[IC] Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

[Byrd Man]

Vancouver

"Everybody get on the fucking ground!"

The mid-afternoon silence at the First Federal Bank shattered when the three gunmen rushed through the door, the robber in the lead shouting through a bandanna covered face. To his right a small man wearing a baseball cap, a black bandanna, and sunglasses carried a shotgun and fired it into the air. The half dozen people queued in the three teller lines yelled in shock. The masked man in the middle waved a pistol in the air as he approached the customers and the teller window.

"This is a fucking robbery, everyone acts cool and nobody gets hurt. Now, get on the fucking ground!"

The short man with the shotgun kept it on the bank patrons as they sprawled on the marble floor. The leader and the third gunman, a man with a sawed-off shotgun and a satchel around his shoulder, leaped over the teller's desk and the small glass partition separating them from the lobby. While the pistol-packing robber rounded up the teller's and got them on the floor, the robber with the satchel quickly rushed into the bank vault behind the teller's desks. The large vault's stainless steel door gleamed in the florescent lights that hung overhead. The masked robber reached into his satchel and coupled a device to the vault's lock. The mess of motherboard and wires were connected to a small quantity of plastic explosives. With gloved hands, the robber connected the device and ran out the room.

A violent explosion that rattled the bank followed a few seconds later. The shaking of the foundation wouldn't go unnoticed in the area. The three bankrobbers shared looks before the satchel man rushed back inside. The bomb had destroyed the locking mechanism of the vault, allowing him to turn the wheel that opened it with ease. Inside his satchel, he pulled three folded up canvas gym bags and went inside the vault. A minute later, he was out with the three bags and his satchel loaded down with American Greenbacks. Thirty seconds after that, the three bankrobbers were running out the door to a waiting car double-parked outside the bank. They jumped in and the masked driver sped off just as the distant sounds of sirens became audible.

"Fuck yes!" Alex cried from the front passenger as he took off his mask. "We did it!"

Arthur and Joanna took their masks off and looked at each other, beaming and high on adrenaline. From the front seat, Alex looked through the gym bag he had and counted off stacks of twenty, fifty, and one hundred dollar bills. He lost count after ten thousand and had to start over again.

Natchez, Mississippi

"It's been a long time coming," the protesters sang in harmony with each other. "But we know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will."

There were twenty of them in all. Twenty black men and women dressed in their Sunday best, standing in front of the Adams County courthouse singing and carrying signs that read things like "Time for a Change" and "Jim Crow has Got to Go." They sweltered under the intense Mississippi sun, but they stayed steadfast and determined to protest. Today marked their fifth day occupying the courthouse's front lawn.

From across the street, James Calhoun watched from underneath the shade of a tree. He took a break from farm work to come down and watch. His daughter, Sarah, was among those protesting. She occasionally glanced over in his direction while he watched. James could see the disappointment in her face each time she looked his way. Sarah hadn't spoken to him since they started the protests here. She didn't say it, but she expected him to join in since his voting registration rejection is what started the whole mess.

Sarah was passionate, but she was young. She didn't realize all that their family had to lose. The man who owned the mortgage to their farm was white, as was the man who ran the feed and seed store in town that James had to buy his farming supplies from. It was good and all to take a stand... but he could not risk all he had for something so silly as... as... what, exactly? The right to vote, the right to actually go into a bathroom that wasn't just a shit bucket next to a water hose? The right to be treated like a person? Was that worth giving up all he had?

Sirens filled the air. A pair of Natchez PD cars drove up the street and stopped in front of the courthouse. James balled his hands up when he saw the four police officers get out of the cars. This was the fifth day of the protest, but not the first run in with the local law. The twenty left to protest had started out as forty, those numbers had been whittled down every day by the Natchez police that drug off as many of the protesters as they could, throwing them in the jail overnight for "disturbing the peace." Sarah herself had been arrested on the second day, James and Whitney raced to the jail to get her out only to be met by the Ethiopian who said her bail had been paid by sympathetic people with money. James didn't know what to make of that, but he accepted it and tried to talk some sense in Sarah, but she ignored him and was right back here.

"Alright, y'all know the drill," Wilbur Graves, the fat and elderly chief of police announced to the group. "I know y'all ain't bright people, but I figured you'd goddamn learn by now."

"I go to the movies and I go downtown," they kept singing in defiance. "Somebody keep telling me don't hang around. It's been a long time coming, but a change gonna come."

Isaiah Wolde, the man they called the Ethiopian, came to the forefront and stared at the police chief through his glasses.

"I tell you once more that this is a peaceful protest, chief. We have committed no crime, and this right of peaceful assembly is part of our constitutional rights."

Graves hawked and spat on the grass in front of Wolde's feet.

"That's what I think of that, boy. Now, round 'em up!"

The police went to work, arresting the protesters. For their part, the men and women quietly went along with the police, singing still as they went.

"It's been a long time coming, but a change is gonna come."

James tensed up when he saw one of the young police officers accost Sarah. She was led to a police car and frisked. James felt his blood starting to boil when he saw the man getting too familiar with his daughter. From across the street, he saw Wolde's eyes lock with his while the singing continued.

Then I go to my brother, and I say brother help me please. But he winds up knocking me back down on my knees."

In a sudden rush, James found himself across the street and knocking the police officer away from Sarah. She yelled while confusion broke out in the crowd. The man he pushed snarled at him and produced a billy club. The bat pulled the air from James' lungs when it struck him in the chest. He spat blood when it hit him in the mouth, and fell to the ground when the club took out his knees.

"But I know a change is gonna come," was the last thing he heard before the club connected with his head and knocked him unconscious.

[Letter Bee]

Two Weeks Later

Carlos Cortez had won the elections, but he knew full well that that was when the hard work shall begin; transforming a centrally planned economy into a semi-free market one would not be easy. But, he already developed an idea for the countryside: a system of contract responsibility during which farmers would be allowed to work their piece of land for profit in exchange for deliviering a fixed, small percentage of their goods to the collective. Not merely that, but free farmer's markets would be set up in the cities, allowing the farming families to sell their produce. Not merely that, but several families will now be allowed to devote their efforts to producing a scarce commodity or service on a profit-making basis.

Not merely that, but special microfinance programs will be set up in order to allow and encourage farmers to set up additional enterprises, while in the cities, cheap books of vouchers, each representing a portion of shares in the state-owned enterprises of Tabaclera and San Miguel, would be sold or freely given to the civilian populace. Of course, it'll take months to set up that policy's implementation, but that can wait. At the same time, however, Government control of the Mining Industry must be strengthened, and, while Shipping would also be partly privatized, Government must maintain at least a 50% share. Even then, the State-owned units would only give part of their profits to the administration, while reserving most of the money for themselves...and the workers.

Independent cobblers, tailors, tinkers, and vendors used to be a sight in the cities, and, quite frankly, they would be a sight again here, if Carlos can help it. Of course, he mused, he would also have to give the new enterprises the right to hire and fire, while at the same time making sure that corruption in the unemployment benefits system was clamped down upon; some people would say that such corruption proved that unemployment benefits were bad as a whole, but Carlos knew better: all large organizations, including social services, were prone to corruption, and social services should not be singled out for attacks because of things that happen to all large departments. Anyway, enough editorializing, time for more work.

In the cultural sphere, would be plans for the creation of a Cultural Centre of the Philippines, built on a Western Model influenced by Native designs, as well as two new Churches, the Cathedral Filipinas for the Catholic Majority, and a smaller structure for the small, but growing Iglesia Filipina Independente minority, the Cathedral of Our Lady of Balintawak. Carlos himself was a lapsed Catholic with IFI sympathies, and while he disagreed with many, many, of the tenets of 'mainstream' Christianity, he saw the religious past of the country, the Hispanic Church that was Filipinized by the people it was supposed to convert, as a strength. The Philippines was both East and West, and was beautiful because of it; the past regime had failed to implement Houist policies of cultural protection well; he was going to break the trend.

And, finally, the cause most dear to him: the decoupling of the state from issues of Mental Health. This was the most controversial, but when asked why he took such a position, all Carlos would say, to anyone, was:

"I had a sister. She was autistic. She died in a facility." Three curt sentences that were enough to silence anyone who challenged him on that. Of course, when asked the opposite, why he supported state healthcare despite the tragedy that had befallen his family, he would say.

"I had penumonia. The state hospitals saved my life." More curt sentences, a far cry away from his impassioned oratory, but still effective in swaying people. It was clear that, as regards matters involving his family and himself, Carlos Cortes was a recitent, even snappish, man.

[Rare]

Budapest, Hungary

The sounds of the daily rush hour traffic crossing the Széchenyi lánchíd (Chain Bridge) were usually loud from Adél Bak. She was listening to what her advisory and assistant, András Barabás, "President, General Olivér Erik along with Department of Defense, Fábián Richárd, and Department of Security, Fülöp Gabriella, are waiting from you in The Red Salon. They are awaiting from word on what to do with current events that unfolded.". Adél, confused as why they would want to talk in The Red Salon, said, "This must be serious enough from me to call me over there. Especially in The Red Salon.". "Agree." said András with a serious tone and waited until they were at Sándor Palace. The President wanted to keep on talking about this 'meeting' in The Red Salon, "They must want me to be impress by their plan to be meeting in The Red Salon.". "President, what did you say?" said the advisory as he was caught off guard by her voice. "I said that they must want to be impress me by meeting in the Red Salon." said the President once more as she kept going, "The Red Salon is useful from foreigners, making friendships, and many other things. The country put more money onto the room than any other place besides all of the Salons and the other important rooms to improve relations.". "I don't get what you mean, President." said András with the confused look as the car stopped and the door opened on the President's side. "Maybe another time, advisory." said Adél as she exited the car and walked towards the doors of her palace. The doors of the palace were opened by the Sentries as the President thank them. Adél walked towards the salon as if she had been living there from her life, which she visited the palace during the summer time tour. She opened the door as the General Olivér and Fábián were sitting in the biedermeier chairs, "President Bak, it's nice to finally meet you." said Olivér. "Come on and sit down." Fábián said, showing the chair in between them with the palm of his hand, "You must be tired after the long drive.". Adél walked towards the chair and sat down as she began to say, "What is this 'meeting' about?". Her thoughts were busy with questions, what are they doing here? Why do they want to see her before the first meeting? Why are we here at the Salon? "Me and Fábián were just talking about how the country's military and defenses are doing, since the failed attempt to take Ukraine." said Olivér with a tone like a calm yet demanding tone. "Yes, the country is doing well as it was ten years ago, but we are short of friends.". Adél was trying to make sense of the whole things, but couldn't get the final piece. The President began to spoke up until another advisory to her opened the door as she walked over to Adél. She had no idea on who this advisory was, but she whisper into Adél's ear and she whisper back to her. She stool up and faced towards the guys, still sitting in the chairs, and said, "I just got some important news, please meet us in the conference room as soon as you can." The President left the salon along with her advisory and then they stool up as they began to walk slowly towards the conference room. "Think she got the news?" said Fábián and then Olivér grinned, "I bet that she did. I hope she makes a good first choice.". Thirty minutes later... Everyone that was important to the President, the Vice President, and the country were all at the conference room. Everyone was sitting and talking to each other from serious matters to which pen was theirs until the Vice President, Jóljárt Bogdán, walked in the room. There everyone stool up and one of them, Csaba Pázmán (Department of the Treasury), said, "Good evening, Vice President. Where is the President?". "Here I am" said Adél as she and Jóljárt made their way to their seats and sat down (the President being the first person to sit, then anyone else.). The President began the evening with a speech, "Good evening to you all. We are here tonight to talk in private about our country and world events. I hope that you all will get something to say during the meeting, as we will be covering most of the issues of the country and the world events tonight. Shall we began with some news from Spain and Ethiopia?" They await the news as she said, "War is going to happen within Africa between Spain and Ethiopia, do you all have to thoughts about the news?" They all took a moment to take in the news and come up with what side to take and what does Hungary do in the mess of this war. It was until the silent was broken by the Department of Health and Human Services, Özséb Alexandra, as she said, "We can't go to war, the hospitals aren't train and ready to handle wounds, like that of the war ten years ago". Fábián said, "Our anti-air guns can handle any air attacks coming from either side, we just have to worry about the bombers. Otherwise, I think that we can join this war.". "What if the countries around us decided that attacking us now is the best idea?" said Department of Agriculture, Péter Benedek with an angry tone, "Then, the farms are bombed and the factories are turned into dust.". Olivér sighed at Benedek's 'mini speech' as he said, "No other country is dumb enough to attack us.". "We did." said Özséb as he kept going, "We did and we failed by a counter attack, that ashamed-". "Don't you dare say anything about him." said Olivér as he was ready to attack the man; but the President made such that wasn't going to happen. She said, "We need to force on the matter at hand. What side to take, which we will make until more countries react.". Some of the people in the room smiled, while others were upset with the holding off the decision. "You're the President. You must make it now." said Olivér as he hit the table with his hands. "I am the President. I get to do what I want." Adél said as she stool up and said, "We all need a break to calm down and breath. Does a fifteen minute break sound good?". All of them shook their heads and then she said, "Alright, a fifteen minute break shall start now.". She exited the room to use the bathroom as the other began to leave the heated up room to do their own things. Olivér shook his head as the President's choice was to hold off this great moment to be more friendly with Spain and her allies in the war. He then walked up to Fábián and said, "We need to talk, bring anyone that agree with us.".

[Byrd Man]

