Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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July 1960 - Somewhere in the North of Spain
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Father Ángel Vicioso had lived in the Northern foothills of Spain for nearly sixty years, first as a young boy, then as a farmer turnd soldier, and now as a man of god. The revival of the Catholic Church under the late King had been a great boon for men like him and he had taken to the task of reinvigorating the flagging Spanish soul with nothing short of zeal. He now walked great distances in his threadbare brown Dominican robes to bring the word of god to every corner of northern Spain.

There had always been farmers up here, sheep herds, small roving packs of wild dogs, and the ever beautiful Spanish wild horses. Forests had sprung up where forty years ago there had been barren hillside after the King began his program to "re-forest the nation." Millions of trees had been planted to replace those harvested to build the great Armadas of old. Even building codes only allowed for wood to be used as a minimal supplement to other building materials. The country had bloomed, become beautiful again in such a way that one might walk for hours beneath heavy branches without seeing another person.

Farming techniques had been refined, tractors and other technology introduced to assist the peasants in gaining greater yields from their land. Olives were still vitally precious, as were vineyards, but they had been limited, thereby driving up the price for them, boosting Spanish economic growth. New roads had been carved through the mountains and the rail lines upgraded.

Vicioso had seen it all. He was a popular figure himself on the trails and roadways, well known to all. He was paid a pittance by the church and survived off the charity of others when he stopped for the night in small villages or campgrounds. He was certain he knew most people worth knowing in the north.

That was why he had begun to notice a gradual change that began three years ago. The day to day life of the north was unaltered but he had first noticed more police patrolling the roadways, and he had seen the officers taking pictures of bridges, culverts, roadways, buildings, etc. At first he took them to be new and just doing the usual tourist things but then sharp eyed younger men who wore no uniforms appeared and he knew soldiers when he saw them.

Those men had studied the same things the police had and, in some cases, whatever they were looking at was suddenly visited by engineers from the Public Works department. Some things were replaced, others strengthened, and always, the police patrolled diligently.

Word in the villages was of Communists filtering south from France and stirring up trouble among the peasants. Vicioso had seen some of this but not enough to cause much worry. They were usually young men who had been north for their education and come back filled with strange ideas. More and more the leanings seemed to be toward a general sense of pride at being Spanish.

Then, quite suddenly, a year ago, he had witnessed something he knew he was not meant to see. One night while hunkering down beneath a tree to keep out of a spring rain he had seen two men running along the roadway. They were young from what little he could see in the dying evening light, young and terrified. He had meant to call out to them but god had spoken to him and told him to keep quiet as the two leapt the ditch opposite from him and tried to wiggle into the bushes.

Headlights appeared suddenly on the road and the sound of voices shouting made him shrink against the tree. They were not the type of happy shouts to which he had become accustomed in this peaceful land. They were the sharp crashing bark one associated with soldiers. They were angry.

The light armoured vehicle that appeared was one he knew well from his time as a soldier and the insignia of a red and blue cockade on the side made his blood run cold. The Cazadores, Spains elite Military Police unit. They were well known throughout the country for their fanatic loyalty to the military leadership.

"You! Out of the bushes! Now!" One of the soldiers was yelling, waving his rifle barrel toward the verge of the roadway. Vicioso could tell the soldier didn't know exactly where his prey had gone but it didn't matter as two dogs dogs began to bark from further down the embankment.

"Okay! We give up! Don't shoot!" One of the fugitives had called out from the bushes. Vicioso recognized a French accent when he heard one. The two men had emerged from the brush with their hands raised, blinking in the bright headlights of the vehicle.

To Vicioso's horror the Cazadores shot them then and there. Nothing was said, two soldiers simply raised their rifles and fired without a second thought. The two men had been thrown backward against the side of the embankment, their bodies sliding slowly down into the rain filled ditch.

The soldiers had retrieved the bodies and taken them back toward town. Vicioso had heard nothing else about it. Though, over the next year, as he continued his duties and walked the length of northern Spain and back again, he heard more than a few stories of such incidents witnessed by the local population. Always it was "Communists" or "French spies" who had been shot. Whatever, or whoever, the Cazadores were looking for, they were being careful not to upset the locals.

And so the year had come and gone. Vicioso has seen more and more soldiers slowly appearing in the region. On more than one occasion, and only in the dead of night, had he seen long lines of military vehicles moving into the region along main highways before turning off into the countryside to go only God knew where. On more than one occasion he had attempted, out of curiosity, to follow their tracks, but he had always been politely turned back by police, or some cases, Cazadores.

The police had always shown him great deference but been firm in their refusal to let him pass. The Cazadores had been equally polite but their smiles did not reach their eyes when they laughed with him. Maybe it was true what everyone said, they were dead inside.

Then, just a month ago, he had seen a long line of covered lorries pulled up along the side of the roadway. They looked much like your standard delivery lorry, well used and very common in Spain. The big flat beds often carried farm machinery, new vehicles for the villages, produce, and much more. The wind on this particular day had been quite strong and one of the tarps had come loose. Two of the drivers were fighting to drag it back into place but it snapped open for an instant and in that moment Vicioso saw the treads of a tank. He couldn't be sure but the more he stared at the shape beneath the canvas the more he was certain he could see the outline of a Zorro Medium Tank.

He had begun to pay closer attention to the trains that drew into the local stations he passed, and the long convoys of lorries that crawled up the mountain passes. Though he could not say for certain, he believed that at least one in three lorries or cargo containers was carrying army equipment.

Now, today, on this hot July morning, he was kneeling next to another lorry. He had fought with temptation to go closer, to look, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. The lorry drivers did as they usually did and went inside a local cafe for a morning cup of coffee before the long climb into the mountains. The lorries were parked all in a neat row. Their cargos wrapped as they always were in brown canvas. He reached out a trembling hand to touch the canvas.

"Ever heard the expression, curiosity killed the priest, Father?" He started violently like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar and turned, still on his knee's, to see a well built young man watching him. The man was leaning on the side of the lorry cab, an apple in one hand while the other wagged a finger at him.

"I... I... I don't know what you mean." He stammered. The protest sounded hollow in his own ears. This other man was nearly thirty years younger than he, in far better shape, and he could just see the hint of an outline in his baggy shirt that suggested he was armed. "It is not crime to touch a lorry after all."

"Come on father," The man laughed, his white teeth flashing in the sun. "You don't think we haven't noticed you poking around up here. It's not like you're a nobody after all. In fact, you're somewhat of a celebrity."

Vicioso desperately wanted to ask who "we" was, but doubted very much the man would tell him. In fact, he was fairly certain that one wrong question out of place and the man would kill him. That smile hadn't reached the grey eyes that still seemed to bore into him despite the friendly tone.

"Well, maybe I should have just asked then. Why are their so many Cazadores and police up here now?"

The mans eyes gleamed slightly and he chucked the apple core over his shoulder, wiping one hand on his jerkin. "How should I know Father? I just drive a lorry. And, speaking of, time to get cracking. Do yourself a favour Father, stick to preaching, you have a gift for it and the world is in sore need of decent people like you."

The man waved and then scrambled up into his lorry. The engine roared to life and the convoy slowly began to move away up the road. Vicioso stood at the roadside and waved to the drivers as they passed, a smile fixed on his face. He had been shaken to his core by the incident and only when the lorries had vanished up the road did he allow himself to sink back to the grass with a sigh.

"Why the long face Father?" For the second time that day he nearly jumped out of his skin. A young boy, no more than ten, had appeared from the bushes and sat beside him.

"Nothing, my son. Just a long day."

"Did you want to know what is under that tarp?" The boy asked and Vicioso looked at him in surprise.

"You know?"

"Sure, Father." He boy smiled innocently. "No one minds me running around looking for my lost dog." He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. "There is no dog, Father."

Vicioso could only look amazed the audacity of the child who was grinning at him with impish delight. The boy looked around and then leaned in close again.

"It was an airplane father."

At first Vicioso thought the boy was joking but the look of serious earnestness on his small face caused the Priest to pause and think. First soldiers, then tanks, and now planes. It was not impossible.

"But why..." He muttered the words to himself but the boy couldn't help but overhear him.

"Obviously he wants to go flying, Father."

Vicioso threw back his head and laughed, patting the boy on the shoulder. There was still some innocence to youth. Though, there was truth in the words. They would certainly fly the plane, but to where?
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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July 1960 - Lisbon, Portugal
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Dom Duarte Nuno, Duke of Braganza, was enjoying his afternoon tea in the gardens of the Palácio da Ajuda, while his wife and three children played a spirited game of croquet against a pair of maid servants. It had been some time since he had been out and about, his health had been suffering as a result of his drinking habits, but he was three months clean now and well on his way to a full recovery.

A pile of papers sat next to him, pinned in place by his tea saucer, the business of the nation, or what business the Portuguese National Assembly allowed him to take part in. It still rankled that they would not allow him to be named King, nor to take direct part in running the nation. In truth he was nothing more than a "stamp" to be used for royal approval, though that was mostly symbolic.

Those very limitations were perhaps what had brought him to this point on that fine spring afternoon. Sitting, talking, and enjoying tea, all the while plotting to retake his throne with the help of the Spanish King. It was true that he wanted nothing more than to be King himself but that would never happen, and certainly not while a bunch of peasants were running things.

At the moment, and it was high time it had happened, the working classes had found out that the National Assembly and its "representatives" were nought but a bunch of crooks swindling money from the nation. More and more, thanks largely to his own agents and money from the Spanish government, the rumblings for the return of a benevolent king had been circulating. A return to the days when the King took care of his people. He had seen the flyers. They were ridiculous and overlooked any number of terrible things previous Kings had done, but that didn't matter. The people wanted change and he would give it to them.

A shadow fell across him and he was delighted to see the Spanish Ambassador, Marc Marginedas, standing next to him. The tall Spaniard bowed correctly and then sat in the offered chair, thanking the servant who slid forward to hand him a cup of tea.

"A fine afternoon, your Majesty." The Ambassador said as he blew gently on his tea before taking a sip.

"That it is Marc, that it is!" Nuno declared happily. "All the better to have you out to join us of course."

"Your Majesty is to kind, I am put a humble public servant."

"Humble, maybe, a public servant most certainly." Said Nuno with a chuckle. "How are things in Madrid?"

"Well enough. The Communists are making plenty of noise and the French are still working themselves up to another civil war. The King is in Granada enjoying some time with young friends, and the country is as well as it has ever been." Marginedas grimaced as he burnt his tongue and finally put the tea down on the small table between them.

"Granada eh? I seem to recall the Alhambra being a beautiful building from my last visit."

"And so it is, a lovely building. I am glad they did not destroy the Moorish influences as the King once wanted to do."

"That would have been a shame." Nuno said with an almost wistful sigh. "Filthy religion but they did build some wonderful buildings."

"Yes indeed. I have seen some fine examples in your own country." Replied Marginedas as he sat back in his chair, his considerable bulk making it flex alarmingly.

"To true, to true." Nuno said, and then abruptly changed the topic to the one he actually wished to discuss. "Have you delivered my plan to the King?"

"I did." Marginedas said as he nodded slowly. "The King thinks that your plan to continue working to destabilize the National Assembly is a wise one. I am authorized to continue funding your majesties efforts."

The Duke rubbed his hands together and chuckled. "Excellent! Excellent! And what of the frictions in your own Government. The last time I spoke with the Royal Council there was some concern about the... reliability of certain army units."

A shadow passed over the Ambassadors face and then he shrugged. "There are always such rumours. None are true that I am aware of."

But the lie was to pat, to quick. Truth be told, Marginedas was not sure what was about to happen in Spain itself. The Royal Council and the nobles still controlled the land and much of the countries wealth but that was only any good if you had someone to protect it. The military and police, long proud institutions in their own right, had become wary of the Royal Council and the recent decision to limit high ranking posts to people of noble birth only had not helped.

"Whatever you say Ambassador." Said Nuno with a knowing smile.

Another truth, and one that Marginedas kept close to his heart, was how much he hated this pretentious little man. He knew, as well as did anyone on the Royal Council, that while Spanish money might fund the unrest and a promise of Spanish troops had been made, they were all being wielded as weapons to see that Portugal was absorbed into the Kingdom of Spain.

Like it or not, Portugal was a little nation on the edge of far greater ones and her fate, like those of many other nations, was to be conquered.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Dinh AaronMk
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Dinh AaronMk my beloved (french coded)

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China

Beijing


“All representatives to the Congressional floor.” a voice said over the intercoms, scratchy and distorted, “Debate on congressional bill...” the voice trailed on. The speaker neither enthusiastic or dead. But carried on the dull winds of procedure it simply did what it was to do, to convey information through the offices.

Already seated in the observation gallery Xhu Mang sat leaning to the side, bored and disinterested as the chambers began to fill. Really, it had begun to fill a minute ago and now the late comers would be making their way into the chambers. Here as observation from the Politburo the minister had no particular reason to feel excited and he expected only normal procedure to move ahead on the floor. It would be, as decided before a routine parliamentary deceleration of war as far as he was concerned.

“What do you think these water brains will come to?” asked an attendant.

Xhu Mang shrugged, “Something, that's for certain.”

The attendant - a small narrow browed man – look askance at him, “Comrade, you're on Politburo. I'm sure you'd know.”

“Tsai Tang hasn't been nearly as attentive to this as he could. So the temperature hasn't been taken nearly as well as we'd think.” Xhu Mang said, scratching his round chin. He stopped to rub at the side of his face. Down below the floor was filling in and the many desks were being filled with their respective representatives. It wasn't nearly as full as it could be, that Xhu Mang could tell. Some of the congressmen had already left the city, the present legislative term was drawing to a close and this had come in as one of the last acts of congress.

“That said,” Xhu Mang said, picking up his head, “I hear the Committee of Foreign Affairs and the International Committee are throwing their weight behind it. They might sway the others.”

“So they may. But I'm getting thirsty. You want anything?” the attendant asked.

Xhu Mang waved his hand dismissively to his secretary, and he scuttled off. It was not as hard for him to leave as it was for the Congressmen to enter, the viewing gallery was rarely ever filled to near capacity and it had been several years since it had even done that. Beijing had conducted itself with low drama since and only a handful of politically curious old men stepped in to watch the public display of otherwise backroom discussion take place.

Surely at this point the suggestion itself, among memos and military briefs had been circulated. He had been shown a copy of the circulating material from Xiaogang Wen himself. The pressure to debate the bill had been thrown off with Politburo's own recommendations earlier, and being tied in with proposals to change the official Chinese foreign policy stance it had set back what had been hoped to be an earlier debate to the future. Wen knew this would complicate what would otherwise be a rubber stamp ordeal. But Tsai Tang had signed off on Wen's suggestion the two are partnered together, as one validates the other.

And on thought of the devil, he stepped out to take his space at the podium. The secretary of the congress looked tall and lean in his freshly pressed black suit. He looked up briefly at the gallery and scanned them, and seeing Xhu gave him the slightest of perfunctory bows. Xhu returned the favor with a nod of his head.

After this brief exchange the secretary turned his attention to the congressional floor. “The floor is open to Congressional Resolution 7-7-1960 with Politburo Resolution Clarification of International Protocol v2....” Xiogang Wen went on to outline congressional rules of engagement and opened the floor to preliminary questions and adjustments. It was a dull period of common practice and Xhu dozed off, nearly falling asleep as he shut his eyes for a minute. By the time he opened them his assistant was back with two glasses of water and the functional ceremony of debate had passed.

“Congress opens to recognize the Comrade from Taiyuan.”

There was a ruffling on the floor as someone rose from their desk. Whoever was rising was obscured by the deck Xhu sat on, but soon came into view. With long confident steps, the middle-aged figure of Zhang Shu took the head of Congress. His thinning hair looking more combed over than usual. Leaning into the microphone he spoke with a dry businesslike tone, “For centuries, the Russian Empire has threatened China's northern frontier. For a hundred years the Russians had played puppet master across China's north. For the greater part of the last half of the last century, and for the better part of this the Russians lorded over our Manchuria and Mongolia as a puppet master. It is understandable than enmity is felt among us to the Russian state. And I know in the hearts of all of us here that we burn with an internal happiness to the dissolution of one of our great adversaries and dangers to our national prosperity!” his voice rose on the last line, and was answered with a smattering of understanding applause from the quiet congressional hall.

“But, this ambivalence for the north, this blase attitude towards the north sets us as a people against the Revolutionary values of our people! Have we overturned our shackles and melted down our chains to produce the swords and hammers that cemented our own liberation from the likes of monarchs and capitalists to sit idly as people very much like ourselves cry out for freedom? I should think not comrades, for as we liberated Tibet and Mongolia from the reactionary struggles under theocracy and feudalism we struck at a notion that we can well go forward. But why have we not? Why have we stopped at Mongolia. Is it only because as comrade Mo Shun said, 'That Monolia is China, Siberia is not?'

“No, I think it's because we did not have the energy then. And we have the energy now! On behalf of the Foreign Affairs Committee with the support of the Committee of the Military and other advisers that now is the time! Now is the moment we have the might to throw against Russia and bring to it safety, liberty, and order. That the burdens of warlords and reactionary government be lifted from the shoulders of honest Russians, to lend them the assistance like we have so warmly received by foreign martyrs from all over, least of all from the Russian proletariat themselves.

“Comrades, join me in international solidarity. Let us do our duty, and set out to free a people suppressed and liberate! We are the hands that turn the pages of history. Right here, right now! We might for once put barbarism behind all of humanity and bring an enlightened age of peace to the world! But we can not achieve this in emptiness. It is only in right moral action. As we consider here today, I hope it is for the best.”

With that, Zhang Shu stepped back from the microphone and bowed. There was a polite smattering of applause during which immediately a Congressman stood at his desk and boomed over the din: “If it is the Russian people who call for assistance, who do you bring as evidence to this cry? Is it a real man? Or is it a ghost you've seen only in a wet dream of glory and conquest?”

Mild laughter replaced the applause and Zhang Shu could only smile as if unaffected. “I have sources through the Russian diasporatic community who sought shelter here in China. I am answering to call of comrade Dmytro Radek who has taken up his people's cause in China.”

“And are they happy in China?” the congressman asked

“They are very homesick.” Shu responded.

“Then let them arm themselves, and liberate their own country. I find China's involvement in this matter questionable, comrade. Let them organize as an army, let us provide them the arms and training. It is their fight, not ours.”

The chamber murmured in discussion before someone else rose, “In response to the comrade,” a younger man said, leveling a finger in the direction of the other, “I am doubtful whether a few thousand men, assembled into an army, can actually turn the tide of a war such as in Russia. They might have an effect. But what is a few villages in all of Siberia compared to the whole nation? How might they raise the proletariat to defeat the eastern Cossacks? The Japanese?”

Louder murmuring of approval wove through the hall. At that the other speaker turned to Xiaogang Wen and asked for permission to speak. He was granted it and Zhang Shu went back to his desk.

The newer speaker covered much of the same ground as Shu. Mang Xhu leaned back in his chair and rubbed at the side of his face. Taking a sip from his water. For his part, Xhu's secretary at least pretended to care for the congressional debate.

As he finished, the young speaker was responded to by his share of applause and heckles. Another exchange took place, and someone else managed to take the stage. Mang Xhu knew the speaker as one of the Unionist activists, an anarchist. He was an old man with a long sage like beard. “I feel I must call to question this insistence that our influence and authority be exercised on the global stage through force of arms.” he said sternly into the microphone. He was quickly followed by a battery of applause from the ultra-left. “Principally, the act of violence is to force the will of another on a other. For once group to force another group to behave, to be, or to exist in a way the acting group to be. And it is disquieting to hear from our own ranks the obsession to act in violence against another group in such a way as has been spoken of. We act no differently here as the bourgeoisie in Europe and America. Is this not the words and actions of imperialists?

“No comrades, this is not us. And while we beat about demanding change we act as coercive and negatively to freedom of other people's as the English, the Japanese, and the Russians do towards us. As a Revolutionary force we should not seek to perpetuate the cycle of oppression that exists in the world, but to break this cycle of violence and oppression in this world. We should act on others as they have on us as the state-sponsored intervention of the imperialists on our communities. The mobilization of our army in offense and not in defense is a hypocrisy against us!” the far-left cheered and applauded, working themselves up to be larger than they were and in the hopes of convincing not only by rhetoric but the impression of girth.

“I call for a commitment to the better. Not to say that no action should be done. But for the right action to be done. So: the people of a nation cry out for freedom and liberty? Shall they not be provided? Of course they shall. But not at the end of a rifle in the hands of another. This is state-sanctioned violence, and on all accounts we should be made to be non-committal to this. Let the proletariat and the working classes and all oppressed peoples of the world liberate themselves. We do not seek to liberate a people in our own way. If power is held in the hands of the people, then it is their right to obtain that in the way that is customary to themselves!

“We should no beholden ourselves to thousands of years of mistakes. By all means, lend assistance to the suppressed peoples of the world. But let the mainspring of Revolution be from the people themselves, and not from us.”

He stepped back and bowed. Stepped off of the stage he did not even give time for anyone to ask questions or offer short rebuttals and he shut off his own debate then. Mang Xhu snickered sardonically under his breath as the old man sat down. “Not eager to answer to reality.” Xhu said, leaning into his attendant. He nodded in agreement.

Never the less, argument erupted as someone rose and declared the argument full of water. It was like wise answered in the old man's defense by another who said to the other he should be fried like squid. A shouting match erupted, and from the shadows the sergeants at arms appeared briefly to form a line between the two least something break out. But the argument was called to an end as Xiaogang Wen called in order. Another speaker stepped up, and proceedings continued.

