[h1]Africa[/h1]
[h2]Pemba Island[/h2]

In the corner of the drab unadorned room a fan clattered. Weakly circulating a hot humid air through the room. It was a false comfort, but one all the same. The sound of the distant pounding waves of the ocean just off the coast provided a backdrop to the crack of live-fire drills and the rumble of distant airplane engines. All these sounds were the backdrop of Pemba, and much normalized to Sen Zhou as she sat at the spartan metal-frame chair in the center of the room.

Across from her, separated by several meters of empty space sat a desk occupied by a brick of a tape-recorder. She recognized the device as an audio log for debriefings. It was certainly something she sat through and observed the debriefings of sergeants reporting on the unapproved duties of bored enlisted types. The sort of frolicking misbehavior brought upon by putting youthful testosterone on a equatorial island with nothing to do.

And now she sat looking at it. It was no crime on her part and she felt no quilt or emotion to the familiar device and its simple red radio buttons. If anything, through her career in knowing this they had certainly gotten smaller. She remembered at the end of Mindanao she'd sat in a room with a single large tank of a piece of military recording equipment to give detail the after-action reports for the Filipino government. Somehow she'd got caught up in their original furor over the assassination of the rebellious and self-described Pope in Mindanao. But now that machine had become big enough to fit on a desk.

How curious things were developing.

Alongside the desk stood her superior officer. Dezhi Cao stood by waiting patiently, picking at stray grime and sand under neath his finger nails with a distant and inattentive look in his browning eyes. He hadn't been sleeping well these last couple nights, Zhou noted as she looked at him from the debriefing chair. His eyes were darker and sagged. It wasn't hard to know that what was happening to the north was wearing in on him.

“How'v things been here on the home front?” Zhou asked with a polite smile. The question visibly startled Cao who must have drifted off into his own space. He visible twitched and looked up for the source of the intrusion, but settled when he realized it was Zhou.

“Oh, uh. Fine.” he said choppily, raising a hand to massage his eyes, “Men are getting excited.”

“Thinking they'll get to see war?” she inquired.

“I suppose.” Cao responded dismissively. He gave a worn smile that suggested he wasn't all enthused. He was trying to hide that same fear he had when the Turks were bearing on the Africans.

Cao was an academy trained officer. He'd never seen combat, nor probably ever dreamed to see it. It wasn't hard for Zhou to deduce that her commander was just in this game to rake in whatever benefits he could have. Some stability or sense of purpose maybe. But that was her own impression. He could do the administrative and image functions perfectly, and performed with perfection. But she knew privately he shook in his boots when it was to come to decisive combat action.

“We'll talk about it when we're finished with the debrief.” he prattled, “Chen Wu should be in soon.”

“Wu's getting involved?” a stunned Zhou asked. At which the door in the side of the room opened.

She turned her head to the newcomer. Standing in the door frame a middle-aged intelligence agent stood with a folder of papers in his arms and a pen dancing between his fingers. He gave the two a flat look, darting his wide eyes between the two. “Right.” he began in a dry cracking voice, “I knew someone said my name. What's the new rumor?” he asked with dry sarcasm.

“That you still haven't returned that one book due to Beijing.” Cao spun back.

Wu rolled his eyes as he walked over to the desk. “Uh-huh.” he grumbled, finding a seat. He dragged the chair to the side of the desk. In the empty room the grinding of the bare metal legs on the floor resonated with almost explosive force. Zhou squinted her eyes as the lonesome song of all four legs dragged the floor like nails on a chalkboard. Cao reacted in much the same manner as he winced back from the desk.

“I didn't expect you to take notations.” Zhou observed when the crying of the chair stopped. She looked up at Wu with an almost distasteful look. Even in the hot weather he wore the signature black uniform of the IB. It matched with the rest of him. He was long and lanky, almost frail in an essence. And his black hair was swept back against his head, even where it was short.

“When the commanding office back home got the pilot's debrief,” he remarked indifferently, referring to the central command in Beijing, “They deemed that anything relating to Azima was above normal standard and they want a report from me personally, with meeting annotations and any and all recommendations I can provide.” he gave the two a proud and wide smile, “So it's not Cao hitting the button and asking questions. Or you or even Zhong Hue.”

