[b]Osmk, Russia[/b]

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?”

[b]Over Spanish Africa[/b]

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.


[b]Urals[/b]

“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.

“[i]Verkhovaya Gospodi[/i] 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.”

[b]Surgut oil fields[/b]

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.

([url=http://youtu.be/wGJ_y4W2d3U]Action Tiem?[/url])

“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.