At a point the entire ordeal turned from grandstanding to discussing the finer points of the proposal. A general outline for military action was laid out and discussed, involving possible points of entry into the country, assuring the Congress that the presence of Japan is considered, and proposed rules of engagement. Public negotiations were initiated over technicalities in the rules as it applies to technicalities elsewhere, and it was moved along.

Mang Xhu felt he could have been better off napping. But of the few people in the gallery he knew he would be caught easily for having dozed off. He could look displeased with being there, even slightly bored. It wasn't abnormal in the end. But what would be embarrassing is a representative – an outside witness – for the Politburo taking a nap during discussion of legislature they wanted passed.

After several hours, Congress was let out for recess and finally Mang Xhu and his companion could safely stand and move about. They both agreed to walk off their drowsiness in the hall as the congressional theater was filled with the loud din of echoing conversation and moving chairs.

Out in the hall they walked back and forth passed the windows. It was raining outside, Beijing was covered in a thick blanket of gray rain-cloud as droplets of silvery rain splattered on the window. “What do you think?” Mang Xhu asked his secretary.

“I think they're rather loud.” he answered.

“The Unionists?” Xhu asked

“Yes.”

“They're always a clap of thunder.” Xhu stated.

The two stood looking out the windows until Congress was called back in session. Beleaguered, they followed the call and retook their seat. The few old men who had been scattered in the gallery had themselves disappeared. Only an obvious journalist in the far corner remained, idly scratching away in her note pad.

And again, Xiaogang Wen brought the Congress back into session. After some probing motions from his top bench it was conceded voting would transpire. After only a few minutes Congress was disbanded to vote and the two witnesses and guardian of at least half the debated legislation wandered about in wait.

It was after forty-five minutes the decision came back. And in the combined legislature a three-quarters majority was called. Congress had declared war, and all that was left was Hou Tsai Tang's signature of approval. Mang Xhu could already feel the wheels of action move, and soon the army would be moving ahead into the Russian frontier.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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Vilageidiotx Jacobin of All Trades

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1939: Salt Lake City, Utah
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Pvt Saul Allred forgot how to pray after the fall of Salina. He wasn't sure why he was still alive anymore. As Federal armor plowed into the city of saints, he just went through the motions, taking his place in the barricade with his fellow survivors of the LDSA, their powder-blue uniforms tainted with ash and blood, pouring the last of their ammunition at an enemy they could not defeat. The road was cut off by a milk truck and a car pushed onto their sides, scrap filling the holes in the defense, in front of a small plaza around an obelisk. The Federal attack was slow but constant. The mechanical whine and rumble of motorized armor echoed ominously through the canyon of shops and manufacturers.

"The angels are coming!" Pvt Romney promised out loud for the third time that day. He was losing his mind. Saul sensed that everyone knew this, but nobody was willing to be the one that said it. It would be an admission of lapsed faith.

"Get down!" Lt Carson shouted as two screaming Jackrabbits flew low, strafing the tops of buildings behind the falling Mormon defenses, working to break machine gun nests. They braced for the big attack, but it never came. Night arrived. The fighting didn't stop, but slowed down, the roar of combat seeming to be muffled rather than silenced. The burning city cast dancing fire on the clouds above. Saul didn't sleep. He hadn't eaten in two days. Hadn't he already died? He wondered if men always go through this stage before death, fate's way of preparing the soul for departure, turning the body into a fading memory so that the victim met their end numb.

No food came for them that morning. They didn't expect it. Saul didn't care. Lt Carson led a morning prayer as bombs burst overhead.

"Father in Heaven. We thank thee for thy victories, for the truth thy church has proffered unto us, and thy temple which stands as a sign unto us to continue thy works on earth. Thou shalt triumph over the army of sinners before our gates, and deliver the saints to victory. Give us the courage to go on, and bless our families so they might take comfort in these trying times. Bless the walls of the Temple, so that the precious souls who take shelter in thy presence may be as safe as infants in their mother's womb. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

"Amen" the gathered soldiers replied.

Each time a bomb blast nearby, Pvt Romney muttered "The angels are coming"

The attack came at mid-day. Federal troops laid down a field of fire. The Mormons shot back, but they were pinned. The triumphant obelisk between their two armies was chipped away piece by piece, stone flaking onto the ground. The sickly grumble of tank engines came closer and closer until they came around the corner, looking like large brown machines rolling off a factory floor, alive and possessing their own will.

"The angels are coming!" Pvt Romney stood up. The sergeant yelled for him to come down. Romney climbed onto the milk truck and planted himself there, waving his hands at the sky. The first shell took him squarely, blowing him apart, raining his gore onto his comrades. The second shot hit the car and threw it out of the way. Saul took a shot, but didn't see where it went. He felt like he was watching it all in a moving picture theater, himself a background character, not a real person.

Machine gun fire tore into the LDSA position. Two men went down, blood pouring for wounds. This place was no longer defensible. They started running. Saul fell back with them. He didn't know why he went. His legs fled and took him with them.

There hadn't really been a defensive line in Salt Lake City for several days. They'd been whittled down to a small number of stubborn pockets, those last few lumps as the masher came down, resisting the inevitable, hoping for angels.

They stood in the foothills to the west, overlooking Parley's canyon and the Lincoln Highway, among the sagebrush where they could catch their breath. The smoke rising from the defeated city blotted out the tops of the Wasatch mountains. To the east was a city wreathed in destruction, an image of Sodom and Gomorrah, abhorrent to the true believer who couldn't help but think of the lake of fire. The Temple rose almost triumphantly midst the calamity, a flower in hell.

An ashen air blew up from the city when the echo of the big guns reached the survivors. Shells burst on that holy temple, and its Gothic spires tumbled to the ground. Lt Carson dropped to his knees weeping like a child. Saul Allred had been raised a Mormon, had lived and breathed the lives of the saints, but seeing it all crushed into the dust by the secular armies of man... it didn't seem to matter. He turned, abandoned his comrades, and walked into the Wasatch mountains alone.

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July 5th, 1960: Masindi Port, Swahili People's Republic
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Marcel paced onto the ferry dock, looking at the mirror-like river, the clouds reflecting from its surface. A flock of brown-orange ducks bobbed on the water. It was peaceful. So many other places in the country were burning right now, but not here. The fires in Mombasa and Kampala, the blood spilled in the Nabakazi river, none of it seemed to affect this place.

Behind him, his Force Socialiste stood patiently in their faded blue uniforms. The small village behind them didn't come out to attend them. Marcel received warm smiles and gifted food from his many admirers here when he arrived, but they remained solemn and reserved. Worried, he knew. The arrival of armed men is a bad omen. But also, they knew who he'd came to meet, and the mad preacher of the Freedom Army of God struck fear in more Ugandans than anything else.

"Do you think we should have met him here?" one of his Force Socialiste said, pointing to the mosque in a copse of nearby trees. It was a small building, white plaster, its Islamic roots only made visible by the spindly minaret.

"Do you think he will burn it, Laurent? With us here? No, he is practical, he will not do this thing."

The first sign of their visitors was a thin column of steam to the north. A beat-up old steamboat came chugging down the river, a makeshift wooden platform built above the deck acting as a simple second level. As it came closer, the layer of vague humanity that caked its two decks become distinguishable. They were a ragged crew, hardly discernible from pirates. Half of them looked like children, grown hard-faced by the trials of combat, boys who'd killed men before they had hair under their arms. Their leader, standing like Washington crossing the Delaware, was a middle aged man in Askari fatigues and a pith-helmet, a big pair of sunglasses hiding his eyes. It was unnerving, like watching a supernatural beast swim slowly up to shore, but Marcel kept his resolve and stood up straight. From the dock they heard the low moan of the steam engine, the slosh of disturbed water, and the manly battle cry of the men on deck. Marcel's men prepared to fight, but Marcel held his hand out for them to pause.

At the sign of triumph
Satan's host doth flee;
On, then, Christian soldiers,
on to victory!

Hell's foundations quiver
at the shout of praise;
Brothers, lift your voices,
loud your anthems raise!


The grimy crusaders roared like Zulu warriors when the hymn was over. The boat slowed down, and the hard-faced preacher looked straight at Marcel.

"Why should we talk?" he said monotoned.

Marcel smiled. "You came so far, bwana. Tie your boat to our shore, so we can learn to be friends."

"We will not be friends."

"The Communist armies have reunited. They will murder both of us."

"God will protect us." the preacher replied. His eyes completely hidden behind his dark glasses, and his face as placid as the still waters, he didn't seem to react to anything Marcel said. He felt like he was talking with a stone statue. Then something came to him.

"Do you know the story of the old man who broke his leg while working his field, bwana?" Marcel asked innocently enough.

"I am a weapon of the lord. I did not come for gossip." the preacher replied.

"His son came to him, looking really worried, and said 'Pa pa, I will pick you up and take you to the doctor so you will be better', and the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to carry me' And so the son ran off to find help. He brought back a local healer, who said 'Let me set your leg and administer herbs so you do not get an infection', and the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to heal me'. The wound became infected, so the village elders came, and they offered to have the farmer transported to a big town where there was a hospital. But the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to save me'. And then the farmer died."

"Do not mock..."

"The farmer met God, and he asked him 'My lord, you saw my suffering, why did you do nothing?' and God said 'I sent your son, and you sent him away. I sent the healer, and you sent him away. Then I sent the village elders, and you sent them away. If you would not accept your neighbors, why would you accept a miracle?'. Don't you see this, bwana? If the Communists wanted to, they could walk into your lands and lock your entire flock in prison until you all starve and die. And they will do this thing too. We should not be friends, you are right, but I offer you my friendship anyway. If you take it, there will be many of us, and we will be strong."

"You know how to preach a sermon, Comrade Marcel." the preacher said, "You almost make us forget that you are a communist too. But my flock hasn't forgotten." Behind them, the glaring rabble whooped and shouted. The preacher held out his hand up and silenced them. "You don't let my true believers practice their work in your territory."

"Your arsonists." Marcel said.

"They have their work, given to them by the lord. You hunt them down like rats."

"Like criminals."

"Do not persecute my saints. That is our conditions. Let righteousness follow its natural God-given course, and we will fight our common enemy together."

Marcel bit his tongue. It crossed his mind he could draw his gun now and get rid of this monster.

"You don't have to say anything. I will bring the Freedom Army of God south, into the land of the Philistines, and we will fight with you until we hear of you abusing the believers. Do you understand, brother Hondo-Demissie?"

"I understand, brother Allred" replied Marcel.

"We will fight together then." the preacher snatched a sack out of the bottom of the boat and took something out. It was black and organic looking. Allred threw it onto the deck. "Remember the promise you made. The lord certainly will."

Marcel bent down to pick up the object. It was black and wet, a mess of char and ruined flesh. It looked like the head of a small dog, but it was too disfigured by fire to properly make out. Marcel held onto it as the preacher's boat left the shore.
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LA Convention Complex
7:45 PM


"How does Georgia vote?"

"Georgia delegates cast all their votes for Michael Norman!"

The USC marching band fired up its rendition of "Hail to the Chief." They played it every time Norman won a state's votes. So far, the band had been busy but not overwhelmed. Eric Fernandez kept a running tally in his head. Norman was out to an early lead. Rick Marshall was second only because of how many delegates California had. Eric had only twenty-four votes to his name, all of them from Connecticut. That was at least reassuring. Big Jim seemed to be keeping up his end of the bargain.

"Norman gets Idaho," Alex Roy said from beside Eric, while the band kicked up "Hail to the Chief" once again. "No surprise there."

"How does Illinois vote?"

On the floor, Mayor Charlie Ricketts stood and basked in all the attention. He gave a big smile and milked the moment for all it was worth. "The great state of Illinois, of which I am honored to speak on its behalf, have decided that it will cast all its votes for our next president, ERIC FERNANDEZ!"

The decision caused both Eric and Roy to sit in their seats and look at each other.

"Illinois has a lot of votes," said Roy. "Not as many as California, or New York..."

"But just enough," Eric said with a smile. He could feel his pulse quickening "I think we're going to do this. At least on the first ballot. Enough to give us some momentum to carry us into the second ballot."

The two men traded quick handshakes and pats on the back. Eric felt the votes from Illinois had been a shot in the arm to his chances. There would be a second ballot thanks to Eric and all the favorite son candidates. They'd defied the president and denied him, at least temporarily, the nomination he so desired. The only thing lingering in the back of Eric's mind was why? Why had Ricketts and Illinois went to him when he had made it clear that he wasn't prepared to horse trade or outright buy their votes. Something or someone had changed their minds. And the only thing Eric knew was that it wasn't his doing.

---

8 PM

"Wyoming casts all of its votes for Michael Norman."

Frenchie Gallo didn't even have to do the math to know the president hadn't won the nomination. He could see it in the posture of everyone in the private booth. They were all hunched over, refusing to make eye contact with each other. The booth was packed with guys like him. Not pols by trade, but political movers and shakers by virtue of glad-handing and trading favors. Every one of them were Norman supporters, and now everyone of them looked like someone had shit in their shoes.

Foulke read off the tabulations from the dais above the floor. The president squeaked out a simple majority of the votes, but Fernandez had stolen roughly forty percent of the vote and caused him to fall short of the required 2/3rds majority. Not just enough to deny the president victory, but enough to give him an actual shot at the nomination. Frenchie chomped down on a cigar in anger. That bastard Ricketts. He had no idea what kind of deal Ricketts managed to cut, but he would make sure to have a talk to Bobby C. after all of this ended. He might have to go to Fortunato and the commission with it, but he wanted to fucking whack Ricketts for this grief. The old men might balk at political assassination, but he knew Johnny Leggario would see to it Ricketts ended up in Lake Michigan as fish food.

"Okay, fuckers," Frenchie said with a start. "Stop moping around and get to work. We all know enough about politics to know what happens next. We all got power and influence of some sort. Let's fucking use it and get our guy elected."

Frenchie waddled across the room and picked up the first phone he could reach. Suddenly, the box around him came to life with the people doing the same. He hadn't won on the first ballot, but the son of a bitch could win on the second if they all got to work.

---

The Baxter Hotel
3:30 AM


"Voting will be suspended for and will resume tomorrow morning at 11 AM for the sixteenth ballot."

Russell heard Foulke's gavel sharply pound through the radio. He and Jim Sledge were the only two in the room. Sledge had his eyes closed as he sat in the chair facing Russell's bed, but Russell knew he was wide awake. They both were, actually. Who could even feel anything close to being tired at a time like this?

"Now is the time," Sledge said, his eyes still shut but no trace of sleepiness in his voice. "Most of the bosses are heading back to the hotel, those that are already here are without a doubt picking a meeting place. We haven't had a deadlocked convention in quite some time, so they're embarrassed and want to end it quickly. I imagine the sixteenth ballot will be the last one. The winner will be picked by them before the sun rises."

Russell nodded. "I expect the phone to ring in about five seconds or so. Three... two..."

One of the phones started to chime. Sledge opened his eyes and smiled at Russell before standing and picking it up.

"Hello?.... Yes.... I see... okay. Yes, we'll be there shortly."

Sledge put the phone back down and looked at Russell.

"They're meeting in Parrish's room. All the bosses, Wilbur Helms, and now us."

Russell nodded and stood. For the first time in years, he thought of his father. Jon Reed had thought of himself as some sort of kingmaker in Northeast Georgia politics. Without the temperament to actually be a politician, he instead relished the role of being the power behind the throne as it were. But then he went bankrupt and became a laughingstock. It forced the Russell family to taking handouts and charity from the people in Lavonia.

When he was sixteen, Russell asked Lori Jo Tyner to the homecoming dance. Her mother and father told her she couldn't, that Russell was no good. They said that no Reed would ever amount to anything. He saw Lori Jo Tyner, now Lori Jo Wilson, when he came through Lavonia during the '56 campaign. She was so fat. Russell chuckled to himself and adjusted his tie before looking over at Sledge.

"How's my hair?"

"Good," said Sledge.

"Then let's go to work."
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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Early-July 1960 - Across Spain
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01:35 Hours

"Colonel." The voice was quiet and the hand that shook him took a few moments to drag Colonel Francisco De Le Cal Delgado out of his sleep. He blinked slowly, aware that whoever was shaking him had brought a dulled lantern into his room so as not to blind him. The smell of the sea and the scream of the gulls reminded him where he was, Malaga.

"I am awake Blas, I am awake." He did his best not to sound annoyed but he was tired. He had spent the better part of the week fencing with Herzog Jaegar Hurst von Deutsche Westafrika, not to mention a trip to Morocco to meet his latest assest, and he was tired. "What is it?"

The man squatted down next to his bed and his grim face came into the light. There was no humour. Whatever had happened was deadly serious and it woke the Colonel up more quickly than a gunshot.

"The King got drunk and shot his mouth off to a Frenchman who didn't like the threat of imminent invasion. He got a call off to Paris before we could stop him. The French know, or at least suspect, the coming invasion. Surprise, at least, is gone."

"Sweet Mary Mother of God..." Delgado hissed the words out between his teeth. Years of planning had just been blown apart by the petulant child who had been allowed to call himself King. "We're certain the call went through?"

"Absolutely sir." The men pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Delgado who squinted at it. It was messy and rushed but there was no doubt, the switchboard had patched the call through and some two minutes passed before the line was cut. The damage was done.

Delgado frowned at the note. Any number of options whirled through his head, but only one seemed logical. Four years they had planned the invasion of France. They being the Royal Council, with the reluctant support of the military. They had insisted on including the King, against the wishes of the military. And now it all was for nothing. There was only one option left to make sure this sort of Royal bullshit never happened again.

"Order the Reconquista."


02:00 hours

Grandioso Inquisidor Juan José Omella was already awake, dressed, and waiting for the Cazadores when they came for him. He was seated in the front pew of the Sagrada Família, staring up into the soaring vaults toward the unfinished roof.

He had heard inklings of a military plan to overthrow the King but he had never been able to confirm it. But then one of his agents had reported that the King had gotten drunk and said something to a Frenchman he shouldn't have and military agents had exploded into motion. He had no doubt that the Royal Council was be among the first to go if the military moved to neutralize the King.

The doors to the Cathedral crashed open and the sound of the spring rainstorm poured in with a gust of wind. The smell of the rain, the promise of a clean start. It would have been a gift from God if not for the shouts of startled priests and the tramp of heavy boots. Thankfully there were no gunshots. That would came later, he was sure of it.

He kept his gaze riveted on the face of the Virgin Mary as the soldiers stopped next to him. He could just see the shoulder of a big man in the corner of his eye just before he closed it, waiting for the thud of a fist or the cold steel of a gun barrel against his temple. Instead he heard the click of heels coming together and a deep voice spoke.

"Grandioso Inquisidor. I am Lieutenant Fernando Alejandre Martínez of the Cazadores. Colonel Delgado would like to invite you for a late luncheon this evening at headquarters, in Madrid of course."

Omella slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the Cazadore. He was a handsome man with a sharp jaw and piercing eyes that betrayed no malice or evil intent. "He invites me does he?"

The soldier spared him a quick smile. "It is, as you might suspect, not optional."

"Then I would be delighted to join the Colonel."

"Wonderful!" The soldier stepped backward and gestured toward the rainstorm outside where a Cazadore vehicle waited, blue light flashing in the darkness. "After you."

Omella stood shakily and, with a bow toward the Virgin, began to walk toward the rain and an uncertain future.


02:15 hours

Army General Francisco Javier Varela Salas, Chief of the Defence Staff, was dead asleep when they came for him. He, like many other Flag-officers, was the son of nobility and had hardly earned his position based on merit and rather more on birth. He had doubled down on his power base by accepting a seat on the Royal Council.

A gunshot had sent him bolt upright in bed and the frantic, terrified shouts of his servants had sent him hurtling toward the door. His wife had sat up quickly as well, then clung fearfully to the blankets as more shouts were heard and another gunshot thundered through the house.

"Camila! Hide!" He shouted as he slammed the bedroom door shut. He looked about frantically. His uniform was hung neatly, as it had always been, but the sword scabbard and holster were empty. His weapons were kept in the next room inside a locked safe. He had always been concerned that the servants might steal them. The sword had been a gift from the King, and the pistol a pearl handled revolver allegedly worn by the great American gun fighter Wyatt Earp. Fists suddenly hammered on the door and an angry voice roared out.

"General Francisco Javier Varela Salas! You are under arrest by order of Colonel Francisco De Le Cal Delgado of the Cazadores! Open this door!"

The fear that he had felt suddenly crystallized. The Cazadores. Delgado. It was a coup. He should have known! He looked around again for anything to use as a weapon. Camilla was still on the bed and she screamed again as a boot slammed into the door just above the lock. Before he could move toward the umbrella he had spotted in the corner, the heavy boot smashed the door inward and Cazadores burst into the room.

A fist slammed into his gut and he folded over, a knee smashing his nose into a bloodied mess. Camilla was screaming louder now and someone snarled at her to shut up. His arms were roughly forced behind his back and handcuffs slapped into place. Then they began to drag him from the room, naked as the day he was born.

His feet bounced off every step as he was dragged down the stairs. A body lay in the front entry to his home. The butler, he could not think of the mans name, a bullet hole in his chest. It was raining outside and the water seemed strangely warm as they dragged him across the marble, onto the gravel driveway, before hurling him into the back of a police lorry. The doors slammed shut in his face. The last thing he saw as they closed was the terrified faces of his servants as they knelt in the driveway, policemen with drawn guns standing behind them.


04:30 hours

His Royal Majesty, King Juan Carlos I, knew something was wrong. He had woken in the dead of the night with a splitting headache and a vague recollection of the nights events. The water pitcher beside his bed had been quickly drained and the overwhelming need to piss took over.

