Somalia
Off the coast
The shadows of spinning helicopter blades chopped the light that shone off the low gray waves of the Indian Ocean. A slow reverberating and temperamental beat slashed the air. With each pass of the blade came another blink from the waves below as the solemn helicopter hovered over head. Skimming over the waves as they lowered over a piece of debris in the sea.
There was a sense of tensity. Not in just getting to the piece of aircraft metal that bobbed in the waves, the silvery finish of the piece shining like a silver jewel in the sun, though now the wear of salt water was dulling the sheen and even the cheap paint that was on it was starting to fade and wash away in the wear of sun and sea.
Sen Zhou leaned out the side door of the loitering helicopter as its rails touched the very tops of the ocean water. “We're not going any lower!” the pilots screamed over the radio as they bounced up higher. They were right. The force of the rotors was beginning to kick up a heavy mist of ocean spray. Alongside Zhou a youthful private reached out with his hand, his belly laying flat on the helicopter's floor as he put his face into the middle of the spray. Feebly grabbing for the piece of waste that lay in the waves.
“It doesn't matter!” Zhou kicked, the private recoiled back inside, his fingers brushing the wet surface of the metal, “There's no one here. Move along.” she ordered.
“Copy that, comrade.” the pilots responded.
The helicopter lifted off, raising back into the sunny warm skies as they continued to sweep over the ocean. Water dripped from the side, and the beads that circulated in the down-draft created a cloud of white-gold that cut and sparkled in the clear air. Meanwhile over the radio, subdued discussion and reports came in. Spanish and Ethiopian forces were clashing over the smoldering fires of Djibouti, set to light the previous night.
Still, the concerns of the Spanish course had to be cut from the mission. Zhou had been ordered north by Cao and other officers on behalf of the Ethiopians to seek out answers and make a report on the lost royal transport. Instead of sitting put on the coast, minding a radio the female officer had opted to take direct part. She wasn't about to be idle. She was more proactive than that. Staying where it was safe during the battles in the jungles of Mindanao hadn't won anyone favor. And it wouldn't her. No, it was abiding to something greater. A constant need to prove herself in a organization that was, by its best efforts, still presided over by men.
There was much for her ilk to surpass. And she couldn't do it by being merely adequate.
Rising into the air again the expanse of the search zone became evident again. Cao didn't have many assets at his command to utilize. But it was far more than the Ethiopians could muster. And for all of Cao's cowardice and pretty-boy book training he and the Ethiopians could at least come to one agreement: Ethiopian assets were best used against Spain.
For the Chinese, it was the meager fleet of helicopters at Cao's commands. For now under the direct assignment of their operations officer. Black dots combed the distance. Chinese light helicopters. Máquè B-1s. For her experience, something that hauled the wounded around. Lightly-built, little actual combat role. But heavy lifting all the same.
In the center of the orbiting swarm drifted a flotilla of small boats. At the middle a solid gray tortoise, a stand-out from the brown and rusting dinghies that surrounded it. Their helicopter lander was a stranger among fishermen that the Chinese had recruited to search for bodies. In exchange the fishermen got to keep any debris they could to sell as scrap. It wasn't a high-reward, but many of the old men were gleeful, hoping to get something valuable. If anything failed, Cao had promised some sort of reward allocated to them for the effort. They'd only pulled in five of them.
“How long are we going to keep at this?” complained the private as he whipped away the salt water with the sleeves of his fatigues. He scowled at the expansive emptiness of the ocean, and the vague suggestion of islands in the far distance.
“For as long as we need to.” Zhou replied in a low voice, leaning out the side.
She scowled at the sight of the wider wreck sight. Speckles of metal dotted the water. But she knew these were all dead ends. Perhaps some might have hope. Maybe carrying something that would promise hope. Being the carriage for maybe – if morbidly – a hand or some body part they could take and bring back. Heralding it as confirmation of a death and sealing the case as a whole. Zhou doubted if the Ethiopians even had black boxes. But if they did they'd need to dive. And for sure they didn't have divers or a way to retrieve it.
Currents had shifted the debris field. That much was sure. They found what meager ends they could just off of the engagement zone. Was this because the Spanish found them first and engaged the Ethiopian plane earlier? Had it kept on, blowing smoke until forcing itself to land.
Which ever the case it hadn't had the decency to stay in larger pieces. Shred remained. Zhou had hoped for a wing. If anything, these could be excused as garbage. Or debris that somehow made it from the Red Sea after the fierce fighting between the Ethiopians and the Spanish.
And perhaps even on that assumption it could have felt better – for her – if they located a soaked, drowned corpse of an Ethiopian sailor. It might have excused away this mess and they could go elsewhere.
Zhou pulled away from the doorway, carefully moving to the pilot's cabin. Leaning against the cold rails she peered out at the open seas between the two pilots as they set out.
Their radios popped, “Comrade Zhou.” a voice said, “We found something you should see.” a report cracked over her headset. She stood up, pressing her hand to her headphones.
“Speak up,” she demanded, “What did you find?”
“Survivors, comrade.” the comms popped, the muffled thumping of the helicopter blades distorted the words as they sawed through the air from both ends, “They're on a wing piece, no sight of the Emperess. But you should see this out.
“We'll set up a flare on our position. Over.”
“I copy that, waiting.” Zhou nodded. A feeling of relief came on her as a weight of failure pulled itself off. She locked up through the cockpit windshield, looking for the tell-tale flaire.
To their left, piercing the bright afternoon day-light a red spark shot into the clear diamond blue. “That's them.” Zhou pointed, “Head there.” she ordered the pilots.
