never be so arrogant as to say they could march on Ankara, but a scrap with the Turks? One of the few things that seemingly kept the realm together, and at that, a chance few would pass up.

"We should wait to see what the foreign powers have to say." Viyan protested, "Terrain and the people may be on our side...but it's not too late to find more...amiable solution."

"And just who do you think will stick their necks out for us?"

Viyan flashed a warm smile.

"'If God is with us, then who is against us?'"



"Do you actually expect this to work?" a junior officer voiced, the doubt in his face dropping from his wary frown.

"If it does, all well and good." She confidently responded, "And if not...it will buy us some time."

"Time we're wasting..." Vazha hushed beneath his ruffian mustache. If the Turks wanted a fight, Vazha and many others would gladly oblige. Their Chechen friends ran the last time they had fought, and their bigger brothers might not prove much different; Apples never fall far from the tree, after all.

But thankfully, Petrosyan had the sense between them to prepare.

And work it did.

Starosta was shocked, frankly, at the speed at which the General Assembly had convened and reached a decision on an official stance regarding the Turkish threats - pleasantly surprised, but surprised, nonetheless. There had been plenty of shouting, of course, as there usually was, but the shouting, for once, was mostly all directed at the Turkish government, or regarding various degrees of Republic involvement in a theoretical war with Turkey.

She, it was decided, would be the one to deliver the telegram alongside her air, as there was scarcely little time to waste finding someone whose job it was to courier the thing.

Thankfully, that only involved a breakneck sprint across the building, throwing open the door to the building's telegraph center without a second thought. Starosta slammed a sheaf of papers down on the operator's desk, jabbing at the topmost sheet with her finger.

"You've got a busy day ahead of you, comrade. Take this down Now."

Havana, Cuba
August, 1955

Whether by necessity of the mission or the sheer fact that the DIPS headquarters wanted to get rid of him, Enrique Valdés found himself and his crew on an Aeroméxico charter flight straight to the palm-lined avenues of Havana. Valdés could hardly wait; it was a far sight better than the basement office that he had been confined to for the past month. He had heard rumors of the Mexican government’s activities in Havana, but the office had always restricted transfers to the most talented or secretive operatives. More important than that, the clubs and nightlife of the city were world renowned for their glamor.

The plane touched down on the runway with a thud and taxied towards the terminal of the international airport, its facilities and concourses far beyond even Mexico City’s terminal. As a hub of often competing factions, Cuba proved to be a conveniently placed neutral ground for transit and business both legal and illegal. The Cuban authorities raked in cash from all sides of the regional powers, and it showed. Modern architectural design boldly defined the international features of José Martí International Airport. Over the intercom, the pilot announced that they were pulling into the terminal and thanked them for flying Aeroméxico. A stewardess patrolled the aisles with an ashtray, allowing the passengers to stub out their cigarettes before disembarking.

Valdés’s sunglasses shielded him from the worst of the sunlight as he emerged from the cabin door to descend the staircase that had been rolled up to the vibrantly bright-orange fuselage of Mexico’s premier airliner. He felt the humidity of the Cuban summer immediately wash over him. Clutching a pair of suitcases, he stepped onto the hot tarmac of the airport and scanned around the crowd of waiting people for his contact. The DIPS office had given him only a name: Carlos Rubio. Valdés knew better to ask around in the crowd, instead deciding to wait until someone called for him.

“Enrique!” came a cheery voice from his side. “Hey man, I’m over here.”

Valdés turned his head to see an eccentrically man with one hand in his pocket and the other waving him over. Dressed in Bermuda shorts with a rolled-up button down shirt and sunglasses atop a mess of curly hair, Carlos looked more like a tourist than a diplomat. The two DIPS agents met and exchanged a firm handshake. “I can always tell,” Carlos deadpanned. “You new guys always look like you’ve got a business meeting to remove the stick out of your asses. Did Urbano inspect you before you came out here?”

“What? Are you Sen͂or Rubio?” stammered Valdés, cocking his head to the side.

“You can just call me Carlos. And I’m just gonna call you Enrique. I don’t like last names, neither do most of the boys in the office here,” Carlos said with a chuckle, patting Enrique’s shoulder. His hand returned to his pocket after each exchange, almost like they lived there when not doing anything else. He looked down to the brown suitcases that the newcomer had just set down on the ground. “I can get someone to take care of that.”

He whistled for an attendant waiting with a baggage cart who ran over and stood smartly before the man. Carlos said the name of a hotel into the boy’s ear and placed a small bill into his waiting hand. The attendant grinned, waved to his friend, and both rushed forward to take Enrique’s suitcases. They scurried off to the cart, tossing them roughly into the back before walking off towards the airport terminal. Carlos looked at the perplexed Enrique: “Don’t worry,” he assured him, “the boys don’t steal your shit. They get beat by their manager if they do. Let’s go get some drinks.”

Carlos took Enrique inside, up through a staircase that led them to the terminal proper. Havana’s airport was massive, with spokes going in every direction leading to various countries’ national airlines. Pan Am flights left daily to Miami and the Southern states, Panair do Brasil flew to Rio de Janeiro, and a lavishly decorated gate to the British Overseas Airways Corporation led to their famed transatlantic flight services. Enrique looked at the sign for BOAC with a pang of morbid curiosity: part of their coordinated war plans involved capturing their pilots and aircraft with the express purpose of handing them British officials for a one-way trip back to the United Kingdom. A political act of merciful deportation to curry diplomatic favor and generate its reputation as a “good war.”

He ignored a uniformed British pilot chomping on a cigar with a cavalier swagger as he tried to flirt with a Cuban stewardess. Enrique wondered if he would be facing a Mexican paratrooper’s gun barrel in the next few weeks. Carlos led Enrique past the main concourse’s huge center stage where they apparently put on shows and musical performances during high-travel periods. It was empty now, with huge speakers playing an upbeat dance number much to the delight of a drunk passenger who stumbled around in front of the stage pretending to salsa dance with an invisible partner.

Outside the grand windows of the airport, the view of the tarmac and the airplanes parked along it contributed further to the grandeur of the airport. Enrique even caught a glimpse of the dirigibles moored along towers in a field past the runway: Cuba had bought several German zeppelins and had made a lot of money setting up Caribbean tour lines by air. Rich Mexicans and Americans alike would book leisure cruises on these airborne hotels, enjoying fine dining and entertainment with a view few things could match.

Their detour around the stage led them around to a large bar situated on a ledge overlooking the center stage. Carlos ushered Enrique inside, finding them a booth next to the window in the back. Carlos invited Enrique to sit down, carefully hiding an examination of the bar’s patrons. He’d been here before, and some of the other customers certainly had too. While Carlos never tacitly acknowledged it, he knew many of the people here. They knew him as well.

The window looked over a small garden separating the automobile loop by the main entrance. Tropical plants arranged pleasantly presented a welcoming view to frame the entrance of Cuba’s premier port of travel. A new parking lot had been built for the increasing number of private Cuban cars, many of which were owned by wealthier Havana residents in professional industries. Beyond that, the sprawling colonial architecture of the city was seen in the distance: José Martí had been built on old plantation land and was still in a rural part of the country just outside of the Havana city limits.

“So, Enrique,” said Carlos as he finally sat down and waved at the bartender. The balding Cuban man standing by the taps motioned for a waitress to approach the table. “How long are you gonna be here?” he asked.

“Hopefully not more than a few months,” the new employee replied. The waitress arrived at the table, leaning up against the table in a tight dress that left little to the imagination. Carlos obviously was enjoying the scene as Enrique uncomfortably tried to order a drink, his awkwardness twisting his words: “Yeah, hi, uh… shit, I’ll just have whatever… yeah, what my colleague wants.”

Carlos chuckled, cocking his head towards the waitress. “What’s your name, baby?” he said with an attempt at charm.

The waitress smiled and played the game, stepping back from the table and putting her hands on her hips. “Vera,” she replied. “Now it looks like you’ll be ordering for two. What are you thinking?”

“Tell you what,” Carlos said, looking back at Enrique. “My associate hasn’t had much of the stuff before so I think I’ll treat him to some of that bourbon you have here.”

Vera agreed and told Enrique that Carlos had made an excellent choice. She left back to the bar. “I thought you were some kind of party animal,” Carlos chuckled. “Getting all square about it now? You should be killing it with the ladies.”

“Yeah,” Enrique said, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. “I guess not at work though. It caught me off guard. They have bourbon here? It’s hard to find back home.”

“Of course!” exclaimed Carlos as Vera returned carrying a platter with a pair of snifters and a bottle balancing atop it. She placed the glasses down with a sharp clink and poured from the white-labeled bottle. The name “Jim Beam” topped stamp with the letter B on its label, a banner boldly describing it as “Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey” in English. Enrique watched her pour a heavy amount of the whiskey before smiling again at Carlos. “Let me know if you need anything else, hon,” she said with a wink.

Enrique swirled the copper-colored liquor in his glass as Carlos raised his glass for a toast. The pair clinked together and both took a sip. It was good: Enrique was never a fan of the whiskies in Mexico, but something about the bourbon lit a fire in his chest. “Huh,” he said. “Shame we don’t have this in Mexico.”

“I know, right?” Carlos agreed as he took another drink. “I keep taking jobs here so I can enjoy the fine liquors of the world.”

Enrique laughed, sniffing the wide-brimmed brandy glass and enjoying the new smells of American whiskey. He was thinking about the bottles that he might need to stuff in his suitcase for the plane ride home. After all the fighting kicked off, he had no idea if he would be seeing this again.

“So the building you’re working in is real nice,” said Carlos as he changed the subject back to work. “It’s an old hotel a few blocks away from the embassy where your main staff are. Pretty far away from the flagpole, the environment is easygoing enough that the regional director won’t get too stupid on you.”

“That’s a relief. I need some time away from the stuffy assholes in charge.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows in agreement, looking out the window as a plane thrummed it way off the runway and gracefully raised into the air. It banked towards the coast, sunlight glinting off the blue and grey paint scheme that Pan Am was famous for.

“Another benefit, you’re close to these Dominicans that are holed up in Havana,” added the agent. “I couldn’t believe the balls on them, they just walked into the embassy and said they’re setting up their own country over there. Good for them. Got some drive.”

“Have they been talked about around town?” Enrique said, looking over his shoulder. He could sense the eyes on him: he turned around to see a handsome forty-something American man with a square jaw and a close-cropped haircut wearing a pearly white suit chatting with a friend in a booth on the other side of the bar. He had looked away by the time Enrique noticed, but Carlos had been keeping his own eyes on him.

“I wouldn’t worry about that guy,” reassured the veteran agent. “I think his name is Bill or something. American OSS, obviously. Very obvious, they just send the movie stars in white suits down to send a message. He clearly doesn’t want to know what we’re talking about, just tell us that the gringos are always watching. I see him around from time to time. I don’t even think he speaks Spanish.”

“Plus these guys already know your friends are in town. Didn’t exactly keep it secret when they arrived, asking every swinging dick on the street for directions to the embassy. Half these people are.”

Carlos nodded to Vera, who was serving the American another beer. The bottle appeared to be the stout brown bottle signature to the Modelo brand. Either the man liked Mexican pilsners or, more likely, he was signaling to the Mexicans. “She’s definitely collecting. But I like to ‘collect’ on her, if you know what I mean. Great ass, for a Cuban.”

Enrique shrugged. He couldn’t tell the difference, or least didn’t have the experience yet. Pretty girls were all the same to him.

“I figure the, uh, Gua-,” Enrique began, but Carlos cut him off.

“We have a phrase for them. Unidad is the project name, seeing as that’s what they want to do to that ‘Hispaniola’ of theirs. We generally want to obfuscate their identities and specifics, even if the actual group isn’t that secret. They’re fighting a vicious war, for fuck’s sake.”

In the corner, Bill quietly finished his beer and paid with a stack of Cuban pesos underneath the empty bottle. Without a word to Vera, the bartender, or the DIPS agents in the other booth, him and his partner both stood up to leave. They carried suitcases along with them to fool the average airport employee into thinking they were passengers, but the way they effortlessly jerked the cases off the floor indicated that they were empty. “Looks like the OSS is done here. And so are we,” Carlos said. He swirled the last of his bourbon in the glass and downed it before withdrawing his wallet from below the table.

“Vera!” he called out, catching the attention of the waitress who now only had them left to serve. “How much do I owe you?”

Vera sauntered over, looking down at the two men with her hands on her hips. “Well, for the two glasses of the American stuff? Three pesos.”

“Three pesos?” inquired Carlos, flipping out bills and flashing a thick wallet to her. He counted off three from his stack, looked at her, then counted off a few more. “How about if I give you nine, I’ll throw in the address of my hotel for free?”

Vera raised her eyebrow, her expression turning from playful flirtation to disgust. “How about you tip me an extra peso for my service, pig. That might convince me not to throw you out.”

Carlos walked back the money and put four pesos down on the table. Vera snatched it up angrily, fuming off towards the bar. The agent looked back to Enrique, untroubled, and shrugged: “Always worth a shot with these broads. Now how about we get a cab and I show you where you’re staying for the next while?”

A collaboration with @Jeddaven

Krakov, PUL

July 1955

---

With the flat end of his long cane’s handle, Blaskowitz gently pushed the model pieces along the gentle greens of the strategic map. The barely centimeters tall figurines would pale even in comparison to the height of a Zloty’s coinage, but when compared to the other markers which littered the map that was the West Ukrainian Front, the miniature tanks appropriately towered over their diminutive counterparts. Their coordinated transition elegantly slided alongside the browned outlines of the road to Korosten, at which their gliding slide gently stopped with a *clink*, stopping at the outline of an infantry token.

“An armored assault, northwest of Korosten due southeast, will be necessary if we are to make more substantial progress in Ukraine.” the old general announced, retrieving his cane with a hint of wariness to it. His greyed hairs gently escaped from his general’s cap, slowly brustling in the wind while he exhaled in tire. Johannes had long held his position - tenured from the bygone days of Toller’s administration - and had been tested from the training fields of Pomerania to the rugged mountains within China’s vast interior.

“I expect the Ukrainian National Army to be well-entrenched in the positions due central-west. It is best that we maneuver quickly.” he added.

Kompaniyets - Johannes’s grizzled Ukranian counterpart - nodded slowly, massaging his halfway bedraggled black beard. A notoriously practical (or perhaps lazy) man, he had little patience for maintaining his appearance beyond when it got in his way, but his decades of experience leading PUL tank divisions earned him a place at the table. To his right stood Representative Starosta, and to his left, a much younger man, clad in the dark blues of the PUL's Air Force.

“Our reconnaissance reports agree.” The old general nodded, lifting his moustache with a frustrated exhale. The young man nodded.

“I’m worried that they will try to destroy the rail hubs in the city. We will need to move at lightning-place if we want to stop them from sabotaging the rail lines. If everything remains on schedule, my tanks can start moving within... Three days, at worst.” He explained, glancing sidelong at the younger man - Szymon Nowacki, one of the youngest generals in the PUL military, and a major motivator behind the recent push towards a massive expansion of air power. “We don’t have time for a siege, either. Ideally, their fortifications are pounded to dust before we reach them.”

The old general frowned, lightly narrowing his eyes - a signature gesture of him in his advanced age as means to show that he politely indicated disagreement.

“I doubt they would try to destroy the railway lines within the city proper.” Blaskowitz dissented, shaking his head, “Without sufficient anti-armor, I believe it is more likely that they will use the railways to mount a retreat and regroup their forces along the Dnieper. To demolish them prior to such would pose them with a severe loss in mobility.”

“Regardless...yes, we do need to act quickly upon this. And I believe the longer we delineate on this, the more extensive their fortifications will inevitably be.” Johannes nodded along at last, slowly retracting his steps from the map as he paced about the war room. Light steps, one after the other, contrasted with the usual sonorous clomps of each cane clutch which reported throughout the hardwood.

With a heavy sigh, the greying general reclined into the most graciously provided chair alongside the opposite table. He slowly removed his cap, holding the peaked little artifact in his hands, staring at it with an almost nostalgic onset. The greying cap had long since wore off its once novel, bright brown shine, it's hammer and sickle insignia atop now faded and scratched to almost unrecognizable warping, but much like its owner upon which it sat, Johannes cared little for such ostentatious display; Much like how he cared little for petty politicking in military matters. All his checker-colored career, Johannes silently chuckled, wondering if he would be better off as a painter, or a gardener, perhaps, instead of the old Marshal of this so-Revolutionary army that would swear itself the shield of the German nation.

“If you don’t mind my aside…” he began, slowly setting his officer’s cap upon his lap as he looked back up, “You know I am not much of one for politicking. Please, pardon me if I am not as...enthusiastic.”

Starosta, of course, was the first to respond - both Szymon and the old general opened their mouths as if to speak, but they were far too late. Here, she wore her old uniform, a handful of relatively simple medals pinned to her beige uniform. “The people deserve to have a say, even in military matters. We built our new model of armed forces on democracy - unless you mean something else?” She said, halfway accusatory, halfway curious of the old German’s opinion.

Johannes had come well knowing he was to fight - no doubt - and knowing the combatants involved was only the proper course of preparation. And, of course, the old guard of the German Staff knew full well that he would likely butt heads with the Union’s Premier. On a personal scale, he could hardly stand her. Tolerate, yes...and little beyond. To Johannes, democracy had its due place, of course, yet there was little point in prioritizing democracy over decision. And, likewise, there was not much worse to do than to argue over such things in a time and place such as this.

“This is my advice, Ms. Starosta. It is my comments on the matter, nothing more. We have come here to discuss the affairs - all of them - in Ukraine, and with all due respect, I have come to voice them with my guidance. If you have concerns, I expect you to voice them, as much as I believe all of us here should voice our thoughts and opinions.”

Blaskowitz hated this: This bantering, this bickering. He silently thanked God that his retirement was only two weeks away.

“All *I’m* here to do is make sure that the interests of the PUL’s workers are represented here.” Starosta said, reaching up to idly fiddle with the rank pins on her shoulders - colonel. She no longer held the position, of course, but she insisted on wearing her old uniform, nonetheless. “However, if you want my opinion, then I’m concerned about the city’s minority populations. Jews, in particular - the city has a relatively large proportion of Jews, and I’m concerned that they will be targeted as we approach the city.”

“Then if we work swiftly,” he flatly retorted, “we will not give them an opportunity to do so.” Johannes was no fan of such deliberations, focusing right back upon the map with an uncharacteristically swift stance.

“If we are all in agreement about the haste of this operation...then I assume we will consider this session adjourned?”

Starosta glanced to her left, and the old general nodded at his German counterpart. “We are. Good luck, comrade - and try not to die.”

Johannes would ignore her last comment.