Kicking the bed covers aside, he had made his way into the hall and down the long corridor to the bathroom at the far end. He had an ensuite bathroom of course, as befitted a King, but this room had a wonderful breeze that came down the mountain and an amazing view of the city below.

He pulled out his cock and aimed the yellow stream into the bowl before glancing outside. The city below looked, at first glance, like it usually did, a sprawling and beautiful collection of lights. But, as his blurry eyes focused, he noticed blue police lights flashing all across the city. Hundreds of them. Far more than one might normally expect.

The need to use the bathroom quite forgotten he quickly slipped his cock back into his pants, washed his hands and made his way into the corridor, calling for his manservant. His words echoed off the long corridor to no response. Quick steps took him to one of the glassless archways that looked down over the garden. Nothing moved in the half moonlight that softly kissed the flowers below. No guards patrolled. No happy laughter came from anywhere. It was as still as death.

He ran to the stairs and hurried down a level to where his guests would be spending the night. This corridor was also empty. Wilhelm's guards, usually so "there", were gone. Maria's chaperone had vanished as well. Not bothering to knock on either door he ran down the corridor shouting for his guards.

The cries, frantic in his own ears, rang emptily throughout the palace. He ran. To the dining room, the kitchen, the sitting room, into the gardens, no matter where he turned, he was alone in that great building. He pinched himself, maybe it was a dream, but no, it only hurt.

"Your Majesty?" Maria's voice brought him around in a frantic turn. His face must have scared her for she recoiled at the look but bravely plowed on. "What is the matter?"

"My guards, your chaperones, Wilhelm's men, they're gone. Where has everyone gone?" He was afraid for the first time in his life, truly afraid. He had never been alone, never without protection, he felt sueednly very exposed.

"Phone's are dead." Wilhlem's German growl entered the conversation. "I tried the one in my room and the one in the billiard room. Neither are working."

"What the fuck is happening?" The King demanded staring at his two friends. Neither could answer him.


06:00 hours

"General Admiral Teodoro E. López Calderón." The Admiral, who was in the middle of tying the laces on his tennis shoes, looked up in surprise.

"Ah, Capitán Navarrete. Good Morning. What can I do for you today?" The words were polite but it was well know that Calderón did not like Navarette. He thought of the man as a jumped up commoner who had no place commanding the nations most powerful warship, let alone a battlegroup. He would have made an excellent lieutenant no doubt, but only men with noble blood should command. Everyone knew that. Afterall, had Spain not reached her greatest heights when the Nobleman held sway.

"I am here to place you under arrest. Officers." The last word was to the three Cazadores who came through the gate behind Navarette.

"My god man! Have you lost your mind!?" Calderón demanded as the three policemen closed on him. He had a fleeting thought of trying to fight them off, maybe run, but they must have seen his face and quickly pinned his arms to his side before placing him in handcuffs. The steel was cold on his wrists and it served only to heighten his confusion. "What are the charges!?"

"Treason. Corruption. Destabilizing the Kingdom. Being a Royal fucking git. What the fuck do I care?" Navarette snarled back. "You've always been a useless piece of shit Calderón and now you, along with the rest of your blue blooded ilk can hang for all the good it will do the rest of our nation."

"The Royal Council will hear of this! You men, you will hang along with Navarette!" He was trying to reason with the policemen but they paid him no mind as they began to walk him toward the gate.

"The Royal Council is finished." A wide smile had crossed Navarette's face. "You are all finished."


06:00 hours

The three of them sat on the front stone steps of the Generalife. The small courtyard in front of them neatly tiled and surrounded on all sides by white washed buildings that had once housed the Royal stable. Now it held any number of fine cars and motorbikes. Only thing was, all the keys had vanished in the night.

"And we cannot leave?" Maria asked quietly. She was seated between the two man, holding onto each of them with one hand. The driveway in front of them, a long lane of raked white stones, ended at a large wrought iron gate that was closed and chained shut. Two police cars sat outside of it, the officers dutifully ignoring all their shouts or attempts to rattle the gate.

Confusion, anger, fear, all emotions that any rational person might feel, had shaken the little group. They had looked everywhere and found not another living soul. Both access points to the grounds had been sealed by police and a helicopter had been circling overhead for the last hour.

"There, look!" Wilhelm, his stoic German self, actually sounded excited, or relieved, the King could never tell. He was pointing toward the distant fortress where a second helicopter was speeding through the air toward them.

"Finally..." Muttered the King. He stood, still clad in sleeping shorts and t-shirt, as the helicopter swept overhead and then banked hard. The Cockade of the Cazadores gleamed on the side and he felt a flutter of hope in his heart.

"A rescue?" Maria said hopefully.

"Armed like that?" Wilhelm stated mildly. The bloody man was always so practical but the King had to admit he was right.

The helicopter drowned out any further words as it dropped from the sky and onto the driveway. Five men dropped from the open door as the machine began to wind down. Four of them were smartly uniformed Cazadores. They carried machine guns, pistols, and looked very purposeful. The man in the middle was slightly shorter and bore no markings of rank on his otherwise crisp uniform. Despite this, there was no doubt he was in charge.

He strolled up to the three and Wilhlem, as was German custom, stood and bowed shortly. The man smiled at that and offered a short nod. "You must be Wilhlem. I am Colonel Francisco de le Cal Delgado. I have heard quite a bit about you from your father."

If it was possible for Wilhlem to look surprised, he did for the briefest of moments. He swallowed. "My father?"

"Is quite well and I suspect waking up right about now. Now, please, do not fret. If you will join these fine men they will escort you to a car by the gate and you will be returned to your father."

"And Maria?" The question stopped the Colonel dead in his tracks and he turned to look at the German.

"The Marquess of Morella? She, and the King, are both under arrest." As he spoke the Cazadores stepped forward and seized the King and Maria.

"You cannot arrest your King!" Retorted Juan Carlos I. The title suddenly seemed ridiculous as he struggled to escape his captors grip. A third Cazadore had taken Maria by the arm while the fourth gestured for Wilhelm to join him. The German did not move.

"I will go with her." He said stepping to her side. The Colonel smiled slightly and then shrugged.

"Very well. Please escort the Marquess and Wilhelm to the sitting room. They can remain there under guard while I speak with the King." He held his hands apart apologetically to Wilhelm. "For legal reasons, I must also place you under arrest then, Wilhelm. Behave and you will not be harmed."

The German only nodded as he and Maria were led away, leaving a frantic King alone in his pyjamas.


07:00 hours

Señor Mariano Rajoy, the Duke of Morella, was taken by the Cazadores as he was about to board a train for Madrid. The Royal Council had been set to meet in Madrid later that day and, as a sitting Member, he was expected to be there for the discussion around the pending invasion of France. He, like the Grandioso Inquisidor, had cautioned the Royal Council about involving the King in their plans, and today he would continue to argue that the young fool should not be given any more information.

He had been thinking about how it irked him that his only daughter was staying with that same King, and was so absorbed in his thought process that he failed to notice the four men who entered his private train car.

"Señor Mariano Rajoy." He looked up into the face of a man not much older than Maria. "You are under arrest by order of Colonel Francisco de le Cal Delagdo."

Whether he wanted to laugh or cry, he didn't know. He had suspected something like this might occur, in fact, the whole Royal Council had mentioned the idea. They had been trying to plan how to remove the Colonel without starting a mutiny but it looked like he had beat them to the punch.

"And where will you be taking me then, my fine friends?" He asked as the bulk of the policemen filled the interior of the car?"

"To Madrid. We thought we might as well use your own train." Replied the officer with a smile. Rajoy blinked in surprise.

"What, no handcuffs? No beatings?"

The policemen laughed, it was not a pleasant sound. Their leader grinned like a wolf eyeing its meal.

"We were directed to bring you gently if you were willing. If you wish to resist..." He left the sentence unfinished but tapped a finger against the wooden baton that hung at his side.

Majoy held up his hands quickly. "No, no. Let us ride in quiet contemplation then. Thank you for your kindness. Have you any word of my daughter?"

"She is under arrest, along with the King."


09:00 hours

"What the hell do you mean we can't leave?" Herzog Jaegar Hurst von Deutsche Westafrika demanded, standing up so quickly from his breakfast that he almost upset the table.

"The Colonel told me this morning before he left, sir. Then he and his men disarmed us and left. The gates are guarded by Cazadores who politely but firmly turned us around when we tried to go in to town." The soldier, one of West Afrika's finest, was standing ramrod straight, staring an inch over the Dukes head as he spoke. "The Colonel wished you to know that the King is to be arrested and his government replaced."

"The King arrested?!" Hurst managed to make his voice loud without shouting. Things had certainly gone horribly wrong in a very short period of time. "And my son?"

"I was told that he is to be sent to you as soon as the Cazadores have taken the King."

The conversation was interrupted as the phone rang on the table next to Hurst. He stared at it for a moment waiting for someone else to pickup but it continued to ring. Taunting him. Finally, with a glance at the silent soldier, he picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Señor Hurst?" The voice was certainly Spanish and spoken with the clipped preciseness of a soldier.

"This is him."

"Your son has chosen to remain with the Marquess de Morella despite an offer of release. He will contact you when he is permitted to do so."

The line went dead and Hurst stared at the phone. "That goddamn fool". He didn't know if he wanted to throw the whole thing across the room or not.


11:00 Hours

"That about sums things up Your Majesty." Delgado said as he pushed back his chair and leaned back his chair. "Though, I will be hones, it boils down to two options."

The young man across from him looked broken. He hadn't wept at least, though he had threatened, cajoled, and even tried to reason with the Colonel. The shoulders slumped, sweat had come through the white t-shirt, and a sheen was showing on the youthful forehead.

"One. You get to remain as King, albeit as a figurehead, nothing more, and name me as Viceroy of Spain. I intend to rebuild our once great nation and you have this one chance to be a part of it." He smiled widely as if this was a matter of course. "Option two is of course you die. One way or another, you will not be the same man when I leave here today."

"You will not harm me, or my family?" The King asked in a whisper. He had brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and so much more. At the moment he was aware that all of them were "guests of the state", much like Wilhelm and Maria.

"As long as we all get along, I don't see why I should." Delgado said. His uniform jacket still buttoned despite the rising heat of the day looked decidedly relaxed. Truth be told, he was nervous. Getting a live King to turn over power was one thing. Murdering a King and taking his place was another.

Juan Carlos stared down at the document in front of him. It had been carefully prepared before hand and he found himself wondering how long i had waited for this moment. It, in loose terms, stated that he had lost faith in his Royal Council, certain Members would be executed for treason, the nobles were to lose their lands and wealth, and he was to turn the country over to Delgado and his conspirators.

But then there had been the unofficial conversation that had occurred between just him and Delgado. The Cazadores were out of ear shot, though watching carefully, when Delgado had explained to him the vision he had of Spains future. The King had found himself drawn into Delgado's vision like a child into a legend being told. He had a choice now. Be a part of that, even if only a figurehead, or die today, to be buried in a paupers grave.

"Very well, Colonel. For the good of Spain, I agree to your terms." He swept up the pen that had been laid next to the paperwork and without hesitation he scrawled his signature across the bottom, turned the page, signed again, and then again. In one fell swoop he had changed Spain forever and, he hoped, secured his own life.

"Thank you, Viceroy." He held out his hand.


15:00 Hours

Grandioso Inquisidor Juan José Omella began to slow clap as Viceroy Delgado appeared in the doorway of the conference room. They were in the Military Junta building in Madrid, the headquarters for the armed forces. Confused staff officers were swirling around outside the doors and their endless babble was thankfully cut off as the door was closed behind the Viceroy.

He acknowledged the slow clap with an ironic bow and then took his place at the head of the table. The Grandioso Inquisidor and the Duke of Morella were the only two other men in the room. Both looked slightly ruffled but none the worse for their ordeal.

"My daughter?" Morella demanded without ceremony.

"Is safe and sound. She seems to have found a German Knight to protect her." Delgado said with a sigh as he drew a pitcher of water toward him and poured a glass, drinking it down greedily.

"Señor Hurst's child? That German provincial nobody?! With the daughter of a Spanish Duke?" Morella was indignant and would have continued if the Viceroy hadn't held up a hand and stopped him in full flow.

"Noble rank and status mean exactly two things now Señor Morella, jack, and squat, as the Americans say." Delgado spoke the words quietly, the threat within them implied by the immense power he now wielded. "You should be thankful the German did not leave when he was given the chance. And more thankful that you are sitting here, now, and not lying dead in a ditch."

The brought a pale sheen to Morella's face as the Viceroy turned to Omella.

"Thank you for coming, Señor Omella."

"Your fine fellows did not give me much of a choice, though they were painfully polite about it." He actually laughed, the memory almost amusing now even though his life was still hanging in the balance. "I assume you brought me here because you have some use of me?"

Delgado regarded him cooly for a moment. Omella was impressed by the man. He had undoubtedly been planning this for some time and managed to keep it well hidden, even from the Inquisition. If he was honest with himself, and he hated doing that, he was interested in what came next.

"You are correct, Señor Omella. I wish you to continue running the Inquisition, albeit under a different name, and answering to me directly." He picked up one the files that had been sitting on the tabletop and slid it across to Omella. It simply read Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. "Not quite as historical as Inquisition, but so much more modern."

Omella did not hesitate. He swept up the file and nodded firmly. "Thank you, Viceroy, I accept."

"Good, oh, and I should mention, you will fall under the offices of the Cazadores now. So, behave yourself."

Omella couldn't resist a smile. "My mother always said I would make a terrible soldier."

"Surprise her then." Came the reply.

"And me?" The bombast had gone out of Morella's voice and he looked something like deflated balloon now.

"Señor Morella. While I have little use for the nobility and even less so for those who wear the titles, I cannot ignore the fact that you are one of exactly two men on the Royal Council who won't be shot today."

Morella looked surprised at this and sat up straighter, tugging his jacket about his shoulder and trying to banish the look of defeat he wore. "Go on..."

"I noticed that you have a rather unique interest in Morocco and I find we need will need a cool head and steady hand down there in the days to come. While you will, like the rest of the "peerage", will lose your noble titles and almost everything you own, I have a proposition for you."

A look of hope had come across Morella's face now and he nodded along with Delgado. Anything other than total disgrace and banishment would be considered a win at this point.

"I would like to name you Viceroy of Morocco."

Morella froze, as if cast in ice. Then, ever so slowly me mouthed the title.

"It is a political appointment of course, theoretically one given by the King but since he now does whatever I tell him too, I think it matters little." He slid the second file across. "We have great work to do and I have seen your deft hand in the Council. I know you're the one who so carefully assisted us in planning the deployment of our troops to the French border. As with our new Director, your work begins at once."

With a confidence he had not felt a few minutes before, Morella picked up the file and glanced at the contents. "Is that all?" He asked with a hollow laugh.

"Yes, Viceroy, you need to get those same troops out of there without France being the wiser. We may have taken the government but now we need to avoid a war we cannot within without surprise on our side."
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Mao Mao
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Mao Mao Sheriff of Pure Hearts (They/Them)

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A collaboration post between @The Spectre and @The Wyrm



“Demands for reunification with the Panama Canal Zone are growing stronger than ever as the Third Nationalist Party held demonstrations at one of the most busiest bridges in the region. Ricardo Martí, chairman of the party, stated that “Blackwell must take the next step and demand the return of the lands stolen in 1904.” Local police were able to control the demonstrations and kept traffic calm.” the news anchor said as if she was reading a script. Martí turned off the television and grabbed his favorite glass of Sangria. He couldn’t help but celebrate the successful task of getting noticed. Even if it only was mentioned by local news.

‘One step at a time’ he always said to himself. It was time to get any potential members of the Third Nationalist Party. It was founded when Central America reunited in 1922. However, it grew during the Great Depression. Their population grew to rival the Democratic and Republican party; however, it wasn’t enough to beat President Héctor Pinto twice. Eventually, the economy got better and the Third Nationalist Party lost all of that power. Now, in 1960, it was back to square one. Martí has been working on a plan to resurrect the party back to its glory days. For now, he wanted to just relax.

Unfortunately, the peace didn’t last long. “You can’t go in there!” he heard his secretary shouting with authority as he heard footsteps. Martí stood beside the desk while opening one of the desk drawers to reveal a pistol. He quickly closed the desk drawer as the door knobs turned.

The man that stepped through the door could have been one of any thousands of Latino workers throughout the nation. He wore a basic white homespun jerkin and pants, a straw hat, and wore the loose fitting sandals so popular in warmer climates. There was nothing remarkable about him, so much so that one might think he was a figment of Marti’s imagination.

A second man followed and he seemed even less remarkable save for a stature that betrayed a man who knew how to handle himself, the ram-rod straightness of a soldier, the wary glance about the room, and the imposing physical size that was hidden by his rough clothes. He shut the door in the secretary's face as the first man bowed his head slightly to Marti.

“Chairman Ricardo Marti.” A second short bow. “I am Rubén Manuel Espinosa and I come to offer you help in your struggle.” He smiled broadly, it was almost impossible to dislike the man.

Martí was confused by the presence of the two individuals in his office. There wasn’t any way that his secretary or anyone to stop them. Especially the soldier. They didn’t appear to be typical supporters of the Third Nationalist Party. The way that Espinosa presented himself made it clear that he wasn’t the middle class citizen, looking for answers to their problems. For a second, he thought that they were from the mafia until he saw the informal outfit.

“Mister Espinosa, I am wondering how you were able to enter my office in the first place.” he asked in a demanding tone, “Why didn’t you set up an appointment?”

“I find it best to appear when I am least expected Mister Marti. To move like a ghost is my job. Well,” He smiled broadly again. “That and to offer my support to people like yourself.”

He saw the question forming on Marti’s lips and waved it down. “Let be frank Mister Marti, you need help, financial help, and I am here to give it.”

Martí took several small steps back to the desk drawer as a form of protection. He didn’t know if he was dealing with the mafia or some sort of classified government operator. However, the Nationalist Party has been struggling financially since the fifties. “Who do you work for?” he carefully asked Espinosa.

“Without giving to much away, let us just say an “interest party”,” He made air quotes as he spoke and the man behind him echoed the words. “Someone with international interests that likes the way you think.”

That was undoubtedly quite vague but Espinosa had strict instructions he was not to reveal the nature of his employer. He helped himself to a chair, sat with cheerful sigh, and then waved his compatriot forward. The soldier reached into his shirt and pulled out a small thin box, not more than eight inches long and four inches wide. He placed the box on the desktop and then, with a meaningful glance at Marti, flipped open the lid.

A gold bar gleamed up at Marti from inside a red velvet cushion. It bore no markings of any kind that he could see and the sun pouring through the window reflected off the bar to give the room a soft golden glow.

Martí was taken back by the realness of the gold bar as he touched it for a second. Both men weren’t from the mafia. Even with all of their power, they couldn’t produce a gold bar without robbing the most important bank in all of Central America. It had to be the international interest that Espinosa mentioned. But who? And why now? Then, he knew why the ‘interesting party’ wanted his attention. The Canal Zone.

Guess all of his work got some international attention after all.

“This is about the Canal Zone, isn’t it? The Third Nationalist Party has only been the Central American political party to demand reunification of the land taken by the Americans.” he asked

“This is not about anything quite so… Mundane.” Espinosa’s gaze suddenly became quite intense as she stared at the politician. “This is about Latin America my friend. A new age, a new world where he shall once again be a powerful and useful part of something bigger than ourselves!”

The passion in Espinosa’s voice was felt in his very soul. For to long he had watched as his beloved country had fallen into chaos, nobody succeeding but the rich while the poor became even poorer. Then a man had come to him, visited him in his humble home, and presented to him another way. A better way. And he had taken it.

Martí’s gut was telling him that there was more to Espinosa than he’s willing to share. He took another look at the outfit that Espinosa was wearing. Then, he asked a question, “Where did you grow up?”

Espinosa shrugged and waved vaguely toward the north. “North of here in a Village I am sure you have never been to. My father was a baker, my mother a seamstress. It was a completely unremarkable life. Unremarkable until the man from Mexico City arrived. He spoke of a plan, a plan that would see the people of Latin America united with others of Spanish descent. A plan to keep us from being nothing more than an American source of cheap labour to exploit.”

He laughed a bit as he heard the man’s story because it was insane. “I am sorry for that. It’s just a bit weird that they a small, remote village would allow a Mexican to set foot there.” Suddenly, he decided to change focus to this mythical man’s plan. “Regardless, getting Central America to unite and stay united is a difficult job. After all, there were two attempts at a united Central America before the 1900s. I feel for our president even if he’s an American.”

Then, Martí picked up the bottle of Sangria and two glasses. He made sure to cover up the label as he made drinks for the guest. Afterwards, he took the glasses and set them on the table. “Do you want a drink? A friend of mine got the bottle a while ago and refused to tell what it was. I am always busy with work that I don’t have the time to try it. Now that I have a guest, who brought me a gold bar, in my office.” He lied to Espinosa as he placed the glass near him. Martí wanted to know if he’s telling him the truth.

“Now, let’s make a toast.”

Espinosa drew a flask from his jerkin with a flourish and held it up in a toast with a sly wink.

“I was told to trust no one with my life but myself and my friend here. I will join you, but I will drink my own if you will not be offended. After all, there are enemies everywhere! What with an American lording over you, it could be forgiven to think you might be a man of the CIA.”

Martí followed suit with the toast and drank the wine. “It would be a lie to say that I support the new president. Blackwell says that he might be one of us, but he truly will never be a Central America. Hell, he was only made president because the last one died in his sleep. And he’s tiptoeing around the situation in Panama. What a coward.”

