[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Kostroma Oblast[/h2]

Driving had a way of shortening the distances. And with the noon sun over-head much of the countryside's details, hills, groves, and roads had been released from their mystery under the dark moon-lit sky. Having marched much of the day down a long narrow road, littered with potholes and rocks the size of Ullanhu's head the three of them were on the edge of giving up. Even in the cool breeze of the Russian north, there hadn't been much relief in the long walk.

“You don't even know where you're going!” taunted Belyakov as they walked. The fourth time in the passed two hours, each sneering deceleration no less dulled from the last. But he was starting to loose his breath. Out of shape and old, his words came out forced on dry tired gasps for air.

“Shut up!” Vasiliy barked, smacking him across the back of the head, sending him into a stagger as he recoiled forward from the hit.

Vasiliy hadn't openly questioned it. Ullanhu felt on some level the man understood that there wasn't much choice with their truck out of commission. They could very well wander the woods, but neither of them were exactly well prepared for that sort of ordeal. Without so much as a map, the infinite web-work of the roads in the Russian country-side could and were their only means of navigation.

It was a wonder that while on such predictable pathways they hadn't been caught yet.

For all around there were rolling seas of amber grass, spaced and broken with frothy crests of hardy bushes, and even further interrupted by stalwart thickets and stands of trees bent with the wind and wound tight around one another. Spruce trees loomed over-head, silent and calm in their solitude as they sighed gently in the gentle cool breezes. Crows cawed in the distance as flocks of song-birds chattered in the trees.

It was an estranged sound to Ullanhu, he hadn't come to know much in the way of peace in Russia. So much of his time here had been moving feverishly from one point to another, around the sound of guns, or on the run he hadn't cared to notice the country's natural rhythms. He thought back to home, and the steppes of Mongolia and he realized in horror he felt sadness, a deep fearful nostalgia for home and a beginning of forgetting something.

The crispness of the Mongolian air, the stillness of the nights and the open skies over-head. A world without city or town, with only nature and the stars. Without threat, fear of violence. With a trembling heart he realized as he sat on these things he missed them, and he felt he had earned himself a long, long vacation to home.

Atop a hill they arrived to their goal. It was so different during the day, Ullanhu was unsure it was the same house he had seem illuminated in the nightly glow. It was a wreck, partially run down with the wood siding hanging askew by rusted nails. The windows were sagged, and the front-porch hung dangerously to one side as if ready to fall off completely. To the side an equally dilapidated horse-stable stood, occupied by a solitary rusted truck, some thirty years old by its appearance.

But more importantly, and what confirmed it to Ullanhu was that it bore signs of being lived in still. Trailing from a stone and mortar chimney a thin trail of smoke rose into the air before catching the breeze and dispersing completely.

“That must be it.” Ullanhu pointed out. His feet were sore, and he was more than eager to sit down; if the home owner would let them.

“Are you sure?” Vasiliy asked, surprised and disgusted.

“I only saw it at night, I only knew it was here because someone lit lanterns in the windows. But it's the only house here we've seen for miles, and someone lit a fire inside at least.” the Mongolian agent observed, pointing to the smoke rising from the chimney, “There's a truck parked in their stables too.” he added.

“So is there.” Vasiliy nodded, there was a song of relief in his voice, “We'll in move investigate.”

“Yea, sure. We'll move in.” Ullanhu repeated. He felt a pang of guilt as he drew close behind Vasiliy as he drew his pistol. He hoped that it wouldn't have to come to violence. He may technically be one, but he never held himself to be a soldier.

It's why he liked his desk job.

But as they came in close to the home, it became obvious that something was off. There was a calm emptiness to the air and no out shouted to protest as the door exploded open with a forceful kick from Vasiliy. The air inside smelled of mildew and age, with a smokey bite from wood-smoke.

“Hello?” Vasiliy called out in Russian, his handgun held out as he stepped carefully through the middle of the dirty living-room. Faded and sagging couches flanked either side of a long graying tea-table where rested a few crinkled books and forgotten magazines. Dusty bookshelves and end-tables sat littered and choked with wooden decorations, old lanterns, and torn pieces of note-paper. The floor was littered with the same chaos, a stormy gestalt of refuse unswept.