---

Korosten Outskirts, Northwest Ukraine

July, 1955

The crew congregated alongside the resting tracks of their steelclad beast, lazing about the moist grass while they kept quiet. Even during rest, the insides of the tank residuated its mechanical warmth, searing within while the engine silently roared and the guns blazed in repose. Its intimately close quarters spared much in the way of comfort, and even the universally shorter statue of its female crew did little to make its metallic constitution any less cold.

Beck - “Noemi Beck, Oberleutnant, 65th Tank Platoon, reporting for duty, sir!”, as she had ingrained so deeply into each one of her brain folds that it became so synonymous a greeting as a simple “hello” - scrunched up portion of the map along its well-creased folds, careful to iron it out with a hand beneath the map as to not even entertain the idea of sullying it further upon the muggy grass beneath. A symphony of scrapes aired over the bristle of the Ukrainian morn, its softness just sonorous enough to break the distant crack of combat in the distance.

Her all-so-trusted counterpart and all-too-faithful radio op, Zyma - “Zofia Zyma, Unteroffizier, 65th Tank Platoon, reporting for duty, sir!”, as she would boldly display given the slightest provocation - leaned impatiently along the tank’s wide wheels while she impertinently tugged along the telecord wires, waiting for the radio signals. The orders were to stay silent and stay put, until contacted by their opposite crew in the volunteer platoon. They all sat about impatiently, unable to do much aside from stare at one another and off into some vague dawnbreak, each in silent prayer that the dead of morning had not given away the bulging camouflage net draped over their tank to a white artillery crew.

”65th Tank Platoon, German, this is the People’s 89th Volunteer Platoon, reporting. We are in position; close air support is a few minutes out.” A voice responded, crackling over the radio. Even then, it sounded terse, even awkward, spoken poorly in slapdash Ukrainian.

The radio operator briefly adjusted the awkwardly-fitted headphones around the muffs of her ears, adjusting the scratchy pieces until that awful digging press unto her lobes was alleviated. Zyma cleared her throat, then pressed down on the signal.

“Understood, 89. Commence our attacks on Hedgeline 23 upon the CAS strike, out.” Zyma clarified. Quickly, she signalled to her compatriots lying about with a silent hand circle, at which the once lazy crewmates sprung to life. In seconds, they were opening up the top hatch, darting in one by one, some still with their ration’s spoons in their mouths whilst they grumbled their way over the massive treads. Zyma lugged the radio wire over her shoulder, waiting for the last of the crew to enter, dragging the heavy rubber-coated cable across the clanking metal giant.

Zyma herself sat atop the tank’s hatch, slowly peering into the misty morning sky…

A faint drone beat in the background. It blurred and howled, screeching into full force in seconds, until an unbearable siren shrieked out any other bird song.

The great bird plunged from the sky, swooping in tow with several others, diving at their unsuspecting prey.

A great wave of heat blasted across Zyma, like blasts from a furnace in a baking basement’s suffocation. She briefly shielded her eyes, yet the immense firestorm’s incendiary pierced her blockage as the insides of her eyes colored themselves yellow. As she returned to, slowly pushing herself forth in her hatch’s seat, the strikes of the eagles blossomed into cinnabar mushrooms while they pierced the village skyline.

Zyma leaned forth tensely. A single finger reached back to her familiar belt button.

“All units, commence assault.”

Mere minutes later, the battle sprung into full sway, embracing itself unto the chaotic rumble in all its savage glory. "Eat lead, świnia!" Anitka hollered, sweeping a pile of spent casings away from her cupola. The brass fell like rain across her Janiczek, a monstrous steel beast that dwarfed most of the other volunteers. Sat atop it, she felt practically invincible even with her upper body exposed. The flattened, rounded wedge of its turret sat upon a body nearly twice the size of the Łowca, an enormous gun protruding from its head, but perhaps its most distinctive feature was its pike-shaped nose at the head of its chassis. Her favorite, however, was the machine gun sitting in front of her. Her thumbs were sore, her knuckles white - but the muffled staccato of the weapon as it kicked in her grip more than made up for a couple of sore thumbs. Cresting the wooded berm ahead, she watched as the tank’s nose collided with a tree - and snapped the trunk beneath its immense weight, Red infantry following closely behind. Immediately, she turned her gaze towards a concrete bunker, and the muzzle of a long-barreled cannon protruding from it.

Before she had the chance to react, however, it opened fire.

Bracing herself against the lip of her cupola Anitka watched as a solid shell bounced against the tank's nose, bouncing away as it rang the beast like a bell, sparks flying as metal clashed. Her ears, too, were consumed by the noise, but the hull held all the same.

For now, at least.

“Ivan! I want a shell through that pillbox, on the double!”

“I see it, I see it! I’m not fucking blind, sergeant!” He laughed. The ponderous turret began to turn, gears clicking and groaning beneath its sheer weight, then came the sound of Ieva slamming the round into the barrel, and the subsequent dull thud of the breech block sliding into place. A deafening boom left her ears ringing, smoke and fire pouring from the muzzle brake in thick gouts. Before she could manage to blink, the shell impacted against the outside of the bunker, exploding in a ball of fire that merely left the concrete scorched - and then, the emplacement went silent.

“Keep it moving, boys and girls!” Anitka shouted, and the tank’s engine roared as it leapt into action, carving a trench through the muddy, upturned soil where it moved. Comrades poured into the Hetman’s trenches, stabbing at the few infantrymen that remained with knives and bayonets, blasting holes through their torsos with shotguns, Janiczek trundling along with them. In the opening act alone, the presence of the mere few planes and men swayed the tide of battle, and perhaps soon with it, the course of Ukraine’s future. The golden fields of Ukraine would soon pour red.

Puebla, Puebla
August, 1955

Captain Lopez felt the all-too-familiar weight of his gear constrict his movement as he awkwardly shuffled forward on the flight line. Loaded down with a large rucksack rigged between his knees, a stiff weapons case on his leg, a bulky parachute on his back and another on his stomach, he walked like a stiff penguin to the open door of the transport aircraft ahead of him. He and 29 other paratroopers each bore a “1” marked in chalk on their parachute bags, which led them to a corresponding aircraft with the same number written on its door. The engines were already roaring, so the jumpmaster physically grabbed everyone’s shoulder and loudly counted off to confirm all personnel were aboard.

Captain Lopez climbed into the fuselage of the plane, turning his head to observe the tarmac as he did so. The other members of his company were loading into four other identical planes, each shuffling orderly in a similar line. Captain Lopez would be the first to jump and First Sergeant Kan, at the end of the fifth chalk, would be the last: a way to ensure accountability of all their soldiers. The officer took his seat as the number-one man by the door, waiting for the rest of his chalk to take their seats. They crammed in on the benches, facing each other in silence as the jumpmaster finished his count and closed the door behind them.

The jumpmaster gave a thumbs up to the man closest to the pilots’ cockpit, who loudly thumped on the cabin door to confirm their presence. Inside the cockpit, the pilots chattered with each other on the radio and then to the Puebla airport traffic control tower. It was time to go. The plane lurched forward as its chock blocks were removed and the engines increased power. It taxied from its loading position onto the long runway, neat and orderly like the paratroopers on the ground. Captain Lopez heard the dull buzz of the propellers get louder and felt the plane rattle and shake: a few seconds later, they had lifted off.

Captain Lopez had thought after the brief that the battalion leadership had given him the prior week. It was going to be Mexico’s biggest and longest ranged airborne operation ever, and perhaps the biggest in history. Puebla was over a thousand kilometers to the drop zones in British Belize: the transport planes would be pushing the endurance of their aircraft with a two-thousand kilometer round trip. The pilots, too, were prepared for a flight of nine hours. Every nonessential component of the aircraft had been removed, from their protective machine guns to armor plating on the wings and fuselage.

The good news was that Britain lacked any sort of air defense capability in Belize. They barely had a regiment in Belize City, underfunded and undermanned and with a poor reputation as a castaway job for mess-ups and incompetent officers. The British maintained a squadron of Great War-era biplanes at the city’s dirt and soil airstrip, rarely utilized for anything more substantial than officers’ leisurely trips to the beach. The Mexican aircraft would have no problems flying through Mexico, then cutting directly across neutral Guatemala undetected. In the meantime, a division of motorized soldiers had staged in Yucatan State to rush down Belize’s main highway as soon as the paratroopers had secured the eastern flank.

He fell asleep to the dull thrum of the propellers, nesting himself within his bulky gear until he felt somewhat comfortable. Four hours without even a bathroom break would pass by better with sleep. Some of his soldiers read, others fiddled with their equipment, and more sat silently as they stared out the window. Lopez thought of his wife as he fell asleep: their goodbye at the gate to Puebla base was short and sweet. Even with the uncertainty of the conflict ahead, they were both sure that he would be back soon enough. The whole campaign was designed to be quick and decisive, to strike before serious resistance could be massed. It was more political than military.

The commander awoke sometime past Villahermosa as his executive officer nudged him. The young lieutenant had been awake the whole time, keeping an eye out for the checkpoints of the flight. Villahermosa was the last major Mexican city with a significant airport for the planes. Any malfunction in flight requiring an emergency landing would require them to turn around and make their way to the town. Otherwise, they had to press forward. The pilots had not reported any issues, so the squadron continued. Thirty minutes later, they had passed the border into Guatemala. Beneath the aircraft, it all looked the same: dense, green jungle.

Guatemala came and went, another quick leg of the trip. As the morning son shone its way through the windows of the cabin, the jumpmaster suddenly hollered from his seat by the door: “Fifteen minutes! Red light!”

The cabin became illuminated by the glow of bright red bulbs with the thud of an electrical circuit completing. All of the paratroopers had it drilled into them to prepare for the jump. They checked their equipment and the equipment of the man across from them, just to make sure that nobody had crossed or twisted straps and loose buckles that could be fatal in a jump. The jumpmaster yelled out the time in increments of five: ten minutes to go, then five minutes. At the three minute mark, he called for the jumpers to stand up.

Lopez was on autopilot, like all of his previous jumps. Stand up, hook up, get checked. The jumpmaster did what he was trained to do, checking all the equipment one last time before returning to the cabin door. He opened it and slid it on its rail to let the wind come rushing through the cabin, knocking Lopez back a step as he braced for its force. The jumpmaster looked down at the drop zone, a large clear farm field that had been cut into the jungle by Belizean plantation owners. He gave one look back and flashed a thumbs up to the soldiers. The red light switched to green, and the paratroopers rushed out of the door.

The commander didn’t think about the fact that he was in the air until the ground came up very fast to meet him. He instinctively braced for the fall, landing onto his legs, hip, and back like he had been trained. It never got easier: it still felt like getting hit with a sack of bricks. As he got up from his landing, he looked up at the sky to see rows of Mexican paratroopers each with parachutes opened heading straight for the ground. Groups of men scrambled to ditch their reserve chutes and open their weapons cases, regrouping in small formations to find their proper squad and platoon leadership.

Lopez found his executive officer nearby, struggling to cut the parachute cords with his knife. They had gotten tangled around his rucksack and were not coming off without a fight. He managed to cut the chute away just as Lopez arrived, rifle in hand, to take a knee. “Lieutenant Muñoz,” he said. “Let’s get oriented. Are we in the right drop zone?”

Lavulo rolled over and jumped up from the ground, reaching for the map case that dangled from a strap around his shoulder. Inside was a map of the drop zone and attack plan with directions of confirmation already written on a piece of paper with it. He took his compass from a pouch on his belt and quickly confirmed where they were. They had already figured out two identifiable mountains that they should have been able to see from the drop zone and gotten the back-azimuths. The numbers on the compass matched what they had calculated during their planning: they were in the right spot.

Lopez’s radioman, a short teenager named Reyes, jogged towards the captain and his lieutenant with the whip of his radio flailing wildly in his step. He took a knee next to the two officers and extended the telephone to his commander. “Sir,” he said breathlessly, “First and second platoons have organized and are ready to go. Third and fourth platoons are still reorganizing.”

“Thanks, Especialista,” Lopez replied. “Let them know we’re in the right drop zone and we’re to move into town when everyone is set. Send reports of injuries to First Sergeant Kan.”

Reyes nodded while Lopez observed the field in front of them. They were a kilometer or two outside of a small town in western Belize by the name of Belmopan. It sat at a critically important intersection between the main highway and a western offshoot and housed a platoon of British troops. Other paratrooper companies were dropping into similar towns to take out their local British units: in keeping with classic military theory, Captain Lopez had four-to-one odds against the defending British. A company was the ideal instrument to use against a platoon in defense. Not that the British appeared to know they were coming; the morning was still.

Eventually, third and fourth platoons reorganized and assessed their statuses. Only a handful of soldiers had been hurt from the jump, mostly broken or sprained legs and ankles. Every jump, especially combat jumps, were predicted to sustain these casualties even before contact with the enemy. They had been collected by the First Sergeant and the company’s detachment of medics, who would treat them at the company command post until they could be evacuated. With their reporting, the company immediately set into motion initiating their attack.

Captain Lopez made his way forward to the first platoon’s position, who were holding a line facing northeast to the city proper. They had seen nobody yet, but their element of surprise was undoubtedly going to be broken by some farmer seeing the planes and paratroopers on his way out to the field. The riflemen and machine gunners had nestled themselves into positions behind dirt mounds and irrigation ditches, awaiting orders to move forward. His other platoons were maneuvering into assault positions to form an “L” shape and flank the town. Once the first and second platoons initiated contact, the third and fourth platoons would sweep through and destroy the British garrison there.

Captain Lopez arrived just in time to see a lone light blue police car drive slowly up to the road some hundred-and-fifty meters away. Close enough that the Mexicans could see a pair of policemen emerge from the coupe, bobbin helmets silhouetted against the fields behind them. They appeared to be looking for something but couldn’t yet see anything. Through the scope of his rifle, Lopez could see that one had a pistol on his hip and the other was heading back to the trunk of the car. A sergeant on the Mexican line, receiving a nod from his platoon leader, reached for a megaphone that was strapped to his belt kit.

“Attention, attention,” he blared through the tinny-sounding voice amplifier. “Step away from the car and lay down your weapons. You will not be harmed.”

The policemen jumped in fright, ducking to the ground. One of them reached for his hip as a squad’s worth of Mexican soldiers emerged from the crop field in front of him, rifles drawn and pointed at the pair. They yelled in Spanish for him to surrender and drop the weapon, their voices all shouting over each other. The Belizean policeman changed his mind, yelping and raising his hands high in the air. “Okay! Okay! What the fuck?” he exclaimed as a Mexican corporal rushed forward to take his weapon. His partner similarly placed his hands high above his head, stepping away from the car.

“What the hell? Who are you?” he repeated, eyes wide in fright. The Mexican platoon bounded forward out of their positions to the road and he got a good look at their gear. Everyone’s helmet bore a white stenciled “MX” and the squad leaders wore large brassards with an embroidered Mexican flag on their right shoulders. “Mexico?” he stuttered, turning back to his partner. Before he had time to ask any further questions, a soldier had forced the policeman to the ground and was tying up his hands with a piece of rope. He slipped a blindfold out of his pocket and over the man’s face before forcing him up and rushing him to the prisoner collection point behind the platoon lines.

Lopez lowered his scope and turned to congratulate the sergeant with the megaphone. They were instructed to offer the British an opportunity to surrender first before shooting and try at all costs not to kill the Belizean local police. Knowing the town of Belmopan had only a few policemen, he only had a handful of prisoners that he needed to detain. The platoon reformed into a line past the now-abandoned police car and continued their bound further towards the town.

Belmopan was a squat farming town of only a few buildings, none of them more than two floors tall. Mostly made of wood with tin roofs, the town had everything a rural farmer could ever need: a general store that doubled as a clinic, a bank, a one-room schoolhouse, and a pub. Everything else was an automobile trip away to Belize City sixty kilometers to the east. The British blockhouse was the only thing made from concrete, a barracks building for forty soldiers located at the exact intersection the Mexicans were to take. It was three hundred meters north of their current position, well within visual range. Captain Lopez rushed forward with the platoon to where they took up more fighting positions in the fields outside the town.

In the distance, a man dressed in khaki held a Lee Enfield rifle hesitantly, pushing the brim of his tommy helmet out of his face with a palm. The Mexicans advanced through the crops, staying off the road where they had just taken the policemen prisoner. The British soldier could see the plants rustle as the Mexicans silently bounded to the edge of the fields just another hundred meters shy of him. He had no doubt heard the confusion down the road but didn’t know what to make of it.

He squinted, thinking he saw figures in the fields ahead of him. The Mexican sergeant with the megaphone turned it on again and, this time in English, offered a warning: “Attention, attention. This is the Mexican Army. You are severely outnumbered. Drop your weapon and surrender.”

The Brit, who appeared to be in his late forties, dropped his jaw and fell to a knee in the middle of the road. “To arms! To arms!” he shouted back to the blockhouse behind him. Before he could get the rifle shouldered, someone on the Mexican line fired a single round. The other paratroopers in the line immediately erupted into a volley of rifle fire that cut down the British soldier in the road before he could even shoot back.

Over Reyes’s radio, Captain Lopez heard the platoon leader report that they were firing upon a British position in town. The second platoon acknowledged as their machine guns swept the blockhouse perimeter from a position three hundred meters to Lopez’s west. The roar of automatic gunfire broke through the calm of the morning and the commander watched as bullets impacted across the concrete barrack’s façade. Someone inside pulled an alarm, and an air raid siren broke out in a screeching wail across the town. The Mexicans held their fire to await further commands before a team of four British soldiers came rushing out the front of their barracks armed with rifles.

The Mexicans fired again at the troops, forcing the British to scramble for cover behind crates and barricades in their supply yard. Some of them shot back, the high velocity rounds whizzing overhead of the Mexicans who were still camouflaged behind the lush crops of the town’s farms. Lopez turned around to see Lieutenant Muñoz and Specialist Reyes ducking into a small muddy ditch. Muñoz was white as a ghost, more so than his usual pale complexion, clutching his rifle with one hand and the map case with another while Reyes was rapidly chattering away on the radio’s hand mic. Someone on the firing line shouted “watch right!”

A pair of British soldiers had raced around the corner of a squat single family shack, both in berets. Only one of them appeared to have a rifle; the other held a revolver with a lanyard tied to his pistol belt. They both ducked down, surprised to have run into the enemy, and attempted to fire back. The rifleman squeezed off a trio of shots, clumsily charging the bolt on his rifle between each one, before a burst of machine gun fire raked across him. The soldier died instantly, his corpse jolting with the impact of the .30 caliber rounds into his chest as blood sprayed from his back.

