[center][b]Emir Hassan Al-Himyari's Journal[/b] (Kept in Arabic)[/center] [i]May 31st[/i] - Left Hargeisa at 8:35 AM and arrived in Djibouti at 1:26 PM. I should have arrived an hour earlier, but my [i]Doofarka[/i] flipped and I had to put it right side up. Djibouti is a stinking place. It smells like [i]Khat[/i] and gasoline. I parked at the airport and spent some time before I found a man who could fly me into the desert. He is a helicopter pilot. I have no clue where his machine is made, but it is as rickety as the [i]Doofarka[/i] I left in the dust near the runway. The impression I had of taking off from Djibouti in that thing must be the same impression a snake has when it is lifted by an eagle. Worse perhaps, because the snake is at least confident the eagle knows how to fly. We stopped at Assab, landing near a pathetic airstrip where my pilot bartered for gas. Assab smells like neither gasoline nor khat, because it is a town that doesn't have nearly enough of either, or of anything else. I purchased a salted fish and ate it plain. It wasn't good, and was very thirsty. Though we are near the sea, water cost nearly as much as gasoline here. The land between Assab and my destination is a vision of hell. I have lived in the desert all of my life, but the volcanic wasteland that is the northern Danakil is an habitat for only the most tortured kind of life, creating a world that is more comparable to the moon than it is my native Somalia. This is the homeland of the Afar people, who somehow manage to force a living out of the pumice. They live like Bedouins, but more savage, most caring for goats in the rare oases or mining salt near the salt lakes and hot springs that scatter the landscape. Half way there, we flew over Nabro: a dormant volcano, or rather two volcanoes, that rise above the wastes in a way that impresses the soul. It became dark before we arrived, and I watched the sun return to greener pastures. My pilot insisted he didn't have the equipment to find his way at night, so we landed on a sand dune, and he pulled out a blanket, sleeping in the sand. I remained in the helicopter and forced a night's sleep in the bucket seat. The sand was surely better for him, but I would not risk being left to die in this place, or to be cornered by some sun-stroked Afari shepherd and accused of being a demon so he can relieve me of my testicles and wear them around his neck as it is whispered these people do. [i]June 1st[/i] - I awoke at sunrise to the sound of chopper blades. We were shimmying into the sky. My pilot reached in back and handed me a piece of dried fish, making it the second time in a row I resorted to such a meager meal. I dreaded to know what my host would have for me when I arrived. It was two hours before we saw the shimmering sight of Lake Afrera. It is the largest body of water we'd seen since leaving the Red Sea behind at Assab. As we got closer, I saw another dormant volcano on the east shore of the lake, and around the rim of that volcano I saw the buildings that are my destination. Why the Doctor chose this place is beyond my reckoning. We landed in a sort of permanent camp. Afrera is a salt lake, and a significant amount of the world's rock salt comes from here. Afari work in these mines part of the year as an extra source of income. For some deprived souls, a place like this is the closest they get to tasting modern civilization. What they earn they trade for extra amenities to use in their depressing nomadic lives. Once I was dropped off, my first shock was discovering that nobody was willing to take me to the other side of the lake, and to the dead volcano that is my destination. The people here fear the Doctor. I have heard stories about how unsettling his business is, but the superstitious natives speak of him as if he were a demon. What is worse is that coin money does not sway the desert dweller the same way it sways a modern man. I nearly had to threaten a man with death before he reluctantly offered a ride on his camel. The miners collect the salt from the shore of the lake, where rising water has deposited it over millions of years of rare rainfalls. The heat in this place is intense, and the work is hot; I suspect that the men here do not fear hellfire, because they already know the experience. We passed the minefields and started to climb the slowly ascending volcanic rise. My companion warned me to have my gun out. There are ghosts living among these rocks he said. They find corpses of strangers here all the time, their bodies mangled and their eyes soulless. I find myself liking the Doctor already; he has the good taste of choosing a haunted mine for his home. We reached a road. My companion stopped. "I will not go further, even if you shoot me." he said, "For if I die here, Allah will know me. But if I die up there, I will live forever among the ghosts." He pulled out a gun, and for a moment I expected trouble, but when he aimed it in the air and pulled the trigger, I realized it was a flair gun. A speck of black dust came climbing down the imposing volcano. It came closer, and I understood it was a vehicle. When it arrived, I thought my companion was going to shit his pants, but I was delighted to see it was a [i]Doofarka[/i]; Somalia's pet project had a home outside our borders. The man who got out of the vehicle inspired no fear in me. He was a dark skinned man, not of the Afro-Asiatic peoples of Somalia and Ethiopia. His hair was messy and wild, both beard and afro like that of a mountain shifta, but he wore an outdated suit like some sort of Victorian English gentleman. He also had gloves and a cane. All of this he took with him down the mountain even though he was the driver, and it'd all been soiled by a thin layer of volcanic soot. "You are late." he said. "Ah... ah... all I had was camels." my companion replied, clutching a charm of some kind. The stranger ignored him, staring instead into my eyes. "It's not easy to get here." I said. The stranger smiled. "Enchanting, isn't it?" he said, "Isolation secures liberty. Come now, lets leave this pusillanimous provincial alone." he tapped his cane twice against the packed dust road, creating a small grey cloud. I shrugged and climbed into the back seat of the familiar vehicle. The Camel driver didn't wait for confirmation before he grabbed the reigns of the beast I rode in on and rushed back to his sad salty life. "You are the Emir I presume." the stranger said. "I am." I replied, speaking loudly over the rush of the wind. The stranger put his cane next to the shift knob, and I was amazed that he never confused the two. His hands seemed to operate as if they had eyes of their own, as he never took his real eyes off the road. "I was informed of your visit by colleagues