Ullanhu pulled the president over to the side where there sat a cast-iron wood stove, the source of his smoke, tucked between two fading milky windows. Holding his hand above the surface of the blackened iron he felt the heat radiating from it. It was still warm, someone was just here.

“We might not be alone.” Ullanhu cautioned quietly as he looked about. He held the president's shoulders like a human shield and crept along the edges of the room as Vasiliy checked the corners. Belyakov grunted in mild distaste and disapproval as he was man-handled about between Ullanhu and the greater world.

Vasiliy disappeared around the corner into a hallway, passed black and white photos of a smiling man and his family, seated atop a horse-drawn wagon. There was a tense moment of no reply from the Russian, until he called out. “I think I found our home's owner.”

“Really?” Ullanhu called back.

“Yeah, come meet him.” Vasiliy invited in Russian.

Ullanhu felt his gut twist as he obliged, following his path down a short hallway. There at the end in the living room the corpse of an old man lay half in bed. His head lay tilted to the side with an expression of frozen shock. A bullet hole and tore clear through the temples of his forehead, painting the far wall in a thin veneer of blood and brain.

“Oh great...” Ullanhu muttered.

Kneeling besides the corpse, Vasiliy reached out with a hand and brushed against his forehead. “His corpse is still a little warm, he must have been killed earlier this morning.” he observed, in plain Russian. He played with his hands, feeling the stiffness in his joints, “Rigor mortis hasn't even set in yet.”

Ullanhu held on tight to Belyakov as he silently struggled to try and get away, but no avail. “So what are we doing?” Ullanhu asked.

“No use now in asking, ya? I suppose we'll wrap him up in sheets, drag him out back. I check out his car.”

“You check out his car?”

Vasiliy nodded, “Of course.” seeing the pale look of shock in Ullanhu's face he rose his hands defensively, “I'm sorry, someone has to do it. I don't know how long either of us will be sitting here.”

Ullanhu groaned, “Fuck. Fine, I guess I'll have to.” he looked down at the body half splayed against the bed. Something caught his eye, and he looked over.

“What's that?” he asked, nodding towards what he saw on the ground. He held Belyakov tighter as if he had any chance of escaping, or any sound way of getting far with his head still bagged.

Vasiliy looked over and stepped towards what his partner in crime and pointed out. Leaning over he picked up from off the ground a worn double-barreled shotgun. Holding it up he presented it to him, “Looks like the old man was trying to fight someone.” setting it on the bed he added, “As soon as you're done with him, I'd check things out around here. I'm sure you can find some shells for it, might be useful later.”

[h2]Yekaterinburg[/h2]
There was an unsettling feeling of familiarity again driving a tank. It was a numb rote thing, he wasn't piloting it out to a drill or the firing ranges. Knowing well ahead was its purpose and that his break from it had ended weighed in heavily on Tsung. But he commanded himself like a robot, even as the thought hung over him. He wanted to say he had already seen enough, and he wanted to go home.

But he kept going ahead, cold and numb.

“Song Sun is checking at a Lake Sartash inside the eastern part of Yekaterinburg, hardly in the city itself but in its limits according to locals.” sergeant Wo reported from the protection of the turret.

The entire tanks smelled and felt new under Tsung's hands. The windows he were given were for once clear and crystal and he saw the road ahead with the clearest detail he had even seen. He could actually see Russia while on the move, and not the milky faded image of the landscape he had in the old tank. The smell of fresh oil, protective grease and wax hung heavy in the cockpit air. The entire interior glowed with a fresh untarnished coat of dark green paint. It was impossible for him to believe something this fresh and clean can be employed to military use.

Then again, it was bound to loose the luster very soon.

“It appears our division was broken into three separate units. Song is in the central unit.”

“Do you know what command wants us to do?” Hui asked Wo.

“No I do not.” Wo responded with a dismissive shrug, “But so far I'd say the rest of the army has done a good job locking the city down, the road is clear and quiet for as far as I can see.”