His colleague panicked, jumping up from the ground and dropping his revolver as he sprinted towards the concrete barracks across the road. It was his last mistake, as he was shot down in the road by a volley of fire in the violent chaos. He buckled dramatically under the bullets, falling to the ground with his hand dramatically outstretched in front of him. Three British soldiers lay dead in the road with another seven sprawled out across the barrack’s parade lawn, killed as they rushed out of the door with no chance to fight back. Sporadic fire answered the Mexicans’ attack from the windows of the barracks as the defenders organized into a somewhat coherent defense. The building was already peppered with bullet holes as it sustained a violent attack from both ends.

At Lopez’s position behind the first platoon, he saw the fruits of his training manifest. Sergeants and officers were now racing behind their firing lines shouting at their soldiers to conserve ammunition. In the excitement of first contact, the paratroopers had seemingly forgotten about control and measured firepower. Hundreds of shells littered the muddy ground between the crops as the rate of fire slowed to a manageable rate. The squawking of Reyes’s radio could now be heard as officers and radiomen chattered in the background. The platoons were getting another series of status reports from their sergeants: ammunition, casualties, and equipment status was all sent up to First Sergeant Kan with the company command post.

An awkward silence befell the battlefield, punctuated only by the distant blaring of the air raid siren. The paratroopers reloaded in between British potshots as the sergeants ran amongst themselves and figured out a plan of action. The solution in first platoon was a volley of rifle grenades, which was approved by their platoon leader. “Grenadiers!” bellowed the officer from his position, “shoot two grenades to their bunker!”

Two grenadiers hurried forward from other positions, equipment jostling as they darted and dodged through the crop field. Affixed to the front of their semi-automatic Mondragón rifles were silver-colored grenades with fins. Secured straight to the bayonet lug and fired with the simple insertion of a blank cartridge to their open breech, the rifle grenades could easily fly the hundred meters from the Mexicans’ line to the British position. Lopez much preferred to attack with them, as opposed to sending teams of men dangerously close to bunkers and trenches with hand grenades. The two grenadiers dove into positions in a ditch next to the platoon leader who aggressively pointing out their target.

One after another with heavy thumps, the grenadiers shot off their projectiles and dove back into cover. Sunlight glinted off the rounds as they sailed through the air before slamming into the building. With quick thuds, two explosions rocked the barracks and kicked up clouds of dust and concrete fragments. Lopez looked through his scope to see cracks in the concrete wall, shattered windows, and large chunks missing from the British barricade. It seemed to silence the enemy, however, as a minute passed with no shots fired from either side. In the background, the platoon leaders debated over the radio on if they could see anyone moving.

Another minute passed as Lopez wondered what was happening. The air raid siren that had been blaring the entire time suddenly cut out, sending the small town of Belmopan back into its early morning silence. In the distant jungle, exotic birds chattered again. The smell of gunfire and carbon mixed with the humidity and dew. Through his scope, Lopez saw a rock sail out of the front entrance to the barracks with a white rag cut up and tied to it like a flowing tail. His eyes widened and he turned back to Reyes: “Cease fire!” he hissed to the Specialist.

Reyes echoed it through the radio, which was then repeated by the officer of first platoon to his sergeants. All of the paratroopers laid with their guns pointed towards the British barracks as a man in khaki emerged cautiously, legs shaking, from the entrance with his hands high in the air and a white undershirt. Lopez moved up, slowly and carefully to ensure that he wouldn’t spook either his men or the British into any reaction, and tapped the first platoon’s megaphone carrier on the shoulder. He gestured to the man that he needed the device and the sergeant duly gave it to his commander.

Lopez stood up, still camouflaged behind a mass of vegetation in front of him, and turned on the speaker: “Can you speak Spanish?” he asked calmly, knowing that the answer was probably yes. British forces in Belize usually had to be able to speak to the local population.

“Sí,” came the reply, a shout in a heavy foreign accent. It sounded like the Brit had learned his Spanish from Spain instead of Mexico. He continued to walk onto the parade field, leading a line of British soldiers without weapons and their hands on their wide-brimmed helmets to a loose formation behind him. Over the radio, the fourth platoon’s leader reported that they had moved a machine gunner to have an eye on them in case they tried anything. Lopez doubted that they would. He brought the megaphone to his lips and, after looking to Lieutenant Muñoz behind him, stepped out of the field and into full view of the British just a hundred meters away.

“This is Captain Dominic Lopez of the Mexican Army,” announced the commander. “We accept your surrender.”

In the world of the west, and in particular the Old America it was said often that Man came into the world as his (or her) own being. They were born equal, and the only thing that would propel them to greatness or mediocrity was their own will. Someone with strong pretensions could scale the social hierarchy and make a name, a company, secure the wealth for a thousand generations. And even their sons and daughters would have to in time prove their own mettle and establish their own fortunes and came into the world much as the store clerk or the factory hand. To the Anarchists there was no greater thing in the world than the humble equality of the peasant who tilled his soil and raised his buffalo in the blue shade of green mountains. But all of this known to many, others also know that the weight of time propels people forward. There are those with the entire weight of centuries and untold generations holding them in the fetid red mud of the yellow swamp of a dirty street while the same mass that anchors them gasping for breath elevates the dainty blue robed ones to be forever aloof. And thus is heaven's divine inspiration to all things good. And may one struggle in their own ways in their station. And after suffering in a thousand ways against your sins you will be reborn into one of the greatest.

To the Wu clan, this was particularly known.

They made it known in their car. In their dress. Always clean and scrubbed of dirt from their faces to their shoes. They showed it in their big house. They showed it in how they talked. They postured themselves as better. Found better friends. Did better business. Committed great violence, if they had to. They were a clan who walked knowing they were enlightened. And if you asked them why this was they would say they were illustrious. That their position was ordained by the will of Heaven. That they practiced daily their piety and righteous obedience to the true test. To the very course and correctness of their families history. That they had the most upright patriotism. That they were the most ardent observers of the sacred traditions. By the very test of history they managed to survive, conferring upon them the virtue that underwrote everything and gave value to their word, their name, and their chops.

They would explain further that they were a family from Jinan. That they were an ancient and venerable institution in the province of Shandong since the time of the Ming. That their family rolls went back fifteen generations, and would be more had the Japanese not destroyed it. Their family contributed happily to the Banners of the Qing and would have liberated the province from the evil and decadent rudeness of Zhang Zongchang, but his barbarians had beat them to the punch and they had to retreat south. South! And as refugees! They would say this with tears in their eyes, forgetting (or patiently and purposefully omitting) their vast fortunes that provided them a soft velvet thump in that “bastard Republic” south of Nanjing where at least they could live in peace. And as the Japanese were driven into defeat they dropped roots in Shanghai, if only temporary. Taking advantage of the war wreckage to build a humble mansion, in the French style, just across from the venerable Bund. They never left further for the north. Why would they? Shanghai had all the European amenities they loved to consume.

Now an entrenched family in the new Shanghai scene they flirted with the market. Trading in agricultural produce and limited amounts of oil futures as was their family way when they were such a same institution in Shandong, where still today they take the rents of lease farmers along their traditional holdings along the Yellow River to the delta; estimated at a value of 14.5 billion yuan. Which is a sum humbly taxed from the family at a rate of 1%, owing to the family's claim of expansive historical preservation in the northern Shandong region, an effort known locally as an open secret towards the restoration of the family estate as laundered through their charitable action.

“I don't really know why they chose him to cast for that Han Cho character,” bemoaned Wu Rou reclining back in the seat of the car. Her arms splayed haphazardly across the upholstery of said Cadillac as she leaned against the shoulder of her brother. Her slender porcelain face bore a detached drunken look, her cheeks flush with the color of roses. Playing with the sleeves of her cheongsam she turned to look up at her brother, “His nose, it was too big. It was a big nose. Do you think the actor they got was Russian? He could be Russian. I bet you his mother was fucked by a Russian. It's really not all that appropriate. They shouldn't do that. Not for someone Chinese.”

Her dress, long blue dress, tightly form fitting but barely hiding her love handles featured golden trim; highlighting the neck and the sleeves. It scrolled all over the dress's service creating scenes of birds and flowers across the crisp lapis sea of the fabric. She had purchased it from a high end merchant on Suzhou Road. The dress was advertised as being of fine hundred thread count silk, spun into a high quality sheet in southern France and exported back to China to be hand sewn into the sleek and fashionable dress she was in. Believing the merchant, like a gluttonous baby she purchased it at the hefty price tag of nine-thousand yuan, a considerable expense but not for her. She went further and bought seven: each for every evening of the week. The reality of the silk dress though was that it was not made in France and finished in China but came entirely from China. The base of which was a common middle of the road eighty thread count silk cheongsam at single ply in a single shade of blue, purchased at eight hundred yuan and then modified. The tightest weave being the golden decoration that emblazoned its sapphire fields. She wore also a three-thousand yuan perfume sold in small shot-glass sized crystal bottles marketed under the Xiangdao brand and given the enigmatic branding of “Rose Lavender Water of Lower Lorraine” as thought it were a classical French product; when in reality it was re-purposed and watered down Vietnamese incense. She wore a watch, sold as Italian but was sourced to Korea, purchased by wholesalers from Thailand to cut around bans on Japanese products and then marked up and given a face lift to fit the Italian mold. Only her shoes, blue to match the dress were an authentic French article. A hair dresser had told her the latest hair fashion in America was to wear it short and faded up the side, and demanding to be seen as one of the pretty ladies from the Beautiful Country had bought in. But such a thing was not real and she was forced to wear it as a badge of shame she dutifully fought to disguise simply by acting as though it were very true to life.

“It is not really important.” her brother said, “He wasn't an important character. If he were then he is where he belongs. Such people belong in only two positions: the villain or the supporting role. Shu Shoi-Ming was the most important man on the screen. He carried the movie. Such poise and presence! He is a star to shine clear into his future. He has a hard cold stare, as any good warrior man should have, and the way he moves his fists is an art form. The impact he makes can be felt clear through the air. He is a respectable man who made that movie possible!”

Wu Wing, the elder statesman of the children of the Wu family held himself to be and pretended as an officer. Though having joined the officer corp well after the Revolution he pretended himself to be a hero of the long liberatory war. In the end, he served only the shortest time possible as an engineer before resigning to earn his position on the board of the family estate. But as an engineer he was hardly much. His face was wide, round, dominated by a strong upper lip he hid under the overgrowth of his mustache he kept waxed in what he believed to be a premier English beard wax, but was really a Mexican petroleum jelly with some odd oils and sandalwood for fragrance. His read suit was sold as a Swiss product, but with a price tag of eight and a half thousand yuan was merely a Chinese suit made under a defunct Swiss brand, L'fard; it's long pinstripes promised the world in making a man seem taller and it was matched with a blue Italian dress shirt actually made in Indonesia. His pants, two sizes too big came from a men's store on Haining Road and were supposed to be all the fashion presently in London, though he had not left to ever see and never himself left Jiangsu except for his military service, they were black and made of a coarse thread; against the price of four-thousand yuan they were marketed at a price of one-thousand in similar Hong Kong retailers. His clothes hid a wide awkward frame, as much as he tried to hide it. But his black and white wingtips advertised as real leather but were of new artificial leather from plastic, made in Canada and not the France as advertised; these shoes could not hide the size of his feet.

“Yes, he was handsome. I love his cheekbones.” Rou swooned, “Suppose we got into a party he's at, or we got him into one of ours? I would like to meet with him. He looks like a delicious man.”

Wing, smiling: “I suppose that could be worked out.”

“Yes! And could we get Sima Hua as well? She is great.”

“I would not mind to meet Mrs. Sima. What about you, Tang?” said Wing.

Tang, seated opposite of them thought. At the age of twenty-one he was freshly graduated from his officer's training and like the rest of his family would pursue a career in the army. He was boyish, lanky, broad shouldered but promising to fill out yet like the rest of his family. His head was long and appeared to be ready to stretch back on its own and to pull away his brow. A class mate had said once of him under his breath that he looked, “monkey like” and went as far as to speculate he was a more degenerative Sun Wu Kong, if he let his hair and beard grow out. But he could not manage the beard or mustache, and besides the mustache no one in the academy or in the service would let him. Although he had seen soldiers who were deployed to the Russian border who grew their beards out and they all resembled wild men in the end. He feared them, but envied them just as much. His pudgy nose did a great deal to hold his glasses, and even appeared as though they might push them right off of his face. They were army prescription, large and awkward. Thirty yuan, mass produced in a factory in Guangzhou.

He still wore his academy uniform, even though he was on reprieve. Every where he went he wanted to be seen as a respectable officer the way his older brother wanted to have fought the Japanese. He took particular strong attention to the quality and the condition, going as far as to not eat and drink through the movie they had just seen. It was a wild film, and he craved something to eat; it had been several hours. “I suppose so.” he said weakly, lying. He barely knew who she was. He had not been to the movie theater much.

Film was one of the young Tang's least favorite subjects. For all the bombast and the visual style of the movie theater it never gripped him and he felt there was something off about the experience. Something decadent and feminine around it. Like poetry and comic books, it offended a deep part of his spirit, so much so he could not reach that far in and locate it. So whenever it came to it, he could not express why he hated cinema. He often found he could not express his distaste in a long of things. Perhaps he did not read enough novels. The most he had ever read were the cadet papers at the academy.

Wing laughed, it came deep and from the gut, “You would like to meet her and you just don't know it.” he teased, “It'll be something that would have to be worked out. When do you return to your deployment again?”

“Next week I have to return to Xinjiang.”

“What a shame. Never been to Xinjiang. But it must be an awful place. Nothing ever sounds good with a name like Xinjiang.” Wing said with a roll of contempt. But he said it with a smile, as if to try and help his brother. Tang could not help but smile, only a little.

“But what are your thoughts on Shu Shoi-Ming?” asked Wing, changing the subject back, “Do you not thing he was a wonder on screen?”

“I suppose he was.”

“You know I had heard somewhere that most of these fighting men have to train at the ballet for many years. I've not heard such a thing! It's entirely queer, I think. To learn to fight you have to dance?”

“I think it is a dance thing.” Rou said, “At least that's what a friend of mine said.”

“What do you mean? I had to learn to fight and it was nothing like dancing. Right, Tang?” Tang nodded. “You see?”

“No-no. Well, yes. But no. It's, you know. Not fighting. It's like,” she stopped to think for words, “It's all about the movement. It's all pretend, you have to know that right? When the actors playing the vampires were shot they weren't really shot. I'm sure you know that, don't know?”

Wing nodded. “I see.” he saw.

“Yes, so they have to learn it somehow. I'd know this because my friend is in the theater. She says a lot of men have to learn dance to do a stage fight. There isn't any reason for movies to not do it.”

“I see your point. Perhaps we should go to a stage show then. I wonder if there's anything like this playing on the stage? We should go to Yincheng! Tang, let's go to Yincheng, before you leave!”

“Sure.” Tang answered indifferently.

“Then it is settled.”

“I will call in on my friend then, she will help us!” Rou exclaimed.

“What is on now?” Wing asked.

“I don't know,” hesitated Rou, “But I will- I will check. Yes, I'll check.”

“Ha!” Wing clapped his hands, “Amazing! I hope there will be vampires. What a strong foe! Who would have thought. Quiet the time we live in. Tang, what did you think?”

“I think they were fine.”

“Oh they were amazing. I think cinema is moving in the direction to surpass even reality. It was stunning. The way they ate out that man's neck! Rou, you believe they ate his neck, did you?”

“It looked so real!” she exclaimed.

“It did, and it had to be the perfection of theater. What a profound new thing. Great. Excellent! China has come to match the Western Arts, someday we will even surpass. Tang, when do you think that will happ-” Wing was suddenly cut off as the car came to a screeching halt. The siblings were launched nearly from their seat, landing in a heap against the rear of the front seats with a hard bump. Their driver was already laying on the horn, swearing loudly out the driver's window at a pair of youths about Tang's age crossing the street. Tang managed to dig himself out of the pile of elbows and arms to see passed the front seats at the scene just outside.

Throwing hands up in the air and returning the driver's swears a small group dressed in tight jeans and sheep skin jackets were returning the angry tirades. Most of them wore flat caps of different colors, turned to the side. They were angry. A young woman identifiable only by the shape of her breasts from under her white blouse behind her open jacket was encouragingly pulling on the sleeve of her boyfriend trying to get him to move. The confrontation was only a few seconds, but it seemed to be a whole minute. In the end, the two parties separated with only sour looks between them and they were soon moving.

“Degenerates.” Wing moaned, leaning to look past Tang to catch one last sight of them as they went along, “The lower classes are scum. They dress like buffoons too. Why do they let their women look like men? Insane! Madness as gripped this country!”

“It must be that- must be that German science.” Rou sneered, “Why do we even accept their help.”

“They pervert us.” Wing continued.

“I agree.” Tang said, enthusiastic this time in his sentiments.

“You're right. This wouldn't happen if real men were in charge.” said Wing.

“I think about that a lot. What if there had been no Republic? They would be far more disciplined in their lives than they are now.”

“I hear you. Are the general enlisted still this bad?” Wing spoke in contempt. Tang could see in his brother's face he was hot in anger.

“They drink all day if you give them the chance, and hardly allow themselves more than a couple hours of sleep they stay up so late playing dice and mahjong.”

“Putrid. This Republican experiment is rotting at the core. Things have not changed a bit.”

“If only we had real leadership.”



Having no where else to be, Yu finally gav up and came to the museum. As the man had invited him to do, he found the exhibition.

Besides the stations he had been in, the museum was one of the largest buildings he had ever visited. On entering the lobby he was taken by the height of it. The coffered heights of the ceiling. The blue mosaics that festooned the coffers themselves. He looked up as looking down at him wizened figures watched down at him, each a portrait in their own large vault. He was only a few in that afternoon, and he was free to gawk. For a time he was left alone, but staff at the museum had identified him as a country fool and so approached him. “Can we help you?” they asked.

Startled, he recoiled. The man who had asked did not speak threateningly. Neither in his age was he threatening. But the suddenness of the question had made him jump. In a brief moment he recoiled to the first thing he had on his mind, “Nanjing!” he said, voice perhaps a little too loud. When the old man looked puzzled Yu shook his head, “Sorry. Qin?” he corrected, thinking back to the man on the train. The man nodded knowingly and pointed him to a small gallery off to the side.

The corridors the figurines he was lead to was much smaller than the lobby that had so impressed him. While were high they did not maintain the cosmic height that had captured his interest. But he saw in the cases the many dozens of artifacts and figurines, many of which still held the dirt and the clay from the earth in their cracks and crevices. Looking through, Yu was interested; but lacked any and all appreciation for them. They were small at first. Fragments. The half face of a man, staring up at him through dirty eyes on a soft pillow. A bow without string. A clay ear from an animal. Here was a metal crane, not much longer than his arm from wrist to elbow, but cracked and dented and petina'd by age so it looked like an ornament that had come from the family shrine. There too were the broken odds and ends of something else, a half a horse, a wheel, an umbrella. All of which bore the earthy tones of having being buried for so long. Detached, he felt as if he could have found similar in a dump. What would happen if he went through his neighbor's elderly parents garbage pile in their yard and produced a cup as an ancient artifact? Would the history men swoon and crave it? How old did junk need to be?