Then, he placed down the glass on the desk and looked at Espinosa. “How’s the drink?” he suddenly changed the subject.

“It serves me well enough. I suppose I should just be blunt with you. We are here to support your campaign if are looking to remove the American influence from Latin America. That is all. Mexico suffers a similar struggle, as does Cuba, let none of us go to our graves saying we allowed the Americans to squash our traditions or treat us as cattle.”

He wasn’t surprised that they were here to stop the Americans since he repeated it over and over. “Then, what are you suggesting?” Martí asked as he sat down on his office chair, “We don’t have any say in the government at the moment.”

Espinosa nodded and shrugged slightly. “I am not a man of politics, Senhor Marti, I am simply a man with access to money and I wish to help fund your work. I think you will find such an investment will give you a lot of sway in many things. Perhaps it is better there than in Mexico, but I would think you could not go wrong “persuading” the Police to see things your way.”

Martí was going to respond until he remembered about his original plans regarding the canal zone. He opened a drawer and pulled out some papers among with a map of the entire state of Panama. “I might have something that will sound impossible but it will force Blackwell, and possibly the United States, to respond. Want to hear it?”

“I do, I do indeed. I would also like to know what you need from me.”

Martí smiled and then tapped the map several times. “My party always held demonstrations on November 3rd since the forties to demand reunification. It’s a special day for all Panamanians because it’s the day that we declared our independence from Columbia. Usually, we only a hour long speech that demands the return of the canal that was taken for us. I have a feeling that this year is going to be different.”

He then pointed at the most traveled bridge in Central America that allowed cars to cross the zone without trouble. “Instead of a long speech, let’s occupy the bridge for a week.” he gave a devilish grin.

“That will get the attention of our government, the United States, and the entire world. As thousands of Panamaians joined the movement, our cries for reunification will be broadcast for the whole world to see! Undoubtedly, this will get the attention of the American government; however, we need to take it a step forward. Why don’t we paint them as the bad guys? The cowards who brutally attack peaceful protesters just because they want one Panama. However, we have five months to make sure that everything goes to plan.”

He grabbed a piece of paper and pencil and started to write down something. “We would need to spread the word all over Panama and Central America. And in order to do that, we would only need money to pay for the equipment and gear for the encampment and to pay off the local police.”

“Thoughts?” he asked Espinosa.

“I think you sound like a man with the plan.” Espinosa slid the gold bar across the desk with two fingers. “Take this as an initial… “Donation”. Here is my number.” He handed over a card with a number stamped onto the surface. “When you need more, you call this number and leave a message for me about looking to purchase some sheep. I will approach you again at that time.”

“Got it.” Marti agreed as he took the card and put it in his pocket. “The gold bar will be used to announce the demonstration; however, the occupation will remain a secret at the moment.”

He got up from his chair and said, “Thank you for this… unique meeting. I wish you well.”

Espinosa took the hand and shook it firmly. “You are most welcome. I look forward to working with you. Goodbye.” He turned and the two men the left the room as they had come. The roar of a large engine outside indicating that they were gone.

As the engine was heard, the secretary entered the office and looked at Martí with a worried expression. “Are you alright, sir?” she asked.

He immediately reached for the gold bar and hid it in one of his drawers. “I am great.” he said before shutting the drawer. “Please notify all important members about an emergency meeting tomorrow.” he asked his secretary before she could leave the office. She nodded and left to make the calls. Marti waited until the door was shut and opened the drawer to reveal the gold bar. He grabbed the gold bar and held it tightly in his hands.

It was time to start working.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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Vilageidiotx Jacobin of All Trades

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---------------------------------
July 8th: Beijing, China
---------------------------------

Yaqob woke up cold. The Ethiopian Embassy had once been the mansion of a Kuomintang general. It was built of stone and wood, decorated with complex patterns, and topped with a blue slanting roof. It was majestic, and certainly expensive, but it wasn't well insulated and let in a draft, something the young Prince hadn't experienced in his African homeland. His room had a dresser and a handful of empty bookshelves. That latter detail depressed him. Despite being so far from home, he was starting to feel like a royal prisoner again, the man in the iron mask, kept in a stone cage until he was needed for some official purpose.

Sometimes he met Akale Tebebe drinking coffee in the sweet smelling garden, going through paperwork. Akale was a busy man. He'd been tasked with working out trade agreements, particularly for coffee, the prime obsession of the Minister of Pen. Today he wasn't there, and Yaqob took his coffee alone while watching the sparrows flit on blue tiles atop the stone wall surrounding the property. He found himself counting the flowers painted on the wall when he realized he needed to take action. He needed books, right? Every other day he'd been meeting with a tutor to teach him Chinese. Wouldn't a book written in the language be study material of a sort?

He went inside, catching to musky scent of incense as he passed from room to room. In his bedroom he got dressed in a Zhongshan suit and boots, both a gift from the mayor of Beijing. He found Yuan, Chinese currency, and went to the garage outside, startling the Chinese driver and his mechanic, who were both smoking when the prince came in. In awkward Chinese he asked for a ride to the market. The uncertain driver obliged.

They went down the wooded road where sleepy mansions stood. The city became denser and the road straightened. Grey hutongs crowded under slender jujube trees as the people of the city went on by, barely noticing the car as it passed. They met the main street, crowded with cars and buses. Yaqob loved the feel of the city, how it was lively and bright. He was dropped off in front of an open-air market while the driver went to find what to do with the car.

The market was made of so many stalls lined up neatly under canopies. Yaqob, taller than anybody else in the market, had no problem seeing what was for sale. There were buddhas and other religious items, porcelain bowls and vases, incense wrapped in large bundles. He saw one large vase with the angelic image of Hou feeding some ducks, a serene smile on his face.

"Farmers are pouring into the cities celebrating this season's bounty!" a woman's voice stated in a joyous airy tone over radio speakers on wire-choked poles, "The Ministry of Agriculture reports that rice supplies have doubled within the previous two months! Good weather in Hubei, Zhegiang, Shanghai, and Anhui have brought forth a plentiful harvest over this year! More is yet to come as the provinces of Hunan, Guizhou, and Guangxi have yet to report in. It is Friday, July 8th. The temperature is 30 degrees. " It went on to play music, bombastic and optimistic, a singing choir proclaiming "The east is red, the sun is rising."

An old man with coke-bottle glasses sold books stacked in shipping crates. Yaqob entered his stall. The old man looked up and did a double take, not used to men of the prince's complexion. Yaqob perused as happily as if he were a housewife shopping for her friends.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" the old man asked politely.

"I don't know." Yaqob said awkwardly. He was self-conscious of his slow, bumbling way of speaking the language, sounding like a mental retard escaped from the asylum. The old man gave him an off look and left him alone.

The titles of the books were hard to read. He'd never heard of most of it, but he picked up three; a collection of Hou's later essays, a book he'd never heard of called Ziye, and a strangely out of place one called Miss Sophia's Diary. The book dealer wasn't communicative when Yaqob paid him, looking up and nodding at who he must have saw as a foolish near-mute dark skinned giant.

With books in hand, Yaqob continued his walk. He entered a part of the street where food was being sold. Amongst the fruits and spices wafted the smells of snacks being cooked on the street. Yaqob wanted to feel like a real authentic Chinese communist. With a set of Houist essays on top of his stack, he walked up to a cart and bought a pork bun. It tasted strangely sweet compared to what he was used to.

"Enjoying the town, your highness?" an unfamiliar voice, professional and polite, came from behind. He processed instantly that the voice was speaking Amharic. He turned around and saw an unassuming young Chinese man dressed in overalls like a mechanic.

"Who are you?" Yaqob asked.

The man pulled out a badge as nonchalantly as if he was showing a photograph of his family. Intelligence Bureau. "I am glad to see you enjoying our city. But, If you don't mind me saying, I could have been somebody dangerous. But you are lucky. I am your friend."

"Why would I be in danger?"

"The world is a dangerous place. Do you know what kind of strange people loiter the markets this time of day? And you are not exactly conspicuous."

"I am done anyway." Yaqob said.

The agent shrugged. "Well, no harm no foul, eh? I'll follow you until you are home. Make sure you are safe."

The agent walked him to his car, where the nervous looking driver who'd brought him there was waiting. The agent got in with them, and they started back toward the embassy.

"So I can't go outside?" Yaqob asked, almost pouting.

"You can go wherever you like, but please go with an escort." the agent pulled a cigarette from his pocket and offered it to the prince. Yaqob shook his head. The agent shrugged and lit it up himself. "And make sure your people get in contact with us. We want to know any place you visit is safe for you."

Yaqob's day out ended in the garage where it'd started. The mechanic was still there, leaning against the corner, smoking. Yaqob started to leave the car, but the agent grabbed him gently by the shoulder. "You remember what we talked about?"

"I'll do as you say." Yaqob said. They both got out. The agent walked down the street from which they'd just came, whistling 'The East is Red.'

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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Byrd Man
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Byrd Man El Hombre Pájaro

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Arizona


Yucca
4:10 PM


Little Walter was fuming. The gas tank of his chopper had a giant scratch all the way down it, ruining the black finish he had worked so hard to keep immaculate. He sighed as he looked at it. Compared to the others, he'd gotten off easy. Otter's hog had its back wheel warped, the ape hangers on Curly Joe's bike were so concave they touched.

Walter had been relaxing at the bar in the clubhouse, polishing off the first beer to start the day, when he heard that god awful crashing noise outside. He and Pagan were the first two out, looking on in horror at the site of their wrecked bikes. A black car with a rag top sped off from the clubhouse back towards town. He managed to catch a glimpse of a man's dark head of hair behind the wheel of the car.

It took a few minutes to get the rest of the guys up, some of them still hungover from the night before. As soon as the damage to their bikes were mentioned they were wide awake. Now Walter and the rest were surveying the damage. Pagan looked the saddest of them all. But that was to be expected. His chopper had the most damage to it. The only thing to do to it would be to gut the engine out and start over with a new frame. Even now Pagan squatted over his bike, trying his best to hide his tears.

What the fuck was going on, Walter thought to himself. They were Highway Rangers, not Girl Scouts. The meanest, baddest sons of bitches this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. They didn't cry. They made people cry.

"Corporal Paige," Walter snapped. The whole group turned to look at him. Real names were rarely used, and their ranks from the war were used only when shit got serious. It had its effect, as Pagan stood at attention. His eyes were red, but there was no trace of tears.

"Do you want to get mad, or do you want to get even?" Walter asked.

Pagan's voice cracked as he spoke. "Even, Sergeant Hill."

"Good." Walter spat on the ground. "Anybody who got their bike totaled, double up with someone else. Won't hurt you to ride bitch for a little bit. Anybody else, if your bike is ride-able then ride it. We're going to find the son of bitch who did this. For every scratch, that's a cut on his chest. For every dent, that's a bone we break. For every bike he destroyed, that's a finger we cut off. Let's go."

The gang let out whoops and cheers as they started to mount their bikes. Four of the bikers climbed on to the back seat of one of their counterparts. Walter let Pagan ride on the back of his. He started his up with a roar and looked at the others.

"Hey, hey, hey," Walter called out over the noise of the engines. "I was born a rebel, down in Dixie on a Sunday morning."

"One foot in the grave, one foot on the pedal, I was born a rebel," the rest of the group called back.

Walter let out a rebel yell and hit the gas, the bike spinning in the gravel a few seconds before it roared across the parking lot and onto the highway towards town. Pagan held on tightly as the rest of the gang following behind him in formation.

---

4:23 PM

Johnny Leggario was only one of two customers in Mabel's Diner. He sat at the counter and nursed a cup of coffee while a burly man in overalls slurped down a bowl of chill. The chill was advertised on the sign out front of Mabel's as the best in the state. Johnny had no desire for food at the moment. He only bought the coffee so they wouldn't try to give him grief about loitering. Even now, the bony looking waitress at the far end of the counter watched him warily, hoping he'd buy something else. She was probably the titular Mabel.

He was really here for the payphone at the back near the corner booths. It'd cost almost a buck to place all the calls he'd needed. From Sun City, to Phoenix, back to Sun City, and then Phoenix one more time. He was waiting for one last call from Phoenix to close up his business. Kick in the dime for the cup of coffee and he'd be out a dollar and five cents for this little endeavor.

The idea came to him after he hauled ass away from the Highway Rangers' clubhouse. He needed to do more than penny ante shit like smacking into their bikes. He needed real muscle. So far the state was powerless to do anything about these rednecks who were terrorizing a town, terrorizing this half of the state pretty much. Yucca had no standing police force since it wasn't an incorporated town. Either through bribery or sympathy, the autonomous Mohave County Sheriff's Department seemed to turn a blind eye to it all. With no state police force, Arizona had no real means to actively stomp these bastards out. But then he started thinking about Arizona's old west past and it hit him like a bolt of lighting.

The payphone began to ring. Johnny stood up, ignoring the looks from the man eating chili and the waitress, and picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

"This is Johnny."

"Mr. Leggario? This is Governor Steiss."

"Pleasure to talk to you, governor."

"Wish I could say the goddamn same," he spat. "I don't know who the hell you are, but half the State House and almost all my major donators seem to know you."

"I have a lot of friends," Johnny said nonchalantly. "Friends with influence and money."

"Well, it's because of those friends I am allowing this half-crazed idea. It also helps that another chapter of these biker gangs got into some deep shit in Nevada and the federal government is thinking of intervening. So doing this makes me look good, like I'm getting out in front of the issue. Johnny, have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

"Not in Arizona."

"Goddammit... I guess that'll work. You raising your right hand?"

"Sure am," he lied.

"Do you swear to uphold the laws and Constitution of both the United States of America, and the state of Arizona?"

"I do," he lied again.

"Then by the power invested in me by the people of the state of Arizona, I declare you an Arizona Ranger. A courier will be sending you paperwork and identification shortly. Don't make me look bad."

Just like that the line went dead. Johnny smiled to himself as he put the phone back on the hook. The Arizona Rangers had been disbanded after the territory had been declared a US state in 1909. Like their counterparts in Texas, they had a broad mandate to stop crimes across the state.

And now Johnny was the first Ranger in over fifty years. He could hear Frenchie already laughing about it when he found out. A wop cowboy, he would say with tears in his eyes. What's your name, Johnny, The Ragu Kid?! Johnny laughed to himself as he walked by the counter, placing a quarter beside the empty coffee cup he had used,and kept walking outside. He crossed the dirt parking lot towards his car and stopped as he heard the sound of approaching motorcycle engines. Johnny quickly walked across the parking lot to his convertible and opened the trunk of his car. He came out with a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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-----------------------------------
July, 1960 - Spanish Morocco
-----------------------------------

King Juan Carlos I stared down at this hands. They would not stop shaking. He could still feel the recoil of the rifle, the hammer blow to his shoulder as it kicked back, the wooden stock bruising the soft tissue of his shoulder.

The smell of gun powder seemed to be everywhere, even after he had torn off his clothes and thrown them in the fire. He imagined he could smell it on his skin and no matter how many times he had showered, it still seemed to cling to him. He could still see it drifting across the courtyard, the body slumping momentarily against the heavy wooden post before the ropes, shredded by gunfire, snapped, and the body toppled to the ground.

He had thrown up them. Dropping to his knees and vomiting violently on the ground. He had been oblivious to the scornful gazes of the soldiers that had stood on the firing line with him, their own hands as bloody as his. One other man, the now Viceroy of Morocco, had stooped to offer him words of comfort. Mariano Rajoy had always been good to him but on this day they had both been made to commit murder.

"Shoot them, or I will have them shot." Delgado had said as the three of them had watched Maria Morella, well, Morella no longer, she was now Maria Rajoy, Marquessa of Morocco, walk the grounds with her German protector. "You chose. It matters little to me either way."

And so a King and a Viceroy had taken their places in the firing squad for two men who had always supported the King. General Admiral Teodoro E. López Calderón had been first. Led out to the wooden post by two Cazadores who bound him securely before stepping aside. Then soldiers had appeared and handed each man of the firing squad one round which they slid home into the breach of their rifles.

"Make ready!" The siring squad Sergeant, a bull of a man, stood stiffly at attention and the King clumsily copied the movements of the trained soldier around him as he brought the rifle butt to his hip. He wanted nothing more than to turn and run but the thought of Maria and Wilhelm being cut down in a hail of gunfire forced him to focus.

"Aim!" The order crashed across the parade square. Calderón had refused a blindfold and he stared directly at the King as twelve rifles rose, their long slender barrels aimed at his chest.

"Long Live the King!" Calderón suddenly shouted the words.

"FIRE!"

The King closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger, tears tugging at the edge of his vision. Calderón had not been what he might call a friend, but he had been loyal enough. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, the stink of gun powder filled the air, and Teodoro Calderón sagged against the ropes before crashing into the dust.

He had thrown up, and then wept unabashedly on the ground even as they took his rifle away and ensured that he had fired his one round. Though scornful, the soldiers had not sneered at him or disparaged him, many remembered the first time they had killed a man and it was not something they were likely to forget. Only Rajoy had approached him, taking a knee next to him and hold his shoulders until the sobs passed.

When he had recovered enough to stand the rifle was passed back to him. Calderón's body was gone and Army General Francisco Javier Varela Salas was being marched out onto the parade square. The King, his heart hammering in his chest, had been taking big gulps of air when, quite suddenly, the soldier next to him spoke quietly.

"Aim for his chest, Your Majesty. It ensures the traitor will die quickly. We all do it. Even the Grand Viceroy. No one likes a man to suffer."

The King glanced over but the soldier was staring straight ahead. He realized, with a start, that the soldier was not much older than he was, maybe even the seem age. He seemed completely calm and relaxed but the King detected a slight tremor in the hands that held the rifle. He seemed he was not alone in his nerves and fears.

The ammunition was dolled out again and the firing squad loaded their weapons. The King looked up to find Salas was staring at him. The Army General had refused his blindfold and shouted at the soldiers to leave him untied, he would die as a man, standing on his own two feet. They had looked at their Sergeant, who had glanced up at the balcony above where Delgado stood, alone. Delgado had smiled slightly and nodded. The Army General was left to stand alone.

"Make Ready!" The King brought his rifle to his hip. Salas smiled at him and snapped to attention, brining his arm up in a salute.

"Aim!" A tear rolled down Salas's cheek but otherwise he showed no outward emotion even as he continued to stare at his King who, his nerves steeled by the young soldier next to him, brought his rifle to bear on the doomed officers chest.

"Long Live Spain! Long live the King!" Salas roared the words. They were loud and proud, a throw back perhaps to the days when he had been a soldier, long before he became a nobleman on a quest for personal wealth.

"FIRE!"

The Kings rifle slammed back again and this time he did not close his eyes. Salas was hurled backwards so that he bounced off the post before crashing into the sand, the front of his uniform turned into a crimson mess.

He did not collapse this time, nor did he vomit. He handed his rifle back to the soldier who collected it and made his way to the car that waited outside for him, ignoring Rajoy who tried to intercept him. The car ride had been quiet as he stared outside at the passing scenery, at the people who were going on about their everyday lives, the change of government not mattering to them at all.

It was when he returned to his rooms, and was alone, that he finally broke down and wept again. He had pounded on his mattress, torn off his clothing and burned it, smashed every stick of furniture he could find, before finally collapsing onto the floor. He would never be the same again.

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China

Northern Heilongjiang


The early morning sun had barely risen over the horizon and the air was already all sound. The intercoms all about the base shouted and repeated out their message, “ALL OPERATING UNITS TO REPORT TO STAGING GROUNDS.” they roared, broken and cracking from static, “STAGING OPERATIONS FOR SOUTHERN WINDS IN FULL EFFECT....” and then it would go on to give the count down until expected time of deployment. A list of units would be rattled off, calling out specific operating groups, regiments, and so on. Every light in the base was thrown on and the barracks, the garages, and the command center was glowing in a harsh glowing yellow light. The roads were bathed in the incandescent headlights of trucks, tanks, and what have yous.

The chaos was no less condensed in the command center. Standing with a clear view over the staging grounds the officers inside could look out and watch the quickly assembling body of soldiers in the cool morning air. But none of them had the time. The officers in charge of communications were deep into organizing the coming efforts with their fellow associated combat forces. Where radios were not being used, they had jumped to phones and were scratching out notes to hand to cadets and lieutenants who rushed them to relevant departments. Someone somewhere was contacting the closest airbase checking in on and organizing for support from light bombers and aerial reconnaissance. Someone elsewhere was checking ahead on intelligence operators who were supposedly clearing the ground work ahead, and had in face been there since before the deceleration had hit the floor in Congress. In many ways, the war had already begun before it was called official and now it was only an effort of the public army to advance it.

“What's the time table on the engineers to Wu'erka Island?” General Aiwen Wu asked over a phone as he paced his desk. While his uniform looked press fitted and professional, the speed of the morning had left the rest of him disheveled. He looking into the window without looking passed it, desperately trying to comb back hair which was still disheveled. He had on his desk an open shaving kit and a bowl of water he not touched.

“Our last report says they're there and ready and making preparations.” a woman's voice on the other end said.

“That is good to hear. Do we have a way into the country, to the banks of the Amur?”

“There is a dirt track.” the engineer correspondent said, “It'll get you there most of the way. You'll find it at...”

The engineer went on getting map coordinates. And like his sub-ordinates elsewhere he took down notes on this last minute information and jotted down what extra was needed.

“Thank you comrade, we will be moving on shortly. We will keep the local team posted when we can. I expect us to be there in two hours.”