“Good to know.” Tsung mumbled to himself. No one would have heard him over the thunderous noise of the engine.

Soldiers along the side of the road passed them by as the treads thumbed across a checkpoint. The difference was like night and day as the landscape opened up with military activity. Even through the thick steel hull the thunder of canon boomed as sporadic fire was thrown at the besieged city. The Chinese asserting and proclaiming their dominance of the country-side around the Republican capital.

_____________

White dust filled the air as the tank wound along a narrow hairline road at the lip of a crater in the middle of the forest. Still holding in its trap the abandoned claws of hydraulic shovels, train-car sized dump trucks, and implements of digging lay a deep chasm that opened outside Tsung's window, large enough to swallow a sports stadium. Passing vehicles kept stirred in the air a thick haze of chalky dust and sand. At each wind gust more blossomed up into the warm summer, thrown free from loose piles that ran the embankment's edge. Beyond heavy green and brown sheets a low wall of wound razor wire poked out in thick twisted bends from the underbrush.

“What a fucking nightmare.” Wo grumbled from the turret as he looked around. Shuttering in his seat, Tsung grappled with finding the edge of the narrow switchback they drove along as they dove deeper into the white pit. Fearful glimpses out the window were without benefit, it was narrow enough he could find no edge from the driver's seat. Just the pit itself.

Wo was in his own world as he looked out the turret's canopy, cringing at the sights. Tsung was slowly melting in failing courage.

With a soft thumb the cabin leveled out as they hit even ground and merged into the twisting awkwardness of navigating the shielded and covered depots, fuel and ammo dumps. Men on their way out crowded a chaotic network of informal roads and paths that cut between the dumps, depots and the piles of white coarse dirt and briny green pools of water. Their presence wasn't warmly received, or consciously received as they tried to move through the business of the day and the impatience of returning patrols. In the controlled anarchy, the improvised base resembled much more the madness of mid-day Shanghai or Hong Kong than an army mission.

Wo found them a guide, and they followed a tired looking private as they made their way slowly the maze. At the far end of the pit they pulled up into the motor pool. In wait banks and rows of armored cars and tanks lay out in their wide-rows, empty spaces spoke of the men out on patrol. Atop the turret of an idle tank sat a smoking an officer slouched over his knees as he watched the factory new Tei Gui crawl passed him.

There was a shout and the rifleman stopped, Tsung pulled the break and came to an abrupt stop. The hull popped and banged as someone climbed aboard and atop the turret. With a loud whine the top hatch was thrown open.

“Comrade Wo.” Sun Song shouted into the cabin.

“Sun Song.” Wo acknowledged, “Can I get my crew back?”

“Only if I get mine.” Song replied. Leaning back in his seat Tsung watched as Wo pulled himself out of his commanding perch and Song threw himself back in.

“The chair's comfortable by the way.” said Wo.

“Looks new too, I can get used to it.” Song smiled as he looked over the interior of the hull.

The commanding officer's face was thick in dust and dirt. But through the mask his brown eyes glowed with glee as he re-assumed his real command in a new seat. “What's going on here?” Tsung heard Wo ask from outside.

“Horse shit, I'll tell you what.” Song scoffed, “Huang's under the impression that everything will be safe from Russian artillery at the bottom of this quarry. I'm just waiting on some saboteurs to lob a grenade into it. That'll do us in as much as someone getting in an accident!”

“I can tell rolling in.”

“Anyone can see it, I complained to him but he made his mind up. At least he put the camp at the top, but most of us will still have to run down into it if we're attacked. I don't like it.

“I'll give you a full briefing later.”

“Right you will.” Wo said, clapping his hands on the hatch. Tsung heard his foot falls against the hull as he disembarked.

“Welcome comrades to Shartash camp, eastern forward operating position.” Song shouted over the motor as he closed the hatch, sealing them in, “We have our own designated spot at the back, let's go.”

And with that, Tsung was back in the thick.

