[b]Yerevan, Armenia[/b]

	A road, lined with lush, green maple trees entering their early summer livelihood, followed the calm Hrazdan River. The two-lane residential road was quiet, unlike downtown Yerevan’s infamous traffic, with only a single car or two rolling past. Alongside the road were a multitude of new buildings, mostly modest apartments with street-level cafes and corner stores. This was the 4th Block neighborhood, one of the pricier regions of the city and a nice place to get away from the increasingly-dense urban center. The buildings of 4th Block sat below a series of gently rolling hills to the northwest, hills with construction sites set up for more apartments. The effects of a post-independence rise in birth rates could be seen in the sprawl of Yerevan: a new generation of youths who knew nothing of the Great War were reaching adulthood, graduating from universities, and buying their own homes in new neighborhoods. Many of these adults could never fathom what life under a crumbling Ottoman Empire was like. The country to their west seemed a far cry from the once-mighty Sultanate that stretched to Arabia and Egypt.

	The campaign office of Hasmik Assanian occupied a four-story brick building sitting by a park that overlooked a bend in the Hrazdan. The squat, nondescript building featured only a banner to denote the presence of the top Armenian presidential candidate: [i]Assanian 1960: Security! Peace! Prosperity![/i] A single policeman, wearing a blue uniform with his cap sitting crookedly on his head, read a newspaper in the guard shack next to the gate. Outside, some staffers were smoking cigarettes and talking about a car accident that had happened on the National Highway the other night: a drunk driver had hit a truck, crushing his car underneath it and stopping traffic for almost three hours as it was towed away. One of them flicked his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, but caught the ire of the policeman. “Put that in the damn ashtray,” he commanded. “We pay too much money to keep these streets clean [i]without[/i] you flicking your trash everywhere. I could fine you for littering, you know.”

	The staffer apologized, picked up his cigarette, and tossed it away in the ashtray just steps away from him. As the policeman nodded and went back to his paper, the staffers agreed to get back to work before their boss noticed their absence. These particular staffers worked in the outreach section of the campaign and, with a month to go before the election, were due that afternoon to head out and prepare an event in Freedom Square. Hasmik Assanian was busy preparing for that very same event in what amounted to his second apartment on the top floor of the campaign office. Inside a modest dressing room, he adjusted his characteristic purple tie underneath a navy blue suit jacket. His jacket featured an Armenian flag lapel pin, his cufflinks bore the regimental insignia of his former Armenian Army cavalry unit. He had played his relationship with former president and personal mentor Mikael Serovian greatly during the election, including his veteran status.

	Once the suit was adjusted to Assanian’s liking, the slim man combed his hair to his liking: enough to cover up the steady recession of his hairline, but not too much to make it look like he was combing over while worrying about balding. He checked the silver watch on his wrist, a present from an old friend, and picked up his briefcase to head to the waiting car. His transportation chief had prepared a small convoy for him consisting of one vehicle for him and one for a small cadre of supporting staff. A white police car, marked in blue livery, was parked beside the guard shack. The two policemen conversed, making small talk as they waited. Assanian walked out the door, flanked by an aid, towards his vehicle. Catching the attention of the police escort, Assanian called out: “How are you doing today, my friend?”

	The policeman immediately stood a little straighter out of respect, one hand moving to level off his slouching pistol belt. He was a slightly overweight beat cop, the beginning of a beer belly filling out his light blue uniform shirt. On his face, a thick and greying mustache betrayed his true age. “Good morning!” he greeted. “I’m doing alright, I can’t complain too much.”

	“Is carting me around a good detail or a bad one?” Assanian joked, smiling at both of the policemen. With election day soon, he was working up the personal charm.

	“Well it’s a pretty calm way to spend a Friday, if I do say so myself,” the driver proclaimed. He relaxed his stance a bit, put at ease by the humor. Assanian laughed, told him to drive safely, and clambered into the door of the grey sedan parked next to the black-and-white painted curb.

	The door shut, and Assanian found his aid had already withdrawn papers from his briefcase about the Freedom Square rally. Freedom Square was located in central Yerevan, with the Presidential Palace at the north end. Holding a rally there was a political kick in the guts to the incumbent running for reelection. At this point, President Vadratian was becoming wildly unpopular: his brand of hardliner nationalism was failing to produce results and the recent uptick in internal tensions pointed to deeper underlying problems. The solutions from Vadratian seemed to be more of the same, propaganda and thinly veiled attempts to marginalize the Russian minorities. His rhetoric had gotten fiery to the point of aggression, and had made mistakes in the reelection campaign that ultimately lead to his falling-out with the Armenian people. The polling graphs showed a slight downward trend before dropping off dramatically in the last few months, while Assanian had come out of relative obscurity to become his party’s representative.