“Will do.” the two men responded. The chopper pitched softly to the side as they sputtered off across the waves in the direction of the flare.
The Máquè glode through the air, drawing near to the chopper that had launched the flare. There below it, drifting and bobbing in the air sat a group of men, dressed in white robes plastered to their bodies from the water. Their whetted faces looked up to the commanding aircraft as it neared. But none of them jumped up, nor hailed the Chinese helicopter to them.
It was as if the Chinese were not their point of interest. Nor any salvation. Zhou watched as another emerged from the water, and clambered aboard the drifting piece of metal floating at sea. Helped up by his companions, another dove into the dark steely depths of the Indian ocean.
“What's the situation?” asked Zhou as they flew in close. The rotors kicked up a mist of water as the down-thrust disturbed the ocean surface.
“They won't talk to us.” the other chopper responded, “We've been in orbit for several minutes and they've not answered any of our approaches.”
Zhou looked from them to the white-robbed men drifting at sea. Around their waists they wore scabbards. The curved handles of scimitars glimmered in the sun. “Let me try.” she turned, moving from the pilots to the side door of her coach.
Hanging out the side the chopper lowered. Her shortened hair whipped in the cool wet breeze. She squinted against the dashing droplets of water as they came down.
“I am Zhoong xiao Sen Zhou, Chinese Army. Pemba detachment.” she introduced herself, she had limited Amharic; boasting only what she came to know in a commanding position such as her own. Her command and identity seemed to anger the men even more. They looked up at her with no compassion. Only a subdued anger and annoyance, “We've offered you help to get out, what seems to be the problem?” she asked.
Neither answered. Sitting in subdued silence as the one who had emerged from the water fresh continued to draw hearty breath. “Answer me!” she demanded.
“Listen you insolent woman!” one of the men roared, shooting up from his seat. A thin wiry beard hung heavy like a soaked cat from his chin, “We do not take orders from heathens such as yourself! Begone you godless bitch, or I'll cut you!” he bellowed, drawing the saber from his hip.
Rattling the sword he swore, “The might of God is with me. And not with you! Cursed wench, take you and your bastard sons home and whore yourself elsewhere!”
Like a gunshot, a hot rose bloomed inside her chest at the bite of the words. The man waved the curved scimitar above his head. Screaming in his African tongue. “The fuck you say to me!?” Zhou screamed, “You're a stubborn old man. The might of God my own yellow ass you gentry swine!” her knuckles wrapped the metal frame of the helicopter as she leaned out further. The other reaching for the revolver at her hip.
“Don't you insult me!” she bellowed. She ran through bullets. She'd been slashed, stabbed at, shot at, and exploded on. To prove herself. She wasn't going to have a senile priest tell her what she can't do.
The heavy weight of the revolver at her hip felt warm. Inviting. “I'll have you bleed in the ocean!” she promised, unsnapping the leather straps that held it to her holster. But before she could draw it, a hand held hers in place, forcing the gun down.
“Comrade, no!” a soldier demanded, “Don't make it any worse! Get back in here.” he begged.
She fought against him. The defiant figure of the Ethiopian standing just meters away, atop the chunk of aluminum wing as it sloshed in the water. But as she quivered and seethed in offense, she couldn't pull out the Changu. The regular's hands held hers down too tight as she was pulled back in.
“We found someone, that's all we need.” the soldier soothed. Back inside the chopper she was numb to the cold droplets of water that dripped down her. The anger that boiled inside was hot, nullifying sensation. It demanded her to kill. But her was command, restraining her.
“W-we'll go back to land, report it in.” the private continued nervously. He was the private from before. His eyes were wide and afraid.
“They're dead.” she said.
“W-what?” the private asked.
“We're getting back, I'm filling out the paperwork. We found the bodies of multiple deceased men. But we're still looking for the royal family.” she still shook. But condemning the pious bastards on that chunk of aluminum felt all the more calming than shooting them. They'd be dead officially, but in reality they would float and starve until that blinding piety suffocated them.
“That's all.” she sneered, “GET THIS UP, WE'RE LEAVING!” she roared to the pilots.
“Yes, comrade.”
Bargaal
He lay listening to the rattle of the truck bed under him. Nested on a mattress of straw and of hay the pilot lay staring at the open empty sky above. He felt tired, and still sore. But most importantly he was thirsty. His mouth itched with a dry cottony texture. It irritated him. Right now: more so than having to crash his plane.
It was probably fortunate enough he didn't plunge so hard he broke his neck. But he felt out of whack. Disoriented. Parts of him throbbed from when he had come back to Earth. He could only guess how the initial moment went when he hit the ground. He was alive, he must have been slow enough. And the angle at which he came down at must have been small enough. There was no head on collision with anything. No explosions. Just the fuel gauge dropping to zero and the buzzing sirens that screamed inside his cabin. He knew then that he had to bring it down over the Somalian horn.
He'd been going inland. Now he was smelling the sea again. He was going the wrong way. But it was something.
The circumstances for his rescue were perhaps only coincidence. A day passed over which he lay in the shade of a tree. Just waiting for the pain to subside before he made the trek out. But before he could bare to stand a herdsman had found him. Out of breath and ecstatic, the African had yelled in his foreign tongue, smacking Han Wen about the cheek and ebbing him out of his sleep in the hot Somalian sun.
Wen didn't know how to respond, which is probably why he ended up in the truck. Obviously the man thought he wasn't a threat. Not by much. He sounded almost sympathetic to him. He talked slow and carefully, even if he couldn't understand him. He was a stranger, but he wanted to sound like a friend as he helped him up and brought him to the bed of a battered pick-up that could have easily been post-war. Perhaps it had been a supply truck left over when the British failed to depose the Mad Mullah. Or perhaps it was a German gift for aligning with the Kaiser during the Great War.