Mexico City “This is what happens when people don’t fucking listen to advice,” Secretary of State Lillian Mather growled into the speakerphone. On the other end of the line was the White House. Gathered around the phone were President Norman, Vice President Reed, Secretary of Defense Dalton, and White House chief of staff Rob Brewer. Lillian and her staff were on day three of a weeklong trip in Mexico, easing tensions with the Mexican socialist government and soothing their displeasure at the US’s pivot back towards a conservative government. Now she paced around her hotel suite and smoked while she reread the diplomatic cable Sotelo wired to the White House. The fact that Sotelo bypassed the usual diplomatic channels was reason enough for Lillian to be irked, but the fact that this mess was avoidable was ten times worse. “Madam Secretary,” said the president. “First off, that language is unbecoming. Second, my remarks on Ethiopia were reviewed by you and you gave the go ahead.” “You left in the one part I said to remove. The colonialist aggression comment, Mr. President, was way too harsh. Rhetoric like that may work in the military, but in diplomacy you need a much softer touch.” “Duly noted,” Norman said in a dry tone. “Regardless of what we say here, the American people were in favor of it,” Brewer said emphatically. “Recent polling data shows that they loved the speech. They still remember how Spain ran over us in the last war, they want to see us stand tough against them.” Lillian stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and fumed. Brewer was the numbers nerd and fed the president’s constant need for data. Diplomacy was not a science, it wasn't something that could be put in a little box in a spreadsheet and put into a fucking histogram. “Words are one thing,” said Dalton. “But they don’t mean anything without something to back up. That’s what Roosevelt meant by the big stick. If you will pardon my paraphrasing that saying but: military talks, bullshit walks.” “Where are we overall with the military, Mr. Secretary?” Reed asked. “We are a lot stronger than we were in the last war, but we’re still in the upper echelon of the also-rans of the world. If Spain tried something they’d see that we’re sure as hell not the same country they fought, but we aren’t China by any means.” “That was why we need China in our corner,” Lillian said after lighting up another cigarette. “Bismarckian Diplomacy 101: Be prepared to back your shit talking up. If this is a world where there are three world powers, at most, you need at least your side if you’re going to pull something like this, and Ethiopia has been cool to us at best.” “Are you done?” Norman asked. “I’m not hearing a solution in all this. From the way I’m hearing complaints I thought for a minute you two were part of the GOP, crucifying me up on the Hill.” “You picked all of us for a reason, Mr. President,” said Reed. “We know what we’re talking about.” “If you wanted ass kissers, you should have stayed in the army,” Lillian grunted before changing gears. “The simplest answer is there is no clear solution to this. Backing down makes us look weak, something I know you do not want us to been seen as. Ignoring Spain could risk conflict. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” “On the flip side,” said Dalton. “I don’t think Spain can commit a major military force to fight us and continue with their full-on assault into Ethiopia at the same time. They can still send a sizable naval force to give us an asskicking, but I don't foresee any major ground troops if it gets to that. They've got control of the Suez now, and operations in Africa are moving inland. They need every boot they can get on the ground.” “Don't forget about the spin,” said Reed. “Spain attacks the US for providing food to starving Africans. They can classify it as war supplies all they like; we still come out looking good. I’ll level with you here, Mr. President; the American people do not give a damn about the people from Africa, but the enemy of my enemy and all that shit.” “We’ll move forward,” the president said after a long pause. “We will respectfully decline Spain’s proposal for a joint relief mission. We can argue that allowing Spain to monitor our relief effort can set up a problem similar to what they’re accusing us with repurposed humanitarian supplies going towards Spanish troops instead of the people who need it. I can step back and apologize for the harsh words, but I will not stand down for trying to help people in need. An expanded American global presence is what I campaigned on, and it’s something I honestly believe will lead to less foreign threats. I had to fight two wars on American soil as a soldier. I don’t want to see a third war while I’m commander in chief.” Then why the fuck are you dragging us into one? That was what Lillian wanted to say. Instead she exhaled a long cloud of smoke and placed her hand on the phone. “I’ll start working on an official response with my team. I say we work on a draft while you all work on one and we’ll piece the statement together from the two.” “Very good,” said Norman. “After this, Secretary Dalton and I will talk to the Joint Chiefs. I want the Navy to scrap that training exercise they had planned and go on high alert all down the Eastern Seaboard just in case. Madam Secretary, I will make sure this time to follow your advice.” “That’s all that I ask,” she sighed. “Goodbye, expect a cable in the next few hours.” She hung up the conference call and reclined backwards in her chair. Just a few months in office and this country was already on the verge of fucking war. That’s what happens when you elect a soldier boy as president. She should have ran for president, but that would have required the voters in America to get over their fear of a woman with power. Oh, well. There was always '88. Lillian finished off the last of her cigarette, stubbed it out, and hurried out the room to find her entourage. They had work to do. Atlantic Ocean Ninety Miles Southeast of Baltimore Captain Andrew Lopez stood on the bridge of the USS Rangerand looked out across the water. Ranger was the latest aircraft carrier launched by the Navy as part of its effort to beef up US military strength. She was named after the eighteen gun sloop John Paul Jones terrorized the Royal Navy with during the Revolutionary War. Top of the line, Ranger served as Admiral Boyce’s flagship in the ten ship large Third Carrier Taskforce. Lopez was technically commander of the ship, but since Boyce hoisted his three star flag here he called the shots. In the sixth months since entering service Ranger had stayed in the Northeast as a show of force to the Canadians. At the moment she was headed south towards Key West for training maneuvers with the rest of the Atlantic Fleet. After the choppy winter waters of the North Atlantic, the sailors aboard were anxious to kick off the summer in a warmer climate. Lopez was looking forward to some time in Florida as well. He was a fourth-generation Cuban American born in Florida and raised there before he joined the Navy. The last time he saw his home state was back during the war when he was part of a flotilla of destroyers that shelled a fort outside St. Petersburg into rubble. Lopez’s musings on Florida were quickly cut short when the bridge phone rang. “Lopez,” Admiral Boyce grumbled. “Admiral,” said Lopez. “Hate to do this to you boys, but we’ve got a change in plans. Atlantic Fleet Command just wired us new orders. We are to rendezvous with Sixth Taskforce north of New York with forthcoming orders once we’re there.” “What’s going on?” Lopez asked. The Sixth was part of the scheduled naval maneuvers as well. “No idea, Captain. Fleet Command giveth, Fleet Command taketh away. I’m sending Commander Brinkley up to the bridge with the coordinates for the rendezvous. I want the entire taskforce turned around and on the way within the hour.” Lopez acknowledged the admiral’s orders and hung up the phone. He sighed and looked over at the radioman on the bridge. “Sorry, Porter, but it looks like we won’t be hitting up South Beach. Open up the ship wide line so I can give the ship the bad news.” ---- Alfonso Grijalba Sotelo, Prime Minister of the Second Spanish Republic Mr. Prime Minister, Let me start off by giving thanks to you for your warm words of congratulations. I have received many letters of thanks since my election as president, but none so powerful as yours. It is my sincere hope to turn our country back into the once noble republic it was. Secondly, I apologize for the heated rhetoric I used in my address to Congress. The remarks delivered about Spain were improvised and said in the heat of the moment. I see Spain as a valuable figure in the continued rebirth of democratic ideals in this world. Finally, I regret to inform you that I must turn down your offer for joint humanitarian aid to Africa. Your concerns of civilian relief being co-opted by Ethiopian soldiers represents a major concern for this administration, but we see a potential scenario of Spanish forces commandeering our supplies for their own use. I instead offer assurances, assurances backed by readily available shipping manifests for those who wish to see it, that only food, medicine, and blankets will be sent to the civilian populace who will be in dire need of it as this war further escalates. It is my sincerest hope that this not escalate into hostilities between our two nations, that both our nations can act as beacons of hope and rationality in a world where both commodities are in short supply. Yours, Michael Norman, President of the United States of America

[Vilageidiotx]

Out to Sea past Cape Guardafui The Royal Flight had stuck to the sight of land for as long as it could, following the coastline over the jagged brown deserts sand-washed dunes of Somalia. This route was out of the way, a southerly detour on the path to their refuel stop in Persia, but sticking to the land provided them some security. Commercial and Private planes were nowhere to be seen over the Red Sea or the Gulf of Aden; the flights had been grounded for fear of the approaching Spanish fleet. Even the Air Force stayed clear, excepting a few reconnaissance flights or coastal patrols, as they rest of the Ethiopian fighters were kept running on their tarmacs to respond to the first sight of a Spanish landing. The speed in which the African Empire abandoned their home sea was disheartening, but it was inevitable. The Ethiopian Navy had been lost in their short war against the dying Ottoman Empire, and what remained couldn't pretend to put up a fight against the Spanish. Their remaining ships had been pulled into the Strait of Mandeb to hamper any Spanish naval actions beyond the Red Sea. Sticking to the continent might have been a futile gesture - the Spanish Air Force could have easily moved against targets in the airspace above land - but the pilots were betting on the probability that their enemy would hold back until they had a better understanding of African defenses. It meant that they did not see the Ocean until they reached the Cape of Guardafuii. Once past that point, after watching the sandstone lighthouse at the tip of the Cape fade into the arid haze behind them, ocean was all they would see. Azima sat silently. The low moan of the engine engulfed all other sounds and put her into a sort of trance. She sat near a window and watched the world pass by. It was mid-afternoon now, but the sky was darkened to a brooding grey by the weak rain storm that was passing across the sea. Big, fat raindrops smacked against the round porthole windows from time to time, but they were few and far between. Below them, the sea seemed calm. It went on forever in every direction, with layers of blue and turquoise clinging to the surface above the deep, dull black. The children hadn't cried or panicked like she feared they would. Tewodros had fallen asleep, and Olivier sat calmly and stared. The one-armed boy that Taytu had adopted sometimes worried Azima. He was a serious boy - a serious toddler - and that did not seem normal to her. Elani had not caused any noise either, but Azima could tell that her mother-in-law kept quiet out of feelings of fear rather than safety. She sat in her seat. At moments, her eyes darted back and forth across the room. She had spent most of her time fidgeting and mumbling, and If her attention ever stayed on anything for long, it was usually the priests and their holy cargo. The priests sat around the room-sized box that held the Ark. They kept their swords - curved steel shotels - on their laps at all times. They took their duties with deadly seriousness, but their pious stoicism seemed ridiculous to Azima. Their parents, and villages, and all of the individual churches and priesthoods and ancient monuments that had defined their entire lives were now threatened with invasion, but they didn't seem to care. All that mattered to them was this Ark that had carried on without them for thousands of years. The buzz of the radio caught Azima's attention. They would hear it occasionally - the jumbled sound of distant conversations. Conversations about the war, there could be no doubt. It was peaceful here, and that made it easy to forget that the continent they had just left was entering a war more horrible than any it had seen before. When she thought about the war, she could feel the discontent stir within her. She wanted to be there, armed and ready to defend her people. She might been a Queen now, but she had spent her early years as a warrior. It was the safety of her son that kept her on the retreat. Above all else, Tewodros came first. The radio buzzed again. She tried to make out words, but they were to make out over the sound of the engine. "Can you understand any of that?" she shouted up to the pilots. The plane was completely open, with its seats cramped up near the pilots so that there was enough open space for the Ark. "They were hailing some aircraft spotted near Farasan a while ago. Probably Spanish Reconnaissance." the Pilot replied, raising his voice to be heard over the loud drone of the engines. "Farasan?" "Near the Hejaz Yemen border" he replied. "They say they spotted them going fast across Yemeni airspace." "I wonder what the Yemeni will think of that." The pilot let out a laugh that, Azima thought, sounded like a clucking bird. "I don't think they have a choice. Not like the Yemeni have the ability to do anything. I don't think they have they even have fighters." "If they are going south, do you think they are coming for us?" she asked. "They can't catch us from that far away." the pilot replied. "We'll be in Persian airspace once we cross over Oman. The Persians have something they can fight back with. Spain won't want to bring them in to this." She sat back down, content. Oman was not that far away, she reckoned. Persia was the gateway to Asia, and beyond the ancient home of the Iranians was a world where Spain had no power. There was something almost heaven-like about East Asia as an idea. It was a place that meant safety for her, where there would be no existential threat hanging over their heads at all times. That the Chinese had managed to pull that off was frightening, and she wondered how much of the invisibility of the eastern communist bulwark was real and how much of it was smoke and mirrors. The priests began to mutter their prayers again. They had annoyed the pilot by choosing to sit on the floor near their Ark rather than in their seats. "Suit yourselves then" he had admonished them, "When you fall over and crush your skull, you'll have to hope that the Ark can cure your wounds." "It can." a priest had said. He had spoken with crystal clear resolution, and Azima had seen that the priest had got under his skin. She had never considered herself superstitious, but she had to admit that they prospect hidden Ark in the gold-lined wooden box made her paranoid. She tried to imagine what it might do if disturbed from its hiding. Kill? Maim? Damn? Melt their faces, or tear down the remainder of the already crumbling walls of Jericho? The more she thought about it, the sillier the thought seemed to be. "What is your name?" she asked the youngest priest, who had been looking around the cabin while his partners sat sagging and inert. This priest's eyes were defiant, and in some ways terrifying. Everywhere he looked, he looked ready to hand out a death sentence. "Paulos" the priest replied. He spoke with an overwhelming, resolute confidence. It struck her as insolent - she was his Queen, after all - but the royal niceties were starting to seem trite now that she was fleeing the land that had crowned her. "What will you be doing with the Ark once you have delivered it?" she asked. "We will protect it from the Heathens." he replied. "At all costs." "The heathens." Azima repeated. "The Chinese are our allies. You won't have to worry about them." "China is a country of atheists and pagans." he replied. "There will be many there who want to destroy the Tabot of God so to be blasphemous. We will be there to keep that from happening." Azima took a deep breath and reminded herself that they were the best thing they had to security at the moment. She knew they would have trouble when they arrived. Another message came over the radio. This one she heard clearer. "Flight 1989... be advised... over." That was their flight number, and they were being "advised". Azima leaned in to listen, imagining every possible horror that the coming war could spare them. She thought back to the unidentified planes seen speeding toward Yemen. "Say again?" the pilot responded. It felt like time had slowed down as they waited for a response. She began to stare into the speakers, their chipped black paint and rounded plastic mesh taking on the life of a dreaded messenger. "Flight 1989. This is... Bosaso. Be advised. We have... targets approaching your position. They are coming in at... speeds from due northwest. Over." "This is N-1989. We are not seeing any targets to our northwest. Are we looking at an intercept? Over." Azima looked out the window, squinting and scanning the rolling grey clouds painted across the horizon. She saw nothing. "Confirming intercept." Bosaso replied. "Targets moving at... estimate, eight hundred kilometres per hour... God... over" The look on the pilots face set Azima's heart diving into her stomach. He looked more than frightened. He had went pale, and he stared dumbstruck at the radio. His widened, and his mind seemed to wander away for a second. Azima looked around the cabin. She could see the priests, as alert as she was. They did not seem to fear. Elani must have sensed the tension that was building in the small plane, and she began to choke down quiet tears. Tewodros watched curiously, and Olivier sat next to him with an expression that gave nothing away. The Pilot finally replied. "Repeat that speed again, Bosaso." "Eight Hundred Kilometres. Confirmed. Over." Azima heard the pilot whisper. "Eight hundred." he rubbed his face. "That's impossible. I don't think I have been in an aircraft that could go half of that. We can't pretend to outrun... we're only going a quarter of that speed! Could it be... from space?" "From space?" Azima questioned. Did anybody have that sort of technology. She remembered how storytellers and junk-journalists shared stories about a second Great War being fought outside of the atmosphere. There had even been a novel that took this war to the moon, where battles played out in dusty trenches spanning the dark-pitted lunar seas. But they had always been, very clearly, a collection of silly fictions. "A meteorite." he clarified, "Or a comet... something they misread. No... But... No..." That made more sense. There had been talk of how Ethiopia could not compete with Spanish technology. When the war was discussed, the tech gap was always one of the first things cited as a problem facing the Africans in the fight to come. Even now, she could imagine Yaqob discussing ways to mitigate the enemy's advantage here. It was easy to completely intellectualize the gap - to consider it in such academic terms that it hardly seemed real. She had never realized what it truly meant. Not until now. The gap could mean more than a simple advantage - it could mean that there was no way for Africans to react. This was that scenario, and it was horrible to contemplate. There was no confirmation, but she knew in her heart that this was their enemy coming for them. Crafts of indeterminate ability with death's head painted on their wings. She looked north again , desperate for a glimpse. That was futile. If she saw it, what would she do? The pilot reacted. He jiggled with the frequency, then picked up the radio. "Mayday, mayday, mayday!" he said, clear and loud. "Enemy aircraft confirmed moving to intercept non-combatant aircraft. We are carrying refugees bound east. Targets estimated at speeds near eight hundred kilometres per hour. Repeat, targets estimated at speeds near eight hundred kilometres per hour. We are at coordinates 13.331066, 53.200498. Repeat, we are at coordinates 13.331066, 53.200498." "Buckle up." he shouted to his passengers. Azima complied, and hastily began to take care of the children and Elani. Nearby, the priests were starting to filter into their seats. "This is Bosaso, repeating the mayday at 13.331066, 53.200498. Enemy aircraft bearing down on confirmed Class 1 target. Repeat, Enemy aircraft bearing down on confirmed Class 1 target. All aircraft in the vicinity are on orders to scramble. Repeat message on emergency frequencies. Out." ""Mayday, mayday, mayday!" the pilot repeated his message to the radio. "Enemy aircraft confirmed moving to intercept non-combatant aircraft. We are carrying refugees bound east. Targets estimated at speeds near eight hundred kilometres per hour. Repeat, targets estimated at speeds near eight hundred kilometres per hour. We are at coordinates 13.331066, 53.200498. Repeat, we are at coordinates 13.331066, 53.200498." "Well then." he said to them. "Lets see if these guys have limitations." he abruptly pulled up, and the engine began to whine. She felt gravity pushing her into her seat, and the reality of what was going to happen here set in. They had no weapons, and their enemy was coming at them with an unheard of technology. Their only hope was the relics of the Ethiopian air force and, a foolish thing she couldn't help but think about, the ancient Relic-Weapon of the Jews sitting right behind them. She heard Elani began to shriek, and she held out her arm to comfort Tewodros. With her child's hand in hers, She looked out the window, into the smoke-colored clouds as they passed by the glass. When they came above the first layer of cloud, she looked out in to the distant north and, to her horror, she saw sunlight glint from the metallic surface of something moving very fast.