	The Armenian Liberal Democratic Party was one of the heavy-hitter leftist organizations in the Parliament. They focused on combating Vadratian’s Independence Party and what they believed to be short-sighted policies. While many of the extreme ones did not go through, laws such as the infamous selective-rent policy did. The selective-rent policy enabled landlords to choose who received a better rate on property based on factors other than bank information: this amounted to a kindly-worded enablement of racial bias. A Russian could be charged more for rent than an Armenian with the same history of debt. It was blatantly unfair but, at the time, Armenians wanted Russians out of their neighborhoods. The refugees from the fracturing of Czarist Russia were thought to bring crime and drugs around. To be fair, huge problems existed with the Russian population and crime: the Russian Mafia had been popping up here and there with murders and robberies, not to mention the myriad of other mostly-monetary crimes like counterfeiting and laundering.

	Among the Russians who could jump through the absurdly convoluted hoops to become Armenian citizens, Assanian was hugely popular. He promised to review and address legislature enacted by Vadratian and the Independence Party. To the average Armenian, his promise did not sound like he was trying to take away their jobs and homes and give them to immigrants like Vadratian countered. It was simply a “review”, and it might just help settle tensions. A little bit of guilt never hurt either: all Assanian had to do was remind the Armenian people that not long ago, they were suffering under a majority that wanted nothing to do with them. The subtle comparison of Vadratian to the Sultan made the president furious, but was effective. Talk about how the Russians might have been wronged was spreadi/ng, particularly amongst the older Armenians. Younger voters still had sizeable hardliner holdouts, mostly as a result of the Artsakh War.

	Veterans of the Artsakh War and many people in the Artsakh itself were opponents of liberal attempts to ease the burden on the Russians. They were still frustrated by the stalemate result of the conflict and what they saw as unnecessary damage to Stepanakert. They argued that the government was giving in and became too soft, leading to a Turkish-encouraged Azerbaijani invasion. Forces fought the Azerbaijanis to a standstill and pushed them back to the borders of the Artsakh just as the Persians swooped in from the south. The Azeris, left decimated by the Persian armies, reluctantly agreed to become vassals for the Shah’s empire. The residents of the Artsakh, still reeling from the war, did not think that the surprise Persian attack was an absolution of Yerevan’s responsibility. They called for tougher measures against foreign threats, and they got President Vadratian to deliver. The next foreign threat happened to be migrants, not a standing army. While militia camps to the north of Armenia were swiftly eliminated, the refugees swamping northern cities could not be so easily taken care of.

	Yerevan quickly became denser as Assanian crossed the Hrazdan and drove downtown. Buildings rose higher and higher, advertisements colorfully lit up the street. Government-sponsored propaganda featured Armenians working or enjoying life with positive, confident slogans. Some of the buildings that the cars passed bore murals of the revolution. On one, a Fedayeen with a small Armenian flag wrapped around the handguard of his bolt-action rifle charged defiantly from a trench as bullets tore up the ground beside him. Behind the brave militiaman were his comrades clambering over the trench walls to join him. Another one featured a burning Ottoman light tank with the writing: [i]David: Killer of Goliath![/i]. Assanian pulled through to a traffic circle, took a right, and headed to Freedom Square. The beige stone walls of the Presidential Palace came into view as the square appeared behind the surrounding buildings. Freedom Square, from the sky, was a stone square that was patterned like an Armenian rug. To the south was the government residence and its surrounding gardens and, to the north, a statue of a Fedayeen victoriously raising his rifle to the sky faced it.

	Already, a podium had been set up directly in front of the Presidential Palace. A crowd of people had already gathered in place, awaiting their candidate’s speech. The lead police car turned on its light, alerting people to move out of the road. The driver cleared the way to the podium, stopping just shy of the bollards that kept cars off of Freedom Square’s pedestrian terrace. He stepped out of the police car and blew his whistle, motioning for the crowd to clear a path. Assanian quickly followed, going where the policeman motioned. Assanian clutched a leather briefcase in his hand: inside, his speech was tucked neatly into a divider. He wordlessly climbed the steps up to the podium, flanked by two Armenian flags, and spoke briefly with a staffer who had just set up the speaker equipment. Assanian’s podium consisted of four microphones for the four main Armenian radio media groups, alongside a speaker to reach out to Freedom Square. Directly in front of the podium was the press pool, while the general public waited behind it.