Wen couldn't say what. He didn't care. All that lingered was the insurmountable wish to drink. And an ebbing secretive hunger deep in his belly.
The ride had been smoother than he had anticipated in Africa, where the land was said to be untamed. Even to the Chinese, Africa was a mysterious land with an Emperor curiously supported by their own. Their people dark and varied. Training alongside them was a chore, they acted as if they haven't heard of order. They were rowdy, unkempt, and possessed little in the way of modern technology and discipline. It was probably as well they had an Emperor.
But the soldiers he trained alongside were his only taste in the African continent. They and Pemba in general. On a good day, the island base was almost a vacation haven. Had things not been going as-is he and his compatriots should have been lounging on the beach, with their allotment of beer handed to them by the quartermaster. They'd have practiced their flights, puttered with the engines, and then they'd be spending the evening on the warm sand as the cool evening surf washed their ankles. Chen Wu would be making terrible jokes, and Song Yu would be prowling the surf looking for crabs.
He always talked about making a bowl of African crab in an oyster sauce.
But none of that involved the Africans. Hardly so. Africans were a twice weekly thing. They'd get in a car, drive down the island, and sit down with their partners in the sister base and go over with them on how to maintain rotary airplanes. They didn't have jets. They didn't even so much know they had them.
China was the future. Africa was the past. And Europe was a land of caution.
Off the cattle tracks now, the old beater chugged along down smooth pavement as the late morning sun slowly climbed the stairway of heaven. Each step another minute that passed. And he didn't know where he was going. Just that it was to the shore.
Over the sound of the clanging truck bed and the aged hum of an engine too suffocated to be moving he heard other noises. Traffic noises. Life noises. It spurned him to sit up out of his straw bed. His muscles ached and protested as he sat up straight. He swayed forward and to the side with the movement of the truck along the asphalt road.
Trailing the truck was a motorcycle. Rumbling gently behind it with a rough coughing voice. Its rider stared up at the Chinese passenger. His unprotected face sprung into mild surprise. Wen looked around, he had entered into a town. White-washed houses and business stood over the road. Telephone poles marched along the street. And a network of webbed electrical cables and telephone lines twisted about between. Like the familiar web of wire and band at home. There was just as little organization here as there. And with it, so to were the sounds of street life.
The passing of car engines. The idle weaving of traffic – mechanical and otherwise – and the polite conversation of the native locals. It struck Wen as a surprise, where Addis was the only city he knew of in Africa. Where Addis was only a city because it was a capital. In the old stories, Africa was a land of thatch huts and half naked women. But here there were town buildings, much like where he was from.
He leaned forward, past the wooden side wall of the truck's bed to the street and sidewalk alongside him. Men and women, plainly clothed, walked along. Dark-skinned men with wiry black beards strolled alongside dark-skinned women, heads covered in bright colorful hijabs. There was a sense of order in these streets. Just like at home.
If it had not been for the mud-brick, and the sun-baked, and sand-choked cinder blocks. The roofing as far as he could tell was nonexistent. Existing in suggestion only by tiled edges or the trim overhangs of corrugated metal. Many buildings, older in their construction boasted decorative, peaked crenellations of sandstone, eroded and washed out over centuries.
The truck continued its lumbering quest through the small town streets. Passing by homes and the base of a minaret, its skin coated in a heavy hide of fresh mud glowing in the sunlight. The flattened roof of the building crowned in white porcelain merlons. Passing alongside the simple mud-built mosque the truck came to a stop. Idling its engines for a moment before dying completely with a wet soapy gurgle.
Wen sat, confused in the silence and lost. Beyond the walls of the mosque he saw glittering in the sun the great gray sea.
The door to the cabin slammed shut and the driver charged out. Calling out in his confusing foreign language. Like some distant mutation on Arabic, familiar to him only as second hand. The driver rushed around the back, calling out and clamoring. He beamed with a certain celebration and hospitality. But his forthrightness and energy was more a discomfort than he was not.
He was a springy man. Long and lanky. His hands had known work, and so did his arms. Chaffed and calloused with working with rock or animal; Wen couldn't tell what. His hair curled and messy in a wild electrical afro and with an equally stringy thin beard.
The driver babbled on. Gesturing to his legs, his shoulders. He knew the two didn't speak the same language, but he could try to pantomime. He gestured until the message got across: how was he?
Wen chose to answer him in the stiffest way he could. Pushing himself up off the bed of the truck to stand against the tail gate. His body was sore, and he felt he was tearing his limbs off if they bent too far. But leaning against the rough body of the wooden planks he could indeed stand.
“Mo-ga-dishu.” Han Wen said slowly, hoping he could get something across. It was the only word he was sure he'd understand that he knew. “Ca-an I get to Mo-ga-dishu.” he repeated, carefully and slowly.
The Somalian paused, mouthing what the Chinese pilot had said. His eyes lit up with realization, but he frowned. Shaking his head, he took him gently by the shoulders and led him aside to a mud house. He talked, but the only thing he could make note of was the city's name.
He was lead inside a home, across from the mosque. Where once lead in he was gently sat down to observe the frenetic energy inside.
Almost as soon as he had come, the dwelling burst with a sort of excitement. The wife – he presumed – cried in surprise, and spoke with the man. Together, the two lead themselves off. Talking quickly in that language of theirs. Batting swift glances to him. Mogadishu came up, but he knew nothing more. And the two disappeared into another room. Slipping away behind a curtain door set in their muddy sandstone wall. And he was alone.