[Dinh AaronMk]

Chake Bay, Pemba The soft thunder of the waves lapping the shore set a low languid rhythm drumming under neath the rattle of a ceiling mounted fan. The cool ocean breeze blew in through the open windows, filling the office with a lingering sweet smell and subtle salty taste. A cup of tea sat on the corner of the table cooling in the ocean breeze. A cracked, hard-boiled egg floated in the tea broth alongside the wiry string of the tea bag. The pages of a small book turned along side. Dezhi Cao leaning over the pages and reading through the thin contents, studying the mild reports from home. A tickling sensation in the back of his mind batted him about, reminding him that on all accounts, being active at home wasn't much better than standing on the precipice of a war in Africa. A series of large pushes were under way in Russia, and the casualties on both sides were already mounting as the Republic dug in Omsk to hold back the Manchurian based army. He bit nervously as the side of his cheek, raising the cup of tea to his lip. The egg bobbed against his lip as he sipped the tepid water, the herbal bitterness and sweetness of the water bathing his tongue. He sighed deeply as he turned over to the next page, reaching into the cup for the egg. He put the porcelain tea cup down on the table, as he moved the saucer over. He did count a blessing though, the weather here was the most consistent he had the pleasure of experiencing. It was far better than Russia. The egg shell cracked between his fingers. He blindly peeled away the marbled ivory of the shell to produce the brown-stained egg underneath. Raising it to his lips he heard the door knock. “It's open.” he said, looking up. With a creek the solid-faced door groaned open. Sen Zhou stood in the door way, her face flat and tepid as if some weight bore down on her. Her gaze froze her superior mid-bite on the egg. “Communications wants to see you.” she said sternly, “Dao Cheng is also there.” “Cheng? Why'd our aircommander want to be there?” Cao asked, a nervous tensity wrapped through his chest. The tea-soaked egg hung limp between numbing fingers as a cold reality came to. “I'll explain on the way.” Zhou said coldly, “They both want you.” Cao licked his limps, his breath shuddered. He looked at the briefing report from home. With a low cold sigh he closed the pages and stood up, taking a bite from the egg. “Alright, what does he want?” “Communications just received a radio report from mainland Ethiopia.” Zhou said, stepping aside to let her commander through, “The Ethiopian military is abandoning the Suez, Spain has overtaken the defense there.” The two walked through the command building, their boots grinding along the carpeted wood floor of the main command post. Officers stepped aside, saluting Cao as he went. Zhou kept explaining, “Minutes ago we received a radio dispatch over the general military channels echoing through their military bases, through our partner bases we got word that Spain has dispatched what's believed to be several unidentified aircraft from the outlet of the Suez Canal into the Red Sea.” “Are your sure you're not concerned about recon flights?” Cao asked nervously, chewing indecisively on the tea egg. “Hardly.” Zhou sighed, “We heard the hostile aircraft are moving at speeds unknown to Ethiopian forces. There's not a lot of physical description of them, except they were caught heading over Hejaz before their engines died away.” Cao nodded. His breath felt cold in his chest and the typical tropical warmth of Pemba felt nonexistent as he shuddered under his uniform. “Do we know who made the first report?” “Not at all. I was just given a mild briefing before sent to get you.” said Zhou, stepping through the door to the sandy outside of the Chake Bay training base. In the yard soldiers trained by the unit tai chi and their martial arts. The meditative stances of their exercises seemingly blind to the conditions outside their base. The men stared listlessly into space ahead of them as they held out their palms. Their hands and arms craned about their head and shoulders, miming everything from cranes to tigers as they danced on their toes and heels in the African sun. “What does Dao Cheng expect to do?” Cao asked, watching his men and returning the stray salute as he followed his lieutenant around the side of the command structures. “I think he wants to intercept them, I don't know where but he seems like he has an idea. He already put word in to mobilize our pilots.” “I suppose that'll be the action they want.” he laughed nervously. “Dezhi Cao,” Zhou turned, standing beside the comm station's front door, “This is a serious matter. Don't flake.” she stared up at him with stern disapproving eyes, “Don't break like you almost did during the Turkish episode, especially around the Ethiopians. They hardly have the means to defend themselves against the Spanish. Not like the Turks.” The front door to comms groaned open as the spring tightened overhead. Cao followed his lieutenant into the air conditioned building. “Comrade Cao,” a young soldier said, standing up from his front desk. He brushed off his beige uniform as he snapped to salute, “Communications officer Yung Bao is looking for you.” “I heard.” the commander replied, “At ease comrade.” “Yes sir.” The two officers worked through to the heart of the comm station. The clicks and hum of radios buzzed in the air, filling it with a flurry of activity. Somewhere a muted radio sung prerecorded songs and news from China. Elsewhere excited chatter whispered through closed doors. Finally at the end of a narrow hallway they walked through an open door and into a room filled with an array of radio gear. Standing behind a young private the distinctive tall build of Yung Bao leaned over the central communications hub. A heavy arm wrapped around his chest as one held to his ear a headset. Alongside him in his distinctive dark-blue officer's coat stood Dao Cheng, he looked up as Cao entered the room, giving him a cold and silent nod. “CO's here.” he said in a low voice, stepping away from the console. He was a moleish sort of person with narrow beady eyes and a long blunted nose. His chin came to an almost curved point. In some strange ways, he almost came off as feminine in an unsettling way. Bao lowered the headset from his ear and turned. He was in strong contrast to the air-force officer. And quickly he stole dominance, “I've been hoping the Ethiopians have been reporting any updates on their boogies position and direction.” he said, “But so far it's been silent on their part. If they're talking about it, they're doing it on specific channels and not the broad national network.” “I hear Spanish airplanes have been seen. Zhou filled me in on the basic details.” Cao said, nodding to his lieutenant. He held back a nervous waiver in his tone of voice as he looked between the two. “Where's the situation headed?” “Well Azima lifted off from Addis just several minutes ago with a flight plan clear to Asia, that much we were able to obtain with our channels to the ambassador and the palace itself. They were heading up towards Socotra last update. “Just moments after we received reports the Spanish Armada had launched something. Airplanes we're guessing.” “Based on the pre-emptive reports on their speed I'm willing to guess jets.” Cheng said, his voice was deep and cold. “The Spanish have jets?” Cao asked, shocked. “Appears so. A lot of everyone in this world is pretty silent on a lot of things. To date we've only confirmed the US to be capable of producing jet technology.” Cheng nodded, “After the Russian Empire collapsed and after we launched our own program we believe the Russians may have started work, a few people in service to the Siberian Republic have thus far come forward to say something but we haven't found any hard evidence, I can only guess their projects got buried like the Emperor's body. “On the suspicion I've ordered our own wing of jets to go on stand-by.” “Well that's good, but where are they going?” Cao asked, stepping in towards his officers. “I may have an idea off the top of my head, a suspicion.” Yung Bao started. He scratched at his blunt egg round chin as he walked over to a small table, “The aircraft were reported as going over to Hejaz, and going down the coast. Unless they intend of taking the war to Persia for whatever reason then the only target I know of his Azima's aircraft, she and the royal family are en'route to China from Persia. I've also been told through no official channel this airplane may also be carrying something other than the family, but intelligence hasn't been able to tell me what; but no wonder, this has been severely short notice.” “They're far enough away though, right?” asked Cao, “If they were in any real danger could they divert?” “Unlikely,” Dao Chen said. This sent a shutter down Cao's spine. The delivery was sure and affirming. His narrow eyes hardly betrayed the absurdness of his own opinion. In them, Azima and the royal family were already in the ocean sinking, or in Spanish escort. “It could take them a few hours if they're going that way. I agree with Bao, this is their highest priority target, given their heading and the haste their moving. Traditional propeller driven aircraft wouldn't hope to catch up or even get that far.” “So what are you suggesting?” “Give me the word, and I'll send the men I have idling now out.” the officer said. He wanted this order to be made. “It'll be the best coarse.” Chen said, “If it's them they're after and they manage and our men get there, you'll be a hero on two continents probably.” “I can already think of the promotion.” Zhou said teasingly from the door. “How long until our pilots can get there?” asked Cao “On full engine speed I imagine we'll intercept Azima's aircraft in under four hours. The Spanish might reach her before hand. So I need this now. Just to take the shot. “Of course, we'll be forced to land in Addis to refuel before coming home. I'll send a carrier there to meet them.” The choice felt clearly presented. It was the only decision, even if mired in some doubt. Full intentions had not been laid out. But the only alternative was to surrender the Emperor's family to the Spanish and loose the war before it could be won. But somehow, it felt difficult to make. A hitch clamped shut around Cao and he could feel the choking restraint. His breathing became tense, he groaned to himself. “M-make the call.” he said, involving himself. ----------------------------------------------------------- A fiery whine engulfed the tarmac as airplanes crawled across the boiled black asphalt. Ground crews cleared the way as hot air roared. The craft, strange, metal and cut with clean lines and rounded edges turned about, lining up on the runway for take off. The planes were jets. Designed from the wrecks salvaged from the US endeavors to reclaim the Philippines in the seventies. Their under-wing engines hummed and roared as they crawled across the tarmac to face the northern skies. The over head African sun shone off the dark green hull. The cabin canopy a knife's blade of silver light. Within the helmeted and visored Chinese pilots went through their flight check lists, the rattling thunder of their horses rattling between their legs. These were fathered by projects in Mongolia. With flying high and fast. Their wings held a subtle angle towards the rear. The metal carefully molded between them and the body until any indication they were separate parts disappeared in organic form. If it weren't for the hidden welds of their metal plates it was if they were cast from the same mold. “Heron wing 1.” the control tower said, the structure little more than a wooden scaffold, the head a bungalow of plexiglas, “Have you completed your preflight check list?” “Hero leader, we have.” one of the three said, “We're ready for take off.” “You are clear for take off. Rendezvous with the Ethiopian royal transport off of Socotra.” “Copy that. Let's down some old bulls.” (YEEEAAAAAAAH)

[Snow]

South African Coast off of Longbeach, Noordhoek As the hot sun beat down on the South African waters, the British navy cruised through, making it's way for Cape Town. As it began to near the shore, many onlookers began to gather, staring out to sea. Many were confused, and a few were scared, but each and every one of them was simply curious. Not a single person alive in the nation had seen such a large navy before, and nobody knew exactly what it's intentions were. There was a visible difference between those who felt scared or threatened, and those who were confused, or simply thought the ships were passing by. Some, however, instantly fled, reporting the sighting to local authorities. Within minutes, police began escorting civilians away from the beaches, while a few coast guard patrol boats began to appear to the South. Local armed forces and militia members began to make their way to the Western shore, while civilians moved inland. The second the British flag atop the ships was visible, however, a noticeable change in attitude could be seen. Meanwhile, on board the HMS Titan, the flagship of this particular fleet, officers had already began to dish out orders across their radios, and among all the ships following, soldiers were preparing to storm the beaches of Cape Town. One officer in particular, an older gentleman sporting a mustache that looked more like the end of a broom, had walked out onto the deck, binoculars in hand. As he looked at the Africans gathered on the shore, he let out a small sigh of pity. “Sir?” Inquired a baby-faced young man who barely looked old enough to have enlisted. “I don't know why they don't just surrender” said the officer, as he looked out over the people gathering on the beaches with old, tired green eyes. “I don't think they can expect to even last half an hour with what they have there.” “Well, sir” piped in the younger officer. “I think-” “That was a rhetorical statement, lad.” Said the officer, handing him the binoculars. “Of course they are going to fight. Just as we would if somebody attacked our home. I simply meant to convey that it's pointless.” Shaking his head at the young man, the officer retreated inside the belly of the ship, where a few other high ranking officers greeted him with a salute. He quickly waved them back to work, and sat down on a cold steel chair, taking a radio into his hand. Giving a nod to a younger man next to him, the old officer began to speak to every ship in the fleet. “This is Admiral Fletcher speaking. In less than ten minutes, we will began our mission. Before then, I wanted to give all of you a few words of inspiration.” Taking a small break, the Admiral gave enough time for everyone aboard the ships to be quieted enough that his message would be heard clearly. “Since the Great Anarchy that threw Britain into despair, we have become a shadow of a nation. We had lost so much because of the Great War, we couldn't even manage to keep our territories under our control. For years, we suffered together, humiliated, while the rest of the world laughed at us. I don't know about you lot, but that is not what I want to be remembered for. It is for that reason that our King has decided this course of action for each and every one of us. We are going to prove that Britain is not the laughing stock that the Great War had tried to reduce us to! With this first step in a larger plan, we will prove that the British Empire is still alive and strong! When you storm that beach today, do not think of it as conquering some innocent, foreign land! The people you are fighting today are people who took the name of our King, and tried to tarnish it! They, in a rash act of rebellion, broke the trust of the monarch, and may as well have spit on his face directly! I don't know about any of you, but I think that is reason enough for this war. Reason enough to kill these traitors to the crown! However, before I send you off, I want to make something very clear. I will not tolerate unjustified killing of civilians. The women, children, sick and elderly have nothing to do with this war. Unless they stand in the way of your own safety, they are not to be injured, by order of the King.” Taking a heavy breath, the Admiral seemed to pause for thought. With another heavy breath, he spoke one last time. “Upon clearing the city of any and all armed individuals, you will secure a building suitable to serve as our forward operation base. I believe in each and every one of you, and expect to see all of you once this is over. Now, onward, men. Kill these traitors, and restore the honor of your king!” As landing crafts hit he water, men began to fill into them, and began making their way towards the beach. Sitting in one of the very first ones was a young man with a round face, wearing a small pair of glasses, and shaking like a leaf. Beside him was a much taller, older male, with features like a rock and an expression to match, who was also trembling, possibly even more so than the smaller male. Looking at each other at nearly the same time, the two tried to calm themselves by trying to laugh at the other, but it was to no avail. In fact, just about every single person aboard was terrified in one way or another. After all, the generation before theirs had never seen war, and the generation before that one seldom spoke of it. In order to break the high amounts of tension and fear, an older male at the front tried to get the younger men behind him to relax a bit. “What's with the long faces, everybody? This is what we joined the army for! Not only that, we get to take part in a major historic moment! Do you really want the story to be 'we all sat in a boat nearly wetting ourselves while going to fight people a lot weaker'? I doubt it! Come on! Raise those spirits! We're on our way to win a war! Not lose one! Have confidence that we will win!” After a brief moment of silence, the younger man in glasses shouted out in agreement, which seemed to be all that was needed. Soon enough, the landing craft was filled with all kind of cheering, as the soldiers began to realize how right the officer was. However, just as fast as they had gained their confidence, they lost it. In the middle of all the cheering, it seems they had entered a close enough range, as the South Africans began to fire at the approaching landing crafts. While the bullets whizzing over and around the small craft were enough to terrify the men back into silence, the moment they had all feared was to follow seconds after. Right as he was about to speak again, the entire craft watched in terrified silence as a bullet managed to land, hitting the officer in the throat, spraying the four or so men behind him in his blood. As he collapsed to the floor clutching his throat, not a single person moved; not even to help. For them, time had seemed to stop completely until somebody finally reacted, pushing their way to the front of the craft and screaming while raising their rifle, and firing blindly at the shore. By the time everyone else had come to their senses, a dull thud was heard, and somebody opened the front of the craft, and they began to get ushered out of the safety of their boat. While everyone else had left, the young soldier in glasses was still standing at the back of the craft, legs shaking, and eyes still locked on the spot where the officer had been shot. Noticing the soldier still standing there, the naval officer who had steered the craft to shore quickly pulled on the soldiers arm, which seemed to finally snap him out of his trance. As the sound of gunfire and shouting rushed into his ears, the soldier noticed a voice, and looked at the naval officer with wide eyes. “Did you hear me? I said you need to get onto the beach, so I can go pick op the next round of troops!” shouted the officer over all the noise, giving the soldier a small push forward. “R-right! Sorry!” Shouted the soldier, getting off the craft, and finally joining the rest of his companions on the beach, avoiding fire from the few South African soldiers who had gathered up ahead. Instantly, he was being shouted at by the highest ranking person there. “You there! You're a medic, right?” “Yes sir!” The small soldier in glasses replied. “What's your name?” Barked the officer, as a bullet whizzed over his shoulder. “Neville Bishop, sir!” “Well, Bishop, you're not a medic anymore! If you try that here, you'll just die. We've already lost three others because they tried to help the injured. Get up here, and join us in this firefight!” Nodding, Neville made his way up to the front line, and joined the rest of the British soldiers in trying their best to advance up the beach without getting shot. Despite the fear that many of the soldiers had, they were able to make it off the beach relatively quickly, managing to drive the South Africans back inland without taking nearly as many casualties as they had originally expected. Since it wasn't much more than a militia and law enforcement, the British military was able to capitalize on their intimidating presence more then anything, by scaring most of the South Africans away following a barrage from the naval forces. After completely securing the beach, and once all armor and men were landed, two companies were formed to take the small town to the North and South of the beach, in order to fully secure the area before moving onward to the first target to the East: Fish Hoek.

