[b]Holhol, Pan-African Empire[/b]

From up here, the Afar Desert looked like the surface of the Moon. A desolate and utterly barren stretch of of the world that stretched out for seemingly ever. Even from the air, not a single speck of green life was to be seen. All the way to the knobby sierras on the distant horizon, all that could be seen was a worthless realm of rocks, hills, and fissures. A realm that the Third Mechanized Infantry of the [i]Ejercito Español[/i] had come to dominate; a realm that General Victor Ponferrada knew had been bought in the blood of too many of his men.

General Ponferrada watched idly as the shadow of the Barracuda undulated over the ridges and washes of the desert as his gunship flew across the dusty wasteland. The chopper's seemingly-tiny shadow shifting across the terrain below was the only reference for just how vast and empty this place was, aside from the craters that appeared every so often - another feature that imparted a lunar aspect to the Afar Desert. A cluster of these craters came into view from the Barracuda's cockpit, concentrated around an outcropping of volcanic rock. Ethiopian snipers had probably holed up in the crags of the outcropping, harrying the advance of Spanish infantry until a howitzer was moved in to demolish the hiding spot. Ponferrada had already seen these tactics employed all across the Afar front.

Little wonder then that the Spanish advance into the Ethiopian heartland had proved so ploddingly slow. Back in Spain, jingoistic articles about the invasion expected the fall of Addis Ababa within a week of landing in Africa. But the disaster at Djibouti - which not even the Spanish military leadership nor intelligence apparatus could have predicted - portended a more difficult campaign awaiting the Ejercito in Ethiopia. Immediately after fanning out into the Afar, the Spanish officer corps learned that they were in fact fighting against two enemies: the Ethiopian army and the heat of the desert, an alliance the soldiers under Ras Hassan had taken full advantage of. Constant resupply was required to keep the Spanish war machine turning in this environment, not because the men were exhausting their munitions, but their water and vehicle coolant.

Early in the Afar offensive, General Ponferrada had been issued a report concerning one platoon that had been cut off from the rest of the front. Either by design or accident, the Ethiopians had drawn this unit out into a low-lying area and surrounded it during a counteroffensive. By the time reinforcements drove the African forces away and reached the embattled platoon five days later, over half the platoon had been killed. Most of the casualties had been due to dehydration. While that had been happening, General Ponferrada had drafted a request to Madrid for lip balm, as his lips were drying out in the arid desert air.

Ponferrada produced a small tin with [i]crema para labios resecos[/i] printed on its lid and dabbed a fingertip full of the the pungent-smelling salve onto his lips. He rolled his lips about, tingling from the freshly-applied salve and placed the tin back in the breast pocket of his epaulet-festooned overcoast - a thoroughly miserable thing to wear in nigh-equatorial Africa. The satiny black uniform soaked up the Sun's heat like a sponge and generated pools of sweat under his arms that were thankfully difficult to see on the account of the black fabric. He was a general in the the Spanish Army, appointed to lead the invasion of Ethiopia by Alfonso Sotelo himself. Ponferrada had every intent to look the part no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

Even over the rhythmic drone of the chopper blades, Ponferrada could hear the diesely roar of engines below. A caravan of steel passed by through the general's window: four halftracks carrying about a platoon's worth of infantry down the gravel path that passed for a road in this part of the world. A vanguard of armored vehicles Ponferrada didn't recognize led the convoy across the desert highway. The blue-white triband on their armor plating gave them away; this was an Argentine platoon, a part of the [i]Brigada Interacional[/i].

The International Brigade, cobbled together by the Argentine government as a demonstration of solidarity with the Spanish Republic's African campaign, was composed of volunteers from Argentina, Venezuela, Colombia, and the Spanish African provinces. Some had come to lend their aid to Sotelo's mission of ousting the socialist-aligned Pan-African Empire from the continent, and some - mostly those from Spanish Africa - sought a path to Spanish citizenship by assisting in their invasion. In any case, High Commander Velazquez and General Ponferrada were unsure of what to make of this unsolicited force of foreigners. Dubious of their combat efficacy, Ponferrada elected to use International Brigade forces as the rear guard of his invasion force. The foreigners, he estimated, were better suited to protecting the supply routes between the front and the beachhead at the ruins of Djibouti. Letting the rabble soak up the bullets of African militias and commandos meant more Spaniards on the frontlines where they belonged.