___________

“I wouldn't be taking too many showers, or well: don't expect to ever be clean.” Song explained as he lead his crew up the embankment of the pit. “If it doesn't rain then vehicle traffic in and out will kick up clouds of silt and dirt. It's not a desert wind, but even if you're not down there a good westerly breeze will blow it back to you. Getting dirty will be a major circumstance for all of us, and there's no point in trying to keep up on it, even if the option is open.”

“Song, what's the taste in the air though?” Tse Lin asked from far behind. She lapped her tongue against her lips, which were already turning a faded white.

Tsung could taste it too. A lingering salty taste that came and went, mixed with other fumes.

“Rock-salt.” Song grumbled, “Huang fucking ordered us to park in the middle of a salt-mine.” he spat in annoyance. “So keep your water canteens sealed when heading down into the pit, catch yourself in a cloud and you'll be drinking salt-water. And keep it brushed and rinsed off if you can so your skin doesn't dry.

“I know I said to not shower, but at least keep it rinsed off. Or your knuckles will be bleeding like the motor-pool crews.”

“Fascinating.” Hui answered sarcastically.

“Oh it is.” Song mumbled.

Breaching the top of the embankment Song pointed them around, “About two-kilometers to the west are enemy positions.” he said, throwing a hand out to the city. A dense wall of trees beyond the tents and barbed-wire fencing obscured from vision the shelled and chewed apart wasteland of bombings and combat. But as the trees moved the branches distant glimpses of mangled and bent water-towers and industrial super-structures shown through the cover. “For about the first week we shacked up in this position we bore the brunt of mortar shelling five times a day. It was then really just a trench-line the infantry cowered in and we held out in the woods behind us performing patrols or rushing in from the north and south to drive away assaults.

“Most of that has quieted down now, beyond there we got snipers as the problem. If we ever get asked to run a patrol there we will not be opening any hatch under any circumstance. Understood?”

The crew nodded tacitly and Song continued, “Main camp is on the west-side of the pit.” his voice was drool and depressed as he looked over the green tents flapping in the soft summer breeze, the dark colors faded by a fine dusting of ground dust. “Command is on the north-side, but we'll have here our showers, mess hall, cots, and radio mast broadcasting two stations: front-line music and vital communications.

“It's all laid out in squares, so it'll be easy to get around it all.” he finished dismissively.

“When do we go out?” Hui asked. It was the question Tsung was dreading to here, but expecting all the same.

“Tomorrow is what I hear.”

[h1]Ethiopia[/h1]
[h2]Addis Ababa[/h2]

“I will not accept 3,000, I will only accept 7,000.” the old man argued as he sat on a stump in his front yard.

Far from the main city itself, Sen Zhao and her cohorts were starkly foreign for the outskirts of Addis Ababa. The roads here were no less paved as they were grated gravel and rock and where leafy foliage grew hugging the mud walls of the old man's hut. Like the bushes, and the long leaves and yellow fruits of a nearby apple tree, the sheet metal roof glimmered with a fresh downpour of rain. Not ten minutes before they arrived a fierce summer storm had washed over and drenched the landscape. And in following the simple lead of a “cheap truck for sale”, she and her men had driven through deep puddles of mud in the rust-colored roads.

Zhao was flustered, aghast with the stubbornness of the man she was bartering with. Up ahead dark clouds loomed closer, threatening to dump another torrential wash of rain. For Zhao, she planned to have had the deal sealed before the summer rains again washed the outer city roads out. Her accomplices looked just as impatient as her as they held their eyes up to the sky as they puffed gently on their bitter cigarettes.

To make matters worse, Zhao was not used to bartering, and had never bought a car before in her life. But she knew the thirty-year old jalopy the man had on sale could not be worth 7,000 birr.

“Clearly the tires are flat, and what you have on their now, the... the treads are wearing out!” she pleaded, trying desperately to lower the value of the truck, or prove it is over-priced. But she struggled to find any appropriate details. The Ethiopian had refused to let any of the soldiers she brought with her to look under the hood, or even get close. Sweat beaded on her brow in her desperation, but partly for the intense humidity that fell in the valley.