[Byrd Man]

Vancouver “Someone is fucking with this city.” Samuel McKinzey, Superintendent of the Cascadia Territorial Police Force scowled, his thick eyebrows threatening to consume his eyeballs. McKinzey chewed on a large, unlit cigar while he stood at the lectern in the CTPF’s conference room. Crowded in the room were the thirty detectives who made up the agency’s Criminal Investigations Division. Sitting near the back was Mark Echols, who doodled on a notepad with a pen while the chief spoke. “We’ve had three bank robberies in the last two weeks, and two bombings. All of them were claimed by these fucking people, these Friends of Northwest Sovereignty. Bunch of fucking terrorists! We’re goddamn lucky nobody has been hurt. I spent the better part of the morning with the FCB, they’re concerned about the crime wave here in this city and they personally blame us. You know why.” McKinzey took the cigar out of his mouth and let the implication hang. Unlike them, he was an American. He had been police commissioner in Baltimore and New York City before the government tapped him to run the restructured territorial police. “They think you’re all a bunch of sympathizers and humps. The FCB is sending a team up here to liaise with us, I assume that means they’ll be telling us how to do our jobs. Every department in CID is getting two Feebs to assist with cases. Here’s how it’s gonna work…” Echols tuned McKinzey out and instead kept focusing on his notepad. He wrote Sergeant Brian Shea in bold letters a half dozen times. “The Stiff in Surrey” as Braun had called him, was turning out to be a dead end. The US Army sergeant who went AWOL before ending up naked and dead in a field was Echols’ case and he was being stonewalled by the Army. He’d personally driven down to Fort Dixon to try to talk to the base commander and was told by a Major that the case was under Army CID jurisdiction, that Shea’s army records were unavailable to Echols without a warrant. He tried getting a warrant, but a judge had denied it after someone from the Army’s JAG division, even the Army needed lawyers, intervened. So now here he was with a case he couldn’t solve and no clear way to solve it. While he should have written it off, something was eating at him. Shea’s official rank was Technical Sergeant. Echols spent the day at the Vancouver library looking up information about Army ranks and came away with further suspicions. In the US Army, a Technical Sergeant did a variety of things from radio operations to mechanical work, to ordinance handling and disposal. It was the last part that gnawed at Echols. He had no way to know what kind of work Shea did for the Army unless he looked at his records, but it didn’t sit well with him that Shea’s disappearance and death came just before all these bombs and bank robberies started in Vancouver. He had been a murder police for fifteen years; he had learned a long time ago that he could rely on his gut instincts when it came to cases. And now, his gut was screaming that this murder was related to these Friends of Northwest Sovereignty. But he was getting help. The Feebs were coming. Maybe with some Federal muscle behind him, he could get the Army’s head out of their ass. He doubted it, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. ------- Fort Bragg, NC The two dozen soldiers stomped in formation down the dirt road. While they ran, Master Sergeant Silas Crystal ran beside them. At thirty-nine he was the oldest man here by almost a decade. Even with his age Silas knew he could keep up with all of the others, and plenty of them he could outrun. He was pushing forty but still felt twenty-five in the wilting southern heat. They took a bend on the dirt road that led uphill. The hill marked the third mile of their five mile run. Silas took in a lungful of air and began to lead the running cadence, the men chanting along with him. “One, two, three and a quarter. I've got a date with the CO's Daughter. One, two, three and a dime. I told him I'd have her home by nine. Even though she looks so mild, Man, oh man that girl is wild. But CO, CO, he's a sucker. He don't know that I love to ... kiss her. Three months later and all was well, Four months later she began to swell. Nine months later and out he came, a baby Green Beret bearin' my name. CO said with a big ol' grin, Be a good dad or be a private again.” The younger men broke out into laughter as they finished the song. Even though he had heard it countless times, Silas laughed along with them before he turned serious. “Okay, girls, let’s pick up the pace. Double time to the end of the run!” Silas sped up and pushed these men, already at the peak of physically conditioning, to dig deeper and go faster until it hurt. After all it was their job to do what others couldn’t. These men and their sergeant weren’t the usual group of grunts. They were Special Forces created during the last war to do things other units couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Silas and his squad ran several missions across the country and into Canada during the war. He was a career soldier, but the things they’d done in the war took what he knew about soldering to the next level. Later, Silas had showered and changed into his fatigues and in his office at division HQ when someone knocked on the door. “Sergeant Crystal,” Colonel Robertson said once he saw Silas snapping at attention. “At ease, no need to be formal.” Robertson was just a few years older than Silas but looked at least ten years older thanks to his full head of white hair and the thick white mustache he wore. The SOCOM structure was set up so that the people at the top were the only ones who really knew the order of battle, but Silas knew the colonel was high up in that order. “I brought a guest with me,” Robertson said as he came in. In his wake was a skinny man in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. Silas saw the sweat stains on the collar, pale complexion, the Ivy League class ring on his finger, and the impassive way he looked at Silas, almost through him. He had him pegged even before Colonel Robertson said the words that confirmed his analysis. “Silas, this is Mr. Smith from Washington. He’s with the Agency.” The Clandestine Intelligence Agency, the US’s foreign intelligence apparatus, had a complicated relationship with Special Forces. They worked hand in hand in many ways. They supplied the intelligence and the Green Berets provided the muscle. Brains and brawn. But several people inside the CIA thought they were their bosses. That led to plenty of bureaucratic sniping that Silas was thankful he had avoided. At least until now. “Sergeant,” Mr. Smith said as he and Robertson sat down in the chairs opposite Silas’ office. “The colonel was telling me about your team. I like what I’ve heard. Are your four guys still the same ones you served with in the war?” “Yep,” said Silas. “We went through some hell up north of the border, but we all made it through unscathed.” “Sergeant Crystal and his men are real familiar with that whole area in the northwest,” Robertson said before he leaned forward. “Silas, have you been keeping up with all that’s been happening up there in Cascadia.” “It’s turning into a goddamn war zone,” Silas said with frown. “Again. I read about bombings in the paper, some group claiming to be responsible.” “We have other information,” said Smith. He played with his class ring as he spoke. “Some intelligence has come to light. It concerns something worse than a few car bombs or bank jobs. Our people ran it up the ladder to your people, who are passing it back down the ladder to Special Forces.” “SOCOM has approved an operation, and I recommended your squad,” said Robertson. “You’re wheels up and headed north at 1900 hours. “I’m hitching a ride with you,” Smith said. “We’ll brief your team en route. Be sure to pack your mountain gear, sergeant. You’ll need it.” ------- Prince George Cascadia Territory Arthur pulled the car up slowly to the curb. Alex craned his neck around, looking for any signs of another car of person in the early morning darkness. They had driven all afternoon and night across the territory in the car Chris had stolen on the outskirts of Vancouver. None of their cars had the trunk space required for what they had to pick up. “Wait here,” Alex said softly. “Keep the car running.” He got out and walked down the sidewalk to a two-story brick building with broken windows and graffit tagged along its side. Arthur nervously tapped his fingers on the wheel while Alex disappeared into the building. Ten minutes passed before he emerged and waved Arthur further up the street and to a loading bay he backed into. Arthur got out the car and nearly jumped back when he saw the man standing at the edge of the dock. He wore a black trench coat and smoked a cigarette. His blonde hair was slicked back, and he had on large sunglasses even in the dark. Arthur put his height at six-two, a good five inches taller than himself. “Hello, Arthur,” the man said in a slow and even tone. “Alex has told me a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.” “Umm… you too…” “Jones,” he said, expelling cigarette smoke. “Just call me Jones. I’m a friend, Arthur, a friend of the Friends, if you want to call me that.” “Mr. Jones has helped us out a lot,” Alex said from behind Arthur. “He’s where we get our guns and the stuff for our bombs.” “You’re quite adept at making bombs, Arthur. That’s what Alex tells me, anyway. Says you’re going to school for engineering. Is that where you learned to do this stuff?” “Not really,” Arthur said nervously. “I just… as a kid… I was always taking things apart and putting them back together. I just learned how things work. A bomb, at least the way I do it, is just like a clock radio or a television. Wire it just the same.” “So you’re a natural? Good. Come with me, Arthur.” Jones wrapped a large arm around Arthur’s soldiers and guided him into the building through the open bay door. Jones stopped short of a small crate sitting on the concrete floor and motioned towards it. “Open it up.” Arthur bent down and stopped when he saw the biohazard warning on the crate. Jones goaded him on and Arthur, his pulse racing, opened the crate. Inside was a metal container the size of a milk jug. “VX nerve gas,” Jones said with a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s not much, but it’ll be more than enough. If you can work wonders with plastique and wires, let’s see what you can do with this.”

[Dinh AaronMk]