But perhaps he had underestimated them. Not long ago, Ponferrada had been informed that regulars from the [i]Ejercito Argentino[/i] serving with the International Brigade had managed to capture a substantial number of enemy combatants near the town of Holhol. When the Argentines asked General Ponferrada what he wished to be done with them, the Spanish commander requested they be held at Holhol until he arrived. The Spanish commander had been waiting for this since Djibouti.

Not long after passing the International Brigade convoy, the gravel road came to bisect a desert town situated on the banks of a dry arroyo. Clusters of blackened artillery craters suggested that some fighting had taken place here. The twisted remnants of a trestle bridge laid in the arroyo channel - a disappointing sight to be sure; a functional railway inland from the coast would have been a boon for resupply efforts.

"This is the place," the Barracuda's pilot reported over the roar of the propellers. The gunship eased into a hover over a half-demolished railway station and lowered onto the ground in a maelstrom of dust. Before all of Ponferrada's lackies had even disembarked from the Barracuda, the general was approached by five men clad in battle dress that did correspond to that of the Spanish forces. Argentines, the Spanish commander assumed. He patted propeller dust off of his overcoat and made his way to address the Argentine soldiers.

The Argentine officer was a short, swarthy man with huge swaggering shoulders draped with bullet-laden bandoliers. The stub of a mostly-smoked cigar hung below a large blocky nose that reminded General Ponferrada of the Italians he had fought during his time fighting in their civil war. Like his compatriots, his combat uniform was patterned in dark green camouflage that might have matched the lush Pampas of Argentina, but stuck out against the yellow-brown of the Afar Desert like a sore thumb. 

"I am glad you could come to visit us, General Ponferrada," the Argentine officer acknowledged, taking one final draw from his stump of a cigar before flicking it aside - his only demonstration of subordination to the Spanish commander. "Lieutenant Cagnolo, at your command." Under any other circumstances, Ponferrada would have been infuriated by such casual behavior from his orderlies. But right now, he was concerned with only one thing. 

"I understand your men were able to capture some enemy combatants." The Argentine officer gave a wide, toothy grin.

"Right this way."

The Argentine squad led General Ponferrada and his staff over through the deserted village. On their way, Lieutenant Cagnolo noticed one of the general's men carrying a wooden crate with airholes poked in the side. Something within grunted every few steps.

"What's in that there box?" The Argentine asked. The Spanish commander ignored him and continued on his way.

General Ponferrada and his entourage came upon a bombed-out structure where two other squads of Argentine soldiers were milling about, none of whom stood at attention for the Spanish general. Against one of the remaining plaster facades of the ruined building, several dozen Africans were bound by the wrists and ankles with zip-ties. 

"Ta-da!" Cagnolo announced, gesturing to the weary-eyed captives with a flourish of the hands. "Forty three enemy soldiers."

The General approached the captured fighters and inspected them. They were a people with coffee-colored skin. Their faces were long and gaunt - almost gnathic, their hair was as knappy and wild as it was long though they were all were devoid of any facial hair. Unlike the sambo-esque stereotype of Subsaharans that prevailed in Spain, these men had thin noses. These were Afar, not Ethiopians; and as far as Ponferrada was concerned, they were barely human - more like rats than anything.

"They're not Ethiopian regulars," Ponferrada concluded. That much was apparent just by their dress. From what Ponferrada had seen of enemy soldiers killed on the battlefield, the Ethiopian army did not seem able to properly outfit their soldiers. Even so, their commanders tried to establish a standard uniform for their fighters. These people had been captured in their traditional robes or whatever else was comfortable to wear in this detestable heat. "They look local."