	Assanian straightened his suit, unfazed by the crowd in front of him. After all, he had done this plenty of times before. This speech was just another one about his campaign promises, and how he was going to make life better for the Armenian people, and how he was going to secure the future of the Armenian state. He extolled the virtue of the country and its people, how they worked hard and never quit and how every other country looked at the Armenians as symbols of resilience and dedication. He brought the history of his people into the speech, imagining what the ancient Hayk would say if he looked upon the modern Armenian state. He ended with a condemnation of the present politics of hate perpetuated by Vadratian, and how he would work to change that so Armenia could continue its role as a role model for others. The country was small, but the Armenians knew what they could do. All and all, it was quick and sweet, nothing new in the playbook. The crowd loved it, cheering at all the right moments and clapping as it ended. Camera flash bulbs lit the podium and the candidate, surely to be printed in the next day’s paper.

	Assanian left as easily as he entered, climbing back into his car. His aide offered to take his jacket once the candidate had settled into the leather back seat. “That was a good speech, I think they liked it,” he complimented almost robotically, making small talk like he was on a date.

	“We’ll see what happens next month, shall we?” Assanian sighed, leaning back into the seat. “Let’s go, we still have some work at the office to do.”

[b]Armenian-Georgian Border[/b]

	Two small jeeps kicked up dust as they drove through the winding border roads separating Armenia from its neighbor. Painted olive-green and bearing the logo of the Armenian Border Service on their side doors, the lead vehicle maintained a swiveling machine gun while the one in the rear sat four in its bed. Their mission was the same as every day’s mission: drive along the border and look for Georgians crossing into Armenia. Refugees used the rugged terrain to move through cracks in the Border Service’s monitoring. Mounted patrols such as these augmented static watchtowers, hoping to try and keep the influx of northerners out of the country. Sometimes they were successful in turning back the ones brave enough to attempt a crossing during daylight. Other times, they found themselves skirmishing with bandits trying to exploit the situation. These bandits, funded by the meth trade into Armenia, had been getting bolder in recent years.

	The patrol had been driving for four hours, long enough for them to reach the designated turnaround point. In theory, two patrols from opposite bases would drive towards each other for four hours, interface, and head back to their home stations. The rationale for this was to build confidence in each patrol’s area of responsibility and to check in on the others to see if there were any problems. This patrol in particular seemed to be a little early, since their partners were evidently still moving through the mountains. A radio call using the lead vehicle’s manpack yielded no reply: typical in the rugged terrain. The patrol decided to wait. The contingency plan was to call again if the other patrol had still not come by in another hour, and then head out to look for them. The order was given to dismount and keep watch: the troops aboard the vehicles got out and went to find cover. In this case, since this was the usual meeting spot, some areas had been reinforced with dug foxholes and sandbags. Like most days of waiting, the soldiers occupied their positions.

	Corporal Joseph Yaglian had been a team leader in the Border Service for just under six months. The tall, lanky twenty-one-year-old wore his gear loose on his body and had lazily rolled up his battledress sleeves in the heat. His young face was unshaven, and hair far longer than regulations allowed brushed up against the collar on his faded jacket. After stopping to wick the sweat out of his soaked patrol cover, he went to his comrades to check on them. Yaglian’s fireteam consisted of himself, two riflemen, and a machinegunner operating a clumsily large weapon. They were all younger than him and local to the area, mostly conscripts posted to the Border Service for their language skills. Yaglian himself was from Yerevan, a volunteer who had naturally received a promotion before the conscripts. The Border Service had historically been smaller and less-well-managed than the Army, dedicated solely to guarding the Georgian and Azeri borders. However, with the recent uptick in border-security-related issues, the service was expanding. This led to quicker promotions for younger and less experienced guardsmen as they tried to fill more slots.

	“Hey man, we’re all good,” the machinegunner mumbled through his cigarette as Yaglian crouched next to him. He was a stout, strong man from north Armenia named Gagarian, who spoke Russian and Georgian alongside Armenian. Just a Private, Gagarian had proved himself in combat actions three times over his seven months in service.

	Beside Gagarian was the seventeen-year-old Lingorian, who held his binoculars steady against a sandbag to scan for movement in the Georgian mountains. Lingorian himself looked no older than fourteen, dressed in a flowy uniform that looked like he was wearing his father’s clothes to work. He had just gotten to the unit to replace another conscript who was injured in a car crash during a similar patrol. As the youngest, he was often burdened with the most equipment by those who didn’t want to carry it. In his pack was an assortment of binoculars, rifle grenades, flares, and other extra pieces of equipment. Although young, he worked hard to earn the respect of the others: something that Yaglian admired, even if he did make fun of the kid. The other rifleman, Gaznian, was almost as old as Yaglian but nowhere near as experienced. He was the only non-conscript, joining the Border Service after his parents died of hypothermia during the particularly difficult winter of 1958. He sent a portion of his paycheck to his little sister, now living in Hrazdan.

