[b]Somalia[/b] Dusty pastures and whipping and bending sandy roads passed below as the wing of Herons shuddered over the clouds. The dull hum of the engines singing muffled songs in the pilot's ears through their leather flight helmets as they tore along. Somalia roaring at the speed of sound below their chrome wings. The light of the African sun shone bright through the cockpit windows. Glimmering like diamonds from the drops of dew that smacked against the fiberglass with each cloud they tore through. Before long the droplets peeled off, tearing off the glass in the blink of an eye as the roared high above the horn of Africa. “Chin Wu,” the radios cracked, “This is Han Wen. Permission to speak?” “Talk.” Wu replied flatly. To his side Wen flew in his identical silver bullet. The Herons were untested for combat rolls, a first of their generation. He felt confident in them, their regular training runs over the sea ensured he and the rest were already accustomed to this new style of flying. It was something several pilots on base were jealous of. Or were scornful. “If I'm reading my fuel gauges right then it looks like I don't have much left in my tanks. I'm just a little under a half full.” Wen laughed nervously, “I mean, fuck. If this takes too long then we're not making it back to Addis. We're coming down over Mogadishu.” “I always wanted to see Mogadishu.” pipped in another through the radio static. He held a familiar high-pitched voice. “Maybe if you let the Spanish shoot you some you'll get to visit, Song Yu.” Wu cackled back. But jokes aside, he couldn't pretend he wasn't nervous. He shared the same doubt as Wen. “We'll make it.” he said hopefully over the radios, “All we need to do is shake them off long enough for the craft we're protecting to get away. If they can re-route themselves then they should be able to get on ahead long enough for us to refuel and – command willing – meet up with them and see them to their destination.” “Why is it we're obsessed with royals?” Yu demanded, “We kick one off the throne in home to bring him back in, then we make sure every fucking one we're buddies with stays in office. “Last I checked, this isn't how things are supposed to go.” “I'd keep those opinions to yourself.” Wu puffed angrily, “I'm sure there'll be some questions for you and a nice dark chair.” “I understand sir, I'm just saying.” Yu replied apologetically. “Well stop saying. We're coming on the coast.” Wu snapped. He leaned higher into the cabin. The blue glow of the sea shimmered through the distance and the fog of clouds. “Run one last weapons checks. They're live now.” he ordered, turning up the plastic switch guard on the top of the joy stick. He gentle stroked the smooth red button with a gloved finger and took a deep breath. It was a sensitive thing, a mere twitch could fire the cannons mounted under the craft's wing. He reached out to the consoles and flipped up his targeting reticle. With a breath he hoped deeply things were calibrated. “All set, comrade.” his wing men reported. “Destination is the island of Socotra. Eighty degrees from north on our position. Weapons are live, engines still burning hot. Ten minutes ago we received a distress call, I hope you all remember that.” The sound of Wu's wingmen agreeing chimed in. “This is Heron 1 leading in for an attack. On a narrow wedge, heading to destination. “Man Shen, I know you're going to go over these recordings when we get back. So let me add: you still owe me.” [b]Anqing, China[/b] “Though the tortoise blessed with magic powers lives long,” Mang Xhu quoted, strolling between the dinner tables. A glass of water raised high in his hands as if toasting the room. His voice boomed and rolled over Cao Cao's lyrics as he walked betwixt the gathering of industrialists. Tables laid flat with white linen, glasses of wine, and plates of pork were the gift of this campaign banquet. “Its days have their allotted span.” Xhu continued. His thinning black hair combed smooth over his head. He was trim in his black suit. A red lapel pinned to the collar. He was confident, but knew Anhui would be a hard sell prefecture. It was agricultural, thus loyal to Auyi. But he had to make the effort. This was his home. “Though winged serpents ride high on the mist, they turn to dust and ashes at last. “An old war-horse may be stabled, yet still it longs to gallop a thousand miles. “And a noble-hearted man though advanced in years never abandons his proud aspirations. “Man' life, whether long or short, depends on man alone.” he smiled, holding out the porcelain cup of water. His eyes shone at the quick and subtle change in lyrics. Dodging the poem's later topic and implications. He gave a strategic pause, offering his people the time to chirp up. And they filled it with light applause. A sprinkle of hands clapped in the wooden hall of Anqing's town hall. The wide windows now situated behind Xhu letting in the bright cool light of the afternoon. The Dabei mountains rose up above the edge of the provincial capital in the distance as the chamber's view peered out over the low roofs of the city. Isolated pillars rose in the distance between them and the green mountains, like the remains of a great ruin the spanned the city. The smoke stacks of factories. “The allotted days of the Europeans are coming to an end.” Xhu said, bowing