“Copy that. I will try to patch a notice along to them before hand. They are pretty cut off up there.”

“As I understand the situation. Thank you.”

“Farewell, commander.” the correspondent said, hanging up the phone. Liberated from those duties he finished setting his hair and recapped his head. As he went to shave a subordinate walked in, he began to speak but Aiwen Wu directed him quickly to the note on the desk. He took it and broke out into a run through the door. For a second, he had the peace to shave.

“Comrade.” a new officer said, “The second armored support group is reporting problems starting one of their vehicles and won't be able to make it to the staging grounds.”

“My orders to them then are to stand down and fix their problem. They have eight hours to catch up.” Aiwen Wu slid his razor up his neck as he carefully watched himself in the reflection of his window. He was half paying attention to the gathering assembly outside.

Bit by bit, entire squadrons or units would file in with their trucks, and stand attentively alongside waiting for orders. For those without the fortune, they were stuck to loiter with the armored cavalry, standing with the tank crews with the expectation they would perch themselves on top for the duration of the journey. There were later units to follow, but these consigned to the primitive realm of horse drawn carriage. By mid afternoon they were expected to be on their way once this vanguard had entered first into Russia.

“Commander Wu, it is nearly time.” an officer said, passing by the command center. He turned and nodded to him. And adjusting the collar of his coat and his hat in the window, he turned to head out the door.

There seemed to be a relieved sigh as the time came. At Aiwen Wu's appearance in the halls many of the officers looked up and rose from their seats. Those that followed were individuals of a specialist nature. Communications operators, supply detail, commanders of operational security, and intelligence organizers of the internal and for-the-locals variety. The followed their superior officer in a hung silence that carried itself between the men like a shared silent burden. They were threaded by their professional attitude. And straight backed and firm shouldered they moved onward into the coming battle, the ideal figure to the men for bearing the weight to come.

Those on watch duty saluted the passing officer corp as they passed. Aiwen relieved them as they passed by returning the salutes. These were the men who would stay behind and as the bulk of the garrison headed north. Stepping out into the cool morning air Aiwen took a deep breath. If there was a point at which he felt he could turn back, in felt it would have been the threshold he had crossed. Though in reality that had long been crossed for him and he hadn't had the power to say no. All that he could hope was that all moving ahead would run smoothly.

From here to Eastern Mongolia, units under his command would be beginning their own first moves in a vast operation to flood into Eastern Russia. It was expected that for the first few weeks they may take the cossacks by surprise. By the information handed over by Radek's men it was believed the communications ability of the cossacks were entirely limited. It was not felt they had many radios or means of radio communication or informants on the Chinese side to alert them. For all intents and all hope they would be coming in from the dark, behind the fog of war and the first movements of refugees would carry the news to the warlord hetman of the east that they were on their way. At the crossing of the Amur, time would begin ticking to their first engagements, whatever form it will take.

But for now it was a cool northern Chinese morning. The sky was clear, the first rays of sun was blooming. A dew was on the trees, and the northern mountains from their forested valleys to snow-cap crowns were glowing a summer's orange.




“So where are you from?” the young private asked, leaning over his rifle as he leaned in towards the center of the truck. He was addressing another young grunt like himself. Both had to be no older than nineteen. Perhaps eighteen. For the past few months it had not been unknown that something was going to happen, and up until a week ago they had not been told if they were participating, but everyone had prepared as if they were. While the men on the truck had only gotten five hours of sleep the previous night with all the last-minute work they had to do to check and prepare, the two privates were far too excited and anxious to let the jostling of the truck put them to sleep.

“Liaoning, just across the river from Korea.” the other private said. He was small framed, his green field uniform hung loose from his frame and his pudgy baby-ish face made his entire head look far larger than would fit the black wool cap he wore. The military uniform was a green field jacket, and off-brown also slightly greenish pants tucked into black boots. In some form or another all the men on the truck wore some sort of soft hat, a black fur cap with side that could be pulled down, a linen hat that was as flat as a deflated balloon. A few had been afforded helmets, decades old tin crowns with wide brims or formed tight to the head like the German helmets; without the spike.

“Oh no shit? I'm from western Jiangsu.” said the first. He made an attempt to smile politely but it was a strained effort. He was far too nervous and his leg jumped as they drove along. His usually flat cheeks folding out. Suddenly he became self conscious and he frowned, and it returned to being long. He had the first hints of a potential beard on his chin, but thinned out as it followed his jaw line. “What's it like living so close to the Imperialists?” he asked, referring to the Japanese.

“There are a lot of emergency drills. Sometimes you can see them across the river.” the other said, “I never caught your name. What is it?”

“Su Song.” the first answered, doing his best to bow from his seated position.

“Wu Hong.” the other said, “I think I've seen you a few times on the parade grounds, and in the cafeteria. I didn't think you were in this unit.”

Song laughed nervously, “I had just been assigned here.” he said stiffly.

“I've been here for only less than a year.” Hong laughed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Song sniggered, “So what do you think? Did you ever think you would end up in this?”

Hong shook his head, “To tell the truth I was never looking for adventure.” he said, “I just wanted to get out, is all. But it looks like I'm going all the way.” It was no lie. He had never hoped to see himself on campaign anywhere, that he would wile his time in some base somewhere for a year or two, and come out calling himself a veteran. Then he would go home, and get married. Now the looming future threatened that fantasy, and he wasn't sure if he would survive his year, or if he would even be given a year, and end up staying longer.

“I was sort of hoping we would be going to war against the dajiao penzu.” Song responded, “But I guess it's the Russians now.”

“Are you really that excited?” Hong asked.

“A-a little. I figured at some point it would happen, whether or not I was in. Given where I come from, I would be in the middle of it. I might as well be fighting.”

Hong nodded grimly, “So, do you know anyone who ever fought before?” Song asked.

“Between my dad and my uncles, my family had been in every battle in the northern theater!” Hong declared boastfully, “It was only natural that I should follow, I think.”

“My uncle fought, but he was killed by the Japanese. My father would have, but he was so injured before the war from illness he couldn't have marched.” Song admitted, he felt shame in admitting it.

“Well, then you will be the first.” Hong told him, “There is no shame in that.”

Song twisted his mouth back up into an insincere smile. He doubted that was the case. But hoped that his new friend across the way would believe him. Truth be told, his heart weighed heavily at the prospect and he began to consider how long this might last. He began to consider what they had been told.

They would be going to fight a Cossack named Yuri Mykhalov. Once, he commanded the Amur Host, the right hand of the Czar in former times who clamped down on all of his opponents and were the defacto presence of reactionary power in the Russian far-east. Since the occupation of the Amur Host's territory by the Japanese, an embittered Mykhalov managed to bring the rest of the Siberian hosts under one banner, reaching from the Bering Straights to the Ural Mountains. Ostensibly at first as an Anti-Japanese force to preserve what little remained of Russia in Siberia, but also as a ruthless army of cut throats who terrorized the entire Siberian countryside and lynched political enemies.

They had declared themselves to the Czar in Saint Petersburg, but had no means of coordinating with anyone in Western Russia. Ill equipped, ill armed, they were a pocket of Russia lost in the 18th century. Optimistically the generals proclaimed they would be at the foothills of the Urals by the following summer, at which point those who would could take their leave of the army, being a veteran of a campaign of bringing peace and proper, popular rule of law in the Russian Far East under a real state of the people, for the people.

Song did not know how much of that was truth. But he had heard nothing about any of that and he had to go along with it. Truth be told he had never seen a Russian, though he was told they looked very much like any European. And remembering the Japanese, whose outer extent they would be temptingly close he said to Hong in false modesty, relaxing his smile, “Perhaps you might be able to fight your wokou.”

He took pleasure in that thought and he shifted about in his seat, laughing. Outside the country scenery passed by. The headlights of the troop carrier behind them casting its long golden glow against the road and into the canvas wrapped shelter of the back of their own.

Foshan


“Captain Arban, Huang Du.” the senior officer said, as he welcomed the two agents into his office. It was a small room, with two pairs of windows looking out onto one of the many canals of Foshan city. Mid afternoon, and the city outside was full of life. Through the closed windows the municipal speakers were prattling of the latest in local news which was ultimately meaningless to the two agents now entering, if any word could be plucked out. “I've read your after action reports. I would like to collect a formal report for the commander to send along to the Dragon. Please take a seat. And can I interest you in anything to eat?” the commander finished, asking them politely.

He was by no means a remarkable man, with a pencil thin mustache and round spectacles. But unlike the Japanese like officers he almost emulated his face was larger and complexion darker and marked by slight imperfection.

“That's not necessary.” Arban said.

“Please I insist. It is not like I will hold it against either of you.” the officer said, standing up behind his desk.

The office wasn't very large, and the three of them easily dominated the room, barely larger than a broom closet. Then again, the outward supporting office for the Southern Qíngbao Ju in Foshan wasn't a very large or conspicuous structure anyways. It was a far cry from the sub-command office in Hong Kong, but they had not docked there or performed their reporting duties in Hong Kong.

“My wife prepared some brilliant dumplings. They are vegetarian though, I hope you do not mind. But they have to be better than navy rations.” he explained, walking over to an ice box in the corner of the room. The thought of the navy, let alone its rations made Arban's stomach turn and he lost a little of what appetite he had.

“It's really not necessary comrade, really.” Arban said.

“Please, you must.” the officer said, “I can't eat all of them, and I think by refrigerator might be going. I don't want these to go bad.” he had already come back and placed a small basket of dumplings down on the desk between them. “There will be no refusing.” he said.

Huang Du was quick to appreciate the offering, and took a dumpling in hand. “So what was the ship you encountered?” the officer asked.

“A Filipino ship. Or at least that's the flag I saw.” Huang Du said, “It was passing out of the Gulf of Tonkin into the general South China Sea.”

“How'd you come to locate it?”

Huang Du was biting into the dumpling. So Arban answered, “We had a call come in over the radio from the navy's aerial recon indicating there was a ship heading in the direction of Vietnam. We set out to intercept it on what we thought would be its return course. We found it later that morning.”

“When'd you set out?” the officer asked, himself taking a dumpling.

“The evening before.” Arban said.

“How was the sea?” the officer asked, almost off handidly.

Arban didn't want to answer. And Huang Du did for him, “He didn't like it. But the conditions were rather calm. It had been a long time since I've been out on the water, comrade.”

“So the Filipino ship, did it not make any retaliatory measures against you? Did it see you as a threat?”

“I don't think it ever knew we were there.” Huang Du answered, “Or at the least made no effort to let us know it acknowledged us.”

“It passed us by.” Arban added on, “If it suspected something, I believe it might have figured well enough to not cause an incident so close to China's maritime claims, if not within them.”

“As a commanding officer, while not yours, I am in a position to offer any conjecture or thoughts on what we uncovered. Do you have any thoughts that pertain to this matter that you would like to put forward?”

“I do.” Huang Du said, as he collected himself another dumpling, “That primarily I do not believe the Philippines could actually be a significant player in this conflict. That they could not be the force that's seen the north fall under the same, new banner. If I had to suggest anything it's that the Philippines may be acting as a front for someone else. The Japanese perhaps, of America. It's hard to say because I can't say we have any evidence for that. If it were the Japanese I would suspect they would make a more brazen attempt, especially if Indochina is not loyal to France.”

“On that line of thought,” Arban interjected, “I would suggest it's perhaps the French. But any further measures taken to get a fuller sense on what is happening in Vietnam would require knowing what the northern Vietnamese are being armed with. If investigation is going to be continued, I would recommend operations to acquire the supplies being shipped into the country as evidence on the case. Or even working on infiltrating the Philippines to determine if they are operating as a third party.

“Beyond that, I do not feel I am in a position to recommend anything further. I do not know what Politburo or Congress's aims are towards Vietnam. And anything I could say on that is beyond my rank and my duty.”

“Very well, thank you comrades.” the officer said, “I think we can prepare this for a full report. You can speak with the secretary on your way out, she will organize the tickets you need to get back to your base. I imagine you'll be asked to debrief again. I don't know what else is being done, but I wish for you the best.”

Kazakhstan


Guo and Chao crawled up the hill. In the setting evening light the town below them was starting to twinkle in the fading sun. Not entirely with electricity, for out from the city center they familiar wavering and wiggling of fire light and the off-color glow of closer lanterns throwing out their dim glow against the dawning night. Several miles back they had pulled from the main road, a dirt highway they had stumbled upon from out of the blue and then began following it at a random direction, hoping it would lead them somewhere. When the first of the scant motorized traffic they had encountered since China began to appear on the road, they had chose to avoid suspicion and to abandon the road entirely. And as they had when they crossed the Chinese border began to navigate the rugged hills of eastern Kazakhstan.

It was slow going, and although now in the height of summer the nights felt numbingly cold. But the clarity of the nights the glow of a distant city was a clear marker over the not-so-distant horizon and they oriented themselves to that as they ambled blindly through a foreign landscape. Sometimes getting lost, sometimes stopping to fixing a problem that had come up from driving off road. At a point, a stone had punctured – or nearly done so – a tire and they had labored for the better part of several days trying to patch it from the odd supplies they did have. It turned out they had no means to properly patch a tire, but super glue had some how made it into their supplies, and with that, hope in the machine, and an air pump they had set the motorbike right. At times even they would surrender and collecting their belongings they would both take the vehicle onto their shoulders and hump it through the wilderness. It felt both too hot, and cold in Kazakhstan's naked openness.

They had believed for a time they would need to replace the Chinese license plate that they had. That being on the road with it would be suspicious and attract too much attention. And meeting their first other vehicle on the road had become the impetus for them to do their best to hide, whatever the labor so as to avoid arrest and possibly being sent back home. Neither knew exactly what sort of power China had, if nomads like them would even be returned to China. But still too, if nothing else they would not be treated friendly beyond for being Chinese nationals.

“How many of them do you think have a motorcycle, a car even?” Asked Guo. Since being on the road, Guo had begun growing a thick heavy beard that hid his round boyish face. Between the growing beard and the acne scars he looked to be taking on the tiger-like face of Guan Yu. Chao meanwhile had the sort of disposition that did not take kindly to facial hair, and it came in uneven and weird. In the reflection of their motorcycle's mirrors he had tried to shave with a knife, doing more to often tear the hairs out then properly cut them clean. For that what occurred was patchy and uneven, mixing baldness with thin pastures of short uneven black hairs.

“It's worth the shot.” Chao said. He sounded tired. He felt worn to the bone. Exposure to the sun for as long as they had both been out had only made he and Guo's complexion darker and redder. Their hair was filled with sand, and all changes of clothes had become dirty and smelled like gas; most of which was becoming numb to them. “Listen, I'll go in and see if I can find something. Anything. I'll come back when I do, stay here and watch the camp.”

“If you insist.” Guo answered him, looking back at the camp. It was not much. Empty food packaging littered the dry grass and rocky earth, and the remains of a small fire sat smoldering, flanked by what was probably a bed, little more than a mat of grass they had pulled up, small pillows, and a coarse military-style blanket. The bike stood somewhere off to the side, and all of it in a low dip between two rocky hills.

“But what happens if you get caught?” asked Guo.

“I'll try not to.” Chao replied.

“That doesn't fucking answer my question.” Guo spat, “What if you get caught?”

“Then if I'm not back in a few hours... Do whatever you want. Go home or keep moving.”

“I'll fucking go home then.” Guo joked, “Shit ain't worth it without someone to complain.”

“Alright, I'm off.” Chao began, standing up. Half way down the hill Guo shouted out.

“This plan, I think this means your head is full of water.” he shouted

“And you're not too bright either!” Chao called back, “But perhaps if you have any better ideas, you might start by re-routing the Yellow River to here.” The two of them laughed, and Chao went back to the purpling evening.

It was deep into night as Chao came close to the city. By this point he had stepped into green pasture and groves of trees. The city itself obscured by forest. But even out here, there stood a few shacks illuminated through the brush by the faint gas lights at the windows, or the bleating of goats. Chao went to those first, and began creeping about the periphery searching for something to use. Or something to steal. But between each shack he found little in the way of anything. Keeping out of the light cast from inside, he could hear the evening chatter of the occupants and families inside; sometimes fights, sometimes joking. But that was all inside. Outside he found only goat pens, piles of junk, abandoned carts. There would be sometimes small vegetable gardens, or someone would have tried farming as he came closer to the city and there would be wide open fields.

But, there was nothing of use. What there was was junk, left to a pile and forming sort of informal fences along the road side; themselves little more than dirt goat paths snaking through the green wilderness. There it would be lit from the light of some outskirt shack, or a tent reminiscent of the Mongols or the Uighur, either made of real animal hide or something rehashed and modern, looking tattered and gauche. But over there it would be a blanket of blackness as the last smoldering rays of the sun disappeared and the stars popped out in force.

Chao began to think back to home as he wandered in the direction he thought the city was. Comparatively, here was no different than some of the western rural settlements, or places like Urumqi weakly lit by electrical lighting. But unlike those towns, those villages, those cities they passed through on their cross country trip there was a sense of order and ancient practice in the methodology that appeared there. But in this country, either it was so new or so little done there was no real thought to the practice. More often than not as he walked he did not so much fear being robbed by someone hiding in the brush, but tripping over some collected garbage somewhere. There seemed to be no way to collect and centralize it here in these parts, and as he walked about he concluded these people must be far behind what could be called the civilized world.

Then he came to a creek, and realized he had wandered from any sort of path and he starred across its inky black waters to the now closer glow of the city behind it. He looked about himself, hoping to see some kind of bridge only to quickly realize that of course, it was the middle of the night, and that at the edge of some creek there was nothing but thick brush to obscure his vision and he had wandered through an opening and now stood on the muddy bank.

He knew better to doubt water, and he would not try to wade it. It was also getting cold, and being wet would make him miserable. Wisely he turned back and trudged up the hill and began following the dark suggestion of the creek until he found his bridge, a ramshackle crossing of thrown together boards of wood that creaked and threatened to snap under his feet as he crossed. It frightened him, and he did not wish to stop or spend any more time on it than was necessary.

Hens cackled nervously as he cross over into the neighborhoods across the creek. More than a few goats bleated at him and he shirked back from those houses. Dogs too barked, but as the settlement became denser, the road becoming less a mule track and more a dirty street none of this seemed to be much worry. It was as dark here as it was lit, and the competing dim lighting of candles and lanterns threw odd shadows against one another until everything felt as dark as if it were unlit. He strained his eyes in this odd twilight where he could not see right.

But for what he could see, nothing looked much different than the trash collecting on the other side. Seeing many of the homes they looked like little more than bare cinder-block shacks with cheap sheet metal or re-purposed wood. There was an eerie barbaric, primitive nature in the architecture Chao felt, far divorced from even the poorest models of shacks and single-room homes of China. Farm animals seemed to roam free, and at one intersection a small tribe of goats munching on scattered refuse in the streets. In the faint light they looked up at him and bleated, and feigning disinterest trotted away.

He did not know how far in he managed to go, but Chao managed to find something. Chained to the side of a gate was an old motorcycle with bent and rusting wheel fenders. He knelt low to check it out, warily looking around him suspecting he was being watched. He looked down to below the seat and found...

Nothing.

Puzzled he looked closer, and lower, but found no plates. He snooped to the front, and found no such plates, above or below the head light or anywhere. And he found no identification on the side of the vehicle.

He began to wonder if it was possible to go without plates in Kazakhstan, and his curiosity got the better of him. He rose to his feet and ran off deeper into the town, finding what motorbikes or other transport he could find. But all of them, as he could tell, had no plates. But his combing was cut short as he heard voices on the street. Looking up he spotted a large staggering group of people. In coarse loud voices they sang drunkenly as they shuffled down the street. One of them saw Chao, and shouted out. Or at least he thought he was being pointed out.

He decided he had been there long enough, and bolted.

Dragon Diaries


Li Chao

July 4th, 1960. The year of the metal rat.

Kazakhstan it would seem is a harder country than we would have thought. Much of the country as we've been in is largely without roads. We have ridden alongside the foothills of mountains through brush and forest. Looked up at rocks and bathed in springs. But our clothes are feeling dirtier and Guo and I are afraid for our provisions. The previous evening we found that the fruit we had brought was beginning to mold, and we had to toss out half our apples. What we have left in terms of fruit is canned and it seems we lost our can opener. We still have a few tools, and there's no shortage of rocks to help us open them, but it's no surprise we sometimes lose it. So for the first time, we made the mutual decision to start rationing. I would like to say it was an easy decision, but I could tell Guo wanted to argue it. But he restrained his protests and conceded to what had to be done.

All the same, we are both growing thick beards. It is strange to see either of us not clean shaven and Guo looks like a soldier out of some Warring States battlefield. I made the comment to him, and he told me to fuck off. His beard it seems is very itchy.

I can not say I blame him. With out any way to sharpen or keep our razors clean now I've been forced to let my beard grow in. But it bothers me too and I've been trying to cut it with a knife, or scissors, or whatever we have on hand. The effects have been far from appealing, and although it looks terrible I'm at least without comfort. For his complaining though, Guo seems intent on keeping his.

We end the day though finding a real road, or what looks like one. To tell the truth it is completely unpaved, but it's wide enough to be one. But as we rode down down it, to call it a road would be asking too much from it and even driving down it is catching fish in a tree. But too our surprise and our horror, it is used. A rather sorely beaten truck that looks to be as old as either of our dads bumped past us going the other way with an entire bed full of chicken cages. It would have been funny, seeing a site we often saw in town on such poor roads until we realized we were on a road used by actual cars! The decision was made quick to leave, and knowing what we had not seen in so many days did exist in this country we knew we would need to find something to hide ours.