Osmk, Russia The explosion of weapons fire echoed in the distance like the wash of cascading waves of gravel. Low and guttural, explosions burped through the street. A great wave of violence burned in the western streets of Omsk. The devastation of conflict dragged its length tail through the former city edge. The earth was a patchwork of mid-spring mud and puddles of oil and blood. Turning roads into islands of asphalt littered with the abandoned refuse of conflict. Trees stripped naked of bark swayed in the light breeze, their young spring leaves danced in the open sunlight that cut the clouds and fell on the wasteland below, shining in the puddles that had accumulated. Down the road a water main gushed water from a broken artery. The droplets catching the sun, shimmering like diamonds in the pounded landscape. Scuttling down the roadway a triage of tanks crawled along, cleanly ignoring the debris the littered the road and grinding them down into the cement. Their olive green hulls faded away to black and dark steel gray. Behind them marching in columns a platoon of infantry, their guns at their shoulders as they scanned the street side. By no means ancient like the city-center, with the distinct lack of Imperial Pompousness the edge of Omsk resembled much more an industrial shield and block against the countryside. Built more with a mindset for industrial efficiency, even in common commerce, nothing held an air of romantic impressionism. The cinder block walls had fallen inwards from bombs and shelling. Over head planes roared in the afternoon sunlight, only confirming it as the Chinese hand stretched outward. “Tsung, take us off to the left, into the airfield.” Song shouted over the rumble of the Tei Gui's engine. “Yes, comrade.” Tsung obliged. Slowly the steel hull turned aside off the road, across the broken sidewalks and onto the muddy grassy fields. “We're clear here, right?” asked Lin. “Recon came through and said the Republic had abandoned this position. Command wants us to take it to finish off here.” Song said in a low voice, “We're going to find out.” Somehow, Tsung didn't feel so sure. Looking out through the foggy, muddied windows he drove from he could tell the airport was in no means great shape. Its sagging and bent control tower was a dismal shrine to a gone era, the concrete was chipped and stained. At a point along it the shell was sheered and broken, and clinging just barely by iron supports it leaned to the side. The terminal and hangers he could see beyond were empty shells, devoid of much of its former structure. Twisted metal hulks littered the field and runway, the remains of an air force the Republic attempted to muster at the last minute here, but could not deploy. The ruin caused Tsung's heart to sink, and he felt a bitter taste in the back of his throat. From behind him in the turret Sung commentated his observations on the radio to the unit and men behind them. Looking back, he saw the commander peering through binoculars at the former airport, hand pressed against his ear. The tank rocked over the uneven terrain as they bore over brick and fallen tree alike. Tsung watched through the windows as the bombed concrete walls drew in closer. Beginning to climb up over the piles of debris they drew into the airport proper. The grinding of metal groaned through the carriage as the weight of the vehicle folded over loose rebar and shuffled rock. The scratched and moaning of the sheered bones of Russian architecture dug ghostly at the belly of their beast. Like the nightly scratching of trees against windows, claws in the night. Raising softly, they dropped low in a snap. The entire hull crashing downwards in a deafening crash as they cleared the peek of their climb and slid down. Tsung watched alongside him as the treads of their partner teetered down into the chalky debris. He heard the low boom of its weight on the stone, chalking the bricks underneath and clouding the air in blooms of ashen dust. When the armor finally came to a stop in was in the middle of the open run way. Through the murky glass Tsung watched the men outside run towards the hangers and still standing buildings. Their weapons raised as they fanned out across the tarmac and the grass. The tensity he felt building in his chest was must like that he felt in his chariot's engine. The low constant hum and rumble teetering on the supposed edge of explosion. At his hands he could charge it forward, unleashing all its horses to move several tons where ever. He was waiting and expecting their enemy to do the same. That from somewhere hidden or from above several tons of Russian metal would come roaring in. That the engagement would be as it was on the way into the city itself. It was terrifying. A sticky black dread oozed out into his blood, turning it ice cold and thick, making him woozy. Yet some where, there was an excitement that relished in this feeling. The uncertainty, priming the pump for adrenaline and fill him with a warm numbness as shrapnel fanned against the armor at his side. It believed he was immortal in this shell, that there was no fear. And it fought against the knowing tempest that it only took the right explosive in the right spot, or a large enough shell to turn this fantasy around and to become a horror story. A grenade pitched into the barrel, a rocket to the treads to immobilize them. A large enough charge to drive over and shoot his guts up through the hatches. A high-powered rifle in the powder magazine. All chances. But, he had been drilled to ignore such chances. But he knew it could happen. It scared him again. Through the foggy dirtied glass of the port the washed out men who had dived into the ruins reemerged. In the distance he saw one raise his hand, giving an all clear to them. “Field's clear, we can take a breath.” Sun Song said, sitting up and lifting open the hatch. A breath of cool fresh air washed quickly inside the cabin. Washing out the stale, still, hot diesel choked air with a whoosh. “Great, what are we doing now?” Lin asked. “I'm calling in this position is secured and to see if we can get a Siberian regiment in to fill us in so we can move out.” Song said with certainty, “If the lot of you need to take a break, do so now.” “I need to take a piss...” Tsung said nervously. “Good to know.” his commander sneered, “Go on ahead.” Tsung nodded, relieved. His bladder had been slowly feeling like someone had been filling it with sand. Unlatching the hatch over his seat he through open his port, and crawled out. The Russian spring air felt refreshing against his skin. For all the cordite and distant fumes that caught itself in the crisp breeze it was far fresher than inside the tank, where the sweat of a full crew and the leaking exhaust of the engine produced an all to nauseating soup in the air. Probably lethal in any other setting. His boots hit the hard ground and he staggered for his balance. “Tsung, by the way!” Song shouted from atop the turret of the tank. “Take this.” he ordered, throwing at him as he turned a long wood-stocked gun. Tsung was barely quick enough to catch the flying assault rifle before it collided with his face. Cradling it awkwardly against his chest he staggered back wide-eyed. “We might know it's clear out here but I don't know where you're going to pee, so might as well take cover. The dirt monkeys will no doubt come running if they hear gun fire, so just shoot widely if a Republican steps out.” “Uh, but magazines though...” Tsung uncomfortably, remarked. He wrapped the strap up around his shoulder. Song nodded, holding out a pair of magazines with his hand. “Probably more than enough.” he grumbled, “But bring them back. We're mostly all high explosives in here and we basically got a magazine a man in here.” “Yes, comrade.” Tsung smiled happily, stepping around to the side of the tank and grabbing the metal-cases. “Alright, go do your business.” ordered song, dismissing him. The driver bowed, sliding a magazine into his pocket as he loaded the other into the CP1960. The action clicked satisfyingly, accepting the magazine. Tsung moved along the tarmac, looking out over the landscape worriedly looking for any hint at danger. Perhaps the distant bodies of soldiers marching towards them. Perhaps the glint of a sniper's scope. He hoped – if with severe dread – that he might see a Russian tank coming to seize the position the Chinese stole under their nose. Chunks of bricks ground under his feet as he stepped into the bomb-gutted ruin of one of the airport terminal buildings. Glass ground under the soles of his feet as he entered into the monstrous throat of a cathedral hall. Stalagmites of glass hung down from the gaping windows as he strolled through. Alongside a bank of terminal waiting room seats, coated with chalky white concrete powder say embedded into the cratered ground an unexploded artillery shell. Keeping a wide berth around the likely unstable ordinance, he swore he could hear the shell hiss to itself, as if its metal shell was full of angry vipers. It came unto him as he walked over a pool of blood on the ground as he went deeper into the halls that he had not seen his enemy once. At least not personally. The presence of the Republican army has always been indirect. The mine he drove over. Men who fled from them in the distance. Gunner's nests in the trees and shrubs in the country side. But not once had he had to shoot out with them, or fight close in the streets. This image of war ran almost contradictory to the stories he was told of war, of the illustrations back home of bloodied revolutionaries battling the Japanese and Kuomintang armies seemingly at personal distances in the street. His tour had been less defined by the constant scream of bullets and seeing one's own blood gushing through his stomach than it has been cradled in the armored belly of a tank, expecting the uncommon condition of the Russian Republicans having any means to break their armor. He found a private quarter in a dilapidated office, or closet. He couldn't tell given the level of looting that had taken place. The walls had been stripped bare, including the dry-wall itself leaving only the metal framework and the severed electrical wires bare. What remained to decorate was a random litter of unrecognizable shards of metal and bits of plaster ceiling that had fallen in. What the room did have though was a hole high enough that he could look out and watch his companions mill about in the sun outside. And the hissing artillery shell between him and them. He hazarded that if it were to go off, he was far enough away it couldn't possibly hurt him. Hitching the assault rifle across his back, he pulled down his pants. Going about the act of urinating. He sighed in relief as the swelling feeling of his bladder let up. The welling fullness subsided, and that feeling of being full of sand ran empty until he finished. Finishing, he pulled up his trousers and buttoned them closed. Whipping his hands on the side of his pants he turned to leave, only instead to walk to the door he felt a great force hammer the side of his body, shooting him to the side as a whistling explosion rocked through the air with a violent force. Smoke and debris tore across his vision as he sailed through the air, crashing into the far wall. The steel girders that reinforced Omsk airport's walls clashed and shuddered violently at his weight. His ears screamed in agony against his head as all around him his world shook and rattled. He screamed, but no sound met his ears. Instead only the shrill constant whine drilled his head as echoing shock waves hammered at his side. Chipping bits of plaster and concrete stung his exposed skin like hornets. He shut his mouth tight as he breathed in a thick cloud of pulverized plaster. The barrage continued, and he knew he has to get out. Coughing and sputtering he threw himself off from the wall he had been packed into and peeled out into the hallway. He turned to run for the tarmac but found it to be ablaze with fire. The wind in the building rushed into the building flames that lapped hungrily up the sides of the airport terminal. And once more, he could see the smoke expand and billow at every blow of an explosion. If he was to leave that way, he knew there he would die. He spun on his heels and ran against the draft of hot hair burshing against his face. He felt the rippling explosions of ordinance against his back as he ran through the halls. Blindly, his head down and hands over his face. His hearing came to as he ran. He could faintly hear the muffled screams of artillery shells falling over head and knew then what was going on. The Russians were shelling them, and they had a too clean fix on the airport. With any luck Sun Song and the rest would be able to escape the damnable barrage. One of them could drive, he hoped. Just enough for them to move. His feet carried him out across broken glass and bent metal and onto muddy grass. He flinched as he felt the hammering of air against his back as he ran. He slowed to turn around, only to find behind him the ruins of some apocalyptic castle engulfed in fire behind him. His heart choked in his chest, imagining what Hell his comrades were experiencing under the Russian fire. But his concerns were cut short as behind him another shell landed, reminding him full well that he needed to move. And he continued to run. Fleeing across the cratered and uneven lawn of the airport. Bounding over park benches and fallen trees. Weaving around hazards, and keeping ahead of the ring of ordinance fire that seemed to grow along his tail. He ran until his boots hit concrete again. He kept going until the crystal crackling of glass ground under his foot. He would have kept going, shooting for some backdoor until he was clear of the danger. But the world under his weight gave way, and he felt his balance loosen and he plunged into darkness. He caught a glimpse of a smokey blackness under him, and then his heat cracked against something, and his world went dark. …... There were voices. Deep Russian voices. They seemed questioning, blunt as they grunted out their words. Tsung couldn't make out what they were saying, his head swimming in a haze of confusion, and a tacky wet sensation plastered across his forehead. He groaned, struggling against the numbing pain that rocked his head to listen to what was being said. Grunting, he tried to sit up. Apparently his attempts were funny to someone as laughter boomed in whatever dim echoing cave he found himself in. He had been taught Russian, or sort of. Since the acquisition of Outer Manchuria several years ago, it became an interest the military took even deeper on the pretense that they may have to deploy more men to the Manchurian region to police the new Russian citizenry. Tsung could speak it, they slated him as a possible translator. But be damned if he felt it was rocky. Coming too, and his head coming out of the haze he tried. It was his one trick to know whether he was among Siberians, or Republicans. “Uzkoglazy lives!” roared a man loudly. His voice swam with as much strength as vodka. Bounding in laughter, but nothing nice. “So he does.” crooned another. In the dim haze he could see a darkened figure come into view, blocking out what weak light there was. Tsung sat in dazed, horrified confusion as he watched the shade watch him, “Perhaps they are not nearly as weak as we thought.” he hissed cynically. Tsung could smell the booze on his breath. Tsung opened his mouth, trying to choke out words to defend himself. To ask a question. But before he could he felt cold hands wrap around the collar of his uniform, and he was thrown out of the hole he was in. With a gasping 'umph' he landed with a heavy pound on a concrete floor, looking up at a ceiling supported by steel beams. Looming over him stood a slim scarecrow of a man. A thick mustache as messy as any sewer rat Tsung had ever saw lay across the spindly heron-faced man's upper lip, totally obscuring his mouth completely in its long, wild whiskers. He was dressed in the uniform of the old Empire. That alone brought the realization of who he was with washing over him. He had stumbled into the hands of the Republic. The reality hurt him more than any artillery shells, and it froze his heart laying there as he lay stunned, staring wide-eyed at the man looming over him. “I should cut this communist bastard right here on the floor!” he bellowed loudly, looking up to address the room. “And you will not, Yuri!” shouted another. His accent much lighter on the Russian. But all the same European in some way, “He is my guest, and my guests will be treated well! “This is my house, after all. And all men are welcome in my house.” “This is hardly your house, this is just a shop basement you took over.” someone laughed in the distant. Tsung turned his head to the side, seeing where he had ended up. What he saw were tables, or something like them. Rough stacks of detritus lines up in semi-neat rows and mismatched stools around them. Puddles glistened in amber lamp-light, and there was a strong hop smell in the floor. “Then pray this Kitayoza does not meet me in the field. I have a score to settle with his ilk.” Yuri threatened above him, pointing at Tsung's shocked face. “If you have to settle a score with his ilk you might as well take it to Vladivostovok too.” laughed someone, “And then to Moscow. That fucking red party won the elections, remember.” “Bullshit to the politicians, I will have them later. But the Chinese are now.” Yuri grumbled loudly. He made no secret his hatred to Tsung and his kin as he stepped off from over his aching body. “Where am I?” Tsung asked. His Russian quivered on the tip of his tongue. He had no doubt he sounded like some choked dog to the native speakers. They no doubt found it amusing as they laughed at his attempts. “Stand up and see.” the softer accented man invited. He turned his head to the direction it came from, finding only rows of battered, discolored wooden crates. “R-right...” he stuttered, sitting himself up. His entire body ached. His muscles screamed in protest as he pulled himself up and his head spun. His world went crazy as he reached his feet. All weight exploded out of his skull and all sensations spun in a whirlwind of confusion and sickening disgust. The wound in his head throbbed at every beat of his heart, and his entire body felt like it had been filled with lead. He threw himself onto the crates, using them for support. He looked down at his dust and mud caked feet. Blood and dripped onto his uniform, and he worried it was his. “You walk like my mother after a few beers. Control yourself, I don't like blood on my hands, even if its accidental.” the voice said. It tried to stay polite, but there was a ring of condescension to it. A sick displeasure for Tsung. He looked up at its owner, finding before him a wide-built figure. His wide flabby guy spilling out over his drab olive-green army pants and stained, tight fitting shirt. “Who are you?” he asked, looking up at his face. He was a walrus of a beast, with swollen cheeks and a heavy milky-white beard. A head of blonde hair nested atop his head. “A simple entrepreneur.” the man shrugged. He reached over and grabbed a crack glass from the crate counter and began whipping down the inside with a gray rag. He looked up at Tsung all the while. His blue eyes glowing with a sort of fatherly, uncle-like glow. He by no nature harbored any ill-will to him, despite his tone. “A what?” Tsung asked. “Someone who I'm sure your government isn't fond of.” the large man repeating, adapting a corrective tone. “I – like you – are not from around here.” he continued, “Though I bet I am more related to Russia than you are. I am German by birth. You?” “Han...” Tsung hesitantly replied, “Er, Chinese.” “Figures.” the German laughed with a warm smile, “You don't need to be afraid of here. I like to think I serve all people and that I am a nation inside a nation. I am not at war with the Republic, I am not at war with the Chinese, and I am not at war with Siberia. In all credible respects, I would like to be on amiable terms with the agents of all parties. So I discourage the war being carried over on my soil.” “You're soil?” Tsung asked. “My soil.” the German smiled, “Or, anywhere I happen to set up shop. It's not good business to say the least, and it would in the long term be better if I kept in one spot. But that's only in normal circumstances. And we, my friend are not in normal circumstances. Hell, Russia is hardly a normal state. Hasn't ever been in the last decade.” Tsung was wrapped by confusion. He held a blank look, staring the anonymous German in the eyes with a sort of distant bewilderment. For coming out of unconsciousness, something was moving too fast. The man behind the counter sighed, “Where there is war, there are people who need to drown their experiences.” he said, “There are people who just need to feel human again. For the past decade we have seen wars flare up and die rapidly, like flowers for mourning. From Europe to Asia and America the Wild Hunt has ridden signaling war from beginning to end. “As terrible as it is, I do want to provide a service. And that is of comfort. I am talking about serving alcohol.” A spark shone in Tsung's eyes, and he nodded. “I am to serve anyone of any side. The local Mafiya has been so kind as to ignore me. But that I imagine is because I sit in a part of Russia they don't like to operate heavily in: in the battle field.” “I-I'e heard of this Mafiya...” Tsung said. “Who hasn't.” replied the German, “I've heard gossip that they're still murdering here in Omsk. But they've for the large part left to keep out of the way. Some circles are saying they're pulling in westward. Something's happened, they're wanting to do something with all of this.” “I... uh... saw a burned body in Omsk. He had a message tied to him. Would that be Mafiya?” “Fucking Hell it is, god damn chink.” spat someone from the corner. Tsung turned about. Looking across the field of tables to a lone man in the corner, “My partner went missing a few weeks back. I heard the Siberians found his body a while back. Apparently someone reported him as a Communist Ally. Fucking bullshit! He wasn't!” he shouted drunkenly. “As you can clearly see.” the German said. “I have another question.” Tsung said, his heart fluttered in his chest as he recovered from the shelling, and the excitement of ending up here. “Ask.” “Can I leave?” “Anytime.” the German said, “I got friends who should see you out peacefully for fifty meters. Beyond that you and any other guest to be, or having been are on your own and can do whatever. “but right now, I would wait to confirm today's shelling will calm. Republic already shelled. Your people should be responding soon. Care for a drink in the meantime?” Over Spanish Africa The low howl of the engines accompanied the droll steady pace of the aircraft as it sailed over the golden sea of African desert below. Rolling dunes ran rippling across the sandy sea below. Bending and turning about like the path of a snake. The coils slithering along under the hot mid-spring sun. There was a surreal dryness to it all. From the dunes below to the rocky mountains more distantly. All of it was a fine switch of the painter's brush below them and thinning clouds made a thin shroud between them and the surface as they flew. For Sin Wu, the expansive desert below did nothing to make them forget where they were. What land they were over. The loud drumming whine of the engines was no mask they were effectively in Spanish airspace. And it was yet to be tested if Spain had the capabilities to respond to them. Or even notice them. It had been gossiped all the past few days as the Chinese high-altitude bombers ran reconnaissance missions over the Spanish territories and the devolving front on the Sinai peninsula. They'd flown over to see the entire Armada bleeding out into the Red Sea like an uncontrollable wound after the scab on the Suez Canal had been picked. The bleeding didn't stop, and it would keep going until the Spanish lion drained the blood from Africa. That is what was feared. He and the crew whispered fearfully about it. Things wouldn't improve. Yet command kept cynical. They weren't ready to commit all the way and Congress had decided to make no significant moves. “It will die off in the next few weeks.” they affirmed repeatedly during debriefings. But now they were getting the tests they had promised. Further out now. Russia was now no longer on the priorities list as their play ground. Africa was it now. Sin Wu didn't necessarily understand the politics. Or what diplomacy was being under taken. The cool comfort now though, thousands of meters above the surface below was that here in the Saharra there was no activity. No obvious signs through his scope of the precariously hanging Peephole that the Spanish had the obvious means to detect them. But that was the thing. Obvious. China – nor them – knew the exact extent to Spanish abilities. Wu's breath rattled between his teeth as he looked down passed his camera. There had been concerning little to photograph. He doubt the Bureau would appreciate hundreds of images of empty sandy desert. Wu felt his weight shift as the bird banked to the side. He watched through his station as the horizon crawled steadily lower in his vision. The dark emptiness above the Earth marching down like an opening hole threatening to swallow all. His gloved hands gripped the side of the bubble as they turned. “We're making a sweep back.” the inter-plane communications chirped with static. “We're going to be performing a wide turn. We're likely going to straighten out over the Atlas mountains.” their navigator reported in, “Eyes open Wu, maybe we'll see something.” “Copy that, comrade.” Wu replied into his headpiece. His flight mask felt constricting against his mouth, like he could do little more than mutter. He used to worry if the rest of the crew could hear him. The desert landscape shifted below as it was devoured more by that horizon line. The bands of gold and orange made by the refracting sun burned up from the icy distances of the atmosphere. It formed a border, precariously thin between Earth and Space. Sights such as these made Wu wonder if he would go higher, and cut through this invisible armor. The jagged and wrinkled landscape of the rocky Atlas Mountains drew slowly into view below as the empty bomber completed its banking turn. The Atlas mountains cut below them a scarred cut of dry caked Earth. Forming a trail of scarred rock. Wu looked down on them now, hands on the camera as he squinted down into the turning valleys and jagged dusty peaks. From so high up, the entire range looked indistinguishable. The shadows cast by the mountain faces from the spring sun felt almost flat. And below the twisting and turning gullies could hide anything. Roads, train rails, bunkers. But glaring down at the wasteland, he had the crawling sensation that the range was almost too much a wasteland for anything like that. That the Sahara beyond would defeat any army for them. But there was the maybe he thought about. This splendid isolation might hold something. Could it shoot them down? Could it see them? It was frightening maybe. The thought of watching the Earth below crashing up to meet him as he fell the many miles back to Earth made his head spin worse than any feeling of vertigo could. He held back his stomach, and took deep calming breaths turning to his camera. The kept the path for some time. No real landmark or anything of military value passed under them. The mountains just marched on. Wu was beginning to write this voyage out as another empty mission. Command wanting to chase ghosts in some desert. Or not wanting to risk the possibility Spain might have something if they passed over mainland Iberia. But something as thin as a thread showed between the rocky crags. Wu snapped a quick shot of it. Zooming in close and continuing. Train tracks. “This is Wu, we got something down below.” he said quickly into his microphone. “What did you get?” the pilot asked. “Looks like train tracks. Running north-south.” he replied hurriedly, “Can we track it?” There was a long pause on the other end. They must be discussing it. “Train tracks in the desert sounds strange, especially if we haven't seen them earlier. We'll give a short follow and return back.” the captain called back. The plane banked suddenly to the side. Wu could feel himself be thrown against the side of the bubble as they moved to keep in line with the tracks he saw below. The great darkness of the space above again opened violently as he turned to meet it. And with quick grace, they were on their way south. Wu returned to the camera. Turning in further with the zoom, trying to get the most of the opportunity. They trailed the winding tracks as it cut between desert mountains. Switching gracefully through the dry cuts of the range until spilling out in a softer mountain landscape. Dramatic and sharp against the boulder strewn sands the tracks passed through – or over – a large face of mountain, charging straight south through the sandy ocean, holding bunkers of plateaus and solitary mountains that stood to defy the sands of erosion. Almost on its own, the rails lead a straight path. Wu kept the cabin updated, offering his excited reports and updates as it went. The black freckles of boulders in the sand passing under neath like smooth shield-like mountains. It ran and ran. Until the landscape changed. “We got something.” he reported eagerly, diving into his camera. Furiously photographing the black, dark mesa far below. Shining dimly in the sun from far up, but exposed in the magnification of the lenses banks of aircraft sat on long black runways in the desert. Paved roads mixed in among winding rails as waiting tanker trucks and tanker trains sat idle in the yards below. An excited sort of activity drove below as jeeps and trucks drove along the desert pathways. Wu watched in stunned amazement, and subdued anxiety as the object below them carried on an aura of life. Aircraft touched down and lifted off. Large cargo-size aircraft waited on the runway, waiting to receive orders to go. The mesa was a nucleus to a nexus of desert activity. To what he didn't know. He held his breath, clenched his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Fearing that a wrong slip may alert the Spaniards below. He didn't know what they had. Urals “I understand your concerns, and I've already acted on them.” Makulov said as he sat down at the dining room tables, across from Ullanhu, “It is after all not often our village has been attacked, or known. And I got men on the problem.” Ullanhu glowered at the general, biting nervously on his lip. The former imperial general was a large man, more so than he. And his right hand was an even larger figure, an imposing golem of a figure. “I understand, but I can't help but feel simply patrolling out into the woods is not nearly enough.” the Chinese agent said. In the far corner of the room Konstantine's wife stood over a wood counter, pouring out cups of warm black coffee for the two officers. She was a homely woman, and she hummed a low song as she worked. “It's the only thing I can do.” Makulov responded defensively, “There's not much else I can do until we know who attacked up that night. And that's hard to do if we don't have bodies. They dragged them all off in the night, you know that as well as I. Both of us were out the morning before. “I've allowed you to move into the village, you've gotten that much of my trust.” the general continued, his voice dropping to a low growl, “I wouldn't advise you to test my patience.” he grumbled. “I have no intentions of doing that. I just want my safety – the safety of this community – assured. They know who I a-” “We can't confirm that!” Makulov reminded, slapping his palms on the table. Behind him Ivan shifted to the side, craning his head to the side and measuring up the scrawny Asian. Ullanhu shot a nervous look up at him. When they first arrived he had ordered him to strip and threw him in an icy pond. Jun had tossed him in, and since Ullanhu felt he wasn't on good terms with any Chinese agent. “Can I have confidence knowing you're trying.” Ulanhu spoke softly, “You have men in Yakterinburg, don't you? Could you start there as a source?” “I do, but no one's been talking about this. Not in the underground circles. Not on the Mafiya circuit.” he confided. His tone of voice was testy and impatient. “I have gotten more reports on there being some sort of shift in the regional Mafiya gang. Like something happened. Some people are saying the Horse Lord was killed. Others are saying an angel has fallen but neither have had any confirming evidence.” “An angel has fallen? The Horse Lord is dead?” the Mongol asked. Makulov nodded as the Russian wife deposited on the table a tin tray of hot mugs of coffee. Ullanhu looked at the mugs with an alien look of disgust. The thick black liquid looked hardly appetizing. Its smell was powerful now it was under his nose. “There is a group in the Mafiya,” Makulov continued, “who serve their mysterious Bog secretly. They call themselves his archangels.” “I think I'm familiar with the concept. But we always figured them a boogyman myth in China. Something to keep the foot soldiers in line.” “No, they're real.” assured Makulov, taking a sip of coffee. “And the horse lord?” Ullanhu asked. “Verkhovaya Gospodi in our language. If he's indeed dead then I'd say your friend is still alive. Does this make you feel at ease?” Jun could still be alive. That was a thought that struck Ullanhu. He was comforting to know. Yet, he still had no way of calling back. And someone still had his radio. “A little.” he said. “In a few days I imagine we should know.” the general said, “Until then, keep patient with me. I know what is going on more than you. I don't advise you encourage me to act prematurely. China may have cleaned out Omsk, but they still haven't gotten any further than there.” Surgut oil fields The derricks and platforms of hundreds of oil wells cluttered the field. For miles they marched on between muddy pools, and ponds of dark thick water. The grind and pumping of pistons and jacks pumped on in the afternoon sun, beckoning to the ears the call to join the march of industry. Even with an on going war, the Republic needed to feed its own demand. Though many wells sat silent, the presence of the many hundreds clustered around islands of forest was a sight to behold. Across the Siberian flat lands they stood. Yawning, bowing sentinels of the Siberian countryside, burrowing deep into glacial carved wilderness. Digging down atop where forests once stood. Tsein Huang stood at the edge of the wilderness looking at the fields. A CP1960 replacing his flamethrower, there was too much that was flammable around to risk it. He'd argued, but it was final. “It looks like there's five armed guards wandering between the derricks.” said a rifleman, as he ran up alongside Huang, “No more that I can see.” “Then this isn't a battle. This is simply a walk in the park.” spat Huang as he crouched on his knees. “What about the roads in?” “Last truck convoy left twenty-five minutes ago. If they keep schedule another will be back in the next forty-five minutes.” “More than enough time.” Huang clapped, smiling wide. “If there's only five we'll move in down the middle, I'll lead. But I want the gate house in secured. Take four men out and take the gate. Kill any who resist.” he ordered. He spoke in a heavy tone. There was a high strung tension to it. He wanted to move, the observation was getting too much. The subordinate bowed, and sprinted off to the side. With a hushed voice he called out four names he knew. Huang looked behind him to watch his four picks rise from the bushes. From the brambles and branches, and from behind fallen logs Huang saw the men Yun-qi had trusted to him. As the group marched off along the trees Huang stood back up, hoisting the rifle up to his chest. “Comrades!” he hollered in a loud voice, raising a fist. Obediently his men rose, twigs snapped under the weight over the squadron. (Action Tiem?) “Wide spacing, take the wells!” he barked, stepping out passed the trees. His boots hit the ground and he was out at a brisk march. Behind him the thudding of his men on the thawing ground followed suit. The sky over head was clear. And so were the fields. Huangs heart drummed along in his ears. A full warmth hit his blood as the promise of excitement welled. It was he and his objective. The men at his back were phantoms to help him. The coming draw of the engagement to be lifted him on his feet. He no longer felt he was jogging. Neither was he running. He felt himself fly across the field. The plates of his flak armor thudding against his chest. The grinding song of steel of steel sang into his ears. In an ephemeral moment he felt as his ancestors had felt a millennium ago. Warriors on the move, on the war path to conquer the west. To conquer Russia. He kept moving. The sensation had to stay. It had to be forever. For him. As they drew to the scaffolding of the wells he heard the shouts. Panic and shock exploded in the field as workers dropped what they were doing and fled the running machinery. Their pale yellow helmets and soft blue coats bobbing across the gravel and the cement as they dashed for trucks to make an escape. He heard a whistle blare. Somewhere in the distance gun fire and a siren. It was the sound he wanted. The rifle rose to his shoulder and he sighted down the trigger, grinding his feet into the gravel ground as his finger wrapped the trigger. Clap clap. Clap clap. The automatic weapon fired in bursts. Huang fingering the trigger, sighting down the fleeing oil field workers. He was fifty meters away now, and they dropped to the ground. Collapsed against the trucks. In swift seconds the workmen hit the ground before they could drive off. His men swept around him, and they barged on. The sound of rifle fire echoed still in the distance. Inter-spaced with the soft pops of handguns. “Secure this position, then move onto the other wells.” Huang barked. The rifle clicked as he ejected the spend magazine, reaching into his bags for another. “That's an order!” he reminded as he ran off, a fresh magazine clipping into place as he jogged on to the source of the fire fight. Again he returned to the sensation of being in a phantom age. Where his people wielded majesty and terror. They could again, in this much larger army. But being without his vehicles felt like too much a handicap. He craved feeling the rumble of a motor under him. To be moving to feel the wind against his face. Russia had warmed, and there was no longer any snow left. The buggies would be at their best, without snow to melt and freeze in the engines. But they had left them a half mile out, fearing they'd be too loud to approach in. The sound of the near-distant gun fire called him in. He again flew down the gravel road. The clashing of his boots muted to his own desires. The rifle wove back and forth at his chest. Ahead, a battered and rusting civilian truck was pulling out on the road. No doubt hearing the fire-fight at the gates, and seeing only one of Huang. He heard the engine roar as it gunned it. Barreling for Huang. He did not drop a breath as he sighted down his weapon. With the first ejection of the shell time ran still. Freezing in the moment as the CP1960 cracked again and again. Firing bullet on bullet. The wooden stock jumped in his hands. The butt hammered against his shoulder. Sparks exploded from the grill and hull as each bullet struck the engine block. He saw smoke. He saw a bullet sting the tires. With an explosive jolt the cabin bounched, then dropped violently, the bumper crashing down against the clay and gravel. A crashing wail screamed into the afternoon light and it swerved and spun violently. The driver frightfully trying to resume control through a cracked windshield. Huang stepped aside as the truck drew near. One final report issued from his weapon, and the driver's head folded back, slathering the cabin wall with brain and bone. To the screaming horror of his partner. The truck passed by Huang. He continued his run unflinching. He was the victor. He was going on. Until they surrendered before them or until they were mopped up. Every one could kill. This was war. His war. He kept moving. The sound of the exchange grew heavier in his ears. He was getting close. He rounded a steel shack, turning to find the gate. Huddling in the guard post sat one soldier, late service. A pistol clutched in his hands. He frantically changed out clips. The wood and gravel around him bursting from Chinese suppressive fire. Further back was another. Younger, more fit. Energetically firing to the side. Several others lay dead or wounded around them. Their blood stained his green uniform. Huang stopped in the road. Changing magazines. The old soldier looked up as he finished, seeing him. His face turned a ghostly shade of pale, his mouth agape. He rose the gun to him, and fired. With a hard ping he felt the bullet strike his armor. It was too late to do anything. He filled in the new magazine and rose his rifle. He felt something graze his neck. A hot burning sensation exploded across the side of his face. He grimaced at the pain, opening fire. The chain swept across the guardsman's face, pulping it there. Then continued to graze into the shoulder of his accomplice. Crying out in pain he stopped, releasing his finger from the trigger guard and raising a hand to his neck, dropping the rifle. “Mother fucker!” he bellowed. He pulled back his hand. Blood caked his palm. He'd been hit. If just barely.