“And?” the old man asked. He was in no better condition than the truck for a human. His face was heavy in wrinkles and baked with a mummified stiffness that had muted his expression. He held his arms crossed over an old white robe, crossing his skeletal ankles as he sat hunched atop his old stool, looking up at Zhao with cold beady eyes. “You are the great Chinese military!” he exclaimed with unrestrained sarcasm, “So what the tires are bad. You make it back to where ever you came from and you'd put big... thick... Mine resistant tires on it! Sell it back to me and four times the cost!

“No, 3,000 is still too low!”

Zhao dabbed her brow with her wrist, curling her lips as she thought. “4,000.” she offered, defeated, “I'll- I'll see about us sending you the remaining 3,000 later.” she hoped the plea would work.

“The Chinese military is crediting me 3,000 Birr?” the old man laughed, “Next, you will not be able to find me as you leave the country with my truck!” he cackled, “This is theft!”

“We are very reliable.” Zhao insisted.

“As a mule!” spat the old man, “I know how these promises go and no: I want it all up front. Your people will be fleeing this country soon with all the cowards of this city! Your as yellow as your skin.”

Zhao's insides spun at the insult. She bit her cheek and held her tongue, holding back against the man. She could hear the echoes of that priest she had abandoned off the coast of Socotra after he had insulted her. There was a temptation to smack him across the head for belittling her. She'd been to and done things he probably wouldn't understand or believe in the end. But even for all the anger she knew that'd kill the deal then and there.

Frustrated she turned to the men standing guard around their own army truck. “Yu, Jong, you have anything on you?” she asked in Mandarin.

Wen Yu, and Yuan Jong stood off to the side, arms resting on their rifles as the looked about transfixed in their boredom. Yu with his long face resembled a man who'd been starved, even at the young age of twenty was sporting a prominent receding hairline when he went out without his helmet. Jong on the other head was a short fluffy sort of man, the kind of person who hadn't quiet shed their baby fat.

The two shook their heads. “I only have twenty-five ren, comrade.” Jong answered.

“Alright...” Zhao admitted defeated, she turned bruised to their own truck. Her boots splashed across the shallow puddles as she headed to the door.

“5,000, my only offer.” the old man called out behind her. She stopped with her hand hovering over the cabin's door handle, the others were slowly taking up their own seats.

“I only have 4,000 and...” she began, paused and looked at Yu, who she realized hadn't told her how much he had. He caught her look and knew. “Thirty.” he mouthed.

“Fifty-five ren.” she added. She felt her skin run cold and the old man nodded.

“Throw in one of your rifles then.” he demanded, “I'm sure you can get another. And some magazines, I want to fight those Spanish bastards when they come for my house.”

“You can't be serious?” she asked.

“I might be, but you want my car?” the old man asked.

Jumping from the step she grumbled to herself. “Fine, alright.” she answered him, fishing into her pockets for the allotment that Cao had given to her for this mission. Pulling out a wad of Birr she motioned for her two cronies, “Give me your money.” she demanded in Chinese.

“Comrade, really?” answered Jong, clearly taken back and perhaps a bit offended.

“I am, you too Yu. And give me your gun and magazines. You won't need them, you're driving.”

“Wait, what?” Yu stammered from the driver's wheel, “Zhao, are you really sure.”

“Shut up, it's an order. Both of you: now.” she sneered.

Grumbling in protest, the two fronted their part of the deal and the exchange with the elderly Ethiopian was made. With a wide smile he rose from his seat. “Pleasure doing business.” he said, picking up his stool, “Let me get the keys.” he mumbled as he hobbled to his shanty.

“Zhao...” Jong started.

“I don't want to hear it.” Zhao cut him off.

“How am I going to get a new gun? Fuck, you know how much paper I'm going to get slapped with when this is through!?” Yu protested. “Both of us, fuck. That was our allowances!”

“Military business. Had to be forfeit. For the gun: you lost it. I'll talk to the quartermaster.”

“Damn right you will.” protested Yu. His shallow high cheeks burned with a furious red as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, “At least you didn't confiscate my cigarettes.” he grumbled as he fished out his lighter.