There is one thing I do not want, and that is to be caught. I do not know if I and Guo will go to prison or forced to return to China. We have come so far, even if we are not half way. It would be a shame to have to go back.

But damn whatever happens. We will follow the road, but at a distance. We crossed the steppe as we left China, and we will continue to do so without roads, conditions stay the same. We at least do not need to worry about the rain, the weather here is dry.
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December, 1956
Washington D.C.


Alexander Roy turned the collar of his coat up to keep rain away. He stood out of the Occidental Grill and tried to flag a cab down. He regretted not taking an umbrella with him to the dinner interview. It had been an interesting experience with the senator-elect. Eric Fernandez had a lot of ideas, most of them progressive but plenty of them ambitious. It was clear he saw a bright political future for himself. And he was asking for Alex's help to make it come true.

A taxi sped by, ignoring Alex's frantic gesture. He cursed and turned to head back into the restaurant when a black limousine pulled the curb. Alex looked at it while a dark tinted window slowly rolled down. Jim Sledge's doughy face stared back at him with a grin.

"Mr. Roy, need a lift?"

Alex climbed into the car, thanking Sledge as he did. He gave a slight start as he saw someone sitting in the rear facing seat of the limousine. He'd seen him before, of course, stalking through the capitol on the way to the Senate even before the election. But Alex had never been this close to Russell Reed.

"Hello, Alex," the vice president-elect said with a warm handshake.

"Mr. Vice President," Alex managed to say. "Congratulations on the election."

"We did what we could," said Reed. "We were helped by a less than stellar opposition, though. Congratulations to you and Congressman Hayes as well, Alex. Tennessee is well-served by Hayes."

"Like Wisconsin will be well-served by Eric Fernandez," Sledge said slyly.

Alex coughed and adjusted his tie while both Sledge and Reed shared a smile and a look.

"Don't worry, Alex," Reed said with a pat on his knee. "Washington is full of gossip, but Jim and I know how to keep a secret. Will is going to be crushed by you leaving him, but I get it."

"Hayes is content to keep being reelected by the people in his district," said Sledge. "You're not going to get anywhere being his chief of staff. Eric Fernandez, on the other hand? Ambitious. Just as you."

"Stoke that ambition," said Reed. "Make him look beyond the Senate to something higher, something that could easily be in his grasp."

Alex furrowed his brow and looked between the two men. "Why?"

"Trust me," said Reed. "Just work with Fernandez over the next few years, get him thinking even bigger than he already is, and work like hell for him. You won't be talking to me much, Jim here will be point of contact. But, be loyal to him except when we need you be loyal to us. You do that and I'll take you further than Fernandez ever could. All the way to the White House. "

Reed held a hand out for Alex. He looked down at it and thought for a moment. He knew about Reed's reputation on the Hill. Once he got his hooks in someone, then he seemed to have control of their very soul. It was the same way with poor Senator Sanderson and Jim Sledge. They served him without any question like slaves. But then there was the trade-off. Sanderson was a senator now, and Sledge was one of the most powerful in the party simply because Reed said so.

Alex shook Reed's hand and nodded.

"Whatever you need, sir."

"Good." The warmth that had been on the vice president-elect's face vanished. "Jim will be in touch. Now, get out the car and get to work."

---

Present Day
Los Angeles


Baxter Hotel
3:31 AM


Alex watched Eric Fernandez snoring on his bed. They'd had a few drinks to celebrate the deadlock at the convention, but too many. Eric wanted to be awake and sober when the inevitable wheeling and dealing started. He expected the calls to be coming and going from his hotel room to the other bosses, horse-trading and arguing his case as to why he was a better choice for the nomination. So he had asked for water to be generously applied to the drinks Alex was fixing.

After the fourth drink he was drunk. After the sixth he was out. Eric was a lightweight when it came to drinking. That's why Alex lied about watering it down. He knew that for the next part to work for Reed, Eric needed to be out of the picture. Alex sat down on his bed and watched his friend and employer snore heavily. He had a drink in his hand, his seventh so far. He was drunk, but nowhere near close to passing out. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing? Was he drinking in celebration for having pulled off all that the vice president had asked of him, or was he drowning his sorrows over betraying a friend.

"Don't worry," Alex mumbled into his drink. "There's always '68."

---

7:30 AM

"I just don't want to nominate a guy who is gonna lose," Lennie Parrish growled. "I don't give a fuck if he's president or not. Give me someone who can win."

"And the junior senator from Wisconsin is a winner?" Walter Babbit asked before scoffing. "He was the goddamn mayor of Green Bay before he was a senator, and that was four years ago."

"And I don't know if I like that name of his," Wilbur Helms said from his wheelchair. "It don't sound American to have a President Fernandez."

From his seat at the big table, Big Jim Dwyer took it all in while his feet failed to touch the floor. The bosses were just as deadlocked as the delegates. The Norman camp was fiercely entrenched, as were those that supported Fernandez. The president had the power of the incumbent, but he was too unlikable and his administration unpopular. Fernandez was an outsider, yes, but a political naif and idealists. Besides, his policies were too liberal for some. Big Jim glanced over to the corner where Vice President Reed and Jim Sledge sat. So far, neither men had much to contribute. Russell had delivered a few opinions on Norman's ability to win, but they seemed little more than platitudes.

Big Jim finally spoke. "Okay, so let's recap. What we need is an experienced politician, one who is still a conservative. One who has name recognition and incumbency value, but not the president himself?"

Big Jim saw Sledge and Charlie Ricketts exchange looks. There seem to be a nod that was almost undetectable from Sledge. With a gleam in his eye, Ricketts spoke the words he'd been waiting almost four hours to say.

"What about Reed?"

Half the men in the room looked stunned. The other half were pretending to be stunned. For his part, Reed stared straight ahead impassively. One man who was so shocked he seemed to be on the verge of tears was Wilbur Helms.

"By god, I never thought of Russ. It's perfect!"

"He's a southerner," said AJ Patterson. "There's stigma there."

"He is a southerner," Jim Sledge said. "One who spent the war in a federal prison with the rest of the House of Representatives. He suffered more than most during those years."

"He's also in the room," Russell said loudly. "And capable of talking to you.

"You're tied to the administration, yes," Ricketts said with a look towards Reed. "But almost all the unpopular stuff you were nowhere near. We can distance you more and more from it as we start to campaign."

"Russell Reed as our candidate," Walter Babbit said with a shake of his head.

"It's not that crazy," Parrish said. He looked over at Reed. "You ran strong in the '56 convention."

"The convention isn't the same as the general," replied Patterson. "We haven't had a southern president, a true southerner since I don't count Wilson, since before the first civil war."

"Can I say a few words?"

All eyes turned to Reed. He now stood and walked towards the big table slowly and hunched over, like a jungle cat would approach its prey.

"I almost won the nomination in '56. When I didn't it hurt like hell. It hurt even worse to take the VP spot on the ticket. It embarrassed me to take such a meaningless office as a consolation prize, but I smiled and took it. For the good of the party. And then I got to work, both to elect the president in '56 and myself in '60. Four years of plotting, of working with political machines and carefully curating my image as vice president. Showing the world that I had power and experience, but not enough to tie me to the president's more horrible decisions. I took advantage of the president's unpopularity, the overlapping interests of the bosses, and the political ambitions of the next generation of politicians. I planted the seeds of doubt in the president's mind about his reelection chances and got him desperate, I advised him the only way to get the party bosses on his side was to antagonize them and challenge them. I convinced dark horse candidates they had a shot, convinced party leaders to back the dark horses, and drove wedges through the party's entire united front. This convention was a mess, a deadlock. It was a complete clusterfuck, by my design. But that perfect storm of self-interest, one that destroyed the president's chances of being reelected, created a hole just big enough for me to squeeze through."

"Jesus Christ, Russ." Parrish said. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"I destroyed our party's convention to get me nominated," Reed said with a gleam in his eye. "Just think what I'll do to the Republicans with the election on the line?"

The bosses all looked around the table at each other. For some, like Parrish and Patterson, they were stunned to hear the admission. But Big Jim knew this was coming. He knew ever since Ricketts approached him with Reed's offer. His support in exchange for a Reed-Kane ticket in the fall.

"Let's go with Russell," Big Jim said. "He's just proven how much of a bastard he is. But, at least he's our bastard."

"Fuck it," said Patterson. "Let's go with him. If he loses the general... well, there's always '64."

---

11:25 AM

"How does Wisconsin vote?"

"The great state of Wisconsin cast all its votes for Vice President Russell Reed!"

From his box, Russell watched the votes pour in. A smile worked itself on to his face. He thought back once again to his childhood in Georgia, being the town laughingstock. He had been embarrassed back then and worked hard to be somebody, worked so hard to go to college and law school that he barely had time to eat or sleep. That need to be somebody drove him to the point of collapse and exhaustion. Four years ago, he had received a national embarrassment. And now, after four years of late nights and cross-country travels and almost no sleep, here he was.

"The great state of Wyoming cast all its votes for Vice President Russell Reed."

The phone began to ring. The one with the direct line to Washington. Russell picked it up and answered it.

"Russell...."

He sounded scary. It wasn't that he was angry. It was that he didn't sound like anything, like he was devoid of emotions all together. Russell was glad he wasn't crying. Although, crying would be better than whatever he was at the moment. But he could still savor his victory.

"Mr. President," said Russell. "I've wanted to say this to you for over four years now...."

He trailed off as Clay Foulke banged his gavel to bring the convention to order. Once there was calm, he spoke.

"It is my pleasure to announce the unanimous choice for the Democratic Party's nominee for president will be Russell Rutherford Reed!"

Russell laughed and held the phone up close to his mouth. "I have an acceptance speech to make. Go fuck yourself."

He slammed the phone down and started his victory march to the stage.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by TheEvanCat
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TheEvanCat Your Cool Alcoholic Uncle

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Gyumri, Armenia

The Gyumri policemen crowded around a table covered with memos, manifests, photographs, and pertinent pieces of evidence. Two military policemen from the Gyumri base talked quietly with each other. A rack of weapons, tagged with evidence stickers, stood next to the table as Tigran quietly inspected one of the rifles that Private Marovian had hidden in his room. The metal receiver of the rifle bore, at the base near the rear sight, a serial number and the location of manufacture. All four of the rifles’ identifying information matched with the service carbines that went missing in Marovian’s truck. A military interrogation of Private Marovian had been conducted on-base by military police officers, and which had led to the location of another arms cache underneath a Russian restaurant in the eastern ghettos. The truck, too, was found by a hiker in Lake Arpi. Thirty kilometers north of the city, it had appeared that Private Marovian drove the truck to the edge of a dirt firebreak. In a move that somewhat impressed Tigran, the young arms dealer then put the truck in neutral and pointed it down a hill, jumping out before it started rolling too fast.

The military police presented their investigations to the Gyumri department: Marovian was cooperative with the investigation thus far, but Karlovian had fled to the north and slipped across the Georgian border upon hearing about the recent murders. He was terrified, and rightly so, that a police investigation would be coming towards him. A military investigator had been sent north to check with Border Service posts and see if he had emigrated across the border through a checkpoint, especially since the Karlovian family automobile was reported stolen a few days prior. That, however, was no longer Chief Tigran’s problem. The weapons found in the Russian restaurant were part of the stolen arms, and the location was suspiciously close to the residences of several suspected Mafiya lieutenants. It was determined that the lieutenants were trying to incentivize teens and unemployed young adults with money to start hitting Armenian establishments with these weapons, furthering tensions in the city. What the Mafiya sought to gain by inciting race riots was still unclear, but the police were beginning crackdowns on any and all gang activity to try and start building an information network from apprehended suspects.

After the conclusion of the military investigation, one of the MPs turned to Tigran: “Chief Korkarian, we’ve wrapped up all we can for you. The rest of the weapons fall into our jurisdiction, so we are focusing on finding those arms caches. Unfortunately, aside from that, we can’t help you with the Russians. That’s for the Gyumri boys, since you started the case.”

Tigran nodded, shaking the man’s hand. “I understand. Thank you, Corporal,” he said, eyeing the black chevrons on the soldier’s collar. “The weapons are still a big part of it, and we’ll help you once we uncover more of this. Marovian had a ‘sell-list’ that we sent to Sergeant Kavalian. Nothing like any sort of official ledger, he was a little bit sloppy on that, but it was addresses and names.”

The MP smirked, crossing his arms. “We’re excited to kick down some doors. Beats grabbing drunks who are too wasted to fight back well.”

Tigran just nodded solemnly, keeping his thoughts to himself. He knew all about cocky young cops taking risks and going straight for the action. They were like soldiers, almost, and every time they learned the same lesson: policing, especially nowadays, was nasty and sometimes brutal. The first time they see a real victim of heavy assault, murder, or rape, they reevaluate their thoughts on door-kicking and shooting bad guys. It broke some people, jaded others, but nobody ever really was the same. Nothing could be said to them before then, so Tigran thanked the Corporal and escorted him to the jeep waiting outside. He and his partner threw on their taraz soft covers, waved, and jumped in their vehicle to roar off down the road. Tigran sighed and turned to Alex, who was beside him. “Fucking kids,” he muttered. “I hope they don’t crash.” His partner nodded, shrugged, and put his hands in his pockets. They both went back to their desks to handle administrative work.

A few minutes of form-filing had passed before the telephone on Tigran’s desk rang. The patrol chief put his pen down, reached for it, and picked it up to hear his dispatcher in the telephone room: “Chief, two patrols are requested for a vehicle fire in Yerkatgtsi Norvan east of the rail depot at the Axayan-Garegin intersection. Looks like a sedan on fire in an intersection, possibly arson. Firefighters are heading on scene now.”

“Alright, I’ll be there,” Tigran answered, before hanging up the phone. He grabbed his blue policeman’s jacket that was draped off the back of his chair and his duty belt from the coat rack. He busted out through the door, to find Alex smoking a cigarette next to the coffee table. “We’re going to East Gyumri,” he said. “Grab your things, I’ll pull the car out.”

Alex simply nodded, moving towards his desk to grab whatever gear he needed to put on. Tigran, meanwhile, dipped out through the side exit of the police office and withdrew his key ring from the pocket of his pants. Getting through several fence doors, he lightly jogged over to his patrol vehicle: trusty number seventeen, complete with scratches on its bumper from pushing cars off the road and a buffed-out scattering of shotgun pellets on the trunk. Tigran and Alex took care of it, however, and kept it freshly painted after anything happened to it. He swung open the doors to the motor pool, hopped in the driver’s seat, and whipped it out to the front of the office where the second patrolmen were already waiting. Tigran honked his horn at Alex on the curb, who shook the hand of the second car’s passenger and jogged over to get in. “Ready, chief?”

The pair took off, carefully swinging around the corner before heading towards the main through-street of the city. Gyumri was one of Armenia’s largest cities but also one of its oldest. The streets were crowded and winding, having evolved from pedestrian alleys to avenues traversed by horses to automobile roads. One road, Haghtanaki Avenue, flanked the long and narrow Victory Park through a north-south slice of the city: it provided the quickest way to get from one end to another and had been widened for buses, trucks, and the increasingly numerous cars owned by Armenians. Despite this, police response time in the Russian-dominated ghettos in the east often suffered as the patrols struggled to quickly get through. While major infrastructure improvements had been constructed in local areas by provincial governments, a grand national highway system was still being debated in Parliament. The police still had to take constrained city roads to get from one neighborhood to another. It was thirty minutes of driving through traffic, sometimes requiring a siren to move dawdling drivers out of the way, before Tigran and Alex spotted the plume of smoke rising from an intersection.

Yerkatgtsi Norvan had developed a reputation as the bad part of town. Part of that stemmed from the Russians, but it was also just a neighborhood occupied almost exclusively by the working class. Due to its proximity to the train tracks and warehouses of Gyumri, many people worked industry. It was dirty, loud, and smelled of burnt coal constantly. City officials preferred to spend their sanitation budgets elsewhere, providing only the bare minimum of services to apartments here. Russian graffiti covered the bare concrete public housing blocks, shoes dangled from electrical wires, trash blew down empty alleys, and passerby stared at the police. Tigran and Alex stopped their car a safe distance away from the central intersection of the neighborhood and cautiously dismounted. Alex put his hand to his pistol belt, feeling for the wooden handle of his revolver as both of them fanned out to opposite ends of the street. There were no more onlookers, nobody coming to see what was happening. Just the crackling of a fire as the gasoline from the car burned. Tigran eyed the windows of the drab apartment blocks, barely noticing a long object appearing at the top floor of a seven-story building.

“Gun!” he shouted, diving to cover by a streetlight as a shot rang out. His ageing body hit the ground with a thud as a rifle round shattered the window of the police car. Alex tried to return fire with his handgun, putting three wildly inaccurate downrange before kneeling down next to a bus stop. “It’s an ambush!” Tigran repeated, just as a group of people appeared from behind a fence. There were four, armed with shotguns and one with a carbine. Alex swore and ducked down again: one of them leveled their piece and fired off a spray of pellets towards the police. Tigran rolled past the streetlight and got into cover in an entranceway beside him as another volley of shots ripped across the street. He struggled for the revolver in his leather holster, pointing it down the street to shoot off a round. He was now separated from his partner, on opposite ends of the street, outnumbered and outgunned.

In the distance, someone called out in Russian. “Politsiya! Politsiya! Von tam!” The four gangsters fanned out into the road, exchanging more shots with the Armenian police. A carbine round smashed into the concrete by Tigran, blowing chunks of it down onto the sidewalk and hitting the old man with a concussive thud. He stuck his arm out of cover and returned shots before drawing it back in to reload shells from his cartridge belt. He had personally never seen a use for revolver speedloaders like the younger cops, but now could see where they would be handy. The gangsters moved into cover, just as Alex looked back to Tigran from his position.

“I’m gonna go for the shotgun!” he yelled across the street. “Cover me!”

Tigran nodded, got up onto a knee behind the cover of his concrete alcove, and scanned the road with his pistol. Alex stood up, took a deep breath, and started sprinting to the police car. The Russian sniper in the apartment block tried to zero in on the cop, but he was too slow or poorly trained to get a good lock on: a shot went high, shattering a window further down the street. Alex dove into cover by the trunk of the car and fumbled for the latch. It popped open with ease, and he reached for the wood-stocked shotgun strapped into the trunk’s floor. Cursing as he loaded its magazine with shells and racking it, Tigran’s partner kneeled back down and leaned towards the side of his cover. “Come out, fuckers!” he shouted. He followed up in some of the only Russian words he knew: “Syuka blyad!

A gangster, sufficiently enraged by this, emerged from hiding behind a street corner and leveled his shotgun against the police car. He shot off two rounds in rapid succession, before Alex returned fire with an expertly-aimed slug to the chest. Armenian cops had two types of shells in their cars: buckshot, for closer breaching actions, and solid slug shells for longer-ranged street fights. The Russian was hit center of mass with a 12 gauge slug, his torso exploding in a shower of blood as he was thrown to the ground screaming. Alex racked the shotgun, ejecting a shell onto the concrete, and took aim as the gangster’s friend ran to the middle of the street to retrieve the wounded man. Alex shot again, this one shattering the gangster’s leg and almost tearing it off. The man dropped his carbine as he fell face-first into the concrete. He tried crawling for it, inching towards the piece as Tigran followed up with a second slug that blew his shoulder away. Two dead Russians lay in pools of blood in the street, which was enough to convince the other two to drop their guns and sprint away.

The Russians ran down through the road, dipping behind into an alleyway. The Armenians, unsure if they could still pursue with the sniper aimed squarely at them still, cursed them and fired off a few ineffective return shots. All these did were harmlessly impact into the concrete. Now, it was just them and the burning car: the sniper watched them closely. Tigran and Alex turned to each other, shaking their heads. The chief slumped back into his alcove, holstering his revolver, running a hand through his grey hair. The firefight had taken all of fifteen harrowing minutes, but he had no idea where the other patrol was. They were supposed to flank around to the other side of the intersection but they hadn’t been around during the fight. Yerkatgtsi Norvan was notorious for being confusing and dense, leaving Tigran wondering if they had just gotten lost or were in trouble of their own. With no way to contact them, he wouldn’t know until much later. The pair waited in their cover for another few minutes, unsure if they should chance the sniper.

Tigran, ultimately, decided to regroup with Alex. He steadied himself, nodded at his partner, and took off at as fast of a jog as he could manage while praying that he wouldn’t be shot in the side. He remembered from his military service that it took a trained sniper four seconds to zero in on a moving target. It was obvious that the gangster wasn’t trained, nor was he any good at his job, but Tigran counted in his head as he rushed to the car. There was no return fire, just silence. He ducked down to behind the trunk with Alex: “I think he’s gone,” he said breathlessly.

“Yeah, probably dropped his shit and ran when I blew his friends apart,” Alex remarked, lighting a cigarette out of his trusty steel case. He offered one to the chief, who declined by waving his hand in front of his face and tried again to catch his breath.

“It was an ambush, goddammit,” Tigran scowled. “I haven’t seen this shit before. Fuck them. Fuck them all. This is the shittiest, most cowardly fucking thing you can do. They’re not men, they’re fucking pussies.”

The chief paused again, taking a deep breath to calm down. He couldn’t let his emotions control him like that. They still had to get home. Alex exhaled, leaning his shotgun against the car before standing up out of his squat. With a look to the former sniper’s nest and another drag on the cigarette, he heard a car moving behind them. The cops turned around to see their lost partner, driving slowly towards them. The car stopped, and a bewildered junior patrolman hopped out of the driver’s seat, apologizing profusely. “Chief! Shit, I’m sorry, we took a wrong turn a while back and got lost in this damn neighborhood.”