in the [i]Shotel[/i]. Do you know of my work with that organization?" "Your work?" I was surprised to hear the driver speaking of his work. "Are you the Doctor?" "Doctor Babukar Sisi." he said, "Yes. I desired to make your acquaintance before any of my pupils. It seemed more sensible that way." "Good to meet you, Doctor Sisi. I don't know of your work, except that it has to do with the brain, and that you are something of a mental wizard, always willing to take on new projects no matter how dirty they are. I was wondering if you had any understanding of military science and the art of soldiering? My Shotel contacts seemed to imply you would." "Supersoldiers?" Sisi asked rhetorically, "Did you know that ancient Germans ingested the fungus [i]Amanita muscaria[/i] before battle, transforming them from pig farmers into the mythical [i]berserker[/i]? The supersoldier has been a psychological experiment since the first eon." "That's a yes then?" Before he had time to respond, I saw an ashen grey face pop up above a rock in front of us and disappear. "Did you see that?" I asked. My hackles were raised, and my hand went to the grip of my firearm. "That face?" "I don't mind them and they cower from me. Do not worry. This is not a dangerous place for us." More faces popped, flanking us. What were these broken things? Were they ghosts like the Afari seemed to believe? Or was there something else going on? I observed that many were bald-headed, or grew hair in scrappy uneven ways. Were they sick? I kept my fingers on my gun just in case. We reached the rim, where a long three story building made from cheap wood sat on the edge. A helicopter was parked in front. We stopped and went for the door. Before we went in, he grabbed into a box sitting outside and brought out several hunks of flesh. He flung them, but the faces stayed still. "I chose this locality because of the hot springs." Dr Sisi explained. "They have curative properties. Come, let these ones eat, we'll converse inside so they are not unnerved by our presence." ------------------------------------------- [u][b]June 1st: Kampala, Red Africa[/b][/u] ------------------------------------------- A lonely policeman sat in a booth at the edge of town. The police booths were an idea taken from Iyasu's reforms for Addis Ababa, a method of strategically dispersing officers in places where neither traffic nor proper roads facilitated response times. A bicycle leaned against the flimsy plywood structure. Inside the booth, aside from the officer himself, was extra ammunition, an old British era map of Kampala, and a flashlight. The officer smoked a cheap cigarette and played with his lighter, looking through the little flame at the night sky beyond. On. Off. Fire. Extinguished. He did this over and over until the moment that, upon extinguishing the flame, he saw a couple enter town on horseback. It was midnight. The woman wore a neat green dress, the man had on fatigues. It was hard to see what they were doing in the dark. The man rode on back, the woman had the reigns. He seemed to be handling something. The officer thought he should ask, but gave them a moment, trying to figure out exactly what this couple was doing. It wasn't until the man threw something at the booth that the officer went for his gun. It was too late. The booth exploded, taking the officer with it, and the Ugandan countryside was once again disturbed. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQlByoPdG6c](Optional Action Time Music)[/url] More horsemen came out of the surrounding forests, two a horse, lit match cases dangling from their necks and bags of dynamite on their backs. They trotted through the suburbs, lighting dynamite sticks by pressing the fuse into their case. They each took their own street, surprising those officers who were awake, flashes of fire and roaring explosions taking up the night. Public buildings were their targets. Booths went up. Government stalls went up. Cars went up. The city sounded like a warzone. Brave men and women looked out, but most hid. War wasn't new here. They had developed the instincts. When one horseman saw another, they tried to break away, taking different streets and covering as much as they could. This way dispersed them far across the sprawling suburbs. They took out anything that looked like a government office. Flame followed them. The quiet was completely dissipated. There was screaming, roaring fire, the explosions, and the dread sound of horses. Cops came on their bikes and motorcycles. The man and the woman saw an officer come behind them on a small stuttering motorbike, and when he pulled out a gun, the man lit and threw a stick of dynamite. The street exploded, putting a wall of flame between them. Bullets rang out blindly. They galloped now. Somewhere, a heavy machine gun rattled, sounding big enough that they assumed it was on the back of a truck. The Communists had been surprised, but they were hitting back. He threw a stick at a transformer. The explosion made lights flicker. "We need to loop out." he said. The suburbs twisted like a labyrinth and threw off her internal compass, but she looked at the stars and quickly regained her bearing. She came to the dread realization that the heavy gunfire was on a road that was going to merge into hers. He did too. She spurred the horse as he grabbed several sticks. A diesel engine thrummed closer to them. Alleys were connecting them now. The gunner noticed them, and in between buildings he sent a burst of fire. He lit two fuses. They crackled forebodingly. When the roads merged, he threw the sticks. One exploded in the air, the other in front of the truck. It wasn't destroyed, but it was disabled, and the couple got away untouched. The raid was winding to an end, the sound of explosions down from a constant roar to an occasional pop. The suburbs of Kampala glowed orange behind them, lit by fire, blotting out the stars and giving the rising smoke a salmon colored glow. Guns were going off somewhere, and truck engines labored in several parts of the city, but the countryside was calm, like nothing ever happened. They rode into the sleepy forest canopied with the fronds of jungle foliage. Rich red mud struck their legs and the side of the horse. He kissed her on the mouth, just a quick peck. They heard each other's hearts beating fierce with adrenaline. "I love you, Grace Odinga" he said in a deep, quiet voice. "I love you, Marcel Hondo-Demissie." she replied, smiling, the taste of him still on her tongue. More horsemen trickled into the woods, one after another. All that went into town didn't return, but that didn't mean they were gone for good, and the dynamite cavalry rode home hoping to be greeted by their missing comrades when they got back.