to the warm applause he got, “China is rising in the east and we will soon bring down upon them the fury of the setting sun. The serpent that long ago divided our nation so it may be devoured by the nymphs is aging, and we will be there to scatter its dust with the fire of revolution! “The Chinese mission is not at an end, and is yet to continue. We have not stepped to climb Zhūmùlǎngmǎ Fēng. We may have put our foot on its heavy face. But we have yet to truly climb to its peak and conquer the challenged before us. We may own its base, having extinguished the European camps at its foot. But even here there are forces that could usurp our rightly given bases and deny us our chance to climb up, and throw boulders down upon them. “There are enemies around every corner. The Revolution in Asia is not yet finished. We have sadly permitted the bourgeoisie Empire of Japan to survive well passed its expiration date. We thought this is mercy, but it is only a prolongation of its suffering. Like an injured boar it breaths weak across the sea. We must ride to it and lay the boar down to sleep for good. And with the final blood drawn from the Empire we will have freed the Japanese, and sought the last revenge for the suffering that have given us! We have not forgotten! “And even so we have Siam, the other aging tiger. Its jungle will its downfall as revolution and liberation sweeps it and deposes its king. And unto Burma we will promise the same before we finish the work we started in India. We have a legacy to live too. One of strength, not of weakness. “Division shall not be abide. The lines in our nation will need to be erased – as too the lines we permit in the International. “And then, what of the old serpent? We shall bring them the gift of worker's revolution. We will steal them. Run the mission of socialism. Achieve true Communism when the west does fall. They already quiver and shake fearfully. Jumping at shadows in the apes from Africa. “Will we forget the Summer Palace?” he asked, weaving between the tables. He stopped and gave pause in the room's nexus. Holding his words and searching expectantly for a sound. A word. Some form of denial. “Have we truly forgot the Summer Palace? A magnificent structure, the peak of the Chinese culture. What was once hoarded, that should have been made the public right of every man, woman, and child in our nation? “Will we abide its loss without revenge? Do we not wish upon the English and the French the same culturcide they have wrought on us? An eye for an eye. As they taught. The suffering of one made up for by equal act. So to will we occupy their lands, their precious colonies, and turn into dust their monuments. To say to them, 'This is what you did to us'. “We should permit weakness to control the nation. We should only permit strength. Given the success of a good administrator. And a masterful tactician. I have fought to lead the Revolution!” Xhu boasted, “I was there, leading the heroes who liberated the nation once more, and sewed multiple parts into one body! “What can Auyi say to this?” he asked, “Hardly naught. His position his short. I was long. He is a young upstart and a rebel. So why do we vote for him? “Comrades and brothers in shared blood. I am the one who is ready.” [b]Intelligence Bureau, Beijing[/b] “What's this, all right here?” an agent asked, raising a hand up to the blown up aerial photograph. The back lighting glowed through the photo paper, giving the black-and-white patchwork of shapes a ghostly illumination. “It looks sort of like a military compound.” replied another, walking up alongside his partner. He squinted his eyes at the blotchy details. All along the sides ran a series of similar pictures. The two looked up and down the series of images. “Where did the notes say this base was again?” the agent asked. “On the southern edge of the Atlas range. GHH-04 puts the approximate location at about 19 degrees north and 7 west.” another said from the back of the room. Yan Sing craned is head to the side. His body tingled with the sensation of curiosity as he took a draw from his cigarette. This was their second batch, he'd come down when someone said they found chemical trucks. And now he stood again in the dark room looking at field intelligence laid out on sheets of plastic paper. “Commander Sing, what's your thoughts?” the agents asked. Their commander didn't respond. He scanned along the successive series of photographs with a distant stare in his eyes. “Why circle about a rock in the desert?” he asked suddenly. “Are they hiding weapons under that mesa?” an underling asked. “Weapons. Probably.” Sing growled, walking up to the line. He stopped short of one, looking into the granular splotchiness of an exploded photo. “Comrades, what do you transport in tanker trucks?” he asked. “Chemical components, sir.” one replied. “And what operation needs to be guarded by the military, serviced for the air-force, most likely?” “Chemical weapons?” “And what's the chemical weapons that Spain has?” “VX, comrade.” “Ship this to the rest of the branches. We're holding onto this information. File a request to put this site under monitoring. I want to know as much of its schedule as possible. Rotate planes on it. If they can, I want an ID on everything that goes in and out.” [b]Urumqi, Xinjiang[/b] The train had