Zhou nodded. Zhong Hue was the officer in charge of security and was most often in charge of the disciplinary questions if available. Otherwise, he delegated it to a crony; but that was uncommon. “I suppose we're all here then.” Cao declared, reaching over to the recorder. With the press of a button the machine produced an audible, plastic click and the reel-to-reels turned. “This is Lùjuun shàngxiào  Dezhi Cao in debrief with Zhoong xiao Sen Zhou for the operational records in Beijing.” Cao began, prattling out the words in a dry official voice. Again, Zhou could not help but smirk at his insistence of retaining the dry official rhetoric.

“On the fifth of June, 1980 Zhoong xiao Sen was deployed with assets including the light-support naval vessel, designation LNS-023 from Pemba to cross reference reports given by an earlier deployed mission to intercept a civilian distress call given by an aircraft identified as carrying the Empress Azima and company. Sen Zhou will now give her debrief.”

Coughing lightly, Zhou began, “The mission set-sail aboard the LNS-023 from the Chake Bay training installation on the morning of the fifth of June, 1980. Assets in our serviced included six Láng B-1 helicopters and a full crew for each as well as the LNS-023. Due to the carrying capacity of the LNS-023 the ship was only capable of ferrying one aircraft which I designated my own for commanding use in the field. Flying along the coast, the rest of the aerial assets moved ahead to locate and perform initial surveys of the believed crash zone.”

“When we arrived,” she sighed, “we had discovered the debris field had likely shifted from the known general location. W-”

“Which can be referred to on the written debrief of the pilots.” Cao cut in. He gave Zhou and apologetic wave and bid her to continue.

“-Weee... We deemed the field of debris left behind by the crash had shifted due south. Boarding a helicopter, we preceded to the Somalian coast on the sixth of June to recruit local fishermen as volunteers search crews, having no contact or availability of the Ethiopian navy. Spending the day acquiring and preparing Somalian volunteers we returned to the crash site on the seventh of June to begin searching the debris.

“We spent the next several weeks flying the area and sailing it, turning up no conclusive evidence of the survival of the Queen Azima or any known survivors of her flight from Africa.

“While on the mission, our Somalian volunteers suggested that through the course of the search any evidence of Azima and company would have followed currents east or west, and we deployed to search the waters to the east and to chase the African coast in hopes that debris from the crash washed up on shore during our initial search stages.

“This process continued until the Fourth of July when we received a radio communication identified as being from the Ethiopian island of Socotra that the villagers there had in their possession Azima, her son, and her nephew. Upon hearing the news I immediately called for a helicopter and I and a crew of four arrived at the island of Socotra that afternoon at approximately 1300 hours.

“Our search for further leads brought us to a radio station in the mountains south of the northern-most town we were informed was named Hadiboh. Landing nearby, we received a local who had direct information on the location of Azima and he was able to guide us to her exact location roughly four to five kilometers east of the town of Hadiboh. There she had been residing with local fishermen on the coast.

“We landed and received Azima aboard our craft, as well as the children she was attending.” she leaned back in her chair. Her voice was beginning to dry out and she could feel the sapping weight of the heat and humidity. Things felt much better to have flown over Socotra. Thinking on it as she talked, she wanted to feel the relative coolness of the wind rushing over her, swimming through her uniform and into her shirt cooling her breasts in the insufferable heat of Africa.

“We made immediate arrangements back to the LNS-023. There, I invited the queen into the quarters given to me by the ship's captain Xin Huan for the duration of the mission. There, I asked Azima to tell me what had happened that day she was shot down.

“She was familiar with the process. Telling me she had been an agent in the Walinizi service of Ethiopia and she spoke clearly.

“She explained that while on route to Persia, where they would transfer to China the pilot's received a report that a strange aircraft was en'route, then spotted over the Red Sea. The aircraft – which was never identified – was traveling at super-sonic speeds beyond which the Ethiopians had never experienced.