[Meiyuuhi]

Brasilia, Brazil: "Senhor President, Senator Catarina is here." "Ah good, send her in." replied Adriano Claro, president of the Federative Republic of Brazil. He had arranged this meeting to discuss matters of policy with the senator, as he was certain that his majority in the Senate would not last and wanted to be on speaking terms with the senior Liberal Party leader before the election in August. "Mrs. Belo, how wonderful to have you here today," Claro spoke in a friendly voice. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" "I'm quite well without it, thank you, Senhor President." replied Senator Bela, a striking woman of thirty-eight. She was a rising star in the Liberal Party who had captured the spirit of Brazil's older residents and youth alike, eager for a change from the ever-left leaning People's Party and a new alignment in the world, and despite her young age in comparison to many of the Senators, she had a commanding knowledge of policy and a talent for speaking which put many of her fellow politicians to shame. There was some talk about her becoming the first female president. "Am I here for you to congratulate me on my stunning electoral victory?" she asked, laughing with a twinkle in her eye. President Claro chuckled. "I'm not quite ready to concede to you yet, Senhora." "On the contrary, I expect we shall have to forge a coalition, with your party expected to carry the Senate by a fairly large margin. If we can't nail down a policy direction, I expect General Antonio will have both our heads." The President was joking, but only halfway. "Surely that is the truth," replied Senator Catarina, shaking her head. "The army has accumulated far too much influence. We need to ensure that they remain submissive to our authority, or we shall suffer as this country, and many others on this continent, did during the thirties and forties." "But that is not the subject of this meeting, is it?" Claro shook his head. "Spain," he said, the one word carrying all the meaning necessary to deliver his message. "Imperialists." Bela pursed her lips at the subject. "Do they know no bounds? Must the entire world unite to contain them? And the Communists ask us to seek China to solve all of our problems. Amen I ask you, where are the Chinese now when their so-called allies are in need?" "We must do something." spoke Claro, with a firm conviction in his voice. "But what?" "It's clear to me that the Brazilian public would not stand behind another absurd foreign policy venture. You tried that in 1976, and it certainly did not fly." Bela sat thoughtfully for a moment. "We ought to take a page from Spain's own book. There are reports that men enthusiastic for the Spanish cause have joined an international battalion to fight in Africa. Surely we can promote the same?" "Of course." Adriano leaned forward. "Many of the generals tell me that there are soldiers anxious to help the Ethiopian cause, but intervening directly would be disastrous." "If we outfit them with spare equipment and give them humanitarian aid to deliver, we can contribute in a small but meaningful manner to the resistance against Spain." "All while showing them that the world is displeased with their actions." replied Senator Bela. "That is an excellent idea which I shall anxiously put into practice. I thank you for it. Now, for the other matter which I wanted to discuss." Catarina Bela nodded. "Economics." "There is little more divisive in all South America." "Implementing the Liberal Party's plan of reform, returning all the state-owned industry to private control, would be nothing less than disastrous. You know this." Claro stared Senator Bela down while he said this. She returned his expression evenly, with the solemnity of an expert poker player. "Perhaps. But you know full well the driving reason for my party's rise is the high taxes you have placed upon our people. Surely the idea of socialism is to improve the welfare of all people? How can you do this by crushing them?" Claro's frown deepened. "A better tomorrow is worth the effort of today." His expression then lightened slightly, in an attempt to preserve the conversation's civility. "But I see your point. Would your party be amenable to some compromise on taxes in exchange for retaining state control of the upper echelons of industry?" "I can see if that would be acceptable." Bela smiled, knowing full well that she had forced a concession without even winning an election. She then rose from her seat. "This has been a fine and productive conversation, Senhor President." "Indeed it has," replied Claro. "I hope for further constructive dialogue in the future." "As do I," replied Bela, before she strode out of the room. Asuncion, Brazil: "So tell me, Major, what have you been seeing in terms of the movement of forces on their side of the border?" General Antonio Buendia, the highest-ranking general in the Brazilian Armed Forces, asked the question dully as if he already knew the answer. "Sir, the Argentinians have been ramping up their troop movement. It clearly isn't preparation for invasion, but it is highly aggressive and likely intended to provoke us into action. Reconnaissance planes have confirmed this." Tensions had been rising between the Brazilians and Spanish-leaning Argentinians for the last two years. Few people suspected an actual invasion, that would be foolhardy considering Brazil had twice the forces, but any aggressive act in return would be a major hit to the Brazilian image, what with all the President's talk about eradicating imperialism. General Antonio bristled with anger. "We must find grounds to give these Argentinians what is coming to them. Mark my words, that will be my advice to the next administration." Sao Paulo, Brazil, Later that Week: "My fellow Brazilians and South Americans," began President Claro as he stood before the microphone of the press conference room in Sao Paulo. "Over the course of this century, we have seen many blatant examples of imperialism. The Great War which so rocked this world was driven by it, as the rival powers of Europe contested for influence over the rest of the world as if it was their own personal battleground. Nations have been annexed, even exterminated, all in the name of empire. But in all my life thus far, I have seen no such example as flagrant a violation of the international order as the unprovoked attack which now is taking place against the Ethiopian state by the so-called Second Spanish 'Republic'." "Prime Minister Sotelo has continued his nation's violent colonialist legacy by trying to eradicate one of the few remaining bastions of hope for the great African people. And as such, the Federative Republic of Brazil categorically condemns the actions of the Spanish Republic, and applauds the new president of the United States for his words on the matter. Let this agreement show that the Americas, North and South, are united against this aggressive move." "I have been asked many times by my fellow citizens and Latin American brothers what can be done to defeat this enemy. While Brazil lacks the strength to bring its forces to bear against such a European threat, already I am told that the first international brigades in support of our African comrades are being formed, with the intent to demonstrate the Brazilian people's support of the Ethiopian plight. I applaud the initiative of the great people of Brazil and of all South America in this action, and wish them the best of luck." "Finally, I wish to reach out to the people of Ethiopia and express the greatest sympathy. I have already sent a bill before the Chamber of Deputies which would initiate a small but meaningful transfer of humanitarian aid. Every empire will fall in its day, and so too will the Empire of the Spanish vanish from the face of this earth."

[Byrd Man]