As Wen sat alone, the stability of the dwelling began to dwindle. It began with fluttering footsteps running bare across the tiled floor. Children who came to gawk at the Chinese pilot. Their wide eyes measures him up and down. Their curious looks made him squirm. They resembled predators. Tiny tigers and wolves. Looking upon an abandoned cow with hunger.
Even if in their eyes there was no hunger, only amazement and awe for the foreign pilot sharing their home it still gnawed on Wen. He could feel the jaws of their gaze giving no pause as they looked him over. He smiled weakly, and tried to avert his gaze.
After them came others. Women. Young and old they walked in and through, giving the Chinese pilot anxious looks under hijabs they adjusted nervously as they passed. Some giggled nervously. Wen didn't know whether to smile too. His face remained cold as he watched them by. It silenced them as they left.
As they filed into the next room the sound of chatter rose. Summoning the curious children to them and the men. Perhaps brothers of the one who picked him up, or friends. Cousins perhaps. Did the Somalis live like they, the Chinese? One large family clan in a single home?
But here he was, inside. No doubt their hospitality knew no security for their private dwelling. Were these men from the street then, called in by curiosity by the sawing of the women? Never the less they shuffled by, scratching their beards as they threw Wen curious looks as they disappeared.
The intent of the discussion seemed to shift as the homemakers stepped out from the other room. The loud talkative family bustled around Wen, nearly crowding out the remaining children who shirked away. Nervously they gestured to him and turned to themselves, scratching their heads and shrugging. A few seemed to watch him like they were waiting for him to react.
A dry itch had been resting in the back of his throat, playing cat and mouse with the dry dehydration that lay back there. Finally, the discomfort of I had come to a point. He coughed lightly, covering his mouth. The simple act silenced the group and they looked down on him expectantly.
Nervously, he rose a hand to his mouth. “Water?” he asked apprehensively, miming the drinking from a class.
“
Cabitaanka?” his rescuer said, “Cabitaanka!” he repeated, ushering off one of the women to the kitchen, “
Shiinaha wuu keeni doontaa biyaha!” he called after her.
Wen watched her disappear into the other room, her gray dress trailing behind her. She emerged moments later, a plastic cup in her hand. Anxiously, she handed it over to Wen.
It was water. He sighed in relief as he rose it to take a sip. The water was cool, if not completely cold. It also carried the dry arid taste of clay. But for what it was worth, it was water. The reviving embrace of it chased down the play of dryness of itchiness, and brought back some of his humanity.
He smiled at the woman, bowing thankfully as he handed back the cup. Nervously, she returned the smile and turned back. Her husband, the driver said something to her as she left. Though Wen didn't catch it.
Having drunk, the tension of the room dipped. There was a relaxation among the adults and they turned away from her, breaking into their own orbital groups, though never leaving. The woman returned to Wen again, with the cup. Wen took it gratefully, and sipped the water. Looking up at him the woman held her hand up to her mouth, miming eating.
It took Wen a moment to realize, she was asking if he wanted to eat. “Y-yes.” he nodded uncomfortably.
Russia
Omsk
“How does the road look?” Hue Wen shouted as he walked between the banks of armored cars. His coat trailed behind him. Opening enough for the hilt of his sword to gleam in the spring-time sun. Omsk sang with the rumble of motor engines and diesel. Plumes of black smoke puffed from exhaust pipes to the clear sapphire skies above.
“Clear to Tyumen, recon reports.” a nimble officer replied back as he rushed to keep pace with the general. Wen may have several decades over the officer behind him, but the age and weight his body insisted on holding couldn't slow him. Not the ryhtym of war and his duties beating soundly in his chest and head. He could hear the low pounding of victory in his head and the phantom promise of sulphur victory.
“They're bunching up on Tyumen. They might be counting on us being careful now that we came this far.” the young man continued. He was Angua's replacement now that he disappeared. Scrawny, short, he had a bushy head of hair. Should it have been a day for inspection the general would have goaded him out. But today was not for public display.
“What was your name again, officer?” Wen turned to ask, stopping alongside the cold gray-steel hull of a armored car.
“Shen Ju-long.” he bowed, “lieutenant assistant analyst to An Angua.”
“Right, well comrade Shen may I assure you we will not rest.” Wen smiled, “We will not give a break. We shall not give a quarter to the enemy. As long as we move we will bring fire.
“Comrade Wu has the whole the plan.” he continued, as he opened the door to the infantry carrier, “He knows who to pick and how to deploy them. I am confident in his abilities to carry out my orders.”
“And what are those?”
“You're splendidly out of the loop.” Wen chided sarcastically from within the armored hull of the vehicle. Ju-Long followed through, squinting in the moment it took his eyes to adjust to the dark light inside.
“I am afraid I am new to this sort of command.” Ju-Long admitted crawling inside and finding a cold hard seat, “I am more used to paying attention to what I'm only told to. Forgive me, comrade.”
“I'll let it slide.” Wen snickered, “We're going to hit Tyumen from three sides and trap them in a pincer. As we grill their front lines from the east here, we will wrap around the sides with the force of a claw. A farmer reaping the field of grain! And in that we shall set them aside as a bushel to be cleaned up.”
Ju-Long rubbed his eyes, he looked down at his feet. Watching his boots fade into clarity as the light dimmed with the shutting door. “I'm afraid I don't understand, comrade. I-” he looked up as he felt his eyes adjust and paused suddenly. The next syllable in his throat hanging in its back. It crawled out, not as a one long exercise in articulation, but as a sudden incommunicable groan.