“The pilot of their aircraft took immediate evasive action to avoid the Spanish deployment but was none the less engaged over the water. In the moments between engagement and splash-down she admits to having little actual memory. She explained to me that it was a chaotic blur of sirens and crying.

“Inevitably, the aircraft hit the sea and she was adrift for an unknown period. Aboard the airplane was the queen-mother Elani who is believed to have surely perished in the crash. But the heir-apparent of Ethiopia and her adopted nephew survived the impact with Azima and will be ready for transport to China.

“And that's what happened.” she said confidently, clapping together her hands. She gave a weak, almost strained smile as she leaned forward in her chair.

“Did you meet any resistance?” Cao asked.

“No, comrade.” Zhou responded.

“How receptive were the Somalian volunteers?” he inquired again.

“Willing.” replied Zhou, “They were informed they were taking part in the search for the queen of their nation and her children. They were inspired by a sort of national pride to throw in their boats and crews.

“As incentive, they could take any approved scrap they found adrift at sea.”

“I see.” Cao nodded, walking about the desk. Chen Wu sat with one leg crossed over the other as he scribbled down the brief transcripts of the debriefing. “Were there any notable issues?”

“If you count boredom among the men.” she replied, “Then no: no notable incidents that might cause a diplomatic row between our nations.”

“Very well.” declared Cao, reaching out to the recording device, “I call this debriefing to a close.” and with that, the recorder stopped with another sharp, plastic click.

“I'd certainly offer a ration or two worth of candy.” Chen Wu remarked sarcastically, “What a good little girl.”

“Shut up.” Zhou snapped back.

Laughing, Wu stood up and bowed to the both of them. “So when is this being sent home?” he asked.

“I'm aiming for tomorrow when we send Azima and the kids.” said Cao, “You want to send yours in with it too?”

“Of course.” Wu smiled, “And where are the royal quests?”

“They were on the beach last I knew.” Zhou nodded, standing up.

“Good, good.” the agent said, “I just wanted to confer with Azima what happened. Am I dismissed?” he asked Cao.

“You are.” Cao waved.

“Thank you, comrade.” he bowed, stepping back, “I'll no doubt see you around dinner. Have a good day.”

“Same to you.” Cao called back, watching his out the door with tired foggy eyes. Zhou lingered, arms crossed in front of her.

“You're tired, have you been sleeping?” she demanded sharply as the room fell silent.

“Am I that fucking bad?” Cao groaned agitated.

“I just have to wonder if anyone has seen you.” she snapped back, “I can tell you're visibly wearing yourself out. What is it?”

Cao sighed as he walked to the wall. Hanging his head against it he leaned into the dull wooden planks of the bungalow. An aching groan rolled from his through, “It's that damnable conflict up north.” he reported grimly, “I sit here and receive multiple reports from comms and even Wu about what's happening. Projections, reports as they happen. All sorts of shit.

“Hassan is engaging the Spanish at Djibouti.” he said, “The city is on fire, and Wu doesn't think he'll hold it. The Spanish are going to break through.”

“And?” Cao asked, “It's not fucking Pemba. I don't know why you're being a baby.”

“It's not Pemba I'm worried about!” Cao beat his head on the wall, “It's if they order us to redeploy. I got a warning from Beijing a while ago that they might move these operations to Addis and re-classify the mission as an active-duty combat unit, as opposed to a training unit.

“I know you're excited, don't have to say anything.”

“Well thanks for the confidence.” Zhou sneered snidely, “So if we are moved, what do you think you'll do?”

“The problem is: I don't fucking know.” he moaned woefully, “It's like the Ottoman invasion again: I don't fucking know. But at least then Hassan was there to save it all and I didn't have to move in the end. Fucking came back from the dead! Have you heard some of the fucking Ethiopians talk about him?”

“Plenty.” an unenthusiastic Zhou remarked.

“Well, with this I don't know if he can pull the same card twice.” he mourned with a long sigh, “This isn't the Turks we're talking about, the Spanish here don't have five-hundred enemies. They'll bust through Djibouti's ashes and sweep up the Ethiopians with the rest of the soot and the dust. We'll be cannon fodder, we'll lack support.”