He stopped for a minute to consider a goose in silence. He had started to try and read the plagues, but the effort was too much for him to decipher. At first, the characters would seem out of order, or too similar. Then too similar to other words and it would take too long to make a sentence that works. And when he did, it would not tell him much. Invariably it would be “such-and-such from pit such-and-such, Qin State Era.” He wondered if he lacked passion, and maybe this would allow him to gleam some knowledge. Perhaps this is what stopped history men, archaeologist from finding enlightenment in garbage piles and trash among the cabbage leaves. Alongside him a young woman, perhaps a little older than he was studiously writing in her notebook something about the artifacts. He thought to ask her what was going on. “Excuse me?”

She stopped and looked up at him. She had a friendly face. She smiled politely, if at least between patience and impatience. “Hello.” she said.

“May I ask a, uh- a question?” Yu said.

She smiled, “You just did.”

“Er- um. Can I ask another?” Yu tried again, taken back.

The young woman smiled and nodded, “OK. Go ahead.”

“Are you an archaeologist?”

The woman laughed and closed her notebook. Holding it close to her chest she shook her head. “No, I'm not. I'm a student of history though.”

“So you're a history man, or- woman?”

She nodded, “I guess so.”

“So, what do you know about these?” he asked, gesturing to the glass cabinets with the artifacts.

Again she laughed, delicate and light. “Not much. I'm trying to figure that out. I'm just here to take notes. What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Um- I was, er- here because a man on the train said I should. He invited me. I think. I'm really just here by accident. I wanted to be in Nanjing. But I somehow ended up here.”

“Well that's a terrible mistake. But welcome to Xi'an.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Is that all you wanted?”

Yu stuffed his head in his pockets and nodded. He turned from the woman, expecting things were done. For a brief second she remained, unseen, expecting things to continue and unsure if she should or not. Awkward, she herself parted her own ways.

This left Yu all the same clueless as he stayed at the artifacts. Their importance didn't dawn on him. He never figured that their presence confirmed history that had lapsed into legend. And sure, while he knew vaguely of the Great Wall, it was an even more distant relic of something far more ancient. Its relevance to him was sewn only through how his father had served and fought at the Great Wall during the Revolution, having been one of the first waves of soldiers to mount its earthly ruins and fortify them against Japanese counter-attack, as years prior to his service men now more battered and broken had taken to holding the wall against the Japanese, to try and break them and to give a venerable defense while the main army retreated south. To see the swords used in that first battle, as similar as they would be alongside the rusting hilts of the first iron swords used in China would be far more relevant in Yu's experience of China than the artifacts of the Qin at this moment; whose legacy was as distant and faded as that of the Yuan or the Ming.

He moved on, shuffling and idle more than anything. It became more an idea of there having been a spectacle. The value that there was, the value that he held because he was told it was there now fading to a dim glow rapidly receding behind storm cloud and threatening to blink out into night. He would leave, return to the train station, and ask: “I would like to go to Nanjing. The capital, Nanjing”. That is had he not heard a voice in the exhibit. “All I am saying is: it is a shame that we can't find the tomb, not yet at least.”

“Eventually, I'm sure.” someone else said, “But if he's right – and so far everything is pointing to it – it would be very dangerous. It'd be a different story if maybe it was shown to be open.”

“Yes, but then it's all lost.”

Yu realized he recognized that voice. It sounded like the man from the train. He followed the conversation as it went. “Do you suppose at this point we may have to revise the history of Sima Tan?” the other man asked.

“I would not say no, but I would think that we might learn a lot to certainly read the Records more critically.” the man from the train said, “The handiwork in many of these are astounding. I can't wait to see them back at the university so they can be properly cleaned. Xi'an is a fine city, but it lacks the international infrastructure for us to begin here and accurately catalog our finds. What we've managed is fine, I like to see the public imagination activated.”

“You should have seen the place the other day. It was full then.”

“What is the matter today? Has things burned out this fast?”

“Most people are at work. Or I hope it is work.”

Yu rounded a corner and found the pair. They were actually a part of a small group. Yu recognized his man. The other man with him was a taller and elderly gentleman, liver spots blemishing his head as he stood with a noticeable bend in his back. He seemed to lean to the side, his hands holding each other, or more the one more than the other. “Perhaps the national showing in Nanjing will be better.” mused the man Yu knew from the train.

“It will. These things are right up the alley for the Nanjing crowd. Between them and Beijing they swallow up anything ancient and national. I've heard a few wayward seminars by Hou Tsai, he's more right than those two cities try to insist: the Chinese people are incredibly provincial. I would not bet against our Xi'an showing being more because it is a local curiosity.”

“Still, I was speaking to Xu and he said there are many people who are trying to see the pits themselves. He's doing more work as a security guard and tour guide than any digging and studying. I'm grateful the city offered up their police as they did just to try and keep them away. I think the pits are the real spectacle.”

“Farmers' children in all honesty, they are bored.”

Yu drew close to them. He was able to see the case in front of them. Broken shards of some statue, hollowed out and brittle. A hand, a face, part of a torso clad in armor. One of the silent entourage must have sensed he was walking up, because before he could get to them one of the gathered younger men turned to him. “Oh, hello.” he said, a little hesitating and recoiling back. In the brief moment of seeing Yu the young urban student was taken out of his element in the moment by Yu's disheveled appearance. Having not taken a shower let alone a bath in almost a week, the young man was looking gray and greasy. “Have you been backpacking?” he asked, suddenly aware he may have been rude.

The others stopped what they were doing to look at Yu. He stopped, his chest suddenly going cold. How did he get this much attention on him? The man from the train smiled on seeing him. “Oh, so you did take up on the offer!” he said in a loud cheery voice. It put the others at ease, as they relaxed.

“Doctor Shao, you know this young man?” the elderly figure asked him. His face was long and pale. His jowls hung heavy from his face, his mustache was thin and pale. His bushy eyebrows were wound about as he considered Yu as if saying, “Why did you interrupt us?”

“I did.” the man named Shao confirmed. Stepping towards Yu, “He sat with me on the train here. He's actually on a trip. Made a bit of a mistake.”

“That's... true.” Yu admitted hesitatingly.

“I'm glad you could make it. What do you think of the exhibition?” Shao opened his arms, turning about the room, “magnificent, don't you think? Should see the pits, the wonders continue.”

Yu's response put Shao off. With a shrug the youth disarmed the professor. “They're, fine. I guess.”

“A provincial lad.” the older man said quietly.

“Oh that's a shame. Because we may be at the very start of China!” the professor exclaimed proudly. “Perchance though, what do you know of Qin Shi Huang?”

Yu shook his head. Nothing.

“Ah. A shame. But please, come over here. Please. Come, come.” Shao went on, encouraging the young man over to the case. “Do you see this?” He directed him to the shards of statuary protected by glass. Yu nodded. “These are the remains of at least several in so far many dozen warrior statues built entirely from terra cotta. Er- fired clay, you know. Yes?”

“I get the idea.” Yu said indifferently.

“Good. But these are parts of a much more impressive whole. If you- if you would follow me. I-I can show you.” Shao continued excited.

He nearly bolted off in a run and the group had to begin with a sudden start. As they went Shao went on breathlessly. “There is much we don't know about the Qin dynasty, what has been written about them came well after the fact, despite them having been able to write about themselves just as easily. But from what we understand from the Records Of The Grand Historian is that several thousand years ago they made the western most frontier of Chinese civilization, located where we are presently! During a pivotal moment of our people's history they managed to unite the Chinese nation after some seven centuries of war and strife in the country, becoming the first real and true Chinese State! Is this a story you heard before?”

Yu, drawing breath replied: “No.”

“I should I have thought so.” said Shao, despondent.

“As I said, a provincial.” the elderly man said from behind.

They finally came to a stop before a tall display, full height. Inside was an intact terra-cotta figure. Yu stopped before the darkened figure under its lone yellow light. Long shadows were stretched down over the proud figures features. Clad in armor, it looked positively medieval. And seeing it Yu could not help but remark to himself: it could come to life at any moment; it is a real man! Shao beamed with pride.

“This is the full figure.” he said delighted.

“One of potentially thousands.” the older man said. He inserted himself in the lesson, “We can't say for certain how many are buried in the field but we had to halt digging for them. We are not only searching the pits we have so far opened already. I was present for this one to be lifted out of the ground, and I tell you young man: if you are impressed at it now, you should have seen it when it was removed. Alive with color, I would say! Absolutely gorgeous. The most beautiful piece of artwork and handiwork you would ever see in your life. But as soon as this son of a bitch touched the air all that splendor peeled away and flaked into dust in the wind. This whole man was colored as though he were alive and breathing! Just frozen.”

“A remarkable turn of passion, Mr. Qi.” Shao said.

“Yes well, I've heard many people talk about how they would like to paint him. And I just want them to know he was painted.”

“It is... Scary.” Yu said. He was not wrong. It looked too similar to people he had seen. Every bit about it looked ready to move. His skin felt cold looking at it. He was stunned to see it fill Shao with so much energy. Did he not feel it cursing him?

“We have had no knowledge of the existence of such a treasure trove.” he laughed, “It's just one of those things that spring from the earth and bite all of human kind in the ass! And everything about him, from his armor and weapons and location here at Xi'an at Mount Li all points to us having found the resting place of China's first true emperor. We have a couple guesses where, but we are not confident in whether or not we should enter.”

“Why wouldn't you enter?” asked Yu.

Shao turned to him and smiled politely, “If the records of Sima Qian is to be believed, it is because the tomb would be an entirely hostile alien universe of sorts. A world that normal men would not and could not thrive in long. The emperor had built for his burial an entire scale representation of the world as the Chinese at the time understood it, complete with rivers filled with mercury. The tomb, if we were to open it would be a toxic environment. And: as my colleague Qi said: if these ancient soldiers lost their pant as fast as they have in this environment, how much damage might we do to the tomb simply be opening it? Qin Shi Huang may get to rest now for a time: because the elements are to his advantage.”

“I see, but who was he?” Yu asked.

“Our first emperor. But we have a long story to tell.”

“I have to say professor Shao, you are doing this very well.” one of the young entourage said with a smile. Turning to look at him Yu saw he had a notebook out and was already taking notes.

“Well, I was a high school teacher prior to this. Then I made the jump to tenured professor.” he said with a laugh, “But, let us begin at the beginning...”

Detective Ben Levy put the cigarette into his mouth and struck a match. He put flame to the tip of the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Levy had to fight to keep the smoke down. The old man at the newsstand was out of his brand of American smokes, so Levy settled on a cheap pack of some Turkish floor sweeps. The smoke burned like hell going down and tasted foul coming out. But they still contained the nicotine his body so desperately craved.

Levy leaned against the side of his unmarked SPD cruiser and waited for Jake outside the all night dinner. The sign advertising Al’s Kosher Coffee & Burgers blinked in bright yellow neon in the three main languages of Sitka -- Yiddish, Russian Cyrillic, and American -- and was just one of many neon signs that flanked both sides of Lake Avenue. Signs advertising soda, cigarettes, cars, Alaska Airlines, and a few cat houses two blocks over were all lit up in some sort of garish primary color. When the winter came and the long nights with it, the majority of Sitka would be illuminated thanks to the neon lights.

“They were out of jelly donuts,” Jacob Abrams grunted as he approached the car. He was schlepping a box of donuts with one hand while the other hand was wrapped around a cardboard container with two coffee cups.

Jake Abrams, in this wayward place for all things Jewish related, was a standout Jew. It was the height along with the skin and the hair. Abrams was Tlingit on his mother’s side and that side’s genes ran deep. He stood somewhere around six and a half feet tall with skin the rich brown of a walnut and his close cropped hair pitch black. If you had no idea who Jake was or his history, you would have thought the yarmulke safety-pinned to the back of his head was some hack comedian's bad idea. What do you get when you cross a Jew with an Indian and give him a badge and a gun? The punchline was Detective Jacob Abrams

“This is the third time Al has shafted me on the jelly donuts,” Levy said, shifting the cigarette in his mouth to the left corner. “Next time his little greasy spoon gets held up by some fucking lekish with a peashooter, we’ll see how fast we try to pinch them.”

Jake plopped the box of donuts on the roof of the car along with the cardboard cup container. He scowled at Levy as he pulled his coffee out the container.

“How come when Abe Titlebaum wants to give me a mink stole for my wife, that’s an unacceptable gratuity, but Al giving us free donuts and coffee isn’t?”

Levy flashed the younger detective a look of annoyance before he went for his own coffee. It was bitter and black. Just the way he liked his coffee.

“Al would have to feed us coffee and crullers for twenty years to get to the cost of what that stole would be, kid.”

In his mind, Levy was proceeding to continue on with his lecture about common sense, about how Al Abromowitz was just a Russian Jew pushing burgers and bacon up and down a griddle, and Abe Titlebaum was far from that. Titlebaum was part of the nakht mentshn. He, and his ilk, never gave to a cop without expecting tenfold in return. Levy stopped his prepared mental lecture when he saw the smile creeping on Jake’s face.

“You think I’m that fucking stupid, Bennie?” Jake asked with a raised eyebrow. “I may be green, but I ain’t a fucking feeb, c’mon.”

The two cops ate their donuts and sipped the coffee in silence, though it was not truly silent. It never was on Lake Avenue. Cars buzzed up and down both sides of the street while small clusters of pedestrians travelled the sidewalks. Levy checked his wristwatch and saw it was a little after three in the morning. The bars in this part of the city had just closed for the night. A group of sailors swayed down the sidewalk towards Al’s. A common enough occurrence in the city. Alaska’s distance from mainland America meant Sitka was the place to go for US servicemen on leave.

It was also a pain in the ass and a logistical nightmare when one of the soldiers would inevitably step out of line and be arrested by Sitka PD. He thought about one particular case he worked a few years back. A drunk Marine in a bar fight stabbed an old shikhur in the eye with a broken beer bottle and blinded him. Levy made the arrest… and in the end he had to let him go, let the Navy’s own criminal department handle it. Justice for one of Sitka’s own was eluded thanks to red tape and bureaucratic resistance. Levy took another long drag on his smoke and watched the sailors stumble into Al’s with a wary eye. He expelled a long column of smoke into the air and took a bite from one of the doughnuts.

“Looks like it’s-,” Jake started to say.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” snapped Levy. “Don’t even think about it, less you jinx it.”

Rule Number 1 of any and all nightshift policing: a slow shift can become a hectic and busy shift at the drop of a hat, especially if the quiet is noticed and commented upon. There is nothing more damning to any officer’s peace and quiet than the words “Looks like it’s going to be a slow night tonight.”

They finished up their food and climbed back into the unmarked car. The driver's side door squeaked loudly as Levy opened it up. Levy shook his head at the sound. It seemed no amount of grease or lubricant would make it go away. Like most of the Sitka PD’s fleet the unmarked was a secondhand gift from the Alaska Territorial Police. The bottom was rusted out from a decade of driving on salt covered roads, the shocks were shot, and the radio seemed like it only worked if you held the mic just right. Even though Sitka’s operations budget was one hundred percent federal, the remoteness in Alaska meant the Department of Interior bought everything for the PD from the Alaska Territory. Levy could only speculate, but he was sure that the army and navy bases in the territory didn’t buy their shit secondhand from the Alaska government. Remoteness was only an obstacle if you wanted it to be.

Levy checked his wristwatch in the dim light of the car. Another three hours before the end of shift. This was the bi-annual sweet spot of the year when Stika had a normal day and night cycle. The sun would be rising just as he and Jake clocked out and all the good jews of Sitka would be rising to great the day and the multitude of problems that awaited them. It took him to the third attempt to start the car, but once it was on Levy pulled out into Lake Avenue. He headed north towards the Sitka Channel, the small sliver of water that separated tiny Japonski Island from Baranof Island and the whole of Sitka. They heard the static and the occasional squawk from the radio mounted on the dash, the usual chatter between dispatch and patrol that was effectively white noise to Levy.

The drive passed mostly in silence. Levy and Jake had only been partners for three months or so. They were in that stage of a police partnership when the first bit of small talk and question asking had passed, but yet they weren’t so well versed in each other that they could have entire conversations inside the silence. Levy liked the kid well enough. He was sharp, likeable, and seemed to know how to do his job. His age gave Levy pause. He was a half-breed cop already with five years experience under his belt and making the leap to detective work. Shit, Levy had to hump a foot patrol for almost eight years before he got a detective posting. The Jewish half of his family had to be someone connected. Was Jake’s family some sort of well-heeled pioneer forerunners that came north in preparation of the big exile? They must have seen something a lot of jews in America hadn’t. Levy’s family included.

He’d been a young man when his folks got the news they were moving to Alaska. He was already a cadet in the Detroit PD at the time, three weeks from graduating. He hadn’t wanted to go, nobody had really wanted to go. But thousands of years of history told the Levy family that it was either to go quietly and safely or be forced, like a lot of jews were once the US government’s patience ran thin. Sometimes Levy got wistful thinking of his childhood back in Michigan. Take away the fucked up solar patterns and unbearable winters, and Sitka was a lot like Detroit. Just replace the smell of automotive manufacturing, the metal and oil and grease, and replace it with the smell of halibut and tuna canneries.

Levy hit the beltway that surrounded the inner city of Sitka and cruised north. The beltway allowed Levy a look at the Sitka skyline. Even this late at night the city was illuminated by streetlights and neon signs. The most prominent was the polar bear. The bright blue neon polar bear sat atop the North Star Casino and Resort, the most profitable and most corrupt Yid owned business in Sitka.

“I always like to look out at the city,” Levy said to Jake. “I was a twenty-one year old kid when I showed up here, fresh off a boat from Seattle with my folks. The place was a mess then, rickety prefab houses that were little more than shacks stretched out across a muddy field. New Zion, some smartass had scrawled on a sign in the field. Another smartass had drawn a question mark at the end of the Zion part. This place ain’t New Zion, that’s for damn sure, but it’s a far cry from what it was.”

“Yep,” Jake said with a nod of agreement. “My ma raised me just across the water on Kuiu. I remember as a boy seeing the city at night, knowing just across the water was my father’s home, in it my father’s people. I couldn’t wait to grow up and come here.”

Levy was about to take the opening to ask about Jake’s dad and get a few answers that had been gnawing at him. But then the radio belted out a burst of static and a call.

“Detectives requested at 9815 Schalka Blvd. Possible 10-24.”

Levy and Jake traded looks. Jake went for the mic. It seemed the temperamental thing would cooperate with him more than it would with Levy.

“Car 31-A, we’re in the area and on the way.”