Fort Norman Cascadia Territory Hank Kelly sipped lukewarm coffee out of a paper cup and pined for DC. At the Campus in Alexandria they really knew how to brew a cup of Joe. These Army guys could kick serious ass, but their gourmet skills were severely lacking. Hank drained the coffee from the cup and tossed it into a wastepaper basket as he walked down Fort Norman’s beige colored corridors. A general fatigue was setting into his bones, unsurprising since he had been up for nearly twenty hours at this point. Hank had been in a meeting yesterday evening with the rest of the analysts in the Company’s Canada Section when he D/CO called him up to his office. As a senior analyst in the department, the Deputy had picked him to go up north for the op. He was able to leave the Campus and stay home long enough to eat dinner and pack a bag before he told Tiff and the boys he had to go away on business. Tiff understood. She had been a Company wife for fifteen years now. He caught a ride on a military transport out of Andrews Field at five this morning. Twelve hours in the air and a three-hour car ride and here he was, puttering around the military intelligence offices of the base and waiting for Pat and whatever he was able to find at Bragg. Yawning, he found a couch in an empty office off the main hallway. Hank checked the watch on his wrist before stretching out on the couch. He unknotted his tie and kicked off his shoes before he closed his eyes. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.” Hank opened his eyes and saw Pat Connelly staring down at him with a smirk. “How long have I been asleep?” Hank mumbled to himself, checking his watch. Four hours had passed since he closed his eyes. “Damn… when did you guys get in?” “Ten minutes ago,” Pat said as he helped Hank to his feet. “Good to see you again, Hank.” Pat was Hank’s opposite number in the Operations Directorate. Hank rode a desk while Pat was an actual intelligence officer out in the field. The two men had known each other for nearly ten years and were practically neighbors since they lived two blocks away from each other Georgetown and their kids went to the same school. “So what did you get?” Hank asked with a yawn. “I think I got us a winner. They’re an A-Team with experience in the region from the war. High marks in all their fitness reports. Their NCO is solid as a rock.” “Good.” Hank tried to pat some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. He gave up and started tying his necktie back in place. “Give me a chance to get some coffee and I’ll be ready for a briefing.” Vancouver Arthur shifted uneasily in the small bed. Joanna stirred on his left and rolled over with her back to him. He looked over at her and felt something he couldn’t quite articulate. Was it love? Regret? Sadness? Maybe it was all three. He joined the Friends because they seemed to have all the answers he was looking for. They were smart and passionate, and they liked him. Alex and Chris liked him and Joanna… well, she was sleeping next to him in bed wasn’t she? He felt like he belonged to something. But was it something he wanted to be part of? Arthur had his reservations about the robberies and the bombings, but Alex had kept true to his word that nobody would get hurt. What they were doing was criminal, but it served a purpose. They had to show the imperialist they were serious. Their methods seemed to be working since the media was reporting general unrest in the territory. The Friends could be the spark that ignited the dynamite… but it was all in danger of being thrown off course. Everyone knew what VX was and what it could do. This wasn’t bombing an empty office building or even kidnapping some Army technical sergeant. VX was made for one thing only, and that one thing was killing people in en mass in a horrible way. Joanna shifted again, resting her head on Arthur’s chest. He thought of a third option while he listened to her steady breathing. So far, Alex had kept her and Chris in the dark about the VX option. He could force the issue, confront Alex and talk some sense into him, force him to abandon the plan if necessary. But then there was that gigantic man who wore sunglasses even in the middle of the night, the man with the fake name who talked slow and deliberate to cover up an accent. Who was he, and how had he gotten his hands on VX. More importantly, how would he feel if the Friends backed out of the bombing? USS Ranger Sixteen Miles North-Northeast of New York City Colonel Wallace Lee’s stomach did summersaults as he approached the jet waiting on the flight deck. Carrier sorties were nothing new to Wallace, especially jet sorties.Ranger and the three nearby aircraft carriers had been built just for jet sorties like this. The runway was more compact due to the jet engines achieving lift faster. While he was among the Marine Corps’ senior most aviators, he was still new to the jet technology like everyone else. The majority of his career in the Corps was spent on the prop planes. He had heard of the jet engine scuttlebutt for years now until it finally became a reality five years ago. Resting on the deck was the FJ Mark 2. It was so new it didn't even have a catchy nickname. It was a silver, snub-nosed little thing with two fixed wings that came off the fuselage at a severe angle. It didn’t look like much, but it could book it like nobody’s business. All the military eggheads and crash test dummies had done the work in the desert, but today would be the first time the Mark 2 launched from a carrier. Along with Wallace’s plane, the USS Eric Fernandez and the USS Saratoga had Mark 2’s waiting on their deck to launch. The sortie mission was to launch and fly over New York before landing back on the Ranger’s deck. Cameras present on the deck, inside the jet, and placed throughout he city would document the jets on their trip. That footage would be distributed to the media for national and international use. The message was a simple one: One more weapon had been added to the US’s ever growing arsenal. The flight crew helped Wallace into the jet and handed him his helmet. He strapped in while they prepared the jet and the deck for takeoff. “Ranger Actual to Linebacker,” Captain Lopez said over the radio. “How’s it feeling in there?” “Good. It could use a cigarette lighter, though.” “I’ll be sure to pass that news along to the boys at Skunkworks. I’m passing the mic over to Admiral Boyce.” “Colonel Lee? I’ll be brief. I just want to say good luck, we’re all counting on you. Boyce out.” Lopez signed off, leaving Wallace to go through pre-flight checks before he started the engine. The Mark 2’s single engine roared to life. Wallace took a deep breath and looked to his side. The flight crew had the hydraulic catapult ready to shoot him forward off the deck. He showed them the thumbs-up. The crew chief returned the thumbs-up and gave the signal. In the blink of an eye, Wallace and the Mark 2 were shot down the runway at high speed. He gripped the yoke with one hand, the throttle with the other. As soon as he heard the clank of the catapult bolt disconnecting, Wallace gunned the throttle and pulled back on the yoke. He climbed into the air and banked to the left, seeing Ranger and the rest of the carrier task force hundreds of feet below him. “Linebacker 1 to Linebacking corps. Linebackers fall in.” Linebacker 2, the pilot from the Fernandez replied with the affirmative, followed by Saratoga’s pilot Linebacker 3. The two FJ’s fell in behind Wallace. The three jets circled around the three carriers and watched their instruments. The uncertainty from earlier was replaced with excitement when he saw the speeds he was travelling. “Holy shit. Five hundred and fifty miles an hour, I’ve never gone that fast.” “Linebacker 2 to Linebacker 1, everything on my end looks good.” “Linebacker 3, I roger that.” “Okay, fellas. Let’s take these bad boys into the city. Tell ya what, last one back to their carrier is a rotten egg.” Wallace punched the throttle down and broke away from the other two pilots as he raced towards New York City. Senate Chamber US Capitol Building Washington, D.C. “’At the mention of his youngest daughter’s name, Mr. Bennet shook his head.’” Jim Sanderson, the junior senator from Georgia, read the words of Jane Austen with his syrupy South Georgia drawl. “’Although quite pretty, Lydia was a lively headstrong girl prone to a breathiness of speech and a most peculiar fondness for raising up the hems of her gowns to rub her lower half against objects and furnishings and, to the embarrassment of all parties concerned, young officers…’“ Sanderson stood next to his desk and read while a skeleton crew of clerks sat at the dais to record the words. From the entrance of the chamber, Russell watched Sanderson with a scowl. The Southern filibuster was now in its twentieth hour. Before Jim, Louisiana’s Jeff Murphy and Mississippi’s Barry McCall had spoken until their voices were raw. Jim taking part in the filibuster was particularly galling to Russell. Jim had taken Russell’s seat in the Senate after he had resigned to be Vice-President. It was on Russell’s recommendation that Governor Taliaferro had appointed Jim. Russell had promised to help him out this summer in the special election to serve out the rest of the term’s four years, but that was off the table. Both Jim and Herbert Tallmadge, Georgia’s other senator, had sided with the Southern bloc in the filibuster fight. It made Russell look weak that he couldn’t control the people from his own state. Fuming, Russell stalked off from the chamber and made a beeline to Wilbur Helms’ office. The two Secret Service agents assigned to him tried to keep up as Russell rushed down the marble halls. The ancient solon was standing behind his desk preparing to leave for the day when Russell burst in. Helms smiled, showing a full mouth of his yellow teeth. “Come to surrender?” Helms asked brightly. “I am a good winner, Russ. I won’t require you to bend the knee.” “You misunderstand, Wilbur. I’ve come to accept your surrender.” Helms cocked a gray eyebrow upward and sat back down in his chair. It took him a moment to comprehend what Russell was saying. A leathery hand scratched his slicked back silver hair while he spoke. “That a joke or something, son? Because I don’t rightly get it. From where I’m sitting, I hold all the cards. I got eight other senators that can get up on that floor and speak until their goddamn gums bleed. The entire legislative machinery of the United States government is at our control.” “It is,” said Russell. “And that’s why you’re gonna stop. You’re gonna come to the realization that, with the current state of global affairs, hijacking the government’s ability to create legislation is tantamount to treason. You’re gonna realize that in most of the world, you and the rest of the Southerners would have been hanged for trying to pull this shit. That’s why you’re gonna do the right thing and call the filibuster off.” “Make me,” snarled the old man. “Use all your power at your disposal to make me do it, you son of a bitch. At the end of the day, I do not give a flying fuck about this military bill. I do not want you and your goddamn Yankees interfering with my state. It ain’t personal, it’s politics.” Silence settled in as the two men stared at each other. Helms’ steely blue eyes refused to blink or look away as Russell stared forward. Finally, Russell blinked and stepped backwards. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “’Warm bucket of piss,’” he mumbled. “What’s that, son?” “’Warm bucket of piss’, isn’t that what you said the other week about what the Vice Presidency is worth?” “That’s right,” Helms said smugly. “There’s truth to that. Constitutionally, I can’t do jack squat to convince you to do the right thing. But… here’s the thing about almost all the men who end up becoming the Vice President. They were all experience politicians. They didn’t have power, but they knew what to do with it if they had it. It’s the same with me. There is not a goddamn thing I can do to convince you in my role as Vice President. But as a politician.” Russell sat down in the chair opposite Helms and leaned forward with his arms on the desk. He started to speak before chuckling. “You know, Wilbur, we both grew up pretty close to each other. Where I’m from in Georgia, Lavonia, is just a few hours away from your hometown in South Carolina. Edgefield, right?” “That’s right.” “Back when I first got to the Senate, I took a trip down there one weekend. I knew who you were and knew all about what you could do for me in the Senate. I wanted to learn more, so I went searching. I found something mighty interesting, Wilbur. I found Catherine Turman.” The old man’s face turned so white so quickly that, had it not been for his wheezing breaths, Russell would have thought he had just died. A smile crept onto Russell’s face as he pressed on. “You remember Catherine? Swell negro lady who teaches school at the colored school in town. She looks more on the biracial side, you ask me. Funny thing about that, there is no daddy listed on her birth certificate. Her momma was your housekeeper back in the day.” “Russell—“ “She got a fine education down at that negro college in Columbia, Benedict College right? According to her, it was a memorial scholarship as part of the Wilburn Helms Foundation. The thing is, I don’t remember you having a charity like that, especially one that gives scholarships to negro gals. Apparently, that same foundation helped Ms. Turman’s mother out after she left your employ.” “Russ, please—“ Russell smiled and leaned back. He thoroughly enjoyed the desperate tone in the old man’s voice.“I can’t do anything to get your cooperation as VP, you are right about that. But as a politician? I still know how to hit you where it hurts. Just imagine all the papers if this gets out. Wilbur Helms, the stalwart defender of Southern rights and segregation… has a half-black daughter. Not only that, but he's been running a slush fund to keep that half-black baby and the baby's momma up.” “Russ, son…,” Helms said, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “You can’t do that. It would ruin my career… my legacy! It would ruin… her life. This isn’t right, this is blackmail!” “It’s just politics,” Russ said with a wink. “And if you want this to stay buried, call off the filibuster and let the NEWI bill pass.” “You son of a bitch… You’ve known this for ten years?” “More or less. It’s always good to have something your back pocket when someone won’t play ball.” “This doesn’t mean any other civil rights bill will pass through this body. I would rather die than see that come to pass.” “Be careful what you wish for.” Russell stood and looked down at the wheezing, crying old man who just a few minutes ago said he had all the cards. “Cheer up, Wilbur. Catherine and her husband gave birth a few months ago. Let me be the first to congratulate you on being a granddaddy." Russell adjusted his tie and checked his watch. "I understand it’s almost too late in the evening to wake the rest of the walking dead that make up the Southern Caucus, but I expect I’ll hear that the filibuster has officially ended tomorrow morning, and the good men of the Senate can go about their duty of passing legislation. Have a good night, Senator.” Fort Norman Cascadia Territory “Operation Cruiser.” The chubby, middle-aged man in the wrinkled shirt and tie stood in front of Silas and his A-team for their briefing. Unlike the CIA agent known to Silas as Smith, this man looked more like an office worker than a Company man. He hadn’t even bothered to give Silas and the men a fake name, instead he just said he was Company and got right into the briefing. To the man’s right was Smith, sitting and watching impassively while he smoked a cigarette. “With the recent unrest in the territory, we’ve been given a green light for this joint CIA-DoD operation. Simply put, we’re terrorist hunting. These people who call themselves the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty have yet to hurt someone, but they will eventually. This activity falls under the purview of the FCB and the territorial police, but this is special circumstances.” “The FCB doesn’t trust the territorial police,” Smith added. “They’ll probably be spending most of their time mole hunting instead of trying to find the bombers.” “Technically Mr. Smith and I aren’t supposed to be here. A CIA operation on US soil violates our charter. That’s why this is a DoD operation. Since this is a US territory under military occupation, you boys have free reign to be here. Cruiser’s head, nominally, is the base commander here, Brigadier General Johnson. He’ll work with us and provide us with whatever we need, but for all intents and purposes this operation is being run by CIA. We provide the intelligence, coordinate with the Campus back in Alexandria, but you five will be the boots on the ground and Sergeant Crystal has the final say on any ground action, we’re committed to this being a joint command. Since you are soldiers, you are not held to the same standards as law enforcement. They have to make arrests and trials. You boys aren’t in that same boat. Simply put, if we find these terrorist first you have orders to take them out.” “Terminate...,” Smith said, before adding, “Terminate... With extreme prejudice."

[Wilted Rose]

----------Ansaldo Engineer Bureau, Genoa, Italy---------- The past years has seen both growth and decline for Ansaldo, the Turkish invasion helped expand the company thanks to an increasing need on new ships and aircraft, but the Batista regime that followed severely crippled all the growth gained in the war period, along with the Civil War damaging major facilities and buildings. The Istituto per la Ricostruzione Industriale stepped in to support the company under government influence, planning on using Ansaldo to help design new cars, ships, planes and other automotives. However, last month a new government held competition was started in the efforts of designed a new "Infantry Tank" for the Regio Esercito. Ansaldo was one of the companies tasked with designing the new tank, one never before attempted by Italy. The room was well lit, thanks to an entire wall being cut out for a large window, looking down onto the streets below. Oak bookcases full of old books and side tables covered in misplaced papers and cigars. "This design... it is daring. I doubt Fiat would even be able to build one a month, and this is a 'simplified' version?" voiced Ausilio Reo, one of the new project leads after the untimely death of Elogio Cervini, the main designer of The Carro Armato P90/80 'Legione.' "I simply do not see how we could just change from the P26 to the 'Legione' if it is accepted, not to mention it would still be outclassed by most war-like nations." "It will have to do, Fiat has already built the prototype and it will be going up against only one other competitor. Oto Melara's 'Cinghiale.'' Muttered Gosto Rosselli, a cigar in his mouth as he looked out the window. "Pray to god it will end up a terrible machine, because the 'Legione' might just be our last chance before IRI gives up on us." ----------Alto Comando sala riunioni stanza, Palazzo del Quirinale, Roma----------- Prime Minster Everardo Culotta rubbed the large wooden table in front of him, his hands tracing the lines and crevices the wood seemed to make with its coloring. It had been a long day, and it showed. His eyes were unfocused and tired, and his movements were sluggish at best. An entire day of talking and sitting, mostly about the growing conflict in Africa. His Majesty had asked that they all be summoned to this meeting in an attempt to prepare to enforce Italy's neutrality, without angering the Spanish should Italy be called to war. It was a risky task, attempting to make Italy prepared for a call to arms, while also trying to reassure the people that war would not come again so soon. Stressful - is what most people would call it, and no one had more noticeable stress then the King himself. Everardo knew him, he was tired and in constant pain. Despite his constant pressure for him to abdicate in favor of his daughter, despite her being only fourteen, and attempt to get medical aid has been received with only scoffs and denials. Now, the three military branches also know it as well. Francis was the first to move as the king requested help to get up, Tito moved to assist as well, lifting the large man out of his chair and handing him his cane. Everardo simply continued to watch, Florenstano managing to get his cane and stand on his own before leaving the room. "He can not be serious, wishing that he travel to Madrid. He is stressed enough as is! The pressure of travel alone will weigh him down greatly. I will be going instead." Voiced Everardo, as soon as the king was out of hearing range. The three men turned from watching Florenstano and moved back to re-seat themselves at the table. "I agree, Everardo is the voice of the people after all, I too vote for him to go to Madrid to speak of Italy's position. What difference does it make that he is not of the Royal Family?" Francis spoke as he leaned back in his chair, taking a much more relaxed posture now that the King had left. Aristarco nodded his head in agreement, but Tito cut in before his opinion was heard. "No! If anything, have Isabella go. We need someone with a spine of steel to talk for Italy, not our King or - pardon my speech- Everardo. You may have confidence, but Isabella has fire in her. She could make our Kingdom's position very clear and leave no room for bickering with the Spanish!" "That is a terrible idea, Isabella would do nothing but sour relations with her attitude. Everardo is the best middle ground we have available who has the authority to speak for the people." Expressed Aristarco, "Now that we are in majority, I shall go speak with Florenstano about this. He won't be in much of a position to disagree.

[gorgenmast]