[h2]Harar, Ethiopia[/h2]

As they drove along the road they came out of the deserts and on into the rising mountains. Turning from sparse land recently impregnated by the summer rains Han Wen, driven by the woman Mulki found themselves crawling up into the lush and green toes of the Ethiopian highlands. The roads coursed like a river in the valley and peaks of the landscape as it became more rugged and as they rose up into the hills of Ethiopia proper. At the tail end of a convoy they lumbered at the same rate as utilitarian trucks. Through the open windows the moist heat of summer-time Ethiopia came in a constant flow as much as the sharp odor of the diesel fumes.

Marking their slow, steady ascent into the fringe of the Ethiopian heartland the signs marking the shifts in regional happenstance came to show in the subtly brutal fashion as war often shows itself beyond the front lines. Coming in on the city of Harar – as Mulki noted proudly – they joined in partnership for the road bands of soldiers who patrolled on foot through the middle of the thoroughfare and throngs of men riding horses or mules. They jockeyed for a place on the dusty blacktop of the highland road for space with trucks of increasingly military use.

In the storm of traffic sounds there was a sing-song occasion to the grinding of vehicles and marching of boots. From somewhere along the side of a road a truck ladden full of eager young men in simple white robes sang songs of praise as they thumped their fingers against the worn and patched wooden stocks of rifles up to some fifty years old. From somewhere in the distance beyond the constraining obstruction of banners, truck and wagons laden down with produce and supply, and the very presence of people all around the amplified shouts of some soldier gave direction. The traffic slowed, and in the shadow of an acacia and flowering Terminalia tree they were brought to almost a stand-still in the torrid river of traffic and migration.

“I don't get it, I would expect people to be leaving with this area under potential threat of the Spanish.” Wen observed as he gazed on down the road. Off to the side hills rose and fell to great in the distance the veiled haze of distant mountains.

“I suppose commerce still has to flow.” Mulki opined, “Perhaps that's it?”

“Maybe.” the Chinese pilot responded as he gazed out at a group of shaggy men riding thin, small horses along the side of the road. Stained and dirty white robes hung to hug the gray and patchy flesh of the beast as machine guns bounced at their backs. Sunken graven eyes starred out down the road, and beneath their scraggly black beards their expression did not change so much as to flinch or spit. There was a certain American desperado air to them, made more musical by the clicking chimes of bullet-packed bandoleers that wrapped their chests. “But it still doesn't explain the guns.” he added in a low sketchy tone. He eagerly cranked up the window to put a barrier between he and the individuals outside.

“Well, once we get inside the city and through it maybe things will be a lot less... war-y.” Mulki smiled weakly. She was visibly wary, as much as Wen. She stressed her words as she leaned over the driver's wheel. Perhaps she was hoping to not be seen.

With a jump, the traffic ahead of them busied forward and the two were on their way. The muffled sound of the car motor filled the cabin as they made slowly along the main road. “Inside the city?” Wen asked, confused on the choice of words and the delivery.

“Oh, yes...” she paused as a army motorcycle buzzed passed the window, just an elbow's brush away from the side-view mirrors, “Harar is walled.” she said flatly.

'Perhaps that explains the traffic.' Wen thought to himself as he turned to look out the window again. The same business crawled on as it had earlier. But now in the edge of his available vision there was winding out on hill-top plateau a stretch of ancient wall that reached out to snake back in and around. The crenelations that lined the battlements resembling the roundness of up-turned shields that came to a point. Beyond the ancient parapets the peaks and towers of mosques rose to reach the sky. And built outside along the wall's edge among dirt foot paths were the shanties and hovels of individuals forced to live outside the once protective walls.

The scene Han Wen observed was like something out of ancient stories. The placement of this city, and its continued existence behind something as antiquated as city-walls was a sign of Ethiopia's juxtaposition between world powers. Among the unreachable mountains and hidden valleys of the ancient nation there still resided the peoples and places that lived as they had centuries ago. Eating among, working among, and raising their families in the same context that was forgone by both Asia and Europe as the march of time demanded that things march ahead.