“You just had to say something,” Levy said as he hit the blue lights on the unmarked. “Had to comment about it being a quiet night. What’s rule one, kid?”

“It’s only a possible homicide,” said Jake. “And I tell you what, if it is an actual homicide then breakfast is on me.”

“And you write the initial incident report,” said Levy. It wasn’t a question.

“You motherfucker,” Jake said in perfect American. Like many Sitka Jews, American was the preferred tongue of the curse word. “Fine,” he said back in Yiddish. “I type faster than you anyway.”

Levy winked at his younger partner and hit the gas, the old car rattling as he pushed it past sixty miles an hour.

---

Yuri Rudnitsky threw the stub of his cigarette on the ground and crushed the smoldering butt with the heel of his shoe. His legs felt rubbery as he stepped off the train platform and started down the steps. He felt nervous about the upcoming meeting. He desperately needed the money. It took the last dollar to Yuri’s name to get him across town from the Unter Tage to the inner harbor area.

His German and Yiddish was for shit, but he knew enough to know Unter Tage meant underground. Even though high-rise tenement buildings covered the Unter Tage, it got its name from the early days of Sitka. Polish Jews, burned too many times over the centuries by the powers that be, were wary of their new American benefactors. The Unter Tage was covered with an intricate and elaborate network of underground tunnels the old Poles dug in the event they would need to flee and fight when the other shoe inevitably fell. In the years since the tunnels had become something of a haven for Sitka’s degenerate behavior. Drugs, cheap booze, a crap game, and any sort of sexual act that could be thought of could all be found in the tunnels. Nothing was off limits in the dim lighting below Sitka’s streets.

A few years back Yuri tried his hand at pimping a few of the whores who worked the tunnels. He gave up after a few months when it proved to be too much work than it was worth. The girls were able to easily evade their would-be pimp as their knowledge of the tunnel system far outweighed his. He spent a whole night one time chasing a girl down to get… twenty bucks. Yuri wasn’t one to turn down any money, but in Sitka there were always easier ways to get it.

It was why he was heading to the meeting tonight. He had to admit he felt a bit self-conscious in what passed as his best clothes. He’d made sure his blonde hair was trimmed and his face was freshly shaved. He was dressed up, or as dressed up as he could be. He wore black slacks and a navy blue sweater over a white button-up shirt. A shabby navy peacoat and his worn black boots finished the ensemble. The weather was beginning to turn away from the mild summer to fall. Winter would not be long behind it and Yuri hoped to god this plan meant no more winters at the cannery.

Yuri stuck his hands in the pocket of the peacoat as he walked down the sidewalk towards the waterfront of Sitka Sound. At this hour he was one of only a few pedestrians on the sidewalk. Most were nightclub patrons on their way to afterparties or home. He looked up and saw the great big blinking polar bear. The North Star sat only a block away from where he was now. Fifteen years in Sitka and he’d yet to step foot inside of it. That was mostly okay with him. He didn’t have the money to spare on slots or dice. The North Star was just as crooked as any racket Yuri had ever tried to pull out on the streets, only it was far more successful at separating suckers from their cash. People like Yuri got called crooks and were labelled dangerous, but the real dangerous crooks were the ones who backed the North Star. Because when they committed a crime, it always came with full political backing.

The lobby of the Hotel Verbinsky was deserted this time of night. Yuri silently nodded at the desk clerk as he passed by for the elevator. His attire helped him blend in with the more middle and upper class clientele of the hotel. He still looked like someone not to trifle with, but he was an appropriately dressed someone not to trifle with. Yuri told the elevator operator he wanted the tenth floor in Russian-tinged Yiddish. When they arrived the operator looked at him expectedly with a tip in mind. Yuri sheepishly shrugged as he stepped off the elevator.

“Fucking jerkoff,” the operator said in American.

Yuri pretended to not hear him as he found room 1045 and rapped his knuckles on the door. He waited for a few moments until the door swung open. The man who greeted him was a hardcase. He had at least three inches on Yuri, an impressive feat given Yuri stood around 6’2, and at least fifty pounds of muscle on him.

“Gotta pat you down,” the man said in Yiddish.

Yuri held his arms out and consented. He only owned one gun, and he was sure as hell not stupid enough to bring it here. When the heavy was satisfied, he stepped back into the room and ushered Yuri in. Yuri felt a small sense of pride as he stepped into the hotel room. The thug had missed the knife hidden in his boot.

The inside of 1045 was a simple two bedroom room. Although Yuri noticed the heat right away. The cast iron radiator by the window was working overtime to heat the place and Yuri could feel it. The man he came to meet, however, seemed, mostly unphased by it. He stood by the window in a neat three-piece suit, smoking a cigar and looking out over the city. His hairless head reflected the lights of the city off of it in a dull sheen. Yuri had to guess he was probably in his early 60’s. He turned to look back at Yuri and flash him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry about the heat,” he said. “I’ve been in Alaska almost twenty years and still can’t get used to the cold. Guess I have thin blood. Take a seat, please.”

The two made their way to a table to the right of one of the beds and sat. Yuri noticed a diamond ring on the man’s pudgy pinky finger and some sort of eagle crest. It looked close to the two-headed Russian eagle, thought Yuri.

“How is your Yiddish,” asked the man.

“I understand it better than I speak it,” said Yuri.

“Your American?”

“Cocksucker, motherfucker, son of a bitch,” Yuri said with a wry smile.

The man laughed and shook his head.

“We’ll do Russian,” he said with a shrug. “It’s not my best language but it should be enough to get my point across. So tell me, Yuri, do you know who I am?”

“More or less,” replied Yuri. “I don’t know your name, but I know you know David Kotel. And David respects you. That’s a rare privilege.”

“David is one of my best shylocks. And he says you’re one of his best leg breakers. You keep a cool head about you, tougher than two week old matzo.”

Yuri grunted. “It’s not steady work, and David pays like shit… but it helps.”

“Where are you from originally, Yuri?”

“Oddessa.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“A smuggler’s haven. Ever done any smuggling?”

“Yes, but I left when I was a teenager,” Yuri shrugged. “The most I did was unload crates for the real smugglers for a few rubles.”

The man chuckled. “How handy are you with a gun?”

Yuri leaned back in his chair and looked at the man. He kept eye contact with him as pulled down the collar of his shirt. To the left of his Adam's apple were the tattoos of three small stars. The man’s eyes flashed in recognition of the tattoos and what they stood for.

“When?” he asked.

“Back in Russia,” Yuri said softly. “It’s the reason I’m here.”

The man reached out and placed a pudgy hand on top of Yuri’s.

“I think you’re wasted as a debt collector, Yuri. How would you like to make some real money?”

Belmopan, British Belize
August, 1955

Captain Lopez walked forward at the high ready, his eye focused through the radium-painted tips of his Mondragón rifle’s sights. Ahead of him, a distinctly official British soldier held his hands clasped in front of his waist. Atop his head lay a worn round officer’s cap and his shoulders bore the two diamonds of a First Lieutenant. His formation behind him looked down at their boots, hands over their heads as more Mexican soldiers marched out of the fields to surround them. Captain Lopez stopped in front of the officer and lowered his rifle. The two stared at each other; the British officer parsing his complicated emotions silently before moving his hand to his leather belt holster.

Lopez’s hands jumped but he kept himself composed. His executive officer had arrived to the left of the commander. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lieutenant Mun͂oz jolt his weapon back towards shoulder level and bark a command to stop. The commander, acting quickly, grabbed the barrel Mun͂oz’s rifle and forced it back down. The British officer’s eyes were wide, his right hand paused on the latch of his leather holster. Lopez nodded at him. Shakily, the lieutenant unclasped the cover and withdrew an ancient-looking Webley revolver pointed carefully towards the ground. He extended it out in his hand.

Lopez reached out with his left hand to take the piece from the lieutenant. It felt light in his hand, unloaded and harmless. The Mexican commander brought it up to eye level and inspected the officer’s sidearm: he had never seen an authentic British weapon so up close and personal before. Without another word, the British lieutenant repeated the process with his pistol belt, removing it from his waist and handing it over. Lopez nodded again, taking the leather holster and replacing the revolver in its pocket before handing it off to Mun͂oz.

“What’s your name?” asked Captain Lopez simply.

The British officer hesitated. “First Lieutenant Baker, Lloyd S.,” he answered in his accented Spanish. “Platoon commander of 3rd Platoon, Company A, Belize Rifle Regiment.”

He looked five to ten years younger than Captain Lopez. Lieutenant Baker was practically a boy, probably a recent graduate from their Sandhurst academy. Lopez remembered his time as a lieutenant, how he didn’t know about anything. At least he had a strong captain to guide him: Baker was out in the middle of nowhere with no guidance and no superiors.

“And these are your men?” Lopez asked, gesturing towards the British soldiers who were now submitting themselves to checks and inspections by the Mexican paratroopers. There were roughly a dozen men left out of the small guard force in Belmopan. Anything of value was taken from their person. Militarily, this meant maps and notebooks and useful objects like compasses or field gear. Other items like watches, rings, and money from the prisoners’ pockets also found their ways into the rucksacks of the Mexican men.

Belizean townspeople had begun to congregate on the outskirts of the barracks now that the shooting had died down. At first, cautious men emerged from hiding to inspect what had happened. They were soon engaged in conversation by the Mexicans spreading out throughout the streets to secure and inspect other parts of town. Soon after, women and children appeared as well after hearing that the invaders were friendly and spoke better Spanish than the British. They talked to the Mexican troops, confused. Was this a liberation for them, or a conquest? Not even the Mexican soldiers knew.

Lieutenant Baker sighed, looking back at his formation. He turned to Captain Lopez. “What are you going to do with us?” he asked cautiously. The scenes of Mexican soldiers looting valuables from his platoon had not inspired confidence in their treatment, but so far nobody had been beat or otherwise abused.

“We have orders to escort all prisoners to an exchange point with military police,” Lopez answered. It was customary. Officer to officer, he knew that the British platoon commander deserved to know the situation. “The military police will transport you to a prisoner of war camp.”

“You really went all out, didn’t you,” Baker mused. “And we had no idea you were coming until your planes dropped you in the fields.”

Lopez shrugged. He didn’t have an answer for that either. They were both just doing what they were told. “We are going to remove the British occupation from this country. That’s our job here.”

Baker sighed dejectedly. He had no way to contact his higher command and inform them about the surrender. For all he knew, the regimental leadership in Belize City were just not arriving to work clueless of the situation in the outskirts of the country.

From behind Lopez’s shoulder, First Sergeant Kan emerged from a throng of headquarters soldiers moving into the town to set up their command post. Hulking above the shorter commander and muscles rippling underneath his uniform shirt, he simply asked if the British officer spoke Spanish. Baker affirmed that fact with his reply.

“I don’t like you,” he growled intimidatingly, “and you sure as hell don’t like me.”

Baker, caught off guard, clutched his hands into fists with his knuckles white.

“But rules are rules and I have orders,” he instructed. “You are to be quartered in your barracks after we inspect it for arms and equipment. You’ll be guarded. You will be fed. Where is your senior sergeant?”

Baker nervously turned back to the formation and called a sergeant over. His lack of stripes and terrified demeanor denoted him as a lower NCO, inexperienced as a platoon sergeant. Perhaps he was a replacement for a killed superior. First Sergeant Kan took the British man aside to lay out the rules of their custody, hammering home the facts to a man who could barely stand up straight and shook like he had just stepped into harsh winter without a jacket. Lopez looked at the scene, then turned back to Baker.

“Right, I’ll leave you to your quarters,” Lopez said. He motioned his hand for a party of NCOs and paratroopers to move forward and prepare their captive quarters while he turned away to Lieutenant Mun͂oz.

“Have the platoons checked in via radio?” he asked his executive officer. The younger officer nodded as they both started walking back towards the company command point. It had been moved into town, in the backyard of a farmhouse where the soldiers were busy raising radio antennae and setting out their maps and graphics on top of a weathered white wooden table. The operations sergeant was beside the house, talking to the owner about how they were going to need to occupy the land for a little bit until they moved out. The Belizean farmer nodded solemnly, looking at the Mexican soldiers rushing back and forth across the town.

Captain Lopez walked through the wooden fence’s gate and unbuckled his helmet with a heavy sigh. He tossed it onto a chair near the map table and set his rifle down leaned up onto it. He followed by stripping off the uncomfortable web gear that he had worn throughout the assault, solely keeping the holster that he had received from Lieutenant Baker on his hip. The British officer’s pistol belt sagged heavily on Lopez’s skinny waist: the Brits fed their men quite a bit out in the colonies.

“Morning, sir,” one of the operations soldiers greeted him. It was Especialista Reyes, his radioman. The bulky manpack radio was leaned up behind him and a cable had been connected to a portable antenna that now reached high into the air. The platoon leaders were squawking at each other on the static-filled net, setting up their security positions and pulling men off the line to handle priorities of work like cleaning weapons or eating for the first time that day.

Lopez returned the greeting as he rummaged through his heavy rucksack for a notebook and his pens. On a separate radio, someone was trying to raise their sister company who had dropped in a few kilometers south and was securing another town on the western flank. All of the Brigada de Fusileros Paracaidistas were committed to closing the western passes to Guatemala before the mechanized 2/a Brigada Blindada rolled into the country. They had just finished preparations at Mérida in Yucatan state and were staged on the border at Chetumal for their attack.

The Brigada de Fusileros Paracaidistas, including Lopez’s company, would wait in Belmopan for the day before regrouping with two other companies and beginning the 25-kilometer push to the twin towns of Churchyard and La Democracia. Other units would secure the rear area as glider-borne reinforcements would deliver support units to build up the area. All of this was being coordinated on the radio. They knew that the element of surprise was going to be lost any hour now, especially as the sleepy Belizean towns woke up. Word traveled quickly, and it wasn’t like the Mexicans could kill anyone who could spread a message of invasion.

Lopez sat down with Lieutenant Mun͂oz at the map table as the executive officer began writing down the things that he needed to do. He was a good officer and knew his role well: the executive officer wasn’t merely the second in command, but handled the day-to-day tasks that kept the company running. He, along with First Sergeant Kan, coordinated for the mundane things like food and supply, medical treatment of the injured, maintenance of the weapons, and now the movement of enemy prisoners. It was a lot on his plate, keeping with the fine tradition of XOs being the most overworked junior officers in the military.

As they worked, the distant sounds of gunfire picked up again in the still morning air. Lopez stopped writing and looked over his shoulder down south to where a friendly company of paratroopers was fighting. He turned to Reyes, who was sitting on a bag of flour eating rations out of a can next to the radio. “Make sure the platoons know to expect action soon,” he said to him. “I’m not sure if that’s a counterattack or just residual fighting. But we got off easy here.”

Reyes acknowledged the order and got onto the radio to repeat it out to the subordinate officers. They all repeated their same acknowledgements as the message went further down their chains of command.

For the day, however, nothing happened. Mexican soldiers watched the road to La Democracia but nobody ever came their direction to investigate. Dismounted patrols throughout the jungle to their north and south never yielded any enemy scouts or reconnaissance soldiers. Aside from the sporadic fighting earlier that day, the west of Belize was quiet. The British never had many forces in Belize to begin with, of course, but it was curious that there was no attempt to fight back against a brigade of Mexican soldiers who had just dropped from the sky into their territory.

Lopez had heard from the colonels that this whole operation was to split the Brits in two and take advantage of their commitment to the war with Japan. Maybe they were right, maybe the British really had allocated most of their manpower to the Pacific theater.

Men rotated in and out of resting that night, holing up in their mosquito nests to keep the damned insects away from them. The jungle, filled with diseased and malarial troubles, was no place for man. Lopez wondered how the rural folks did it, as he himself was a city boy from Guadalajara. Camping was a vacation for him, not a way of life. Because of that, he had found himself a sofa to sleep on in the first floor of their command post’s building. The owner, an elderly Belizean man, kept to himself in the second floor since talking to the operations sergeant, but Lopez could hear him sneak downstairs to use the kitchen for food.

Lopez, half asleep and half naked in his undershirt and skivvies, opened his eyes to see the old man in pajamas holding a candle as he crept across the creaky floorboards. Lopez shifted, sitting up and letting his field blanket fall softly to the floor. The Belizean man turned around, freezing in his tracks. “Oh, I’m sorry to wake you sir,” he said meekly. The candle cast a flickering light across his worried face.

“It’s alright,” Lopez said, shrugging it off. “I hope I’m not-“

“No, no,” the farmer said. “I talked to that, uh, Sergeant Delgado earlier. You are free to come and go, you will be here for only a few nights.”

“That’s right,” Lopez replied groggily. “I, uh, we’ll leave you be after that. I hope we didn’t scare you too bad coming in.”

The Belizean man placed the candle in a holder on the wall and shuffled over to a chair to sit down in. “I never thought war would come to Belize, at least not in my lifetime.”

“Well, the Briti-” started Lopez. The old man shook his head and crossed his arms.

“The British have been here. They don’t bother me,” the old man sighed. “Would I like it if we were our own country? Sure. But ‘Belize’ or ‘British Honduras’, I just sell my harvest.”

He looked over Captain Lopez’s uniform, noticing the shiny rank insignia on his collars. The old Belizean man asked him if he was an officer.

“Captain,” simply replied Lopez. He frowned, noticing the upset look on the Belizean man’s face.

“So you’re in charge?”

“I am, yes,” Lopez said. “Of my little company, at least.”

“Then you’re the sensible one here,” the old man said. “Listen, I don’t care much about the great game of countries. But I care about my family and my people. I know you’re not stopping here in my little town, once you leave. You’re going to the capital.”

Lopez nodded. “Of course. We have to.”

“My kids and grandkids live there now,” the old man stated firmly. “They went there for school and work. Nobody wants to be a farmer anymore. You know how it is.”

Lopez nodded again, listening to the old man.

“Well, when you get there, there will be fighting. The people who live there… I need you to keep them from getting hurt. I know you don’t want to hurt us, I watched you. You shot at the British but you let them surrender. You weren’t shooting at us. Your men don’t shoot at us. You’re just playing the game of politics. Keep us in mind when you get to Belize City, Captain.”

The old man smiled at Captain Lopez, satisfied. He rose from the chair, his joints and bones creaking and cracking as he bent down to retrieve the candle. He shuffled towards the kitchen again but paused when he got to the doorway. “Do you want anything, Captain?”

Lopez, still processing the conversation, looked up at the figure of the old farmer. He gestured to his rucksack in the corner with some tin cans inside glinting in the candlelight: “No, I- I have my rations.”

The old man squinted, then shook his head again. “Dios mío,” he muttered in paternal disapproval. “You army boys with your canned food. Tell you what, I will get with the town tomorrow and we will make you all something.”

“I think, sir, that would be appreciated,” Lopez said with a heartfelt nod. “I’ll look forward to it.”