“Ahhh- sir?” he continued in shock, “What is with the radios?”
“I used to think I was a DJ.” Wen laughed, “But then I found war and the western romance of talking over the radio died away!” he exclaimed, holding out his arms to the bank of radio equipment rigged into the very hull of the vehicle. Glued and bolted to the armored hull, a sudden growth of metal and cables and transistors threw themselves out like a gray cancerous growth.
“What use is a glorious march, if not music to inspire the men and to terrify the enemy with the image of their oncoming demise? And so do we go to the timely thumping of the drums.” he smiled proud.
“Sir, I-I must profess. I- uh. I do not think that is standard and nearly timely.”
“Every good commander should be allotted their eccentricity. Some fancy the old duel. Some prefer to amputate the limbs of their foes. And some such as I like to inspire our ancestral spirit!” he talked like a proud professor, showcasing his latest work. He bounced on his seat as he talked. Ju-Long could only stare at it in mixed confusion and fear.
“Never the less don't feel panic comrade!” Wen cheered, “I have played the drums for a long time. And we will be at the very nucleus of this center column.”
“B-but, airstrikes comrade.” Ju-Long cringed, “We'll be vulnerable! Even if Russian armor doesn't breach your perimeter. T-This... Noise will make us more a target!”
“Bull shit, I called in a favor from a friend of a friend in Mongolia. He said he can do a few things to keep the Russians crippled.” the commander waved dismissively as he fell back in his seat.
“Staff sergeant Wong,” he grinned, “Will you give the order for some thunder?” he asked.
“Certainly.” the sergeant towards the head of the car said, looking out from behind the tangled mess of a computer. He turned back to the radio and in a low certain voice said, “All units, sound the drums.”
There was a moment pause before the beating thunder began. Engines revved outside the armored hull and they were on the move. Ju-Long choked as he felt a pang of concern and nauseous fear eb in his gut.
Multiple stones began to sink in his gut. Though he was never one for combat, it was silence and subtlety that were his tools and his sword. He looked up at his master's gaze. Wen was full and confident with a bright rosy smile. His plump, round cheeks full as a rat's in his stoic confident smile. Outside, the long rhythmic beat of the drums signaled not a march, but a long haul. Every vehicle on decks. All on the road. Russian highways were now theirs.
“Out of a matter of personal... interest.” the young Intel officer started, looking to at least bring one stone to the surface, “What was the favor you called in?”
“Jets.” Wen smiled confidently, “The Mongolian air wing has a few not doing anything. Why not a 'protracted training mission.'” he smiled.
“They'll be hitting any bridges or suspect positions they find and leveling their airports to keep their shit on the ground.”
Southern Urals
Ullanhu was led along the hallway. The drumming of their feet drowned out by a humming excitement that fluttered and buzzed in the air. A certain excitement had roared to life as thing mobilized themselves. Ullanhu hadn't been completely out of the loop. He knew Makulov had made a move. Whether to their benefit or not, he wasn't certain. But he had been inspired.
Several days prior he had ordered his men on the move. They were headed south, in whatever beater cars they could find, by foot, or even be horse. Rifles and machine-guns were removed from hiding and the Mongolian agent saw what was hidden brought to life. Beneath the village was an armory set down to hide. The remnants of an old military squandered away for the moment. He had been taken be surprise. Stricken with the obviously hidden so hard he drifted through the day light-headed.
A day later he heard Yekaterinburg was under assault. Not by Chinese forces, who were still to far back. But from Russians. It wasn't a hard series of acrobatics for him to connect it all.
And so here he was, again in the Ghost General's lair. Perhaps he was offering his official support to the Chinese. Ulanhu could only be hopeful.
The guards that escorted him opened the heavy oak doors into his office. They stepped aside politely and the Mongolian walked in.
“Comrade.” Ullanhu said tensely, snapping his boots together and wrapping his hands in front of him.
“Good afternoon.” greeted Makulov stepping into the middle of the room. A pistol holster was strapped across his chest. His other wise short blonde hair was capped by his own officer's hat, the old Imperial insignia that had graced the white fabric had been long torn off. At his hip he played with a belt of gear. Tying tight satchels of pistol magazines and other implements.
“I've decided on my course of action.” he continued, “As we speak, I have it in good word that Chinese forces are making headway passed Omsk. Republican forces are in chaos, and it'd appear the northern frontier has been abandoned. Do you know what this means?” he asked.
“That Chinese forces are operating successfully.” the agent nodded, “So I don't see any more reason to doubt. We're making head way as we speak.”
“Of course.” Makulov smiled politely, “So we're going to play our part. But, I have a request for you.” he sighed, pulling the straps and belts tight.
“I will be moving out to join with my men at Yekaterinburg. I will not be here, merely a token number of men will stay behind to provide security. But my troops need me, I do not know how long they can last other wise.
“As a polite gesture of our potential beneficial relationship I will take Yekaterinburg. And hopefully reduce the chance of civilian casualties at the hand of your bombs.” he said 'your bombs' in a matter of hostility. The cold directness shook Ullanhu who stood up straighter, chewing the inside of his cheek as he braced.
“In that respect, I believe we can probably end this conflict early and tilt the scales further in our advantage to force the cessation of Republican land to our side.” he continued, speaking cold and bluntly.
“I was sworn to defend the Russian people. But here I am helping the attacker. I can only hope as such my assistance will prevent the excess deaths of Russian innocents. I want your promise.” he demanded coldly.
“You do.” bowed Ullanhu.