pulled into the station late in the afternoon. A clear sky highlighted the capital of China's western fringe. It was a city tucked on the edge of the desert. Resting between two mountain tops in a valley it called its own. As the train swept north from the dry dustiness of the desert the first thing its passengers had seen on its approach was not a class and steel maze, rising like a ghost in the haziness of the horizon as they soared over rocky hills and swept over the cracked Earth on a June day. Marking where the city stood they saw the mountains, the green shield, the ice caps just beginning to melt. As they neared the city the Taklamakan cleared to pastoral green fields, feed from the Bogda Shan mountains that marked the city. As they drew in closer the much drier and cracked counter part to the Bogda Shan rose in the horizon as the first hints of Urumqi's administrative quarters poked out of the horizon. The Tian Shan were much like a sharp and jaunting spine of rock than the greener Bogda range. The city itself was a time capsule. Entering it Auyi and his family felt themselves going back through time. The old mud and stone structures of the desert felt and looked more akin to a passage torn from medieval Persian stories, inter-spaced with the sun-baked Chinese relics of the past century than it was a city of modern value. At times as they passed the Uighur neighborhoods and in the shadows of towering minarets could they see the distinctive glass and cement industrialism of Chinese bureaucracy in the city's core. Its own administration and that of the province as a whole, an egg of dark glass in a nest of beige and brown stone, white plaster, and blue ceramic glittering like sapphire gems from mosque domes and park gazebo roofs. Still despite its alien fantasy Auyi saw what he considered a hint of home in its streets as the train crawled to the station. Whipping over crossing guards he caught the passing glimpses of trucks and wagons. Though caked in dust they were all the same laden with the produce of the region's efforts. Cages of chickens, bales of cotton, and bushels of wheat packed in tight and heavy in the beds as farmers made their way in to sell the excess of their labor. The train station was – besides the distant administrative buildings – the city's most modern piece of infrastructure, though out of place. Likely built in the 30's, the building felt and sounded like something out of Russia or Europe. Its towering cathedral ceiling was a patchwork of yellowing, sun-stained glass set in iron lattices. Solid red-brick walls enclosed the platform and offices from the outside streets and contained the piped audio of train arrivals and announcements in both Chinese and Uighur. Security had cleared for them a way through, allowing the minister to be to his designated cab on the street. But not without the handshaking and waves expected from a candidate for public office. “You're going to be meeting with Sabit Afdeer.” Shanxi Wu dictated as soon as they got in their cab, “He's the leader of the local Uyghur council representing both them and the Hui groups in the north. He's also a prominent figure down south, namely he's a congressman from Kashgar.” “So what's he doing up north then?” Auyi asked. “Trying to keep things together.” Bathukhan replied in a slow draw as he took a seat alongside Auyi. The doors shut as Bao Yu and Jie squeezed into the very back of the government coach. “Hui and Uyghur both have been strenuously affected by the religion laws of the state and how often they flip-flop. For us in the East it's hardly an issue, faith – or lack there of – is pretty homogeneous and most districts haven't had a severe problem with it. There's no argument when what the people do mostly practice is sanctioned by Beijing.” “I understand that much.” Auyi agreed, “So the law hasn't been very stable here then?” “As minister of people's affairs, you obviously don't tune into much news.” Bathukhan laughed. He waved his hand dismissively in the air. He disregarded the innocent slip. “It's stabilized in the past few years but some members of the community have become upset that the Han side of the local government thinks that they can shut down Mosques. The situation became tentative almost several years ago when most of the Hui moved west out here and skewed the religious demographic towards Islam. Last update to the religion law said that Muslims were as native to China as Daoists, at least out here. Sabit Afdeer negotiated the peace between the Muslims and Urumqi. Uyghur and Hui make up just over half of Xinjiang now, we don't need violence.” “I imagine he has a lot of clout then.” “Incredible. He doesn't need to be in Kashgar to be seen as a hero. He's almost to them as Hou is to everyone else.” Bathukhan nodded, giving a breath of subdued praise. The chauffeur pulled them out into the street and into the veins of the lost city. “Sabit will treat us to a private dinner at his residence.” Wu recited from his notes as they wound into the streets, “Last I got in touch with his people I was told we'd get a half an hour alone. Local-level news outlets will be present however for a brief question and answer with Sabit. Afterwards he'll introduce us to the informal Xinjiang Uyghur council before we eat.” “Excellent.” nodded Auyi. He glanced back at his son