The old man grunted in approval before vanishing into the kitchen. Captain Lopez laid back down on the sofa, turning to his side. Outside, the night was dark and quiet. The Mexicans had dug into their fighting positions with small shovels, laying down prone with eyes down the dirt roads leading west. Others patrolled the town in silence. The night would be just as quiet as the day, with only the semi-frequent radio checks coming through the command post’s radio speakers to punctuate the calm.

Captain Lopez awoke to the sounds of roosters calling in the new day with sunlight shining through the windows of the farmhouse. He rose up off the sofa, stretching his arms out and searching for his uniform when he smelt a familiar smell. On the side table, an aged porcelain cup had been placed with steaming coffee inside. Captain Lopez looked around the empty room, then to the stairs that led to the second floor of the farmhouse. He took the cup of coffee and felt its warmth in his hands. The company commander blew across the top of it to cool the heat before drinking: it was strong and black. He smiled, looking back towards the stairs where the old man lived. Then he began to gather his uniform and get ready for the day.

The roll was:
3 (Africa) – 5 (moderate) – 4 (pages until next)



August 26, 1955

ABUJA – A wave of violence has swept northern Nigeria today in response to comments made by the Nigerian premier Akinwunmi Jacobs. In a radio interview earlier that week he expressed disdain for the majority Muslim population saying that, “We shouldn't let the Muslims have so much power, less they oppress the rest of the country. It was the sovereign will of God that their power was scattered”.

At a time of uncertainty and contention the comments did not raise the country's Muslims confidence in the premier. A number of clerics in the country have written open letters of condemnation against the premier, criticizing him for his open hostility. The statement comes at a time where the Nigerian government has been expanding farming settlement in the north and was seeking to offer aid to the Federal home office in London, but this adventure may have to be scrapped.

Following these comments, a riot broke out in the northern city of Kano as mobs took to the streets in protest to the president's words. Earlier that afternoon many gathered before the mosque of Kano has local leaders gave speeches of condemnation against the Premier. Shouts of “Allahu ackbar” rang in the streets as streams of invective against the premier were shouted forth. That night violence broke and local police and military positions were attacked.

During the ten hours of night fighting, twenty national policemen were attacked and killed and three members of the Nigerian Army were killed by mobs of rioters armed mostly with knives and clubs. Several banks and businesses were attacked and burned, accused of being Christian or southern. At least ten additional civilians were killed and thirty others wounded before the sun rose the next morning.

In response, the government declared martial law over Kano state. The arrival of the armed forces the following afternoon frightened the rioters who abandoned the streets. But peace has not come to Kano as sporadic raids and attacks now continue against local government forces. The Nigerian National Police have however commented that they do not believe there is an organized group behind the attacks, and that the situation should be under control in short time. However, Akinwunmi Jacobs has refused to withdraw his comments. Parliament is urging him to do so before things grow out of hand.

The initial raids were initially carried out by bands from the Fula people, an indigenous ethnic minority in the north of Nigeria and who range across much of western Africa. They are a majority practicing Muslim group. They mounted resistance against initial British settlement of the Nigerian interior organized around the Sokoto Caliphate. The caliphate was eventually defeated in 1903 and the present territory of Nigeria was formed.

In recent history the Fula have been initiated in conflict with numerous local groups in northern Nigeria and abroad as the impact of expanded farm land encroaches on their domain. Part of the possible reason to violence was the expansion of farming and sedentary industry in the north under Akinwunmi's program of expanded economy. The premier and his party, the Nigerian Democratic Party or the NDP has sought to relieve the pressure of urban growth in Lagos and the capital Abuja by turning people back to the countryside by resettling them on uncultivated ground with the expectation they would develop the land. The plan has received criticism from the Delta Congress Party for being a waste of resources and finances and criticizing it for a lack of results. The premier and his party meanwhile have urged patience, saying it will soon overflow the country with food. They have no commented on the conflicts it has caused with pastoral Nigerian populations.

Akinwunmi Jacobs is Nigeria's second president since the country achieved autonomy from London following the Federalization protocols in 1937.

Unter Tage
Sitka City

Yuri stepped into the Pearl of the Orient and made eye contact with Sammy. The squat Filipino man behind the counter gave Yuri a slow nod that contained a multitude of meanings without a single word needing to be uttered. Samuel Matteo Gonzalez, sole proprietor of the Pearl of the Orient, had been what the Sitka populous called a shtarker back in Manila. Rumor had it some very bad business a long time ago had him flee his home for Sitka’s cold embrace. In the time he had carved out quite a niche as restaurateur, occasional dabbler in bookmaking, and foremost knower of all the ins and outs of the Sitka criminal underworld.

He walked towards the counter as Sammy wiped the surface with a rag. Behind Sammy was a glass display case showing off the Pearl’s signature offering: The Shakoy. The braided doughnut was a staple of street food back in the Philippines, but Sammy’s secret recipe elevated the original dish to the point that it was one of the defining cuisines Sitka had to offer the world.

“If it isn’t my third favorite Russian,” Sammy said in Yiddish. He was fluent, but his accent coated every word like the cinnamon sugar that coated his doughnuts and made it sound strange in Yuri's ear. Jewish by way of the Southeast Pacific.

“Can I get two doughnuts, Sammy?” asked Yuri. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a roll of American greenbacks, all twenties, and peeled off six bills. “Also, how about a hundred and one bucks on Heshie Roth to win by KO tomorrow night.”

“It’s a fool’s bet,” Sammy said as he slipped the cash into his apron and passed Yuri a plate with two shakoys on them. “The Roth kid isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. Mitchell is going to wipe the floor with him. It's almost a crime for me to take your money... almost.”

Yuri focused on the doughnuts instead of arguing with Sammy. Part of him wanted to tell Sammy the inside scoop. But that bastard had taken him for a ride in the past on baseball and college football games, so Yuri figured he was due a string of bad luck. He bit into his first shakoy. The doughnuts held the perfect balance of crunchiness on the outer fried shell, and soft and tender in the dough beneath it.

Yuri let out a sigh of contentment after he swallowed his first bite. The shakoy doughnuts held a special place in his heart. It was one of the first things he’d eaten when he arrived in Sitka. A fresh off the boat teenager, skinny as hell and unsure of what to do next. He’d stumbled into the Pearl and Sammy, recognizing how hungry and lost the boy was, offered to front him two shakoys if he paid him back later. Yuri never forgot his kindness as well as the taste of his first doughnut.

“So you don’t just come in the middle of the night to drop some bet,” said Sammy. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

“Abe Titlebaum,” Yuri said after his third bite. “What does that name mean to you?”

What gave Sammy his knowledge when it came to his encyclopedia knowledge of shtakers, button-men, and kingpins wasn’t his own criminal past or his current occupation as a part-time bookie. No, it was the doughnuts. Everyone in Sitka flocked to the Pearl for the shakoys, cops and criminals and politicians alike all needed that sweet and soft crunch. The Pearl was neutral ground for even the most bitter blood feuds among gangsters. Everyone respected Sammy and he in turn respected them and learned everything there was to know. He could tell you who the pit boss at the North Star was schtupping on the side, how Charkov “The Siberian Strangler” Lebowitz liked his coffee, and he knew which current rebbe Black Hat controlled the Byzantine power structure that was the Hasidic criminal empire. In short there was not much Sammy didn’t know.

Yuri could tell Titlebaum meant a lot as soon as he saw the look on Sammy’s face. Very little made Sammy Gonzalez give pause. But the name Abe Titlebaum did just that. Sammy leaned forward on the counter. The knuckles on his big fists were tattooed with Tagalog characters Yuri couldn’t make out.

“He’s just not some shtarker. He’s old school. One of the original nakht mentshn that got kicked out of America and sent here. His pals like Siegel and Lanksy were well juiced enough they got to stay in the country, but not Ttilebaum. At least not back then. The guy may look like an old businessman, but that’s just a front. I’d ask why you’re asking, but I ain’t no schmuck. The perpetually broke Yuri Rudnitsky walks through my door flush with cash and asking about some gangster seemingly out of the blue. You going to work for him?”

“Something like that,” Yuri said, wiping bites of cinnamon sugar from his mouth. “He’s looking for muscle for something and David Kotel passed my name along.”

Sammy spat on the floor and cursed in Tagalog at the mention of the man.

“Don’t get me started on Kotel. A two-bit shylock who thinks he’s a boss...”

“You don’t owe him any money do you, Sammy?” asked Yuri.

“That’s not the point,” Sammy said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The point is Titlebaum is a very serious man and a very dangerous one. You don’t get to the top of the Stika criminal food chain and stay there without cutting a throat or fifty. He’s not some talent scout on the lookout for his heir. If he’s interested in you it’s because he can use you to either make money or hurt someone.”

Yuri finished his second doughnut and looked down at the plate that only held flakes of pastry and stray cinnamon sugar crystals.

“Let’s hope it’s just to make money.”

---

Goldrush Hills

The brakes on the unmarked police car squealed as Levy pulled up to 9815 Schalka Boulevard. The eight story Disraeli Hotel loomed above them in the early predawn darkness. A latke radio car was parked up front with its bubble lights on and flashing red and blue. Levy and Jake climbed out of the car and Levy’s eyes glanced up at the hotel. Most of the red neon lights outside the hotel’s front entrance were burned out, advertising it as the "D r li H t l." The sight of faded paint and dilapidated sign windows sent a wave of sadness through Levy’s heart.

The Disraeli, along with most of Goldrush Hills, had been where the upper middle class, mostly American Jews with some money, had flocked to during the early days of settlement. For the blue collar Levy family, Goldrush Hills and The Disraeli Hotel were destinations to aspire to. Its cutesy name, like all the first neighborhoods and streets of the district, was given to it by the American planners who laid out the grids and neighborhoods initially for the Jews that would come here to live.

“This used to be a nice neighborhood when I was a kid,” Jake said. “What the hell happened?”

“‘Nothing gold can stay’,” Levy said in American. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette and match. “Words to live by for a shamus as much as a poet.”

Those carefully laid plans of an orderly federal district soon went by the wayside as wave after wave of Jewish refugees appeared on the shores of Baranof Island. What was supposed to be a modest island settlement of half a million or so sprung up to a metropolis of over four million in a little over twenty year’s time. Rapid growth and expansion meant quaint little Goldrush Hills was left behind by the ex-Americans and given over to the fourth and fifth wave of poor immigrants. Urban decay and neglect followed rapidly in the wake of their flight.

Levy smoked as he and Jake approached the entrance to the Disraeli. Levy felt relief at the site of Moose Moskowitz’s beer belly as he stepped out of the hotel front entrance and hiked up his belt. Sergeant Michael “Moose” Moskowitz was around Levy’s age. The two men had started on the SPD at around the same time. Like Levy, Moose had been born and raised in America before his family relocated to Alaska. Unlike Levy, Moose had made a career out of being a patrolman. He still wore the potato brown khaki uniform that gave the patrolmen their latke nicknames, but these days he wore sergeant stripes on his shoulder. He technically outranked Levy, but in terms of investigation this would be Levy’s show. Which was why he was very glad to see Moose’s gut.

“How are ya fellas,” Moose asked in Yiddish that was tainted by his native Minnesotan accent. “The night manager is the one who found the body. I took a brief statement but figured you’d want him for further questioning. He’s in his office. I already called the coroner and sealed the scene.”

“Well,” said Levy. “I’m better now that you told me all that.”

Rule #1 to any and all homicide investigations: A victim can only be murdered once, a crime scene can be murdered many times over. The first officer on the scene has the duty to preserve the scene as they found it until detectives show up to investigate. They provided the foundation for the case the detectives would later build upon. And Levy had seen more than one of his cases go down the shitter thanks to the responding officer or coroner fucking up the scene.

One time, the latke who responded to a fatal stabbing in an Unter Tage back alley had taken the initiative to clean the blood from the scene as he waited for Levy to arrive. When Levy finally arrived, he found a dead body devoid of blood and wiped clean of any other vital clues thanks to this latke with shit for brains. His excuse when confronted by Levy? He always felt sick at the sight of blood so he had to clean it up, less he vomit all over the place. That was almost six years ago and Levy still carried that unsolved case in his ledger, and that latke was working a foot patrol so far west of here he could probably see Hawaii.

“Do you want the manager or the body?” asked Jake.

“The body,” Levy said without hesitation. “I always prefer the company of the dead to the living.”

---

Levy stood at the threshold of room 614 and looked inside. Minus the dead body, the contents of the room could be best described as a one-room bachelor flop. Levy noted the Murphy bed in the down position with ruffled and dirty sheets, the hot plate on the sink that allowed the hotel people to advertise the room as having a “kitchenette”, and the toilet facing the Murphy bed with barely six inches of space between them. Over the years Levy had sent plenty of men -- and in one case, a woman -- to the federal prison on McNeil Island for murder. He was sure those tiny little cells they would spend the rest of their lives in were less depressing than room 614 at the Hotel Disraeli.

Then there was the matter of the body.

A male body of what appeared to be average height was sprawled face down on the floor of the hotel room just beside the Murphy bed with the feet pointed towards the door. The body was clad in a soiled white undershirt, black trousers, and a pair of black dress shoes that were so worn Levy was almost certain he could see the soles of the body’s feet through the worn leather. A full head of gray hair covered the body’s head. No yarmulke on the back of the head, Levy noted. Not that his piety, or lack thereof, had anything to do with his present state.

He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves from his back pocket and took his first gingerly steps into the room. There had been a tape seal on the door before Levy opened it, so he knew Moose had done his job in upholding the crime scene’s virginity. Levy was careful not to step on anything on the carpet as he walked towards the body.

Along shelves mounted on the walls were personal items, the flotsam and jetsam of a person who Levy assumed lived a transitory life: A toiletry bag, a tin of chocolates, a carton of Bulgarian cigarettes, a small collection of paperback books, and a travel chess set. Though he knew better to assume the personal items belonged to the dead body on the floor. Levy’s twelve years as murder police taught him more than once just because someone died in a dwelling, it didn’t exactly mean it was theirs.

Levy felt his knees pop as he crouched over the dead body. This close up and he could make out the rash of red bumps and bruises up the body’s forearms. To your average yid, their natural assumption would be a bad case of acne or the singles. But Levy knew the sight of track marks right away. He was sure the toiletry kit on the nearby shelf would contain a burnt spoon, a lighter, and a syringe. And just like that something of a potential cause of death began to form in Levy’s mind. More of an assumption, really. He had to admit it was the half-ass schmuck in him wanting to not have to deal with the headaches and paperwork that came with a true homicide. If this was another junkie OD he and Jake could just bang out a quick incident report and call it a night… or day. He wasn't sure which was which anymore.

“Doesn’t look like I’ve missed much,” Jake said from the doorway.

Levy glanced back at his partner and saw him tucking a notebook back into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I think I may have this one solved already, Jakey,” replied Levy. “The forearms are covered with track marks. Five will get you ten that I’ll find a crushed junkie works under the body.”

“Fool’s bet,” said Jake. “And I only bet money on sure things.”

“Then don’t bet on that little featherweight Jew to go the distance tomorrow night. My sister could kick Heshie Roth’s ass…”

“Your sister hunts wild bears in the Yukon,” said Jake. “She could kick almost any man’s ass.”

Levy nodded in agreement. There was little Levy feared, but Esther Levy was among those things.

“What did the night manager say,” asked Levy.

“He was pretty straight forward. He says the guy who rents the room was late on payments and he came in to start throwing his shit out when he found the body.”

Levy glanced towards the window of the hotel room. He could see the sky was beginning to lighten as night turned into day.

“Middle of the night eviction?” asked Levy. “Yeah.. that sounds about right. He get a name of the yid in question? The one he planned to evict?”

“Einstein. Albert Einstein.”

“Cute,” Levy murmured. “Too cute. Okay, now that I have a witness I want to turn the body over.”

Levy gently grabbed the body’s slim shoulders and began to turn. He began to curse in American the minute he saw the face of the dead body and the dried blood. On the dead man’s forehead was a neat little bullet hole. Small caliber so there had been no exit wound. The bullet had pinballed around the skull and shredded it into pulp before resting somewhere in the brainpan.

“Shit,” said Levy. Still holding the dead body -- victim, now -- he looked back at Jake. “Breakfast is on you, right? And you write the report?”

“You know,” Jake said with a small smirk. “Seeing Moose got me in a sudden craving for latkes so… yeah, breakfast is on me, partner.”

“Go get the manager,” said Levy. “See if he can ID the body and make sure this is the guy claiming to be Einstein dead on the floor.”

"Oh, geez," Moose Moskowitz said as his bulking frame appeared in the door beside Jake. He nodded at the dead man Levy still gingerly held on to. "That's quite a mess there, Ben..."

Levy looked at Jake and made a deadpan face. "With those powers of observation, Sergeant Moskowitz, how is it you never made detective?"

Buenos Aires

"Do people really have nothing better to do?" Agente Caceres said as he looked at the shattered glass that covered the sidewalk. A rock, slightly smaller than his fist, lay just inside the store near a mannequin that had toppled over, the dress sliding up to expose the gender-less lower body. The rest of the store, a womens clothing boutique, was otherwise untouched.

Agente Medina, Caceres partner, who was leaning against the hood of the car shrugged. "Of course not, who doesn't want to smash windows just for the sake of it."

"I hate people." Muttered Caceres as he kicked some of the larger pieces of glass against the stone wall.

"Shall I ask dispatch to call city works?"

"Yea, can't leave the window like this." Caceres pulled out his notebook and flipped open the battered leather to pull out a police business card. He scribbled the file number on the back and tucked it into the door before walking back to the car. Medina was halfway through the car window on the radio and Caceres could hear him passing along the request for city works to come and board up the window. The business owner would have to replace it.

"They'll get here when they get here." Medina said as he pulled himself out of the open window and resumed his leaning. "Until then, we can hurry up and wait."

"City units for a shots heard, Museo de Arte Hispanoamericano." The radio crackled behind them and Medina glanced at it before turning away. Three other units were dispatched and he could hear the wail of sirens start up several blocks away as the cars began to respond.

"They get shots heard, and we're dealing with broken glass." Medina sighed.

"It's fireworks, it's always fucking fireworks." Caceres replied, shifting his duty belt in an effort to give his lower back a break. The leather belt was probably to small, he wasn't an eighteen year old anymore, and it had been getting more and more irritating the past few years.

"Until its not." Medina snorted. The pair had responded to a fireworks complaint a year ago that actually turned out to be shots fired. They attended to find shell casings, tire marks, and a man who claimed he had tripped into four bullets; he had refused to cooperate with police and died enroute to the hospital. One less shit rat.

"Delta 27, confirming fireworks. Other units can clear." The radio again. Caceres laughed, Medina rolled his eyes.