“Very well.” Makulov quietly responded. “So, I need a chip. I need the highest card in the Republican deck, and I want him here with me.
“You're a spy. A agent who managed to sneak this deep into Russia. Can you got further in? Can you survive out there longer than your partner?”
The mention of Jun froze Ullanhu. He hesitated. “I- uh...” he hesitantly replied, “I- um. I suppose I could if I tried.” he said, not believing his own self.
“I want confidence, agent.” Makulov coldly snap. “Can you, or can you not?
“I'll even give you a man of my own if need be. He can help pass you off within Russia.”
“Then I... I guess I could.” Ullanhu nodded, “I can. I can survive Russia.” he nodded affirmatively.
“Excellent.” Makulov smiled, walking over to him and placing a hand of his shoulders. His grip was heavy. His grip was hard. He gave him a light jerk as he smiled down at him.
“I have a young soldier who's been adept enough at moving around. Vasiliy Atinov is his name. I'll send for him and I can give you two our mission.”
“And what would that be?”
“I want president Alexander Belyakov.” Ullanhu felt his heart cover in frost again. His tongue went numb. “That highest card on the Republican deck. Even if he may not vital on his own, his disappearance and our possession of him will help shatter the Republic's resolve.”
“B- why would you want him!?” Ullanhu pleaded, “This is insane!”
“Sometimes the best things are insane.” grinned the Russian as he moved to the door. He looked down at his boots, silent for a moment, “And I am praying on us making lightning strike twice.”
“Twice? That's insane.”
“It's insane the Russians bent to the Chinese demands to arrest Dimitriov!” boomed Makulov, “It's insane the Chinese could not leverage him to make stronger demands! Not fight this war at all! Force the Republic to become a subject of Nikolov if had be! But Beijing had to treat the Republic like a sovereign nation, and to not recognize Siberia – or fuck, even Saint Petersburg – as being the power in Russia. To make them the subordinate soviet in a unified Russia again!
“Comrade, you must understand. I am playing with my people. And if the Republican duma can be so cowardly as to allow such things happen imagine what can be leveraged when the arrest of their president is not a peace offer. It is the very reason for peace!
“At the least we can break the Republic up, and it can be swept up by your people's sheer numbers. No civilian deaths, no military deaths. The Chinese political strength would be enough to force tiny states to fold without firing a shot.
“Do I make myself clear?” Makulov insisted. His face was glowing hot with passion and anger. His dusty blue eyes shone with a furious initiative.
“I-I believe so.” Ullanhu conceded. Lowering his head.
“Good. And thank you.” the general smiled thankfully, adjusting the collar of his uniform. “Now, though we may already by at their capital and blocking their west-ward flight much of the government had fled, including the president. But a considerable amount of ministers are still residing in Yekaterinburg, if because they have no safe choice. We shot down a private aircraft fleeing the city, but in the wreckage we identified their minister of finance.
“We believe president ser Belyakov has fled all the way to Moscow, which is the only other safe city in all of Russia. Defended by Polish private military assets, it's largely clear of Mafiya; though saturated in Polish corruption. He won't be shot there, but I fear there might be a danger if he's there long the Poles might find a means to leverage influence on the conflict. They could even give your people – and my people – hell by getting him to agree to buy more Polish weapons and greatly update their military. And both of us will be on the lesser end.
“So, the situation has some significant ramifications. I'll brief you and your new partner fully when he arrives. But realize, I want him out of Moscow and out here. If you can not, you do have permission to kill him. Just make sure to put as many ministers as well in the line of fire if you must. We must break the necks of the pigs to save us.”
Surgut
The buggy ground to a halt. It's tires scratching the pavement as it skidded along the asphalt to its eventual uneven stop. It came to a jutting idling stop. Its engines hummed as the breaks were locked and the men could climb out.
“So this is the river port.” Jiao-Long exclaimed as he stepped out, stretching out his back. He stepped out of the cracked and pot-hole strewn road. A field of concrete marched out to the river, where the gray water lapped and rushed against stubby short piers. Low cranes stood lifeless at the water's edge, their cables and lines hung limp from their arms like vines.
“It would appear so.” Yun-Qi nodded. He was hardly impressed with the scale of the infrastructure. But he could not blame it. The mayor had explained that with the Trans-Siberian railway down, this port had lost significant business a century ago. Yet still, it was important to local commerce. And in this time had the promise to define itself. If as a short-term solution to current problems.
“Wen Ho would appreciate this sight.” Jiao-Long smiled, laughing a little as he walked along, Quan Yun-Qi close behind.
“Yeah, but he's not here right now. But we don't need him. Not at the moment.” Yun-qi admitted. He looked down at the tracks that cut through the middle of the concrete plaza. The iron rails were sunk down at the bottom of a shallow trench. Additional segments of rail mingled beyond and around, as part of a greater network.
“I imagine if we had rail cars here then our people could use them. Send supplies by train to the front.”
“Provided their safe, but I'm not a security commander.” Jiao-Long admitted, “That's a job for Wu Bo.”
“And he's back at the installation.” Yun-qi pointed out, “I think we're all going to want to move out to here. I'll keep a token group at 62-69 to keep eyes on the frontier. But I don't think it's needed.”
“It shouldn't.” the civilian liaison nodded.
The two jumped over the train trenches. Jumping across bit by bit. In the shadows of the river's cranes they continued, looking out at the slowly flowing green water and to the wilderness beyond, guarded by its trees and shrubs. “So this is where the Ob and Irtysh meet.” Jiao-Long said with a sigh.