	“Good to hear,” Yaglian answered simply. He withdrew his own cigarette from a breast pocket and lit it up. Doctrine said not to smoke on patrol, for fear of the red glow being spotted from afar, but nobody listened to doctrine anyways. “We’re just gonna wait for these late fucks and then go home. Easy day, right? Not seeing anything?”

	“Not yet. Lingorian would’ve squealed by now,” he said, elbowing the Private next to him sharply in the ribs. A grimace came across Lingorian’s face, but aside from a small grunt he didn’t say much more.

	“Okay, that’s good news. I’ll come by in a few minutes,” Yaglian replied as he puffed on his cigarette again. Quickly flicking what would come off into a nearby pile of rocks, he went back to his section leader to report. Yaglian’s section leader nodded, and went wordlessly back to the map spread across the hood on the jeep. He mumbled calculations under his breath, taking measurements of kilometers and speed and trying to figure out where the other patrol could be. This continued on for the next hour, until it was time to go looking.

	“Hey, lead truck!” the section leader called out as he put his carbine beside the passenger’s seat in the rear open truck. “Hey, go call the other patrol on your radio and let me know if you get a reply. These idiots are fucking late again.”

	A radio call was sent out. Again, no response came back through the airwaves. As per their orders, the section leader gave the call to mount up and move out to go find the others. Yaglian recalled his team and put them in the back of the truck. He talked to his section leader about where they were going, and hopped over the side as the engine rumbled to life. The lead vehicle spun its wheels for a second, kicking up gravel before speeding off. Yaglian’s jeep followed. They drove for two hours, getting more worried as they continued. Wordlessly, they followed the trail until the sun began to set. Every fifteen minutes, the lead vehicle would send out a radio transmission to no avail. The search was hopeless until the jeeps rounded a bend in the road and the headlights picked up something in front of them. The two trucks drove into range before the first slammed on the brakes. The team leader in the passenger seat leapt out and waved his hands at the section leader: “Hey, it’s them!”

	A chorus of cursing and orders to take positions followed from the section leader: one of the trucks had been hit with explosive or something of the sort while the other was empty in the back. Blood covered the windshield of the lead vehicle, and two bodies were slumped over the dashboard. A third body was laying, arms spread wide, across the spare tire in the back. The truck’s machinegun was angled downwards, a short belt hanging from its receiver. Around them, bodies from the other truck were laying around. These men had been killed in combat, with the exception of one who, based on the blood trail, seemed to have crawled behind the second truck only to die there. Yaglian emplaced his men and ran to his section leader, who was surveying the damage. “What’s going on?” he asked, an intonation of fear in his voice.

	“Looks like a rocket attack stopped the first truck. Look at the rest of them, bullet holes everywhere. Fuckin’ bandits did this. We were probably too far away to hear the damn fight, too,” the section leader lamented as he checked the dog tags on the dead patrol’s other NCO. He was just about to order a mount-up when a rifle shot cracked them and sent the patrol bounding to cover. “Sniper! Sniper! Sniper!” the section leader called out.

	Immediately, fire from the Armenians leapt out into the dusk. Yaglian’s machinegunner had seen the muzzle flash of the bandit and was showering rounds at the area while the two other rifleman tried to do the same. The other machinegunner, far more experienced than Gagarian, rattled off bursts while Gagarian went quiet. This so called “talking guns” method enabled a suppression of the enemy position. The sniper was apparently frightened, and only got off a few more inaccurate shots. Each one was answered by more gunfire from the border guardsmen. Yaglian fired off his carbine from behind the hood of his vehicle, rhythmically and precisely. In between bursts of gunfire, he sounded off to check on his team. So far, no casualties. It had been a trap, but the troops were left wondering why there had only been one sniper. Yaglian’s section leader wasn’t going to stick around to find out, and ordered the dead tossed in the back of the other jeep. Nobody was leaving bodies or weapons there, lest the bandits get a propaganda victory out of the deal.

	Only three more attempts came from the bandit sniper, each time answered by overwhelming fire on the Armenian side. It was nighttime by the time the bodies were loaded up and trucks were on the move, and the shots were getting wilder and wilder. As fast as they could, the trucks moved back to the other patrol’s home base. Someone needed to know what happened, and the bandits were going to pay soon. As the patrol left from the ambush site, Gaznian shot a rifle grenade at the disabled Armenian jeep to deny its recovery. This time, the fuel tank exploded, and the whole vehicle was consumed by fire. The fire lit the mountainside, flickering against the escaping border guardsmen. They still had a while left to drive before they got to the next base, but they were determined to do it quickly. Something had to happen soon.