The two stood in companionable silence. The retail neighborhood they had been dispatched to was quiet this time of night, the stores having closed hours ago. Usually they wouldn't have bothered with a call like this but it had been a slow night so far and anything was better than driving around in circles looking for cars to pull over that weren't military, secret police, or taxis. Almost no one else was out and about these days. The war in Chile had brought on petrol shortages and only the government and the wealthy could afford to run vehicles more than absolutely necessary.

City works happened to be one of those who could afford to fuel their vehicles and a small pick-up truck with two half asleep workers arrived about thirty minutes later. They climbed out slowly, one stretching his arms wide and giving a very loud yawn. "Evening officers."

"Fellas." Medina smiled and Caceres nodded in greeting. "Thanks for coming out."

"Not a problem. Quiet night for you?" The worker asked; he had the good grace to look guilty when Medina groaned. "Shit, sorry... Decent night for you?"

Medina laughed. "Yea, so far so good. We're short, as always, but it's pretty good. Things tend to get a little less crazy around this time of night."

The friendly banter continued as the workers hammered a couple sheets of plywood into place over the window. It wasn't much, but it was the best they could do. Only recently had the city started securing businesses like this after a police call. It tended to prevent the following theft calls when early morning commuters found gaping windows and open storefronts which made it easy to help themselves.

"Done and dusted, thank you." Caceres gave the city workers a wave and clambered into the passenger side of the car. He began to write their report as Medina chatted with the workers for a few minutes more. A couple jokes about firefighters and Medina slipped into the drivers side.

"It's a glass break, no need to write a novel." Medina teased as he shifted the car into gear. Caceres had barely written four sentences and that was probably two more than he needed. He slipped the pen into his shirt pocket, put the report into the patrol folder and tucked it back above the sun visor.

"Onward, young apprentice!" The car shifted into gear and rolled down the darkened street.



"Delta 23 for screams heard."

"Go ahead." Caceres had grabbed the pic from the stand, cursing quietly as he had to unwind the cord as it almost yanked his coffee mug out of the cup holder.

"Report of a woman screaming for help, a man yelling, and slapping sounds."

The dispatcher continued, rattling off an address that Caceres quickly jotted down before pulling out a map of the city from the glovebox. He and Medina were in District 20, it was central to the city and largely residential. He tracked down the grid reference first, and then located the street and finally an address. Medina had pulled over while all this was going on and was waiting patiently.

"Got it. Four blocks up, six blocks over, and I'll tell you more details as we go."

Medina flicked on the single red light on the roof before cranking the siren. The piercing wail shattered the quiet night air and the vehicle tires squealed slightly as he applied the gas. Further updates continued to flow as they raced toward the scene, darkened houses fliting past on all sides, the odd vehicle hurrying out of their way. Neighbours stated that the screaming had slowed now and one of them, braver than all the others, had crept up on the house, and could whimpering from the female even as the male voice continued. More slapping was reported.

Caceres felt a familiar knot in his chest as they drew closer. Domestic violence was a real problem and he didn't agree with some of those who insisted that what a man did with his wife was no one elses business. On two occasions he had attended similar calls only to find the female dead and the male claiming he had been in the right because she cheated on him. There was no proof of infidelity, but such was the current legal system that there was little police could do about it. The support from prosecutors just didn't exist.

"Neighbours now reporting they can hear the female screaming and what sounds like metal hitting meat."

"Well fuck me..." Medina said as he sent the car hurtling around a corner, the back end wobbling as if about to fish tail before he corrected and the patrol car shot down increasingly narrow residential streets. Most of the house were three story townhouse blocks that were crowded close to the sidewalks. Few people in this area could afford a vehicle so the streets were largely empty, and even then, only wide enough for two vehicles to pass with little room to spare.

Caceres navigated Medina deeper into the labyrinth until at last they came around a corner to see a large group of men waving frantically at them. The car slammed to a halt and both officers bailed out of the car, Medina making sure he took the key, you only had to have your car stolen once to never make that mistake again. Several of the men hurried toward.

"That house, it is my brothers house. The door is locked and no one is answering us. I am worried for him!"

Caceres bit back a sarcastic comment about how the call had come in, instead waving the man away as he drew his pistol. The crowd scattered as he and Medina approached the door. The lower windows, like all houses around here, were barred. White walls showing signs of age and lack of maintenance flanked a heavy wooden door that he pressed his ear up to. No sound.

"Policia!" His voice was a crashing bark in the quiet of the street, the sound of his boot slamming into the wood equally loud. No response from inside. Medina had done his best to clamber up to the window, levering himself up against the bars to peer in through the half drawn curtain.

"Someone on the ground, a lot of blood." He dropped to the ground and hurried back to the police car. He requested additional units and then returned to Caceres. The two threw their weight against the door and it shuddered. Again they hammered their shoulders against it and a cracking sound somewhere around the bolt told them they were getting somewhere. A third body check and door burst open.

"Policia! Policia!" They pushed into the home, weapons drawn. On their right a door, closed, showed light beneath it. A low moan came from inside and Medina shown his light on the door. It wasn't the type of door that could be locked.

Medina raised his pistol, nodded to Caceres, and then shoved the door open. Blood had been spattered everywhere, the white cabinets, the tile floor, even the ceiling, it was everywhere. The door bumped against something that prevented it opening all the way and Medina gave it a hard shove as he forced his way into the room. A woman was slumped in one corner, her eyes closed, blood was running from her mouth and nose. Clutched in her left hand, and resting on the flood beside her, was a cast iron frying pan.

"Jesus..." Caceres hissed as he rounded the door. The body of a male was lying crumpled on the floor, partially blocking the door. The body was nude which was the only thing that made any sort of identification possible, the face and head had been smashed into a pulp.

"Senorita?" Medina had approached the woman, his boots leaving blood tracks behind him, and kicked the frying pan away before speaking. She gave a moan and rolled her head so she could look up at him. He swore again and reached for the house phone. He dialed the emergency line, identified himself to the call taker, and confirmed an ambulance was enroute.

"Is he dead?" She whispered, blood spraying from her lips, causing Medina to jerk back. He glanced at the body, the smashed head, and nodded.

"Yes, I suspect he is."

"Thank god." She began to cry, the tears mixing with the blood on her cheeks, running down to further stain the pink shirt that hugged her body. Medina glanced at Caceres and saw his partners face was tight with anger. At least the soc was dead. There was some justice after all.

Parties within the Kuomintag considered it the Great Embarrassment. Some others would follow through on this scorn with “the Last Embarrassment”. But it existed all the same. Built on territory signed away by the Qing, in one of their moments of weakness to the Russians, who wasted no time making their best effort to colonize the far-east. Vladivostok was as true to its name: the Lord of the East. Presiding over the cold waters of the Ussuri and the Amur Bays the far flung Russian city enjoyed a new life in independence compared to the rest of Russia. Founded by diplomatic maneuvering in drawing rooms nearly a world away from it. Through the interventions and intrigues of multiple parties the city was quietly snipped away from the Russian and from the Chinese. It was such a small detail it was basically ignored in favor of all the new territorial changes, shifts in regional and global power, and concessions made by the Treaty of Sydney.

Nevertheless, even though the city was protected by a paper shield, it grew to have out sized protection through the other uses the city had for all its neighbors. Uses which wove complex labyrinths in the shadows, tea houses, and cafes of its main boulevards. Mazes that trained entirely new generations of civic leaders who in the few years since the city's strange freedom were managing the levers to ensure its continued independent existence, to reap its benefits. For starters: the occupation of the Manchurian territories by China created a mass of nation-less Russians who did not envision themselves under Chinese rule, being too proud they left for Vladivostok; the rest of Russia offering no safe haven otherwise. While the Chinese controlled the Trans-Siberian railroad before entering the city it still maintained a vital land link to the rest of Russia, making it capable to maintain business with the warlords and Cossacks who were fighting over the remnants of Empire. It greased the minting of swift capital for foreign goods and a means by which to sell their booty and production. As a neutral hub on mainland Asia, Japanese business had come to flourish here and Chinese business likewise came in to meet them, establishing a network of shell companies and subsidiaries that could conduct commerce with one another; granted they paid the city its rent. All this coming together to blossom a city that had at time of its reorganization from 400,000 residents to just over 900,000. It boasted proudly for itself a certain strange civic nationalism, perhaps not seen in any part of Asia. Familiar only to that of Europe. Like the Merchants of Venice, it was becoming the Companies of Vladivostok. And while they were not yet the shimmering city of Shanghai, it was all their ambition and new goal, their new spirit. And in a small cafe on Ulitsa Pekinskaya two men came to sit.

Short of stature and trim they did not actively give off any appearance of being note worthy. Though Asiatic the city did not have its shortage of Chinese, Japanese, or even Korean visitors. It was not unusual. Carrying a briefcase one approached the table of the other and sat down. It was warm in the sun. For either men the summers of the north were cool, even the late summers. But the direct sun made it all the better. The wash of the gentle ocean waves made a crisp ambiance, matching with the gentle progress of the city around them. Families strolled the sidewalk, hands stuffed in pockets as they went. Drivers crowded on the narrow brick street kept close together. A distance off a freighter crawled slowly over the steel gray and blackened ocean on its way from port. A flock of seagulls sat perched on light posts screaming at one another in their shrill voices as they scanned the area for any forgotten food. As the visitor sat he was immediately attended to my a waitress. Who in the rustic accent of the city Russian asked for his order. He answered briskly, haltingly starting in Japanese before switching abruptly in Russian. The waitress left. The table mate nodded.

Wei Chu had worked in the foreign ministry for eight years, in that time he has rotated between postings in Mongolia and Australia before arriving currently to Vladivostok. On most days he wished he could be back in Australia, where it was warm. He was southerner by birth, Hakka by way of his father; Cantonese by his mother, Guangzhou. But on days such as this he could bare the cool Siberian afternoons, it hit just right and it made the Russian coffee sweater. He held the cup in his tanned hands, watching his accomplice through patient soft eyes. The breeze ruffled his thin hair.

Yamada Daisuke was a fish out of water. While nominally a member of Japan's imperial internal ministries he had mostly rotated between duties in Korea and Japan before ending up somehow in Vladivostok. For the three years he had been posted to this city, he long suspected he had ran afoul of someone and had to thus be banished to some obscure posting. And so he came here. Wiry and thin, with bad eye sight requiring thick glasses he had dodged military service on grounds of physical inability, but that had not excluded him from imperial service. And so he found himself in the suit of an imperial paper man, doing the office work necessary to keep the administrative functions alive. Sometimes even those duties being entirely out of the ordinary, anything to accelerate his redemption.

“Thank you for coming.” Wei Chu said after taking a sip of his coffee. His first time having the drink was when he came to Vladivostok. He had been looking for a good tea house. Was recommended coffee instead. The cafe he found, regularly visited, and held this informal meeting at quickly became his favorite. The owner was Finnish, and by misfortune one way or another found himself in this city. Here he built his new life. Here he called it, “the Cafe Karelia”.

“Yes. Yes. You're welcome.” Daisuke said nervously.

“Is something wrong? You've never been this tense.”

“I- oh... Yes, everything is fine.” Daisuke answered, holding tensely to his suitcase.

The waitress reappeared and placed a cup of fresh coffee in front of him and a small hard biscuit. Daisuke never came to like coffee. Out of respect he always found himself having to suffer it. “So per our last meeting, I got in touch with the army and their War Prisoner's Administration and obtained a list of men they're willing to release back to your country. Have you got your consulate's response?”

“That I do.” said Daisuke, opening his briefcase and handing off a sheet of paper to Wei Chu who looked down and read it.

“These are the men?” he asked.

Daisuke nodded. “I am told they will only do one-for-three, at minimum.”

Chu nodded. He had begun his day assuming the price Japan would offer would have been higher. Despite his and his office's calculations it was not. This was a feeling of victory to the diplomat. Tonight he would need to reward himself. So the notion that three Japanese pensioners would be returned to Japan for the price of one Chinese captive coming home was not a bad deal in all. It would mean they would have to add to the list. But that would be the administration's problem, not his.

“I also have a request for negotiating the return of some property.” Daisuke added, “This comes from private parties in Japan. It is not a government matter.”

“What sort of property return?”

“More a reimbursement. A family is looking to have a cash repayment on property their father owned in Dalian that was taken in the war. It is a town house on Youyi road, which they say was valued at three-million yen. If you could see the request at least, that would be fine.” he held out a sheet of paper. It was a hand written letter. The kanji Chu noted was clean and impeccable.

“I don't have permission to make this call, but I will move it up.” Wei Chu offered, taking the paper, “But I would not be surprised if it is declined. The government's position is that even civilians were losers in the war, so they won't be offered damages.”

“I understand.”

“After all: you people lost. Why should the losers be compensated?” he chided with a smug grin. He sipped at his coffee and turned his attention to the sea. Silence briefly hung in the air between them.

“I do have another thing.” Daisuke said quietly. Wei Chu turned to him. He noticed he was visibly agitated, looking all around him, “It is a sensitive matter.”

“What is it?”

“Well, how do I put this? There is no way I can put it lightly, and it may have me separated from my head. But Japan needs change. We are, as you know well: we are wasting our youth. Thousands go off to the south to fight in a cause we may never win or we have no belief in. The generals go on the radio daily to say we are winning. But the lengths now the state has to go through to find its recruits is revealing my country is spreading itself thin. We need help. I need help.”

“How do you fit into it?” Chu asked.

“Because my young nephew has been recruited to fight in the war.” he said with a crack of desperation. “He is only sixteen. I did not know they could recruit so young. But just last week he crossed with a recruiter on the street who told him, 'you are a fine strong young man. Why don't you put that strength to use? Fight for the emperor!' and took him off the street. Now he is in basic training, and scheduled to go to Indonesia. The situation is tense, dire.”

“Is this something official? Are you qualified to give this offer? Have you been given permission?”

Daisuke shook his head. “Not at all. This is just the concerns of a single proud countryman. It would be an amazing stroke of fortune if we were open to normalizing relations. But far too many of my superiors and the men above them are too bruised from the war. I'm sure it won't change until they die. But no, I'm asking out of desperation: there is no one to help Japan.”

“If this is not to normalize relations, then I think opening a military alliance is out of the question.”

“No! No, not at all. Or maybe. Listen: I'm not sure myself. I lay awake every night afraid for my kin. If he's this young, who else do I know will go? Women too. We are dashing the flower of our nation's youth into a quick grave.”

“How many people think this?”

“More that the government is willing to admit. But no one knows it. You have to really pick and prod. It took me hours to get it out of my family and friends when I was last home. It was not hard to do to learn they're all as afraid as I. I would go further, but I am not sure if the Kenpeitai is reading my letters, or they'll start. I know I have heard rumors that there are anti-war movements all throughout the country. But they haven't been able to come out against it, everyone is so scared to speak.”

“I understand.” Wei Chu said in a low voice, “So what assistance do you want from China?”

“I think that will be up to your creativity.” Daisuke said. His expression became more distant, but his posture relaxed. He was venting, and relieving himself of the weight on his shoulders. But his skin was pale, his eyes dark. Though he was letting it go, he was well in the grip of fear as he looked down the road and back again, searching to make sure they weren't being watched.

“Do you need a safe house?” Wei Chu offered.

“That may be too conspicuous.” said Daisuke. “I do not want to bring any more attention to this as I should. If I live, we will keep up business as usual. If I die, carry on what I told you. Or no, don't if I die. Do tell your superiors. Let them know. They'll find something out. I'm not in the military, I'm not divulging any of those secrets. So maybe I'll live.”

Wei Chu nodded. “You know where to find me.”

“Yes, OK. But, oh: where and when will the prisoner transfer be?”

“My government's open to do it at the Versailles hotel. Next two weeks to a month.”

Daisuke nodded his head, “Very well. We'll meet again there.”




The August day was hot and it was muggy. The kind of day that made Li Su irritable. It did not make things easier that the government affairs building was sparsely air conditioned; if it were not for the tall ceilings, towering windows, and the long blades of ceiling fans it might become inhospitable in Nanjing's late summer atmosphere. For all the luxury and comfort that came to government buildings the room could easily feel no better than a peasant's lodgings if it did not have these amenities. But for Li Su this did not matter. He simply did not care about the details of engineering and architecture. All that he knew that in weather like this, and a base mood such as his own, that the heat and humidity acted on his stomach and made his indigestion worse. He satisfied himself with a cold glass of water. Condensation was heavy already on the glass and the iced pitcher and was pooling heavy and thick on the dark gloss enamel of the table. He settled uncomfortably in the chair, affected by the sweat that adhered his shirt to his back. A breeze blew in through the windows, carrying with it the sound of birds and cicada song. It was caught in the draft of the fan and blown down on the old general mixing the smell of the gardens of the presidential palace and the tree pollen thick in the air. He lifted a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed dryly. His nose was plugged thick. His throat itched and his eyes were dry.

Elsewhere in the room a bustle of government ministers moved to their chairs. They were the last to enter. It was Li Su and his old comrades in the military that had the good sense and nature to arrive on time, which was five minutes early. The old man Xiu Lu looked at him and bowed slightly. He was followed by Soong, who looked natural and smooth in a trim cut gray suit open to reveal a steel blue vest and red handkerchief folded neatly in the pocket and there was Robert Cao, the Hong Kong Cantonese looking comfortable in this weather, looking like he was cold even.

Following them were the other ministers who could attend the proceedings today. Minister of the Interior Ken Su, stocky and Christ-like in his patience and also his own faith, he wore large aviator-frame styled glasses. The Minister of Justice, Weng Tsai wearing a receding hairline as a crown and unassuming otherwise. And there was Xiu Lu's partner in government, the fat Confucian in the Council of Overseas Community Affairs Lee Wu. Li Rui, the minister of the interior with a bulldog face was accompanied by Tsai Guo the minister of education, a hawkish man with the dull eyes of a lamb. The minister of justice, Xu Zi staggered in next, his hair perpetually disheveled. Then was the bulbous headed H. H. Kung, TV Soong's brother in law and minister of economic affairs, who in conjunction with his brother unofficially shared the portfolio of the minister of finance. Last was Wang Hu, who always smiled and headed the ministry of social affairs.

The men took their positions with the commanders of the military. General Hsu Wen of the Army, whose towering presence stood him out from a crowd and his graying air making him a silver general among the ranks, by his side was personal lieutenant, the long and pointy Liu Siàu Tha̍t, who managed to get away in his career with a long salt and pepper beard. He watched the room with a hawkish expression, from under bushy eyebrows that hung low from their own weight.

In a white uniform was Zhao Liu, the admiral of the navy. Bright and sun tanned and with a piercing gaze. His mouth curled in a permanent snarled frown as he sat next to general Fan Hou of the air force, thick as a brick and built like a fortress.