“Are you a fucking retard? Do we need to institutionalize you with all the other fucking retard babies who got dropped on their heads by alcoholic piece of shit mothers?” Alex shouted, straightening his belt as he walked angrily towards the patrolman. “Who gets lost for twenty fucking minutes in this town? It’s not even that big!”

“Sir! Wha-“ the patrolman began, before noticing the bodies ahead of them. Alex continued his march to the driver, closing in and extending his fingers into a knife that he waved in the face of the new hire. Before any explanation could be offered, Alex turned his knife-hand towards the boyish face of the patrolman and slapped him with an echoing smack. The cop stumbled, but regained his composure.

“We were ambushed, for God sake! Fucking ambushed! It was a fucking trap!”

“Alex!” Tigran called out from the patrol car as he inspected the damage. “Calm down and help me change this tire. And you! Officer… I forget your name.”

“Hovnanian, sir,” the patrolman uttered. “Officer Hovnanian.”
“Get the evidence. There are four guns in the street and we suspect one in that apartment over there,” Tigran ordered. “Recover them and head home. There’s no emergency here, just an ambush. We’ll let the locals deal with the wreck.”

Alex trudged over to Tigran, fuming. The chief had taken a jack and tire iron from the trunk and was busy rolling the spare tire over to the front-left, which had been riddled with buckshot. Small divots pockmarked the hood and side of the car, shredding the rubber tire. Luckily, it was just the one: they didn’t have to cannibalize any spare tired from the other cruiser. “Keep your shit in check, Alex,” warned Tigran as he kneeled down to place the jack under the car’s sturdy frame. “I know it’s frustrating. You saw my response.”

“He’s an idiot,” Alex replied as Tigran jacked up the car. “I wanted to punch him right in his little gut.”

“Show some restraint, next time. We’re professionals. We have laws in this society, we have rules. Everything is going to hell in this city, but we’re stopping it. Does law and order mean nothing to you? Why are you a cop?”

Alex sighed, taking the tire iron from his chief. He loosened the bolts on the wheel, snatching them up and lining them in a neat row as he worked. In the background, the junior patrolman walked through the bodies, picking up guns and slinging them over his shoulder while his partner smoked a cigarette and scanned the potential avenues of approach with his shotgun. Tigran stood back as Alex lifted the wheel off and handed it over. “I don’t like getting shot at,” grumbled Alex.

“If you did, I’d be sending you over to the psychological ward at the hospital,” joked Tigran. “Could you put the tire back on for me? I’m too old and frail.”

The tire was replaced as Hovnanian and his partner emerged from the apartment block. An elderly woman had led them up the stairs to the sniper’s nest, explaining that she had seen a man jump from the second story of the staircase out onto an awning and run away. It had been one of her tenants, renting out the room for only a week. His partner clutched a Mosin Nagant rifle awkwardly in one hand, shotgun in the other. The pair returned to Tigran and Alex: “Sir, we got the weapons. Four in the street and one in that apartment. Was that everything?”

“Yeah, you got it. Thanks, kid,” Tigran answered as he threw them in the back seat, closing the door. “That should be it… Nobody’s hurt, we’re all fine.”

Alex looked back to the still-burning car in the intersection. “So we’re not extinguishing it?”

“It’ll burn out,” Tigran said with a shrug. “Now let’s get out of here.”

The police mounted up in their cars, backing away from the intersection. Rattled but not discouraged, they turned and drove off back to headquarters. The weapons in the back appeared to be part of Private Moravian’s stash still, leading them to think that the gangsters were starting to get more aggressive. With the evidence turned in and the reports beginning to be written by Hovnanian, Tigran and Alex sat together with the case file. Carefully annotating the events of the day, the case thickened still. More weapons, more gangsters, more violence. The military were closing in on Karlovian and the Gyumri police were still hitting suspected sites in the ghettos. Gyumri had turned into a time-bomb, one that the police hoped to diffuse before it escalated into the worst violence the country had seen yet. But for now, the day was over and the police were changing shifts. Tigran and Alex were heading home, done with another day at the office.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by NecroKnight
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NecroKnight Elite Death Knight of Decay

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1960, Duchy of West-Afrika


While the crisis was happening the Kingdom of Spain. Another region, was unintentionally affected by the situation as well - namely it was the rare case, when all the pieces of an unforeseen chess-board aligned in the perfect way to cause maximum chaos.

Such was the situation in the Duchy of West-Afrika - when news reached their ears of the situation in Spain. Namely of a coup against the King - with almost no word of what had happened to Duke or his son. In the current situation, with several members of the higher leadership on a training course in Algeria. The only person whom was close enough to contact was Amadou Bankole von Douala.

Namely Oberstleutant of the Afrikan Corps - whom was in Congo and was one of the few people in the chain of command, high enough to have any kind of authority behind his name and whom was able to be contacted through the phone.

Needless to say, he didn't like the situation any more than any white man might have in his position. They had no way of confirming whether or not they had any higher leadership left. Namely through his decades of rulership Duke Hurst had been smart enough to not allow anything to rise-up to challenge him for the position - it was a tactic that many other post-Great War monarchies had utilized to maintain their grip on power. Although in the case of the Duke, he had used a mix of political intrigue, good publicity and a white-class that was reliant on him remaining in power. That however lead to a familiar situation that happened when a monarchy lost or had no way on confirming if they still had their head-of-state.

As far as the higher echelon in Duchy knew - they had no monarch left and an army that was in essence currently leaderless. While there was the notion of being part of the German Empire - it hadn't been barely a month even, thus they had none of the political machinery in place to catch up to such a situation. Plus, nobody could have expected Spain - the only European power to escape the Great War and emerge stronger than before, to fall to such a situation.

Thus with nothing to do and nobody higher to confirm his orders - Oberstleutant Bankole gave the order, to mobilize the Army and to also get the closest man, that held a high enough political office up to speed on the situation. That man would end up being, Nhara Nereal - whom was the official Head of the Treasury. In essence, the situation was both bad...and an opportunity that none but Nhara Nereal might see - that was developing in the Duchy.

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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Dinh AaronMk
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Dinh AaronMk my beloved (french coded)

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China

Northern Mohe County


The Amur River, its waters dark and cold ran through the hilly valley. The sharp rises and valleys of the river way a carpet of untouched wilderness and primal forest on both sides. At the river bank, seated on an empty crate Aiwen Wu sat leaning against a larger water-rounded boulder sipping tea from small tin cups. The kettle sat askew on the boulder next to him, the freshly boiled brew letting up tendrils of milky white steam.

He sat watching the progress across the bridge set up across the river, a simple pontoon based construction. The currents of the water jostled it and he could watch it rock and yawn in the slow gentle flow of the coal-black waters. For all the preceding days to this moment the engineers had worked diligently to lay a crossing into the Russian far-east, into the dense fortress of its primal unsettled wilderness. It was hard for any man to imagine the density and the surreal emptiness of Russia from a map, one could not see the trees, the boulders on the banks of the rivers, the impressive hills and th majesty of its forests. Even in the heart of summer there was too the air a surreal coolness, a dampness let on by the medieval woodlands. But now Commander Wu was there, overseeing the first steps into Russia itself and he was beginning to feel that poisonous sense of doubt.

He could see Russia now, he put himself on the coat tails of a massive sprawled imperial beast. Standing at the top of hills, at the top of watch towers he could see across the immense wooded desert of the Russian Far East and the majestic terror it represented to a tactician. And for it, he had begun to doubt the initial plan of action. At least here in this position.

From up the bank an engineering officer slid down loose sand and gravel to where Aiwen Wu sat drinking his tea. His dirty face and stained uniform heralding he had not been idle in his work. “Comrade.” he said in a tentative tone.

“Sit.” Aiwen Wu offered, gesturing to a spot next to the boulder, “You want some tea?” he offered, raising his now empty cup to the approaching officer.

“I'll be fine, thank you.” the engineering captain remarked, squatting next to the rock and unfurling the map, “But I wanted to talk to you about some important affairs.”

“You have my ear.” Aiwen Wu invited.

“You realize how far away our objective is?” the officer asked. Wu nodded his acknowledgment and the officer continued, “You're asking to effectively build a road through dense, untouched forest in order to capture the closest settlement on the Trans Siberian. That's a fifty or sixty kilometer project. This will take up the entire span of our combat season, that is if we're able to stay on schedule. I am merely concerned for the logistics of this endeavor.”

“I'm aware it's difficult.” Aiwen Wu said, raising a freshly raised cup to the distant forested bank. It looked empty, it felt empty. There was nothing but the sounds of birds, of crows, and the not-to-distant sounds of boots crossing the pontoon bridge into Russia, “But when I was given this mission, I did so knowing it would not be easy to take all of Russia. And we must make the first steps somewhere.”

“Yes, commander. But are you truly aware of the sort of scale this project is? How well secured will this assignment be?”

Wu raised his hands to the men crossing now, “Those are the men guarding the path for your engineers.” he said, “This is one of crossing sites, as unfavorable as it is. I ask only for your men to set it up and establish ourselves here. It is a lot better than forcing our armies to march through two access points, areas I am sure they'll be watching. I want the element of surprise.”

“And this is your option, have you considered any alternate paths? I do not wish to second guess you, comrade, but the intensity of this labor will take a lot of time and resources from this invasion. While we were setting up your crossing here, I ordered some scouting up river, and there is a tributary feeding into the Amur some sixty-kilometers up water. If would better deliver our men in-land if need be. I do not know where it leads, but it would be a more effective way to access the Russian interior that to march through its forests.”

“Is there?” Aiwen Wu asked.

The engineer nodded, “If I had anything to say about it, I would recommend a mapping of, or identification of that river. Wouldn't there by anything in the military geographical survey? I'm sure they would have such maps as Russia.”

Aiwen Wu nodded. “Perhaps.” he said, “But for now I want the road cut through to Yerofey Khabarov. Our ability to take all of this land will depend on how much land we'll be able to exercise control of, and for our allies. Actively if there is to be a Japanese reproach to counter our liberation, we will have to meet it. Control of the rail way will not only let us re-mobilize men across the breadth of this country, or for our allies, but to also curtail and prevent our enemies. The Trans Siberian is one of our primary objectives. This mystery tributary is not.”

“It would be easier for me and my men to establish this position as a river port to launch incursions up river.” the engineer continued to argue.

“I'm aware.” Aiwen Wu said dismissively, “But that is not now the point. I may consider the possibility, but right now we are in commitment. I will see to investigating this river, but until then I want the current course to remain as is.”

“Very well comrade. Forgive me if I came off as a little abrasive.” apologized the officer.

“You didn't, so don't worry. If you're worried going ahead about security then the route there will be secured.” he rose his hand to point at the soldiers crossing the bridge, “They may be out of their armor, vehicles. But I trust in them to keep the road move ahead secure. If there is any enemy to meet we will fight them.

“Thank you for your confidence.” the engineer said, rising. He bowed, and headed back up the bank. Aiwen Wu continued to watch the crossing of the troops.




Wu Hong stepped onto Russian soil. He wasn't sure how he should feel. Like the rest of the soldiers cross over, he wandered off to the side, his rifle slung out as he tentatively scanned the trees, and the high hillocks and peaks that surrounded him and stretched out into the distance. He felt his breath in his chest, tense and uneasy under the current situation. What should he expect? What was there to expect. Looking around, he saw that many also did not know what they should be expecting. Some had their weapons drawn, but they were not at the ready. Others poked and prodded into the bushes, weapons shouldered and scanning around. Was there supposed to be resistance? Shouldn't they have known?

Wu Hong's image of war drifted to the fairy tale, the legend and the story. The ones where the invader was met at the border by the brave defender. That on deceleration of the threat the defenders would come rushing and assemble. That at the very doorstep of crossing over the two armies would begin contesting the country from the very first step. And that from there out the struggle would be constant and brutish.

He had drawn to mind the Great War in Europe. Of the vast desolation of artillery and the snaking maze of trenches and barbed wire. A vast swathe of France and Belgium obliterated as two armies met to fight. But here in Russia, where was that great army to meet them? It felt less like war, but more like home invasion. This felt scarier than the thought of war in general. This felt more unnerving than the inglorious act of killing. What could be visualized as the objective, the enemy? Could they fight trees? Were the trees the enemy?

“Wu Hong!” someone shouted from behind. The pensive private turned, seeing a broad shouldered, older soldier approach him, “We need you.” the man said, waving the young man to him. Shifting uneasily in his boots he turned to look back through the tree line, and followed after the older sergeant as he headed up into the trees and the bush line.

Stepping away from the river the underbrush grew thick and soon he was walking through grass up to his knees and passed broad flowering bushes. The under brush was coursing with Chinese soldiers, trying to find their way through the forest and shouting out to one another. The forest was alive, the bird songs chased out by the shouts of men as they sought out one another and orders were issued out and direction given.

The sergeant Wu Hong followed walked with a heavy stomping gaite. His shoulders swaying side to side like some great ape, and he was as tall as one too. His giant pack swayed side to side on his back. He was Ju Gan, his immediate commander. He looked every bit of the soldier Hong was not, broad strong face, bullish nose, and a rock hard chin. His eyes shone with a collective coolness like stars, but sharp and like steel.

He lead him up into a clearing where five other soldiers stood or sat about. A moss covered log had fallen and come to rest on an exposed face of stone in the hillside. On it waited two men, one with a large bulky radio on his back and a pair of large wide-lensed glasses that magnified his eyes. The other sat chewing on a blade of grass, going over and over his rifle in his hands as he worked dexterously with his fingers. Two others stood off to the side as one leaned against a tree, a bandoleer of bullets wrapped across his torso from his shoulders down. A third sat at their feet, rubbing a cloth across his rifle.

“Are we all here now?” Sergeant Gan said as he entered the clearing. The others looked up and around, and at Wu Hong.

“Yeah, looks like it.” said the radio man with the wide glasses. He was pudgy, even under his uniform and the definition of an unbeatable gut shown under his coat. He scratched at his pale nose and looked about at his comrades.

“We're at a good start then.” said Ju Gan, “Well, it's best we begin this hike then. The major wants the company to fan out at seventy meters each between each squad. We're going to be heading north. Yu Huan, you're to check in with the rest of the company every hour.”

“How are we going to know where we are?” the radio man, Yu Huan asked, “It's not like we're going to have very good maps. Have you seen them? It's emptiness for miles.”

“As best we can.” the sergeant said, and the squad laughed. Sergeant Ju Gan continued, “I'm going to take point.”

“Excuse me, comrade. But I've lived in woods like these for years. Are you sure someone else should take point?” the man seated in the grass said, speaking up, “It's not like I'm from too far south. We wouldn't want anyone to sprain an ankle while we're marching.”

“No, Cheng Bao, I'll take lead. I need someone on the wind to keep an eye out on things. If you can keep some kind of visual contact with the others on the left side that would fine.”

“As you say so, comrade.” Cheng Bao said, standing up. He was tall, like his commander. But not nearly as broad. He reached down and picked up his hat and placed it atop his broad head, capping his wild unbrushed hair.”

“Keung, Lei, do you think you can stay in the center and carry anything extra? I know you two got strong backs. It'd help to life some weight off of us, hiking through these forests.” the two standing next to the tree over Bao nodded solemnly. “And Wen Qi, I'll need you opposite of Bao, try to maintain what little bit of contact as you can with the others so we know where we are. If we need to run a message, you're on point there.”

“Yes, sir.” the man seated on the log said. There was a general complacency of their positions settled that fell on the squad and they readied to move out, heaving their heavy bags off the ground.

“A final question before we head out,” Wen Qi said, walking over to the sergeant. His features were sharp, and his brows fell low into his eyes. In the faint light of the forest they looked empty, filled only with shadow, “How are most of the supplies going to move with us? I take it we're not going to try heading back to the river?” he asked.

“Long Company is on that.” Ju Gan told him, “They're going to be moving the food and supplies behind us. I got orders that they want us to cover eight kilometers today. The days after that we're supposed to be covering ten. The goal is to get to our objective in ten to eleven. If Long can keep up, we'll have the supplies to last us the next couple of weeks until something more permanent can be worked out.”

“And if we run out?” Qi asked.

“We're on our own.” Gan answered, solemnly, “Hopefully we won't come to that point.”

“Well, I guess we should start hiking then.” Wen Qi said, with a wide over enthusiastic, satirical smile.
Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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Vilageidiotx Jacobin of All Trades

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He snuck between the marble columns, his bare feet quiet against stone. Moonlight filled the garden. He was Negus Negast and the city was his, every inch of it, and he could move anywhere he wanted. That feeling of ownership was familiar to the dreamer. But there was this one thing, this single thing, that he didn't own. For the King of everything, the forbidden fruit was a strange thrill, and he couldn't help but be drawn by it.

There, behind the fronds and flowers, in the blue of the moon, he spied a pool. A familiar woman let down her robe. Her red hair fell down over her body and concealed her secrets. Secrets! Such a thing could not be had from the Emperor of the world. He watched as she walked slowly into the glittering water, its dancing light playing on her milky skin. Though he could not see all of her, what he could see overtook him. He felt like a boy, watching with rapt fascination the movement of her hips and suggestion of breasts beneath the blanket of crimson. She sang a sweet song. His heart felt like it might tighten up and stop.

Well I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah


She looked up at where he stood, her blue eyes piercing deep, and for a moment he felt terrified.

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July 10th, 1960: Addis Ababa
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The Emperor woke up, naked, covered in sweat, a woman he'd forgot curled around him. The room was heavy with that familiar scent, the mix of the pungent earthiness and rancid rot, reminding him he'd smoked the night before though the memory was hazy. His dream left him aroused, his manhood thrusting into his velour sheets. Her breasts were pressed against his hip, soft and warm, inviting. He woke her up, cautious not to speak in sentences that would require him to use her name, and she let him relieve his urge inside of her. It wasn't truly satisfying to him. Why couldn't she be Livy? The sweet American girl that tasted like strawberries in his imagination. He finished and jumped out his bed.

The room was tall, its ceiling twelve or so feet above, gilded in gold woodwork like the top of a cake. Thick blue and gold curtains blocked out the sun and protected the musty air. On a day like this where his head was foggy from the night before, the room felt oppressively large, like he could feel the weight of the air above him. He sniffed and went to his dresser, his limbs heavy, his flaccid manhood slick and cold.

"Do you have some more of those cigarettes?" the whore asked.

He plucked a joint wedged in the mouth of a pure-gold lion statuette, tossing it to her before putting on a robe. She produced a match, and that familiar pungent scent rejuvenated itself. He thought of joining her, of sharing her smoke, but that thought went out of his mind when he looked down at the envelope at the feet of the conquering lion. It had put him in a dark mood the night before, and looking down at it, those black feelings returned. He knew the essence of the contents, though he'd tried to put the exact words out of his mind. Livy was going back with her brother. They had family running in their American elections. Whatever else it meant, it meant she was going from his life. Probably forever. All the courtly whispers of the day before, about the collapse of the Spanish monarchy, the questionable fate of his fellow monarch, was eclipsed by the loss of the one simple girl

He went in the bathroom to clean up. The room felt like a marble tomb, the sink's gold handles deathly cold in his hands. He plunged his face in the water and looked up at the fogged mirror. His face stared back at him for a long while, the water running, the walls growing slick with condensation. It was like he'd fallen asleep. He was stirred from his trance by a gentle rap on the door. When he went to answer, he remembered what was happening in Spain, and his hand paused at the wet handle for a moment before he opened it. To his surprise, Desta was waiting for him on the other side, his small mustache pulled in by his tightened expression. "Something has happened." Desta said, curt and professional. "It's about your sister. Get dressed."

--

Sahle spared few thoughts for his little sister. Taytu had existed in his periphery for most of his life, part of another world in a sense, brought up for the female duties of nobility. He knew her as an introverted type, mannerly. Boring. Memories of her floated past his minds eye as Desta explained what had happened in some dusty part of America on the other side of the world. They were not good memories, or bad memories. They were just... there, accompanying him as he walked the lonely halls with his Minister.

"It would be best for the Emebet Hoy to remain distant." Desta said. "She needs time to work out her feelings."

"That's fine." Sahle waved, "I don't bring my mother to all my meetings."

"Very good." Desta said, "The situation is not so dire as the lady would have it. Taytu is recovering comfortably enough, so I am told. Circumstances like this are... delicate."

"So they should be." Sahle stopped in his tracks and grabbed the bridge of his nose. "God be merciful." he exclaimed, "I need a drink."

"Stay sober." Desta said curtly.

The palace went for ever and ever, footfalls echoing, passing men of the Mehal Sefari in dress uniform and pith helmets topped with plumes of lions-mane.

"Where are we going?" Sahle asked, suddenly taken by the pointlessness of what was happening. He longed for that stuffy room, to be swallowed by his blankets with his pleasures.

"The American Ambassador..." Desta started. Sahle stopped paying attention at some point. He'd heard this and forgot it when he was still processing the events of the morning.

They stopped at the oversized doors to some throne room or another. Desta turned to the Emperor and looked at him sympathetically. "This is a delicate matter." he said, "Take the Ambassador's apologies. Be courteous. Wait, and I will retrieve you." Sahle stopped like a dog that'd been told to heel. The doors opened and shut. Two Mehal Sefari stood stoicly at the the Emperor's flanks like statues.

"Your family has sins." a familiar voice startled the Emperor. He turned around and saw Blattengeta Sisay Makari. The old man was leaning on his prayer stick like it was a cane.

"I understand. We all sin." Sahle repeated childhood teachings as if they were a magical spell that would end this conversation.