“Alright, Mrs. Comrade...” the Ethiopian man said as he came back out, holding a single pair of battered, tarnished keys on a wire-thin ring, “Here is your end of the bargain.” he offered, handing them over.

“Thank you.” Zhao bowed, taking them. But not without bitterness, “You have a good day, and stay safe.”

“That I shall.” the man smiled. With a nod he stepped aside as Zhao pulled the doors opened. They groaned on their hinges and the entire cabin sagged and bobbed uncomfortably as she hoisted herself up.

“You two lead the way in,” she shouted to her two soldiers. She felt confident until she looked over the mess of a cabin, noticing the lack of a steering wheel, it having been replaced completely by a wrench tapped to the column, and the shift lever a knob-less spear that jutted out from the floor. “... I'll try to follow.” she groaned.

________________

The clouds opened up again not a minute before they had arrived to the airport. As the first drops landed against the windshield Zhao discovered in horror that the windshield whippers did not work. As the raindrops turned from pins to melons she found herself leaning as far forward as possible, paying as close attention to the tail-lights of the truck ahead of her as the world rippled in distorting waves through a waterlogged windshield.

The vehicle itself ran with more clatter and bang than a low steady rumble that she had gotten used to. The motion and wobble of the cabin threw the long shifter in uncoordinated arcs that slashed the air like a sword. At each arc the engine coughed and heaved unhealthily until Zhao had tried to hold it steady as it popped and reared into the airport. Pulling up into a dry hanger, the truck finally gave away and fell silent, stalling then and there.

Frustrated in her clear defeat Zhao turned the keys and tossed them into the far window with a agonizing scream. If this thing couldn't be made any less worse, then the mission north would be impossible by far.

Outside the attachment of mechanics that had come with Cao looked across the empty hanger towards the mangled zombie that Zhao had brought to them, exchanging curious and horrified glances at each other other their lunch table. Throwing open the door Zhao stepped out as the senior mechanic sat up and walked to her.

“Good afternoon, comrade.” he saluted. He smiled as his eyes glowed behind a pair of large classes, he ate up the rolling joke of a vehicle behind Zhao taking it all in.

“Whatever.” Zhao grumbled, stuffing her hands deep into her pockets. One would hope with the hanger doors open and the rain coming down the humidity would have settled, but it still hung as heavy as earlier. “I need you to look over this... whatever it is.” she said, waving at the truck, “I'll need it ready to go north.”

“Why can't you take one of our trucks again?” the mechanic asked as he walked to the jalopy.

“Cao wants it for when we have to work on evacuating Addis.” Zhao explained once again, “He's not giving me a lot of shit to work with. Just a couple jokers.” she said, looking to a far corner where Yu and Jong stood whispering to each other.

“Well, whatever Cao says.” said the mechanic as he opened the hood of the truck. The hinges groaned as it was hoisted up with the soldier's brow, “Shit, where the fuck did you get this?” he exclaimed.

“Why? What's wrong?” Zhao asked, rushing over.

“Looks like you got a colony of rats who made a home in here.” he laughed, nodding to the twisted piles of grass and sticks that clogged every open space in the engine, “I'd hate to see what's going on inside.”

“You can fix it though, right?” she asked.

“I might not have the parts,” he laughed, “But I sure as hell can clean it. I'll do what I can and make it road worthy.

“Or at least by half standards. I don't know what you're driving into.”

“Mountains, I think.”

The mechanic nodded and tapped his fingers across the metal. “Of course.” he mumbled, “I'll see what kind of hack-job I can do over the rest of the day.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” the mechanic said. He rose a hand and called his men up from lunch, “I'll start now.”

“That'll be great to know.”

“There's on thing I should tell you to,” the mechanic added before Zhao could turn away and head into the rain, “Cao sent a man down here. I guess he was anticipating you'd be here. But he was sending a message some kid from the college was down asking for updates. I assume he's the reason you're going north?”

“It is, he wants to fetch his family and needs help.”

“A noble cause, but I told him to come around tomorrow. Maybe you can take him. As a guide.”

Zhao nodded. “A guide, right.” she wasn't entirely happy with the idea.