And there was finally the pale and wiry spy master for the Qíngbào jú, the state Intelligence Bureau. He sat leaning to the side in his chair, smoking a cigarette, pack open in front of him. Cigarette stained fingers twirling a pen between his fingers. Chuang Yu.

As the men took their seats Li Su cleared his throat and took a drink of water. Grumbling for a bit he half rose from his chair, “You could have been more late.” he began, rising more, “But now we can start. I have to initiate this meeting of the Executive Yuan because some important material has come to my attention. As I was assured by TV Soong, a meeting of the minds of the Yuan was the best course. So we should just begin.”

He coughed again as he got back into his chair, “Recently according to news from Mexico, operations have begun by the Mexican military in the British territory of Belize. I've been informed by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that for some years before the Mexican and Japanese government have been fostering a partnership between either government. Recently before this invasion the Japanese embassy met with the Mexican government and I'm told that this may have been the origin of the invasion of Belize. Xiu Lu, do you care to fill us in?”

Xiu Lu, the elder statesmen nodded his head and leaned over the table, “Yes, it's important to realize the world of diplomacy is a pretty close knit world. Anyone in any posting anywhere will eventually know all of his peers, as their under secretaries will no doubt form their own casual friendships. So it came to the attention of my ministry that the Japanese have been working closely with the Mexican government have had many counselors and their diplomatic envoys become close to the Mexican government. It is a relationship that never became sufficiently public but the two nations had been enjoying the company of one another more and more over time this past year or two. Our surrogates in Mexico City have repeatedly noticed not just Japanese diplomatic liaisons in the company of Mexican officials at formal and informal events but have helped us and the intelligence bureau to identify military meetings between the two. Earlier this summer these events culminated in an official meeting at the Presidential Palace. While no one in the public has been privy to any official information from the government, the rumors in the Federal District of the capital is that this was a correspondence between the Japanese military and the Mexican president himself. And now, over a month later it has culminated in the public invasion of Belize by Mexican troops.

“Our military friends may be able to give a tactical assessment of the situation at large but war is only an army of diplomacy and it's a move I believe intends to distract the British from events in Asia and spread them to a second front in the Americas.”

“Hsu Wen, is this something you agree with?” asked Li Su.

The commander nodded, “It'd make sense from a strategic point of view. The Japanese war in the South China Sea has been at an uneasy stalemate for some time and it is not hard to believe that they would seek out a way to tip the balance. With the British high command having to look to a second continent they would have to re-prioritize their forces. How effective the maneuver is on the part of Japan is though is up to the willingness of the British to accept their loses in the Caribbean, if it is all that valuable to them. But I can not see their pride letting it go without trying to contest it. Still, it would become an island hopping campaign by Mexico, and I don't think they have the material for it.”

“My department in the military has never had the confidence in the Mexicans as being able to be a naval based power, I agree.” Zhao Lu concurred, “At best they are a capable land force. They may try, but it would put blood in the water. I can't help but see the Americans coming in to take a bite with the region disturbed, sharks as they are. A destabilization of the region could negate the effectiveness of Mexico as a strategic ally in the region since the fighting would draw aside the British less and attract the Americans more. If this devolves into a broader conflict and inflame their hostilities. The American presence in the Philippines would absolutely threaten the tenuous stability of the war in Indonesia. With it: a full collapse of the South China Sea and a threat to our national economy.”

Before Li Su could invite further comment TV Soong agreed: “We move billions of Yuan in commodities and raw material through the South China Sea and through Indonesia and passed Malaysia. Any escalation of the war will threaten that, if I may remind you, Mr. President.”

“I don't need reminding.” said Li Su, “It's what I'm afraid of.”

“We can hope that the region complicates itself before this all happens.” Zhao Lu continued, “The uprising in the Dominican Republic, as doubtlessly America as it may be could be watched as a factor that changes the entire war. If they were to become a powerful entity of their own, could not be an American asset, and seized on the opportunity to pick off the British crown holdings in the West Indies it may stay the hand of Washington in intervening directly, replace the British entirely, and maybe even curb any intent by Mexico to expand in the region and limit an escalation between they and America and the Americans thus keep neutral in Asia and things continue as-is. We can preserve the stability of the South China Sea, as threatened as it is and keep the trade moving.”

Li Su nodded, and ran his fingers through his long beard, “I do not think we can push ourselves that far, however.”

TV Soong asked: “Do we have any reach in the diaspora that far?” he asked, looking to Lee Wu.

The sagely commissioner of the overseas Chinese thought for a moment, “Our strongest presence in the diaspora would be in Mexico or Cuba. How do you think they would be used?”

“Could we not use them?”

“The consulates in Mexicali have extensive contacts with the Tong of the overseas Chinese in mainland China, more so after the political turns in America made it hostile to be Chinese in America. But I do not think the communities in north western Mexico can do anything for us in this case besides annoy the Mexican government.”

“General strikes by the Chinese community in Mexico may be our only ticket there.” said Chuang Yu of the Qíngbào jú, the Intelligence Bureau, “But at this time I am lacking information on Mexico. At least off hand. I would have to put out requests if I knew this was an option.”

“That move is too communist, I will not do it anyways.”

“It would besides spoil decades of work in Mexico to assure the security of the diaspora Chinese.” Xiu Lu added, “So I can not abide the move either. It would set us became thirty years. No, but Cuba?”

“How is Cuba going to impact the war in the Americas?” admiral Zhao Lu laughed, “They are hardly involved.”

“No, but could we use them as a contact into Hispaniola? To get in touch with the Dominican uprising? If they are you believe an American asset that could be swayed it could be tip the balance.” Xiu Lu proposed.

“It may perhaps, but you can just operate out of the embassies themselves, depending on how long the Dominican government has left in it.”

“Any cooperation in the Caribbean would be an open avenue for Chinese finance,” H. H. Kung interjected, “But the distance of the operation and us having to compete directly with American finance would be a battle I can't advise. In a future period we might be able to. But from a particularly economic point of view it's not a good use of Chinese resources. We should best leave the matters of the Americas to the Americans and let it be. If we have to, we can evacuate any nationals of the Chinese diaspora from the region in Mexico itself, or back home to America and mitigate the lives lost.

“President Li, if I may: the threats to Chinese national security and economic independence is much more at threat here in Asia than it is in the Americas. I think we should ignore the Americas all together for the time being and look at what we have to contend with here outside our front door.”

“I agree and launch a motion to disregard the Americas. All agree?”

All the men in the room raised their hands, some begrudgingly but it was a universal consensus that the Americas were not in their concern.

“Thank you, Mr Li.” Kung said with a deep breath, “If I may?”

“You may.” Li Su offered.

“If I may recall ourselves back to the matter of Japan and the South China Sea: any escalation in the war will lead to a direct threat of Chinese export and import from Europe and the Americas. While the Imperial Japanese Navy, the Royal Netherlands Navy, or the British Royal Navy may not pose direct threats to the Chinese mainland, the entire field of combat between each of them will involve our shipping lanes. And whether by policy of any power or accident, we stand to risk loosing significant capital and a tragedy of human lives should any freight carrier be sunk by main gun or submarine torpedo. The growth of our economy could suffer substantially, perhaps loosing half of our GDP growth if the South China Sea were to become destabilized. At worse we may lose the entire economic future of the nation. Our only other options being to move north along Russia and risk our economic prospect to Wokou off the Russian coast. It would be imperative to not only ensure the neutrality of Chinese navigation, but the waters themselves become absolutely defended and separate from the war.”

“We have no ability to police the South China Sea however.” Zhao Lu protested, “And besides: they are international waters.”

“They are, but does that mean the Straights of Taiwan remain in such a relationship? The situation as it is now: it may be worthwhile to make our move on removing the final malignant cancers of the Century of Humiliation and bring back Taiwan!”

“That involves direct war with Japan again!” Hsu Wen protested.

“Agreed” said Zhao Lu

“As much as I would love to prove we can bomb Formosa, I do not think the air force is capable of such an offensive duty at this time.” Fan Hou added.

“I understand, but Soong and I have been discussing this matter closely with Chuang Yu for some time. Do you care to explain the situation?”

Chuang Yu nodded, taking a drag from his cigarette and leaning forward. Rubbing at his sunken brow he began to explain, “For some time the Bureau has been seeking inroads into Taiwan and has made significant progress among the Chinese still on the island and the Yuanzhumin. We've managed to cultivate a wide network of contacts across Taiwan which we could use at any time to initiate unrest and even over throw the Japanese government, or make such a move. It'd be violent. Particularly bloody. But there is a common discontentment on the island. I am confident, very confident that the Japanese mainland is being sapped dry by the war and is starting to put more and more pressure on its colonies to provide the fighting force. The wars in Indonesia are not Taiwan's wars and the effect if being felt. Of course this means the Japanese have had to resort to an incremental change in how they rule Taiwan and this is starting to shift the perception of the Japanese as returning to the style of government of the island of the last century. We may not soon be at the level of massacres for minor insults. Hardly. But their secret police have been more and more breaking of the social gatherings of the people there. This has had the unintended consequence of making it difficult in recent years to maintain the network we have there, but we persist all the same.

“So in short: a move to break Taiwan from Japan and re-integrate it with our nation need not come from substantial or public involvement by our forces there. The Japanese will surely suspect it, but chance willing there will never be enough connection with our government to reignite war. It requires simply the provisioning of weapons and of aides and commanders to work off the books to organize the Taiwanese resistance to shed the Japanese.

“The broader implications, as you can imagine is easy: the removal of the island of Taiwan from the Japanese imperial archipelago means, will it means that the war can not come so close to mainland Asia. Possession of Taiwan ensures a staging ground for the air force, the navy to patrol the waters and enforce strict neutrality.

“Between us and the Americans, the Japanese navy will have to navigate territorial waters not under their control and unless they want to start new fronts, if they want us to invade Korea, they will have to re-evaluate the war in South East Asia. This may cripple Japanese imperial ambition. The broader domino effect is Indonesia, Borneo, and so on having become alienated with their European masters and being quickly freed of another imperial master even shed the Dutch and the British from Asia for good. The Republican sun can rise!”

“And this is a viable option?”

“Yes.” said Yu, “I have a dossier prepared and I would have shortly announced it to the Executive soon. The moment now has just been opportune. I will have copies distributed to the ministries and the military command if you will it.”

“Please do, I want to see it as soon as possible.”

Chuang Yu gave a yellow smile and said, “And so it shall. Thank you, Mr Li.”

“If there is any chance it will send Japan into terminal decline, I would like to see to a evaluation of an invasion of Korea, if that is fine with you.” Hsu Wen offered.

“Very well. Go ahead.” said Li Su, drinking water, “Are we settled on this? Calling for a vote.”

A majority voted in favor: to initiate operations in Taiwan. “Very well,” Li Su responded, “Our next matter concerns Tibet.”

“Before we begin on that, I know a promising individual I would like to discuss when it comes to Tibet. I know command priority is elsewhere but on this I would like to propose a potential supreme commander for operations against Tibet. He's worked with me closely during the War with Japan, personally. If we may?” asked Hsu Wen.

“We may...” said Li Su.



The visit in the museum and the time spent with the professor Shao had given Yu some things to think about as he prepared to spend a night in Xi'an. It was mid August, and the evening air was hot and dry. Shao had given him a few extra slips of money and advised him on a youth hostel in the south of the city. He would go there later. For now he sat at a wooden food cart in the court yard one of the ancient stone gates of old Xi'an. In the sheltered space, the tall stone parapets blocked out the sound of traffic within and without the ancient walls. Under the faint amber glow of flickering electric street lights he ate from a cheap soup bowl, slurping down the thick cold wide noddles provided by the vendor. Several other men had joined him at the cart, which accommodated them with bar seating as their cook prepared drinks and a meal in front of them. Overhead the sky was cast in a thick mandarin orange glow. Cicadas sang in the shadows. The occasional rickshaw rolled through the court yard which they sat, their wheels clattering over the rugged stone work. There was a sense of peace in their isolated enclave. Closing his eyes Yu could almost fool himself that he was back at home at the small open cafe at the old village. But the dream would have to end. He'd awaken back in the world of the real, and he'd be at a push wagon eating local noodles.

Their cook for the evening was an old Hui man. Heavy wrinkles adorned his face and his loose wispy hair fell about his face from under his stained white skull cap. The lose silken strands falling to meet with his equally white beard that rose and twisted in every direction. Atop his shoulders and framed by the air light curled hairs, his entire face appeared to be emergent from a ghostly column of mist, his body clothed in white cotton stained by the glow of the evening sun.

At the cart besides Yu sat two men. The younger, a middle aged man in a single peace working man's jumper had closely shaven hair. The other, older, more middle aged with salted pepper black hair and a tired expression face sat across the shaven from Yu.

A dusty old radio stood next to them, which connected with a equally worn down electrical cable was wired into one of the street lights in the gate-house court. It looked to be a hack job, shoddily sewn in without a proper outlet. But it did not concern Yu. He did not recognize it. He rarely knew electricity. Besides, what little he had grown up with was the domain of the landlord, and the aforementioned fantasy cafe now in the distant dream of home. To him it was all magic, a magic that glowed in the modernist fantasy of the cities of China, of the new places he had seen. He still hoped to see Nanjing yet. Somewhere there he believed there would be even more mystifying things to dazzle and mystify his peasant mind. Everything else was beginning to become mundane.

“Ma Mao, please. Turn of the radio. I don't want to listen to the news!” the salted haired man said in a whining Shaanxi accent.

“No, leave it.” said the shaven man, “I haven't had time to read the papers.” he turned to the Hui and said jokingly, “This is the least you could do for me for free.”

“There is never anything good in the news.” salt haired complained.

“There is if you listen well enough!”

“I am happy to do either if the two of you come to agreement.” Ma Mao, the operator said to either, “So make up your minds. A drink?”

“If you would be so kind.” salt haired said, holding out an empty glass. The operator poured beer into it. “But listen, we are a republic are we not? So what does our guest think?” salt haired asked, sipping his glass.

Yu looked up. He had only been half paying attention. This was not his city, these were not his people. To be asked what he thought felt strange. The last he wanted to do was to impose, and now he was being asked to impose. He hesitated to answer, which annoyed salt hair. Buckling, Yu made his answer, “leave it on.” he said rushed and immediately turned away to hide his face. Shaved head laughed.

The radio meanwhile, finished the chime that heralded in its news. Through crackling speakers and tough breaking pops the headlines of the day were read out through a thick accent unfamiliar to Yu, “Shaanxi Inquirer News on the Radio. The time is 20:02 and I am Wang Runze for tonight. The headlines of the day are:”

“I hate him so much.” salt haired complained. Shaved head laughed.

“Prominent Shidaiqu performer Ying-Yin Li has been arrested today on assault charges against his wife Bai Wu. The Shanghai police arrived at his townhouse on Xueye Road in the affluent South Zhoujia district. Bai Wu, who announced following the arrest the couple had been trying to negotiate a divorce. Ying-Yin Li, who had finished a concert hall tour last July did not make a comment, nor as any attorneys affiliated with him.

“In Southern Gansu, a raid by Tibetan militants was repelled by National Republican Soldiers south of the town of Yushu. An army spokesperson said of the attack, 'If these hostilities continue, we will be forced to escalate'. The government of Tibet has not made a comment pertaining to the event. One soldier was injured in the fire-fight. Yushu is a location along the of the Dzungar-Chengdu pipeline and is two-hundred kilometers from the closest Tibetan city of Chamdo.”

“From Urumqi, an agreement was announced between the semi-state run Western China Railway Development, Planning, and Design Company and the state-operated Kazakhstan Rail Authority to extend the West China Rail #3 to Karagandy. The move is celebrated by either side, who see the agreement as a step to official recognition of the break away Republic of Kazakhstan and a development to the Kazakh economy. Government departments are optimistic saying the agreement will be a happy benefit to Chinese manufacturing by opening a new market to Kazakhstan and a promotion of friendship between the two nations.

“A lost hiker, who had been missing in the Shunan Bamboo Forest for two and a half weeks has been found alive today. Loo Bai, 28 traveled to the parkland on a solo adventure earlier this summer. But when she failed to arrive home a search was commenced to look for her. Although famished, doctors say she is otherwise in decent health.”

“See, it is not always bad.” the middle man said with a smile.

“And why would it interest you?” the other said.

“Why would it not? It's interesting.”

“Those are the national headlines.” Wang Runze announced. “Here are the international headlines:

“Continued violence in Ukraine as a battle erupts in the west between Polish backed groups and Ukrainian national forces. Fighting as reported from the front is predominately focused in Korosten, approximately fifty kilometers from the border with the People's Republic of United Workers and hundred-twenty kilometers from Kyiv, the largest city in Ukraine. The battle is part of the ongoing hostilities between the Polish-led PUL government and the government of Ukraine. Speaking on behalf of the president, Xiu Lu commented to Central Daily News saying: 'The Republic of course condemns the acts of aggression committed by the PUL in Ukraine. It is the right of the Ukrainian people to peaceful self-determination without the threat of war from their aggressive neighbors. The stance of this government is staunch protest.'

“The war in Ukraine is matched by broiling conflict elsewhere in the war, including a revolution ongoing in Dominica. The government has released cables reporting that the revolutionary force active in the north of the country has carried out acts of cannibalism. However the reports are unfounded and the national intelligence community is skeptical as to the veracity of the claims. Needless to say, violence has spread through the northern half of the country and the predictions are poor for the local government, which has long been accused of answering directly to Washington DC. Regardless, US response to the situation has been slow if not absent. Comments from the Americans In China Association as represented by Samuel H. Thorne have said that, 'this may be evidence of direct US interference in Dominica. That the government has not been to the liking of the US administration and it has to discipline the country. This is of course, if true, a sign of America's despotic rule of the Caribbean.'

“Though not an integrated territory of the United States, much of the impoverish Caribbean island answers to the beck and call of the United States, which has long engaged in programs of state management of the numerous island countries of the region and local governments especially as European power retreats. This is per a long history of intervention in Central and South America, which while slipping has not entirely retreated. 'This could be a consolidation of remaining power' Thorne elaborated to Central News Agency.

“The invasion comes at the same time as the British territory of Belize announcing Mexican troops having entered and occupied its frontier. As the military intervention is new, little is known about the campaign and London via Reuters has not yet provided comment to the public press. It is expected in due time a response from London will be made known.”

“The world is going into disorder.” silver hair announced depressed. Leaning over the counter he looked down to Yu adding, “I pray that you have your affairs in order young man, least you get caught up in all of this.”

Yu had nothing to say, holding in his breast the feeling of dawning grim certitude this is what would come to happen with him.

“The culmination of the two separate conflicts in North America could well represent the beginning of a conflagration in North America with Mexico considering itself a rising power. The Caribbean may become a lake of fire in the coming future, as one international affairs correspondent with the Central News Agency remarked in morning broadcasts. But it is a matter of time will tell.”