“That'd be it.” nodded Yun-qi with confidence. “Down one is Novosibirsk and direct Russian re-supply, and the other from China, or even Omsk if we can start using that.”
“You know, I'd say we about control the north now. We're not the warlords of northern Russia. Here. Right now.” Jiao-Long joked, “I feel good.”
“I would too...” Yun-qi sighed, “But this was too easy. So I don't feel comfortable. Not at all.”
China
Teipei, Taiwan
The trees glistened with the droplets of fresh rainfall, the dark storm clouds that had passed now a distant monolithic wall crawling and spinning towards the west, towards mainland China and Vietnam. It's gift the water that now shimmered in the mid-afternoon sun lay scattered like diamonds in the warm mid-afternoon sun. The storm itself had stalled a debate scheduled wisely for out of doors. And ten minutes after it actually started and twenty minutes after the rains it was finally to the end of the meaningless formalities.
It was formalities that laid the field. Introducing men that needed no introduction to any supposed audience. The trading of points containing an air like two gentlemen discussing the day over evening tea.
To Zhang Auyi it was all rhetoric. A meaningless formality and ritual. Stature and poising with no clear goal. Pronouncing themselves and their position. Presenting themselves abstractly with no rational thought. It wasn't debate, it was laying the foundation. It was for the radio. Everyone else had left.
Those that remained were the journalists and the photographers. The national types from the NPN here to manage the radio broadcast. And then those from abroad here to make attempts at recording it for their own scattered attempts at following a broad and isolated event: the election of a Grand Secretary. Auyi couldn't confirm if it would hit papers as far away as Mexico, but it was a shot by them. Something for the interest sections.
Behind the stage flowed the Tamshui, its gray waters shimmering in the afternoon sunlight as the waters marched north to the sea. Broken by the boughs of chestnuts and the trunks of Muku trees. Cargo ships from the mainland, the Philippines, and even as far as Mexico drifted lazily down the river in search of port alongside outgoing Chinese ships and the patrol of the police. A decade after its surrender to China from Japan and Taiwan was considered still in a state of martial limbo, allowed to act in Beijing's politics, but the military was still common.
“So comrades, both have made proposals advocating for some manner of economic reform.” the moderator began from his table. He was a scrawny feeble man, with thin stringy hair and gnarled, wrinkled fingers. He sat at his table just below the stage, looking up at the two like a silent judge. A bouquet of microphones sat in front of him, feeding what it could to where it could. “Auyi, you have proposed some of the most dramatic, so I will give you the first answer.”
“Certainly, and thank you.” Auyi bowed, leaning over the simple wood podium. His flush round face brimming with a polite smile.
“I will not deny that under the regime of Hou that China has experienced admirable growth in its local economies. With limited foreign partners we have not just rebuilt our infrastructure, but seen it grow. But this self-isolated manner of economy spurned by growth only in limited areas has not brought our nation about to its full promise and its potential. What we might call growth within inter-ministry affairs has slowed in the past ten years roughly to stagnation. Again, only a few fields has it grown.
“Our trade opening with our partners in Russia, Indochina, and Africa has shown positive growth for the state in all fields. But not to any level that might be considered desirable. Growth is slow, and incremental. There has been no promise rendered real to many of China's citizens. Our potential is weak and lack luster.
“I will open the matter of argument on the pretense that China needs to expand its global presence. As an economic partner, without loosing focus and sight on its aims for revolution, internal and even global. But how can we muster this strength with so little global inspiration? Matter of the fact: the world does not see China as rich and viable and the merits of worker's liberation has not been seen as successful by the greater world. We must trade openly, not just to re-enfranchise individuals to Revolution, but to do the same with men and women abroad.”
He nodded proudly as he leaned back from the podium. His forest-green eyes stared out at the meager gathering with a confident strength. He brushed his hand on the sleeve of his white suit, turning to his partner.
“I will not lie that Auyi has his points.” his partner began, a short meaty fly. His face stout and curved like a bear with small beady eyes and a balding crown. Wu Peng, a congressional representative. This was his home town, Taipei. But he leaned almost submissively over his podium, his stance like that of an old man in his inoffensive gray Zhongshan. “But I must call to question his faith in the revolution. People abroad everywhere hold China in high esteem and I see no reason why we must prove it by opening our doors. Yes, we should expand our economic relationships with other nations. But we should not throw open the doors to every party who seeks to enter. If we allow in Europe once again then so too will we invite the rampant looting of Chinese land by the very same people whose interests we sought to expel. Not just from China, but the whole of Asia!
“Whole-heartily, we should invest our economic efforts on the non-European, or the parties distant from Europe. Use our resources as a means to friendship and ultimate enlightenment. Africa is a continent full of partners. And it's with them we should sell to. It is their partnership we will see our nation and our revolution flower and grow as the Dark Continent liberates itself.”
Auyi laughed, shaking his head at the remark. “Africa may be a rich friend.” he rebutted, “But I would not go so far as to comment on it being the soul power that we must open up to. Their people and ours may have suffered a very similar history at the hands of the European powers. But that alone does not wholly validate any means for adventurism.
“I love Africa as any righteously, outwardly minded person does. But I will be the first to admit that investment in the continent is not two-way, nor does it bring benefit to China. The African nations are still poor, recovering from harsh and direct rape by the Europeans. Distinguished by war and internal strife I would declare that the people of the African continent most likely do not possess the sort of wealth that would come back to us.
“It's a matter that as spooky as it is we will need to seek partners elsewhere and not just in Africa. What goes to Africa must be our own investment. Chinese investment. A partnership between us that will come with a long pay-off. I must admit that this may seem personal comrade Peng, but I must say that I am rather shocked at your insistence that all our assets should be put into Africa as a whole.