Madrid, Spain ((A collaborative post between myself and duck55223)) Rhythmic clacking of purposeful footsteps reverberated down the corridors of the Halls of the Republic - the nexus of the Spanish government. Alfonso Sotelo, the prime minister of the Spanish Republic, strode down the marbled halls flanked on either side by muscle-bound bodyguards: members of a specialized contingent of Cazadores whose training regimen prepared them to more readily protect lives than take them. The suit clad goons came to a halt before the entrance to a conference room and stood at rigid attention at either side of the door, ready to spring into action at the slightest indication of anything abnormal that might occur during the upcoming discussions. Paying these guards little heed, Sotelo pulled the door open and left the guards in the hallway. Inside, the Prime Minister found himself before a Serbian delegation that had already seated themselves about the roundtable situated in the center of the cavernous conference room. The Serbian delegation was led by a single portly man, his bald head shining in the glow of the light fixtures of the meeting room. Two guards in black suits stood near the entrance from which the delegation had come. Small sidearms sat on their hips, as they glared at Sotelo and their Spanish counterparts from their position in the room. “Greetings Mr.Sotelo, I am here on behalf of the Serbian Government. We would like to congratulate the Spanish Military and Spanish Government on their quick seizure of the Suez Canal. We also like to inform you that the Serbian Government fully supports your move into Ethopia. After all the only way to deal with a communist is swift bullet through the head.” said the Serbian Diplomat, looking directly at Sotelo. The Prime Minister slid into the nearest available seat, smiling briefly and folding his fingers together as he pressed himself upright and rigid in his seat. “The congratulations are appreciated, as are the sentiments regarding the wages of socialism. I have long held the Serbian administration in high regard. Welcome though envoys of your homeland are in the Republic, I must confess my surprise that you have come to Madrid today. So far as I am aware, I received no notification from Belgrade that a delegation would be arriving today. Therefore, I ask patience on your behalf when I ask as to the nature of your visit to this Republic.” “Apologies about our visit being unexpected. Neven was quick to rush out the door, he seemed intent we head to Madrid right away. As for the nature of our visit, Serbia seeks the support of the Spanish Government, particularly in the form of weapons. I will not hide the fact of why we would seek such support; Serbia is intent on unifying all South Slavs into one state.” Sotelo’s customary smile collapsed into the typical frown as the exchange shifted away from pleasantries. “I will admit, the armed forces of the Republic do not commonly receive inquiries regarding the sale of arms. The Spanish Republic is not often seen as the weapons-monger for the West - that is more often seen as Poland’s sphere. To my knowledge, Spain has never been approached for the supply of arms in modern history. The weaponry at the disposal of our armed forces and private firms is among the finest equipment in all the world. The costs of such equipment are… prohibitive. And while I hold your homeland in high esteem, I do not have such an exalted opinion of Serbia that I would provide it the means to expand across the Balkans.” “Your concern is understandable Mr. Sotelo, and we have not gone to either Poland, or the most next obvious choice Germany because they fear we would expand across the Balkans. This is true as I said earlier, but what those two countries do not realize and what I think you do not realize is that a unified South Slav right-wing state is needed because another even greater threat to the balance of power of not just the Balkans but all of Europe is coming. And that threat is Russia.” “You realize we live in the year 1980? Not 1948, not 1970. There is essentially no Russia to speak of, do you understand this? The threat of an expansionist Tsarist Empire in the East was put paid to a decade ago by a Finlander assassin. If Serbia seeks to bolster its position in preparation for an Eastern hegemon, let it be that of the Communist Chinese.” “The Communist Chinese is exactly what we are talking about Mr. Sotelo. While their pace seems slow now, communists along with wanting to destroy all that is good are also very clever. They will find a way to make the Russian Republic collapse quickly, and let’s be honest the Russian Republic is torn up by organized crime. It would not be that hard, and if China defeats the Russian Republic, then they will unify Russia into a single state under a communist government. There will be rebuilding to do but give it a few years and we could have what was once the might of Tsarist Russia in the hands of communists.” “I too have received concerning reports from Siberia. And I will agree that the Communist Empire must not be permitted to reach the very fringe of Europe. But I do not yet understand how rendering weaponry unto Serbia will play a direct role in stemming the advance of the mongoloid bolsheviks. Cementing control over the Balkan Peninsula is certainly in your interest in preparing for the arrival of communist forces on the border of Eastern Europe - but it is not in mine. Why should it be? “We would provide your forces a few military bases in the Region, and since the Bulgarians do count as South Slavic that also opens up a few naval bases in the Black Sea for you. The Black Sea is important trade-wise and with fleets in the region you could prevent the communists from gaining total control over such trade. Serbia would also remain a military and political ally of Spain. Unlike the United States we see what the true threat communists are, and I can guarantee you have the full support of Serbia in any political matters, our say may not mean much know but imagine what it could be if we were a unified South Slav State.” Sotelo bridged his fingers, considering the offer on the part of the Serbian envoy. Access to the Adriatic and the Black Seas - that was a step in the right direction. But the Prime Minister knew he could get far more. “A unified Slavic State? A tantalizing possibility for Serbia, certainly. But for the part of the Spanish Republic? I will not provide for the creation of a state that could - in time - develop interests contrary to those of the Second Spanish Republic. If I am to support the existence of a greater Serbian state, I will need assurances that this future state will not jeopardize the interests of this republic. ...Assurances that could be satisfied by having Belgrade ratify the Ibiza Treaty. By Serbia’s accession to the Iberian League.” “Such an offer we could accept but we may need to ask a bit more in return. Beyond just Spanish support and weapons perhaps you could take a bit more of a active role in helping Serbia? Our industry could use some bolstering from Spain, especially considering the strength of your machines. A few advisers to help us organize our armed forces and make them more effective would assure me and Neven that ratifying such a treaty is in Serbia’s best interests.” “Advisers, armaments. Those will be simple enough. As for industrial support, I can introduce legislation into the Senate providing for substantial subsidy for investment in Serbia - an action that will guide the market’s invisible hand to lift Serbia to opulence and splendor. These requests can be satisfied. I believe we may find an agreement on this.” “I think there is nothing else to settle then.” said the Serbian diplomat, standing up and shaking Sotelo’s hand with a tight grip. “As a sign of Serbian Goodwill I can go ahead and sign the treaty now, Neven has granted me the same authority as him in diplomatic matters.” “Very well. I will call for the notaries to see to us and provide a copy of the Ibiza Treaty that you may ratify on behalf of the esteemed Neven.” The prime minister stood up from his seat and accepted the envoy’s handshake - his own grip much colder and looser in comparison. “As for the business between us, we are concluded. On behalf of the Second Spanish Republic, I welcome Serbia to the Iberian League.” Gulf of Aden Spain had launched against Ethiopia the very pinnacle of their nation's aviation: as nimble of a plane as had ever been built. It did not take an aeronautical engineer to determine that the Spanish Fantasma was built with agility and speed in mind. It appeared more akin to an airborne torpedo than any sort of airplane: the fuselage had been built around a single engine nacelle which fired a propulsory jet of superheated and compressed air from a single thruster pod incorporated into the tail. A ring of four .50 caliber machine guns encircled the intake on its nose like fangs around a bestial maw. The fighter was kept aloft with a pair of short, slender wings accompanied by two separate ailerons directly anterior to the proper wings. Emblazoned upon these wings was the Leonese lion of the Second Republic in white paint. The flying torpedo rocketed past the pillowy masses of cumulus clouds hanging over the open blue waters of the Straits of Mandeb. In a great, banking arc the Fantasma climbed out from the cloud banks after a solitary cargo airplane moving across the horizon. A blocky, heavy mess of an airplane - it moved hopelessly slow. The rocket of a fight swept behind the cargo aircraft and darted in to intercept the lumbering plane. As the fighter tailed its prey, the cargo plane's tail elevators flared down, pitching the aircraft upward at a dizzying angle. The Fantasma roared past as the cargo plane arced into the cerulean void above the world, its helmet-donning pilot turning in his cockpit to watch as the plane swooped overhead. As ineffectual as it was, such a move constituted an evasive maneuver. The chase was on. The Fantasma pilot's shoulders pressed down with tremendous force against his lower body as the jet pulled upward in a sharp curve, giving chase to the propeller plane. Within seconds, the Fantasma had matched the ascent profile of its prey and throttled up to close in for the kill. The pilot's gloved fingers snaked around the rear-mounted trigger on the fighter's joystick. Despite the best efforts of the pilot inside, the cargo aircraft found itself squarely within the gyroscoping crosshairs of the Fantasma. He squeezed the trigger for a second. The nose-mounted machine guns roared to life, rattling the cockpit of the Fantasma as a torrent of red-hot tracers arced across the sky. Brass shells tumbled past the cockpit while the pilot kept the fighter's guns trained on the propeller-bound plane. At the last moment before interception, the Spaniard tugged on the trigger once more for a follow-up burst. His eyes registered sparks of clashing metal on the fuselage of his target in the instant before he tugged the joystick to his left, banking the Fantasma away. As the fighter veered off, the pilot spun in his seat in order to confirm the damage he had inflicted. A smirk stretched underneath his oxygen mask when he saw a fire flickering wildly from within the innermost of the two right propeller pods. A smear of thick black smoke trailed across the blue sky. The target was wounded, but it could escape yet. The pilot's vision blurred briefly as he pulled another sharp turn - blood trickled from his head down into his lower body from the centrifugal forces produced by the rapid turn. The Fantasma turned about to face the cargo aircraft with its guns once more. The blocky craft, with one of its engines severely damaged, struggled to continue its evasive climb. It bobbed and shuddered, threatening to stall as the roiling flame within the engine grew in intensity. The Fantasma swept about to intercept the limping plane from behind. Once again, he trained the crosshairs at the fore of the cockpit directly upon the airplane's fuselage. As he closed in, his finger wrapped itself about the trigger once again, biding only to get close enough to ensure a mortal volley. At that instant, a brilliant flash of blue lightning bathed the cockpit and the airplane jolted violently. A deafening crack of thunder left the pilot's ears ringing. His heart raced as the needles of the myriad instrument dials around the cockpit all spiked momentarily before falling back to zero. The constant whine from the fan blades of the jet engine beneath him wound down to a gradual halt. The Fantasma sailed lifelessly past the smoldering cargo plane; it failed to respond when the pilot slid the throttle back and forth. There was no doubt - it was a lightning strike. All the electronic instrumentation of the Spanish jet remained listless. The craft's pilot was too frightened to begin to wonder how his plane had suffered a lightning strike in clear skies and several thousand feet above the nearest clouds. He was now gliding a hundred kilometers to sea over unfriendly waters. The pilot brought the radio microphone up to his lips to relay a distress call, only to realize that the radio was also dead. He jostled the joystick - the elevators and ailerons still functioned - but required some application of force without the powered components. Realizing that he yet had some control of the plane, he slowly veered in a southerly direction. And as it came about, a narrow spit of golden-yellow land glowed invitingly against the deep blue ocean below. The fighter descended slightly and proceeded to glide down to the desert island below.

[null123]

Belgrade, Serbia Neven paced around his office nervously as he looked at the clock. It had been a while since he sent the diplomats to Madrid, he pondered the outcome. He had given the diplomat permission to make as many concessions as necessary to garner Spanish Support and weapons. He only now realized that this may have been a bit of bad move on his part. His attention quickly turned to the door of his office as he heard their loud creaking, indicating that the door had been opened. His assistant Obrad stepped forth, carrying a few papers in his hands. “I have the reports from the meeting in Spain, the diplomat met with Sotelo himself.” said Obrad, as Neven grabbed the papers, rapidly flipping through them and reading the reports, his eye rapidly darting across the pages. “I expected them to meet with some low level diplomat, I guess Sotelo wanted to see what we wanted. Not to bad, I was expecting the Iberian League to be honest, it is good what the diplomat got in exchange for the signing of the treaty.” spoke Neven, taking a sigh of relief as he sat in the comfortable office chair that sat behind his big red wood desk. “What shall Serbia’s next move be Neven?” asked Obrad. “With Spanish weapons the army will be significantly strengthened. This is good, and the Spanish Advisers should help us reorganize our structure and update our tactics. The Industrial subsidies are excellent as well, with it we can grow our industry rapidly as well as give the workers higher wages, that will look nice for my public image. With all that said… Serbia is long overdue in uniting the South Slavs, Bosnia will make a excellent first target.” “Is it not a bit early for that Neven? Germany could become much more opposed to us if we work our way up to Croatia like that, and they may become much more active in the region.” “It has always been the goal of the Black Hand to unite all South Slavs, not just from Greater Serbia. That is the reason we have built this state, the reason I so willingly made concessions to Madrid. So that we could push further to this goal. It is even in the Black Hand’s forming document that we need to unite all South Slavs. I do not think the higher levels of government will be opposed to that. As for Germany… Madrid can put pressure on them if they try anything.” “If you think it is the best move Neven..” “I shall wait to declare on Bosnia though, do keep that in this room. I want to see how the International Community reacts to our ascension to the Iberian League” “If there is no more, I shall be off.” bowed Obrad, leaving the room as Neven reviewed more reports.

[Chapatrap]

Aziziye Square, Batumi, Adzhara Republic, Georgia The sky was stained a light purple as the sun slowly dipped under the horizon. Not a single cloud had appeared in the sky in the last few days and Polat had already called on a water restriction to conserve water, to the anger of the lower classes. A slight cooling breeze wandered through the square, gently flapping the Batumi Republic Flags and Ottoman standards that hung from buildings and flag polls. It cooled the face of the lone guardsman, an Azeri seated at the feet of the grand statue of Suleiman III. His gun was abandoned on the floor beside him in favour of a cheap, Oriental style fan that he held in both hands. The fan was flapping furiously but only provided temporary relief to the wet heat that had covered the town. The Azeri glanced around the square from his seat lazily, noting the five streets that led into the square. Technically, he should of been on his feet, walking in circles around the square, checking each road for a few minutes before moving on but that had quickly grown tedious and uncomfortable. He had realised that it would be far easier to sit with his back to the statue and watch each street from there, occasionally standing up and looking busy if he saw fellow members of his squad coming. He had not once had to stop anyone coming into square past curfew because nobody bothered anymore. Even in the day, the square was relatively empty save for Muslims rushing in and out of the Mosque on Fridays. 'You! Boy! On your feet, now!' came a bark from one of the road. The guardsman jumped to his feet, swearing under his breath as his Turkish officer jogged over. 'What are you doing, Private?' he snarled, slapping him across the face. 'I'll have you on shit shovelling for sleeping on the job!' The guard murmured an apology before looking the officer in the face. This wasn't the face of an angry man. The officers cheeks were flushed, as if he had been running and his eyes had a worried glint to them. 'Listen, boy, never mind the shit shovelling for now. We've got a problem down the street a bit. Some kind of nationalist-trade union march are forming a few miles away and they might try get into the square' he said, gulping slightly. The guards eyes widened in surprise. 'But...sir, there's a curfew. People aren't allowed around here at night. Can't we just tell them to go home?' 'You try telling 200 angry people to go home' said the officer. 'I've got the rest of the lads down there keeping an eye on them but I don't think we can hold back that many people for long. Go meet with them. I'm going to go call for reinforcements. Seggan is in charge. Go!' The officer then turned heel and ran in the opposite direction as fast his cowardly Turkish legs would take him. The guardsman shook his head in annoyance and began a trek down the dark road to meet the rest of his unit. The March The main street had become a sea of bodies as people from groups across the city marched through slowly. At the front, the Guard marched clumsily, clutching large Georgian standards and rifles. The amateurism of the miltia's men stood out as some walked out of step or let their weapons drop. Behind the Guard came the communists, backed up by the local trade unions who had declared an illegal strike. They clutched Georgian flags, large signs with anti-Polat messages (''Fuck you, Polat'' was a common one) and even a few Chinese inspired Georgian flags. Bringing up the rear were the citizens, who were by far the largest and loudest group. The groups often blurred together to the point it was no longer distinguishable who was who but it no longer mattered - all were citizens of Georgia and they were to make their message known. Davit lead the march at the front in full uniform, surrounded on all sides by his friends and colleagues. The idea of a band had quickly been abandoned when it became clear no one in the Guard knew how to play brass instruments and instead they marched to the shouts of anger and protest from a 200-strong group of Batumi citizens. From street corners and atop buildings, bemused yet heavily armed patrols of Polats men watched. The marchers were weary of the patrols and often gave them a wide berth. "Davit, sir!" panted a young Guard scout, speeding up to keep up with Pataravas longer strides. "Yes, my boy?" answered the leader of the Guard, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the shouts. "Up ahead, sir! Polats men have set up a roadblock on Beria Street, stopping anyone getting into the square" said the scout, almost tripping over his own feet. Davit frowned before waving the scout on. 'Go tell Elchin. He's up ahead a bit. Tell him from me that he can handle it anyway he says fit". The scout nodded before running on, weaving through groups of communists and women with children at their breasts. Elchin wore a heavy fur coat yet showed no signs of overheating as he shouted and mingled with his comrades in the Guard. "Elchin, sir! A group of Polat's men have set up a roadblock with their jeeps on Beria Street, right before the square!" said the exasperated scout. A huge smile creased the Azeri's face as he lifted his gun up and casually rested it on his shoulder, not breaking his stride. "How many?" he answered, a little too cheerfully for the scouts tastes. "I-I don't know, sir. Maybe...20?" winced the scout. Elchin scratched his beard for a few moments before continuing. "What did Davit say?" "He said you should deal with it how you see fit". "Good man" grinned the Azeri. "You go down the back. Things might get messy up here". The scout nodded and weaved between the marchers, soon disappearing from view. The Azeri took a deep breath before beginning his tyrade. "Right, you lot! All armed units take the vanguard! We're jumping in the deep end here, lads!" There was a quick shuffle as the armed units made their way to the front of the march, some shivering from anticipation, others shaking with fear. Their officers began shouting orders and the men, armed with shotguns, handguns and the occasional rifle, unlocked their guns. "Keep it tight, lads! Beria Street might be dangerous!" shouted Elchin, pushing his way out front. He unhitched his Armenian rifle from around his back, held it with one hand and shot it wildly in the air, wooping as he did. Outskirts of Batumi The Turks held the five men against the wall while the Officer, a Dagistani, went through their possessions. "Rifles?" he tutted, touching one with his toe. "And what are you doing past curfew with rifles, gentlemen? Are you looking to rob someone, ah?" he growled. His men, of Turkish stock, held guns against the Georgians backs, who were on their knees with their hands of their heads. "You can get in a lot of trouble with these" sneered the Dagistani, staring at the shaved head of one of the Georgians. "Who are you anyway? Communists? Nationalists? Or just common criminal scum?" he spat. The Georgian's didn't answer. They didn't wear a uniform and were a rather rag-tag group of men, the oldest in his forties and the youngest barely 21. "Not talking? Okay. Well, when I see a Turk jeep coming next, we might just have to hop aboard and take you to a police station". Jeeps were a feared symbol of Polat's regime - a jeep outside your house usually meant a trip to a 'police station' to get a night of beatings and abuse at the hands of Polat's men. "In fact, I hear one now. Hear it, boys? It might be the last thing you ever hear if I give the order to these Turks. And let me remind you, these Turkish men are itching to kill a few Georgians, aren't you boys?" sneered the officer, looking at each one of his men. The patrol gave a loud laugh at the thought. In the fading light at the end of the empty street, a pair of headlights slowly rolled down. "Here they are now!" cackled the Dagistani, squinting at the car in the fading light of evening. The jeep slowly rolled to a stop and the door swung open. "Hey! Turkish or Azeri?" called the Dagistani, switching languages and starting to walk towards the jeep. A heavily bearded man looked him in the eye. "Georgian" he growled, pulling the trigger on his handgun and shooting the Dagistani square in the head. The gunshot echoed down the empty street. The Turkish men looked around, startled at the sound of a gunshot but soon fell to the ground as a flash of rifle of fire tore down the street and entered their bodies. Out of the jeep jumped several more men, each wearing heavy coats with a Georgian flag sewed into the arms. A large dog of mixed origins jumped from the back and tore down the street after the single remaining Turk, who had dropped his weapon and fled. A long whistle from the bearded Georgian drew it's attention and it made a U-Turn, returning to it's owners and jumping into the front seat of the jeep, which sat with it's engine on and it's headlights "Shalikash and Gelovani, clear the bodies off the streets. Adamia and Inauri, grab those weapons. Janjigava, with me" barked the bearded Georgian. His men nodded at their orders and made off. Janjigava and the beared Georgian made their way slowly to the captured Georgians, who had fallen to the ground with their hands covering their heads. "You are Guardsmen?" he asked, looking at each of the five captured with suspicion. One man nodded quickly. "Ea-East Batumi Division Unit 1" he murmured. The bearded Georgian smiled. "Then you are who I am looking for. Quickly, all of you, into the jeep. Get your weaponry and don't pet the dog.