"Same difference," Cagnolo contested. "Caught these ones trying to ambush fuel trucks coming in from the sea, they use the same guns the Ethiopians do. I figure the enemy gave the locals a bunch of gear before they buggered off, hoping guys like these would cause mischief behind your lines." Cagnola playfully slapped the temple of an Afar fighter who didn't look to be any older than sixteen. "Guess going up against real soldiers didn't figure into the equation."

"So then, General, what would you have us do with them?"

"I intend to make an example of them," said Ponferrada. "Open the crate."

One of the Spaniards took a crowbar to the grunting crate and pried off the airhole-riddled top. Inside, rooting about in a thin bed of straw and filth, was a young pink hog mottled with several black spots. The pig yelped as the Spaniard seized it in his arms, drawing perplexed stares from the Argentines along with worried Afar eyes.

One of the Spaniards said something to the the Afar captives in Amharic - thereby identifying himself as one of the handful of Amharic interpreters available to the Spanish Ejercito. The Spanish had few interpreters capable of speaking the exotic language of Ethiopia, most of those few were embedded throughout the Pan-African Empire as part of the Spanish spy network. And though the Spanish armed forces were mostly uninterested with what their enemy had to say, General Ponferrada had a handful of interpreters available to him for interrogation and similar purposes.

"I am Victor Ponferrada, know my name and despair, because I have come to bring justice to this backward place," he said to the Afar captives, giving his interpreter a brief moment to transmit his Castillian to Amharic. He heard his name spoken between strings of unintelligible Amharic syllables and continued.

"Let me speak plainly: for your transgressions against my soldiers, I have elected to destroy you and make an example of your transgressions. But you will find no solace in the beyond. The enormity of your sins will bar your entry from cherished Jannah." Ponferrada gestured for the Spaniard holding the wriggling pig in his arms to come forward.

"In your Koran, is it not written that those who have touched the flesh of the swine, those who have felt its blood have committed a heinous crime in the eyes of your Prophet? Those who have been stained by its uncleanliness should only expect damnation. For your crimes, you have all been so damned." 
 
Ponferrada pointed to the ground, instructing his orderly to hold the pig down on the ground as he took a bayonet-fixed rifle from the arms of one of the Argentines. With a grimace of determination, the general placed his boot down against the hog's head and plunged the bayonet into the hog's back. The Afar began to struggle furiously against their binds as Ponferrada repeatedly plunged the bayonet into the squealing animal. With a deft stab through the neck, he finally silenced its squeals. A thick pool of bloody mud had formed around the quivering carcass, through which Ponferrada dredged the bayonet edge.

"Ensure each one gets his share of swine," the general instructed as he made his way to the wall. There the Afar were flailing and writhing against their bindings in a futile bid to escape. One had tried desperately to inch away from the impending slaughter, but he did not get remotely far enough before Ponferrada descended upon him. A deft jab of the bloodied bayonet into the captive's back brought his struggle to an end. A dozen of the Argentine soldiers sullied their own bayonets in the pig carcass before issuing the rest of the executions. The lamentations of the Afar captives were silenced one by one.

Ponferrada had watched as two of the Afar inched on their stomachs away from the massacre, but did nothing to stop them. Even as they ground their way to the corner of the building and ground their zip tie bindings furiously against the jagged edge of broken plaster, Ponferrada watched idly as the pair attempted their escape. The Argentine soldiers, too busy with the other captives, had seemingly missed them. When one of them escaped from their binds and sprinted away into the desert, the soldiers finally seemed to notice.

"Shit, they're getting away!"

"Just drop them already," Lieutenant Cagnolo commanded. Several Argentine soldiers leveled their blood-drenched rifles at the escaping Afar and made ready to fire upon them. Ponferrada calmly tipped the barrels of their rifles aside.

"Let them go," the General ordered, watching the two escapees flee into the desert for their very souls.

"General Ponferrada, if they escape-" 

"They'll tell their countrymen what happened here? I'm counting on it. Every fighter in league with the Ethiopians will know what took place here. And they will understand that there will be no martyrs in this war."