“We must do our part to seem them build. But not to grow our promises to our people at home. Things should be carefully managed while being open. So that we are not again raped in our palace, and so that we do not become the unjust oppressor.”
“Comrade, the sake of the economy is to produce wealth in the given purpose of making.” Wu Peng argued hysterically, “You can't deny that slow return or not that investing resources towards Ethiopia would benefit China by creating excuse to work, and to continue the cycle of our public capital. Surely, you can not?”
“I can, actually.” Auyi smiled. Or rather, he believed after his tenure as a provincial governor, “Though that is a point, it is not all of it. Man does not build so he may destroy the moment after what he made. It is a wasteful purpose that serves no grand purpose. The very purpose is to use what was made to benefit the people at large. Or to make such expecting a return on one's production that benefits the whole even more. Whether it be building radios, cars, or buildings: every craftsman and labourer works knowing at the end of the day his duties to the Revolution will be met with reward in food, a house, safety, and public service. Perhaps even capital for himself so he may bring to his family luxuries not otherwise provided by the commune.
“Strictly sending investment to Africa one way will break the cycle of growth, however slow it is. Debt does not serve the factory linesman or the farmer in the field sowing the next year's rice. In fact, if the resources to expand production are not brought back in a timely manner, that linesman may not find his factory does not have the energy to run: it's been sent to Africa. Nor may he or the farmer have the rice to eat: it's all been sent to Africa. The farmer himself may not have the seeds to plant his crop: it's all in Ethiopia.
“What then is the purpose of this partnership is Ethiopia owes us a debt for our trade? Are we not too-humbly admitting that we are their servant and that they can take what they want from us? It's too much of a faulty system, and a voluntary act of rape. Except it is not us being forcefully vandalized by foreigners, it is us inviting them to do so.”
“Never the less,” Wu Peng started, his sudden suppressed anger gave Auyi the quick impression he was about to shift direction. He looked down at the silent moderator below them, who exchanged the look with repressed silence. He probably wasn't about to call it off. That is the impression Auyi got. “Never the less, how might further growth even be achieved while staying to the merits of the revolution itself!?” declared Peng, “If I can be blunt comrade, then how is it that your economic policies as governor of Guangxi, and your push for further determination for China's farmers not a suggestion at inviting the term of the dated bourgeois principles that earlier destroyed our proud nation? If you continue the patterns then it is legitimate concern you may begin the reign of the gentry elite again!”
“You are merely being emotionally reactionary.” Auyi soothed, “I would hardly call for additional determination by China's farmers a revival of the old land-lords. It is more a revolutionary directive than the strict control we have.
“Would the right for our communes to elect not only representatives, but to elect the direction of their trade not be powerful for us and them? Would it not be wise to lessen, or remove the strict quotas that have slaved under? I have seen results by granting additional freedoms to our communal workers, their work was boosted. They were happier people, prouder people who could look at their work and say: 'this is mine, I did this. And not it's going to make someone happy.'
“If you have such accusations, then may I ask if you have any way to back them? What have you done to prove yourself. Can you call yourself a friend of the day-labourer?”
There was a light cough from moderator, cutting the two men in their argument. Auyi looked down to him, away from his partner to see what was the matter. “Before we get off track in personal insults I think it's a good moment to shift elsewhere.” he said. Behind him wayward spectators were beginning to find seats in the concrete amphitheater. A growing crowd.
“What say the two candidates to issues regarding the current war in Russia, and the erupting powder keg in Africa?” he asked, “Wu Peng, you have the first words.”
“I support our continued commitment in Russia.” Peng started immediately, “We have strong commitments and strong reasons to secure and pacify the Russian north so as to now allow it to descend into chaos and threaten our national security. From Vladivostok to Saint Petersburg, Russia deserves to be united under the red banner. To be liberated from chaos and disorder. Free from corruption and vile mandarins.
“And in Africa we do not hold such a powerful commitment to a hypocritical government as the Solomonid. If they will not bend to proper liberation and for us to allow Yaqob to stand critical of our righteous mission while he is a 'friend' then they have invited Spain.
“Our commitment in Africa should be as thus: for the expulsion of Spain and the installment of a proper modern regime for all of Africa. To send Spain back across the Mediterranean.”
Auyi stood, thinking to himself Peng's concepts felt jaded and lost. “In these days I fail to understand our continued missions in Russia.” he admitted plainly, “I do recognize our continued commitments to our Russian allies but there is a time and a place all wars must end. I intend to find closure to the war in Russia. To end it, and to pass it to the Russian people so they may complete it. After all, the unification of Russia is the mission for the people of Russia themselves. We have little right to call it our own mission.
“The invasion of the Pan-African Empire is a tragedy. In the light of two fires that burn I see the one to our north as dull coals that have run their course. We should keep them warm for as long as need so that it may be rebuilt. But we should only last for as long as it can go until the proper owners of the fire can address it. We have helped to fight it low and to tame it. Let's finish our role.
“But I see the distant fire. One that is not dying, but springing to life. I see its tongues threatening to destroy the jungles and Savannahs. To kill many, and destroy much regional history. If there was ever more of a moral and ethical mission, then it is in Africa. It is in Africa we will commit our rivals to their greatest humiliation. And it is in Africa we will spread enlightenment. But we shouldn't wait, not for long. Not for when the fires are a raging firestorm. A torrent of violence so fierce that we can only stand back and watch it burn out before we move in to help.
“And will we be the heroes then? No.”