In a strange way: it was as If Ethiopia had never changed, Han Wen realized. Its normality was an abstract romance that the European and Asian nations can only make veiled claims to possess in their own contexts. China had built on top of its old ways, putting down islands of glass and steel in seas of hutongs and ancient neighborhoods. But as in Europe, even those places were doomed to be swallowed by China's forward progress.

But here was a place where that had not yet happened. A walled city clinging to the old ways as the world moved ahead. And it was on the edge of the raging conflict that was the meeting of the modern and the antiquated.

Wen heard the familiar and distant drone of an airplane and looked up into the skies to great his airborn brother with his eyes. Though it started as a black dot against the cloudy blue of the African sky Wen was soon brought to curious wonder the sort he hadn't felt since he was a kid observing airplanes in the same way. Like an expert silently appraising art on a wall, he looked up at the passing fighter as it soared overhead. He knew it to be Chinese in design, but it was the paint that attracted him.

Lunging across the sky was a furious lion clinging the mangled corpse of a foreign soldier in its jaws, as its mean and legs streamed the Ethiopian flag as if it was a halo of fire that adorned the massive cat. Against a field of blue, the rest of the aircraft nearly hid itself against the sky so that it was only that lion on its side as the prey in its teeth streamed blood along the plane's length, as if streaming it across the sky as a proud statement of the pilot's defiance.

It was this that amazed him at Harar.

[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Tyumen[/h2]

The wind rattled the long brush along the side of the road. Rising ahead the foot of a bridge span rose up to a distant crest. Beyond which, visible barely through the gnarled branches of the foliage were the colorful facades of distant Tyumen proper. Distantly in the breezy summer silence the Tura river gurgled empty against a bank of mud, gravel, and concrete. The sky overhead was an unburdened blue that stretched on into the infinite over head.

In the middle of the road a young lieutenant stood watch gazing back down away from the bridge. His feet planted at a distance apart and his arms crossed behind his knee-high officer's coat. The olive-green tunic body fluttered in the light gust of breeze as it beat around the loose-fitting pants at his legs. At his hip, his sword tapped his thigh with each passing disturbance. His heavy waiting stare found itself following the hurrying shine of armored vehicles as they sped towards them. The groan of their motors cut the quiet afternoon air as they came forward. And soon was the clatter and bang of their guns against the armor. The helmeted head of a machine-gunner looked out over the roof of the lead vehicle.

The officer turned to look back behind him. Lounging on the railing that ran along the side of the road his men sat watching out of boredom. Hanging high above them on makeshift poles of wood and metal two massive flags flew limp in the weak wind. One red, and the other orange. These banners ordered by the general himself. Though tall, their construction was precarious and spontaneous by all of the regards, it wouldn't take more than a strong gust – let alone anything else – to shatter the standards and topple them. Wayward wires stripped from the surrounding urban warscape lashed the impromptu flagpoles steady by tying them to the nearby trees and telephone and electrical poles.

The groan of the oncoming motors grew louder and soon they were on top of the officer. Calmly he stepped aside as the convoy drew up onto his position and stopped to idle. After a moment's passing the back doors of the middle-most car opened, and stepping out a handful of armed guards jumped, their rifles raised as they scanned the rooftops and shaded windows of the few odd buildings that stood over the tree and brush line of their elevated escarpment.

“I'm sure if there were issues with snipers, the good officer would not be out in the open!” a voice shouted. The guards paused to lower their weapons, but kept their watch ever out on the nearby nests.

The lieutenant bowed as out stepped Huei Wen. His longer coat dragged as he slipped out of the armored cab. The general was a large man by many means. “Comrade.” the lieutenant greeted, “If I knew you were coming sooner I may have prepared a better greeting.”

Adjusting his cap to the bright summer sun the commander smiled. “No, no.” he began with a polite smile, “That would hardly be in the spirit of things.” he walked towards the lieutenant, beaming politely, “Besides, I'm not one here to play any sort of politics or make favoritism. I'm a supervisor, checking in on his men. And where possible, lend assistance.”