"There are specific sins in your blood though." the old man said, "And it came to pass in an eveningtide, that David arose from off his bed, and walked upon the roof of the king's house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon. And David sent and inquired after the woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?"

"I know I sin with women, and I pray to god for forgiveness..."

The door opened, interrupting him. He turned and abandoned the old man, who started to say something. "Don't..." was the last word before the door closed Sahle away from him.

"His Imperial Majesty, the Conquering Lion of Judah, Sahle the First." a page announced. The room was empty save for a sad looking Jefferson Davis Bacon. The Emperor walked to his throne, the room a velvet and ebony nightmare of royal finery. A few unrecognized American attaches stood next to the fat ambassador like suit and tie wearing royal retainers.

"We are pleased to see our friend Jefferson Davis Bacon." Sahle said. The words came out naturally, but he did not have the peace of mind to praise himself for them.

"I deeply regret what has occurred" Bacon started, "I have heard nothing but praises for your sister in the State Department. I hope your majesty doesn't see the actions of a couple a' peckerwoods as representative of the whole United States of America."

"We understand Le'elt Taytu is recovering. This pleases us." Sahle started. He felt frozen for a moment, vaguely aware of Desta's approval right below his feet. Then the shadow of a thought crossed into his mind. Was it wrong? Surely not. It felt like destiny. Now he was a loose palm frond swept up by the wind, pushed on by fate, excited about what he didn't seem to control. "We cannot accept an apology. We demand satisfaction! Ethiopia demands the criminals who did this thing to our sister! We demand them sent here, alive if you can, so we can punish them!"

"That's... well, I apologize your majesty, but that dog won't hunt! We can't deliver American citizens to any other form of justice but our own."

"We demand it! And to prove this, we close our borders to you! No American can enter! No American can leave! This is my demand."

Desta pulled at the Emperor's robe as he marched out. It didn't matter. This was the way things had to be. It was the only way he could get what he wanted.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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July, 1960 - Lisbon, Portugal
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Dom Duarte Nuno, Duke of Braganza, was not enjoying himself. He was looking at the reports on his desk that had been handed to him by a worried looking intelligence officer from the Army. The man, standing stock still in front of the Duke, was visibly nervous and worried and the Duke had to admit he couldn't blame the man.

Two weeks before rumours had flown that the Spanish had been planning an invasion of France and he has relished the thought of the two powers slugging it out. The Spanish were cagey as ever however and had moved quickly to announce that they were engaging in war games to test new technology. For a week there had been manoeuvres in the Spanish mountains along the French border with an ever paranoid and fractured French state watching with some trepidation. Then, without a shot being fired across the border, the war games were declared a great success and the military units that had been deployed to the north began to move south, and then to the west.

Some had returned home but a generous portion, supported by other units who had not taken part in the war games, began to appear along the Spanish - Portugese border. They moved quickly as if the operation had been pre-planned. Trains ran on a schedule that had not been so neatly adhered to since the first rails had been laid down so many years before. Flights of Spanish warplanes were reported all along the border and nervous peasants who freely crossed the borders with their sheep noted an increased presence of Spanish police.

The first realty check for the Duke himself had been one day ago while he sat on his terrace on the third floor of the Palace, enjoying the sweeping vista of the city and the ocean beyond. He had been enjoying a stiff coffee and a shoulder massage from his favourite mistress, the Duchess was out of town, when the phone nearby had rung. The phone existed for exactly two reasons. One was to warn him of his wifes return, the other was for emergencies.

"Your Grace, I suggest to find some binocular and take a look out to sea."

The voice on the other end had been short and to the point before the line went dead. The Duke had seized a pair of binoculars usually reserved for beach gazing and turned them out to sea. At first he could see nothing, just an endless sun drenched Atlantic ocean. Then, as he scanned to the north, he saw the ships coming around the headland. There were twenty vessels, all of them bristling with guns, and all of them flying the Spanish flag. In their midst was the strangest vessel the Duke had ever seen. It looked like someone had chopped the superstructure off of an old cruiser and put a flat deck on it. Why he wasn't sure.... As if reading his thoughts, a small black dot suddenly rose from the vessel, circled once or twice and then flew out over the open ocean. His jaw dropped. An aircraft carrier. Where the hell had the Spanish gotten an aircraft carrier?!

The phone rang again.

"Yes?" He had shrugged off his mistress and was standing with the phone in one hand, his binoculars in the other as he stared at the ships that were growing larger. Another plane rose of the deck of the aircraft carrier.

"A message from Grand Viceroy Delgado. Shall I bring it up or would you like me to read it off to you?" The voice was no longer calm. It was worried.

"Read it, read it." The Duke said savagely.

"Very good sir." The man cleared his throat. "The Kingdom of Spain demands the immediate and unconditional surrender of the Kingdom of Portugal." There was a silence as the Duke gaped out over the city. The voice went on when he didn't reply. "He says you have 24 hours to reply or they attack. A similar message has been delivered to the National Assembly."

As if to drive the point home the battleship that led the Spanish Armada trained its massive guns on the entrance to the Port of Lisbon and fired a salvo. Massive geysers of water exploded near the headlands and he could see people running for cover. Out at sea, two long low destroyers darted out to intercept a Portugese steamer making for port. He saw a brief exchange through bullhorns and the Portugese flag came rippling down.

Not two minutes later the air suddenly filled with a thunderous roar as a massive armada of warplanes roared overhead. There were hundreds if aircraft. Bombers were stacked in bombing formation while fighters swarmed around them, and fighter bombers dove low over the city. The Duke knew Portugal was not prepared to go to war with Spain. He turned and hurried for his bedroom. He would dress and hurry to the National Assembly. They needed to surrender before the Spanish decided to fire a few more warning shots on target.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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July, 1960 - Madrid, Spain
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"I am to what...?" His Royal Majesty Juan Carlos I felt anything but majestic as he sat timidly in his chair before the oak monolith of a desk Grand Viceroy Delgado occupied. If clothes made the man than the King should have been on the other side of the desk. He wore the latest suit from France and fine Italian shoes. Delgado by comparison wore his simple soldiers uniform that always seemed to make him so much more terrifying.

"To marry." Delgado said patiently as if talking to an idiot. "To a woman, of course."

"Oh thank goodness I at least get to marry a woman." Carlos snapped irritably. "What the hell makes you think I'll marry anyone you chose for me? You know what, fuck you. I'm already your puppet in all but name but I sure as shit won't be letting you pick my wife." He was angry now and felt good to finally swear at the man who had ruined his life.

Delgado looked at him across the desk for a long moment before leaning forward, his elbows resting on the wood as he steepled his fingers in front of his face. Carlos was immediately reminded of a wolf watching a deer as Delgado's eyes bore into him, the craggy features and several scars reminding Carlos of just how dangerous this man was. It was an unsettling feeling and he instantly regretted his outburst. The warm day suddenly seemed rather cool indeed and he felt a shiver go through him.

"Because, your Majesty, I will kill everyone you have ever cared about if you don't." There was no smile. No tone as he said the words. Just a simple promise. "But never you, your Majesty, never you. You will watch your friends die one by one knowing that you could have saved them."

Carlos opened his mouth to speak but then slumped back into his chair. He knew Delgado meant it. The man was utterly ruthless. A small part of Carlos wanted to launch himself over the desk and strangle his tormentor but knew what a futile gesture that would be. The man hadn't commanded the Cazadores because he was a poor soldier and everyone knew how strenuous his fitness routine was.

"In the end, you should be thanking me." Delgado continued as if the threat hadn't even been uttered. He pulled a small folder from his drawer and placed it on the edge of the desk where Carlos could reach it. "I found you a beautiful wife to continue your family line. More importantly, she comes with the Portuguese Crown."

Carlos looked up sharply at that statement, then down at the manila folder that rested on the edge of the desk. "The Portuguese Royal Family is in name only, worse off even than me. The National Assembly only allowed them to return in the last couple of years. We have never met due to our social situations being so different."

Delgado raised an eyebrow at Carlos. "I am honestly surprised you know any history at all." Carlos wanted to hit him again but swallowed the urge. "As we speak Spanish air and naval assets are inviting Portugal to rejoin Spain as one nation. We will cement this new relationship with the happy marriage of our King to their grieving Princess."

"Wait... What?" Carlos's head was spinning as he tried to digest what he had just heard. "You mean, let me get this right, you mean we're at war with Portugal?"

"As of about fourteen minutes ago, give or take a few minutes." Delgado replied without even glancing at his watch.

"But... We've been at peace for years. I mean, what, fuck..." Carlos could barely speak. In less than two weeks he had lost his Crown, Spain has almost invaded France, and now they were moving on Portugal. "Fuck." He said the word again.

"Yes, indeed." Delgado replied. He leaned forward again and tapped the envelope. "The Portuguese will not doubt be upset but the Princess Mariana Braganza has become a crowd favourite in the past few years and her marriage to our dear King will go a long way to assuaging Portuguese pride."

Princess Mariana Braganza. Carlos had seen exactly two photos of her, and both of them from when she was in exile with her family, down in Brazil. She had seemed to be a short, plump girl, but to be fair, she had been about seven years younger if he remembered the reports correctly. He was starting to realize just how little he knew about anything in his own country, let alone outside of it.

As if reading his mind, Delgado smiled slightly. "I think you will find being a King under my heel much more work than it was to be an actual King."

For the briefest of moments Carlos wondered if Delgado had a point. As a King, Carlos had showed little to no interest in actually governing. The Royal Council had done that, but always in their own interest. He thrust the thought away with a surge of anger and grumpily yanked the envelope from under Delgado's finger to tear it open.

The first page was an information sheet on the Princess. Where she had attended school, Harvard in the United States. Where she had grown up, Rio de Janeiro. How old she was, 26, so older than he was by a couple of years. There was a whole host of other items on the page making it clear that Delgado's agents had been hard at work. Carlos actually chuckled when he found the Princesses favourite gelato and colour listed on the page.

Then he pulled out the second page which turned out to be a photo and his heart almost stopped. The face staring out at him from the paper was not what he had expected. The photo was more or less a head shot, though it showed the swell of the Princesses breasts below a face that seemed to glow with life. She had soft brown eyes framed by shoulder length brown hair that curled beneath her sharp chin on either side, full lips, and high cheek bones. She was possibly the most beautiful woman Carlos had ever seen.

"This is her?" Carlos looked up in amazement at Delgado. The Viceroy only nodded, a very small sly smile playing the corners of his mouth.

"Does she know?"

"No. But she will by this time tomorrow if the Portuguese surrender, as I suspect they will." Delgado had leaned back in his chair and was watching the King carefully as they spoke.

"What if she says no?" Carlos asked. Again Delgado didn't speak but instead spread his hands slightly, raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Never mind." Carlos said quickly. "I think I'm detecting a pattern in your method of operation."

"I am so glad you're coming to understand how things are done around here now. I will expect you at the military air terminal tomorrow at 07:00 hours. You can keep the picture. Dismissed."

Carlos was still staring at the picture and was so engrossed by the eyes that stared back at him that he didn't even feel anger at being dismissed. He stood and left the room, pushing open the door and stepping into the long hallway that led him outside. Civilians stopped to bow as he passed, soldiers ignored him, and the Cazadores openly despised him, but he saw none of it.

Behind him, still leaning back in his chair, Delgado was staring vacantly at the wall as his mind continued to race. Keeping the King happy with a pretty wife was one thing but actually forcing Portugal to surrender without a shot being fired was another. He had no doubt they would surrender in the end but he truly wanted to avoid bloodshed.

He was startled out of his reverie as the red phone on his desk rang loudly, the sound seemingly echoing in the marble office he had claimed inside the Royal Palace of Madrid. He let it ring a second time and then picked up the receiver.

"Viceroy." He said in a flat tone, hiding the anxiety he felt as his heart pounded in his chest.

"Viceroyal, the German Duke in Malaga is demanding we release him." The voice was that of a Cazadore Lieutenant who was in charge of security at Delgado's chosen home, the Alcazaba in Malaga.

"Oh, yes, of course. I thought we released him days ago."

"We did, Viceroyal, but he has remained behind to wait for his son. The boy Wilhelm who has been with the King." It took Delgado a moment to remember who the German was. He had been a minor distraction in the scheme of things and not important to the moment.

"Ah, yes. I quite forgot about him. Release Wilhelm. But his girlfriend, Maria, is to remain in Spain. Her father would be most distressed if she were to be out his sight."

"Yes Viceroyal." The line went dead and Delgado replaced the receiver. No sooner had he set it down then the phone rang again. This time he waited for three rings before reaching out to pick up the phone.

"Viceroy." Delgado kept his tone neutral again but the hammering in his chest was even worse as he did so.

"Viceroyal. Admiral-General Martín Fernández de Navarrete reporting that the Portuguese Navy has surrendered after warning shots were fired. No casualties."

"Very good. Carry on with the operation and secure the port batteries."

"Yes Viceroyal." The line went dead again. The invasion had begun.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Byrd Man
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Byrd Man El Hombre Pájaro

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September, 1937


Sacramento

Vic watched Sam Dorn storm out of the meeting chamber with two other committee members following behind him. There was no commentary from Vic, and none of the three men would look his way as they passed where he stood. Nobody in the capitol would meet his eye when he came through alone. When he escorted Comrade Bromowitz it was different, but not much. They would look at him only fleetingly as they exchanged pleasantries with the chairman, looking away as quickly as they could.

"Come back here!" Bromowitz roared, standing at the door Dorn had flung open. "You cowards! You capitalist sympathizers."
Bromowitz's chubby face was a purplish red, and his fist were clenched together so tight they were turning white. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, massaging his chest with his hands. Through all of this, Vic remained silent. He knew what was going to come next.

"Victor," Bromowitz said softly. "Dorn and the other two members of his rogue little faction are not acting in the best interest of the people and the CPR. I declare them enemies of the state."

Vic nodded and stepped away from the wall without another word. He knew what those words meant and what he had to do. This would not be his first time. He started through the capitol building in the same direction Dorn and the other two had gone. He came out into the parking lot. Dorn and the two other committee members stood around Dorn's car, smoking cigarettes and talking. Vic crouched and crept through the shadows towards them.

"Bromowitz is going crazy," said Dorn. "There is no way in hell I will consent to abolishing the executive committee and granting him sole executive power."

"Then we have another dictator," said one of the other members, Taylor. "Then what separates us from the people we're fighting? MacArthur, Long, and Bromowitz. Three peas in a fucking pod."

"Might want to keep your voice down," said Dorn. "Spooky Vic may be listening."

"It's all talk," said Taylor, expelling smoke as he spoke. "He looks scary, but it's just rumors. Rumors Bromowitz started to keep everyone afraid. Sam Chase wasn't killed by Vic. He just ran away to Canada."

"What about Governor Donaldson?" asked Dorn. "Someone blew his head off with a sniper rifle."

"The old guy is crazy," said Carter, the third committee member of the group. "But he's not murderous crazy. He's more collecting lint from your belly button crazy."

The three men all laughed. Vic laughed to himself just a bit. Calmly, he removed a loaded .45 from his shoulder holster and stood. Taylor saw him out the corner of his eye and gasped just as Vic opened fire on the three men.

---

Los Angeles
1960


Downtown
4:25 PM


"You've got blood on you."

Elliot Shaw looked down at his shirt as he slid into the booth. There was indeed a spot of died blood on his navy tie. He looked down at it, rubbing it with his thumb, before looking back up at Detective Thomas.

"Not mine."

"Then whose?"

Elliot looked around the coffee shop. The only other patron was an auburn haired woman who sat at a table two spaces down, a newspaper in front of her face.

"Raymond Hollister's."

"The actor?" Thomas narrowed his eyes and pulled out his copy of the contact sheet. "He was on the list. What did you do, Shaw?"

"Nothing." Elliot looked away from Thomas as he spoke. "I went to the set where he is -- or was -- shooting his latest picture. We started talking, but he had to go back to filming. There was an accident, real bullets got loaded into the prop gun that fired at him. He's dead."

"Jesus Christ." Thomas shook his head. "What did he say about the list?"

Elliot pulled a cigarette out of his case and lit one up. He offered one to Thomas, who politely declined. The detective allowed him to at least finish his first drag before speaking.

"Not much, but he sure as hell lost his cool at the mere sight of it. I brought up how it was associated with two -- now three -- dead people, and he started to bring up how it all got of control. And then we got cut short Abercrombie and Ray had to go back to filming."

"The same Abercrombie," Thomas said, his finger tapping on the name on the list in front of him.

"I thought the same thing," said Elliot. "I tried to find Roy after Hollister's body was taken off, but he'd already skipped out. Cruised by his house, but he wasn't there. I was gonna break in, but that'll have to wait until night time."

"That's fine," Thomas said calmly. "I think I know where he might be heading."

Thomas nodded to someone over Elliot's shoulder. He turned in time to see the auburn haired woman slid into the booth beside the detective. She wore big sunglasses to hide her eyes. and a kerchief wrapped around her head to keep her long hair up.

"Shaw, this is Jessica Hyatt."

She removed her glasses, showing a pair of sparkling green eyes that made Elliot pause. She looked like Claire Beauchamp, it was almost uncanny. Not twins, not that close for sure, but sisters without a doubt.

"Hi," Elliot said before looking at Thomas. "And who is Jessica Hyatt?"

She offered Elliot a sad smile. "I'm a member of the group you and Detective Thomas are so intent on investigating. At least, unofficially."

"And she's a Pinkerton," said Thomas.

"Again, unofficially," Hyatt said in a bored manner. "Coerced informant is more like it."

"Please," Elliot said, leaning forward. "Tell me more."

---

77th Street Station
4:40 PM


Hoyt was starting to get pissed. That motherfucker Thomas had blown off his shift at work. He understood covering for your partner on occasion, especially if your partner was hungover or found some new pussy he was deep into. But this? This was different. He just hadn't shown up this afternoon. That was unlike that little son of a bitch to even be a minute tardy for work.

It would be different if it were business as usual here. Hoyt could take care of the colored shylocks, bootleggers, and pimps of South Central by himself with no problems. But the shit stacked on their plate was far from the run of the mill South Central darkie drama. Downtown was breathing down the captain's neck, which meant he was breathing down theirs. Central Homicide was threatening to take the case from them and run with it. Hoyt's response to the threat was to keep running in sex offenders and beating them until he got a believable confession.

"Detective Hoyt?"

Hoyt turned at the sound of his own name being called. In the middle of the bullpen was a short, heavyset man with gray hair. His LAPD uniform marked him as a police captain.

"Captain Arnold Prescott," he said with a snaggled tooth smile. "Intelligence Division."

He proffered a chubby hand that Hoyt quickly shoot.

"Yes, sir," Hoyt beamed. "I know you, all about you and your boys."

"Mind if I sit?"

Prescott plopped into the chair facing Hoyt's desk without waiting to get permission.

"You know, Hoyt. You are a perfect fit for my squad."

Hoyt brightened. "Really, sir?"

Prescott nodded. "Smart, intimidating, and mean as hell. I can think of quite a few commies I'd love to sic you on."

Hoyt smiled and sat upright in his chair. As much as he loved to run the streets of Darktown, running with the Red Squad would be a dream come true. Like being a Pinkerton, but only on a local level.

"But," Prescott said sadly. "Before we can discuss that, there is something else we need to discuss. Namely, your partner."

"My partner?"

"Detective Jefferson Thomas." Prescott said the words slowly, like he was savoring the way they tasted. "He is a man of conflicted ideas and ideologies. And he needs to see the light."

---

Downtown
5:15 PM


"A movie?" Shaw asked.

Jessica nodded. "A movie. Claire Beauchamp was going to star before she was killed. I'm the new leading lady."

"Comrades in Arms," said Thomas. "Whatever the ridiculous subtitle of it is."

"Why you?" Shaw asked. "You're not an actress, right?"

"I look like Claire," said Jessica. "That's the only reason I can think of."

Claire also knew it was her pedigree. The daughter of Victor Hecht, playing the leading lady in the drama. Penelope was a lot of things, maybe even a murderer, and a romantic soul was one of them.

"Look at this," Shaw said, pulling a list of names from his pocket. "I was wrong about this list, Thomas. Look at the way it's ordered. Weiss as the top, Abercrombie at the top, Claire near the top but above Hollister. It's a call sheet. That's a list films use during production to make sure they can contact everyone they're filming, The higher on the call sheet, the more important you are. I can't believe I missed it."

"Two -- now three -- dead bodies to just make a movie?"

"Penny said no studio was brave enough to make it," said Jessica. "It's a leftist magnum opus and the studios know it. They all kowtowed to political pressure from Washington."

Shaw said, "Take out the subversive stuff and it's still an unfilmable mess. Four hours long, half the dialogue is shit nobody would say in real life. They turned Victor Hecht into a folk hero instead of the cold-blooded killer he really was."

Jessica bristled at the mention. Thomas looked at her curiously while Shaw remained oblivious. Instead the studio man sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Thomas looked away from Jessica and leaned forward to look at Shaw as he spoke.

"We need a plan. If Abercrombie tampered with the blanks at the film studio, then him killing Brock and Beauchamp is well within the realm of possibility."

"I can find Roy," said Shaw. "He's a lot of gruff and bravado, but if you start talking about three counts of murder he'll sing like a choirboy."

"I'm supposed to meet Penny tonight for drinks," said Jessica. "A last little get together before we start shooting."

"Go see her," said Thomas. "See what you can get from her about Claire."

"What are you going to do?" asked Jessica.

Thomas looked between the two of them and said, "Commit burglary."

"Join the club," replied Shaw.
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