and asked: “Bathukhan, does he have any children?” “Sabit is about as old as I am. He's got grand children. But none of them will be present.” he droned. “Not last I checked when I heard you were going.” Auyi bit his lip and nodded. “Damn.” he muttered in a subdued whisper. Jie however didn't seem to notice as he watched the passing city through the rear window. Too hypnotized by the foreign landscape to care. His mother gently stroked his back, smiling gently as they went. “Should we go over possible questions, or do you think you can do it ad hoc?” queried Wu. “I think I'll ad hoc it, thank you.” Auyi nodded, watching the city. “Beautiful place, shame I never came this far west until now.” he said softly, watching the front entrance of a mosque as they passed. ------------- “Qarshi alimiz!” the old man boomed as he opened the door. Round and jovial, he almost bounded along the floor as he invited his guests in, “Minister Auyi, it's a pleasure to meet you for once.” he said, turning to the minister as he entered. Sabit Afdeer was by no means a shrunken man in his age. His presence was inspiring as he stood over the minister from the east. His cheeks flush with rose red as he smiled behind a thick wiry beard, specked with cream. “I hope you don't mind I don't extend the proper greeting,” he apologized heartily, his voice as big as he was a man, “But I couldn't help to indulge myself in left over pilaf so I'm afraid I know I got some in my beard. “Come, come. Sit down please. Before the journalists arrive.” “Thank you.” Auyi smiled. He felt nervous around the man. For being an old horse of a figure his energy was like that of an unstrung child. His sagging wrinkles and thick sun-cooked leathery face did little to hold back what was his age. The entire image of him as he saw him made him mildly uncomfortable. For years he had become accustomed to the slow and calculated age of the normal politics in Beijing, where even the young bloods in politics had a timely speed. Almost meditative in their ways. But here he now was, in the political home of a figure who by all means looks to have decided everything so far behind the spring that should be coiled was sprung and free. “I'm afraid we don't have much in the ways of introductions to do.” he said, walking around his living room. Or more pacing as he worked between the chairs and tables. Arranging and re-arranging them. “I had to do most of the work myself. I frankly didn't feel my staff could get it right.” he apologized, showing Zhang Auyi a thick red leather arm chair. An identical stood next to it. “I can't help but feel that's not the only reason.” he smirked, amused at the intensity of the old Uyghur. He was by no means either a figure who looked like he was born in China. He was tall, his Asian features softened by a certain Caucasian nature. His nose wide and bulbous, rising out from his face and pitted. He like wise could look in his glowing blue eyes and confuse him easily enough for being Russian. His long wiry hair – now white – could have once probably been a sandy shade of blonde. He looked over at the Minister with a polite smile as he brushed the cushions of a couch off to the side for his wife and son. Bathukhan stood in the corner watching with Wu. “Quite right.” he said, “But tell me, Auyi. When you're not playing the Beijing game, what do you do? “Oh, and Wu. Did you want to take up my tea offer?” he asked suddenly. “I'm fine.” Wu replied from his corner. “Then sit down. You too Bathukhan, I know I watch you lurking the edge of the chamber a lot. But this is a home, not the Congressional Hall.” the Mongolian bowed his head and laughed, nodding agreeingly to Sabit. “I've picked up Photography, towards the end of the Revolution.” he said. “You and I, we seem similar then.” Sabit said. His pace seemed to slow, as if getting over the initial rush of having visitors. “I painted, for a while. Was never very good, but I insisted with people. “Like a photographer I found, I wanted to find the best angle for my subjects.” he stepped back, gliding to the far end of the room, “And I think our vulture friends will have the good one.” “So that's why you're doing this alone?” he asked. “Indeed. Back in the forties I met a photographer from Russia who had been traveling central Asia. I was a young man then, but when I saw his magic box I had to stop him and ask. I followed him around Kashgar for the week, playing assistant. He had energy, like myself. Taught me a bit about light on his stay. I had the impression he was judging me. Trying to find if I could be his protege. “In the end, comrade. I had my own things in Xinjiang. For the growing political storm. I knew I couldn't go to Moscow with him to study. But I did take what lessons he had at heart, and I observed. “And lately now, even with my hobbies set far aside for my obligations and duties as a leader among my people I don't forget. I like to doctor my own settings.” “That sounds fascinating.” Auyi complimented, “I for one am more a landscape man.” “A man for the wider image then.” Sabit smiled, taking his own seat in an identical red chair next to Auyi. “The journalists should be here in five minutes. I'm distressed – if not surprised – you're late. With any luck they will be too. But necessary evils, if I must comment. Shall we go over anything first?”