He strolled past the young officer as he moved towards the bridge. His body guard rushed forward in lines along his flank. Moving ahead as they brushed passed the platoon of curiously watching young soldiers as he walked by. Anxiety and curiosity in their eyes. Was this a punishment.

But Wen did not lend them a punitive eye as he walked. He smiled accordingly, like a casual passerby in the street. He was here on business and though his hand lay to rest on the tufted hilt of his sword he retained a polite air about him. Much more so than his own men, who operated in tension as their own commander's stubbornness tested them.

“I don't recall having to radio in for any sort of help.” the officer admitted plainly as he followed. He realized that this sort of meeting was something that he would have preferred with a superior officer, and not the top brass. And that it might be done in private, least it distress the men.

“You and I are proud men.” Wen called back to him, “In different ways. But proud men do not often go out of their way to admit errors. So men such as I must find them.” he turned briefly around, pausing in his step, “Not out of scorn mind you. I think no little of you than you do yourself over this. It's a thing that must be done though.”

“I understand.” the lieutenant bowed. In truth, he hardly did.

“Excellent!” Wen beamed, clapping his hands, “So let's check out this bridge.”

Reaching the point of the structure so that the river proper was stretched out at his sides, making its winding crawl through the city of Tyumen with its additional bridges spanning its wide belt, and the further shore was visible before him he stopped. Standing in the open sun he scanned the city ahead with a sharp eye. The lieutenant stood back, wary of the danger posed there. The general's bodyguard found cover behind the debris and barriers put up to impede any progress in any direction. But Wen absconded the thought, forgoing the reality of the safety provided.

“Have you made any attempt to scout the furthest bank?” Wen asked, turning back. He looked up from the young officer and to the great banners that hung behind him.

“We've been keeping watch on the far bank.” he said, “We've observed sporadic enemy movement on the far-side, so they are present. On some mornings, Russian snipers attempt to take pot-shots at us.”

“Evidently not today though.” Wen nodded, “A fortune, to both of us.” he smiled in good humor, “But you haven't made any attempts across?”

“No, comrade.” admitted the lieutenant.

“How come?”

“As said before, the sniper fire. Or possibility of it. The bridge here is far to open.” he pointed out. Although the curved body of the bridge obscured any sensible observation of the far-side, Wen humbly admitted to himself the officer had a point. He adjusted his footing as he walked to the side.

“How's the current?” he asked. Nodding down to the water below as he reached the bridge's edge.

“Excuse me?” the lieutenant responded, shocked.

“The river current, is it fast or slow in this stretch?”

“I-” stammered the lieutenant, lost for any proper words, “I- I must admit that we uh-, we have not tried.

“No faster than any other river I imagine. We are not in any hills.”

“An admirable observation. So why haven't you tried to cross it? On rafts, or boats?” he pushed himself away from the edge of the bridge and gestured down to the other-side. Standing just over the peak of the bridge a proud pink and white-trimmed tower stood in plain view, “If you are concerned of Russian snipers, then setting sail to the other-side by cover of the bridge at and night would be a remedy, if you have not managed to demolish any offending structures!” he had a critical air to him. But nothing more harsh than a rough father, “So why camp here, if you have not made any meaningful tests of the enemy's lines?”

“With all due respect comrade, I have made a request for water craft but I have not received an order.”

“Then I am here, and I will put in my command to the supply. And you will have your boats.”

The lieutenant was visibly surprised. “You will?”

“I will.” said Wen, “Every moment we spent burning time in this city is one more the enemy uses to galvanize himself elsewhere. Other units break through Tyumen's streets now driving the enemy into corners and from the city. But there are those such as this that remain frozen in position. And this I will not have! Mobility is our resource, and I will have us on the move to discover, isolate, and engage the Republicans. Are we understood?”

“Yes, comrade.”

“Good.” he clapped his hands together and walked down  the bridge, to the eager relief of his guard who rushed down out of the open. Looking up at the banners above he added: “I will see these flags flying on the far-shore of this river by tomorrow, this is an order.”